Medical Advice

Folks, we are getting SO close.
SO uncomfortable.
SO anxious.
SO ready.
We're at 38.5 weeks and I'm told that any day now I could go into labor and into the hospital as Mary works her way out. At this final stage of pregnancy, it's all about getting ready for judgment day - those hours of pain in the hospital, which I know won't be pleasant. But I believe I have a great support network around me, ready to help me through it - a network that includes my doctors.

Over the past nine months, I've really come to like my OB group. There are six doctors in the practice, and I have seen all but one of them. For the majority of my pregnancy I saw the three senior physicians who have been bringing babies into this world for a combined 110 years or so. Each of them made the process less overwhelming, added his own sense of humor to our medical dialogues, and had an affinity for Notre Dame. Three winners.

For my most recent appointments though, I made an effort to see the women of the practice. I wanted to make sure I at least knew the face and manner of the doctor that could be in the room with me at the final hour. Not surprisingly, both were very thorough. In fact, I was a little taken aback by just how thorough Dr. R. was on Thursday afternoon.

Our post exam conversation went a little something like this ...

So, do you have any questions?
Am I just going to keep getting fatter until Mary arrives?
It's mostly water retention at this point. You will notice increased swelling.
My ankles already noticed it.
When do you think I will go into labor? 
It's hard to say. But sometimes, some women build such a nice home for their babies that they don't want to come out.
(I knew she liked the morning runs!)
We generally let women go till 41 weeks. If they haven't made progress at that point, we will schedule an induction.
I read that inducing labor isn't ideal - that it's better for you and the baby to go into labor naturally. (Yes, you'd be proud - I've been reading.)
True. And there are ways that you can entice labor to start. Some of these are wives tales, but generally, they work. Let's see ... keep up the running and walking. Drink red raspberry leaf tea. Sex. And something else that can help is having diarrhea. The contractions of the bowels can spur on labor. Try White Castle. Lots of women have been having success with White Castle. Now, I'm not saying go to White Castle every day for the next two weeks - but give it a try.
(Mouth agape. My doctor is literally telling me go to White Castle to get diarrhea. Thank heavens she didn't tell me to try McDonald's.)
I nodded. Thanked her for her sage advice and got dressed.

Yesterday, I tried a couple of the tactics, but to no avail. It's still early after all, and I still have stuff to do: a couple more finishing touches to put on the nursery, a bag that needs to get packed, a few more chapters to read ...

And several more meals, just for two, to cook. Peter's birthday Clam Chowder, made by me, but under the guidance and coaching of my husband, was the best of this week. 

When it comes to 40+ weeks though, for the first time in my life, you might just find me pulling out of the drive-thru with a bag of sliders and a milkshake in tow. And if the mission is a success, I plan to suggest a new marketing slogan to White Castle - 'medically proven to make little miracles happen for the past  92 years.'

Lo.

31

On Saturday, for the first time in I don't know how long, I slept through the night. No bathroom breaks, no water guzzling to quench an unquenchable thirst, no leg cramps, no lying in bed blankly staring into the dark. 9 hours of uninterrupted rest. And it was bliss. The culprit of this sensational slumber - my birthday. A great one. 

Birthdays are funny. People seem to think they should be the shining moment of your calendar year - that upon their approach you should have a royal plan of regalia primed for launch. On Friday, I entertained the question, 'so what are you doing tomorrow?' from at least a dozen people waiting with baited breath for something amazing to come out of my mouth. I sensed their disappointment with my more or less blank reply.

Ten, twenty years ago, I would have had better answers. I would shared that I was going to lace up my roller skates and glide around Ardmore Roller Rink with my best friends. Or that we were off to Hidden Valley for a ski weekend. There were a couple trips out West, and when I turned sixteen, there was a trip to New York City. In High School, there were girls nights - dinners and movies and over analytical gossip sessions on the boys we were crushing on, but who likely didn't know we existed. In College, it was all about the burnt almond torte, shipped directly from Prantl's in the trunk of my Mom's car, shared by my teammates in the locker room. And in my twenties there were grand affairs - big birthday parties, DJs, cupcakes and cocktails. This year, I didn't have much to tout, but in the end, it turned out to be just what I needed.
 
I went for a (very) chilly run through the forest preserve with Peter. I got a huge helping of my favorite frozen yogurt, which was followed by a massage. I did some baby errands. We went to Mass and then out to dinner. Sweet. Simple. Perfect.   

