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Paprikas A Third Time

2012-01-16T16:11:00.002-05:00

The third attempt at this recipe was a step backward. The paprika tasted harsh, a bit bitter.

The only major difference I made was to include an entire can of diced tomatoes, which I did only because I hate to waste half a can of tomatoes. Perhaps it was too much acidity. Also my attempts have not thickened properly. Perhaps I might have to try a roux instead of my mother-in-law's thickener with egg yolk, flour, and milk.

Also we are in agreement that the paprikas would be better with thighs and breast meat on the bone. The skinless chicken breasts end up being too tough. We think that the chicken should melt into the sauce. So perhaps next time I'll go back to 7 ounces of diced tomatoes and use thighs instead, as well as a roux to thicken it.

1 onion

1/2 large red pepper

1 large carrot

3 large chicken breasts (1.8 pounds)

1 can diced tomatoes (14 ounces, drained of liquid)

1 teaspoon sweet paprika

20 minute simmer

add thickener, strained
1 teaspoon salt

Paprikas Waban Style

2012-01-08T11:11:00.003-05:00

I have just completed my second attempt at chicken paprikas and have revised the recipe thus:

1 onion
1/2 large red pepper
1 large carrot
3 large chicken breasts (1.8 pounds)
half a can of diced tomatoes (7 ounces, drained of liquid)
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
20 minute simmer
add thickener, strained
1 teaspoon salt

Stuffed Cabbage, Version Two

2012-01-07T11:04:00.004-05:00

Here is the recipe as it evolved after my first attempt on Christmas:

1 head cabbage, leaves steamed off and remainder diced
2 x 25 ounce jars sauerkraut

Filling:
1 large onion
1/3 cup white rice
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
2 pounds ground pork
2 eggs
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
2 teaspoons salt

Sauce:
oil (for roux)
2 teaspoons flour
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
2 6 ounce jars of tomato paste
1 teaspoon sugar
salt to taste if needed
2 bay leaf
2 teaspoons dried majoram leaves

Also contemplate adding sausage or bacon to pot.

In the meantime we discovered that you can buy pickled cabbage leaves at a local Russian grocery market. Originally my mother-in-law said this recipe was impossible without this ingredient. Since we found it I thought we had to give a go.

So here is what I am currently brewing:

1 47.6 ounce (2 lbs. 15.6 oz.) jar of Cabbage Leaves---The brand we found is Marco Polo and is a product of Macedonia with the following website on the label: www.adrianimports.com
3 x 14 oz packages of sauerkraut--the other brand was out of stock and this one is raw, cultured, non-pasteurized.

Filling:
1 large onion
1/3 cup white rice
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
2 pounds ground pork
1 egg
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
2 teaspoons salt

I also used about 1 1/2 hot Italian pork sausage links from Whole Foods in the pot. I sliced it an dotted it between the cabbage rolls. I added the bay leaf and the majoram leaves to the pot during the initial 30 minutes of cooking.

Sauce:
oil (for roux)
2 teaspoons flour
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
2 6 ounce jars of tomato paste
1 teaspoon sugar
salt to taste if needed
2 bay leaf
2 teaspoons dried majoram leaves

First taste: SOUR! I added two more teaspoons of sugar for a total of three. I also did not add any more salt to the sauce as I felt that sodium in the cabbage leaves might drastically change things.

I'll let it sit for a while and re-taste......

I ended up adding 2 more teaspoons of sugar for a total of 5.

While the crowd went in for seconds and thirds, I am not satisfied. I don't like the high-sodium dosage here, not to mention the sugar. Using fresh cabbage is healthier and also more attractive in presentation. I think I will go for fresh leaves with sauerkraut, but heavy on the sauerkraut and leave out the shredded fresh cabbage. Also with the all sauerkraut version the hot Italian sausage links were lost in the sauce and didn't seem to add anything worthwhile.

New Year's Day Menu

2012-01-01T15:45:00.001-05:00

French Meat Pie

3 pounds ground pork
1 pound ground beef
2 tsp. salt
3 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. pepper
1 1/2 tsp. cloves
1 tsp. celery salt
1 -3 cups bread crumbs
1 onion

Cook meat and 1 onion in water to cover meat, simmer about 45 minutes to 1 hour.
Set aside to cool. I prepare the meat the day before.

Skim off grease. (The original recipe says to use this grease in the pie crusts. I have yet to succeed in this step. I now buy pastry shells ready-made.)

Add seasonings and bread crumbs. The recipe calls for 1 cup, but this year I used about 3 and 1/2 cups. It should be very moist without being liquid. A quivering mass of meat.

Put 3 1/2 cups of meat inside pastry shell and use a top crust, cutting slits in the top.

Bake at 400 degrees for about 40 minutes or until brown. Let set about 30 minutes before serving.

This is an insanely huge about of meat and makes enough fillings for at least 3 pies with some remaining. We only hate half a pie at lunch. So I freeze meat in 3 1/2/ cup amounts to make pies in the next few months.

We eat the pies with mashed potatoes and creamed peas or corn. This year I also happened to have some roasted parsnips ready to go as well.

We ate around noon. My almost-four-year-old just wandered into the kitchen as I am typing this and requested some more of "that pie and peas and mashed potatoes please."

My mother always serves this on New Year's Day. I'll have to ask her for more history about how it become part of our tradition. Mom?

Christmas Traditions

2011-12-27T15:51:00.004-05:00

This year I am not visiting my parents in Kansas for the holidays. I have only missed Christmas perhaps two times in my thirty seven years.

We are staying at our home in the effort to establish traditions. Of course tradition requires that one remembers from one year to the next just exactly or approximately what was done. So, here is my account of this year's event:

Christmas Eve Eve:
Tata left as I was putting the kids to bed. He procured the Christmas tree and hid it in the shed behind the garage.

Christmas Eve:
The kids woke us up by crawling into bed with us at six something. Tata later took the kids to Cafe Fixe for morning coffee. Max was peeved because Leo spilled his milk and made a huge mess. It was too cold to play in the park and so they ended up going to Dani's house to visit and play. They come home at noon. Leo had fallen asleep in the car, unusual for him. Tata manage to carry him upstairs to bed and he slept until three, very unusual for him!

We had kolbasz for lunch with mashed potato and roasted peppers. After which, Tata went down for his own epic afternoon nap.

After the naps, we rallied the ranks and got bundled up in snowsuits to protect against the cold. We walked to the T stop with no clear plan in mind. We ended up going all the way to Brookline. After trying several places, we ended up eating dinner at Tamarind Bay, an Indian restaurant. Rice was amok and kids had to guzzle water after surprise bites of spicy food. It was a success. Indian next year too?

Then home on the T, bath, a little Curious George, and sleepy time.

I had a few more gifts to wrap. I arranged all the decorations and supplies in one place ready for tomorrow. Red wine was a helpful fixative. Tata was relaxing on the couch with a a mediocre movie.

Christmas Day:
Dawns like any other. No fanfare. Business as usual. We took the kids over to their step-brother's house. They had celebrated Christmas the day before. It was our turn to have big brother in place for the festivities. We have a lovely relationship with our blended family. So a quick trip to pick up big brother ended up being a few hours lingering around the brunch table. The kids love playing together and the resident dog is always good for entertainment.

On the way home Leo was falling asleep in the car seat. So I opted to take the little ones out for a drive and eventually head toward the fire station. The angels need some time to set up the tree and arrange the gifts. Our plan was to visit the fire station bearing chocolate chip cookies while the angels (Tata and big brother) worked their magic at the house.

Leo fell asleep. I wanted him to be awake at the fire station and I needed to give him time to nap. After not too much thought I took to the highway toward the Dedham Starbucks, which has a drive-through. I used to frequent the route back in the months when it was the only way to get baby number 2 to nap while entertaining baby number 1 AND acquiring coffee for me.

We arrived to discover that the drive-through was closed due to the holiday but the main counter was open. So I placed my order by phone and then ran inside. In the meantime I chatted with my mother and learned that my little nephew had been rushed to the hospital Christmas morning after eating a chocolate that contained peanuts. He is fine, but that is not a pleasant way to greet Christmas morning for sure.

After learning that the angels had finished their work at home, we dropped by the house (leaving the kids in the car) and picked up Tata and biggest brother. We headed to the fire station in Newton Center. If you ever need to pass an hour or so on Christmas, try the fire station. We brought chocolate chip cookies and the friendly crew was happy to show us the trucks and entertain us.

We returned home about four o'clock. We came in through the front door to discover that the angels had visited us! They brought a fully decorated Christmas tree surrounded by toys. Music, candles, a roaring fire and we were ready to settle into the joy of giving and getting.

Dinner was stuffed cabbage. Dessert was chocolate cake sent by my mother.

The two little ones were very reluctant to head to bath and bed. How sweet it was to tuck two warm bodies in next two their two new baby dolls and listen for that moment when they gave into the raspy deep breathes of Christmas dreams.

Christmas 2011, Stuffed Cabbage

2011-12-24T13:37:00.043-05:00

Not turkey. Not a soft fillet of white fish. Not even a ham.

Stuffed cabbage, people. Stuffed with pork.

This entry chronicles my attempt to cook a traditional Hungarian Christmas dish as an American (Kansan) married to a Hungarian living in the Northeast. This dish is always better the second day (notice a theme here?) and so I have started on Christmas Eve. My family celebrates with the arrival of the angels, tree, and festive meal on Christmas afternoon. Pictures and list of ingredients at end.

I consulted various websites and cookbooks, as well as my mother-in-law about this dish. Here is how I am making it this Christmas Eve morn:

Remove the outer leaves of a cabbage and rinse well. Drop the entire head into a large pot of boiling water for about 7 minutes. Remove the head from the water (so easily said, very awkwardly done). Then nip (<------technical term) the base of a leaf and peel it away whole from the head. Continue doing this until the leaves will not come away in one piece. Then return the entire head to the boiling pot for 2 - 3 minutes. (Leave pot boiling until you finish.) Remove more leaves, returning the head to the pot as needed. I returned the cabbage twice to the pot. I was able to peel about 15 leaves off my cabbage.

Remove the core from the cabbage and discard. Chop the remaining cabbage and set aside.

Prepare the leaves by paring down each stem so that it is the same thickness as the rest of the leaf.

For the meat filling:

Dice one large onion and add it to a dutch oven pot with a bit of canola oil to soften for 5 minutes or so. Add 1 teaspoon of sweet paprika and 1/2 cup white rice and let cook for about 3 minutes. Let this mixture cool.

Blend with hands 1 kilo ground pork, two eggs, 1 teaspoon black pepper, 2 teaspoons salt, and rice mixture.

Here is the description from Habeas Brulee.com I followed about how to stuff the cabbage leaves:

To fill each cabbage leaf, set the leaf on the table rib-side down, so that it naturally curves into a sort of cup waiting to be filled. Roll small handfuls of meat into oblong patties that fit the size of the leaves, and place the filling on the cabbage leaf, near the bottom of the leaf. Fold the sides of the leaf over the filling, and roll the cabbage around the meat, being sure to tuck the bottom end of the rib around the filling to keep it all snugly wrapped.

Now mix the chopped up cabbage with a 25 ounce jar of sauerkraut. Place a layer of the sauerkraut mixture in pot and then layer your little cabbage packages on top. Repeat sauerkraut mixture layer and then another layer of stuffed cabbages until you reach the end of your supply. Place remainder of sauerkraut mixture on top. Here I began to doubt my amount of sauerkraut (gut feeling. don't ask.) and so I opened a second jar and added about another cup or two. Then cover the entire contents with water. Bring to boil. Cover and simmer for about 30 minutes.

At this point I followed Habeas Brulee to make the sauce. She recommends:

A few minutes before your kitchen timer goes off, make a roux by browning the flour in a bit of oil in a separate pan. Stir in the paprika, then remove from heat. Add the sugar, salt, and tomato paste, and mix well. Ladle some of the water out of the cooking cabbage pot and mix in with the paste, just to thin it out. Add the thinned paste back into the pot with the cabbage, and carefully stir it in to dissolve it in the water. My grandmother instructed me to the shake the pot to get the paste mixed in, but my pot was too full for me to risk that.

But here is what really happened: I was distracted and instead of mixing the paprika into the roux, I added the tomato paste. At that point I removed it from the heat and added the paprika, sugar, and salt. Oh well. My mother-in-law told my husband that she makes the meat (and I assume the sauce) the same way she makes them for stuffed peppers. I am apparently inspired from numerous sources and will just see what happens.....

I stirred in the tomato paste mixture, gently, gently as my pot was filled to the rim. Now I am wait another 30 minutes before I test for doneness (meat) and flavor.

The test taste:

At 1 hour of cooking, the meat is done. It tastes a bit salty to me. The dish is not bad. But it is not amazing. Unfortunately I do not have a childhood of flavor memories to reference here. I'll have to ask the resident Hungarian to do a taste test.

And the consensus was: it is not bad. perhaps, even good. but a bit bland. Today I happened to have served kolbasz (sausage) and mashed potatoes for lunch. (And roasted peppers, made the night before. Just saying.) In true Hungarian style we decided that the one remaining spicy Italian pork sausage could only improve the stuffed cabbage. And it has been added to the pot.

Now we will let it sit overnight and serve it for Christmas dinner tomorrow. With sour cream, of course. And homemade white rolls.

Preparing the tidy little cabbage rolls.

My pot was filled to the brim.

After the tomato paste mixture is added.

Very Sexy, indeed.

Taste Test

A few notes: Next time I would use even less rice. I would also use either bacon or sausage in the initial cooking to take it to the next level. Also, I would make my meat filling more oblong instead of round in shape. I should have counted, but did not and so can say that I ended up with about 15 cabbage rolls and that I had enough meat left over for two more.

Tinkering with the pot on the day after Christmas: I added 1 teaspoon marjoram, 1 bay leaf and the remainder of the sauerkraut (about 2 cups). Much improved! I will definitely add these to the recipe and perhaps extra cooking time as well.

Revised Recipe for Next Time:

1 head cabbage, leaves steamed off and remainder diced
2 x 25 ounce jars sauerkraut

Filling:
1 large onion
1/3 cup white rice
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
2 pounds ground pork
2 eggs
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
2 teaspoons salt

Sauce:
oil (for roux)
2 teaspoons flour
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
2 6 ounce jars of tomato paste
1 teaspoon sugar
salt to taste if needed
2 bay leaf
2 teaspoons dried majoram leaves

Also contemplate adding sausage or bacon to pot.

Here is a sight with way too much information about stuffed cabbage:
http://www.squidoo.com/stuffed-cabbage#module12673893

Green Chili Egg Dish

2011-12-18T08:37:00.002-05:00

This recipe has been adapted from Cooks.com.

12 ounces shredded cheddar cheese
8 ounces canned chopped green chilies
8 eggs
1 cup flour
2 cups whole milk

Grease dutch oven. I use my beautiful azur Emile Henry dutch oven, which makes everything taste better. I grease mine by using a generous spray of canola oil.

Mix cheese and chilies (with liquid) together and spread in bottom of pan.

Blend eggs, flour, and milk until smooth. Pour over cheese and chilies.

Bake 45 minutes at 400 degress. Eggs should be set but not dry.

*I have omitted the chilies and used fresh peppers sauteed first before adding.

*This is delicious warm from the oven or at room temperature or cold. I have taken it to potlucks cut into cubes. I have served it for brunch.

Starlight

2011-12-17T16:03:00.002-05:00

STARLIGHT

by Ted Kooser

All night, this soft rain from the distant past.
No wonder I sometimes waken as a child.

Salted Pumpkin Muffins

2011-12-06T10:55:00.005-05:00

I found a recipe online and it evolved. Here is the original link: http://smittenkitchen.com/2006/10/promise-keeper-pumpkin-eater/

And here is how I make it:

Pumpkin Muffins

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup canned solid-pack pumpkin (from a 15 ounce can)
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 large egg
1 mashed banana
1 teaspoon pumpkin-pie spice (I made my own blend using 1 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg, 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves, 1/2 ground ginger (scant)
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon large crystal sea salt

Place oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Prepare a standard 12 muffin pan. (I use canola spray oil.)

Stir together flour and baking powder in a small bowl.

Whisk together pumpkin, oil, eggs, pumpkin pie spice, 1 1/4 cups sugar, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl until smooth, then whisk in flour mixture until just combined.

Divide batter among muffin cups (each should be about three-fourths full).

Bake until puffed and golden brown and wooden pick or skewer inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean, 25 minutes.

Cool in pan on a rack five minutes, then transfer muffins from pan to rack and cool to warm or room temperature.

Notes:

You'll have leftover pumpkin pie spice. I mix it with sugar and use it in my latte with honey. You can also mix with sugar and sprinkle on muffin tops before baking.

You will also have enough pumpkin to make two batches, so you might plan on pumpkin muffins two days in a row!

Paprikas

2011-11-26T08:48:00.005-05:00

I consider chicken paprikas, mashed potatoes, and cucumber salad to be the essential meal served by my mother-in-law. This is certainly not the collective opinion of Hungarians, nor Transylvanians. It is not even the consensus of the immediate family. Perhaps it was the first meal she served me in her home. For whatever reason these three dishes strike all the right notes for me when I think of my inherited family traditions.

Today's cooking lesson was hardly a delight. The kids came home, hungry, from Leo's first trip to a movie. It was Iza's third viewing of Bogyo es Baboca. We were cooking the paprikas not for today's lunch, but mainly to squeeze in one more lesson before Katalin returns to Csikszereda on Monday. We will eat it for tomorrow's lunch. Long story short, I mostly observed this recipe without doing the work.

1 medium, diced
2 peppers (hopefully the thin, yellow ones) sliced into inch long narrow strips
2 carrots, grated

Place these into a pan and add oil. Cover and let soften.

2 small tomatoes (or 1 medium), sliced

Add tomatoes, cover.

1 table spoon sweet paprika.
1 kilo chicken breast, cut into bite-sized chunks

Add these to pot and let cook in own juices.

Add water to pot to just cover chicken. Let cook.

1 to 1 1/2 table spoons salt

Add salt.

Make a thickener:

Stir together one yolk, 1 table spoon flour (or more), and a bit of milk. Add more milk until you have about a coffee-cup-filled amount. Add a bit of the hot broth to the mixture and stir. Keep adding a bit at a time. Then pour the thickener through a strainer (to remove lumps) into the entire pot. Bring the pot back to a boil and then you are finished. (By the way, Katalin adds the egg white to the broth and lets it cook. Why waste it?)

As I mentioned, I prefer this dish served with mashed potatoes. It can also be served with tiny dumplings or store-bought pasta (like farfalle). I also think that cucumber salad makes the perfect side dish.

Save room for cake.

Before the thickener is added:

Finished product:

Thanksgiving 2011

2011-11-24T09:26:00.002-05:00

It is Thanksgiving in Budapest.

Or

How to Fry a Meatball.

1 kilogram ground pork
garlic, roughly half a head, crushed or finely minced
salt
pepper
2 - 3 thick slices of white bread
2 eggs
flour

Immerse the bread slices in a bowl of water.

Place meat, garlic, two eggs, about three x 3/4 full table spoons salt, and half the previous amount of black pepper in a bowl.

Squeeze the water out of the bread slices and add them to the bowl (remove any stubborn crusts that won't soften).

Use hands to thoroughly combine.

Test the mixture to determine if it needs more salt. (I actually tasted it this time. When we prepared the stuffed peppers, I basically put it in my mouth and swallowed in great fear and repulsion. Really, is this a technique that home-cooks the world over practice with aplomb?)

Pour a little mound of flour on a plate. Use about a table spoon of meat and plop it onto the flour. Form the meat into a meatball, pounding it to make sure it won't fall apart in the oil. Make as many as will fit into your frying pan.

Heat the oil on high and place the meatballs in the pan. Lower the heat when it feels right. It will take approximately 12 - 15 minutes total frying time. You will need to turn the meatballs at least once, if not twice. Turn the heat up and down as needed. They should turn a golden brown color.

We changed the oil after the first batch.

This made about 28 meatballs.

These can be served warm, but most often are eaten room temperature or cold.

Tonight we will also make mashed potatoes and cucumber salad. I have already brought home the dobos torta from the Ruszwurm cakehouse.

