Family Photos September 2013

Inexcusable absence from this space.  I know, I know, I know.  But I've missed writing here, and want to check in more frequently.  So, why don't I start with something easy - some photos that we recently had taken of the family.  Our photographer, Margaret of Unusally Fine Photography, also took our engagement and wedding photos 5 years ago, and is incredible. 

 

I normally hate being photographed.  I get so worried about turning the right way and lifting my chin and making sure I'm sucking my stomach in and what my hair looks like.  Then I see the photos and I immediately start to criticize something.  But then months and months go by and I'm not in any photos with my kids - I think when they are older they are going to want to know what their mother looked like.  And they aren't going to care if I was still carrying a few pounds of baby weight or had messy hair that day.  (The fact that these are probably heavily 'shopped doesn't hurt).     



Cass' Birth Story

I will, I will, I WILL get this down before her two-month checkup.  I WILL.

I spent the majority of this last pregnancy absolutely certain that my baby was going to be born on the side of the road on the way to the hospital.  I told Jon he had to watch some YouTube "how to deliver a baby" tutorials or something, because he was definitely going to have to catch this baby.  Finn was born in 90 minutes, start to finish, and I knew that if that happened again there was no way I would make it to the hospital this time since we now live so far away.  The math went like this: 10-20 minutes for me to be sure I was in labor, 45 minutes for my mom to get here to watch the boys, 45 minutes to the hospital (more than an hour if it was rush hour) = baby on the side of the road.  The numbers didn't look any better if I went into labor while Jon was at work.  Then two weeks before my due date, my cousin gave birth to her third baby in an ambulance, not two blocks from her house.  See?  IT RUNS IN MY FAMILY.  (I have this theory that since we come from an unbroken line of Catholic peasants, we are exceptionally uncomplicated birthers.  Right?  Wouldn't our genetics just favor fast, easy deliveries?  Someone needs to do a study.)  I kept running scenarios over and over in my mind, trying to figure out the best plan.

So when I started having regular contractions about three weeks before Cass was born, I put everyone on high alert.  I thought I had had Braxton-Hicks contractions with Conor and Finn, but I must have imagined them, because these hurt.  Really hurt.  I stopped working and started spending all of my time focusing on the contractions, as if I could will them into turning into real labor.  It was exhausting.  I finally decided to ignore them completely and go on with my life, and immediately felt much better.  My midwife stripped my membranes at my 39 week appointment, which cause the contractions to get more intense that night, but it faded away by the next afternoon.  I was already three centimeters dilated, but I knew that that didn't mean much - I had been that dilated with Conor and Finn for weeks before they were born.

Three days after my due date, Jon and I were at the home inspection for the house we had just bought.  We walked around the house and property for about two hours, and at some point during that time something changed.  The contractions didn't feel any stronger or any closer together, but something was just - different.  I think the baby must have dropped very low, or it was just intuition, but as my mom (who is also my realtor) was leaving I said "Keep your phone on tonight."

We took the boys out for pizza for dinner, and when we arrived home, we got the news that Jon's 92-year-old grandmother, who we both loved dearly and were very close to, had passed away from cancer earlier that evening.  Jon had traveled to New Jersey to see her and say goodbye a week before, but I had hoped to have the baby before she went so she could meet her little namesake.  Even though we had expected the news, the grief was still overwhelming.

I stayed up too late that night, watching Breaking Bad reruns I think, and didn't get to bed until midnight.  At 1:30 I woke up with a staggering, overwhelming sensation in my abdomen - just a phantom memory of pain, a contraction I had while I was asleep.  I woke Jon up to time the contractions.  Yup, seven minutes later, another one.  We jumped out of bed right away, knowing that we were racing against the clock.  Jon called my mom and the midwife, who told us to come straight in.  While we were waiting for my mom to come and stay with the boys, I got in the shower.  I had eaten an orange the night before, and for some reason I thought I could still smell it on my hands and the smell was really bothering me.  I get preoccupied with little things during labor.

The contractions kept coming - every five minutes, then every three.  I did a lot of moaning and hanging off the staircase banister, or the counter, or the back of the couch - anything that could support my weight while I swayed.  Jon started out by rubbing my back and saying "shhh, you're ok" during contractions.  After I told him to stop saying that because I was most certainly NOT ok and did not care for being shushed, he switched to "you're doing great" which was much better.

My mom got to the house, and Jon already had the car running and our bags inside, a towel on the passenger seat, and my favorite Decemberists songs playing.  I had wanted to take our minivan because I thought that the space in the back would be useful for the roadside delivery I was sure we were facing, but was glad that Jon chose the stations wagon because - heated seats!  That heat felt so nice against my back during the drive.

