Latch Please

The lactation consultant and the nurse stood at the foot of my hospital bed. They exchanged a glance. That glance was eloquent: it said that they had no idea why my baby girl was not breast-feeding. We had tried all the tricks and positions. At each feeding I would put her hot little tummy next to mine and guide her to my breast. She would frantically root around for a few seconds and then eventually purse her lips before erupting in a hungry cry. Or she would simply refuse to wake up at all. I'm not sure which was worse. We pumped and fed her with with a finger feeder. We moved on to using a bottle. Each nurse who came on duty had a different trick and I eagerly tried each one. That worried glance exchanged at the foot of my bed taught me my first lesson of parenting: even the experts don't have all the answers.

Right. Okay. So babies don't come with instruction manuals. I knew that. But I didn't realize how much I depended on instructions manuals. Though I may have my nonconformist streak, I have always deeply trusted the authority of experts. I may not be a rule follower, but I am a people-truster. With my new baby in my arms I finally learned that I was now supposed to be the expert regarding my new baby. I would have panicked if I had an extra ounce of energy to fire up the appropriate hormones. As it was, our failure to enter into that lactation love zone had me in a raw emotional state that threatened a composure implosion.

After our beautiful natural birth (see previous entry), I was ready to take my place in the creaky rocker for the 3 am feeding with my baby at my breast. We would gently rock and gaze into each other's faces, no matter how bleary my sleep-deprived eyes might be. Instead, there I was at 3 am with two suction cups attached to my breasts, the persistent whir-whir of the breast pump providing the lullaby for my baby if I was lucky. Often she would just wail while I tried to pump enough (2 - 4 ounces / about 10 minutes) for the next feeding.

Here was our routine:
1) arrange a vast and complicated array of pillows, (cycle through blaming the chair, the nursing pillow, the disarray of pillows)

2) place baby next to my breast, (baby whose face is scrunched up in hunger, but whose lips are pursed)

3) watch her attempt to latch and fail and usually wail with hunger, (become convinced that she has a fever and send Grandma and Tata on a frantic search for the thermometer)

4) feed her my breast milk with a bottle, (notice that the loving sweet words I whispered while she tried to breast-feed were absent and attempt to be loving even as my heart breaks)

5) burp/rock/soothe to sleep, (Grandma or Tata took over this part as I pumped)

6) pump for ten minutes, (ten long minutes feeling like a cow)

7) store milk, (worry that I am not properly handling the milk storage paraphernalia and that spoiled milk will sicken her)

8) obsessively write down time of feeding, amount given in bottle, as well as her wet and poopy diapers,

9) somewhere in there change her diaper and get her dressed,

10) every several hours wash the pump parts with hot soapy water and

Start over at two to three hours from the beginning of feed.

Day and night became irrelevant. Time was marked by daytime talk shows--Ellen, The View, and Oprah became milestones. (We don't have cable or decent reception. Still I had to have something on to keep me alert.) It was bleak.

There were moments of joy--friends dropping by, muffins, a lobster dinner, and a surprise baby shower. Washing her hair. Oh how she loves to have her hair washed! She has "electric hair" that stands up straight no matter what we do. I love to smooth it down and watch it spring back in rebellion.

All the books say that the baby will naturally root to the breast and begin to feed if placed on the breast immediately following birth. Sounds natural. We are mammals and we are born to suckle our mamas. Why didn't/wouldn't Iza?

I think there were many factors. In part it was due to a mechanical problem with her mouth and tongue because she had a slight to moderate tongue-tie (which we had clipped in the hospital)-- although some experts say that the tongue-tie doesn't interfere with breast feeding. I think that my nervous nature compounded by postpartum hormones and emotions didn't help. Tense. You haven't seen tense. My obsessive nature inhibited our efforts, yes, but it also meant that I refused to give up. Six weeks is an eternity.

I have heard that some women keep up a similar pumping regime for months or even a year. I am not made of that mettle. We barely left the house and I hardly left our bedroom. Iza became this little entity defined by the fact that she would not feed instead of my sweet, hot, little newborn.

In the effort to make it work, we stayed an extra day in the hospital, saw five lactation consultants, a speech and feeding specialist (who told us at four weeks that her compression suck was not conducive to breast feeding and that if we wanted permission to quit, she would give it), and returned to the pediatric surgeon who clipped her tongue tie for a reevaluation. Some of these experts gave me diametrically opposed evaluations. More than one person told me to "trust my instincts." But I had no instincts! Or rather my instinct was to consult the "experts" for help.

It turns out that no one seems to truly understand the science and art of breast-feeding. For Iza and me it was a simple matter of time--she needed to learn how to organize her tongue and grow in strength. As I look back I can see that she was making progress over the weeks. I didn't see the progress, however, because I didn't know what the final result would look and feel like.

We returned to the pediatric surgeon on a Monday. I had called him in tears the previous Friday. He examined her and concluded that her mouth and tongue should not be impediments to her feeding. This was good news--there was nothing wrong with her. Yet is was frustrating to find out that there was no one problem to be solved. He was wonderful--he sat in his office with me and discussed his wife's struggles. She pumped for a year as their son wavered between the breast and the bottle. By the end of the meeting, I was crying, of course. He gave me a hug. Iza screamed all the way home. We sat down amidst our pillows and she latched on for thirty minutes, falling into the textbook milk-drunken state of sleep I had only imagined. The next day she went to the breast for most of the day. The rest of the week I breast fed and supplemented with the bottle because I was afraid that she wasn't getting enough sustenance. A regular pooper, she didn't poop for two days and I was frantic. (The only way to know a breast fed baby is getting enough is to measure what comes out the other end.)

At my six-week appointment with my midwife that Friday we made the transition. After Iza performed brilliantly at the breast, my midwife suggested that we were ready to stop using the pump and the bottles. Lactation Liberation.

We have been feeding only from the breast since then!

We drove home from the midwife and immediately I reorganized our rooms, putting all the pumping gear out of sight and mind. I cleaned and prepared the way for a new phase in our parenting lives. Tata was was pretty shocked at my sudden and complete resolution to start fresh--pleasantly shocked of course. And it has been a huge change. We have a little girl.

Key to our success: Grandma. My mom came and stayed for three weeks and then returned for another week! She spent countless hours in the rocker with Iza while I pumped and generally freaked out about being a new mom. And of course Tata was essential as he took over the daunting tasks of keeping me fed, hydrated, and sane. It was a three-person job to get Iza to the breast, with a supporting cast of at least ten. But we did it.

Also key to our success was Susan Davies, a lactation consultant who came to our home on two occasions and checked in by phone several times. She gave us good tips about the hows of feeding and also was relentlessly optimistic and supportive. (I need to write an paean to the women in our communities who work to support breast-feeding. Truly they have a treasure of knowledge gained from years of hands-on experience.)

Another key in making the transition from a bottle-fed baby to a breast-feeding baby--a struggle that took six full weeks of around-the-clock attention--is the fact that I am not working outside the home right now. If I had to go to work, I am sure that the struggle would have been too costly. Breast-feeding seems to have become an option for those who can afford to pursue it. It is cheaper than formula in terms of dollars paid out, but extremely costly in terms of time invested both in the initial establishment of the relationship and the normal feeding schedule. I became a mother at a point in my life where I can afford to breast-feed, meaning I can stay home and allow my daughter's feeding needs to set our daily rhythm.

At about week five I started to come to terms with the fact that we might have to go to formula. I can't explain why breast feeding had become so important to me. I suppose it had something to do with the fact that it felt like I wasn't able to make a choice about how my baby would eat. Instead we were being robbed of an opportunity. I knew breast milk was the best thing for my baby and I had an aversion to using anything artificial with her. But when it become a reality that she might not go to the breast, I had to imagine myself as a mother who bottle feeds. This involved much grief. In the end, however, I can say that I changed my perspective on formula. I can say now that I am grateful that formula exists. What if Iza couldn't have gone to the breast? Formula would have been her only option. And I am sure she would have thrived as bottle fed babies do. But feeding her from my breast sustains us both in ways that cannot be fully articulated, at least by me. At least not yet.

