I’m Meeeeeeeeeelting

My apartment is an equatorial swamp.

Inside, I lose my sense of time, watching Netflix and reading fiction like I have the flu. Ayla sprawls in the corner, torpid and immobile; every once in a while I glance over to make sure she’s still breathing. The blue ice I press against my neck, the fan, the copious water I drink, bring negligible relief.

My lassitude is self-perpetuating, and I’m feeling like an invalid. But to return my library books, to go to the store for popsicles and watermelon, to walk Ayla, to leave the stifling box that is my home, is too great an effort.

So I slump awkwardly on the couch, neck twisted painfully, nauseous from thirst, though my belly is quivering with water.

At least it’s summer :D

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Yeah, Yeah, I’m Supposed to Be “Glowing”.

My life is no longer my own.

This fragile, needy entity growing inside my body will henceforth circumscribe every part of my existence until I am dead.

Even as I experience physical changes—flesh meeting in unfamiliar places, a new creakiness and frailty in my joints, unaccustomed heaviness and slowness—I’m aware that they’re nothing to the other changes that are imminent.

Insofar as I’ve ever had a stable sense of identity, it’s been wrapped up in feelings of isolation and aloneness that sometimes occasion bitter sadness, but just as often a fierce and exuberant sense of possibility.

Since my family never pressured me to achieve anything more concrete than “happiness,” my disappointment with myself has revolved around my failure to make art, to achieve financial security, to write prolifically enough. Still, I’m fine! I’m not incarcerated or destitute or friendless or miserable. The crushing sense of failure I’ve often experienced has been largely a function of too much time and analysis, too little grace.

From now on, though, things will be different. My failures will have the potential to damage a tender and porous little human for whom I am responsible. It’s terrifying to think of the power I’ll have. I want to purge myself of every particle of dysfunction so as to protect my child and insure that I won’t hurt them. But even if I could accomplish this (and I can’t)—the world will hurt them. How will I cope with that failure?

Even as I reflect on my hopes and fears about parenthood, it still seems very abstract. I don’t feel like a mother yet, and I can’t relate on any level to the women who write gushy letters to their unborn children, signed “mommy,” and accompanied by a photo of a beaming woman next to a cutesy chalkboard illustration of the vegetable or fruit to which her fetus is supposedly comparable in size.

What is not abstract is my feeling of loss. Loss of autonomy, of youth, of the ability to be willfully irresponsible, of aloneness.

Of course, this would all occur sooner or later, with or without children. Maybe the sense of isolation at my core, the origin of which I could never quite determine (was it self-imposed? An intrinsic feature of my character? An indicator of maladjustment? A combination of factors?) is, as much as it feels like an essential part of me, an unwholesome and ultimately poisonous indulgence.

Who knows…

But today, I grieve the loss of the fantasy that I answer only to myself, that I can do anything I want to do at any time, that I can abdicate all responsibility and just disappear. That I can be really, truly, alone.

sad sack selfie

Sunday Morning Danish in the Park

There’s something very fine about getting up early in the morning. But although I love to, I haven’t been in the habit of doing so. My nocturnal work schedule, and the desire to draw out my sleep by staying in bed for as long as possible, meant that, for quite a while now, I’ve been rising late.

This past Sunday, I was up at 7:00. Of course, 7am isn’t all that early for many people. But it’s the crack of dawn for me, and I was excited to revel in the solitary pleasures afforded by being (I was sure) one of the only people up before 9 on a Sunday.

Heading to Café Besalu (pastry Mecca, makers of Seattle’s best croissant) after dropping my partner off at work, I looked forward to buying a perfect pastry without waiting in line. At a little after 8am, there was already a line out the door. Still, it wasn’t snaking down the block, as Sunday Besalu lines tend to do.

besalu

After a modest wait of less than ten minutes, I held in my hand a glowing nectarine danish, its seductively twisted edge and glistening innards beckoning me to take a bite, even though I planned to save it until I got to the park. It was fragrant and flaky and gooey and still a little warm: ecstasy.

my flip-phone capture could not do this beautiful thing justice

                                                  my flip-phone capture could not do it justice.

On to Discovery park, I imagined that my favorite dog-walking zone would be pretty much people-free. As it turned out, though, lots and lots of people are up and about early on Sunday. Apparently, many of them go jogging in Discovery park.

Walking along the south bluff, it was a little disorienting to see so many people running, all in different directions, as if fleeing invisible foes. In my still-sleepy state, their vigor and energy made me a little dizzy.

I sat on a bench overlooking the sound, facing Mt. Ranier in its mist-cloaked glory, and finally ate my danish. Shards of pastry showered my protruding belly, and I was grateful.

