Positions

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

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!

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.

Attn: Condundrum Department

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

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

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.

Wordle Fun

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

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)

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.

Fourth Trimester

number of weeks Grandma spent at our place: 4
number of weeks spent at Grandma's: 2
number of weeks in the fourth trimester: 12

number of outfits removed with scissors to avoid unnecessary fashion-induced crying: 1
number of outfits purchased: 0 (Thanks for the gifts and second-hand treasures!)

number of baths: 4 (We spot clean.)

number of times we have successfully employed the nasal aspirator: 3-ish

number of poopy diapers on a plane: 1
number of flights taken: 4

number of times infant nail clippers have been used: 0
number of infant nail clippers purchased in trepidation of "razor" infant nails: 2

number of baby slings purchased: 5
baby slings actually used so far: 2

number of cribs delivered: 3
cribs still in box: 1

number of rocking chairs delivered: 2
number of rocking chairs returned due to funky mold situation upon delivery: 1

number of flights to our apartment: 3

amount of tip for UPS delivery guy: 0 (How much? When? Is he allowed to take it?)

number of nursing bras purchased: 8
number that actually fit: 4

number of bebe au lait/hooter-hiders purchased: 2

number of newborn size diapers left over because she outgrew them: 80 (Where can I donate these?)

amount of merchandise ordered from Target.com: $$$ (They own me.)

number of strollers purchased: 0

number of times I have shaved my legs: 1
(number of times in 2008: 2)

number of blankets in our collection: approx. 23
number of blankets that we can't live without: 5

amount of caffeine consumed: 0 (Well, I do drink jasmine tea)
amount of alcohol: 1 tiny port wine and 1/4 glass white wine (I see a rich, red wine in my future.)

number of haircuts: 1 (The hairstylist came to my house because I couldn't figure out how to get to a salon with a baby.)

number of mommy-and-me yoga classes: 3

number of movies watched: 3

number of original songs composed while soothing the baby: endless
favorite song lyrics: Iza biza Bella mia, me oh my oh me oh mya. Iza biza Bella mia, me oh my oh me oh mya. Iza biza Bella mia, me oh my oh me oh mya. Iza biza Bella mia, me oh my oh me oh mya. Iza biza Bella mia, me oh my oh me oh mya. Iza biza Bella mia, me oh my oh me oh mya. Iza biza Bella mia, me oh my oh me oh mya. Iza biza Bella mia, me oh my oh me oh mya.

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.

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.