Jeanne Faulkner

Adventures of a Fortysomething: The Golden Rule of Marriage

"Originally published on MyRegence.com

Adventures of a Fortysomething: The Golden Rule of Marriage

      

You don't have to wrap yourself in cellophane to keep the marriage fresh.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

As I sit down to write my wisest advice for a long and happy marriage, all I can think of is fancy face creams, my pretty new bra and the dress I'm wearing tonight. Maybe I sound vain, but I prefer to think of myself as a smart married lady. My husband's hot. He's funny, good-looking, interesting, well-employed and a great father who totally gets my sense of humor.

Who would he rather be married to? The lady with the gorgeous dress, pretty skin and great looking underwear who happens to be taking him to the symphony tonight or the one slumped in front of television reruns, wearing Winnie-the-Pooh sweats, an old stretched-out bra and with skin that looks like leather? Hmm, tough choice. Would he rather be married to the happy, healthy, interesting and funny lady who's pretty darn delighted with herself or the one who's cranky, disappointed, boring, unhealthy and totally out of fashion? Hmm, again, I say, tough choice.

I'm not saying women should dress up in cellophane and greet their husbands at the door with Jell-O salad and a smile. (That's so environmentally incorrect. Try waxed paper instead and suspend some Twinkies and Pepperidge Farms goldfish in the Jell-O--a classic construction called "ships in the harbor.) Keep the smile, though. If you get home from work and your spouse is genuinely happy to see you, that makes for a happy marriage. If Jell-O's not your thing and you find waxed paper abrasive, here's my tip for a good marriage: Be the best person you can be. That includes your appearance, profession, hobbies, habits and attitude. Oh, and pick a really good partner. Then treat each other really, really well.

My husband and I were too young to get married and didn't do any of the things experts say you should before getting hitched. I was 21; he was 25. He was a musician and I wasn't sure what the heck I wanted to do. We didn't own a house, had not a nickel to our name and hadn't finished school. We never planned the future beyond "after you're a famous rock star and I'm whatever I'm going to be; let's travel the world then have some kids." We didn't talk about what we'd do with our money and keep separate accounts--mostly because we didn't have any money. We just tossed everything we had into one pot and scrambled.

Experts advise discussing parenting philosophies prior to marriage. Nope, not us. We were too busy avoiding pregnancy to plan one. We didn't put much thought into how we'd stay married. Instead we treated each other thoughtfully and pulled our own weight. The odds were against us for a long marriage, but maybe the odds had nothing to do with it. We loved each other, chose kindness and blundered along as best we could.

Looking back, we could be in the divorced half of marriage statistics instead of 26 years into this thing and pretty darn happy. As life happens and we all hit some of that "for better or worse" stuff, lots of couples fall apart. We got lucky and followed our own Golden Rule of Marriage: Treat each other as you'd like to be treated. I'd like to be treated with respect, supported and loved well by a totally hot man. Except for the "hot man" part, I'd bet my husband wants the same thing.

In surveying couples young and old on marriage advice, the older couples talked a lot about work; the younger couples about play. The newlyweds were dewy-eyed with good intention, and clearly hadn't been through many of life's rough spots yet, but their advice was solid: Have fun together, treat each other kindly, create special rituals, and be appreciative of each other. It's sweet.

The older couples, and I include myself in this category, have been through some tough times together. Really tough. Life and death, illness, money problems, raising children, depression, addiction, aging parents and more. You know … life, the stuff that takes the edge off all that fun and sweetness. But by following the Golden Rule, treating each other lovingly, respectfully and carefully, we hang in there. We try to be our best and treat our partners as if they're the most important person in our world. 'Cuz they are.

Marriage isn't for slackers. Nobody's saying you have to be fabulous all the time.  Sometimes I'm a mess. I wake up with raccoon eyes as often as not and get the flu as much as the next gal. Sometimes I can be a real--ahem--witch. I didn't have stretch marks and creaky knees when I was a newlywed. Heck, there was that whole year where I lost my hair and sparkling demeanor while we did time "in sickness and health." Still, if you make an effort to be your best and follow the Golden Rule, it evens out the odds.

All we can do is our best, right? If our spouse does the same, we get lucky. Those newlyweds with their brand-new marriage licenses have the right idea. Be kind to each other. Have fun. Try not to take things too seriously. Don't nag. And my tip: Wear your nice underwear, put on your pretty dress and take him out to play.

"Originally published on myRegence.com  

The Fortysomething Report: Internal Audit

Originally published on MyRegence.com

The Fortysomething Report: Internal Audit

      

Or, the hubby went in for a colonoscopy.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

My husband had an ache that bothered him for weeks; it wandered from his upper to lower abdomen with a dull pain. No nausea, diarrhea or drama; just persistent pain. Like me, he's willing to sit on annoying symptoms for a while before getting them checked out. These things usually go away without the inconvenience of a doctor visit. But the pain wasn't going away, so he eventually went to our family physician. She poked him in the belly, ordered an ultrasound, and took a peek at his stomach, liver, kidneys and gall bladder. When that didn't show any specific problem, she recommended a CT scan if the pain continued. In the meantime, she announced, it was time for his first colonoscopy.

