Letters to My Girls

To Test or Not To Test. Cancer is The Question.

Dear Girls,

I went to the doctor recently to find out how much closer to menopause I am now than I was last year.  During the appointment, along with the usual tests that are ordered, I was offered a new test to determine if I have a certain cancer gene.

The test is for relatives of those who have had colon cancer, uterine and ovarian cancer, and pancreatic cancer.  The three cancers are linked, and there is a common gene that, if identified by the test, increases your chances of developing one of those cancers by as much as 70%. 

Unfortunately, I have all three of those cancers in my family, so the chances that I could test positive for this gene are reasonably high. 

Now, I'm not afraid to find out if I have that gene.  The fact is, since my dad, my sister, and my grandfather have all died from those cancers, I've been more vigilant about getting unusual symptoms checked.  I learned a long time ago that worrying about getting cancer is useless, so finding out my chances are high doesn't make a huge difference to the way I live my life. 

Nevertheless, making a decision on whether to have the test, or not, has been difficult.

Sure, if I knew I had the gene, I could be even more focused on testing and prevention.  I could have a hysterectomy to prevent the possibility of getting estrogen-based cancer.  I could get mammograms and colonoscopies more often.  There could be drug studies or treatments open to me that might not be without knowing.  You might think this is the most responsible way to respond. 

Beyond the obvious - the stress of knowing cancer would be lurking in the background for the rest of my life - there are even more difficult issues we would have to face.

It's clear that insurance companies deny claims and/or eligibility to people who cost them money.  Just because it's illegal for insurance companies to deny coverage for people who test positive for this cancer gene, doesn't mean they won't, either now or in the future.  Laws change.  The denial of coverage could wipe us out financially. 

Suddenly, the decision isn't just about me anymore. 

Then, there's the very real possibility that, if I have the gene, you may as well.  I am not only completely mentally unprepared to test you children, the idea of trying to explain to you how to hear and respond to the information is beyond daunting.  As adults, we can deal with the realities we face when it comes to our own life, illness, and eventually, death.   I can't even conceive of what it might be like to manage my own child's potential health concerns.  And, I have no idea what it would be like, as a child, to manage the constant threat of illness.  

I've asked the advice of friends and family.  And, I sit quietly with the idea of having the test.  I haven't decided yet.  I can see benefits and drawbacks to either decision.  I don't particularly want to be a martyr, but I certainly don't want to cause the mental or financial demise of my family.  I don't want to have cancer, but knowing I have the gene doesn't mean I will or won't get the disease.  We also have heart disease in my family, a deadly alternative, and I don't do much to prevent it for myself.  There are other types of cancers on dad's side of the family.  I drive a car.  I occasionally cross busy streets on foot.   I drink cola every now and then.

Making decisions isn't easy.  There are always consequences to making decisions, some foreseeable, some not.  You'll make mistakes, and learn from them. You'll change your mind. You won't always have support from others for decisions you make.   No question - these life-changing ones are tough, but infinitely, life-affirmingly, worth it. 

I love you both,

Mommy

 

Why This Mommy is Losing Her Mind!

One of the reasons I started blogging was to commiserate with other menopausal mommies.  I sort of expected them to come out of the woodwork once I let the secret out that, hey, it's OK that your uterus is shriveling up and you're still changing diapers! 

Let's get rid of the boring factoids right up front:  Menopause is defined as the cessation of menstruation which usually happens to women in their late 40's.  For the lucky few, the process begins in the early 40's and in its entirety, can last, well, years. 

Even luckier are those (that would be me) who start the process early after just getting over the hormonal chaos caused by child birth.  Yes - menopause complicated by small children.  Joyful! 

You're going to hear more about this in the news as we career women who put off childbearing so we could "do it all" before "settling down" become more plentiful and start becoming the poster children for the condition.  Yes - I called it a condition, and condition it is. 

