Moby Mom

Yesterday, I attempted to swaddle myself in a ten foot black blanket better known to clued-in mothers as a Moby Wrap. The goal, as the picture described was to neatly tuck my baby away within the folds of a massive piece of fabric, thereby freeing up my hands, relieving some of the pressure from my back, soothing my tired, fussy infant, and (poof!) turning me into the mega multitasking Mom that I long to be.

For the first time in my life, I read instructions and proceeded to fold, wrap, criss-cross, tie and tuck the black garb around my frame. Confident in my handy work, I looked in the mirror to see how I had done. Wow. Not what the picture looked like. (And I really need to run a comb through my hair.) I gently inserted Mary into one of the crevices, hoping that together in the hippie wrap, we would look like the promotional materials.

Nope. Still awkward.

I walked around the house like a marsupial for about fifteen minutes, but my inept Moby styling seemed to be adding more pressure to my back and Mary didn't look all that comfortable, so I unwrapped, called it a day, and turned to the mom duty that I've become quite good at - feeding my baby while granting myself a little guilty pleasure - likely the tenth or eleventh viewing of an episode of Sex and the City.

Sitting there with my hands full again, watching Carrie contemplate one of life's little mysteries, I started to think about one of my own - that is, what kind of Mom I will be.

Unable to create my own personal baby bag, peacefully stare at my child for 45 minutes as she nurses, give up artificial sweeteners, or live without my house being Pine Sol scented clean, I've ruled out being an au naturale hippie Mom.   

As my sister commented on my choice of shoes - 'so do you only wear Toms now?' - I ruled out being a designer Mom. Right now, my look includes a make-up free palette, whatever jeans or stretchy pants fit, and the shoes that are the closest to the door. For the past four weeks they've been my Toms. 

Just looking at all the intense Pinterest projects and the time associated with doing them I'm steering away from being a crafty Mom. And because the girls that I'm dying to hang out with right now aren't moms, I'm guessing I won't end up being a cliquey west suburban Mom.

Likely, I'll ultimately embody a characteristic or two from each of these profiles: I'll keep shopping, buying, and cooking organic as much as possible, I'll eventually get back to my cocktail dresses and shoe boxes, I will pride myself in the picture perfect lunches that I pack, and I might need a local running or wine buddy soon. Then I'll probably add a couple characteristics unique to my style of mothering, and I'll wrap them all up into a slightly neurotic working Mom profile come July. As my friend C. says, 'ta da!'

Whatever type of Mom I turn into though, I'm certain that I will always be a Mom who needs help. And a lot of it. This week alone, my sister came to town to lend a hand, carrying, soothing, and playing with Mary for hours on end; Mimi came over three different times to sit with Mary so I could just get out of the house; and my husband - what can I say - I wouldn't be running again, getting a little extra sleep, cooking, or finding a couple minutes to relax each day without him.

BM - Before Mary, I was pretty sure that I could do it alone. But I've got to say, without help, I would be a mess right now: a sleep-deprived, ornery, hair-frazzled, cabin-fevered, starving, struggling, stinky, scary Mom. And Mary wouldn't be nearly as content as she is right now, snuggled up in my arms as we watch the rain come down. 

As we hit the four week mark, I'm raising my Sauvignon Blanc glass to the village that has helped me raise Mary so far. And to another kind of Mom that I have more respect for than ever - the single Mom. How you do / did it, I have no idea, but I'm in awe.

Lo.

Candid Camera

This week my hair started falling out. Word of mouth told me it was just another one of those lovely postpartum symptoms. But I believe there was something more to it - another culprit per se. This week, I came to the realization that motherhood is really tough. 

Like the rest of my overachieving generation I've been stacking my resume for the past three decades: high honors, glee club, lacrosse star (they were my glory days, I want to call myself a star), marathoner, artist, dancer, actress, amateur chef, wine enthusiast, marketer, writer, blogger. I've developed a laundry list of skills, experiences, and talents that supposedly defines me on paper.  And three weeks ago, I added another attribute: 'Mom.'