Jon made it to the hospital in about 25 minutes, which is 30 minutes faster than I was ever able to do.  Good man.  I was so happy to be there.  We went in through the emergency room since it was about 2:00 a.m. at that point and the other entrance was closed.  By then I was feeling a lot of pressure and just wanted to be in a bed, so I was maybe a tiny bit rude to the inebriated ER patient who wanted to chat about how many kids I have during a contraction.

Because I'm a little delusional, I guess, I refused the wheelchair and walked up to labor and delivery, stopping every minute or two to hang onto a hand rail along the side of the hallway and moan through my contractions.  A very worried-looking aide got us to the maternity triage area, where Mary, the midwife on duty, helped me to undress, got me onto a stretcher, and checked me.  I remember her saying "you have fast labors, right?"  I said yes, that my second had been born within minutes of getting to the hospital.  She said, "Well, it looks like you're going to do it that way again!  You're at nine centimeters."

They rolled my bed down the hall to a delivery room,  and things get a bit hazy after that.  I remember that the room was very dark, and that it was just me, Jon, Mary, and a nurse.  I was on a fetal monitor, but couldn't see the feed or hear any machines beeping.  Time is strange when you're in labor - everything seemed to slow down dramatically.  I remember feeling like the time between contractions lasted forever, and turning to Jon and saying "I think my labor stopped.  I haven't had a contraction in 15 minutes."  He looked at me like I was crazy and said I was having contractions every minute or so.  I remember praying to Jon's grandmother, who I am sure was already with God and watching out for us, to ask God to help me deliver this great-granddaughter of hers.  I thought of my friends dealing with miscarriage and infertility, and tried to offer some of my pain for them.  These were fleeting, half-formed prayers, but I know they were heard. 

I wanted so badly for the baby to be born, and for the contractions to be over, but felt very overwhelmed and confused.  Both Conor and Finn had been delivered by midwives who were of the legs-back-count-to-ten-PUSH variety, which I didn't mind and was expecting.  Mary, however, just kept saying that I was a strong, healthy woman, and that I should  do what my body was telling me to do.  I had no idea what my body was telling me to do.  I tried a few pushes - nothing.  I just wanted this baby to come on her own, without me having to do anything.  I wanted to lie still and have her just arrive.  I was scared of the pain of the delivery, and I remember whispering to Jon that I didn't want it to hurt. 

I asked, "Can you see her yet?"  Mary said, firmly now, "Well, you have to push.  You know that."  So I lay on my back, pulled my legs back, and counted, like I had with Conor and Finn.  I still couldn't figure out how to push, and started to feel nauseous.  Mary said "Try lying on your side, you'll feel less nauseous.  I can catch her however you want to deliver her."  So I lay on my side, and gave a couple of small, grunty pushes.  That did it - her head was born right away, and her body followed in a rush with a couple more little pushes.  It was 3:30 a.m. on May 14, and I had a daughter. 

They put her on my chest and she started to nurse right away - she nursed for more than an hour, and then they wheeled me to the recovery room.  We were able to leave the hospital the next day and get her home to her eager big brothers and extended family, who welcomed this little one with a particular joy.  She was, and is, a spot of bright light in their, and our, sorrow.

best-laid plans

This is my third six-month maternity leave in four years, and I look at each of these breaks from the office as my chance to play at being a stay-at-home mom.  I picture crafting, going on little day trips, having delicious meals on the table when Jon gets home from work, all of that wonderful stuff.  That's what staying home with little ones is like, right?

But then a couple of weeks ago, Jon came down with a combination of Lyme disease and two other tick-born illnesses (a lot like Lyme, but on steroids) that landed him in the hospital for two days and, between the pain and the painkillers, kept him in bed for about a week.  I haven't seen someone so sick since I studied in Cameroon during college and 11 of my friends came down with malaria.  That sick.  And I was not a very sympathetic nurse - it took about five days before I stopped thinking about how much his illness sucked for me, and started to consider the possibility that it might suck for him more.

But back to it sucking for me - I was operating in survival mode for that week, with no one to help me with bedtimes and grocery shopping and late-night baby wakings.  I was pretty proud of myself if I managed to get the boys breakfast (read: dry Cheerios in front of the tv) or out of the house to the library or playground once or twice.  Jon is much better now, and I have just started to feel like things are somewhat under control again.  Wah wah wah, I know.  But the first six weeks with a newborn are tough enough, without a major health crisis, a home purchase, surgery on the dog, and almost two weeks (!) of well-meaning house guests thrown in.  Last whine, officially.  I promise.  

And, still, my worst day at home is better than my best day at the office.  I mean, really:

 I get to hang out with these lookers all day.  Best job ever.  And we frequently have afternoon dance parties to Thrift Shop in our living room, which they frowned upon at my office.