I don't know how other women began the process, but I can tell you all the weird things that happened to me:

Truth is, I've always had skin trouble, but was blissfully unaware of it while I was, a) on birth control pills (pre-tubal ligation) and, b) pregnant.  During that ten-year period, my hormones were balanced and while I had scars from years past, I didn't develop much that was new.  Over the past three years, I'm once again struggling like a teenager with over-active oil glands and breakouts.  I had to completely change my routine and I still haven't found any real solutions.  And yes, I've tried everything. 

I started having short-term memory problems, like the day I specifically left the house with kids in tow to mail a letter.  Got all the way to the wrong destination (ended up at the mall - go figure) and then suddenly remembered why I went out in the first place.  No letter to be found, and angry kids in the backseat, I drove home to find the letter perched on the counter, evidently right where I left it.  It could have been an alien abduction, but I think it was just my faulty hormone-soaked brain. 

I also used to be a really good speller.  REALLY good.  So good, that I was the go-to girl for all-things-writing.  Suddenly, I was writing emails and would find myself unable to recognize a word - and I'm not talking about big fancy words such as "snuffaluffagus".  I'm talking about words like, oh, I don't know, "out" or "like" or "crazy."  I would write a word, look at it with head cocked, and not really know if that was the word I wanted or if it was spelled correctly.  Then, I started making spelling and grammar errors - the really bad kind that make you look like a total idiot if you're a writer/editor.  Things like using "their" instead of "they're" or using the word "asses" which frankly made me look like one.  There was the word "philisophical" (my friend the rocket-scientist had a ball with that one..."Cream cheese?" he asked.)  The other day I very thoughtfully and methodically wrote the phrase "right of passage" even with my grammar alarm ringing loudly in my brain.   

I literally thought I was losing my mind.  And, hoping, praying, that I wasn't losing it to early onset brain necrosis due to the infiltration of Amazonian worms, found out from my doc that I was "entering that stage of life..."  Hater. 

I'm also exhausted.  I know - it could just be that I run around after two small kids every day, and awaken to crying a few times each night.  The thing is, this is the kind of exhaustion that makes a fire in the living room a non-event, if you know what I mean.  I'm waiting for the day when the kiddos figure this one out and begin asking for all sorts of favors when my eyes glaze over and they see that I'm no longer able to discern the difference between the words "toy" and "boy." 

I can't remember who anyone is anymore.  I can look at someone I'm quite certain I know and have no idea where that person fits into my life.  This is really a drag at school when I can't remember the names of children or mommies.  It gets worse.  The other day, I found myself introducing my daughter to "Tommy's mom" when she shook her head and whispered to me, "No - I'm Ellen's mom."  Rather than just believe her and move away quickly to cover, I found myself just about to insist to her that, yes, she was Tommy's mom. 

I've also arrived at the "turning into my mother" phase of menopause.  My neighbor-two-doors-down was standing on her roof the other day cutting branches.  I heard myself yell across the entire distance in a disapproving, sing-song rant, "What [the hell] are you doing up there?"  It must have been one very impressive motherly moment because she came over later that evening to let me know she survived.  Oh, the horror of it!  

By the way, I'm just about to move into the "discussing minutia of illnesses" phase, so you better steer clear of me if you have a runny nose or a tummy ache.   

I know - you're waiting for me to talk about the really fun parts of menopause like constant hot flashes, night sweats and the "permanent cessation of menses."  Don't rush me - I've only just started on the odyssey of physical symptoms, and at any moment I might burst out with a slew of fascinating facts about sweat. 

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Tell me your mommy menopause stories!  What are you experiencing?  Do you feel like you're losing your mind?  Comment below! 

Naomi's Story: Infertility, Loss & Love

When I asked my friend, Naomi, to be my first guest blogger, and knowing what a devoted mother she is, I knew she would have stories to tell.  I've read this one now a half-dozen times, and I still feel a little piece of me fall away each time the message hits me.  This story poses those "why?" questions we so often never find answers to, and end up carrying with us throughout our lives, the possible answers (if there are answers) changing as we grow and become wiser. 

