BOOK REVIEW - Chicka Chicka Boom Boom

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin, Jr. and John Archambault, illustrated by Lois Ehlert

An excellent book. It rhymes. The illustrations and graphics are simple and bright. All of the lower case letters try to climb up one coconut tree. Can they all fit?

SPOILER ALERT!!!!

No. They do not all fit on one coconut tree. There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet, and although they are little, lower case letters, there are simply too many to fit onto one coconut tree. Obv.

The tree bends down with their weight, drops them all to the ground, and the upper case mamas and papas and uncles and aunts have to help them up.

Baby loves, loves, loves this book. This morning, I was reading a different (but equally awesome) book to Baby. He spotted Chicka Chicka, Boom Boom on the cushion next to me, and he promptly rolled right off of my lap, arms reaching out for his dear, brightly colored (and delicious?) book. If that is not a ringing endorsement, then I don't know what's what.

Coming and Going

When I leave in the mornings now, Baby usually looks up at me from his nanny's arms and smiles. Then the smile fades, and he looks confused. The nanny says (for him), "See you later, Mommy." I look back as I walk away, and he knits his eyebrows and watches me go. I tell myself not to look back again. I tell myself not to run back to Baby. I remind myself that this is the Great Recession, and that I need my job. I put my headphones in and try to pretend I am someone else. My solace is that I will get to see Baby smile when I come home. That smile makes my heart beat.

But there are days when circumstances conspire to keep me from getting home until after Baby is zonked. On those days, when I walk in the door, he looks at me with about as much recognition as he might give to the UPS delivery person. I try to fight it. I smile really big and exaggerate my excitement to try to get him to smile back. But he won't. I know that he is just tired, but I feel like crumpling when my day ends that way.

Yesterday was one of those days. I was in my office at 5:45 p.m. listening to some young paralegal question my instructions. He was skeptical of whatever I was telling him to do. Perhaps because my return to Work is so recent, I distrusted myself (and even my notes) and instead believed his skepticism. He wanted to check in with another attorney on the matter, and I told him to let me know if I had indeed made a mistake. When I did not hear from him, I sent him an email. He wrote back, and I am paraphrasing here, but his email roughly translates as follows:

"Dear LadyLawyer,

I think that I know more than you [even though I was learning long division when you were at Kenyon smoking P*Funks]. I am busy [doing what you told me to do because you were right]. I will get to that other thing later [because you were right that that other thing is for later]. I am not going to admit that you were right because I am really busy knowing more than you [and now you are going to get home to see a zonked out baby who does not even recognize you].

Regards,

Little Dipwad."

I used to think that people moved fast on New York's sidewalks because this is the concrete jungle where dreams are made of and all the rest of it. But now I believe that people move fast, and I mean really fast, to get home before their babies are zonked out little zombies. At least that's why I do.

The More Things Change

I returned to my office on March 1, and I promise to write more about that transition when I am emotionally able. In the meantime, here are some of the oddities from the last week and a half:

1. A man playing a baby grand in the lobby of 1 WFC. Neither the baby grand nor the piano player were there the last time I checked.

2. The ID I use to swipe through the turnstiles to get to the elevators did not work on my first day. The Universe sending me back home? Nope. According to security, I had simply swiped too many times and worn the damn thing out. Thank goodness I do not believe in existential crises because otherwise I think I would have had one.

3. Yesterday, while I was standing in line to get my salad for lunch, a couple of chach-faces roll in. One turns behind to his friends and says, "That's not even Finance 101... That's, like, Algebra 101!" Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle. Apparently, I found the only place in America where it is okay [i.e., awesome] to admit [i.e., brag] that you are a Finance Guy.

4. On my third day back, a partner stopped by my office and opened with, "Now, uh, please don't report me to the, uh, you know, politically correct police or anything . . . but . . .." After his "non-reportable" remark, he explained that he had learned at his age that even when you are trying to be nice, some one is going to get upset.

