Sorry for my recent silence—we just returned from nine days upstate New York. We spent the first week at my aunt’s cabin in the Adirondacks, then drove down to the Catskills for my closest friend’s wedding.
There is nothing like leaving the Twin Cities and the day-to-day grind of life to put things back in perspective for me. My aunt’s cabin, which is on Indian Lake in the Adirondacks, is second only to my mom’s cabin on my list of favorite places. I love the deep, cold lake and the way the green mountains seem to rise straight up from its dark waters. I love the long, steep walk back to the cabin after being down at the lake. I love making hearty soups in her tiny kitchen and eating out on the deck in the chill of evening under tall trees. I love that there is no cell phone coverage or internet access.
Stella spent the days paddling around on her kick board with floaties on her arms and Zoë was happy as a clam as long as she was in the Baby Björn and moving. Though the days were sometimes long, it was wonderful to be together as a whole family and not have to worry about juggling the two kids on my own.
The wedding was here, and it was lovely. Claire and I have been best friends since 7th grade, so prior to the weekend, I spent some time thinking about all the things we have experienced together over the last twenty-some years and how integral her friendship has been in shaping who I am. Together we shared in the silliness of early adolescence, the challenges of high school and college and the huge changes of early adulthood. Our friendship has not always been an easy one, but it has proved strong enough to weather the challenging times, and for that I am extremely grateful. She is so dear to me, and I was so happy to be a part of her marriage to Ed, whom I also love.
My gratitude for my family and my friends has helped make me feel so much calmer as I re-enter daily life. I’m trying to be more deliberate about when I will work and when I will just play, and be more realistic about how much I can accomplish with my writing. (We’ll see if I can sustain this more balanced perspective.)
But I also want to give a shout out to all of you, my more recent friends. I am so grateful for your words and for these friendships that have blossomed over the internet. Thank you!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Thursday, July 3, 2008
grateful
I’ve been feeling so stretched lately—juggling the two girls and work and life. D has been working long days, and sometimes I feel like screaming. (I did, in fact, scream in the car the other day when Zoë was wailing and Stella was whining. I just screamed, and I scared the sh*t out of Stella with my outburst. A really proud moment for me.)
Luckily, we got away to my mom’s cabin last weekend—all four of us! I spent months there every summer as a child, and it’s still one of my favorite places. Stella loves it as much as I do, and she was so excited. She chattered the WHOLE WAY (4 hours) up there, asking, “Are we there yet? How much farther? When are we going to get there?”
I went running a couple of times, read a little and napped. Monday morning was gorgeous. D and I sat on the dock drinking coffee as Stella threw pieces of bread into the lake for the sunfish. (Zoë was up at the cabin being bounced by grandma.) It was breezy, and I just lay on my back, listening to the rustling of the Aspen trees, their leaves waving in the blue blue sky like a thousand tiny hands.
Then D and Stella and I went for a canoe ride and saw two bald eagles perched in an oak tree. One flew off as we approached, but the other sat there, head tilted to the side, watching us paddle around the point. A bald eagle never fails to make me draw breath. I can’t get over the fact there were so few of them—I never saw even one in Minnesota as I was growing up—and now I can canoe 100 feet away from one.
I didn’t have a chance to pick up any of the wonderful novels you suggested, so I took up a book that has long been on my shelf: Before and After Zachariah by Fern Kupfer. It is a memoir about what happens to Kupfer and her family when her son, Zachariah, is born severely brain-damaged. It’s heartbreaking. But that doesn’t even begin to describe it. As I read, there was a jabbing pain in my chest, and I felt, quite literally, as if my heart were breaking.
As you know from the books I discuss here, I love honesty. I have so much respect for a writer who writes the hard truth, even when this truth may cast her in a less than flattering light. Kupfer is not afraid to put it all out there—the anger, the sadness, the way that Zachariah’s condition wreaked havoc on her family. She’s not afraid of writing anything (or so it seems), and for this, I respect her tremendously.
