Juggling Life

The Story Behind the Numbers . . .

A very astute reader posed the question to me, via email, about whether or not I was concerned with what seemed to her, Social Butterfly's very limited food choices (power bars, oatmeal) and whether that might be a sign that she still has her eating disorder.

I love when people ask these types of questions because I really appreciate that he/she cares enough to risk asking something uncomfortable. I think life is just better with open and honest communication.

This was my response and I think it's educational enough I want to share it here; I think it really illustrates, as that reader concluded, that recovery is very much a process. 

You are absolutely spot-on. Her food choices are still very eating disordered. We've discussed this at length in therapy and we (parents, specialists) have come to the following conclusions:

• She never liked food very much. I couldn't tell one "favorite" meal she has and only a couple of foods she would prefer over a random choice. Recovery won't change this.
• The most important thing is for her to maintain a healthy weight.
• If rigid behavior surrounding her weight (food choices and monitoring weight via scale) helps to keep her at a healthy weight that is okay for the time-being.
• She has made great progress in being able to eat in social settings--restaurants, parties, etc., but they can still be anxiety-provoking experiences for her and being able to eat "safe" foods in those settings makes the whole experience easier.
• Knowing EXACTLY what she needs to eat and how she's going to get those calories (number of power bars, number of packets of oatmeal, number of slices of cheese on her bagel sandwich, number of apple juice boxes) has enabled her to become weight-restored and independent.

So, for now, this behavior is fine with all of us. I often tease her that maybe one day she may decide she doesn't want to be known as "that girl that's really weird about food," but that will come when she is ready.

She looks like she's doing okay, right?

 

 

By the Numbers . . .

Sending your child off to college can be fraught with worry. Sending your recently recovered anorexic daughter to college can be fraught with panic. Thank goodness I am well-schooled in dialectical behavioral therapy skills.

At our last meeting with our family therapist back in July we did some "coping ahead." (Back story: Social Butterfly's weight seems to want to be right about 136.5--which, if you look at weight charts is about 1.5 lbs. more than the least a 5'10 woman should weigh. That number does align with her historical growth pattern though, so all the powers that be--nutritionists, therapists, psychiatrist, us--decided that 136.5 was her "weight-restored" number. However, there is some risk in an anorexic being at the low end of their weight range.) Our coping ahead was in regards to what would happen if SB lost weight at school.

We decided 135 was our yellow alert number and 132 was our two weeks to gain weight or come home number. Like I said--very little margin for error.

For the last seven weeks SB has been in charge of her own food and her weight; she fell below 135 at graduation (staying up all night for grad night hit her hard), but other than that she has effectively managed her weight while being able to reduce her calories from a high of 3,500 per day to her current 2,100 per day. 

She has made amazing progress in conquering her fear of restaurant food. She used to only be able to eat a chicken Caesar salad and now she can eat all types of chicken salads--a Santa Fe chicken salad from Chili's or a Chipotle chicken salad with corn and cheese. That doesn't sound like a big deal to someone not in the eating-disordered world, but believe me it is a huge deal. Ginormous.

Saturday morning SB called me to tell me she weight 133 lbs.

GULP!

She led with the weight and followed with, "I think it is because I am walking all over the place. I ate three protein bars yesterday and I'm having three packets of oatmeal and two apple juices for breakfast and I'll start riding my bike instead of walking."

I'm not going to lie, going into panic mode was one of the options that crossed my mind. I chose instead to employ "wise mind" and remind her of what the numbers we'd discussed were and that it seemed like she was doing all the right things and that I trusted her to get that number up--but if she couldn't do it pretty quickly she needed to get into the health center ASAP.

I've gotten a lot of texts from SB that have made me happy, but I think today's text that said "136.5" was one of my faves. 

Her being on her own is an exciting and scary business, but I am heartened by her honesty with me, with her roommates and friends and, mostly, with herself.

 

 

 

 

 

In Which I Go Four for Four

Social Butterfly had been teasing me for the last week before we took her to college--a week that was filled with many hours of snuggling, high temps and humidity be damned--that I was going to cry when I left her at college. I allowed that I might, though my not crying at college dropoff is part of family lore. "I'm sure you will because I'm your favorite. You can admit it now, it's just the two of us here, I won't tell anyone. It will be our secret. Go ahead, tell me the truth" she whispered in my ear as my head rested on her chest with only the ceiling fan whirling overhead preventing us from dissolving into a puddle.

