NYC Moms

Want a Home Birth? You Can’t in New York.

I was featured as a natural birth and breastfeeding advocate on Ricki Lake’s site MyBestBirth.com two weeks ago, and only because I read the MBB e-mail newsletter announcing my featured post did I learn that one of the most progressive hospitals in the city, St. Vincent’s in Manhattan, was closed, making it impossible for the home-birth midwives in New York to practice. They are obliged by state law to be approved by a hospital or obstetrician. So any expecting mom wanting to give birth at home can’t now, and the midwives either have to work illegally with their clients or are out of a job.

I'm outraged. This is New York City we are talking about! I’m outraged that I didn’t hear about this earlier, that this isn’t a bigger story. I actually gave birth to my son in a hospital -- we made it there, doula in tow, 20 minutes before he was born -- but I would want to have my baby at home the next time if we had another child. What are the New York midwives supposed to do, and more importantly, what is going to happen to the expecting moms who are close to their due dates, have been working with their midwives throughout their pregnancies, and now aren’t allowed to give birth at home?

Sheep Shearing and Sweatpants

About a week ago the power went out in our house after a tree fell over on all the power and phone lines up the street. We didn’t get it back until three days later. Since we weren’t prepared –- we had a few flashlights and a radio with a light that only works if you crank it by hand -- this meant packing a few necessary things, an adventurous walk over a condemned bridge with our little son, and sleeping at Grandma’s house.

It mean spending Mother’s Day and seeing the sheep shearing I still insisted on going to in sweatpants. Gulp. I’m not exactly the sweatpants-wearing-kind-of gal. And it meant not tweeting or blogging. Double gulp. You see, I’m kind of addicted to Twitter and WordPress.

Mommy's Lazy Day

After a lazy morning playing with our little son in bed, my husband took him to see his cousin play college baseball somewhere two hours away. I don’t inquire — I don’t care for baseball. Or football. Especially if the game is that far away. Supposedly that changes when you have your own son play sports, but that’s another post . . . 

This meant I would have hours and hours to myself. After showering, straightening up the house, and getting a load of laundry going, I headed into town. I needed a present for my mom’s birthday. After also picking up the mail at the P. O. Box, I got back into the car to head to Target.

I live and breathe Target. I’d be screwed without it. You can get everything, I can use coupons there, and their frozen food — which is essential in our house, let me tell you — is cheaper than anywhere else. You see, I’m no cook. This morning I made pancakes out of waffle mix that called for Seltzer water, which I didn’t have — need I say more? My husband and little boy take it in strides — well, they have no choice.

Raising a Tree Hugger

The other day I finally went on a long-overdue walk in my neighborhood. The sun was shining, the birds chirping, I passed two fishermen in their boat… I took a deep breath and was really enjoying myself, thinking that I need to do this more often, when a big diesel truck drove into the street I was going to walk up. By the time I passed the truck, the driver had gotten out and was fixing something on a car next to it, but the big truck was still running. I kept walking for about ten minutes and finally turned around to walk back home. The loud diesel truck was still running. I looked for the driver but he was nowhere to be seen. My blood started boiling. Not only was this guy not showing any consideration to the people living on that street who had to listen to this annoying noise, I was outraged that he was needlessly polluting the air. He’s lucky he wasn’t around or I would have given him a piece of my mind. I don’t have any tolerance for people who pollute the earth unnecessarily, especially now as a mother.

We all do things that pollute the environment. We create trash, drive cars, or fly in airplanes. But it’s another thing to pollute unnecessarily. Like throwing trash out of the car window. Who does that?! Apparently a lot of people, judging by the wrappers, cups, and plastic bags I see on the side of the roads. One of my biggest pet peeves is people letting their cars run — I just don’t get it. Come on, turn off your car to get the mail or to see Aunt Bernice for a second. Aunt Bernice starts talking your ear off and you forget all about that running car in the driveway. Warming your car up in the winter — is that an American phenomenon? I grew up in Europe and have never witnesses someone there warming up their car in the driveway.

Yes, We Co-Sleep. There, the Secret is Out.

We co-sleep. There, I said it, the secret is out. Actually, this isn’t much of a revelation to my blog readers or to anyone who knows me, but I seem to be one of the few parents who don’t have a problem with telling people that my son, now almost 3 1/2 years old, sleeps next to me every night.

Did I plan to co-sleep? Not really. I was entertaining the idea before the baby arrived; and I certainly wasn’t opposed to it. I knew there was no way I was going to put him in his own room all by himself, and we set up his beautiful crib right next to our bed. But once my son was born, that was too far away. I breastfed him on demand, and instead of having to get up every hour, I had him right next to me. He’d latch on and off we were again to dreamland, compared to other moms who have to get their baby from the nursery or warm up a bottle. I’d wake up a lot, making sure the blanket never covered him past his belly button, but I’d almost do it instinctively in a kind of semi-sleep and had pretty restful nights right from the start. My son was a very content baby, yet if I tried to put him down in his crib, he’d cry and cry. Co-sleeping was the charm.

Cool, He’s Going to be Bilingual! Well, Maybe Not.