At two years, four months, Zachariah is institutionalized. He cannot walk or stand or sit or talk. He cannot hold up his head. His developmental abilities are that of an infant. He cries constantly, only ceases when he is being held and rocked. Kupfer and her husband pass him back and forth, becoming more and more distant and angry with each other. For years they don’t get answers from the medical community to their long list of scary questions.
She writes: “There is a part of me that unequivocally rejects Zach, rejects who and what he is, as part that turns from him, even as I hold him in my arms, delighted to feel his breath against my neck, to kiss his face.”
She writes: “I’m not sure anything we’ve done for Zach has really helped him—I know it hasn’t in any significant way. What has helped me more than anything else has been talking to other women who have handicapped children, a cruel common denominator that cuts across the divisions of economics, of education, of social class.”
She writes: “Often I’m angry at strangers. Dull, sloppy women in supermarkets blithely wheeling their normal kids. Sometimes any woman with normal kids seems to me carelessly unaware of her good fortune. Last summer in Virginia I was sitting with Jan, Eddie and Zach in their strollers, waiting to go into the therapy room. Across the room a woman was chasing a toddler who looked teasingly over his shoulder as he ran, shrieking with delight. But she meant business. When she caught him, she smacked his behind several times until his giggles turned to tears. “Stay put,” she commended, putting him down in a chair, “and don’t move. Don’t you ever move.” Jan and I sat looking at our children. Jan turned to me with clenched teeth: “I feel like shaking her,” she said.”
This book once again confirms for me the need to respect people’s lived experiences. There are those who judged the Kupfers for institutionalizing Zach. But how can anyone judge her, them, when they didn’t live their lives, didn’t survive the day-to-day with Zach and his many needs?
Some of the most heartbreaking parts of the book for me were the scenes with Zach’s older sister, Gabi. How faithfully she loved him, how graceful she was, at age five, when all of the attention was focused on Zach. At one point she says to her mother, “I’m just feeling very hostile toward Zach…I think he gets entirely too much attention around here. He’s all you ever talk about. Sometimes I just feeling like yelling, ‘You dumb baby, you stupid-liar-dumb baby.’”
Kupfer agrees to let Gabi yell that to him the next morning, but the next morning, when Zach wakes crying, Gabi calls her mother instead: “He needs you.” When Kupfer asks Gabi if she wants to yell at him, she says, “’No, I don’t feel like it anymore.” Then thoughtfully, ‘Maybe just telling you was enough.’”
This book was first published in 1982, and reprinted in 1988 and 1998, so the language she uses to describe her son’s condition is not the language most people in the special needs community would use today, but I hope no one will hold this against her.
Near the end of the book, Fern Kupfer addresses her readers: “Those of you who are reading this and have normal children, those whiney miracles, fall to your knees by their bedsides; let gratitude burn forever in your breast, an eternal pilot light.”
I promise, Fern, to be grateful. I promise not to scream in the car anymore. I promise to think of Zach each time I begin to complain about my hectic life with two healthy kids.
Luckily, we got away to my mom’s cabin last weekend—all four of us! I spent months there every summer as a child, and it’s still one of my favorite places. Stella loves it as much as I do, and she was so excited. She chattered the WHOLE WAY (4 hours) up there, asking, “Are we there yet? How much farther? When are we going to get there?”
I went running a couple of times, read a little and napped. Monday morning was gorgeous. D and I sat on the dock drinking coffee as Stella threw pieces of bread into the lake for the sunfish. (Zoë was up at the cabin being bounced by grandma.) It was breezy, and I just lay on my back, listening to the rustling of the Aspen trees, their leaves waving in the blue blue sky like a thousand tiny hands.
Then D and Stella and I went for a canoe ride and saw two bald eagles perched in an oak tree. One flew off as we approached, but the other sat there, head tilted to the side, watching us paddle around the point. A bald eagle never fails to make me draw breath. I can’t get over the fact there were so few of them—I never saw even one in Minnesota as I was growing up—and now I can canoe 100 feet away from one.
