Author: Reedu

Mylostone – Smartphone

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This Mylostone is for you, Granna…

I’ll admit, I am on my Blackberry a lot and if I’m not on it, it’s never not within arm’s reach. During my son Mylo’s early days when I became a new mom and nursing was long and arduous, when I fed him for up to half an hour at a time, sometimes every hour, I found a lot of solace and comfort in my trusty smartphone. When I wasn’t texting or playing Word Mole I would read Facebook status update after Facebook status update after Facebook status update. And when that got old I installed the Twitter app on my Blackberry.

A couple of months ago when I was at BuyBuy Baby with my mom we saw a onesie that read, “Stop Texting and Change Me.” She quipped that mine should say, “Stop Texting and Feed Me.”

Let me make something clear before I go any further. I never denied my son a feeding because I was on my phone. My mom’s objection with my phone is a generational one. She has a cell phone but it’s never on because she doesn’t like being found. I know what you’re thinking, why bother having one, right?

My mom couldn’t believe that I was on my phone during a time that is meant for fostering a deep bond between mother and infant. To that I say there is little bonding going on in the early days of breastfeeding. Until Mylo was about 1 month old I was hard pressed to see any bonding in breastfeeding. It was painful. It was demanding. It was lonely. It was time consuming. And it instilled in me a deep appreciation for our four-legged mammal friends. (Especially since they don’t have a smartphone to turn to.)

The good news is that Mylo is 6 months and almost 2 weeks old and I am still nursing and absolutely loving it. I am no longer on my Blackberry during feedings the way I used to be. Feedings are shorter and hours apart and when he is on my breast I coo at him, caress him and delight in making him smile or laugh while he is sucking. The bonding part of breastfeeding is in full force now and no text message, Facebook status update or Tweet would ever take precedence over what I share with my son during this time.

On the other hand, all that time spent on my Blackberry coupled with my son’s development has made him a budding smartphone candidate. He is obsessed with my phone. And much to my mom’s chagrin, I tell him, “Soon enough baby boy, you will have your own cell phone. Mommy’s gonna track you down everywhere!”

Hopefully by the time he has a phone, the "ignore call" option will be a thing of the past.

Teaching Manners to Children Other than Your Own

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Growing up, manners were no small joke in our household. Lessons learned that I used to find embarrassing I am grateful for today. I was taught to not only say hello to the parent of a friend I was calling on the telephone but announce who I was. Friends who called me on the phone and gave the usual, “Is Reedu there?” were answered by my mom with a “Yes,” and a dial tone.

Something else they ingrained in our youthful psyche is to always respect our elders. That not only meant holding open doors, we were also taught to offer up our seat as well. Respect for my elders became more finely tuned years later when I began volunteering with hospice and Alzheimer’s patients in New York City.

While I am grateful that my friends’ parents found me polite and respectful, and that elderly people have had visions of me settling down with their grandsons, I don’t know that I would have taken lightly to such discipline being enforced by anyone other than my folks.

So you could imagine my horror, (not necessarily surprise) when me and my mom were exiting Chipotle today and she snapped at two kids who didn’t hold open the door for me and the monstrosity of a baby stroller that I was pushing.

The kids were 12, maybe 13 years old and were walking in through the first set of double doors as we happened to be walking out of the second set of double doors. They changed their young, adolescent minds at the last second and turned out the door they just came through with the glass making a notable thud against the front tire of my baby jogger.

It was not purposeful so I didn’t think much of it, especially when I saw a package of “bang snaps” in their hands. But my mom thought a whole lot of it and let them know. She marched up to them and cracked, “You don’t close a door on a baby carriage!” Bang. Snap.

Should manners be taught by non-parents?

Up until that point they stood on the busy Brooklyn sidewalk giggling and frantically trying to open the package of bang snaps as if they were about to pull off the prank of all pranks on a friend who was following close behind. But now they stood there dazed and confused, looking around for a baby stroller. (Mind you I was I was halfway down the block at this point.)

Part of me knows that my mom was merely trying to protect me and stick up for me, which I appreciate, as I would certainly do the same for my children. But at the same time, I took issue with the fact that she felt the need to discipline somebody else’s children. I’m not sure I would want a perfect stranger scolding my son should he get caught up in an innocent pubescent moment. And there will be many of them, I am sure.