I've been clamoring for this special role for a long time. And like everything else that I have tackled in my life, my expectations are high, aimed at being the mother of the year. The thing is, it's difficult to tell how I'm actually doing or for that matter, stacking up against other moms. There aren't really any big wins. There's no one telling me 'great job' every step of the way. Apparently, baby won't give me any social smiles till six weeks. And this week, that coveted role of Mom was shaded with less rosy descriptors: laundress, spit up target, milk vessel, pacifier, pooper scooper, and most notably zombie.

On Tuesday evening, somewhere in between sleeplessness, yet another feeding, and a really sore back, I phoned a friend, texted two others, and emailed one more, trying to decipher if I was royally screwing up or just hitting par for the course. After getting sage advice from moms who had been there, I wondered why these conversations were happening so quietly. Why wasn't the meat of motherhood - the real stuff that helps you earn your baby badge of courage - posted all over my social streams when everything else is?

I decided to blame my generation and our obsession with being perfect. Three years ago, my Facebook newsfeed turned into a stream of white designer dresses, smiling brides, and dance circles surrounding the newlyweds, hair down, beer in hand, cummerbund waving in the air. 18 months ago, the wedding scenes turned into a social baby boom. And just like all the glistening bridal photos, there was nothing but smiling babies in the arms of airbrushed Moms filling my screen. All the outtakes were strategically removed before the publishers hit upload.

It's what we all do. But this week, after talking to some strong moms and looking a little deeper in the mirror at myself, I learned that a lot of the beauty and strength of motherhood is found in the candid moments that we tend to edit out. It's the make-up free, puffy eyes, 'crap I put the diaper on wrong', 'honey, you want me to come home?' 'I can't believe you just took that picture' days when you can't get the baby to stop crying, and fussing, and wailing that make being a mom so special. 

And it's days like today - the calm after the storm - when the baby is clean, pacified, sweetly cooing as she slumbers, and totally content - that let you know you are doing it right.

So for now, I'm stocking up on patience, eliminating coffee from my diet (apparently it makes a breast fed baby very gassy), giving all the kudos that I have received in my life to my little girl, and leaving the edited portraits for Mary. 

Best tummy time exerciser ever? Hell yeah!  

Lo.

Easter

A couple months ago, while Peter was busy preparing a hefty amount of Alaskan salmon using his very own cold smoking contraption, I was making some Easter plans.

Emails were going around from my Ellis friends - everyone would be in town - Missy was organizing a swank get together - I had to be there; Peter alerted me that the Cubs were playing the Buccos in Pittsburgh on Easter Monday - the season opener for both teams - suddenly, my parents hooked us up with some sweet seats behind the dug out - we had to go; The Golf Club's brunch, vichyssoise, creamed spinach, eggs Benedict and all sounded better than ever; the sweet pink outfits that I opened at my shower would be perfect for Mary's first encounter with the Easter bunny; and I envisioned I would need a newly minted Mom getaway. I verbalized our plans; newborn and all, we'd be celebrating Easter in the Burgh. Anybody that doubted it got a 'poo poo' from me. Peter penciled it in and vacuum sealed the smoked salmon for a special occasion to come. 

That was two months ago. And that was the clueless expectant Mom in me talking. Clearly, babies that are two and a half weeks old don't travel well and neither do their exhausted parents. As I woke up at 2:40 this morning to Mary's hungry cry, wishing her a happy Easter through my sleepy haze, I chuckled at the unrealistic expectations I had set for our little family.

Given a lack of immunity, a reservation for more milk every other hour, naps, and a myriad of diaper and costume changes, our Easter - Mary's first Easter was spent at home. We let the neighbors take care of the egg hunting, we missed the cousins, Aunt Claire and Uncle Trent, we cut our Easter parade short, and we all gave in to an afternoon snooze on this beautiful Midwestern day. But I've got to say, it was a great little Easter.