I didn’t have a chance to pick up any of the wonderful novels you suggested, so I took up a book that has long been on my shelf: Before and After Zachariah by Fern Kupfer. It is a memoir about what happens to Kupfer and her family when her son, Zachariah, is born severely brain-damaged. It’s heartbreaking. But that doesn’t even begin to describe it. As I read, there was a jabbing pain in my chest, and I felt, quite literally, as if my heart were breaking.
As you know from the books I discuss here, I love honesty. I have so much respect for a writer who writes the hard truth, even when this truth may cast her in a less than flattering light. Kupfer is not afraid to put it all out there—the anger, the sadness, the way that Zachariah’s condition wreaked havoc on her family. She’s not afraid of writing anything (or so it seems), and for this, I respect her tremendously.
At two years, four months, Zachariah is institutionalized. He cannot walk or stand or sit or talk. He cannot hold up his head. His developmental abilities are that of an infant. He cries constantly, only ceases when he is being held and rocked. Kupfer and her husband pass him back and forth, becoming more and more distant and angry with each other. For years they don’t get answers from the medical community to their long list of scary questions.
She writes: “There is a part of me that unequivocally rejects Zach, rejects who and what he is, as part that turns from him, even as I hold him in my arms, delighted to feel his breath against my neck, to kiss his face.”
She writes: “I’m not sure anything we’ve done for Zach has really helped him—I know it hasn’t in any significant way. What has helped me more than anything else has been talking to other women who have handicapped children, a cruel common denominator that cuts across the divisions of economics, of education, of social class.”
She writes: “Often I’m angry at strangers. Dull, sloppy women in supermarkets blithely wheeling their normal kids. Sometimes any woman with normal kids seems to me carelessly unaware of her good fortune. Last summer in Virginia I was sitting with Jan, Eddie and Zach in their strollers, waiting to go into the therapy room. Across the room a woman was chasing a toddler who looked teasingly over his shoulder as he ran, shrieking with delight. But she meant business. When she caught him, she smacked his behind several times until his giggles turned to tears. “Stay put,” she commended, putting him down in a chair, “and don’t move. Don’t you ever move.” Jan and I sat looking at our children. Jan turned to me with clenched teeth: “I feel like shaking her,” she said.”
This book once again confirms for me the need to respect people’s lived experiences. There are those who judged the Kupfers for institutionalizing Zach. But how can anyone judge her, them, when they didn’t live their lives, didn’t survive the day-to-day with Zach and his many needs?
Some of the most heartbreaking parts of the book for me were the scenes with Zach’s older sister, Gabi. How faithfully she loved him, how graceful she was, at age five, when all of the attention was focused on Zach. At one point she says to her mother, “I’m just feeling very hostile toward Zach…I think he gets entirely too much attention around here. He’s all you ever talk about. Sometimes I just feeling like yelling, ‘You dumb baby, you stupid-liar-dumb baby.’”
Kupfer agrees to let Gabi yell that to him the next morning, but the next morning, when Zach wakes crying, Gabi calls her mother instead: “He needs you.” When Kupfer asks Gabi if she wants to yell at him, she says, “’No, I don’t feel like it anymore.” Then thoughtfully, ‘Maybe just telling you was enough.’”
This book was first published in 1982, and reprinted in 1988 and 1998, so the language she uses to describe her son’s condition is not the language most people in the special needs community would use today, but I hope no one will hold this against her.
Near the end of the book, Fern Kupfer addresses her readers: “Those of you who are reading this and have normal children, those whiney miracles, fall to your knees by their bedsides; let gratitude burn forever in your breast, an eternal pilot light.”
I promise, Fern, to be grateful. I promise not to scream in the car anymore. I promise to think of Zach each time I begin to complain about my hectic life with two healthy kids.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
upcoming workshops and classes
After six months off from teaching, I am anxious to get back into the classroom. I'm craving that moment in class when a student realizes her writing is going in a direction she didn't expect. I love being a part of that excitement and discovery.
