Love Lines and Body Love
February 9, 2014
My body is the only body I have, the only body I will ever have. It is where I live. My body is where I grew my babies, first inside then outside. I grew them with my breasts, my hugs. I lugged them around on my hips. I am happy to have these soft hips to balance a baby and my soft bosom to catch hugs. If you look closely at my hips and my breasts, if you catch the light just right you will see a light pattern, a texture, almost silvery, once purple but softly faded lines. Some people call them stretch marks I prefer love lines.
Love created my babies. Rob’s loving hands caress my body. I love the feeling of skin on skin.
I once held fantasies of having a perfectly toned body, a model size body but I don’t naturally have that body type…
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Feeding for the Future
February 9, 2014
Breastfeeding. It is a loaded word. It is powerful. Every piece of evidence says we should be doing it. Makes sense – we are mammals – what are breasts but mammary glands?
So why is it such a challenge? Why is it so loaded? My theory is that it is an integral part of mothering. Mothering is so complex, yet so simple.
In New York, in this newish millennium, life is complex – so many choices, so many options, so many acceptable variations on “the norm.” What is the norm? Who knows anymore?
For many years breastfeeding was considered special, exceptional. Well guess what? It isn’t – simply put, breastfeeding is normal. That’s all – normal. Of course, anyone who has breastfed will tell you that they feel special, exceptional. Well, being a mother is special, exceptional and normal. Procreation has kept the human race going. Well, breastfeeding has also kept the human race going. Mothering and breastfeeding go hand in hand.
So, what happened? Breastfeeding was replaced as was much of our nutrition and where has that gotten us? Going back to whole foods, sustainability. We are shopping for organic foods, preparing fresh meals. What about those of us who don’t know how to cook, who don’t have time to cook, who choose not to cook? Do we go hungry? No, we go out! The trend in restaurants is to offer fare that is seasonal and locally grown. It is green, good for the environment. The people have spoken and we want our health back.
Many mothers truly need to work to support their family. Many mothers are very fulfilled by their jobs outside of mothering and make a commitment to the balancing act of mothering, working, taking care of herself. The babies of these mothers want and deserve proper nutrition.
Babies can’t speak so obviously. Those of you with babies know better. They want their milk and they want what is theirs. What about the moms who don’t have enough milk, don’t want to breastfeed, have to work and don’t have access to quality pumps, or pumping breaks? Shouldn’t these babies still get human milk? These babies deserve access to appropriate nutrition, their mothers deserve informed choice and these babies deserve access to banked human milk. The people need to speak out on behalf of our future. There is nothing more sustainable or greener than breastfeeding.
How can we make this happen? Create a need – if you are pregnant tell your health care providers that you will be breastfeeding and you want to know how they will support you and your baby. Talk to nursing moms, attend a La Leche League Meeting, take a breastfeeding class. If you are nursing, share your joys and challenges. Avoid nursing in the closet. If breastfeeding is not going well, surround yourself with support, seek help from an International Board Certified Lactation Consultant, tell your health care providers and pediatrician.
Mothers need support. Let us support one another in our mothering. Sometimes we make different choices from our peers. Sometimes choices are made for us. Mothering is about the future – our babies are the future. Let us celebrate the next generation and work toward a healthier future for our children.
Love Lines and Body Love
February 9, 2014
My body is the only body I have, the only body I will ever have. It is where I live. My body is where I grew my babies, first inside then outside. I grew them with my breasts, my hugs. I lugged them around on my hips. I am happy to have these soft hips to balance a baby and my soft bosom to catch hugs. If you look closely at my hips and my breasts, if you catch the light just right you will see a light pattern, a texture, almost silvery, once purple but softly faded lines. Some people call them stretch marks I prefer love lines.
Love created my babies. Rob’s loving hands caress my body. I love the feeling of skin on skin.
I once held fantasies of having a perfectly toned body, a model size body but I don’t naturally have that body type and life is too much fun to work that hard for an elusive dream.
I had warts as a kid. Mama used to have me take an old silver spoon, rub it on the warts in a circular motion and toss the spoon behind me into the woods. This was supposed to disappear the warts. I was warned to never search for the spoon because if I ever found it the warts would grow back. The spoon trick never worked. Mama said I didn’t believe hard enough.
When I was fifteen I had thirteen warts on my left knee. The doctor numbed up the middle of my leg and I lay back. I saw a miniature melon-baller in his hand and moments later I felt warm syrup dripping down my ankle. He scooped out those warts and red streaks of blood lined my leg and speckled the tile floor.
To this day I can see the silvery amoeba shape on my knee, particularly in summer when I catch a bit of color.
