Five Lessons from Five Years in Eating Disorder Recovery

December third is a big day for me. It marks my five-year anniversary of being in recovery from ED. What that means is that five years ago to the day, December 3, 2012, at five in the morning I texted my mom, “I need help.” A couple of hours later I had the seizure that brought me to my rock bottom. I’d thought I could feel my body breaking down, and I was right. I had known something bad was going to happen, and it did. Like I had a crystal ball, I’d predicted it and I was lucky I’d asked for help and wasn’t alone. Ever since that day I have committed to recovery because maybe I wouldn’t be so lucky if there was a next time. Here are five lessons I have learned along the way.

1). Recovery doesn’t mean life is going to get easier it just means that you now handle it differently and you have more reasons to believe it is worth it. Oh and you actually enjoy it! I went from a life of being sick filled with only work and obsessing about food and weight (working out/ binging and purging/starving) to having a family of my own–a husband and two daughters–friends, and a closer relationship with my family. These connections that I avoided while sick, out of fear of being discovered combined with my innate feeling that I didn’t belong, now make me feel whole. Now, that little voice of anorexia is so easily knocked out by anything positive in my life—my husband’s lips against mine, by making a difference, by my ability to think clearly, by my two baby girls. Too many things are more important than ED. ED was my world before recovery-the only all-important thing in my life. Now, on a scale of importance ED is like a distant cousin five times removed—you get the point—not even a thought.

2). Time really does make it better. Recovery seems to be a waiting game with time being key—for someone with no patience like me that proved to be hard at times. I remember hearing this and thinking no way I’ll always struggle, but it really has dissipated more and more with each passing year.

A large part of this reason is because I am constantly learning new things and evolving as a human being. With ED you are so set in your eating rituals and routines that everything stays the same—you as a person can’t change. When you aren’t focused so much on ED you can live and experience which helps hush the ED voice. Through these experiences I realized how amazing my body could be and that made me reevaluate my recovery up till that point making it even stronger. My pregnancies and breast-feeding are an example of this. My babies needed nutrients for them to thrive in and out of utero, which made me look at what I was eating and strive for more variety—thus making my recovery even stronger.

Basically ED will go from center stage to a backup singer to a small part of the technical crew and then to the back row in the audience. This combination of time and non-ED experiences makes me believe one day ED will be completely eliminated—I can tell I am getting there.

3). There is a gray area and it’s a much better place than black and white. I have a personality where I am either all or nothing. I was the girl that had to get straight A’s in school, nothing in-between, or I’d be an automatic failure in my mind. I was the girl that had to be the first one at work and the last one to leave and never took a vacation. I was the girl either binging (then purging) on every food possible or starving myself. I had an all or nothing mentality and if I was going to do something–it had to be the best or to the extreme.

Since finding recovery I have found this gray area called moderation and it’s actually pretty great. I find myself sometimes just doing things because I enjoy them (can you believe it?) not to be the best or with a purpose. I now don’t have to earn my leisure. I can watch a movie because I feel like it and deserve to relax not as a reward system. I don’t have rules that I need to follow, for instance, I don’t feel guilty if I don’t workout every day. I also don’t have fear foods, and allow myself to have anything I am in the mood for but not in excess. Moderation is a good and healthy place to be.

4). Everyone isn’t going to like you, but that’s okay. Trying to get everyone to like you is an arduous task—and you will never succeed because newsflash: not everyone is going to! You can also lose yourself trying to please those around you. For a still recovering people pleaser/perfectionist this was a tough pill to swallow. But what I have come to realize is that “haters gonna hate” and it’s not a reflection on you. Bottom line: People have their own issues that make them hate people for different reasons whether they are big green eyed monsters, need attention, or simply put they can—there are so many reasons why people hate, the list can go on and on. It’s not even worth thinking about!

Be kind to everyone and if people don’t accept you still then it is their loss. I struggle with this because I am very sensitive by nature. There are people in this world who are energy vampires and I have learned through recovery that you are most definitely better off without them sucking your blood like the leaches they are anyway.

