A Seat at the Table Archives - Page 8 of 9

When Parents Get Sick

February 16, 2015 by Carrie Leave a Comment

I felt it coming.

For days, I watched my toddler suffer. Fever, rivers of snot, coughing fits, and lethargy interspersed with fits of clingy crying. Comforting him in the wee hours, helping him get cool enough to sleep, checking his temperature all through the night, and carrying him around on my hip all day. E felt terrible, and I ached for him as he went through all of the stages of sickness. On day four, E perked up. He started screeching and running, happy to be alive again. His fever disappeared, and his cough and congestion eased up. He was most definitely on the mend.

And then…a tickle in my nose.

Ignore it, sister. You’re totally fine.

A fiery lump swelled up in the back of my throat a couple of hours later.

It’s just seasonal allergies. Your throat hurts because of the drainage. It’s okay.

My eyes started watering and my head filled up with cotton.

Seriously. It’s allergies. Maybe a migraine. Take some vitamin C and shake it off. You’re not sick. You’re just being a hypochondriac.

My husband called from work and said he wasn’t feeling well. He was coming home early to go to bed, which he has done only one other time in the 10 years I’ve known him. He had conracted E’s plague.

Yep, for sure, you can’t afford to be sick. Take some ibuprofen and rub some peppermint oil on your temples. Chug another packet of vitamin C. Perhaps a megadose of vitamin D will solve this. YOU ARE FINE.

As my son eagerly pulled every pot an pan out of the cabinets while screaming “uh-oh!” on repeat, I sank down into the sofa.

I’ll just rest for a minute. Lay down for a sec — oh, nope. Nope, nope, nope. Can’t breathe. Head is exploding. Is it cold in here? Why does everything look like it has a halo? Oh, god. Is it possible to water-boarded by your own mucous and saliva??? STOP IT. NOTHING IS WRONG WITH YOU.

As I gingerly lifted my throbbing head off the couch pillows, my husband stumbled through the door. His eyes reminded me of a stoned raccoon. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized I looked the same. Then we stared deeply into each other’s red raccoon eyes with compassion and, okay, probably some resentment, too. How dare we BOTH get sick at the SAME TIME? This isn’t how it’s suppose to work. This isn’t how it’s suppose to work at all. We’re a team. We have each other’s back. For richer, for poorer. In good times and in hardship. IN SICKNESS. (And in health…but, whatever. That’s easy.)

Then E’s nose started running. Pitiful, quiet sobs erupted from his tiny body. His burst of energy waned and the plague took over again. I knew just how he felt and my compassion swelled like my head. I picked E up, feeling his feverish brow. I grabbed his water cup, his favorite cuddly blanket and stuffed animal, and sat down on the couch. That was exactly the wrong move. Everyone knows when your toddler feels sick, he only wants to be carried. Everywhere. All day. Unless he’s sleeping, which is unlikely unless you’re carrying him. Except my legs could barely support me and that bitch, Gravity, was pulling me down, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I had to lay down immediately or she would make me.

I looked around for my husband. I called his name. I looked in the kitchen. The bathroom. And then I saw it. Our bedroom door shut tight, with labored breathing coming from the other side. I peeked in, E’s limp 300 lb body pulling hard against my arm and sliding slowly down my hip. And there was my husband. Asleep.

I’ve never been so jealous of anyone in my life. And then pissed because I didn’t think of it first.

Well played, Husband. Well played. You win, Gravity.

I took E into his bedroom, cuddled him close and dozed off for about half a minute until he jabbed his crusty finger in my eye, giggling with glee. We went back to the living room. I turned on Hulu and cued up Jimmy, setting it to continuous play.

E’s fine. He’ll just watch and we can cuddle. Maybe we will even be able to nap together.

E slid out of my arms and off the sofa, collapsing into a screaming puddle on the floor. And I gave in to Gravity and a good dose of self-pity, slid down to the floor and cried right along with him. I’d like to say this was the low point of our 10 days of family sickness. It wasn’t. But I learned a ton about myself, my marriage, my toddler, and my standards for acceptable living. And here it is:

SURVIVE.