I have two classes coming up this summer/fall:
Writing Family - Jackpine Writers' Bloc
August 2, 1-4:30 pm
Park Rapids, MN
Click here to learn more or to register.
Mother Words - The Loft Literary Center, Minneapolis
Thursdays, 1-3 pm, September 18 - December 18
Click here to learn more.
Please pass the word.
I have two classes coming up this summer/fall:
Writing Family - Jackpine Writers' Bloc
August 2, 1-4:30 pm
Park Rapids, MN
Click here to learn more or to register.
Mother Words - The Loft Literary Center, Minneapolis
Thursdays, 1-3 pm, September 18 - December 18
Click here to learn more.
Please pass the word.
Friday, June 20, 2008
interview
I was interviewed by Miranda over at creative construction. Check it out and read the other recent artist interviews!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
firsts
It was a big week for us. D and I went on our first date in six months, Zoë pooped for the first time in four days, and Stella has her first loose tooth!
D and I haven’t been out together—just the two of us—since I was about six months pregnant. But Friday it was my birthday, and we desperately needed some alone time, so we put Stella to bed and I nursed Zoë until she was about to explode. Then we passed Zoë off to my mom, and ran out the door.
It was a beautiful evening—70 degrees and sunny—and it felt as though we were playing hooky. We drove to our favorite restaurant, the one where, a decade ago, we fell in love over bottles of wine and thin-crust pizza and crème brûlée. At that time, D was still playing soccer and I was waiting tables, so we would meet there after work two or three nights a week. (This was, clearly, pre- mortgage and car payments and house repairs.) The restaurant hasn’t changed, but going there sometimes makes me realize how much our lives have changed.
When we were seated, I placed my cell phone on the table and willed it not to ring. (Zoë still refuses to take a bottle, and when she’s hungry and I’m not there, she cries as if she’s being tortured.)
We ordered a bottle of wine and sat back, slowly remembering what it felt like to relax together. It was a lovely evening and the food was amazing. I started with a cup tomato and fennel soup and then had the most wonderful smoked chicken risotto with peas and some kind of demi glace. I haven’t eaten food like that—with flavors that mingle perfectly—in so, so long.
And the best part: no calls from my mom. When we got home, Zoë was sleeping soundly in grandma’s arms. Hallelujah!
The other big news (other than Zoë finally pooping after four days) is that Stella has a loose tooth. We were at the dentist on Monday, and I casually asked the hygienist when kids start loosing their teeth. (I obviously remember nothing from my own childhood.)
“Oh, about five or six,” she said. But then she started checking Stella’s teeth, and said, “Oh, she’s got one!”
Her front left tooth has got a little wiggle in it.
Stella smiled proudly and I got tears in my eyes. If she’s loosing teeth, it means she’s going to be a teenager in like, four minutes, no? I immediately flashed forward to braces and pink hair and her begging for some kind of body piercing.
But she was so excited! The whole way home, she kept asking, “Is it this one, mama? Is this the loose one?”
She wanted me to tell her friends about it the next morning at pre-school because she thought she might forget which one it was, but as soon as we got there, she dashed over to them on her own. I heard her say, “You guys, guess what? Guess what?! I have a loose tooth!” Her little friends all gathered around her to witness the almost imperceptible movement. Stella beamed.
These little things—a date, a tooth, and an overdo poop—have made me smile this week.
But now I need a really good novel. I’m craving a sweep-me-away kind of novel, one I won’t want to put down. Any recommendations?
D and I haven’t been out together—just the two of us—since I was about six months pregnant. But Friday it was my birthday, and we desperately needed some alone time, so we put Stella to bed and I nursed Zoë until she was about to explode. Then we passed Zoë off to my mom, and ran out the door.
It was a beautiful evening—70 degrees and sunny—and it felt as though we were playing hooky. We drove to our favorite restaurant, the one where, a decade ago, we fell in love over bottles of wine and thin-crust pizza and crème brûlée. At that time, D was still playing soccer and I was waiting tables, so we would meet there after work two or three nights a week. (This was, clearly, pre- mortgage and car payments and house repairs.) The restaurant hasn’t changed, but going there sometimes makes me realize how much our lives have changed.