Sit down with a box of tissues, and read about what this brave mommy had to endure. 

My admiration and thanks to you, Naomi, for sharing your story.     

___________________________________________________________ 

As a child, I always envisioned myself as a mother.  I would get married and have 2 or 3 kids.  They would be little stair steps like my sisters and I.  They would grow up fighting over crazy little things and be there to comfort each other when the little kid down the block was being mean.  Never once in my childhood fantasy world did I see struggling with infertility.  Growing up I never heard about anyone not being able to have a baby or having a baby that was stillborn.  I never considered the possibility.

My husband and I got married in June of 1993.  In October of that same year we bought our first  house.  In November I was pregnant with our first child.  Everything was going according to plan.  I worked full time during the pregnancy and never had an issue.  Jordan was born August 12, 1994.  He was 8 pounds 5 ounces and completely perfect.  I was 23 when he was born.  I enjoyed every stage and every accomplishment.  Jordan started walking around 10 months old.  He would hold onto furniture and eventually started racing around on his own little feet.  When he was 17 months old he stopped being able to walk.  His balance was gone.  He would stand up and just fall over.  We took him to our pediatrician and he thought it was something viral but wanted to do an MRI of Jordan's brain to make sure.  We went to Children's hospital and had an MRI.  Our worst fears came true as the doctor told us Jordan had a brain tumor.  It was on his cerebellum and that was causing his balance issues.  Jordan immediately had brain surgery and the tumor was completely removed with two surgeries.  His recovery and stay in the hospital is enough for a whole different story that I will tell another day.  He made an amazing recovery and we feel blessed every day for that!

 Once Jordan was home and healthy John and I decided to have another baby.  It truly was like that….hey let's have another baby.  It came so easily the first time, we assumed it would be the same.  Jordan was two years old when we started trying.  Every month was another disappointment.  When Jordan turned three we figured it was about time to see a specialist.  I went and saw a fertility doctor the fall of 1997.  He assured me that my body just needed a little push to get pregnant again.  I went on Clomid for a few cycles, the pill for a few cycles after the Clomid to regulate my system.  Next thing I knew, it is December of 1998 and still no pregnancy.  That month John was transferred and we moved to Indiana.  After unpacking the house and getting us settled, it was time to find a new fertility doctor.  This doctor said I needed surgery.  In the spring of 1999 I had scope surgery to determine if I had endometriosis.  During the procedure it was determined that I did in fact have endometriosis and the doctor removed a bunch of "stuff.”  I'm not sure what the official term is, but I knew this stuff was supposed to be keeping me from getting pregnant.  After recovering from the surgery the doctor suggested we try insemination.  This was the next step, the next push my body would need to get pregnant.  We did two rounds of insemination….no luck.  Now it is December of 1999 and guess what?  John got transferred again.  We packed up the house and moved again.  We arrived in our new town, I unpacked the house, John went to work, and Jordan started preschool.  Preschool?  I couldn't believe my little boy was old enough for preschool and still had no siblings!  Next on the to-do list was find another new fertility doctor. 

 In the spring of 2000 I found a wonderful fertility doctor.  He patiently listened to all my stories, what we had already tried, what surgeries I had, what I felt.  He suggested a dye test, injecting dye into my tubes to make sure all was open and well.  Of course they were and he wanted to try in-vitro fertilization.  John and I agreed and this started the year from hell!  As anyone who goes through the in-vitro process knows, it is a mind twisting, body tangling, confusion inducing process.  The first obstacle for me was giving myself shots.  They were daily and required a self pep talk every time I looked at that needle.  Then there were the egg retrievals where they use a drug called Versed which puts you in la -la land but you are still awake.  I once woke up to a room of laughing nurses who told me I said I was "dreaming of the Backstreet Boys."  Next up is putting the fertilized eggs back in.  Once that happens, you stay in bed for a few days hoping they will implant.  Then the real fun begins with every other day blood draws and ultrasounds.  The doctor monitors all sorts of levels in your blood and changes on the ultrasound.  After two weeks of this when you are very cranky and almost annoyed with the process, the doctor calls and says the words you have waited to hear forever…..YOU'RE PREGNANT!

