Why We’re Not Having Any More Kids

By October 12, 2018 #BabyFox, Musings, The Daily Dish

I had a rough pregnancy. I had an even more traumatic birth. I’m 43 and not getting any younger. We make just enough money to pay our bills. We have three dogs and a chicken. And my son, almost 2, is awesome.

So why would I even entertain the idea of a second baby?

It’s an interesting question, especially if you’ve ever had a conversation with me at any point during this experience. There were days when I’d say, “No way. One and done. I can’t do this again.” And there were other days when I’d lament, usually to myself, “Oh, wouldn’t it be fun to have another kid like Landon?”

And no amount of talking about this to other parents has helped, either. Some parents of onlies (only children) wish they had had another. Some parents of onlies wouldn’t have it any other way. And then there are the parents with more than one kid who can’t seem to stop sharing horror stories with me about lack of privacy, lack of sleep, lack of money, lack of sanity.

It really comes down to what we want — and what we’re able to do. And those aren’t always in alignment.

Here’s the thing: Nothing can prepare you for the feelings and thoughts you have once the baby comes. I vividly remember the first two weeks after bringing Landon home from the hospital. I honestly thought we had made a mistake, that I wouldn’t be able to do this, that I was going to suffer from a mental breakdown so bad I’d never recover. I’d be sitting in a corner, embracing the techniques of self-soothing with a pacifier and swaddle the way my son was. It was bad.

But as he got older — and we got better at this — it really did get easier. We figured it out. He evolved. It was starting to work.

And that’s when you start thinking about the next one. You start imagining what it would be like to have another baby in the house. You start packing up — not giving away — your first born’s old clothes and toys, just in case. You start thinking about names and Googling double strollers and looking for where to put the second crib.

And then the inevitable happens. Maybe it’s a new bill you have to pay. Or maybe it’s when you find out how much childcare costs. Or maybe it’s when you hear a parent of two complain about buying a new car to fit two car seats or about how her two kids won’t stop fighting — and they’re already teens.

And then there’s this other thing.

It’s called age.

I’m 43. It doesn’t matter if I look 33 or if I feel 23. My ovaries, my body, everything about me biologically is 43. And there’s no diet or exercise routine or supplement to reverse this.

That means, reproductively speaking, I’m very old. Maybe too old.

I was just talking with a couple of girlfriends — all around my age and dealing with infertility — about how we wish we had listened to our doctors when were in our 20s. You know, that awkward conversation when your OBGYN explains to you that you’re 25, your body is aging, you should really think about whether or not you want to have kids. Back then, we were all, like, “Kids? I’m not thinking about kids! I’ve got a career, student loans, places to travel. I’m not ready to have kids! And besides, with what guy…?”

It didn’t occur to me back then that what my OBGYN was really trying to say to me was, “You’re not getting any younger and if you really want to have kids at some point in your life, you should consider freezing your eggs, which will ensure a much, much higher chance of getting pregnant with your own genetics in the future.”

Why didn’t he just say that?

But that’s done, and here I am, 43 and thinking about having a second child at an age many women are already sending their kids off to college.

Truth is, I probably can’t have another child anyway. The way we would need to do IVF — genetic testing, which isn’t covered by insurance — is too expensive and my chances are bleak, and I’m not interested in finding an egg donor. (Nor can we afford it.) Adoption is pricey, too, and we would probably have to wait years to actually be matched with a child.

I know all of this and, about six months ago, was perfectly OK with having just one child. So much so I gave practically everything of Landon’s away — his car seat, stroller, walkers, toys, bottles, breast pumps, unopened baby food, pacifiers he never used, newborn onesies he never wore.

But there’s this one small box I kept. It has some of my favorite things of Landon’s. And I can’t seem to give it up.

Just like this idea of having another child.

I didn’t think this decision was going to be so emotional, so crippling at times. It’s a void I can’t seem to fill. I’ll never feel a baby kick inside me again. I’ll never see Landon grow up with a sibling. I’ll never have a daughter. It’s heartbreaking in so many ways.

