Author: Lynzie

A BIRTH DAY STORY, ON THE EVE OF HIS FIRST BIRTHDAY

Posted on by Lynzie · 4 Comments

rouxmamabrandnewI had been complaining for weeks about not feeling well, but come dinnertime that Sunday, I knew something wasn’t right.

“I think I’m having contractions,” I announced as I hobbled + waddled – hugely pregnant with a broken foot – around the kitchen. I finally went and called the midwives, having grown to expect voicemail instead of an answer. To my surprise, an actual voice greeted me on the other end of the line, only it was the assistant informing me that both midwives were out of town.

Seeing as I was deep into my 35th week of pregnancy, this was alarming to me as it was definitely within the “no travel” zone. I already had a bad feeling, and now it was worse. The assistant, a young gal in training to become a midwife herself, told me to relax, eat something, and count kicks, while she tried to get in touch with one of the midwives.

I relayed the news to B, who did his very best to reassure me, though by now I was definitely starting to panic, if only silently and to myself.

As my family of four gathered around the table, the kids already dressed in their pajamas, I said it again, only this time I knew it.

“I’m having contractions.”

In the bathroom, I discovered that I was spotting, confirming that I was, in fact, having contractions.

One of the midwives had called me from her personal line, which I dialed immediately. I told her about the blood, and she told me that I needed to go to the hospital for a nonstress test. I told her that I wouldn’t pass, I knew it in my core. And when she told me again that my only choice was to go to the hospital, I felt in that moment as if it were Destiny herself speaking to me on the phone.

From the moment I discovered that I was carrying a baby, I also carried with me a certain sense of what was to come. In fact, one of my greatest singular fears was that I would end up having a C-section, which I found to be funny because during my other two pregnancies the thought never once crossed my mind in any real sense. Yet, for some reason I didn’t yet fully understand, I was consumed with fear for the duration of my third pregnancy, which lent a certain eeriness – but also a degree of comfort – to the events that followed.

The tears, they effortlessly rolled down my cheeks as I told my family that we were headed for the hospital. We were so gloriously unprepared! We had only just begun to collect the things one needs when expecting a new baby, but not a single thing was actually ready. There was no hospital bag, because we were having a home birth, “just in case” not really part of our approach. I had to Google the hospital, call the front desk, and ask how to get in to labor and delivery.

A large sign posted at the entrance to the hospital alerted us to the details of its “FLU SEASON POLICY” which basically prohibits any person under the age of twelve from entering. I looked at the faces of my seven and ten year old kids, who were both clearly shaken up by what was happening (What was happening?), and we all just went inside because honestly, what else were we supposed to do? By this time, it was nearly 10 PM. Our choices were limited. On our drive over to the hospital, which turned out to be just over a mile from our home, we called the only two people we’d asked to be involved in our home birth, both of whom headed straight over.

The lady sitting at the front desk of the labor and delivery ward was not at all friendly, aggressively enforcing the part of the flu season policy which stated that my children weren’t allowed to be there. Thankfully, one of the ladies we’d asked for help arrived just in time to rescue my children so that B could focus on me, who was definitely starting to lose it.

I was admitted to the hospital, and escorted to a triage room by a nurse who apologized for the behavior of the mean lady just as soon as the door shut behind us. I was grateful for her kindness. She asked us to try and get a copy of my medical chart faxed over from the midwives, which we were able to do after much back and forth with the midwives’ assistant. Our other friend, my doula, arrived just as the doctor was confirming my suspicions, that the nonstress test was nonreactive and I would need to next have an ultrasound.

While we waited for her to return with the necessary equipment, I used the bathroom and spontaneously lost my mucus plug, a tell tale sign of the onset of labor. This can’t be happening. I’m thirty days away from my due date.

I tried to calm my nerves, but my heart was racing and my blood pressure was steadily climbing. The ultrasound revealed an alarming lack of amniotic fluid, alarming as in there wasn’t any measurable amount. The baby, although small, was moving, with a relatively steady heart rate, so it was decided that I would be observed to see how my labor progressed. I was moved from a triage room to a labor and delivery room, and given a new nurse, who began to prepare me for hospital labor (change my gown, start an IV, hook me up to contraction + heart rate monitors, etc.).

She was an older Filipino woman named Linda, with a gentle voice and a sharp sense of humor which combined for the kind of bedside manner I needed to assuage many of the fears so clearly written on my face. And in my blood pressure, which had climbed to hypertensive levels. She made a deal with me: she would wait to administer any labor inducing medication long enough for B to race home and collect a few personal items. She would however have to give me steroids and antibiotics for reasons that didn’t really make sense to me, but then again nothing was really making sense to me at the time. Thankfully, my doula was there to help me understand and feel better about what was happening as each new instrument and intervention was introduced.

