Happy Birthday To Me!

I've always dreamed of turning 40.  Despite society's insistence that we all aspire to obtain a 20 year old's body and a pre-teen's youthful glow, I love getting older.  Love the confidence and wisdom that comes with aging.  Love the fact that I can FINALLY tell the difference between what's truly important and the bullshit that only disguises itself as such.  (Experience really is the world's best teacher.)

But at 40 years old...

I haven't even come close to reaching my full potential.

I haven't made a dent in my bucket list; hell, it's been so long since I've even looked at that list that I don't even remember what's on it anymore.

But all that is about to change.

For my 40th birthday, I'm giving myself the gift of selfishness.  No more putting others first and resenting them for it afterwards.  No more being afraid to ask (or even demand) exactly what it is that I want.  No more treating myself to only second best (if I'm lucky).  And no more resting on my laurels and expecting the world to hand me anything.  Whatever I want out of life, I'm gonna have to work my ass off to obtain.

Wow, thank God it only took me 40 years to figure all of this out!

Rest In Peace

I love the holidays, especially now that I have a child.  This Thanksgiving found me volunteering in my daughter's classroom, teaching the children to make dreamcatchers in honor of Native American Day.  For the holiday itself we spent the day at grandma's house, enjoying good food, good wine and good conversations with friends and family.  Who could ask for more?

Christmas was even better.  After watching A Christmas Story with Amira, I put her to bed then stayed up til 1:30 a.m. wrapping presents, making rice krispy treats and carting everything upstairs to grandma's house where we always open our presents the minute the sun comes up.  That afternoon, the entire family drove out to Uncle Dwight's house where we enjoyed good food, good wine and good conversations with friends and family.  Who could ask for more?

But New Year's day has long been my favorite holiday.   Every year since childhood I've regaled my friends with long lists of resolutions we all know I'm never going to keep.  I was getting ready to text Chele with this year's list when she called me.

"Dij, do you want to chit-chat first or do you want the bad news?"  Thinking it would be no big deal I chose the bad news.

It's been three days since that phone call and...

I've yet to give her my resolutions.  

Michele was calling to tell me that our good friend Keith Goodrich had passed away.

I'd known Keith since high school but we didn't get close til after graduation.  That's when he became one of my closest friends.

We spent years partying together, Keith and I.  It was Keithy who snuck me into Hong Kong for the first time, Keithy who gave me my first shot of jaeger, and Keithy who took me to my first female strip club.  But...he was so much more than just a constant good time.  Keith was there for me when I was diagnosed with MS.  When my sister moved out of our mother's house and into her own apartment, it was Keith who helped her move, then pulled out his wallet, refusing to accept my cash when I took he and two other friends out for drinks afterwards to thank them.  I have SO many memories of my good friend and big brother Keith Goodrich but the one I treasure the most is from when I was 24 years old, and living in Los Angeles, away from our gang.  Keith called me every, single Wednesday to check up on me. To make sure I wasn't too lonely, to see that I was okay.  And while I was only there for 6 months, he came out to visit anyway.

None of us are perfect and Keith had his flaws.  But he was one of the most loyal friends I've ever had.  And I'll love and miss him til the day I die.

Roar

Since moving in together there's not been a day that's gone by in which Lorenzo and I haven't wanted to kill each other.

Okay, maybe I'm not being fair.

There's not been a day that's gone by in which I haven't wanted to kill him.

I love Lorenzo of course, but good God he can work a nerve.

The constant nagging is the worst but there's so much more to hate:

The hours he wastes on football.

The micro managing.

The know it all attitude.

The need to voice his unasked for opinion on every single detail of my life.

Being with him is both exhausting and infuriating and I fantasize about leaving his black ass every single day of my life.

I never wanted a husband or a child.

Nor do I understand those who do.

Who in their right mind would actually choose to trade in their freedom for a lifetime of compromise and caretaking? Not me.

So this begs the question, why in hell do I stay?

Contrary to popular belief, love is not the answer, at least it damn sure isn't for me.