Speaking of tanning I have been cursed with a skin cancer gene. If you look closely at my chest and face you will see that they are marked up like old pair of jeans that have been reworked, stitches here and there, threadbare in some spots. I am a dermatologist’s dream. I don’t have bad cancer, just basel and squamous cells, moles, things that need to be removed here and there but are nothing lethal. I am a steady customer.
I have plenty of moles. There is one on my left side, the part that curves in at the waist, just handy for a nursling’s little hand to migrate to and pull and pinch and finger. I had another one that he loved on my upper chest near my arm that was easy access when nursing. I complained to the dermatologist and he froze it off. The boy knew the one on my waist was bigger and softer anyway so he didn’t complain.
My daughters love my curves. They love to cuddle into me. My husband and son love hand-holding and spooning.
The chorus of love I hear is: “Let’s cuddle.” “Spoon me.” “I need a hug.”
Legs tangle together on the sofa. We are a network of limbs, touching, embracing, kicking. My family is connected physically and emotionally. I feel like we sprang from my marked and curvy body.
Interview with Tanya Wills
February 4, 2014
To Pump or Not to Pump
January 29, 2014
When I was pregnant with Phoebe is 1995 I took a birthing class and a breastfeeding class. In week six of the birthing class the teacher brought in a guest – a woman who rents breast pumps. The businesswoman made it clear that if a person was to be breastfeeding she would need a good quality pump.
Phoebe and I struggled for a few days but got the hang of nursing and all was well. The pediatricians were impressed with her weight gain and were nearly shocked I was exclusively breastfeeding. Looming in the back of my mind was that little voice of the woman “you need a breast pump, you need a breast pump.”
After about four weeks I found a local pharmacy that rented pumps and plopped down my $212.32 for a two-month rental with all of the supplies. I brought it home and it sat…
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The Myth of the Perfect Mom
December 30, 2013
We moms sure are sold a load of crap! All the images of mothers are glorified and sterilized and glamorized.
I am not talking about Giselle. We know she is glamorous and we also know she has a team that makes her look that way.
What about the rest of us, those of us in the trenches of motherhood? Why do we think we have to achieve some unattainable goal as high priestess of motherhood?
Once in a while I may get what many would call a compliment – and frankly, I let my ego suck it all in for a while and I may hear, “Oh, Leigh Anne, you are an amazing mom!” or “You are a perfect mom!” If this comes from one of my children I will take it and toll around in it for days, even years because I know that it will be followed by some balancing statement like “I hate you, you are the worst mother ever!” And that will be followed by a hug or a request for mommy time. It is all in the job description.
Please, please, please do not throw that horrible label of PERFECT on me. I am imperfect and I embrace that.
But look at advertising for new parents and you see styled and glamorized images.
What do we really look like after a new baby.
This is me after my first baby was about two days old – see the look of bewilderment in my eyes?
Most new moms are in a bit of shock. I hear repeatedly “No one ever told me . . . .”
We hide babies, we hide our breasts, we keep quiet about the dark side of parenting.
I wonder if the dark side would be so dark if people talked about it.
Did you know that breastfeeding in the beginning is very time consuming?
Did you know that newborn babies are not typically chubby?
Did you know that you can bleed from your vagina for days and weeks?
Did you know that sometimes you will pass a clump of blood?
Did you know that you may feel angry that you have a baby – not all of the time but some of the time?
Did you know that you would be riding an emotional rollercoaster?
Did you know that sometimes you will plan to take a shower in the morning and the next thing you know it is 7:30pm and you still have spit up and baby shit on you and you have only eaten stale leftover cake that wasn’t even home baked in a flavor you don’t even like?
Did you know that in all of that mess you will look into the eyes of your baby and feel a deep, confusing kind of love? A new protective kind of love?
Did you know that your baby doesn’t give a damn about your hair?
Did you know that your baby just wants to get to know you? He knows you from growing inside you but now that the courtship is settling in he wants to really get to know you. And he wants you to know him. Did you know that some moms fall in love immediately while others take time.
I think we all want to put on a good face when we go out with our babies. We feel a sense of accomplishment from just having gotten dressed and out of the house. Maybe we feel like we are failing so we have to put on a show and say all the right things. The problem is that other new moms believe what you say. Then other new moms compare themselves to you. Or maybe you are comparing yourself to the woman who says “childbirth was a breeze, my baby latched right on and has grown beautifully, she sleeps through the night and her poop doesn’t smell, also, my husband is a saint, he cooks every night and bought me this gold chain with my baby’s birthstone and a tiny haiku he wrote inscribed. He waits patiently for me to want to get intimate and my belly just seemed to pop right back into place.”
