Be a Star!

I'm taking a break from my Detached Mother series to share this gem with you. My sister K recently posted this video on her 16 year old daughter's Facebook timeline. From what I gather, this was my niece's jam back in the day. It's the most splendidly awful bit of pop culture I've witnessed in a very long time. I present Tyra Banks singing "Be a Star" from the 2000 Disney Channel movie "Life-Size" starring Lindsay Lohan.



Clearly there's some comic action in this scene that I don't get because I know almost nothing about the plot. And that's fine. I like it that way. At first I assumed the joke was that Tyra is a terrible singer because she is. But I don't think that's why it's supposed to be funny, which makes this perfect. Ms. Banks's enormous ego coupled with her void of self-awareness makes her a most magnetic mess. She was doing the Sarah Palin thing way before Sarah Palin.

When I told Dan about this clip, he said, "Can we please never talk about this again? I kind of hate her. So do you!" He sounded so disappointed in me. It's true, a few years ago I had to break up with Tyra and stop watching "America's Next Top Model". I was fed up with her misplaced sense of importance, despite that being her most entertaining characteristic. I confess, I tried to get back into ANTM last winter when I was housebound with a newborn. Other than eating, there's nothing more fun than getting lost in some engaging drivel when you're sitting around, breastfeeding all day.

Problem was, ANTM had become sucky beyond the point of return. It was that "British Invasion" disaster.Ugh. I used to love this show for the drama. You had your mean girls and your sweet girls, your dummies and your crazies. Now it seems like they're all just different shades of dumb and mean. Is this how casting works when a reality show has been on for too long? Maybe after witnessing so many seasons of catty, cruel and self-loathing behavior, the mean dummies are the only people left who are willing to put themselves through the experience. In any case, their absolute dominance makes for a very boring viewing experience.

ANTM was best when Tyra had no right to assume that she should be a role model to her contestants but lectured at them anyway. Now it seems she really is a better person, and that's just depressing. This scene from "Life-Size" reminded me of the good old days. OMG, do you think she's ever personally lectured Lindsay Lohan?((Sigh)) One can dream.

Green Acres 2012

No time? Hire a vegetable grower

Here's my concept for a "Green Acres" redux - in this modern version of the classic 1965 sitcom, Oliver and Lisa are 30s-ish Brooklyn foodies. She's a native New Yorker and a restaurant critic. He hails from suburban Detroit and is an avid community gardener. Lisa is forever in love with her hometown, but Oliver has grown frustrated with the "rat race" and his lucrative but soul-crushing marketing career. At his insistence, the two relocate to a cheap expanse of prairie on Detroit's east side, where he realizes his urban farming dream. But, the farm livin' reality doesn't match up to Oliver's fancy. He must contend with crappy, unpredictable weather, a crumbling infrastructure (bringing back the telephone at the top of the pole), and constant miscommunication with his neighbors. Yet, while he struggles with his unexpected "fish out of water" status, a more worldly Lisa is better able to adapt to the environment and relate to other community members, including Sam Drucker (who owns the neighborhood corner store; he kindly agrees to sell Oliver's veggies, though no one seems interested in his $5/lb. heirloom tomatoes), Mr. Haney (another vendor at the neighborhood farmer's market; much to Oliver's chagrin, he's clearly dealing in shady, non-local goods, like grapefruit and foreign-made car parts), and the Ziffels (who speak to their pet goat*, Arnold, like he's people). The comic gold is in uptight Oliver's constant frustration with his unusual surroundings vs. Lisa's easy acceptance of their new lot, and the fact that neither of these two food-fetishizing farmers know how to cook their produce.

----

The inspiration for this concept came from a guy I don't actually know, a friend of a friend. My buddy told me how this dreamy suburban guy had started a farm in Detroit. Apparently, farmer dude found it necessary to brandish a rifle as a way of dealing with pesky neighborhood crackheads. My immediate, albeit silent reaction was, "Uh, weren't the crackheads there first?" Gentrification is a very complicated thing, and I should know because I'm on my fourth round of being a white beneficiary. I think that many gentrifiers view themselves firmly rooted in the moral high ground because they're "fixing things up". Combine this with foodie ideals and you find yourself in an ethical quagmire.

Speaking of which, the only way this remake could work is with a television writing dream team. In my fantasy, this would include David Simon, Louis C.K., and some really funny Detroiters, like the guys who write "The Ed and Moe Show". That combination of folks could handle the sociological realities with humor and some degree of accuracy. Because, let's be real, Oliver and Lisa would be white, and most of their neighbors would be African American. Without great writers, the show would either be stupid at best or racist at worst, and then my brainchild would end up on the pages of my current favorite website.



*I've heard of people keeping pigs in Detroit, but I've actually seen goats there.

Never to Walk in Anyone's Shadow

Yesterday morning, my brother M posted this item on his website, tvlatest.com -

Rumors began circulating Friday that legendary pop diva Whitney Houston has been offered a seat on the judging/mentoring panel for the second season of Fox's The X Factor.

My comment on the Facebook link was, "Oh, I would DEFINITELY watch if this were to happen." I'd have programmed my DVR then and there if I could have. But just thirteen hours later, I learned that Houston had died. I was always game for a Whitney comeback but she ran out of chances. And that really sucks.

When I think of what would have made her so perfect for that X Factor gig, of course her legendary voice comes to mind. Who would be better qualified to judge singing talent? But, honestly, the second thing that comes to mind is that infamous clip from The Soup.

It is widely regarded as one of the greatest (i.e. funniest) Soup clips of all time. I'm not going to post it here because this isn't a time to be funny, so I'll summarize instead. It was a scene from the short lived reality TV program "Being Bobby Brown". Whitney and then-husband BB were arguing about the Iraq War and George W. Bush. Bobby was anti-Bush but Whitney was inclined to defend the president, rather vehemently. "George is trying to protect us!" As the argument built and Bobby continued to mock GWB and the war, Whitney reached her limit and screamed, "Kiss my ASS!" That brief image of Whitney shredding those three words is now a classic, probably because The Soup has replayed it numerous times over the past several years (I'd be very surprised if they didn't retire it now).

Sure, when I watched that clip, I was laughing at Whitney. But I was loving her, too. No pop culture figure better encapsulated the term "diva", and that shrill retort absolutely fit the bill. Certainly, her marriage to Brown and the addictions they shared were tragic.* It sounds like he treated her horribly. But I've been reading a lot of obituaries and I'm already tired of the narrative trajectory. "Pop megastar, America's first black sweetheart, gains fame in the 80's and peaks in the early 90's. Marries a less talented and thoroughly insecure, 'bad boy' pop star who leads her astray. Years of drug and alcohol addiction follow, then divorce. Tries to make a comeback but she's clearly lost her chops. Dies in a hotel room and we all kinda know how." The basic message is that if she had just stuck to the old formula - being the polished princess that we knew twenty some years ago - maybe she would not only be alive, but also well.

The problem with that narrative is that I suspect it negates who Whitney Houston was in her heart. Maybe in her relationship with Bobby Brown she was able to reveal a harder edge that wasn't so pop-friendly. But that edge is now an integral part of her iconic image. Honestly, I couldn't have cared less if Simon Cowell wanted 1992 Whitney to judge his competition show. Undeniable talent aside, she was kinda boring then. I was thrilled about yesterday's Whitney, the one who lost her temper with her ridiculous man-child husband on national TV, the one who was rumored to have buddied up with Courtney Love after the divorce, the one who famously stated, "Crack is whack." Again, I don't mean to deny the sadness of her demise or the circumstances that led to it. I find it incredibly depressing. All I know is that yesterday morning, I was genuinely excited that 2012 Whitney might be returning to the pop culture forefront - not to reclaim the woman she was last century, but to be the whole complicated package of a person we'd come to know and still loved.



* I admit, I'm a Bobby Brown fan. Don't Be Cruel is a great album and "My Prerogative" is my all-time favorite karaoke song. I always attempt to sing it exactly as he did, with that odd blend of swagger and self pity. I also loved his stint on Celebrity Fit Club and credit him for still trying in the end, even after falling off the fitness wagon so many times. I think of him every time I gorge myself on potato chips... Oh, and of course I agreed with his side of the Iraq war argument.

Empty Calorie Entertainment: "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant"

Being at home with an infant, I watch a lot of TV. In this blog series, I examine some of my favorite televisual guilty pleasures and answer the question, "So, why do I like this crap?"

