Katy Rank Lev

I’m off the Vicodin now, which means my head is out of the fog enough to really mind all this sitting on the couch while my mom and husband and in-laws zoom around the house cleaning/cooking/tending Miles. Taking it easy enough to get well is really the very hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

Sometimes, I get all inspired and think I can take Miles for a walk around the block independently and then make smoothies, but my body reminds me that this is a terrible idea. I need to rein in my brain and really let my body heal, because any more snags means a longer period of time I can’t take care of these 2 little people who depend on me so much. The stakes are high, here!

When I went to Magee for a follow-up check, the midwife on duty was really helpful in offering some perspective when I was lamenting all of this recovering. She was pointing out how most cultures around the world totally mother new mothers for three months, regardless of how smooth their births are. She talked about patients from other countries whose mothers fly in and take over, how the new mothers are expected to lie in a bed and nurse the baby while family and friends take care of EVERYTHING else. For months! It helped me to feel better thinking that this practice is normative around the world.

Although it’s still extremely challenging to be Type A and unable to put away my groceries myself.

Today, I’m allowed to drive again, but I didn’t experiment with that. Instead, we loaded up both kids and 2 grandparents to head to Costco, where I wore Felix and dictated what I wanted to go in the cart. And then I just climbed into the car with Felix while everyone else unloaded the cart, brought the groceries into the house…you get the picture. It’s surreal!

The good news is I’m totally caught up on Game of Thrones, Glee, and Mad Men. Also? At Felix’s check-up, he had gained 8 ounces in 7 days. That’s like getting a gold star. I am so, so, so proud of the way nursing is working out this time because Miles and I got off to a really slow and complicated beginning.

Perhaps there is a connection between the ways other cultures mother new mothers and the rates of breastfeeding longevity, because it’s pretty easy to nurse my baby’s face off when there is truly nothing else I’m supposed to be doing.

My goal is to keep working hard at not doing anything but nurse so we can go to my hometown for my father’s 60th birthday party. At this rate, I’m pretty confident we’ll make it! If you need me in the mean time, I’ll be surfing the Internet with one hand while an increasingly chubby baby gets fat on my lap.

My little sister buys most of her gifts for me at Ross. Usually, it’s something frou-frou that makes me roll my eyes before I hide the gift in the bathroom cupboard. At some point, she bought me lavender bath salts that I ended up using through the last weeks of my pregnancy for the daily baths I had to take to stop the practice waves. When I dug out the bath salts, I noticed the scented, weighted eye mask, but left it in there. Because who uses a prissy eye mask?

Not long into my hospital stay, I realized the staff was not going to ever, ever let me get any sleep. That room door opened every half hour as they checked my vitals, Felix’s vitals, my IVs, my dressings, felt my incision, emptied my trash, wiggled Felix’s hips, squeezed my legs, made me pee, told me to get some sleep.

I remembered that prissy eye mask. I’m now unable to sleep without it.

Can we talk about how lovely it is to put a scented, weighted eye mask over your face to block out light? The scent is relaxing. The weight makes it hard to open my eyes, which makes it easier to fall asleep. Even though my infant wakes up every 90 minutes or so to nurse (hoping this stretches out longer soon!), I sleep like a log for that 90 minutes, whether the morning sun is streaming into my face or a nurse holding a flashlight is jiggling me awake to ask me again when I’m going to give Felix a bath.

I plan to take the mask on airplane flights, insist upon having it for any sort of hospital stay that might be in my future, maybe even bring it along for long car trips so I can sleep in the passenger seat. Heck, I might go to Ross and buy up a bunch of them, because I know they weren’t expensive. Because it’s Ross. I can keep one in the diaper bag, one in the glove box, three by my night stand.

The morals here are to 1. never throw away a frou-frou gift from your sister, even if you think it’s ridiculous and 2. always take a prissy eye mask along when you have to stay overnight at the hospital.

I wrote before that I was upset to not see my placenta after Miles’ birth. I felt a loss of closure and also this sense of anger that someone took something of mine and threw it in the garbage without permission. So it was very important to me this time to SEE my placenta and I also wanted to take it home with me.

I had this in my birth vision, regardless of the type of delivery, so everyone on my team knew I wanted to keep it. At the time, I hadn’t quite decided whether I wanted to encapsulate and consume the placenta. On one hand, how would I know what would happen if I didn’t try it? There are no current scientific studies documenting human placenta consumption, so we don’t have science to tell us what benefits or drawbacks come with these placenta pills.

I know a lot of people who have encapsulated their placenta and felt wonderful results afterward. I also know at least 2 people who had adverse reactions based on some autoimmune issues.  I made arrangements to encapsulate, just in case I felt compelled.