Maybe it was the zen mood that comes with a satisfying meal at my favorite fast food joint, maybe it was the kids’ look on their faces as they facetiously negotiated the bang snaps, or maybe it was the fact that children today are hopeless. In any case, I didn’t think it was a big deal. I also didn’t think it warranted a lesson from my mom.

My thinking is that kids who purposely close doors on women with baby carriages, or on their elders’ for that matter, will have many of life’s doors close on them. What’s that saying… what goes around comes around?

How do you feel about other people, or even strangers for that matter, teaching manners to your children?

Gov. Cuomo Comes Through for Long Island College Hospital

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I was thrilled to hear the news that New York State will reach into its coffers for the promised $62 million in grants needed to keep Long Island College Hospital alive and running. I wrote in an earlier post, here, about how LICH – the birthplace of my son Mylo and the hospital in my beloved Brooklyn neighborhood – could close as soon as next month after state officials said they were reconsidering the funding.

Cuomo coughs up money for troubled Long Island College Hospital.

The LICH grants are reported to be among more than 100 health grants totaling $683 million that Governor Cuomo has decided to reconsider.

It goes without saying that I am thrilled for the hospital, their staff and anyone who has plans to bring their children into the world there.

Sleep Training

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I’ve been keeping a dirty little secret. Ever since our son Mylo was born, we’ve only slept through the night once, and even then it was a fluke. I understand that during the first few months of his life the no sleep thing is normal, but he’s 6 months old now and we just cannot go on like this.

My group of mom friends with babies the same age as Mylo have been buzzing about sleep training for the last couple of months. A few have returned to their full-time jobs and so establishing a routine in order to help prepare their babies for daycare was important. But we were not in the same boat so I did nothing with the useful information they were sharing. Ferber who?

Putting Mylo to bed usually goes something like this: breastfeeding, rocking in the rocking chair, walking around the house with all the lights out, breastfeeding, breastfeeding, breastfeeding. Jason and I have been stuck in newborn mode, scared to put Mylo down in his crib while he is still awake.

Our middle of the nights go something like this: get woken up by him in the middle of the night, deliriously transport him from crib to bed, nurse, sleep, nurse, sleep, nurse. Although there’s always much more nursing going on then there is sleeping.

Recently, my husband Jason asked me why weren’t doing sleep training like my mom friends were. For starters, we have a one bedroom. Granted it’s large, but how could we sleep train in a one bedroom when I’m still breastfeeding? Everything I read says that a mom in the same bedroom as baby who is not planning on nursing is like holding cake up to someone but not letting him have a bite!

But then Mylo’s pediatrician emailed us a sleep training book that she’s a big fan of — The Sleep Sense Program by Dana Obleman. I read it and finally understood how important it is to have a bedtime routine.

This past Monday, we began sleep training. While I didn’t have high hopes because of our one bedroom, I decided to put more emphasis on putting Mylo to bed at night and lessened my expectations of him actually sleeping through the night.

It’s been four nights now and I cannot believe the way he has taken to it. The routine takes a half hour each night and begins with a bath, followed by pajamas, a book, nursing and putting Mylo in the crib awake. He cried the first night for 13 minutes, fussed for less then five the next two nights and cried hysterically for six minutes last night.

In the middle of the night on the first night of sleep training he woke up twice. Both times we laid there and did not go to him. He didn’t cry but moaned and played and then eventually fell back asleep. Or maybe we fell asleep first. The second night he woke up one time in the middle of the night. And then the last two nights in a row… knock on wood… baby boy SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT!!

The routine, while time consuming, is fun. And in reality it takes less time and energy than our previous routine of rocking, nursing and soothing him to sleep. What’s more, this new routine gives me and Jason more time together. Time to connect and be intimate, which I almost forgot how important and fun that can be.

Putting baby boy in the crib awake. Who knew that's what you were supposed to do.

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Does your infant sleep through the night? Do you have any other sleep training tricks I don’t know about? If so, share the wealth!

Ryno

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Timmy Ryniker 1978 – 1996

I looked around at all those young shocked faces. They had discovered that death could reach into their midst, youth did not shelter them, and they were confused. They had loved him, shared in fun, mischief, adventures. Now they shared the same anguish and stood together, like a flock of frightened birds, contemplating their memories and their loss. This experience would forever live with them, and make them grow, make them better, wiser.