"Oh goody," he said. "I've been wondering when that would come my way.  Nothing says 'fun' like a tube up my bum." He didn't actually say "bum," but we're keeping it PG-13 here.

My husband's a bit over 50, and medical experts recommend colon screening for people in his age bracket. Apparently, the best way to avoid colon cancer (which I hear is way less fun than it sounds) is with colonoscopy. They snake a tube, a light and a microscope up your heinie and have a look-see. It's a bit like having Roto-Rooter clean your drain. If they find any polyps, they take them out before they turn into big nasty cancer. He's been a healthy guy and never had much call for medical care. As a matter of fact, this was his first real medical procedure. Oh, geez, I'm getting misty-eyed. My baby's first probe. I'm all verklempt.

As with all men, it took him awhile to drum up the courage to actually call the "butt clinic." No, he didn't actually call it a butt clinic but "A-- doc" is not family-friendly. After a bit of nagging (no surprise there), he finally scheduled a pre-procedure appointment with the gastroenterologist.

There's a bit of preparation that goes into getting a colonoscopy, or as my accountant-husband calls it, "an internal audit." The "getting to know you" appointment (where they kept him waiting in the lobby for over an hour) was with a nurse practitioner (NP). She gave him the drill on getting ready for his "thorough reaming." (Right--his words, not hers). After another 20 minutes in the exam room, the NP rattled off a to-do list of rectum-related rules and told him the scheduler would "be right in" to arrange the actual procedure. By this time, he was annoyed and running late. Fifteen minutes later, with no scheduler in sight, he walked out. An assistant apologized for the delay, but the scheduler was "busy." My husband said, "Me too--I've been here almost two hours for what amounted to a five-minute visit. Have her call me."

Oh, she called all right, leaving apologetic voice messages that he took his time returning.  Still fuming, he vented, "It burns my butt how they assume a patient's time isn't as valuable as their own. She could have mailed the instructions to me." Welcome to the medical world. I explained two probable reasons for the in-person appointment: 1) not every patient reads and follows directions--some need one-to-one instruction--and 2) now they can bill for two office visits, not one. "Great," he replied, "another way I'll be taking it in the shorts." No, he's not usually a curmudgeon; he just doesn't like having his time wasted or his plumbing professionally inspected.

It takes three days of dietary restrictions to thoroughly clean out the pipes. Day one eliminates all nuts, beans, seeds, fibers, hulls, and virtually everything we vegetarians eat. They want him spic-n-span in there so they can see everything clearly. It's a no BS procedure.

Day two is clear liquids only--broth, clear juice, Jell-O--that sort of thing. I've said it before: There's nothing as useless as a hungry man, and a full day with nothing but broth is bad news for everyone. He was a good sport, though, and didn't get his knickers into a big twist over it.

On colonoscopy-day, it's nothing by mouth except a gallon of laxative-laced liquid called "Golytely." Who are they kidding? You go like Niagra Falls. (Sorry, it's not a delicate situation.) Once you're done preparing for your intestinal interrogation, you're clean as a whistle inside and out.

The colonoscopy itself was no big deal. They gave him IV drugs and he slept through all the fun. When he woke up, he had no memory of the undignified event--and no discomfort either. There were, of course, jokes about needing a cigarette (no he doesn't smoke) and "wham, bam, thank you, Ma'am" (really, there's no better time to quote Bowie). The doc read his report in the recovery room, pronounced my husband's inner tubes healthy, and invited him back for a repeat performance in 10 years. Dopey as he was, my husband managed a little drug-induced humor.

"Gee, doc, it's been fun, but we'll see about another date. This one has been a pain in the a--." Originally published on MyRegence.com  

The Fortysomething Report: Zit-uation Under Control?

Originally published on MyRegence.com

The Fortysomething Report: Zit-uation Under Control?

      

Our fortysomething has skin like a teenager--she still gets bouts of acne.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

There are a few minor differences between Jennifer Anniston and me. Our careers, ages and the whole paparazzi thing are the obvious ones. There's another difference, though, that may not be so immediately apparent. She can use Kiehl's skin cleanser and have flawless skin and I can't. She can also walk out of her house looking naturally radiant without a stitch of makeup; I need a little time in the bathroom and half a dozen cosmetics to achieve similar results. And by similar, I am by no means implying that I look anything like her. I mean that after 20 minutes with my makeup, I look like I have not a stitch on. 