Joyous Childbirth Changes the World: A Review

“Women and men are totally different. They are different to the same extent that moles and foxes are different.”

“Women working outside the home have mannish expressions.”

“The coeducation system is a plot hatched by governments and industrial societies… it actually means transforming all girls into boys.”

“Childbirth is the most important process that can enable a woman to become a Mother and a true Woman.”

Were these lines plucked from an ISIS pamphlet on the proper role of women in the Caliphate? A Hassidic dissertation on the impermissibility of educating girls? A Quiverfull tract on women’s jobs as baby factories?

Nope.

They’re straight from Joyous Childbirth Changes the World, by Japanese obstetrician Tadashi Yoshimura. And no, it wasn’t published in 1958: it was published in 2008.

None of this would be terribly surprising if the book were a self-published treatise by a marginal nut-job working in obscurity. The shocking part—the thing that led me to pick up the book in the first place—was a hyperbolic endorsement from the godmother of contemporary midwifery herself, Ina May Gaskin, and from Christiane Northrup, M.D., author of Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom (which—full disclosure—I haven’t read. From what I gather, it seems maybe a little pseudo-sciency, but certainly not at odds with feminism). In a blurb on the cover, Northrup calls the book “A masterpiece of truth and wisdom and hope,” and in her forward, Gaskin compares Yoshimura to Joseph Lister, lauding his “courage and vision.”

Browsing the Ballard library this afternoon, I was looking for something light and easy. I’ve got birth on the brain, and I’m always looking for new insights and information, as well as positive stories about natural, unmedicated childbirth. The title of the book caught my eye: “Hmmm,” I thought. “Joyous Childbirth! Sounds delightful.”

Imagining it would be filled with feel-good anecdotes about the joys and benefits of natural birth, I was shocked to discover, almost immediately upon opening the book, a wackadoodle anti-feminist screed.

While purporting to empower women and wrest them from the oppressive norms of patriarchal society, Yoshimura’s philosophy somehow manages to be simultaneously misogynistic, misandrous, and insulting to anyone with a brain in their head. Which I guess makes sense, given his affection for people without brains: Early in the book, Yoshimura tells the heartwarming story of a baby girl who was born without a brain and went on to “[live] her life as a fully fledged human being… a great life.” (For a couple of hours, anyway.) In reference to the doctors who recommended that her mother get an abortion, he muses, “They were going to kill the baby as something useless, which is exactly what they did in Auschwitz. Doesn’t this mean that modern medical science is the same as Auschwitz?” (Emphasis mine. Resounding *splat* of jaw hitting floor, also mine.)

According to Yoshimura, the only way to become a “true Woman” is to experience natural birth with no interventions. Women who have not given birth, or who have experienced a caesarian or other intervention, are not, therefore, “true” women. Similarly, the experience of birth is supposed to make previously hard, intimidating, “masculine” women more feminine. (Yoshimura isn’t shy in asserting that “Women should be feminine, men should be masculine.” About men who “obey their bosses pliantly, content simply to receive a paycheck,” he wonders: “Can such a prideless man father a child? Can he make a woman pregnant?” Given that the ability to produce viable sperm isn’t exclusive to mercenaries and Bering Sea fishermen, my money’s on “yes.”)

Here are a few more gems:

“Only in giving up our lives for women, will we become men… If you cannot give birth to a baby by yourself… I wonder if you deserve to have a man give up his life for you.”

“The purpose of the female sex is to generate, nurture, and bequeath life.”

“…women in their natural state cannot adapt to male society, so men established the coeducation system to masculinize women. Without masculinizing women and forcing them to work, modern society couldn’t work.”

“Pregnant women must not work.”

There is so, so much more… but I have to stop before my head explodes. (Stress isn’t good for pregnant women.)

How did this retrograde claptrap even get published? How did it end up in the Ballard library? And what the actual fuck were Ina May Gaskin and Christiane Northrup—luminaries in women’s health and staunch advocates for women’s self-determination (or so I imagined)—thinking when they put their stamp of approval on such pernicious nonsense?

I happen to agree with a few of of the book’s key contentions: that vigorous physical activity is good for pregnant women, that natural, unmedicated birth with minimal intervention is the ideal, that childbirth has become over-medicalized. But the bulk of it is such patently ridiculous twaddle that I would laugh, if only it weren’t so resoundingly offensive.

On a scale from “blissed-out water-birth in a crystalline stream surrounded by chirping finches” to “three-day-long, heavily medicated labor” I give this book a rating of “retching into a bedpan after a botched epidural while confined to a hospital bed and catheterized.”

that cover art! guess your head would HAVE to be askew to swallow this baloney.

that cover art! guess your head would HAVE to be askew to swallow this garbage.

