I got to do something only probably I could get excited about - I appeared on Pregtastic! (Online radio - hosted by pregnant women for pregnant women - http://www.pregtastic.com/) If I were in San Diego where the podcast is produced, I would have weaseled my way in as a regular, but after an e-mail to the producers telling them how much I love the show, and that I unfortunately live in Minnesota and can't come to the studio, they were nice enough to invite me to participate via phone.
Being on the other end of production was surreal, but also a bit unnerving. As a phone-in participant, I obviously couldn't see anyone else, which made conversing with women, whose voices I've listened to every week, but have never met, difficult. It was also difficult to hear a lot of the conversation, with those farthest from the phone almost impossible to hear. So there were a lot of awkward moments where the podcasters waited to let me speak, except I hadn't heard my cue.
I started to relax near the end of the taping when I learned that we could rerecord. Since until yesterday I had only ever listened to the finished product, I was under the impression that they just winged it - and got it all perfect every time. I had been starting to wonder why the show wasn't appearing to be as polished as the others produced (and hoped my novicehood wasn't a contributing factor). Although I had been encouraged not to be shy, I found myself not wanting to break up the flow of the interview by trying to jump in with a question when I couldn't see if someone was about to speak, and vice versa. Then Royce, who does the production, while Patti, his wife, moderates, halted recording and asked if we could brainstorm some better questions of our guests to tease out what the Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth (that week's topic) is in a nutshell. He thought we were having a great Q&A, but were probably still leaving listeners uninformed about what the method entails. We proceeded to ask additional questions and that section, which was recorded at the end, will just be added to the beginning. I started to feel more comfortable with participating, knowing that if I were asked to clarify my question, or if there were communication problems due to my phone participation, all that could be cut out. Or so I hope....I have yet to listen to the final product. Just please take it easy on your judgment of my performance! And so as not to lead anyone one, my participation was rather minimal, and was probably reduced further during editing.
So what is the Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth? Well, from what I learned from the podcast, it's taught during a 12-week course by trained instructors who have used the method for the birth of at least one of their children. It deviates from the typical birth classes offered through hospitals, which educates you on what to expect during labor, and covers topics from nutrition and exercise while pregnant though postpartum. The classes also focus on relaxation techniques (as opposed to distraction techniques) to reduce or handle pain during labor. One aspect of the method I found unique is the role of the father (or partner), who is trained to be the woman's coach and advocate. While fathers are no longer relegated to the waiting room, I think some are left to "Just tell me what you want and I'll help" and then find themselves not sure what to do with themselves.
While I have no qualms about a medicated birth, the wannabe-hippie in me is open to being informed of all options, even if only to reaffirm my original choice. So although I know that a natural, unmedicated birth is not for me, and I would actually feel more comfortable delivering at a hospital, (home births are billed as being more relaxing, because labor isn't interrupted by a trip to the hospital and mom is on her home turf - but my ability to worry about every little thing that could go wrong would actually make the experience more stressful for me) I otherwise want the least technologically-manipulated birth possible and can envision incorporating bits and pieces of various methods or practices into my birth plan. I worry about being left out of the decisions about my own care, and although I am fine with medication and a traditional hospital setting, I embrace a far more holistic approach to childbirth to the "drug 'em up, drag 'em out" era of my mother and grandmothers'.
After we wrapped up the interview, I thanked Pattie and Royce for inviting me to participate and for producing such an informative podcast. Mentioning the name of the show to my friends elicits a shocked laughter, but I've learned more from the guests and the fellow pregnant women than I have from any book. And even though the producers and their fellow podcasters are still just anonymous voices heard over the Internet, I do feel a sense of camaraderie and I'm thankful for the wealth of knowledge and experiences they share with equally anonymous listeners.
Kiera, Matteo, Oliver and Soren
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
World's Oldest Blogger
I find it sad when I read about someone I wish I could meet, but only first learn about this person after he or she has died. Still, the obituary for the "world's oldest blogger" made me smile. Maybe she reminds me of my own e-mailing, Internet-searching grandmother, (but not a blogger - I guess she just leaves that to the grandchildren) who proves how technologically savvy her generation can be when given a few (patient) tutorials.
Chris complained in jest that someday we won't need to talk to each other anymore - we'll just read each other's blogs. I don't think we'll ever lose the need for face-to-face communication, but blogging gives those who want to participate the creative outlet to express thoughts that wouldn't otherwise come up in conversation. Just like I'll have a record someday for my children about this point in my life, I think the family of the World's Oldest Blogger are thankful a blog has given them two and a half year's worth of this woman's unique views on the world.
Now I'm just lamenting that Maria Lopez's blog posts are in Spanish, which I don't speak.
Maria Amelia Lopez, Spanish granny blogger, dead at 97
Associated Press
MADRID - A Spanish great-grandmother who described herself as the world's oldest blogger — and became a Web sensation as she mused on events current and past — has died at the age of 97.
Maria Amelia Lopez died May 20 in her hometown of Muxia in Spain's northwest Galicia region, according to her blog amis95.blogspot.com. No cause of death was given.
Lopez started blogging in 2006 after her grandson — "who is very stingy," she wrote — created the site as a present for her 95th birthday.
The blog went on to attract a huge following, with more than 1.7 million hits, as Lopez shared her thoughts on everything from life in Spain under the dictatorship of Gen. Francisco Franco to the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq, which she criticized.
Lopez said discovering the Internet and communicating with people all over the world changed her life, and she urged elderly people everywhere to get wired.
"It took 20 years off my life," Lopez wrote. "My bloggers are the joy of my life. I did not know there was so much goodness in the world."
Lopez's notoriety even earned her a meeting last year with Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, who she supported enthusiastically.
"He was charming," Lopez wrote. "I would have liked to speak to him more, but I was so excited I was speechless."
-----
The World's Oldest Blogger was even on Facebook! Read on....
