mamamilkandme

Today was an unusually chilly day spring day. It was rainy and I was underdressed. When I dropped the kids off at school it did not feel that cold so I went about the day dressed in sandals and a light top. The day got colder and I got chilled to the core – deep in my bones. Brrr.

I was scheduled to teach a class that was cancelled – who wants to go out on a night like tonight anyway? After picking up the kids from school I stopped at Sunny’s Asian deli/market  on Avenue B and picked out some fresh vegetables and fruits.

At home I sorted the veggies and poured myself a small glass of Spanish wine. 

I chopped two cloves of garlic and a medium yellow onion and sauteed them in a big pot with some olive oil.I chopped up half a head of cabbage.I peeled and sliced two large carrots and a parsnip. I beheaded a large bunch of broccoli and threw all of these in the pot. I stirred it all about then poured in 4 cups of vegetable broth. Then I threw in a large can of fire roasted whole tomatoes – juice and all. I let this cook until  a fork could easily penetrate the carrots and parsnips.

Then I took my braun hand mixer and pureed it.

This makes the soup a beautiful color and the texture is so pleasant. It is a bit chunky and a bit creamy.

Rob toasted a few slices of Bread Alone whole wheat sourdough bread ( for those of us who can tolerate gluten!) and we had three cheeses.

MMMM – now I am warmed to my soul. And Chloe loves this soup!

The sound was primal, loud, a wailing really. At first I didn’t know it was coming from me. I lay on the table in the darkened room at St Vincent’s Hospital, the glow of the sonogram machine casting a silvery blue haze on us  – the technician, my four-year-old and me. Moments before I had commented how cute my baby’s feet looked – I had not noticed that they were lifeless.

Rob showed up moments later. We had wanted for this baby. We were well into the second trimester. I was showing. Everyone knew I was pregnant. Since I had come from the Birthing Center I had to meet their back-up ob-gyn, Dr. Mattheson. Everyone said he was nice. He was polite. In his office I sat in the exam room in a strange chair.  He politely pushed a button and my head tilted back and my legs and bottom half extended up – clearly a man had invented this device.

This was not your typical miscarriage. The baby had died inside of me and would have to be taken out to avoid infection or mummification. We needed to schedule a D & C but a hurricane was heading up the coast so we would have to wait until next week.

The next day as I made my way home from dropping off Phoebe at her Nursery school I ran into Bonnie, one of my mom friends. “How are you?” she smiled at me staring at my belly – the reaction I had been getting regularly on the playground in the last few weeks. Tears filled my eyes “I’m not pregnant anymore” I told her. Bonnie cried with me. I got used to telling my friends.

For a week I went about my life with a dead baby inside me. The day before the D & C I had an appointment to preregister and draw blood at the hospital. On my way I stopped at Ann Taylor and bought myself a pink cashmere sweater – a consolation prize. At St Vincent’s a physician’s assistant, wearing white scrubs with a closely shaved head named Romeo interviewed me.

“Are you pregnant?” he asked me.

“Do you know why I am here?” I asked.

“It is a standard question, I have to ask.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Well, I have to write something.”

With tears rolling down my cheeks I said “ I don’t know, maybe you can write down that I am pregnant with a dead baby.”

Romeo looked at me pitifully.

Then it was time for a nurse to draw blood. “Are you pregnant?” She asked me.

“ Do you know why I am here?” I asked her.

“Yes, I am sorry, it is a standard question we have to ask,” she replied.

“I am pregnant with a dead baby,” was my answer.

I have good veins. Drawing blood had never been a problem until that moment. This nurse could not get my vein.When I left St Vincent’s that afternoon, humiliated and bruised, any guilt I had for spending $100 dollars on a pullover was erased.

The next morning Rob took me to St Vincent’s. I felt strange, sad and afraid. There was a large room with about 10 partitioned areas for patients waiting for various procedures. In these stations we put on gowns and paper shower caps. We were interviewed.

“Are you pregnant?”

“I won’t be when I leave here today.” The interviewer looked baffled.

When I awoke from the anesthesia I felt nauseas. A nice blonde nurse gave me ant-nausea medication. She was sweet and sensitive to my situation – she had a 9-month-old at home.  She brought Rob in to see me and let him stay longer than allowed.

Dr. Matheson came and talked to us. He told us all had gone well. I asked if I would get milk in my breasts. He waved his hand and said not at 17 weeks.