When we were seated, I placed my cell phone on the table and willed it not to ring. (Zoë still refuses to take a bottle, and when she’s hungry and I’m not there, she cries as if she’s being tortured.)
We ordered a bottle of wine and sat back, slowly remembering what it felt like to relax together. It was a lovely evening and the food was amazing. I started with a cup tomato and fennel soup and then had the most wonderful smoked chicken risotto with peas and some kind of demi glace. I haven’t eaten food like that—with flavors that mingle perfectly—in so, so long.
And the best part: no calls from my mom. When we got home, Zoë was sleeping soundly in grandma’s arms. Hallelujah!
The other big news (other than Zoë finally pooping after four days) is that Stella has a loose tooth. We were at the dentist on Monday, and I casually asked the hygienist when kids start loosing their teeth. (I obviously remember nothing from my own childhood.)
“Oh, about five or six,” she said. But then she started checking Stella’s teeth, and said, “Oh, she’s got one!”
Her front left tooth has got a little wiggle in it.
Stella smiled proudly and I got tears in my eyes. If she’s loosing teeth, it means she’s going to be a teenager in like, four minutes, no? I immediately flashed forward to braces and pink hair and her begging for some kind of body piercing.
But she was so excited! The whole way home, she kept asking, “Is it this one, mama? Is this the loose one?”
She wanted me to tell her friends about it the next morning at pre-school because she thought she might forget which one it was, but as soon as we got there, she dashed over to them on her own. I heard her say, “You guys, guess what? Guess what?! I have a loose tooth!” Her little friends all gathered around her to witness the almost imperceptible movement. Stella beamed.
These little things—a date, a tooth, and an overdo poop—have made me smile this week.
But now I need a really good novel. I’m craving a sweep-me-away kind of novel, one I won’t want to put down. Any recommendations?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
a discovery
I just made it through another five-day stint as a single mom, which I hope explains my recent silence. Stella is also on a reduced pre-school schedule this month, so I have even less time to sneak away to my computer. When to blog? When to blog?
When D is gone, it’s the extra sleep that I miss the most (other than just missing him, of course). Stella is an early riser—she always has been—and when I’ve been up with Zoe in the night, it’s utterly painful to be dragged downstairs before 6 a.m. Strong decaf just doesn’t cut it anymore. I’m a morning person, so it’s a serious problem when I’m dragging and it’s not yet 7 a.m. It can only go downhill from there.
But now D is back, and though I don’t feel rested, exactly, I do feel calmer. He’s always had this affect on me. Just after he and I began dating, one of my closest friends was in town for a visit. We were out at a bar and I had my undies in a bunch about something or other. But when D arrived, my friend later told me, I instantly relaxed. (She actually said, "It was remarkable.") So even though he’s super busy right now and working crazy hours, just having him home makes me feel more settled.
On Sunday, after we got home from the airport, he went outside to start the grill and play with Stella—she likes to be pulled around the yard in her sled, which they were jumping off a soccer ball. (You’d have to see it to understand what I mean.) Zoe was sleeping in her car seat, so I settled myself on the porch with Best American Essays of 2004. I’ve been slowly making my way through the volumes, looking for a little inspiration to help me with an essay that’s in my head but not so much down on paper.
Well, I got to the very end of the volume and began reading Cynthia Zarin’s “An Enlarged Heart.” I didn’t remember this essay, and in fact, after a few paragraphs it was clear I had never read it. How could this be? I’m religious about this series; I read the latest volume every year during the days after Christmas when we are up at my mom’s cabin. But in 2004, Stella was just one (and very busy) and I was finishing up my MFA and under deadline to get thesis pages to one of my readers. That’s my excuse. It’s all I got.