Forget about eating well. Call out for Thai delivery and bust out the toddler snacks. For everyone.
Forget about dishes. Let them pile up in the sink because washing them uses valuable energy you need for surviving.
Forget about germ isolation. It’s a useless battle. Just try not to leave the house and spread the plague to other families.
Forget about picking up toys. They will only multiply and divide and scheme to conquer you.
Forget about sleeping. Even if your child magically sleeps, you will be kept awake by fits of coughing. Either yours or your partner’s. It’s better not to hope.
Forget about breathing through your nose. Pretend you’re on The Walking Dead and embrace your open-mouth zombie breathing.
Forget about being a good parent. Just stay alive, and concentrate on helping your kid stay alive, too.
Forget you are actually alive, while still staying alive and helping your kid stay alive. The best way to do this is chain-watching Netflix while drinking a hot toddy and eating whatever you can scavenge that requires zero thought and even less effort.
Forget what it’s like to all be well and healthy. Then when the day comes and everyone feels better all together, it’s like a Christmas miracle and your hopes return along with your ability to breathe through your nose and sleep without drowning in your own mucous.

How do you survive being sick?

Forever fighting that bitch, Gravity.
Carrie

Roasted Cauliflower Soup

February 2, 2015 by Carrie 1 Comment

In the late 1980’s, my family moved from a small island off the coast of Juneau, Alaska, to a town in West Texas. We went from constant rain, mountains, ocean, icebergs and black bears to hot, dry, flat, dusty, tumble-weedy ol’ West Texas. Talk about culture shock! The sunsets were amazing, though, and the thunderstorms were terrifically terrifying.

Alaska...so beautiful. — Alaska…so beautiful.

West Texas...so parched. — West Texas…so parched.

Since the majority of our food came in on a barge from Seattle, most of the “fresh”, exorbitantly-priced produce spoiled before it even hit the shelves of the grocery store, along with the milk and bread. (My mom baked bread every week for this very reason. It was heaven. We also had to drink powdered milk, which was…not heaven. It was disgusting.)

When we made our cross-country move from rainy Alaska to parched West Texas, we finally had access to endless access to fresh veggies. You can imagine my mother’s joy at perusing the produce section and picking up almost any vegetable her heart desired and being able to feed it to her decidedly unenthusiastic children. Cauliflower was one of those veggies. I had never tasted it up to that point in my (very) short life. And I hated it. Cauliflower was my mortal food enemy. Steamed, sauteed, hidden underneath a pile of cheese…ick. I just couldn’t stomach it.

Something changed.

A few years ago, I mashed it up with all kinds of delicious dairy products. (Dairy makes everything better.) It became like potatoes, but better. And remarkably less healthy. I now have a full-blown love affair with the pungent white veggie called cauliflower, and try to find any way I can to make it in delicious and healthy ways. It’s a great substitute for potatoes, rice, and even pizza crust.

Over at Elena’s Pantry, I found this recipe for Roasted Cauliflower Soup. I tweaked it to suit my own tastes and method, and it turned out wonderfully.

Ingredients

1 head of cauliflower, de-leafed and cut into thick slices.
4 Tbsp of olive oil or ghee
2 quarts chicken or veggie stock
1 shallot, diced
1/2 yellow onion, diced
S & P
Paprika
Micro greens or finely shredded kale

Directions

Slice cauliflower into 1″ pieces. Drizzle oil on both sides of the cauliflower. Go ahead and rub it in a little.
In a large glass or ceramic baking dish, lay slices of cauliflower down flat.
Sprinkle with salt and add 1/2-3/4 cup of water to dish.
Toss it in the oven at 350 degrees for a good hour, and go do something else. Like paint a portrait.
After the cauliflower is nice and brown and tender, take it out of the oven.
In a large soup pot, add 2 Tbsp of ghee or olive oil (I prefer ghee), and saute onions and shallots until soft and golden brown
Add stock and water (and a tiny bit of Better Than Bouillon if you have it), bring to a boil and add cauliflower.
Reduce heat and allow to simmer for 10-20 minutes
In small batches, puree your soup in a blender until smooth.
Put your pureed soup back on the stove in the stock pot on low heat, then add a little black pepper.
Ladle into bowls, sprinkle with paprika and olive oil, then pile high with shredded kale or micro greens.