I play a game with myself. When I am feeling the stress of parenting and I really do not want to yell at my kids again or I do not want to scream at them in public, I pretend I am the subject of a documentary on parenting. I want to be prime example of keeping my cool. I stop and think: “what would be a productive action to take here.” I often fail at this game but sometimes I succeed. When I succeed I am setting an example for my children and possibly for other parents. But, I am not perfect, dammit!
One of the best gifts my mother gave me was the gift of imperfection. She let me see her flaws. I was not blinded by a sense of glamour and always being right. This was great because it made her accessible and it took the pressure off of me to not be a perfect mom. Don’t get me wrong – I do have my moments of genius. Mostly I am ordinary but to my children I am MOM.
My home . . . in jeopardy?
December 19, 2013
Stuyvesant Town is my home. It is a haven in the big city. But something nefarious has been seeping into my oasis: Big Business. Stuyvesant Town was built for the middle and working-class. The first tenants were soldiers returning home, nurses, firefighters, police officers, families.
For most of its history, Stuyvesant Town kept a list for potential residents. One had to qualify by falling into a certain income level – not too low, not too high – just to get on this list. When your name came up, it was like winning the lottery.
After our first baby was born, we could not afford to stay in Manhattan, so we moved to Westchester County. I pined for my beloved gritty streets, the convenience of walking everywhere, the cultural diversity. I moved to New York from North Carolina with dreams of raising little urbanites.
The day we got the call that our name came up on the list, I danced the ultimate happy dance. The ten months in the “burbs” confirmed my desire, my need to be in the Manhattan. With our ten-month-old daughter, Rob and I set up home. The playgrounds, particularly Playground Twelve is where I forged deep friendships and made acquaintances. The laundry room is where Mrs. O’Connell watched Phoebe and Chloe grow. She would share stories of being one of the original tenants as we slipped quarters into the washers and dimes into the dryers.
I lost weight, making laps around the oval with Gina and Louise. We also swapped stories and consoled each other through life’s ups and downs.
We discussed the controversy of opening up the lawn for people to walk on. Yes, we lived here, when the oval was fenced off and only maintenance workers dared step upon the green. We watched families grow, and we watched some families move away.
The grounds of Stuyvesant Town are where my children learned to ride scooters and bikes, to run on asphalt through sprinklers on sticky summer days and to build snowmen on snowy winter days. Our family grew here.
When we discovered, we were having a third child, Rob and I switched rooms, gave the kids the larger bedroom. Two daughters and a son sharing a room work to a certain point. But the suburbs are not an option. We have deep roots here.
We noticed that through various transitions, Stuyvesant Town tried to compete with the ever-growing luxury housing. Shifting and murky laws made it so that our middle class oasis was morphing into a temporary crash pad. I actually heard a rep for Stuyvesant Town showing a prospective renter say, “this is a good place when you’re single before you have kids and move to the suburbs.” My jaw dropped. This is a place for families. Where you can walk to work or take public transportation. No long commutes. A couple of bookshelves gave privacy to our oldest. But she needed more. Rob hung a door between two of them. Light spilled over the shelves but no little brother could play peeping tom.
During an inspection in late September, I was told verbally that the shelves and door were fine. They were less structural than the walls Stuyvesant Town puts up to chop up the apartments for NYU students and new, young residents.
A few weeks after our inspection, we found a letter slipped under our door stating that we were in violation of our lease. They said our options were to 1) Terminate the lease and move (giving them the chance to cosmetically renovate and dramatically increase the rent) or 2) Rectify the violation. We removed the door and had a certified architect inspect the room to confirm we are in legal rights of our lease. We photographed this, copied it and sent all of this to Stuyvesant Town management via an attorney.
We never heard from Stuyvesant Town Management until Monday December 16th where during dinner, a loud knock jolted us. Our buzzer had not been rung. Our eight-year-old son and I answered the door. A stranger called out my name, handed me a package of paper, which included a lease termination for December 31st. This Notice of Termination was dated November 25, 2013. Where was it all this time?
Today copies of this letter came via USPS certified as well as in my mailbox.
We have contacted the ST Tenants Association, Garodnick’s office and various attorneys. We have been assured that we cannot be kicked out of our home of nearly two decades. Still, the stress of having to be faced with this menacing behavior, particularly during the holidays is unconscionable.
I have not slept well this week. I am spending time away from my children, my clients, last minute Christmas shopping and preparation. The spaces of my mind are preoccupied with this bullying.
I know the original developers of Stuyvesant Town never had this intention. This was created as a sanctuary in the big city, a place to call home, to raise children, to walk to the butcher, the baker, the sandwich maker.
I hope that our new mayor will push for affordable housing for the middle class. I hope that whomever is in charge of Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village find a soul and some sense of humanity and stop harassing long time tenants.