It was so meaningful to me that the midwife brought my placenta over to me while I was being put back together. She showed me all the different parts of the organ that sustained Felix all those weeks inside me. I got to see the beautiful thing that I grew alongside my baby and even touch it (not that I could feel my finger touching it…).

After a cesarean, placentas automatically get sent to pathology, where they are theoretically refrigerated and would potentially have still been safe for consumption.

However, by the time we tracked down my placenta and figured out what was going on with my last names and labeling (don’t get me started on the mess involved in having 2 last names!), we learned it had been sitting out in a dish of water for about 5 days. There went that decision! Not safe to consume.

What I had not anticipated was that they would slice my placenta into slivers, barely clinging together. I would have made certain to ask them to NOT do this if I knew it was something that would be done. Who could have known I’d have to ask to not only take it home but also to take it home in the condition they received it?

In a way it seemed fitting that my placenta should be shredded, since when I got it I was still feeling more than a bit like shredded meat myself.

Anyway, Emily thought she’d still be able to make a print since the slivers were clinging together on the membraneous side still attached to Felix’s amniotic sac. I asked her to make me a green print on canvas. I’m so happy that it worked. It reminds me of the ocean, of a brain, of a tree all at once. It reminds me of all the hard work my body did, regardless of the birth process. I can still see the place where someone sliced out a square-shaped chunk, but I can also see how despite being damaged it’s a beautiful thing.

As for the placenta itself, I have it in the freezer until I figure out what to do with it. Most likely, I’m going to plant a hydrangea bush above it in our garden.

I was not able to birth Felix vaginally. I’m working up the nerve to write my birth story eventually, but I have a healthy baby. So I’m super thankful for that, but I’m still a ways from being a healthy mama.

I’ve had complications with my bladder and nether regions this time. I’m still unable to drive and I can’t lift Miles (or laundry baskets, bags of groceries, crock pots, etc.) until at least June 8–my next checkup.

I’m basically allowed to: take brief walks, sit on the couch, and nurse Felix.

So that’s what I do. It’s very challenging for me to watch while my husband and mother clean the house, cook the food, bring me Gatorade, and sprint to catch Miles when he runs out the front door. It breaks my heart that I can’t scoop up my older son when he falls into a puddle and cries, or pick him up from bed when he’s sad in the middle of the night.

It’s hard for me to, once again, not change or bathe my infant baby in his early days. I’ve never seen a meconium diaper. Maybe it’s ok to enjoy that one. It’s hard for me to say, “I need help,” and stop feeling guilty when my relatives come to stay with us for week-long blocks.

It’s also really humbling and uplifting to know how much we are loved and to enjoy all the outreach pouring into Team Lev Headquarters. People ask me how I am doing and the answer is that it’s hard. It’s hard but better every day.

I’ll be on time out for a bit. Here’s why:

My sons: Miles and Felix

There was a really long line at Panera today. I’m still working through my free bread for a year gift certificate, and we were out of honey wheat, so Miles and I waited for our turn at the counter. While we waited, 3 separate people made obstetrical observations about my body. The identical conversations went something like this:

Asshole: “When are you due?”

Me: “Any time now!”

Asshole: “But when is your DUE DATE?”

Me: “I’m due on his birthday. Any time now!”

Asshole: “But you haven’t even dropped yet.”

I always feel mentally prepared for such things before I leave the house. I listen to a lot of affirmations about other people’s negative comments and how to let them bounce off my bubble of peace…I pre-plan responses. But what the  hell? I’m five feet, two inches tall. Where do they want my baby to drop?

I want to say so many things in response to these people. I want to tell them I’ve spent the past 3 years extensively researching pregnancy and birth. I want to ask them where they received their obstetrical training that allows them to visually assess my baby’s position through my clothes. I want to grab one of their hands and press it between my hip bones, where we can then both feel Octagon’s head nestled somewhere behind my pubic hair.

I want to know how they imagined I would interpret or respond to their observations.

Until the third person, I was just taking the smile-politely approach. Then, a fourth person did the same song and dance and I got a little more aggressive. I began to explain to the person, using a voice I hate when people put on in speaking to my toddler, that subsequent babies don’t drop until just before labor begins.

Now, I’ve decided I’m really done being polite. Really. At few other times in a woman’s life do strangers think it acceptable to comment on her body and appearance. If we see a stranger with a camel toe in her peach-colored leggings, we internally comment or perhaps share with a companion. We don’t walk up to her and make observations about her labia or celulite.

As soon as Miles wakes up from his nap, we are going out for ice cream. If any aspiring obstetricians decide to remark on my body, I vow to ask questions in return.

I’ve reached the point of pregnancy where I am sick and tired of being pregnant and just really want to be cuddling my squishy baby already. I know I’m only 38 weeks and change, but 38 is a lot of weeks!