The problem is that I have insisted that in twenty years of Best American Essays, only one motherhood essay has been featured: Penny Wolfson’s “Moonrise.” But I was wrong. Zarin’s essay is about her daughter contracting Kawaski disease while they are vacationing in Cape Cod. Her prose is tight—perfect—and her voice absolutely engaging. It reminded me a little of Lorrie Moore’s in “People Like That Are the Only People Here.”
I don’t like to be wrong. But in this case, I’m glad I was. I like Zarin’s writing so much that I’m going to order some of her poetry. Here are two poems I found online. She has three collections: The Swordfish Tooth, Fire Lyric, and The Watercourse. Now the only question is which one should I read first?
When D is gone, it’s the extra sleep that I miss the most (other than just missing him, of course). Stella is an early riser—she always has been—and when I’ve been up with Zoe in the night, it’s utterly painful to be dragged downstairs before 6 a.m. Strong decaf just doesn’t cut it anymore. I’m a morning person, so it’s a serious problem when I’m dragging and it’s not yet 7 a.m. It can only go downhill from there.
But now D is back, and though I don’t feel rested, exactly, I do feel calmer. He’s always had this affect on me. Just after he and I began dating, one of my closest friends was in town for a visit. We were out at a bar and I had my undies in a bunch about something or other. But when D arrived, my friend later told me, I instantly relaxed. (She actually said, "It was remarkable.") So even though he’s super busy right now and working crazy hours, just having him home makes me feel more settled.
On Sunday, after we got home from the airport, he went outside to start the grill and play with Stella—she likes to be pulled around the yard in her sled, which they were jumping off a soccer ball. (You’d have to see it to understand what I mean.) Zoe was sleeping in her car seat, so I settled myself on the porch with Best American Essays of 2004. I’ve been slowly making my way through the volumes, looking for a little inspiration to help me with an essay that’s in my head but not so much down on paper.
Well, I got to the very end of the volume and began reading Cynthia Zarin’s “An Enlarged Heart.” I didn’t remember this essay, and in fact, after a few paragraphs it was clear I had never read it. How could this be? I’m religious about this series; I read the latest volume every year during the days after Christmas when we are up at my mom’s cabin. But in 2004, Stella was just one (and very busy) and I was finishing up my MFA and under deadline to get thesis pages to one of my readers. That’s my excuse. It’s all I got.
The problem is that I have insisted that in twenty years of Best American Essays, only one motherhood essay has been featured: Penny Wolfson’s “Moonrise.” But I was wrong. Zarin’s essay is about her daughter contracting Kawaski disease while they are vacationing in Cape Cod. Her prose is tight—perfect—and her voice absolutely engaging. It reminded me a little of Lorrie Moore’s in “People Like That Are the Only People Here.”
I don’t like to be wrong. But in this case, I’m glad I was. I like Zarin’s writing so much that I’m going to order some of her poetry. Here are two poems I found online. She has three collections: The Swordfish Tooth, Fire Lyric, and The Watercourse. Now the only question is which one should I read first?
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
two sisters, two winners
My dear sisters didn't follow my directions. They were supposed to read the haiku entries, then confer and choose a winner. But they each chose a winner, so now I have two winners of the first Mother Words haiku contest. (Not such a bad thing--I loved all of them!)
The winners are: Emmie and Soon to Be First Time Mom
Emmie wrote:
OK - had two bad bouts of mastitis and several plugged ducts. The "dangle feed" (nursing while leaning over the baby, best done on a bed or on the floor) saved me from more bouts of actual mastitis, as did aggressive self-massage. I always remember my OB saying, as she noticed the angry red line on my breast, "well, this is the kind of thing that used to sometimes kill you before antibiotics". Anyway, here goes - true story, never since discussed, thankfully:
Feed with dangling breast
Good for mastitis, they say
Dad-in-law walks in
Soon to Be First Time Mom wrote:
Expectant Haiku....