The days that followed were filled with tears and a big fog. Phoebe would just know to come and hug me and cuddle with me. It took a long time for this baby to come. Many of my friends had already had another baby and some were pregnant with a third.

A few days after the D &  C I stood in the shower and my breasts felt tender, fuller and I touched them and milk streamed down my body, down the drain. I cried because I had milk for a baby who was not there.I passed blood clots for days and I developed a raging yeast infection.

And then came all of the stories of all of the miscarriages that I had never heard. It was as if I joined a silent club. I felt sad for these women who kept this grief to themselves.  Early in  this pregnancy I had joyfully called out to one of my neighbors:

“Guess what? I am pregnant!” She hugged me.

“How far along are you?” she asked.

“Eight weeks,” I chirped.

A darkness grew over her face.

“Aren’tyou afraid to tell anyone so early? What if something happens?”

“If anything happens then I will have a support system,” I forshadowed.

Sixteen months later Chloe was born – at St. Vincent’s.

And two and half years later I was once again pregnant. This time I was going to have a home birth.

One July afternoon I lay on my couch, Phoebe and Chloe sat on the back up against the wall to have a good view as Cara listened for the heartbeat. Her stethoscope crisscrossed my 17 week swollen belly. She moved it around. She pressed on my belly. “You are measuring about 15 weeks,” a serious expression on her face.

Cara called St Vincent’s to alert them that I would be in for a sonogram. I could not find anyone to watch the girls so the three of us boarded the M14 and headed west on 14^th Street to Seventh Avenue. Rob was enroute.

Dr. Margono, not a technician, drew the sonogram wand across my belly to confirm what I already knew. I heard the wailing again  – I knew right away it was  coming from inside me.

“I want this taken care of as soon as possible.” I declared.

Margono brought me in to see a jolly Eastern European doctor who was fond of Cara.

“Ve can do zis tomorrow,”  said Milosevich.

Dr. Margono drew my blood, there was no pre-op interview. Nobody asked me if I was pregnant. The next morning at St Vincent’s a tall elegant anesthesiologist kept her arm around me as we walked the long halls to the operating room. She gave me a dark liquid to drink so I would not feel nauseas.

I didn’t have to worry about milk in my breasts – Chloe was my nursing toddler at the time.

Miscarriage is hard. I am happy that the people around me knew I was pregnant and allowed me to mourn openly. It makes me sad that women keep the sadness of loss and the joy of early pregnancy to themselves.  Every pregnancy is the possibility of a new life. There is a real person there for whom we can have hopes and dreams.

I carry the memories of those pregnancies, those babies, those losses with me as I carry the memories of my children who are here with me.

In the late 1930’s in a small mountain village in Italy there lived a successful businessman everyone called The Don. The Don had a son who recently had become a father. He and his wife had a 4-month-old baby boy. One brisk fall day the Don, his son and the Don’s brother went on a hunting trip. Tragically on this trip the Uncle shot his nephew leaving the young wife and infant son. The story goes that the new mother suffered a broken heart and was unable to care for her baby.

The Don took over the care of his grandson. In this village lived another young family, Viola, her husband Luigi and their baby son, Giuseppe. Giuseppe was a toddler at the time of the tragic accident. The Don approached Viola and said to her, “ Viola, you have a healthy son, you have good milk. Can you nurse my grandson?”

And so, Viola became a wet nurse. In exchange the Don gave Viola’s family beautiful vegetables from his large garden.

A couple of years later Viola gave birth to a baby girl, Maria.  One of Viola’s neighbors approached her as she too had a baby girl, also named Maria. “Viola, I am a tired, old mother, can you please nurse my Maria, too?”

So, Viola nursed the other two babies with her generosity of spirit and milk. Ten years later she gave birth to another boy, Anthony.

In the 1950’s the family moved to Pennsylvania.

Viola’s first grandchild, Maria’s son, Rob is my husband.  I gave birth to Viola’s first great-grandchild, Phoebe. I struggled at first to nurse her but in a few days Phoebe and I got into a nice rhythm together.  When Phoebe was 5 weeks old Rob and I took a road trip with our new baby to meet her great-grandmother. The trip took about three times longer than usual but we made it to Devon, Pennsylvania.

Viola, now known as Nana, was ecstatic to meet Phoebe. When I nursed her for the first time in Nana’s presence Nana told me the story of having nursed the other babies. I could tell she was proud of me nursing.

Nana loves that I nursed all of my children and that I help other moms nurse their babies.

This week Nana turned 94.  Here’s to you Nana – for being my champion, my role model!