There was a lot of Western medicine going down, and it was doing down fast. I couldn’t really keep up, it just kept snowballing and I did my best to go with it without flipping out altogether. I still can’t believe I didn’t flip out altogether. My hands are shaking as I type this, adrenaline from that night still readily accessible.

Inhale, exhale. It was all I could do then, and it’s all I can do now. Just. Keep. Breathing.

When Babe finally got back to the hospital, everything was in place for the pitocin to begin. My blood pressure was taken one last time, reading higher than ever, and I asked Linda to please let me take a shower. I just knew that if I took a shower, I could at least relax a little bit.

With a latex glove covering the catheter in my hand, B very gently and lovingly helped me to shower in that cramped hospital bathroom, a ritual that would become a central part of our interaction over the next five days. He was so patient, so attentive, and so very, very strong when I needed him to be that most of all.

After I had been bathed, oiled, and dressed again, my blood pressure had lowered thirty points(!) and the pitocin was finally started. Things were beginning to calm down, long enough for us – me, B, my doula, and my friend – to connect with each other and formulate some kind of game plan. The beeping of the pitocin monitor startled us all.

Linda came in to say that for some reason the machine had broken and would need to be replaced. Thirty minutes later the pitocin started again, and the four of us went back to talking about whatever it is you talk about while waiting for labor to get going. Again, the beeping.

For the third time, pitocin was started and by now it was the early hours of the morning and not a lot of progress had been made. One of the doctors came in to say that the baby’s heart rate wasn’t reading well and could I please roll to one side? Ok, maybe the other side? Let’s try an internal monitor, she said.

Despite the absence of any fluid in my uterus, the sac around the baby had yet to rupture near my cervix, so a hook was inserted up there to make a small tear in order for a monitor to be placed on the baby’s head.

Well, the baby, who had been cooperating up to this point, did not like being fiddled with in this manner, and responded by dropping his heart rate so low, it was below 25% of what it should have been. This and the fact that I was bleeding profusely from my nether regions led to much frenzy upon the part of the medical staff and suddenly the population of the room doubled. There were whispers and commands and paperwork was produced and placed in front of me, who by this time had been instructed to make my way to all fours. I looked first to Babe and then to my doula, who told me that I needed to sign the paper, consenting to a Caesarian section at precisely 4:10 AM.

Like a scene straight out of some ridiculous television drama, my fingers were pulled from Babe’s as I was rushed – literally, the doctors ran as they pushed the gurney – to the operating room. We had been told that we’d meet again after I had been prepped for surgery, and I frantically pleaded with anyone who would listen to please please please let him come in the room with me. Thankfully, Linda was there.

She held my hand as more than a dozen strangers moved quickly around me, doing her best to narrate for me what was going on. I heard someone make mention of putting me to sleep and I screamed “You can’t put me to sleep!” and I was told that I needed to sit up quickly so they could give me an epidural. Linda helped me into a sitting position, and hugged me as the anesthesiologist attempted to insert a large needle into my spine.

What felt like a punch in the back was actually the needle rupturing a layer of my spinal cord it was not meant to, and I would suffer a post-dural puncture headache for more than a week on account of this fraction of a millimeter mistake.

Needless to say, the epidural didn’t take, and with the baby in increasing distress, the only option left was for me to be put to sleep in order for the operation to proceed.

Linda came and put her face right next to mine. She spoke in a soft voice, though her words were firm. “You did the right thing coming here tonight,” she said. “You came here to save your baby. You did the right thing. You are so brave.”

The next thing I remember was the weight of a warm blanket being placed around my face. A familiar voice rose over the hum of sounds I couldn’t quite distinguish. I blinked my eyes open and found Babe sitting across from me, his face swollen with tears and exhaustion.

“We have a beautiful boy,” was all he could manage to say before we both started crying again.

Very early on in my pregnancy, before we had shared the news with anyone except our closest friends here in San Diego, I had a vivid dream while we were staying at Campland of an impossibly tiny, impossibly dimpled, light haired baby boy with a button nose and an unmistakable twinkle in his sparkling blue eyes. This was the only time I ever had this particular dream, and I had all but convinced myself that the baby I was carrying was of the female variety. But the picture that B showed me took the breath right out of my chest, because what he showed me, underneath all the tubes and wires, was the little lover of my dreams.