I've been blessed with perpetually youthful skin. Not the dewy freshness of a toddler or the luminously smooth complexion of a 20-year-old. No, my skin is more akin to a stressed-out teenager's. Which would be fine if I were a teenager, but I'm in my 40s and I have acne. My baseline complexion sports at least one zit at any given time, but if you add any amount of stress to my life the zits try to take over. The silver lining is that unlike many of my middle-aged compadres, I don't have to worry about crazy-dry skin wrinkling like a raisin. Oh, I have wrinkles too. I grew up in sunny California, pre-SPF. It's just that I don't have crazy-dry skin along with them.

I'm under no illusions that my skin will someday be as clear as Jennifer's. My mother died with a zit on her nose--no doubt caused by a bit of stress. I have, however, learned how to keep the acne beast at bay. Somewhat. You know the usual advice--eat right, exercise, drink water, blah, blah, blah. Damn if it doesn't work for virtually everything. It keeps the stress down, the engine running well, and, no big surprise, keeps my skin clearer.

I've also discovered the value of good skin-care products. I started out following dermatology advice by washing with Cetaphil antibacterial bar soap. For some reason, the bar works better than the liquid cleanser. I've used Clearasil-like products and Retin-A with some success. They dried me out, though, and then I had acne, wrinkles, and flaky skin. I know this stuff works for a lot of people. It just didn't work for me.

An aesthetician recommended an all-natural, organic, locally made product called Von Natur. Their specially formulated line of products called Chaotic was designed for women like me. I was skeptical that anything you rubbed on your skin would really make much difference, and I'm not one to spend big money on high-end products, but she gave me a sample and I fell in love. I bought the cleanser, toner and moisturizer but turned down the exfoliant (that's what a washcloth's for). The cleanser is an oddly attractive creamy grey color. It contains charcoal, which is supposed to absorb impurities. My aesthetician told me it would take several weeks of regular use before I'd notice any difference but promised, PROMISED I'd see results--fewer breakouts, smoother texture, more even skin color, firmer tone, the cure for cancer and riches beyond my wildest dreams. OK, I'm making some of that up.

Sure enough, it worked like a dream. My baseline complexion changed to mostly clear with the occasional stress zit. The toner, which comes in convenient, pre-saturated little pads, smells like grapefruit and leaves my skin feeling refreshed. The moisturizer is light yet emollient--just perfect. I love this line of products, and though it's way more expensive than a bar of Cetaphil, it has paid for itself by virtually eliminating my acne. Plus, I'm saving a bunch on concealer.

One day, when I was running out of Von Natur, I found myself at Nordstrom's and there was the Kiehl's counter. I'm a sucker for new beauty products, and remembered reading that Kiehl's was the soap of choice for Jennifer Anniston back when she was still with Brad and, of course, she's gorgeous, so ... you see where I'm going with this. I asked the guy behind the counter if there was a Kiehls for women of a certain age with acne and he said, "No. You'd find the acne-formula too drying" (translation: you're too old for this stuff). So I bought a cleanser with yerba matte in it that he said would work. It was about the same price as the Von Natur and I had high hopes. I mean, look at Jennifer for Gawd's sake.

The results were less than marvelous. Instead of keeping my skin clear, it erupted like Vesuvius with the kind of acne usually reserved for prom night. The zits were aiming for world domination. There wasn't enough concealer, foundation or powder in America to cover it. I needed spackle and a shovel. I took the stuff back and returned to my aesthetician for a new supply of Von Natur. Sure enough, within a week, my skin was clear again. Almost as clear as Jennifer's. It just goes to show you, no two women are alike. Almost all women like clear skin and fancy beauty products, though.

Originally published on MyRegence.com

The Fortysomething Report: The Addiction Monster

Originally published on MyRegence.com

The Fortysomething Report: The Addiction Monster

      

We've all got our demons--it's how we face them that matters.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

When I'm not a writer, I'm an obstetric nurse. Nearly every day, I have the unique opportunity to watch countless new parents dive off the cliff to become parents. Some are better equipped than others, but everyone wants to be good. Almost anyone who's a parent knows the deep desire to provide the best and to be there for their children. And yet, some inflict great harm because they live with a monster: addiction to alcohol, nicotine, drugs, violence, sex, food … whatever. Addiction overrides their inherent instincts to be good parents. 

It's common on any maternity unit: a security guard outside a patient's room, waiting for her to try and bolt with her baby. Inside, a mother is being informed by a Department of Human Services caseworker that she won't be taking her baby home. Her baby will go into foster care. Mom and/or baby have tested positive for drugs or have a history with Department of Health Services (DHS) that excludes them from parental rights.

The scene inside the room is heartbreaking.  There's denial ("They weren't my drugs--I live with a bunch of meth heads and they smoke it around me; that's why its in my urine"); bargaining ("I swear I'll never use anything stronger than aspirin again if you'll just give me this chance"); threats ("You're not taking my baby without a fight. I've got people waiting outside this hospital who'll do things … you'll be sorry you messed with me"); and tears, lots and lots of tears. There's also rage and grief. But the worst has to be regret, the deep wish that she hadn't taken drugs that first time, or lived the lifestyle that kept the drugs coming, or surrounded herself with people who made her addiction OK. And there's guilt: She knows she brought this on herself.

