One of many reasons why abortion matters

My baby is 9 months old today, and today I donated to the Yellowhammer Fund. These things are related, even if they seem like they shouldn’t be.

I’m extremely fortunate to have had two relatively easy pregnancies, despite other unexpected health concerns. My older son’s birth via c-section was expected because he was breech. The baby’s birth via c-section was not expected – I got all the way to pushing before he got stuck, and it was down hill from there.

The details don’t matter right now, but suffice to say that his birth was difficult and messy enough that my wonderful high risk OB all but told me that it wouldn’t be safe for me to have another baby – specifically, if I got pregnant, I would need to find a really good surgeon.

I don’t intend to get pregnant again. I have an IUD that should carry me through to menopause. Regardless of safety, our family is complete.

But the recent legislative actions in Georgia and elsewhere mean that a woman in circumstances like mine could be forced to go through with a possibly life-threatening pregnancy. They mean that she might have to put her life on hold and come up with considerable resources to travel out of state to terminate that pregnancy. They mean that she might face legal consequences for making a decision to prioritize her life over the prospect of another.

There are a million other reasons why this legislation is horrific and discriminatory and infringes on women’s autonomy and personhood. If you aren’t angry, you aren’t paying attention.

But today, 9 months after the difficult and dangerous delivery of my precious, wonderful, and irreplaceable baby, the need to protect abortion rights feels keenly present.

Here are some things you can do.

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April Around Here

We book a babysitter and finally go out for that milestone birthday – fish and chips and a cocktail at a spot in our old neighborhood that, it turns out, is full of young families on a Friday night. We (I) ogle other people’s babies while missing ours, then take a walk past our old garden plot and our old apartment. I miss the life that we had there, and the golden light of early evening. We don’t often see that light these days.

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The big kid takes swimming lessons at the University pool. It’s well organized chaos, and I’m grateful that he’s hanging on someone else for a change.

I mark seven years on the job with a coconut donut. This is the longest I have worked anywhere.

We plan to visit my ancient grandmother for Easter, then change those plans at the last minute. Instead, we stay home, dye Easter eggs, and make a disastrous batch of matzo ball soup on a rainy weekend.

We find outrageously cheap flights to Belgium, a trip we were certain we couldn’t afford this year. Instead, we will spend 3 weeks there in the late fall, our flights entirely covered by travel points, with our housing nearly free as well. It’s all happening!

The baby still hasn’t figured out crawling; instead, he hops on his butt like a frog. It’s surprisingly effective.

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A bike trailer shows up on a neighborhood listserv for cheap, so at the end of my intentional spending Lent, I make an impulse buy. The same day, a strap on my bike helmet breaks. This is how it goes – one spontaneous purchase results in others, necessary or no. That was weeks ago, but weekend weather and plans have yet to allow us to go for a ride.

The big kid wins a prize at an Easter egg hunt – a basket full of candy on top of the candy he collected in the hunt. I hate feeling like the food police, but this candy is just awful, and I’m grateful that we already had a wonderful box of treats at home from the Zurenborg Paashaas, as it means the big kid is absolutely fine with sharing.

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I present at a conference that is pretty far outside my wheelhouse. The opening plenaries are engaging and challenging, and I feel grateful to be there. There will be no conference travel for me this year – or perhaps next – and while that’s fine, it’s also a little sad.

Mom comes in for a quick visit, arriving after work on a beautiful Friday night and leaving in an incoming snowstorm Saturday morning. Will this winter ever end? We just do the normal things – dinner at our favorite Thai place in the neighborhood, breakfast errands at the grocery store – but decide to scramble the routine a bit in order to try to win free pie for a year. The first 50 in line win – we are #53-57 due to folks cutting in line. Ah well, we still had pie.

There’s that saying about not crying over spilled milk – I have the most epic spill of my pumping career, but thankfully, I realllllly needed to pump, so I am more concerned about the carpet underneath the spill than the spill itself.

