It has been a while since I have written anything. Not feeling very inspired these days.

But I am due for an update and I have some good news to report.

Since beginning my diet in January I have lost 15 pounds! I happily fit into the size two dress that has been taunting me from my closet for over a year now. I  bought the dress with the hope that it would fit by summer and now spring has arrived and it zips up!!  Now I think need some cute new sandals to match.

I have been diet-coke free as well. I am sticking to only water and iced tea. (and of course some wine  from time to time is always needed!)

As for my exercising, it’s touch and go. I do walk and run occasionally when I am not catching up on episodes of Downton Abbey. And there is always something to cook, clean or fold and plenty of homework to do so exercise always falls to the bottom of my list. I am hoping my cool new sneakers will encourage me to start running again.hmmm and maybe some new exercise clothes as well….

While my husband will be quick to pick up on a bad shopping habit developing I do have to give him a very special thanks.  He has been amazingly supportive and proud of me. He has been with me through thick and thin (literally). He supports me through all my ups and downs , my various health ailments and clumsy mishaps!

An extra special thanks to my three amazing boys must also be mentioned. My eleven year old said to me: “Mommy, why are you on a diet? You are perfectly fine!” And whenever I say aloud that I look terrible or am having an especially bad hair day my boys are always quick to interrupt with “no you don’t, you always look perfect.”

I wish I could have those “magical eyes” and see myself the way my boys see me. There always seems to be more bad hair days than good and getting three kids up, feed, dressed and off to school on time each morning usually ends up in a ponytail day for me.

But joking and ponytails aside I do feel better then I have in a long time and am actually very proud of myself!

Now who’s up for a night out? I have the perfect dress!

Since November 17 is World Prematurity Day I thought it was time that I shared my own story. So here it is…

When I was 22 weeks pregnant with twins the doctors told me I could give birth in the next couple of weeks. I had gone to the hospital for a routine check-up. Little did I know that it would turn out to be a long-term hospital stay. During the check-up the doctor told me that I was beginning to dilate and that I was having premature contractions. They advised me that I would need an emergency procedure to stop me from dilating.

I was admitted for the procedure. It was the first time I had been checked into a hospital. I had no idea what any of this meant and I was terrified. I was hooked up to a contraction monitor and given shots of Terbutiline, a drug that slows down contractions. I waited hours and hours in the holding room.

Finally, at midnight I was brought into the operating room. Even more terrified at this point, I wondered how I was going to get through all this. I hated needles and hated hospitals.  I still remember the bright lights and coldness of the room. With the help of an amazing nurse who held my hand the entire time I got through it. I was wheeled into a post-op room and told I would stay the night. Little did I know that this little room would be my home for the next three months.

Afterwards, we met with my doctor and the news was grim. Test results showed I had a very high chance of giving birth within two weeks. No one wanted to give me any hope or promises as to how far I would make it.  We met with a neonatal doctor who gave us the statistics and survival rates at different weeks. The thing that struck me most was when she said “Everyday those babies stay inside you is five less days they spend in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.” Feeling the babies kick at that moment I knew what I had to do.

My goal was to make it to the end of each week. When I made it through another seven days it was a celebration and milestone. It was celebrated with a new balloon (made out of a hospital glove) added to the wall with the number of the week we had just passed. As I looked at the balloons on the wall I knew that it was not good enough and I had to go further. The neonatal doctor’s words kept repeating in my head.

It was mind over matter. In those three months on bedrest I never complained, never cried and never felt sorry for myself. I could not laugh or I  would get contractions.  Jokes would have to be kept to a minimum. If I did get contractions I knew how to calm my body down and stop them.

I was on complete bedrest which made me totally dependent on others to care for me. I was in good hands as my husband was my everything: my nurse, my cook, my caregiver and my link to the outside world. He slept on the windowsill on a tiny mattress in my room just to be there for me. He brought me the best sheets, the softest towels and made sure that I never had to eat hospital food. He snuck  in the VCR that was prohibited along with every season of Sex and the City available.  More than anything he was my spokesman and my advocate. And somehow in all that craziness and stress there were some very special times for us. In that little room, we found things to laugh about and had our routine, jokes, and private moments.

My mother was the other pillar of strength that helped me over those three months. She took care of me in a way that only mothers know how and fed me in a way only Jewish mothers can. She sat with me all day while my husband was at work. I will always remember her love and support both before and after the babies were born.

The night of week 34 I was told I would have to be taken off my medication due to complications to my liver. Before the doctor left, he turned around and said,  “You know, it was your will and determination that got you this far, not us doctors.”

While I believe that was true I could not have survived without the help of one doctor in specific. From day one he listened to me, supported me and fought for me. While other doctors were too busy tending to their egos instead of their patients he always put his patients first. When I checked into the hospital he told me his own story. He said “I was born at 30 weeks, weighing only 2 pounds and I think I turned out ok…” I couldn’t have asked for a better success story standing right in front of me.

I gave birth the next day to two beautiful healthy boys who were 4 pounds and 3 pounds 12 ounces. They spent only ten days in the neonatal intensive care. Today they are happy, healthy, smart, funny amazing ten year olds!