It would be another four hours before I would get to meet him, but I knew he was the one I had been expecting all along. He was tiny, at four pounds and three ounces, but he was mighty. As the minutes ticked by, it was clear he was stronger than any of the doctors had anticipated. The prognosis continued to evolve as each test came back negative. No scar tissue on the brain. All organs functioning properly. Responding appropriately to various stimuli. And finally, stable. Not enough so that I could hold him, but enough that we could be escorted into the NICU so that I could see him for the first time.

Through all of this, Linda waited for me. Her shift ended a full two hours before I came out of the fog of anesthesia, but she waited for me just the same. While B and I waited for the head of the NICU to inform us when the baby was ready for us to visit him, Linda came over to my bed. I could barely sit up, so she leaned in to me, held my face in her hands, and with tears in her eyes told me how proud she was of me. I hold this moment very close in my heart. I don’t know if she is aware of just how much her presence meant to me, but I could not have survived were it not for her selfless care. We were just saying our farewells when the doctor came to tell us that they were ready for us in the NICU.

The NICU is a funny place, where joy and sorrow float in equal measure through the air the way confidence and insecurity do in a high school hallway, each moment magnified by the gravity of just being there to begin with. Our baby lay uncovered under a lamp, where his body temperature was slowly being raised back to normal after being decreased to 92° in order to minimize the stress on his organs as they performed their series of examinations in an attempt to determine what exactly went or was wrong. When at long last I could get a good look at him, the first thing I thought was “that chin!” and still to this day, when I look at him, I think the same thing. That chin is delicious.

After only a few minutes, we were told it was time for us to be taken to the room where we would stay for the next four nights. The baby was being hooked up to an EEG, a scan which would last a full 24-hours, preventing me from holding my newborn until its completion. The rest of that day passed by in cycles of breast pumping, vital sign checks, and elevator rides to visit the the NICU. B did his best to keep me comfortable, though heavy drugs were doing most of that. It wasn’t until later in the afternoon the following day that I would be crippled by intense headaches anytime I was vertical.

Around dinnertime, about sixteen hours after the baby was delivered, my friend snuck my big kids into my hospital room. I was able to give them proper hugs, the kind of hugs I wasn’t really able to give them when we parted the night before, too engulfed in the drama of the situation to be fully present in our exchange of goodbyes. Now that it was clear that we were to be separated by hospital policy for the better part of a week, I was able to love them up good and proper the way a mama does when she’s bidding farewell to her babies. There were tears. And there was laughter, as there most always is when the two of them are around.

Long after the night nurse had come on duty, I paged her asking for help in cleaning myself up. She brought me a change of clothes, put fresh sheets on both my bed and the one in which B would be sleeping, and helped us make our way to the shower, where I caught a glimpse of my heavily bandaged belly. The tears just came, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t fight it either. I let the sadness, the anger, the exhaustion wash over me as the hot water rinsed the residue of the day away, though a million showers couldn’t clean me of its memory.

Even now, a full year (and almost three thousand words) later, I’m not able to completely articulate just how incredibly monumental a day it was when Roux Huckleberry Baker came into the world, though I’m almost positive there was no other way for him to do so than the way in which he did. He might be my third child, but almost everything about being his mother has been a first for me. See: chicken broth. The first year of his life has been gut-wrenchingly raw and transformative. I hardly recognize myself a year ago, the scar on my abdomen a tribute to the kind of alteration I’ve undergone as a direct result of being this baby’s mama.

There aren’t many people who meet a deep-rooted fear so directly, most of us just fantasize about things that are unfortunate yet unlikely to happen, and I have found a lot of gratitude for being given the opportunity to grow past something so ugly in such a beautiful way. I haven’t healed completely, but I’m a lot stronger than I used to be, and in possession of a lot more self-compassion.

I count the nine days we spent in the NICU amongst the best days of my life, each bearing stories worthy of their own telling. And perhaps, someday, I’ll tell about the time I stopped the nurse from feeding him formula simply because I could tell the color wasn’t the same as my colostrum, or how it took getting a social worker involved to get the process for our discharge started, or how my Huckleberry friend brought a smile to every person that saw him. But my baby just woke from his afternoon nap, and I’ve only got a few hours left to enjoy what’s left of his first trip around the sun.

What a glorious journey it has been.

JOY AND WOE ARE WOVEN FINE

Posted on by Lynzie · Leave a comment

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Early Friday morning, I learned that my son’s class teacher will be stepping down at the end of this year. This is devastating news as she is both a brilliant educator and a remarkable lady. Emet loved her from the moment they first met, a few days before third grade began. She has been a bright light in his journey through his Waldorf education, and while we will miss her deeply, we are comforted by the fact that the person whom the faculty has selected to take the class through middle school is another beloved teacher at our school.