5). It’s okay to not be okay. In fact, it’s more than okay to say, “I am not okay today. I am not perfect and there is no point pretending to be. The smile on my face is as fake as Kylie Jenner’s admittedly-injection-filled-pout.” Sadness is not a weakness, admitting you are feeling down and trying to make it better is actually brave. Hiding it is actually the cowardly and easy thing to do. If you hold in all your sadness and emotion that’s when we turn to destructive ways of coping and numbing like ED. It’s okay too, to not have an exact reason for why you are feeling off. With mental illness you don’t need a reason.

I find on down days I talk to those closest to me instead of pushing them away. I tell them I am feeling off. Sometimes saying these feelings out loud is a way to admit to yourself what is going on and is also a reminder that you are not alone and people care about you. I then give myself time to write or sweat instead of avoiding those feelings and holding onto them. Bottom line: no one is perfect and life gets better once you embrace that.

So here I am, five years later typing away while my three-month-old daughter is smiling, sleeping soundly in her sleep-sack-burrito contraption in her bassinet. My almost two year old is in view through her monitor, little tushie up in the air, a sea of Wubbanub’s surrounding her. My husband is to my other side watching Stranger Things on his ipad and I am writing while simultaneously breathing in a sigh of relief. With ED, I was so alone, so sad, so defeated, deeply hurting– now I have so much love in my life I feel relief. I am so happy where I am right now—they are my strength and I am a big part of their strength. This life is where I always want to remain and I can only have it in recovery. Five years recovery strong, here is to never looking back…

 

A Rebel With A Cause

I struggled with anorexia for over two decades and laxative bulimia for the tail end ten years so that in itself is pretty risky behavior—and a long-haul of it. More risky than Tom Cruise sashaying in his underwear and singing into a hair brush. Come on Cruise, I put you to shame—real self-destruction is real risk not the Risky-Business-amateur-pimping you partook in-sheesh.

It’s ironic to me, because us anorexics are stereotypically (we vary, like everyone else) the straight A students, that always over achieved and never misbehaved. Sneaking out of the house? Not us, hand over mouth in surprised expression of disbelief. Never! We were always perceived as what is the conventional image of The Amish level of good. But even the Amish rebel too—ever here of Rumspringa[1]—they don’t call it the “running around” for no reason.

In reality we were lying to the world all along, creating a farce in a soapy (“squeaky clean”) bubble of perfection to mask our deadly illness. Take little old me for example. I never drank/did drugs in high school, never really dated, was always on the honor roll, yet during school free periods I was driving to drug stores out of area to purchase boxes of laxatives to sneak into my parents house for binges. Because yes I seemed like I had my shit together from an outside perspective, but at the end of the day I was so intent on my mission to skin and bones (really emotional numbness), that I would do and say anything to get people to look the other way and continue my ways of coping.

I mean I gave my parents no reason not to trust me. I wasn’t partying, binging on alcohol, all hours of the night. They even encouraged me to go out with friends and let myself relax.

“Stop being so hard on yourself. Life is too short.” I can still hear my mom whispering into my ear, as I slaved over my schoolwork on a typical Saturday night.

While some of my peers were partying Lil Wayne style, I was studying while secretly binging on food and laxatives or simply not eating to achieve the same high. I wasn’t sneaking out and getting a visible tattoo, yet I was secretly embroidering marks of self-harm into my skin in the privacy of my room. Clearly, I was daring in another way—my rebellion was just my secret.

We are all human. Human beings are flawed. There are usually cracks in the interior even if the exterior is pristine. We all have struggles and pain, heartache of some kind. Everyone has something that keeps him or her lying awake at night, thinking about life. We all need some way to numb-out and sometimes you pick up unhealthy ways, before you find the good ways (like exercise in moderation, reading a book, watching television, or writing). And if you are like me, sometimes those unhealthy ways turn into a deadly mental illness.