"I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" on Discovery Fit & Health

This show is by no means my very favorite. I'm glad it exists if only as fodder for The Soup (including their excellent parody "I Didn't Know I Had to Take a Dump"). Oh, yes, I used to think it was just hilarious that there were a TV season's worth of toilet-birthing ladies willing to admit their stupidity on a national broadcast. But then I got pregnant and the joke wasn't so funny anymore. I had my normal share of nauseous days, sleepless nights and sore, swollen feet. I fought hard for a natural birth and because my baby was posterior (meaning she came out head first, but facing the wrong direction) it was a long, painful experience. And though I feel lucky that I got what I wanted and she turned out great, thinking about this show made me pissy. Why should the world's dumbest women be rewarded with births that could be easily mistaken for something as mundane as Taco Bell poops?

Ah, but that isn't every episode of "I Didn't Know I was Pregnant". I discovered this a couple weeks ago when I was nursing my baby at the end of a trying day. Watching TV is about the only thing I can do when she's latched to my breast. The glory of giving life aside, it gets to be pretty boring. On that particular night, I couldn't move a millimeter without her fussing, so I wasn't into channel-surfing. I needed entertainment that would suck me in while she was sucking on me. I stumbled upon IDKIWP and thought, "Well, this oughta bug the hell out of me," and settled in. 

Coming into the midst of a marathon, I caught the tail end of an episode in which a mother was shocked to learn from her doctor that she was 4 1/2 months pregnant. She and her husband had actually tried for another child without success, so this came as a happy and welcome surprise. For reasons that had been discussed prior to my tuning in, she hadn't menstruated in nearly year. Therefore, missing her period was not taken as a sign of pregnancy. Anyway, she and her man were blissful, as evidenced by the lilting piano melody playing in the background. But then - duh, duh, DUHN! - she feels like she's going into labor that very night. She knows it's labor because she's been there before and she isn't an idiot, so she chooses the ER over the bathroom. She spends an entire day being poked and prodded and tested, and she's praying  her little peanut will be okay. At the end of the day, two doctors wander into her room and suggest an emergency C-section. "Hell, no!" she says. She wants this baby. "There's no way he can survive at 20 weeks." The doctors look confused, then they look at each other, and then they're just silent. Finally one of them says, "You're actually 30 weeks pregnant." Duh, duh, DUHN!!! 

In the end, they delivered her teeny, tiny boy and he had to stay in an incubator for weeks. They weren't sure he would survive, but he did, and now he's a 6'4" nineteen year old with bad facial hair who's sweet to his mom. And that made me happy. Actually, the most maddening part of the story was that this poor, frightened woman spent an entire day in a hospital room without a single professional discussing the situation with her. But that was also the most believable part of the story. 

The next episode was REALLY nuts. I can't remember the unexpectedly expectant lady's name, so I'll call her Annabelle. Annabelle is a big girl. I know what you're thinking - "So that's how she didn't know she was pregnant." But the pre-commercial teaser revealed that she was pregnant with twins. Now you're probably thinking what I thought - "Come ON, Annabelle!" But like the lady in the other episode, Annabelle seems fairly intelligent. And her back story is a doozy. As a teenager, she survived leukemia but was told that her treatment had eliminated any chance of bearing children. Her meds contributed to her enormous weight gain in the following years, but at age 23 she gained another hundred pounds in a matter of weeks. When she couldn't walk from the kitchen to the living room without losing her breath, she decided to go to the doctor. Her blood pressure was through the roof, but no one could figure out what was wrong with her. After completing every other imaginable exam, a nurse finally administered a pregnancy test. And then came the unbelievable news. "You're pregnant. (duh, duh, DUHN!) With twins." 

TIME OUT: Kudos to the producers of IDKIWP for presenting Annabelle's reception of this news in a believable way... that is, as a fucking nightmare. Based on the brief time I've spent with my friends H and S's twin tots (both of whom were very much wanted and anticipated), I've gleaned that raising multiples is a heroic undertaking. Unless you're lousy rich with money and time, getting this news at the time of birth should be terrifying. 

And of course, Annabelle needed to give birth ASAP. Pregnancy was killing her. Even after her emergency C-section, her health failed and she went into cardiac arrest (was this woman dealt a crappy hand, or what?). But as she told her mom, she needed to live for her two little boys. Somehow she pulled through and so did her babies. Hooray! Annabelle claims that she menstruated throughout her pregnancy. Something about the way she said that - maybe it was in a hushed tone, I don't remember - made me think she was bullshitting. But given her bizarre, dramatic history and that she really thought she could never get pregnant, I think she gets a pass. 

I was glad to learn that there aren't quite that many dumb ladies laboring in lavatories. But the best thing about getting sucked into that IDKIWP marathon was that I didn't notice my arm had fallen asleep under the weight of my own passed out baby. Our usual nighttime ritual involves holding her in a dim, quiet room, and watching her drift off until she goes limp. It's as fun a pastime as watching water boil. But on that night, I got to skip that step and get to bed early. Sleep came quickly for me, but not before I could thank the universe for sparing me surprise twins.

Miscellaneous Reflections on Life With My Daughter

Ever since Bernadette started smiling, I see a personality emerging. It's almost as if her baby-ness is gradually melting away, revealing a distinct character that isn't so much me or so much Dan. She is definitely her own person, one who strikes me as a very old soul. Sometimes it feels like she's this really cool chick who just decided to be our baby, and I get the feeling we're going to have to make ourselves a bit more interesting if she's gonna hang with us long term.


B is obviously way more social than either of us. But if she's happy, we're happy, so we've been entertaining more visitors in the last couple months than in the previous two years combined. Oh, she also makes us way more popular than we could ever be on our own. She's cuter than us, too.


Raising a baby in the Facebook age is weird but mostly awesome. I love that B's long-distance admirers can watch her grow in pictures and videos. I mean, it's nothing like the real thing but it's way better than nothing. Managing that visual stream is an odd responsibility. For grandparents alone, I feel morally obligated to post photos regularly. At the same time, I recognize that doing so is a quick and sleazy way to score something I call "Facebook fix". Facebook fix is that tiny jolt you get when you see the little red globe lit up with endless likes and adoring comments. Nothing gets you a bigger Facebook fix than posting super cute pictures of your baby. My question is, when I get off on that, how very different am I from a "Toddlers & Tiaras" mom? So if you wish that I would share Bernie photos more often, please know that I don't mean to deprive you any pleasure. I just don't wanna feel like an icky attention whore.


I can't believe that this little person is so soothed by the sound of my singing voice. "Hey, Baby! What's the matter? Oh, nothing a little cable karaoke can't fix? I'm on it." Many a time Bernadette has mellowed to my rendition of Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam's "Lost in Emotion" as I dance her in the sling. This makes no sense to me, but it works and it's fun. Then there are my Diaper Time Ditties, a cappella versions of songs I know by heart - The Chords "Sh'boom", The Beatles "In My Life", They Might Be Giants "Birdhouse in Your Soul". She really digs that last one, so yesterday I added this to the repertoire ~



She loved it so much. Her face was a non-stop smile fest, and when she's smiling she relaxes and it's easier to put her diaper on. Sometimes singing is the only way to get through diaper time without a lot of crying. Those are the moments when I find the tone of my forced happy a cappella voice a little creepy, because I know how stressed I feel inside. The repetition doesn't help my sense of frustration. Perhaps I need to add more selections to the Diaper Time Ditties catalog, just to make it more fun and interesting. I do believe we've got some Cole Porter on deck.


I'm so glad Bernadette has a really nice dad, one who can't wait to get home to her when his work is done. Dan calls B "baby drugs", I suppose because he's been jonesing for her all day.

I'm so grateful to him for busting ass so I don't have to know how that feels. With the exception of this past Sunday, when my sister M babysat and the two of us went out on a date, I haven't been away from B for more than three hours at a time. This is what my life has been these past few months and this is how it'll be for a few months more. It's awesome. I wouldn't have it any other way.


Everyone who has adult children tells us to enjoy this time. I know several parents of small children who find that shit annoying. The problem with getting that advice from the former is that they don't seem to recollect the tribulations experienced by the latter. No, I did not enjoy those evenings during the first four weeks when Bernadette would scream for two straight hours. But I do find I'm unusually present these days which puts me in a good position for enjoying the little things. For someone so prone to nostalgia, I've spent little time mourning my pre-baby existence. I do have a recurring dream in which I can't quite make it to the karaoke bar (a personal symbol for all foregone freedom), but I'll gladly leave that yearning to my subconscious. My conscious mind is mostly focused on this baby and helping her become the best Bernie she can be. I'm luckily blessed with a propensity for patience, and a baby who happens to love living room karaoke.

Empty Calorie Entertainment: "Sweet Genius"

Being at home with an infant, I watch a lot of TV. In this blog series, I examine some of my favorite televisual guilty pleasures and answer the question, "So, why do I like this crap?"