I heard those wonderful words in December of 2000!  John and I were so excited but with reservations.  We knew it was so early and we could lose the pregnancy but I just felt like it was all going to be okay.  In no time we made it through the first trimester.  I was ecstatic!  Now nothing could go wrong!  That honestly was my thought!  I am good as gold!  In April we went to Disneyworld.  John's parents came with us.  It was our last big hurrah with Jordan as an only child and we wanted him to have a blast.  Three days into the trip we were standing in line for a show.  I felt like I was peeing my pants and realized I was leaking amniotic fluid.  I ran to the bathroom and John's mom followed.  We both knew this was not good and someone called an ambulance.  I made John's parents take Jordan back to the hotel because I didn't want him to see me loaded into the ambulance.  John and I went in the ambulance to the hospital.  They did an ultrasound and put a heart rate monitor on me.  The baby seemed fine.  There was still enough fluid and they couldn't tell what was causing the leak.  I stayed in the hospital for the next 4 days.  The fluid stopped and they released me on the last day in a wheelchair to catch the flight home.

We arrived back in Ft. Wayne and my first trip was to the OBGYN.  He for the first time used the word that I came to hate….fluke!  He saw no signs or issues from the previous week.  He put me on modified bed rest at this point.  No lifting, no exercising, etc.  I felt relieved and again felt like we had made it through what would be the worst and the baby would be here in a few months.  May and June were uneventful in a good way.  The baby continued to grow and all was well. 

I woke up the morning of July 24, 2001.  I was getting my haircut that day.  I showered, got ready and Jordan and I went to the salon.  John came and got Jordan and they went and had lunch while I got my hair cut.  That afternoon Jordan and I went home.  I felt something was off and I wasn't feeling the baby move.  I took out my trusty What to Expect When Expecting book and read about less movement later in pregnancy.  The book suggested drinking some fruit juice and see if the baby moved.  I had some apple juice and nothing happened.  I called my friend and asked if I could drop Jordan off.  I called the doctor and he was out playing golf, but suggested I go to the hospital where they could monitor me since his office was closed.  I arrived at the hospital feeling sort of silly.  I thought the nurses would all think I was overreacting.  I got checked in and the nurse tried to find a heartbeat.  She couldn't.  Then she brought in an ultrasound machine.  I had so many ultrasounds during the pregnancy that I knew what to look for.  The nurse also assumed everything   was fine because the screen was facing me.  As the ultrasound started, the screen became clear and the nurse quickly turned it away.  She was not quick enough as I had already seen enough to know that baby was gone.  The baby was lying across the top of my belly, arms hanging down.  I was 35 weeks and 4 days.

At this point I was still at the hospital alone.  I hadn't called John because I figured all would be okay.  I had to call him and tell him over the phone that the baby was dead.  I honestly don't remember making the call.  I do remember him asking if I was sure.  He came to the hospital and we just cried.  Neither one of us could speak.  Then the reality of it started to hit.  I had to have a C-section.  John had to go get Jordan.   Someone had to tell our families.  The next couple hours were truly a blur.  I don't remember all the details.  I remember being wheeled in for the C-section, the epidural, again being given Versed so I wouldn't remember.  Soon I was in recovery and the nurses were bringing me my little baby boy, wrapped in a blanket, a little cap on his head.  He was perfect.  The chaplain came in and prayed with us, baptized him.  We named him Austin John, as we had always planned to do.  We both held him.  We cried.  We said goodbye. 