Now I'm getting ambitious, and packing everyone (including the dog!  Who will hopefully be heavily sedated - maybe we have some leftover Percoset from Jon's treatment) in the van and going to NYC for the weekend.  Finn on the subway - that should be interesting. 

My first three weeks as a mother of three

Conor "reading" to Cass.  Sweetheart.

I've been tip-toeing into this whole mom-of-three thing.  Jon has been home with us until now, but he goes back to work tomorrow, so the real fun should start then.  So far it's been slightly chaotic but manageable - the baby is a dream, especially now that I've figured out how to nurse her (they are each so different!), but the boys are . . . hellions.  If they are left to play together for more than five minutes, they will certainly try to murder each other.  Especially if I am marooned on the couch with a nursing baby and can't get up to stop them.  Is this a boy thing?  A two- and four-year-old combination thing?  Finn, charming as he is, is particularly challenging.  We found this in his room after his last nap:

"I rip Bear Hunt Catch a Big One.  It otay."

No, it not otay.

Anyway, I'm coming out of the newborn fog and want to record some moments from these first few weeks before they are lost for good:

1.  The first time the very alarmed Finn saw me nursing Cass: "Mama!  Her try to eat you belly button!"  (We'll work with him on the finer points of the anatomy of the female torso someday.  Or not.)

First day home.

 2.  After the pediatrician told me that Cass has reflux (like her brothers, ugh.  The spit!  The never-ending spit!) and that I have to cut out all dairy from my diet, Jon's immediate reaction: "Well, at least it's not alcohol."  Truth.

3.   We threw a low-key fourth birthday party for Conor, with store-bought cupcakes, pizza, and a slip n' slide for the kids and a bunch of their cousins.  I didn't hand-make a single thing.  It was a lot of fun, and it seemed like my sleep deprivation hadn't caused too many problems in pulling off the party.  Until the boys opened their little gift bags and dug into the "candy sticks" I had given them:

Do you know what these are?  CANDY CIGARETTES.  Yup.  I was obviously not paying close enough attention.  Oops.  But can you believe they still sell these??!!  Otherwise, happy kids, happy party.

This one is from May 21, his actual birthday.  I just love his little serious face.

4.  Last weekend we went to the annual open house at John Crow Farm to pick up our meat share.  Gorgeous day, great music, free beer, and very happy animals.

Someday I am going to figure out how to make photos look nice and professional on this blog.  Not today.

Why don't the ducks fly away?  Don't they know we are going to eat them?

5.    We bought our first house!  It's totally normal to buy a house and have a baby in the same week, right?  Excellent planning on our part.  I actually think I may have started early labor during the home inspection.  Details to come. 

First Five Favorites

 

Linking up with Hallie to share five favorite things - Newborn Edition!  Sweet baby Cass is three weeks old, so I have newborn items on the brain, and most of these these have seen me through three babies in four years.  Trust me, they rock. 

1.  BumGenius One-Size All-in-One Organic Cloth Diapers

                  

We have used these diapers for four years, and have loyally bought a few more each time we have a baby.  We've pretty much had two kids in diapers at any given time and have needed to occasionally buy new ones to last us between washes, but these things hold up for YEARS.  And how freaking cute is that pattern?

For Cass, we've added Thirsties cloth wipes and Kissaluvs diaper lotion potion to our cloth diapering routine, and they have made it even easier - now everything just goes in the diaper pail, no need to separate out yucky disposable wipes for the trash.  And the bum spray smells wonderfully of lavender. 

2.  Ikabags Stockholm Diaper Bag

I love diaper bags that don't look like diaper bags.  Jon got me this one for Mother's Day this year, and I love it for the summer.  (Side note: I just noticed that bizarro little bear doll in the photo.  It doesn't come with the bag, fyi.)  It has a dozen interior pockets and fits everything somehow.  I do wish the straps were a bit more substantial, but I can live with that small flaw.  And each one is hand made in France, which makes me feel a little more stylish even when I'm wearing yoga pants and a milk-stained t-shirt (so, most days).  And here's my winter diaper bag (slash work bag slash gym bag - this thing may be the perfect bag):

It's from Timi and Leslie, and is a more stocked diaper bag - it has a changing pad, bottle holder, etc.  But NO ONE can tell it's a diaper bag - I can't tell you how many fancy lawyers at my fancy law firm have complimented me on this bag.  Stealth mom.  

3.  Water Wrap

Hiking with 3-month old Conor.