We have a playdate with a Swedish family living in our apartment building. The mom and her three kids, ages 6, 3, and 1 1/2 will then join us as our Thanksgiving guests. Even if they don't know it.

Becsiszelet, aka Wiener Schnitzel, aka Breaded Cutlets

2011-11-17T09:46:00.001-05:00

Rinse a chicken breast and decide if it can be sliced lengthwise two or three times. Most often you can cut it once for two slices. Often there is a small bit that will end up being a third slice.

Then pound each slice into a thinner slice with a wooden mallet with a metal tip. (There must be an official name for this tool.)

Pile the pounded poultry onto a plate.

Repeat for each breast. We are doing five today.

Then salt each breast slice, both sides.

Then pepper each breast slice, on one side only.

Dump some flour onto a plate.

Mix three eggs on a separate plate.

Turn over a breast several times in the flour, really push it in.

Then you will turn it over several times in the egg as well.

In the meantime, in other words before you douse the meat in the eggs but perhaps after you flour as many pieces as will fit into your pan, heat oil in a frying pan. The oil should be deep enough that your meat semi-floats on top.

Let a bit of the egg mixture drip off and then place the meat into the pan. The first batch cooked for about a total of 6 - 7 minutes. The MIL turned them a few times, checking for golden brown color. She says you should turn the meat two times. Or perhaps three times. You also have to adjust the heat as necessary. So, for example, turn to high heat when you add the meat to the pan. After two minutes--about the time you turn it for the first time, lower the heat to medium low.

Her habit is to change the oil after using it twice. If the oil gets too bubbly, it is time to go. You have to get rid of the oil and then be sure to dry the pan as water will cause popping and problems.

As one batch fries, prepare the next batch by turning each piece in the flour mixture.

Add more eggs to plate as needed. Same with the flour plate.

We finished this batch at about 3:45. Of course you can eat it fresh--the meat is warm and soft. But the habit is that you make this meat ahead of time. It can be served cold or at room temperature. It is often prepared for holidays or parties because it can be made before the event. I can almost guarantee that our freshly prepared becsiszelet will now rest on the counter until we are ready to eat around six-thirty this evening.

By they way, just for the record: If I were narrating my own cooking, I would have included careful instructions about sanitizing the counter tops and utensils after handling the raw meat. Not in this Budapest kitchen. We roll with it. Good old soap and water at the end.

Absurdity Rules

2011-11-16T06:41:00.000-05:00

Peppers, Mother-in-law Style

2011-11-15T07:54:00.003-05:00

Dice 1 medium onion. (Don't leave any big pieces, which I did due to large amount of tears.)
Soften the onion in canola oil (enough to cover bottom of pan plus some).
Add a heaping-ish table spoon* of sweet paprika.
Add about 3/4 cup white rice (a small coffee cup to be precise).
Cook for a while. Let cool for a while.

In a bowl mix 1 kilo ground pork, two eggs, 1 1/2 table spoon salt, 1 table spoon black pepper. Add cooled onion mixture. (We didn't add the entire mixture, leaving out a few heaping table spoons. It is important that there is not too much rice as it makes the meat mixture hard.) Mix well with hands. Then mix some more when your mother-in-law scoffs at your effort.

Then, gird your loins, and take out a little spoon and taste the mixture. Add salt if needed. She added more salt, about a half table spoon.

Stuff peppers. (I am guessing we had twenty small peppers.) It is best to find the small peppers with thin skin, often a yellow color. Cut off the tops and remove core and seeds. As you stuff the peppers, push the meat inside. Be sure to leave the outside of the pepper clean of meat mixture as it will muddy your sauce.

Place stuffed peppers in pot, preferably standing up with meat showing (but this will depend on the size of pot and the size/shape/number of peppers).

Cover with water. Add more salt to water. I've lost track---maybe a half table spoon again.

Bring to a boil and then simmer, covered. Cook at a good simmer for about an hour or until the rice is soft. (Taste it to find out.) The meat cooks first, so be sure to taste the rice. (I think that is what she said.)

Then add tomato paste. Gently stir in or pick up pan and swirl to mix. She bought four little cans (140 grams each). We put two in the big pot and one and a half in the little pot. (We don't have a large enough pot in this kitchen to hold all of the peppers.)

Then the tasting begins. Add 2 table spoons sugar to large pot. Taste. Some more salt (half table spoon-ish). Taste. More sugar or salt as needed.

After it is finished, around 2:30, leave it on the cool stove until you eat dinner around 6:30.

This is served in deep plates, always with sour cream offered on the table. You place one stuffed pepper on a plate and surround it with a ladle of the sauce. Usually there are thick slices of fresh white bread as well.

This dish is always better the second day. You can freeze it as well.

*table spoon = a table spoon not a tablespoon--more like a table soup spoon to be precise

Fall Numbers

2011-09-24T10:54:00.000-05:00

Izabella:

3 years, 7 months
wt 37
ht 40.25

Lenard:

2 years, 2 months
wt 28.5
ht 35.25

Today

2011-08-30T09:23:00.000-05:00

Today I have a babysitter to watch the kids between nine and twelve.
I am at our local favorite cafe, empty macchiato on the table.
The sun is hot through the front window.
There are students with actual textbooks and extra-fine mechanical pencils.
The muffin was satisfactory, banana nut.
I am reading the third book of The Hunger Games series.
Before I go home I will stop at Whole Foods.
Leo started to chorus "why?" the day of Hurricane Irene.
We are headed to Kansas next week. It's state fair time.
Back to Indiana in October.
Izabella will need orthodontics.
We didn't sell the house.
I still think that staying home and producing two human beings is as astounding as staying home and producing a manuscript. For the record.
Still a nonpracticing vegetarian.
When my kids play restaurant they serve cappuccino with a little bit of sugar.

Leo at Two

2011-07-09T06:41:00.001-05:00

The good news is that he made it to two. And me too.

Just after turning two while in Transylvania, the family picked up the Rotavirus. It hit Leo the day before we flew from Budapest to Boston.

The night before his well-visit at two-years-old with his pediatrician we were in the Emergency Room for dehydration concerns. They treated him with anti-nausea medicine and he seemed to respond and perk up.

The next morning at his check-up he measured thus:

Ht. 34.5 inches, 52%

Wt. 24.5 pounds, 11%

HC. 48 centimeters, 32%

Later that morning we got the call from the hospital that he tested positive for Rotavirus.

That evening I carried my waif to the car and returned to the ER for an IV line to rehydrate him.

That makes four trips to the ER this summer. Iza, 1. Leo, 3.

Our local ER at Newton-Wellesley Hospital, where Leo and Iza were born, is wonderful. Can't say as much for Budapest!

Rotavirus is terrible. Yes, there is a vaccine. No, he wasn't vaccinated. His sister was. (That requires a longer post to explain.) In short, if there is a third child, that child will be vaccinated. Rotavirus compounded by international travel and jet lag creates a surreal 3 - 8 days. We are on day 4.

Observed in the Park

2011-06-14T06:55:00.001-05:00

There is a large wooden gate designed for a kid to open and close and open and close to pacify a manic-obsessive heart's content. A toddler of the boy variety is doing just that. His father warns him to stop because he will pinch his fingers. The warnings turn to shouts. The father stomps over, yanks the offending fingers away from the door, and again reprimands the crying boy. He pulls the kid away from the door and leaves him standing there in tears. And then. The father reaches over and pinches the already sobbing little boy on the chest. Hard. See, if the door won't pinch you. I will. And the father walks back to his bench.

By the way, as far as I can determine, the door is designed in such a way that it is nearly impossible to pinch little fingers.

Top Ten

2011-05-28T06:04:00.031-05:00

Turkish Delight

wide-brimmed straw hats in summer

jasmine pearl tea

eyewear

outdoor fruit and vegetable markets

tepertős pogácsa

freshly ground peanut butter

baking bread

pockets

Széchenyi Fürdő

my mother's dumplings

rocking chairs

giving books I love to people I think might love them too

The Girl of the Limberlost by Gene Stratton-Porter

diners

grandma Kelley's rice casserole

home made play dough

Le Mans Hall

midwives

baking muffins

Spencer Tunick

wool socks, knee-knigh, with stripes

Coin-Operated Boy by the Dresden Dolls

bread and butter

pumpkin

church bells

African chicken and peanut soup from the New England Soup Factory

martini with blue cheese stuffed olives

1059 Riverside

singing the ABC's as a lullaby

gesztenyepüré

yogurt

sneaking away from a sleeping baby

bodza

Book Club

Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins

Rome

sunflowers

avocados

Indigo Girls

dandelions

sleep

Warren Dunes State Park

french fries

blue

the fact that baking bread is so simple

clean pressed sheets

walking by a lilac bush in bloom

holding hands

playgrounds

NPR

Prairie Home Companion

PBS

hard wood floors

freshly squeezed ABC juice--apple, beet, carrot

handmade afghans

Jeune Homme Nu Assis au Bord de la Mer, by Jean- Hippolyte Flandrin

And Then

2011-05-16T04:54:00.001-05:00

And then Leo stepped off the curb.
I reached for him and grabbed his arm. I pulled him backward and then
I jumped in front of the car to push it away from him.
And then I thought: it is okay that I have my hands pressed into the grill and when I hit the pavement bones and muscles might give way. A second birth. And then
I was screaming, My Baby, My Baby, My Baby.

His nose was bleeding, he cried.
I shouted at everyone, Leo too? The car, Leo too? (In broken Hungarian)
I knew the car hit me (or I hit the car). I wanted to know if the car hit Leo.

No one could say. Or would say.

I sat on the curb. Leo sat upright in my lap, heart to heart. His blood soaked my shirt.
I reached for Iza. She came and stood next to my, stroking my back. She took care of me. (That's not her job.) She never cried.

Later one witness said that the car's front tire hit Leo in the head.

And then the ambulance came. The police.
There was no fault. Except mine, of course. I am the mother.
I don't blame myself or feel guilty. It was my fault. It is my job to keep them alive, at minimum.

The driver: a young man in a suit. Two other young men in suits in the car. I didn't say a word to them. I wish now that I would have told them they were not to blame. I worry about them too.

People rushed to the scene: A woman with a child on her hip, a nurse from high school next door, several men. There was shouting and silence. Someone offered me water. I refused, but then directed them to pour it over Leo's finger. It poured over his raw flesh. Iza quickly pointed out that the water was spilling. This is part of the story that she always repeats, when the water spilled.

I took Leo's finger, his right index finger, bloodied, and put it in my mouth. I sucked it clean.

In the ambulance they put some spray and bandages on my scrapes, but never examined me. They felt Leo's head, but never took off his shoes or clothes to look for wounds. Later I will see that his elbow is scraped raw.

And then, sitting in the ambulance, the police asked me my name. Janet Kelley, or Kelley Janet? (In Hungarian they say the family name first.) Birthdate? 11/18 or 18/11? (In Hungary they offer the day first, then the month.) In my head I shout: absurdity! who the fuck cares! Drive us to an x-ray machine!

Laszlo had left that morning for Zurich. I had no cash, no phone (it was in the apartment), no passport. I didn't know our street address. I knew the street, but not the house number.

And then the ambulance was driving quietly, sedately through tree-lined Budapest avenues toward a hospital. Leo fell asleep in my arms. I checked to see that he was breathing. The x-ray technician was hostile toward me, to say the least. She wanted me to hold Leo a certain way and I didn't understand. And then when I did understand, I tried to tell her that I couldn't hold his face that way because my hand was in pain. Her response, if you don't do it we can't take the x-ray. So what is a little more pain?

The x-ray showed no damage to the bone. And they released us. We took a taxi home, no car seats.

The accident happened at noon. We were home by two.

And then, lunch as usual.

And then.

I pulled Leo back. I felt him slip from my grasp. I jumped in front of the car. You know, to stop it.

I walked away. Leo walked away.

Izabella watched the entire event from the curb. This terrifies me.

And then, again, Iza asks, "Do you want to talk about it? The accident? When the car came?"

I am now convinced that Leo wasn't hit by the car. I am sure that his head injury was caused when I pulled him back and he fell down on the street.

I almost wish I had a broken bone.

And then I was sitting in front of the daycare's door. It was noon. The children raced down the sidewalk as they returned from the park. I was there to pick up Iza and Leo. It was their third morning in the daycare. I brought them at ten and was supposed to pick them up at noon. Two hours. And then
a woman in a car was waving and saying hello (or asking if she could park there?) and
then we were all saying hello--six kids and two teachers and myself. And I hugged and kissed my kids
and then there was small talk or not and then

Leo stepped off the curb.

"Do you want to talk about it? The accident?"

Yes, I do. As many times as you do, Iza. And then

again.

Thursday

2011-05-12T03:12:00.000-05:00

Iza, we need to wash your hair.

Can we do it on Tuesday?

Iza, let's get dressed so we can go to the park.

In two minutes, mama.

Iza, can you find your shoes?

No rush, mama. Take your time.

Spring Blossoms

2011-05-11T08:08:00.000-05:00

The kids are kids now, not babies.

How is this threshold defined? They still nurse, both of them. So that is not entirely part of the definition. Our nursing days are numbered, however.

An important milestone is definitely their enrollment in ovoda, in our case this means a family daycare in Budapest. We have opted to send them both three mornings a week. I stayed one morning with them and they have spent one morning without me.

I don't think that preschool is necessary and my motivation for sending them is twofold: 1) mama needs time sans kids and 2) we want them to be immersed in a Hungarian language experience.

New Numbers

2011-02-28T15:24:00.000-05:00

Izabella

Ht In
38.3

Wt Lb
30.5

BP
99/68

Lenard

Ht In
33.5

Wt Lb
24

Snow Day Notes

2011-01-13T15:33:00.003-05:00

Leo, 18-months:

has discovered a new word: MINE!

will climb onto the dining room table in the time it takes to go to the kitchen and retrieve the butter.

is beautiful.

loves to read Brown Bear or anything Iza happens to be reading.

has yet to have his first hair cut. (Well, I did take pity on him and trim his bangs while we were in Kansas for Christmas.)

desperately needs a hair cut.

likes broccoli.

is not a fan of playing in the snow.

has decided that pigs are called "Lalalas" because of the book "Moo Baa Lalala." has adopted a tiny pink pig as his bedtime "Lalala." sadly this is Iza's little pig. this causes much sadness and confusion. for both of them.

has his own word for nursing: mama.

is currently being night-weaned. is not happy about that, but is learning.

has never slept through the night. One time (last week) he slept from 8 pm to 5:30 am. Usually he sleeps for three hours before he wakes the first time. He is up at least three or four times a night.

has eyes that still amaze me.

rarely stops moving.

currently is exploring what happens when he shoves Izabella. he is over the hair-pulling thing, mostly.

starts biting when he is tired. or trying to bite me. he is not being mean. it is a playful nip, but still.

Izabella, three-years-old next month:

loves a good party.

hates to have her hair washed.

went to see her first theater performance: The Berenstain Bears at the Jewish Community Center. She was rapt for the entire show lasting almost an hour. (Leo slept through it, thankfully).

still loves blue cheese, brie cheese, and goat cheese.

likes to pretend that she is going on a trip to New York City. she packs her monkey backpack with snacks, books, and a bottle of water.

loves to watch "Kids" = Sesame Street on TV.

is extremely tolerant of her little brother. most of the time.

enjoys "Taking Care" of her baby dolls and stuffed animals.

loves to play in the snow.

understands Hungarian. Speaks Hunglish.

often requests to wear her party dress so that she can twirl.

is observant.

is ready for a big-girl bed.

likes to stick out her "beautiful tummy" and rub it.

makes my heart ache when I put her to sleep and she requests one more ABC or Twinkle Twinkle.

has gorgeous long hair.

currently loves to paint. our dining room table has been transformed into an art center.

attended her first dance class today. moms are asked to stay in the waiting area. the class was an hour-and-half long. she says that she wants to go back next time.

December Notes

2010-12-11T15:20:00.002-05:00

Thanksgiving was a modest affair. A turkey breast, butternut squash puree, cranberry sauce, and homemade bread. The pumpkin pie was a tart, defrosted and my cream had gone rancid.

We used candles. And a tablecloth. It was lovely.

It was just me and the kidlets this year. No husband, no extended family, no friends.

Strange. Not exactly Thanksgiving. But nice. Quiet. Low-key.

November Rain

2010-11-07T20:45:00.002-05:00

Well, actually it is hail.

The kids are asleep, for now, and the husband is driving my stepson home.

The house is quiet. (Well, except for the sound of hail.)

A glass of red wine, for my heart.

It is November. Daylight Savings time as arrived. It is dark by 4, almost. This means the afternoon after the nap will be long and often housebound. Winter. Time to order snowsuits for mornings in the park and schedule play dates inside for the afternoon. This will be the winter with two mobile toddlers.

We are now accepting applications for house guests. Extended stays welcome. Grandmas given first priority. Anyone who enjoys food-flinging, splashing in the tub, getting down on the floor, giving airplane rides, and/or preparing hot meals will be considered closely.

The hail has finished.

Now, where are my wool socks?

Grow by Numbers

2010-10-07T19:43:00.002-05:00

Izabella

2 years, 8 months

37 inches tall

30 pounds heavy

20 inches around her head

Leo

1 year, 3 months

31.5 inches tall

22 pounds 4.5 ounces heavy

20 inches around his head

Fall

2010-09-07T12:52:00.005-05:00

September is here. At last. And with the sudden appearance of leaves on the ground and a bite in the air comes some changes in our household.

Nagymama is coming for a two-month visit. It will be her first visit since our wedding and the first time she gets to meet Leo. I took baby Izabella to see her when Iza was only 5-months-old and we haven't seen her since!

We are also changing our care-giver. A new housekeeper/nanny will join us. Luckily our current employee will stay nearby, literally only a few blocks away. She will be able to visit the kids and spend time with them. I am grateful for that.

Slowly, slowly I am emerging from the chrysalsis of new-mommydom. These wings are sticky wet and tightly furled. Give me, oh say, another two years to stretch them taut. And then I'll need years for them to dry. And then I'll learn to fly.

Milestones

2010-08-15T19:29:00.004-05:00

Ms. Izabiza opens the bathroom door, sets her Elmo potty seat on the big potty, climbs the stool, turns around and seats herself. Thank you very much. And she tells Mama and brother Leo to stay out.

She requests "Hallelujah" (by Leonard Cohen).

Leo and Izabella can now walk all the way from our local ice-cream parlor, Freeze, to our favorite park, Lincoln Park. Tata holds Izabella's hand and she holds Leo's hand. The distance is approximately .35 miles. That is a lot of steps when your legs are only about 15 inches long!

We are in the second week of letting Iza go diaper-free as she learns to use only the potty. She still uses a diaper for nap and bedtime. It takes courage to let your little one out and about in public without a diaper. Beside a tiny little dribble on the Starbuck's floor (the bathroom was occupied!), she hasn't had accidents. Luckily the summer weather allows me to put a dress on her. She can pull it up herself when she needs to visit the potty. Today I taught her how to put on her little undies. The little bow goes just beneath her belly button.

Leo can climb and run. I can still run faster than him. These days are numbered.

He imitates Iza constantly. Certainly Iza learned from her peers, but Leo's drive to imitate his sister is incredibly strong. Despite their 17-month-age difference, this is little that separates their physical ability--except the difference in height and thus reach. He wants to go where she goes, eat what she eats, drink what she drinks. He even sits on the potty and reads a book, just like sister.

Izabella's hair is long and thick and slightly curly and completely out of control. Tata is in charge of washing it and giving her a blow dry. She hates the rinsing, but loves to have it dried.

As much I loved the baby stage, I think I will love the two kids stage even more. The potential for fun is greater. They are little entertainers--especially Leo.

Still tandem nursing. Iza only nurses once, maybe twice a day. Leo still loves to nurse a lot at night.

Now, if only they would sleep.

Leo's Gastronomical History to Date

2010-08-02T21:00:00.002-05:00

Jan. 12, 2010

Banana

Not a fan

Jan. 17

Sweet Potato

Not a failure

Jan. 20

Banana

Green poop

Jan. 24

Butternut Squash

Take it or leave it, mostly leave it

Jan. 31

Pears

LOVED IT!

Feb. 16

Avocado

Feb. 19

Rice cereal mixed with pear

(no comment)

Feb. 20

Prune Juice

effective

Feb. 26

Apple

okay

March 4

Parsnip and Carrot

meh.

