a taste of freedom in LA

Last Thursday, I went on my first solo overnight trip since C. was born (I know! 15 months is too long, but that whole nursing thing has gotten in the way). I had a doctor’s appointment at UCLA (all is well), and stayed with my friend S. in Venice beach. I had no idea how it would go, but a few things surprised me.

I was looking forward to some “me” time — but as I was driving south through the Mojave desert looking at desert brush, deserted trains and blue sky, my mind kept wandering to C. I kept getting visions of him cocking his head to the side and smiling so big you can see all of his six teeth and I was laughing to myself like a wacko in the car.

S. took me to get drinks at The Tasting Room. We had scotch and ginger drinks and saw the actor who played Charlotte’s bald Jewish husband on Sex in the City. He was shorter in person than on the screen, surprise surprise. And I felt a little bit old and a little bit frumpy and I didn’t care.

Then we had a 9 o’clock dinner at Gjelina, a hip restaurant that had more than an hour wait. We shared several tasty dishes and the vegetable list looked exactly like what I’ve been making at home from our farm box (which, trust me, is shocking) — kale, cauliflower, beets. And by 11, I was yawning incessantly. I guess that’s my new bedtime.

The next morning, after my doctor appointment, I found a brunch place in Santa Monica where I could sit outside next to a heat lamp, have a latte and breakfast burrito, and eavesdrop on the LA glitterati. I also took my writing notebook. But I spent the whole time talking with my sister-in-law about parenting. I also could see a bookstore from my seat: Books and Cookies. It was wholly for kids. So, of course, I went over and browsed the shelves and took mental notes of what they sell. I read so many kids books daily, that buying a new one is actually a treat for me so that I don’t lose my mind.

I think a night or two here and there away from C. is really healthy. What surprised me most is when I pulled onto our block, I actually had butterflies. When I walked in the door, I could hear bare toddler feet slapping on hardwood floors as C. ran to me calling “mama” and circled his chubby arms around my neck.

After I put him down for a nap, I tackled A. and held him tight and said: “Thank you for taking me to the desert.” Now that C. is almost fully weaned, my next night away from C. will be with A. I can’t wait.

a birth plan? ha, good one (C.’s birth story, long overdue)

Photo by Stacey Vaeth

A. and I sit cross-legged in the back room at the Potters House in D.C. on a rainy November evening with about 20 small slips of paper in front of us. We’re charged with arranging them on the carpet from least important to most important.

I breathe hard and reach over my massive belly to grab one of them. It reads, in small type at the top, “It is important to us to…” and then, in large type, “Wear our own clothes.” I make a face and put it at the bottom of our list of priorities. I’ll probably be naked.

After that, it gets harder. I want all of them, really. Access to a shower/bath. Yes. Avoid labor induction. Yep. Have freedom of movement. Yes. Avoid epidural. Definitely. Delay cord cutting. Check. Avoid forceps/manual extraction. Oh goodness yes. Avoid Cesarean surgery. Absolutely.

At the top of priorities, I put “Have a healthy baby.”

A. looks at me with disapproval.

He grabs the slip that says “Have a healthy mother,” and slaps it above healthy baby.

“If something happens, we can always try for another,” he admonishes me. “There’s only one you.”

We’re taking a Bradley Method class and learning about labor and delivery. We signed up so we’d meet other couples in the same boat. And we want to learn how to be our own advocates in the delivery room. Turns out, most of the women are birthing at home or in a birthing center. They’re anti-hospital and anti-intervention. I do have wishes around giving birth, but really, I just want me and my baby to get out of this alive.

A month later, and seven days after my due date, my water breaks in a gush all over my black maternity pants. My contractions haven’t started. And all of a sudden, I’m on a clock: I have 24 hours to get this baby out of me.

It’s 11 a.m. on a Friday in early December when I check in at the hospital, brimming with adrenaline. I put my bathing suit on under the hospital robe. “Is this the birthing tub?” I ask a nurse. “Yes,” she says, “but since your water broke, you can’t use it.” Oh, I think, disappointed. One wish, rejected.

the attack of the ducks

Have you ever been scared of ducks? I mean, are ducks supposed to be scary? Geese, yes, but ducks?

I don’t know the answer to this. All I know is that I drove two hours to Bishop yesterday on a whim to explore a new area with C. (coffee shops! book stores!). It was warm and sunny and a good day for a long, quiet drive along the Eastern Sierras.

And once we got into town, after slurping on a green monster smoothy from the Black Sheep Espresso Bar and popping in a photography exhibit, I thought, “Hey, let’s go to the park and eat a chicken sandwich from Raymond’s Deli (the only one reviewed in Lonely Planet) and look at the mountains!”