Maria Amelia Lopez: "World's Oldest Blogger," 97, Dies In Spain
A Spanish great-grandmother who billed herself as the "world's oldest blogger" and who gained a global following on the Internet, died today at the age of 97, local officials and reports said.
Maria Amelia Lopez, who was introduced to the world of blogging by one of her grandchildren, used a mix of humour and nostalgia to recall life during the long dictatorship of Francisco Franco and give her take on modern life.
"Today it's my birthday and my grandson, who is very stingy, gave me a blog," she wrote on her first post on amis95.blogspot.com on December 23, 2006.
Her blog quickly soared in popularity after the media reported on it, having seen more than 1.5 million hits, and it earned Lopez a meeting with Socialist Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, who she openly supported.
In summer, Lopez would write from her seaside home in Muxia in northwestern Spain, where she was born in 1911; and from the Galician farmhouse where she lived with her grandson Daniel during the rest of the year.
Her posts touched on personal health problems, from trips to the doctor to bouts of dizziness, to her opinion on current events; from the violence of the Basque separatists to Iran's nuclear pretensions.
She blogged sporadically -- sometimes once a week, sometimes daily -- with the aid of her grandson because cataracts impaired her vision.
In recent months Lopez was increasingly posting video messages on her blog instead of written texts.
In one of her last posts made in February, she enthused about how the "Internet amazes me more and more" after her grandson Daniel introduced her to the social networking site Facebook.
She promptly set up a group on Facebook to defend old people's rights.
"One day soon I am going to die. All I am really scared of is losing my mind. In the meantime, I'll carry on," she said in an interview with Britain's The Guardian newspaper in September 2007.
Chris complained in jest that someday we won't need to talk to each other anymore - we'll just read each other's blogs. I don't think we'll ever lose the need for face-to-face communication, but blogging gives those who want to participate the creative outlet to express thoughts that wouldn't otherwise come up in conversation. Just like I'll have a record someday for my children about this point in my life, I think the family of the World's Oldest Blogger are thankful a blog has given them two and a half year's worth of this woman's unique views on the world.
Now I'm just lamenting that Maria Lopez's blog posts are in Spanish, which I don't speak.
Maria Amelia Lopez, Spanish granny blogger, dead at 97
Associated Press
MADRID - A Spanish great-grandmother who described herself as the world's oldest blogger — and became a Web sensation as she mused on events current and past — has died at the age of 97.
Maria Amelia Lopez died May 20 in her hometown of Muxia in Spain's northwest Galicia region, according to her blog amis95.blogspot.com. No cause of death was given.
Lopez started blogging in 2006 after her grandson — "who is very stingy," she wrote — created the site as a present for her 95th birthday.
The blog went on to attract a huge following, with more than 1.7 million hits, as Lopez shared her thoughts on everything from life in Spain under the dictatorship of Gen. Francisco Franco to the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq, which she criticized.
Lopez said discovering the Internet and communicating with people all over the world changed her life, and she urged elderly people everywhere to get wired.
"It took 20 years off my life," Lopez wrote. "My bloggers are the joy of my life. I did not know there was so much goodness in the world."
Lopez's notoriety even earned her a meeting last year with Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, who she supported enthusiastically.
"He was charming," Lopez wrote. "I would have liked to speak to him more, but I was so excited I was speechless."
-----
The World's Oldest Blogger was even on Facebook! Read on....
Maria Amelia Lopez: "World's Oldest Blogger," 97, Dies In Spain
A Spanish great-grandmother who billed herself as the "world's oldest blogger" and who gained a global following on the Internet, died today at the age of 97, local officials and reports said.
Maria Amelia Lopez, who was introduced to the world of blogging by one of her grandchildren, used a mix of humour and nostalgia to recall life during the long dictatorship of Francisco Franco and give her take on modern life.
"Today it's my birthday and my grandson, who is very stingy, gave me a blog," she wrote on her first post on amis95.blogspot.com on December 23, 2006.
Her blog quickly soared in popularity after the media reported on it, having seen more than 1.5 million hits, and it earned Lopez a meeting with Socialist Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, who she openly supported.
In summer, Lopez would write from her seaside home in Muxia in northwestern Spain, where she was born in 1911; and from the Galician farmhouse where she lived with her grandson Daniel during the rest of the year.
Her posts touched on personal health problems, from trips to the doctor to bouts of dizziness, to her opinion on current events; from the violence of the Basque separatists to Iran's nuclear pretensions.
She blogged sporadically -- sometimes once a week, sometimes daily -- with the aid of her grandson because cataracts impaired her vision.
In recent months Lopez was increasingly posting video messages on her blog instead of written texts.
In one of her last posts made in February, she enthused about how the "Internet amazes me more and more" after her grandson Daniel introduced her to the social networking site Facebook.
She promptly set up a group on Facebook to defend old people's rights.
"One day soon I am going to die. All I am really scared of is losing my mind. In the meantime, I'll carry on," she said in an interview with Britain's The Guardian newspaper in September 2007.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Lesser of Two Evils
With cabin season in Minnesota upon us, I realized that I couldn't avoid the issue of shopping for a new swimsuit. I thought I'd have some luck at Land's End, whose website advertises the hundreds of swimsuit options and endless possibilities...unless of course you're pregnant. It had been my default swimsuit one-stop shop pre-pregnancy since it happens to sell petite sizes. Even though they sell everything from mastectomy suits to those that could accommodate the upper body of "bikini girl" from this season's American Idol, I was surprised that they don't sell maternity suits. The saleswoman, who obviously has never been pregnant, suggested I just buy a larger size. Unlike t-shirts, swimsuits need to fit properly, unless I want to relive those scarring days of middle school gym class when I forgot my swimsuit and was forced to take one from the lost and found, one that was inevitably too big. I wasn't sure if her next suggestion of checking out the kid's section was an untactful attempt at trying to find something smaller, or if seeing that there was nothing for me, wanted to drum up business on behalf of the future clientele incubating inside me.