Recently, I’ve begun eating pineapple constantly, drinking 4 cups of red raspberry leaf tea every day, doing 50+ squats (bodyweight this time…not weighted like I was doing when preggo with Miles) every evening, and encouraging Corey to give me some natural prostaglandins to stimulate some birthing action. By this, I mean attempting to get the baby out in the same fashion he got in there. I say attempting because nothing is easy when I have a stomach this large protruding from my front.

All the tricks my friends have utilized–eating spicy food, driving around in a stick shift car, stair climbing, hypnosis tracks, talking to the baby–I’ve either tried or penciled in for this week. The day I kicked into birthing action with Miles, I ate brunch at the Square Cafe and then went swimming at Schenley Park, so I might have to go eat some greasy eggs and check out Oliver Bath House if nothing happens by 40 weeks.

I’m not a very patient person normally, in that I’m probably the most impatient person you’ve ever met. But I have toddler-like patience about the end of pregnancy. You can imagine how fun I was to be around by 41w2d pregnant with Miles!

Things definitely feel a little differently this time, though. For one, I’m having tons and tons of regular Braxton Hicks, which I take as a sign that Octagon is moving into place. I also know how to feel my own cervix since we’ve been using the Fertility Awareness Method for some time now, first to ward off pregnancy and then to conceive. So when the midwives were doing a pelvic exam for my GBS culture anyway, I asked them if I was reading my cervix correctly. I was! It’s definitely softening and shortening, which is encouraging.

I’m just so excited to see what he looks like, whether he has hair, what his personality will be, and if he and his brother will get along. I know he needs to stay inside my womb until he is finished developing his brain and that he’ll be born on his birthday. But doing all these little tricks helps me feel a bit more like I’m being proactive in speeding along his arrival.

Since I finished all my freelance and teaching work, it’s really just been Miles and I hanging out, which makes it a little harder to patiently wait for Octagon to join us. I feel like everything is all set (we even probably have his name selected!) and I’m stuck waiting for this great unplannable party to begin.

Today, I had a checkup with the midwives. Since the timing appeared to work out well and Miles enjoyed busing so much the first time, we decided to take the 71A into Oakland. So we hopped aboard the 71A, which was everything Miles could hope it would be–which is to say filled to the brim and chock full of…diverse passengers.

For instance, a few stops down Negley, an unfortunate-looking man clad in a trench coat with ripped leather pants climbed aboard and sat behind Miles. Miles was standing on his seat (while I wrapped both arms around him and hugged him to my body for “safety”) looking back at this new passenger and declared, “Mommy, he has boo-boos on his face.”

You and I might describe these boo-boos as oozing, pussy zit wounds.

Miles continued, “Mommy, kiss it. Kiss his boo-boo.” While I tried not to throw up, Miles persisted, saying, “Mommy will kiss the boo-boo! It’s ok. Kiss it, Mommy.”

I tried not to make eye contact and said, sort of louder than my talking voice, “I don’t think he wants Mommy to kiss him, Miles.”

Thankfully for everyone involved, the man soon got off the bus while Miles was distracted by passing yellow Jeeps and excavators tearing up Millvale Ave.

My last post about kitchen tools inspired a lot of questions about my recipes and methods, which is exciting. So I’ll go ahead and spill!

I went to the store and acquired a new thermometer. I suppose it’s technically a meat thermometer? It is digital, which was important to me after enjoying the ease of digital compared to eyeballing a rising stripe of mercury. It was maybe $10. I just got whichever one they had. It suits me fine. Some day I’ll head to William Sonoma and buy a nice thermometer, but I figure Miles might dismantle this one again soon.

When I make yogurt, I use this recipe and I make a half gallon at a time. It costs about $2 for the half gallon of yogurt, because my milk costs about $4 per gallon. Can’t beat that with a stick! I generally use 2% milk, but have had just fine results with whole and skim.

As I got better at making yogurt, I felt like I could make tweaks such as using a pot on the stove for the heating up portion of the process. My one annoyance with yogurt-making is that it is quite time-intensive in the crock pot. You have to commit to being home tending it for a few hours while it heats and then cools–once it’s in the oven incubating you can do whatever you want.

I usually try to start making it around dinner time so that it’s ready to go into the oven by my bed time. Then I let it sit in there overnight and have an exciting surprise to wake up to in the morning. I wasted no time this past weekend making a batch of yogurt!

One thing went awry, and that was agreeing to take Miles for a walk during a crucial point in the cooling. After a few hours in the oven, it became apparent I had let the yogurt cool too much and the cultures were not living enough to breed. So I just heated the milk back up and scooped in some more yogurt, made sure the crock was pressed right up against the oven light with the towel folded a few times. By morning, we had yogurt.