A few weeks after we made a list of all of the things that we want in a new place – a place pops up on the University marketplace site that checks all the boxes. It is as good in person as it seemed in the ad, so we throw caution to the wind and put in an application despite having 6 months left on our lease.

And so the rest of April is consumed with housing worries – will we get the place? Can we afford the place if we get it? Our application is approved – now, can we find a subletter? Will one of the many people who comes through to see our apartment decide to take it? Again, can we afford it? One thing after another, which will likely continue until we are settled in with a subletter secured.

But! In a month or so, we will move to the northwest corner of our neighborhood into a condo rented from an owner. We will have a dishwasher and laundry in unit. We will have windows that look out into trees. We will have central AC. It will be stressful until we get there, but we will get there.

April Reading

April Eating

March Around Here

A milestone birthday. We celebrate with brunch and pie, and the kids mostly cooperate with an afternoon walkabout in one of our favorite neighborhoods. In an attempt to duplicate a dessert we had at Pleasant House Pub in the fall, I make a vegan trifle. It’s great, but the recipe makes far more than we needed, and as I wasn’t up for converting the recipe twice, we eat trifle for three days. There are worse things that can happen.

Work is hard and dispiriting, and despite making changes that have made me feel better about the work that I’m doing, I come home frustrated and upset more often than not – and still have to do more work after the baby goes to bed in order to make deadlines. This is not sustainable.

The big kid learns to play poker and wins his first game, defeating his papa who used to play poker to pay the bills. That obsession lasts a week, and then he’s on to playing chess. Thankfully his imaginative play has moved on enough that he can play with his stuffed animal “friends” – in addition to many games with Papa, and many chess puzzles on the tablet (which he pronounces “tabbelet”).

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The baby and the cat continue their love affair, with the cat sleeping closer and closer to us every night.

In lieu of Lent, I resolve to focus on mindful spending, dividing up many expenses into YES/NO/MAYBE categories. I’ve been working on a YNAB-esque budget framework for awhile; this is just a bit more rigorous. We hope to move and to travel this year, and these things take money. Despite the resolution, we impulsively buy a lovely padded rug after a playdate; it transforms our living room and makes the floor a space where we want to be.

I don’t know why it took us so long to realize that the baby doesn’t have to be in his carseat in the stroller anymore. He’s so much happier facing forward, kicking his feet and squealing with delight at blowing leaves. Perhaps because it’s so exciting, he’s also reticent to nap in the stroller, something we could rely on with his big brother.

The big kid is exercising his will in new and different ways. Lately he’s been rejecting or complaining about my cooking but also finishing his entire meal and saying that he’s “still hungry!” with a lilt in his voice that makes it clear he knows he’s driving me nuts. We had curbed this habit with the introduction of his snack cup a few months ago; now he’ll ask to save his meal as leftovers in favor of raiding the snack cup. That’s not how it works, buddy.

I spend one day violently sick and sleep for most of the day, a rarity in nearly any circumstances for the parent of a baby. Thankfully, I’m the only one affected, but it takes several days before I have my strength back entirely.

Still no crawling, though the baby has started to figure out that he can roll here and there. We go to a playgroup where he watches the other babies with interest, though he is still stuck in one place.

A dear friend visits for a weekend. The time is restorative – walking and talking, good food, small adventures.

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I take the big kid to a group run by the lakefront. He runs an entire mile, despite needing hugs after a midroute spill. He is so proud to have “won the race”. I think he’ll be up for a 5K by the end of the summer.

Spring arrives, finally, as I mark seven years in Chicago, longer than I’ve lived anywhere else as an adult.

March Eating

February Around Here

It’s cold. It’s cold. It remains cold. We remain cooped up inside. Was there ever a time when it wasn’t cold? Will there ever be a time when it isn’t cold? Will this winter ever end? There comes a time every winter when the weight of it falls heavily on me and everything feels terrible. It’s good to know this about myself, and better to have a partner who recognizes it before I do. That doesn’t make things better, but it helps explain why they feel so hard.