I ended up at a nearby Motherhood Maternity store. I went in with a mission simply to find something that would fit and allow me to while away my weekends at the cabin doing a favorite activity unlikely for someone so pale - sunbathing. Fashion has always been something I indulged in just enough to keep from looking horribly out of style, but during my pregnancy, I've reduced myself to just looking presentable. So I grabbed every suit in the smallest size and disappeared into the changing room. I was dismayed to discover that the smallest size is no longer a little big on me, but almost too tight. Ugh. I reminded myself of my tall, skinny friend's story of being one size shy of "plus sizes" in maternity clothes, and tried to convince myself that the sizing of maternity clothes, like wedding dresses, must be four decades behind modern-day sizes.
I was relieved to find a tankini that would serve its purpose for the summer and wasn't flashy enough to go out of style for any future summers spent pregnant. But as I studied the swimsuit top that fell like a dress just past my hips instead of hugging my frame, it began to remind me of the swimsuits my grandmother used to wear with the built-in skirts. I began to waver and wonder if it was too old-fashioned or not stylish enough for a woman, who though she had turned 30, was hardly old. But it fit. The saleswoman asked the woman in the dressing room next to me if she found a swimsuit she liked, and she replied that she had found the lesser of two evils. As I gazed at the pile of discarded swimsuits on the bench in my dressing room, I changed out of what I decided was my least of many evils and headed over to the check-out counter.
I ended up at a nearby Motherhood Maternity store. I went in with a mission simply to find something that would fit and allow me to while away my weekends at the cabin doing a favorite activity unlikely for someone so pale - sunbathing. Fashion has always been something I indulged in just enough to keep from looking horribly out of style, but during my pregnancy, I've reduced myself to just looking presentable. So I grabbed every suit in the smallest size and disappeared into the changing room. I was dismayed to discover that the smallest size is no longer a little big on me, but almost too tight. Ugh. I reminded myself of my tall, skinny friend's story of being one size shy of "plus sizes" in maternity clothes, and tried to convince myself that the sizing of maternity clothes, like wedding dresses, must be four decades behind modern-day sizes.
I was relieved to find a tankini that would serve its purpose for the summer and wasn't flashy enough to go out of style for any future summers spent pregnant. But as I studied the swimsuit top that fell like a dress just past my hips instead of hugging my frame, it began to remind me of the swimsuits my grandmother used to wear with the built-in skirts. I began to waver and wonder if it was too old-fashioned or not stylish enough for a woman, who though she had turned 30, was hardly old. But it fit. The saleswoman asked the woman in the dressing room next to me if she found a swimsuit she liked, and she replied that she had found the lesser of two evils. As I gazed at the pile of discarded swimsuits on the bench in my dressing room, I changed out of what I decided was my least of many evils and headed over to the check-out counter.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Scott's First Published Article
My brother, Scott, has more poignant and flattering memories of my mom. After extensive international travel, Scott traveled from coast to coast in the Summer of 2007 to finally see more of his own country. This article about our mom and his love of travel, is his first published piece and was published, appropriately, on Mother's Day in the Travel section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, the paper my mom wrote for.
http://www.philly.com/philly/travel/44475382.html
Posted on Sun, May. 10, 2009
Personal Journey: Gift of love is passed between mom, son
By Scott Partenheimer
For The Inquirer
My mother passed on to me a love for travel, which festered and lingered and has taken on the form of what some define as obsession. When she passed away, I was confronted with unparalleled grief, and a small sum of cash she left me. I knew this money would not while away in the bank, but instead would be spent on the one thing she would approve of: travel.
Enter the Great American Road Trip. 10,000 miles. Coast to coast, border to border. All solo, executed in my '99 Ford Explorer Sport, affectionately dubbed Black Betty. The goal of the trip was to leave my life for a while - the ongoing grief and the daily rigors of student-teaching in New Jersey - while honoring my mom. Nowhere was this goal so sharply realized as at the Grand Canyon.
I'd been sleeping in Black Betty through Arkansas and parts of New Mexico, to stretch the money as far as possible. I was hoping to spend a night on the canyon floor, but camping permits had been booked months earlier by the crushing number of visitors the park receives every summer. Against the advice of the National Park Service, I decided to hike to the bottom and back in one day.
The temperature at the Colorado River that June day was a staggering 112 degrees. I spent a few hours in a stream, then began my ascent at 4 p.m. to avoid the worst of the heat. I began to worry when I got dizzy and nauseated, but those sensations subsided as I realized I had one of the biggest tourist attractions in the world almost to myself. In the five hours it took to reach the rim, I saw eight people.
The most striking thing about standing alone in an ancient canyon is not the view, however, but the wind. One moment of pure silence is replaced by winds sweeping through the canyon thousands of feet away, reminding me of the well-known bereavement poem by Mary Frye:
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
A mile from the canyon's rim, I stopped to rest. I eased myself onto a rock and watched as the sun submitted itself to the horizon, retrieving its golden hues from the canyon walls. A slight wind kicked up on the edge of the ridge, and I sat with my head in my hands, trying to fathom how anything could feel so beautiful.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Scott Partenheimer lives in Haddonfield.
http://www.philly.com/philly/travel/44475382.html
Posted on Sun, May. 10, 2009
Personal Journey: Gift of love is passed between mom, son
By Scott Partenheimer
For The Inquirer
My mother passed on to me a love for travel, which festered and lingered and has taken on the form of what some define as obsession. When she passed away, I was confronted with unparalleled grief, and a small sum of cash she left me. I knew this money would not while away in the bank, but instead would be spent on the one thing she would approve of: travel.