 The only explanation I have is that word…..fluke.  There was no explanation.  There was no separation of the placenta.  The cord was not around his neck.  Maybe the cord wasn't strong enough.  Maybe the blood supply wasn't enough.  Maybe if I had gone to the hospital earlier.  All these maybe's that are still there as I type this 9 years later.  I will never know why Austin was stillborn.  I will never know why my body decided to betray me.  All I know is that this long and winding road has made me appreciate my son Jordan all the more.  If it weren't for Jordan, I don't know that most days I could've gotten out of bed.  He was my light in a very, very dark tunnel.   This road also led me to Jillian.  Without Austin I wouldn't have Jillian.  That is what I always tell myself.  It is the only explanation that I have.  He was my light that led me to her.  I don't understand it!  I don't think I ever will, but I have two amazing children that I get to look at every day and one that I talk to every night in my prayers and my dreams!

Grocery Cart Rage: The Newest SAHM Affliction Affecting Millions of Mommies

I've been working really hard lately on my issues with grocery shoppers.  I used to love grocery shopping and for awhile I even went with my best girlfriend who lived in the same apartment complex I did.  She would show me foods that I had never tried or give me cooking tips (she's a chef) and I would teach her how to dip vinegar potato chips into carmel sauce.  (OK - I"m clearly not a chef, but don't scoff until you try it!)  My girlfriend moved away, we both got married and had kids.  She's now a brilliant shopper and cook; I'm just a frustrated blogger. 

Anyway, now that grocery shopping is a utilitarian pursuit and not an artistic one, I want to get in, get out, and have a relatively painless experience.  I want to glide down the aisles and have the items I want just pop into my cart, pay for themselves, and well - while I'm at it, let's have them delivered and put away.  Then I won't have to go at all! 

It isn't that I don't like shopping, it's that I have to deal with all the shoppers.  Let's face it - we all get a little bit goofy at the grocery store.  You too?  Or, should I say, you too!  We all get focused on what it is we want, what we have to remember, and we get sidelined a great deal with holiday displays, new items, things that aren't where they're supposed to be, and small children.  In our get-it-over-with approach, we sometimes forget to be courteous and considerate in the aisles. 

To deal with my shopper frustration, I've come up with a game!  I have my own little type-list for grocery store shoppers that I use to de-stress and amuse myself.  I spot a shopper down an aisle, and try to predict just what type she (or he) falls into before I have to face her.  Here's my list:

The Snacker:  You can peg this one because he doesn't have a cart; he's just there for a snack.  He mills around the sample displays, and if he's got the kids that day while mom is off doing something else, where better to get lunch?   This is also the guy who has to get a taste of every ice cream in the case before he makes his choice. 

Frazzled Mommy:  This gal comes in hoping there isn't one of those ridiculous red plastic car carts you have to stuff the kids into so they can bite, pinch, and yell at each other the whole trip.  The carts have no turning radius and are double-wide, causing everyone in the aisles to run for their lives when they see you coming, lest they get smashed into the soup cans by some well-intentioned preschool driver.  (Yes, I know the kids don't control the cart, but if I do run into a little old lady, she doesn't know that, and will always forgive my pre-schooler, whereas she might sue me for putting a dent in her walker.)  Mom has circles under her eyes and really doesn't care what you think, so running is really the only solution. 

The Family Affair:  I'm not talking mom, dad, and kids, here. I'm talking aunts, uncles, grandparents, and second cousins.  The whole family gathers around a product and debates the price, packaging, potential date of use, and who will get the biggest share.  Don't even try to get past these people - they've rented the space and you just have to wait. 

The Stalker:  This is the woman who goes down every aisle you do, only the opposite direction, and manages to stop her cart in front of all the same products you want to buy.  Strange, but true. 

The Cart Dragger:  The one who pulls the cart from the front, trailing the back behind her.  When she stops to look at something, the back of her cart always lands in the middle of the aisle.   Why?  Because you can't control a shopping cart from the front!

The Bender:  No -not alcohol.  This is the one who bends at the waist to look at something down low, taking a step back as he does so.  His butt is too far into the middle of the aisle to pass him.  These folks travel in twos and create butt obstacle courses in the aisles. 

The Selective Hearer:  You know the one--she can't hear you say "excuse me" even if she's looking straight at you and her cart is 90 degrees to the aisle. 