I’m so busy, busier than I can remember being in a long time. I don’t even try to make plans, as canceling plans is already part of the to do list. The biggest thing to plan this month: 2.5 days in Champaign for an immersive professional development program, except that with childcare arrangements and travel, it’s more like 4 days away from home. So many things to figure out, so hard to trust that the details will fall into place.

The baby is enamored of the cat. His big brother loved her as well, but this mutual adoration never fails to warm my heart.

After years of driving all over the city in search of a decent haircut for the big kid, we settle on a salon in the neighborhood and couldn’t be happier. The stylist asks him his age. “I’m 4.” “Well, I’m 5!” The big kid laughs, relaxes, leaves with a small packet of Swedish Fish.

The baby is increasingly interested in food. My phone fills up with photos of him covered in various things as he figures out how to connect hand to face. He’s still not sold on avocado, but loves sweet potatoes, pickles, cucumbers, broccoli, salmon, and bread.

 

The big kid practices writing by copying out of books of poetry. He makes Valentines for his grandmothers with very little assistance from me, apart from me pre-printing HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY. I’m immensely proud.

On a very cold day when we can’t possibly go outside, we all load up into the car and drive to the gym, the final frontier of my private life, and I walk on the track with the baby in the carrier while the big kid runs back and forth between his Papa and me, a full 20 minutes of uninterrupted running. Now every weekend he asks to go to the “racetrack”.

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Work is exhausting. The busyness is good, but there are many days when I come home completely drained, but with work to do as soon as the baby goes to sleep, which isn’t happening as easily these days as it did before. So many other things put off, balls dropped hard and deliberately.

The baby is six months old. I can’t believe it. I don’t know where the time is going, except that I do: it’s slipping by, like sand through glass, measured out in diaper changes and breastfeeding sessions, in small arms wrapped around my neck and open mouthed “kisses”, in late night wakings and bleary eyed early mornings with him asleep in my arms. So hard to wrap my head around the fact that all of this will pass so quickly, and will never come again, when it all still feels so fresh and new.

The big kid is a bundle of nervous energy as we prepare to go to Champaign. He doesn’t want us to go, and doesn’t want to go to his grandparents’ house, and conveys all of this to us with constant running around and wound up screaming. And then on the other side of the trip, he’s a mess of big emotions, ups and downs, inconsolable tears and so much screaming. I remember these rollercoasters from my childhood, and am once again humbled by the experience of parenting and being parented, remembering that it isn’t our job to avoid these situations but to help him weather these storms.

It is strange to be in Champaign and not see my Champaign people. The professional development stretches me in different ways than I expected. I sit up late one night reading Beck Tench’s writing and thinking intensely about presence. With the big kid off at his grandparents’, it’s almost like a honeymoon for our smaller family, though no one gets as much sleep as we might’ve hoped.

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We celebrate our first wedding anniversary the day after returning from the trip to Champaign. The weather is lousy, and the children are restless, and the service is terrible, and there’s no parking, and we return home stressed and exhausted, resolving to make plans for an actual date, to prioritize time away from the kids to the extent we’re able to make it happen. The big kid and I make a simple apple tart to celebrate.

The kids love each other – LOVE each other. One lights up at the sight of the other. This won’t always be the case, but it’s wonderful while it lasts.

February Reading

February Eating

January Around Here

We weather the polar vortex with cinnamon rolls and Three Tales of My Father’s Dragon, congee and oatmeal, layers and blankets. Will this be the coldest winter of the baby’s life, or just one of many freak storms as climate change continues to shift the Overton Window of normal?

The baby cuts his first tooth at 5 months, 4 months earlier than big brother. I am more sad about missing out on months of toothless gummy grins than I am about the terrible bites – though there are many of those, particularly as tooth number 2 appears a week later.

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My device check-up is fine. and the device is recalibrated to lower the charge since I’m responding so well to it. In the following week, I’m aware of being paced several times, enough to feel concerned. I’m fitted with a monitor that I have to wear for 2 weeks of no swimming, no baths, no long showers, no sweat. The baby tries to rip it off on the second day. I couldn’t be happier to send it back. I’ll find out in a few weeks if they learned anything meaningful.