Enter the Great American Road Trip. 10,000 miles. Coast to coast, border to border. All solo, executed in my '99 Ford Explorer Sport, affectionately dubbed Black Betty. The goal of the trip was to leave my life for a while - the ongoing grief and the daily rigors of student-teaching in New Jersey - while honoring my mom. Nowhere was this goal so sharply realized as at the Grand Canyon.
I'd been sleeping in Black Betty through Arkansas and parts of New Mexico, to stretch the money as far as possible. I was hoping to spend a night on the canyon floor, but camping permits had been booked months earlier by the crushing number of visitors the park receives every summer. Against the advice of the National Park Service, I decided to hike to the bottom and back in one day.
The temperature at the Colorado River that June day was a staggering 112 degrees. I spent a few hours in a stream, then began my ascent at 4 p.m. to avoid the worst of the heat. I began to worry when I got dizzy and nauseated, but those sensations subsided as I realized I had one of the biggest tourist attractions in the world almost to myself. In the five hours it took to reach the rim, I saw eight people.
The most striking thing about standing alone in an ancient canyon is not the view, however, but the wind. One moment of pure silence is replaced by winds sweeping through the canyon thousands of feet away, reminding me of the well-known bereavement poem by Mary Frye:
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
A mile from the canyon's rim, I stopped to rest. I eased myself onto a rock and watched as the sun submitted itself to the horizon, retrieving its golden hues from the canyon walls. A slight wind kicked up on the edge of the ridge, and I sat with my head in my hands, trying to fathom how anything could feel so beautiful.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Scott Partenheimer lives in Haddonfield.
Happy Mother's Day
I'm not a big fan of what I call Hallmark holidays, but I can't avoid all the ads for Mother's Day and my impending motherhood has been on my mind lately. So Mother's Day 2009 has brought me to an unknown level of sappiness. However, as many of you know, the one person missing the most from my life is my own mom. While there are times when I miss my mom as much as I did two and a half years ago, I at least can laugh about a lot of memories. And if you believe I get my quirks from her, there's a lot to laugh about.
My mom and I must share the same reasoning process. Although she had experience with booking open-end airline tickets for her kids who'd be abroad for a year, when it came time for my brother to spend another year abroad in college, she had developed a fascination (well, that was our only explanation) with Iceland Air and booked my brother on a one-way ticket out of Baltimore (we lived less than a half an hour from Philadelphia International) at twice the cost of a round-trip ticket.
My mom had her own, unexplained, reasons for what she did and did not trust. Mainly, she did not trust my brother or me not to lose anything. For instance, despite the oft-mentioned years my brother and I spent abroad, our passports had to stay in our mom's possession unless we were actively using them. If one of us misplaced a wallet or purse, our carelessness would be counted against us well into adulthood. I never even had a key to my childhood home (well, until today, when I flew back to Minnesota with a key my brother had given me to use during my weekend visit, still in my bookbag). Instead of giving her children a key they could too easily lose, she found it safer to hide a key in a purple envelope on our three-season porch. For those of you who are aghast that I've given away my mom's secret hiding spot and made our house vulnerable to thieves, I welcome you to visit our house - and challenge you to find that key in the clutter on our porch.
She didn't trust ATM cards either. "Someone could steal your wallet and wipe out your bank account!" she barked at me as she rushed to the bank before it closed and I unsuccessfully tried to argue the convenience of 24-hour ATM use. Yet when my brother and I were living abroad, she trusted mailing the two of us large amounts of cash (wrapped in a few scraps of paper to spoil those would-be mail thieves). She apparently also distrusted Western Union (or was too cheap to pay the fee for wiring). I have no idea how the parents of my American friends sent money, because I never bothered asking. My mom undoubtedly would not have been convinced of doing anything differently. But as ludicrous as my roommates thought her system was, not a single shipment of cash was ever lost in the mail.
While cash in the mail was a welcomed surprise, it wasn't the only mail we received. My mom had a habit of mailing us random things she found at garage sales, or often, just things she found around the house that she thought we'd need. Those items were often wrapped for protection with other random things she found around the house (we couldn't get her to recycle newspapers and bottles, but in hindsight, she was actually a good recyler in other respects). I'd learned in a Wilderness First Aid course that sanitary napkins should be a part of any first aid kit - was never told they could be a good alternative to Styrofoam peanuts!
When I was an exchange student in Switzerland, I had acquired a small collection of Swatch watches, but later developed different tastes and they were stored, forgotten, in a bureau drawer. That is until they showed up nearly ten years later in an envelope in my mailbox in Minneapolis. I've spent my whole adult life trying to wean myself from pack-rat habits I believe I inherited through some Harbach gene, and I grew more and more infuriated as I made no progress in convincing my mom to stop mailing me stuff. Living 1,000 miles away wasn't a deterrent for her. Possibly only the only way to foil her shipments would have been if the US Postal Service had discontinued mail service to Minnesota.
If she couldn't unload things on her kids, she turned to their unsuspecting friends. I lived with seven other friends in a large house during my senior year of college and we ended up with duplicates or even triplicate of all the household basics. My mom showed up for a visit with a carload of unrequested items, including three cookie sheets. When I got her to put them back in the car, I actually believed she understood my explanation that we didn't need additional cookie sheets to add to the eight we already had. I went up to my room and five minutes later, one of my roommates came up to my room and squealed, "Your mom is so nice. Look, she brought us cookie sheets!"
Awhile after my mom died, my brother and I found an old notebook stuffed in a drawer. The first couple of pages listed household items, how much they cost and the total. My brother realized that what was listed were all the things she had bought at garage sales in preparation for setting him up in his first apartment. An experienced garage sale bargain hunter, she had managed to do this all for a mere $50. Unfortunately, my brother continued to live at home when he went back to school, and all those amazing garage sale finds remain stored on our porch.
