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
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?
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!!
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.
I turned 33 today. It’s the day I was born in Nigeria. It’s also my first birthday as a mom. And it’s for this very reason that the day I entered the world feels that much more important.
Mylo’s trying to open, make that, EAT, my present!
Ever since I turned 30, birthdays have served as nothing more than a reminder that I am getting older. But now that I have this new role as a mom, each year that I age will also be marked with more wisdom (and hopefully more grace). I am responsible for guiding my son Mylo through this scary, albeit beautiful shifting terrain called life.
On a note-so-deep note, I began my morning as I like to begin most birthdays: with a run. And that’s not always easy being that my birthday is in February, and it doesn’t help that New York City has been getting slammed by fierce weather this winter. Luckily it was almost 40 degrees out with the sun shining when we took a 4-mile run over the Brooklyn Bridge.
Last year, while preggers I ran on my birthday with Jason and our foster dog, Lucy. This year I ran with Jason and Mylo, which is an extra treat AND an extra workout pushing a 20 pound jogging stroller and a 16 pound baby! I made us a late breakfast (J did the dishes), and then Jason is taking me to dinner at Buttermilk Channel tonight. Never ate their before and they are known to have a pretty killer pecan pie sundae. So much for that run this morning!
Hack. Wheeze. Cough.
After being fed-up of my almost-week long cold (that I so luckily got from my husband Jason and passed on to our son Mylo) I went to the Brooklyn Heights after-hours clinic on Sunday. The doctor I saw listened to my chest and told me I had an upper-respiratory infection. I told him I was breastfeeding and he prescribed me medication accordingly. An antibiotic and a steroid. I never really questioned him because a) he’s a doctor and knows better than me and b) I was willing to sniff glue if that’s what would make me feel better.
But it’s been 2 1/2 days since I have been on the meds and while my voice has cleared up, my cough certainly hasn’t. But I am so sick of hacking up a lung while I am mid-sentence that I went back to the doc’s office again this morning…
So $60 later (co-pays are a pricey $30 for each visit), the doctor I saw today told me I had nothing more than a common cold and that he never would have put me on an antibiotic. Seriously, WTF?
Update
The goddesses at Groupon must have ESP! The morning after I submitted this post I got my daily Groupon email and it was (hold on to your seats), for three stretch mark removal sessions for $220 with Dr. Morris Westfried right here in Brooklyn!! The same Dr. Westfried that I paid $1,000 to remove one of my three tattoos in 2006. Where were the Gods, forget the Gods, where was Groupon then, HUH?!
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I often refer to the 40 weeks I spent pregnant as the most magical nine months of my life. But those gorgeous nine months left me with stretch marks on the underbelly of my belly, the part you can’t see when you’re carrying around a watermelon in your uterus. I didn’t even know they were there until I dropped a good chunk of the 32-pounds I added while preggers and my tan vanished after the summer. At my six-week post-partum appointment my midwife, Beverly, advised me there was cream out there for it.
Save. Your. Money.
I read the decidedly mixed reviews for Mederma on drugstore.com and took the plunge anyway. I have been using the cream as advised, twice daily, for a few months now and zero, zilch, nada. As in, they are not gone. NOT as in there are no more. My stretch marks, which are slightly darker than my skin color, are still very much with me.
I’m torn about my mama-marks. On the one hand they signify a magical time in my life when I did not yet know the little person budding inside me, and on the other hand they serve as a reminder that even if I can get my body back into a bikini, it won’t ever be perfect.
As far as Mederma goes, I wish I had saved my money.
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Are there any mama’s out there that can recommend a different product for stretch marks? One that actually works?! Do share!
Birth & Religion. My father is Palestinian and Muslim, and my mother, who is from New York, is Lebanese and Christian. Neither practice and I couldn’t be more thankful for that. While I do believe in something larger than myself, I also believe that the world would be a better place without religion.
My mom and dad grooving on their wedding day.
My name. I was born Taghreed Ghassan Taha. The Arabic meaning of Taghreed means the “singing of birds.” Ghassan is my father’s name and Taha is somewhat of a common Arab surname.