The Mis-Counter:  This is the person who counts 25 separate bottles of Gatorade as one item so he can go through the 15-item express lane. 

The Crazy Couponer:  This is an addiction.  She clips coupons, has 40 of them at the register, most of which she technically can't use because she didn't bring her reading glasses to see the fine print, shakes uncontrollably as she watches the savings add up, and then argues the price of any in-store items that don't scan properly. 

The Noodler:  I live in a college town.  We have lots of noodle bowls here.  Chinese noodles.  Mac 'n Cheese.  Spaghetti-os.  Glazed, sleepless look.  Three friends trailing behind talking about booze and football.  Need I say more? 

The Performer:  Bluetooth in her ear, phone always on, and for whatever reason, she only gets as many groceries as she can hold in her two hands.  She talks on her phone the whole time, loudly, and makes sure you know she's in charge.   Just when the juicy part of the conversation starts, she starts to whisper so you can't even get a little thrill out of her oh-so-exciting life. 

The PMS'er:  I can spot this one from two aisles away.  She's shopping through a fog of bloat, bitchiness, and cravings.  She gets to the checkout counter and realizes she only has cheese balls, Coke, Twinkies, and a copy of Martha Stewart Living in her cart.  In her embarrassment, she gets even bitchier, so don't confront this woman in the parking lot. 

The "I Can't Walk Another Step...":  He either leaves his cart in the middle of the lot or gets 20 feet away from the cart-return, pushes it, and walks away,  thinking it will roll right in.  In both cases, the cart rolls, gains speed, turns, and crashes into the front side-panel of whatever car is in the way. 

I guess what's interesting about all of these categories is that I've fallen into one or the other myself pretty much every time I shop.  I've found myself mesmerized by vast selections of toothpaste, suddenly hear "excuse me" from behind, and realize my cart is in the way, my butt is pointed right into the aisle, my children have disappeared in the plastic sports-car, and I don't like the price on any of the tubes.  And, Pre-Menstrual Shopper?  If you re-arrange the letters, it's spells "Peri-Menopausal Shopper" and might just describe.....me. 

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Tell me your shopping stories!  I want to hear your shopping pet-peeves. Leave me a comment! 

 

Peri-Menopause, Brains & Boobs

by Lorie Fuller

We joined the YMCA at the beginning of the summer, partly to give the kiddos access to the pool and some activities, partly to give me a chance to get physical.  I termed it, "The Naked Y," because there's a bright-shiny-new-pool with bright-shiny-new-bikini-mommies.  Oh, and the yoga girls.  But, that's another story.   

I blew the dust off my active-wear drawer and shook out a few old athletic bras and some spandex butt-boosters.  You can tell your old workout clothes are in bad shape when the elastic crackles like breakfast cereal in milk.  You can't expect disintegrating elastic to hold in all the jiggly bits and keep the boobs from getting, errr, too far ahead of you. (Those of you over a 36D will understand what I mean.)

So, I went shopping at the local discount-designer place and began flipping through the fitness clothing.  Everything was sort-of so-so.  Typical sports bras and tops, sort of shapeless and clearly made for someone less amply endowed than I.  But then, I found this:

Having once been quite stylish and believing I have good taste, not to mention knowing I had years of shopping experience under my belt, I immediately recognized that this particular top was unique.  Yes - it was different, stylish, and I thought how clever it was that the bra part was on the outside.  Madonna.  I would be Mama Madonna around those skinny beach bitches.  I wondered, "Gee, do you suppose you get better support with a style that has the bra on the outside?"  I didn't have time to try it on, but tossed it into my basket, purchased it, and wore it the next day. 

Yes, I was wearing the latest style of sports bra and I was, well, not to pat my own back, but HOT!  I could tell all the bikini-mamas were impressed.  They would probably run right out to the store to try to find one too, right after they finished suntanning themselves into skin-cancer oblivion.  Ha!  I....I was Workout Girl!  I was leading the pack! 

I wore my new garment, oh, three or so times in the weeks that followed, back straight, chest out, lookin' gooood. 