So why do people choose to do things that are guaranteed to mess up their life? Addiction, that's why. It's simple. The drug, alcohol, food, gambling, or--well, just fill in the blank--makes them feel better. Whatever junk they carry gets lighter when they snort that line, smoke that joint, swirl that drink in the glass. They know the cigarettes will kill them, but that rush of nicotine and moment of calm when they take their smoke break is more powerful than their desire to take care of themselves and their children.

Drugs have powerful chemical hooks that attach to the feel-better centers in our brain. Unhooking is much harder than the original hook-up. It makes sense, really. Why wouldn't you want to feel that wonderful, powerful, swell of goodwill, happiness, and invincibility people get when they snort, smoke, or ingest "feel-good" subtances? Shy people become the life of the party after a drink or two. Depressed people become productive after a bowl, line, or injection. Anxious people calm down. Manic people become centered. Sadness dissipates. It's all justifiable. They want to feel better. The thing is, if you're an addict, it doesn't matter who you are, what your job is--the hook lodges deep and fast. Maybe you've got an addiction gene or a horrible past. Maybe you just took the wrong drug. You're hooked.

I had a friend. We met in our late teens and entered adulthood together. It was LA in the '80s and we loved clubs. We knew the bands and went to the "in" restaurants. We were so cool. She was gorgeous, popular, creative, and smart. We both liked drinking margaritas at our favorite Mexican restaurant, and dishing on life, men, and work. It was the highlight of our week. So much fun. But that was a long time ago and lives change. Unfortunately, her drinking amplified, though she had good reasons to hit the bottle--a painful childhood, tragic teenage years, and a madhouse adulthood spent shouldering far too much responsibility. Drinking made the past less haunting and the present less painful. It took gallons to put her monsters to sleep, but quitting meant living with demons, and that, she couldn't do. Those monsters can't get her now--she died of cirrhosis last month, still in her 40s. 

That mother in the maternity unit who won't be taking her baby home? She's no different than the one who'll top off a bottle of cabernet tonight, yell at her kids, pass out and wake up with regret. The wine-drinker has just chosen a more socially acceptable addiction, and unless she's really noisy, DHS will never know. Her kids will grow up with their own monsters, which they'll calm with a bottle, a bowl, a line, or a pill. If they're lucky enough to recognize the monster for what it is, they'll try therapy instead. They'll look the demon in the eye and say no. No, I won't have one drink too many. No, I won't try this drug. No, I won't smoke that cigarette or pound down that package of Oreos. The cabernet mom is the same as the pack-a-day executive, the heroin junkie, and the obese cookie monster. They're hooked.  They're ruining their health and well-being.

Is it hopeless? No, it's not. There's hope and help for those who find the will to quit. I, for one, will never drink again. I've got monsters, sure. Who doesn't? I learned awhile back, however, not to empower them with drinking. After I got cancer and got serious about staying alive, I faced up to my own partying ways. I was closer to the cabernet mom than the maternity unit mom, but still … that socially acceptable stress outlet was leading to an unhealthy lifestyle The hardest part was admitting I had a problem. I was lucky. But some of us are not.

Originally published on MyRegence.com  

Charting the Births of a Nation

Originally published on MyRegence.com

The Fortysomething Report: Charting the Births of a Nation

      

Our fortysomething, an obstetrics nurse, puts her birth-rate theories to the test.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

I work in the sex industry. I'm an expert, a specialist. I have a special outfit I wear and everything. Scrubs. Oh, I'm not in the action part of the business. I'm in the consequences part. I'm a labor and delivery nurse when I'm not being a journalist. All of my patients have one thing in common: Whether they're doctors, lawyers or teenagers, they were all doin' it nine months before. It's the common denominator, the bottom line; the one thing that keeps this world spinning. Sex.

News flash: People are funny about sex. They don't mind doing it; it's the talking about it and planning around it that makes them squirrelly. Most of the women I know aren't like those "Sex and the City" gals who gab about orgasms and sex toys over eggs benedict. I asked my husband once if guys talk about their sex lives. He actually guffawed. "No way--unless you count jokes and lies." And plan for it? Why do you think we have so many pregnant teenagers? It's not because they thought having a baby was such a good idea. No, it's because they got carried away or were bored, or thought if they bought birth control before they had sex, it would be too assertive, or perhaps too optimistic.

How about those experts who say married couples should schedule sex into their lives?  Like actually write it in their day planner. I can just see it: Tuesday, April 15th, 9pm - Have sex. Oh wait, not that day. It's tax day. How does the 16th work for you? Busy? Oh. Well, how about the following week? Does Sunday afternoon look good? OK, I'll pencil you in. Not bad advice for some, but it just doesn't happen that way in real life.