 This is the best wrap for summer babies, hands down.  It's like a Moby, which I also love, but much more lightweight and stretchy so you don't get quite so sweaty.  And it has UV protection.  AND it's waterproof, so you can wear it in the water (not, like, swimming, obviously, because then your baby would drown, but if you want to wade waist-deep in the water with your toddler or something).   Oh, and it's black so it matches all of my (boring, black) outfits.  And it's made by a mom-owned business with the awesome name Gypsy Mama, in Maine.   Win-win-win-win-win.

 

4. Aden & Anais Muslin Swaddles

Put!  A!  Bird!  On!  It!

These are apparently old news by now, but I don't care.  We started using them with Conor four years ago, and are die-hard loyalists.  I buy these for every new mom I know.  They are the only swaddles we've found that actually stay put, and the same blankets we used with Conor and Finn are somehow even softer now than they were four years ago.  Magic.  But we did get this gorgeous pink set as a gift for Cass, and I love the delicate patterns.  See?

Cass loves them too.

5.  This Girl:

All babies are sweet, but this little lady is maybe just the sweetest.  Even hidden under a pile of ruffles (her party dress for Conor's fourth birthday).  I am IN.  LOVE.

Monica Cass

Well, hello there gorgeous:

Monica Cass (we're calling her Cass) was born at 3:33 a.m. on Tuesday, May 14.  8 lbs 6 oz, 21 inches long, and perfect in every way.  She is named for Jon's grandmother, one of the best and most inspirational women I have ever known.  Her maiden name was Monica Kasper, and when she met Jon's grandfather in Hawaii during WWII (she was a nurse and he was a surgeon in the army) he called her Cass for short.  It stuck, and we wanted to use that nickname for our little girl.  We chose the name months ago, and since that time Jon's grandmother became very ill.  She died about 10 hours before her little namesake was born. We are a whole mix of emotions right now, but know that there is something beautiful about how our Cass came into the world just as her great grandmother was leaving it.  This baby is bringing our family some much-needed joy right now.

Finian's Birth Story

After my trying experience with Conor's birth (induction with Pitocin, unwanted epidural, ITCHING!) I was very nervous to give birth to Finn.  Luckily, it couldn't have gone better.

Smooshy baby face.  Yum.

At 2:00 a.m. on Jan. 24, 2011, the day before he was due, I woke up abruptly with a feeling of intense, but fading, pain in my stomach.  Not sure if I had dreamed it, but thinking it could be "something," I decided to go downstairs and put on a movie, drink a cup of tea, and see if it went away.  Once I got downstairs, I had to run to the bathroom and be sick.  At that point, the cramping feeling in my abdomen was pretty incessant, but because I was sick to my stomach I thought I might have food poisoning (Jon will never let me live that down).  The water for my tea hadn't even boiled yet, and I ran up to the bedroom to wake Jon.  He came down to the kitchen, squinting because he didn't have his glasses on and complaining of being cold.  I asked him to please get it together, because I needed his help.

He started timing the stomach pains, which were two to three minutes apart.  He freaked out because the midwife had said to go to the hospital, which was four blocks away, when the contractions were eight minutes apart.  Ooops.  I kept saying "no, no, no, I don't think it's labor, I think I have food poisoning, I don't want to go to the hospital, they are just going to send me home."  Jon thought I had lost my ever-loving mind - maybe I had.  I was definitely in some kind of denial.  He called his mom to come to the house and stay with the sleeping Conor, and called my amazing doula, Megan, and asked her to come over.  Megan arrived, and pretty much saved us from having the baby on the kitchen floor.  She immediately assessed the situation (intensely stubborn woman about to give birth, frantic husband whose wife won't listen to him), and gently said "Lindsay, I just want you to just entertain the possibility that you are in labor.  You are 40 weeks pregnant and having sharp abdominal pains every two minutes.  You need to go to the hospital."  I reluctantly agreed that it was possible that I was in labor and agreed to put my shoes on.  At that point I was still insisting on walking to the hospital (again, delusional!  There was three feet of snow on the ground!) and Megan kept nodding and smiling and indulging my craziness, while she quietly called a car service.  While we were waiting I hung onto the edge of the kitchen counter and tried to keep my knees from locking and let my body just slump during a contraction, while Megan pressed on my lower back.  They kept getting closer and closer together, to the point that they never really stopped.  By the time the car arrived I was ready to admit that walking to the hospital was probably not the best idea. 

