Magic

Bird explained to me yesterday that magic is real. I did not disabuse him of this, as I know it to be true. Indeed, Bird's very existence is proof that magic is real.

Bird's statement was out of the blue. I'm beginning to think, though, that it was also perfectly timed. I've been needing a reminder that magic is real, that magic is around me, even that I might make magic myself now and again.

Magic doesn't have to be amazing or miraculous or obvious. Magic can be simple and subtle. Magic might be laughter conjured from a silly radio commercial, or a moment of conversation when you and another person understand each other just a little more, or enjoying a cool breeze through the car windows when sitting in traffic, or a flower bed of perfect blooms....

Time

David proposed to me ten years ago. We were married nearly nine years ago. Our first kiss was almost twenty years ago. All of it happened yesterday.

Yesterday I walked into our house for the first time, four years ago. I laid my hand on my big belly and listened to my footsteps echo in the empty rooms wondering what sounds our baby Bird would make within these walls.

It seems that just last week I slept in on a Thursday and wandered to the bathroom in my favorite gray maternity t-shirt thinking about our precious baby arriving in three weeks when I felt that first clutch of a contraction. It was four years ago that I knew I would not being going to work that day and instead sat on a the edge of the bed making notes on what I was feeling and wondering if it was time to call the doctor.

I cried. I broke down and cried and spoke out loud to my Bird about how I had no idea how to be a mom and how much help I would need. I asked for Bird's help with labor and delivery. I promised to do my best. And then I called my doctor.

I can remember every smell and sound in the kitchen while I tried to eat some cold cereal after I called David at work and asked him to come home. Quickly. I wasn't ready. I didn't have a bag packed. We had just washed the baby clothes we got at a shower the Saturday before. The car seat was not installed. The ugly tile floor was cold beneath my bare feet. I was hungry, but the cereal did not appeal to me. I gripped the front of the stove and made a primal noise like I never had before and realized it was really happening.

I recovered enough to dump the cereal after only two bites and took a few profile shots of my pregnant belly. I knew it would not be long and that belly would be deflated. I wanted to somehow preserve this moment. I was not ready for my pregnancy to be over and Bird to be here. I decided I had better get ready. A second call to the doctor's office confirmed that we would go in to get things checked out.

By the time David got home I had thrown some things in a bag and was experiencing regular, strong contractions. I thought I might have leaked some fluid, but it was hard to tell, as strange as that sounds. I was pacing and debating whether I should bring a towel to sit on. I could tell David was nervous. He wasn't worried, but nervous. But he tried to hide even that as he comforted me and took charge. He didn't even change out of his work clothes. We went out the back door into the spring air and got in the car. By then it was about 11:00am.

I had been to the doctor on Tuesday, March 20. I was 37 weeks pregnant and had recently started weekly visits. My appointments were with other doctors in the practice so that we would have the chance to meet each other in case someone other than my doctor did the delivery. That week's visit saw a slight rise in my blood pressure that caused the doctor to say "The best way to handle that is to go into labor. Feel free to go into labor any day now." I laughed. I had three more weeks! Doesn't everyone go past their due date for their first? We still had boxes to unpack and baby stuff to set up. I was still working. Ha, go into labor. I wasn't due until April 9.

My laughing stopped when the doctor did an internal exam -- the first I'd had. Not comfortable. Not pleasant. Particularly not pleasant when I gazed over my massive belly in order to figure out if she in fact had her arm up to her elbow inside me (because that's what it felt like), and she announced that she was touching Bird's head. Surreal. Then alarming when she informed me that I should not be alarmed about blood on her hand or any bleeding for the rest of the day. This woman did not know me -- pregnancy and I had a tenuous enough relationship, me and pregnancy and blood were not a good combination.

I waddled out of the appointment and was content that everything still looked good. Bird was head down and engaged (thus, the waddling), I was term as of the day before, Bird's size looked good, amount of fluid was good, and I kept my mind off the bleeding by attempting to avoid bathroom trips (not possible). I had not had even one Braxton Hicks contraction, my back didn't hurt. My ankles were huge and my belly was hard and sleep was near impossible, but things were good.

On Wednesday, March 21, I had a hair appointment. I spent a blissful evening being pampered. I got a nice shorter cut and waddled away feeling like I looked pretty good for a very pregnant old lady. I went to bed that night thinking about all the things I wanted to care of at work before the end of March.

I woke up on Thursday, March 22 after David had already left for work, and soon knew I would not be going to work. My sister Lucy had predicted that Bird would arrive on March 22. She announced that to me during a baby shower the Saturday before. I told her she was crazy.

On the way to the hospital, I rolled down the car window and tried to lean my face out into the spring air. I thought about timing the contractions, but I could not relax enough between them to focus on my watch. They just kept coming. I thought about all the war tales I had heard about 30 hours of labor. I thought about all the times women had complained that they had rushed off to the hospital only to be sent home later. I thought "Holy God, the next time I'm in this car it might be with my baby in a car seat."

David was a rock. I moaned and writhed under the seat belt and tried to suck oxygen through the open window. I tried to relax. I was scared shitless. Wasn't nature or instinct or something supposed to take over? Wasn't I supposed to be overcome with calm or acceptance or something? Wasn't I supposed to be able to rest between contractions?

We were instructed to go directly up to the labor and delivery floor. Understandably, that area is highly restricted. It felt strange to stand outside of huge, locked doors, swaying my hips in an attempt to relieve the discomfort, clutching my big towel, trying to figure out what to say into the speaker. "Hi, my name is Kate Hahn. My doctor told me to come in because I think I'm in labor."

The doors whooshed open and we entered another world. We went to the desk and were immediately peppered with questions. I just wanted to move. I wobbled like some kind of overweight, amateur hula dancer. We were directed to a room divided by a curtain that held another woman potentially in labor. (I won't get into her story here, but let me say she was not happy.)

A nurse told me to go to the bathroom (shared by another room that held two women), pee in a cup, get naked, put on a gown, and come back. So much easier said than done. David looked so brave. So serious. I wanted to make noise. Please God, if they would just let me press my hands into the wall while I rolled my hips and grunted out a combination of a low moan and hum, I would be okay.

That lasted only a few minutes. Then into the bed, on my back, with monitors strapped on me. I will admit that the monitor on Bird's heart rate did give me some comfort as I had not felt Bird move in some time, but I was ready to get all those straps off much earlier than the nurses were.

I don't remember my eyes being open. David was always near me, always talking to me in a soothing voice, so I didn't feel like I needed them open. Later, though, when a nurse and an on-call resident were discussing whether I might get sent home (??!), I did open my eyes. (I will let David provide his own account of what he thought and said when he heard that.)

Apparently, something like nine other women were in labor. (No, it was not a full moon -- I checked.) Given that I was just past 37 weeks in my first pregnancy to make it that far, and I had not, apparently, started to leak fluid, they were feeling out whether my labor was progressing and whether I needed to stay.

As my eyes were open, I noticed that there was a panel screwed into the wall. It had several circle cut outs in it with the diameter in centimeters listed below each circle. Slowly I realized that it was intended as an aid for those who would be examining me to determine how far dilated I was. My next thought was something along the lines of "Holy Christ, there is no way that my body will open up like that." The thought I had after that was "Dear God, that is still not big enough for an entire human baby to pass through."

About this time, more health professionals (I could not keep track of who was what) came to my side of the curtain to ask me stupid questions -- how are you doing? -- and look at the output of the monitors. They were juggling many women in different stage of labor. I felt like we had put our name down on a list (Hahn, party of two soon to be three) for an available room. Some sort of doctor in training was brought into the room. She was young. She looked nervous. I imagined that she was suffering through a required OB rotation and never had any plans at all to become an OBGYN. She and a nurse were very polite and explained that she was learning and would it be okay for her to examine me? At this point in things I figured that periodic internal exams could not be any worse than the waves of contractions taking over my body (What about those women and their partners on those stupid movies we watched in our "birth class"? They were holding coherent conversations between contractions -- with their eyes open, no less! They were getting back rubs and sitting on exercise balls and picking out music to give birth to!). And I'll add here that we had gotten to this point after years of fertility treatment. You lose all modesty and sense of propriety over your private parts when you go through years of fertility treatment. I cannot count the individuals or instruments that have been intimate with me, so to speak.