Aug. 2

Eats whatever we eat at the table

CORRECTION: wears whatever we eat at the table.

Notes:

--Drinks from straw

--loves to "feed" himself with spoon

--likes marinated mushrooms from Pier 4

--loves freeze-dried strawberries from Trader Joe's

--Nurses mostly at night and before each nap

--Too busy to nurse during the day

Stats

2010-07-26T07:32:00.002-05:00

Lenard, One Year:

Ht. 30 in.

HC. 19 in.

Wt. 21.5 lbs.

(7/8/2010)

first word: uh-oh.

"Lenard"

2010-06-12T19:51:00.012-05:00

In a few short weeks we will celebrate Lenard's first birthday. As I learned with Izabella's first birthday, this is a big deal--for me. Living through the first year of parenthood was a major accomplishment. Yet there is no bullet point under which to designate such on your resume. So there must be a party. With funny hats. Cake that the little one smears around. Cuteness, etc. Izabella's first year was an eternity. Leo's first year has passed in an instant. Still, he survived us. We survived him. Let's party.

As I ponder his yeardom, I realize that I have yet to write about the fact that he is "Lenard." By now calling him Leo is natural and I like the sound of it, "lay-oh." My little summer tomato. I even introduce him proudly as Lenard, "lay-nard," and give a brief explanation about his Hungarian roots. Still I am a bit shocked to think that I have a son, and his name is Lenard. It is a bold choice, the name. I can only hope he will carry it well. For his sake, I will tell the story of his name. It will be perfect fonder for elementary school essays and therapy sessions, perhaps.

Long before Leo, we were at his future Grandmother's apartment in Transylvania looking at birth certificates from ages ago. There are three male names that have been repeated in my husband's family. My husband has two of those names (long story), and his first son has the other. As we sorted through the birth certificates in his mother's collection there was a Lenard among them. I noticed it because my grandfather and one uncle are named Leonard. I remember thinking at that moment that Lenard would be the right name for our future son. If I only dared--both to have a son and to choose that name.

My husband has no recollection of this event. Clarification: He just said that he remembers looking at the certificates, but didn't have an a-ha, Lenard moment about his future son and doesn't remember Lenard among those ancestors.

You would think knowing for something like twenty-three weeks that it was a boy would be enough time to select a name. Not for us. We would leave the hospital with our little one nameless. It took us one week to return and officially designate him Lenard. In the meantime, we decided on Zoltan. I introduced him as Zoltan to our neighbors to practice with the name. Months later neighbors would ask how little Zoltan was faring.

Zoltan? Lenard? Unless you are Hungarian, you must think us terribly eccentric. Zoltan, however, is as common in Hungary as John in America. Perhaps even more common. Whenever my husband mentions that Zoli (the nickname) did or said such and such, the first question is always: Which Zoli? To American ears, on the other hand, Zoltan or Zoli is (methinks) pretty unusual, even cool. I liked that it cannot be translated to an American equivalent. We settled on Zoltan. One morning we rallied the family to get dressed and loaded up carseats to head to the hospital and sign the papers. As we were going out the door, my husband called a halt to the operation. He just couldn't do it. The baby wasn't a Zoli in his eyes.

To be honest the Hungarian male names just aren't that attractive, at least the ones available to us. The ones we liked were quickly off the list for various reasons. Our first list of names as of February 5th, 2010:

Laszlo
Albert
Lenard
Tibor
Zoltan
Attila
Boldizsar
Gabor
Lorand
Zoran
Istvan
Lukacs
Mihaly
Sandor
Zsigmond
Ferenc

Personally, I was at bat for Zsigmond. Baby Ziggy. Ziggs. Zig-zig. (For the record, I also wanted Izabella to be Izadora or Szilvia.)

As you can see, Lenard was on the first list and near the top. Really it was our best option, we just didn't have the courage for it.

As the pregnancy progressed there was another Lenard who made his presence known, my husband's ancestor from the 16th century. My husband uncovered his story while researching material for his new book, BURSTS. He may have a more recent family connection, but for sure our little Lenard's namesake is traced all the way back to Leonardus Barlabasi, the Latin for Lenard Barlabasi. Lenard was second in command ruling a province in Transylvania. Our Leo's Tata discovered that his letters, which survive in the administrative Latin used in that time, provide a window into the everyday life of that time. While he didn't win any battles or discover vitamin C, he was an top administrator and an avid letter writer. Our Leo may be a man of letters yet.

I would also like to include here a side note on the historical quest for Lenard's letter in the State Archives in Nagyszeben, Transylvania that did not make it into my husband's account in his new book. Yes, I was there with him. And as he mentions it was a sweltering summer day. I am not known to be tough as nails. I like air conditioning. I do. So I wilted next to him, my head resting on the table in utter exhaustion as his eyes nearly popped out of his head with excitement as he actually got to handle a letter written by Lenard in 1507. As it turns out, I was actually running a fever of 101 and would go on to develop a horrible racking cough. Not such a big deal, right? Except that I was eleven weeks pregnant with Izabella. Getting sick in Transylvania is no fun for an American. The Romanian hospitals are, well, creepy. I could go on. I could tell you how the doctor had no idea what I had, but that the nurse wrote down a recipe for onion syrup that she swore would clear up the cough. At any rate, I survived. Izabella survived. And Lenard's name survived too.

A final Lenard factor: Leonard Cohen. My husband introduced me to Cohen's music when he first wooed me. (That should tell you a lot.) Cohen was giving a concert in Boston. The tickets sold out quickly. Long story short, mama procured excellent tickets. I put Izabella to bed and left her with our sitter, that was the one and only date date since her birth. Hugely pregnant in a white summer dress I attended my first Leonard Cohen concert. It was brilliant. A gem. Totally worth every cent. And yet another positive Leonard to make us think that our little one could bear the name with pride.

11-Months: Lows and Highs

2010-05-30T20:50:00.009-05:00

Leo has diarrhea. Iza had it last week. It is officially a bug. It is the real poopy deal. I thought I had seen diarrhea before with Izabella. Oh, no. Now I know. We have been eating the BRATY diet for too long--bananas, rice, applesauce, toast, and yogurt.

He also has the front four upper teeth erupting.

And then.

He face-planted on concrete. The blood, the tears.

A cool, wet cloth. A bit of nursing. Five minutes. He was over it. Me. Not yet.

The diarrhea? The good thing(s) about it:

1. I can finally spell diarrhea without resorting to using "die-uh-ree-uh."

2. White rice = really good, damn. Not sure I'll look at brown rice quite the same for a while.

In other news, Leo managed a bright spot on the day he turned 11-months-old: he climbed the stairs! It is the closest he has come to crawling. This one is a runner. Already I am below my pre-first-pregnancy weight (despite a diet that includes entire cartons of ice-cream and no official work-out program), this kid and his sister are going to turn me into a regular waif. Best diet ever: two toddlers.

More Lenard More

2010-05-28T20:40:00.006-05:00

Leo is almost eleven months old. Currently he has one little toofer, the bottom front right tooth. But just because he is Leo, he is also working on at least three more teeth at the same time. And boy, oh boy, is he cranky. Poor little spud.

He now rides contentedly in the car seat. Thankfully our screaming infant days are mostly over. Car seats. My babies did not like them. At all. I didn't use pacifiers with my babies, but the car seat is one place that I wish I could have used it. There is just no way to comfort them in that plastic missile hurtling through space and time with mama just out of reach. Torture.

Just last week we had a first: Grandma was taking us to Allandale Farm to purchase our first garden supplies. Iza fussed a bit for snacks or water or something. Soon, however, I realized that the noise coming from the back seat was...giggles from both babies. They were making each other laugh. (I know that the giggling will soon drive me mad, they say.) But it was cool to know that they were communicating without words. And having a ball. I admit, I wanted to know what the hilarity was all about. But, mama, it is none of your business!

Leo is already hiking up his little foot and trying to climb onto the couch, the chair, anything. A climber indeed. (I have scheduled the babyproofing company. Yes, you can hire someone to do that. Yes, it is worth it.)

Leo is not an eater. Just not that into it. Especially not into sitting still in the high chair. He has figured out finger foods, which means he has lost interest in purees. One night, when Grandma and Grandpa were visiting, he sat peacefully and ate and ate and ate. I was amazed! Then he vomited three times. Projectile. Impressive.

Disclosure: I am also just not that into feeding Leo. There is no time to prepare the purees. He eats or not. He eats when we eat or not. He is still breastfeeding. He is fed. He is growing great guns. He will eat when he is hungry.

Leo wants to be exactly where Izabella is. Right on top of her. Preferably holding onto her hair and playing with the exactly the same toy. And when you try to distract him, he doesn't buy it for a second. He gets mad. If you take him across the house and show him a super cool ball, for example, he will calmly march straight back across the house to the super cool spoon, or whatever, that Izabella is using as a guitar. Yowsers. Yes, I have checked out "Siblings Without Rivalry." Would someone like to read it, prepare bullet points, and get back to me?

Leo Potato

2010-05-05T19:30:00.000-05:00

Miss Izabella is a girl of a thousand names and a thousand more lullabies. Mr. Lenard, on the other hand, is Leo. And the one lullaby that emerged from my imagination stuck. Leo, Leo, You're my Little Potato / Leo, Leo, Sweet as a Summer Tomato. (Repeat.)

Even Izabella has started to call him "Leo Potato."

And when we tripled his birth weight well before the charts predicted, he was a little lump of spud--hard and hefty despite his diminutive size.

Some Numbers

2010-05-04T14:27:00.001-05:00

Leo at 10-months-old:

Height: 29.8 inches (80%)

Weight: 19.34 pounds (18%)

That is right. Supermodel.

Exit Strategy

2010-04-24T20:28:00.004-05:00

This evening I left the party early. With two kids in pajamas strapped into car seats. I prayed that they would sleep and that a method for getting them out of their seats and into their beds would appear to me en route. I am amazed to report that it worked. Leo cried intermittently all the way home. Iza was happy and drowsy and then suddenly snoring about fifteen minutes after we left. Both babies were asleep when I got home. When I took Iza out of her seat, she woke up. I managed to get her inside, find her wearable blanket, and get her into bed with a kiss. She didn't look happy about it, but didn't complain either. I then raced back to the car terrified that Leo was out there in full panic cry mode. Nope. Sound asleep. I carried him up to bed and we laid down together and he nursed back to sleep. So what if I missed the lobster. Two sleeping babes. A quiet house. A warm cup of tea. I am good.

All About Leo

2010-04-14T20:08:00.004-05:00

Baby Leo is only 9 months, 3 weeks old. Yet I am starting to compile this-and-that for his 1-year-old montage of memories. Not being an over-achiever here. Just being realistic: it will take me at least three months to finish this job.

Context: On Iza's first birthday I wrote a portrait of her (Read it here: First Album.) I would like to do the same for Leo.

So here are some impressions when I think of Leo:

Speed. He came into this world at top speed and hasn't stopped. Well, he did go through that newborn slug stage, which Izabella somehow missed. And then he sat up. And then he learned that he could stick his little chubby paw into the air and someone (usually mama) would oblige him. Two impossibly chubbed thighs floating above two incredibly delicate ankles, would twist and lurch and hop upright. One step. Two. Then, if you held two hands, he would put his head down and run. Run. Lest we forget, this operation usually required the tongue thrust. His pink tongue curled up and over his lip on one side. Really, too cute. And as he started to take steps on his own, his grins would light up the room.

First food: mashed banana.

Bath: splasher. Avid. Gleeful. Not afraid to get his hair wet.

Sleep? I was happy to nurse Leo at night since his sister was nursing during the day. It was a comfort to know that he had full access at least at nighttime. He grew like a weed in the sun. He still loves to nurse at night. This means that he also wakes up frequently. Seriously, a three-hour stretch is a luxury. This kid usually needs a cuddle/nurse about thirty minutes after he goes to bed. Then it may be every hour, sometimes every 15 minutes. Thus, sleep followed by a question mark. Despite the work this entails, it is so delicious to sleep cuddled up next to him. Mama loves when I have my back to him in bed and he snuggles up against me. So warm and alive. So little and so big.

The eyes. The eyes. I have no idea if there is a name to describe them. They are rimmed in navy. The center is a version of brown that wants to be green. When I look into them I think: Earth. As in the earth viewed from outer space, a globe mostly dark blue with flecks of earth floating in a blanket of white clouds. It will slay me to have to fill in a form with one word: they are not just blue, or brown, or green. They are Earth.

and he awakes.....

Since Leo

2010-02-16T21:35:00.003-05:00

A New Club

2010-02-13T20:10:00.010-05:00

Miss Iza had her second birthday on February 8th. And as of that date, I can no longer claim membership to the 2-under-2 club. I suppose now I am in the 2-2-and-under club, but that doesn't quite garner the same insanity. With an over-2-year-old to my name I should have it all together by now. Parenting should be old hat, down pat, downright easy. Cutting baby nails? Been there. Teething? Been there. Making baby food. Done that.

Raising babies is "easier" with number 2. All that I learned raising Izabella has given me a frame of reference for the second baby. With Iza's every baby first, I would ask my mom, "Is this normal?" The weird newborn eyerolls. The frequency or lack thereof of poops. The list is endless. Now I have a sense of what is "normal," and even more importantly I understand that normal is way overrated.

A big bummer of parenting two little ones: illness. Wow. Does it suck to have a sick baby. Two sick babies are even worse. Worser still, sick babies + a sick mama. Poor me. We are not talking cancer. We are merely in the grip of lingering virus that causes mild fever followed by sinus woes. Leo is taking it the worse-est.

We are heading into night 13 of Baby Leo's fight against the family virus. By day he is cranky, but not too terrible. By night he drowns in his own snot. It is so sad to hear him try to breath. There is coughing, enough to make him gag and vomit. (I know. Sorry. But. Parenting babies is all about bodily fluids.) I have elevated our bed to create an incline. Vaporizer on full. Warm bath to loosen up the goo. I am doing all that I can and still we are up often in the night. I am okay with frequent waking when all that is needed is for me to nurse him back to sleep. But getting up to rock or bounce and walk or sing or all of the above is murder on this mama.

I admit it has led me to mutter quite loudly really bad words. I feel like a sh*t when I do it. But it usually releases some of my negative energy and allows me to refocus on the moment and endure. After so many nights, folks, I am not at my mothering best. It aint pretty.

The good news is that while I am not a patient woman, I do have endurance. And I do have a penchant for suffering bred into me by years of observing Lent and general Catholic culture. I may not be a saint, but I do understand the value of martyrdom.

I do not want my parenting to be defined by martyrdom, however. That seems all askew. I do not want to lose my life. I want to find it, create it in relationship with these little people.

Perhaps the nights of sitting with a suffering child who cries and thrashes and scratches (who seems entirely unappreciative of your love's labor) is a healthy dose of self-sacrifice. A way to die to self. It is certainly a way to wrinkle your skin and grey your hair.

And poor Leo. I can't wait to have my healthy, happy baby boy back.

Mise-en-scène

2010-01-21T14:27:00.010-05:00

All the experts recommend that a nightly ritual will ease your little ones off to sleep. The elements may include a bath, a story, getting dressed for bed, dimmed lights, music, a cuddle, or nursing in permutations too numerous to describe.

Our evening ritual starts with dinner at six. After dinner we start the journey toward sleep by collecting our evening supplies: pajamas, the "bye-toe" (a wearable blanket), and socks. We then move through house and start the ascent toward the bedrooms with a litany of goodbyes to various toys and household landmarks. It is often at this point that Izabella remembers that we also need to bring along the monkey, dolly, owl, or the hairbrush.

Tata escorts Izabella and I bring up the rear with Leo. Once upstairs I leave Leo in the master bedroom to squirm on the floor. Tata is busy with Iza, who needs to be undressed (checked for poops) and then led into the tub. I charge around to dim lights, fill the vaporizers, adjust pillows and blankets, and check to be sure my iPhone is handy in Leo's room (in case I need to stay with him for an extended nursing session). Then I return to the master bedroom, undress Leo, and plunk him in the tub with Iza for his chance to splash madly. I exit the bathroom and Tata takes over. I wait outside the door with Leo's towel while Tata deftly removes him and distracts Iza with more water. (She recently started to get upset when we left.)

I then whisk Leo away to his room. I dress him: diaper, pajamas, bye-toe. I am usually singing his lullaby as he vigorously complains. We nurse in bed. If that doesn't work, we bounce on the ball and nurse. Eventually (hopefully) sleep overcomes him. If I can exit his room in time, I can then nurse Iza and put her to sleep. Lately her father has been able to put her to sleep without me, which is a huge relief as Leo has become more difficult to tip over into his dreams.

While I am tending to Leo, there is a drama playing out in the master bedroom. Iza sings her "clean-up" song and gathers her bath toys. She likes to have her stories read while she is in the buff. She leans against the pillows and snuggles under the covers. After the stories (Tata reads one Hungarian story, maybe two), she is dressed for bed: diaper, pajamas, socks, bye-toe. She is then carried across to her room where either mama waits to nurse her or tata puts her down with a final caress. (This room has been prepared with dim lights, music, and vaporizer.)

Repeat.

I know this is not fascinating stuff.

But what fascinates me is the drama of it all. The stagecraft. The nightly ritual is a habit that normally plays out without too much thought. Some nights I cling to it as if it were a magic formula that will culminate in every tired parent's favorite trick: sleeping babies (at least for a few hours) and a chance to breathe without little ones needing you.

My inner thespian geek gets a rush in the offing of it. As if the role I play is more than just stagecraft. It is art. It is transformational. This is the only audience that you want to fall asleep. And making it happen creates the actor's rush of transcendence, when it works. When it doesn't work, despair. The fourth wall crumbles when you are too tired to maintain the scene. Your makeup runs. Your costume constricts. You see your pitiful self attempting to play the role of Mother and coming up short.

I have to laugh at myself when I see my evening ritual as theater. Surely babies all over the world go to sleep with nary an ounce of such emotional/physical fanfare. Why the emphasis on ritual in our neighborhood?

I suspect that it sells products: THE perfect cuddly toy, THE music soundtrack, THE white noise machine, THE ETC. THAT YOU MUST HAVE IF YOU WANT YOUR BABY TO SLEEP (AND BE SUCCESSFUL IN LIFE).

I guess it is also a byproduct of a society that must guard its sleeping hours carefully in order to maintain its rigorous work schedules.

And tired parents everywhere will indulge a bit of drama if it buys more sleep for the entire family.

Not to mention the human craving for ritual for ritual's sake.

Of course you can train your babies to fall asleep with fewer elements to their evening ritual. But not many fewer, frankly. Maybe the babies would sleep without any of it. Maybe the ritual is partly (mostly?) for me too. It gives me a (false?) sense of control over the events of the evening. It allows me to feel like I am parenting.

In time my babies won't need me to direct their evening dramas. They will have their own private rituals, such as reading under the covers or texting best friends. For now I am the show's producer, director, and supporting actor. The kiddoes have center stage. All I can do is hope I've set the scene.

Tandem

2010-01-03T10:45:00.007-05:00

Everything is better is twos. Sipping champagne. Sightseeing in Paris. Nature walks. Breastfeeding is on that list too. Believe it or not.

Most people are amazed that I have been nursing my newborn, who is now six-months-old, and my toddler at the same time. Mothers who have nursed think that my stamina--both physical and emotional--must be somehow superhuman. Those who haven't nursed find the endeavor odd and not suitable for dinner discussion. As if nursing is akin to other bodily secretions that might upset the appetite. Fine, do it, just don't talk about it (or do it in front of me), they seem to say.

Not that I am eager to discuss the issue over canapes, mind you. When I have the opportunity to share adult discussion, I am eager to leave the realm of poop and milk too (though not always successful in doing so).

And yet, here in my blogspace, I thought I would try to write about my experiences with tandem nursing. If you fear the topic, turn back. I want to write about it because I am sure that my mama amnesia will set in and I will forget what it is like to handle two babies at the breast.