Still, there is sadness. Having to send my tender hearted eleven year old off to class knowing the news he was about to receive from his dear teacher was not an easy way to begin the day, that is for sure.

One of the reasons she, his teacher, gave to us parents as to her departure was that she has found it increasingly difficult to strike a harmonious work/life balance. I couldn’t agree more with her sentiment, it is the very reason why I choose to remain in a supporting role at our school as opposed to a full-time faculty member. I have been a lead teacher, and it is consuming. My heart goes out to her, it really does.

There is a great lesson in this for my son, one that I hope he’ll come to with time. You see, we’ve moved around a lot, having been to five different Waldorf schools. Emet has been “the new kid” nearly every year of his academic career. For the first time in his life, he is the one staying, not the one leaving. This is an opportunity for him to gain a tremendous amount of perspective, but it is not for me to tell him that. He must arrive at his own truth, in his own way, whenever it is that he’s ready to do so. In the meantime, I’ll be here to listen to his worries and to remind him how lucky he’s been to have had these last three years with such a wonderful person as his guide. In a way, it will be his first broken heart, for he truly does love her. Which is exactly how it’s supposed to be in a Waldorf school.

In her email to us parents, our lovely class teacher so wisely reminded us that “the children will look to us adults for cues on how to process this. We want them to understand that change is a part of life, not something catastrophic or unmanageable. When we say goodbye to the past, we welcome the future. All will be well.”

And that’s just it, really. Change is simply another word for evolution, and we should all be so lucky as to evolve. Granted, that doesn’t make it any easier, awareness doesn’t soften the lump that lodged itself in my throat the moment I first read her poignant letter. But it does somehow make the pain seem purposeful, that the tears I’m shedding are really just my heart’s way of making room for what is to come.

When I picked the kids up from school later that day, I brought along with me a simple bouquet of tulips for each of the fine teachers that are currently carrying this class, one of them holding their past, the other their future.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I spotted his new teacher, who happens to be someone with whom I already have a friendly personal relationship outside of our colleagueship. I called her over to my car and handed her the flowers, telling her that I love her and I’m grateful to her for being willing to step in to such an important position. Truly, I do think that there couldn’t be a better person for the job. She is magnificent.

I made my way over Emet on the aftercare yard, after being showered with lots of love from many of my precious first graders who were playing in the sandbox and swing set, where he was immersed in a game of Kendama though the solemnity of the day was apparent. I told him I had something for him to give his beloved teacher, and tears welled up in his eyes. We walked to the car, after gathering ourselves and our things, and then headed to his fifth grade classroom, where we found his sweet teacher tidying up the room.

I’m glad we were able to share a few quiet moments together, honoring her and the carefully considered decision she has made to move on from teaching. And while our hearts are heavy with the burden of her imminent departure, we fondly bid her farewell with gratitude for the many gifts she has given all of us – her students and their parents alike – lessons which will serve us in whatever it is the future may bring. I can only hope that she finds whatever it is that she seeks, for she deserves every happiness her golden heart desires.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine,
Under every grief and pine,
Runs a joy of silken twine.

It is right, it must be so,
Man was made for joy and woe.
And if this we rightly know,
Through the world we safely go.

William Blake

A NICE NIGHT

Posted on by Lynzie · 1 Comment

fospresentation

Yesterday was one of those days where suddenly it was 4 PM and neither B nor I had eaten anything of substance all day long. We were both hungry, but feeling adventurous, so we made our way to The Patio.

A while back, B met a colleague for drinks and came home saying how we simply must go back. It’s taken us months to do so, but we finally found our way there and it did not disappoint. In fact, it was easily the greatest restaurant experience I’ve had since moving to San Diego three years ago. The food, the service, the atmosphere, absolutely everything was divine.

The very best part was that, because we hadn’t made reservations, the only seats available were at the bar by the kitchen. For an amateur chef like me, this was the best seat in the house! Have any of you ever seen an industrial sized immersion blender? Because I’m here to tell you that sucker is capital h-u-g-e.

To start, we ordered French onion soup which was sweet and savory. Not only did it hit the spot, it set the tone for the rest of the meal, which was comprised of a sampling of smaller plates. We ordered caramelized brussels + cauliflower (which I think was the winner, for me), a garlic and spinach flatbread, three kinds of hummus, and my mister had himself a burger. The chef sent us over a sample sized ahi poke taco, as well as a couple off menu truffles sprinkled with gold dust. Everything was presented beautifully and brought to our table with a smile. I left feeling well fed and well taken care of, the ultimate goal of dining out, I think.