Where was I? Oh yes, how far dilated is Kate? So the doctor in training gloves up and grabs the lube. I could see her hand shaking as she prepared. She probed. The nurse followed suit. Then the doctor in training asked the nurse "so, how far dilated is she?" The nurse said to the doctor in training, "you tell me what you think, and I'll tell you if you're right."

I was suddenly fascinated. What a great game! I found myself trying to guess a number myself. The doctor in training said "three, maybe three plus?" The nurse said "seven and a half." I pointed to the nurse and said "I like her answer."

They let me get out of bed -- thank all of the saints of labor. The doctor in training left (and never returned) and we were told we were getting a room. Victory! I assumed my position again -- THE position, come to think of it: palms spread on the wall, legs spread, hips rotating. I felt so much better.

And then I didn't. I can count on one hand the number of times I have vomited since I was in grade school. In those rare cases, the nausea seemed to gradually build and finally culminate in the horrifying, yet satisfying conclusion of actually puking my guts out. In this case I went from just fine to ohmygod (gasp) i'mgoing (gasp) tothrowup (gasp) in a heartbeat. I turned towards David as he handed me one of those tiny kidney-shaped things. (Seriously? Who invented those things?) Proving the psychic connection between us, David looked into my eyes and smoothly yet swiftly exchanged the kidney for a full-sized bed pan. I know this post has gotten long, but if you remember, I had had two spoons of cereal that day. I will never fully understand the nature of human digestion, because I can tell you with complete certainty that more than two spoon fulls of that cereal (which I will never eat again) came back up. Twice.

And so we reached transition. This is when my mind started (finally) taking over and attempted to separate me from the pain in my body. It was not exactly an out-of-body experience, but I think it was close. I was there. I was feeling pain like I did not know was possible without passing out or dying, but I was almost watching myself go through it. I distinctly remember being in incredible pain -- I kept swatting at David's hands to push them away from me, and I thought "huh, usually I like it when he touches me, and he is feeling so helpless right now, I should really let him hold my hands, but if he lays one finger on me I'm going to rip his arms from his body."

Somehow David got a hold of each of my elbows, leaned over to look me right in the eye, and told me that I had to walk down the hall to the room. It felt kind of good to walk. Sure, it wasn't the happy couple stroll down the hallway to try to get labor going -- we had no problems in that area. The next thing I knew we were walking down a busy hallway following the nurse. I felt wet. I looked down and was horrified to discover that I was leaking all over the hallway. (I won't describe what, exactly, I was leaking.) I clutched at David and tried to discretely tell him about the mess I was making. David was not nearly as concerned about the state of the hallway as I was.

We got into a comfortable room. A room just for us. With our own bathroom. The lights were dim, the furnishings were comfortable. It didn't even really look like a hospital room. I remember standing at a sink outside the bathroom and murmuring to myself. It may sound crazy, but there were times during labor when I felt like my body was talking to me -- I felt like the DNA of all the women who birthed all the women before me was telling me what to do.

And then I was in bed. Someone asked me if I wanted an epidural. Um, yes please? I'll be honest here. I had no "birth plan." I had no illusions of doing anything "naturally." Hell, my baby was conceived in a petri dish. Why go natural now? (I'm exaggerating. Even if my baby had been conceived "naturally" i.e., the old-fashioned way, I would not have signed up voluntarily for labor and delivery with no treatment for pain.) Get me an anesthesiologist, stat!

Knowing that this stranger to me, this man who was a good three inches shorter and 75 pounds lighter than I was going to stick a long needle into my back did not frighten me. I was nervous that the never-ending waves of contractions would make it impossible for me to stay still long enough to allow him to do so. Something took over. I like to think that Bird stepped in here. I was able to stay still and stay calm. I let David hold me. I felt the cool sensation that was described to me. I hesitated only briefly about lying back down. The nurse showed me how to click, click, click my way to relief.

And then nothing happened.

The nurse stayed right next to me through the next two contractions. No relief. Christ, did he make it worse? She clicked, clicked, clicked and calmly told me we just had to wait a little bit. Did I feel a cool sensation? Okay, we're almost there.

Nope.

Oh God, it hurt. It hurt so very, very badly. I remember my mother telling me that labor was terrible, terrible pain, but that you forgot about it once you held your beautiful baby. I have not forgotten. The flicker of a memory of how it felt still makes me break out in a sweat. "Thanks a lot, Eve," I thought, "this is just great. I hope you enjoyed that freaking apple, because this sucks." I was out of my body again. Or, maybe I should say I was in my mind. It was like I was more aware of some things that made me less aware of my surroundings.

According to David, the doctor (as in, doctor doctor -- fully trained and experienced OB, just not mine) and several nurses were coming and going and chit-chatting about weekend plans. They did not seem alarmed, so he tried not to be. I did not know it at the time, but they were also very supportive of him -- encouraged him, had him take breaks from his crazy wife, snuck him M&Ms and who knows what else (the poor guy had not eaten since breakfast, and we were now at dinner time).

I remember coming to the surface enough to look clearly at the nurse and tell her that the epidural was not working. With each new contraction I exclaimed that that one was the worst one I had had. She had beautiful skin and a Jamaican accent. She told me that it was likely that they would have to call the anesthesiologist back and have him try again. I said that was okay with me. He was a busy man that night. He eventually made it back into the room and started with the same crap that most medical professionals do "So I hear you're not feeling so well." I might have laughed. I wanted to laugh. Men are so funny when they talk about pregnancy, labor, and birth. I might not have laughed or said anything, but my Jamaican nurse decided to intervene. She thought it best to check me again before the do-over on the epidural.

I don't remember how many times people checked to see how dilated I was. I've watched A Baby Story and every other possible program dedicated to women giving birth -- the rosy ones, the gritty ones, and, yes, the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant ones. I feel like I got checked a lot fewer times. And I'm okay with that. The OB checked me. She announced I was a full 10 centimeters and ready to push. No epidural for me.

I don't remember how I reacted, if I reacted. David recalls that then the room changed. The doctor left and returned in doctor garb and splatter protection. The bottom half of the bed was removed and huge stirrups and handlebars (for lack of a better term) appeared. They uncovered an isolette. A huge light descended from the ceiling like the face of God. It was game time.

Somewhere in the midst of this I lost our Jamaican nurse. Shift change? I don't know. She was replaced by a tiny Korean nurse who took up residence on my left side. She and the doctor coached me and David into a position. (Who knew a giant, pregnant old lady could be so limber?) The Korean nurse who weighed no more than my left leg, picked up my left leg. David picked up my right. Time to push.

Mother of God, it felt good. Oh, that was so right. Finally, I felt some control. I felt like there was something I could do. I felt powerful. I did not open my eyes -- except once to get a look at the Korean nurse who was encouraging me to "push like you make poo poo." I kid you not. I got competitive with myself. I felt like I could do better with each push. I remember telling David, "Okay, that one was not bad, but I can do better on the next one, oh, oh here it comes!"

I pushed and pushed. The doctor kept saying I was close. David told me he could see Bird's head. I was lost in myself. I was doing it, and I knew what was happening, but I was inside myself. I could hear my heartbeat. I felt each push from the top of my head down to my toes. I grunted. I prayed. I felt like suddenly, it was happening too fast.

The doctor yelled out for me to stop. (Um, excuse me?) I could see David shift his position. She told me to give her a little push. I felt a tremendous gush, a massive release, and Bird was no longer only mine.

Before Bird was born, I remember being worried about that moment before Bird would cry. I remember thinking what a terrible wait that must be -- the purgatory before you hear your baby breathe in oxygen and cry out. When it happened, it was an epiphany for me. A perfect suspension of time. I knew things in that moment. I felt everything in that instant. Perhaps I am romanticizing, but I felt closer to God in that second before Bird's first breath than I thought possible. All of it was worth it. Everything was right. This was how it was meant to be.

I understood.

Bird cried out immediately. There was no wait. People clapped. Congratulations were called out. I sobbed and sobbed. I cried to let something out.

I asked David what we had. His eyes locked on mine and he told me we had a boy. Our boy. I had felt he was a boy from early on. I remember thinking "well, of course." He was squirming on my chest. This beautiful creation. This perfect product of my love for David and his for me. And he was here.

Finally.