But I have this awesome kid who’s funny and playful and smart and healthy. And he’s been sleeping through the night since he was 2 months old, which I know, from other parents, is probably his best trait. I really have nothing to complain about. And I should have nothing to covet or want.

And yet, there are times, usually when I see brothers playing at the park or a pregnant woman standing in line at Foodland, that I feel a bit of envy and sadness, like I’m letting myself down, like I’m letting Landon down. Not that he ever asked for a sibling. And not that having one will enhance his life. But he’ll never have a brother or sister to talk to or lean on. And he’ll be alone after we’re dead. That part kills me.

This isn’t a decision I made alone. My husband helped. My body chimed in. And the fact that we can’t seem to get pregnant anyway is a sign.

I realize it will take time to grieve what I feel like is a loss. And I know how lucky I am to have one healthy, happy kid. (There are lots of families who don’t even have that.) I just have to accept what is and what will never be — and know that life really isn’t that bad at all.

And reading my journal entries about those first few months of parenthood helps, too.

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Hurricane Lane, You’re Getting To Me

By August 21, 2018 Musings, The Daily Dish

As I type this, I’m sitting in our living room, two dogs nestled on either side of me, and staring out our windows at a remarkably blue sky.

It’s hard to believe that, just a few minutes ago, the Central Pacific Hurricane Center upgraded Hurricane Lane to a dangerous Category 5 storm with sustained winds up to 160 miles per hour. And it’s heading directly toward us.

I’ve heard forecasters say this hurricane is traveling along a similar path as Iniki, the most powerful (and devastating) hurricane to hit the Hawaiian Islands in recorded history. When it struck O‘ahu and Kaua‘i in 1992, it had winds of 145 miles per hour. A Category 4 hurricane. Lane already seems worse.

It’s a funny thing, this hurricane. Maybe I’ve been numbed by news of disaster — remember the false ballistic missile alert? — or I’ve been unusually busy lately — I decided to teach a college-level journalism class this semester in addition to my day job at HONOLULU Magazine — but I just haven’t wholly embrace this whole hurricane thing.

Growing up in Hawai‘i, hurricanes happen — and they rarely hit us like this. In my lifetime, there have only been two significant hurricanes — Iniki in 1992 and Iwa in 1982 — and both times I didn’t experience the brunt of it. Our house was fine, the roof stayed put, no trees fell, no patio furniture went flying, the electricity eventually returned and life went on, at least for me. I remember staying home from school during Iwa and playing board games by candlelight. And I can’t remember what I did during Iniki; that’s how unmemorable it was for me.

But this one already seems different. Maybe because I’m a mom now, I don’t live my parents (whose job it was to protect me from natural disasters), I’m inundated with news more than ever before, and I live in a house with huge plate-glass windows that are, as I write this, freaking me out. All I can think about is, “Am I ready?”

I’ve seen social media posts showing empty shelves at Costco, Target, the commissary. I’ve driven past the long lines at gas stations. I’ve already braved Safeway today, only to stand in a line that was snaking down the frozen food aisle, with worried shoppers stocking up on bottled water, toilet paper, canned goods and beer.

I remember walking outside, pushing my cart filled with probably all the wrong things (everything was perishable and I forgot to grab bottled water), and noticing how still the air was, how perfect of an afternoon, how it seemed virtually impossible that, in less than 24 hours, the Islands would be inundated with life-threatening rain and wind.

But it’s so nice out!

Panic started to hit me at around 5:45 p.m. For no real reason except the house was quiet and I had time to think. I started to search the house for supplies. (Thank God I went to Costco this weekend.) We’re good on toilet paper and batteries, we have flashlights ready to go, we did laundry on Sunday, I charged all of my devices and I have at least two unopened bags of chips and five bottles of wine. Hurricane preparedness complete.