Then, yesterday, I was doing the laundry.  And, out of the washing machine came this:

Wait!  Had I bought two athletic tops, and if so, why had a I purchased something so lifeless, without shape, without style?  Maybe this wasn't mine at all and....oh no! 

Then it hit me.  I approached the top, slowly, so as not to alarm the poor thing, pulled the neckline out very carefully, and looked down into the garment.  NO!  No, no, nononnonononononono!  It can't be! 

It was my stylish new sports bra!  Inside out!  Wait - no - it wasn't inside out.  It was....the way it was supposed to be.  Oh....my....God! OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!

No wonder everyone had been looking at my boobs! It wasn't because they were stylishly perky and fabulously reigned-in.  It was because I was wearing the damn bra inside out. 

Disclaimer that should have been on the tag:  Please don't wear this garment like a complete idiot should the stocking clerk accidentally put the top inside-out on the hanger.  There are no side seams on this garment. When turned inside-out, the bra seams go to the inside of the garment, and the tag that is printed directly on the fabric is in ink that blends in so you can't see it.  This makes it appear as though the garment is right-side-out even when it isn't.  Just say "No!" to sports-bra foolishness and only wear as directed.  Not responsible for mental distress or injury due to mis-use of garment and subsequent hazing by bikini-mommies.  Peri-menopausal women should consult with a physician before wearing this garment. 

Here's the back view:

_________________

Lots of odd things have been happening to me these past months.  I can't spell anymore.  I have no short-term recollection.  I have to take reading glasses with me everywhere because I can no longer read any font smaller than 14 pica. I can't open medicine bottles anymore.  I'm angry as hell.  I'm headachy, hot, and exhausted.  Only about 20% of my brain is working.  All, according to my doc, due to the onset of peri-menopause.   

I think there should be a Peri-Menopause Foundation.  I think you should be able to get one of those helper-dogs when you enter peri-menopause.  Or an interpreter - someone who can see tags on garments and remind you what words mean.  Or maybe a stylist - someone who will tell you honestly when you're about to make a damn fool of yourself at the Naked-Y, in front of all the scantily-clad, 25-yr-old, mommies. 

The Body Talk

by Lorie Fuller

My Dear Daughter:

You've been asking me lots of questions lately.  Your 5-yr-old brain is constantly turning, wondering, wandering down a series of paths at an alarmingly faster rate each day.  Those innocent, precious blue eyes peer into mine as you ask some of the most difficult questions a mom will ever try to answer. 

You're too young to be embarrassed yet by the discussions we've had about boys, bodies, pregnancy, peeing, puking, digestion, boobs and endless other things.  Either fortunately or unfortunately (you'll have to decide), I'm one of those moms who will talk about anything.  I may not always have the words (hence the trip to the bookstore today) to explain, but I promise I'll always try to give you the best information I have.  One day, after you graduate from medical school (no pressure, though) you can come back and tell me what I got wrong. 

I hope you'll always ask me questions, even if what you're asking seems weird or embarrassing.  I hope you know I'll always do my best to answer honestly and completely.  I won't leave anything out to preserve anyone's modesty or to try to make you believe something that isn't true.  I won't try to make you afraid, but I will always tell you the risks. 

I hope you won't talk about your body with your friends until you're older and can evaluate what's plausible and what isn't.  Friends aren't always a good source for information, but a mom is.  As you become more knowledgeable about your physical self, I hope that things won't be so mysterious that you feel compelled to explore before you're ready.  I believe that the more you know, the more comfortable you will be with yourself and with what you want, and the more prepared you will be when you get to make choices for yourself.   So, I will share everything I know to help you. 

One thing I dearly love about you is that you talk about what's going on in your head.  You love to explore and learn.  You're willing to look at things that might seem frightening or mysterious.  You don't hide from oddities.   

When you asked me this week to talk to you more about bodies and babies, we did what I've done my whole lifetime - find books on the topic!  We looked at anatomy books, books about reproduction, books about sex, bodies, and numerous others.  I encourage you to learn to research for yourself, and to arm yourself with knowledge. 