Things moved more quickly after that. David cut the cord. I missed out on the placenta -- I really wanted to see it, but only got a glance. David, I think, saw more than he wanted. I got a couple of stitches. David called my parents. My dad answered. I said "Dad, the count is even" (he now had three granddaughters and three grandsons). He laughed and asked if Bird was okay and if I was okay. When I reported so, he told me I should talk to my mother. Bird was cleaned up, weighed, measured, APGARed again, swaddled, and adorned with a tiny hat (with a Cubs logo on it).

Bird was born at 7:30pm -- almost exactly 12 hours after the first sign of labor earlier that day.


David -- poor, hungry, exhausted David, made sure that Bird and I were situated and cared for. I got a turkey sandwich served in a plastic triangle, two little cups of gloriously cold cranberry juice, and a stool softener. (The cafeteria was no longer serving dinner at that point, the nurses apologized.) It was the best goddammed turkey sandwich I have ever eaten. It tasted so good. David said he would dash home, finally change out of his work clothes, grab some things, install the car seat, and come right back.

I was euphoric. Everything was right. My hair even looked great! Bird was tucked in with me. He slept. And grunted. He made the sweetest little grunts.

David returned refreshed. And giddy. We were so happy. He took pictures of Bird and me. I took pictures of Bird and him. One picture stays with me. I watched my husband pick up our son. Sure, the hormones were helping me out, but I was overwhelmed with love for these two people. I felt more love watching David love Bird.

David took care of the second round of birth announcement calls, and we settled in for our first night together. David sat on my bed and pulled out a jeweler's box -- the same jeweler we used for our wedding rings. Remember that Bird arrived nearly three weeks earlier than our due date. And yet. My most wonderful husband had taken the time to think of this perfect gift, contact the jeweler, commission it, and have it in hand before Bird was born. Inside was a white gold chain with a white gold pendant on it about the size of saint medal. Carved into the pendant is the image of a bird.

That night, time did not exist. I think I stayed awake all night. David tried to get comfortable on a pull-out chair bed. He snored. For the first (and last?) time, I found it soothing. Bird grunted. Nurses came and went. They checked on Bird, they checked on me. We tried breastfeeding. It did not go as smoothly in those first days as I had hoped, but I enjoyed it so much. When I would relax enough to not over-analyze and try to dictate things, Bird and I did an okay job. Bird and I talked and talked. I told him so many things.

Naturally, I believed he was the most beautiful baby ever born. I spent hours investigating all of his tiny inches. I was so awed by the miracle that he is.

At some point, a nurse helped me to the bathroom. She showed me how to build perfect, postpartum underpants: a tiny cold pack, a layer of witch hazel patches, on top of a massive pad, all held together with funny stretch pants. It was bliss.

Someone came and took Bird's picture. My OB stopped by to congratulate us, ask me about breastfeeding, and cancel my other appointments. A woman came to coach me on breastfeeding and gave me a wonderfully supportive pep talk. Vaccines, a hearing test, and a circumcision for Bird. A shot for me. We had stacks of paperwork to fill out. Oh, and we had to choose his name.

On Saturday morning, they told us to go home. David got a photocopy of a picture of a stork to put in the car window so that he could park in a spot right next to the door. I put maternity clothes back on, and we put Bird in a tiny onesie and strapped him into the car seat bucket. We signed the last forms, packed some donated supplies, and pocketed a prescription for me.

I then took the wheelchair ride I had dreamt about for so long. We packed up the car. I got in (oh so carefully) next to Bird. And we drove home. We made a quick stop to fill my pain pill prescription. While I waited I realized that it might be a good idea to pick up some diapers, wipes, ointment....we weren't very prepared at home.

And then we were alone.

Our house felt so different when we brought Bird inside. We bought the house for Bird. We were expecting more time to prepare the house, so more than a few rooms were still littered with moving boxes and lacked furniture. It was getting to be dinner time. David ordered Chinese food. We kept the lights off and spread a comforter on the floor. I laid a sleeping Bird on the comforter. We sat on the floor and watched NCAA March Madness with the sound turned down low. I watched the flickering light of the television on my baby's face and marveled that my love had become my loves. I had my husband and my son tucked into our house together.

It was four years ago. It was yesterday. It is every day that I have with David and Bird.

Out With the Old...

We are hours away from the end of 2009. While there many things that I am thankful for in this past year, I have to say that I am looking forward to being rid of this year (or it being rid of me?).

I have ranted before that I don't make resolutions for new years -- I don't like them, they don't work, I am only setting myself up for disappointment and failure. And yet.....goodness, how do I always end up doing this?

Make better use of time. Focus on priorities. Correspond more frequently with friends and family. Simple, right?

I am very blessed. I have a wonderful life. I intend to live life to the fullest in 2010.

Wishing you many blessings, much prosperity, and a joyful and peaceful new year.

Why Can't We All Just Get Along?

Women can be awful. I hate to generalize or stereotype, but honestly, women can be downright awful -- and especially to other women.

Have I ranted here about feminism? Why are people (especially women) afraid of that word? Why don't people (women included) understand what that word means? I spoke very briefly at a colleague's retirement party and told a story about how he actually helped to make me a better feminist. To start the story, I stated simply "I am a feminist." I was hoping it was kind of a funny story. People laughed. It was fine. Afterward a woman (a professor, no less) came up to me to ask me "Are you really a feminist? I was so surprised to hear you say that." Huh? It was like I had stated my name and taken that first step and admitted to a room full of people who go by first names only that I am a feminist.

All of this is a roundabout path to my main theme here -- women who are mothers making proclamations about how all other women should mother. Have you seen this yet? If you don't read the Atlantic or if you don't follow news on breastfeeding, you may not have seen the article that started this for me. (And since it takes me months now to get a post up, it is likely now old news, and probably not appropriate for Mothers Day...)

The Case Against Breast-Feeding by Hanna Rosin

I'm not even sure what to say about the article anymore. It makes me angry and sad at the same time. Basically, Rosin does a cursory run through some of the literature about the possible benefits of breastfeeding. She concludes that there are no scientific data to support the benefits of breastfeeding, therefore, women should not breastfeed. Her line of reasoning makes me angry.

Rosin also spends time discussing/revealing the pressure she feels to breastfeed. Even though she believes that there are no data to support the benefits of breastfeeding, she does it anyway. And she feels bad about it. And she seems to blame medical professionals and other women for this --

I could not bring myself to stop breast-feeding—too many years of Sears’s conditioning, too many playground spies. So I was left feeling trapped, like many women before me, in the middle-class mother’s prison of vague discontent.

Give me a break. If you do not wish to breastfeed, if breastfeeding is not working for you and your baby (the only people who should be considered in this equation), if breastfeeding is not possible, if you have made the choice to not breastfeed (for whatever reason), then do not breastfeed. Simple. Are women so impressionable and weak that they do things even against their own judgment because of "playground spies"? This is the part that makes me sad.

What's worse, she implies that all women -- particularly privileged women in first-world countries -- should opt to not breastfeed due to the lack of scientific evidence strong enough to convince Rosin that it is the right thing to do.

Given what we know so far, it seems reasonable to put breast-feeding's health benefits on the plus side of the ledger and other things -- modesty, independence, career, sanity -- on the minus side, and then tally them up and make a decision. But in this risk-averse age of parenting, that's not how it's done.

It's not? Why not? Because women are afraid of what other people might think of them?

Judith Warner of The New York Times added to the discussion with a piece called Ban the Breast Pump. I read it thinking that she was taking an extreme position to make a point. She concludes the piece with

In fact, I hope that some day, not too long in the future, books on women’s history will feature photos of breast pumps to illustrate what it was like back in the day when mothers were consistently given the shaft. Future generations of female college students will gaze upon the pumps, aghast.

“Did you actually use one of those?” they’ll ask their mothers, in horror.

And the moms, with a shudder, will proudly say no.

Given the shaft indeed. Women who have work outside of the home, and choose to continue to offer breast milk to their children, and have the flexibility at work (if not also legal protections) to pump at work are given the shaft. What is the point of this debate? What if we focused on the reality that the choice to use a breast pump is framed in the context of a woman having to make this choice since family leave is limited in this country. Talk about a shaft. And what if a woman stays at home but chooses to use a pump to regulate her milk production and/or allow other loved ones and caregivers to feed the baby? What if she pumps because her baby is not able to nurse due to a medical or physical condition? Again, a shaft indeed.

The key word throughout this is choice -- a dangerous word when discussing women and their bodies.