You can watch the world's libido rise and fall by the census in any labor and delivery unit. Nine months after a natural disaster, tornado, snowstorm, presidential election, or major holiday involving alcohol and we're swamped with work. September is a particularly busy birth month. Yep, New Years Eve. Remember all the fuss about the world coming to an end at the close of December 31st, 1999? Turns out the computers were fine; it was the humans who weren't Y2K compliant. We were crazy busy on the maternity unit that year. Presidential elections? People either celebrate or commiserate.  Power outages? What else are you going to do in the dark with no heat? One guess. We're heading into a recession apparently, and I expect next year we'll be teeming with newborns. Sex is free entertainment And it can sometimes result in some cute little tax deductions.

People have sex when they need each other, and it usually happens spontaneously when our legs are their hairiest and our underwear has holes in it. As a matter of fact, if you shave your legs and put on your lingerie, one of the kids will come down with an ear infection and you'll be up all night--and not in a good way. Sex happens for a lot of reasons; convenience is rarely one them.

After 9/11, we had a baby boom like never before. People clung to each other for solace and comfort--and got pregnant by the millions. War time is good for the economy in part because it creates so many new consumers. Soldiers go off to war with a private farewell. Soldiers on leave enjoy their freedom. Soldiers coming home from war celebrate. Baby, baby, oh baby.

We're having a mini boom right now and I can date it back to the 4th of July. Now that just doesn't seem like a sexy holiday to me, but as one couple I took care of recently told me, "Well, we were camping." Oh yeah, well, camping … when you put it that way. Now I get it--something about fireworks and the rocket's red glare?

We have more babies born in July, August and September than any other months of the year. Go ahead, count back: October, November and December. Baby, it's cold outside. It gets dark early. Bowls of soup, fire in the fireplace, early to bed, early to rise--that sort of thing. The fewest births happen in February. Surprisingly, people aren't having much sex in May. So much for spring fever. Everybody's tired of indoor sports and they want to go outside to play. 

Now, I'm not certain my method of measuring the nation's sex drive via the maternity unit is all that accurate, but it seems to be fairly consistent. Actions (or should I say "action") lead to consequences.. In my end of the sex industry, it's all about the consequences.

Originally published on MyRegence.com  

Sticking it to Allergies

Originally published on MyRegence.com

The Fortysomething Report: Sticking It to Allergies

      

Our friendly neighborhood fortysomething combats her allergies the newfangled way--with acupuncture.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other magazines.

   

Here's the good news: I've got the sniffles. My sinuses are a little congested, and I know the itchy, watery eyes are coming. I know, I know--you're thinking, "What? Is she nuts? That's the good news?" Well, yeah. It's been months and months since I've been to my acupuncturist and these are the first allergy symptoms I've had all year. The bad news? I can't get in to see her until next week, so I'll be hitting the antihistamines like a junkie with a fresh fix till then.

Up until a year ago, I was a regular in the seasonal allergy department. I lived on Claritin and Chlortrimetron when I lived with cats. Certain types of makeup make me itchy. Due to my 25-year history with wheezing, I don't go anywhere without an emergency asthma inhaler close by. I was pretty happy when Flonase came on the market. A couple of toots up my nose and I was symptom-free all day. That is until last year, when it just quit working. I took everything that didn't make me sleepy, and still I was sneezy, itchy. wheezy and drippy (aren't those four of the seven dwarves?). That's when I hooked up with my acupuncturist, who fixed me right up.

I've written before about my love affair with acupuncture. It works for my insomnia, allergies and, well, basically everything. But here's some new information: It's lasted a really, really long time. This has been a challenging year too. My oldest child moved back home with her cats--two of them: one long-haired shedding machine and one short-haired snuggle monster. Neither one of them can take no for an answer. Lola, the shedder, will sit on the clean towels, my coat and probably my pillow when I'm not home. If I close the doors, she simply bumps up the "let's get dander on everything" game. She's at level six now--opening doors by sliding her claws under and jiggling it until either it opens or someone opens it. Works every time. Then she'll jump on whatever we don't want her on, if only for a second, and then jump off and say, "Ha!" in cat lingo. Petal, the lover, will snuggle with me despite my reproachful glare, forceful brush-offs and definite, "Don't touch me" vibe. I know--cats always love the hard to get. And she is adorable with her big stupid eyes and sweet little voice. She rubs against my legs and pleads, "Pleeeeese! Just love me once." What can I do? I'm not heartless.