I love that there is no dairy in this soup (with the exception of the optional ghee), and it’s so satisfying and rich. It feels like it should be bad for you, but it’s not. In fact, it’s GOOD for you. And it tastes phenomenally better than powdered milk. Trust me.

And if you want to bastardize it and add cheese and bacon, it tastes more like a hearty, wonderful baked potato soup and you’ll eat ALL of it.

Measuring Worth: Why Weight Doesn’t {Really} Matter

January 29, 2015 by Carrie 5 Comments

So, I have a confession to make.

I’m overweight.

Pretty mind-blowing, right?

I have another confession to make.

I’m overweight and health is my passion.

Okay. I’m sorry. I know I just blew you out of the stratosphere with that second confession. But since we are all gathered around this table, unpacking our stuff and laying it all out for each other to see, I’ll let you in on my journey. I’m passionate about helping people restore their health, vitality and well-being, and…

I’m not a perfect picture of health.

Several years ago, I lost a significant amount of weight. Like, I could have been on the cover of People Magazine’s “How They Lost XX LBS!” issue. Something powerful shifted for me when I turned 30. I decided to stop caring about my weight as a means to measure my success, beauty and worth as a woman. I gave myself permission to care for my body, and to care for the woman inside that body first. Those were the first steps to decoding the destructive message I had been telling myself for three decades, and more importantly, to accepting my worth without attaching my weight to it. I had viewed my body as The Enemy, and the scale just let me know how badly I was losing The War.

I was ready to stop waging The War and start nurturing myself.

The nurturing began with saying nice things. Out loud. To my own face. Things like:

“You have a warm heart.”
“You have a wicked sense of humor.”
“Your blood pressure is PERFECT.”
“Those upper arms are pretty tight.”
“Nice boobs.”

I focused on the things I liked about myself already. I even borrowed a couple of attributes my husband and best friend liked about me. And you know what happened? Nothing at first. They were just words. But then the words started to feel true and I gave myself permission to believe them.

Over the course of the next three years, I changed my eating habits dramatically, worked with a doctor to balance my hormones, (which has been my Achilles’ heel since I was first diagnosed with PCOS in my teens), and began learning the value of self-care. I did other things, like choosing to work somewhere for less pay but in an environment where I thrived and was treated with kindness and respect. We made a major move, even though that meant sleeping on a futon for four months in a couple of different guest rooms in order to save enough money to make it happen. I started taking classes to expand my knowledge of nutrition and health. One nurturing and kind act of self-care began a snowball effect in my life, and weight loss rolled up into it. Don’t get me wrong. I had to be intentional and work hard to reduce my weight, but it felt like a natural step in a series of steps.

I was in the best health of my life when I got pregnant nearly three years ago for the first time. I gained 10 lbs immediately. Sadly, I lost the pregnancy very early on, but the weight stayed. Two months later, I got pregnant with E, and gained a about 25 lbs throughout the 9.5 months of incubation. I lost most of what I gained in the following nine months post-partum. I wanted to lose a little bit more to be in my comfort zone, and felt hopeful. I knew how to do this safely and my postpartum body was agreeing with me.

Then I started taking Domperidone for my milk supply and shot my hormones straight to hell. The weight stopped coming off and starting coming back on. It was disheartening. I take Domperidone to provide milk for my son, E, who has FPIES. My milk was the only safe thing he could eat for over a year, and I shouldered the tremendous burden of feeding him exclusively. Since it was quite literally a matter of survival for my son, I resigned myself to doing whatever it took to feed him now, and doing damage control later.

