A New Baby And An Old Story

I have a brand spanking new niece, born December 30th, with a comforting epidural for her mom and surprisingly little drama, except for a brief, false start a few days ago. From her healthy pink complexion and pissed off expression, she looks like she rated a nice, high APGAR score to me. All of which, naturally, reminded ME of ME -- that is, what it was like when I had MY babies. [NOTE TO READERS: This is Mrs. Linklater's blog, so she tends to write about herself].
          My children were born in the seventies, during the return to natural childbirth. The "Let's hold hands and do Lamaze" craze. In the beginning, Lamaze was a hippy dippy birthing concept to a lot of the docs and nurses. They often had no idea what we "enlightened" mothers were doing, staring at a spot on the wall, rubbing our abdomens in a circular motion, breathing in a yoga fashion, and relaxing our way through the contractions. 
          Generally, women in labor haven't been allowed to eat, but for my second child, they let me suck on sour lollipops and ice chips. I arrived so prepared. I even had labor crib sheets for reference, so I could be sure when I had moved onto another phase of the process. Yay! I feel like throwing up! I must be in transition! 
          Shortly after getting to the hospital, I remember sitting on the side of the bed, referring to my notes, when a resident came in the room to do an initial exam -- heart, lungs, reflexes, etc. He took one look at my lollipops and cheat sheets and started laughing at me. I tried to smile at his amusement, but, based on his expression, I think it came out sounding more like the girl in The Exorcist, just before she spewed green vomit all over everything. "Never laugh at a woman in labor," I warned him, causing his future in medicine to flash before his eyes, thus silencing his giggles, no doubt so I wouldn't stab him. 
           Delivering that second baby was a piece of cake. Unfortunately, my first baby got stuck coming out face first. Usually a crown of hair announces a baby's imminent arrival. Hence the term, "the baby is crowning" which basically means head first. Arriving face first can make your baby look like she did a belly flop at 150 MPH from a high dive. When she finally squeezed out with a sudden burst after two+ hours of pushing, she looked like she had been on spring break -- her face bright red like a ferocious sunburn, her eyes practically swollen shut, and her cheeks the size of red balloons. How bad was it? The hospital photographers couldn't bring themselves to take her picture for two days. 
           But that was just for starters. Soon after birth, she became slightly jaundiced, not an uncommon occurrence in newborns, usually solved with phototherapy. Sometimes, however, more intervention is needed. Especially in cases where the jaundice occurs because the mother is RH negative and her baby is RH positive, which is called RH incompatibility. RH Incompatibility requires a RhoGAM shot for the mom or even a transfusion for the baby in cases of severe jaundice. 
           On the other hand, the converse isn't true. An RH positive mother who has an RH negative baby doesn't have incompatibility problems. Read a good explanation of all of it HERE. And remember the difference. 
           On my first slow shuffle to see my daughter in the nursery -- did I mention pushing for two hours -- I noticed a card on the side of her little crib that listed our blood types. Oh, look, she's A+ just like me, I said to myself. But wait, the card also says, incorrectly, that I'm O-. They had our blood types reversed. I realized that if I didn't sound the alarm, there was a chance they could decide there was an RH incompatibility problem and possibly transfuse my daughter with the wrong blood, which could kill her. 
            So I reported this error to the nurses. And they handled their mistake the way many people who make mistakes do -- they blamed me.  
            While I was on the phone, the head nurse, a matron with the size and girth of a warden in a maximum security prison, darkened my doorway and virtually shouted at me from across the room, "Have you ever had an abortion?" 
            The answer was no. But the question was inappropriate and irrelevant on multiple levels. 
            First, I was RH positive, NOT RH negative. So even if I'd had an earlier pregnancy/abortion/miscarriage with an O- fetus, there wouldn't be any antibody issues in my blood or my baby's blood TO CAUSE THE MISTAKE THEY MADE. Did she miss the day they taught genetics? 
            Second, having a medical procedure is confidential, especially considering that back then, abortions were illegal. So don't be asking a question of such a personal nature when I'M ON THE PHONE!! 
            Naturally, I pointed out the error of her ways, telling her that it was clear they had made the mistake all on their own by switching our blood types -- a travesty which could have killed my baby, you stupid woman. Yeah, I basically called her an idiot. This prompted a call shortly thereafter from my doctor, who tried to smooth things over. Did I know that many women had spontaneous abortions, a perfectly natural occurrence? 
             Except she didn't say spontaneous, doc. Plus, it wouldn't have mattered if I'd had an abortion, spontaneous or not. Did YOU miss that day in genetics, too? I'm RH POSITIVE, not negative. 
             How about an apology for switching our blood types? And a thank you for discovering YOUR MISTAKE before something terrible happened to my baby?