By week 7 plus several days, yes, I am starting to feel like the authority on Iza. Not an expert. Not yet. But certainly I know her better and better each day.

Birth Narrative

Iza's Birth Narrative: Draft 1

Here is my first draft of the story of Izabella's birth. I am sure other details will come to mind. But here is my first attempt to record Iza's entry into the world. Most bodily fluids have been omitted. Natural Childbirth is beautiful, but not exactly pretty.

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I had just returned to bed after making a bathroom run and so I knew it was my water breaking when a gentle gush of liquid barely saturated my pajamas. I made sure the waters were clear and without odor, both signs that the baby might be in distress. I returned to bed to wait and see what my body would do. Within fifteen minutes I was up again with what I would soon recognize as contractions. It was 1 am. It looked like I was in for a night labor, which can be exhausting. Usually you are asked to come into the hospital when your water breaks because there is an increased risk of infections. I knew that I wanted to labor as long as possible at home. Instead of calling the midwife or my doula, it seemed natural to tell my my husband I couldn't sleep and creep out of the room. It would be me and my baby for the first seven hours of labor.

There was work to be done. First, I took the piles of onesies, booties, diapers, etc. off the floor in the baby's room and arranged them on the shelves that my husband had just that night installed. I put a few more items in my hospital bag. Then I moved downstairs, settled on the couch with a good book, and waited. Soon I knew that it was indeed labor and I began to conserve my energy by trying to sleep between each rush. I knew it was imperative that I rest as much as possible and stay hydrated. After a while I figured out that the best way to do this was to sit on the couch and rest my head between contractions. If I laid down, I had to sit up for each rush and it woke me up too much. It was much easier to semi-recline and rest when I could.

Around 4 am I decided I needed to move a bit and passed the time by returning upstairs to burn two birthing soundtracks--one filled withe Enya, George Winston, and Gershwin, the other with more upbeat numbers. (Later I would prefer the Winston tunes). I made two sets--one I packed in my hospital bag and the other I took back downstairs and played while I continued to labor.

At 6:30 am I called my doula and alerted her that the baby was on the way. I made myself some toast with elderberry-orange jam and a cup of jasmine tea. L. slept late by his normal standards and came downstairs at eight. I told him that the baby was on the way. He was calm and soon enough believed me as he saw me ride a contraction. He put the car seat in the car--we would figure out how to install it after the birth-- and cleared the car of snow and ice. He also had to pack his bag. The baby was coming at 38 weeks and 1 day, which is considered full term yet still a few weeks earlier than we expected.

At that point the plan was to go to the midwife at the clinic just to confirm that is was indeed active labor, but it became clear to me that we needed to get to the hospital. The car ride was brutal. By that time the contractions were about 5 minutes apart. It took about 4 contractions to get there. Being trapped in the car, halted at red lights with strangers eye-to-eye with my intense contortions, was not pleasant. For once I kept telling L. to driver faster, faster! There was one more contraction on the sidewalk in front of the hospital.

My doula was waiting for me as we arrived about 10 am and she helped me to the the elevator while L. parked the car. The maternity ward is located on the fifth floor. We loaded up in the elevator and believe it or not fellow passengers pushed the buttons for floors 2, 3, and 4. I was deep inside my contractions but this didn't stop an internal monologue. People, please. (I know, maybe the person who pressed floor 2 had a heart condition or was going to see a terminally ill parent. But still. I was in labor. Note to self: next time I get into an elevator with a woman in labor, take her express to the maternity floor!) The elevator car bounced and retracted on each floor.

In the hospital I was first evaluated by the midwife on duty, who I had not yet met. I remember that she came into the room while I was in the middle of a contraction. I was standing and bent over the bed, resting my head and chest on the mattress. I barely said hello. It turns out that I am a moaner. I was moaning long and deep when she introduced herself. Without checking my dilation, she moved us to the labor and delivery room. It was a long, long walk down that hall. Handrails had been thoughtfully installed. I was able to sway and move my hips as we walked to encourage my baby to move down.

The contractions were concentrations. I had expected to feel the contractions on the top of my belly. I had always heard that you have to push down and so I assumed that the muscles on the top of my belly would be involved. Instead the contractions were deep inside of me, located in the same spot where menstrual cramps originate. They were a force unleashed in my belly that concentrated my entire body in the center. I kept telling myself: "I am more" and envisioning a full daisy, which I had read somewhere measures 10 centimeters. Each time my body took over and concentrated itself, I moaned and tried to open and relax my mouth and throat.

I was concentration. I was completely unaware of time, but later I would learn that I labored for a few hours before moving into the bathtub as my labor became more intense. They offered me something to drink and I chose ginger ale from the list of options. I drank a lot of ginger ale during those hours and afterward in the hospital. I mention this because I have never really liked ginger ale, but it was so sweet tasting during labor. The bubbles were light and smooth in my dry mouth. I tried to eat some saltine crackers, but barely had the energy to get them past my dry lips.

The bathtub was marvelous. I can't imagine laboring without it. In fact, I would have been happy to deliver my baby in the water. The tub, however, was too small and not designed for water births. I was able to totally relax my body between contractions, feeling weightless and comforted by the warm water. Soon I began to push. The midwife did not tell me "push!" like doctors do on the big screen. Instead, it felt like I needed to shit. (Not pretty, but true.) And so I pushed. As I moved through the contractions, the midwife let me lead the way. She would moan along with me, cueing my own moans by moaning low and deep in the throat. Or if my breathing became too rapid, she would take deep breathes to cue me to do the same. Without saying a word, she communicated what I needed to do. I knew to mimic her and instantly my pain was more manageable.

My midwife never left my side. Newton-Wellesley's policy is to assign one nurse to each woman in labor. I had my midwife, my nurse, my doula, and L. with me the entire time. Well, L. did step out for lunch. When my midwife checked my dilation for the first time, I was dilated "10 +" or so she said. It was time to move out of the tub and into the bed. It was at this point that the nurse realized that L. was gone. She had him paged. He didn't respond. They called him on his cell. He didn't respond. I was only dimly aware of these events. Just as I stood from the waters, dripping and pushing, L. returned. It was good timing.

As they guided me toward the bed, they asked me how I wanted to deliver. All throughout the labor I couldn't stand to be on my side or on my back. I leaned on the bed, I sat on the birthing ball, I was on all fours, I sat on the toilet. I moved. I knew that I needed to deliver on all fours. I managed to get up into the bed and arrange myself with my knees on the bed and my upper body supported by leaning on the elevated back of the bed. L. stood behind the bed, facing me and holding my hands. My doula was on my right. Instead of looking out toward my midwife and the room, I was able to totally go inside of myself and concentrate on each push. In between pushing, I would lower myself in the yoga pose called the child's pose. The pushing was intensely painful and I made grunting sounds like I didn't know I could. It hurt. It hurt a lot more than contractions. But I was glad for the pain. It meant that she was moving. She was on her way and there was an end in sight! While I had labored, there was no sense of how long it would continue. Even though pushing was more painful, it was more bearable because it was clear that we were making progress.

After about 30 minutes of pushing, she emerged screaming at 1:38 pm, Feb. 8, 2008. As she began her passage into the world I felt tremendous sensations of stinging and tearing. (As it turns out, I didn't actually seriously tear.) The midwife had me stop pushing momentarily to allow the baby to help me stretch out. And then, she was here. Screaming and flailing. The midwife passed her up between my legs and into my arms. The first words out of my mouth: Thank you, thank you, thank you. (As in thank you all you wonderful people who helped me birth Iza NOT thank you for witnessing my stellar performance.) I know what my first words were because we have a video of it. (If Paris Hilton and her cohorts can post sex tapes on the internet, can I post my baby's birth on YouTube? The video is only about 2 minutes long. What would Iza say?)

My husband cut the cord and with a firm snip we were two. We then watched as the placenta was delivered. (Tata took a magnificent picture of the bloody placenta.) I had requested a mirror during the delivery, but didn't use it because I was facing backward. They put it in place to allow me to watch the placenta pass. It was amazing to see it balloon out of me. The midwife showed us how our baby had fit inside while she grew.