Most data indicate that breast milk is better than formula. This does not mean that breast milk is the only good choice and formula is evil. Women need to educate themselves, consider the factors that impact their choice, and make that choice. If pumping is so awful, don't do it. If you are not comfortable nursing, don't do it. Some of these discussions about feeling pressure to parent or mother in certain ways makes me wonder if most women would jump off a bridge if Dr. Sears told them to.

When will women take responsibility for their choices regarding their pregnancies and mothering and not worry about what everyone else thinks? When will women focus their anger and energy on reforming the sad state of family leave in this country instead of on their judgment of the choices other women make?

Shortly after I was comfortable enough being public about my pregnancy with Bird, I learned that many women (and, to be fair, some men) want to know everything about your pregnancy and parenting plans and are comfortable offering advice, and, in some cases, passing judgment.

On how my child was conceived -- "So your baby isn't natural?"
On my plan for childbirth -- "Oh, I didn't take any drugs."
On the consumption of caffeine, tuna, soft cheese, alcohol, et al. while pregnant or nursing -- "It's harmful to the baby."
On the use of pacifiers or bottles -- "Nipple confusion!"
On sleeping arrangements -- "Babies should sleep in their own crib" and "Your baby should sleep with you."
On textiles and toys -- "You really should choose only organic cotton and renewable wood..."

The list is lengthy -- disposable or cloth diapers, plastic or glass bottles, when to start solid foods, homemade solid foods or store bought, baby wearing, diaper ointments, crying it out....and let's not even mention the debate on vaccinations....

But I was trying to comment on the breastfeeding debate.

A blogger for the Chicago Tribune, Judith Graham entered the conversation with a piece titled Science Supports Breast-Feeding But it's a Woman's Choice. She wrote a succinct critique of Rosin's and Warner's contributions. On Rosin, she posits that

Rosin’s real gripe is that the benefits of breast-feeding have been oversold, making moms guilty if they chose to feed their babies formula. Without question, mistakes have been made.

The mistakes she is referring to were the ads in 2006 that depicted mothers who choose not to breastfeed as mothers who were actually harming their babies. Yes, a mistake. I think she is right in particular about "making moms feel guilty." Rosin needs to decide that others can't make her feel guilty -- that guilt is not a reason why she should do something she doesn't want to do and is certainly not reason enough for other women to not do what she doesn't want to do.

Graham concludes that Warner

understands the real argument here is about women who feel put-upon by all the expectations associated with modern motherhood. For her, the symbol is the breast pump, that device that lets women give breast milk to infants even when they’re at work. Clearly, something is missing in that picture.

But again, the problem isn’t with the science behind breast-feeding. It’s with what people make of it.

Yes, exactly -- what people make of it. Most of the comments I read that were posted in reply to these articles and posts and in myriad other blogs contained some sort of personal statement such as "I breastfed...." "I exclusively breastfed..." "I was not able to breastfeed due to health, work, etc." "I tried to breastfeed, but...." Most of these also included some sort of statement that everything turned out okay.

So, why should breastfeeding be viewed so negatively? Why does breastfeeding have to be measurably better than formula to justify that choice? In all of the complaining about being trapped at 2am with a baby attached to her breast, why did no one mention the convenience of whipping out a boob to nourish or calm a baby? Why was the cost of the wonderful formulas that are available today not factored in? Why didn't the discussion include the need for flexible work situations that would allow women more freedom in their choices about how to nourish their babies?

Why can't we agree that breastfeeding (or not breastfeeding) is not for every mother? A mother can choose not to breastfeed, but still offer breast milk. A mother can choose not to breastfeed, but offer breast milk that is not her own! A mother can choose not to breastfeed, but offer one of the formulas made today with technology much better than when many of us were young. Have you looked at the choices in formula and how they are packaged? There are countless choices and options for feeding infants today with convenient and healthy formula.

What's important is that in the end, each of these choices is a viable choice to raise healthy, happy children. What's important, is that each of these truly is a choice that women and their parenting partners need to make for themselves and their children without pressure or judgment from other women.

I wish we could learn how to get along and support each other in our choices.

Happy Mothers Day!

Scrooge the Squirrel

Christmas is the season of lights. One of my favorite parts of the season is decorating the house -- inside and outside -- with lights. Candle lights in the windows, star light in the dining room, lights in the kitchen and over the doorways to our bedrooms.

Since this was only our second Christmas in our house, we are still figuring out how we want to decorate, and we are in the early stages of acquiring decorations. One of the best ways to acquire nice decorations is to wait for the holiday to pass and then buy decorations that stores are trying to unload at a nice discount.

Last year we picked up a few things right after Christmas. David suggested that we get some lights to string along the deck. We use the back entrance to the house the most, and we can see the deck from our family room -- so buying lights was an easy decision. I tend to be a white light person, David pushed for colors. He won. Oh, and the lights we bought have something like 15 settings -- we can select anything from strobe, to Vegas, to night club, to seizure-inducing flashes. Lovely.

To be fair, when we got the lights on the deck and the tiny trees with lights along the sidewalk and a tangle of outdoor extension cords and the light sensor all set up, it was very nice. We got a beautiful snow just a couple of days after we had everything set up, and the lights looked great through the snow. We all enjoyed watching them from the warm family room.


And then one night I noticed that one of the strands was not lit. I thought it might have been due to the amount of snow piled on the connections. We've had some snow this winter.... But then the whole length of lights was out. We had had some difficulty with the light sensor timers we used on all the outside lights. However, the little trees along the walkway were on the same timer as the porch lights and they were still lit.

We let it go for a few days until one of us had the opportunity to be on the deck in daylight and check out the electrical anomaly. David got out there first. He suspected foul play. In particular, he suspected a squirrel.

David is not a big fan of a squirrel that's been hanging around our deck. The squirrel (or squirrels?) has pulled petunias out of pots, actually chewed on deck railings, and is generally a pest. He reminds me of the fearless squirrels you encounter on college campuses. This squirrel has actually stood outside our sliding glass door, placed small claws (do squirrels have claws?) on the glass, and stared at us. Odd.

So it turns out that it appears that the squirrel chewed through the electrical cord of our Christmas lights -- not in one place, but in three different locations (see pics above). No squirrel carcasses were found. Surprisingly.

I'm still a little pissed about it -- the destruction of our new lights, not the lack of frozen bodies. What kind of scrooge eats through wires to kill our Christmas joy?

Junk Room

Everyone has a junk drawer, right? I remember that we even called it that when I was growing up. In need of something? Look in the junk drawer. It sometimes had magical qualities like Mary Poppins' bag -- it seemed a limitless drawer of odds, ends, tools, pens, and orphan parts of all kinds.

When I got older and lived in places of my own I gradually developed my own junk drawer. In my pursuit of controlling my environment since I cannot seem to control any other aspect of my life, I organized my junk drawer with small, plastic bins. It was still a junk drawer, but it was forced into the submission of categories -- tools (ruler, scissors, tape measure, utility knife, tiny screwdriver, etc.), adhesives (clear tape, masking tape, electrical tape, left-over velcro tabs, and that cool stuff that you can stick window stickers onto it so that the stickers cling to your car windows thereby eliminating the need for razor blades every year), stuff (buttons, last bit of yarn, a cork, a key chain that floats, etc.), and a bin of batteries. That drawer also received all weird bits and scraps that had no other home and would no longer be tolerated out in the open.

We have been in our new house for almost two years. Our Birdie arrived about four weeks after we moved into the house (and about three weeks early). We did not have time to get all parts of the house set up the way we wanted it. (No, really, I have convinced myself that three more weeks of pregnancy would have allowed us to get things set up.) And then, of course, people say that it takes a year of living someplace to figure out how you want things set up. Bird has impacted our plans by distracting us from thinking about how to organize the house and by introducing so much stuff to the house.

So, while our kitchen has developed its own kitchen-specific junk drawer, we have grown beyond junk drawers and generated a junk room -- a whole room of orphans, misfits, and stuff-in-transition. It started simply enough -- Birdie's first birthday and the impending arrival of more than thirty people for his party (we kept it small -- family only). We needed space for chairs for people and tables for food. Jumperoos, Bumbos, toys, baskets of blankets and bibs and toys were all relegated to the office. The stroller, the push car, and un-needed parts of the pack n' play were exiled to the office. Piles of mail and newspapers, school bags, work bags, extra throw pillows and a half-dead plant were thrown in for good measure.

And thus was the foundation laid for our junk room.