I’ve never been thin. I’ve been fit and healthy, but I have to do unnatural things to get below a size 8. And by unnatural, I mean I can’t eat dark chocolate and I rely on a diet of black coffee and salad (no dressing) and must work out 10 times a week. Soooo not worth it for me. In fact, it is unhealthy for me. I’m okay with never being a size 6. In fact, a size 10 is where I feel the best about myself mentally, physically, and emotionally. I feel strong, comfortable, and confident and I don’t have to do unnatural things to maintain it. I can enjoy a glass of wine with dinner and eat the occasional bowl of (gluten-free) pasta. But I’m not a size 10 right now. I’m a size 16. As long as I’m on this medication, my hormones will continue to be profoundly affected and my waist will continue to expand. And guess what?

I’m still healthy.

Who gives exactly zero thought to what size pants I wear? This guy.

I exercise. I eat whole foods. I limit sugar and processed junk. I get regular blood work done every six months, and check in more often than that with my doctor. I take gentle, kind, and loving care of myself.

I’m overweight and I can still be healthy and encourage other people to be healthy, too.

When E no longer needs my milk, (which I hope will be one day very soon for many reasons that aren’t weight related), I know what steps to take to help my body recover. It’s also likely that when I drop a few pants sizes, I’ll have some loose belly skin and stretch marks in weird places. I’ll feel more comfortable in some ways, and less in others. I don’t love the semi-deflated way my body looks at a size 10, or the saggy skin. But I love the way I move. I love the extra energy, and I love knowing that my body doesn’t have to work harder to be healthy. I love that I determine what feels good, most of all. And it has nothing to do with what anyone else deems I should feel or look like.

In the meantime, until my body no longer belongs primarily to my child and for many moons after that, I will extend kindness and acceptance to myself. I will continue to say nice things like:

“Damn, your hair is luscious!”
“Your legs are powerful enough to crush beer cans.”
“Excellent job sustaining two human lives for 30 months in a row!”
“You chose not to judge yourself, even though you were afraid other people were.”
“You had a regular period this month. Keep it up, Uterus!”
“You have everything you need in this moment.”

Because those words are true. Even if I wear a size 16 forever, or grow even rounder, those words are always true.

I have to consciously release myself from perceived judgement. That effing scale and the size of my jeans do not determine my happiness, enjoyment of life, well-being, or level of professional competence. It does not determine my ability to be a connected, loving, and active mom or human. It does not disqualify me from sharing my hard-earned knowledge of nutrition and health.

My weight does not determine my worth. And it doesn’t determine yours either.

I am fortunate. I wake up thankful to be a woman in this world who has a voice and a mission in the wellness field. I wake up thankful to be my husband’s wife. I wake up thankful to be E’s mom. I wake up thankful for the extra weight because I know, for now, it means my son is thriving. I won’t waste a single moment feeling regretful for what my body looks like, or worry about changing it in the near future. It is enough. I am enough.

And so are you.

Brown Butter Sage Spaghetti Squash

January 21, 2015 by Carrie Leave a Comment

A few months ago, we stumbled across a fantastic little indoor farmer’s market. It’s on the cusp of suburbia with a select variety of foods from local farmers and suppliers at a really low cost. It’s almost ridiculous how cheap it is. We’re talking $0.38 a pound for organic Jazz apples. Granted, you have to be ready to consume the produce quickly since it’s definitely the last stop before becoming compost, and you have to be very discerning about what you put in your basket since some of it should actually BE in the compost heap already. But, hey! Any steps we can take to reducing our family’s toxic exposure and consume organic produce at a super low price is a definite win. And since the indoor farmer’s markets carry seasonal produce, it’s an even bigger win because I can feed my family what our bodies naturally crave during a particular time of year to provide optimal fuel for our immune systems.

I found two spaghetti squash the last time I was there and experimented with how best to prepare them. Confession: I’ve tried making spaghetti squash a few times and always found it to be either crunchy (i.e. underdone) or super watery (i.e. over-steamed). Either way, the squash was pretty flavorless and, well, sad. This time, I decided to infuse the squash with as much flavor as possible and change up my cooking method. And it worked! The new method I tried was something I read about over at Elena’s Pantry. Instead of steaming it, or trying to wrestle and butcher the squash before it’s cooked, you cook it first. Revolutionary, right? Poke holes in the raw squash. Roast it. Cut it. Scoop out the seeds and discard, then scoop out the perfectly cooked squash and consume.