"If I cry it will be because you're the last, not because you're my favorite" was my response (and the truth). 

Wednesday morning we were packed and ready to go with a sendoff committee assembled.

 

MagMag, Social Butterfly and MiniMe (I'm calling her that because she has my EXACT personality--but in a much younger and cuter body).

Our neighbor who has known SB since she was 8 months old and is an honorary grandma snapped this--after giving SB a lovely sendoff gift.

Wednesday night we got to scope out the dorm room because her roommate T moved in a day early and we ended up taking up a few things and then shopping Target with T. A few words about T: her record--yes, record--collection looks just like mine in 8th grade and she brought a turntable. Also? She brought the book Feminist Ryan Gosling with her so I automatically adore  her.

Thursday morning we were up bright and early and ready to go.

 

Mr. Fix-it is an amazing mover--especially when properly caffeinated.

 

 SB is in a triple. And what a triple it is! It's ginormous. Everyone that saw it--mostly the non-freshmen mover-inner-helper-students-- whistled in awe and lamented the fact that their triple last year was only half the size.

 

Ginormous triple, SB's closet, over SB's desk, awesome brand-new fridge that is way better than any dor

Elephant knitted by MagMag during program. The elephant is SB's totem because of the saying, "When eating an elephant, take one bite at a time" and because an anorexic having an elephant as a totem is pretty hysterical.

By 2 p.m. everything that needed to be done was done and Mr. Fix-it, SB and I were in her dorm room. Her roommates were out with family and friends, so it was just the three of us. MFI kept giving me "are we going to leave eyes?" and I kept mouthing "not  yet" and then the hallway was full of the sound of tromping boys and SB's name being shouted. Into her room came this trio--friends from her high school--and that's when I said, "We're going to hit the road now."

I would never embarrass SB by asking her for a photo with her friends in an awkward way, but when MFI and I were still standing outside Allen Hall picking out her room when these four tumbled out of the building ready to set off on their first college adventure and looking like a page out of an NAU brochure I had to say, "What a coincidence! You look like a picture and I have a camera!"

  And even though I'm forbidden from tagging SB in FB posts, I tagged her and it turns out I was right to do it because she took the photo and instagrammed it and it got a ton of likes.

This is the last photo of the day . . .  if you're going to start down a whole new road in life, there are surely less attractive roads to traverse.

 

Leaving Flagstaff

And I? Did not cry . . . making me four for four when it comes to my excitement for my children's futures winning out over my desire to have them be my babies forever.

 

 

 

 

 

Counting my blessings

As you may know, my life is about to change radically. Danger Boy returned to college last Tuesday. We move Social Butterfly in on the 23rd and Mr. Fix-it goes back to Salt Lake City after almost a month home. 

If you're doing the math on that it goes like this: If Jenn has one child that lives in Chicago and one child that lives in Colorado, one child that lives in Erie and one child that lives in Flagstaff and a husband that also works in Salt Lake City, how many people will be living in Jenn's five-bedrom house on August 27? The answer, you've figured out by now, is just one. Just Jenn.

In the interest of turning this into an episode of "To Everything there is a Season" versus "OMG! Who am I if not Somebody's Mom" I have decided to focus on the positives of living alone.

1. For two weeks a month I will return to a house that is EXACTLY as I left it (and I assure you that I will be leaving it clean).
2. I will do approximately one load of clothes and a load of towels/sheets every two weeks. That's it. I will likely need to by more panties to accomplish this, but I think I will do that.
3. I will watch whatever I want on TV any time I want. And I WANT to watch me some Downton Abbey!
4. I will go to yoga and Pilates three times a week because I won't have to feel like I'm abandoning anybody to do so, because nobody will be at home.
5. I will work late if I need or want to.
6. I will go to happy hour with former students. Most of them live in the vicinity of where I teach which is nowhere near my home, so even though we say we'll get together we really don't, but now we can. I started last Wednesday with one of my students and it was so much fun. 
7. I will not cook dinner. I already DON'T do that a lot, but now I won't feel at all guilty about it.
8. I will sleep like a baby. I know from my older kids that if they're under my roof I will worry about them unless they're actually home, but when they're away I have zero idea of what they're up to so I just assume they're fine unless I hear otherwise.
9. I was going for ten, but I'm tapped out. Help a sister out, will you and tell me how great this empty nest is going to be. Please?