"Sweet Genius" on Food Network

I can spend entire days watching TV food shows and consume only a wee fraction of the airtime devoted to this subject. I have to admit, this rampant habit of fetishizing a basic human need is rather perverse. I know this. But I don't get out much and foodie porn keep me entertained. I especially enjoy travel logs like "Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations" and instructional shows like "Lidia's Italy". These programs never bore me.

Then there are the competition shows, with which I have a more tempestuous love/hate relationship. It seems like it all started with the Japanese version of "Iron Chef". I can groove on "IC" and its American spin-off because it's fun watching cooks get creative with a wacky parameter, like making five courses that incorporate elk. Perhaps more importantly, I don't feel the urge to murder their generally good-natured panel of judges (which usually includes one very quiet celebrity who only wants to be taken seriously). On other shows, like "Chopped" and even the dangerously addictive "Top Chef", some of these self-important mofos have gotten way out of control. Attention, Celebrity Foodie Judges - While I respect your dedication to professional integrity, please remember that you are evaluating a luxury item. Your indignant response to less-than-stellar gourmet cuisine makes me want to tenderize your face.

Given that, I guess it's pretty weird that I should love "Sweet Genius", Food Network's latest contribution to the pastry competition genre. Host Ron Ben-Israel is the ultimate Celebrity Foodie Asshole, to the point of being absurd. But it's that quality that makes his show exceptional. It's as if the producers wondered how far they could go with the torture-the-contestant paradigm and then took the concept a few steps further. For instance,

The host is an absolute creep. Just look at this guy -

As Dan said, "He definitely has someone locked in a basement." He's even spookier when he smiles, but that doesn't happen often. Talk about self-important. According to this premise, Ben-Israel is the sole arbiter of pastry proficiency. The set is his torture lab, where four chefs compete in three elimination rounds for the Sweet Genius title and $10,000. Any reasonable viewer has to wonder, "Who the hell is this guy and why does his opinion matter so much?" Apparently he is an industry icon, at least according to his awe-struck contestants. I suspect many of them were drawn in by his good name, only to find themselves immersed in a bizarre and terrifying culinary labyrinth (more about that later).

Ben-Israel is certainly a sadist, which doesn't make him different from any other reality competition judge. He's just more obvious about it, and I appreciate that. Unlike, say, "America's Next Top Model" host Tyra Banks, he doesn't pretend to give a shit what anyone else thinks. There's no panel of shills, just him. So unlike those catty bitches from "Chopped", he does not partake in hushed-tone confabs at the judges' table as the poor chefs slave over their courses. Instead, he heckles his contestants as they work. "Show me everything you know about chocolate," he bellows, occasionally interjecting an inscrutable, "Genius!" It's hard to not laugh, and yet you know the fear in the competitors' eyes is very real.

Wacky Parameters GALORE The competition is divided into three rounds - frozen, baked and chocolate. Each round begins with the introduction of a key ingredient and an object of inspiration, which are rolled out on a conveyor belt and described by a Euro-accented robot lady. Each dessert plate must incorporate the ingredient and somehow reflect the inspiration. The former tends to be either low-brow (i.e. candy corn) or ill-suited to dessert (cactus). The latter is just random (a disco ball, a unicorn). And then, halfway into the round, Ben-Israel introduces another weird ingredient, like seaweed or Pop Rocks. The chefs must then incorporate that into whatever they're already concocting. BOING! It's a pretty evil experiment, but it does inspire some creative brilliance. And beware to those who dare to bitch or whine - as Ben-Israel loves to say, "A Sweet Genius can adjust to any situation," or, more ominously, "You were warned."

The White Knuckliest Judges Table Ever The judge's table is the best part of any competition show.  You get to see the contestants' finished products and witness the evaluation, which is the next best thing to tasting it yourself. In keeping with the general ridiculousness that makes "Sweet Genius" so special, Ben-Israel's minimalist, one word sentence laden, twisty-turny evaluations really do put me on edge. These moments often remind me of that famous "What do you mean I'm funny?" scene from Goodfellas. No matter how well it begins, you're never quite sure how this nutjob is going to feel in the end.

All nuttiness aside, "Sweet Genius" is worth watching for the chefs' inventive and often beautiful creations. My favorite was a sand-inspired chocolate competition in which the contestants had to use marrow bones and coffee beans. One woman created a beach scene with coffee, chocolate and marrow flavored sands. She painted the marrow bone with chocolate to make it look like a piece of driftwood. It really was lovely. Even Ben-Israel referred to her presentation as "ingenious". That made her cry, which was a bit sad and Stockholm Syndrome-y, and I had to wonder if her gushing, "I have so much respect for you!" was the real reason she won. After all, the other guy's Coney Island themed bone marrow hot dogs were pretty clever, too.

That was the rare competition when Ben-Israel acknowledged genius on both sides ("...but there can only be  one.") Unlike most competition shows, the winner is revealed when the last loser is announced. Ben-Israel  says, "So-and-so, you were no Sweet Genius," and you have to sit through that chef's final humiliation before you get to see the other guy exhale and smile. I'm waiting for the episode when Ben-Israel flunks the entire class and no one gets the ten grand. Just because that never happens on any other show doesn't mean that it can't happen here.

Planning for Peanut: Peanut! part 2

In part 1, I recapped the events of pregnancy week 40, during which I was under a lot or pressure to induce labor. I managed to avoid an induction, but made a deal with my obstetrician that I would be induced on Sunday, October 30th if little Peanut hadn't arrived by then.

Week 41

On Tuesday, October 25th, I awoke relieved. I didn't have to go to a hospital or doctor's office that day, or the next day, or the next day. I could finally enjoy my sister M's visit and work in some sight-seeing before the baby's arrival. The lower half of my body was recovering from the previous weekend's ill-conceived castor oil experiment. I was ready to enjoy my last several days of pregnancy.

Of course, I told myself the same thing I'd been telling myself for weeks - all that could change if little Peanut decided to emerge from the womb. But having been aware of that possibility for a whole month and having been through the medical interventionist wringer that was week 40, I couldn't help wondering if that was ever really going to happen. Maybe she just wanted to stay in her cozy, uterine clubhouse. With all the nonsense she'd be apt to encounter every day, I could hardly blame her.

After Dan left for work and before M got out of bed, I called my best friend S and recounted the events of the previous days. S is the father of twin toddlers and his knowledge of certain terms I used - like preeclampsia, for instance - made me realize that I was joining a special club called parenthood. I didn't know what "preeclampsia" meant a week ago. And I bet that two years ago, S didn't know what it meant either. But if you or your spouse has given birth, you just know this stuff. He knew about the castor oil trick, too. He laughed and groaned simultaneously when I told him of my effort. "I think if you want to avoid induction, it's probably best to avoid self-inducing, too."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. But hey, it gave me a preview of coming attractions. That's something, right?" He laughed at me some more. I added, "For what it's worth, I'm having contractions right now. Who knows? Maybe today will be the big day."

If this were a movie, my water would have broken two minutes later. M would rush me to the hospital just in time to avoid an automobile birth at the junction of I-24 and I-75. But the mundane truth of the matter was that I'd been feeling contractions for days, even before the castor oil debacle. I didn't know at the time that what I was sensing was more than just a strong Peanut kick until I was hooked up to a non-stress test monitor. But there it was, registering a neat, little bell curve on the pink graph paper printout. Contractions are no big thing until they start coming hard and frequent, and even then they can stagnate. I met a woman who told me she'd had contractions six minutes apart for ten days before she gave birth. Now that's a bummer.

After I hung up with S, I drank coffee and nibbled some food with M. Though I was in a good mood and happy to have some mellow time at home, my appetite remained elusive. I can't eat when I get nervous or anxious, but what was there for me to sweat? Sure, those contractions were more intense than any I'd felt before; the castor oil contractions made my uterus feel like a balloon that's being inflated, but now I felt grinding cramps rising from the cervix. But these were still too infrequent to be taken seriously. I decided to think about other things. M and I made sight-seeing plans for that afternoon and eventually rose from the sofa to get ready.

When my obstetrician Dr. B described contractions to me around week 37, he said, "It's enough to stop you mid-sentence, if not to stop you in your tracks." I was walking Dulce when I felt the first one of those. I remember standing in the middle of the street, staring at my neighbor's yard, thinking, Oh, that's what he meant. Several minutes later, when I was gathering my purse and cell phone, I felt another one. By the time we had buckled our seat belts in M's car, I told her, "I've been feeling pretty regular contractions for a little while now. I'm going to start timing them." That was at 2:30pm.