It just so happened that we parked in front of The Front Porch, sister company to the Patio, and the sweetest little pantry shop filled with cook books and sundry seasonings, and a huge assortment of specialty oils and vinegars. A girl like me can get lost in a place like that for hours. I might have stopped in twice yesterday, once before dinner and once after, and I might have acquired a few new treats on both occasions. And since I can’t stop thinking about this book (or this one, which was featured at the class I took yesterday), I might have to make another trip in again soon. Not to mention the fact that they serve lunch + dessert in adorable packaging, made daily by the chefs at the Patio.

Don’t you just love stumbling into places like that? I do. Especially when they’re in my neighborhood.

WORK IN PROGRESS

Posted on by Lynzie · 2 Comments

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The winds of change are blowing strongly through our hillside palace by the sea, and lots of things are bubbling and simmering, chickens included, and the next few months are sure to be educational and transformative in equal measure.

I spent the morning in an Introduction to Ancestral Cuisine class, led by the lovely Annie Dru of Lard Mouth. I laughed, I cried, I cried some more, and mostly I did a lot of nodding my head. I scribbled notes furiously in my notebook as I sat there and listened to her tell me the reasons why consuming animals is essential to not only human health, but the very health of the Earth herself. For a person who has lived nearly her entire life as an eater of plants alone, this can be very unsettling. And yet, for me, as unsettling and icky and sad as it is, it is also primitively true.

But it is sad, which is why I cry. Often.

As I was driving home from the class, I was on the phone with my ex-husband coordinating today’s pick-up, and I couldn’t help but enthusiastically repeat to him some of what I’d just absorbed. And he said to me, “I’m proud of you for having an open mind to hear these things. Because sometimes when you strongly believe in something, it can limit you from your own personal growth.”

I’m not sure where exactly I am dietarily other than that I am on a journey to learn as much as I can about feeding my family as nutritiously, sustainably, and compassionately as possible. For as long as I can remember, I have believed in what Hippocrates said, that food is medicine and medicine is food. This is why my eldest child, going on twelve, has never been on any sort of medication. Even for a cold! I rely exclusively on the healing forces of plants and herbs in various forms and methods of delivery to keep our health as robust as possible, and this includes, most importantly, the things we eat.

I have been lucky in that we have always been of strong constitution. That is, until this last year, when suddenly I found myself and my brand new infant in the middle of our very own health scare. And after trying virtually everything else, I’m changing the one thing I haven’t yet. Our diet.

All of this to simply say, I’m learning as I go.

Also, I’ve noticed a few things on this site of mine are not working, some link and sidebar functionality issues, as well as a couple other things here and there that need addressing. Bear with me as things are tinkered with and updated.

ALL HEARTS FOR FEBRUARY

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peonyinside

I’ll bet I’m not the only one who’s slightly relieved to see January come and go. This January, especially.

I’m happy to report that all is quiet on the western medical front, knock on wood. I made another batch of stock yesterday of which my tiny guy heartily slurped up two bowls, and wouldn’t you know it, but he slept so well last night he forgot to wake me up on time for school this morning. He’s my little chicken lover, and I’m slowly coming to terms with this new lifestyle we seem to have adopted. But if it’s chicken that’s going to make that baby of mine finally get some sleep, so be it.

I did think it very interesting that a person I admire who’s dietary journey is very much guided by her health shared her own story of reincorporating animal products into the food she eats last week. She wrote two really funny, honest pieces which can be found here and here and are each worthy reads.

Someone is 50 (FIFTY!) weeks old today, and is just about the sweetest, most angelic, gumdrop of a baby. I can barely wrap my head around the fact that we are actually planning his first birthday party.

But first, Valentine’s Day! It’s not so much that I love the holiday itself, but I’m positively head over heels for love. And hearts. And crafting! And chocolate!! AND FLOWERS!!! Not to get carried away or anything, but I’m pretty darn excited to celebrate this year. I’ve got myself the four sweetest valentines a gal could ever want, plus there is something about surviving a personal crisis that makes me all gooey and sentimental inside. Maybe it’s the drugs they gave me, but ever since I woke up from anesthesia, I’ve been extra giddy and overly optimistic. I’m certainly not complaining, and I don’t think my family is either.

A good mood is like a fresh start, all shiny and bubbling with possibility. I’ve parlayed this particular burst of creativity into making plans for new + exciting ventures with my husband-to-be. To start to put into action something that we’ve talked about since the very beginning of our relationship is like turning a little once upon a time dream into our current reality.

I look forward to sharing more soon!