Jon's mom hadn't made it yet, so Jon had to stay at our apartment with the sleeping Conor.  Megan and I took the town car the four blocks to the hospital.  As we pulled up to the emergency entrance, I felt the baby drop reallllly low and started fighting the urge to push.  We rushed up to Labor and Delivery and barged past the reception desk and into the delivery suites.  My midwife was there waiting (and gently laughing at me a little bit - she had already heard about my refusal to go the hospital from Jon).  I went into the bathroom, and my water broke.  I ran out and jumped up onto the bed, yelling that the baby was coming, and my midwife checked me - I was completely dilated and they could see the baby's head.  I was so scared that Jon was going to miss the birth.  I started moaning that I had to push but didn't want to.  I remember screaming "somebody help me!"  Megan encouraged me to do some "practice" pushes which would help relieve the urge to push.  It did help, as did lying on my side with my legs crossed.  I was NOT going to have that baby until Jon showed up.  Luckily, his mom had made it to our place, and he was there within minutes, having run to the hospital on the icy streets.

Two pushes later Finn was born, yelling and perfect.  Only 90 minutes had passed since I felt the first contraction.  People have asked me if I had an epidural, which always makes me laugh.  I had been in the hospital for about 10 minutes when Finn was born - I didn't even have a gown or a hospital bracelet on yet, never mind time for an epidural!  But, unlike the Pitocin-induced contractions from Conor's birth, I don't remember a lot of pain.  I remember an intense, intense downward pressure - like gravity had somehow compounded in force and was pulling on my body in a whole new way.  I remember panic and fear, because it wasn't happening as I expected it to.  But I don't remember much pain.  I know, I'm incredibly blessed.

Like his big brother, Finn had a touch of jaundice, but by now we knew better than to stick around the hospital.  Our pediatrician agreed to discharge us as long as we came to see him soon and were very careful to monitor Finn's diapers.  He was fine (of course) and  pinked up as soon as my milk came in. 

I should have known, after a birth like that, that Finn would be a little hellion and would keep us on our toes. He never disappoints.

Patriots' Day

I haven't updated here in a while, but wanted to let people know that we are all ok after yesterday's terrible events in Boston.  My office was closed for the Patriots' Day holiday, so I was home with my boys, far away from the city.  I had friends and family running in and watching the marathon, but everyone I know is safe and sound. 

God bless the amazing doctors and staff at Boston's hospitals as they continue to do their incredibly difficult work.  My prayers go out to everyone affected by this. 

Conor's Birth Story

 

No, no new baby yet!  But as this newest due date gets closer I've been spending a lot of time thinking about the birth of my boys, and I wanted to try to get their birth stories down before too much time has passed.   I worry that with Conor, who will turn four in May, I've already gone a little fuzzy on the details.  But this is how I remember it.

 

He was late, exactly one week overdue. I think that 41st week felt longer than the previous 40 put together. I was so sure I was going to go into labor every night, and every morning that I woke up still pregnant I was furious.  Livid.  I would look into his perfect nursery, at the crib that just needed a baby in it, and feel so sorry for myself.  I may have cried a few times.   And my mom had been staying with us in Brooklyn since my due date, and had nothing to do but stare at me and anxiously ask if it "was time" after any little sigh or groan I let out.   Poor woman, I was so impatient with her.   But day after day, long walk after long walk, evening primrose oil, acupuncture, entire pineapples, red raspberry leaf tea . . . nothing.

 

On May 21, in the early afternoon, I went to my scheduled midwife appointment.  My midwife's office was two blocks from my apartment (and the hospital was only 6 blocks away) so Jon, my mom and I walked there. It was sunny and beautiful out. My midwife was encouraging, but said that if I didn't have the baby over the weekend (it was Memorial Day weekend) they would induce me on the following Tuesday.  I was so upset; I had hoped and planned for an intervention-free birth.   And then she took my blood pressure, paused, gave me a funny look, and checked it again.   She said "it's high" and called the other two midwives into the tiny exam room.   They said that they wanted to send me to the hospital for an induction - that he was probably very big ("maybe more than 10 pounds"), and my blood pressure was high, and it was a holiday weekend and they didn't want my blood pressure to spike while the midwives were out of town.   I don't think any one of those reasons alone would have been enough for me to agree to an induction, but all of them together, combined with my mom being anxious about being away from home for so long, and my in-laws flying in from California the next day to "meet the baby," and my own exhaustion - I agreed.

My mom and I walked over to the hospital while Jon ran back to the apartment to get my bag (which had been ready for at least a month) and line up the dog-walker.   Of course, my blood pressure was normal by the time I got to the hospital, but at that point "I was already there, might as well keep going."   I checked in, and they got me set up in a delivery room.   They hooked me up to an IV and started the pitocin drip.  I think they started it at a very low level, and gradually increased it, but to be honest I didn't really know what was going on.  I was on a monitor, but the cord was long enough that I was able to sit in a rocking chair next to the bed and rock through the contractions.  It wasn't so bad at first, and my dad and sisters, who had driven down from Massachusetts in the meantime, were able to come in and visit with me a little between contractions.  I snuck a couple of protein bars when the nurses were out of the room.  I remember one nurse, a big woman with a gorgeous West Indian accent, who kept me laughing by telling my husband that he had done this to me and "was on vacation now."