But something is twisting in my gut. I know, as I watch the sun disappear and the skies darken, something bad is coming. I may be prepared with supplies, but I’m definitely not emotionally ready for this.

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My Brain, An Update

By August 1, 2018 Musings, The Daily Dish

It’s been more than a month since I last posted about my mental health crisis, and I suppose it’s time for an update.

Or at least let you all know I’m alive!

A lot has happened in the past two months. I tried to refocus, committing to taking better care of myself and resting my brain, which had been AWOL for awhile. I meditated, I hiked, I surfed, I read (a lot), I journaled, I walked. It felt good. I was finally allowing myself to slow down, breathe a little, rest.

Of course, this only lasted less than two weeks before the panic started in.

I’m so behind with work! I’m late on preschool applications! The dishes can’t wash themselves!”

And just like that, I was back in the hustle of my impossible life, trying to juggle too many things and believing this is what I need to do, this is what every woman does. Even while knowing FULL WELL that this isn’t true.

It’s funny to read the texts I send my friends or listen to myself dole out advice. I just texted a stressed-out mom friend of mine that no one ever said we needed to suffer to be a good parent.

It’s true. But, as my mom always says, “Do as I say, not as I do.”

For some reason, I believe that every minute of the day should be occupied by something productive. This obsession stems from a childhood marked by daily chores and a Catholic upbringing, no doubt. I hatehatehate wasting time. So when I’m watching the time-suck of Real Housewives marathons, for example, I have to be doing something else, something productive. Folding laundry, cooking dinner, sorting mail. I can’t just sit and indulge. Everything I do has to have a purpose. A surf session is a workout. The kid’s nap time is a chance for me to cook meals for the next few days. My commute to work is a chance to catch up on podcasts or check email. No second is wasted.

I realize I’m really screwed up.

I’m sharing this because I know I’m not alone. I know there are people out there who feel as trapped in their lives as I do. We don’t let ourselves rest or relax because, for whatever reason, we think we don’t deserve it. And it has actually nothing to do with deserving anything.

Our bodies are like cars. They need to be maintained and taken care of, so they keep us safe and last for years. And, like many of us bad car owners, we let that slip. We skip the oil change because it’s too inconvenient or drive on bald tires because we’re trying to save money. And it costs us later. Our cars will break down and so will our bodies. One day, our bodies will say, “OK, jackass, you pushed me to the limit and now I’ve got nothing left to give.” Then what?

I watch my son, now 20 months old, just play. He draws, he throws balls, he stacks blocks. Nothing about it is very productive. (I’m not going to lie, I can’t wait until he gets old enough for chores.) But he’s happy, he’s learning, he’s content. He’s not worried about his chubby thighs or prepping for tomorrow’s day at the sitter. He’s just living life as happily as he can, without a worry in the world.

Sure, things are taken care for him. He doesn’t have to deal with morning traffic or Wednesday meetings or spotty Internet coverage. He doesn’t have to wash his clothes or prepare his meals. I mean, he doesn’t even have to wipe his own butt! What a life!

But we can learn a lot from toddlers, in the way they are optimistically curious and delighted by even little things. (I have never seen someone so excited to see the moon every morning.)

So where am I with this mental health thing? I’m still moving forward. Slow but steady. Sometimes stuck in place. But always hopeful.


On a side note, thanks to everyone who reached out — in person, by text, in messages — to ask about how I’m doing or to just share a personal experience with anxiety and depression. It has meant so much to me.

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Why We Should All See a Therapist and Get Off Social Media

By June 8, 2018 Musings, The Daily Dish

The recent deaths of fashion designer Kate Spade and chef-writer Anthony Bourdain — both suicide, both a day apart — has, as it inevitably would, sparked a discussion about mental health and suicide.

That was, of course, immediately followed by a barrage of Instagram posts and tweets about how much these people — now that they’re dead — meant to those of us who are still alive. And most of us have never met either of them.

(Even more interesting than that, the ones who did know them likely never really knew them at all.)