Mary still met a bunny.

With the help of Mimi and Opa, Mommy and Daddy got to a beautiful morning Mass at St. Francis.

And obviously, there was brunch. The works: homemade bialys, house-smoked salmon, fruit salad, deviled eggs, champagne, and the head of my Godiva bunny for dessert.   

With a more realistic perspective on motherhood, I'm pretty sure that planning over the next couple months will have to be a little more fluid and flexible. I'm just glad that back in January, Peter planned ahead a little better than me.

Lo.

Weighing In

My sister called on Tuesday. She was in the car, driving home, back from remote Pennsylvania to the best part of it. She had decided to dial into the groggy ramblings of motherhood instead of tuning in to a more traditional offering across the air waves. I gave her the baby Mary / Mommy Lo update. And midway through spouting off some serious baby jargon (say, 'skin to skin', 'tummy time', 'cluster feeding', 'self soothing theories', and the coloration of 'nickel size poos') she stopped me.

Wait. Where did you learn all of this baby stuff? When I was in Chicago for your birthday, you were clueless.

I took no offense - her statement was accurate. Midway through February I only had a vague idea of what laid ahead and I certainly didn't know the minutia behind efficiently moving through a typical baby's schedule of eating, pooping and sleeping. Honestly, I hadn't even changed a diaper before. But within two weeks, yes it's been two weeks already, I feel like I have taken the role of motherhood by storm. And I'm proud of even the smallest accomplishments: from the basics to my own maternal theories and best practices.

So here's where we weigh in this week. Medically speaking, it was officially nine ounces heavier. But anecdotally, the week was even heftier.

Mary and I have added some firsts to our mother / daughter duo list: 

• Mary lost her belly button, and right on time; at the ten-day mark.
• With the loss of that rather gross looking dried piece of umbilical cord, Mary took the plunge in her pink tub and accepted her first Johnson and Johnson scented bath with grace.
• Mary had her first five-hour slumber which granted Mommy and Dadday one amazing night of sleep.
• We welcomed the addition of our first baby sitter, the one and only Mimi, who allowed me to take my first steps, then strides as I got back on the running circuit.

For the first time, I gave in and took a midday snooze with Mary. 
And we met our new pediatrician, who shared the excited news that the combination of a ravenous appetite and a burgeoning milk supply makes a baby exceed her birth weight in a timely fashion.

In addition to these milestones, I've started to develop some of my own mothering tips.

• When the legalese behind over the phone medical advice fails you, call Dr. Opa. He'll both give you practical information and potentially lobby for changes in healthcare delivery. 
• File a baby's nails when they are sleeping. Otherwise there is bound to be loud opposition.
• DON'T turn the light on to nurse your baby.
• The best diet / work out ever is breastfeeding. Do it.
• A glass of wine at dinner never tasted so good.
• If you have Grams, Nanas, or Mimis nearby, take them up on the offer of helping out.
• A jolt of Pit Bull can make any foggy, hazy, groggy, sleepy afternoon so much better.
• When hormones happen, just let the tears flow. It'll make you feel better. 
• You can knead pizza dough with one hand.
• And for that matter, you can eat a calzone with one hand too.

Finally, you're never 'alone all day without any adult conversation' if you have a good book in one hand and the sweetest little girl in the other.

Lo.

Raging

As a pre-teen, a lot gets blamed on hormones. A sudden mood swing, the slightest sign of forgetfulness, a bad game, poor grade, and that unexplained temper tantrum all can be chalked up to a case of raging hormones; that time of the month; and three letters: P. M. S.

The thing is, I feel like I never had the typical chemical swell of most junior high students. Either I had enough optimism and energy to combat my hormonal cadences or I just never experienced the dramatic variability like others. However, I did pay attention as my friends used their hormones as the ultimate alibi: to miss a day of school, grant themselves license to offend, or justify a weight gain. There was likely no veracity to my claims, but I embraced the catch-all excuse with everyone else. Nah, it wasn't the Entenmann's Crumb Top donuts, I'm just bloated. You know; that time of the month.