I imagine that if my mom were alive today, her first grandchild would be well taken care of. Although I never received the typical CARE packages full of homebaked goodies, (I guess instead of baking cookies for her college-age children, she was busy giving away the cookies sheets)I can trust that boxes - with a single note of "For the baby" scribbled on a piece of notebook paper - would arrive weekly on my doorstep. The contents would be a complete surprise. We would never know if were about to come into possession of clothing our children won't be able to fit into until age 8, or 200 cloth diapers (when it's recommended you need about 30) or something we'd actually been looking for.
I've been teased by some family members for inheriting my mom's sense of humor - or lack thereof - but I think she had one, because I know she would have been able to laugh at all the stories I just recounted. She really had no explanations for these quirks, but then again, neither do I for my own.
My mom and I must share the same reasoning process. Although she had experience with booking open-end airline tickets for her kids who'd be abroad for a year, when it came time for my brother to spend another year abroad in college, she had developed a fascination (well, that was our only explanation) with Iceland Air and booked my brother on a one-way ticket out of Baltimore (we lived less than a half an hour from Philadelphia International) at twice the cost of a round-trip ticket.
My mom had her own, unexplained, reasons for what she did and did not trust. Mainly, she did not trust my brother or me not to lose anything. For instance, despite the oft-mentioned years my brother and I spent abroad, our passports had to stay in our mom's possession unless we were actively using them. If one of us misplaced a wallet or purse, our carelessness would be counted against us well into adulthood. I never even had a key to my childhood home (well, until today, when I flew back to Minnesota with a key my brother had given me to use during my weekend visit, still in my bookbag). Instead of giving her children a key they could too easily lose, she found it safer to hide a key in a purple envelope on our three-season porch. For those of you who are aghast that I've given away my mom's secret hiding spot and made our house vulnerable to thieves, I welcome you to visit our house - and challenge you to find that key in the clutter on our porch.
She didn't trust ATM cards either. "Someone could steal your wallet and wipe out your bank account!" she barked at me as she rushed to the bank before it closed and I unsuccessfully tried to argue the convenience of 24-hour ATM use. Yet when my brother and I were living abroad, she trusted mailing the two of us large amounts of cash (wrapped in a few scraps of paper to spoil those would-be mail thieves). She apparently also distrusted Western Union (or was too cheap to pay the fee for wiring). I have no idea how the parents of my American friends sent money, because I never bothered asking. My mom undoubtedly would not have been convinced of doing anything differently. But as ludicrous as my roommates thought her system was, not a single shipment of cash was ever lost in the mail.
While cash in the mail was a welcomed surprise, it wasn't the only mail we received. My mom had a habit of mailing us random things she found at garage sales, or often, just things she found around the house that she thought we'd need. Those items were often wrapped for protection with other random things she found around the house (we couldn't get her to recycle newspapers and bottles, but in hindsight, she was actually a good recyler in other respects). I'd learned in a Wilderness First Aid course that sanitary napkins should be a part of any first aid kit - was never told they could be a good alternative to Styrofoam peanuts!
When I was an exchange student in Switzerland, I had acquired a small collection of Swatch watches, but later developed different tastes and they were stored, forgotten, in a bureau drawer. That is until they showed up nearly ten years later in an envelope in my mailbox in Minneapolis. I've spent my whole adult life trying to wean myself from pack-rat habits I believe I inherited through some Harbach gene, and I grew more and more infuriated as I made no progress in convincing my mom to stop mailing me stuff. Living 1,000 miles away wasn't a deterrent for her. Possibly only the only way to foil her shipments would have been if the US Postal Service had discontinued mail service to Minnesota.
If she couldn't unload things on her kids, she turned to their unsuspecting friends. I lived with seven other friends in a large house during my senior year of college and we ended up with duplicates or even triplicate of all the household basics. My mom showed up for a visit with a carload of unrequested items, including three cookie sheets. When I got her to put them back in the car, I actually believed she understood my explanation that we didn't need additional cookie sheets to add to the eight we already had. I went up to my room and five minutes later, one of my roommates came up to my room and squealed, "Your mom is so nice. Look, she brought us cookie sheets!"
Awhile after my mom died, my brother and I found an old notebook stuffed in a drawer. The first couple of pages listed household items, how much they cost and the total. My brother realized that what was listed were all the things she had bought at garage sales in preparation for setting him up in his first apartment. An experienced garage sale bargain hunter, she had managed to do this all for a mere $50. Unfortunately, my brother continued to live at home when he went back to school, and all those amazing garage sale finds remain stored on our porch.
I imagine that if my mom were alive today, her first grandchild would be well taken care of. Although I never received the typical CARE packages full of homebaked goodies, (I guess instead of baking cookies for her college-age children, she was busy giving away the cookies sheets)I can trust that boxes - with a single note of "For the baby" scribbled on a piece of notebook paper - would arrive weekly on my doorstep. The contents would be a complete surprise. We would never know if were about to come into possession of clothing our children won't be able to fit into until age 8, or 200 cloth diapers (when it's recommended you need about 30) or something we'd actually been looking for.
I've been teased by some family members for inheriting my mom's sense of humor - or lack thereof - but I think she had one, because I know she would have been able to laugh at all the stories I just recounted. She really had no explanations for these quirks, but then again, neither do I for my own.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Consignment Victory
I'm quickly learning some of the strategies pregnant women and parents of young children utilize to keep from spending a fortune on a new generation of consumers. They're unabashed supporters of garage sale hunting, Goodwill buying, Craig's List scouring and children's consignment shop splurging. They've clued me in to their favorite stores for shopping for barely used items - those things your kids grow out of in just a few months - and have me religiously checking Craig's List ads each day.