Now the junk room is utilized every time we get one of those phone calls -- "Hey! We're in the city. Are you guys home?" -- and need to shovel our real lives behind closed door to make it possible for guests to be comfortable and to allow us to act like we live clutter free.

Bird's second birthday is three months away. (How is that possible?) I have been successful this week in skimming off the top layer and have made discoveries such as the light fixtures we bought for the first floor bathroom. The stroller and push-car have been stored in the basement. I have not made it as far as the closet. God knows what awaits me in the closet. Items were shoved in the closet the week we moved in and have not been touched since. I imagine it will be like an archaeological dig. And a horror film. And potentially a documentary on paper hoarding.

I am hopeful that in the new year I can rid us of much paper, determine and establish a system for storing the minimal amount of paper we do need to store, and keep junk out of our office. It would be so nice to have an office again.

I will not, however, make any move to rid us of our junk drawer.

When Did He Get So Big?

When did my little Bird start getting so big?

I remember thinking last year at this time that he was so big. Granted, learning to sit up on one's own gives one a bit more height. And the hair! He practically had enough for a comb over.

I am sure that I will continue to be shocked at how big he is getting, but it is so noticeable lately. There are mornings when I am surprised to find such a big boy in the crib. He surprises me all the time.

I've been going through pictures to get them organized. I came across one of this year's Halloween pictures and thought I would compare it to last year's pictures to see how much Bird has changed.

Here is Bird on Halloween 2007. He was 7 months old.


Below is Bird on Halloween 2008 -- 19 months old.

It turns out that while many things about Bird are changing, there are some things that stay the same!

Being a Grown Up

I have begun to dislike being a grown up. Well, parts of it anyway. In the past, I have said on more than one occasion that I would not be a teenage girl again for all the money in the world. Now I'm starting to think that being a teenage girl again (but with all the money in the world) might be better than being a woman in her late 30s with a job, a mortgage, and sundry other responsibilities.

My complaints are the usual ones: not enough time, too much stress, bills, responsibilities, crap, messes, crap, voicemails, emails, and some other crap. What I am finding is that my complaining (to myself, to my co-workers, to my spouse, to the lady at the register in the cafeteria) has increased even as the opportunities for peace and joy in my life have increased. Crazy, no? I mean the situation. Not me. I'm sane. Well, sane as I've ever been.

Having our little Bird in our little (Actually, it just looks little from the front, which I love, but it is not truly so little on the inside. In fact, my sister and my niece mocked us loudly for having a room that is devoted to visitors and serves as a changing table for the intermittent downstairs diaper change.) house has made me happier than I have ever been. I have not ever before experienced, nor could I have anticipated, the absolute happiness that having a job that provides the potential for enjoyment and fulfillment, a wonderful husband, a marvelous son, and a comfortable home has brought me.

And then I have to go to work, stress about work, obsess about every symptom that creeps up in the house, feel guilty about about Bird's care, worry about every one's health, and beat myself up for not creating a home and home life that would be an unrealistic goal even for someone who stayed at home and had a paid support staff. Smart, yes? And oh so healthy too.

Sure, there are some upsides to being a grown up that I enjoy. When mulling over whether we should do something indulgent (like spend lots of money at the magazine store), Dave usually wraps up the debate with the sage observation, "Why not? We're free, white, and 21." And there is something to that. I am blessed with freedom in many areas of life.

This makes me think of a story that my youngest sister told me once about grocery shopping. She was a college graduate living on her own, shopping for herself, queen of her own domain. As she headed towards the checkout she passed the pop tarts and, naturally, wished she could have some. Those rare moments in our childhood that included pop tarts were truly magical -- and truly rare. Suddenly, it hit her -- she was queen of her own domain! She could buy those pop tarts if she wanted! In any flavor she wanted! And she didn't have to share the pop tarts that come sealed in the same envelope! This is the kind of freedom I am talking about.

Though I am lucky enough to have a lot of freedom in my life, I have to deal with the usual grown-up responsibilities and some new grown-up things that are required of me now that I live with a little person who will eventually learn to call me mama. (He will, right?) It is, perhaps, because of the little person in my life that some of these grown-up things weigh on me more heavily, but I can't blame him entirely.

I just wish I could let some of it go now and then. Or that some of it would let me go now and then. My grown-up responsibilities have distracted me to such a degree these last few months that I have not had the time to even complete this blog post. I started writing this on August 1 (as shown in the date), but completed and published it on November 1...

So Many and So Much

So many things in my head. So many ideas, so many to do lists, so many plans, so many complaints, so many blessings, so many wishes. I feel sometimes like I'm going to bubble over with words words words. I'm feeling a little bit like I did when my little Bird was a tiny baby and I never really got long stretches of sleep -- the sleep that your brain needs to defrag, recharge, and reboot.

Every time I think I can take two minutes to dump some of my "so manys" onto paper or screen, (or maybe actually do something), something comes up. Or, I take the time to go to the bathroom or I take the time to go to bed (very long stretches of sleep are still desired).

When did I have to start making time for bodily functions? I actually scheduled a meeting a little later than I could have so that I could be sure to have a moment between meetings to empty my bladder, wash my hands, and inhale some yogurt. That's not right. (Let me note, however, that I did not explain that this was the reason why I wanted to start at 2:30 instead of 2:00. Let's keep that between us.)

So much has been happening. The summer is flying by.

I've been meaning to record Bird's vocabulary of baby signs. He is becoming very proficient. He currently uses signs for hat, more, eat, drink, help, book, dog, bird (all beaked creatures), fan, music, monkey, and he made one up for glasses that he only uses when I put on my glasses. A few others are being acquired. It is so much fun to see him work to communicate with us. It is so rewarding to see him make the sign for drink and then receive a sippy cup and be so happy that his request was understood. I am looking forward to the onset of actual spoken words, but I am so glad that we have all learned some baby signs to make communication easier.

Bird is also getting so big. He has been walking now for about a month and a half. He has gotten very good at stacking blocks. He regularly asks for books and music and loves to dance. He could play ball for hours -- even by himself. He has started to color with toddler crayons and likes to give high-fives. Opening and closing drawers is one of his favorite things to do. He has also started to carve out tiny spaces in some of our rooms and sits quietly in them with a self-satisfied smile on his face. I put a blanket over the luggage rack in the guest room -- he sits in there with blocks. He pushes the trash can out of the way to sit under the kitchen counter. He squeezes behind the ficus in the living room and the petunias on the deck. He amazes me every day.

Work is huge right now. Huge. Much to do, much dependency on others to do their jobs, way behind schedule on a few things, much correcting of record-keeping to be done. Ack.

One of the items on my personal to do list for the summer is to get in touch with friends whom I have neglected to correspond with. In part I hope to accomplish that by updating this blog more frequently. I'm also hoping to be inspired to write something that is actually interesting.

Observations

Some observations I have made of late --

• It will never be warm here. And by warm I mean dry with a high temperature of greater than 70 degrees for two consecutive days.

• (Given: Bird loves loves loves balloons.) Grocery stores inflate helium balloons of tremendous colors and sizes and tie them to every fixed surface in the store -- and I had never noticed them until Bird pointed (and pointed and pointed and pointed) them out to me.


• A full day of gardening kicks my ass. I have not hurt this badly in a long time. It took me an entire day to mow, clean out the flower beds, plant a few annuals and one tiny hydrangea bush, and spread mulch in front. Lucky for me, the weedwacker cried "Uncle" before I really got going. The yard looks better, but far from my vision. My hamstrings are still wondering what the hell happened. They have no idea that we are not finished yet.
  


• Now that Bird is a much-accomplished eater, it is so much harder to get him to eat a well-balanced meal. It used to be so easy to open a jar for each major food group and start scooping it in. I've already resorted to hiding vegetables in a ball of much-loved mashed potatoes and placing it on a toddler fork to "trick" Bird into eating his veggies. Don't get me wrong, the kid loves to eat all different kinds of stuff. However, when given the choice between veggies and meatballs, the kid chooses meatballs every time.

• My home does not look like it could be in the pages of a magazine. My mom always used to say that to us --- "I want your room to look like it could be in a magazine!!" She was not referring to the "before"pictures either. The thing is, I would like for my home to look like that -- not the "before" pictures, the "after" pictures. It doesn't even have to be my whole house. Maybe just a small photo spread with pictures of my cozy bungalow living room (that is kid-friendly and adult-appropriate), envy-enducing pictures of our master bedroom, and a sidebar with before, during, and after pictures of the transformation of our side entrance from a dark, wood-paneled time capsule to a bright, clean, and practical entry way.