I have been torturing myself for not writing. I recently filled the pages of my moleskin notebook.  For Christmas my darling 10 year old daughter Chloe gave me a beautiful carved leather note book. The problem is the pages are thick and textured, not really conducive to writing – YES! Some people actually still write by hand! So, writing seemed a chore. Today I bought new mole skin note books – they are pink!

At Douglas Byrd Senior High School in the early 80’s my drama teacher, Gail Riddle, had a poster in her classroom. There was a photo of a train track flowing into the sunset, the colors were warm, oranges and browns. The caption on this poster read ”life is a journey, not a destination.” I imagine it was produced in the 70’s.That phrase really resonated with me. I have spent my life trying to embrace the NOW, looking to older women as my role models, always knowing I would improve with age. My own mother was like Madonna in that she was always reinventing herself – well, at least once she gave herself permission to!

What I really realize is that most of what we do is a journey, a process. Writing is also a process. I complained to my writing group – The Morning Write – we meet on Wednesdays – that I had writer’s block. They are so supportive and sweet – that is ok Leigh Anne, you will write. So I went about my day thinking of what to write. I came up with many ideas but I kept getting interrupted by my children, my clients, my husband, my need for sleep.

In the mean time my mind is full of ideas. So here is what you have to look forward to in the coming posts: Nana, the wet nurse my husband’s grandmother was a wet nurse in Italy! I will tell her story as she told it to me.

I will tell you the story of my own experiences with breastfeeding and weaning. I will share the story of my miscarriages – which are important to tell.

There will be more but these are the ideas in my head now. I need to get the children in bed and breakout my pens and my new pink mole skins and you need to subscribe to my blog so you don’t miss my storytelling.

I will figure out how to add links somewhere along the line – until then you can remain curious or look things up! (Or tell me how – in easy steps! Hint hint)

I have long identified myself as an Army Brat.  I grew up in an Army town – Fayetteville/Fort Bragg, NC. My father was a paratrooper.

I do not like to get involved in political debates- unless , of course, it is the politics of breastfeeding or the politics of NYC public schools – but in the Republican/Democratic scene – there are too many people in my life that fall into the extremes of these two sides whom I love that I just try to remain  – in the words of my teenager – Switzerland – neutral.

The military has been in the news a lot lately and I have been reflecting on it – maybe also because I have a high school student and we had to sign a waiver to not have her marketed to by the US Government – I wish I had done the same with some of the colleges and these organizations that try to stroke the egos of high-schoolers and their parents about how great they are and how they can give her special certificates and how great the college board will think she is – please send in our check for $450.

Anyway, I was thinking about the military and how it has been a positive thing in my life. Remember – I live in the East Village of NYC, my kids go to the Earth School, I help women breastfeed – for years! I wear Dansko sandals.

So, thinking back on my life – the Army supported my family, gave us medical care.  We had a house to live in. We had food on our table. My parents were both the third of seven children – they married young without education beyond high school. They both grew up very modestly. The Army really kept us afloat.

I think back to sixth grade – back in the 1970’s we had the Presidential Fitness Program. We had to do specific fitness tests. I was a confused, hormonal pre-pubescent girl and all these young soldiers came to my Sherwood Park Elementary School to assist the teachers in timing our running, counting our push-ups and lifting us girls to see how long we could hold onto the bar while the boys did chin-ups. Wow! Those soldiers were dreamy.

I think back to high school and college when I worked part time at Thalhimers Department Store at the Cross Creek Mall and all the soldiers would come shopping on PayDay. They bought gifts for their wives, girlfriends and mothers. I even dated a couple of Privates.

I think of the kids I grew up with without a lot of resources and they joined the Army for three years and then they got to go to school on the GI Bill. I think of John Powell the skinny kid who made some good money every morning before school buying candy at the Little Giant and then reselling it on the play yard for a profit. John was such a wise guy, always on the verge of trouble – just enough charm to get by. He joined the Army for about three years, came back buff, confident but mature. Guys like this benefitted from joining the military. This was post Viet Nam and pre-Afghanistan – I suppose the Army was a safe haven for some kids. A way out of a small town. A way to get an education.