So, despite the cats, I've still been allergy-free. Then there are the dust bunnies. I've been working really hard at my jobs, and have made peace with the fact that I can't sweep and vacuum as often as necessary to keep the bunnies from total world domination. I can barely find time to do the dishes (which, fortunately, my husband usually does) and clean my junk off my dresser (which my husband is really patient about). I'm not a slob, but I'm not above living with a little dust either, especially since it's apparently not making me sneeze. If I had allergy symptoms, the house would be a lot cleaner. And pollen? Oh yeah, you bet I'm allergic to pollen. Up until this week, however, it's not been a problem.  Though I live in a city, I have two cherry trees, two apple trees, a plum tree and lots of flowers. I also have a colony of bees that have built a hive in an old birdhouse on the fence. They're dutifully pollinating all over the dang yard because we have lots and lots of flora and fauna. Yesterday, I was driving around town picking up my kids when I saw the wind blowing blossoms off trees like a pink blizzard. The petals whirled and twirled around so magically I had to pull over and get out of my car to watch for a while. It was lovely and didn't make me sneeze. Amazing.

Today, however, I've got the sniffles, and I suspect my allergy-free deadline has arrived. I called up Clarissa (Jade Acupuncture in Portland, Ore.) and asked her to sign me up. My appointment's a week away but I'm happy to have it. Apparently, she's booked solid until then with other allergy sufferers (among the many maladies she treats). I guess that means the word's out: Acupuncture works miracles for allergies. Now, if Clarissa can do something about the cats and dust bunnies, she'll be a real miracle worker.

Originally published on MyRegence.com  

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Pregnant Pauses

Originally published on MyRegence.com

The Fortysomething Report: Pregnant Pauses

      

Our fortysomething wonders why some women are fertile while others are just not.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

I have no first-person information about infertility. I'm on the opposite end of the spectrum: turbo-ovaries, imperviousness to all contraception. I have five children, and some were even planned. One is my niece, but for all practical purposes, she's my fourth daughter. The rest are biologically my husband's and mine. We're a minority, apparently--married with children all generated from the same genetic recipe (only one baby-daddy).

That's not unique, but one look around my daughter's second-grade classroom demonstrates that single parenthood, divorced parenthood and grandparenthood are prevalent, and I'm glad of it. Raising children is about the best teaching opportunity and gift life offers. I don't think it should be an exclusive opportunity just for the straight, married types. Most people want that gift. But for many, infertility is a real crisis. And some want it more the later in life they get started. Sometimes they get desperate. It's too big an opportunity to miss.

However, I don't think parenthood is for everyone. In my work as a labor and delivery nurse, I come across plenty of people with no qualifications for the job. Well, every first-time parent comes with limited experience, but it's the ones who should be disqualified that are so disturbing. They can barely wipe their own noses, yet they've signed on for the job of professional nose-wiper. They can't keep a job; manage a day without drugs, alcohol or violence; form a civil sentence that's meaningful and compassionate; and yet … they get pregnant.

You see them all over the place, screaming at their children, dragging their toddlers onto the bus at midnight with a cigarette in one hand and cell phone in the other. Then again, I saw a woman at the freeway off-ramp with a cardboard sign that read: "Baby needs to eat. Mom can't work." I hoped someone with the authority to really help that child would drive by and solve that sad problem. Sure, I could have called Children's Services Division, but I didn't. I don't know her situation. I don't want to judge. I've seen the tragedy of children (babies) being torn from their parents often enough to know it's a horrible, if sometimes necessary, thing to do.

It all makes me wonder why babies come so easily to some and not at all to others. I'm supremely lucky. I got more than my fair share, and I absolutely adore every one of them. I have friends, though, on either side of 40, who have not been so lucky. They waited until all conditions were perfect--the career, the house, the man and the timing. Now if they only had fertile sperm or eggs. Their desperation grows as each month produces a period instead of a positive pregnancy test.

Adoption is always a possibility, but they want their own. They want a pregnancy, birth, leaky breasts and a sore bottom. They want the whole enchilada as much as they want the beloved baby. It's primal, and they may have waited too long. When eventually they're resigned to the sad truth that there won't be a pregnancy, they feel one of the worst emotions around--regret. They regret having waited, that abortion they had in college, the years of conscious and responsible contraception. Eventually, many go on to adopt babies, and then, of course, love them as they would have if they'd given birth. The adopted bond is just as strong as the genetic bond.

One might say that fertility is proof that the universe works in random ways; there's no fate. You git what you git, so don't throw a fit (wise words chanted by preschoolers everywhere). Then again, who knows? Maybe there's some supreme wisdom determining who gets the babies and who doesn't. If that's true, could somebody ask that wise one why do folks who make such lousy parents get to have them, when those who'd make wonderful ones often don't?

Here's a list of families I loved handing newborns to: The Ukrainian family welcoming their sixth daughter. The young, crazy-in-love, newly married couple who were surprised by their pregnancy but pulled themselves together and made a warm home for their little one. The older professional couple who'd tried to get pregnant for five years--once they'd given up and filed paperwork for adoption, she got pregnant (she swears they didn't even have sex that month!). The single mother whose boyfriend left when she got pregnant--she has a job, a home and a bright future that will include her newborn, her own parents and a family of close friends. The 40-something gay couple adopting a long-awaited daughter from a 19-year-old college student. 