We try, again, to make room in our living space. Things are shuffled around; a small table is sold. It feels a little better – until the terrible cold snap, when we pull the couch (rather, the bed it contains) away from the windows, and everything feels overwhelming again.

The baby kicks and kicks and kicks and kicks and KICKS AND KICKS AND KICKS. His relentlessly busy feet are a source of joy.

I make a snack breakfast for myself one morning, prompting the big kid to request one for himself morning after morning. Some mornings it feels too fiddly for 6:30am; most mornings it feels soothing to adjust slices of apple, cucumber, and bread, a quartered egg, a few olives just so.

We bundle up and walk through the empty zoo on a perfectly sunny 9 degree day, peeling off and then reapplying layers as we duck into buildings to see the fennec fox, the giraffe, the tropical plants in the conservatory.

We struggle with big feelings, big needs, big frustrations. I reach the point that I reach in every winter where everything feels too hard, except that this year it feels like it came earlier than usual. I spend a weekish in a fog of discouragement.

For my birthday, brunch at The Gundis: olives and honeys and jams and cheeses and bread and borek and lentil soup and a tofu scramble and tiny cups of tea. Everything is perfect, including the sleeping baby on my chest. We walk around N’s old neighborhood, stopping for cappuccinos at Intelligentsia (free in return for filling out a satisfaction survey) and cupcakes at Molly’s. The management company treats us to a day without water for the second year in a row. Later that week, we leave the kids with a babysitter(!!) and have a wonderful dinner at Virtue and an adequate cocktail at Bibliophile. We need to do this more often than once in a blue moon.

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I take the kids out to my parents’ to celebrate my niece’s birthday – the same as mine. The big kid plays with his cousins while I try to convince the baby to nap in unfamiliar places. I’m so busy wrangling the baby while trying to be helpful that I miss moments of big feelings, and am heartbroken to recognize the ways that I let the big kid down when he needed me.

We watch videos with the baby of his cousin rolling over. A few hours later, the baby rolls over again. And again and again and again. Perhaps he needed inspiration? His cousin is also eating all kinds of food, and we talk about how neither of us feel ready for him to take that step, but the next day he is fascinated by us eating, so I offer him oatmeal, which he spits out like poison. He seems to like the idea of eating more than the actuality of it.

January Eating

 

Eve of 39

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Birthdays seem like a time when people confront their own mortality. I’ve had entirely too many opportunities to do this in the last year. I’m currently a week into wearing a monitor that will hopefully help us figure out what’s happening with my heart and/or pacemaker. Current best theories involve some combination of hormones, breastfeeding, exercise, and/or just no longer being pregnant bringing my heart rate below the threshold they observed nearly a year ago. I feel a little like a cyborg. The baby finds it extremely interesting.

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On the eve of my birthday, I like to reflect and set goals for the next year, if I haven’t done so already. Next year I’ll be 40. I’ve made myself an ambitious, mostly fun list. I’m trying to be intentional. Mostly I’m tired.

I’m tired because the baby has me up throughout the night, and when I try to relax into sleep, I often get paced. I’m tired because there aren’t enough hours between 4:45/5, when I get home from work, and 6/6:30, when the kids go to sleep – not enough time for snuggles and play, for making and eating and cleaning up dinner, for putting the milk in the fridge before the baby wants to nurse, for taking off my boots before the big kid wants to play a game of his making, for addressing these needs before kissing my husband. I’m tired because the cat needs to go to the vet, and the bottles need to be washed. I’m tired because I don’t know what I’m doing, but I wake up too early each morning to keep doing it.

And then on my walk to work, an orange rose in the snow – tired, but beautiful:

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December Around Here

We all have a cold from hell. I completely lose my voice for a couple of days, making meetings and child-scolding difficult.