Soon after becoming pregnant with baby # 2 when my daughter was about eight-months-old, I realized that I may have the opportunity to nurse both of them. My daughter nursed throughout the pregnancy despite lowered milk supply caused by pregnancy hormones. She normally only nursed first thing in the morning and before going to sleep at naptime and bedtime. My water broke while I was nursing her to sleep. When I saw her the next morning with baby Leo in my arms, the first thing she wanted to do was "hammy," (pronounced hummy) her word for nursing. A few days later my new milk came in and she was in milk heaven. So, two babies nursing. One so tiny. One not so tiny.

Miss Iza, who at seventeen months was still not walking, was used to being nursed to sleep at naptime. In fact she had been napping on my pregnant lap while we rocked for the past several months. She happily nursed to sleep and was placed in a crib at night and she had given up night nursings. During the day, however, she would only nap in my arms at my breast. I was pregnant and tired. This arrangement made it possible for me to nap with her. So I didn't try to change the pattern. This dedicated nurser, however, had to learn how to nap without her mama.

The first week I tried to put them to sleep together in one bed. I would lie on my side with Leo nursing on the breast closest to the bed. Iza would kneel and lean over my back to nurse on the breast topside. Talk about gymnastics. Leo was happy, of course. Iza, not so much. Eventually she would drop from exhaustion and nap fitfully by my side. The arrangement was not a success. Not to mention very tough on my back.

At naptime and bedtime I started to take Leo with me into Iza's room. We would all sit in the rocking chair. If Leo was content, he could hang out in the bassinet. More often than not he joined Iza at the breast. Iza would nurse cuddled in my lap. I would lay Leo on top of her at the other breast. When she was ready to go to sleep, I put Leo down in the bassinet and then put her in the crib. Often he would fuss, but not always. Almost immediately she accepted that she needed to go to sleep on her own because mama had to tend to the baby.

After a few weeks (months?) I would nurse Leo in the rocking chair while Iza was having her bath with her father or nanny. When Iza came to me, we would do a baby exchange. And Tata would take the baby downstairs for cuddles until I could come. Iza soon learned this too. And she would tell Tata, "Tata baby." Meaning, "Tata, you take care of the baby now while mama nurses me." A very reliable baby-soothing technique in our house is the bouncy ball. As we exchanged babies, Iza would very seriously tell Tata, "Baby, ball." As in take this tiny fussy person and bounce him into oblivion!

Iza soon recognized that wherever mama was, the baby was there too. If she saw me without the baby, she would ask, "Baby?" After a few months she learned that if baby was not in mama's arms, the better question to ask was, "Hammy?"

In the first months, Leo nursed almost constantly and Iza jumped in there whenever my arms were open. She definitely wanted to nurse as much as possible, more than before Leo was born. Often they nursed at the same time. This called for invention. Our "favorite" position for a while entailed me sitting in a child-sized chair. Iza would stand and nurse while I held Leo across my lap. This allowed Iza to come and go as she wished. (Of course this only developed after she learned to walk on her own. Leo was born June 30th, and Iza walked by herself on July 4th).

For the first four months or so I would nurse Iza and put her sleep around 7:30 while Leo was in the care of his father or the nanny. Then I would come downstairs and hang out with Leo until he was ready to sleep again. I would put the little one in a Moses basket and take him upstairs to our room when I was ready to go to bed myself. Usually around three hours later he would wake for the first time. I would then take the basket and move into his room where I would sleep with him the rest of the night on a queen-sized mattress on the floor.

Around five months or so I started putting Leo in the bath with his sister. I wanted to start a nighttime ritual for the both of them. This mostly involved plunking him down for just a few minutes before taking him for pijamas and nursing him to sleep in his own room. He now loves the bath and splashes like a madman. Iza likes to wash him with a washcloth.

By about six months or so we had established a pattern that looks like this: dinner at 6, bath 6:45, then Leo off to nurse to sleep while Iza plays and reads stories. Both babies asleep by 7:30. Okay, it looks something like that. In theory. That is the plan. The reality, of course, is much more "entertaining." This pattern requires two people. Minimum. There has been one night that I did the evening ritual alone. It was not pretty.

Little Leo wakes up to nurse several times a night. I wanted him to nurse at night because his sister was still nursing during the day. Happily he has gained weight like a champion and I am no longer concerned that he is getting enough milk. So it would be convenient if he didn't nurse as much at night. Yet at this point I am happy to nurse him as much as he wants at night. I am dealing okay with my decreased sleep, so far. Izabella effectively weaned herself at night by about 9 months. She just started sleeping longer and longer stretches without waking. So far Leo is not heading in that direction. We'll see how it goes. In the meantime, it is fantastic to sleep next to his warm little body. Some nights I could swear that I can see him literally growing in front of my eyes.

All this nursing requires support. Tandem nursing is possible for me because I have a supportive husband and a nanny who does housework. I know that mothers do it without such help. But I don't know how.

I have also learned to listen to my own body and limits. Sometimes I just can't nurse Iza. I need a hammy break. But I can't explain that to her. So I silently count backward from 100 for each breast and then end the session. Or we do a "quick" nursing where I count aloud back from 10. She has learned this game and even laughs and tries to jump back before I get to 1. Or I offer her a book or a cuddle or goat cheese instead.

All this begs the question, why do I do it? Why put myself through the intense commitment when there are other options? I don't have a clear answer to this worked out just yet. I suppose I tandem nurse because I can. I can afford to stay at home. I can afford to hire someone to help me with the house. And I enjoy it. I enjoy the intensity. I enjoy the physical connection. It is not easy, but it is pleasurable. I want to forge this physical intimacy with my children when I can. Later they won't need me in this way. But hopefully somewhere deep in their skin and hidden in their brains will pulse the knowledge that love does not require language. Love can be purely a physical presence, a touch. A closeness that needs no explanation or justification. A love that is possible because that is how our bodies are configured. Simple. Perhaps it can be the beginning of a narrative about love that does not involve the drama of star-crossed lovers, the fiction of white dresses, or the delusion of white picket fences. Love is touch. It is presence. It is physical closeness. If love is created in this way, it can be sustained over long distances, and over time.

Izabella and Leo are siblings. They are nurslings. It feels like a good start.

(Ultimately I can't know if tandem nursing is good for my children. But I am interested in the idea that my experience as a mother who tandem nurses is perhaps an even more crucial part of the equation. Parenting should change us. It should. How? I'm not sure about that. But we shouldn't be able to cruise through our children's infancy without some encounter with what it means to be human, to be alive on this planet. I am thinking a lot lately about how our culture has set up parenting such that parents are no longer needed. Baby tending has been outsourced. The feeding, the touching, the being touched. How would our society be different if our legislators had nursed their babies at home for one year or longer? More on this later....)

I wax, or wane. Or whatever.

Leo wakes.

And so.

2009-12-05T14:03:00.010-05:00

Both babies are sleeping. Laundry mostly done. Dishes can wait. Showered last night. Bills paid yesterday. Christmas shopping on order (online). And so. I have time to blog.

Entire essay-length entries have been composed in my head while nursing, bathing, changing little diapers. And so the pressure is on, well, to say something. You know, all profound and such. Reflections on mothering in the modern world. And all that.

Mostly I am grateful that we are healthy. And happy, often. And when the babies cry, I now know to take the long view. When Iza was little her cries flipped deep genetic/hormonal switches in me and I would heat up and melt down and become convinced that I, her mother, had ruined her chances at a happy life. Now when one of them, or both of them, cry I try to breathe and go Zen. And if that fails, I mutter a few really bad words.

A bouquet of thoughts here:

Having one child, my love for her was a romance. Drama. Intimacy. Longing. Elation. Devestation. Wonder. Fear. Repeat. Having two, my love is now parental. Wonder. Respect. Awe. Frustration. Joy. Humility. Repeat. Much less fear, much more willingness to wait and observe as the person emerges.

The best things I never did this time around: write down every feeding, poop, pee, and sleep. Reread parenting books. pump.

Revelation: Every home should have a good rocking chair. This is an entire philosophy ready to be expanded and expounded. More to come.

Another Revelation and nascent philosophy: Every home should have a bottle of sparkly stuff (champagne for me) chilled and ready to celebrate.

Mothering is beautiful. Yes. But it sure ain't pretty much of the time.

Hooray for online shopping and groceries delivered to the house. Hip Hip Hooray for my nanny, who sadly is leaving us in January.

Hooray for carrying two babies: Leo in the Bjorn on the front and Iza in the Ergo on my back. This way we could go for a long walk on the nature path, where strollers couldn't go. Although with Leo growing so quickly, I think those days are over.

And then there was the day when I realized that my two-baby-wearing adventures caused a bit of discomfort for some New England types. A neighbor happened to cross our path as we all headed to the Starbucks. She casually commented that, well, you could use a stroller....And I heard it in her voice. She was embarrassed for me. And I was amused.

Feeding a toddler is slowly forcing me to learn how to cook. As in put three meals + snacks on the table a day. I used to cook for dinner parties. This is totally different. I can make a decent pork roast. Chicken in various permutations. Cous cous is my new favorite side dish. Izabella loves blue cheese, hates mashed potatoes. Leo still only nurses. I am a casserole queen. I may never be a great cook, but I am working my way toward being a good mom cook.

Lots of thoughts about tandem nursing. That I need to write about.

Things that get me through the day: jasmine green tea. Napping/nursing with Leo while Izabella sleeps. Facebook.

And Leo wakes....

Size Matters

2009-10-10T14:41:00.001-05:00

Izabella was born 6 pounds 12 ounces.
At 6 months, she reached 15 pounds.

Lenard was born 6 pounds 5 ounces.
At 3 1/2 months, he reached 14 pounds 11 ounces.

ps Still tandem nursing.

Lullaby

2009-10-10T14:37:00.002-05:00

Leo, Leo

You're my little potato

Leo, Leo

Sweet as a summer tomato

Confession

2009-08-15T13:00:00.006-05:00

I have a birth narrative in progress for baby Leo. It is difficult to find time to sit down at a keyboard. Izabella takes two-hour naps in the afternoon and generally goes to sleep for the night by 7:30. As soon as she is down, however, I can't wait to fill my arms with new baby Leo. Facebook and email I can do from my iPhone. Blogging requires the rare moment when both babies are sleeping and I am not. Here is one of those moments....

First, let me clarify my entry regarding how rested I feel despite two babies to care for. As soon as I posted it and logged off, I knew it required emendation. Supermom, I am not. It does help that Leo and I share a bed. Though he wakes every two or three hours to nurse, he is a highly efficient nurser and usually finishes in about ten minutes. So I barely have to wake up to offer him my breast. Sometimes I fall back asleep while he nurses. I can't say enough about how great it is to co-sleep. Not only does mama get more sleep, I get to sleep with the sweetest gurgles and grunts as a soundtrack. More important to my sense of well-being, however, is my caregiver. Let me just admit it: We have a live-in nanny. I never thought that I would have a nanny, but I do. And it is wonderful. She is wonderful.

With two-under-two, not a relative nearby, and a partner who works many and long hours, I knew that I needed someone to help me. It has taken almost six months and the birth of my second child for me to really yield to the virtues of having another caregiver. As one of six children in my family, I never had a babysitter. Never. So I didn't grow up with the idea of having help with raising children. I was resistant to the idea. Especially as a stay-at-home mom (for now), it seemed ridiculous.

My attitude toward the issue is that my nanny is here to help me parent, not parent. Thus she cleans the kitchen, does laundry, tidies the toys, takes out the trash, etc. She sometimes cooks. These tasks are essential for a family. When I come downstairs from putting big sister to sleep and am ready to sit and nurse (or swaddle and bounce) little Leo for hours, the dishes have been down and the kitchen cleaned. The playroom is tidied. This makes a tremendous difference is my ability to parent two babies. Our caregiver is also wonderful with big sister, taking her to the park, reading to her, and happily pretending to be scared at least fifty times a day when Izabella squeals, "boo."

I wish grandma and grandpa lived down the street. I wish my college girl friends lived across town. I wish my women friends could drop by for coffee and cuddle time with the babies. The truth is that we are relatively new to the area, our families are nowhere close, and all my new women friends also have babies to tend.

I know families (and women) who manage on their own. I am not one of them. I have a nanny. And I am extremely grateful to have her by my side. (And a bit worried about what will become of us this fall when she will work for us on a part time basis.)

I'll keep plugging away at Leo's birth narrative.

(It feels good to write.)

Now I just need a haircut.

Notes After Leo's Birth

2009-07-28T20:19:00.020-05:00

Baby Lenard, whose birth certificate was left unsigned for one week while we deliberated about his name, was born at 2:01 am on June 30th, 2009. As I begin to compose the story of his birth, he is soundly asleep on our couch. He is four weeks old today. He is a beautiful baby. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Leo's birth story starts with his sister. I was nursing his sister, Izabella, to sleep when my water broke at about 8:30 pm on a Monday evening. It was a small leak at first and frankly I wasn't entirely sure that it was my waters. I continued to nurse Izabella until she was drowsy and almost fully asleep. I became entirely calm. Just as my doula had told me, my body needed to know that my seventeen-month-old baby was deeply asleep before I began to labor.

I put Izabella down to sleep knowing that the next I held her she would be a big sister. I crept out of her room and went downstairs to speak with my husband and babysitter. I had requested that our babysitter, Nikki, who had moved in with us a few weeks earlier, and my husband wait for me so that I could explain to them my wishes regarding Izabella's care in the event I went into labor. I proceeded to explain to them my directions. Only after I had made myself clear about my wishes did I mention that my waters, I suspected, had broken.

At about seven that evening I had noticed some bloody show, blood streaked mucous, indicating that labor might be near. It was beginning to look a lot like labor. I was thirty-eight weeks plus several days into the pregnancy.

Soon after telling my husband that labor might have begun, the waters began to gush. I text-messaged my doula. I called the midwife on duty at the hospital to give her a warning that I would be making my way there sometime in the near future. At first my husband and babysitter stayed near me. Contractions had not yet started. So we turned on the TV and watched "Ice Age." At least it played while we all sat there "relaxing." Finally at about ten pm I sent them upstairs to bed. I needed to be alone. Still no contractions.

A few weeks earlier I had learned that I was Group B Strep (GBS) positive. (This means that I tested positive for a normal bacteria which is nevertheless potentially harmful if passed on to the baby during delivery.) If you are positive, you should receive two doses (four hours apart) of antibiotics by IV before delivery. My midwife informed me of this disappointing news as my husband stood there with two broken arms. Yes, that day he had a bicycle accident which would result in two plaster casts. Needless to say I was a bit confounded. My husband couldn't lift my toddler. Not to mention change a diaper. And the GBS meant an IV in my arm during labor and a need to "rush" to the hospital to start the medication before I delivered.

As it turned out, however, I would not be rushed by anyone else in labor.

When I spoke to the midwife on call that night she made a comment that drastically changed my birth plan. I had planned to rush in and start the antibiotics. If I failed to get the proper dosage, then the protocol meant that my son would have to have blood extracted within the first hour of birth and stay for observation for twenty four hours. I did not want him to be subjected to an avoidable blood test so soon after birth and I hoped to get home sooner than that. When I mentioned my GBS status to the midwife, she said something like, "They like to induce mothers who are GBB positive." What? Did she mean, "they" as in other people and not me? Or did she mean that she was obligated to be part of the "they" since we were at the hospital? All I know is that I weighed the risk of passing GBS on to my baby and the reality of being induced. And I stayed home. (I never did get a chance to ask her for clarification. Later my midwife who gives me regular care told me that I would have had the right to refuse an induction. But I didn't know that at the time. And it is so very difficult to refuse medical care especially while in labor.)

I am not sure when the contractions really started. I do recall that at 11:30 pm I thought that I should start recording the time for each one. By midnight I thought it was time to go to the hospital. The contractions were strong and coming at three minutes, then five minutes, then ten minutes apart. I just knew it was time. My husband drove me to the hospital. It should be noted that he drove me with two broken hands. We drove slowly, ever so slowly, because each bend in the road was painful for him. Picture that.

It was after regular hospital hours and so we had to enter through the emergency room. They moved me directly to the delivery room. I asked them to fire up the bathtub. Quickly they began to insert the IV to administer the antibiotic. I was in active labor and the contractions were strong. I would have felt sorry for the poor nurse who had to insert the needle if I wasn't upset and resistant that it had to be done. Somewhere in there the midwife did a vaginal exam to determine dilation. It must have been done before the IV, but I would have to check my doula's notes. I do remember that I tried to refuse it and that it hurt like hell. The midwife told me that I was dilated at about four to five centimeters. That shocked and panicked me a bit. It was a long way to ten, so I thought. I know the IV went in at 1 am, because I remember thinking that I had until 1:20, a twenty minute wait, until the antibiotics were in and I could be disconnected from the apparatus. I was violently shaking.

As soon as the antibiotics were in and my IV taped down, I got in the warm bath. The contractions were coming fast with little to no time in between to get all "I am Woman / Hear me Roar." Frankly I remember thinking that there had to be a better way to give birth, one that involved less intensity. My midwife was alone with me and began to help me relax by stroking my arms, saying soothing words, and offering aromatherapy. Then my doula arrived. I needed her there. I was glad to realize that the IV, which I was worried would bother me because it was still taped to my arm, provided no major distraction.

Together with the soothing water and my doula's arrival I was finally able to "let go" and relax. Labor is all about letting go. Turning off the mind. Giving in to the muscles and liquids that make up your corporeal self. You must yield. Your instinct is to tighten, to flex for the fight. To control. To hold on to your dignity. The key is to relax, release, to submit, to discover the dignity of the flesh.

I remember one moment: darkened bath room, on my knees, fully bare, hands on the tub's edge, warm water streaming down my shoulders and back as I stretched up and moaned through a powerful contraction. That felt right. It felt powerful. It felt true.

I also remember feeling like I needed to vomit.

I remember looking down and seeing a dark spot ooze from my vagina and shouting out to my doula and midwife in concern. It turned out to be blood (and normal), but in the darkened room it was hard to identity.

Then I needed to push. How did I know? Your body knows. The nurses hustled me out of the tub. (Water births are not allowed at this hospital.)

I moved to the bed and climbed up on all fours. I pushed with my contractions probably about three times. And then he was almost there. The midwife instructed me to lie on my side, which felt awkward to me. I agreed to try it for one push. But one push was all it took. It was a mighty one. My midwife told me not to scream, and my doula instructed me to take that screaming energy and push it down inside, making more of a grunt. It worked. He passed through me and into the world. He was quickly covered in a blanket and set on my chest. They didn't even check the sex, just placed him on my chest while the placenta was delivered. So fast. So very fast. Yet no tears, no stitches needed. He latched on perfectly and didn't let go for two hours.

As I "finish" this entry, Leo is sleeping in the swing. He is three-and-a-half months old. His sister is out with their father shopping for a new car. I am sipping my jasmine green tea and waiting for him to wake up so that I can take him in my arms and breathe deeply again.

Truly I can hardly believe that this little guy, who is growing at a tremendous rate, is here. He arrived so very fast. And he is growing so very fast. And I can't believe I named him Lenard. I am sure that he will carry it well.

(finally posted on October 13th, 2009)

Ripe

2009-07-28T15:04:00.001-05:00

American Life in Poetry: Column 227

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Jane Hirshfield, a Californian and one of my favorite poets, writes beautiful image-centered poems of clarity and concision, which sometimes conclude with a sudden and surprising deepening. Here's just one example.

Green-Striped Melons

They lie
under stars in a field.
They lie under rain in a field.
Under sun.

Some people
are like this as well--
like a painting
hidden beneath another painting.

An unexpected weight
the sign of their ripeness.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c)2008 by Jane Hirshfield, whose most recent book of poems is "After," Harper Collins, 2006. Poem reprinted from "Alaska Quarterly," Vol. 25, nos. 3 & 4, Fall & Winter, 2008, by permission of Jane Hirshfield and the publisher. Introduction copyright (c)2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

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American Life in Poetry provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems. The sole mission of this project is to promote poetry: American Life in Poetry seeks to create a vigorous presence for poetry in our culture. There are no costs for reprinting the columns; we do require that you register your publication here and that the text of the column be reproduced without alteration.

Catching My Breath

2009-07-22T09:23:00.004-05:00

Baby Leo is three weeks old plus one day. This is the first occasion I've had to sit down at a laptop and try to compose both my thoughts and a few words. This is not because I have been the frazzled, sleep-deprived mom of lore. In fact, I feel well-rested! Baby # 2 has made his arrival and has found a niche here in our family. As my midwife had told me, he is the easiest part of having a new addition. Being a new mom for the second time has been "easier" or at least incredibly less fraught. Poor Izabella was my first pancake. I have so many mama skills now that I can use and this baby is a.....

oops...be back soon.