We stayed in the delivery room for a couple of hours with our new baby. She was placed immediately on my chest and made her first attempts at breast feeding. After a while they took her across the room to be weighed. When asked if I wanted her to be bathed, I requested that they wait until the next morning so that her skin would soak up all the vernix--the white filmy substance that covers a baby in the womb and keeps their skin soft.

She was born with so much dark hair! I was shocked to see all that hair. L. and I both thought that she looked just like him. In fact, we thought she looked just like her grandpa Barabasi. Newborns look like little old people and so it was no surprise that we could see Nagytata (grandpa) in her face. Now she has blue eyes, which come from mama, but her true eye color may change. As a good friend suggested, she looks like tata on the outside but she is all mama on the inside!

What a rush. I was enormously proud of myself. Tremendously. The rush of hormones was a high like I have never known. Physically I felt not only not bad, but really great. I had only a minor tear that needed stitching and otherwise I was filled with energy. Of course, when I got out of bed to be cleaned up I was a bit shaky. But ecstatic. My body knew what to do. I am not the natural earth mama type. I am more of the skinny-nervous, over-wrought, consult the textbook type. But my body knew what to do and I just had to get my head out of the way and let my body do its work. What joy.

Sunday Funnies: Yes, Pecan!

Stolen without permission from: http://justprettydeep.blogspot.com/

She Sleeps, Izabella, Queen of Transylvania

And sleeps. And poops big yellow poos. And coos. And when she is trying to wake up she makes terrible faces and does the most advanced baby yoga stretches with all her might.

Grandma went home yesterday leaving us alone with our baby girl after more than three weeks. We did okay last night after we figured out that, yes, she does want more to eat (what a champ!) and, yes, it does work better to tag team on the feeding/burping-rocking/pumping circuit. Since I do the breast and pump by default, we need to pass the baton when it comes to the bottle of mama's breast milk, burping-rocking (and washing out the lactation pump elements) jobs. A full time job indeed.

Now she is sleeping for the first time in her co-sleeper/bassinet. Up until a few days ago, Iza was mostly naked. She slept skin-to-skin with me in an effort to help her learn to love her food source. This means that at night I sleep flat on my back with baby Iza's belly on mine. She sets her little cheek right on my heart beat. This way I can sense her rousing immediately and tend to her needs. When she is sleeping during the day she often sleeps right in our big bed with all the covers removed and only her swaddling. Now that Grandma is gone and Iza is growing stronger and a bit more active, I decided to try out our bassinet. So far it has been a great place to store her clothes and blankets. She is happily swaddled there, her freshly washed hair standing up in electric shock.

I know I intended to post about her birth, but I am not quite there yet. I do want to write about it as soon as possible to capture as much of the detail as possible. On the other hand, her birth story is being told and as I tell it it grows more refined as the noise is filtered out and only the most salient elements remain. I will write it. Soon.

A note on her name: We struggled up until she was born about what to name our little one. Szilvia was a close second. We chose Izabella because we loved it and it is a Hungarian name that works in both Hungarian and English. We were disappointed to discover that Isabel and Isabella are both in the top fifteen popular names right now. Yet once we read about Queen Izabella of Hungary who ruled in Transylvania, I think we were hooked. (Tata is from Transylvania.) Queen Izabella (1519-1559) was a Renaissance lady who spoke four languages. (See her image above. Read more about her at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isabella_Jagie%C5%82%C5%82o) Izabella seemed perfect for our little Transylvanian.

Of course, I have quickly learned to explain: "It is I-z-a-bella, that is the Hungarian spelling."

There are endless nicknames for Izabella. We often refer to her as "Iza," which is pronounced with a long e sound followed by a z sound plus a schwa. Thus, something like "ezuh." She is bella baby, belza, bizzy, izuka, and sugar plum fairy.

By now Iza has awoken, fed, fussed, latched on with a nipple shield for 20 minutes, fussed, burped, had a diaper change, and zonked out next to me here on the bed.

A friend commented in an email that she admired my energy to keep on blogging. All I can say is, it keeps me human. My nipples ache. I can't seem to get out of the house. But I can manage a quickie-blog now and then to keep in touch in the virtual world.

I will write the birth story. Next time.

Natural Childbirth: Assembling Team Iza and the Birth Plan

We made our baby in South Bend, Indiana. Her arrival was scheduled after our move to Boston, Massachusetts. I would need to find the right midwife and and hospital in a city filled with an overwhelming array of top notch medical facilities. I was overwhelmed. In the end, I would not change a thing about my labor and delivery. Newton-Wellesley hospital was the perfect setting for Iza's natural birth.

I knew I wanted a natural childbirth and I knew I wanted a midwife. (How did I know these things? That deserves another blog entry of its own.) While I was open to a home birth or a birthing center, my husband was less sure. So, how to determine which midwife is the best for me in a city where I don't know a soul? (Or at least the souls I do know are not in the birthing phase of life.) As a well-schooled student of Eve Ensler, I simply asked women about their experiences. As I walked the streets of Boston in my apartment search back in the Spring of last year, it occurred to me that I was passing women with their infants happily strolling along. The experts were right in front of me. And how they loved to talk. I gathered a few stories and a few names seemed to repeat. This is how I found Elizabeth "Biddy" Fein at Harvard Vanguard. One of her happy moms assured me that she was excellent. I scheduled an appointment soon after we moved to Boston.

At first I thought that my choice of midwife limited me to a delivery at Brigham and Woman's hospital. I toured their facilities and was impressed by their professionalism. Biddy let me know at my next appointment that she also attended births at Newton-Wellesley hospital. Honestly, having another option was almost unwelcome. I just wanted a place to give birth, not more decisions to make. Nevertheless I scheduled a tour at Newton-Wellesley just to make the comparison. It was a BLINK decision. It was clear to me that Newton-Wellesley was the better place for a natural birth. Not only were the rooms and the fresh muffins each morning impressive, but they also assign one nurse to each patient and have a reputation for being open and welcoming to moms who want to labor and deliver without medical interventions. Don't get me wrong, this is no Ina May Gaskin retreat. While they are open to natural childbirth, it is still not the norm. The nurse assigned to me was pleased to witness my natural birth because it is a rarity.

Not expecting my husband to coach us through labor (who can remember all those labor signs and aids?), I also hired a doula. As is the case with most hospital midwifery practices, you are assigned to a midwife for your prenatal care. The midwife who attends the birth, however, is determined by whoever is on call when you go into labor. Thus you cannot know in advance which midwife will be present. It was important to me to have a doula present because she would be the one person (besides my husband) who knew me and knew my birth choices. I wanted a familiar face. I found Tara Kenny through a recommendation from Isis Maternity. I interviewed a few doulas, but felt most comfortable with Tara. I highly recommend her services (and can put you in touch if you leave a comment). Tara is actually a midwife who is building her practice here in the Boston area. I was lucky to have her expertise.

I imagined that Tara would assist my labor in my home and help me to determine when to go to the hospital. She would bring all the tricks of the trade--her experience and skills as well as the birthing ball. She would tell me when and how to breathe. As it turned out, Tara would meet us at the hospital--more on that later. Tara helped me write my birth plan (see below), detailing my preferences for labor and delivery. The birth plan was sent ahead to the hospital and given to the midwife and nurse on duty. They knew my choices and honored them.

Put my picture on the natural childbirth brochure. Put Iza's picture on the cover of the Newton-Wellesley hospital's informational packet for parents looking for a natural childbirth. My midwife, Dianne Reynolds, was amazing. The nurses were outstanding. If you live in this area and want to have a natural childbirth, but are a bit hesitant about a home birth of a birthing center, go with Newton-Wellesley. That's my vote.

My birth plan:

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The Birth of My Child

My goal is to deliver a healthy baby. I would like to have a gentle and natural birth and would like support to begin breast feeding. In addition to my midwife, my husband and my doula will be present.

Labor:
· I prefer the use of intermittent, external fetal monitoring.
· I am aware of the medications available and will ask for them if I need or want them.
· I plan to move and bathe as needed during labor.
· I prefer not to have an IV unless it becomes medically necessary.
· I prefer to allow my waters to break without assistance.
· I would like to avoid the use of pitocin or other medical inducements.