Leigh Anne’s Luscious Lemon Cake
December 14, 2013
I love baking. It relaxes me. It chills me out.
I tried knitting. I would go to conferences and see the Zen aura haloing the knitting needled goddesses as the sticks gently clacked together as soft sweaters and scarves emerged. I tried it. It totally freaked me out! I wanted to scream. I wanted to impale those needles into the eyes of those sweater-making freaks. I could not sit still and make sure I counted those stitches and the rows. What if I fell short a stitch. I could not go back. If I unrolled it I would cry. Eventually my daughter finished the scarf I started years ago. She wrapped it up in beautiful Christmas wrap and placed it under the tree.
So, I went back to the kitchen. Baking is honest, straightforward. There are rules but they are bendable. There is creativity. Before I was a lactation consultant I had a little baking business called Leigh Anne’s Southern Sweet Tooth. I baked for a local café and I baked for a restaurant in SoHo. I also baked for private events including a couple of weddings.
About three years ago I discovered I was allergic to wheat! Yikes! I have toyed with gluten-free flours and flour-free baking. Some has been great while some has turned out disastrous.
Nonetheless I still bake with beautiful, silky, binding flour. Nothing holds a cake or cookies together the same as good old-fashioned wheat flour – not whole wheat, just regular flour. Go get some, run your hands through it. It is dreamy.
One of my popular cakes is my lemon cake. No one makes the way I do – until now. I am going to share this recipe. This is a dense, moist, sweet and tart cake.
Enjoy!
Leigh Anne’s Luscious Lemon Cake
1 ½ cups sugar
4 eggs
1 cup vegetable oil
1 cup of fresh squeezed lemon juice (6-8 lemons)
Zest of 2 lemons (some will be used for the frosting)
2 ½ cups flour
½ teaspoon salt
2 ¼ teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 350. I like to put wax paper on my pans and use butter to prep the cake pans. I use two eight-inch pans.
Beat together the eggs and sugar for 30 seconds.
Add the remaining ingredients and beat on high for a minute and a half. Pour into the baking pans. Bake for about 20 minutes. Use a cake tester, knife or fork to test for doneness.
Let cool.
Frosting:
1 box of confectioners sugar
1 block of cream cheese
1 stick of unsalted butter
Zest of one lemon
1 teaspoon vanilla
Let the cream cheese reach room temperature, combine all the ingredients until smooth.
Frost the cake and enjoy!
Wrinkle Event
November 22, 2013
Yesterday I went to one of my favorite stores in the neighborhood to buy some overpriced eye moisturizer. Sure, I could just slather on some coconut oil and call it a day but where is the fun in that? It is exhilarating to walk into Kiehl’s and feel special with the clerks dressed in white lab coats.
Years ago I was on a TV shoot (I used to act and still will if someone casts me) and the make-up artist nearly slapped my young yet just beginning to age face for not daily applying eye moisturizer. I did not dare tell him I just put body lotion on my entire body including my face. So began my journey into anti-aging products.
I know, I know, I cannot stop the aging process. I do use sunscreen and I wear a hat in the summer. I also do this because I am now a piece of experimental art on my upper body from various moles, basal and squamous cells being carved out of my chest and face – but I can pretend I am being proactive in the anti-aging, or should it be holding-on-to-youth, movement.
Have you ever been to Kiehl’s? When you buy a product they give you samples. That is how I started collecting so many of their products.
I have a little collection of Kiehl’s sample packs in my medicine cabinet.
I don’t know if they work or not but I use them. It feels good to have my face moisturized and maybe protected from some of the elements. The thing is, I know I cannot stop the aging process and I want to grow old gracefully, embrace the grays and the lines and the scars. I do not wish to be pulled and stretched to look younger than I am.
I do want to clarify that I do love when people seem surprised by my age. I honestly don’t care if they are just being polite or genuinely are surprised, I just accept it and gloat a little inside to myself.
I have to share though the latest. As I was replenishing my supply of eye cream and the sales clerk asked me,
“Would you like to try our latest product?”
“Of course, I would.”
She then revealed: “This is for those wrinkle events.”
Wrinkle Events. Hmm. Wrinkle Events.
I then started to laugh.
“Wrinkle events?” I inquired.
“Mhhm.” Her eyes looked bright and hopeful.
Isn’t waking up a wrinkle event? Having children? Being an adult? Life is a wrinkle event. Was this cream for living my life? Was it going to make me happier? Less wrinkly? Less happy?
The actual name is Super Multi-corrective cream. I if I use this I am told that I will be in possession of “a fresh, healthy and youthful-looking radiance.
Watch out East Village – you will not be able to handle my radiance!
mamamilkandme 