Chilam Balam

Have I written about Chilam Balam? No? I should have, a looong time ago. Maybe I didn't because I kind of wanted to keep it quiet so I can get a table when I go. But it deserves my attention, and everyone else's, for that matter.
I have been to Chilam Balam at least eight times in the last couple of years. It's location, on Broadway and Barry, makes it ideal for married dates on the days we have any event at Not so Little L's school. But I have also gone with my friends, and I even celebrated my birthday there last year. The space is small, but very cozy and warm thanks to the decoration. I particularly love the metal star lamps, which give it quite an ambiance.
The menu changes every month to accommodate seasonal and local ingredients. This last time we had a lobster chimichanga that was delicious. The Mexican influence were there, in the sauce and the chimichanga itself, but instead of overpowering the lobster, which happens often, they enhanced its flavor. We followed with the roasted beet tamal. It was a good tamal, moist and filling, and a great counterpoint to the lobster. I would have liked to find a little bit more of beet taste, but it was the first day of this particular menu, so they may improve that. And my husband was happy it didn't, as he doesn't like beets. As a main course, DH chose rabbit. I cannot talk about it, as I don't eat rabbit (along with many other things, a defect that sadly prevents me from being either a chef or a food critic), but he ate it quickly while smiling, so I assume it was good. My swordfish was delicious. I like strong steak like fishes, and this one was exceptional. It was grilled to perfection, and the butternut squash mole, sweet potato mash and apple salad that accompanied it couldn't have complemented it better. The pomegranate grains in the apple salad gave a crunch and an acidic contrast to the rest of the plate.
For dessert, as usual (and no one will convince me to change) I ordered the chocolate-chile mousse with spiced goat cheese center and toasted marshmallow sauce. This is heaven on a plate. Every time I order it it is as amazing. If you like dark chocolate, this may be your dessert. I normally don't like marshmallows, but in sauce for to balance the bitterness of the chocolate mousse I love it. The goat cheese is unexpected as a filling for a chocolate mousse, and therefore makes it even more interesting. For my birthday I am seriously considering going there for dinner and ordering one of these for each appetizer, entree and dessert. 
Note that it is BYOB, and cash only. The service is impeccable, and normally you always see the same people working there, which is nice. Their recommendations are valuable if you are overwhelmed by how good everything sounds in the menu. 
If you go and try it, please, let mo know whether you liked it or not. They will appreciate your visit, and I will appreciate your feedback. And don't miss that chocolate mousse...

Roasted beet tamal

Swordfish with butternut squash mole

Chocolate-chile mousse with spiced goat cheese center and toasted marshmallow sauce

One year

Exactly one year ago, Pablo had surgery to get his cochlear implant. That same sentence, written in the future tense the day before he was going to be implanted sounded terrifying. 

Let's start with the topical "I don't know where the last year went". Or with "I can't believe it has been one year already". They may be overused, but absolutely true today. I guess I know where time went. Time went to therapy, lots of playing, repeating words one thousand times a week, splitting them in syllables, playing some more, traveling, getting used to carrying electronic devices on strollers, planes, handbags, cars and the likes. 

Looking at the pictures, and talking with other parents who haven't gone through it yet, I remember how scared I was of the operation itself. It took me a long time to agree to start the cochlear implant process. Taking huge decisions like this for others is not easy, but I haven't regretted it one single day. I was scared of the surgery itself, of the general anesthesia, of having my happy, bubbly beautiful baby change into someone else, someone not as happy. Scared of it not working. 

All those fears proved to be unfounded. As you can see in the pictures, he was my happy boy again already in our ride back home from the hospital. The three hours of surgery felt like three years to me, but he recovered amazingly well and was running around the same night of the surgery. There were no complications. He was upset for maybe half an hour, and that was it. The implant is working. 

Now I have different fears. I am scared of losing the device (those things are not cheap to replace), of me not dedicating enough time to his recovery, of making the wrong decision regarding a second implant (I am still at a no), of choosing the wrong school for next year. 

In the meanwhile, he has gone from saying mamá and agua pre implant to having a wider range of vocabulary, particularly if it concerns wheeled things, from being quiet to a constant choo choo chatter while he plays, from mamá to papá, Lucas, abuelos, Miguel, Ines, Natalia, and so many more that he is learning every day. 