So yes, I was a rebel without a cause, doing things my parents wouldn’t approve of, lying through gritted teeth and fake smiles. The beauty of recovery is that now I am a rebel with a cause—the most important cause I ever participated in. I am a warrior of life, bravely showing up to the battlegrounds everyday and healthily participating. I am an eating disorder advocate, looking to help others who are stuck where I once was. I can be anything I want to be because nothing is holding me back.

It is so much easier to numb out than feel, that us who learn how to healthily feel are the champions of life (No and this was not from a fortune cookie believe it or not). So I encourage all you warriors out there to let yourselves feel and experience. There is nothing more amazing, sad, scary, and incredible in this world than feeling—but I am telling you it is worth it. We are all rebels in some way, but it is a much better way to live as a rebel with a cause—we get much more joy, love, experiences, and satisfaction (I can go on and on…)— than self-destruction. So find your cause rebel, and fight on…

[1]http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumspringa

Hatching An Egg The Second Time Around

First of all, if you are pregnant with your second child, props because it’s work to get here! After a long day of having your toddler climbing you like you are human Monkey Bars, the last thing you want to do is be touched in any form, at least on some most days. So yes, getting to this point—high five to you! The first time around, there were countless times I wished I was a chicken and could just hatch an egg. I think we all have these wishbone moments—where we wish when cracking that chicken wishbone for this baby’s healthy eviction another route. But this time, so far being pregnant with child number two has been treating me well–besides the headaches and nausea of first trimester– but I digress to some encouraging facts I have gathered:

1). It goes by fast.

I am already 16 weeks pregnant and I feel like I took the pregnancy test yesterday…maybe I did? (Damn forgetful pregnancy brain and your momnesia ways!). My pregnancy is like the Roadrunner running away from the Tasmanian devil on Looney Tunes-fast AF. I hardly even look at my Ovia app, where last time I obsessed about my baby’s fruit and animal size. It was important when she was an avocado. This time I just think oh that will be a nice food to give my other out-of-womb-child tonight. We haven’t done avocados in a while…

2). You are too busy to think about how exhausted you are, most of the time.

I am taking my fourteen month old to classes, running after her, as she is finding her walking groove–transitioning from her crawl. We are always on the “go, go, go” as she says often, especially when she is using her walker. So yes, I am always exhausted anyway, and don’t have time to feel it until around 7-7:30 PM when my little girl closes her eyes for the night and I can just sit on the couch and veg. But let’s be real, that’s what I did every night before I was pregnant anyway.

 3). You already have maternity clothes from the first time around.

In fact, I never stopped wearing them! I am one of those freaks that love maternity clothes. Baby number one is almost fourteen months, and I just never stopped wearing them because they are so damn comfortable. It’s also not because I don’t fit into my other clothes, because I do, it’s just a comfort thing. Why would I want to squeeze into jeans when these are like jumping into butter? Exactly! They are also nice and stretched from pregnancy number one—so they are that perfect consistency of soft comfort. One bonus for working at home and being the primary caretaker for my daughter—I am going to rock my maternity for life and no one can stop me!

4). Your attitude about your body changes.

You already have stretch marks and fun pregnancy battle wounds from the first go, so it’s like bring it on to more. I struggled with eating disorders for years, but pregnancy actually did something wonderful for me. It made me realize how amazing our bodies are as women. Being pregnant actually took me from in recovery to recovered because I really treated my body like I always should have without much second thought, or at least third thought (we all have bad days!). That has continued to this day. So if I get another mark or two, bring it on because pregnancy has brought the best thing in the world into my life—my daughter.

5). You’re not as nervous, because you have already done this whole baby thing before.

You are a pro mama. At least you are no longer a virgin to this whole baby world. Throw up-bring it! More poop diaper—shit, bring that too! Pat yourself on the back mama–you got this. Now that whole multiple baby thing, let’s just not think about that…

6). You are actually looking forward to the birth.