“Oh, how wonderful!” was the only thing my mom could say before she choked up and started to cry. Those were happy tears. I had called my parents in Germany to tell them that I was pregnant. My father’s first words were: “You better teach him German.” Well, maybe it was the second thing he uttered. But he hasn’t let up reminding me about the importance of raising my son bilingually since he was born almost 3 ½ years ago.

My father told me to speak German to my unborn son every chance he got during our weekly pregnancy-update phone calls. Yes, Papa, I get it. Great opportunity I shouldn’t miss. My 85-year-old father, who doesn’t speak a lick of English, wanted to make sure he can communicate with his first grandchild. Which is understandable — but also hilarious given the fact that he hardly ever speaks (my poor, inquisitive husband learned some German to impress my father only to find out that he doesn’t talk more than eight words in a day). Opa keeps pointing out how much of an advantage my son will have in life knowing two, and later on possibly even more, languages.

Caution: Folding Laundry May Lead to Happiness

It happened again today: I caught myself feeling really happy while folding laundry. It’s such an odd thing because I don’t particularly like doing it. Well, it’s not folding the laundry that makes me happy — somehow, looking at our clothes always makes me feel really grateful for all the things I have in my life. Yes, there is a hole in my favorite socks; yes, there are stains on my son’s white T-shirt; no, we don’t have fancy clothes, but we have so much compared to others.

Times are tough right now for so many Americans. Things could be better financially in our home as well, but we have a roof over our head, always a full fridge, and I own enough sweaters to last me a lifetime. I never have enough time in the day to do all the things I want to do: become a better cook, sit down and read in German to my son, call my girlfriends, or write the ten blog entries I already know I want to write. My beloved car is twelve years old, my computer is too slow, and our living room is still not painted. But I look around our home and I am filled with happiness. I am grateful for the simple train set my son loves to play with every day, for that little blue vase I just had to buy at a craft fair, and for my office where I can do what I love — writing my blog and connecting with and inspiring other women.

Natural Birth, Duggar Style

I enjoy watching “19 Kids and Counting,” the TV show about Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar and their ever-growing brood of kids. I even watch it with my son sometimes because they serve as great examples for gentle and kind attachment parenting. Last week I happened to see the episode where Anna Duggar, their oldest son Josh’s wife, gives birth to their daughter with the help of the Bradley method, and I was reminded of my wonderful experience giving birth to my son after preparing myself with the same classes.

I think three factors contributed to make my natural birth experience enjoyable compared to other women’s “laborious” deliveries: attitude, preparation, and a little bit of luck. After seeing my girlfriend’s easy, epidural-aided labor years ago, I was convinced that I wanted an epidural — hook me up the second I walk in the door — but I completely changed my opinion once I did more research and attended the Bradley classes. There was no way I wanted any intervention, unless my life or the baby’s was in danger. Even though this was my first time giving birth, I truly believed that I could achieve a drug-free birth. It helped to know that my three sister-in-laws had birthed all of their 10 children like that. I trusted that my body would know what it needed to do, and I think my can-do mindset was the most important reason for my positive experience.

The Other Boob

My son is addicted to his ba-ba — the breast milk my breasts produces for him. Now a three-year-old, he is showing no inclination to self-wean from breastfeeding. I never anticipated nursing him this long, but I have to tell you — nothing feels more right and natural to me.

But my son has become addicted to another “boob” lately — the TV. He loves watching videos of Dora, Caillou, or Barney, and episodes of “Little Bear” and “Toot and Puddle” (that’s my influence — I collected Holly Hobbie’s books long before I had a child because I love the illustrations of those two little pigs). And while that’s all innocent-enough entertainment, I worry.

BlackBerry or Little House on the Prairie?

I have toyed with the thought of getting a BlackBerry for some time now — I figure it could help me manage the stream of e-mails I receive every day while I'm having an occasional coffee at Panera, and it would let me tweet or check out websites during the day instead of late at night after my son is in bed. But so far I have been too frugal to make that commitment, and I fear that my love to tweet would get out of hand if I could do it at a moment’s notice. More importantly, I don’t want to turn into one of THOSE mothers — one who doesn’t pay enough attention to her child because she is too distracted by her BlackBerry or iPhone.

I am a pretty hip mama, but on the flip side I yearn for the simple, “Little House on the Prairie”-kind of life. I would love to live in a log cabin my husband built me. How romantic. (I actually have a husband who could build me one. I know, how romantic!) I would be happy to read all day. (And no, my love for that show did not prompt us to give our son his name; that was my husband’s idea.) I wish those new phones with all their annoying bells and whistles would disappear from whence they came. I cannot stomach the “beep” of those walkie-talkie phones and the owner’s insistence that everyone around him has to listen to both sides of the conversation. Too many people are loudly talking on their phones and rudely taking calls while in the company of others. But to me the worst offense happens when parents favor ogling and prodding their BlackBerry or similar phones over paying attention to their children. I want to rip that phone out of her hand when I see a mother so distracted that she doesn’t notice her daughter literally clawing on her and yelling “Mommy!” for the tenth time.