• I'm going to have to take a long vacation if I am ever going to make a dent in my long to do list of mini-, medium-, and mega-home projects.

• I had a dream the other night that I took a vacation -- a vacation that involved going on a trip. I went to a resort that catered to parents. I slept in the most wonderful bed that did not have a baby monitor next to it. I read books and magazines and ate whatever I wanted. And I got to use the bathroom for as long as I wanted with no interruptions and no guests.
  

Confessions

I have several confessions to make -- perhaps appropriate as Lent comes to a close.

Okay, let me interrupt here for another confession: I've been writing this post off and on since February 13, 2008. How lame is that? So, yeah, Lent is long gone.

(1) I love Cheerios. Before Bird mastered the pincer grip I had not eaten a Cheerio in over 25 years. My memories of Cheerios were finding them stuck to various parts of my brother, listening to my sister slurp them down, and the smell -- oh the smell of soggy Cheerios. As soon as Bird began working on non-pureed food, I bought a small box of Cheerios. He loved them instantly. While he was happily stuffing them into his mouth I tried a few. I re-loved them instantly. I confess that I have actually started to eat them from a bowl with milk and a little sugar. I am ashamed to admit that I occasionally sample dry Cheerios from Bird's tray.

(2) I have also grown to love vanilla wafers and animal crackers again. And I have been happily introduced to the teddy graham species.

(3) My house smells like poopy diapers. The poop aroma permeates throughout the house -- a house with two Diaper Genie IIs, no less. Nothing removes or sufficiently covers poopy smells. I am close to changing the flavor of one of the air "fresheners" strategically plugged in next to the downstairs Diaper Genie because I have started to associate that scent with poopy diapers. Sometimes it sneaks up on me. I catch just a whiff of dirty diaper causing me to wrangle Bird and hold his derriere close to my nose for a poopy check. I have read that humans cannot recall smells -- at least not in the way we can recall other senses such as sight and sound. I am beginning to think otherwise. I can almost predict the smell that is about to emanate from Bird each time I get a glimpse of his face as it reddens with effort.

(4) While my sweet Bird does have and very much enjoys playing with "real" toys -- many of them very generous gifts from friends and family, I must admit that his most favorite play things were not manufactured to be so.

Exhibit A: The spent cartridge from a Diaper Genie II.

I removed all sharp pieces (quite easily, I might add) and frequently hand this to Bird when attempting to keep him occupied long enough to change his diaper. He likes to hold it with one hand and thrust his other hand through the hole to wave at me. We also play a modified version of peek-a-boo with this. Lately he has created a game in which he throws a law firm-emblazoned stress ball through the hole.


Exhibit B: A Ziploc container holding one Fisher Price alphabet block.


Bird likes all things that have shake-a shake-a capability, to use our technical term (see Exhibit F below.) Like most babies, he enjoys kitchen gadgets and containers. I'm not sure when the Fisher Price alphabet block got inserted into the Ziploc, but it is a hit.






Exhibit C: A cut-down shipping box from Eddie Bauer.
Exhibit C.1: David's sandals.


Bird loves boxes. They were more of a favorite of his when he was less mobile than he is now, but he has adapted. In the past, he liked to sit in the box with toys. Now, he enjoys using the box to help him stand and then sorting and resorting toys in and out of the box. He also enjoys playing with David's old, stinky sandals. In particular, Bird likes to insert and remove toys from the sandals. There are not enough Clorox wipes in the world for me to be able to watch this.


Exhibit D: A mylar balloon.


Balloons! I am sure that balloon will be one of Bird's first words. We first discovered that he has an affinity (like most babies) for balloons when he was only 5 months old. The love affair has continued to this day and now includes aggressive affection for the mylar variety. Luckily, mylars live a long life. When tied to the changing table they have also provided a distraction sufficient enough for a thorough butt-wiping and diaper-changing.

















Exhibit E: A defunct (and battery-less) tv remote.

Bird loves buttons. More particularly, Bird loves any buttons that David or I possess. It takes a certain amount of deception and reflexes to keep Bird from our remotes, cell phones, keyboards, radio alarm clocks, and even the doorbell. When our new cable box completely died after three months of use, we got a new cable box and a new remote for that box that is nearly identical to the "old" remote. And thus did Bird acquire his own remote. I think he has started to realize that the tiny red light on his does not flash when he pushes the buttons, but he has been okay with that to date.


Exhibit F: A breast milk storage container with dry pasta.

I have to blame/credit myself for this one. I use the containers like the one pictured above to store breastmilk. They are disposable-ish in that they should be sterilized only a few times. (I don't want to get into the reasons as they frighten me and some likely related issues are currently in the news, but suffice it to say that we use and re-use these containers only the number of times that the manufacturer recommends.) So. Once we have used a container to store breastmilk for the last time, it gets washed and stacked for David to use in his basement work space. Bird has always been interested in these containers -- perhaps due to their original contents -- so one day I took one, put dry pasta in it, and sealed it up. Bird does not (yet) have the dexterity necessary to unscrew the top, so the pasta is safe for now. This was the birth of the shake-a shake-a toy. We now have several littered around the house. Bird particularly enjoys the double shake-a shake-a when two containers are snapped into each other (a marvelous stacking feature when storing breastmilk in the fridge or freezer).

Exhibit G: A photo of himself

Bird loves pictures -- particularly pictures of people. The daycare center gave us two copies of this picture of Bird in the school buggy. I happened to have it on hand one day while battling Bird during a diaper-changing session. We keep it in the diaper basket so that it can be handed to him when he isn't feeling it with the Diaper Genie II cartridge.



I'm continually amazed at what he finds entertaining. Old catalogs have bought me valuable time on more than one occasion. The socks off his own smelly feet bring smiles and laughter. He is curious about and creative with even the most everyday things that we hand him or that he manages to swipe -- and I am thankful.

One of Those Moms

I don't want to turn into one of those moms -- the ones who obsess over each milestone, accomplishment, pound, sneeze, belch, and poop that the little genius makes. Or rather, doesn't make. You know the ones.

I am always flattered when people comment on Bird's abilities, appearance, and/or personality. I don't find that I toot that horn often -- except for when David, Bird, and I are alone together. That's when I gush with abandon. The first time Bird successfully pincer-grasped a cheerio and got it into his mouth you would have thought he won an Olympic gold medal from the way I reacted. Even Bird looked at me with a "what's wrong with you" expression on his face as he gummed that cheerio into submission.

So, I try not to proclaim Bird's greatness to others. By that same token, I try not to compare Bird to his peers and reveal any areas where Bird might be slower to achieve. I want Bird to be Bird and to be healthy and happy. I remind Bird often that though I am educated, somewhat bright, and have some experience with kids, I am a Rookie Mom. Rookies make mistakes. Rookies lack wisdom. Rookies tend to get excited and not always keep their head in the game.

My rookie mistake du jour is freaking out about the stages that a "normal" and "average" baby is supposed to reach at certain ages. I try not to obsess. However, I do have a baby book that I reference now and again ("chicken pox;" "bowel movements, color of;" "fever;" "feeding, starting solids;" etc.) and we have a pediatrician who gets out his checklist and asks us questions point blank: "Does Bird do this?" "Have you seen Bird do that?"

And then, of course, I also drop Bird off in a room full of his peers every morning and pick him up in that setting every afternoon. Let me just say in my defense, they post the first names and birth dates of all the babies on the wall and I have learned the names of most of the babies and it's hard not to wonder about your 9-month-old who can't pull himself into a sitting position and does not crawl when a 7-month-old is crawling a circuit around him.

I can't help but worry. It's what I do. I started worrying about Bird even before I saw the flicker of a heartbeat on the ultrasound screen. (For those who do not know me, I should note that I am a worrier by nature. This motherhood thing has served only to heighten my abilities.)

So I am working on not worrying. I am working on focusing on the positives. I am working on not comparing Bird to every baby born within 6 months of him. I am working on being Bird's Mom, and not one of Those Moms.

UPDATE: I started this entry on January 15. Bird successfully pulled himself to a sitting position in my view twice on January 20. He then also clapped in mimicry of his father and me. Not that I'm bragging or anything.

