Moms Don't Have Time To Page 12
The Weight of It All
ZIBBY OWENS
In quarantine, all my old body insecurities came roaring back.
The only reason I bought a scale recently was for my younger children’s telemedicine checkups with their pediatrician. Before I could prop the kids up on my desk and have them “open wide” into my desktop’s camera, I would need to record their height and weight to have on hand for the appointments. It seemed simple enough. I ordered the same type of old-fashioned, floor-model scale that looked exactly like the one I had in high school and that had followed me for twenty years afterward.
The scale and I have had a fraught relationship since I was nine years old. That was when, according to my mother, I told her I was upset about how much larger my thighs were than all the other girls’ at school with their string-bean legs. Sitting at the breakfast table in her bathrobe, smoking a Vantage Ultra and eating half a grapefruit before heading off to Gilda’s exercise class, this five-foot-two, petite, toned woman sprang into action. She knew just how to fix this problem.
She bestowed upon me her treasured, dog-eared copy of the book Calories and Carbohydrates and taught me how to scan the tiny number lines for each food. I diligently measured half a cup of orange juice over the kitchen sink in my uniform jumper each morning before writing down the calories and then heading off to fourth grade. I remember rushing into my little brother’s room one night when my mom was tucking him in and proudly announcing that I had two pieces of great news: I had swallowed my first pill (something for my allergies) and I had successfully stayed under 1,200 calories for the day.
I couldn’t control the chaos of having twins. I couldn’t absorb the shock of going from being an overachiever to spending my days on the playroom floor, longing for the time when I could just get to sleep again. But losing weight gave me a quantifiable goal.
The real test, of course, was seeing if the scale had gone down. Once a week, I would stand in my mother’s bathroom, which smelled like Pond’s cold cream and Nivea lotion, and step on her doctor’s scale. I’d nudge the black markers right or left until the pendulum balanced and stopped wavering up and down. I always wanted to push it farther and father left. Never mind that I was still growing. I wanted to fit in with my waiflike friends. I wanted my body to look like theirs; perhaps then I would be completely accepted.
For the next thirty years, I tried every diet and exercise fad imaginable while ricocheting up and down five, ten, fifteen, or twenty pounds, all within a tight range like a Ping-Pong ball going back and forth over the net of a faded table. Atkins. Step aerobics. Carbohydrate Addicts. Tae bo. A clinic on 63rd Street that gave me “vitamins.” HIIT. It was never enough. If only I could lose a few pounds, I could remove the shackle of shame I felt was constantly wrapped around my neck like a Parisian woman’s scarf. I was embarrassed by the outward display of my inner mess. I wanted to at least look like I had it all together when inside I was worried, anxious, and trying to find my place in the world.
After business school in 2003, I became a Weight Watchers addict and adhered so strictly to the program that I lost thirty pounds and even became a Leader, running meetings all over New York City to spread the gospel. I counted Points and wrote down every food I ate for almost ten years, through three pregnancies and four kids. I couldn’t get over the joy I felt that there actually was a solution! Something that worked. I couldn’t control the chaos of having twins. I couldn’t absorb the shock of going from being an overachiever to spending my days on the playroom floor, longing for the time when I could just get to sleep again. But losing weight gave me a quantifiable goal. Something for me. Something to aspire to when grades and salary and all other external measures of success suddenly evaporated.
I was trying to find that elusive sense of control, that hook to tether myself to, and then punishing myself when I couldn’t pull it off.
Yet losing all that weight wasn’t good for me physically; my hair started falling out, I stopped getting my period, and I was always cold. One doctor I consulted even said, “Your body just isn’t made to be this skinny, and that’s okay.” In retrospect, trying to control my intake and keep my body looking its best was the way I tried to cope as my first marriage fell apart, and I felt powerless to save it. The inner turmoil was on full display. I ate my feelings. I structured my diet because I could control that more than I could control my life. I ate in secret to cope with the things that went on in my home that I didn’t discuss.
At some point during the last five years, after my divorce and in my new relationship with Kyle, who became my husband, I made a delicate peace with my body and started focusing on work instead. I stopped weighing myself unless my zippers strained as I yanked them up and I knew I had to regroup. I accepted that to eat the way I wanted without expending an inordinate amount of energy “watching it,” I would be three or four sizes larger than my goal weight.
And then the pandemic hit. I felt enormously lucky to be healthy and financially secure when so many others were suffering from the start. My first thoughts were more about food scarcity and the nation’s food supply system than my jeans. I was so scared and nervous as we hunkered down that I couldn’t eat that much. I was in survival mode. I threw my energy into helping buoy the literary community when I wasn’t taking care of my four kids and cleaning the house. For exercise, my teen daughter asked me to do a YouTube “summer shred” workout program with her. I’ll do anything for her, even crunches and burpees, so we did it daily.
And then the scale arrived.
I took it out of the box and placed it on my cold bathroom floor. My little guy hopped right on.
“Mom, get on with me!” he said excitedly. “Come on!”
I hadn’t been on a scale in months, but I had a number in mind (the high end of my Ping-Pong range) that I fully expected to see.