Looking through some old files I found something I wrote for my son Olivier a few years ago. He was a very picky eater as a baby and had feeding issues. But at age four he made me a promise to me that when he turned five years old he would try new foods. A big promise for such a little kid. True to his word on his fifth birthday he tried cake for the first time. I wrote this poem for him and for other kids who are scared to try new things.

When I was very very small
I hardly ate anything at all

I would never try anything new
If forced to eat I would be blue

Ice cream, cake, veggies, fruit, even chips
would never be allowed past my lips

If mom or dad try to force me to eat anything at all
I would get nervous and the tears would fall

I ate the same things everyday
Why I did this I could not say

I was bribed with toys and goodies galore
Taken to the biggest toy store

But on my own I made a promise that was very bold
That I would try new things when I turned five years old

As the big birthday got near
I began to be filled with nerves and fear

But I stuck to the promise I said I would make
And on my fifth birthday I had my first piece of cake

Boy was it ever sweet and yummy
I wondered why I was depriving my tummy

Of so many delicious new things like pears, apples, and blueberry
I don’t know why I thought it would be so scary

I tried all kinds of veggies like peppers, green, red and yellow
And fish sticks, hamburgers, cheese, even jello

I realized trying new foods was really great
And I try to eat whatever is put on my plate

so if you are told to eat something new like me
And you look at it with apprehension and uncertainty

Just try it once and you will be surprised to find
That you may quickly change your mind

There are so many new things to taste and discover
Now I just need to convince my little brother….

After my last post my mom called me and said “Maybe you should write about your other grandmother, she may feel bad. Write about her knishes!”

What would she feel bad about? She doesn’t even own a computer. When I called to tell her I had a blog she said “don’t worry I am sure the doctor can give you something for that!”

But after hanging up on my mom and laughing her off I wondered how could I incorporate my grandmother into my blog? I thought about her knishes and I figured it out.

THERAPY!

I am not talking about the lying on the couch talking to your shrink type of therapy. Although, I probably could use a few sessions myself. Each of us as mothers need to find our own personal therapy; something that makes us feel good about ourselves, makes us happy and helps us find that daily balance between crazy and sane.

And how did my 88 year old grandmother’s knishes make me think of this? Simple, her therapy is cooking. She cooks to keep busy, to stay active, to bring joy to to others and most of all it makes her happy.

My grandmother recently had a stroke. She lost vision in one eye and strength in her right hand. What kept her positive and strong was her determination to get home and COOK! There were neighbors to feed, grandchildren to fatten up and COSTCO sales were plummeting in her absence. She was doing physical and mental therapy so she could get back to her cooking therapy. Knowing her love of cooking the therapist even incorporated it into her daily routine. It kept her body and mind active and after a few weeks she returned home and was back in her beloved kitchen.

The first thing she did when she got home was bake cookies for the entire rehab (nurses, doctors, therapists, the cleaning crew) She even made sure to accommodate those with restricted diets. She made sugar-free, nut-free and dairy- free cookies. Then she hand delivered them herself to each and every floor.

This brings me back to why as moms we need our personal “therapy”. Our days are spent tending to the kids and we very often neglect ourselves. We cook up pancakes and french toast for our kids while we grab some cold toast or skip breakfast altogether. We sign our kids up for soccer, baseball, and hockey to keep them active as we crash on the couch and our only exercise is running after them. We buy them books, art supplies and games to educate them and let our own books collect dust on the shelf.

We moms need to carve out some time for ourselves to feel good, to relax, and to keep our bodies and minds active. Unfortunately, I did not inherit my grandmother’s cooking talent. But I am working on discovering things I enjoy to do and actually finding time to do them. Call it what you want a hobby, therapy, mommy-time, a mid-life crisis…whatever it is we need it! We also need retail therapy and happy hour but I’ll save that for another post.

When I asked my mom why she never forced me to eat she told me: “because my mother always forced me to eat. So I swore I would never force my kids to eat anything.” But to really know why my grandmother forced my mother to eat, you need to know her history.

In 1939, when Poland was occupied by the Germans she fled to Russia with my grandfather and hid there until the war was over. I only know parts of her story and I think she kept the truly horrific events to herself. She knew what it was to be starving, to have no food, and most of all have nothing to feed her children. She lost a daughter to diphtheria while in hiding. My mother was born in 1946 in a displaced person’s camp in Germany. My grandparents barely had enough food to feed her until they came to Canada in 1948. I have one picture of my grandmother from that time. She was rail thin, skin and bones and a far cry from the plump and round bubby I knew growing up. From her experiences during the war she developed a lifelong fear of having no food.

My mother was an only child, the center of their lives and my grandmother made sure that my mother was well fed. Not just well fed, but stuffed and forced to always eat whatever was on her plate. She used to bring my mother a hot lunch to school everyday no matter the weather or distance. Photos of my mother show a very chubby little girl. To my grandmother it was her pride and joy and a sign of overcoming all that she had experienced. For my mother it was quite a different feeling. She hated being chubby and couldn’t stand being forced to eat.