-Kuki Gallmann

Our Midwife, Beverly Woodard CNM

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This post has been a long time coming. It’s about our midwife and has been brewing in my mind and in my heart for some time now.

Last March when I was halfway through my pregnancy, we ended our prenatal care with our OB/GYN and set out to find a midwife. My husband Jason and I had just seen The Business of Being Born which was an eye opener for us since we were new to everything regarding birth and babies.

We first met Beverly Woodard of Fruition Midwifery at her office in Chelsea on March 30, 2010. She was the only one of a half dozen women I had called who was willing to take me into her practice. I write about our decision to switch from an OB/GYN to a midwife in an earlier post, here.

Before I met Beverly my impression of a midwife was someone who was was warm, maternal and perhaps a bit crunchy. Beverly was anything but that. She was a whippersnapper. She was autocratic, and she took great pleasure in shooting down our fanciful, liberal hopes for a drug-free birth. She was also impeccably groomed.

The months that followed in the rest of my pregnancy I would come to question our decision to leave our OB/GYN for a midwife. Beverly’s care was top notch, but we were not gelling the way I had hoped. When I brought my mom along to my 34 week appointment to meet Beverly, she said she understood how I felt but that one thing was for certain: Beverly knew her babies.

And so I kept this mantra in my head for the next six weeks and it helped. At my 38 week appointment Beverly advised me to buy some castor oil from Duane Reade and to drink it if my water broke but contractions did not follow. This was the first of many signs that Beverly was in fact fully supportive of my plans for a natural birth.

My labor and delivery was long and arduous, but also all-natural. I say the following with not one iota of uncertainty: I would not have had the labor and birth that I did had it not been for Beverly. I have written in length about my son’s birth story, here.

I labored for 30 hours from start to finish. Beverly provided phone support via text earlier in the day when I was very functional and then over the phone with Jason later on at night when I had moved from the latent phase of labor to the active phase of labor.

Beverly was also very supportive in the hospital. She staved off interventions such as an epidural, excessive fetal heart monitoring, internals and more. She held me from behind and swayed with me when I was at my worst. She patted my forehead with a damp washcloth. She told stories to distract me from the pain. I was wrong all along. Beverly was in fact extremely maternal.

At 9:00 am on Monday, August 9th, after six hours of blood, sweat, tears and other bodily fluids, Beverly even let me deliver my own baby! How selfless. Here’s a woman who’s job it was to present me with my baby and instead, presented me with my crowning moment in life.

With our midwife Beverly Woodard who is not just magnificent and maternal but modest, too. We had to beg her to pose in this family photo with us.

Later that day, when the endorphins and excitement of the arrival of our son began to settle in, my husband said it best: “If you were going into battle, Beverly is just the kind of person you would want next to you in the trenches.” I could not have agreed more. Beverly is not just the person who delivered our first born. She is a part of our family now, and I cannot wait to go into battle with her again. Let’s just hope it won’t be for a couple of more years. :)

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What about you, do you have a lot of love for the medical professional who helped bring your children into the world? Why or why not?

Granna’s Lentil Soup

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My mom makes the best lentil soup ever. She makes a lot of things well but her lentil soup has turned me into a sort of lentil soup snob. The recipe, which happens to be 100% vegan, is quite simple from what I understand. It has four ingredients: water, lentils, salt and onions. The most labor intensive part is the mincing and sauteeing of the onions. And since onions make my eyes tear and my hair smell, I’ve never bothered to make it.

But it may be time to learn because not only do I love my mom’s lentil soup, but my husband Jason is a big fan, and, well, so now is our son! Mylo had his first taste of his granna’s lentil soup today and the child could not get enough. He delighted in every slurp and moaned in between spoonfuls while his dad would go back to the bowl and reload. And as you can see from the below photo, he sported the brown remnants of each bite with pride!

Granna, it's delish!

I watched adoringly from the side as this was all going on. But I was also quick to finish every last lentil in my bowl aware that Jason was frustrated by what started out as HIS bowl of soup, had quickly become our 6 month old’s. And, well, if you know Jason and how well he does NOT share food, then you would have gotten a real kick out of it, too.

NOT YOUR SOUP!!

Missing Netsy

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February. Such a cold and complicated month. In 1996, when I was a senior in high school, a good friend of mine died in a tragic accident. In 2000, after nine months of battling pancreatic cancer, Netsy left us. Couple these indelible losses with my birthday followed by Valentine’s Day, my father’s birthday, and arctic temperatures outside and maybe you can understand why I call this month cold and complicated.