Thirty-two weeks now,
Reflux: Used to seem quite bad
Posts arouse New Fears
Here are the comments from my sisters:
Rachel said:
Wow, these haikus were truly funny to read, and I'm a big fan of funny haikus. Nothing funny about mastitis while in its evil throes, but it does tend to make for good stories later - both in giving a lighter slant to the dark hours of breastfeeding, and in highlighting the strength of women in their journey through motherhood. You don't know me, but I'm Kate's younger sister, Rachel. I had some raging mastitis that set in exactly 1 week after I gave birth to my son. My favorite memory is Kate coming over to visit me after I went to the doctor for antibiotics. I've memorialized this visit with a haiku of my own:
Let me see, she says
Almost vomits in her mouth
Does it look that bad????
Anyway, it's difficult for me to be a judge...first, because I'm no expert on haikus; and second, because I have a hard time making decisions. But, if I had to choose just one, my vote goes to: Emmie. The image of your father-in-law walking in on you gave me a hearty laugh!
Sara said:
Hi everyone. I'm Kate's older sister Sara. I'm the sister who has never had mastitis. I am also not a mother and not pregnant, but I'm definitely neurotic, so should I become pregnant at any point in the future I am very, very afraid I might get mastitis (among a long list of other fears). I therefore have to throw my vote to the "expectant haiku." In particular, I would like to applaud the use of capital letters with respect to New Fears. Because my youngest sister Rachel and I have split our votes, I will leave it to Kate to determine an equitable means for awarding the gift certificate. I enjoyed reading all the entries!
Emmie and Soon to Be First Time Mom will each receive a $10 amazon gift card. I have Emmie's address, but Soon to Be First Time Mom, will you please send me your address (to katehopper [at] msn [dot] com)?
Thanks to all of you who posted your haikus.
The winners are: Emmie and Soon to Be First Time Mom
Emmie wrote:
OK - had two bad bouts of mastitis and several plugged ducts. The "dangle feed" (nursing while leaning over the baby, best done on a bed or on the floor) saved me from more bouts of actual mastitis, as did aggressive self-massage. I always remember my OB saying, as she noticed the angry red line on my breast, "well, this is the kind of thing that used to sometimes kill you before antibiotics". Anyway, here goes - true story, never since discussed, thankfully:
Feed with dangling breast
Good for mastitis, they say
Dad-in-law walks in
Soon to Be First Time Mom wrote:
Expectant Haiku....
Thirty-two weeks now,
Reflux: Used to seem quite bad
Posts arouse New Fears
Here are the comments from my sisters:
Rachel said:
Wow, these haikus were truly funny to read, and I'm a big fan of funny haikus. Nothing funny about mastitis while in its evil throes, but it does tend to make for good stories later - both in giving a lighter slant to the dark hours of breastfeeding, and in highlighting the strength of women in their journey through motherhood. You don't know me, but I'm Kate's younger sister, Rachel. I had some raging mastitis that set in exactly 1 week after I gave birth to my son. My favorite memory is Kate coming over to visit me after I went to the doctor for antibiotics. I've memorialized this visit with a haiku of my own:
Let me see, she says
Almost vomits in her mouth
Does it look that bad????
Anyway, it's difficult for me to be a judge...first, because I'm no expert on haikus; and second, because I have a hard time making decisions. But, if I had to choose just one, my vote goes to: Emmie. The image of your father-in-law walking in on you gave me a hearty laugh!
Sara said:
Hi everyone. I'm Kate's older sister Sara. I'm the sister who has never had mastitis. I am also not a mother and not pregnant, but I'm definitely neurotic, so should I become pregnant at any point in the future I am very, very afraid I might get mastitis (among a long list of other fears). I therefore have to throw my vote to the "expectant haiku." In particular, I would like to applaud the use of capital letters with respect to New Fears. Because my youngest sister Rachel and I have split our votes, I will leave it to Kate to determine an equitable means for awarding the gift certificate. I enjoyed reading all the entries!
Emmie and Soon to Be First Time Mom will each receive a $10 amazon gift card. I have Emmie's address, but Soon to Be First Time Mom, will you please send me your address (to katehopper [at] msn [dot] com)?
Thanks to all of you who posted your haikus.
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