Morning Poem: "Glad" by Coleman Barks

2009-06-24T06:39:00.003-05:00

American Life in Poetry: Column 222

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

Coleman Barks, who lives in Georgia, is not only the English language's foremost translator of the poems of the 13th century poet, Rumi, but he's also a loving grandfather, and for me that's even more important. His poems about his granddaughter, Briny, are brim full of joy. Here's one:

Glad

In the glory of the gloaming-green soccer
field her team, the Gladiators, is losing

ten to zip. She never loses interest in
the roughhouse one-on-one that comes

every half a minute. She sticks her leg
in danger and comes out the other side running.

Later a clump of opponents on the street is chant-
ing, WE WON, WE WON, WE . . . She stands up

on the convertible seat holding to the wind-
shield. WE LOST, WE LOST BIGTIME, TEN TO

NOTHING, WE LOST, WE LOST. Fist pumping
air. The other team quiet, abashed, chastened.

Good losers don't laugh last; they laugh
continuously, all the way home so glad.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c)2001 by Coleman Barks, from his most recent book of poems, "Winter Sky: New and Selected Poems, 1968-2008," University of Georgia Press, 2008, and reprinted by permission of Coleman Barks and the publisher. Introduction copyright (c)2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

So. . .

2009-06-10T19:49:00.007-05:00

So, we changed the bedtime routine per my earlier entry. It worked like magic.

Now, it doesn't work like magic.

I think it is a teething issue. But, who knows? Izabella can now cruise quite well. She stands and does a little dance. So walking can't be far behind. Maybe it is the walking, a developmental milestone, that is messing up her sleep. What I do know is that she is not happy about sleepy time.

Tonight: after a relatively calm day with a good nap, we performed the entire night time ritual. On time. She was content and relaxed throughout. The moment I placed her down to sleep, a raging toddler erupted. Not just crying, but screams and thrashing. We nursed back in our room. Then back to her room and a return to the crib. Pandemonium. Inconsolable.

So, I think that letting a toddler---a person---cry it out alone is just plain wrong. If I were raging, I would want someone there even if they couldn't solve my problem or right my wrongs. But there was nothing I could "do" to comfort or console her. So, I sat down on the floor next to her crib and just stroked her back while she raged. Occasionally I said comforting words. Mostly I just tried to be a warm human presence. I tried to be all Zen about it. Strange thing happened: after about twenty minutes of standing at the rail in a full-on rage, she laid herself down, hugged her teddy and bunny, and passed out. From rage to sleep almost instantly. I waited there with my hand on her back for a full fifteen minutes to make sure she was deeply asleep. Then I performed a special yoga move to stand up from the floor--I am nine-months-pregnant after all--and was able to leave the room. We'll see how long she sleeps.

Two nights ago she was up from 12:30 - 3:00 am before my husband and I finally just took her into my bed. Last night we realized that she was inconsolable and I slept with her most of the night. She didn't want to nurse. She just didn't want to be alone. I can dig that. How human. I too hate to sleep alone. Especially when I have toothache AND I am working on a major life skill.

So, there is no "sleep solution." These little people are constantly new little people each week. What works now will probably not work next week and certainly will not work in six months. There can only be a sleep solution if you choose to view it as a sleep problem. It is what it is. Fight it in vain.

Merge & Yield

2009-06-07T14:39:00.010-05:00

I flipped my car end-over-end and landed in a ditch. I was sixteen. I was probably driving too fast for the rutted dirt road. When the car came to a stop, I was hanging from the ceiling by my seat belt. I crawled out the shattered passenger side window. I was unharmed, but not unscathed. To this day I am a nervous driver and and even more nervous passenger.

In the years after the accident, I was a newly-minted driver when it occurred, I slowly gained more driving experience and incremental confidence. My dreaded driving maneuver: the highway merge. Luckily there were not many occasions in my day-to-day driving that required me to enter the fast lane. If I wanted to partake in the excitements of big-city Wichita, however, the merge became a right of passage. It had to be done. The witness to this feat of nerves was typically my friend Jason. Poor Jason. I didn't trust drivers to yield to incoming traffic. The speed of the metal hurtling toward me nearly left me breathless. Not breathless enough. My coping strategy involved screams. Great, huge, unbridled screams of terror as I merged. This could not have reassured Jason. Yet he hung in there. Gritting his teeth no doubt.

And now as I prepare to enter the fast lane with the arrival of baby number two, I am once again faced with the incontrovertible fact that I must merge. It must be done. There will be screaming. I must merge into a life in which I am a mother of two under two. I will have a son. There will be lots of screaming.

The screams will be functional, I'd like to think. And hopefully mostly metaphorical. I will scream and moan his hot, little, active body into this world (hence, functional). And then there will be the screams involved in allowing my vision of how life proceeds (and the illusion of my control over it) to be dimmed, stripped away, and returned to me in ways I can't hope to imagine. (Thus, metaphorical.)

I have realized that it is not so much the act of merging that is required. It is the fine art of the yield. The merge is me acting on the stream of life. Here what is needed is the realization that I must yield to others what I cannot possibly handle alone. I must give way to the forces of childbirth and allow a baby boy to pass through me. I must slow down and allow others to help me care for my almost-toddling baby girl. I must give way to those who will care for me and my family as we reorient ourselves with a new little one. I must yield.

Yield. My new mantra, for childbirth and for life. Give way.

And not just to give way, but also. . .

to give up possession of

to surrender or submit oneself to another

to bear or bring forth as a natural product

to be fruitful or productive : bear, produce

to give up and cease resistance or contention : submit, succumb

to give way under physical force (as bending, stretching, or breaking)

to give place or precedence

Even though many years have passed since I found myself upside down in a ditch, I am still a nervous passenger when riding in a car. Just ask my husband. But it is true that I have learned to merge, both as driver and passenger, without actually screaming. I believe that I can learn how to deftly, perhaps gracefully, yield too. It is time. If you hear some screaming, however, don't worry. It is just a part of the ride.

Tandem Nursing: 7:36 pm

2009-05-25T09:40:00.002-05:00

I am tandem nursing. True, my son has yet to be born. Right now my fifteen-month-old daugther has exclusive nursing rights. Yet I have recently realized that tandem nursing begins the moment a nursing mother becomes pregnant with a second baby. Suddenly you are eating for three. Even if my toddler takes one sip of mama's newborn milk and decides that it is not for her, toddler and newborn will have been nourished together for the entire duration of the pregnancy.

Tandem nursing, nursing more than one baby at at time, happens most often when a mother has twins. This seems natural. Both babies need to be nursed by mom and so she nurses them either one at a time or at the same time as needed. Perhaps less well known is the practice of tandem nursing a toddler and a newborn. Most babies in the States are weaned from the breast at or before one year of age. Rarely then does a mother need to consider tandem nursing. For moms who practice nursing past the first year, however, tandem nursing becomes a possibility.

I had planned to nurse my daughter for at least one year. It was a struggle. Getting started was rough. Then my second pregnancy when she was eight months old decreased my milk supply just as she neared the one year mark. She was having trouble gaining weight and my pediatrician recommended weaning. She showed no signs of wanting to wean and I decided to encourage her on all nutritional fronts after she turned one: eating as many solids as possible, drinking whole milk, and allowing her to nurse as she wished. She is still "small" but vibrant and eating/nursing like a champion.

Some babies wean when a mom is pregnant again due to decreased milk supply (usually in the fifth month) or a change in the taste of the milk as the colostrum develops (the high density "pre-milk" produced by mom for newborns in the first few days). Other babies are quite happy to nurse even though they don't get any milk at all. They are comforted by the physical relationship, the cuddling and the sucking. It is a ritual they enjoy. At first I was waiting for my daughter to wean herself, but at 32 weeks into my pregnancy (about 8 months), she shows no sign of losing interest.

This is fine with me. More than fine. It was rough going for a few months when it was only mama who could comfort her or put her to sleep. But now I see that she is still a baby who needs me. Especially with baby # 2 coming so soon, nursing is an important tool I have to communicate with her about our physical bond. I can't rationalize with her. I can offer her my breast. There are other ways to comfort her as well. But if she is willing to nurse, I see no reason to stop offering her such comfort.

The conundrum, however, is how to offer my breast to two babies with very different needs. Baby # 2 will need to nurse on demand. My daughter will sometimes have to wait. Tell that to a seventeen-month-old. The tricky part is sleeping.

For the first ten months my daughter and I slept together. Now she is nursed to a drowsy state and then placed in her crib where she sleeps at night. She wakens, but most often can fall back asleep quickly. Many, many of my friends have babies that waken and nurse frequently through the night. Miss Iza prefers to nurse during the day. Actually she prefers to nurse and nap. By this I mean that for her nap or naps she prefers to nap while I rock her in our chair and she nurses. She stays attached throughout the entire nap. This was fine in the early months of my pregnancy as I would simply nap right along with her. And now in the later months it gives me time to nap myself and/or read a novel on my iPhone. Here is the snag: I can't possibly give her an hour or two hour nap on my breast when baby # 2 arrives. (Can I?)

Thus I have been trying to break the association between nursing and napping. She can nurse all she wants, but she needs to learn how to sleep without nursing. Try explaining that. You don't explain, of course. You do.

You develop an alternate ritual for the baby. I did this with the help of the book THE NO-CRY SLEEP SOLUTION FOR TODDLERS AND PRESCHOOLERS by Elizabeth Pantley. I was resistant to this book for quite some time (there is one for newborns too). For some reason I thought it was a sleep-training book, one of those that suggests that babies should just cry it out alone and learn to be independent. I was wrong.

Pantley gives useful advice that takes into account various parenting styles and is considerate of those who co-sleep. Basically her idea is that babies, like big people, thrive on ritual. They need a dependable pattern to anticipate. Izabella's ritual had been pure breast--it worked all the time, even if sometimes it took longer. Yes, I darkened the room, played soothing music, and told her "sleepy time" and "sh, sh, sh" each night. But each evening and every nap culminated in nursing her off to sleep.

Pantley suggests that babies can learn to fall asleep in other ways, but that it is important to be consistent so that they begin to form a habit that can be predicted and repeated by others if need be. This is key for me: the need for others to step in when needed. If baby # 2 was not on the way, I would probably be happy to nurse her to sleep for naps and in the evening. But now that I will have two nurslings, I think that it will be best for my daughter and my family if we have another way of putting her to sleep.

During the first week of trying to break the association between nursing and napping, I practiced what Pantley calls "gentle removal." I allowed Iza to nurse and as she got drowsy I would count backwards from ten to one (a suggestion from another mom) and then break her latch. The idea is to not allow her to fall asleep while nursing. She would cry and protest. I would allow her to comfort herself on the breast and repeat the removal. Tears, struggles. Repeat. When she finally began to sleep off the breast I would say "bye bye nursy" (to signal a complete end) and then place her in the crib. This worked about once. Mostly we ended up with her falling asleep in my arms, but not on the breast. This was an accomplishment. However it still meant that I had to sit with her for the entire nap time. As soon as I would try to transfer her to the crib, she would awaken and the nap would be over. A cranky afternoon was sure to follow.

This week I decided that perhaps we should work on the evening ritual. She sleeps great at night and I hate to mess with her sleeping pattern. Yet perhaps if I can remove the nursing to almost-sleep association at night, she might fall into a better napping habit. Our old habit looked something like this: dinner, bath, playtime on the bed with Tata, pajamas, then off to nurse in her room with pulled shades and soothing music.

Pantley suggests parents actually write down the new plan, giving great thought to the goals and how the new pattern will achieve those goals. As my husband is often away, I needed a plan that I could follow alone. (I probably would have tried to nurse her and then hand her off to Tata for the final cuddle off to sleep. He has on occasion put her to sleep on his own.) My new plan is this:

1. Dinner at 6 pm

2. Bath at 6:30

(eliminate play time on bed)

3. Pajamas/wearable blanket

4. Nurse in our bed practicing gentle removal

(no more nursing in her room)

5. Go to her room and together set the stage for night by a) closing shades, b) turning on music, c) saying goodnight to her bunny and her teddy, who sleep in the crib with her (these are transitional objects, i.e. comfort objects, whose use Pantley suggests)

6. Sit in our chair and read stories, drink milk from sippy cup if she wants

7. Say "sleepy time," "good night," "sh, sh, sh"

8. Place in crib, patting her and saying, "sh, sh, sh"

9. Turn off lights and leave room at 7:30

If she cries, go to her and pat her and say "sh, sh, sh."
If she continues to cry, take her to nurse on our bed and then return her to crib and pat her.

I actually had to consult my written plan before the pajamas stage to remind myself of the steps. I stuck to the plan. She did cry. I did take her into my room again to nurse. And, imagine this, she was asleep by 7:36 pm. And she slept this morning until 7:14 am. (I heard her wake and fall back asleep only once.)

I can now report that the first two days we ended up nursing back in our bedroom before she could be transitioned back to her crib. By the third night, she feel asleep around 7:30 after I place her in her crib with no need for me to return to comfort or nurse her. The fourth night we took a risk. We visited friends who live on the seaside about an hour away. We took her travel crib, bunny and teddy, pajamas/wearabable blanket, and story books. Amazingly, she went to sleep with no crying right after story time. We were then able to transfer her to car seat and later into the crib with no crying. Last night she did cry after story time and I sent in Tata to comfort her one time. Currently she sleeps from 7:30 pm to at least 7:00 am. That means this pregnant mom can get her much needed sleep before the new baby arrives!

My plan is to mimic her evening ritual in a shortened version for the naps. Perhaps she will be able to transfer her story-time-to-sleep ritual from the evening to her daytime naps.

I am doing my best with this attempt to break the association between nursing and napping because I think it may be helpful for us as a family when the new baby arrives. I don't want my daughter to wean unless she is ready. If my almost-toddler (still no walking yet!) decides to continue to nurse, then I am open to that as well. I never imagined such a thing. Yet now it seems the natural thing to do.

When I first mentioned tandem nursing to my mother, she reminded me that I had seen her tandem nurse. I had no memory of this. It turns out that she nursed my little sister and a foster child at the same time. I was four or five years old at the time, which is old enough to remember. I suppose that it was so natural at the time that my brain did not store is away as a profoundly unique snapshot. Instead it programmed my brain to see tandem nursing as something that mothers can do.

To learn more about tandem nursing--positions? timing? sleeping for mama? nutrition for mama and babies?--I have read ADVENTURES IN TANDEM NURSING: BREASTFEEDING DURING PREGNANCY AND BEYOND by Hilary Flower. It is published by La Leche League International. My local La Leche League group has been supportive as well. These woman don't bat an eye when you mention tandem nursing. For them it is not "news" like it was to me!

Note: For all you mothers who have tandem nursed, I would love to hear about your experiences! and publish your stories here if you wish.

Moving Out

2009-05-20T19:14:00.008-05:00

I was fully aware that I could get pregnant at the time. Getting pregnant when my daughter was only eight months old, however, means that soon I will have baby brother to care for in addition to my then seventeen-month-old baby girl. Two bottoms to change. Two little people who hardly know that they exist distinct from my body. I have heard that having two is not twice the work, but ten times the work. (Funny how they never mention that is ten times the joy.) Having three, on the other hand, is a piece of cake. So they say. I say we wait a while to test out the theory about three.

Since learning about baby # 2 things have changed. Our beloved apartment (despite our absentee landlords and leaking kitchen ceiling) has been vacated. We now officially live in the suburbs. Still on the T (metro) line. Still within walking distance of all things necessary (grocery, post, park, flower store, dry cleaners, karate studio). Yet this is the burbs. And we have a home that screams "responsibility" every time our automated sprinklers kick in at 3 am. I have already met three families at the park with 2 under 2. I guess we are not alone in our path toward sleep deprivation, tiny stuffed noses, and worrisome rashes.

The move involved drama. As I have been pregnant the last two times we moved, I was happily exempted from hard labor. Movers came and packed up our stuff in one day. We were reduced to hastily packed suitcases for our last evening in the apartment. Our walk to a local greasy hamburger joint ended with mama at the Emergency Room. I had been coughing violently for almost two weeks. So violently that I caused a back spasm. It was my first. It was excruciating. Within twenty-five minutes I could no longer stand or walk. We took a cab home. Then we rushed to the hospital. I'll spare you the details. Let us just say that I believe that vocalization is good for pain relief. There were tears, moans, and expletives. They checked the baby, who was fine. After several hours I was home with painkillers and a prescription for an antibiotic for my bronchitis.

My husband took my daughter home around nine pm and put her to sleep. This was the first night that she was not nursed to sleep. He left her with our babysitter and returned to the hospital. This was the first night in her life that she was left with a sitter. It was our first night out. How sexy. I was advised to go home and drink some wine to relax. So our first date night ended with champagne (wine opener was packed) enjoyed straight from a sippy cup (all glasses were packed).

They next morning at 8 am the movers returned and started to haul our things down the three flights and into the moving truck. By Sunday night we were suburbanites.

I started this post with the intention of writing about another topic related to the changes caused by our second pregnancy. Tandem Nursing. Yes, I know, if you are like me before all this baby blitz, you are thinking, "what is that?" I can tell you that I have been thinking about the subject for months now. My little one is a dedicated nurser despite the fact that I have very little milk supply due to the pregnancy. (Yes, I am still nursing throughout pregnancy. No worries unless you have a high risk pregnancy.) The very same baby who could not latch on and nurse now does not seem interested in ever breaking the latch. Which means that this mama may have two bottoms to change AND two babies to nurse. And that is tandem nursing. And that is my next entry. Sooner I hope rather than later.

And one more note: Miss Izabella has started to use her signs. She can now sign "nurse," "eat," and tonight she started to use the sign for "more." It is really cool. Of course tonight I also started to try and break her association between nursing and sleeping. (More on that in my next entry.) And perhaps that is what prompted her to sign "more" followed by "nurse." You have to see it. Such tiny perfect hands communicating so clearly. We are working on signs for "sleep," "please," and "thank you." She also practices "glad" and "play."

Worth It

2009-04-09T21:10:00.005-05:00

Feel it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UE3CNu_rtY

Obama at Notre Dame

2009-04-03T21:43:00.001-05:00

Right-wing Catholics vs. Obama

by Joan Walsh

Wednesday April 1, 2009 17:04 EDT

I've tried to ignore the controversy over the University of Notre Dame's invitation to President Obama to give its commencement speech in May. I don't believe the effort to block his visit can succeed. For more than 30 years it's been a tradition for the renowned Catholic university to invite the new U.S. president to give the address and receive a doctorate from the law school. Nobody protested when George W. Bush visited, despite his ardent support for the death penalty, which the Catholic Church opposes.

But the growing movement to stop Obama's visit isn't your ho-hum sort of Catholic League media dust-up, where Bill Donohue harumphs on television and then goes away. It's part of a well-funded lobbying effort by a group of right-wing Catholics to run liberal Catholics, and dissenting doctrine, out of the church, and to recruit the remainder of the faithful for the GOP. As the L.A. Times' Tim Rutten reports, it's been organized by the Cardinal Newman Society, no relation with the nice liberal Newman Centers that do outreach to Catholic kids on college campuses.

This is a group of rabid right-wingers who came together to make sure Catholic universities enforce Catholic doctrine. They publish the work of ultra-right Opus Dei member Rev. C. John McCloskey, who has argued that "for a university to be truly Catholic," its faculty must be "exclusively" Catholic. Operation Rescue fanatic Randall Terry, who converted to Catholicism recently, is bringing his special kind of crazy to the movement. "The faithful Catholic world is justly enraged at the treachery of Notre Dame's leadership," Terry rants. "Notre Dame will rue the day they invited this agent of death to speak." Once a thug, always a thug.

Today the Washington Post's Michael Gerson weighs in with what purports to be a fair and balanced approach to the controversy. He urges the protesters to back off some -- they should respect the office of the president, if not Obama! -- but he accuses Obama of stiffing Catholic supporters in his first 70 days, due to his moves to lift the antiabortion gag rule on contraception counseling abroad and Bush's ban on federal funds for stem-cell research. Gerson warns darkly that Catholics are turning their backs on Obama, pointing to a Pew poll that found the number of Catholics who disapprove of his job performance has increased 9 percent over the last month (Gerson says 9 points, but it looks like it increased 14 points to me). But 59 percent of Catholics still think Obama's doing a good job, the same percent as Americans do overall.