Today is the day my grandmother passed away in the home where I grew up on Long Island. It is a day ripe with details that I remember so vividly. It was a Sunday night like tonight and my mom and I were driving home from making funeral arrangements as we knew Netsy was close. I was dazed and upset and I missed our exit on the LIE which added an unnecessary 15 minutes on to our trip. When we got home I remember my father cooking in the kitchen – the smell of ginger and garlic permeated the house. I remember going to Netsy and just knowing it was time. I remember calling screaming for everyone to come to her bedside. I just knew she had waited for my mom and me to return and I immediately felt struck by guilt for missing our exit. Minutes later she would struggle to take her last few breaths. I remember Alfy, our cat, jumping up on to her stomach in the minutes after she passed and howling her head off. It was poignant and eerie. I can only think that she must have felt my grandmother’s spirit leave. My mom was speechless and looked like she was going to vomit. She screamed for me to get Alfy off of her.

By late January I had moved my mattress downstairs to sleep by Netsy’s bedside. I would spend one final night there alone, on February 13th. I remember being awoken in the middle of the night by lightning and thunder. I watched through the living room bay windows seemingly aware that Netsy was being greeted by a glory of Gods. I am certain that’s what it was because it was the middle of February, and never before and never again have I seen a storm of that caliber.

It’s been 11 years now and I have made my peace with my grandmother’s passing. She was 76 years old and lead a fascinating and complete life. But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. I miss the manicures, the shopping, the lunches and blowing raspberries on her neck. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I don’t lament that she does not know the woman who I have become, and that she will never know my son, Mylo.

There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of Netsy, especially because I am reminded of her now when I look at Mylo. My mom’s best friend was the first person to say so when she saw a photo of him taken the day after he was born and my brother says it all the time. They are right. There is something in Mylo’s chin and mouth area and the way in which he clasps his hands that reminds me of her. I cannot help but think that something larger was at play when Mylo’s physical makeup was being decided. How beautiful that I would be given a son who reminds me of someone I miss terribly.

Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn May Close

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Saying I was sad today when I read the news that Long Island College Hospital may close, is an understatement. I wrote about my experience giving birth at LICH in an earlier post, here.

I am not just lamenting the loss of the physical place where my son Mylo was born, but the loss of the place where I became a mom and where I first laid eyes on my son. Any time I drive by LICH now, whether from the BQE, Hicks Street or Atlantic Avenue, I feel indescribably moved. I glance up at the building where I gave birth and quickly count four floors up while trying to scan to the window that I labored behind until Mylo was born at 9:00 am. It’s not just any room. It’s a room where a lot of blood, sweat and tears produced precious life on August 9, 2010, and has been churning out babies since the 19th century.

Long Island College Hospital: Where I first laid eyes on my son.

And of course I can’t help but think about Janelle, LICH’s best labor and delivery nurse and Bebeth, the kindest nurse on maternity, and above all, Beverly, our midwife, whose only privileges since St. Vincent’s closed, is at LICH.

I know what this means for Mylo’s future siblings — we were already planning to have home births from now on, but what does this mean for Janelle, Bebeth, Beverly and the 2,500 other employees at LICH? What does this mean for New York City, home to more than eight million people, now that a third area hospital may close? Cabrini Medical Center shut it’s doors in 2008, followed by St. Vincent’s in 2010.

What can I say? I hope Cuomo’s administration forks over the grants. I hope jobs will be saved. I hope babies will continue to be born there. I hope more women will become moms at LICH and have their lives changed, forever.

LICH In Danger Of Closing

Six Months: From Helpless to Human

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There’s been so many milestones, or as I like to call them, Mylostones, from birth to 6 months. The rate at which my son Mylo has developed from 5 months to 6 months though, has been most remarkable. I had to tell my son “no” quite sternly for the very first time recently.

I can’t hep but marvel at how much he’s developed from a helpless little baby to a small human with clear likes and dislikes and the magnificent ability to manipulate the things, and the people, around him. He army crawls around the floor with amazing dexterity and speed, h kicks things forcefully, he pushes things towards him and away from him. He negotiates the space around him with the precision of a watchmaker. Ok, not quite. But you get my drift.