It was only recently that I had my big hormonal aha! moment. The pregnancy, labor, delivery and postpartum corridor hit me like a chemical tornado of mood-altering, head-aching, body-shaking, sweat-producing, cramp-causing, milk-dripping, eye-leaking, sentiment-sapping shock. So this is what those cursed hormones can do.

As an unscientific student, far more concerned with the artistic representation of the cell,  human anatomy, or periodic table than the actual information contained within each of my science projects, the biology and chemistry that my body is going through is Greek to me. I get the gist of things, but the nitty gritty - who knows.

From what the doctors and nurses told me, something called oxytocin made the hours of 9 PM and 7:20 AM 11 days ago miserable; it produced involuntary, uncontrollable tremors, painful contractions, and buckets of sweat. It was some combination of adrenaline and endorphins that helped me expel a baby from my body. The ebbs and flows of estrogen have made my tear ducts quite prolific. And perhaps the combination of all four of these chemical reactions has led to jolts of anxiety, a stomach that won't settle, and several female moments.

Finally, I can pin the unexplainable aberrations on the ultimate culprit: hormones. So a couple nights ago, during one of those female moments that happened to turn tearful, I did just that. The interrupted sleep had caught up with me. Another long day under house arrest had enhanced the exhaustion. Eating dinner with one hand and just a fork had proven difficult. A wail broke our conversation, the smell of honey mustard chicken sparked the hunger of someone else, and just like that I let the 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' rule slide. As a gentle tear dropped on Mary's head I told my dining partners, 'Our dinners will never be the same. Daddy and I will never be the same.'   

Peter smiled at me and said, 'Oh. But that's just because I love you more than ever.'

One small tear led to several more heavier, wetter ones. I looked down at my beautiful little girl, so satisfied in her sucking, then at my husband who was looking at me like I was the mother of the year, and realized how silly and unlike me I sounded. Darn hormones. 

But in retrospect, I have to say there was truth in the statement. Having a baby does change everything. The routine that you clung to for comfort, the extensive to do list, your pace, your priorities, your relationships, your quiet dinners for two. They all change. But so far I have found, even through a couple tears, that the changes are for the best. Given the heightened sense of accomplishment, love, gratitude, and peace that I feel at the end of each day, there is no doubt that the addition of Mary, whimpers, wails, blow outs, epic feedings, and all, makes our little team stronger than ever.

Lo.

A Week

Time is supposed to be an objective measure; universal, standard, and constant. But in my experience, time seems to be variable and relative. A week for instance seems like a different amount of time depending on the circumstance.

When I was young, a week was an eternity. A week's vacation with my family held stories and new experiences to last a year. A week at Calvary Camp - that time in between my parents dropping me off and coming back to Conneaut for visiting day with a box full of Lake Donuts in tow provided ample time for self discovery and development. Finals week at St. Edmund's or Ellis crawled by painfully with each anxiety ridden day. And that week in between meeting a guy and him not calling was torture.

Any more though, one week seems like nothing. It flies by with the blink of an eye; the Mondays, Hump Days, and TGIFs come and go faster and faster with each passing year. When you are tasked with getting a project done in a week, it seems impossible - deadlines are written in months or quarters.

But this week, my perspective on time shifted a bit. Sure, I could measure the last seven days in the number of diapers I have changed, hours of sleep I have lost, ounces of milk I have served, phone calls I still need to return, showers I have missed, and back knots I have acquired. But instead, I saw this week as a momentous lifetime. Because that is just what it has been to my newborn. Seven days out and about in this world, showing me just how important that period of time is.

When she opened her eyes for the first time this morning, I hope she saw all that her future holds. 

When she looked in the mirror today for the first time, I hope she saw how far she has already come. 

And when she nods off tonight, I hope she dreams about all the sweet memories we have shared over the past week.

Lo.