Delivery:
· I would like the option to use a mirror during delivery.
· If there is difficulty during pushing, I would like to use gravity or pelvic positioning and be given more time as long as baby and mother are healthy.
· I prefer no episiotomy cuts, but would like the use of perineal support/compresses.

Following Delivery:
· I would like the baby placed on my chest immediately and allowed to find the breast, allowing as much time as needed.
· The baby’s bath, exams, and vitamin K shot should be delayed until after the baby has had a chance to feed for the first time, allowing as much time as needed.
· I prefer to refuse the prophylactic eye drops.
· I prefer that the cord be allowed to stop pulsing or at least that it not be cut until I am ready to consent. My husband or my doula will cut the cord.
· I prefer that my baby receive only breast milk and request that the hospital not give the baby any formula or provide a pacifier.
· I would like to be consulted in all decisions regarding the baby.

Cesarean:
· If a cesarean becomes absolutely necessary, my husband and/or my doula will accompany me.
· If the baby is not in distress, then the baby should be given to my support person immediately after birth.

Thank you for your consideration regarding my wishes for a healthy and happy birth!

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Next installment:

the blog-appropriate narrative of Iza's birth. . .

Iza's Due Date

Today is February 24th, Iza's due date.

She has been with us for two weeks already and we can hardly remember life before her arrival.

Breast Feeding Update: She is still learning how to latch. Two weeks is a long time to study the art of the latch. At least it is a long time for a mama trying to coax a little one onto her breast. But we are hanging in there. And now that she has arrived (as of her due date), we are sure that a true latch is in her near future.

Last night Iza decided to "latch" and do her suck-suck swallow thing between midnight and one thirty. We set the mood by playing her birth soundtrack with heavy doses of Enya and George Winston. There was invigorating music. There were bare breasts. Bodily fluids. Moans. Pip squeaks. A belch. This morning we received a very kind email letting us know that our lactation party kept the neighbors awake. Seriously. I guess the music traveled via the air ducts in our turn-of-the-last-century condo. Yay! Iza is such a party girl. She has already had the neighbors complain about her milk antics! Things may get so rowdy they might have to call the Boston Police.

There is much to write about. Little time. Let me just say, thanks for the muffins. There is nothing more loving.

And thanks for the pep talks. New mantra: "I am the mama" and I will decide that my baby girl gets her mama's milk. Now we just have to convince baby Iza to forgo the china and drink straight from the fountain.

Team Izabella

It takes a team to bring a baby into the world....

Yes, I was the one pushing and yes we used no medical interventions. Her arrival was 100% natural. (Labor narrative with all its juicy details to follow, perhaps.) Yet let there be no mistake, we had plenty of assistance. Team Izabella 2008. And for the record, I fully support anyone who does use medical interventions. I have been there, I know the painful intensity--it empowers and humbles you.

And since the delivery, we have needed a whole battalion of helpers--lactation consultants, cheerleading friends, the nurse who generously gave us a handmade knitted cap when baby Iza's went missing as we tried to leave in freezing weather. Without Grandma, all would be lost. (Thank goodness we have even had an offer of a volunteer Grandma in the future when my mom will need to return to the land of Oz. Be careful what you offer!) Not to mention the 20 or people who have massaged my breasts in the past six days, none of whom have been my husband.

The smell of her soft skin. The silk of her hair. Her scrunched up face and her yellow baby poo. What more is there?

First attempt at blogging post-Iza arrival: I fired up the laptop and then couldn't resist a lean down and a gentle kiss on her exposed arm (she was born with a fist up next to her cheek and loves to have the hand near her face) and BAM my laptop crashed from my lap to the floor, inches from my state-of-the-art lactation machine. Hence: kisses trump keyboards in this new state of our affairs.

For those of you who know me: picture this: J.K. Kelley changing a little teeny diaper on a skirmiquin of a sweet baby girl, careful not to irritate her cord.

Still. How can I not blog my little girl's world? I have to give her something to be embarrassed about in about 13 years.

Izabella
born at 38 weeks and 1 day
born 2-08-2008
6 pounds 12 ounces
all spunk and spittle

By the way, still no crib or changing table. Yet we are sleeping, poopalooing, and doing just fine. My belly was plenty big after all that worry. And we do have our Bundle Me (thanks Ash!) and our Burberry diaper bag (thanks Jji!). We are in style and as soon as we figure out how to latch (or as L. calls it in ESL, "leach") we will be on the way. . .

38 Weeks

A typical pregnancy lasts between 38 and 42 weeks. You are assigned a due date at 40 weeks. Today the baby is 38 weeks. This means she could decide to arrive any day now. L's workplace has a betting pool with various dates ranging from Feb. 23 to March 1. We have had our fingers crossed for Feb. 29, leap day, just for the high jinks of it.

Things that are prepared for baby x's arrival:
diaper bag (tres chic! thanks to Jji)
car seat (not yet installed!)
co-sleeper/bassinet
supply of diapers, changing pad
baby clothes
my suitcase is packed
Boppy billow AND a My Breast Friend pillow
baby wash clothes
Bloom baby lounger
assorted slings
cotton balls
assorted infant care instruments--thermometer, nail clippers
assorted paperwork for the hospital

We have a doula. We have a pediatrician. We took the hospital tour. I am a regular at prenatal yoga. I swim.

Things that need to be prepared:
birthing soundtrack
crib
stroller
changing table
nursing foot stool
her name!

Things I obsess about:
1. furniture for the baby's room--we still have not purchased crib/changing table/storage but not for lack of my Internet searches. Hours. Still no combination of design/price/usefulness that satisfies. So, minimalism is the route we are going. So much for the "perfect" nursery.

2. My Belly. In particular, size. I measured too small. All is fine. But I can't imagine that a little person of 6 pounds has enough room in there. And so,

3. Her movement. I miss the big decisive tango moves. Things are more subtle now. I worry. I admit that I prod her a bit to get her to dance. It makes me feel better to see her undulate.

Any day now. . .

In the meantime, I'm off to prenatal yoga. Really, a sight to see.

"Babies Buying Babies"

Check out this segment from the radio program This American Life. While the entire program is entertaining, it was the third act of the Jan. 18, 2008 episode #347 Matchmakers that I thought was worth passing along. It makes you think. Dolls may not talk (most of them), but they say a lot about us.

You can listen to the entire program for free (or download it for 99 cents). The "Babies Buying Babies" segment starts at about minute 40.

http://www.thislife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=347

Segment Description from Website:

Elna Baker reads her story about the time she worked at the giant toy store, FAO Schwartz. Her job was to sell these lifelike “newborns” which were displayed in a “nursery” inside the store. When the toys become the hot new present, they begin to fly off the shelves. When the white babies sell out, white parents are faced with a choice: will they go for an Asian, Latino, or African-American baby instead? What happens is so disturbing that Elna has a hard time even telling it. (16 minutes)

Primary Decision

I'll admit it. I am still undecided. I am one of "those" people interviewed in the street on the eve of a primary vote who claim indecision.

Although I am sure I am the last to hear of the Washington Post "Choose your Candidate" quiz, I'll pass it along here. I found my results informative, but not shocking. It takes time, but it is worth it. Even if you are already "decided."

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/politics/interactives/candidatequiz/

Date Night? Cheap Trip to Transylvania

Music with Film
Film
Transylvania
8:10 pm
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Remis Auditorium

Transylvania by Tony Gatlif (France, 2006, 103 min.). In this picaresque gypsy musical road movie, Zingarina (Asia Argento), rebellious, young, and pregnant, travels to Transylvania with her best friend to search for the man she loves. She met him in France, but one day he left without a word of explanation. With her friend Marie, who jealously watches over her, Zingarina throws her body and soul into a romantic quest in a fascinating land. But when she finds her former lover in the midst of a pagan festival, he brutally rejects her. Mad with anguish, she flees Marie, who reminds her of her past, and meets Tchangalo, a kindred spirit without borders or ties. In French with English subtitles.


