Mamalicious in the City

I keep trying to work through my present state — to mold it into something new and improved.  There are things about this loss for which I’m actually grateful.  It affirmed for me all of the reasons why I married my husband.  And it reminded me that life is too short to worry about the little things, or to put something unimportant before myself, my family and my friends.

I try not to get lost in sadness or bitter sentiments.  I think I do well most days.

And there is a lot to be thankful for in my life.  We had a really nice Pesach this year with friends and family.  I was adventurous.  I made gefilte fish from scratch.  It tastes surprisingly similar to jarred gefilte fish, with an added bonus of picking through raw fish for a couple of hours.  On the other hand, the homemade matzoh ball soup was a hit and absolutely worth it.   

I’m also adding two new recipes to my stable.  This Israeli-inspired cornish game hen recipe is a nice contrast to the bland traditional Ashkenazi Jewish dishes. 

Next year I might skip the potato rosti, although my husband liked it. 

This charoset is the best I have ever tasted.  I added cardamom, and I also used a red sparkling wine (La Sera Red Ambrosia) in place of Manischevitz.  Full disclosure: it’s not kosher!  Look, I could barely get the pork out of my house by the time the matzoh came in. 

Speaking of pork, I think it’s pork belly time.  I might have to jet down to the butcher shop in Del Ray to get some. 

I’m also on the warpath to get our garden in shape.  The front yard is getting there, and I’ve planted mint, sage, lavender, thyme, basil, strawberries, cabbage, broccoli rabe, garlic and lettuce.  This weekend I want to start clearing out the bricks in the backyard patio so we can start garden phase two. 

I’ll have to post some pictures.  It’s quite a project to get this little rowhouse in shape.  E just figured out that we live in a rowhouse actually, and is completely tickled by it.  Speaking of e, he’s turning six next month!  Yikes.  Where did the time go?  I am hopeful he’ll have a brother or sister before he turns seven.  I had always imagined he’d be four or five, but life happens. 

April is going to be a busy month for us.  My sister is getting married.  I’ll still have to write my speech!  Busy, busy, busy.

I just watched a Discovery Network special on Radical Parenting.

Yawn. First of all, attachment parenting is hardly radical. At least not in my elitist urban universe. The basic concept of attachment parenting is completely obvious. Meet your child’s needs.  As opposed to the rest of us who just chuck them a bag of cheetos and hope for the best.  Baby-wearing, breastfeeding, cosleeping and elimination communication. Most of this has become kind of mainstream.

Even if you don’t officially practice elimination communication, I would guess that you probably potty trained by, gasp, talking to your child. I know that there are formula-feeding, crib-sleeping, diaper loving parents who lock their kids into a stroller and cackle maniacally for good measure, but I don’t meet many of them. Most parents I know do a little of this and a little of that, and it all comes out in the wash.

They also covered gender neutral parenting. That’s a good one. I tried hard to parent in a gender neutral way, and dutifully bought my kid baby dolls and play kitchens. He loved the kitchen. The doll was usually at the bottom of his toy bin. Today he loves X-Men and Bakugan, although he occasionally expresses love for the color pink.

Finally, “unschooling.” You got me. That seems radical. No rules. No discipline. No hierarchy? That seems like a frightening prospect, although it’s tempting to just let it all go and see what happens. According to Freakonomics we’re all pretty worthless anyway. On the other hand, I have no idea what we’d do all day in our unschool. Evidently there are no rules about bathing, the parents simply express disinterest in cuddling which eventually prompts a run in with water.  Anarchy!  That really does blow my mind.

I am trying my best to embrace living in the present, but my present is pretty filled with anxiety.  I keep pouring over the statistics of women trying to conceive after 35.  The statistics are simultaneously reassuring and meaningless.  What happened to us is still a less than likely scenario, and yet that was our reality. 

If we are able to go on and have a healthy pregnancy, then this is just a self-indulgent pity party.  I don’t want to have a self-indulgent pity party!  On the other hand, maybe this is just the beginning of something unknown lurking inside of me.  This is a scary moment, and I just have to live through it.

I’m not good with unknown quantities.  I like looking at the data, analyzing the facts, and coming up with a strategy.  I don’t have a strategy for limbo. 

And then sometimes I work myself up into such a lather, I can only laugh.  Staring intently at cervical mucus.  Googling ovulation cramps.  How did I get here?  It’s not that any of that is so burdensome.  Plenty of people do it.  I still just feel like this is all a bit of a dream.  I’m the one who gets pregnant without working at it.  I suppose getting pregnant wasn’t necessarily the problem. 

Evidently the first cycle after a loss can be emotional.  I had no idea. 

I keep reading a lot of conflicting information about miscarriage, pregnancy over 35 and fertility.  I swear that the bulk of OBGYN practice is eh, see what happens.  I don’t mean to criticize OBs, but it feels like I’ve heard this story before.  Starting premise: we don’t know.  Moving on, most pregnancies have good outcomes.  In conclusion, we don’t know, eh, see what happens. 

All right then.  All that is left is for me to stand in downward facing dog and embrace the unknown. 

I’m just about there, really, but I need a few more glasses of wine.