This whole process has helped me get to know my son better: he is resilient, generous, patient, stubborn, and has a high tolerance for therapy. He is bright, and lights my world every morning when he comes to my bed every morning. He is irresistible. He is strong. And now i know that no matter what, he will do well, even if his mom messes up in the way. 

Pablo one hour after surgery, and on his way home from the hospital.

Pablo a few days ago

Dr. Martens

I haven't been this excited about a pair of shoes in a long time, probably since I bought my only pair of Manolos for my best friend's wedding in the pre-kids era. I saw these boots in a store window a couple of months ago, and I fell in love with them. It's not the beautiful brown color, the inner fabric resembling British wall paper, or the fact that they have satin ribbon for laces. It is nostalgia. Pure nostalgia. Because I have a history with Dr. Martens. When I was fifteen, as I was dating punk boys, and had a liking for alternative music, short plaid skirts, and anything that would horrify my parents, I asked my cousin, who was traveling to London, to get me a pair of black, ten hole, Dr. Martens. I didn't like eight hole, steel toe ones, which was the only thing you could get in my Spanish town back then. So I was very excited when he came back with my boots, that I paid with the allowances I had saved for months (I know that this story would be more enticing if I had earned that money working, but it was Spain, and teenagers don't work there). As the ones I just bought, they smelled like leather, and were extremely comfortable (I never convinced my dad of this). Actually, they were so comfortable that I wore them for five straight years, all year long. They started college with me. They went out endless nights in Vitoria and its bars. They made it back to England with me when I went there to practice English for the first time, the summer I turned eighteen. And I just stopped wearing them when they had a hole big enough to fit my toe. If my mother hasn't thrown them away, as she swore she would many times, I will take a picture of them to post it here when I go home for Christmas. They deserve some sort of homage. I hope that the one's I bought today last as long, and I can write about them in fifteen years, at which point I will embarrass my kids instead of my parents when I wear them.

 And since I am getting old enough to be nostalgic, maybe this January I will ask the Three Wise Men (aka Reyes Magos) to bring me a pair of Panama Jacks like the ones that preceded my Dr. Martens. I just checked, and they are still selling them. And they even have them in green!!!

Mothering

I'm on a bus, number 8 through Halste, northbound at 9 pm. My kids are at home, and I'm going back there after a late class. I'm trying to read a book, but I can't because of the piercing cry of a one year old (approximation here) who is seating in front of me. It's not her fault, she doesn't know better. But her mom is too busy playing in her IPhone to try to console her or keep her entertained. From time to time she stop to scream: "Shut up!". I'm a coward, because I didn't dare to tell the mom to pay attention to her baby. 

I know what it is to travel with a screaming kid. Bus, train, plane, car, you name it, I have done them. But I never talked to my kids which such anger. 

Luckily, there is another mom in the bus. She seems tired, she is probably going back home from work. Her kid, probably around one too, sleeps peacefully in her chest, where she seats in a baby carrier, covered with a well washed blanket, cuddled and happy.

These two girls are going to have very different experiences growing up. And that will mark their lives. If more moms were like the second one, this city would be much more peaceful. We are nurturers, for better or for worse.

Estoy cabreada.