Then there were the teenagers. They were rude, foul-mouthed, and out-of-control. They formed a tribe of young, uneducated, unemployed kids--average age 17--all with babies or pregnancies. Their plan for the future: get food stamps, live with their parents (who weren't all that stable themselves), and that's about it. Their future? What future? They had no plans beyond "Have the baby and. …"

If you're lucky enough to have children and a means of raising them well, count your blessings. You've been given one of the best gifts life offers. Don't squander it. If you raise them well, it's a gift that keeps on giving. If you don't have them and you want one, I hope the stork finds its path to your door … or that you open the door to a child who needs a home.

Originally published on MyRegence.com  

Stop Rudeness at the Source

Originally published on MyRegence.com The Fortysomething Report: Stop Rudeness at the Source Our fortysomething suggests that you're never too old to get a lesson in being polite. by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor Jeanne Faulkner Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications. I've been on a tear lately about rudeness. I've got a bunch of kids, and if there's one thing that ticks me off, it's a rude tone of voice. You know the one: demanding, impolite and too good for common courtesy. They feel entitled to speak sharply and without the usual niceties, like "please," "thank you" and all that. Oh wait, you probably think I'm talking about the kids. Noooo, I'm talking about the way adults talk to kids. They can be so rude! My son went to a middle school dance recently. As we were buying his ticket, a teacher stomped out of the gymnasium, looked at the gathered crowd of parents and excited pre-teens and demanded, "Any kid who's coming to this dance better get in there right now!" I didn't know what she was so angry about, but whatever it was, clearly it was so urgent that she didn't feel compelled to use anything other than a madder-than-heck tone. Geez. I thought someone had lit off a stink-bomb or something. Turns out, she just wanted to make announcements about the evening's events. She wasn't even angry; that was just the standard tone of voice she used when talking to kids. I looked at my son and raised my eyebrows. He said, "Don't worry about it, Mom. They always talk like that. You get used to it." At the market the other day, a cute little boy was trailing behind his mother. He was showing remarkable self-control for a bored 6-year-old. He wasn't pulling stuff off the shelves, wandering away, whining, talking nonstop or tripping old people. As his mother pitched groceries into her cart, he asked, "Hey, Mom, have you ever had this cereal with the gnomes on it?" She snapped at him, "Those are leprechauns, and there's no way I'm buying that junk for you, so you can just forget it." His next question: "What's the difference between a gnome and a leprechaun?" was answered in just as hostile a tone. "How should I know?" she said. "Do I look like an expert on stupid gnomes and leprechauns? I'm not buying that damn cereal, so quit talking about it." That's when the whining started--hers, not his. He zoned out and quit chatting. Personally, I was curious. What are the specific differences between gnomes and leprechauns, and why on earth was she talking to him like that? I may not know about gnomes, but I can spot an ogre from a mile away. I can also make some intelligent guesses as to why this particular ogre was so rude. She was cranky, and he's just a kid, so she figured he deserved to be treated like a jerk. She's tired and doesn't want to be bothered. She was probably spoken to that way while she was growing up, so she doesn't know any better. Many adults use "cranky" as their default voice with children. It sends a clear message: They expect their kids not to listen. They are pissed off that they have to talk to their kids about things they don't feel like talking about. They don't believe that their kids deserve common courtesy. And they figure kids will respond to anger more than to kindness. Is it any wonder why kids tune out adults? Or why they're so rude themselves sometimes? It's a survival mechanism, and it's learned behavior. There's another way to do it, you know. It's called politeness. My mom translated the golden rule like this: "If you're nice to other boys and girls, they'll be nice to you." Well, guess what? It works with everyone. If you speak respectfully to children, they generally speak that way back. If you snipe at them rudely, you'll probably get that returned as well. Even the most respectful, polite parent can get rudeness from their kids. But you can turn this around too. Want a quick fix for a whining child? Whine back. When your 4-year-old hears how awful whining sounds, she'll quit doing it. Kids are really responsive to the ways adults act, and generally they model your behavior. What if that teacher had tried another tactic: "Hey, kids, we're starting soon and I want to say a few words first. Can everyone please head into the gym?" I'll bet the kids would have gathered quicker than when they thought they were going into the gym for a good scolding. What if the mother had said: "Yeah, I've tried that cereal. It's called Lucky Charms and that guy's a leprechaun. They're supposed to be lucky. It's not healthy food, though, so we don't buy it." They may have finished shopping while chatting about mythical woodland creatures or brand marketing. Or maybe they would have discussed what she ate when she was a kid. Or she could have done her best Clint Eastwood impression. "You feeling lucky, kid?" It could have been fun. Instead, the kid felt like a pest and the mother probably felt like a monster. It's time for adults to shine up that golden rule and watch how they speak to kids. If you expect to be treated and spoken to politely, why should kids expect any less? If we want children to listen to us, we need to give them something worth listening to. Even better, quit talking and start listening. You'd be amazed what kids have to say. (And, come on, aren't you curious? What is the difference between gnomes and leprechauns, anyway? ) Originally published on MyRegence.com >> Email th

A bunch of new columns from My Regence

Originally published on MyRegence.com       

The Fortysomething Report: Sharing Kitchen Secrets

      

Learning how to cook is great, but teaching how to cook is a valuable life lesson.