My mom met my dad in Beirut while hitchhiking across Europe. They fell in love and eloped. When the civil war started they followed my dad’s colleagues to Nigeria to wait it out. My brother was born first and I followed 13 months later (yes, I was an oops baby). We were given Arab names with the intention that we would be raised in Beirut.
Nigerians affectionately dubbed me “Taghreedu,” since West African tongue tends to end consonants with an “ooo” sound. From that my family derived the nickname “Reedu,” which was wise because my real name proved too difficult, and too different, for Americans. I was known by this moniker for nearly all my life, so while grappling with names for my unborn child in 2010, I decided to change my name permanently to Reedu.
School. If they offered a degree in being social, I would have graduated Magna Cum Laude. School was never my strong-suit. It took going to three different colleges but I finally grew up and got my bachelor’s degree. I even graduated on the Dean’s list and went on to finish Graduate Journalism School.
At the beach instead of class.
Work. After having my fair-share of bartending and waitressing jobs, I held a few coveted spots in Corporate America. I interned with CNN at the United Nations and got my first, real job as a customer service representative at the New York Stock Exchange. From there I went on to be a compliance analyst at Goldman Sachs. During that time I also began teaching introductory business classes at my alma mater. Two nights a week I was surrounded by teenagers who for the most part, knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. I found that inspiring and it set me on a path to get back to my roots, or at least back to what I spent 35 grand on an education for… writing. After a year of networking I landed a position as a writer and editor for a start-up financial securities lending company. The job was fun but socially demanding. It took me to Monte Carlo and to some of the finest restaurants and hottest clubs in NYC. It was the other end of the spectrum from my days spent behind multiple Excel spreadsheets on dual flat screens at Goldman. But in 2009 I was reduced to half time at my sexy writing job. It was a set back, but it also freed me up to pursue a passion of mine… animals. The start-up didn’t survive the credit crisis though, and at just three months pregnant I found myself laid-off and unemployed.
Animals. In Nigeria I grew up reluctantly eating goat — the same goats that were hung and slaughtered under the large tree adjacent to the sandbox that I played in. It was a daily struggle to get me to eat meat, and by the time I was 18 I became a vegetarian.
I grew up with pets but it wasn’t until I was living on my own in Brooklyn that I began opening my door to homeless animals. First came two cats and then a Pit Bull with two broken front legs. She was a victim of animal cruelty and was my introduction to a breed of dog that is not only largely maligned, but grossly misunderstood. I learned about the plight of NYC’s homeless animals and daunting euthanasia rates while volunteering at an animal shelter. This led me to start a non-profit animal rescue organization while supporting other animal welfare-related causes. And because not all stories about animals are warm and fuzzy, I found a niche on the Internet in writing for the voiceless.
My pretty little Pit Bull.
New Year’s resolutions… I don’t normally set them (especially publicly) but being that I am a new mom who is responsible for another life, it feels important this year. So, in no particular order, here goes…
What are your New Year’s resolutions?
This past Tuesday night I left the house to pick up takeout from the only restaurant in South Brooklyn that doesn’t deliver, Bar Tabac, and passed a mobile cupcake truck on Court Street. It was called CupcakeStop.com. Awesome.
I returned on my way back home with the food excited to purchase three: a Nut & Nutella Crunch for my husband, a Smores for his friend Geoff who was eating over, and a classic chocolate cupcake for myself. I stood in front of the window of the truck, the inside of which was far-less cluttered than your typical ice cream truck and waited for someone to chime, “what can I get you?” Yet no one ever did. After a few moments of looking around, a man approached me from where he was standing in front of the storefront closest to the truck and sheepishly advised that he was “sort of on a smoke break.”
This was NOT the dude who was too busy smoking.
Shocked and disappointed, I walked away. Did he really expect me to wait for him to finish so I could then give him my money?
Jason reminded me that I was young once too and used to smoke butts on the job when I told him I had good mind to call out the kid on CupcakeStop’s Facebook page. “Young once too?” Now I don’t know whether I should be mad at the kid, or my husband!