Medical Advice

Wow -- my posts have become almost regular! Once a month! Baby steps and I will get back on this horse. I have been distracted by work, teaching (which is different from work), and illness -- Bird's, Dave's, and mine. To wit --

I was sick for three weeks after Thanksgiving. Sure we've had colds, the chicken pox scare, ear infections, and the nasty stomach bug that Bird was nice enough to share with David and me. (My God, the puke! Have you seen the bit on Family Guy when Peter, Chris, Stewie, and Brian all drink castor oil and wait to see who pukes last? Winner gets the last piece of pie. Of course, they all charf. Everywhere. Some of the lines are really, really great.)

Where was I? Oh yes, I was sick. I got a cold the weekend of Thanksgiving (and then Bird and David, in that order). It was a fairly crappy cold with a cough and everything. Bird and David got better, I did not. It just kept going. And then my sinuses starting killing me and everything in my head throbbed and my snot was an unnatural color of green and then my teeth started to hurt. It was great.

I finally broke down and called my doctor for an appointment. I have not visited a doctor due to illness in over 15 years. Sure I've been in a doctor's office more times in the last two years than some people are in a lifetime (my veins practically open and bleed on command for phlebotomists now), but I haven't seen a doctor because I didn't feel well in forever.

I got this current doctor (a real doctor that I have along with my real health insurance -- another benefit of finishing grad school) while I was pregnant because I needed to get a flu shot and my OB didn't have any. This current doctor also looked at a toe problem I was having at the time and announced "That is too gross for me. You'll need to see a foot doctor." Hmmmm. OK.

So I saw this doctor last week. Of course, I was feeling better the morning of the appointment. A similar phenomenon occurs for me when I break down and make an appointment to get my hair colored or cut. I inevitably love the way my hair looks in the last 72 hours before I pay big bucks to change it.

Back to the appointment. I was prepared for things to take a long time since I was being "squeezed in" and everyone is sick at this time of the year. A very nice nurse took my vitals. I fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes again. Some pants are even a little large. And yet, I seem to weigh only about 10 pounds less than I did the day Bird was born. I've always hated numbers.

Later a medical student came in to chat. A medical student -- as in, not a resident, not yet an M.D. Wow did she look young. I've already forgotten her name. She was blond and had on a smart, white lab coat. She looked like she was concentrating hard on her bedside manner.

My file with this doctor is two pages long. Somehow the medical resident got lost in the file and asked me if I was pregnant since my last period was July 3, 2006. Don't you have to take math in med school? So anyway, we got the two pages sorted out, got the date of my last period sorted out (concurrent with this sinus infection, thank you very much), and got down to business. The opportunity to recap my last visit alerted the med student to the fact that I have a baby and I am breastfeeding.

She actually looked in my ears, up my nose, and down my throat. While checking out my ear wax she exclaimed "Diamond alert!" I kid you not. She helpfully added that she is on "jewelry watch" because she knows her boyfriend bought a ring. I said "Congratulations! But how do you know he bought a ring?" She explained, "I went with him to the jewelry store."

Hmmm. Call me old-fashioned, but that takes all of the magic out of a marriage proposal. If you go to the store with your fiance-to-be and pick out a ring and see the price, what do you need him for? Don't you want to be surprised? And no, I don't think it's truly a surprise if you know he has the ring but you don't know when or how he'll pop the question. I don't know how men today deal with that kind of pressure. This young woman picked out her ring, presumably also her betrothed, and has already narrowed down possible wedding dates, but has no official proposal or ring on her finger. Ahhhh, romance.

As we ran through my symptoms (pausing so she could write it all down), she started asking me questions. Question the first: "Are you feeling tired or run-down lately?"

Ha! I truly thought she was joking for a full count to three. Instead of laughing, she kept her eyes focused on mine while waiting for my answer and applying all of that bedside-manner listen-to-the-patient stuff I am sure she is learning in school. "Um, yes I'm tired. I haven't slept through the night in a very, very long time. I have a baby."

She then proceeded to ask me questions about Bird and his sleeping habits. And then she...yes, you know it's coming....began to tell me how to get him to sleep through the night --

• You should feed him right before bedtime.
• You should give him a bath and then massage him with bedtime lotion that is scented with lavender.
• Sometimes babies just need to cry it out to figure out how to fall asleep.
  

Oh, honey. I wanted to pat her hand and tell her to talk to me after she has her first child. You know, the one that she is sure she will easily conceive at the time she has chosen --- I won't go there since that is a whole other rant of mine, and yes a time that she has chosen since come on, she picked out her engagement ring.

Anyway, I found it funny to receive this advice from a young, childless, medical student when I just wanted a prescription to cure my nasty infection. I know it takes a village. I know I thought myself to be knowledgeable about such things while I was childless. But please.

First-Time Mom Questions

• Why do diapers have so much stuff printed on them? Is it just the expensive ones? Are they expensive because they print so much junk on them?
• Why would there be a product recall on a product that is not actually being recalled, but rather consumers are being offered stickers that read something along the lines of "do not leave baby unattended"?
• Why does Pedialyte have a color? Does the toddler really care if the "fruit flavor" is orange? Is the food coloring used to make it easier to identify it within your baby's vomit when they throw it back up?
• If the "upside" of my baby catching every communicable disease while in daycare is that it boosts his immunity, then why the hell am I getting sick too? I went to school for many many years, so shouldn't I never be sick again?
• How is it possible that a 17-pound, 26-inch person generates more dirty laundry than a one-hundred and ni......than a grown person?
• Of all the interesting things present and within my son's reach, why does he always always manage to choose the thing most dangerous?
• Why hasn't someone invented a quiet breast pump?
• If I am my baby's legal guardian and diaper ointment can be purchased over the counter, why am I required to get a doctor's signature to have someone at the daycare center put diaper ointment on my baby's butt? (Okay, I mean I guess I know why, but please.)
• Why does spit up only appear minutes after I have vigorously burped my baby over a burp cloth? Why does it only land on dry-clean-only work clothes? And how is it so stealth?
• Have you tasted rice cereal?
• Why hasn't someone invented a pacifier for babies that is shaped like baby toes?
• Can medical science please find a way to inoculate my son from disease that does not require multiple injections?
• When does all this teething result in actual teeth?
• Will my baby be healthy and fever-free for more than 7 straight days this fall?
• How was I supposed to guess "ear infection" when he had a fever for four days, threw up once, cried and cried and cried (and Bird is not a crier), but never once pulled on his ears?
• Why do they flavor antibiotics to taste like bubble gum? What do dentists think about this?
• Why is it that the only apparent genetic link between my baby and me is horribly sensitive skin?
• Could it be possible that I put antiperspirant on only my left pit two days in a row?

It Wasn't Chicken Pox

So it wasn't chicken pox. Well, we don't think it was chicken pox. Apparently, chicken pox is a lot harder to diagnose in this era of the chicken pox vaccine. (Bird has not been vaccinated because he will not be old enough to get the vaccine until he is 12 months old.)

It could have been roseola or maybe the dreaded hand, foot, and mouth disease. Then there's measles. Have you ever looked up "rash" in a baby book? The entries read like some kind of bad made-for-tv thriller about viruses that bring Armageddon.

Bird's virus started as a fever -- his highest recorded to date -- that lasted more than three days. Lucky for us, he's a champ at tolerating the rectal thermometer. He peed on me only three times and the poop incidents were kept to a minimum. After the fever, the rash appeared. Well, a new one appeared. He had been sporting a rash under his chin before the fever even appeared. The fever lit up this rash and then also brought a new one along for the party.

I know that all of this is part of Bird going off into the world and meeting new people and new superbugs. Women I know who also put their children into daycare situations to return to work all say the same thing...."Oh yes the germs! They get sick and you get sick and it's awful. But think of it this way, now they're gaining immunity!"

Immunity? So we won't have another fever and rash attack? We won't get pink eye again? How about that nice upper respiratory thing from earlier this month? Hell, even if this was a mild case of chicken pox, it was likely not "strong enough" to give him natural immunity. I am glad Bird has faired relatively well in terms of fighting these things off, but the "benefit" of immunity seems small in the face of the panoply of germs and viruses out there.

I started this entry on October 19 -- Bird had been home from daycare a full week and a half. He went back on Monday. On Wednesday he had is first field trip -- to a tiny pumpkin patch! (More about that later.) He had started to master solid foods too (well, "Stage 1" solid foods) -- bananas, sweet potatoes, oatmeal, and carrots.