I take the kids to an event at the campus art museum, wrapping the big kid in tulle and gold so that he could join the dance party. Everyone else was done after a single song, but he twirls and twirls in his finery.

After an exhausting morning, I put the baby down on his play mat for five minutes of hands’ free time. When I look up, he has rolled over from back to belly! Having accomplished this once, he loses all interest in rolling over.

Our Christmas tree is small but wonderful, decorated with two dragons, two kabouters, and one one-eyed mummy kitty.

The farmers’ markets move indoors, so we occasionally go to the big(ger) market at the Nature Museum in the winter. The volunteers at the Club Sprouts stand love the big kid, so he happily stays to make a craft or learn about compost while I do the shopping with the baby asleep on my chest. These are the good Saturday mornings.

After months and months of constant nagging for snacks, we give the big kid his own designated snack cup in the fridge stocked with things he picks out at the store. This is been a game-changer for managing his hunger and reducing our frustration.

A colleague gifts us with a wonderful quilt made from pieces from my great grandmother. It is more beautiful than I could have imagined.

I spend half an afternoon with a dear friend, walking and talking as the light turns golden over the nature sanctuary. My heart and soul are restored.

The washing machines break in our building, so, frustrated beyond belief, I drag a week’s worth of laundry to the laundromat. This becomes a highly anticipated part of my weekend – a couple of hours to drink coffee, listen to podcasts, and get things done without any small helpers, often with a bonus trip to the gym after.

I take the big kid to the holiday party at my work. I have made a point of avoiding these parties for the entire time I’ve worked there, but he is delighted by the idea of the party and is on his best behavior for days in order to be able to go, so I give in. He is absolutely delightful, and I just about explode with pride.

The baby makes SO MUCH NOISE. He is the chattiest baby ever. We don’t remember the big kid being this chatty – we mostly remember a guttural purring sort of noise.

I start knitting again, excited to make a cowl for my sister-in-law, who has taken up running. It doesn’t always work out, but when it does, I sometimes squeeze in an hour or so of TV and knitting after the kids go to bed and while N is taking his evening walk.

We take the kids to the Christkindlmarket – so much easier without a stroller. We share hot chocolate and marzipan and cinnamon almonds and spend too much time looking at things for the big kid’s tastes. The Macy’s windows – forever Field’s to me – are lovely and entrancing, as is the Christmas tree in the Walnut Room. Sometimes it’s delightful to be a tourist in one’s own city.

The big kid struggles with the limits of our divided attention, and we struggle with the limits of his emotional maturity and willingness to listen. There’s more screaming in our house than our eardrums or our neighbors can really handle. It’s important to acknowledge these unvarnished part of a picture that otherwise seems rosy.

We celebrate 6 years together with a late lunch at a spot we visited on our first date, and announce our marriage now that the whole family knows about it.

As is the case when older siblings are involved, the baby obtains an unshakable and absolutely nonsensical nickname.

On Christmas Eve, we exchange our books. The big kid is delighted with his visual cookbook and suggests half a dozen things we can make.

We spend the holiday with my family in a giant pile of black watch-clad cousins. The day is a rush, despite the easy drive, and I arrive home feeling like I barely talked to anyone. I realize after bedtime that I didn’t take any photos with the baby on his first Christmas. Such is the case with second children, I suppose.

I swim laps for the first time in more than a year. It is exhausting and invigorating. I want more of this.

New Year’s Eve is a rush of a minimally successful dinner and harried bedtimes. We stay up late(r) watching The Expanse. I wake at 12:04 to fireworks.

December Eating

  • From Ottolenghi Simple:
    • Brunsli cookies with five spice powder, made for the work party
    • Pumpkin, saffron, and orange soup
    • Bulgur with tomato, eggplant, and lemon yogurt
    • Pumpkin with corn salsa and feta
  • Stoemp, comforting in the cold weather
  • Publican bread, picked up from our neighborhood bike shop
  • Congee in the Instant Pot with odds and ends from the fridge
  • Chana masala from Picture Cook
  • Sweet corn polenta with broccolini