Sometimes, I feel inspired to do it Greek style, which involves dumping the whole thing into a cheese cloth and dangling that from the faucet for a few hours. It’s rather depressing to lose so much quantity, so I don’t do this often.

I’ve still not gotten around to making granola. This is because I was distracted by pistachio pound cake! I had a very visceral, pregnant-lady response to reading about this pound cake and needed to make/consume it immediately. Even though it made my eyes bleed to use 1 cup of butter and 2 cups of sugar for one recipe. Even though it made my veins cry to see 500 calories per slice. I needed it. Or Octagon needed it. Either way, Michael Pollan says it’s ok to eat dessert if you make it yourself. I stand by that.

But, later this week I’ll have time to make granola. And when I do, I’ll use this recipe. Sometimes I add chocolate chips to that recipe, but I don’t have any right now so we’ll stick with Craisins, raisins, and some chopped dried apricots. I’ll probably use both almonds and pecans, because we have those. With that recipe, I tend to use whatever is around the house.

I do routinely make some changes to the granola recipe, however. I use coconut oil instead of canola/vegetable oil. Someone suggested that once and I haven’t looked back. I also add a bit MORE oil than the recipe suggests because I feel like the ingredients need to be bound together a bit more.

And that’s it! We’re back in the game, because I bought a thermometer. We’ve got yogurt aplenty, we’ve just about got granola, and I’ve got some pound cake I’m completely unwilling to share. I will, however, tell you that it is GOOD.

I know! I said I was on hiatus! But I wanted to share something that has affected my food consumption and purchasing in a major way.

I broke my damn food thermometer! I didn’t actually break 1, I broke 3. Here’s what happened.

For awhile, I was making my own cheese using one of those fabulous 30-Minute Mozzarella kits. I did so much proselytizing about it that a friend gave me her kit, since she knew I would use up the enzymes and supplies. And, thus, a thermometer entered my culinary world for the first time.

Then, I started making my own yogurt a half gallon at a time and life was so glorious! I could do Greek-style, full-fat, non-fat, any yogurt you want. And I made it all the time. And it was good. And Miles ate it by the bucketload. There was always yogurt brewing in my crock pot or maturing in the fridge. Always.

Important: I used my cheese thermometer in the yogurt-making, because there are 2 points where you need a pretty accurate temperature reading to get good yogurt.

So, then I began to get bored with the yogurt all by itself and sought things to accompany the yogurt. Granola! I’d make my own granola! So I started making granola in 5-cup batches, then 8-cup batches until I always made sure I kept 10 pounds of rolled oats in the basement. Yogurt and granola became the go-to snack here. I used nuts and salty things, sometimes sweet things. It was just the BEST, hearty snack. Especially if I added a banana.

And cheap! OMG is it cheap to make your own version of these foods. Life was good and predictable and delicious.

And then I made soap for Christmas gifts. While pregnant. Anyone else out there every been pregnant and just persistently dropped things? I drop everything. I know it’s about to happen, like my brain tells me my hand is about to let go of something, but not fast enough for me to correct this action. It’s tragic.

I broke cheese thermometer number 1 while making soap. And then I broke the second one on a later batch of soap. Luckily, Corey had purchased a digital food thermometer despite my ruthless nagging and teasing. I ate some crow, apologized to him, and began to use his digital thermometer to make our weekly yogurt batches.

And then, one day, I ignored the fact that Miles was in the kitchen being really, super quiet. I was using Facebook, most likely, or sending an email. Or maybe just staring at a wall, enjoying the stillness.

When I went in there to investigate, he had dismantled the electric food thermometer, was chewing some of the wires, and had the rest of the pieces submerged in water. Whoops!

So now (actually, for about 2 months) we have no food thermometer and no way to make yogurt. I have to buy yogurt if I want some, and I hate doing that because it’s 5x as expensive, even when you buy a quart container. And I don’t really have motivation to eat granola without yogurt around the house, so I have 10 pounds of oats in my basement looking lonely.

Is that the most pathetic story you ever heard or what? Food purchase priority of the week: thermometer.

What’s everyone else up to?

• Emily Levenson
• Dairy-Free Cooking
• Test Kitchen Tuesday
• Red Pen Mama
• Acquired Tastes
• Fit Flexitarian
• Warm As Pie 
• Katy Rank Lev
• My Inner Healthy
• Little Blue Hen
• xox, b
• Project Food Budget 2.0
• Fresh…A New Chapter
• Two Eggs Over Easy
• That’s Just Me
• Eat Whole Be Vital
• Four Happy Violets
• Naturally {Un}refined
• Pgh Dad
• yogabeautylife
• Charmingly Modern
• naMAMAste
• Six Dollars a Day
• The Gluten-Free Vegan
• What da Health?
• Twice the Twinsanity
• Brandon and on…
• French Press