We drove up Lookout Mountain to Point Park, a Civil War memorial that boasts the best view of the city. I reminded myself of the number one bit of advice given to women in early labor - just go about your business as usual. Buy your annual Point Park pass because the old one expired. Show M the beautiful view of the city. Go to the bathroom. Nothing to see here, move along! But I couldn't help leaning against a rock or sitting on a bench every time I felt that grinding cramp, and the clock sure wasn't lying. Seven minutes. Eight minutes. Ten minutes. Back to eight minutes. I knew I was a long way from the finish line, but it seemed like this might really be happening.

By 3:30pm, I gave up any pretense of continuing our sight-seeing tour, but I definitely had to eat. Doing that would only get harder as labor progressed. We headed to The Terminal, my favorite restaurant/brewpub in Chattanooga. Thinking with respect for my stomach and the work ahead of me, I eschewed the root beer and bison burger I really wanted and ordered a water and salad instead. We sat at a high table in front of the bar. The stools looked more inviting than low chairs or wooden booth benches, though I still had to stand up and stretch as each contraction rolled across my belly. I think I caught our waiter smiling excitedly as he passed our table. If this were a movie, they'd lay me on the bar while the brewmaster shouted at his minions to fetch the hot water and towels. What's with the hot water, anyway? Is it really going to stay hot throughout the entire labor?

I'd called Dan at the start of our meal, just to let him know that something might be happening. Like me, he was cautiously excited. "Oh. Okay... why don't you call me back in a little while and let me know how it's going?" Before we left the restaurant, I did just that, telling him he should meet me at home as soon as possible.

I found the remainder of my early labor hours very difficult. Trying to go about business as usual when you know you're about to give birth seems like trying to do your income taxes while tripping on acid. How does one focus on everyday stuff when your whole world is suddenly bathed in a fresh, strange light? I tried watching "Pootie Tang" with M. I tried tackling simple household chores. But by 7:30pm, I was sitting in bed, attempting to eat crackers and apple slices with my eyes closed, bracing myself for those ever-increasing contractions. I'd phoned our doula A earlier to let her know I was in labor. She said that she would come whenever I felt I needed her there, allowing one hour of travel time. The natural birth books say that you move to the next stage of labor when you find yourself getting "very serious". Was I there yet? I mean, I felt a little uneasy but I was still able to mock Alex Trebek as Dan and M watched Jeopardy in the other room. If I could still joke around, did I really need A to come over quite yet?

I held out until around 10:00pm. By then, my contractions were three to five minutes apart and I was starting to get a little freaked out. It wasn't the pain that worried me as much as the feeling that this was all suddenly moving way faster than I could handle. A arrived at 11:00pm, along with her young apprentice E. NOTE: When I hired A in August, she knew she'd be busy in October and asked if we'd mind her bringing in E, a doula-in-training. If another client's birth prevented A from getting to us in time (unlikely, but not impossible), E could step in. Otherwise, we would have two doulas instead of one. The latter scenario came to fruition, which is greater proof that I am the luckiest of bastards.

The first thing I said to A and E was, "I think it's getting serious, but it's so hard for me to tell because I make a joke out of everything!" A nodded in her sympathetic but not exactly agreeing way, and I suddenly felt calmer. She was carrying a Pilates stability ball and suggested I use it to make myself comfortable. I got on the floor, my knees resting on a pillow and laid my chest upon the ball. I rolled gently, back and forth, as I awaited the next contraction. A encouraged me to breathe deeply as she and E rubbed my back with silken fingers. After the contraction passed, I turned to them and said, "Thank you very much. That felt really nice."

I now realize that would be like taking one bite at the start of an exquisite twelve course meal and saying to the chef, "Thank you very much. That tasted good." Between A, E, M and Dan, I had people massaging and comforting me until we left for the hospital around 7am. Sometimes I had all four of them at my side. Other times they would work in shifts, taking turns to eat, go to the bathroom and nap. I spent most of those eight hours leaning over the stability ball, my eyes shut. But sometimes I would stroll around the house, pressing my hands against a wall as I slowly breathed my way through the steadily longer, harsher contractions. I took a bath at one point. I threw up a couple times, too.

I used to think that vomiting was the worst physical malady, but labor pains gave me a new perspective on that. Puking was just a big relief. Contractions are such a different beast. I kept in mind what I'd read in the natural birth books, that each contraction brings you one step closer to meeting your baby. The best thing to do is to not fight it, but just let it happen. Early in the night, A advised me to make low, deep grunting noises as the contractions occurred. I felt a little silly at first, and then I got scared. I whimpered and nearly cried, but A cut me off. "Tara, no. Breathe deeply. Low, deep grunting sounds." That shook me from my panic and honestly - no shit - I never lost my cool after that point. Making those noises gave me a focus. When I felt the pain rising within me, I knew exactly how I had to approach it. I just had to be like the dude from Crash Test Dummies.

Throughout the night, I kept thinking, If this were a movie, I'd be screaming and saying mean things to my husband. According to my witnesses, I was actually very quiet and polite. The movies make you think that the experience of childbirth turns every woman (regardless of her usual temperament) into a raging shrew, which is okay because she's giving birth. And really, if that happens it is okay, but it didn't happen to me. And I take some satisfaction in knowing that even in those most trying moments, I was absolutely myself.

Having an attentive entourage sure as hell helped. But it wasn't until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning that I noticed the littlest helper of all. After a contraction passed, I lifted myself from the stability ball to take a sip of water and saw my cat Zenobia laying at the edge of the bed. She stared at me, with her front left paw outstretched, as if she were ready to rub my back. E said, "She's been at your side all night." And she followed me the rest of the night, too. Since then, Dan has referred to her as a Certified Nurse Midcat*.

Zenobia - Queen of Palmyra/ Therapy Cat

Around 6:00 or 6:30am, I thought my water broke. I now know that it was actually more of the show that I'd seen on Saturday night (a lot more), but that's when we decided it was time to go to the hospital. I'd told A earlier that I was afraid of the ten mile car ride. I imagined every railroad track, bump and abrupt curve, and how the contractions would magnify those seemingly minor discomforts. She smiled serenely and said, "But in the grand scheme, it's not such a big deal, is it?" It wasn't. Again, I was calm. We left at 7:00am. The earliest glimpses of dawn and the cool, dewy October air was just the refreshment I needed as we slowly made our way to the car. Believing that my water had broken, I was slightly alarmed when I didn't feel any contractions on the way to the hospital. Shit, am I almost to the pushing stage?

Alas, I still had several hours of work ahead of me. The contractions resumed after I got to my room. The nurse verified that my cervix was 6 centimeters dilated and my water bag was intact. And as the long hours passed, I knew I'd stay in a holding pattern until that water broke.

Around 11:00am, I was sitting with my chest against the inclined back of the hospital bed, my arms dangling over the edge, waiting for the next grueling contraction. If I were to fulfill most people's expectations, this would be the moment I'd be begging for an epidural. Most women get to some point in their labor when they start to think, "I can't do this." It's usually when they're really close to the pushing stage (which is generally easier and more satisfying than the stage I was in). I wasn't doubting my ability to handle the situation, but I was starting to believe it would last forever. There was no way I'd ask for an epidural; after all my fussing for a natural, un-induced childbirth during week 40, my pride just wouldn't allow that. And I didn't think it would help anyway. I considered asking the doctor to break my water bag, but my experience thus far was that every intervention seemed to involve more difficulty. Every simple test involved marathon monitoring. Every quick IV injection of antibiotics led to an hour of being hooked to a machine. No, I was determined that little Peanut and I were going to do this together. Yes, I'd have to endure more contractions. So what? You've already been through a whole day of this. Pain is just a thing and you can put it aside. Why fear it?

Eventually, A convinced me that resting on the toilet would be the best way to get my cervix to open up. I was sitting there, leaning into Dan's arms, and I could feel Peanut pushing against the water bag. By this point I was no longer just letting the contractions happen. I was actively working with that pain to push baby Bernadette toward her destiny. I buried my face in Dan's belly, grunted and pushed, and then I heard the second happiest sound of my life. Splash!

A, E and M cheered. I exhaled and laughed. The nurse barked, "Okay, that was the water. Get up! I'm not having any toilet babies today." I begged for a moment to rest, but she wasn't having any of that. As I stumbled toward the bed, she called Dr. B and I readied myself for that glorious, much-touted pushing stage.

If this were my everyday life, I would be so embarrassed right now. Forget the fact that I'm not a particularly touchy-feely person and I shy away from massages. Forget that I tend to avoid being nude around anyone who isn't Dan. I'd been walking around half-naked, falling into other people's comforting arms for hours. But now I was expelling all sorts of liquids from the space between my legs. I didn't care. The nurse was of a much different opinion. "It's going to take me hours to clean this up!" she muttered. And though I usually take pains to avoid being a bother to anyone (especially workers), I didn't care about that, either.