More and more, we are living our lives in a digital world, carefully curating our Perfect Life Portfolio on Instagram while blurting out hate and criticism on Twitter. We’re humans, we want a community, we want to be part of something, we hate feeling left out. We can’t help but join in, posting photos of margaritas on National Margarita Day or tweeting #MeToo because we felt strongly compelled to show our support.

And yet, at during the same span of time that we’ve become more obsessed with social media, rates for anxiety, depression and, yes, suicide have risen. This is no coincidence.

I’m not sure why we’ve become so emotionally invested in social media, feeling its grip with every like and retweet. Wasn’t it so nice when you didn’t know what people (especially the ones we don’t like and interesting how we tend to follow them anyway) were doing, where they were traveling, who they were dating, what awesome jobs they just landed, how much weight they lost after giving birth three months ago? We used to live more in the present — and that present embraced the philosophy, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Now, everything is right there for the viewing — and all this information (good, bad, toxic and otherwise) is cluttering our already jam-packed brains.

I remember talking to a group of college students a few months ago about social media. I showed them the Instagram account of a fellow food blogger who has about 15,000 followers, a decent number by Hawai‘i standards. A guy in the back of the class scoffed at the number of likes for one her posts and said, “My roommate has fewer followers and way more likes. Her numbers are pitiful.” And just like that, he dismissed this person, rolled his eyes at everything she was about. He didn’t care about her decades-long career, the fact that she ran her own company and was very well-respected in the industry. At the very least, she’s made a career out of this — it has afforded her the ability to travel the world when she wants, buy a condo, change out her cars every year — and this guy wasn’t impressed. Her likes were abysmal.

What do we value these days? The number of followers we have — or the fact that we don’t know or care who they are as long as they click “follow”? Do the number of hearts and retweets equate to how much people like and respect us?

In this same class, we started talking about what’s important with regard to social media. Numbers, yes. Likes, definitely. But also, they care about who is liking their stuff — and even how quickly! These students literally scroll through the list of people who have liked their photos and make note of who did — and, of course, who didn’t. That same guy in class admitted that he spends hours just viewing the accounts of his friends and liking photos because “if I don’t, I get shit for it.”

People. Seriously.

So here we are, wondering why someone like Spade or Bourdain, who seem to have the dream career, loads of money, fans around the world, who never had to worry about college tuition for their kids or retirement, can’t find anything to live for.

Because when you’re depressed or anxious — or worse, and this is actually fairly common, the combination of both — you can’t see your life the way others do. You can’t see yourself the ways others do. It doesn’t matter how many positive reviews you get, how many likes and retweets, how many fan pages are created, how many people buy your bags or books, you are a failure, you’re not good enough, your life sucks.

In fact, the good stuff? At some point, you don’t even notice it.

I know this because I’ve suffered from depression and anxiety for most of my adult life — and it has only gotten worse in the past few years.

I hear it all the time, too: You have the best life, you surf all the time, you eat for a living, your son is so cute (that part is very true). But that doesn’t mean I’m happy. Or calm. Or dealing with a darkness that can sometimes consume me. (Why do you think I bake in the middle of the night?)

In fact, it has very little to do with the things we have.

The mind is a space that’s far more complicated and powerful than anything else. It can manifest pain if it wants opioids. It can create chaos where there is none. It craves attention, and if it doesn’t it, it can force you to pay attention.

That’s what it did to me recently.

I kept ignoring the signs, that my body was overworking and needed rest, that I was letting stress build inside of me without giving it an outlet. So my mind said, “If you’re not going to stop, I’ll do it for you.” And it did. I had a strange episode in a restaurant bathroom that one doctor likened to a seizure. I had a series of ear infections that I never took care of. And then my brain just shut down. A story that would normally take me an hour to write was now taking six. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t function.

(There’s a lot more to this, but I’ll save that for another blog.)