I mean, free childcare and drugs at my disposal—it will be like a full on party!

So far, pregnancy number two has been treating me well. I will keep you posted but no wishbone moments…yet. All you mamas out there try to think of these positives. Oh and remember, in those tough moments, you have another beautiful baby on the way—double high-five to that.

Five Reasons Why Stroller Rage Is Actually A Thing

It’s strange. I was never one for road-rage. In fact if anything I was the slow-anxiety-ridden driver causing traffic and inducing fury in others. I heard my mom and sister dropping F-bombs and yelling obscenities in their respective driver seats, but I was just the innocent passenger calming them down. I swear. But put me behind a stroller and I feel rage like no other.

Here are five of the top reasons why my Bugaboo stroller makes me want to go all Destiny’s Child on someone’s a** because “You buggin me! And don’t you see it aint cool!” Don’t mess with someone who has a real life Bugaboo (bug a boo—per lyrics).

1). People have no stroller etiquette.

I live in Manhattan and we walk everywhere. As I mentioned above, I am not crazy about driving so walking is the best means of transportation for both of us. Plus, my thirteen-month-old and I get some fresh air and exercise. Trust me, it keeps us both sane! Well on these walks it’s not the easiest to get around. We try to maneuver around people, but they just don’t notice or care! I mean they mostly have headphones on their ears rocking out to music or are on their cell phones, chit chatting about such-and-such and how self-absorbed such-and-such is. Yep, really! Like, come on people we have a class to get to! Sometimes I start tailgating them, but still, people’s cognizance of the world around them seems bleak. We end up walking so slow behind a person for miles and wind up ten minutes late to wherever we are going. Thanks, slow-lady in front of me. I did admire your tall red heels though and was impressed with how you didn’t trip along the way!

I was actually in a cross walk today and this woman crosses the street and says to me excuse me, like I had anywhere to go with the stroller. We were surrounded in a snow mote on all sides! I wanted to say, “where do you want me to go?” but I held my tongue and tried to maneuver closer to the snowy left side. The woman squeezed around me, but like Stephanie Tanner used to say, how rude! Excuse yourself lady!

 2). When my daughter is fussing I have no etiquette.

When my daughter is crying or fussing and I am all “Oh no sweetie, what’s the matter?” and maneuvering to get a WubbaNub or a snack out of my diaper bag. My main focus becomes her and I may or may not run your feet over (warning!). Look it’s totally an accident. I will 100% feel bad and apologize at least five times, but shit happens. Oh, and when shit or throw up actually happens, then I need to get home ASAP (as soon as possible). This means, I am running past you, beating lights by mere seconds, and not caring at all about who or what is in my way. Sorry!

 

3). People don’t take weather into account.

My daughter and me are out let it be rain, sleet, hail or snow. Okay, maybe in a blizzard we stay in, but if we can get to class safely–we are going to give it a shot. I am a mother that needs to get out of the house or I will go insane—so we stroll in most elements. Well, in snow people are really for themselves—survival of the fittest to the extreme. This means, that they don’t let you by or help you when you are stuck. When stuck in snow, some people may gawk at you like you are a statue or exotic snowman. Observing, but not helping! I am not saying all people don’t, I have gotten a handful of kind citizens who helped us over snow piles, but most people just look at you like “lady you should have stayed inside.” Okay, and maybe I should have, I admit, but I was too far in my journey to turn back because of some snowy obstacles. Psh. Plus my daughter loves My Gym. We were stuck in one day from a blizzard already so we were going to get there. Dammit.

4). Because mommy’s don’t get enough sleep and work too hard.

Okay, it’s not right of me to play the mommy card, but I am going to do it. We work way too hard to not have some pent up aggression. Give a dirty look to a mommy who just wants to get her baby home to change her diaper and she will want to scratch your eyeballs out. That may be extreme, she may just threaten it and think about it–a lot. We work too hard, chasing our baby’s around all day, making sure they have everything—putting them first, and then you are messing with us mamas. Hell to the no!