Milk Maid

Midway through my ritualistic apres-Mass brunch preparation yesterday, I was summoned by a new, very little VIP at our establishment. My other guests could wait - my sous chef could finish flipping the omelets and frying the potatoes in the bacon's drippings - she had a reservation - she wanted to sit down - she wanted to eat now. So up we went to her special pillow top table for one where I served the best house made, organic milk that I could provide to an open-eyed, hungry little girl. 

For the past four days, this little VIP has shifted all my existing priorities - culinary and otherwise - replacing them with one: her mouth; my milk. All routines have been scrapped, chores and exercise have been pushed aside, sound slumbers have been interrupted, and meal preparation for the more traditional diners at my table has required support. What was once a balanced portfolio of work and extra curricular activity was traded in for a new career in the milk industry focused on the efficient and ample production of nature's best all to help my Mary grow.

I've got to say though, of all the meals that I have prepared over the past decade, Mary's breakfasts, lunches, dinners, brunches, cocktail hours, and midnight and later night snacks have been my greatest accomplishments. Too much information or not, the sense of pride I felt when she latched for the first time in the hospital, then when she did it back at home without the help of our (amazing) lactation consultant, when the slow drip of colostrum turned to a steadier stream of milk, and each time when her hunger subsided into soporific satisfaction was more rewarding than rave reviews from the most discriminating diner; Better than any perfect paper, winning goal, round of applause or outstanding performance review.   

The simple joys of my milking firsts has been enhanced by other new experiences as well; baby basics that have simply left me speechless:

Say, mastering the perfect swaddle - one that I'm certain Mad Mex burrito makers across the greater Pittsburgh region must be very good at.

Seeing the likeness across four generations.

Coming up with a 30-minute lullaby medley, which as a former Calvary Camper was very easy. The 'time to mellow out' campfire songs and Chapel standards work like charms. Hint: start with 'Take a Stick of Bamboo.'

Learning that changing itty bitty diapers isn't too bad at all, especially when you have a husband that jumps right in to do it for you.

Giving in to the fact that I can't do it all right now - that I need support - and that the fruits of my kitchen are just as good when Opa steps in.  

Sipping Peter's Cyclone Stout - the dry Irish kind - on Mary's first St. Patrick's Day.

And just being that voice, smell, touch and taste that makes a whimper disappear.

Mary is 4.5 days old now and there's no doubt that they've been some of the best days (and nights) of my life.

Lo.

The Night You Were Born

When my sister and I were young, we shared a room. We had matching twin beds, matching night stands, matching sheets, and matching bed times. But occasionally, we tried to outstay our 9:00 PM curfew by throwing ourselves what we called a 'Library Party.' It was a secret, exclusive affair, hosted by my sister on her bed under the big Noah's Ark painting. After our parents tucked us in and turned off the lights, our flash lights would go on, our books would come off our shelves, and my stuffed animals and I would climb onto Erin's bed. She would start reading me book after book with big plans to make this an all-night affair. For a half an hour or so, I would revel in our rebellion, but shortly after my innate need for sleep would lull me back to my own side of the room.

As perhaps fate would have it, I never managed to pull an all-nighter. In high school, if my work wasn't done by 9:00 PM, I would wake up early in the morning and finish it. In college, I couldn't understand why or how the architects and engineers could stay up all night to finish their projects. I was never around for the really juicy stories from the party that took place on the other side of midnight. And no amount of work, stress, or anxiety has fended off sleep for me recently.

However, on Wednesday night, I pulled my first real all-nighter - a crowning achievement. And with it, I developed my first Library Party book to read to Mary. 

On The Night You Were Born 

Adapted from the original, dedicated to my Mary Clare 

On the night you were born, I made homemade pizza for your Grandma, Daddy and me. 

Then we drove to the hospital, went straight back to Labor and Delivery, and checked in. 

On the night you were born, they gave me this medicine called Cervidil, which was supposed to just soften my cervix overnight. Mommy thought it was going to be a painless process, that I would get a good night sleep in the hospital, wake up refreshed, have a cup of tea, and then get the show on the road the next morning. 