Summer Bread Baking: Part 2

The loaves weren’t ready to go into the oven until about 11pm last night… which meant hastily pulling them out once they were done and letting them cool on the counter overnight.

In addition to three large loaves, I got four rolls and a mini-pretzel-shaped bread out of the dough. I used two of the rolls for dinner, filled with veggie sausage, sauteed onions, mustard and homemade sauerkraut. The bread ended up being too hearty and dense for this application – but it will make great sandwiches and toast!

This morning, in my addled, just-awakened state, I hustled two of the three loaves into the freezer before I remembered to photograph them. Hence, I got pics of only one post-oven.

I’m looking forward to having homemade bread to eat, at least for a couple of weeks!IMG_3619

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Summer Bread Baking: Part 1

Summer is my favorite season. Tomatoes, berries, stone-fruit, salad, cold wine, days that stretch from 5am to 10pm (at least in the Pacific Northwest), bare skin, swimming, barbecues, sunshine. I’d rather be hot than cold; I’ll take sweaty and sluggish over frost-nipped and shivering any day.

me ayla ice cream

And yet, this year, it’s a little more challenging: As of today, June 12th, 2015, I’m 30 weeks pregnant (that’s 7-and-a-half months for you non-preggos). I’m bigger than I have ever been in my life, my blood-volume has almost doubled, everything is hard. And I am hot.

Opening the three windows that actually open in my apartment doesn’t accomplish much beyond letting in the aromas of vehicle exhaust and my neighbor’s overflowing ashtray, baking in the sun. At night, I’m down to just a sheet, promptly kicked off.

The upshot of this is that I really, really don’t want to turn on the oven. This is problematic, since my summer diet is fairly sandwich-centric, and I’m getting really sick of mediocre store-bought bread. Don’t get me wrong: Seattle is replete with good bakeries. But nice bread is expensive, I’m more squeamish about dumpster-diving in my present condition, and the artisanal hearth-loaves that make such exquisite toast often fall short when it comes to sandwich-making.

When I looked at the weather forecast (which I do obsessively) and discovered that today was only supposed to hit 68 degrees, I jumped at the chance to make bread.

sponge

Bread baking, unlike many other kinds of baking, is not an exact science. I relish the opportunity to add a little of this, a little of that, and to vary my rise times. Today, I decided to make a large batch, fermented in several stages. I started with a wet sponge: a couple quarts of lukewarm water, a mix of all purpose and whole wheat flours, and about 1 ½ teaspoons of yeast. I let that sit for a couple of hours until it was bubbly, then added more flour, ground flax seeds, and salt. I kneaded the resulting dough to smooth elasticity while listening to an archived episode of This American Life.

i love flax seeds

dough

kneading

Lacking a bowl large enough to let the dough rise, I resorted to a stock pot; miraculously, it fit in the fridge. (I wanted to keep the dough cold to allow for a long, slow rise in order to develop more flavor—and so I could hold off on baking until nightfall!)

IMG_3614

IMG_3616

I’m going to proof and bake my loaves later this evening. Heck, as long as the oven’s on, maybe I’ll even make a pie…

Hi, Bots!

Who knows how many of this blog’s followers are bots? Quite a few, most likely, but I’m disinclined to sift through and count.

When I get a notification that “X is now following your blog,” X is often (ostensibly) a young woman, comely in a mild, girl-next-door sort of way. At first, I assume she’s a real person—and am often disabused of this notion once I visit her profile. “Her” blog may have a name like “How to Make 100K a Year Blogging,” and feature posts with titles like “The 10 Keys to Personal Power,” “Becoming a Person of Influence,” and “Getting Rich is Easy,” accompanied by pictures of gloating, middle-aged white men. I wonder if these women even know that their pictures are attached to scammy websites. I also wonder who’s actually taken in by “unlimitedprofits.com” and “your50Kformula.com.”

Like most people, I would love to be rich. Or, more accurately, to have enough money not to fret about my family’s healthcare needs, to send my as-yet-still-gestating child to college (assuming they want to go), and to travel. So, I guess my aspirations are actually pretty modest.

But I’m under no illusions that I’m going to make money by monetizing my blog. I suppose it’s a remote possibility—but the path I envision to writing success certainly doesn’t entail following the advice of Internet wealth gurus whose claims blend New-Agey self-help-speak with Randian bronomics.

So I’m just going to keep doing what I do, unburdened by the quixotic illusion that writing about nothing in particular and posting pictures of my ridiculous self-administered haircuts will somehow be remunerative.

awesome new earrings: baleen (http://shopbaleen.com)/"meh" new haircut: me

awesome new earrings: baleen (http://shopbaleen.com) “meh” new haircut: me