Y por lo tanto, voy a escribir en español. Sorry, English speaking readers, but this post talks about a situation happening in Spain, and my level of disbelief and anger make it mandatory that I use my native language to address it.
Últimamente hay una polémica en España acerca de la ley de aborto que quiere aprobar el ministro Gallardón. No voy a entrar a discutir una ley con la que tengo serios problemas en general y en cualquier país. No me considero católica, y no tengo dudas por motivos religiosos. Pero soy madre, y a estas alturas de mi vida absolutamente nada me llevaría a considerar siquiera la posibilidad de terminar de forma voluntaria un embarazo. Hablar de mi es muy fácil, lo tengo muy claro. No lo tengo tan claro cuando hablo de otros, porque para todo hay excepciones, y en un ataque de optimismo sobre la humanidad quiero pensar que ninguna madre toma a la ligera la decisión de abortar. Pero si hay en un caso en el que abortar me parece mezquino, es el caso de embarazos de niños discapacitados. Si alguien quiere niños perfectos, tal vez deba plantearse seriamente la posibilidad de ser padre/madre. Los niños perfectos no existen. Al menos no como quien rechaza a un niño discapacitado espera. La maternidad no es un camino fácil, en ningún caso, aunque se tenga al niño "perfecto".
Lo es mucho menos en el caso de un niño con necesidades especiales. Lo puedo decir con seguridad, porque yo también tengo un niño con necesidades especiales. No me gusta para nada la palabra discapacitado. Mi hijo simplemente tiene necesidades especiales, o es diferente a la mayoría de los niños. En nuestro caso, es sordo. En el mundo de los problemas genéticos, una bicoca. Pero seguro que muchos médicos habrían corrido a aconsejarnos que nos evitáramos el problema a los cuatro meses de embarazo. Eso habría sido si hubiésemos accedido a hacerme una amniocentesis, cosa a la que nos negamos. Teníamos muy claro que en nuestro caso no tenía ningún sentido, ya que no íbamos a hacer nada fuesen cuales fuesen los resultados.
Leo estos días en la prensa española auténticas barbaridades al respecto, emitidas por personajes públicos. No oigo ni leo a nadie sacarles los colores. y esto me avergüenza. ¿Cómo se atreven a llamar a estos niños monstruos, deformes, peores? ¿Cómo se atreven a clasificarlos de ciudadanos de segunda? Mi hijo no es un monstruo, ni es deforme, ni es peor, ni es una carga. Mi hijo es una alegría, y una sonrisa, absolutamente "perfecto" y desde luego y sin lugar a dudas, infinitamente mejor que Arcadi Espada, Oscar Puentes o Rosa Regás. Que son los que suenan como unos auténticos monstruos, unos monstruos que recuerdan demasiado al sueño nazi de la raza perfecta. Qué asco.

On Breastfeeding (sorry, it's long)

I just checked, and apparently, among my 96 posts, there isn't a single one about breastfeeding. I mention it here and there, but it hasn't gotten a whole post until today. It is ironic, because if there has been a constant in the last six years of my life, that would have to be breastfeeding. Not so little anymore L nursed until he was almost three. And at two Little PB is still nursing strong. That makes it five years of it. I guess that it is such a part of my daily life that I don't consider it worth noting anymore. But this week two things reminded me of how important it is. For two different reasons two different doctors suggested that I wean my baby (and yes, he will be my baby for as long as he still nurses). One of them had a very valid reason, I am sick and I may need some antibiotics that are not compatible with breastfeeding. Finally Dr and I decided that since Little PB actually has taken the antibiotic itself, it is ridiculous to think that the traces he could get through my milk could be detrimental for him. So, that one was fixed. The second thing is this article published in Spanish newspaper El Mundo. It is an article in favor of breastfeeding, decently writte., I may disagree with a couple of the things they say, but other than that the article is good, and encouraging. The shock came when I scrolled down to read the comments. Many of them were criticizing or making fun of breastfeeding moms. The worse part? Most were written by moms!!!!! By now there is no doubt that breastmilk is best for baby, and breastfeeding is better for mom. Is it easy? No way. You have to be patient the first few days until the baby learns how to nurse, and you get your milk, and you spend the first weeks of motherhood establishing your supply, which pretty much requires nursing on demand to be completely successful. But after that, the rewards are many. It is best for everyone, it is cheaper, you don't have to carry bottles around, it gives you precious bonding time with the baby, it relaxes both baby and mom... I could go on and on. Of course, your house and yourself are not going to look perfect during those first months, since sleeping while the baby sleeps is a good idea. Which I suspect is part of the problem in Spain.
Two comments scared me more than the rest. They referred to NICU babies, and how the doctors told their moms that formula was better, and how nursing when they had limited access to their babies was hard. I was horrified by this. I sort of knew about it but still... In Spain, parents of babies in the NICU have access to their kids a couple of times a day. That is terrible. I was a NICU mom with Little L here in Chicago. He was there for a week, and he was pretty sick at the beginning. But the hospital always gave us full access to him. Once I went home they would even call us in the morning so we would make it to his first diaper change of the day (I know how weird that sounds, but when a diaper change is all you can do for your baby, it is actually exciting). And they made a point of giving him my painfully pumped milk, since they told us that breastmilk fed NICU babies recover earlier than formula fed ones. The same applies for contact. NICU babies, as long as their condition allows it, benefit from skin to skin contact with their parents.  The fact that Spain doesn't follow these two easy and simple practices makes me be grateful that my babies were born in the US. I would probably be still in jail if someone would have tried to keep me apart from Little L that first week of his life. It was a terrible week. And you know what kept my sanity those first days when we couldn't even hold him? The dreaded task of pumping milk. Because that was the one thing I was able to do for him, to help him. The only thing. To this day, his daddy still says that he has never seen me as happy as the day I entered the NICU with a syringe containing the first three drops (literally three) of milk I produced. The nurses dutifully put it in the fridge, waiting for my baby to be ready for it. The memory still brings tears to my eyes.
So, that is how important breastfeeding can be for a mom, and her baby. For the whole family, indeed. And although I respect the option of moms who don't want to do it, and certainly feel for the few who really cannot, I do not respect institutions that don't encourage it, pediatricians who don't recommend it, or who are offended by moms nursing in their waiting room (this happened to me in Spain the first time I visited with a nursling), and companies that do their best to discourage it. I can neither respect people who judge mothers for doing it in public.
When my best childhood friend had her baby girl, she insisted in breastfeeding her beyond the one year old WHO recommendation. When her pediatrician protested, my friend told her: "I don't care what you say, because my friend lives in the US and they nurse there until they are much older, and I will do the same here". Good for her for standing up for her baby. But I wish that information would have come from the pediatrician, and not from myself.
My first memory of a breastfeeding woman comes from college. I was in the University in Spain, and I saw this Swedish student breastfeeding her four month old baby while she was eating a bocadillo de tortilla (Spanish omelet sandwich). Back then, to me she was a wonderful martian because that was something you didn't see in public. By now, there are few things I haven't done with a baby latched to my breast. And there are few places where I wouldn't nurse. I have, I do, and I will nurse in public for as long as my baby wants. I have been lucky. And I like to think that so have my kids.