On Wednesday night he threw up the carrots and breastmilk. Then he threw up again and got rid of what was left and cleaned out his sinuses as well. Believe me, it was a lot grosser than it sounds. So we've now had a few days of vomiting, a slight fever, pedialyte, thrown-up pedialyte, changes of clothes, changes of bedsheets, and meticulous investigations of diapers in hopes of discovering urine. Ack.

I hate throwing up. I hate watching Bird throw up even more. I am shocked at how much Bird has taught David and me about being sick. We can both detect even a slight fever and are getting good at predicting the actual temperature. Last night at 4:00am I woke up at the sound of Bird's stomach and was ready before the vomit actually came up. Of course, he still managed to nuke my pillow.

We are all tired. Our second floor smells sour. We have piles of laundry. I want to wash everything -- including each of us. I want two whole weeks of health. I know, I know this is all a part of being a parent. Would I be going too far if I send Bird back to daycare in a biohazard suit?

Dirty Laundry

Perhaps it is because I am a new homeowner who is still basking in the glow of new-to-us washer and dryer, but I love doing laundry. Wait. I just re-read that sentence. It's definitely because I am a new homeowner. I hate doing laundry, but bear with me here.

I hated doing laundry when we had to haul it down many rickety porch steps into the basement and use goofy tiny tokens that we had to purchase from a neighbor on the other side of the building who had Cujo for a pet. I hated doing laundry when we had to bundle it all up and drag it over to the laundromat that had no chairs and was perpetually moist and mildewy and Spanish talk shows (a la Jerry Springer) blaring on televisions in every corner. I even hated it when we had to heave the bundles over to the same laundromat to drop them off and have the nice ladies there wash, dry, and fold our underwear for us.

But now? Now I have no fewer than four different laundry receptacles waiting to hold our dirty linens -- and three of them even look nice. Now I can take laundry into the basement any time I want and not worry about waiting for a washer, or if the washer will work, or what is in the washer before my bathroom towels, or if I'll be able to get back before someone removes my belongings…. Essentially, I now have stress-free laundry.

What I really love about laundry, though, is that it gets clean. I can take massive piles of too-gross-to-smell, wrinkled, and inside-out laundry and turn it into orderly piles of sniffable, warm, fresh, ready-to-use goodness. There is nothing better than a tall stack of clean (and folded and organized by hue) underwear. Nothing.

Don't you feel like you can handle anything when you know you have clean clothes in your drawers and closet? Isn't it nice when there is no stress surrounding what to wear because it is all clean and waiting for you to make your choice?

I feel even more happiness with the ability to select clean t-shirts to wear now that I have a spit-up monster (albeit an adorable one) marking all of my shirts (and some of my bras, pants, and shoes) as his property with his regurgitation. Wearing the same shirt two days in a row (come on, I'm not the only one) is a much riskier prospect with an infant in the house.

What I really wish I could do is launder the piles of paper that I have littering many flat spaces in the house -- or, worse yet, jumbled into boxes so that I don't lose anything. (Ha. Now that's hilarious. I dump piles of potentially imperative papers into boxes so that I can find them when I need them. My ability to self-delude is impressive.)

A little detergent (with the measuring cup that can be thrown in with the wash so that it too comes out clean!), a jumbo-sized load with extra rinse for two boxes of bill statements, atm receipts, to do lists, manuals for new baby stuff, and other paper detritus…and voila! I could have organized piles of clean paper sorted by type just like my bathroom towels!

After I get the paper laundry done, I'd like to drop off my lawn at the salon for a color, cut, and style makeover.

Time

Over seven months have passed since I last posted. It feels like it was just yesterday -- and yet also a lifetime ago. Everything has changed in the blur of the last seven months.

I now have a son. I am now a mother. How weird is that? He is wonderful and he has taken over our lives.

I am now a homeowner. How grown up is that? We moved into a bungalow that we love at the end of February. Four weeks later Bird arrived -- three weeks early. Ack!

I have never been happier. I have never felt more stress. Is it possible to feel both at the same time?

I have to laugh at the younger me -- the one who thought she was busy. Ha! Writing a dissertation while teaching four sections, managing three grad students, and planning a wedding while commuting six hours between two cities every weekend was a cake walk compared to this.

I have to scoff at the the younger me -- the educated, feminist one who thought she would get pregnant, have a baby, take the allotted time for leave, and then simply go back to work.

How do people do this? How do women do this? How do working women do this? I have never done anything more rewarding, but I have to say I had no idea how it would work (and feel) on the ground, so to speak.

And then there's breastfeeding and going back to work. Pumping three times a day in a storage closet that was turned into a student aide office that was turned into a storage closet that is now my milking room is nuts. I know that many women past and present have pumped in much worse settings, but ack, this gets tough sometimes. I won't get into the abnormal distortions of my nipples (speaking of tough) or any other biological details, but wow do I respect women who can do this and work any job -- especially any demanding job.

Not that I'm complaining. (I've been saying that too much lately.) I find it interesting the ease with which I make decisions regarding things I need to do for our Bird. Breastmilk is best when it is possible. It's possible in my situation and Bird is thriving to date. Thus, the decision is easy -- I pump.

Pumping results in lots of work each evening as well. Neither David nor I ever imagined the hours we would spend measuring out 4-ounce servings of me, dating and sorting them, stacking them by date in the fridge and freezer, washing milk storage containers and bottle parts and pump parts, sanitizing all such containers and pump parts (and the occasional nuk), assembling bottles and containers, stocking a cooler of milk for Bird and cooler of containers to be filled for me....it is an endless cycle. It takes time.

I am much more aware of time now. Much of my life passes in three-hour segments -- the time between pumping or feeding. Even though I miss Bird all day long and hate to be away from him, many days at work pass in a blur.

I do not have enough time to get it all done.

I am getting better at being more efficient with my work days. Work is a lot different when you have to limit things to eight hours and you don't have the freedom to take a longer lunch or dawdle longer after a meeting and just stay later.

Like several other things in my adult life, I am now coming to an understanding (and, apparently, a club) that many millions of working women came to before I did. I am very much enjoying motherhood and feel like I am starting to find a balance between work and home -- a balance that allows me to be a mom 100% of the time even though I work. And this is a good thing since a new school year is upon us and my job is about to change a little -- or a lot, we'll see.

Part of this new balance involves getting back to activities that I enjoy -- such as writing! Here's hoping that I can find the time to get back to this blog.

And speaking of time -- August 4 marked the fourth anniversary of this blog.

Advanced Maternal Age

I understand that I will not be a young mother. And I'm okay with that. I also understand that having children in your late 30s is wholly different from having babies in your early 20s. It is for this reason that I understand the label on various portions of my medical record that say "AMA" for advanced maternal age. This has necessitated some extra or more thorough tests, but has not been a big deal. If anything, we've had the opportunity to view our Bird via ultrasound fairly often so I'm not complaining.

I feel like my stomach is huge and obvious, but others do not think so. I've heard the advice to not ask a woman if she is pregnant unless you see the head crowning, so I get that people aren't going to just come out and ask me. And this is a good thing since I was once asked my due date many years ago and first thought the person was asking when my thesis was due and then realized that the person thought that my grad student pounds were pregnant belly pounds. That was fun. So anyway, I think I look pregnant, but it may not be obvious to the casual observer given my size to begin with and my winter attire.

And yet.

A couple of weeks ago when I was starting to believe that I actually do look pregnant, when my skin was looking noticeably clearer (the pregnant glow?), I was in the bathroom at church during the homily as is my pattern. (Yes, I can make it more than an hour without having to take a bathroom break, but choir rehearsal starts at 9:00, I drink a decaf, I start drinking my water, Mass starts at 10:30…..) While I am in the stall a mom comes in with her young son. He is maybe four years old at the oldest. They utilized the space offered in the disabled stall. He went first. I had finished and was standing at the sink. During mom's turn, the little one bolted from under the stall door and rushed in my direction. In his defense, my back was to him. He ran up, wrapped two strong arms around my legs, kissed my knee, and said "Nana! What are you doing?!"

I looked down at him at the exact moment that his mom came out of the stall. He was immediately horrified and embarrassed and put his hands to his mouth in that way that toddlers do when they are frozen with uncertainty. I started to apologize to him for scaring him when his mom stepped in to defuse the situation….

"Oh I'm sorry about that. He must have gotten confused because you just look so much like my mother."