On the night you were born, I was wrong. So wrong. 

On the night you were born, the Cervidil pushed me right into active labor while I cursed the choice of pizza for dinner and my one Tum allotment. 

On the night you were born, I scrapped by birthing plan and demanded an epidural. 

On the night you were born, I was denied, because the Cervidil and the anesthesia didn't complement each other. 

On the night you were born, I didn't sleep a wink. I drifted in and out of consciousness. In and out, then deeper in and less out of pain. 

On the night you were born, your Daddy held Mommy's hand and did all that he could to make me feel better. 

On the night you were born, there was a sweet nurse named Gia who helped your Mom get through some of the tougher pains too. 

On the night you were born, they pulled out the Cervadil and low and behold, I was already 6 centimeters dilated. I got raving reviews from my nurses and they finally paged the anesthesiologist. 

On the night you were born, the anesthesiologist took his grand old time, as Mommy curled up in more and more pain. 

On the night you were born, as the doctor with the drugs was trying to work his magic, I felt your little head and told the doctor to stop, 'I have to poop!' 

He said, 'that's not poop, check her.' 

On the night you were born, Dr. Halperin arrived and checked me. She said you're not getting drugs, you're going to have a baby. 

So along with a team of nice nurses, she told Mommy to push, push, PUSH! 

And I did, did, DID! 

Until you popped out and into our world. 

On the day you were born, in Early Riser style you woke up with the Midwestern sun at 7:20 AM. 

That same day, you got measured and weighed, 5 pounds 7 ounces, 20.25 inches, you stamped your tiny foot prints, and you got your first bath. 

You met your grandparents, Aunt Claire and Uncle Trent. 

We ate sushi and toasted you with my favorite champagne. 

You got showered with blessings and well wishes from your family and Mommy and Daddy's friends. 

You marveled us with your big blue eyes, full head of hair, and petite frame. 

And you made Mommy and Daddy cry. 

On the day you were born, you changed my life and filled my heart with a kind of love that is in indescribable - the kind of love that makes any amount of pain, drug-free and all, bearable. 

I would say, 'The End,' but it's just the beginning. 

Lo / Mommy. 

Overdue

When Peter and I toured our Parish's grade school several weeks ago, the student ambassadors referred to their non-core classes as 'specials.' I coaxed them to say it again:
'What did you call Art Class again?'
'A special.'
I smiled, reminiscing about my days at St. Edmund's. We had used that term as well. We called all the classes that only appeared on our schedule two or three times a week 'specials' too: Gym, Language Arts, Chapel and Chapel Rehearsal, Art, Library, Woodshop, Music. You name it, they offered it at St. Edmund's.

The first through third graders were the luckiest though - they had the best 'special' of all: Sewing, Cooking, and Crafts. It was just one class, the title rolling off your tongue in one breath, but broken into three trimester-long parts with three very special teachers. It was my grade school's version of early home ec. And it was so special that it only happened once a week, always leaving us craving more.

The first trimester was spent in Mrs. Goetz' fourth grade room, crafting. With her, we learned how to use glue guns; how to make a little game of catch using cardboard cones, string and a bouncy ball; how to turn four little pieces of canvas and green yarn into a frog that you could squeeze open to reveal the Hershey Kiss that he held inside; and how to bead nationality necklaces using clothespins personally decorated to look like your early ancestors. When I designed my German man to look like a Nazi in second grade though, it caused quite a stir. I learned a little more about swastikas than the Sound of Music offered that day.  

During the second trimester, we rotated to Mrs. Stone's Language Arts classroom, where we learned the finer points of sewing. We went home with pillows, purses and little stuffed birds - perfect Mother's Day gifts.