THEY KEEP ME IN STITCHES

Posted on by Lynzie · 2 Comments

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First of all, I would like to say a very heartfelt thank you for all of the texts, comments, emails, well wishes, gifts of home grown eggs (thank you, Jennifer!), and general good cheer that came flooding toward me as I underwent what was scary but ultimately relatively minor when compared with some of the other surgeries that were happening at the very same time as mine. Everything went very smoothly, and I’m expected to make a quick recovery, feeling close to normal by next week. I’ve already moved beyond any pain medication, which is promising, though I’m still rather swollen and stained from iodine.

Also, I can’t bring myself to look at the stitches! One of my best friends called and asked if I’d taken off the bandage yet and when I told her no she laughed and said that she knew I hadn’t which is why she asked. I’ve always been famously squeamish, I guess!

To close out our month long medical diversion, Emet and Jade both had check-ups at the same pediatrician’s office Roux’s been seeing since always. Truth be told, my big kids have been remarkably healthy throughout their lives which has kept them out of doctors offices altogether, but since one of them is about to, or is, starting puberty, I figured it’d be a good thing to have them weighed and measured.

We fielded many, many questions, seeing as it was a new-patient type visit. At one point, the doctor asked Jade what she wanted to be when she grew up and without missing a beat, my daughter said, “a bartender.” The doctor’s face was priceless! I’ve come to know and love her well over the course of Roux’s growth, and to see her turn bright red and have a good hearty laugh was something I’ll never forget.

She asked us as we were leaving if we laugh like this every day. I told her, living with these two, there’s no way we could not.

The best part about having babies is getting to hang out with the people they become.

RESOLVE ON THE GOOD

Posted on by Lynzie · 2 Comments

emetjadegreenhill14

The one good thing about being confined and immobile during an MRI scan is that there is nothing to do but think!

This year has gotten off to an interesting start. A change in our family dynamic, right of the bat, with a side of medical drama, to keep things interesting. We’ve undergone a bit of unexpected restructuring, and I’ll be taking a temporary leave-of-absence from teaching in order to assume the role of primary caretaker of one Roux Huckleberry Baker, duties previously belonging to his most handsome and capable father, who has become far too busy otherwise to adequately care for the baby whose needs have grown exponentially over the past few months.

The bottom line is, it is B’s design work that supports our family. My income is supplementary at best, which is to say, it would cost more to hire a nanny or to put him in daycare than it does for me to stay home. Furthermore, I should be the one escorting him to doctors visits and to have his blood drawn, and vise versa. So I’m doing just that, taking time off to care for my baby. And to care for myself, but that is an entirely different matter.

I can’t tell you how agonizing a decision this was for me to make.

Of course, I have been plenty busy navigating the bureaucratic + scheduling fiasco that is the health system of which the baby and I are both patients, and have been, since the day his life began. We will have had at least six separate visits to our different doctors this month alone, not to mention a surgery, and hopefully a clean bill of health, times two. In the meantime, my anxiety is peaking and the baby is teething, which is to say, my nerves are shot to shit.

Thankfully, the tumor in my leg is benign, a lipoma of unknown origin, which I will be having removed tomorrow. I’m told it is an ambulatory procedure, more like having wisdom teeth extracted than a veritable operation. Still, I don’t like the idea of being put to sleep, it gives me the heebiejeebies. That it is a relative non-issue is a huge relief, because I was a little bit freaked out for a hot minute there, and having been through the devastatingly aggressive surgery that produced my darling little Huckleberry, I have been able to muster up a new brand of confidence toward the whole surgical situation.

The baby, well, his bloodwork has improved to some degree, but he is still extremely mineral deficient. He’ll have another hemoglobin test in a month to determine whether he’ll need another full panel, but the doctors are all hopeful that because he’s shown improvement already, that we’re headed in the right direction. This means that we – he and I, because I’m still nursing him, we’re still a team – we must be on a rigorous diet of easily absorbable iron sources, and watch his vital signs carefully.

Which brings me to our diet, which has changed dramatically over the last month and a half. In a way I could never have foreseen, but then again, one can never underestimate then lengths to which a mother will go when it comes to the health and wellbeing of her children.

The long and short of it is that iron is a supremely difficult mineral for a body, any body to absorb. In synthetic form, it can be harmful. In fact, iron overdose is one of the leading causes of death in children under six. My own body has always reacted negatively to synthetic iron, and I had a feeling Roux would be the same.

It took only one dose for it to be clear to us that supplementation was not an option, that we were going to need to fortify his diet. Thanks to the support and guidance of a lovely tribe of ladies, who all enthusiastically ascribe to and practice the art of “ancestral cuisine” which draws heavily upon the teachings of Weston A. Price, I’ve come to the realization that if I want to practice the age-old adage that is “let thy food be thy medicine”, I have to fully embrace what that actually means.