One mom told me about Munchkin Markets, which amounts to a consignment garage sale held twice a year and at the convenient location of the Washington County Fairgrounds. Because I had volunteered to help with set-up, I was able to attend the pre-sale on Friday afternoon. As I helped consignors unload their stuff, I knew I had made a good move in getting myself into the pre-sale. Women drove up in Lexuses, Volvo wagons and Suburbans, and carted over Rubbermaid bins and laundry baskets full of designer kiddie clothes, toys in near-perfect condition, (or brand new and never out of the box) and items I didn't know what to make of yet (Boppy pillows?) and sorted them out on tables in the exhibition barn-turned-consignment warehouse.
Those same women, and a few fathers, were back again on Friday afternoon hoping to upgrade to the next size of clothing for their growing children, or whatever else was on their lists. While there were parents from all walks of life in line with me, and the clientele wasn't dominated exclusively by the country club set, it did make me realize that just because you have money, you can still think it's ridiculous to spend a good portion of that money on things that will be spit up on, outgrown or broken. And while I had half anticipated a scene like those in front of a Wal-Mart or Best Buy at 5:00 a.m. on Black Friday, the line was calm and orderly.
Forever my mother's daughter, I headed straight for the book table. Most people tell me their favorite part of shopping for babies is the cute outfits, but really, what gets me excited is the books. I picked up a collection of Eric Carle stories (without The Very Hungry Caterpillar though), a book of poetry for children, Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree, and the six-book series of Kirsten, the American Girl. Nothing I bought is appropriate for a baby, but I guess I'm just banking on the idea that my children will love to read. In the meantime, I'll continue to enjoy shopping for books.
I picked up a few other odds and ends at the sale, including a Baby Bjorn and a maternity dress I'll be able to wear to a wedding at the end of May. The biggest score was a crib and mattress. The baby's room still looks much like an office, because we had yet to buy any furniture, and therefore, hadn't bothered to move anything out or try to redecorate. In the process of carting the crib out to the lawn by the parking lot, disassembling it and waiting for Chris to pick me up, about five peopled oohed and ahhed over what a nice crib it was, so based on those reactions, I started to feel confident, that I who knows nothing about baby gear, must have made a decent choice. And for an estimated 1/3 of the price we would have spent had we bought the crib and mattress new, I was pretty proud of myself.
One mom told me about Munchkin Markets, which amounts to a consignment garage sale held twice a year and at the convenient location of the Washington County Fairgrounds. Because I had volunteered to help with set-up, I was able to attend the pre-sale on Friday afternoon. As I helped consignors unload their stuff, I knew I had made a good move in getting myself into the pre-sale. Women drove up in Lexuses, Volvo wagons and Suburbans, and carted over Rubbermaid bins and laundry baskets full of designer kiddie clothes, toys in near-perfect condition, (or brand new and never out of the box) and items I didn't know what to make of yet (Boppy pillows?) and sorted them out on tables in the exhibition barn-turned-consignment warehouse.
Those same women, and a few fathers, were back again on Friday afternoon hoping to upgrade to the next size of clothing for their growing children, or whatever else was on their lists. While there were parents from all walks of life in line with me, and the clientele wasn't dominated exclusively by the country club set, it did make me realize that just because you have money, you can still think it's ridiculous to spend a good portion of that money on things that will be spit up on, outgrown or broken. And while I had half anticipated a scene like those in front of a Wal-Mart or Best Buy at 5:00 a.m. on Black Friday, the line was calm and orderly.
Forever my mother's daughter, I headed straight for the book table. Most people tell me their favorite part of shopping for babies is the cute outfits, but really, what gets me excited is the books. I picked up a collection of Eric Carle stories (without The Very Hungry Caterpillar though), a book of poetry for children, Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree, and the six-book series of Kirsten, the American Girl. Nothing I bought is appropriate for a baby, but I guess I'm just banking on the idea that my children will love to read. In the meantime, I'll continue to enjoy shopping for books.
I picked up a few other odds and ends at the sale, including a Baby Bjorn and a maternity dress I'll be able to wear to a wedding at the end of May. The biggest score was a crib and mattress. The baby's room still looks much like an office, because we had yet to buy any furniture, and therefore, hadn't bothered to move anything out or try to redecorate. In the process of carting the crib out to the lawn by the parking lot, disassembling it and waiting for Chris to pick me up, about five peopled oohed and ahhed over what a nice crib it was, so based on those reactions, I started to feel confident, that I who knows nothing about baby gear, must have made a decent choice. And for an estimated 1/3 of the price we would have spent had we bought the crib and mattress new, I was pretty proud of myself.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
16-Week Doctor's Appointment
What would otherwise have been a quick and routine appointment was quite amusing. Although most of our past appointments have been on Friday afternoons, and yesterday's mood should have been no different, the staff was just downright giddy and chatty. It could have been all the drama, which was above average the nurses were saying, and had been occurring non-stop throughout the day. I pressed for details about what had been going on. The latest was an induced pregnancy that wasn't progressing quickly enough and when the baby's heart rate dropped suddenly, an emergency c-section was ordered and the doctor I was supposed to see a mere half an hour later was summoned upstairs. (The clinic I go to is on the ground floor of the hospital - one of the reasons I chose it.) Uh oh. Sorry I asked. But no one seemed too alarmed. Just an average day at the hospital for them.
While I was assigned a primary doctor, the clinic uses the early appointments to introduce the patient to each doctor in the practice, because depending upon who's on call when you go into labor, any one of them could end up delivering your baby. With my doctor called away to perform that emergency c-section, I met instead with a nurse, who answered questions and listened to the baby's heart. At 151 beats per minute, the baby is doing fine.
Like everyone we encountered at that appointment, the nurse was bubbling over with advice. My next appointment will be the big and long-awaited 20-weeker, and the first opportunity we'll have to learn the sex of the baby. As you know from previous posts, Chris and I are still "in discussion" about whether we want to find out. This is the main question nearly everyone - stranger or friend - has posed. The majority of folks, well, the ones who have had kids, fall into the "We just had to know" category, while a small, small minority confidently report that they had wanted it to be a surprise.