MFA members, seniors, and students $8; general admission $9.

Buy Tickets: http://www.mfa.org/calendar/event.asp?eventkey=31782&date=1/31/2008

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him.

Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.

gryke
grike: CREVICE, CRACK; especially : an opening in rock widened by natural forces (as weathering or solution)

Grimacing at the day. He pulled the boy closer. Just remember that the things you put into your head there forever, he said. You might want to think about that.
_____You forget some things, dont you?
_____Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.


vestibular
vestibular: of, relating to, mediating, constituting, or affecting the vestibular sense
vestibular sense: : a sense mediated by end organs in the vestibule of the internal ear that contain otoliths and are stimulated by the pull of gravity and by the starting and stopping of rectilinear head movements; broadly : LABYRINTHINE SENSE

He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings.

The grainy air. The taste of it never left your mouth. They stood in the rain like farm animals.

Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

Can you do it? When the time comes? Can you?

Make a list. Recite a litany. Remember.

Dark of the invisible moon. The nights now only slightly less black. By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp.

No lists of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes. So, he whispered to the sleeping boy. I have you.

rachitic
of, relating to, or affected by rickets

siwash
Etymology: Chinook Jargon, from French sauvage savage, from Middle French -- more at SAVAGE

This is my child, he said. I wash a dead man's brains out of his hair. That is my job. Then he wrapped him in the blanket and carried him to the fire.

All of this like some ancient anointing. So be it. Evoke the forms. Where you've nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.

_____We're going to be okay, arent we Papa?
_____Yes. We are.
_____And nothing bad is going to happen to us.
_____That's right.
_____Because we're carrying the fire.
_____Yes. Because we're carrying the fire.

catamite
Etymology: Latin catamitus, from Catamitus Ganymede, cupbearer of the gods, from Etruscan Catmite, from Greek Ganymds
: a boy kept for purposes of sexual perversion

kerf
groove

cochere
Etymology: French porte cochère, literally coach door
1 archaic : a passageway through a building or screen-wall designed to let vehicles pass from the street to an interior courtyard
2 : CARRIAGE PORCH

Can you do it? When the time comes? When the time comes there will be no time.

The chary dawn, the cold illucid world.

intestate
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin intestatus, from in- 1in- + testatus, past participle of testari to be a witness, make a will, from testis witness -- more at TESTAMENT
1 : having made no valid will
2 : not bequeathed or devised : not disposed of by will

He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

He could not reconstruct for the child's pleasure the world he'd lost without constructing the loss as well and he thought perhaps the child had known this better than he.

If they saw different worlds what they knew was the same.

knurl
1 : a small protuberance, excrescence, or knob
2 : one of a series of small ridges or beads on a metal surface to aid in gripping

mae west
Etymology: Mae West died 1980 American actress noted for her full figure
Date: 1940
: an inflatable life jacket in the form of a collar extending down the chest that was worn by fliers in World War II

_____You're not the one who has to worry about everything.
_____The boy said something but he couldnt understand him. What? he said.
_____He looked up, his wet and grimy face. Yes I am, he said. I am the one.

150 Pounds No Less

The last thing I expected was to develop a complex about my belly being too small.

I am 36 weeks plus 3 days into the 40 weeks of a typical pregnancy. Two weeks ago I lost a few pounds and my belly measured a few inches below the expected range. Low grade panic developed.

I attempted to eat more despite near constant heartburn and the low groan of a belch always ready to erupt. (It is pregnancy, people. Worse bodily discomfort to come. I can't promise to spare you from the gore if you want to bask in the maternal joy.) I swear my stomach is the size of a lima bean and who knows where my intestines are located these days.

Still, I ate: often, and with a renewed sense of urgency for feeding the little one. On Friday morning I am proud to report that we tipped the midwife's scale at a healthy 150 pounds. It was a relief to see that number on the scale.

As my weight has increased over the course of the pregnancy, I have been amazed to watch the ever increasing digits balance on the scale. I was expected to gain somewhere between 28 - 40 pounds (according to one estimate) and I am just about there. Here is the breakdown in weight gain as estimated by www.babycenter.com based on my pre-pregnancy height and weight:

Maternal weight
Uterus: 2.82
Breasts: 1.17
Blood: 3.64 (Almost four pounds of blood!)
Water: 4.89
Fat: 9.74

Baby weight
Fetus: 7.5
Placenta: 1.89
Amniotic Fluid: 2.32

Total: 33.97 pounds

Still I worry that my belly is below par for the top of the ninth. Those near and dear to me assure me daily that my belly is HUGE, and so BIG, and plain BEAUTIFUL. I take deep breathes and stick it out as far as I can when I am not trying to waddle down the stairs or tie my shoes.

This weekend I corralled the family to a photography studio for a family portrait. I will attempt to keep a photographic record of the baby's life. (Thus far in my many years I have compiled exactly ONE photo album.) When better to start for baby X than with a few shots of her mama's Big, Huge, Amazing belly? I hope to hang the images in the baby's room to welcome her. Well, not to welcome her exactly. I am sure she will probably arrive before I manage to get the photographs ready for display.

Here is a fun, slightly sad fact: I noticed that my first instinct in front the camera was to cock one contrapposto hip and suck in the abdomen. Fat chance!

The baby is due Feb. 24th.

Free Cycle (got it? need it?)

Check out this idea:

Freecycle: A Web of Free, Unwanted Things by Ted Robbins

www.freecycle.org

Yesterday I posted an offer of two desk chairs that we no longer need.
Today seven people have expressed an interest.

One more way to purge. In general I like the idea of supporting Salvation Army and Good Will, who use the proceeds from donations sold in their shops to fund their job training and other social justice work. On the other hand, I've had these chairs for ages because it was too low priority to get them down to the car and across town to donate.

(Works all across the country. Check out the website for a network near you.)

Book Talk: Sue Miller's The Senator's Wife

This evening I made my way to Brookline Booksmith, a local independent book store, to hear Sue Miller speak about and read from her new book, The Senator's Wife. We read one of Miller's less well known works for Book Club a while ago, The World Below, which prompted a lively discussion about the secrets we keep in families and across generations.

I hadn't heard much about her new novel before I set foot in the bookstore. I have to admit that I left intrigued enough to add the title to my soon-to-be-read list. (Currently I am trying to avoid purchasing books, opting to use my shiny new library card instead. Trying to be green. Waiting for my Kindle.) Even though I hadn't heard of Miller's new book, it has already been reviewed. She opened her presentation with a note of thanks for the emails she had received from readers contesting a particularly nasty review in the New York Times by Judith Warner called "Stand By Your Name." Miller didn't linger on the issue. She moved on to discuss her sources and her research for the novel.

Miller spoke about how she become interested in how divorced spouses sometimes return to one another in a time of illness or need to physically care for one another despite all that may have transgressed in their history. She was also interested in how the physical care for an infant shapes, indeed creates, a mother's love for her infant. These dynamics gave rise to her characters in the novel. Her research included reading the biography of Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan and What to Expect When You Are Expecting. She even made a trip to the local pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test, took it home and used it! (She was not pregnant.)

After these brief comments, she read a passage from the novel. She chose to read from a section in which the senator's wife returns to his side to help him campaign for a second term despite his horrific betrayal. She chooses to put on a public game face to do this thing for him. Miller reads quite well and it was easy to sit back and enjoy the story unfold.

Apparently there are twists, turns and a catch-your-breath (maybe slam it down) ending. I haven't read it, so never fear that I will give it away!

When I made my way home I switched on NPR and checked my pot roast (my first EVER) in the crock pot. It turned out to be a Sue Miller night--her taped interview with Tom Ashbrook was on air. Check it out: Sue Miller: "The Senator's Wife"

Sue Miller

Spreading the "News": No Pants 2K8

Beware Of Passengers Without Pants On T

http://wbztv.com/local/Improv.Everywhere.No.2.627321.html

BOSTON (WBZ) ― If you're on the Red Line Saturday afternoon, you might see something unusual on the train - hundreds of passengers without pants.

The New York-based group Improv Everywhere is encouraging people to sign up for the stunt in Boston and nine other cities January 12. The Boston event kicks off at 3 p.m. at the Alewife station on the T.