When Dr. B arrived, I could tell he was uncomfortable with two doulas in the room, though I'd told him on several occasions to expect them. He seemed to have completely forgotten about my birth plan, too. "No stirrups - what?!" He just couldn't handle all of this previously discussed information, so he behaved like a douchey buffoon. Out of nowhere, this trusted professional started talking to me in this weirdly bombastic, too-loud tone. Occasionally he'd take a time-out to flirt with the nurse. How did my high school gym teacher get in the room? Is this guy actually going to deliver my baby? At one point, he looked at A's DONA shirt and asked, "What's a donna?"

"Um, it's DONA. It stands for Doulas of North America."

A blank stare and "Huh," was all he could muster. He turned to me. "Okay, Tara. Now you're getting ready to push. This is the one situation where I think it's better for a woman to not have an epidural". Translation: it's the moment when it's more convenient for him that I didn't have an epidural. "I need you to take all your energy and push where you feel pressure, right here," he said, reaching into my vagina. "Push like it's a bowel movement. Okay... now! Push!"

I took a deep breath and exhaled as I pushed, but the results did not please him. "No!" he said. "C'mon, like a bowel movement!"

I was beyond unembarrassed. I felt like taking a dump right then and there. Bowel movement? Here's your stinkin' bowel movement! Thankfully, A chimed in with other advice. "Don't let your breath out. Use it to help you push. When you feel the urge, you'll probably push a few times. Just make sure to get a deep breath between each one. And take a break whenever you need to. "

Oh, how I relished those breaks! This stage is supposed to be so great because you get to take control and really make that baby move. But it requires a lot of energy and I was oh so spent. I'd been awake for 30 hours, I'd thrown up everything I ate in that time, and here I was at the end of the most physically exhausting trial of my life, trying to push a baby through my vagina. Yet, when I felt that urge to bear down, I had no choice but to give it my all.

Dr. B saw some progress. When I got some good pushes in, he encouraged me to stick with the same technique. And then he started saying, "Push through the Bern!" Well, that's a weird way to refer to my baby. How does he remember her name is Bernadette when he can't remember that I have a birth plan? Then I realized he was really saying, "Push through the burn!"

That was actually helpful. Push through the pain. Don't hold back. Each time I did, my audience would coo with delight. "Oh my god, we can totally see her. She has hair!" they told me. I'd spurned the birth mirror - I had enough on my plate without having to look at the mess between my thighs - so I only had their reaction to track the baby's progress.

Even Dr. B got excited. "Yes! We can see her head. It's about the size of a dime."

WHAT?! This much pain and all they could see was a dime-sized bit of baby head? But my body was too busy for me to stew. I pushed some more. I pushed through the burn. As everyone got more excited, I was more eager to be done. And when I heard Dr. B say, "Here she comes," I took a deep breath, pushed into the most excruciating pain I've ever known and screamed in agony. And then I heard another scream. And that's the best sound I ever heard in my life.

At 2:10pm, I cried, "She's here! She's finally here!" And there was my little Peanut, Bernadette, dangling in Dr. B's hands. By that point, there seemed to be about 20 other people in the room. Though I had wanted to hold her immediately, they took her away for a cleaning since there was meconium in the fluid (apparently, Bernadette wasn't shy about pooping either). Since all I ever wanted was for this baby to be strong and healthy, I honestly didn't mind waiting for them to get her ready. But it felt like forever before the nurse laid her across my belly, where she immediately latched to my breast and began feeding. "Well, hello there!" I said. "You're just beautiful." And then I fell into her twinkly eyes. That's how I met my daughter.

So, yeah, giving birth naturally is definitely the coolest thing I've done in my life. It gave me a new perspective on pain and a new measure of my endurance. I felt enormous pride when A leaned over the bed and said, "You are a strong woman." I certainly don't think that anyone who chooses to use drugs during birth is wrong for doing so. Rather, I wish all women felt comfortable, sufficiently informed and empowered to make whatever decision suits them best. I'm just so happy that I got to do this how I wanted, especially since my moments-old baby looked like this -

Healthy and strong, just as I'd wished.

*Contrary to our fears, Zenobia has been an absolute sweetheart to Bernadette. She seems to regard the baby with a certain maternal awe, gingerly leaning in to sniff her head before shyly backing away. Z also continues to comfort me. For instance, there was a night during the first week when B screamed for hours. Dan offered to walk her around the house while I tried to get a few minutes of sleep. I was laying in the middle of the bed with the blanket pulled over my head when I felt Z crawl under the sheets. She used her front left paw to press my hand against the mattress. Then she retracted the claw in her right paw and used that to caress me. I had no idea she was so coordinated, or so sensitive! Well that just melted my heart into grateful, sleepy tears.

Empty Calorie Entertainment: "I Used To Be Fat"

Welcome to my new blog series! Here at the end of my pregnancy, I find myself watching more TV than I have in years. And since I'll be housebound with a newborn for much of the next several months, that trend is apt to continue. That's why I bother to pay for cable these days.

Don't get me wrong, I've always loved me some good TV. Even having eschewed cable for so many years, I've exhausted much of the critically-approved, highfalutin fare via video rental ("The Wire", "Freaks and Geeks" and my current obsession, "Deadwood", to name a few). But now that I have access to 200 channels of mostly crap, I'm sometimes surprised by what entertains me. There's plenty I don't like - home-remodeling shows or true crime stuff, for example - but it turns out there's plenty I do. And I'm going to tell you about it, because frankly, I don't have much else going on right now.

"I Used To Be Fat" on MTV

"I Used To Be Fat" is a reality show in which obese teens set ambitious weight loss goals that they try to meet with the help of a professional trainer. In the episode I watched last night, Michigan high school graduate and once-accomplished dancer Terra decides she wants to revisit her hobby and also lose 96 pounds. But, she's thwarted by her family's poor eating habits and her mother Janey's unsupportive attitude. Terra needs an at-home intervention from trainer Jimi to help keep her on track.

I would never have watched this show if not for the fact that Jimi is the brother of an old schoolmate. It's not often I get to say, "Hey, I know that guy on MTV!" (It doesn't matter that I haven't seen Jimi in well over 20 years, it's still cool.) And being a reformed fitness-phobe who's made modest strides toward wellness through the assistance of trainers, I was also interested to see how he would inspire this young woman to meet her lofty objective.

OMG, this show blew my mind! More than ever, I feel like great trainers are right up there with great therapists in the pantheon of Earthly angels. But even the best of these people are no good without a diligent client, and Miss Terra is certainly one. What a remarkable young lady.

At the start of the show, Terra talks about the troubles that led her to this challenge - wanting to dance again but not being so light on her feet, the years of bullying, not liking her body - but she isn't self-pitying. She's just very self-aware, especially in her recognition that emotional eating is the way she bonds with her sister Janecia and their mother Janey (to mom's credit, she also acknowledges that she sets that model for her daughters).

When Jimi arrives at Terra's home, they discuss her goals for the following 90 days. Then he inspects the kitchen. He quickly disposes of the cookies, snack cakes, ice cream and the contents of their cheese drawer (which actually surpassed mine in quantity; this says a lot, even for a family of four). Relatively slim father Jerry calmly removes the bulging trash bags to his truck. Janey is obviously pissed.

Terra's first workout is almost enough to make her quit as she is nearly overwhelmed by the pain. Jimi invokes an impressive paradigm shift - "Pain is weakness leaving the body." Whoa! Terra doesn't give in. But by way of montages and periodic weigh-ins, we learn that despite her hard work, she is not dropping pounds at a pace to meet her goal. Clearly, the food is the issue. Here's an example: just a few days into the program, Terra gets ready to host a graduation open house that Janey and Jerry want to cater with their typical deep-fried meaty/swimming in mayo/cheese-encrusted fare. As Janey dictates the shopping list, Terra wonders why they might need four tubs of Cool Whip (banana pudding, duh!). Janey pauses from list-making with a dramatic, hands-gripped-to-the-migraine gesture and says to her daughter, "The whole day is about you. The decision you have to make is, which 'all about you' do you want it to be about?" But like, no pressure, right?