The day and the satisfaction that I felt from it made me think about how far I've come. How much more the small stuff means to me now; how having an ever appreciative perspective tends to bring a sense of genuine happiness to your life; how birthdays aren't so much about the show and tell on Monday, but about reveling in the love, laughter, and life that will inevitably find you on your special day.

Sure, I could have griped that I only made it 3 out of the 5 miles at a jogging pace - that the remainder was spent power walking. I could have complained that I was freezing most of the day because of my very cold choice of lunch. I could have found fault in the fact that my masseuse wanted to chat with me for 90 minutes instead of letting me relax. And I could have been discontented with our perch at the bar of Capital Grille instead of a cozy table for two. But I couldn't find a single negative in any part of the day. The pace gave Peter and I more time together, bouncing through the woods. Being cold just made getting warm that much more rewarding. The chatty massage probably prevented me from turning into comatose for the rest of the day. And having dinner at the bar was way more fun then blending into the crowd of cheesy belated-Valentine's diners.

A special thank you to my husband, for making me feel like a Toms clad, Tiffany sporting, cupcake filled, champagne toasting queen, not only on my birthday, but everyday. And for nine months of making me understand that being two people, can be more beautiful than being one. Just as everyone keeps telling me, this is going to be one amazing 31st year.  

Lo.

Big Plans

This is always a big week for us: Valentine's Day, our birthdays, then this year throw in the Chinese New Year, Mardi Gras, and the beginning of Lent. There is epic culinary potential in it, and generally I plan out this corridor to staged perfection. However, this year, given several factors, planning consisted of more ad hoc arrangements. My dumplings were a day late for the New Year, Mardi Gras was celebrated over Claire's gumbo a couple days before the holiday, and I had no idea what to make on the morning of Valentine's Day.

Drawing on inspiration from a comment Peter made earlier in the week about wanting to take a beer tour of Belgium, I ended up creating a scenic, savory journey through Belgium on Thursday. I knew we weren't going to be able to fit international travel into our 2013 agenda, so I brought it to our dining room table instead.

The thing is, my spontaneity didn't ruin a thing. In fact, I think the meals tasted a little better, the conversation was more lively, and based on the success of the fried cod last night, we just might open up our own Western Suburban fish fry during Lent.  

It made me start to think about planning and the over and under of it. When I was young, it happened the week, maybe even the day of. Sure, there were certain things etched on the calendar - black out dates per se: birthdays, holidays, dance recitals, family vacations. But besides that, I had a wide open agenda; so did everyone else.

What was in store for the weekend was the topic of conversation late in the day on Thursday and the destination of Friday's sleepover might not be decided till the morning of. Menus, games, outfits, prank call lists, bedtimes (to my dismay) were flexible and fluid up until the hours that they were executed. No one stressed. No one cared. All that mattered was the guarantee of a good time in the decisions that were made. 

However, somewhere in between my first wedding season and the arrival of the first baby to my inner circle, planning became essential and extensive. This year in particular, some sort of subliminal memo went out, prompting everyone to get out their calendars and start blocking off dates, early. Within the first week of the year, a good third of my agenda was already chiseled in: weddings, work events, vacations, reunions, races, and of course the big birth date were entered into Outlook.

I capped it there though and ceased making arrangements. Mostly, because 2/3 of my little family couldn't commit at this time. The very idea of calendar-marking makes my husband cringe; he still prefers the week-of plan. And the little lady, who everyone keeps telling me will change my life, might have a totally different set of plans come March 6.

While growing up, I loved the thrill of the question mark attached to every weekend, and today, I love the spontaneity which Peter wants in our life, there is something very different about then and now. Sure, there's the fact that you are an adult - and you have a little one on the way - and you have all these grown-up priorities to balance - blah, blah, blah. But the biggest difference is that your best friends aren't a couple blocks or even the PA turnpike away. They aren't down the hall or across the quad. And you can't just be over in a sec. Instead, they are scattered, hundreds of miles apart - plane tickets, cab rides, hotel rooms away. And to see them at least on a yearly basis, you have to make some big plans. Sure, you can relive the memories of gossiping on the school's heaters, stealing erasers, jumping on the trampoline, watching romantic comedies, going stag to dances, Boat Clubbing, and tailgating on the phone or even over emails. But to make new memories, you have to be together.  

In thinking about this, I've been anxious to book tickets to New York, Boston, San Diego, Seattle, Denver, North Carolina, and DC - to lock in spending quality time with my girl friends who I miss so much. But plan-making is no longer just about me. And something tells me that under-planning this spring and summer, might just work better for Mary.