So. In short, chicken broth.

Chicken broth, the real stuff, is sometimes called Jewish penicillin for a reason. There are a lot of easily absorbable nutrients in chicken broth. And eggs. Nutrients that my baby needs, and needs badly.

To an ethical vegan, this can be a real dilemma. I sat with this question for close to a month before arriving at this conclusion: I would rather feed my child something that is divinely created and ethically harvested (sustainably raised chicken) versus something cooked up in a lab (prescription iron supplements). There is something infinitely more wholesome in boiling a chicken to make soup – something nearly everyone’s grandmother has done, mine included – than there is in taking drops that ultimately make my baby sick to his stomach.

His love for chicken broth, and eggs, is all that I need to know that feeding him – and myself, remember, we’re a team – these things is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing right now.

That all of this went down during resolution season was not at all lost on me.

What it comes down to, is doing what’s best. To strive to stand up for whatever it is that is in the best interest of my family.

Steiner, my forever teacher, offers this particular verse, which I’ve adopted as my motto for the year, as one part in particular has been my personal refrain for this season of my life.

To wonder at beauty,
Stand guard over truth,
Look up to the noble,
Resolve on the good.
This leadeth us truly,
To might in our doing,
To peace in our feeling,
To light in our thinking,
And teaches us trust
In the working of God,
In all that there is,
In the width of the world,
And the depth of the soul.

Today is my half-birthday. (And also, it’s my beloved’s birthday. We’re birthday twins. Just another reason we know we’re MFEO.) What this means is that it’s been six months since I last wrote a list of goals, one which I’ve kept a close eye on, but one which is filled with many things yet to be checked off.

Except our house! We all put in a lot of effort, and together we got this place so entirely organized, it’s almost like real grown-ups live here. We’ve also managed to keep it in such condition, for the most part. Again, real grown-ups.

My point is this, the things that I’m striving for in my life are basically the same, but the angle from which I’m approaching these things has definitely shifted.

Six months ago, I was still struggling with feeling well each day. Now, even as I stare surgery in the face, I feel better than I have in a long time. Having the courage to listen to what my gut was telling me from a very primal level – care for my baby, care for myself, feed my family from a place of traditional nourishment – has helped me to reconnect, to feel aligned with my purpose, to emerge from a dark place stronger and more self-compassionate. These are things I needed greatly in order to truly be able to tackle some of the goals I set for myself. Now with a better sense of the person I have grown into, I’m able to have a clearer vision of how it is I am to go about achieving them, or at the very least, putting them into motion.

I have a lot of hope for the year that lies ahead. If the year that has passed taught me anything at all, it is that often the best of times are born out of the greatest challenges.

01/52 // THE 52 PROJECT REVISITED

Posted on by Lynzie · 2 Comments

emetkendamajan715

jaderunjan715

rouxswingjan715

“a portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2015”

emet: his current obsession.
jade: my child wild.
roux: the quiet observer.

A lot more than this portrait series got away from me last year, that’s for sure. While I’m not one to harbor regret, I can say with a great deal of certainty that I simply did not slow down enough to enjoy the little things, and away they slipped. With nearly a full week behind us already, it seemed as if this year was headed in much the same manner, which is precisely why, instead of driving straight home after school this afternoon, we took a small detour to the playground. It’s amazing how special half an hour can feel, even on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon.

RANDOM THOUGHTS ON THE LAST TUESDAY OF 2014

Posted on by Lynzie · 1 Comment

babytoestowel

baby toes. you’re welcome.

My big kids just left for their weekly overnight with their father, that stubborn tiny guy of mine is finally finally napping, and the house is both quiet and clean, leaving me a moment to sit and gather my thoughts. Clickety clack.

I honestly can’t believe how quickly this year flew by. I’ve said this a million times already, but only because it is so very true.

Then again, I feel about a bajillion miles away from the person I was at this time last year. And really, the only thing I miss about being her was that she was pregnant. I will always miss being pregnant. I didn’t want it to end. But it did, and that is when the life of my Huckleberry friend began, and what a glorious thing it is to get to be that boy’s mama. He is so delicious.

Life with a preteen, a second grader, and an infant is blindingly exhausting, I will just come right out and say it. But only in the very best possible way. These little people, one of whom is an inch shy of standing eye to eye with his mother, they are remarkable. I am in awe of them, their talents, their thoughts, and am so very inspired by the way in which they each face the tests they are given with grace, dignity, and confidence. I’ll say it until the day there is no breath left in my lungs, they have taught me more than I could ever teach them in a hundred thousand lifetimes. They are brilliant, and I’m lucky they chose me. The luckiest.