Even more interesting is this Gallup poll, released Monday, that finds Catholics are actually more liberal than other Americans on the so-called moral issues the Cardinal Newman Society seeks to use as a wedge. Polling more than 3,000 people, Gallup found that Catholics are more likely to think abortion, stem cell research, gay relationships and sex before marriage are "morally acceptable" than non-Catholic Americans. Even devout churchgoing Catholics are more liberal on those issues than devout churchgoing Christians of other denominations.

Although Father Andrew Greeley's research has been documenting Catholic liberalism since the 1970s -- Catholics are more likely than other religious groups to intermarry, religiously and racially, for instance -- my people have long been stereotyped as close-minded. There's still some class disdain that hangs over from 19th century WASP derision of dumb white "ethnics," particularly the Irish.

This also has personal resonance with me because my daughter attends Fordham University, New York's great Jesuit institution in the Bronx, where she's a leader of the College Democrats and is thriving in the free-thinking, compassionate community she's found there. This month her College Republican colleagues are bringing Newt Gingrich, the twice-divorced GOP leader who in fact served his first wife her divorce papers when she was recovering from breast cancer. Not terribly Christian, if you ask me. But no one challenges Gingrich's right to speak at Fordham -- including me.

We don't need a new Inquisition in our Catholic universities, we need them to model reason and compassion, and most do. One factor that helped us choose Fordham was a serendipitous NPR profile of Rabbi David Hartman, who runs the Shalom Hartman Institute for interfaith community in Jerusalem, and who credited his time at Fordham for helping him more deeply understand Judaism. That's the kind of environment a college student deserves; if Fordham ever adopted the Cardinal Newman Society approach, it wouldn't be Fordham anymore.

Luckily, Notre Dame's president, Father John Jenkins, is holding fast to his plan to host Obama, calling the president "an inspiring leader." According to Tim Rutten, 73 percent of Notre Dame students -- and 97 percent of its seniors -- support the Obama invitation. Young Catholics are even more liberal than their parents, so the work of the Cardinal Newman Society will be increasingly futile as the years pass. Futile, but noxious nonetheless.

-- Joan Walsh

Starr-Crossed Lovers

2009-02-18T09:03:00.002-05:00

A beautiful, sad video:

http://vimeo.com/3089746

borrowed wholesale with title from http://justprettydeep.blogspot.com/

Izabella's First Album

2009-02-07T20:32:00.013-05:00

My Izabiza celebrates her first birthday today. We will have a few friends and family over to share her first dobos torte, a Hungarian cake that we ordered from the same bakery in Cleveland who created a trio of dobos for our wedding. Silly hats will be involved. And soup.

I suppose by now I should have gotten my life into some kind of order allowing me time to lovingly document Iza's first year in a photo album and scrapbook. Let's just say that I am not that kind of girl and apparently not that kind of mama either! What follows is my version of a keepsake for her. A picture may be worth a thousand words, so a thousand words should be worth a picture. I goaded myself into this project my aiming for a thousand-word portrait. Much to your boredom, perhaps, there are quite a few more than a thousand words here. Read through them like you are glancing through an album, only lingering on the one or two that draw your eye.

This is the second time I have set out to write a thousand-word portrait. The first I wrote for my stepson on the occasion of his tenth birthday. My thanks to Mary N. for sharing this writing exercise with me. She told me how she created one for her daughter to share with her during her wedding. It is a marvelous way to get your pen to paper and capture in words details that might get lost in a camera's flash.

****************************************************************************************************************

Izabella’s First Album

Hair. You can’t talk about Izabella unless you mention the hair. Born with a fierce black wedge of gravity-defying locks, she now has a style that causes her Tata to call her “Baby Beethoven” or “Baby Einstein.” The color has lightened to a dark brown with lighter strands. Some even swear they see just a little red in it. (We call that, “Janetics.”) By eleven months her bangs need to be secured with a cutesy barrette or they hang past her eyes. Tata recently quipped: “Mama wasn’t born with poor eyesight. Her parents just never cut her hair either!”

Miss Izabella’s first tooth emerged on the bottom and was a loner for quite some time. Soon it was joined by another tooth on the top. At almost one-year-old she had four teeth, the bottom middle two and the upper two just next to the center. This is an unusual eruption pattern. That is Iza.

The first tooth emerged on October 14th when Tata was on a business trip. It was tough going.
She had a fever and woke up crying inconsolably in the middle of the night, something she hadn’t done for months. That cute little toothers cost both baby and Mama both some sleep. After it emerged she would run her tongue over it and a look of wonder appeared on her face.

When Iza boinks over and bumps her head, she is aghast at the injustice. The tears of pure disgust at such an unwarranted injury are desperate. These tears also make an appearance if she has been tipped over by another baby at a play group, or if Mama ever so slightly bumps her head on the refrigerator door. If she wasn’t an infant, you might be tempted to call her dramatic. As it stands, however, her entire life is pure stage, each moment a study in improvisation and discovery and never saying “no.” (They say she will start to say no after age one.)

Iza has her own email account. She can be reached at: izabarabasiatgmaildotcom.

On Iza’s eleven-month birthday, she took her first lurching crawl. Tata placed his Movado wristwatch, a gift from Mama on Christmas, at the end of the bed. She wanted it. She made forward progression--lurches, face plants, never getting belly and head aloft at the same time--from one end of the bed to the other. A few days later and the she repeated the trick with greater speed if not greater dexterity.

The blue eyes were all Mama from the first time she gazed at the world.

When other mamas see Iza twist and curl and do impossible yoga moves, they are impressed by her flexibility. When her mama sees her move in such unorthodox ways, she thinks that she will find her own way to get from A to Z.

Those that know Tata’s mother agree that Miss Iza looks just like her nagymama. She even sometimes has the same demeanor—a true lady, dignified and regal; quick to enjoy a good laugh; easily mortified.

Iza had her first solid food at six months and a few weeks. Mama fed her mashed up banana from her finger. It was in Csikszereda and nagymama was there too. Iza liked it. A few weeks later and she wouldn’t eat bananas. A few weeks later and that is all she would eat.

Some of her favorite first foods: parsnips, butternut squash, avocado, beet, and carrot purees. Occasionally prune puree has been administered to get things moving.

Some purees that produce a yucky face: green beans, peas, broccoli, and cauliflower.

Iza sat up unsupported at 7 months plus one day.

Iza has grown into quite a party girl. Except for a transient fear of Victor and Jorge, she loves people. She may be a grump at home, but take her on the T and she is Miss Social Butterfly--all smiles and waves and coy little glances from the safety of Mama's arms.

Before Iza turns one-year-old, she will have traveled to the following places: Kansas (twice), Indiana (three times), Washington DC, The Dominican Republic (weekend trip for my sister’s wedding), Hungary, Romania, and Japan.

Iza was exclusively breastfed for the first six months plus a few weeks. This is notable because Mama had to pump and feed her from a bottle for the first six weeks before we switched entirely to the breast. Miss Iza had difficulty latching and Mama had to figure out how nursing really works. For a while it appeared that Mama might be forced to choose between pumping continuously, an awful experience, and using formula. (To place this in context, since 1997, The American Academy of Pediatrics has recommended breast milk as the exclusive food for the first six months, and that breast milk remain the main source of nutrition with a mixture of solid foods for the first year of life. Despite this recommendation, The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (C.D.C) reported that only 14% of babies were exclusively breastfed for the first sixth months in the state of Massachusetts. And only 21.7% were still breastfed at one year of age.)

Iza didn’t use a pacifier. Well, she didn’t use a plastic one! Mama is her pacifier. Those four teeth, however, do get a bit ouchy now and again, probably due to her shallow latch.

Iza and Mama slept most or part of the night together until she was ten months. After they returned from Japan, the family was so discombobulated that major changes took place in sleep patterns almost without any control. By eleven months Iza was nursed to sleep in the rocker and then transferred to her crib where she slept until around 7 am. This change seemed to work for everyone. (Mama was sad to see the bed-sharing end. They still occasionally nap together in the daytime. And in the morning she takes Iza into her bed to nurse and nap as they reconnect at the start of the day.)

At ten months Iza started to wave and clap her hands with great enthusiasm. When she sees Tata, he always gets a smile, a wave, and a few claps. At eleven months she would clap if she heard applause on the radio. Also at eleven months she waved when she heard Dani say “szia” to her over the speaker phone.

Her first bath all by herself was at eleven months. Up until then Mama or Tata would join her in the tub. When Mama gave her a bath and Tata was not at home, she would prepare a bath mat and a towel on the floor where she would lay her down while she toweled off. These days Iza is not content to lie there and giggle at her fresh-from-the-tub Mama. She wants to squirm and sit up and get into the trash can. One night Tata was gone and Mama realized that it just wasn’t going to work. So she sat next to Iza while she bathed alone. Iza loved it. It exhausted Mama to keep up with her curious explorations all around the tub. Who knew the ceramic soap dish was so fascinating?

Iza spent her first Christmas in Kansas. Grandma gave her a Cabbage Patch Doll. She wore her black velvet dress with the red plaid trim, white tights, red shoes, and her red flower barrette to Christmas Eve mass. (Mama neglected to take the requisite photo of her in Christmas attire next to the adorned tree.)

Iza has yet to enjoy the process of having her nails done.

Mama fell in love with black pearls the fall before Iza was born. Tata gave her a beautiful ring with a single black pearl for her birthday. She wore it for the rest of her pregnancy and even wore it in labor and while giving birth to baby Iza. When Iza was quite small Mama decided that she would save the ring for Izabella.

Iza has not quite figured out that she will love talking to Grandma via Skype video calls. She will. Mama loves it!

Iza’s first word (at almost eleven months): “ball .” Mama is pretty sure she was using English to indicate her love for her little, round, bouncy ball. As Dani pointed out, however, “bal” means left in Hungarian. So her first word was bilingual!

The first time Mama left Iza in another person’s care was in Japan. Mama left her upstairs in the hotel room with a babysitter hired by our hosts while she and Tata and Dani were downstairs at an award ceremony. She was alone with the babysitter for almost two hours! Mama kept her cell phone clutched in her hand, waiting for it to buzz her back to nurse and cuddle little Iza.

Zsofia was Iza’s first “mommy’s helper.” She came to our apartment a few times a week for a few months to allow Mama to take a shower, step out for lunch, etc.

Mama wishes that we had a grandparent, sibling, an aunt or uncle, or even a cousin within several hours travel! Iza is extremely lucky, however, to have Big Brother near us. He moved with his family to Newton in the fall of 2008, a mere ten minute drive! He is patient and playful with her. He takes great pride in being her big brother and has been an amazing help to me, both taking care of her and helping me too! There was one week when Tata had to travel to Europe and Dani, who was thirteen and getting ready to enter the eighth grade, volunteered to spend the week with us just so that he could help take care of Izabella.

Izabella was born at 1:30 pm on a Friday afternoon.

Mama’s favorite time of the day: after Iza’s bath when she is warm and naked and wiggles across the bed. She usually needs to have some of her giggles extracted so that she won’t explode during her dreams.

Grandma Kelley was Iza’s first expert rocker. She stayed with Iza for nearly four weeks and rocked her for hours on end. By now Mama is an expert rocker too. She often can’t bear to put her in her crib for an afternoon nap and so joins Iza by taking a nap with her as they rock.

Isis Maternity is a retail and educational center for parents. Miss Iza is only two T stops away from Isis and within walking distance (in warm weather) and she has spent a lot of time there. Even before she was born Mama and Tata took childbirth classes and Mama took prenatal yoga there. After Iza was born she attended Great Beginnings, Next Steps, Caterpillars, and Movers and Groovers classes. Each class features play time—singing and toys—and mama topics to discuss and share.

Izabella Kelley Barabasi, at nearly one-year-old, is otherwise known as Iza, IzaBiza, BizzyBee, BellaBaby, BellaMia, Biza, BizaBee, Elizabella, IzalaBizala, IzaB., Bells, Mia, Izuka, as well as, Noodle, Plum, Sweet Pea, Honey Bear, Sugar, Sunshine and Pie.

2008 Names and Izabella’s Future Playmates: Isabella is ranked number four, much to our surprise. Emma is first, followed by Sophia, and fifth is OIivia. For boys Aiden is the most popular, followed by Jayden, Ethan, Jacob, and Caden.

Izabella knows a Sophia. Mama met her mother, Rebeca, in a prenatal yoga class and Miss Iza is two days older than baby Sophia. They have seen each other almost every week since they were about ten weeks old. Izabella’s other little friend is baby Ixa. I met her mother, Akesha, in mommy-and-baby yoga class. They live nearby in Brookline Village. When Iza was 11 months, we started a “Music Together” class with Ixa and Akesha.

Izabella has been a big help to Tata as he writes his new book. When she was younger, she would play on the bed while he typed, giving Mama an extra hour of sleep in the morning. Now she is an expert at scanning in his new chapters.

Mama found out that Iza was going to be a big sister when Iza was about 9 months old. She told Tataon November 4th, the night Barack Obama became the President-Elect. She had tried to give him (Tata, not Obama) hints, but it wasn’t working. So she put a big red bow on her tummy and showed him the positive pregnancy test. Hooray!

Iza at one-years-old enjoys the occasional You Tube moment viewed on Mama’s iPhone. Her favorite so far is a short clip of the Smurfs in Hungarian. Good taste. View it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Ao99RIKyd8

The best advice Mama received: No matter how wonderful things are going or how terrible things might seem, they will change. She heard this mantra at a La Leche League Meeting (one of two she was able to attend in Izabella’s first year) from another new mom, who had heard it from another new mom, etc. Wise women, indeed.

More About 25 Things

2009-02-07T09:07:00.003-05:00

'25 Random Things' is the latest Facebook phenomenon - The Boston Globe

Posted using ShareThis

Saturday Morning

2009-02-06T21:30:00.002-05:00

Saturday Morning
by Hugo Williams

Everyone who made love the night before 
was walking around with flashing red lights 
on top of their heads--a white-haired old gentlemen, 
a red-faced schoolboy, a pregnant woman 
who smiled at me from across the street 
and gave a little secret shrug, 
as if the flashing red light on her head 
was a small price to pay for what she knew.

The Cherry Tree

2009-02-06T17:27:00.003-05:00

The Cherry Tree
by David Wagoner

Out of the nursery and into the garden
where it rooted and survived its first hard winter,
then a few years of freedom while it blossomed,
put out its first tentative branches, withstood
the insects and the poisons for insects,
developed strange ideas about its height
and suffered the pruning of its quirks and clutters,
its self-indulgent thrusts
and the infighting of stems at cross purposes
year after year. Each April it forgot
why it couldn't do what it had to do,
and always after blossoms, fruit, and leaf-fall,
was shown once more what simply couldn't happen.

Its oldest branches now, the survivors carved
by knife blades, rain, and wind, are sending shoots
straight up, blood red, into the light again.

http://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/current.html

25-ish Things

2009-02-06T10:28:00.003-05:00

For those of you not addicted to Facebook, here is a writing exercise currently circulating on The Face. Proof that English Teachers really rule the world and manage to trick the unsuspecting public into creative writing.

And, yes, you are correct that is something akin to those email questionnaire forwards of yore. But the improvement is that you only send it to your friends, limited to 25 people, and it does not clutter your email inbox in quite the same way. Most importantly it allows your friends to comment on your list. This is difficult to appreciate without seeing the interface. So you will just have to join The Face.

Note: "tagging" entails affixing a friend's name to your list so that they receive notification of your Facebook activity.
___________________________________________________________________

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.

1. I have been tagged approximately 20 times with this random list exercise and have to admit that it makes my English-teacher heart go pitter-patter to see my friends and family compose such lists. So I better do my part. I love homework.

In somewhat autobiographical order:

2. I was captain of the cheerleading squad in high school (or were we co-captains, Jennifer?) and graduated with a class of fourteen students. (Fourteen total if you are generous and count Magda from Poland who was somehow plopped down in central Kansas for her exchange experience. Whatever happened to Magda?)

3. Only two people in my life have every called me “Jan.” The first was Steve, who coached my YMCA gymnastics team. He was a big bear of a man. The second was Mr. Warren, my high school drama teacher. (I liked them both immensely.)

4. I had my ears double-pierced in high school. The second pair of holes has never healed completely. Am considering taking up the two-earring style. Why not? Leggings are back in too.

5. I graduated from Saint Mary’s College where I once shared a room with three other women—one overhead light, one phone, one boyfriend visiting from Ireland (not mine). I graduated from college in 1997 without ever having a cell phone.

6. My grandmother, Anna Mae Kelley, taught me how to crochet.

7. I have a master’s degree in theology from the University of Notre Dame.

8. I produced/directed/acted in THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES by Eve Ensler. I am pretty sure that means I can claim the label of “community organizer.” I met some amazing people and learned that women and men LOVE to talk about vaginas.

9. I see a direct line between Aquinas (# 7) and vaginas (# 8).

9. On the fashion (or lack thereof) front, I once had brilliant blue hair. It was gorgeous. But I had to sleep with a towel under my head because it rubbed off on the pillowcase. I also left an unfortunate blue ring on a friend’s antique bath tub in London. Oops.

10. My book club in South Bend, Indiana is important to me. (Understatement.) Note: I don’t even live in Indiana any more.

11. CONVICTION: The world needs more potlucks.

12. I have a silicone implant. Just one. My retina decided to spontaneously detach a few years ago. I had my eye pulled out of my head, the juices sucked out, an air bubble pumped in, and a silicone band implanted around my eye. I then had to lay face down for three weeks while it healed. My prescription index is an impressive negative 10 and negative 15. And I am allergic to contact lenses. Awesome.

13. I am a deeply convinced vegetarian, currently nonpracticing. Read my food philosophy here: http://jkkelleywritenow.blogspot.com/2005/12/food-philosophy-in-fast-food-nation.html

14. I have the third draft of a novel I am writing stacked next to my bed. Waiting for me.

15. I am married to a Transylvanian. I understand Hungarian and speak it horribly.

16. DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING: I would never have guessed that I would be so lucky to be a step-parent to such a great kid.

17. I taught high school English for three years before taking time off to raise my baby. I learned that the best teachers don’t take themselves too seriously. (I take myself too seriously.) Probably there is some parallel truism about the best parents. I’ll have to work on that.

18. I gave birth to my baby daughter with nary an aspirin. This is significant because my husband made fun of me for years because as soon as I sniffled I would buy ten different medications and then suffer for days. A woman’s body is astounding. I am learning to trust my blood and bones.

19. Prenatal yoga—love it. Highly recommend it for pregnant ladies.

20. I love my iPhone. (Huge, glaring understatement.) I don’t have a single song downloaded to it.

21. We don’t have cable television. Or tivo. Or reception. It makes watching football very exciting with several shadow players and never knowing for certain what the score is until the announcer says it.

22. I want to eat at Alinea in Chicago. I will eat at Alinea one day.

23. You can’t overestimate the value of a good, local diner with a waitress who knows you.

24. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED: Shaving your significant other’s head. Changes everything for a few months.

25. SECRET: I am pregnant and expecting a baby BOY on July, 7 2009.

Love it. Tis Best.

2009-01-26T21:47:00.005-05:00

Check out this website.

http://www.tisbest.org

I heard its founder interviewed on NPR just before Christmas and found it compelling. Sadly I had already selected gifts for the season. Then. Opportunity.

A few days ago I managed to get myself and my baby girl out of the house into the frigid Boston air to meet with other mommies at an event called "Whine & Wine" (or "Wine & Whine"?). It had been a rough day of near-naps and nap fails. I had a head cold. Did I mention how the sunshine merely intensified the glare of the snow and the glint of ice? Somehow I managed to get of the house and arrive at the event. Of course, I didn't manage to RSVP. Or notice that the event started at 4:30. I arrived at 4:00. Or succeed in bringing a bottle wine to share. Alas.

The good news! This gave me the opportunity to use Tis Best.org.

As the site instructs:

Q: What is a TisBest Charity Gift Card?