This changes EVERYTHING.

Ingredients:

1 largish spaghetti squash
3-4 Tbsp brown butter (see below for directions)
6-8 fresh sage leaves
cheese cloth, or double-fine mesh strainer
S&P to taste

Directions:

Using a fork, poke two sets of holes in whole spaghetti squash.
Place squash on parchment paper lined baking sheet and bake at 350 degrees for about 80 minutes.
While your squash is baking, begin preparing your brown butter. In a small sauce pan, melt 1/2 cup (one stick) of butter on medium-low heat (4 of 10) and allow to simmer slowly.
When squash is finished baking, cut open lengthwise to make two halves, then scrape out seeds and discard.
With a fork, scrape out the sqaghetti squash into an oven safe dish. Cut up your sage leaves and sprinkle them over the top of the squash.
Check on your melted butter. It should start to brown a bit by now, with the solids falling down to the bottom of the pan and turning golden brown. It will also smell amazing. Be careful not to let it burn, which requires watching it fairly closely.
When your butter is a dark golden brown with a caramely-nutty smell, remove it from heat and filter out the milk solids by pouring the mixture through a cheese cloth or double-fine mesh strainer. You’ll be left with a clear, golden brown butter and a strainer full of brown crunchy milk solids.
Pour butter over sage and squash, give it a gentle stir, and return to oven and bake for an additional 20 minutes until ridiculously tender, the sage is soft, and the butter is soaked in.
Remove the squash from the oven. Salt and pepper to taste and serve immediately.

You will NOT be disappointed, my friends. Unless you hate butter. But I can’t help that.

Scaling Walls

January 20, 2015 by Carrie 1 Comment

When L and I were engaged, we threw parties to celebrate our last days as single people before becoming husband and wife. His night consisted of beers with a few friends at his favorite taphouse. Mine consisted of dinner and drinks at my apartment with my favorite 15 ladies.

Around 10:30pm, my party was in full swing. Something clinked on the glass door of my apartment balcony. Then it clinked again. My roommate opened the sliding door to investigate. There was L. Tipsy, happy, handsome, and radiating true love. (His cousin was also there, serving as his designated driver, rolling his eyes.)

“What are you doing here?”, I asked, thrilled and radiating love right back.

“I love you, baby. I wanted to say goodnight!”, he shouted up to me, all smiles.

“I love you, too!”, I shouted back.

My friends were giggling and swooning. You could cut the estrogen with a knife. And then. Then. HE CLIMBED UP THE WALL. He scaled two stories of brick like Spiderman, hopped over the balcony fence and laid a perfect, passionate, beer-tinged kiss on my Bailey’s-flavored lips. My friends aww’d and giggled, and I felt electrified with true love and devotion to my amazing future husband.

I had previously prided myself on not buying into the fairytale version of love and romance, FYI. We even embarked on several months of premarital counseling to untangle that toxic tale. But there it was. Possibility. This was TOTALLY a fairy tale moment. My Prince Charming was making a valiant gesture of his devotion and true love mere hours before our pledge to be together other forever.

Fast forward a few months into newly-wedded bliss. And by bliss, I mean frequent fighting. L and I found ourselves locked into near-constant strife. Most of the time, our arguments centered around petty things. Dishes piled up by the sink. My hair clogging the drain. Who’s turn was it to vacuum, anyway? What we were going to binge watch on Netflix. What was for dinner, and who’s responsibility was it to cook? But those smaller annoyances opened the door to bigger issues. Sex. Money. Careers. Babies. Bodies. Validation. This was most definitely not a fairy tale.

On one particular summer night, we were squawking at each other at full volume. Wild gestures, name calling, and the lowest of blows thrown, “You sound just like your (insert family member)”.

Pro Tip: Negatively comparing your significant other to a family member is like throwing a lighted torch into a barrel of gasoline.