What I find interesting is the people who have more than one kid and have done it done it both ways. Chris's Aunt Judy said they found out the sex of the baby with their last child and the excitement of finding out was the same as it was with the first two, except instead of happening at birth, it happened a couple of months earlier. I had never thought about how finding out early doesn't "ruin" the surprise, because it's a surprise whether you found out at 20 weeks or at the birth. Aunt Judy insisted it's still as special and emotional of a moment no matter when you find out.
The nurse we saw yesterday had kept it a surprise until birth with her first child, but for whatever reason, she and her husband decided they wanted to find out early with their second child. She helped put the issue of keeping the sex of the baby a "surprise" in perspective. To her, the sex is just one of many surprises. Even though she knew at 20 weeks she was having a girl, the excitement and anticipation of having another child wasn't lost. What was she going to look like? Who was she going to take after? What was she going to be like? What were they going to name her?
Unlike many who act like you're nuts if you don't want to do things exactly as they had done, the nurse left it at the decision being ours, and there's no one right decision. Chris sat on the far side of the exam room with the biggest grin on his face. He who hates surprises, looked as happy as a kid who'd been told he could open his Christmas present a early. However, before he turns too optimistic, no matter how much he had begged this past Christmas, he wasn't allowed to open his present from me even one day early. The present sat under the tree and stared back at him until Christmas morning.
The rest of my appointment was quite routine. I had blood drawn again, this time for the Alpha-Fetoprotein (AFP)screening, a follow-up to the Nuchal Translucency (NT) screening, sometimes referred to as the first trimester screen. Since the results of the first test were good, only the AFP was recommended. This test provides information about the risk of neural tube defects, such as spina bifida, Down syndrome and other genetic problems. The AFP test is only a screening test, not a diagnostic test, so even if I test positive, most likely I'm still carrying a healthy baby. The only way to tell a false positive result from a true birth defect is through diagnostic testing, such as amniocentesis.
The name of my favorite podcast - Pregtastic - is pretty funny, but the shows have provided a lot of great information. Some of the topics, had I come across them in a baby book, I would have just glossed over. Two issues came up recently: blood cord donation/banking and newborn screenings.
I was brought up to believe that regularly donating blood is part of your civic duty, like voting. When I heard about cord blood donation, I felt like it was something I couldn't not do. Because the blood is collected from the umbilical cord after the baby is born, donating doesn't hurt me or the baby and the umbilical cord is going to otherwise be discarded. It seems like such a waste of an opportunity in which you have one shot (unlike blood donation) for so much potential. Cord blood is rich in blood-forming cells that can be used in transplants for patients with leukemia, lymphoma and other life-threatening diseases. Cord blood is one of three sources of cells used in transplant; the other two are bone marrow and peripheral (circulating) blood. Finding a matched bone marrow donor can be difficult and time-consuming (have biological relatives be tested, having them donate) but cord blood does not have to match a patient's tissue type as closely as donated bone marrow does. It has the potential to be stored for decades and can be put into use relatively quickly. Even if the cord blood is not suitable for transplant, it can still be used for research.
Unfortunately, Minnesota is one of many states that does not have a system for collecting and donating cord blood, and this really surprised me. I live in a major metropolitan area with one of the largest medical schools in the country, so this is just something I assumed I would be able to participate in. The nurse gave me some ideas for other ways to donate cord blood, which I'll look into. Marrow.org is a good resource for learning about cord blood donation: http://www.marrow.org/HELP/Donate_Cord_Blood_Share_Life/How_to_Donate_Cord_Blood/index.html
Parents can also choose to bank their baby's cord blood in the event that the baby, a future sibling or a family member related biologically to the child develops a disease that can be treated with cord blood. In light of the new movie My Sister's Keeper, based on the book of the same name by Jodi Picoult, about a girl who was conceived in the hopes she would be a bone marrow match for her sister sick with leukemia, cord blood banking rises above as the more ethical alternative. While banking is available to us in Minnesota, it costs around $2,200 in the first year and then $125 a year for every year after. You can find more information at http://www.viacord.com/.
At least there was some good news when it came to newborn screenings for certain genetic, metabolic, hormonal and functional disorders. Twenty-nine diseases can be screened for in newborns, yet not all states automatically perform or require the complete set of screenings. The baby is tested for hearing loss and the 28 other disorders (such as phenylketonuria (PKU), hypothyroidism, galactosemia and sickle cell disease) by collecting droplets of blood from a prick in the baby's heel. This is all done before the baby leaves the hospital. Most of these birth defects have no immediate visible effects on a baby, but, unless detected and treated early, can cause physical problems, mental retardation and, in some cases, death. Thankfully, not only are Minnesota hospitals required by law to screen newborns for all 29 disorders, so I know our baby will be taken care of, (one less thing to try to remember to look into in the chaotic hours and days after the baby's birth) but it's not easy, according to the nurse I saw, to nonchalantly opt out of the screenings. This ensures that nearly every baby in Minnesota will receive proper treatment for these rare, but life-altering, conditions.
On our way out of the clinic, the nurse at the reception desk scheduled me for my next appointment, (scheduled for June 3 in my 21st week instead of 20th week due to scheduling conflicts) and upon noticing it'll be my 20-week appointment, asked without fail whether we want to know the sex of the baby. Dressed in hot pink scrubs, she fell into the aforementioned "We just had to know" category, because she needed to know whether everything was going to be all pink or all blue. Chris said I looked like I just wanted to vomit.
While I was assigned a primary doctor, the clinic uses the early appointments to introduce the patient to each doctor in the practice, because depending upon who's on call when you go into labor, any one of them could end up delivering your baby. With my doctor called away to perform that emergency c-section, I met instead with a nurse, who answered questions and listened to the baby's heart. At 151 beats per minute, the baby is doing fine.