I got on the scale with my son and quickly did the math. Wait, that couldn’t be right.
“Honey, let me try this alone for a second, okay?”
I gasped.
I stared down at a number that was ten pounds higher than I expected. A number I’d only seen while pregnant. And here I thought I’d lost weight!
All the old demons came racing out, taunting me. You’re fat! You’re lazy! You’re pathetic! You’re out of control! How could you! The number was far above my “before” weight when I started Weight Watchers almost twenty years ago.
I backed away from the scale and ushered my son out of the suddenly toxic bathroom.
That night, I began aggressively stuffing my face with food, perversely punishing myself with the same weapon that had gotten me into this mess. I started obsessing about my weight, the foods I was eating, what I “should” and “shouldn’t” consume, scarfing down cookie after cookie at night when everyone else in the house was finally sleeping.
Naturally, several days later, my clothes felt tight for the first time in months.
I was falling back into my self-punishing habits, like an armchair sliding back into the well-worn depressions in the carpet after being temporarily pushed aside. I almost couldn’t believe it: after all these years, the same feelings were still there, ever-present.
I can see now that I was reaching for my telltale crutch, the one I routinely steadied myself with in times of stress and uncertainty. And what is a pandemic if not a time of extreme stress and uncertainty? I was trying to find that elusive sense of control, that hook to tether myself to, and then punishing myself when I couldn’t pull it off.
It was a sobering reminder that achieving balance is a lifelong journey with plenty of backslides along the way.
Soon after, the craziness, busyness, and fear of day-to-day COVID-19 life overtook me again. (What about camp?! A new disease affecting children?!? Should we move?) But this time, I handled things a bit differently.
My food rumination waned: I started to plan. I got caught up in life again, in helping my kids and my community, in looking outward.
Zibby Owens is
a writer and mother of four in New York City. She is a literary advocate and the creator and host of the award-winning literary podcast Moms Don’t Have Time to Read Books. She runs a literary salon with author events, a virtual book club, and a daily Z-IGTV live author interview series.
Baking Challah to Connect
BETH RICANATI, MD
I think it is fair to say that getting my hands sticky and covered with flour in a bowl of dough saved my life. Three kids, a career as a physician, a husband who worked full time: it all left me overwhelmed, burned out—before that was even a term bantered about in my profession. I was having difficulty staying safely on the hamster wheel that I unwittingly created for myself.
Fortunately, stopping one day, staring in disbelief at six ingredients arrayed on my kitchen counter, I began—unbeknownst to me at the time—a journey toward a healthier life. As they say, doctor, heal thyself, and well over 1,200 loaves of challah bread later, I can say I found a way to do just that.
I thought it was a great idea to have three kids in four years. Truly. Twenty years of education and this was my grand insight. Alas, not so grand in hindsight: the costs to my well-being were steep. Most nights, I collapsed into bed after making sure everyone was fed and bathed and read to and the dishes were done and permission slips signed and snacks packed and medical journals rearranged in the same growing pile in the corner. Never mind the exercise that I was supposed to be getting or the extra reading that I should have been doing. When we moved to Cleveland (where our third child was born) from New York City, into a house with actual closet space, I discovered Target as my ubiquitous source for diapers and pull-ups. Better yet, how fabulous was it that Target had a deal with designer Isaac Mizrahi, and I could get a cool sundress along with all those baby supplies. I had arrived, and while the diapers eventually went away, the dress survived for years.
I remained on this hamster wheel until I couldn’t keep it up anymore, and finding time to brush my teeth twice a day actually seemed like a luxury. Then challah entered my life: I found that stopping and diving into this ancient ritual was the secret way to finding a way to be present again.
One loaf at time, we are building community together across this country of ours.
I started making challah over a decade ago at the suggestion of a friend, and I make this special bread—bread that nourishes us both physically and spiritually—every Friday. Initially, it was to be a onetime thing, just for the holidays that year. But the experience was so transformative that I continued to make it weekly. I make it by myself or sometimes with my friends. I make it in my home, and I make it when I’m traveling (I used to bring packets of yeast with me; I’ve since discovered how easy it is to get the ingredients locally). It has become my Friday ritual. Research demonstrates that the tactile arts help to reduce anxiety and help us to be present; done as a community, tactile arts—making challah in my case—are a terrific way to combat loneliness (a rising epidemic in America). As a new mother and a young physician, I had not appreciated how alone I could feel surrounded by so many people. In hindsight, making challah was just the prescription I needed. And now, as we all come together to combat the growing coronavirus pandemic, paying heed to our mental health becomes even more important. There are many ways to feel good in times like these; making bread is but one. I find the meditative aspect of kneading dough therapeutic.
So moved by what I had learned, I wrote about it. Braided: A Journey of a Thousand Challahs was published in the fall of 2018 (She Writes Press). Turns out, I am not alone in my feelings for the need for connection and ritual. Since publication, readers have been sending me their gorgeous challah pictures after reading Braided, often accompanied by their own story. Stories of friendship and loss, stories of breast cancer survival, and simply joy in finding challah. One loaf at a time, we are building community together across this country of ours. We are connecting, forging bonds. Our identifying labels don’t seem to matter: rural versus urban-dwelling; Jewish or non-Jewish; male or female. Making bread, leaning into an ancient ritual, being present. This is what matters. So go ahead, get out some flour, eggs, oil, salt, sugar, and yeast. Set aside some time, and make some challah. The recipe is at the beginning of the book. When you take those gorgeous loaves out of the oven, snap a photo and send it my way.