 

 

 

Oh, How the Mighty have Fallen

I took this picture to write a cute Wordless Wednesday post. Then I looked at it and a whole other post popped to mind.

 

Forget the nail polish, and focus on the filthy grout.

So. White tile with white grout. People said I was crazy. No way, I said--I'll keep it clean. And I did. For many years. Toothbrush and bleach on a regular basis.

That would be "for many years before I also had a full-time job outside the home."

I thought I kept my house spotless because those were my standards. It turns out my standards have had to be recalibrated to what I have the energy to do. Now there are days when I walk in, say "this house is filthy" and plop right down on the couch or head out to yoga.

I must admit that when I say "filthy" it is what many people would interpret as "in mild disarray," but still. 

It's the things like the grout. And the baseboards. And the bathroom window that nobody but us would ever have ocassion to look through.

Lest you think nobody helps me, the issue is that they DO clean. Just not to my standards. I have reached the point where I am willing to accept "their" clean because I'm too tired to get it "my" clean.

And really?

This is all probably a very good thing and a sign of growth on my part. 

I'm actually okay with it. Until I take a picture of my grout.

 

Thank goodness for blogging and entertaining. Toothbrush met bleach met grout as I was getting ready to throw a going-away gathering for Social Butterfly on Saturday. Related: I can see out my bathroom window again. I feel so much better!

 

 

 

May I Buy a Vowel, Please?

Saturday night I was upstairs by 9 p.m.; if one is going to remove all one's clothing and lie down directly under a ceiling fan, one generally prefers not to have an audience--or only a small one. Or maybe that's just me.

I just want to say that I know I am a weather wimp--it goes along with being a SoCal girl--but 95 degrees and 50% humidity is unbearable in my book. I know my Midwest and East Coast and Southern friends have different standards, so feel free to tell me your stories of how I have NO idea of what unbearable is. I can take it.

Anyway, when Mr. Fix-it came up he informed me that Danger Boy had a couple of friends over to play Madden. When I asked who they were, MFI had one name and a blank on the other one. This is not unusual at all, as MFI is notoriously terrible with names and I am just glad he ususally remembers mine (did I ever tell you about the time he put Danger Boy's brother's middle name on his baptismal certficate instead of DB's own? Good times).

MFI didn't have a name, but he was able to give me a clue. "It's somebody you would hug." 

While that might sound oddly random as a clue, it actually made some sense to me. I am not a hug-everyone person. Also? In my experience, most 19-year old boys are not big fans of hugging (unless perhaps 19-year old girls are involved). 

My mental calculations went a little something like this--"Hmmm, if it's someone I would hug that means it's someone from elementary school and also somebody that I don't see very often."

A name popped into my head, but then MFI threw out, "I think he used to live on our street."

Oh! Easy one, then. "Ben?"

"No, not Ben. In fact, now that I think about, I don't think he did ever live on our street."

"Harry, then."

"I don't think so . . . you know what, I really have no idea."

 I had to do what any woman with a cell phone and a compulsion to be well-informed at all times would do--texted Danger Boy. 

And?

It was Harry. Damn, I'm good. Also? Mr. Fix-it knows enough about how I think to feed me the right clues.

 

 

 

Pick a Color

I have not had unpolished nails since I was about 12. Social Butterfly the same. Grownup Girl was late to the party, but she's the same way. Is it a coincidence that my mother had gorgeous nails that were always manicured? Probably not.

Social Butterfly and I share clothes (okay, she wears some of my stuff [like a cardigan as a dress], but I would never fit into hers), shoes--though in this case it's more likely to be me borrowing hers than her borrowing mine, a hair straightener--and nail polish. 

 

These are the bottles from the cupboard--I didn't gather the ones from her room.

 

Lots of nail polish. Revlon bottle at the bottom of the photo notwithstanding, it's pretty much all OPI and China Glaze with a couple of Chanels thrown in. Do we a favor and don't the math on our 40 bottles. Some people are better off not knowing, if you get my drift.

These bottles are out because SB and I have divide them up so she can take some with her. If you happen to be a student at Northern Arizona University and you need a color just to match a certain outfit you could do worse than asking SB.

Check back for a post on what else is in that picture. I'll give you a hint--it's grout-related. Sigh.

 

 

 

Why Water Polo?

Karen's comment on my last post got me thinking: Why do I love water polo so much and, more specifically, why do I enjoy watching my kids play this particular sport?