The group says there are only two requirements for participation. You "must be willing to take your pants off on a subway" and be "able to keep a straight face" while doing it.

They request participants don't wear a thong or anything else that might offend passengers.

"Our aim is to make people laugh, not [make them mad]." Boston organizer Adam Sablich posted on Facebook. He also urges participants not to cause trouble. "MOST IMPORTANTLY: If you are asked by ANY person of authority (even rent-a-cops) to put your pants back on, DO SO. We aren't trying to get anyone arrested and we aren't protesting anything, so don't be stupid."

The site also contains very specific instructions for participation, including:

-Not talking to each other. "No one knows each other"

-"Sit in a car as you normally would" until your assigned time to de-pants. Then "stand up and take your pants off and put them in your backpack… If anyone asks you why you've removed your pants, tell them that they were "getting uncomfortable" (or something along those lines.)"

-At assigned stops participants are to exit and "stand on the platform, pantless."

-" If questioned, tell folks that you "forgot to wear pants" and yes you are "a little cold". Insist that it is a coincidence that others also forgot their pants. Be nice and friendly and normal."

More than 300 people have reportedly signed up for the event, which is being called "No Pants 2K8." On its Web site, the group claims it has pulled off more than "70 missions involving thousands of undercover agents."

WBZ-TV contacted the MBTA about the event. According to T spokesman Joe Pesaturo, "If they pay their fares and conduct themselves in a safe and orderly fashion without breaking any laws, then there should not be any problems."

Guest Writer: Obama in '08

I recently received an email from a friend who expresses her support for Obama's campaign for presidency. I appreciated her political energy and gained her permission to publish it here to reach a different slice of cyber space. I am still an undecided voter and open to conversation. As you may recall, we recently jaunted up to New Hampshire to see McCain speak. I would love to see ALL the candidates. Sadly I missed the debates this past Saturday as we had theater tickets. I did read all the coverage on Sunday. In short, write me. Tell me who you are voting for and why. Inform me. Persuade me. Word of mouth is a powerful tool.

Below is the letter, the second in my series of guest writers. (You can be the third!)

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

In an e-mail to friends and family, DJ wrote:
Hey, peeps,

Refill your coffee mugs, void your bladders, and settle into a cushy chair, because I'm about to gush at length, and you are a captive audience.

I'm en fuego for Obama in '08, as I think each of you knows from my spazzing about him over the past few months. (I just had an odd dream last night in which Barack and his lovely wife Michelle were house guests at my mother's house and had to sleep head to toe on a sectional sofa because we didn't have a guest bedroom; you will be relieved to learn that they were considerate guests and rose before the rest of the house to fold up their bed clothing so that the household would have full use of the sofa during the day; if that doesn't say Should Be Leader of the Free World, I don't know what does. But, then again, I've never studied policy. . . .)

Anyhoo, back on track for a minute, my hubby has been following Barack Obama's federal political career with great interest for years now. I remember where I was standing (the kitchen, near our sensible Consumer Reports--rated, bottom-of-the-line Sear's oven) when he first said to me, "Honey, keep your eye on this Obama guy. He's going places." Because of my Caro Sposo's excellent judgment, we've been following Barry's upward progress since the first half of this decade and were thrilled when early last year El Obama threw his hat in the ring for president. We've been his staunch supporters from the beginning.

After seeing Barry's inspiring first-place finish in the Iowa caucuses on Thursday night, I was moved to the height of armchair philosophy and ordered Obama in '08 t-shirts at CafePress.com for our little household. And then Chris Matthews (or Keith Olbermann or someone) made an off-hand comment about The Youngins Not Doing Anything to Effect Political Revolution Other Than Wearing Snarky T-Shirts. I felt the sting of the rebuke and got online and joined the 'Bama'bandwagon officially. And so, I write you, my intelligent, passionate, idealistic, exquisitely practical family and friends.

I know it seems early to make a decision about presidential candidates. This is a DEADLY serious issue (just ask our be-camouflaged buddies hanging out in Iraq), and of course I support your taking the time appropriate to weigh the issues at hand. But I urge you to begin looking closely at the candidates (on both sides) now and to especially consider what Barack Obama's candidacy has to offer.

From the beginning, Barack Obama has marshaled his intelligence, poise, and power to stand up for the disenfranchised. After graduating from Harvard Law School, he moved to Chicago, Illinois, inspired by the policies of Harold Washington, Chicago's first African American mayor, who vowed to be "fairer than fair" to all of his constituents who had suffered for decades under the imbalanced administration of the Daly dynasty.

As a state representative, Obama cooperated with Republicans and Democrats to craft legislation on health-care, ethics, welfare, and death-penalty reform.

Since his election as Illinois state senator in 2005, Obama has championed environmental, border-security and immigration, and lobby reform and has worked to deescalate the war in Iraq and improve health care for children.

His presidential platform promises

1. universal health care by the end of his first term in the Oval Office,
2. greater transparency in governmental decision making (a welcome relief from the Bush administration, frankly),
3. increased funding for child education (with an emphasis on math and sciences, which I think is critical for our nation's long-term security),
4. tax-code reformation (repealing taxes for the poorest retired and increasing taxes on the wealthiest 1 percent), and
5. environmental reform (targeting big-business polluters and national oil dependence).

Unlike other politicians, from 2002, the beginning, Obama has opposed the war in Iraq, accurately predicting that entering into a conflict without adequate troop numbers or strong international support would only heighten the tensions in the Middle East and imperil American security. In the face of the war, entering into its fifth year (can you believe it?), Obama would phase out deployment of troops from Iraq and pursue aggressive diplomacy with Syria and Iran, coupled with harsh sanctions. He believes the United States of America should not arrogantly seek to bully the international community into submission but should rather regain military, diplomatic, and moral leadership through example. Putting his money where his mouth is, Obama has removed personal financial holdings from Sudan-related stock and from companies that do business with Iran.

I believe in this guy. I believe that his administration will effect great change in our nation. I believe that he can unify the bitterly divided. I believe that he represents some of the best of the United States of America. I want him crafting policy. I want him as a world leader.

If you are interested in throwing your support behind Barack Obama as my little family has, check out http://www.barackobama.com/, and join the revolution.

And I also think you ought to consider any number of super-cute t-shirts from CafePress.com, which are also snarky while on-message.

Pax and philia,
DJ the Rabid

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

Read DJ's blog at: http://justprettydeep.blogspot.com/

Vacation Days: Dresden Dolls and Patriots

I am one to be vacation-sick, i.e. after my requisite 72 hours in my purple robe I grow impatient with laziness and long for a Project. Anything to regain a sense of purpose, even it must be back to the nine-to-five. This year, however, vacation has been refreshingly sweet. The key is to try new things. . .

Saturday we lazed around the house all day pajama-clad. Leftovers were warmed in our new microwave, a high point of the day. Finally about seven we bathed and dressed for our night on the town: a concert at the Orpheum theater in downtown Boston. I prepped the family by downloading two CDs and playing them throughout the day. The band: the Dresden Dolls.

I have to admit, the more I read about the Dresden Dolls and their opening acts, the less sure I was that our twelve-year-old sidekick was ready for the experience of seeing them live in concert. Yet. Going to a concert with your parental types can only be a good thing in terms of nullifying any allure of the less than savory aspects of an "alternative" culture--it renders nose rings uncool if your adults give tacit consent by attending a concert with the same crowd. Our tyke (whose shoes are too big for me and I am not a delicately shod woman) donned his Notre Dame cap instead of any secondary metal.

We missed the first opening act, Meow Meow, mostly by design. A twelve-year-old can only take so much and I bargained that were better off missing the first installment of the evening. You can read about the act in the Boston Globe article "Here, kitty kitty." We did hear the second opening act, a band from Brooklyn, NY called the Luminescent Orchestrii. They were surprisingly good. They opened with a Romanian gypsy-ish song, much to our delight. They played music from all kinds of traditions--French, Bulgarian, Yiddish--but added their own twists. Very fun.