I love that picture. Disneyworld, a few weeks ago. My almost two year old nursing, my almost six year old watching us.

6 things to do to successfully (and sanely) breastfeed your baby

1. Take care of yourself. That means sleep and eat well. Someone else can take of the rest. And if that's not the case, it doesn't matter. At this point, your baby doesn't need you to look like a model. Or for your house to be fitting a decoration magazine.
2. Feel free to ignore comments from family and friends regarding your baby's weight, the sacrifice you are making, what you should be doing, how in your family women have never had milk, and the likes.
3. Nurse wherever you are. You should have the right to do so, and in many US states you actually do, and there are laws that protect you from anyone telling you not to. Illinois is one of them. And get out of the house! Lives goes on. Wherever you are. And babies like to be outside (except if it's January in Chicago).
4. Be patient. It takes time. There will be nerve racking situations/days, but also very funny ones (spraying, anyone?)
5. Let daddy/other mommy be part of it. There are many ways for them to participate. They can burp the baby, change the diaper (hehe), be by your side... In a few weeks, you can even pump once a day so they can give a daily bottle. That's just fine.
6. Ask for help if you need it. There are wonderful groups, lactation consultants, doulas and friends out there. Reach out to them.

The smell of a Cochlear Implant

My baby's head smells like plastic. Slightly burnt plastic, at that. Not always, of course. When he wakes up in the morning, he still has that milky, almost cheesy (olor a quesito, in Spanish) nursing baby smell. After he takes a bath, he smells great, like whatever bathing soap we are using at the time. When he is in Spain he smells like cologne, usually my Dad's. But when he doesn't smell like anything else, his head around the Cochlear Implant smells like plastic. At the beginning I thought that it would go away, that the smell was caused by the surgery. But it has been almost five months since he was implanted, and the smell is still there. And I don't think it's going anywhere. I have gotten used to it, but it was certainly an unexpected effect. Not very relevant, I know, but moms are like that, we have the ability to focus on the anecdotal, the mundane, what to others seems silly or even unbelievable. But for me it's a daily remainder that my baby now is a little bit of a robot. And I don't want to hear anyone tell me, with a horrified tone, how I can say that. It's just a fact, he now has a robotic ear, which technically makes him a cyborg. It is part of who he is, and at the same time doesn't change a bit of who my absolutely cute always happy and lovely clementine eater (he has downed four as I write this) is.
There is a children's Spanish song which lyrics say:
El niño robot