 

But after a few hours, it got more and more challenging.   If you don't like difficult or "negative" birth stories - and I wouldn't blame you - you should skip this paragraph.  And most of the next one.  Still here?  Ok.  The pain. . . well, that's almost impossible to describe.   Having gone through a natural childbirth since then, I can safely say that pitocin contractions in no way resemble my body's natural contractions.   You'll often hear women describe the pain of natural childbirth as intense, but understandable - they can process the pain, and understand that it's for a purpose.   Not so with these contractions.   I was insensible, out of my mind with the pain.   I remember hanging from Jon's neck, clawing at his chest, trying so, so hard to crawl out of my own body.   I requested an epidural after about 8 or 9 hours of labor.   A few days later, my mom and I were talking about it and she said something like "I feel like you made a really informed decision to get the epidural."   It didn't feel that way to me.   It felt like I was dying, and the epidural was necessary for my survival.   It couldn't have been less of a reasoned decision-making process - it was pure instinct, like grabbing onto a rope while drowning.

 

So they placed the epidural, and the relief from the pain was almost immediate.   But then, the itching started.   So I know I just described earth-shattering pain, what's so bad about a little itching?   But I remember reading something about meth addicts, how they scratch at their skin because they feel like they are being eaten by insects.   Yup, it felt like that.   Not worse than the pain, but not exactly relief, either.   Apparently I have a bad reaction to painkillers - I should have known, I've never been able to handle even Vicodin or Codeine without getting really sick.  And then the pain started again, and I panicked - I thought I was going to be one of those women for whom epidurals don't work, and that it was wearing off already.  I asked for the anaesthesiologist to come back in, but my midwife decided to check me first.  She said I was complete, and what I was feeling was the pressure to push.  I had progressed from 6 cm to 10 cm in about 40 minutes, either because the epidural helped my body relax, or because that's where my body was going anyway.  So I pushed!  That part was so much better - I felt like I could actively participate in the process, instead of just enduring it.   And Conor was born about 20 minutes later, just before midnight on May 21, 2009, only 7.5 pounds and so beautiful.   They put him on my chest, and he kept sticking his little tongue out at me.   I stuck my tongue out back at him, and kept saying "Happy birthday, little baby" over and over again.   They took him over to the little table to clean him up and my mom went with them, taking pictures - I heard her yell out "he has dimples!" and he did. They were (and are) big enough to drink soup out of.

 

The day after the birth, Jon kept telling me that "his tongue hurt" because he bit it during the labor. He kept saying it to visitors, too.   It made me laugh so much - I had just gone through the most painful experience of my life, and had stiches in places I don't even like to think about, to bring his son into this world, and he kept talking about biting his tongue!  I couldn't resist a sarcastic "I'm sorry that whole experience was so hard on you, hon."  I still laugh about it, but he insists he bit his tongue really, really hard and I couldn't possibly understand.

 

The first Twilight movie was playing on the hospital movie channel.   I watched it the day after the birth.   I didn't know anything about it beforehand, and had no idea what a big deal it was for American teenagers, but thought it was pretty good.   Jon insists that I had some kind of oxytocin-fuelled bonding experience with that movie, since I've now read the books and seen all of the movies, and it's the only way he can account for such a massive lapse in taste and judgment on my part.  I don't know, I just think the series in pretty fun, but maybe he's onto something.  He's already scheming about what he wants me to watch immediately after this new baby is born next month - I think he wants me to get hooked on the Simpsons.

 

We stayed in the hospital for three days.  Conor developed a very mild case of jaundice, and they wanted to keep him under the lights.   He looked like he was in a little tanning bed, with the tiny goggles on.   Most of the staff was great, but we had several extremely unpleasant run-ins with a very young pediatric resident who kept talking about how much she had partied that weekend and making comments about "not understanding why someone would breasftfeed, I heard a story about a woman whose baby bit her nipple off" etc.  I'm still angry about it.  Eventually we had to give him bottles of formula to get his bilirubin levels low enough to be discharged, which I fought tooth and nail but finally agreed to. But we finally got out of there, and were able to walk the 6 blocks back to our apartment.