And as harsh as this may sound Amira isn't even a good enough reason for me to stay with a man who drives me as crazy as Lorenzo does.

When I sit down and think about it, the reason I stay is actually a fairly easy one.

Lorenzo makes me want to be a better person. Plain and simple.

I've never had a man who pushed me harder than he does, who challenges me to be the best goddamn Khadija I can be every single day.  Who lets me know that my good enough isn't good enough for him because I can be so much more.  Lorenzo really believes that I'm unstoppable.  That when I set my mind to something, nothing on this earth can prevent me from achieving it.  He admires the courage I don't show nearly enough.  He loves that when backed into a corner, I will always come out swinging.  He sees me for the strong, confident woman I didn't even know I was until he came along.

He believes in me.

Aside from my parents, no one's ever believed in me quite the way he does.

And I love him for that.

And that's why I stay.

Fuck a new year's resolution, TODAY'S the day I have.

Just wait till you see what I do with it.

Birthday Wish

On January 18th I turned 38 years old.

 I've always loved celebrating birthdays and getting older has never bothered me.

In fact, Oprah's declaration that "life begins at 40" was all the proof I needed that my outlook on birthdays is the correct one. I figure, we should celebrate each year that's given to us cuz, as we all know, tomorrow's not guaranteed. 

Over the years I've encountered many people who feel differently about this matter than I do.

For example:

"Happy birthday Chris! What do you want this year?"

"A dark room and a gun".

And:

"Happy birthday Warren! What are we doing tonight?"

"Not a damn thing. I'm gonna drink until I pass out and forget I'm old as fuck."

And then there's my personal favorite:

"Happy birthday babe! I wish you'd let me take you out, it's your special day! You can have anything you want!"

"Even a sexy Latina dressed in a little French maid's uniform?"

"Will that prevent you from tapping ME on the shoulder at 3:00 a.m. because if it will, I swear to God, Lorenzo, I'd actually consider finding her for you."

As you can see, not everyone's as festive as I am.

But things are different now.

While I still love my birthday I realize that as a mother, I have to celebrate differently than I have in the past.

Gone are the days of celebrating by drinking all night at Good Times while watching the Pats win another playoff game. Gone are the days of having a late dinner at Fire and Ice, where Michele will inevitably tell the waitstaff that it's my birthday, and I will feign surprise when everyone begins to sing.

This year, as I told Lorenzo, I wanted something really special for my birthday.

"I want your credit card, no questions asked, and most importantly, I don't want to see you or Amira for the entire day."

As much as I love my family I so needed a day of not hearing "MOMMY!!!!!" echoing down the hallway. Or, "DIJA!!!!!!" reverberating up the basement stairs.

I just wanted to be alone. And to my great surprise Lorenzo gave me exactly what I wanted.

My phone didn't ring while I was getting waxed at Carmen's.

It didn't ring while I was on the train downtown.

And it didn't ring while I was sweater shopping at H&M.

He was able to handle Amira by himself, for an entire afternoon without needing anything from me.

My birthday was as close to Heaven on earth as I can currently imagine.