It's been forty years. I'm still waiting.

Menu de Noel

Since my brother has been cooking for me during the holidays, I, and others, have so far enjoyed:
• two batches of homemade chocolate chip cookies the size of my head
• one batch of homemade split pea soup in homemade pork broth [two pigs' knuckles boiled 24 hours with carrots, celery, onion, parsley, garlic] 
• a pork tenderloin with his signature cranberry-blackberry reduction 
• spelt with eggplant and sauteed button mushrooms [whatever spelt is]
• apple pie from a German bakery 
• rack of lamb, marinated in lemon and rosemary
• wild rice
• a salad tossed with homemade lemon, tarragon vinegar and olive oil dressing
• prime rib with bearnaise sauce
• mashed potatoes 
• broccoli
• braised brussels sprouts with crispy pancetta 
• quinoa with black-eyed peas
• a bouche de noel from the local patisserie
• spectacular crepes filled with chocolate ganache one day
• spectacular crepes florentine with boucheron cheese the next
• honey crisp apples
• red wines plus Moet de Chandon Nectar Imperial champagne
• Pellegrino for me
• cheese and crackers that included langres, epoisse, stilton, plus a pate de compagne, and Italian sausage made with barolo wine
• vanilla ice cream with an eggnog ganache
• Zantac
          
He wants to go out for dinner tonight. I can't imagine why. 

Road Trip

We're in that down time between Christmas and New Year's, when you may be driving WITH relatives or TO relatives, during the ramp up for the next event. 
          The subject matter that comes up during drives like these is not unlike the flinging of dung against a wall. You never know what's going to stick. In between the discussions about where to stop for lunch with seven people, three of them kids [from Taco Bell, a definite NO, shouted from the way back, to Cracker Barrel, a 1/2 hour wait, to McDonald's, only if we have to, to IHOP, where we ended up], we talked about earthshaking matters such as brown eggs versus white eggs.  
          As a repository of information I cannot recall learning, I informed those present that I was pretty sure brown eggs were from red hens, often Rhode island Reds, and white eggs are from white hens, which must have a brand name, but I didn't know what it was. Otherwise no difference. Brown eggs tend to be slightly larger because the hens are slightly larger. I discovered there are many types of white hens which lay different sizes of white eggs. And then there are Martha Stewart's eggs, which are blue. 
          We had access to the internet in the car, but didn't google more information until we got to our destination and discovered that brown eggs may cost more, not because they're fresher or better tasting, but because bigger hens cost more to feed. My sister-in-law is convinced that the brown eggs she gets from the farmer's market are indeed fresher than the whites. I said chances are they're all several weeks old by the time no matter where she buys them. 
          In fact, I'm convinced that unless you can watch a farmer walk into the barn where the chickens are kept and you can see him actually pick the eggs out of the nests, you have no idea how fresh they are. I can confirm that THOSE eggs, with their firm, not watery, whites, and bright yellow yolks have a noticeably different taste than store bought.  Brown or white.  But my sister-n-law thinks that brown ones are ALWAYS better, fresher, more natural, more organic, etc., than white ones will ever be. I said the perception of quality was all a marketing ploy to disguise the reason for the higher price. The nutrition and taste of both colors are the exactly the same. So, we'll just agree to disagree. Even though she has the credibility of being an attorney and a partner in a law firm. But then again, I'm Mrs. Linklater. 
          Meanwhile, back in the car, we learned via facebook for iPhone that another sister-in-law was having contractions a thousand miles away. It's her first baby and the doctor said to wait until they were 60 to 90 seconds long and five minutes apart before taking things seriously. Friday is the actual due date. Meanwhile, mother-to-be and hubba bubba were going to go for a walk to Starbuck's. I was asking unanswerable questions like, how effaced and dilated is she? How far apart are the contractions NOW, not how far apart do they have to be? As with most first babies, the contractions stopped. 
          As the drive continued, other facebook people weighed in with suggestions that eating spicy food could help speed things up. It occurred to me that a sudden drop in barometric pressure is also a useful tool to get the baby going. So she should find a hurricane and go sit in it. Not to mention the power of drinking castor oil, a tasty suggestion I made including a link to a mommy site that described the process in detail. 
          I'm nothing if not helpful. 
          The kids were strapped into their seats like all children in this electronic age -- mesmerized by videos and games on iPads and iPods. Ah, the silence of the lambs. However, the adults were reminded of the alternative with a full throttle five-minute meltdown of one child whose sister was using his gadget, "I want my iPod!" "I want my iPod!" "I want my iPod!" The mantra did not end until his father started to tickle him and he ran out of breath from laughing. 
          We stopped for gas and milk about six miles from our destination. I needed to stretch my legs so I snooped around the store and made suggestions like -- how about some EGG NOG!!! And did you see the Ben and Jerry's? They've got a flavor called Clusterfluff now. Everybody thought I made the name up. 
          Later, as several caps of dark rum and brandy made their way into glasses of the egg nog I had successfully procured, following a gourmet dinner of delivered [not DiGiorno] pizza and an iceberg lettuce salad, tossed with ranch dressing, we decided to go back in the morning for a pint of whatever that Ben and Jerry's Clusterfluff is, based on the name alone. After we pick up the bagels and cream cheese. 