le dijo a su abuela
que le diera cuerda para ir a la escuela
la abuela le dijo que estuviera quieto
la abuela le hacía cosquillas al nieto.
It is longer than that, and it talks about a robot grandma getting her robot grandson ready for school. The kid in the song needs oil for his wired hair. My "robot" baby needs battery changes, and also has some wires, even an antenna. Since hey don't bother him, they don't bother me either.

Before the surgery, I was very scared thinking that maybe the implant would change who he is. Luckily, the change in the smell of his scalp is the only one I can report. Other than that, he is the same baby with whom I walked into an OR five months ago. My same baby.

On swaddling

I just read an article on swaddling. And the only reaction I could utter at first was... "Really?" "Did she really say that?". I didn't even know that there was a controversy about it until today. To me, it always seemed one of those very American things that I will never embrace, and it had never occurred to me that it could pose any risks, as some seem to be suggesting now. The article defends swaddling from its newly minted detractors. One of the points she makes for swaddling is that not swaddling could increase the cases of infant abuse by parents. Once more, really? Apparently in the many countries that don't swaddle their babies (Spain among them), we must abuse our babies as a result. I was speechless. Because, of course, we don't.
The first time I set ayes on a receiving blanket was during my first son's baby shower. I had never seen one, and I didn't have a clue on what to do with it. Once I was told, I added them to the baby's layette, and I didn't think about it again until we came home from the hospital,which only happened during an eight day stay in the NICU. Where he wasn't swaddled. We had a wonderful postpartum doula who guided us through the mysteries of caring for a newborn in the US. Which were many. She taught us how to swaddle him, and she would do it. But it never made any sense to me. I have read/heard all the rationale behind it, but after nine months squeezed in a tight uterus, what I would want to do is stretch as much as I could. If I were a baby, I would be mad as hell if someone wanted to curb my newly discovered freedom of movement. My boys seemed to agree, and none of them liked it a bit or aboded by it when someone swaddled them.
We don't swaddle babies in Spain. The idea of having them half naked and only covered in a blanket in the hospital is preposterous there. They are born, they get a bath, and are put on a PJ, or any other clothing device of their parents liking. In which they can move arms and legs, and stretch as much as they want.
If you have parents on the brink of a nervous breakdown, maybe what you should offer them is support, not a binding device. Support from their families, support from their friends and the community. Americans are quick to offer practical help when one has a baby. but what I craved the most when my babies were born was company. Human warmth. Adults visiting me. Having people around. There are few experiences as isolating as motherhood. You spend the first weeks at home, with a baby who, in the best case, nurses eight times a day, in the worst screams for hours. I have had both kinds. But nothing compares to the loneliness of those first months, particularly if you are in a city with weather as wonderful as the one we enjoy in Chicago. Most days, I was alone until my husband got home from work. That was at least ten hours a day. Swaddling wouldn't have made a difference for me. Having my family or my Spanish friends closer would have.
And I know that I would have complained in Spain too, where people visit all the time, invade your hospital room when the only thing you want to do is sleepforheavenssake, they show up at your home and expect you to look good, well dressed, and ready to entertain, and hover around giving unwanted advice and stealing the baby from your arms so you can fix something to eat. But I would rather offer that to new moms, than a substitute for human arms, for human warmth. In this one, I side with the Spanish way of doing things.