I remained on this hamster wheel until I couldn’t keep it up anymore, and finding time to brush my teeth twice a day actually seemed like a luxury. Then challah entered my life.
I’d love to add it to the growing photo gallery on my website, www.BethRicanatiMD.com.
P.S. If you actually have any leftovers, it makes great French toast the next day!
Beth Ricanati, MD, is the debut author of Braided: A Journey of a Thousand Challahs. A physician, Beth bakes challah weekly.
Forget Date Night—Try Date Day
LISA BARR
Why sunlight is the best aphrodisiac.
A little glimpse into my former, pre-coronavirus life: Every day, after the kids left for school, my husband and I would meet at a nearby café for twenty minutes. No phone calls would be answered, no meetings scheduled, no emails replied to. During “coffee time,” our sole focus was always our relationship. These morning dates were more than just an easy way to satisfy my craving for a grande extra hot mocha with whip (although, that was usually there, too). In those precious, stolen moments, in a crowded café filled with busy people going about their own pre-pandemic lives, I felt seen. My husband and I treasured those daily opportunities to remember why we chose each other in the first place.
Our day dates felt a little hot, a little secretive, and yes, sometimes a little naughty. Like we were sneaking around. Once, a woman approached us and said, “I see you two here every morning, holding hands. I know it’s none of my business, but are you having an affair?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “An affair with my husband.”
We are not newlyweds. We have been together seventeen years, each our second marriage, with three daughters between us. (Our home could also be referred to as “Drama Central.”) We’ve had our fair share of problems. And yet, our relationship is still full of passion and love. Having learned from our pasts, we know exactly what it takes to keep a relationship intact—and also what can break it.
With a tap of a thumb, I can send a heart or a kiss or an eggplant to tell him he is on my mind. This is sexy. This is connection. This is foreplay.
I’m here to tell you: “date night” is bullshit. Yes, it’s a celebrated tradition among many couples, but as I see it, it’s just another Hallmark holiday, manufactured and forced, like Valentine’s Day. For many couples, “date night” comes with a long list of requirements: Make a dinner reservation, find an expensive babysitter who will (hopefully) put the kids to bed, dress up, force adult conversation, and then cap off the night with sex. It’s no wonder that “date night” rarely seems to live up to all of the glimmering, high expectations that surround it. If you ignore your marriage six days a week, one night out cannot erase the distance that has been created.
Plus, by the end of a long day, many women (especially those with young kids), would rather have hot sleep than hot sex.
Our marriage works better when we date during the day. “Date day” presses pause on all of life’s minutia. For a few moments, we’re able to see one another out in the sunlight, before being drained by the inevitable demands the day will bring. For us, “date day” doesn’t just stop when we finish our coffee. Throughout the day, even when it seems like there isn’t enough time, I let my husband know that I am thinking about him. And he has learned to do the same. This is where emojis come in handy! With a tap of a thumb, I can send a heart or a kiss or an eggplant to tell him he is on my mind. This is sexy. This is connection. This is foreplay.
Of course, there are certainly days when we have our coffee time and emoji exchanges, and at the end of the day I would still rather check out and watch a TV show by myself. Yet our established routine takes resentment out o
f the picture.
Believe me, my husband has never looked as hot to me as he does unloading the dishwasher.
Admittedly, the recent “shelter-in-place” orders have created a bit of an obstacle for our “date day” routine. This virus is a serious cockblocker. There have been countless moments during this endless lockdown in which I have wanted to slay my husband. And there are none of our usual emoji exchanges, because he’s literally sitting right next to me. (Did you know that during quarantine, a top divorce attorney said there has been a 50 percent rise in filings? I hate to say it, but I’m not surprised.)
As the days began to blur together—is it Wednesday or Saturday?—I realized that my marriage needed a boost of vitamin A. A, as in attention. As in ASAP. Without our consistent day dates, that absence of resentment that I was so proud of before started to build. Competition (I did this, you didn’t do that) replaced romance, and we became blind to one another, even in the same damn room. We knew we needed to regroup to recover our mojo.
Now, we wake up before the kids. We shower, put on clean clothes, go for a drive, order curbside coffee from our favorite café, and take a long beach walk (properly distanced, of course). We divide and conquer the dishes, the laundry, the meals, the house details. Believe me, my husband has never looked as hot to me as he does unloading the dishwasher.
We made 5:00 p.m. our official, no-matter-what happy hour. Bourbon for two—yes, please. We’ve established boundaries in our home, boundaries with our kids, and boundaries with each other. The stupid fights that start over nothing have ceased because we’ve given ourselves the chance to thwart the bullets before they fly.
“Honey,” I said earlier today. “I’m losing it. Totally losing it. I can’t write. I can’t get a grip.”