End of Year Reflections

While most people ponder great philosophical thoughts about the events of the past year, I would rather whine about my body's disintegration.
           Things that happen when you're an older woman aren't always what you might expect. Wrinkles, arthritis, spider veins, and thinning hair are just for starters. Thanks to television, "overactive bladder" is the latest public outing of a formerly private issue. Women who enjoyed the thrills of pushing out their babies via the tunnel of love start peeing in their pants in fifteen minute intervals as they age, especially during laughter or sneezing. Unless they were smart enough to have their babies by c-section. Who knew that a bikini scar was a better gynecological option for your sex and bladder functions? But the unpleasant yellow peril hasn't happened to me [yet] because, along with LaMaze, I did my Kegel exercises like a good little soldier. In fact, I was doing them while writing that last sentence. I know, you didn't ask. But if you ever see a mature woman, sitting alone, stirring a cup of coffee, absentmindedly, while staring into space -- dollars to donuts, she's not wondering what to write about on her blog, she's just doing her Kegels, desperately hoping to keep her plumbing from dropping to the pavement for just a little longer.
           Of course, you're still young and don't have to think about these things.
           For years, my redheaded, freckled, Anglo-Saxon complexion, for all its faults, has spared me from another old lady issue -- excess hair. In fact, true to my nature, I had little or no empathy for women who complained about their mustaches and other follicle-challenged areas, since those weren't my problems. Until a straight, black, lone ranger began to grow by leaps and bounds just above my upper lip sometime yesterday or the day before. And, moments later, another showed up about an inch in front of my left ear. And four or five appeared under my chin and down my neck. EEEEEWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!! Now I have to shave those persistent, permanent growths every morning, unless I'm flush enough to afford the $50 for a wax, which always leaves me with tears in my eyes and red welts all over my face. But that excruciating blast of hot, searing pain means no spare hairs for the next six weeks, so the hellfire is worth every freaking penny.
           Of course, you're still young, so you probably don't know what I'm talking about.
           And what's with these things that appear on my skin whenever and wherever they damn please? Some are just little brownish grayish spots. Like drops of turkey gravy. Others, like one on my ankle, and one above my right knee, are lumpy and purple. How gross is that? A teeny tiny little red spot just showed up on my nose in the exact same place as another teeny tiny little red spot I had removed ten years ago. Not a good sign. And there's also a pimple-sized bumpy thing growing on the other side of my nose, except that it isn't a pimple. I don't know what it is. A wart? Seriously. I always thought that when push came to shove, my nice, straight nose would be one feature I wouldn't have to worry about becoming a liability. Not so fast, Missy.  
           Of course, you're still young, blah blah blah.
           Perhaps the only bright light in this otherwise dim assessment of my mortal portal is the pair of shiny new matching hip implants which are providing me with rock star quality performance. Walking in particular. Forays into bowling and tennis, too. And there was an actual sighting of me running across the hot sand at the beach this summer. Like a normal person.
          Which brings me to the one item on the old age agenda that doesn't seem to diminish as much as I had hoped it would -- dirty old men. When I was so crippled that I often had to rely on crutches, an elderly man I had just met had the cojones to ask me, "So how do you have sex?" I answered with the old cliche, "Very carefully."
           After that, I should have been prepared for the reaction of old farts whenever they hear about my newfound mobility. So far, once they learn I have new hips, all of the men -- the ones who've just been introduced to me to the ones I've known for decades, from married to unmarried, regardless of their religious, ethnic, racial, economic or political bias -- ask about sex. At least that's what I think they're asking about, "So, uh, now that you have new hips, how's the, uh, you know, I mean, can you, uh, have, uh, you know, I mean.  .  ."
           Of course, you're still young, so you can't imagine anyone over sixty having sex anyway.  Frankly, I wouldn't want to have sex with someone over sixty myself. Of all the things that befall an older woman, that may be the worst.
           Well, I see by the clock on the wall, it's time for Mrs. Linklater to dress for her wellness check. Have a happy holiday.
            