The new Pope

The Catholic church just elected a new Pope. His name will be Francis I, he is Argentinian, and he looks like a good person. And his election is instilling some mixed feelings on me.
I was raised Catholic. As a kid, I was an altar girl in my little village. I took my First Communion in a beautiful dress, and have fond memories of preparing for it with Don Donato, my village's priest at that time. I went to a nun's school. I even spent two years in a nun's boarding school. At age 13 I stopped being Catholic, I lost faith and swore that I would never send my kids to a Catholic school. I had seen enough of the contradictions within the Catholic church.
When I got married, we had a civil wedding at my parents' garden. In a bout of inconsistency, I baptised my kids at my father's urge. He had been very sick, and it was important for him, so we obliged. In a second bout of inconsistency, when it came the time to pick a school for little L, we chose to send him to a Catholic one. It is academically sound, small, and the closest I have seen here to European schools, so I was sold rather quickly. Also, the Catholic church is very effective when it comes to management, be it registries of any kind or academic institutions. But I had never had doubts about my lack of faith.
Until today. Today I find myself absolutely hooked to CNN's coverage of the new Pope's election. And I feel excited. There is a new guy in Rome, and he looks like a really good and approachable person, and he speaks my native language, and he seems to be the living proof that the Catholic church is willing to move forward.
And this Sunday, for the first time in twenty years, I may walk into a church on my own will, without anyone getting married, without baptism or funeral, without my son pulling my hand so he can see St Nicholas.
And I may listen, and I may give them a second chance.

America's problem with pain

It is not the first time this thought crosses my mind, but this time I am writing about it. This country has a problem with pain. I guess it lies in both the patients and the medical community, but it's there, and it's partly responsible for all those prescription drug addictions. The ease with which one is offered strong pain medications baffles me every single time.
Last Thursday I sprained my ankle while playing with Little L in his soccer class (lesson learned: never play soccer in your Hunter boots). It hurt, but since it was the left foot, and thanks to the fact that my lovely friend M. was visiting I was able to drive myself, plus M. plus the kids to a doctors office.
Of course, the first question I got was "Can you rate your pain?". I did, but I also told the nurse that if they don't get a point of comparison, it should tell them nothing. I can give them a number, but that number has no meaning unless they also ask me what is the worst pain I have ever experienced. In my case, that would be twenty hours of Pitocin labor contractions without an epidural. Which is a lot.
Once they were done with the X-Rays, and they had a diagnosis, the doctor came to talk to me. Without me asking for any pain medication, she handed me a prescription for Vicodin. I was horrified, since I am still nursing, and told her so while I refused the prescription. She seemed surprised. I certainly was, at the ease with which a doctor, without me asking for any, gave me such a strong painkiller. Am I in pain? If I move my foot it hurts at hell. But I want to feel that pain, because it will help me avoid further injury to my foot. At the end of the day, pain is part of the defense system that our body has. It alerts about problems. It's our wake up call.
But doctors in this country don't seem to agree.
Maybe I should have taken that prescription, after all. If Dr. House liked it that much, why shouldn't I?

The Impossible

Yesterday, despite the bitter Chicago cold (9F yesterday, 2F today), I went to watch The Impossible  with a friend. I am a little biased because it is a Spanish production with a Spanish director, Juan Antonio Bayona. But I think that it is objectively a great movie. The way Bayona builds up the tension since the beginning is masterful, considering that we know what is about to happen. But still, since the first image he puts you in a state of alert. Of course he brings this from his experience as a director of a horror movie, The Oprhanage. But The Impossible is not a horror movie, although it's set in an scenario that surpasses most horror movies I have seen. The worse part, the one that gives you chills even watching the trailer, is that it was a true scenario that all of us watched in disbelief eight years ago, when the tsunami happened. But it is also due to the fact that it is a true story that it moves us so much, because at the end of the day, it is not a disaster movie per se, but a movie about human emotions, feelings, endurance.  It's the story of a real family, a Spanish family, who were written in the movie as an English family. They all do an incredible job, particularly Tom Holland, who portrays the oldest of the children, and who is able to transmit a full rage of feelings, from the deepest sadness and fear, to pure and absolute joy. I don't cry on films, but a couple of tears escaped during this one. I have young children too, and I couldn't avoid thinking about them. It left me wondering, what would I do in their situation? Who would I want to be with? If you haven't, you should definitely watch it, and do it in a theater, the DVD experience won't be the same. If you are not drawn by the story, Ewan McGregor's presence on it should be enough of a reason. I may watch it a second time.
Now, back to preparing my classes.