Like this week though, I believe there is a lot of potential in the last minute arrangement that in our household always seems to translate into the best kind of fun.  Now to plan my play-it-by-ear birthday ... GO!

Lo.

Frisee Salad with Poached Eggs
Serves 2  

Ingredients

Mixture of Frisee, Radicchio, and sweeter green lettuces
Green beans 
Two eggs
Honey vinaigrette (recipe below)

Honey Vinaigrette
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons champagne vinegar
1/2 teaspoon diced shallot
Sprinkle of diced thyme 
1/2 teaspoon tarragon, chopped  
1 teaspoon honey
Salt, pepper

Directions: 
Blanche the green beans and let cool. In a medium bowl, combine lettuces and green beans. In a small bowl, mix together dressing ingredients. Toss over the salad mixture and divide onto two plates.

Poach the eggs, Peter style: In a medium pot, bring water to a boil. Reduce heat, so not at a rolling boil anymore. Using a spoon swirl water, so its churning around the pot. Let it slow to a gently swirl. Crack one egg into a very small bowl and gently release the egg into the water. It should sink to the bottom and the water's motion should keep it together in a beautiful rounded form with the white on the outside, and the yellow on the inside. Cook for 3-4 minutes, remove and repeat the process with the other egg. Serve warm over the salad.

Prep Work

I used to arrive a couple hours early for my shift on Fridays and Saturdays. Typically, they were my longest, busiest days on the floor of Eleven; I figured what's another hour or two. Instead of going straight to the office though, I moseyed into the kitchen with a cautious plea to Chef, 'Can I help?' Incredulously, he would wonder what the girl with the wrong clothes, scar-free arms, and big hair was doing in the back of the house. But with an apron, a promise I wouldn't cut myself and a quick sweep of my hair, he would let me pitch in: rolling out, cutting and flouring the gnocchi, mixing up and molding the crab cakes, filling, simmering, and setting the massive pots of stock for a 24-hour journey toward richness.

I loved participating in the prep work rituals of the massive, industrial kitchen, steaming toward serving 300 to 400 people throughout the course of a given evening. There was both an art and science to the planning. Timing was everything and coached through frequent Chef check-ups on process and status. When the doors of Eleven opened at 5:00 PM, every cook, every pastry chef, every station needed to be as equipped as possible for the estimated amount of traffic that would come through the double doors. A slip in efficiency on the line due to a lack of preparedness, could dismantle the whole evening.

What I learned as an observer, I've transported to my kitchen. And at home, I've gotten relatively good at the prep work needed to execute a dinner party in which I'm less of a caterer and more of a guest.

Last night, I felt particularly proud of the prep work I put into a dinner for my friend, Cristine and her husband Kevin. The menu was planned by mid-morning. Grocery shopping was done by 3:00. Dessert was finished by 4:00. The ribs were braising by 4:30. The table was set, garde manger was ready for salad assembly, and cocktails and appetizers were set up fireside by 5:45 PM, Cristine's reservation time. After an hour relaxing and chatting with our guests, I only needed 15 minutes in the kitchen to get everything on the table. I felt like Chef would have been proud.

***

When it comes to prepping for the baby though, I'm a little less sure about my plans and timing. Sure, the nursery looks cute, I'll pick up the vintage Sound of Music poster that I just had framed tomorrow. Mary's closet is all organized and color coordinated. And I translating 'nesting' to mean buying new furniture for our sun room. But this week, I had a couple 'huh, I should really do that' moments which led me to question my preparedness.

Say when Genevieve asked if I had been reading a lot recently.
I have actually! I'm about halfway through Moby Dick. Great book!
Oh, I meant baby books.
Right. No. Haven't read any of those.
Or at my shower on Wednesday, when I started opening essentials like bibs, pacifiers, a baby tub and an infant swing, and realized that I would have totally forgotten about these staples had others not come to my rescue.
Or when my Mom sent me a message in her signature check-list format. Have you ...
Stopped running. (Kind of) 
Stayed away from anyone who is sick. (Like the plague) 
Relaxed and gotten lots of sleep. (Not so much.)
Stocked the freezer with meals. (No, but excellent idea.)

So with a little more than three weeks left, I've decided to do a little more practical prep work. I started to think of the comfort food classics that were always stocked in Grandma Barry's freezer and made a mental list of the meals I should make, starting with beef stroganoff. But I had this idea. Instead of making a whole meal without the instant gratification of eating it for dinner, I would just double the recipe so we'd have the other two servings for those days in March when I'll probably be too tired to cook.