A: It works like any other gift card, except that instead of buying stuff in a store, the recipient spends it to support a charity of their choice.

You are the donor and your recipient chooses the charity!

I went online, uploaded a supercute (indeed) photo of my sweet baby girl, chose a $$$ amount, opted to send the charity gift card via email, and BAM. In lieu of wine, I gifted my hostess with an Obamafication. Pay it forward. Give Back. You get the idea.

At any rate, love it. I do.

Take out your pencils. Begin.

2009-01-20T21:25:00.002-05:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/20/us/politics/20text-poem.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

The following is a transcript of the inaugural poem recited by Elizabeth Alexander, as provided by CQ transcriptions.

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

Arrest Me

2009-01-14T21:23:00.002-05:00

“I am hoping to offer language that will give people
a moment of pause...That there is almost a quiet pool
in which they are able to stand and think for a moment.
I think that’s part of what poetry does. It arrests us.”

Elizabeth Alexander on what she hopes to accomplish 
by reading her poem at Barack Obama’s inaugural,
January 20, 2009.

--Thanks to Mary N. for sharing this.

2008: Ten Best Books

2008-12-04T21:32:00.003-05:00

The Ten Best Books of 2008
as selected by the New York Times Book Review
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/14/books/review/10Best-t.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

Personally, I can't wait to get a copy of Toni Morrison's new book, A Mercy.

Anxiety Is Not Just Me

2008-11-30T14:55:00.005-05:00

I recently came across a passage from one of my favorite pregnancy/parenting books that I thought I would post as a way to suggest the title to anyone in search of such. The book is from the hips: a comprehensive, open-minded, uncensored, totally honest guide to pregnancy, birth, and becoming a parent by rebecca odes and ceridwen morris. (They used all lower case on the cover for title and author.) Here is the passage:

***
the anxiety trap?

In her book A Potent Spell: Mother Love and the Power of Fear, author/psychotherapist Janna Malamud Smith suggests that our society actually cultivates mothers' anxiety. Anxiety serves a purpose, she says, making mothers focus all their energies on worrying about their children instead of advocating for universal healthcare or otherwise making a nuisance of themselves. In other words, anxiety preserves the status quo. And when mothers bear so much of the burden of responsibility for their kids' welfare, they also bear the biggest burden if their children get sick or hurt or die. So they're trapped into obsessive vigilance--for fear of the ultimate punishment. Where does the basic desire to protect our children end, and the culturally induced paranoia begin? It's hard to say. We can't necessarily avoid the worries, but being aware of the forces at work may help to put them in perspective.

***

In addition to this particular passage that seems to speak to me now with my 9-month-old soundly asleep for her afternoon nap, this book works well as a basic guidebook during pregnancy and the first months. The book that I would happily talk you out of buying: that tome that just about anyone can name, What to Expect When Are Expecting by Heidi Murkoff. It is filled with just the anxiety and fear-inducing stuff that Malamud Smith warns about.

Now, it is time for me to get out there and advocate for stroller accessible public transportation in Boston. And univeral healthcare. And such.

Thanksgiving '08

2008-11-27T16:24:00.016-05:00

This year I decided to cook my family's Thanksgiving meal. This may just be the first time that we have stayed home without guests or extended family. Of course it was the first time that Miss IzaB. joined our family gathering.

Thanksgiving is an American holiday. You come to appreciate this when you are married to a non-American. (Well, technically now he is a citizen.) Outside the U.S. turkey and mashed potatoes do not conjure ineffable childhood associations of excitement, wonder, and the comfortable bewilderment of a family gathered to feast late in the afternoon. Thanksgiving foods, quite bluntly, are bland. True, the butter factor does add a savory afterglow. Yet even when the turkey is exceptional, it is decidedly not sexy. At all. Nor are you after second helpings.

So I decided to explain to my non-American this way: it is like a dinner party you through just for your family. You know, you clean the house--even running the vacuum beneath the couch cushions. You plan the menu and write up a shopping list, starting at least a few days in advance. You buy all the best ingredients and cart them home. You set the table with the best stuff you have in the house, transforming your everyday dining table into an image of domestic order and splendor you hardly recognize. There has to be some form of bubbly drink, sparkling water with a lemon afloat will serve just fine. There should be courses: soup, main, and dessert, at least.

You are required to shower and take off your sweatpants. (Well, sweatpants might pass as long as from the table up you are not in leisure wear.) Remember, this is a dinner party and you want to show up looking like you appreciate all the effort being exerted in your honor. Sure you only had to travel a flight of stairs, but your journey to the table has really been taken together through the past year since the last time you shared a Thanksgiving meal.

You are carefully pleasant to one another, as well as gently direct if need be. You talk about something other than: what you had for lunch, your gastrointestinal health, and what you are doing tomorrow.

You exhibit outright delight in the food that you and your loved ones, your generous hosts, have lovingly prepared.

This, then, is the way I might have explained what Thanksgiving dinner should be if I had had the wherewithal to compose such an analogy extemporaneously at the dinner table. As it was, I managed a table cloth and three humble courses. I whittled my parent's traditional feast down to the Thanksgiving essentials. The side dishes of butternut squash and candied yams become my first course: a soup culled from the New York Times. (See below.) It was healthy. Then I served turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and brussel spouts. Pumpkin pie from Athan's bakery followed. Notice: no mashed potatoes. (And my family will notice, no dumplings. Without dumplings, what is the point of mashed potatoes?) Later my husband would pronounce this omission a mistake. I was fine with it.

While we had a fine lunch, it still was not a Thanksgiving lunch. Essentials are simply not enough. Roasting a turkey breast is not the same as having a stuffed bird. There is not nearly enough drama in the roasting or in the presentation. You need excess. You need to have a reason to practice restraint. You need to be tempted by that extra slice of pie or else you simply feel full and not satiated. You need at least one person to get huffy and slam a door.

There is always next year. My parents have had almost fifty years to build their Thanksgiving repertoire. I hope my own version will develop the same depth over the years. I'll keep the soup. I like the idea of a soup course to lengthen the time at table. But there will be dumplings and potatoes, and Grandma Schamber's meat dressing too. Not to mention warm rolls and butter. And gravy. You just have to have gravy with lumps. And that is where the dinner party analogy finally breaks down. With your family, you are allowed to have lumps and pour it on thick.

Sweet Potatoe and Butternut Squash Soup:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/20/health/nutrition/20recipehealth.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink
I served it with buttered whole wheat toast cubes and a sprig of thyme.

Notes After Japan

2008-11-22T20:55:00.012-05:00

I recently traveled to Japan with my 9-month-old daughter, stepson, and husband.

Of note:

Having arrived home less than 8 hours ago, I have already forgotten the sheer physical angst (yes, physical angst) of an infant in meltdown on a plane. Poor girl. Night and day suddenly become day and night and she is literally turned inside out upside down. Rubbing her blue eyes, rimmed with red and dark half moons beneath. She cries. She can't sleep. She can't nurse. She just cries. Yes, I have forgotten the tears (hers and mine). The amazing thing is how she rebounds. Desperation at noon, flirty smiles for passengers five minutes later.

Having eaten sushi at The Source, the Fish Market in Tokyo, I have to admit: I am more of a Kobe steak girl. I just can't quite bring myself to relish in the cold flesh that is sushi. I don't dislike it. But deep down it oogs me out just a bit. I am okay with a rare, bloody steak. But raw fish somehow just doesn't satiate me. I'll keep trying.

The Japanese are precise, polite, and polite. Yes, polite times two.

I love the bow. It is so much easier than the awkward, "should I kiss one cheek or two--or not kiss at all" question at stake with European friends. It is simple and deeply reverent still. It has room for humor. It can say it all. On the bullet train between Kyoto and Tokyo the conductor would turn to the entire car and bow before exiting. Each time she entered and exited. It injects a bit of Zen into each day. This must be healthy.

On every corner: vending machines with drinks.

I love the bento box. Cubicles of foods I can't name. A surprise in every lacquered square.

FYI: pregnant ladies in Japan eat sushi. (BTW pregnant ladies in France drink red wine and eat unpasteurized cheese.)

Tokyo is clean. Spotless. Shiny, especially at night. And yet you can not find a garbage can to save your life. There are recycling bins. But what to do with a dirty diaper?

Speaking of diaper changes, the Japanese have excellent baby changing facilities in the department stores. The best I have seen.

Places we visited:
Kyoto: Daisen-in Zen Garden at Daitoku-ji and Kinkaku-ji (the Golden Pavilion);
Nikko: Tosho-gu Shrine and Nikko Edo Village;
Tokyo: Tsukiji Fish Market, Roggongi area, the Imperial Palace, National Diet Building, Ginza area--high end shopping, The Sony building, Akihabara--the several blocks of high-tech wares and anime products galore, and Takeshita-dori (to see the funky teen scene).

We mastered the metro.

Number of times we were stopped because a local Japanese person wanted to take Izabella's picture: once.

The gifts: the giving of gifts, small symbolic items, is automatic. For the Japanese. For us it caused a bit of strife. What to give? To whom? When? Do we unwrap in front of them? But it is a tradition that reinforces gratitude. Words inevitably fail. A small gift can speak your kindest intentions even when your words fumble.

I turned 34 years of age while in Tokyo. I got a kiss and chocolates.

Truth: I did have a gathering moment in a Starbucks. I needed to nurse the baby and was too tired to nurse in the Ergo while walking. You should know: there is no decaf option available for espresso drinks (at the one Starbucks we visited).

Number of times we were interviewed by the local press: once. (We looked clueless and were holding a cute baby = perfect subjects for an evening news spot about tourists.)

We learned that you do not need to tip. We left a small tip after our breakfast the first morning. The patroness literally ran after us on the street to return it. Later we asked a Japanese friend and we were told that there is no habit of tipping in restaurants or even cabs.

We hauled the stroller all the way there. Times we used it: once.

The shopping in Tokyo: endless. Yet we managed only to buy a few souvenirs for family and nothing for ourselves. It was overwhelming. Besides we had *ahem* over packed for the week. (Our arrival required an entourage to assist with luggage.)

True story: I missed dinner two nights in a row because Iza decided that it was bedtime at 5 or 6 pm local time. (I was so tired that I went to sleep with her both nights.) After missing two dinners, I ate three sandwiches for lunch. Three.

If you leave a disposable plastic baby spoon or cup in a restaurant, you will be chased down and have it returned to you nicely cleaned.

Iza sat up for the first time all on her own. She did it my starting on her belly and pushing back into a seated position. She was quite delighted.

Iza also managed to do the work of breaking a new tooth. Hooray! Total teeth: two.

In the end, regarding Japan....

Conclusion: more, please. The question, when?

Pleasure

2008-11-08T11:29:00.010-05:00

The Pleasure Principle

Little ones are created in pleasure. Our bodies are designed to feel physical and emotional pleasure exactly in the act that has procreative potential. Otherwise, why do it over and over? We are biologically programmed to return again and again to the sex act. We might as well revel in the moment and its fruits, namely, our little ones.

There are some parenting schools of thought that have forgotten the pleasure principle in raising the tiny baby who comes into the world a bundle of nerves, more sentient than conscious. The phrase "schools of thought" should be a red flag. The tendency is to succumb to the intellect in the effort to do the best for the child's sake. Instead of our reason, I think the center of parenting practice in those initial months should be the element of pleasure.

Those hot little infant bodies are designed to nestle on a mama's or tata's chest. A woman's breasts are designed to enable her to lie down and feed her little one in the comfort and relaxation of a shared bed. The complex cocktail of a mama’s hormones released at the birth compels her body to protect and celebrate a little body that is her flesh incarnate. (I was a mama ape as I cradled my baby in my arms and buried my nose deep into her crevices. Her hair, fiercely dark and mohawkish, was oily from my touch.) The baby is not a separate entity delivered by fairy tale stork. It is her and her partner's flesh. The mother recognizes that the being of the child is utterly part of her and entirely new. The baby is perfect because it is a perfect expression of pleasure.

It gives me pleasure to sleep with my baby. The first few weeks she slept skin-to-skin on my chest, our bare flesh touching at our hearts. I did this because she was not able to latch and nursing looked like it might be impossible for us. Those were some of the most difficult times I have ever faced and yet now I grateful that her inability to latch gave me permission to hold her so close. This initial bond made it seem natural to sleep with her and to carry her in a sling as much as possible. The idea of her sleeping in a separate room or even riding for extended periods in a baby carriage created cognitive dissonance. It felt wrong. It felt painful for me. Again, the pleasure principle compelled me to be near her both emotionally, which all new parents share, and also physically, which too many parents deny themselves.

And what about the baby? Was I only giving into my own selfish desires to have her near me? Would she have been better off in a crib? There are schools of thought that say just that. I contend the following: NO ONE KNOWS. Especially the experts. And the little ones aren't talking. They are crying. So I have to follow my instincts. My biology compels me to have her near. It compelled me to hear her cries, those newborn cries that were plaintive and wrenching, as just that, cries that directed my actions to go to her and comfort her when she needed it.

Again yesterday another woman "confessed" to me that she still sleeps with her three-year-old daughter. Her pediatrician husband is embarrassed about it. But she isn't. She said that she looks forward to sleeping with her each night. I have heard several moms confess that they have "given in" and taken a nap with their little one. It is as if they are afraid that they will spoil their children by giving into what biology directs them to do.

All too soon they will sleep alone. Then they will be off to college. I say that part of parenting is giving yourself permission to take pleasure in the nurturing act.

Every child is unique. Every parent and every parenting situation is unique. Thus each household will have its own patterns and make choices that fit their philosophies and lifestyles. There is more than one way to raise a child. Yet I wish that more mommas would give up the crib and settle in for an afternoon nap with a baby who will soon be free to explore the limits of their world with the deep physical knowledge that they have a safe and soft--a pleasurable--place to land. Independence at its deepest is dependence.

Time for Change

2008-10-24T12:12:00.003-05:00

Please take time to watch this important video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3ofap_vT_Q

Breaking News

2008-10-22T20:21:00.004-05:00

Whatever your politics, you have to admit: hi.lar.i.ous.
You gotta love the snark factor.
I hope McCain develops his own version.
I hope all citizens vote.

Personalize and send this video by following this link:
http://www.cnnbcvideo.com/index.html?r=31274&id=14590-7044595-RCsN3Kx&nid=JH6sV8SYUnjyzSA5XsoRVTE3OTQ4OTA-

Coming to Theaters

2008-10-18T15:00:00.002-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zK1Cb9qj3qQ

Positions

2008-10-15T08:18:00.016-05:00

Leonardo da Vinci
Italian Painter, Sculptor and Architect (High Renaissance)
1452-1519

Madonna Litta , 1490-1491

(Hermitage, St. Petersburg, Russia)

I suspect there is something trinitarian in the depiction of the Christ child at the Madonna's breast. There must be theological justifications for Mary's devoted gaze toward the Christ child and the baby's averted gaze from her breast. The baby's posture evokes Christ's naked body being gently removed from the cross as it contorts and needs support, cleaned up of any blood or gore. The baby practically nurses himself as he supports Mary's breast with his hand. The Christ child's hair must be a sign of the times. Who can't resist a curly-haired tot? It also shows that this is no bald-headed infant. This is a toddler. Why this is important, who knows. Perhaps because it hints at Jesus' power. He is no baby. He can do it himself.

Personally I love that Mary is wearing a nursing shirt. (Did those exist in the Renaissance?)

I went in search of breast-feeding images because I have been thinking about how such depictions influenced my own practice. To be fair, the Leonardo image above is not primarily about breast-feeding, of course. Nursing serves a larger purpose by telling a story about Mary and the Christ child. Yet before I had Iza the dominant image I had of breast-feeding involved something similar to what you see above: the baby cradled in the mother's arms and the requisite adoring gaze of mother toward child. The baby nicely, quietly-dare I say serenely--rested in the mother's arms. The mother's arms felt no fatigue. Rather she was suffused with motherly love and gentle thoughts.

I am not quite sure how or when I developed this romanticized notion. Certainly I grew up exposed to nursing mothers and have fond memories of attending La Leche League meetings as a young girl, primarily because they had a buffet, which I found terribly exciting at the age of four. My naiveté ironically may be the product of my wordly experience. I waited until I was thirty-three to have my child. Perhaps the years intervening between my childhood immersed in a nursing culture and the time that I become a mother allowed my imagination to turn breast-feeding into a caricature. Seriously, the first six weeks of learning how to breast-feed were more difficult than labor and delivery.

Forget serenity. (Well, those moments do happen. Hooray for prolactin and oxytocin, calming hormones produced while nursing.) What I learned is that those little, hot bodies are first and foremost hungry at the breast. There is commotion. Rooting, drooling, dripping, gagging, crying, whimpering, etc. As the baby gets older and her hunger is both for food and comfort, there is rolling, pinching, scratching, tugging, and let-me-take-your-nipple-with-me-as-I-turn-my-head-and-check-out-who-just-walked-in-the-door fun.

In the beginning, mama must sit until the sitting takes on a new, possibly unexplored, state of Zen.

Hooray for the iPhone. Mama can read a novel! read the New York Times! Facebook! all while nursing.

And then mama discovers nursing while lying down in bed. Wow. And she thinks: I will never sit up to nurse again. And then she discovers that you can do the "lean down" and offer the top breast too without having to get up and move to the other side of the baby.

And then mama discovers that you can nurse with the baby in a sling while waiting in line to board an airplane. Hands-free.

And then mama discovers that you can nurse with the baby in an Ergo carrier. In this carrier the baby sits up and straddles your waist. The baby nurses while sitting up. I had no idea this was possible. Leonardo did not portray this. Possibly the trinitarian symbolism would have been thwarted.

If I were an artist, here is the composition I would arrange:

Mama calming baby before they get into the bath. Mama sitting on the edge of the bathtub, water running, a few select bath toys bobbing around, baby sitting on her lap so that they are belly to belly and the baby's face is breast level and nursing, both delightfully in the buff, naturally. There is forgiving lighting, perhaps. The mother may look (gasp) tired or (gasp) bored, but hopefully looks powerful and protective. I am thinking white ceramic bath with baby blue tile work, the grout a bit mildewed.

OR

Mama walking down Newbury Street, baby nursing in the Ergo carrier while Mama reads from her iPhone. Possibly she is holding the hand of her toddler too. She is definitely wearing a hat to cover her atrocious hair. It should be near dusk, after nap time and before dinner. The light a definite golden-pink, gentle, and forgiving.

Unlike Leonardo's painting, these images would be first of all about nursing. If they manage to evoke an awareness of grace and a glimmer of love made incarnate, so be it. And if they break open a new mom's imagination about the possibilities of breast-feeding positions, well, Amen.

The Tooth Heard Round the Dinner Table

2008-10-14T20:08:00.009-05:00

Miss Iza has a tooth. On the way. I heard it.

Iza Biza was enthusiastically dining this evening. Her first course consisted of a puree of carrots, always a pleaser. The second course was an artful blend of quinoa and butternut squash. There was also an avocado chaser added as the meal progressed. She reached for her own spoon. Fine. I keep a spoon for Iza and a spoon for me. She reached for the bowl. Note: she reached for the bowl, not the contents. I held the bowl as she began to gnaw around its edge. Both hands began rooting in the quinoa-squash. This was fine dining. And then. . .the gnaw became a chomp. A tiny clink registered in my brain as it pinged again and again. This was no soft gum meeting pottery. This was bone on not-quite-bone china. Hooray!

So the mild fever, the frantic perusal of teething snake oil medicines at CVS, the regression to newborn crying patterns, the need to deploy the bouncy ball as a soothing technique, the middle of the night tears, the increased saliva and consequent gagging were all, indeed, the path toward the inevitable orthodontics she will don in twelve years. Mama had four teeth removed and wore braces with rubber bands. Tata grew up in Transylvania (Romania). If he had grown up in Grosse Pointe, he would have had braces, rubber bands, and the dreaded head gear. Miss Iza B., poor girl, is an orthodontist's brand new BMW ready to drive off the lot.

I rubbed her gum just to be sure. There it was: a jagged point. A rough edge. Elation followed by the realization that there are 19 more to work up through her sensitive gums. Teething, I know, is hardly the hard stuff. But it is portentous. Nevertheless,

I am gigantically, abashedly proud.

A tooth. I heard it first.