The twelve-year-old was showing signs of concert fatigue by the end of the Luminescent Orchestrii's set. It should be noted that he was keenly aware that the Patriots were playing the Giants in an attempt to complete a perfect season. As we are partly to blame (mostly to blame?) for fostering a love of the Fighting Irish which has morphed into a Patriot's passion, we felt his pain. The concert was LOUD and slightly BORING knowing that THE game was in progress.

We all perked up when the Dresden Dolls took the stage. They are musicians and performers. It was a show to say the least. L. and I could have stayed through till the end, but round about 10 pm the new experience threshold for the tyke crested. Luckily we got to hear "Coin-Operated Boy" before we had to make a mad dash for a cab and home in time for the fourth quarter. We happily watched Tom Brady lead the Patriots from behind to win and thus complete a 16 - 0 season. Revitalized by the Dresden Dolls and thrilled by the Patriots. A good night.

View the video for "Coin-Operated Boy":

Read the Boston Globe's Review of the Dresden Doll's Performance:
Theater is fitting for dramatic art of Dresden Dolls

A sample from the Luminescent Orchestrii's work (available on their website):
http://www.lumii.org/mp3/Luminescent_Orchestrii_-_Taraf_Hijacked_192k.mp3
If you go to the website, you will see that palinka has fueled their inspiration. . .

Saturday Morning Cereal: McCain in New Hampshire

What to do on a Friday night in New England? We loaded up the car with granola bars, water bottles (reusable, filled with tap water, of course), my new crochet project (my first after a seven year hiatus) and road tripped to New Hampshire to be a part of the political fervor that is primary season.

L. googled and found a free and public event for young professionals hosted by a company called wedu (insert umlaut above the letter u). Senator McCain was the guest of honor. Today Bill Clinton is scheduled to speak in New Hampshire. We couldn't wait for today. McCain it was meant to be.

We followed Linda, our gps device, north to Manchester, New Hampshire, arriving about twenty minutes early. We knew it was the right venue due to the McCain bus and the McCain Hummer souped up for parade events. A Hummer? I remember that Hummer provided a vehicle to a certain Indiana Republican, Chocola, for politicking. I guess McCain was on their list too. (McCain was later to address environmental issues and the problem of dependence on foreign oil.) To be fair, perhaps the Hummer belonged to an ardent follower. Still.

We were handed blue McCain lapel stickers by a guy on the right and Sierra Club flyers and stickers from the left. We donned the stickers--might as well get in costume for the event. The room, which seated about 50 people, was warm. Our twelve-year-old companion promptly started to die of hunger (granola was in the car) and fade with sleepiness (what can you do?). Did I mention that half the room (it seemed) was packed out with media people furiously typing on laptops or adjusting their digital cameras? The white plastic chairs were very uncomfortable for a pregnant lady of thirty-two weeks. We settled in. The local TV people started to interview the audience members. Though I was seated on the inner aisle, I escaped the camera. Jazzy music glazed the room as we waited for the event to begin. And waited. There was a hand lettered sign tacked up behind the podium that read "THE MAC is BACK!"

Soon McCain was introduced and took the stage to applause. He is a compact man. Dressed in a navy suit, maroon sweater vest, and light blue collared shirt, he appeared comfortable. After explaining that they had been delayed in Iowa due to a broken snow plow, he quickly turned over the microphone to Jane Swift, former governor of Massachusetts. She supports McCain due to his views on education and national security.

McCain then spoke for approximately twenty minutes before taking questions from the audience. Though he touched on several topics, he said that the ONE thing that we should remember from the evening is: Al-Qaeda is on the RUN, they are NOT DEFEATED. Iraq may be receding as an issue for voters. It is receding because we are succeeding. YET. He said that we face a "transcendent challenge" these days from radical Islamic terrorism. Case in point, Bhutto's assassination was carried out by those in . . . and here I can't recall exactly how he phrased it, but essentially he linked her death to Al-Qaeda. His response? Military, diplomatic, and ideological. Pakistan is important because it has nuclear weapons and we should respond by 1. Securing those weapons and 2. Securing the election process. Then McCain said that Bhutto had been a "transcendent figure" and that it would be hard to replace her (or something to that effect). Transcendence? Transcendent challenge AND transcendent figure? What? What does he mean by transcendence? Al-Qaedo and Bhutto are transcendent? Que?

Then it was time for questions. What impresses me is that anyone off the street can stand up and ask any question. The Sierra Club asked him about global warming (he prefers "climate change"), a woman asked him about health insurance (he seemed unsure of his answers), another woman asked about America's policy toward promoting condom use in Africa to prevent HIV/AIDs (he blamed corruption in Africa as a reason why we shouldn't send aid), someone asked about how to fund the war in Iraq (no new taxes will be involved). I wanted to ask about education and his stance on reform and No Child Left Behind. I developed a case of bashfulness fueled by chair-weariness and early onset dinner pangs.

It was good to be part of the stump. It was surreal to hear someone stand in front a live audience and say "I should be president because....." I mean, who really says that? It seems like made-for-TV drama material.

This just in: We invited some friends to join us yesterday. They missed the first event, but made it to McCain’s headquarters for a brief meet-and-greet before joining us for dinner. They shook his hand. They just called to let us know they have caught the campaign spirit. They returned to New Hampshire today to shake Bill Clinton’s hand and are hot on trail of events all day long. . .

Saint Mary's College Women's Choir: Amazing Grace

The Saint Mary's College Women's Choir is recognized as one of the finest collegiate women's ensembles in the country. They have just released their 4th CD of new music for women's voices on the ProOrganolabel. Here they perform Ron Jeffers' arrangement of "Amazing Grace."

Saint Mary's is my alma mater. The choir, of which I was a fan and not a participant, submitted the above video as part of the Clash of the Choirs television contest. View the site at http://my.nbc.com/groups/videos/clash-of-the-choirs?videoID=676468

Saturday Morning Cereal: H.D.

from "The Walls Do Not Fall" by H. D.

excerpts from [4]

so I in my own way know
that the whale

can not digest me:
be firm in your own small, static, limited

orbit and the shark-jaws
of outer circumstance

will spit you forth:
be indigestible, hard, ungiving,

so that, living within,
you beget, self-out-of-self,

selfless,
that pearl-of-great-price.

excerpts from [8]

but if you do not even understand what words say,

how can you expect to pass judgement
on what words conceal?

[18]

The Christos-image
is most difficult to disesntangle

from its art-craft junk-shop
paint-and-plaster medieval jumble

of pain-worship and death-symbol,
that is why, I suppose, the Dream

deftly stage-managed the bare, clean
early colonial interior,

without stained-glass, picture,
image or colour,

for now it appears obvious
that Amen is our Christos.

excerpt from [33]

let us not teach
what we have learned badly

and not profited by

[39]

We have had too much consecration,
too little affirmation,

too much: but this, this, this
has been proven heretical,

too little: I know, I feel
the meaning that words hide;

they are anagrams, cryptograms,
little boxes, conditioned

to hatch butterflies. . .

poets.org: H. D.

Friday Night in Boston: Love + Butter

Frying under the radar
At Love+Butter supper club, dining is a covert experience

By Janice O'Leary, Globe Correspondent | November 28, 2007

There's no sign on the door, there are no business cards near the entrance, and there is no phone number to call for reservations. You may dine there and never learn the names of your hosts. But that's all part of the mystery.

Love+Butter is an underground restaurant, or supper club, as it calls itself, the first in this area. It's not listed in any dining guides, and all the advertising is word of mouth. But those who have eaten there give this illicit venture and the chefs who run it top ratings.

For years diners on the West Coast have been scrambling for invites to underground restaurants, where local chefs take off their toques to cook in a small setting without the limitation of having to cater to public tastes. Other cooks also got on board, creating illegal supper clubs in their homes, friends' homes, even, in one case, a bus on the beach.