5). Because we love our baby’s too much.

It’s part of nature. Mothers protect their young. Mother bears protect their cubs. Geese protect their flock. So I will kung fu your a** if you give my daughter any bit of side eye. According to David Wolfe, female alligators even create nests of rotting organic material. Once the nest has been created, the mother alligator will guard her eggs from all sorts of threats before placing them in her mouth once they hatch and caring for them over the next year. Talk about helicopter parents! We all are protective, even scary alligators! So give me a break, I just love my little girl more than anything! Okay?! It’s in my birthing blood.

So the next time you see a mother or father pushing their young along, be aware and be kind! Trust me, it will be appreciated. If not, you put yourself at risk. I have warned you, stroller rage is real AF!

 

 

 

 

 

My Daughter The WWE Wrestler

When I was a little girl, I used to cuddle up with my dad on Sunday night like clockwork. My curly brown hair resting on his chest, legs sprawled out on the couch, eyes locked on the television in front of us. I would get ready all day, playing with my wrestling figurines, making them attack each other—you know, normal little girl behavior. I was getting ready for Hulk Hogan to come out to Eye of the Tiger and to get my Hulkamania on! While admiring those outfits–the speedos with emphasis on washboard abs and fake tans—man, those pre-Trumpian tans. We all should have known and waved our American flags in defeat then–God Bless America.

Hands down no one can fake beat-up a person better than Hulk Hogan and his pro-wrestler pose. That was my takeaway. I’d feign interest to hang with my dad, but it was good times!

Well my daughter has a future in wrestling. I can sense it. Just the other day I was hanging in her crib with her—again, totally normal mommy-daughter behavior. We were like Snoop Dog and his gang rapping with all of our WubbaNubs in her crib until we dropped them like they were hot. And those WubbaNubs get fire hot. Anyway, when we were done throwing Wubbas, I lay down and kablam she pounced on my face like a cheetah and screamed ahhh. Maniac.

“Wow, Viv, or I should call you, Viv The Destroyer. What do you think of your wrestling alter ego?” I said tickling her tummy, until she exploded into that adorable baby giggle that makes my heart melt like a Popsicle in hot weather. One day, she will suppress an eye roll at the mention of her wrestling name. Actually, her new alter ego will probably be a moody AF hormonal teen girl. With that thought, I should take full advantage of this moment with my Destroyer–another tickle to that roly-poly tummy.

Back to her rising career, she’s Viv The Destroyer, because she wreaks destruction on every–WubbaNub, Mama, Bah bah– in her path. Toys, beware! Viv is going to push you over and say “ahhh” or “bahh” or something to claim her victory.

She is a wrestler all about body positivity too. She stands proudly in her pampers diapers, all rolls exposed, and takes on her victims in all her sumo-wrestler glory. Smash, there goes victim number one a small basketball hoop. Boom, victim number two a little car. These are the moments when you hope Doc McStuffins and Toy Story are totally wrong or these toys are going to come back filled with revenge instead of batteries and stuffing in their insides.

I hope my daughter and husband can uphold the Sunday night ritual or at least a tradition of their own where her head will be on his chest, legs sprawled out on the couch, eyes locked on the television in front of her. Or hey, maybe we will be watching her kicking more than stuffed animal tush in the ring one day. In that case, just a word of warning, watch out Bella Twins and the WWE Diva Champions my little girl is coming for you. She learned to SmackDown in diapers.

This Is Not A Choice

“Why can’t you just eat?” Such a simple question with such a complex answer.

Trust me, when I was at my lowest weight and struggling with anorexia, I knew I looked sickly. I just couldn’t get myself to eat. It wasn’t that easy. That is the biggest misconception about anorexia; that if you just eat, you will get better. Great, if it was just that easy! Eating is against everything you believe, especially when it is ingrained into your DNA not to.