Terra chooses to go with the flow and allows the open house menu to represent her old habits. She heroically sticks to salad and doesn't eat any cake. But over the following weeks, Janey and Jerry restock the kitchen with all the same crap that Jimi disposed on day one. Eventually, Jimi figures this out and offers to talk to the family on Terra's behalf. It does not go well. As Jerry weakly, almost silently tends to his grill and the five types of meat upon it (including a vat of deep-fried something - yes, he's deep-frying on the grill), Janey holds court in her lawn chair and chuckles about smothering Terra's shrimp in melted butter. Jimi suggests using a marinade instead, to which she snaps, "Jimi... No! Food tastes better with stuff on it." (Quick, someone explain to Mom what a marinade is.) Then, when he asks her what she thinks of Terra's weight-loss difficulties, Janey whines about her daughter using the car to go to the gym and says she can't wait for the summer to be over.

Now, being that this is reality TV, that would be the moment when you want Jimi to flip Janey out of her lawn chair and flat on her face. But, it isn't his job to blow up their family, as incredibly satisfying as that might be. He just needs to get them to help Terra stick with her plan. So he takes the smarter approach and talks to Dad and Sis when Mom isn't around. He convinces Janecia to go to the gym with her sister, if only to give Terra the company she needs to make exercising more enjoyable. And it works! Terra's lovely, sunshiny face lights up when she feels like she's setting a good example for her little sister, and I have to stop writing about it or I might cry. Witnessing that sort of moment, when a loving sibling steps in where a parent failed, almost makes me want to have a second child.

But Jerry winds up being pretty cool, too. He learns how to make salad into an entree and talks to Terra about maintaining her diet when she goes to college. And in a really awkward moment, he tells her that he's proud of her. Even though it was weird and sadly unprecedented, she appreciates it.

At the end of the 90 days, Terra has lost 30 pounds. Though it is way less than she intended, she's nevertheless thrilled and determined to lose the rest of the weight. She asks her mom, "Do you think I can do it?" Janey responds with baffling trepidation, "Yeah... if that's what you're gonna do." Terra smiles and says, "I'm going to."

In the epilogue, Terra goes off to college where she makes nice friends, goes to the gym regularly, eats responsibly and loses even more weight. She gets a sassy new 'do before a weekend reunion with friends and family at home. When Jimi sees her, he's glowing with pride. He tells her that she looks great and asks, "Are you where you wanna be?" She thinks for a moment and says, "With my weight and how I look, I'm not where I wanna be. But how I feel? Oh, definitely!"

Now that's some profound shit for an eighteen year old. It reminds me of psychologist Daniel Kahneman's theory about happiness being defined by the remembering self and the experiencing self. If someone were to ask you if you're happy, chances are you would consider the story of your life before you answer that question. Have you accomplished your goals? Are you making as much money as you'd like? If you died today, what would be your legacy? But that's just the happiness of the remembering self, and it's only part of the equation. Consider this - how do you feel right now? Are you having a good time? Those questions pertain to the happiness of the experiencing self. Fitness is such a wonderful and worthwhile endeavor because it combines both types of happiness. You need to set objectives to measure your progress and I think most of us who come from a place of unfitness find meeting those marks incredibly difficult; that just makes success all the more satisfying. But the trying makes you feel good, too, not to mention all the tangible side benefits like better breathing, better mobility, better sex. Yeah, we all want to be stronger and skinnier, but you get so much out of the journey in addition to the goal.

For coming to that realization fifteen years earlier than I did, Terra is my hero of the day. And that's pretty cool, because we pronounce our names the same way.

Planning for Peanut: The Build-up to Birth, and "Buffy"

Sometimes it feels like everyone is fucking with the pregnant lady. The medical interventionists say that home birth is an insane risk. The home birth contingent insists that hospitals are traumatizing environments that can ruin your kid's introduction to the world. I've grown weary of all the books and websites, with their long lists of "don't, don't, don't" but then feel guilty that I don't spend more time reading about pregnancy. Various non-professional men have offered me unsolicited birthing advice, such as, "You should start practicing your kegel exercises while driving." Ugh, and the body assessments! Those have ranged from, "Hmm. You don't look that pregnant. The baby must be unusually small," to a certain acquaintance's typically tactless observation, "Well, now it looks like the baby's almost ready to come out." For real, dude? Wait til' you get a load of me in three and a half months... when the baby is actually about to come out.

This sometimes deafening chorus of "No, wrong way!" can be rather disheartening. I trust myself to do what's best for the baby and me, and I know I have good instincts. But I've experienced a recent increase in those Shit!-I-didn't-study-for-the-exam nightmares, and some days I just don't feel like talking to anyone. It's on those days, when I'm feeling down and defenseless, that I tend to think about "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".



Specifically, I'm referring to the late 90s/ early 00s TV series starring Sarah Michelle Gellar. It's certainly one of my favorite shows ever. Though I haven't re-watched it much since a DVD rental binge in 2005, I still consider Buffy to be one of the best heroines of all time. I now find her model especially inspiring, for two reasons ~

Buffy is never wrong Which isn't to say that she's perfect. She struggles with typical teen and college-age issues - school, dating, bouts of insecurity. More so, she faces the atypical struggles that come with being The Slayer, a young woman chosen to protect the world from demons and vampires. Endowed with a superhuman strength and healing ability, and assisted by her devoted friends (known as "The Scoobie Gang") as well as her trainer Giles, she usually comes out on top of any battle. But the singularity of her burden can be overwhelming, making her morbid and standoffish at times. It doesn't help that the love of her life, Angel, was a repentant vampire who turned evil after they slept together.

So Buffy's life is full of angst and she doesn't always react well to that. Who would? But even though her life can be super depressoid, it doesn't change the fact that her instincts and moral judgement are generally spot-on. This is perfectly exemplified in one of my favorite episodes, "Living Conditions". At the start of Season 4, Buffy and her pals begin their first year of college. Buffy's dorm roommate is Kathy, a chipper, annoying weirdo who listens to Cher's "Believe" nonstop, barrows Buffy's clothes without asking, openly clips her toenails, etc. As Buffy's anger and frustration mount, she insists that her roomie is dangerous and must be stopped. "Kathy is evil. I'm an evil fighter. It's simple. I'm gonna have to kill her." Fearing that their buddy has gone bananas, Giles and the rest of the Scoobie Gang trap Buffy so that she can't harm her innocent roommate, until it's revealed - SPOILER ALERT - Kathy is actually a demon. Even though this episode didn't fit into the larger Season 4 story arc, I see it as a major turning point in Buffy's character development. It's at that point I realized that when Buffy is actively trying to do what's right, she's never wrong. In fact, when other people try to dissuade her from doing what she thinks best, they are the misguided ones.

Given my aggravation with too much advice from too many questionable quarters, it's obvious why Buffy's correctness should comfort me. But may I just add that I can't think of another heroine who is portrayed this way. Consider two of my other favorites - Liz Lemon from "30 Rock" and Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice. Both are hyper-intelligent women who make a joke out of everything. Lemon can be sloppy, arrogant and dour. Bennett can be a terrible judge of character. I like their flaws because they remind me of myself. But isn't it nice to have a lady protagonist who is both righteous and rightly confident, one who really ought to believe in her choices? Dudes have Superman. We ladies have Buffy.

Buffy is physically strong Okay, that's an understatement. She has innate superpowers, but she also works at it, training daily with Giles to make herself a better Slayer. While child-birthing may not be a superhuman ability (though it sure as hell seems like one!), it is innate; your body wants to push that little person out. You may want some drugs or need some instruments to help it along, or you may need a C-section, but I've decided I want to try to do it naturally. And I have to believe that nourishing my strength through exercise will help me give birth with greater ease.

That seems like common sense, right? I guess I won't know until I get there. At the very least, my fitness routine has helped me maintain my energy through these first five months. There's really no replacement for it. Unfortunately, pregnant women aren't much encouraged to work out. Most sources I've read recommend activities like "a brisk walk." That's great advice for someone who rarely or never exercises. But if you're used to running 5Ks every few days and you're in the low-risk category (which most women are), there's no reason you should stop running during pregnancy so long as it continues to feel good. I follow my doctors advice - "Stop if it hurts." Even when I'm avoiding pain, I can still break a sweat.

Alas, advocating prenatal exercise falls under the "do" category. And perhaps because a misdirected "do" can get you sued, there's a lot more "don't" advice. Don't run. Don't drink coffee. Don't eat soft cheeses. None of these apply to every woman or every situation, but it's easier to assume that we're all physically inactive, caffeine chugging, raw milk guzzling morons who don't understand the concept of moderation (or pasteurization). We're just expected to distrust ourselves and follow lowest-common-denominator "wisdom" instead. This is the definition of infantilization.