Finally, toward the end of the year, we moved to my favorite of the trifecta, cooking with Mr. Friedman, the art teacher. We received lessons in preparing fettucini alfredo, swedish meatballs, Rice Krispie treats, and more. It was before the days when allergens and food sensitivities were banned from schools. Certain kids would complain about the menu du jour:
'I'm lactose intolerant.'
'I don't eat red meat.'
'I'm allergic to peanut butter.'
'Well, more for us,' said Mr. Friedman.
I remember how amazing it was to eat a small portion of fettucini on a paper plate in the middle of the day - a treat normally reserved for an apres ski family dinner at Nino Barsotti's.


Over the past ten days, I feel like I created the dream schedule for my eight-year old self. No mandatory core classes, just a never-ending rotation of specials, but with some minor variations: Chapel was replaced with Mass, gym with jogging, Library with its Western Suburban counterparts, and music with labor and delivery mix reshuffling. And what used to be just once a week, is now a daily occurrence - I've been cooking and crafting ad infintum. I removed the sewing part of the equation though. I was never that good at it anyway. I have filled page after page in the latest edition of my scrap book. I have drawn, painted, and framed. The other day, I even went to Joann Fabrics for supplies, which let me just tell you, hosts a pretty interesting crowd midday. I expanded my daily dinner repertoire to include a specially packed lunch for Peter everyday, hosted a couple inspired dinner parties, and have more on the baking docket today.

The problem is, it's the equivalent of Grandparents and Special Friends Day this weekend - my parents, Nana and Opa, are en route. Just like the annual day at St. Edmund's where I got to showcase all my special work to Double G, Grandma and my babysitter - the masterpieces I had made, the songs I had learned, the poems I could recite - today or tomorrow, my parents are looking forward to seeing my nine month-long project. Except little Miss Mary isn't quite ready yet. While all the other projects I've been working on for the past week and a half are ready, my stubborn little girl has decided she needs a little more time in the oven.

You know how it feels to travel all day - long flights, layovers, an estimated arrival time that is way past your bedtime. And then when you finally reach your destination, the bag that the flight attendant made you check just isn't coming around the turn style. Everyone else slowly, but surely sees their bag, picks it up and goes home. But you have to wait and wait and wait. Well, this morning, as yet another 2013 baby popped up on my Facebook newsfeed, I had that exact feeling. Like my precious cargo just won't appear. And I'm done waiting; ready to file a complaint.

Mary, if this were Library, you would definitely be getting an overdue notice.

Lo.

Nesting

On Wednesday, I started my maternity leave. But to be precise, I'm still not a full fledged mom. I'm still awaiting, willing the arrival of our little one who is apparently quite content staying in utero for the time being.

This pre-due date week is a perk that my company gives to mothers. A wonderful one, which I suppose is meant to offer you time to make all the remaining, necessary preparations for the new addition to your household. To nest per se - an instinct that I have found to be very real, particularly amongst type A people, like myself.

The problem is that my nesting began a couple weeks ago, so by Wednesday afternoon, much of my to-do list had already been accomplished. I've cooked, cleaned, organized, and shopped. I caught up on a year's worth of scrapbooking and a month or more of delinquent personal correspondence. I've continued to cram for my labor and delivery test on March 6. And I even drew up a birth plan. But by yesterday afternoon, I was tapped. So instead of playing mom-to-be, I diverted my attention toward the feathering of my own little nest in the middle of the couch in the basement, where I laughing out loud to episode after episode of Arrested Development, which let me just tell you is still funny the third time around. 

This morning, feeling guilty for the R and R that I allowed myself yesterday, I renewed my commitment to nesting. I asked myself, what would my Mom have done before the arrival of her kids? The answer to that came in a text a couple minutes later: 'I worked until I went into labor.' Right. So I looked another generation back. What would Grandma Barry have done before the arrival of each of her eight kids?

Make meals to feed an army and freeze them? Yes. 
Stay comfy in her 'intermediates?' Absolutely.
Screen the door for strange utility men who you don't want in your house? Certainly.
Make some nut rolls? Most definitely.
Bake dozens of cookies? Of course.
With many future dinners already occupying the freezer, and while already dedicated to stretch pants and screening, I turned to baking today. And a typical Barry baking day at that. Three nut rolls: one for the freezer, one to give away to a deserving visitor, and one for breakfast tomorrow. And three dozen maple twists, which I fondly remember lining many of Grandma's cookie trays.