*please note how carrot puree acts nicely as an organic pomade for her coiffure in above photo

8-Months-Old on the 8th!

2008-10-08T10:14:00.003-05:00

Miss Iza B. checking her email.

Things I have learned about Iza:

Miss Iza B. loves to get her wiggles out just before bedtime. This is important because prior to learning this I had been trying to establish a "calm and serene" bedtime ritual that entailed warm bath, warm pajamas, warm breast, and off to sleep. (Not to mention dimmed lights and soft music.) Night after night Miss I. would enjoy her bath and then promptly cry in a desperate sort of please-don't-torture-me way as I attempted to diaper and dress her for bed. One night I had to step away for a moment to retrieve the forgotten diaper cream. She immediately began to kick her legs as fast as possible and smile and shriek-with-glee. It turns out that she loves being in her birthday suit, warm from the bath, with mama and tata there to see her wiggle and roll and show off her newest tricks. As she plays we finagle her into diaper and jammies. Soon she is ready to nurse and fall asleep. Lesson: a girl needs her wiggles before she can get down to the business of sleep.

Miss Iza B. learns. The neighbors loaned us their exersaucer--a contraption that allows the baby to sit up and rotate around a saucer of toys while bouncing on her newly discovered legs. I had heard mommies extol the virtues of these devices. I placed Iza in it and she was all smiles for about 45 seconds. Then she hit a toy--a noisy thing that rotates. She did not approve. Subsequent attempts went like this: smile--loud noise--cry--removal to another diversion. So we set out to learn to love our excersaucer. I sat with Iza in my lap and we touched and "played" with the toys from outside the saucer for a few days. Sure enough she learned that the loud noises are just what she loves. Now she plays happily in it while I drink my morning jasmine tea and provide an audience.

Things I have learned:

EC. Elimination Communication. I admit that I had never heard of this until Iza was about 3 months old. I didn't believe it. This is the practice of going diaper-free. (Read more about it here: http://www.diaperfreebaby.org/) You observe your baby and allow her/him to pee-pee or poo-poo in a receptacle. You can start this when they are a few weeks old. Mommies and Daddies, I have see this in action. A friend practices this with her three-month old. When we returned to her apartment after tea, she noticed that her baby's diaper was dry. She held her over a tiny potty and said "pish-pish" (a pee-pee sound) and she did just that. This is cool. Saves on laundering cloth diapers for sure. Not to mention that it is an intense way of really being tuned into your baby's cycles. We are vigilant about what we put into them. Some parents are just as vigilant about helping those things go out.

I admit: I don't think I have the energy or will to practice EC. But I do admire it. Concession: I finally ordered cloth diapers. Yes, I will now, after 8 months, attempt to give up my Pampers habit and switch to cloth. (Al Gore sheds a tear of joy.) Some say that it is an environmental wash (so to speak) between cloth and disposable due to the fact that cloth diapers require more laundering, i.e. more water and soap introduced into the environment. Yet, 1) I like the idea of less plastic/fewer chemicals used on my baby's bottom and, 2) I also like the theory that she will potty train sooner/easier because she will not like the feel of wet/poopy diapers. Never mind the fact that cloth diapers are damn cute and user-friendly these days. Check them out: http://www.wildflowerdiapers.com/

I have also learned that sometimes, despite all your talk therapy, you have to break up with your pediatrician. It was painful. I had interviewed three pediatricians before Iza B. was born. I chose a woman who was professional, worked nearby, and seemed well connected to the community. It was a private practice of three woman doctors. I liked that.

I had prepared a list of questions that I asked each pediatrician. But truthfully I had no idea what I needed/wanted in a pediatrician. In Boston the number of good doctors is overwhelming. So I just went with my gut feeling--I liked her style. It turns out, however, that we clashed on some issues. She recommends cry-it-out and starting solids as soon as possible, among other things I came to disagree with. The final straw concerned vaccines. Long story short, she was unable/unwilling to discuss an alternative schedule for vaccines. A significant part of me wanted her to convince me this wasn't necessary, but she responded to my questions with an attitude of impatience and contempt. Contempt, as we all know, is a relationship poison.

I am happy to report that I easily found two other pediatricians that will work for us and so the transition has been smooth. Breaking up is hard to do. Really hard. At least for me. But, parent lesson number #777: You must buck up and act in the best interest of your child even if that means breaking up with your pediatrician.

Palin: Folksy Maverick

2008-10-03T08:14:00.002-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSdFIDygFwM

Recommended Listening: Yoga: Meditation in Action

2008-09-15T15:55:00.002-05:00

The following radio program is a wonderful discussion of yoga. Even if you do not practice yoga, you might enjoy how Seane Corn explains how it works on the body and mind.

Program Description:

Speaking of Faith
September 11, 2008
Yoga studios are cropping up on street corners across the U.S. Now there are yoga classes at YMCAs, law schools, and corporate headquarters. This 5000-year-old spiritual technology is converging intriguingly with 21st-century medical science and with many religious and philosophical perspectives. Seane Corn takes us inside the practicalities and power of yoga, and describes how it helps her face the darkness in herself and the world.

http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/2008/yoga/

Way to Go, Mom

2008-09-13T20:35:00.007-05:00

photo courtesy of: http://columnofchristine.blogspot.com/

Red Hats "chip" in

By Amy Bickel and Jon Ruhlen - The Hutchinson News

from the Hutch News online: http://www.hutchnews.com/Fair/sights

With their brightly colored hats and purple clothes, the ladies of the Red Hat Society are used to making an impression.

That impression was all the more unforgettable on Wednesday by the sight of about 20 Red Hat Ladies showcasing their cow-chip-tossing skills.

Lovella Kelley, who took first place, said she didn't spend a lot of time practicing - chucking dirt clods while working in the garden was about the extent of it.

Nevertheless, her "pie"-flinging abilities were enough to take top honors in a contest that saw several tosses of more than 40 inches. [Typo? feet not inches?]

Kelley, who admitted that she had some reservations when the idea of a cow-chip-tossing contest was first broached, admitted that she had fun. She didn't go empty-handed, either - she and the second-place winner, Agnes Hammerschmidt, had the honor of brightly colored ribbons to enhance their unique ensembles.

"The thing about being a Red Hatter is that there's nothing that embarrasses you and nothing you can't do," Kelley said.

Attn: Condundrum Department

2008-08-30T08:55:00.006-05:00

Central Luggage Service

C/O Northwest Airlines, Inc.

Dept. C 5260

7500 Airline Dr.

Minneapolis, MN 55450-1101

August 26, 2008

Dear Sir or Madam:

My infant car seat, wrapped in a nylon red bag, was lost between Amsterdam and Boston on Flight NW 037 arriving in Boston on August 24^th. My File Reference Number is BOS NW 25353. I was given a temporary car seat to take my baby home. The following day my lost car seat was delivered. As soon as I took it inside I noticed a stench. The nylon bag and the car seat itself were infused with cigarette smoke. Needless to say, we are not smokers. When I called 1-800-745-9798, the number on my Luggage Tracing/Claim form, I was cycled through an answering service.

I called Northwest customer service and their best advice was that I should take my car seat back to luggage services at Boston Logan. The problem is that I cannot place my infant daughter in a smoke and toxin infused car seat and therefore I cannot drive back to the airport to present the problem. My husband is away traveling for the week. I am at home alone with the baby and have no car seat that I can use or any way of acquiring one until my husband returns one week from now.

Frankly, the car seat is repulsive. Although the fumes may (or may not) dissipate over time, how am I to know that the toxins will dissipate from the foam interior and the lining?

My car seat is a Chicco KeyFit 30, which I purchased for $169.99 (for which I have the receipt). The nylon bag –also smoke-infused—was approximately $12.00.

I write to you on the advice of a customer service agent who provided me with your office mailing address. Strangely, there was no phone number she could provide to help me address my problem (as the Boston number did not have a human being taking calls).

I await your response.

Sincerely,

JK Kelley and Baby Izabella

Unpacking

2008-08-29T19:46:00.021-05:00

We recently returned from our usual summer trip to see family in Hungary and Transylvania. Of course this year Miss Iza traveled with us. Traveling as a mom requires a packing strategy. Namely, minimalism. Extreme. I managed to pack for both of us in the space I previously used only for myself.

We carried one suitcase, blue, containing: clothes and toys and assorted for Biza and me for one month. I carried one pair brown capri pants, one pair black yoga pants, one skirt, and one (nursing) dress. I wore one pair black capri pants on the plane. I packed seven nursing shirts in a variety of colors and styles. One sweater. Enough undies, one bra, one pair socks. I wore one pair Gola flats and packed one pair sandals, semi-fancy. One small green bag of toiletries.

I did not pack any books. (Normally I take 6 - 8 novels and 4 -5 Hungarian language books, including Hungarian-English dictionary.) I did download three books to my iPhone, including Tess of the D'Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy and The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton (99 cents each), both finished, both female protagonists killed off in the end; and the biography of Harry S. Truman by David McCullough ($11.99 through ereader.com), still finishing--I'm up to his run for senate.

One nursing nightgown. One pair silver loop earrings. Vitamins, allergy medicine, baby Tylenol. Diaper cream, two tubes. Baby wipes, two packages. Six cloth diapers. One nursing cover, black and white print. Nursing pads, disposable. One package disposable changing pads, Sassy brand. Knot It, diaper bag dispenser, two, and refills.

Pampers, fifty-one. (More purchased in Romania.) Baby soap/shampoo. Baby wash clothes, 12, disposable. Bug repellent, organic and non-toxic, which we never used. Nasal aspirator and saline. Infant nail clippers and file. Baby sunscreen, two kinds, one for general coverage and one for sensitive areas (i.e. hands and face as she would likely consume a small quantity). Three baby hats. Three sleepers. Six onesies. Four baby pants. One baby sweat suit. One baby jacket. Six pairs baby socks. One cute summer baby outfit, pink.

Of note: We had access to laundry at Grandma's. Washer only. There was no dryer. So all items had to be line-dried and then ironed, a process that takes at least two and up to four days. On the up side: have you ever seen a pristine, white, ironed onesie? It is almost a shame to put it on the baby.

Slings: Five. Two Over-The-Shoulder-Baby-Holders, one small sized and one medium. I used the medium sized one on the overnight flight there for hands-free nursing and sleeping, and upon arrival to Transylvania on the overnight train from Budapest. One Zolowear ring sling in attractive black and white print for afternoon strolls when the heat abated. One Solerveil, SPF 70, turquoise, mesh ring-sling for walks in the afternoon sun, used almost daily. Baby Bjorn, one, brought in case Tata wanted to use it. Used once, by me. Tata wore Iza in the Solerveil, once.

Diaper bag, large, black, Skip Hop brand, designed for a double stroller. Perfect for international flight.

iPhone, one. Used as camera and for email (we had a wireless connection filched with permission from our neighbor) and reading.

Baptism grown, flouncy, worn by Miss Iza at her baptism. She was hot. She cried. She looked like a princess. She had two sets of godparents. We rejected Satan. And all his works. No one told me that my bra strap was showing. (Can we photoshop that?) We acquired a baptism certificate, which we left at the church. The priest brought it to us at the luncheon. There were sixteen guests. We left the certificate at the restaurant. With great understanding, the priest provided a third copy before we left. I didn't pack it in my suitcase, however.

Toys: Mr. Giraffe, The Whoozit, the Whatzit, 12 hooky ring things, a Whoozit teether, a butterfly teether, two blocks for the bathtub, Mr. Monkey.

We didn't pack our rocking chair. We survived. We didn't pack travel bed bumpers. I survived, barely. I slept with her at night and often during naps as well because I was afraid she would roll off the bed. She did not.

One infant car seat with sun cover. Four blankets of varying size and texture. One scarf used as toy.

I carried two packages of sanitizing wipes. These were used to swipe the armrests on the plane. (Except on the last leg from Amsterdam to Budapest, when she decided to quietly chew on the armrest as I napped.) They were used extensively in the couchettes for our two overnight train trips. The muck they "cleaned" was disconcerting.

Acquired: one gold Swarovski cross pendant, blessed by priest at baptism. Ms. pink elephant. Two chocolate salamis. One canister green tea from France, as a gift from guests from Hungary. Baby brush and comb. Two bibs. Two sets of godparents. A measure of confidence.

We have been to Budapest and to the heart of the summer Carpathians. Now getting myself out the door to spend an afternoon in the park seems much less daunting.

Firsts

2008-08-17T05:03:00.006-05:00

Miss Izabella has eaten her first fruit, her first food, banana. She loved it. I wanted to exclusively breast-feed for the first six months and we made it to that goal. She turned six months here in Transylvania not long ago. I had intended to wait until we return to the States to start solids to avoid the chance of her developing rashes, constipation, etc. while traveling. But she was ready. She watched us eat with eager eyes and started to smack her lips.

I had debated which food to give her first for quite some time. Many people start with rice cereal, often mixed with breast milk or formula. But it didn't make sense to me to start with a boxed food when you can just as easily give a fresh fruit or vegetable. Why not start with fresh, real food? I also debated the symbolism. (I know, ridiculous.) We are in Transylvania; why not start with a local food such as a potato or a summer apple? In the end, I went with the banana. Not local, but arguably universal in these modern times. No cooking. I simple mashed a chunk with a fork. No baby spoon? No problem. I just used my finger. The second day I used a coffee spoon (metal, not recommended because it might bash into her sensitive teething gums). Yes. She loved it. She told me "no more" by turning her head. Good girl, she already knows how to say no. An important skill.

Another first: first blood. This morning I held her in my arms and we gazed into a mirror. I admit I indulged in some self-narrative praise for my beautiful little person. She tentatively reached out and stroked the glass, meeting her mirror image and trying to grasp her own hand. I lovingly gazed at her play. Then I noticed that she was streaking the mirror and I thought, "how sweet that she is making her first mess." Then I realized it was blood. She didn't complain at all despite the fact that her index finger was now a fountain of sweet strawberry blood. What? Yes, the mirror has been there for at least the 10 years that I have been a visitor here. Yes, it has been cracked down the middle for all those years. Countless times I have pondered how we would definitely not live with a cracked mirror in the States--bad omens coupled with potential safety issues. I guess I had grown immune to its dangers. I gazed adoringly on as I allowed my baby girl to gouge out the end of her index finger. Let's just hope she is left-handed.

Really, she never cried. Either it was not painful or she is ready to play the part of The Cheerleader on the television series Heroes (who miraculously recovers from all injury). But try to apply pressure to a six-month-old's index finger. Good luck. And I had dressed her this morning in a pristine white onesie, freshly ironed as all clothes are at grandma's. A bit of blood on her onesie will go well with her lunch this afternoon, grey mashed banana. I am going to have to learn the art of stain removal soon.

File Under: People With Whom I Would Love to Share a Meal

2008-07-30T21:31:00.004-05:00

Please watch this until the end.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jx-ualuq45E

Wordle Fun

2008-07-22T13:31:00.006-05:00

A friend passed along information about a site called "Wordle." You can enter any text and it creates a "word cloud" with the most frequently used words. It is very cool. As a sample he entered the text from my blog entries about baby Iza.

Here is the the result:

Check out the site here: http://wordle.net/

Things I Will Likely Forget About the 4-Month Mark

2008-06-24T12:00:00.003-05:00

Iza B. takes a nap about one hour after she wakes up in the morning.

I am addicted to jasmine pearl tea.

I eat a lot of sandwiches.

If it has pomegranate in it, I consume it: juice, tea, ice-cream. Curiously, I haven't had an actual pomegranate all season. Alas.

I still drink ginger ale. But I don't keep it in the house. I give myself a treat when we are out and about in the summer heat.

The air conditioning broke and the whole system will be replaced next week.

I have discovered that I follow the Attachment Parenting method, which was news to me. I was just doing what came naturally. (I have instincts!)

Sometimes when I have a let-down (the cells decide it is time to release milk), it feels like electricity in my breasts.

Iza B. has persistent cradle cap. Luckily her hair is so profuse that it is hidden. We put cream on it and wash it in the morning. She still loves to have her hair washed--I hold her over the bathroom sink and then towel it dry.

Can't live without: rocking chair.

Can't live without: a light with a dimmer for her room.

Can't live without: a changing table that allows me to stand up straight and thus avoid back strain.

Obviously can live without: crib, which is still in the box. (We will need it soon enough! She is quickly outgrowing her bassinet.) She spends her first long stretch of sleep in the bassinet. After that we share a bed for the rest of the night. If I need a snooze, I rub her tummy and get at least ten more minutes of sleep.

Secretly addicted to: Hanna Anderson baby clothes. Yummy.

Iza loves to "talk." One day a few weeks ago she was being dried off by her Tata and she burst into a quite elaborate monologue with raised eyebrows and hand gestures. She is articulate without being verbal.

We have no schedule. We are okay with that.

I have finished reading three (non-baby) books since Bizzy was born: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, One Drop by Bliss Broyard, and The Grass is Singing by Doris Lessing.

Iza B. is an infrequent pooper: sometimes twice weekly! when she poops, she POOPs.

Can't live without: the big blue exercise ball--thought we might use it for labor BUT truly it is genius for soothing the baby. A must have. And I have toned muscles. Win, win.

Still haven't switched to cloth diapers AND I may not have the will to do it. Ack. (Next time?)

Major breakthrough: there is no such thing as THE perfect stroller. You must own at least two--one for the car (attaches to car seat, for quick trips) and one for the open road.

Biza hates the car seat. Don't believe them when they say babies LOVE to sleep in car seats. Not all babies are so inclined. I am told she will grow out of the screaming-like-death-is-imminent phase.

If I can't order it online, we don't need it.

The way she greets me each morning with a 100 watt smile.

Can't live/breastfeed/rock without: the iPhone. Truly, genius. I can email/facebook/check the weather/read the New York Times/text message my husband in the next room all while singing off-key lullabies to little Iza. Pictures of Iza on my iPhone right now: approx. 508.

When they ask if she sleeps through the night, I say, "Yes, except when she wakes up to eat, of course." Smile.

She can roll onto her side. Look out. Here she comes!

(This post was started 6/12 and posted 6/25)

Sausage and Ice (and how to change the world)

2008-06-09T16:41:00.010-05:00

You know you must be married to a Hungarian when cooking sausages and making mashed potatoes in the middle of the first heat wave of the summer sounds perfectly reasonable and appetizing. A few hours later I had the baby in a sling and a bag of ice pressed to the tender skin of my inner wrist as we walked to the local drugstore for burn ointment. Yes, I managed to prepare the sausages but not without incurring a burn. Skin tends to burn when you touch pans simmering on a stove. The baby was crying. The sauce, which I was trying to prepare from the pan drippings, was scorching. A little flesh wound is not a high price to pay for good sauce. Except the sauce was lost and a burn makes rocking your baby to sleep virtually impossible. (Although I did manage it with a bag of frozen strawberries to soothe my wrist.)

At any rate, there I was walking to the pharmacy with my little baggie of ice. And I started to think about ice. How Americans love their ice. What is summer without a 64-ounce limeade with a pound of ice to keep it cool? I contemplated how much ice we love to submerge in our oceans of Coke and Pepsi. Imagine the water "wasted" as ice. Imagine the energy consumed to store the ice. In some cases, the gas to transport the ice. Please, some economist out there (calling Steven D. Levitt, author of Freakonomics) calculate what would happen if we merely halved our ice consumption habits at fast food restaurants. Ack. And then I had an idea:

What if *insert large fast food chain* offered a "green" drink option? Half the ice. Of course, ice allows them to sell you less product for more money. So, reduce the size of the cup. Thus you get the same amount of liquid, no revenue loss for them. AND it reduces the amount of paper used as well. Double whammy. Here is the real marketing genius: charge 5 cents MORE for the green option with 1 cent going toward some environmental cause and the other cents covering the production/labor costs of the "green" drink initiative. Win, win, win. Think of the PR points that *insert large fast food chain* stands to earn. Think of the cultural capital it could then spend on marketing its newest monster beef burger.

And I've come full circle: from sausage to the environment and back to the meat.

The sausages, by the way, were handmade by Sulmona Meat Market with no preservatives in Boston's North End (little Italy) and were very tasty despite the 90 degree weather. The ointment was a waste of money and did nothing for the pain. I slept with a little baggie of ice and by morning I was ready to rock, by which I mean rock in the rocking chair.