5. When I went to hide in various retail stores after a terribly uncomfortable exchange with the partner in #4, I walked by at least two more pianos and piano players where there had once been only hallway. The entire World Financial Center had been taken over by pianos!

The Breast Whisperer

This morning I had the distinct pleasure of reading an article in the newspaper while I drank a latte and ate the top of a muffin.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/21/nyregion/21freda.html

Ah, the Breast Whisperer. It almost brought me to tears when I thought about how grateful I was to my own whisperer, Judy LeVan Fram, who lives in Park Slope (of course). In Baby's first week, Judy packed up her scale, hopped on a bus, and came to my apartment.

She asked if I had any swelling in my legs, and I showed her the science experiment that was formerly known as my ankles. She smiled and said that the swelling was not that bad. She even said that she had seen worse (and seemed to mean it). She did not wince or even shudder at the sight of my post-partum belly even though I shuddered at the sight of that belly for weeks and weeks. She helped me find a way to hold Baby so that he could latch on and actually get some nourishment . . . something that a parade of post-partum nurses failed to do in a spectacularly gruff fashion.

When Baby seemed to have finished nursing on one side, Judy suggested that I offer him the other side. I slid my hand under his back to lift him, and somewhere between his lower back and his neck I noticed that my hand was moving faster, it was quite literally slip-sliding up his back. Baby had pooped an enormous newborn poop that came squishing out of his diaper, up his back, covered my hand and arm, and slathered the couch cushion.

Judy responded calmly by saying that she thought she had heard him poop. I was mortified. Three days in and I not only needed some one to tell me how to feed my baby, but I had no idea when he was pooping (even though it was apparently an audible event), and I smooshed his poop everywhere in front of company. My husband came in to see what was going on and seemed just as embarrassed. He threw out the couch cushion.

Judy helped as I changed Baby, and then she offered to hold him so I could wash my hands. (Mortified again. What kind of mother thinks it is okay to continue to handle a baby when she is covered in poop? The kind who is three days in and experiencing a public poop panic.)

Finally, Judy weighed Baby and reported that he was indeed getting nourishment from me. Sweet relief.

My time with Judy was so comforting, I highly recommend her to anyone who lives in New York. And I encourage anyone who is thinking about hiring a lactation consultant to find a good one, give her a call, and feel this wonderful, calm reassurance at a time when the world may seem to have been turned upside down.

N.B. I have not referred to anyone in this blog by name before. However, I had such a positive experience with Judy that I wanted to give her credit publicly. I liked her so much that when I saw the headline for the article I read this morning, I thought that it was about her.

Last Month of Vacation

When I think of the great vacations of my life, several immediately come to mind:

(1) One week with my husband in Hawaii for our babymoon. We went to the beach every day, we snorkled whenever we wanted to, and we even took a helicopter tour of the island. It was perfectly relaxing and beautiful.

(2) Two and a half weeks with my husband in South Africa. We spent three nights in Kruger, we visited Johannesburg, we visited Cape Town, we toured wine country, and we went shark diving (as chance would have it, with Anderson Cooper and his Planet in Peril crew).

(3) One week with my husband in Mexico for our [second] honeymoon. We went to the beach, we drank pina coladas and ate fish tacos, and I went scuba diving for the first time in my life. I even [reluctantly] swam by a [nurse] shark.

(4) A long weekend with my husband in Quebec City for our mini-moon [i.e., first honeymoon]. He surprised me and brought me to the most beautiful hotel in the city. We walked around the old city during the day, we ate delicious food and drank delicious wine at night, and we accidentally referred to flies as handkerchiefs in French.

(5) Two weeks with my husband, who was then my fiance, in the Pacific Northwest. We hiked, camped, went out in Seattle, went out in Portland (sort of), and toured wine country. It was an amazing time.

(6) One week with my husband, who was then my boyfriend, in Brazil. We were there for a wedding. It was a wonderful, week long party.

I just sent my secretary an email letting her know that I would be taking an unpaid leave to extend my maternity leave until March 1. The final sentence of her response was that I should enjoy the last month of my vacation. She does not have children.