Now we skip to the next generation, to me and my brothers. My mother never forced us to eat anything. I was very picky and didn’t like anything. If I didn’t want it I didn’t have to eat it. Unless of course it was dinnertime at my grandmother’s house. (She was the stereotypical Jewish grandmother who was forever saying ” You are too skinny, don’t you eat?”) These bad eating habits would follow me until this day.

Now I am a mother and I find myself forcing my kids to eat and always trying to get some meat on their very skinny bones. But I too have my own history and my own reasons for forcing my kids to eat. My twin boys were born six weeks early, weighing 4 pounds and 3 pounds 12 ounces. They were preemies known in the NICU as the “feeders and growers”. They were healthy but just needed to gain weight. It became my obsessive mission to fatten them up. As babies, I kept a diary of how much the drank and ate. There was reflux and feeding issues. No shirt was free from the spit up and puke. As they became toddlers and now boys, it is still a battle to get them to eat. My pediatrician is of the school of thought “they will eat when they are hungry”. That to me is BS. Given a choice, they would live on chocolate and coco puffs.

My grandmother was lucky to live to a very healthy 97 years old. She was independent until the last 6 months of her life when she had to have caregivers and nurses take care of her. She would call my mom and tell her “They are stealing my food!” My mother still diets and tries to lose weight. I am trying to eat healthier and take better care of myself and lose my own bad eating habits. And my kids will draw on their own experiences from their sometimes crazy mother as they become adults and parents.

So each generation influences the next in different ways and for very different reasons but we all do what we think is best for our kids. And a little bit of Jewish guilt doesn’t hurt either.

LINDA THIS IS FOR YOU!

Top ten reasons you will most likely crack and need a diet coke.(and probably an upgrade to an alcoholic beverage)

1. You decide that three kids are not enough and decide to adopt a dog that is in heat!
2.  You come home from work and can’t figure out what is dirtier your house or your kids.
3. You break your toe in the middle of winter and can only wear flip flops.
4. Your kids have been up puking all night followed by you puking all day.
5. You only notice the maple syrup in your hair after that very important meeting.
6.  The dog you adopt just peed on your rug.
7.  Someone sneaks non-washable paint into your house and you have your own Jackson Pollack on your walls.
8. That embarrassing picture from high school is suddenly posted on Facebook.
9. You almost light your hair on fire attempting to turn on the new BBQ.
10. Your iphone falls in the toilet and your ipad breaks and the only thing you can do on it is play Angry Birds.

I know I am due for a diet update. I am happy to report that I am down about 3 pounds and walking/running two miles most mornings. The diet is going pretty well although last night I went to bed at 9:30 to stop myself from eating a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

Most importantly, I have cut out of the diet coke OFFICIALLY!!! Only had it twice at work in the past two weeks. I am caffeine free for the most part. So big thanks to my hubby and kids for putting up with some extra crankiness.

I just wanted to thank everyone who has read and responded to my blog.

There are mornings where I wake up and say forget this blog I can’t do this. This was a stupid idea. But when I log in and see these supportive posts and emails and it really does keep me going.

I also wanted to thank to those who have encouraged me to write and helped me with my writing. Yes, my grammar sucks and my thoughts may be scattered at times but I am learning how to pull it all together!

More to come soon. XO

The other day I got a letter from my mom in the mail. Yes, my mother still sends me handwritten letters in the mail. She does not email, text or tweet. I think we may still have a rotary phone in the basement. So in these e-days of lightening fast messages, I was very excited to get snail mail that was not a bill.

I poured myself a glass of diet coke sat at the kitchen table and got ready to read my letter.  I smiled as I noticed the little handmade hearts on the back of the envelope. As I opened the letter out fell newspaper clippings (at least 10 of them) and one coupon for 20% off at bed bath and beyond.

What is this? Who still cuts things out from the newspaper? Who still reads real newspapers? When I lived at home, my mom always loved to cut things out from the newspaper before any of us even got a chance to read it! That explains why growing up we were never up on our current events. She always managed to cut out the most important parts of the story. I scanned across the headlines: Will Drinking Diet Coke Increase your Risk of a Heart Attack? Diet Coke Links to higher risk for Strokes? Diet Coke is Poison?

She was at it again. After years of telling me to get off diet soda, she was now sending me bits of mutilated newspaper to scare me. Underneath the headlines of each article, she might as well have written “I told you so.” And when she really wants to get her point across she highlights or underlines!

Well I guess the seed was planted in my head and few weeks ago I finally decided to go cold turkey. I traded in my diet coke for bottled water. The first person I wanted to share this with was my mom.  So last week I called her and gave her the great news.  I told her about my diet coke detox and I waited for the praise and encouragement. Her reply was “Just a week? weren’t you supposed to stop months ago? I just mailed you a new study…..”

Yes I complained about it and made fun of her for her nagging. But the truth is I loved her for doing it and as a mother now myself I understood why she did it. I am always worrying about my kids eating well and what they are eating. In my usual hurried morning rush as I attempt to eat some breakfast I can hear her voice saying “just once I would like to see you sitting down when you eat.”

I guess I should let her know that while I complain and laugh at her tactics I really do appreciate everything she does for me. So I reach over to grab the phone, nah, I think I’ll mail her a letter….