   

by Jeanne Faulkner, Contributor

     

Jeanne Faulkner is a freelance writer and registered nurse in Portland, Ore. Her work appears regularly in Pregnancy and Fit Pregnancy, and she has contributed articles to the Oregonian, Better Homes & Gardens, Shape and other publications.

   

We've always been a bunch of foodies. My mom was big on nutrition and loaded our table with bowls of vegetables, whole grains and all the stuff we're supposed to eat. I turned vegetarian in my adolescence and learned to cook for myself. As I started collecting a large family of my own, cooking was like breathing--second nature and vital for survival.

My kids are comfortable in the kitchen and learned to cook as soon as it was safe for them to handle a wooden spoon. When I got fed up with them hounding me with "What's for dinner? That again?" I decided it was time to hand the keys to the kitchen to them. I taught them to plan menus, grocery shop, cook dinner and accommodate everyone's culinary quirks. This was just common sense. Everybody's got to eat, right? Turns out, not everyone has to cook.

A good friend I'll call Lisa recently contacted me to answer a really hard question: "How do you cook dinner?" Uh, with food, sharp knives and a stove. "No, I mean, how do you know what to cook, how to put it all together, what people will eat, what time to start cooking?" Huh? I couldn't quite comprehend what Lisa was really asking until I realized she simply didn't know how to cook. She could follow recipes and turn out a dinner party if she had days to plan, shop and prepare; she just couldn't cook dinner. As in, the meal we eat every night.

This woman is no dope. She's educated, professional and a good mother. She has plenty of fine qualities and talents. Cooking dinner, however, is not one of them. And, she tells me, she's not alone: She has a bunch of friends and peers who are just as baffled as she is. They're all part of that "too busy to cook" demographic we read so much about. I'm busier than almost anyone I know but I'm not that busy. I cook every single day.

Lisa figured if all my kids could cook, I might have a clue how she could learn. We decided to farm out this job to my 19-year-old, Camille--home from college and looking for a job. Camille's always had a gift in the kitchen. She loves experimenting and putting things together in unusual combinations. They always turn out great. She's a natural.

Camille sat down with Lisa and made a list of her family's likes and dislikes. She asked questions like, "What are your favorite restaurants? What do you order when you go out? What protein sources do you prefer? Are there any food allergies or strong dislikes in your family?" From there, she made a menu that included dozens of Italian, Mexican, Asian, Indian and American choices. She included basic pastas but also more sophisticated (though surprisingly simple) foods like empanadas, and Cuban beans and rice. There were chicken pot pies and lasagnas, chilis and soups. She listed side dishes, salads, breads and desserts. Then she and Lisa sat down again and picked out a week's worth of dinners and broke them down into shopping lists. Camille made sure that at least one dinner menu included "easy night"--stuff you could pull out of the freezer or put together in no time at all.

Lisa did the shopping but kept her cell phone on speed dial to Camille for questions like, "What brand of feta?  How much zucchini?" Then they met again and cooked. Lisa learned to fast-chop and multi-task. Camille taught her that the same basic white sauce can be doubled and used for macaroni and cheese one night and pot pies the next. The peppers you chop for salad on Monday can also go into stir-fry on Wednesday. More importantly, if you're out of one ingredient, you can substitute something else and it'll still turn out great. They used some recipes, but Camille wanted Lisa to know how to wing it; to get comfortable cooking outside the box. They spent a few hours together chatting, chopping. They had fun. And in the end, Lisa's fridge and freezer were packed with dinners.

Since then, Camille has picked up a few more clients who need the same class: Dinner 101. She's got a hot little business going. It's been enlightening for her students as well as for Camille. She'd taken it for granted that people learned to cook sometime after they learned to tie their shoes but before they went to college. She's discovered that not everybody had the warmth and camaraderie of hanging out in the kitchen with friends and family. Not everybody knows how to play with their food. She's also learned she's got a lot to offer the world, and can make a buck off her talents--a good lesson when you're 19.

For those of you who need Dinner 101--follow my daughter's lesson plan: Figure out what you like, make a menu, research recipes, make a grocery list, get into the kitchen and have fun. Not only will you save money and improve your nutrition, you'll also connect with something that should be second nature. Your food.

Now, what's for dinner?

Originally published on MyRegence.com  

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