My plan backfired though. See, the retro stews, braises, and roasts of this world - the ones that make excellent leftovers, also translate into amazing seconds or thirds. So my beef stroganoff for four on Thursday night, quickly turned into beef stroganoff for 2.5 with nothing, not even a couple egg noodles, left to freeze.

So I'm back to the drawing board again tonight. And with it, I'm thinking I need to make meals for eight or ten, in order for their to be any generous portions in my freezable future.

In terms of non-culinary prep work, savvy Moms, what else am I missing?

Lo.


Citrus and Pomegranate Salad with Honey Vinaigrette
Adapted from Thomas Keller's 'Ad Hoc at Home'
Serves four  

Ingredients:
Mixture of Bibb and Romaine lettuces (Keller calls for Little Gem lettuce, which I could not find in the store)
1 grapefruit, segmented
1 orange, segmented
1/2 cup pomegranate seeds
1/4 cup toasted walnuts
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon vegetable oil
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 teaspoon honey
1 teaspoon fresh tarragon finely chopped 
Salt, pepper

Directions:
Mix oils, vinegar, honey, tarragon, salt and pepper in a small bowl. Toss lettuce with dressing. Plate lettuce. Top with citrus slices, a generous amount of pomegranate seeds and walnuts. Serve.

Red Wine Braised Short Ribs 
Adapted from Bon Appetit 
Serves six 

Ingredients: 
5 pounds bone-in beef short ribs
salt, pepper
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
2 yellow onions, chopped
3 carrots, peeled and chopped
2 stalks of celery, peeled and chopped 
3 tablespoons flour
1 tablespoon tomato paste
Bottle (750 ML) Red Wine, preferably Cabernet Sauvignon
3 cups beef stock
Head of garlic, sliced in half horizontally
10 sprigs of flat leaf parsley
8 sprigs of thyme
2 sprigs of rosemary
2 bay leaves

Directions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Generously season beef with salt and pepper. In a large dutch oven, heat oil. Brown short ribs on all sides in two batches. Set aside.

Add onions, celery and carrots to the pot. Cook over medium high heat for 8-10 minutes until onions are soft and starting to brown. Add the flour and tomato paste. Mix well to incorporate and cook for about 2 minutes. Add the bottle of wine, stirring well, making sure the liquid is even. Put the ribs back in the pot, bring to a boil, and reduce liquid by half. It took me about 40 minutes to do this. By that time the sauce was thicker, richer in color, and delicious.

Add beef stock, herbs, garlic, salt and pepper to the pot. Place in oven and cook for 2 hours.

Remove the pot from the oven. Let sit for about 15 minutes. Remove the ribs. Strain the liquid into a saucepan. The fat should rise to the top, remove that using a spoon or skimmer. Serve short ribs in a shallow bowl over something like mashed potatoes and parsnips, with the sauce on top.

Beef Stroganoff 
Serves four (or two and a half on a hungry day) 

Ingredients: 
1 pound beef stew meat
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
Salt, pepper
1 onion, halved, then thinly sliced 
1 tablespoon flour
2 teaspoons ground mustard 
2 cups beef stock
1/2 pound baby bella mushrooms, sliced
3/4 cup sour cream
Flat leaf parsley
Egg noodles

Directions:
Season beef with salt and pepper. Heat oil over medium heat in a dutch oven. Brown meat evenly, about 8 minutes. Add onions to the pot and saute until soft and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Add flour and ground mustard, stirring well and cook for 2 minutes.

Slowly add stock, whisking constantly. Turn heat to low, and let simmer for 2 hours. After an hour, check on the pot. If you need to add more liquid, add another 1/2 cup of stock.

Add mushrooms, salt and pepper and let cook for another 20-30 minutes over low heat. Right before serving add the sour cream. Serve over egg noodles, topped with fresh parsley.

Different

Recently, finding something to wear to work has been a challenge. Nothing looks good. But honestly, the foremost question in my mind when I open my closet every morning is not my appearance, but my level of comfort. The cute dresses have been replaced with muumuus; four inch heels have gone flat; once opaque tights have stretched to translucence; the belly hangs out; and the bra size, well it just continues to creep down the alphabet, past the point that Ellie knows.

Given my appearance, I've found myself using my cubicle as a shield at work - a cover up for the body sitting, no slumping, just behind the wall. And given the sedentary nature of my job, it's been easy to keep my expanding state of being contained to a smaller group.

However, on Friday, my barricade was brought down as my team collided with others in the close quarters of a conference room for our first department meeting of the year. Six hours; no walls; here I am, world.