Love+Butter does not take place in a bus on the beach, happily. It's in a private home, where on weekend nights you can secure a seat at a table for six by making an online reservation. Unless you book it for yourself and five companions, you'll be seated beside a stranger. But by definition, the other guests are typically interesting and add to that sense of discovery. Love+Butter provides only water, so it's strictly BYOB, which wine lovers appreciate. There is no set charge for dinner, but rather a suggested "donation" of $45 per person in cash, with a discount for students or those working at nonprofits. Interested diners go online to see the five-course menu one week in advance. None of the courses are set in stone. Special requests such as fish instead of red meat, or restrictions because of allergies can be accommodated.

The underground spot has no license to operate, nor has the Board of Health inspected it, which means it risks being closed down. In California, one underground restaurant, Digs Bistro, was busted and shuttered, but parlayed its success into a legal business just last month.

While the air of secrecy does add spice to the experience, having a restaurant in a home means that the duo who run this place are both cooks and servers. As a result, some things are downright homey. Flatware isn't replaced after each course, and diners pour their own water. As for decor, crates of books line the walls. Think graduate student housing, only spotless.

The venture isn't a moneymaker.

"It would take one creative accountant to find profit in this," says one of the chefs.

So why do it?

For love. The love of good food and feeding others, they say. But also for a more sentimental reason: their love for each other. They wanted a project that would bring them closer. "We have very different professional lives," says one half of the duo. "This was a project we could do together." And they simply enjoy cooking for others. "We were feeding people long before this."

Making a meal in their tiny kitchen might test the tightest relationship, but for these two, harmony rules the house. On one visit, while they prepped for the night's meal, one had sent small rounds of dough to the oven, hoping they'd bake into puffy little cakes, but they flattened and spread into a thin, crispy layer of brown. They tasted it. Not bad, but not what they wanted. No worries. The other chef remixed the dough with more flour and tried again.

While the two cooked, there were no recriminations, no sighs of exasperation. It might have been a lesson for kitchens and marriages both.

Their food philosophy is the popular one these days, buying local and organic whenever they can. A farmer brings them grass-fed lamb, which is tender and flavorful, prepared four ways: lamb's tongue with beets becomes an appetizer, set on Chinese soup spoons with herby pesto. The entree is fashioned from peppered lamb loin, braised lamb shank, and seared lamb belly.

"Each muscle is distinct," says the half of the duo who used to be vegetarian. "With several cuts of [lamb] we can put all kinds of cuts on display. It becomes an act of discovery."

A lineup of dumplings, vegetables, and rabbit broth for a second course is the only clunker in the mix. The dumplings are undercooked and a tempura carrot has lost some of its flavor, although the golden crust is a model.

The third course is Spanish mackerel fillet with two potato pancakes and white gazpacho with chorizo. "The only food I've had in Boston that's better than what these folks cook is at L'Espalier," announces one of the guests.

Amuse-bouches - tiny mouthfuls - punctuate the meal, such as an apple fritter with a crisp outside and springy inside, offered with a shot glass of apple essence and a palate-cleansing spoonful of salty-sweet cucumber jelly over preserved-lemon ice.

A fourth course, called "Herbs & Spices" on the hand-printed menu, includes an unusual trio, beginning with a tablespoon of Greek yogurt topped with rosemary sugar, a buttery cookie with juniper icing, and a bay-leaf gelatin cube, all with vastly different, yet compatible, textures and flavors. "We wanted to pay attention to each flavor - rosemary, juniper, and bay leaf," says one of the chefs, "in isolation and then unite them."

The final dessert course includes spiced cardamom bread with orange and lemon rind, ice cream dotted with pieces of preserved bergamot (the citrus that flavors Earl Grey tea), and a warm slice of pumpkin.

After dinner ends, the chefs answer questions about the menu. The two are smart, thoughtful, and quite shy. There's no denying that what they do, they do for love.

Love+Butter might smack of a certain elite foodiness if the meals weren't so carefully and cleverly prepared. And the secrecy is fun. Who doesn't want to give a smart answer to colleagues wondering what you're doing this weekend or be able to bring a date to a restaurant no one knows about?

Alas, there's no receipt to prove you were there.

(Who needs a receipt?)

Charles Simic: The World Doesn't End

(untitled, page 5)

I was stolen by the gypsies. My parents stole me right back. Then the gypsies stole me again. This went on for some time. One minute I was in the caravan suckling the dark teat of my new mother, the next I sat at the long dining room table eating my breakfast with a silver spoon.

It was the first day of spring. One of my fathers was singing in the bathtub; the other was painting a live sparrow the colors of a tropical bird.

Poets.org: Charles Simic

spencer tunick

A few years ago I came very close to posing for spencer tunick. The event was within driving distance in Cleveland, Ohio. I signed up online. I tried to talk my friends and colleagues into joining me. At the last minute, with no trusted sidekick, and cold weather on the horizon, I wimped out. A pity. Tunick images trip my synapses. Check him out.

The Unofficial Tunick Page

Tunick's Web Page
sign up for the next event!

Saturday Morning Cereal: Marianne Moore

"If something is appropriate, I appropriate it."
Moore quoted by Rotella as transcribed in my lecture notes, Oct. 10, 2007

"his by- / play was more terrible in its effectiveness / than the fiercest frontal attack."
from Moore's "In This Age of Hard Trying, Nonchalance is Good And"

"Reserve is a concomitant of intense feeling."
Moore quoted by Rotella as transcribed in my lecture notes, Oct. 10, 2007

"There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious / fastidiousness."
from Moore's "Critics and Connoisseurs"

"What is / there in being able / to say that one has dominated the stream in an attitude of self-defense; / in proving that one has had the experience / of carrying a stick?"
from Moore's "Critics and Connoisseurs"

Literature is a phase of life. If one is afraid of it, / the situation is irremediable; if one approaches it familiarly, / what one says of it is worthless."
from Moore's "Picking and Choosing"

"To have misapprehended the matter is to have confessed that one has not looked far enough. "
from Moore's "England"

"It comes to this: of whatever sort it is / it must be "lit with piercing glances into the life of things"; / it must acknowledge the spiritual forces which have made it."
from Moore's "When I Buy Pictures"

"it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing"
from Moore's "A Grave"

"But why dissect destiny with instruments / more highly specialized than components of destiny itself?"
from Moore's "Those Various Scalpels"

"The passion for setting people right is in itself an afflictive disease. / Distaste which takes no credit to itself is best."
from Moore's "Snakes, Mongooses, Snake-Charmers, and the Like"

"Pastoral" by William Carlos Williams

WHEN I was younger

it was plain to me

I must make something of myself.

Older now

I walk back streets

admiring the houses

of the very poor:

roof out of line with sides

the yards cluttered

with old chicken wire, ashes,

furniture gone wrong;

the fences and outhouses

built of barrel staves

and parts of boxes, all,

if I am fortunate,

smeared a bluish green

that properly weathered

pleases me best of all colors.

No one

will believe this

of vast import to the nation.

NYT Ten Best Books of 2007

Read the NYT article appearing
December 9, 2007 in the print edition:
The 10 Best Books of 2007

Titles are linked to NYT Sunday book reviews:

Fiction

MAN GONE DOWN
By Michael Thomas. Black Cat/Grove/Atlantic, paper, $14.

OUT STEALING HORSES
By Per Petterson. Translated by Anne Born. Graywolf Press, $22.

THE SAVAGE DETECTIVES
By Roberto Bolaño. Translated by Natasha Wimmer. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $27.

THEN WE CAME TO THE END
By Joshua Ferris. Little, Brown & Company, $23.99.

TREE OF SMOKE
By Denis Johnson. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $27.

Nonfiction

IMPERIAL LIFE IN THE EMERALD CITY: Inside Iraq's Green Zone.
By Rajiv Chandrasekaran. Alfred A. Knopf, $25.95; Vintage, paper, $14.95.

LITTLE HEATHENS: Hard Times and High Spirits on an Iowa Farm During the Great Depression.
By Mildred Armstrong Kalish. Bantam Books, $22.

THE NINE: Inside the Secret World of the Supreme Court.
By Jeffrey Toobin. Doubleday, $27.95.

THE ORDEAL OF ELIZABETH MARSH: A Woman in World History.
By Linda Colley. Pantheon Books, $27.50.

THE REST IS NOISE: Listening to the Twentieth Century.
By Alex Ross. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $30.