I confess to not understanding the allure of watching my kids play a game as rough as water polo (I'm a band mom), but I *do* understand the awesomeness of friendship.*

Now is a good time to talk about the sport of water polo because a lot more people have been exposed it to it through the Olympics. Universally, people that have never really seen a game are shocked at how tough it is.

 

This t-shirt sums it up nicely. Danger Boy has had it in a couple of different sizes.

The "tough" aspect of the sport is why Navy SEALS specifically recruit water polo players. They have the lowest washout rate of any athlete who tries to become a SEAL. Water polo players--male and female--are generally made of hardy stuff and if they aren't they will either quit the sport or develop the fortitude to compete. There are those that stay and whine about rough it is (or their parents whine about how rough it is and the other parents roll their eyes), but usually not for long.

None of this gets to the root of Karen's question, though--why do I like rough and tough?

I think the root of that is that being mentally tough has served me well in my life (complicated childhood, broken home, absent father, alcoholic parents, mentally ill sister, yada yada, you know the drill). 

I have a theory that as parents we make sure our children are instilled with the qualities we value most highly; we parent specifically to that end. I am not saying we do it consciously, but if you reflect on it you can see it clearly.

I never realized how much I prize independence, and how my parenting reflected that, until someone pointed out to me that not all three-year olds could make themselves a sandwich as Social Butterfly could. Later, one of Danger Boy's friends drove home to me how unusual my requirement that even my daughters be tough enough to not depend on me to rescue them by telling the story (in amazed tone) of how when DB and SB would get into a wrestling match (oh, the wresting that went on in this house!) and SB would be on the losing end, I wouldn't caution DB to take it easy on his sister, I would tell her to "tap out" MMA style and take the loss. I rarely told my kids to stop wrestling, but just told them to take it outside. 

When the kids rode bikes, skateboards, etc. I seldom asked them not to do something because it was dangerous, but I did make them wear helmets and I sat outside with my Vanity Fair magazine and my first aid kit so I could take care of their wounds without them coming inside and bleeding on my carpet.

I allowed tears for blood, broken bones and encouraged them for heartache, but not much else and whining was seriously frowned upon; I must admit that I think knowing how to walk it off and cowboy up are valuable skills right up there with putting on one's big girl panties.

I was not an ogre; I kissed lots of boo-boos in my day, but I think I was always preparing them for the day when Mom would not be able to fix their problem--that in the end, every single one of us has to count on ourselves to get us through this life. If we are lucky--and kind and empathetic to others--we have the help of family and good friends when we need it, but every now and then it all falls on us alone to take care of business and I want them to be ready for that day.

 

 *Also? If Danger Boy had ever showed up for band practice the teacher would have been reduced to tears--that boy has not a musically artistic bone in his body. He got that from his mama!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Friends and Facebook and Femme Fatales

Okay, the femme fatale part is a bit of an overstatement (she's much too sweet for that), but I do think The Pinup Girl is all sorts of adorable.

 

The Pinup Girl

This photo was snapped on the streets of Chicago where she is visiting her dear friend and my daughter, Grownup Girl (I texted I needed a photo for a post and voila!). TPG and GuG have been friends for 14 years. They are both brainy dancers/artists who also happen to be very cute. 

One of the greatest things about having your kids grow up is that their friends also grow up and, sometimes, you get to consider them your friends as well. Such is the case with TPG--she and OMomk and I spent a phenomenally fun evening with several a bottle or two of Champagne a few years ago. GuG coulnd't participate because she had to drive back to school in the wee hours of the morning, but we didn't let that stop us. The next day did punish rather harshly, though. Sometimes it's worth it.

So . . . The Pinup Girl has been working as sort of a girl Friday to an entrepreneur and one of his projects was a coffee and cake shop. TPG did the decorating and is very invested in this project. What do you do when a friend has embarked on an exciting endeavor? Why support it of course.

That's where Facebook comes in. I made a date with one friend to go check out the place and then thought, "Why not invite all the water polo moms I love so much and don't get to see as often as I'd like?" I threw the deets up on FB about 15 hours before we went and got a turnout I never would have had if I'd started planning last month. Gotta love the FB.

 

The Sweetest Buzz; red velvet cupcake; Kelly, Kelly, Heidi, Susan, Jenn, Barb; cakes!