We also talked about touching - the good kind and the bad.  What's appropriate and what isn't.  What to do if someone tries to hurt you or touch you without your permission.  Some of these things are scary for both of us, but you took it in stride, and I'm trying to do so, as well. 

As you grow up, your body will begin to tell you things.  You may not understand, and you most assuredly will need to ask questions. I hope you'll never be afraid to ask me, or a doctor, about anything that seems odd to you.  Most of the time, what you experience will be normal, and you'll find that everyone else is experiencing the same thing. 

I hope you develop a healthy respect for your self - your mind, body, intuition, rights, likes, wishes, spirituality, and choices.  I hope you explore others with a healthy amount of skepticism, and find some truly invaluable relationships in your life, as I have.  I hope you are not encumbered by the social expectations and rituals that seem so deeply ingrained in our society, but rather find your own definition of love, friendship, and spirituality. 

I hope you will know what it's like to be crazy in love with someone, to have the kind of passion that expands your soul and your mind in such a way you can't even imagine closing yourself up to it.  I hope you hurt little for the love of another. 

The fact is, the little biology lesson we had today is just the start of the journey toward understanding your body and how it relates to your mind and your spirit.  It may be hard to believe, but your sense of physical self will have enormous impact on your life.  What you choose for your body will directly or indirectly change the way your life plays out.   

Let's work on this together, as we did today - always. 

My Heart to Yours,

Mommy 

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For Parents:  Besides some basic books on anatomy, I found a wonderful resource called "What's the Big Secret?" by Laurie Krasny Brown.  The book is wonderful, child-friendly, not-too-complicated look at bodies and sex for a younger child.  Be sure to read it to yourself before reading it to the child, and edit to suit your needs.   

Middle-Age, Near Vision, and Secrets Between Friends

by Lorie Fuller

A friend and I were talking the other day and she admitted a secret to me.  I remember having the same secret a few years ago when "it" happened to me.  It came just after my optometrist told me that "these things happen" in middle-age.  MIDDLE-AGE?  No, I don't think so. 

As it turns out, middle-age starts in your mid-forties, and one definitive sign is the sudden inability to read the side of a yogurt container at the grocery store.  I'm sure that it happened over a period of years, but it seemed to me that it was quite sudden.  Reading a magazine or a medicine bottle became impossible, even with the glasses or contact lenses that had served me well over the years.  Trying to find a size or washing instructions on clothing tags became a challenge.  Making out the difference between a "5" and a "3" was impossible. 

The funny thing was, I actually went to get reading glasses before I really thought I was terminally vision-challenged.  I'm not sure what I thought, but getting the readers seemed like entering a right-of-passage before my time.  In fact, I was embarrassed to admit to my eye doctor I had gone that step without checking with her first.  Let's just say, she wasn't the least bit shocked. 

Now that I have a half-dozen pairs sprinkled judiciously around the house, I'm still not completely comfortable with the concept.  I don't really think of myself as being old enough to need reading glasses, yet my eyes betray me that direction every day.

Besides my annoyance at having to pick up a pair of glasses every time I want to read something, I think the saddest part about losing my near vision is that I'm missing some of the details in my kids' faces, their little dimpled hands, their beautiful hair, their perfect little belly buttons.  My daughters are better at pointing out details in nature, books, plays...then I am.  I can't help them appreciate some of those tiny details in life that take two good eyes to see.  Parenting at this age has its benefits, to be sure, but vision loss isn't one of them. 

On a positive note, I can no longer see some of the fine lines, skin imperfections, and little hairs that used to plague me in the mirror each day, and no one else my age can, either, unless they cheated and got Lasik.  I wish they were actually gone, but I know they aren't. 

So, my dear friend with the secret - I do understand exactly what you're going through, and I won't say your name here so that you can manage the transition in your own time.  I'm just glad I can be here to listen, and commiserate.