I think back to September 11. I remember being at the Earth School having just dropped off my Kindergartener and nursing my baby in the parents room as the Towers went down. I gathered with the other parents as the sky went silent and then the sound of the jets. “What’s happening?” Rosemary asked. “That is the sound of the military protecting us. I grew up hearing that,” I replied. The week following I felt helpless. What could I do? Along East 14^th Street there were soldiers stationed along Avenues A, B and C. I baked chocolate chip cookies and brought them to the soldiers who looked so young. One of them reminded me of my cousin Marc who had been in the Army. He had a southern accent and had never been in a big city before.

While I am not a fan of the politics of the military I have a soft spot in my heart for soldiers.

As a mother of three children I try to have a healthy attitude about body image and food.

I have struggled with my own image and am finding peace in this crazy world.

My struggle with weight has been a life-long saga. Let’s start at the beginning.

I was 6 pounds 6 ounces at birth. When I was 6 weeks old my father was called to serve his first tour of duty in Viet Nam.  He moved his family – young wife Kaye, two-year-old son Mike and tiny me – to live with his family in Boston. My grandparents were from Ireland. Grandma believed a chubby baby was a healthy baby. So, Grandma decided to fatten me up. I was fed whatever formula I was fed and three bowls of Irish porridge each day. Irish porridge is oatmeal with heavy cream. By the time I was six months old I weighed thirty pounds! Most one-year-olds weigh around twenty pounds.

At this time my mom was pretty skinny – maybe even anorexic. She was over 5’8” and weighed 103 pounds. Wherever we went people would laugh at the Laurel & Hardy mother/daughter duo.

I grew into a shy, chubby little girl. I barely spoke as a pre-schooler. Little boys would tease me and chant “Fatty, fatty two by four, can’t get through the bathroom door.”

At the tender age of nine, in 4^th grade, our Army family doctor said to me, “You can continue what you are doing and grow into an obese adult or you can do something about it.” I wanted to do something about it!

My statuesque mom and little chunky me walked into the diet clinic at Womack Army Hospital. I was the only kid and my mom was the only thin person. We got lessons in nutrition and portion control. I remember pickles and green beans were “free foods” – most green food was – but those were the green foods I ate.

This was the first time in my life I felt I had control. I did something powerful for myself. I gained confidence. I don’t remember how much weight I lost but you can see I went from a shy, overweight 4^th grader to a confident average size 5^th grader. This was my first lesson in life long health. I cracked a joke in the class and took the lead in a class play!

I still struggle with my weight but I do not obsess about it – well – I do in my mind but I try to teach my children good health habits. I teach them to respect and love their bodies. They feel it when they eat poorly.  At The Earth School they learn cooking, nutrition and gardening and they some home and share what they learn. At Millennium Phoebe learns food science and nutrition.

I hope that Rob and I have instilled a good sense of enjoyment of food and healthy bodies. I am happy that they all got a good start with breastfeeding. I share my story with them to let them know a child can make smart choices and to let them know I have confidence in them to participate in their health.

Who needs a pump when you have your hands?

Not everyone needs to express milk but it is a good idea to know how. Say you want a little extra milk for your 5 year-old’s conjuctivitis or your little darling is sleeping a bit longer stretches and you feel a bit full.

Here is how it goes:

You take the pads of your thumb and middle finger and place them just on the inner edge of your areola.

You put pressure as though you are going to touch your rib cage.

Then, imagine there is ink on your thumb – you roll your thumb towards your nipple as though you would make a thumbprint – not a smudge.

Repeat.

If you do not have milk flowing you can massage your breast toward the nipple.

You repeat until you have expressed  enough milk for your particular needs of the moment.

The best place to practice is in the shower. Sometimes you will find a “sweet spot” where you get a nice continuous flow.

No need for electricity or batteries.

The weekend was lovely with a taste of spring in the air. Friday was sunny and I enjoyed walking home from a client. On the way I ran into one of my clients from last year. She is happily nursing her 14-month-old and announced she is 2 months pregnant! She loves nursing!

Saturday I saw two nursing families on the Upper East Side in a rare weekend workday. It is always a joy to work with nice families!

Sunday was productive despite the lost hour: a workout date with Rob, some major spring cleaning and then a trip to the Upper West Side to see our friend Delilah play a couple of songs on the piano in between sets of The Beatles Brunch. This was at  PicNic Market & Café on Broadway at 101^st Street. The food was great. And I saw two nursing toddlers!

On a walk with Phoebe and Chloe we saw lots of crocuses peeking out!

The evening ended with a viewing of the Maysles Film Sally Gross-The Pleasure of Stillness. It truly was a pleasure to watch this beautiful dancer, choreographer  and artisit.

Looking forward to spring  . . . .