Challenge Accepted

I've had many different types of relapses in my life. There's the Sleeping-with-the-ex-boyfriend relapse: "Oh God, Maggie, I couldn't help it, I slipped and fell on his dick". Then of course, there's the Another-Friday-night-at-the-bar-with-your-friends relapse: "Oh God, Warren, I mean it this time, I am NEVER drinking again after tonight!" There's the actual, Medically-confirmed-LEGITIMATELY-not-my-fault relapse: "Oh God, Mom, my left side is killing me, I'll go see Dr. Bernstein before work because my MS is acting up." And then there is, what for me, has been worse than all of these relapses put together. The diet relapse. New Year's Day is my favorite holiday. Every December, for as long as I can remember, I've spent hours compiling a long list of resolutions I truly mean to keep in the following year. Some have actually come to fruition. Most have not. Resolution-wise, December 2012 was no different than any other December of my adult life except for one thing. I'd finally read something by Geneen Roth. Any well-read female who has attempted to conquer bad body image issues has at least heard of Geneen Roth. She is an expert in that field and at the forefront of the anti-dieting movement. And at the end of last year, with my body image at a particularly puzzling low, I decided to take Oprah's advice and read Roth's Women, Food, and God. As usual, Oprah was right. The book really did open my eyes to a lot of my behavior regarding food. It helped me to see that what I put in my mouth has a lot less to do with hunger than it does with what's going on in my world. Eating a family sized bag of chips, then weighing myself, cursing the number on the scale and vowing to start Weight Watchers "tomorrow" is a lot less productive than trying to figure out WHY I ate the entire bag of chips in the first place. See, I've realized that it's a lot easier for me to say I hate my abs than it is to say, "Sometimes I hate being a stay at home mom." It's a lot easier to lament the fact that my latest diet isn't working than it is to admit that my relationship may not be working and that I'm scared shitless. But I don't want to run from my issues anymore. So for 2013 I have a very different resolution in mind. For 365 days I will not step on a scale. I will not join a commercial diet program or spend one red cent in any attempt to change my body. This is not saying I will now eat with reckless abandon and skip my workouts; nothing could be further from the truth. I love to workout and for the most part, my diet's a pretty healthy one. But there are days when I binge on end and in an effort to figure out why, I HAVE to avoid the scale. I have to focus on what's going on inside of me, and not use my weight as a scapegoat. This is going to be hard but I'm going to try my best to be honest with myself, and with my readers, each and every step of the way.

Tomorrow

It's been almost 13 years since I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Those of you who know me well probably already know my story. I was living in Los Angeles at the time. I was 24, single, childless and working as a customer service rep at an online maternity store when... The bottom fell out. One day at work I had what I would later learn was a tonic seizure, on the floor of the ladies bathroom. After conflicting diagnoses in California I came back home to Boston where I would eventually be diagnosed as having MS. At the time of my diagnosis I knew exactly what my life would be life would be like. I'd be good for a few years before eventually becoming sicker and sicker, weaker and weaker, more reliant on my friends to take care of me than I already was. And then, the worst thing I could possibly imagine would finally happen to me. I'd end up in a wheelchair. Like my mother. Thankfully (and not surprisingly) I was completely wrong. I very rarely had any problems or even inconveniences due to MS. And aside from my immune system now being more susceptible to things like sinus infections and bronchitis... I was completely fine. And once I became pregnant, my MS went even further into remission and I haven't been on any meds since. And so last month, when I started having more numbness and tingling in my toes than is usual for me, I did what I've always done and called my neurologist for a check up. I figured I'd have the usual neurological exam and then Dr Spencer would schedule an MRI for me before prescribing Neurontin for the tingles. So I was shocked, when, after examining me the attending physician brought in the chief of neurology to do the same. And I was even more shocked to hear her say: "I'm not calling this MS." "I'm sorry?" "I'm not calling this MS until I've done the MRI myself. Too many doctors diagnose an illness as MS when it isn't. Did your doctors in Boston test you for vitamin deficiencies?" "Um...I don't know. No?" "Did anyone look at your thyroid and copper levels? Your vitamin d and vitamin b levels?" "No, I don't think so." "Did you have an EEG?" "I don't know. I don't even know what that is." "Did they put electrodes on your head and flash lights into your eyes?" "No." "Okay, all of that has to be done before I'll call this MS. You'll come see me when all of the tests are done and we'll take it from there. By the way, do you know what your name means? Are you Muslim?" And at this I had to smile. I don't think I've ever met a Muslim who hasn't asked me one or both of these questions within minutes of meeting me. Even in the middle of a potentially life altering doctor's appointment. So...my first of 4, two-hour MRI's is scheduled for next Monday. And unlike that first appointment 13 years ago when it took Maggie's hand holding and two valium to get me to lie still in that machine...this time around I'm completely fine. The thing is, it doesn't matter to me whether I have MS or not. I'm okay either way. I'll take each day as it's given to me. I'll take each moment as it comes. I've already gone through the worst of it. 13 years ago...I had NO coping skills. I dealt with the diagnosis by NOT dealing with it. By trying to drink, smoke, EAT or sex it out of my consciousness. No more. I'm not afraid anymore.