The meeting was focused on diversity in the workplace - an excellent session that hit on some of the tougher issues inside and outside of the office. It got the whole group out of their comfort zone and into a place that produced some incredible bonds.

About midway through the meeting, all forty or so of us were called upon to answer five questions and read our reflections aloud to the group. They were:

• What is the name on your birth certificate? 
• What comes first in your life? 
• Name a defining moment in your life.
• What is your guiding principle?
• When was the first time you recognized that you were different; or that others were different from you? 

What started as an innocent, deeper glance into the life of the person who sits next to you, shortly turned into a large-scale group therapy session. The reflections got a little more honest; hardened voices developed quivers, and emotion swelled through the room.

The baton was passed to me and it was my turn. I felt like a had a million different answers for each of these questions, and a million different ways I could go in my storytelling. But since I was talking and most likely emoting for two, I played it safe. I hesitantly stood up, pulling at my dress and subtly hiking up my tights.
I'm Lo.
Hi, Lo.
My faith and my family come first. (Check.)
Defining moment. That would be what I'm going through now. (I looked down at my stomach. They got it. Check.)
My guiding principal. Well, my grandma and Mom used to always tell me that an idle hand is the devil's workshop. And I've taken that to heart. (Check.)
I answered the last question with a cop-out story about a second grade sleepover when I told Mrs. Magyar that I wasn't allowed to watch Dirty Dancing with the rest of the group - my parents wouldn't want me to. So I excused myself from the television room and went upstairs to play alone. I realized then that I was a dork. Probably always would be. And wasn't afraid to be that way. (Lame. But check.)

***

As we were leaving Piece last night, Caylan wanted to take a photo of the girls.
Ugh. No.
Please. Come on.
I jumped in on the end closest to the camera - worst position to be in. Snap. Review. Oh my GOD!
I think Caylan thought it was one for the blog. She had commented that I hadn't posted a picture of myself in months. No one had seen the baby bump.
Yeah, there's a reason for that. Don't put that picture on Facebook! 
You should post it.
On the way home, I started thinking about the words I shared on Friday, and the place where I was too nervous to go. 

There wasn't just one moment when I realized I was different; there were many.
There was the time I went to try on First Communion dresses and my Mom told the saleslady that I had a little tummy. 
The time when I noticed that all the other girls in my class didn't have Xs on their size 6 uniforms.
The time that I realized that not all little girls could fit two Big Macs in their stomachs. And honestly still have room for more.
There were the photos - from birthday parties, class trips, dance recitals, and softball games where I always looked like the biggest person in the group.  
There were the Dr. Levin appointments; the longer talks with my Mom or Dad about doing a little more exercise and eating a little less dessert. (Seriously, do you know how my Grandma bakes?)
And perhaps the final straw. In sixth grade, I heard the boys snickering and whispering a chant to each other, 'boom ba ba boom, ba ba boom' as I walked down the stairs of the auditorium to my clarinet lesson. I pretended that I didn't hear. But I had. And it hurt. So much. 
For the record, I was never obese. I was chubby. But in a classroom, on a stage or in a cabin where you are the chubbiest one, it makes an impression.
By the summer of sixth grade, I was on a self-imposed diet. By eighth grade I knew the calorie composition of everything that went into my mouth, strove for 1-2 grams of fat per day, and was approaching a size 0. I haven't looked back since, and there were years when the obsession took heavy tolls.

That is, until now. Well, more like July. My defining nine-month 'moment.' A steady, healthy weight gain that has challenged what I've been doing to myself for the past eighteen years. Things that I've neglected: a real lunch, a day off from running, the other side of my scary weight, tucking away my mental calorie counter have become non-negotiable. Standing up in a room of 40 people, humbled by my appearance, has shaken my confidence. But over the course of this waiting period, I've realized that despite the changes to my body, I'm still me. Same sense of humor, same goofy girl, same work ethic, same love for all the people in my life. I've just let a little bit of the chubby girl back in. And she's not so bad at all.

In one more act of bold sharing, I'm posting a photo of me. Circa right ... now.

Should've done my hair and put on makeup. Oh well.
I'm nearly 36 weeks along. I've gained a little more than 30 pounds and I'm anticipating that I'll add another five or so to that in the next couple weeks. 

As a closing remark, what I went through with my department on Friday was insightful, inspiring and invigorating. And I have a personal plea to parents out there: Please teach your children that people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They have different credos, convictions, and co-pilots on life's journey. They are old and young; male and female; rich and poor. But each person has a tremendous value. A worth that can't be seen by an exterior perception. Don't let yourself or your children try to take that value away from anyone.      

Lo.