 Since this was the first junior olympics I've missed since Danger Boy was 13, I needed the scoop. And boy did I get it! It was awesome sauce. Sunday morning my posse and I descended up this cute little coffee shop to indulge in caffeine, sugar and the re-hash of an amazing junior olympic water polo match (most of them had a son playing) that featured a coach's red card, a coach's yellow card, a broken nose, a black eye, a fat lip and three brutality charges and resulted in the official calling the game a win for our team with 30 seconds left because the game was out of control. Ya' think? Now, that's a water polo game! 

I know I've blogged about this before (however I am too hot and sweaty right now to be looking for links), but this group of moms are people I plan on knowing forever--and I'm pretty sure they feel the same way. I feel like we will stay in touch through the power of happy hour and the coffee date--and why wouldn't we, we don't have to get home for the kids anymore!

If you're in San Diego, and you're in the neighborhood of Westview High, pop into The Sweetest Buzz for some coffee and a slice of one of their gorgeous cakes. You can tell them The Pinup Girl sent you! 

 

What a Decent Insurance Company Meant to Me

It's likely you have had a negative experience with an insurance company. I know I have. Cough, Healthnet, Cough. (It's just how you want to spend your time grieving; justifying the emergency room visit that your mother made three weeks before her death--the one where they took the first steps toward diagnosing her terminal lung cancer--AFTER she died from the thing they didn't consider an emergency).

Today, though I want to tell you about the phenomenal experience I've had with an insurance company: Aetna. We were insured with an Aetna HMO plan through my husband's employer (though we paid the lion's share of the premium) when Social Butterfly became ill with anorexia. When her pediatrician referred her to an out-of-network, but world-renowned and evidence-based, treatment program--The UCSD Eating Disorder Treatment Program, I (having vast personal and professional experience with health insurance) asked, "What if they won't let us go out-of-network?" The doctor replied with conviction, "I will make them. They don't have anything appropriate for her in-network."

When I talked to the insurance person at UCSD she informed me that a contract was in the works for them to become in-network at UCSD and that she was sure Aetna would approve a single-case in-network contract for my daughter's treatment. "How much?" I asked. "Your deductible is $2,500 and then they cover everything; will that be okay?"

"Okay?! Hold the phone while I turn some cartwheels."

Two weeks after Social Butterfly started treatment, I was made full-time at my job; since I work for a very large corporation, the benefits are both spectacular and inexpensive. Their plan is an Aetna PPO. We kept two weeks of plan overlap with my husband's while I made sure that what the 17 different people I called at Aetna told me was true. Our deductible would reset, but treatment would not be interrupted. One savvy soul who knew my neurotic worry would only be resolved by having something in writing, gave me the link to the company policy on eating disorders--unless your employer excludes ED coverage,  you get this. They were true to their word.

From day one of my daughter's entrance into the program, her treatment was guided by what the professionals at UCSD thought was appropriate for her. Many insuance companies authorize ED treatment three days at a time. Aetna gave us 10 days at a time and renewed without missing a beat. My daughter went off full-days to half-days and, when the staff decided it was too soon, she went back on full-days. Her case mananger worked with the program every single step of the way and never second-guessed them.

I have expressed my gratitude to her personally.

Not only that, but Aetna assigned a case manager to me (since she's a minor). She called me every two weeks to see how things were going, did we need more services, referrals, anything at all--she was there to help us navigate the system. Last week we had our last conversation where I thanked her for always being ready to help, but was confident we have a good plan in place for college.

I don't know the exact number that Aetna's spent on my daughter so far, but I do know it is in excess of $100,000. And it was money well-spent--both in a business sense (how much would one hospitalization cost?) and and an ethical/moral sense. We have spent about $5,000 out-of-pocket because of our dual deductibles--which was worth paying because our monthly premiums were halved by switching plans.

What did all of this mean to me, not in dollars and cents, but in peace of mind? It was, as the Mastercard commercial says, priceless. 

I was able to devote all my energy--and believe me, this took every ounce of energy that I possess as a fairly high-energy, organized, go-getter type to fight and (fingers crossed and hopeful)  helpy my daughter vanquish the monster that is anorexia.

Thank you, Aetna. You have my eternal gratitude.*

 

 

*P.S. Not to turn this all political, but this is just what I want for the rest of America-rich or poor. I am omitting horror stories about other insurance companies from this post because I want to celebrate Aetna, but boy do I know some.