Today

There are many words one could use to describe me. I’m a mother, a student, a homemaker, a vegan. I’m African-American, short, funny, and smart. But the word I’ve let define me for the past 20 years is this one: Fat. My name is Khadija Brewington, I’m 37 years old, and until very recently I’d been on one diet or another since the age of 13. My dieting began with puberty. Along with breasts and hips I began to develop a sense of self-consciousness, born from the public scrutiny and criticism I was now subjected to from family and friends. Suddenly my body was no longer my own. Well-intentioned aunts commented on all of the men I’d be able to attract now that I was filling out. Less developed friends lamented their lack of figures in comparison to my own. And boys I’d known since childhood began to look at me in new ways that made me feel uncomfortable. Ill-equipped to handle this attention the only thing I wanted was to disappear. Dieting seemed the best way to do just that. But as most of us know by now the flip side of any diet is overeating. By the time I got to college I’d begun a cycle of dieting and binging that didn’t stop until I realized that I had “dieted” my way up to almost 200 pounds. Although I eventually lost the weight by learning about nutrition and exercise I still maintained a fairly stringent diet. I counted calories, or carbs or points depending on which “lifestyle program” I was following at the moment. I worked out five times a week without fail and kept track of every bite I put into my mouth. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with my behavior because after all, I was just being careful, making sure I never gained the weight back. Because contrary to what my 13 year old self had once believed, there are worse things in life than being stared at admiringly. There are the jeers and stares of disgust that are leveled at the fat woman. My goal was to never be that fat woman again. And I was doing just fine until… I got pregnant. Suddenly, I had to gain weight. But for the first time since puberty I wasn’t afraid of being fat. My job was to grow a baby. A healthy, happy baby and I couldn’t do that if I were restricting my food intake. During my pregnancy I was careful to eat healthy foods and to exercise as much as my body allowed, but my goal was no longer to see a specific number on the scale. For the first time in my life I just wanted to be healthy. One of my favorite books, Life Inside the “Thin” Cage (Rhodes, 2003) discusses the body image issues American women face at different stages in our lives. “For many women, pregnancy is the first time weight becomes an issue. Even those who have never been concerned about how they look can’t help but get a little nervous as the numbers on the scale continue to climb with each passing month.” (Rhodes, 2003, p. 82) I am grateful that this wasn’t the case for me. And upon talking about this issue with a couple of my girlfriends, I am happy to say that they also found pregnancy to be a catalyst for freedom from the confines of restrictive eating. According to my friend Anna, “It’s not like this in my country. In the Philippines we damn sure don’t starve ourselves like they do here. Once I had Laura I was glad to be able to start jogging again but that’s about it. I don’t have to be thin, not for my husband, or anyone else in my family.” And Mary, another mother in my daughter’s playgroup echoed Anna’s sentiments. “I was 120 pounds all throughout college and I maintained my weight on a steady diet of diet coke and cigarettes. Now that I have Jamie I’ve gained 40 pounds but I’m so much healthier. I stopped smoking and I actually EAT real food. This body was able to maintain a healthy pregnancy and nurse my daughter for over 2 years. I don’t need to be skinny anymore, there’s so much more to my life now than just being able to say I can wear a size 2.” Today, I’m in a much better place than I was at 13 or even 30. At 37 years old, I’m well on my way to making peace with the reflection that I see in the mirror each day. I no longer use the scale as a measure of how successful I am in life. I no longer count calories or track my meals. And while I have finally reached a healthy weight for my height and gender, this is no longer my proudest accomplishment. I am still a mother, a student, a homemaker, a vegan. I’ll always be African-American, short, funny, and smart. But I am no longer fat and even more importantly, I am no longer a dieter. And that’s what I’m most proud of right now.