Oh, it gets me riled up! That's just another reason why I have to work out. I can't afford to let this shit distress me. And ever since I identified Buffy as my pregnant woman's role model, I've been relishing my workouts with greater zest. When I think of her doing a back flip before slaughtering a demon, I find myself standing a bit taller on the elliptical machine or smiling as I carefully execute a proper squat. I now like to think of myself as Tara the Baby Birther, and my gut feeling is that I'm going to do just fine on the exam after all.

Planning for Peanut: Frequently Asked Questions

Is it true that you're expecting? Congratulations!Yup, it's true. Thanks : )

Is it a boy or a girl?
It's a girl! Here name is Bernadette. She's due mid-October.

Why did you pick that name? Is there someone in your family with that name?
The Four Tops song was the inspiration. It is beautiful and intense, as she will certainly be.


I will warn her, however, that if any suitor should express their love in such insanely jealous terms, she ought to run the other direction.

I don't think Dan was completely on-board with this name until he discovered it means "strong, brave bear." That seemed to seal the deal.

Oh, and it turns out that my great-grandfather's sister was Bernadette Rousseau! What a coincidence. Coming from the French explorer/Detroit pioneer side of the family, it's a fun one.

How are you feeling?
Still feeling pretty good. I'm definitely transitioning into that third trimester state of periodic anxiety. I had a couple sleepless nights this week that messed me up for a few days. When I was watching a recent Mavericks/Heat game, I recalled a sad scene I witnessed at The Palace of Auburn Hills three and a half years ago and that made me cry. I guess these experiences will become more common in the next four months. I'm trying fall back on that coping mantra I learned from menstruation - "These bummer feelings arise from physical changes, not actual problems."

Are you still training at the gym?Why, yes I am - thanks for asking!

Okay, no one asks me this. But, I'm going to pretend because I'm proud I've kept up with my routine and I think it's done me a lot of good. A brisk workout is the best way to turn around an anxious mood. Since my current trainer doesn't spoil me with homework the way my old trainer did (shout out to T!), I've had to be more proactive in designing my program. At the end of the week, I don't tend to workout as often or as rigorously as I used to and that's okay. I'm still keeping up a good pace and challenging myself in little ways. Right now it's more about maintaining the less pregnant parts of my body and letting my belly do it's thing. Also, my generally liberal OB cautioned me against crunches, to which my response was, "You're giving me a medical reason to not do sit-ups? Yes, sir!"

I read "Exercising Through Your Pregnancy" by James F. Clapp, a very upbeat and carefully worded report on the author's study of physically active expectant mothers. His evidence suggests that working out throughout pregnancy can benefit the mother during labor and after pregnancy, and even bolster the health of the child on a long-term basis. Also, he found that a relatively high percentage of active women experience safe, early births (less than three weeks before the due date) - BOOYAH! That would be great, but of course baby can take all the time she needs (I say now). I already feel the benefits of exercise. It's energizing.

Have you had any of those weird, wacky cravings?
The unusual cravings are starting to kick in. I asked Dan to get me ice cream sandwiches the other night and all I want right now is a cinnamon roll. Those yearnings aren't that wacky, though I don't tend to have this much of a sweet tooth. For the past two months, the chief "want" has been red meat. Can't get enough of it. And it doesn't even upset my stomach like it used to. I was sampling sirloin at work last week, and when I tasted a juicy rare bit from the center I felt a warm fuzziness light up my whole body. It was like drugs!! I'm having fun with it.

But so far, no pickle and peanut butter sandwiches, or whatever. I'm kinda glad. That stereotype reminds me of a Cathy cartoon.

Are you going to have a baby shower?
Yes. We will definitely have one here in Chattanooga. Note the "we" - there shall be no gender sequestering. Nor will there be any silly games. I'm thinking Sunday brunch at our local karaoke bar. Dan and guests will be encouraged to imbibe.

I may want to do something extremely low-key when we visit Michigan in mid-July. In any case, we'll be registering online. This is weird for me because I don't like shopping and hate asking people to spend money on me (this is why I didn't do a wedding registry), but it isn't really about me. I will gladly cash in for my kid.

Will you buy sweatshop-produced clothing for your kid?
I should explain why this is a frequently asked question. At the start of 2010, I resolved to buy only sweatshop-free clothing or used clothing, and then blogged about my progress quarterly. I kinda regret writing about it, because documenting your principals can make people uncomfortable and act weird with you, and I'm pretty weak when it comes to dealing with that stuff. Nevertheless, these principals have made a big impact on how I shop for everything and I see that as a positive change.

I've always tried to acknowledge that this effort can be expensive and time-consuming, and that it's way more difficult for families and poor people. So, the short answer to the question is, yeah, probably some of it. I've already made exceptions for maternity clothes. I'll try to avoid buying sweatshop-produced goods for my kid, but more so, I'll opt for second-hand. I'm a huge fan of reusing. It's the most economically and ecologically sound option.

I think the best thing about shopping with a sweatshop-free mindset is that I just have less shit. I don't want to deprive my kid of any need, including fun and enjoyment. But, my mom taught me to appreciate minimalism and I'd like to pass that value down to her, as well. Or maybe she'll be a mall rat. That's fine, too.

Will you take a Lamaze class?/ Are you going to have a natural birth?
Yeah, I'm going for natural-as-possible. I'm looking into the Bradley method. The Lamaze breathing pattern seems weird to me.

Are you reading "Ina May's Guide to Childbirth?"
Yes, yes, but slowly. I like the birth stories - it's good to know what I can expect and to be reassured that I can handle it - but it's a lot to wade through. And then there are those wild hippie chicks. My favorite is the lady who said that when she started having contractions, she envisioned her yoni as "a big, open cave beneath the surface of the ocean, with huge, surging currents sweeping in and out." She continues -

I surrendered over and over to the great oceanic, engulfing waves. It was really delightful - very orgasmic and invigorating. Michael, my husband, was lying with me, and we experienced the wonderful rushing together for some time.

Finally, when it came time to call the midwives, the phone didn't work, so Michael delivered Jon himself. It all went very smoothly, and Michael and I were very clear, focused, and very high.

Whoa, lady! Is that some trippy shit, or what? I admit, I'm jealous. I will never be "far out" enough to have such a great time giving birth.

We thought about working with a midwife, but that just isn't where I want to put my money right now. I really like my OB. He's very relaxed and he works with midwives, which was one of the reasons I chose him. He knows that I want to go natural, but like me, he's into having a backup plan.

Will you nurse?
Yes. It's great for the baby and it's thrifty as hell.

Hmm, five months pregnant? ((stares at my body)) How much weight have you gained?
Let me answer your question with another question - where on Earth have your manners gone?!

Did I tell you about that horrible, scary thing that happened when my otherwise healthy kid was born?
No. Please don't. Why are you trying to freak me out?

Isn't it great to be getting all this attention?
Er, not really. Don't get me wrong, I love when family and friends check up on me and that everyone is so excited. But I've always hated situations in which lots of people are staring at me and/or I'm being interrogated; such experiences increase exponentially when you're getting married or having a baby. But I'm pretty good at protecting myself from that kind of thing. I stay at home a lot. And I'm lucky to live in a town where my condition is a cliche. Seriously, I see, like, ten pregnant women every day at work. Oh, and my boss is pregnant, too.

I've heard that the transition from center-of-attention pregnant lady to socially-isolated new mom can be really rough. Maybe it will help that I'm already such a homebody. We'll see. I never know exactly what's coming, but I trust that it will all be okay.

"Find a city, find myself a city to live in"

- from "Cities" by Talking Heads

Ten years ago, I spent the summer working the opening shift at a faux-French cafe in Ann Arbor, MI. Waking up for the 5am start-time wasn't easy (and having no one to account for my presence, I often overslept), but once I got there I loved those first couple hours of alone time. First I would prep the frozen Vie de France pastries while listening to Talking Heads' "Fear of Music". Then I would get the kitchen and coffee bar set up, move the pastries from the proofer to the oven and unstack the patio furniture. If I made good time, I'd reward myself with a cappuccino and a cigarette as I watched delivery trucks pay their visits to all the Main Street restaurants in the brisk light of dawn. And as I enjoyed those last moments of solitude, I'd ponder the lyrics of my favorite song from my current favorite album. Sure, this gig and this town were okay, but I longed for a real city, with more than just a Main Street and breakfast pastries made from scratch. But where would I go and, more importantly, why?

It took several years, but getting together with Dan helped answer those question. His career landed us in Chattanooga, TN and we look forward to going other places from here. Our mutual wanderlust has introduced so many possibilities. I'm apt to say that each new place is my favorite of all; Austin, Nashville and the Pacific Northwest have all held those honors. New York is magical, of course, but unless I run into a big pile of money I'm way past the point where I'd try to hack it there. And if money were no object, I'd sooner choose San Francisco for its better climate, stunning architecture and proximity to fresh produce.