     

Remember the name, Jake Wood

Jake Wood is president of Team Rubicon disaster relief -- www.teamrubiconusa.org.  I do volunteer work for the organization.

He was recently asked to give the commencement speech to the University of Wisconsin's winter graduates. A local college newspaper bitched and moaned about not having a world-class speaker. Here's the link to the editorial. The following is my comment to the paper:

By what measure does one determine who qualifies as a top tier commencement speaker? Someone famous? Someone rich? Someone funny? Clearly someone who has created a revolutionary method for saving thousands more lives after a natural disaster doesn’t meet your high standards.

With a sense of entitlement so typical of college students, you threw a foot-stomping tantrum worthy of a pre-schooler to show your disappointment in Jake Wood, “Graduates from this world-class institution deserve a world-class speaker to see them off and a voice in what can be one of the most significant days of their lives.” 

Really, scout’s honor? You wouldn’t rather be entertained by a famous comedian from Saturday Night Live, followed by a world-class drunk with your friends afterward? You’re above that?

Does this mean you think there’s a better way to spend your twenties besides getting rich, getting hammered, and getting laid?

Then Jake Wood should be your speaker.

Do you honestly believe that greatness has nothing to do with money or cars, but everything to do with integrity and courage?

Then Jake Wood should be your speaker.

Can you imagine getting off your butt and doing something significant with your life besides Occupy Something?

Then Jake Wood should be your speaker. 

I reviewed two lists of all time top commencement speakers/speeches listed on Google. Only one speech made both lists. That’s more than Winston Churchill and JFK can say. The guy who showed up twice was Steve Jobs, who spoke at Stanford in 2005. How ironic that a college drop out was the only speaker to make both top tens. 

But there’s a greater irony. Actor Bradley Whitford made the all time top ten for the world-class speech he gave to the class of 2006 at. . .wait for it. . .the University of Wisconsin. I guarantee he wouldn’t have made your top ten world-class speaker list. And yet, there he was in Madison. And he managed to say a couple of things so worthwhile, he’s on the list of all time greats.

“Take action. Every story you’ve ever connected with, every leader you’ve ever admired, every puny little thing that you’ve ever accomplished is the result of taking action. You have a choice. You can either be a passive victim of circumstance or you can be the active hero of your own life. Action is the antidote to apathy. . .You will inevitably make mistakes. . .At the end of your days, you will be judged by your gallop. Not by your stumble.”

If you think that Bradley Whitford is on the money, then Jake Wood should be your speaker. 

After graduation in 2005, Jake was one of the few graduates who didn’t think the world owed him a living. Instead he took action. First he joined the Marines – a direct result of 9-11. Before reporting for duty, Katrina hit Louisiana. Jake acted again. He borrowed his father’s pick up and drove to New Orleans to help out. During his four years in the Marines he served two tours, one in Iraq and another in Afghanistan. Unlike you, in the four years after his graduation he survived more danger, saw more death and lost more friends than you will likely experience in your lifetime.

And, unlike you and all the other top commencement speakers, except for Churchill and JFK, Jake is also a decorated combat vet. After his honorable discharge in October of 2009 he could have coasted through the rest of his life, getting his MBA and making a boatload of money. Three months later in January of 2010, the earthquake hit Haiti.  A day later Jake took action again and posted a message on his facebook page – “I’m going to Haiti. Who’s in?” The next day Team Rubicon was formed. In two weeks the group of veterans and medical personnel had raised over $250,000 in money and supplies using social media and helped over 3000 victims in Haiti – before the Red Cross and other humanitarian groups could get their acts together. And a paradigm shift in disaster relief was born – the rapid deployment of medical aid, using military skills and training to save lives during disasters. In the year and eleven months since Team Rubicon formed, the group has been on 12 missions to 9 countries on four continents.

Jake didn’t sit around waiting for the world to come to him. He acted.

Jake is only 28 years old. Not one of the top commencement speakers I read about had achieved what he has achieved by the time they were 28. He has not only performed acts of heroism on the battlefield but as the leader of Team Rubicon, he has made a heroic stand to provide 2.2 million Iraq and Afghanistan veterans with a meaningful transition from the military into civilian life -- using their skills and training to revolutionize disaster relief.

If you want your commencement day speaker to be someone who has made an actual contribution to the world from the day he graduated, whose life can be an inspiration to anyone with the cojones to put their money where their mouth is, then no one else but Jake Wood should be your speaker. 

Jake leading Team Rubicon in Joplin, MO -- helping with clean up after the tornadoes

Jake in Afghanistan as a scout/sniper