I concluded that another part of nesting is continuing to feed your baby bird, so I wasn't shy about sampling.

Since my typical TGIF tweet seems irrelevant without a workday to say goodbye to, I'm shouting a more appropriate exclamation: TGIM. That is, thank God it's March.

Lo.

Maple Twists 
Makes 3 dozen 

Ingredients for Dough: 
2 1/2 cups of flour
2 sticks of unsalted butter, chilled and cut into pieces
1 1/2 packages of dry, active yeast
2 tablespoons hot water
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 1/2 egg yolks (I cut this recipe in half, thus the dividing of an egg.)
3/4 cup sour crean
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon salt
1-2 tablespoons of ice water

Nut filling: 
2 tablespoons cinnamon
1 1/2 cups finely chopped walnuts 

Icing:
2 cups confectioners sugar
1 tablespoon melted butter
2 tablespoons milk, or just enough to make the icing a smooth, spreadable consistency. 
1/2 teaspoon maple extract
Directions:
In a small bowl, combine the yeast, water and sugar. Let the yeast dissolve for 10 minutes. It should look like brownish mush when it is ready.

Using a pastry blender, in a large bowl combine the flour and butter until the mixture resembles course meal. In another small bowl, combine egg yolks, sour cream, vanilla, salt and yeast mixture. Stir till just blended. Make a well in the middle of the flour in the large bowl, and add the wet ingredients. Blend into dough using your hands, until it comes together. You might need to add 1 or 2 tablespoons of ice water to get it to stick together. (I did.) Wrap the dough tightly and refrigerate for at least three hours or overnight.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

When the dough is ready, combine the ground nuts and cinnamon and set aside. Remove the dough and cut it in half. Spread about 1/4 cup of sugar on a large, lightly floured cutting board, and roll out dough over the sugar, incorporating the sugar into the dough. Roll the dough until is about 1/8 of an inch thick, and about the size of a 20x12 inch rectangle. Sprinkle the walnut mixture over the dough. Fold into third like an envelop, gently pressing the final fold to seal the dough slightly. Cut the dough into 3x1 inch strips and carefully twist each slice about three times around. Set on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 375 for 15 minutes or until just turning golden brown. Cool completely.

Combine the icing ingredients and dip the tops of each (cooled) cookie in the icing. Refrigerate for 45 minutes or so until icing is set.

Large Nut Rolls 
Makes 3 Nut Rolls 

Ingredients for Dough:
3 1/2 cups flour
1 egg, beaten
1/2 packet of yeast, dissolved in 2 tablespoons hot water and 1/2 teaspoon sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1 stick (8 tablespoons) of unsalted butter
3/4 cup milk, divided into 1/2 cup and 1/4 cup
1/4 teaspoon salt

Nut Filling:
3 cups finely chopped walnuts
3/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 cups applesauce

Mix together the nut filling, set aside.

In a small saucepan, over medium heat, melt butter with 1/4 cup milk, salt, and sugar. Remove from heat and reduce the temperature by whisking until its still hot, but bearable to touch by hand.

In a large bowl, combine flour with dissolved yeast, 1/2 cup milk and egg. Add the milk mixture and knead until the dough is soft and supple. Cut the dough in three parts.

Roll out the first part of the dough on a lightly floured surface. It should reach the shape of a rectangle about 18x12 inches.  Spread about a third of the nut mixture all over the top of the dough, then carefully roll up the dough over the nut filling as tightly as possible. Wet your hands and gently seal the ends. Place seam side down on a cookie sheet. Repeat the process with the remaining dough and nut mixture. If you use a big cookie sheet, you should be able to fit all the nut rolls on one of them.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Then bake for 45-50 minutes or until golden brown.