In the meantime, those old familiar feelings of depression and anxiety started creeping up my spine and taking over my body. I would struggle to work, get anxious about it, then spiral into a depression. Then I really couldn’t work — and then I would get anxious about that. See where I’m going with this?

And nothing — no compliment, no hug, no 13-by-9 pan of fudge brownies — was going to convince me that I could overcome this.

That took actual “mind work” — therapy (lots of it), meditation (if you’re interested, download the Headspace app), reading and time away from social media.

But who’s going to listen to me?

So when celebrities or influencers start talking about mental health, that’s when people take notice, especially people like me who are desperate for companionship in this lonely space. But here’s the catch: While all this media coverage of these two high-profile suicides are sparking the conversation about mental health — which, for some reason, we still seem so wary of — it’s also having an extremely negative effect. It’s called cluster suicides, a series of suicides in which one seems to set off another. It happens commonly after news of high-profile suicides, especially when the act itself supersedes the person committing it. (Read more here.) Not to say that healthy people are jumping off buildings to be like Bourdain. It’s the ones who are mentally struggling already, who see someone as successful and beloved feel there’s no other way out. As an article published on Vox put it, “it puts death on the table.”

How could the guy who wrote in his 2000 book Kitchen Confidential, “I know what I want. I want it all. I want to try everything once.” How could this guy decide there was nothing left to try?

What does that mean for me?

At least that’s the thought that went through my mind — and as shocking as that may sound, I’m sure it went through other minds, too.

So instead of focusing on their deaths — or even their lives — and how that has impacted you in some way, focus on your own mental health, focus on someone who’s struggling now, focus on creating home and work environments that support wellness, focus on laws and research that can help, focus on being kind and compassionate to everyone (because you don’t know their struggles).

Let this be the lesson that you share — not how many Kate Spade handbags you have.

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What it’s REALLY like being a mom

By May 11, 2018 #BabyFox, Musings, The Daily Dish

I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night — though my son does.

How ironic, right?

But that’s my life now. The life of a worrying, emotional, stressed-out working mom.

I never imagined raising a child would be this challenging. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think it was going to be easy, either. But I thought I would be spending lazy days at the beach with the kid, camping on weekends, relaxing on the deck with a glass of wine while he, I don’t know, played nicely by himself.

(Cue the laughter from all the moms out there.)

While my son is a very easy kid — he practically puts himself to sleep every night and says, “Bye bye,” from his crib to get me to leave the room — raising him is tough. There’s food to make, naps to schedule, books to read, clothes to wash (I still don’t get how such a small human adds so much more laundry), supplies to buy, new songs to sing, ailments to Google and worry about. He gets bored so easily now, so I’m constantly trying to come up with new things to do using everything from empty diaper boxes to kitchen utensils. It’s exhausting.

You would think two years into this I’d be more of an expert, but I still feel like I did last year around this time: Like I know nothing.

I find myself comparing my experience with other moms on social media. How did she take a 1-year-old to Paris? How do they go camping with two kids and three dogs? How did she lose all that baby weight in two months? Honestly, it’s a dangerous vortex to get sucked into, and I’m trying to avoid it these days as much as possible. My life is hardly Instagrammable. I wear the same combination of tank tops and shorts every week, sometimes without washing them. My hair is so unmanageable the last time I saw my stylist he winced. And I can’t blame my armpit boobs on breastfeeding anymore.

This is motherhood, man. And it’s scary.

I never feel like I’m doing this right, either. I still haven’t finished his baby book — and he’s my only child, so there’s really no excuse. I keep forgetting to mark his height on the door frame. I get lazy and microwave chicken nuggets for him more often than I’d like to admit. I’m terrified of taking him on overnight trips. I’m late on preschool applications. I’m not saving nearly enough money for his future (let alone my own). I’m already failing at this and I’ve got at least 16 more years to go!

So what do I do about it? Pour myself a glass of wine, use Google as a parenting tool and stay up all night worrying about this stuff.

While the kid sleeps, of course.

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