Like everyone we encountered at that appointment, the nurse was bubbling over with advice. My next appointment will be the big and long-awaited 20-weeker, and the first opportunity we'll have to learn the sex of the baby. As you know from previous posts, Chris and I are still "in discussion" about whether we want to find out. This is the main question nearly everyone - stranger or friend - has posed. The majority of folks, well, the ones who have had kids, fall into the "We just had to know" category, while a small, small minority confidently report that they had wanted it to be a surprise.
What I find interesting is the people who have more than one kid and have done it done it both ways. Chris's Aunt Judy said they found out the sex of the baby with their last child and the excitement of finding out was the same as it was with the first two, except instead of happening at birth, it happened a couple of months earlier. I had never thought about how finding out early doesn't "ruin" the surprise, because it's a surprise whether you found out at 20 weeks or at the birth. Aunt Judy insisted it's still as special and emotional of a moment no matter when you find out.
The nurse we saw yesterday had kept it a surprise until birth with her first child, but for whatever reason, she and her husband decided they wanted to find out early with their second child. She helped put the issue of keeping the sex of the baby a "surprise" in perspective. To her, the sex is just one of many surprises. Even though she knew at 20 weeks she was having a girl, the excitement and anticipation of having another child wasn't lost. What was she going to look like? Who was she going to take after? What was she going to be like? What were they going to name her?
Unlike many who act like you're nuts if you don't want to do things exactly as they had done, the nurse left it at the decision being ours, and there's no one right decision. Chris sat on the far side of the exam room with the biggest grin on his face. He who hates surprises, looked as happy as a kid who'd been told he could open his Christmas present a early. However, before he turns too optimistic, no matter how much he had begged this past Christmas, he wasn't allowed to open his present from me even one day early. The present sat under the tree and stared back at him until Christmas morning.
The rest of my appointment was quite routine. I had blood drawn again, this time for the Alpha-Fetoprotein (AFP)screening, a follow-up to the Nuchal Translucency (NT) screening, sometimes referred to as the first trimester screen. Since the results of the first test were good, only the AFP was recommended. This test provides information about the risk of neural tube defects, such as spina bifida, Down syndrome and other genetic problems. The AFP test is only a screening test, not a diagnostic test, so even if I test positive, most likely I'm still carrying a healthy baby. The only way to tell a false positive result from a true birth defect is through diagnostic testing, such as amniocentesis.
The name of my favorite podcast - Pregtastic - is pretty funny, but the shows have provided a lot of great information. Some of the topics, had I come across them in a baby book, I would have just glossed over. Two issues came up recently: blood cord donation/banking and newborn screenings.
I was brought up to believe that regularly donating blood is part of your civic duty, like voting. When I heard about cord blood donation, I felt like it was something I couldn't not do. Because the blood is collected from the umbilical cord after the baby is born, donating doesn't hurt me or the baby and the umbilical cord is going to otherwise be discarded. It seems like such a waste of an opportunity in which you have one shot (unlike blood donation) for so much potential. Cord blood is rich in blood-forming cells that can be used in transplants for patients with leukemia, lymphoma and other life-threatening diseases. Cord blood is one of three sources of cells used in transplant; the other two are bone marrow and peripheral (circulating) blood. Finding a matched bone marrow donor can be difficult and time-consuming (have biological relatives be tested, having them donate) but cord blood does not have to match a patient's tissue type as closely as donated bone marrow does. It has the potential to be stored for decades and can be put into use relatively quickly. Even if the cord blood is not suitable for transplant, it can still be used for research.
Unfortunately, Minnesota is one of many states that does not have a system for collecting and donating cord blood, and this really surprised me. I live in a major metropolitan area with one of the largest medical schools in the country, so this is just something I assumed I would be able to participate in. The nurse gave me some ideas for other ways to donate cord blood, which I'll look into. Marrow.org is a good resource for learning about cord blood donation: http://www.marrow.org/HELP/Donate_Cord_Blood_Share_Life/How_to_Donate_Cord_Blood/index.html
Parents can also choose to bank their baby's cord blood in the event that the baby, a future sibling or a family member related biologically to the child develops a disease that can be treated with cord blood. In light of the new movie My Sister's Keeper, based on the book of the same name by Jodi Picoult, about a girl who was conceived in the hopes she would be a bone marrow match for her sister sick with leukemia, cord blood banking rises above as the more ethical alternative. While banking is available to us in Minnesota, it costs around $2,200 in the first year and then $125 a year for every year after. You can find more information at http://www.viacord.com/.
At least there was some good news when it came to newborn screenings for certain genetic, metabolic, hormonal and functional disorders. Twenty-nine diseases can be screened for in newborns, yet not all states automatically perform or require the complete set of screenings. The baby is tested for hearing loss and the 28 other disorders (such as phenylketonuria (PKU), hypothyroidism, galactosemia and sickle cell disease) by collecting droplets of blood from a prick in the baby's heel. This is all done before the baby leaves the hospital. Most of these birth defects have no immediate visible effects on a baby, but, unless detected and treated early, can cause physical problems, mental retardation and, in some cases, death. Thankfully, not only are Minnesota hospitals required by law to screen newborns for all 29 disorders, so I know our baby will be taken care of, (one less thing to try to remember to look into in the chaotic hours and days after the baby's birth) but it's not easy, according to the nurse I saw, to nonchalantly opt out of the screenings. This ensures that nearly every baby in Minnesota will receive proper treatment for these rare, but life-altering, conditions.
On our way out of the clinic, the nurse at the reception desk scheduled me for my next appointment, (scheduled for June 3 in my 21st week instead of 20th week due to scheduling conflicts) and upon noticing it'll be my 20-week appointment, asked without fail whether we want to know the sex of the baby. Dressed in hot pink scrubs, she fell into the aforementioned "We just had to know" category, because she needed to know whether everything was going to be all pink or all blue. Chris said I looked like I just wanted to vomit.
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