And then there is this man I’m going to marry. He’s something else. The whole of the universe conspired to bring us together, and this little blended family we’ve created is of what I am most proud. We have had some wild adventures together, this tribe of mine, moving more times in four years than some ever do. Which is why getting to celebrate New Year’s Eve in the very same house where we celebrated last year is so significant: the last time this happened, Jade was a year old.

Who knows how long we’ll be in this place. We are, after all, a rambunctious bunch cursed with wild and extravagant imaginations, for whom things like relocating to the French Countryside sound not only practical, but down right necessary. With a brief stop in New York City on the way, of course. As you do. But being here, in sunny San Diego, has helped each of us to thrive in a way I don’t think any other place could have. It’s an expensive place to live, you can be sure, but it’s worth it. I like to call it the Sun Tax. You pay for what you get! I’m looking at you, Oregon.

As for me, this has been a deeply, profoundly personal year. I am not who I was, even two months ago. I’m even eating eggs, but that is a story for another day. My point is that there are some years where I have gone, didn’t I accomplish anything? But not this year. This was a year of doing. I did a lot. Maybe more than any other year of my life, big things, small things, things only me and my Creator know about, so many things. To list them would be in poor taste, I think, because it feels a little bit like gloating. So instead, I will say this. Good things come to those who wait, work hard, and want it bad enough.

You guys, the baby is still sleeping (!) and I think I actually just wrote something from start to finish, without being interrupted once. THIS ALMOST NEVER HAPPENS. Maybe I should go paint my nails, or even crazier, take a nap myself. What I should definitely do is eat some lunch, which is to say it’s time for me to beg my mister to take me out for burritos when the baby wakes up from the nap I was pretty sure he was never going to take.

Look at how much I can get done when you sleep, Roux!

A DREAM IS A WISH YOUR HEART MAKES

Posted on by Lynzie · Leave a comment

babyjade2008

this photo is old and blurry, but i love it. mostly because it was taken by emet, but also, her eyes. and that runny nose!

I was raised on fairy tales of the Disney variety, never thinking twice that the good people at the House of Mouse weren’t actually the ones responsible for those stories. So, naturally, when I discovered the Brothers Grimm, I was a little miffed that ol’ Walt and his team of animators positively bastardized the complexities of the German folklore.

When Emet was born, one of the sweetest gifts I was given was a complete and unabridged collection of the original Grimm’s Fairy Tales. I suppose the only thing more complete would be an untranslated version, but sprechen sie Deutsch I do not. So, English it was, and oh! The language in those stories is just poetic.

It was a few years later, when I was in training to become a Waldorf teacher, that I learned just how important these particular narratives – and the eloquent language contained therewithin – are to young children. The curriculum of the Early Childhood and the First Grade are based entirely upon classic fairy tales and so it was that I decided my children would not bear witness to the animated movies of my childhood. Also, I’m of the media-free childhood persuasion, so it wasn’t really an issue.

As my children have grown, they have indeed been exposed to their fair share of movies and television shows, albeit far less than the average American child. And yet, purely by coincidence, the Disney movies were left unwatched. A few months ago, we were at a restaurant where each of my big kids were given a coloring page. Emet’s was Sponge Bob, and Jade’s was Belle. And while Mr. Squarepants was instantly recognized by the both of them, neither Emet nor Jade could name the princess or the film from whence she came. I felt a little bit proud and a little bit sad, because truly, I loved those movies. LOVED THEM.

So, when my handsome mister called me into his office a week or so ago to show me a trailer he’d come across of a live-action version of Cinderella due to hit theaters this coming Spring, I rolled my eyes a little because, honestly, how good could it be? Only so good that I cried. Not once, not twice, but three times. Every hair on my body was standing on end, and the flutters in my heart told me I had to share this with my daughter.

I will never forget her eyes as she watched, like saucers they were, filled with stars and fairy dust and all the magic I remember from when I was a little girl. In that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do. Why, read her Ashputtel of course, a tale which she’s heard at least a half dozen times.

When Christmas morning came, there was a small package finished with glittering gold ribbon addressed to the youngest maiden of the house. And when she opened it up, she squealed with delight to find her very own copy of Disney’s Cinderella.

To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I saw that movie. I’m almost positive I was Jade’s age, or thereabouts. But when she and I sat down later Christmas day to watch it together, from the moment the first note of the overture sounded, I was mesmerized. I remembered all the songs, all the funny little things the mice say, all the magic. Sharing this film with my beautiful girl, at an age when she is more than ready to appreciate it purely as entertainment, well, it was perfect.

She and I have a date to the movie theatre this coming March, and we are so excited we can hardly stand it!