Similarly when I was trying to recover through the Maudsley approach, family based treatment; I couldn’t help but slip with laxatives a couple of times. It was like a force was pulling me towards them like I was in some kind of magical trance. My parents didn’t understand. One time it got really bad. I didn’t respond well—we all didn’t respond well.

I was about halfway through my Maudsley refeeding at twenty-six—I know, it was rough-when my mom found natural laxatives I’d bought in one of the drawers in the computer room at my parents house. I was staying there for a couple of months to avoid inpatient treatment, while working with an eating disorder therapist, and other experts. I had compartmentalized the laxatives as not being a problem. I mean I was gaining weight, eating, doing everything else right. Can’t I be getting better but still abusing laxatives at the same time? I wondered. I know the answer to that now, but just humor me for a moment.

I had tried to justify them to myself when I sneakily bought them because they were “natural” laxatives. Natural meant they were acceptable in my mind—wrong! My mom called my dad when we were on the way home from work and angrily told him what she discovered. He yelled at me for being deceitful.

“All you do is lie to me. I can’t trust you! How could you lie to me?” he roared, his lower teeth overtaking his upper lip like a shih tzu, which was intimidating as fuck—not like the cute little teacup shih tzus I was familiar with.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” I said biting my lip hard, tears forming in my shameful eyes.

“You mean, you didn’t mean to get caught! Your mother and I have been busting our assess trying to get you better, and this is how you repay us. You are so ungrateful.”

I swear he had such force in his voice that the car shook with its booming vibrato. He never knew how to handle his emotions, especially over things he couldn’t control. He wanted to scare the shit out of me, scare the anorexia and bulimia out of me, so I wouldn’t do it again. Though that wasn’t going to help. He didn’t understand how powerful this addiction was. He didn’t understand that the last thing I wanted to do was lie to him, to my mom. It wasn’t about trust. I had a problem. I was an addict.

I cried all the way home as he expressed his disappointment in me as a person, even more hurtful, as his daughter. We got home, and as we pulled in, I saw the outline of my mom at the door peering out: her long brown locks, medium-height lanky body, and long skinny arms. How would I get around her without talking to her? My dad’s screams were all blending together as the intensity seemed to decrease, and all I could hear were the same words over and over again “disappointment” and “unappreciative.”

I opened the car door and slithered out like a rattlesnake making its escape, slammed the door shut behind me, and ran past my mom up the back stairs and hid. Yes, you read that correctly, I hid. I didn’t want them to belittle me anymore. I couldn’t take it. Through the vents, I could hear them talking, but only in murmurs. Then they shouted for me: “Dani! Dani!” I stayed in my hiding spot, paralyzed. I felt like a little girl hiding from her spanking.

I hid in a closet in my room under hanging clothes, squishing old shoes with my butt and legs for what seemed like a long time. I whimpered but tried to stay as quiet as possible. It was hot and dark with a little light peeking through the bottom. I saw the backs of dresses from when I was younger. One was dark maroon. I recognized it as the dress I wore to my bat mitzvah. I placed my fingers on it and felt the texture; it felt hard, almost stale. I looked at a suitcase above me where I used to hide laxatives, now I was hiding for them. I was hiding because I was so addicted to them, to my habits, that I couldn’t stop myself from using them. I’d reached a new low. I was sitting in my childhood closet hiding from the world.

I heard my mom calling in echoes. “Dani, Dani! Is this a joke? Where are you?” I heard her faint footsteps far away.

My dad chiming in: “Did she leave the house?”

I heard the front door open and slam close.

Tucked quietly away, I let them panic for a bit. I let them squirm the way I had been squirming these past couple of months, tiptoeing around them, trying everything to please them, following their every order so I wouldn’t be hospitalized. Somehow, in this moment, this felt so much worse than the worst punishment I could think of. I wanted to get even with them in a way. I resented my dad’s reaction; I resented my mom for busting me the way she did. She could have just waited until we both got home, instead of making me get stuck in a car with someone who saw this as the ultimate betrayal.