 

The sensations of new motherhood were so strange, and overwhelming.   I wanted to eat his little face. Does that make sense?  I wanted to devour him, I couldn't kiss him enough.   And I cried, oh, I cried so much.   Mostly I cried because he was so small and perfect, and I didn't want him to ever get any bigger.  I wanted to freeze time in those first few weeks - the thought of him getting any older just broke me down.   I think I was also feeling the days of my maternity leave slipping away so quickly, and I knew how limited my time at home with him was going to be.  After a couple of weeks, I got the crying under control and started to enjoy the time more.   He was a champion eater, and so easy to nurse (take that, horror show pediatric resident).   He only cried if he wanted something - a diaper change, food.   He was impossible to put down, so we just held him all the time.   Nights were hard, as he took hours of convincing and rocking and singing to drift off to sleep, but we got through it.  And, of course, it was all worth it. 

 

 

 Next up . . . Finn's (completely opposite in every way) birth story . . .

Theme Thursday: Funny

Linking up with Cari for the funny:

Yes, sweetheart, that is an extraordinary beer. 

(From our beautiful life in Brooklyn circa 2010, when all the craft beer stores had high chairs and all the cool moms had bangs.  Sigh.)

Yarn Along No. 3

 Linking up with Ginny and co. at Small Things!

I'm so close!  A few more buttons, and a little blocking, and the sweater for baby girl will be done!  I doubt it will fit her when she's born in May, but it should be perfect for this fall.

Aren't the little wooden flower buttons the best? 



 

I hate that I have the type of personality that obsesses over the flaws in my knitting (and, well, everything), and I want to be able to let get of that tendency.  So, when I discovered that the needles I used for the body of the sweater are bigger than those I used for the sleeves (I'm still not sure how that happened - they both appear to be size 4, according to my little needle gauge) which resulted in the sleeves being a much tighter knit, I called it a design feature and tried to let it go.  It still amazes me that a pair of needles can turn a long piece of string into something wearable, so I am going to focus on that.  And on the fact that the little . . . idiosyncrasies of hand-knit garments just serve to differentiate them from mass-produced, machine-made items, making them even more special.  If I repeat it often enough I'm sure I'll come to believe it. 

 

I have about 1.5 skeins of this yarn left, and am not sure what to do with it.  The only other yarn I have on hand is sky-blue; I'm thinking of knitting a bonnet and booties combining the two colors but worry it will be too masculine.  Can a bonnet be masculine? 

 

Source



 

 

 

This isn't so much a current read, but I always have a (real!  With paper and everything!) copy of The Complete Stories of Flannery O'Connor on my nightstand.  I always think it's going to be easy to make it through a short story just before bed, but O'Connor's stories are so complex and deep that even the very short stories never end up being a true quick read.  And her Southern settings and characters and dialects are almost a foreign language to this New England girl, but I just love each and every one of them.   





Meat

We've re-enrolled in our meat CSA and had our first pick-up yesterday. I only recently started eating meat again after many years as a vegetarian, and I'm pretty excited about the steaks, ham and bacon that we got from the amazing John Crow Farm. Not only do they grow "beyond organic" produce (no chemicals at all, just lime and manure) they take such wonderful care of the animals they raise. And they are funny. Their Facebook postings constantly make me laugh:

John Crow Farm

November 23, 2012

Yolko Ono likes rolling with the big boys. Chickens just ain't her style.

 

(Yolko Ono!  I am definitely stealing that when we get chickens.) 

 

We've been there to visit, and even though I feel weird about making sure that the animals were happy, it did actually make me feel better to see how well they live until they are, you know, killed and we eat them.  It reminds me of this hilarious Portlandia skit:

 

 

[Does the chicken have "a lot of friends? Other chickens as friends? Putting his little wing around another one, kind of like palling around?" It kills me, so funny.]

 

Anyway, there is very little in life that is more aggravating than someone talking about their holier-than-thou approach to eating food, but that isn't going to stop me.  Briefly, here is why we only eat humanely-raised animals, and would never feed our children anything less:

 

1. I worked on a pro bono case yeas ago in which we advocated for the humane treatment of New Jersey farm animals. That was my first exposure to the horror of factory farming. You cannot un-learn that information. If you are someone can still eat factory meat after learning about the truly cruel conditions those animals are subject to, I do not understand you.   I just don't.   That is the main reason I didn't eat meat for so long - I couldn't live with the fact that animals were being tortured to death for my convenience. Why did I recently give up my strict vegetarianism? Exhaustion, mostly. Coming up with vegetarian meals that meet my almost-constantly-pregnant-or-nursing nutritional needs, and the nutritional needs of my children, and keep my meat-eating husband happy was possible but time-consuming and often frustrating. Since my real issue was with the treatment of the animals, I decided that if I could find a humane source of meat I would be ok with the morality of eating it again. But I truly admire vegetarians and feel like I gave in on this one a little.