But truly, none of those places made as much an impression on me as New Orleans, which I first visited a couple weeks ago. In just 42 hours, I fell in love. As David Byrne sang, "There's good points and bad points," but it all adds up to the most beautiful and civilized city I've ever encountered. Here were the highlights ~

A Serendipitous Meeting with a Faraway Friend Our buddy A happened to be ending a conference week the night we arrived. We picked him up from his Canal St. hotel and headed for the gayborhood bar next to our B&B in the Marigny. Though I've hung out with him only a few times (he and his beautiful wife L live in Chicago), A is definitely one of my favorite grad-school-friends-of-Dan. It helps that he loves talking about pop culture.

One of the first things he said was, "Have you guys been watching Treme?" Ah, yes! Dan and I are obsessed with this program (we don't have HBO, but we're catching up on the first season via Netflix). Anyone who loved The Wire will surely appreciate writer/producer David Simon's tribute to post-Katrina New Orleans and particularly its music scene. "You know Kermit?" Kermit Ruffins is a local jazz trumpeter who is prominently featured on the show. "I met him! He performed at one of our conference dinners." Oh, and Irma Thomas was there, too. Dan and I were practically drooling with envy. "You know that Black Eyed Peas song that goes, 'I got a feelin', that tonight's gonna be a good night'-"

"Oh, yeah!" I said. "I hate that song."

"Well, after playing a lot of jazz standards that was the last song he did, and it was ridiculous and awesome." I could appreciate that, but the story wasn't over. "I saw him in the parking lot afterward. He was wandering around with this gorgeous woman, carrying a beer in his hand. He looked like he was pretty high. He was about to get into an SUV and I knew I had to say something, so I went up to him and said, 'Wow, that was a great show. It was really an honor to see you perform.' All he did was smile, point at me, and say, 'I got a feelin', that tonight's gonna be a good night, that tonight's gonna be a good, good night...'." The three of us cracked up, Dan and I continued to laugh over that for days.

A Walk Without a Destination I hardly slept that night. I felt like a five-year old on Christmas Eve. Finally at 7am, I accepted that there would be no more rest and I'd just have to nap in the afternoon (never happened). Being so excited but tired, feeling so suddenly pregnant (I swear little peanut's "apartment" doubled overnight), the sultry, early summer air seemed like it could overwhelm me. So I took a deep breath, drank some coffee and plenty of water, armed myself in sunblock and determined that I would just let the city wash over me. From that point on, I seemed to be wandering through a dream.

We leashed up Dulce and headed toward the French Quarter by way of Washington Square Park. As the innkeeper told us, "You'll see a sign at the park gate that says No Bikes, No Alcohol, No Dogs, and then you'll see all three there." I could already tell that the people of this city have an excellent attitude. And he was right. Despite the mild lawlessness, the park was lively and green, and Dulce got to meet a few new friends.

We meandered along Decatur toward St. Louis Cathedral. Once I'd satisfied my minor craving for touristy sight-seeing (yup, there sits an actual American cathedral; no need for a tour), I was content to just absorb the bright pastel cityscape surrounding me. The architectural style - largely influenced by late 18th and early 19th century Spanish rulers - is unlike anything I've seen in this country or abroad. This shot taken later that night shows a common ironwork gallery



I love the ways that some buildings and porches abut the sidewalks, forcing interactions between residents and pedestrians, while other establishments are shielded by mysterious, brick-walled courtyards. I could spend a whole day peeking through the cracks between walls and under gates, catching glimpses like this



We wandered north toward Louis Armstrong park, then through the lower end of Treme and back toward our inn in the Marigny, just east of the Quarter. That's about the time we encountered a Banksy mural. What a fun surprise, not to mention that the work itself was quite lovely



Days later, I encountered this Goete quote - "I call architecture frozen music." It's the perfect expression of how I feel about beautiful buildings. To live and walk about a city that has long dedicated itself to prettiness seems to me a dream come true. Oh, and the oak trees! Don't get me wrong, there's dirtiness, too, and the roads are terrible, but that's all part of the package*. That town just aches with romance.

Cochon Butcher Our research pointed to Cochon as one of the best restaurants, but A clued us into Cochon Butcher, the more economical deli next door. After Dan wisely steered my away from the roast beef (they specialize in pig) I settled on the pork belly sandwich, which reminded me of the rich, succulent pork roasts my mom would make on special occasions. The best part was where the juicy meat met the braised surface. That's exactly what was in my sammy - thin slabs of tender yet slightly crispy meat, layered with mint, cucumber and chili lime mayo. It was one of the best things I'd ever eaten.

I enjoyed another one of the best things I'd ever eaten twenty minutes later when we split their bacon praline. I'd never had a praline before and I think the best way to describe this Louisiana version is "pecan fudge". The big chunks of smoky bacon within were salty prizes at the end of every creamy, sweet bite. I chewed those bits of pork like bubble gum, and the flavor lasted just as long. $2.50!!! I'm kicking myself for not buying thirty more. It makes that $7.50 Vosges bar seem like silly kid stuff.

The Best Pregnant Cocktail EverHaving discovered weeks ago that the Virgin Bloody Mary is the best non-alcoholic cocktail for a pregnant lady (it doesn't taste any different than the vodka version, and I love me some brine), I was quite pleased with the ones they were serving at the bear bar where we had taken A. The innkeeper informed us of their dog-friendly policy, so we took Dulce in the afternoon and I ordered a couple more. It was the perfect blend of spicy and salty, garnished with olives, dilly beans and pickled okra! It was practically a meal in a glass.

We sat at the bar near the open corner door and watched a gentle rain fall upon Elysian Fields. The owner approached us and introduced himself, shaking Dan's hand and giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then he showered the dog with affection as she wagged her tail and shed white, feathery fur all over his floor. He hushed our apologies. "With the things that happen in this place, trust me, dog hair is nothing!" He chatted us up for a while and then a periodic parade of kindly, middle-aged gay men came over to pet Dulce. We just don't get this kind of society in Chattanooga.

Pennies from Heaven
Feeling so sleepy, I wasn't inclined to see a live show at a smoky bar, though fortunately Dan convinced me anyway. After dinner we set out for the Bywater District to see Kermit play his regular Thursday night gig at Vaughn's. By then it was pouring outside, but there was a sense of celebration amongst the crowd as it was the first rain in nearly two months. Waiting for the show to begin, we hung around inside for a while (got to see the table where Elvis Costello sat in that scene from the first episode of Treme - my favorite moment is when Steve Zahn's character, Davis, tries to make Kermit understand why this is a big deal and the only response he gets is, "Elvis?!"). Then we retired to the veranda to watch the rain and the gathering crowd. Kermit came out for a moment, stood in front of Dan and sparked a big joint, which he then passed to the guy collecting cover at the door. A couple nerdy dudes approached him, trying to strike up some casual conversation, but they were clearly as awestruck as we were. I don't think we were the only Treme fans in the house.

The show was a blast. In honor of the rain, he began with "Pennies from Heaven" and continued with a long set of other fun standards, alternately singing and playing trumpet. I got to dance to "Ain't Misbehavin'" and "Skokiaan", and I think the heat I was emitting from my pregnant body had a way of moving people out of my way, because I was able to get pretty close to the stage. You see, there is some advantage to seeing a live show when you are with child.

Nevertheless, I was pretty wiped out after an hour, so we listened to the show from seats on the veranda and watched drunk people act silly. One more obligatory tourist trip to Cafe Du Monde and we returned to our room for a real night of sleep before our long drive to Dallas

****

I kept saying to Dan that I was glad we had more adventure awaiting us after New Orleans or I would have found the return to Chattanooga quite depressing. I'm glad to say that being back hasn't been depressing at all. I'd missed our cat, my workout, my routine. This is where my home is now, and home makes me feel complete. I also have a stronger desire to make the most of what I have here - for instance, instead of bitching about the lack of great restaurants in this region, I'm going to take advantage of the excellent local ingredients available to me and become a better cook. I still don't want to stay here forever, but now that I've met the city that suits me best, I don't feel so desperate to figure out where we're going. Whatever happens, it feels good to finally know what I want.



*Coming from Detroit, I don't feel comfortable in cities that aren't somewhat dirty, or where living well means spending a lot of money. For instance, I never feel like I'm dressed nice enough when I'm in New York. SF is kinda that way, too. And then there are places like Austin or Portland where it's cool to be a freak, but I suspect that really means "dress like a hipster". Being in New Orleans, I truly felt that you could be whoever you are- whether you're young or old, skinny or fat, chic or dorky - and as long as you don't act like a jerk, it's cool.