And as I pulled into the parking lot, there was a brook about 20 feet from the curb and I said, “Look, C., ducks!” And he clucked. “No, not chickens, ducks!” And he clucked.

And we got out of the car, and I put C. down for a second to grab the sandwich and he was pointing at the ducks and walking blindly toward them, and he tripped over a cement block and turned and fell backwards and hit his head and and started wailing. And I picked him up with my right arm and had the sandwich in the other hand and I was walking toward the mini bridge to the playground when at least 50 ducks bee-lined for me. They were kicking fast in the water, waddling up the bank, onto the sidewalk, looking very intent and quacking like maniacs.

So I backed away, while holding my overtired, crying baby, feeling panicked that so many ducks were swarming me. I was sure they were going to nip at my ankles and turn all Zombie on me. I almost threw C. back in the car and locked the doors, but I realized, “I am 20 times the size of each of you strange creatures.” And so I backtracked through the parking lot — essentially crouching down behind the cars — as I made my way to a different bridge that would take me over the brook to the playground, where we ate our sandwich in peace.

All I can say is that it was INSANE. What ever happened to “Make Way for Ducklings”? Ducks are supposed to be sweet and relaxed. These ducks must be overfed by tourists and have an amazing sense of smell. When we go back to Bishop with A., I will not suggest a picnic at the park. Unless, of course, we decide to go feed the ducks.

our little rebel

C. decided to take us out today in the Mazda to the Trona Pinnacles, a remote area east of Ridgecrest. While munching on orange slices, he said, “Mom, I’ve got it under control,” and then fluffed his curls. I thought, “Hey, it’s the desert. Anything goes.” I’m just glad he didn’t pop a tire and that he agreed to play our music.

a cabin in the woods

A. and I talk all the time about how my dream house is in Maine. It sits on a cliff overlooking the ocean with bay windows and high ceilings so light can fill the rooms. There are dense woods in the backyard. The house has a furnished attic with a simple desk and a windowsill bench with lots of pillows — private, and a perfect place to write. It truly is a dream — I’ve never been to Maine. I concocted the house while reading some kids’ novel. I have no idea which one, but it doesn’t matter.

This weekend, A. and I met up with friends in Spruce Knob, West Virginia, for a climbing trip. Our friends found a two-bedroom cabin for seven us (plus two babies). And when A. and I arrived on Friday evening, the place took my breath away. It was nestled in the woods with high ceilings, wood beams and a bay window overlooking a deck and a fire pit.

S. and J. were sitting in the dimly-lit dining room, quietly putting together a 1,000-piece puzzle — something else I used to love to do as a kid. After I put C. down for the night, A. and I jumped in and the four of us drank red wine, ate my homemade chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies and worked different sections of the puzzle.

We finished it the next morning (and then I started on another). Other friends arrived, and some went climbing. I met them at the crag later in the afternoon with C., and got one climb in.

That evening, we sat around a fire roasting marshmallows while J. played Ryan Adams and the Beatles on the guitar. And I felt relaxed and happy.

Maybe someday A. and I will be able to build a house somewhere in the woods. I doubt will have enough money, but a girl can dream.

baby o. still needs a name

A. and I still don’t have names for Baby O. When we tell people this, they say, “Oh, you probably just don’t want to tell me.” And then I say, “No, really, we don’t have names yet.” And then there is silence — people are really afraid for us and our baby.

Early on, like eons ago (three months), A. called the baby Carrie, after his favorite movie (we don’t even know the gender). Yes, the 1970s thriller Carrie, about a troubled, awkward girl who is voted homecoming queen at her high school. But then at the dance, her classmates rig a bucket of pigs’ blood above the stage so that when she’s crowned, the blood soaks her — to her horror and humiliation. So she goes nuts and burns down the school. Yes, that Carrie — that’s the movie A. wants to name our baby girl after (should we have a girl). I bought the DVD for A. for our first Christmas together. We watched it one cold Sunday in his Virginia apartment and laughed hysterically at the sound effects (ree ree). I had no idea it’s really a comedy. But to name our daughter after that movie seems to me… I dunno. Just wrong.

Then, as luck would have it, when A. heard his mom say Carrie with a New Jersey accent, he said, “OK, no, no, can’t go with that.” [Thank you, Vikki!] That was more than two months ago.

Since then, A. adopted the named Cholula (have I mentioned we don’t know if it’s a boy or girl?), after his favorite hot sauce. A. started dousing all of his food in Cholula when he was in Afghanistan, and has been addicted ever since. He even puts it on plain Greek yogurt (I just gagged as I typed that.)