 

2. there are some really, really gross hormones, antibiotics, etc. in factory meat. No thank you. Oh, and MRSA. Yum.

 

3. the workers at meat-packing facilities and slaughterhouses are generally treated terribly. While that is true of a lot of industries, eating factory meat is something that is pretty easy to avoid, so we do.

 

4. traditional farming methods, like those practiced at John Crow, are waaaaay better for the environment. Factory farms lead to all kinds of pollution, groundwater contamination, excessive methane gas in the air, etc.

 

 

If this is something that interests you, there are so many amazing resources - anything by Michael Pollan, such as The Omnivore's Dilemma, is a good place to start.  Haley from Carrots for Michaelmas, one of my favorite, favorite blogs, wrote a lovely post on the morality of food choices a while ago:  Food Choices ARE a Moral Issue.

 

And if you live in Massachusetts, check out John Crow!  (I'm not getting anything from them for raving about them here, I'm just a big fan!)

St. Patrick's Day

Jon and I met at a bus stop in Northern Ireland in the summer of 2004, and have been together ever since (although our relationship may have never taken off if I had been aware of the alcohol content of Strongbow Cider, but that's a different story for a different day).  Also, if you couldn't tell by the fact that our last name is Burke, our children are Conor and Finian, and our dog is named Seamus, we are of Irish descent as well.  I have some Italian and Portuguese mixed in there too, which Jon never lets me forget.

So yesterday was a big day at our house! We had my family over and served grilled malted barley sausages, colcannon, soda bread, baked beans, Irish cheddar, an Irish whiskey mousse cake, and molasses cookies with green sprinkles, making them Irish, right?  Oh, and entirely too much homebrew, Jameson, Magners cider, and Irish coffee.

Such fun. (I don't have any pictures of the crazy shenanigans with cousins here, because I don't like to post pictures of other people's kids, but just imagine a pack of under-4s dressed in green, running around the house pretending to be leprechauns.)

Grammy love.

At the table, Jon asked Conor to tell everyone "what we say" before we eat.   The four of us always say "slainte!," but we never say grace as a family. Last night, though, Conor responded: "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit" and I just about died of pride.


Because one blog can never have too many pictures of soda bread.

Ranunculus from the grocery store.  I needed a little bit of spring, even though we are getting ANOTHER snow storm tomorrow.

One of my favorite Irish blessings, which I read in a cookbook from the 1960s, is Slainte 'gus Saol agat:

 

Health and long life to you,
Land without rent to you,
The woman of your choice to you,
A child every year to you,
A long life, and may your bones rest in Ireland.

Snowdrop

I've been keeping busy stalking smokestacks and inspecting public gardens for signs of spring.  And finally, it's happening - I spotted this snowdrop on the Greenway this morning.  I think this particular winter has felt extra long because I associate it ending with this pregnancy ending and getting to meet my daughter.  It makes waiting that much harder.  There have been many irrational days when I am convinced that this will be a never-ending winter (maybe too much Game of Thrones?) and think that it's impossible that I'll ever be barefoot on the grass holding a little baby.

Despite all that, I am not wishing away this pregnancy.  I actually love being pregnant (which is a good thing!) and I'm not eager for my little Finnster to give up baby-of-the-family status. He's still my little monkey, and I hate that his place in the world is going to change, even though I know adding a sibling is always a good thing for everyone.  Both boys have been kissing my belly and snuggling up as close as they can, but we haven't done much to prepare them for what's going to happen.  It might be about time to start talking about what babies do (cry! nurse! sleep!) and what it means to be a big brother.  They are going to be wonderful, I know. 

Two Worlds

I live more than an hour outside of Boston, but commute into the city every day for work.  I can't seem to get over how different the two environments are - luckily I love the city and the country, so I feel lucky to get to have a little bit of both:

This weekend we went for a walk in the woods behind our house.  It's conservation land, and there are some gorgeous trails cut through the trees.  We went in the late morning, and the woods were kind of an eerie green color.  This path leads down to a little river that beavers have dammed up into quite the swamp.  The boys love to go throw sticks into the water, and the dog can't seem to chase enough geese.  But see all of that snow still on the ground?  Even so - TICKS.  We always come home covered in ticks, and in Massachusetts ticks are no joke.  It almost makes me hesitate to go into the woods - but what kind of childhood would that be? 

 

And then, in the city . . . I love grabbing photos of some of my favorite Boston things, like the federal courthouse (law nerd, I know) or the little spots of color in a grey winter city.

Courthouse with the best views.

Sculpture outside my office.

I love these spare displays in the florist's window.

Very controversial Os Gemeos mural in this straight-laced city, but I love it.  And I think that box in the foreground will be a little urban farm box-thing in the summer?  I hope so!