Now, we both have families who love us, parents who nurtured us, and siblings we care for deeply. But we carry the positive and negative family interactions with us, allowing those deeply imprinted memories to make decisions for us in the heat of the moment. Wild, easily triggered places hovering close to the surface, waiting for a spark, a breeze, or a drop of gasoline to ignite the fire.

We reminded each other of all the ways we sucked immensely. How we were just like a parent or sibling or distant relative. L stormed away from me, exclaiming he didn’t want to be near me. I countered back that I didn’t even want to be in the same airspace, and he immediately went outside, slamming the door behind him.

I was furious. HOW DARE HE WALK AWAY FROM ME. Nevermind that I one-upped him in the leave-me-alone category. He had the audacity to actually leave. That was it. I stomped after him, ready to give him a serious piece of my mind and the hot side of my temper. I opened the door to the balcony and slammed it behind me, dragging in a deep breath of oppressively humid summer air, ready to roar.

And then I saw L’s panicked face. A desperate”nooooooo!” escape from his lips as he lunged futilely for the already-shut door.

You see, the door automatically locked from the inside, and neither of us had keys. Or phones. L was shirtless, and I wasn’t wearing a bra. We were stuck on the balcony with no rescue in sight, feeling extraordinarily vulnerable. This was NOT romantic. And L was most definitely not Prince Charming any more than I was a Fairy Tale Princess.

We watched each other quietly, tensely, for a full minute, waiting for someone to throw the first verbal punch and lay blame for the locked door. The evening air was suffocatingly hot, with the temperature rising as the clouds rolled in, trapping the heat. We were both sweating buckets.

“What are we going to do?”, I asked meekly, staring hard at my bare feet.

Silence.

“This fighting. It’s not worth it. I love you. You’re my friend. I don’t want to tear you down. I’m so sorry”, I whispered, tears mingling with the sweat on my cheeks.

“Me, too”, L whispered back as he wrapped his sticky arms around me.

Then we talked about our options to get back inside our home.

Break one of the glass panes in the door with our bare hands and turn the knob. (Dangerous and expensive.)
Scream for help until one of our neighbors called 911 to complain about the noise. (Possible, but seemed wasteful of fire department resources.)
Wait until one of our other neighbors pulled into the parking lot, try to get their attention, and ask them to call the property manager and wait for several hours rescue us. (The management was notorious for not answering calls after hours, so this seemed HIGHLY unlikely as a real possibility.)
Send telepathic messages to my BFF, alerting her to our need for the spare key she carried. (Honestly, this was the best option except she would call first and we didn’t have our phones.)
Scale three stories, without footholds or anything except hot concrete to break a fall. (Yep. This was the winner.)

L surveyed the wall for a minute and then he scrambled down the brick face of our apartment building, carefully, skillfully, bravely. I winced and held my breath the whole time, only exhaling to give L an occasional direction where to put his hands and feet. He landed safely on the ground, ran upstairs to our front door, which we had miraculously left unlocked, and let me in.

We stayed up very late that night. We made up. We made dinner. We made love. And we made a decision to go back to counseling because it was clear neither of us could untangle the toxic tales we had been telling ourselves. We could systematically scale those walls, explore and unearth the murky, beautiful, impossible spaces together, and figure out a way to get unstuck. But we needed help.

We STILL go to counseling, almost 8 years later. We have wanted to quit this marriage thing more times than I’m comfortable admitting (approximately 1,438), but we are committed to finding a way out of our unmanageable places, to meeting each other there and holding out our hands. Sometimes, I scale the wall. Sometimes L does. And most of the time, we shout down for help to someone who tells us how to navigate our way off the balcony.

We laugh about that night now. How silly we were, how much like a cheesy sitcom it was, and how we really should have waited for a neighbor instead. The way out of conflict is often terrifying and funny. It’s part of the story we tell. We shed lots of tears. Maybe a little blood. We make too many mistakes. We laugh to cover our tension. We make messes. We make jokes. We break our own hearts. But we choose each other. We choose forgiveness and growth. We choose everyday to let Love win.

And maybe therapy wins a little, too.