Babies Then, Babies Now

Jennifer told me the baby moved today. I’m pathetically grateful, overreacting to an event that seems normal, even uneventful, to most people. But for us, given my daughter’s precarious health, every movement, every heartbeat, every new millimeter of growth is nothing short of a miracle.

I was 21 years old when Jennifer was born, young for motherhood. I remember announcing the news to my own mother. She was only 42 and, in retrospect, unprepared. Her words, “So soon? Haven’t you heard of birth control?” are forever stamped into my memory bank. To be fair, she turned out to be a devoted grandmother. 

Both my pregnancies were uneventful, the deliveries much easier and faster than expected. There were no ultrasounds or genetic tests in 1973. No one even cautioned me about alcohol. My children were delivered by a family doctor, not a gynecologist and the sex of each was a surprise, discovered after delivery.

Jennifer is 38, not 21. It is 2013, not 1973, and I am, clearly, not my 42-year old mother. Unexpected, embarrassing tears threatened when I heard my grandson’s heartbeat for the first time. I couldn’t speak when the gynecologist asked if I’d ever imagined this day.

The unbelievably long first trimester is over, yet I still agonize before each prenatal visit, hold my breath and pray that all is well when the phone rings late at night and I see Jennifer’s number on my caller ID. Just in case, I make ridiculous bargains with God; please keep Jennifer and her baby healthy and I’ll never ask for anything again, is one of the more common ones.

Four months have passed. Five more to go. Thankfully, the sensitive first trimester is over and I’m beginning to relax…if only just a little.

A New Generation of Men

I’ve been thinking about this new generation of men, those born in the mid-70s and later. They’re different from their fathers and grandfathers. They’re more educated, they know wine, they expect their wives to contribute financially, and they’re hands-on dads. They walk their children to school, attend parent conferences and participate in doctor visits. They cook and clean and take their turns at staying home with a sick child. All good.

However, with all good things, there comes a price. One can only do so much. Sometimes the price is the disappearance of a do-it-yourself competence. More often than not, today’s young men call Triple A to change a blowout or Angie’s List to mend a fence, build a deck, install a skylight.

  My father was old school. He didn’t cook and he didn’t clean. He knew nothing about wine and he never walked us to school, nor did he stay home with us when we were ill. What he did was navigate our road trips, take us sailing, wait up if we came in late and sentence us to weed pulling when he deemed our infractions serious.

He also supported our family and paid our bills. Whatever money my mother earned was hers. He kept up the yard, painted the house, fixed the cars, checked our tires, put up Christmas lights, solved all plumbing and electrical issues and authorized final decisions. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was mighty. In the early years, he held three jobs while earning his degree, a credit, he was quick to point out, to the GI bill. He was the father of daughters, “an incredible piece of luck,” he would say. With the wisdom of Solomon, he administered a gentle justice. There was no doubt in our family that discipline prevailed.

Growing up in a family where father knew best was a gift I didn’t appreciate until I became a parent. The security of having an intact family, of knowing that wouldn’t change, the comfort of being a phone call away from the sane and deliberate response of a man who weighed his words carefully, and with discipline and integrity gave his children a balance, a basic optimism, a belief that, no matter what, the world would eventually right itself.

His insight was priceless and completely different from my mother’s. It was a masculine insight and it, inevitably, awed us into behaviors that have carried us through the hard places. My father died 16 years ago, yet there isn't a day I don't remember his words, words like, "You won't learn anything by listening to yourself talk," or "An education is never wasted. The years will pass anyway. You may as well have something at the end of the journey."

There’s nothing wrong with knowing wine and it’s commendable and convenient for both parents to share roles. But, sometimes, it’s nice to have someone around who can contribute what you can’t.

Paying the Piper

I’ve been negligent, lately, where my blog is concerned. My excuse is I’ve been preparing food, candy and cookies, ham and phyllo-wrapped salmon, green beans with sherried mushrooms, roasted potatoes, caramel-chocolate angel food cake, peppermint bark…you get the picture.

        Now, the New Year is upon us and it’s time to pay the piper which, in my world, means losing the 10 pounds I’ve gained since September. The biggest problem is finding a diet plan I haven’t already used and I’ve used quite a few. Interestingly, they all worked…for a while. You might ask the logical question: why don’t I go back to one that has already been successful? The answer is, I can only endure a diet once.

This year’s weight loss choice is Mark MacDonald’s Body Confidence inspired by his book and subsequent interview on CNN. I like the idea of eating constantly (every 3-4 hours) balanced meals of 250 calories at a time. I’m not crazy about the amount of recommended exercise but I understand that I can no longer eat what I want without moving around more than I like. Fortunately, I live in California and the weather is conducive to outdoor activities. Still, I’m a sedentary person, always have been. I enjoy a walk on the beach now and then (beaches are nice and flat) and I truly look forward to strolling around the mall as long as it includes lunch and spending money but, truthfully, I’d rather read a book, see a movie, take a drive, check my email or talk on the phone than lace up my hiking boots and attempt anything more than a 15% uphill grade.  

I know what you’re thinking: a healthy body weight isn’t a fly-by-night diet plan to be discarded once your ideal weight is achieved. It’s a forever thing, which, in my opinion, if a person loves food, is the most depressing truism imaginable. I simply can’t manage a lifetime of food deprivation. There are those who say that food represents more than just a salve for hunger. It certainly does for me. It’s delicious and satisfying to eat and interesting and creative to prepare. The sharing of food with people we like and love is one of life’s pleasures. What would happen if Christmas came without cookies or candy was no longer a part of Halloween? I, for one, would be traumatized.

I’m actually fortunate as far as body type is concerned. It takes a great many calories before they really show. I’m grateful for my internal switch which doesn’t allow me to eat enough to grow out of my clothes. However, I’ve learned that a person may be thin with not enough lean muscle mass and too much body fat. Which is why, once again, I search, not so much for the perfect diet, but for one I can manage most of the time. Any recommendations are welcome.