No Comparison

When Baby was still in my belly, I called him The Fraggle. For months and months, I silently wished for my little fraggle to be healthy and happy (and sometimes, I would add wise to the list). I think I kept my wishes simple in the hope that, if the Universe were to hear them, they might more easily come true.

Baby is now four months old. My wishes are the same, but now I have an alarming array of metrics by which I can judge Baby's health and happiness. First, the numbers: weight in pounds, length in inches, and head circumference in centimeters. Then, the developmental milestones: smiles, coos, giggles, opening hands, holding head up, rolling, sitting, and so on and so forth (forever).

At the heart of all of this evaluation is comparison. From the very beginning, we mommas-in-training learn how our babies' length and weight compare through that beguiling statistic known as The Percentile. Then, we ourselves engage, often unintentionally, in the game of Baby Comparing. Mommas want and need to share their experiences, which necessarily means that they talk about their babies. While it feels so reassuring to hear the similarities, the differences often present opportunities for false pride or, worse, unfounded guilt.

I admit to having complimented myself for Baby's accomplishments, and I confess to having blamed myself for challenges, e.g. The Great Eczema Battle of 2010 (a story for another day as the battle wages on). In fact, there have been days when I questioned just about every aspect of my Momma-hood qualifications.

Should I eat more fish and walnuts to help Baby's brain grow? Is my body producing enough milk for Baby? How many times did Baby smile today? Am I holding Baby enough? Am I holding Baby too much so that I am depriving him of his opportunity to learn to roll, sit, or crawl? Why can't I remember the story of Jack and the Beanstalk well enough to tell it to Baby?

The earthquake in Haiti quickly snapped me out of wallowing in the swamp of self-doubt. But just in case an entire country's devastation failed to provide some perspective, last week, my brother-in-law was at our apartment and said that a man-hole cover next to his building had just exploded, shooting flames and electricity into the air.

I do not have control over many things. I did not choose where I was born; I cannot avert natural disaster; and I cannot predict where or when a man-hole cover will explode. But I know that Baby is healthy and happy, and I am entirely thankful for it.

Twenty Ten

New Year's Eve is my favorite holiday. Plenty of people I know react to this holiday with some form of the following: Too much hype; Never as fun as I want it to be; That bar I rented in New York was actually triple booked, and I ended up celebrating the new year on the Williamsburg Bridge on my way to Brooklyn. Well, I liked having the ball drop when I was on the bridge. It is always as fun as I want it to be. And who uses the word "hype" anyway?

Here are some of the great things about New Year's Eve that are not true many other nights of the year:

• You may sentimentally review the past with wild abandon;
• You may look to the future with bright-eyed optimism;
• You may walk around your apartment in a tiara even though you are not (and never have been) in a beauty pageant;
• It is customary to kiss at the stroke of midnight; and
• Champagne is the drink of choice - preferably with a swirl of Grand Marnier [thank you, Last Hurrah at the Parker House in Boston].

This year, of course, was a little different. My husband prepared a delicious dinner, and we opened one of our special bottles of wine. Even though the crowd for the night was reduced to a party of two, I like to think that we maintained a festive atmosphere. As a gift to ourselves, we were in bed by 9:30 pm.

About two and a half hours later, I woke up to two sounds. One was Baby. Presumably, Baby woke up because the second sound (set of sounds, really) was very loud and very unusual.

Pratt Institute is about three blocks from our apartment. Every year, on New Year's Eve, at midnight, the school's engineer plays the school's steam whistles. Even though this is the third year that I have celebrated New Year's Eve in my neighborhood, this is the first year that I noticed the volume, the duration, and the amazing sounds of the steam whistles. What do steam whistles sound like? Well, they sound like a cross between a train whistle and a whale giving birth. (I have heard whales giving birth, and I believe wholeheartedly that I am providing an accurate description.)

Perhaps more impressive than the sound of the steam whistles was the fact that Baby lulled himself back to sleep after a bottle even while the whistles continued to blow.  And so, New Year's Eve remains my favorite holiday of the year.