“You are going to be in big trouble whenever you come out!” I heard my dad scream. Not exactly motivation for me to move. I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing, hoping the walls from the closet would close in and suffocate me, end it all right now, right here . . .

“Dani, please, we are not mad at you,” my mom countered his lunacy. Her panicked voice made me feel a little bad.

About ten minutes in hiding, I opened the closet door from the inside, revealing myself. I picked myself up slowly, gaining balance on my two feet and feeling weak and defeated as I shouted, “I’m here, I’m here.” I realized that my voice was in a whisper and not the shout I intended it to be. “I’m here. I am coming!” I screamed again, and this time it was actually louder.

I walked down the front stairs and found them both in the kitchen.

When I saw their faces, I apologized through broken whimpers and tears. My parents both embraced me. I snuggled into my dad’s chest, hiding my face and tears in the warmth of his body. I cried for my parents. I cried for myself. I cried because I didn’t think I could do this anymore. I just cried.

I wish all of us had responded differently. There were a lot of emotions. It was one of the hardest times in all of our lives. My dad didn’t know anything from eating disorders. He thought I chose not to eat. He never heard of anyone being addicted to something like laxatives. But now every year at the NEDA (National Eating Disorders Association) walk, my dad stands right by my side listening to the speakers; his unblinking eyes release tears that roll along the contour of his chin and down his neck. Now, he is my biggest advocate and understands how difficult this illness is. He is proud of me, of all the people that beat this. He knows this is not a choice.

If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder call the National Eating Disorders Association Helpline at 1-800-931-2237 or refer to the resources page

 

 

 

Get Low, Low, Low

It’s called getting low. At least that’s what my hubby and I call it. When you don’t want to do something in parenthood, but you do it because you absolutely have to—that would be the start of getting low’s Wikipedia definition. Then you duck, tuck and get as low as you can and slither out of the room, like what they tell you in Fire education–stop, drop without the roll. But for effect if you want to do the roll, go ahead by all means.

For instance, last night my daughter was wickedly teething. The amount she was teething made me want to be all tough and Bostonian, like a Ben Affleck movie, hence the wicked. Well, she woke up screaming at around 10 pm. After some Tylenol and a pity viewing of Little Einstein’s, her favorite show, which I like to think she enjoys because she is a baby genius, not because of the bright colors and catchy tunes. But I digress.

After twenty-minutes when she seemed a little better I went to put her back into her crib when she started screaming. And when I say screaming I mean-wah, wah wah, getting increasingly louder with each subsequent wah. It’s awful. One thing I can’t take is hearing my baby crying. My heart cramps together in pain and my blood starts boiling like a teapot— it hurts my first-time-mommy soul. So I did the first thing that came to mind. I got low, and slithered out of her nursery, pretending it didn’t happen. Five minutes later, she was back to sleep.

Another instance where this works is when you are putting your baby in the stroller after a class, when she does not want to be in there more than anything. And hell yes, she will let you know it. Oh and also the fifteen other mothers in the class. She screams incessantly and all of the other mothers are looking at you like girl, what’s wrong with your baby? You can’t get her to stop-try a bottle, a WubbaNub, nothing works. So you duck, tuck and get as low as possible and sneak out the door and start hauling ass down the street.

This can really work in any situation. Let’s say you are feeding your baby at a restaurant and she throws up—puke covering her head to toe. Then you take her to the bathroom and realize you forgot her change of clothes. Crap. Well, you put her in the diaper and winter jacket with the 7AM—pay the bill of course, we don’t promote dining and dashing– and then duck, tuck and slither out of the restaurant before anyone can even notice.

So the next time something happens where you want to avoid seeing your baby upset or the judgmental eyes of other mamas; or worse, the judgmental eyes of other people that don’t have babies and don’t understand–do whatever you got to do. But always remember in the back of your head as a rabbit in the hat magic trick of the trade, when all else fails with your baby, duck, tuck and get low low low low low low low low.