The last post

It's been a while since the last time I posted here. I have finally decided to take my blogging to the next step, and start in a site where I have more accountability and I can interact with other fellow bloggers. I hope you visit my new blog here:

http://www.chicagonow.com/foreign-affairs-children-edition

The topics and tone will be the same, but I will be more consistent in my writing. It is a bittersweet farewell, as I love my little cute blog, but this way I hope to be able to reach more readers. Thank you for reading this blog!

El lector de Julio Verne

I have tried not to like Almudena Grandes' novels. I have tried hard. I tend to dislike writers who try to push their politics onto their readers, and she is one of them. But regardless of my personal preferences, I can't help but love her fiction. Possibly because she is so good at it, that you end up living with her characters as if they were real. The stories are good, the flow is so smooth that you cannot stop reading. I still remember reading El corazón helado when my first son was a couple of months old. I started reading, and I was so enthralled that I forgot that newborns wake up every couple of hours to eat, and that I was supposed to sleep while he sleeps. That night, instead, I read. Until he woke up and reminded me that I can no longer pull reading all nighters, so common in my previous life, the one before the kids. 

Going back to El lector de Julio Verne, it is the second in a six book series called Episodios de una Guerra Interminable. Some of it's characters have a connection to Inés y la alegría, the first novel in the series (which I also loved). The series covers the post war period in Spain, from the points of view of different characters. It is part of the Spanish Civil War and Post War contemporary literature that an old me, a long long time ago, wanted to write a doctoral thesis on. I guess I am still a sucker for the topic, as I will read anything that falls in my hands related to it. Most of them side with the Republicans, who lost the war (nothing to do with American republicans, the Spanish ones were anti monarchy an left wing). 

This book in particular tells the story of Nino, a little kid who lives with his family in a "cuartel", or a Guardia Civil house. The Guardia Civil is one of the public safety institutions in Spain. In the post war period, they were more than sinister, as they repressed and executed many people who opposed Franco's government. But, partly as the book depicts, not every man in this institution was an assassin. I can also vow for that, as my grandfather was also a Guardia Civil, and I don't think he was a bad man, or participated in any of those activities. One of the characters, Doña Elena, says at one point that "La verdad es lo que nos gusta que haya sucedido y, además, lo que ha sucedido aunque nos guste tan poco que daríamos cualquier cosa por haberlo podido evitar" (pp. 197-198). This sums up the best approach to the Spanish Civil War period, or I guess any other war for that matter. There are endless little stories to be told, from both sides of any conflict.

Apart from the political side of this story, the novel is a bildungsroman, as we are witnesses to Nino's growth, both physical and emotional, and to his discovery of another world, absolutely different from his. What makes it tick all my boxes is that is happens in a rural area in the south of Spain, and Grandes does a great job at describing the life of a little village, so different from the one in the city. 

All in all, I recommend this book to anyone. Really. You have it's part of adventure, politics, history, and as in any Almudena Grandes novel, romance. There are not many Spanish authors who can put sensuality in words as she does. You can find most of her novels in Amazon, and I can't wait to put my hands in the third installment of the series, Las tres bodas de Manolita. I'm sure it will make me pull an all nighter with this third baby too :)

The trains are lonely, and so is this mom

I just arrived home to find it empty for the first time. Until this week, I would be greeted by a little firecracker, running to me and giggling, waiting to have lunch together. Or to not let me eat it, which was more common. But I will take all the half eaten lunches that got cold while I tended to him over the orderly one I will have today, alone with my paper.

I look at his trains, and they look sad, like me. They are used to spend many hours a day being played by my little Pb. But little Pb started school this week, and had a rough first day, but he is fine by now, and I miss him, and I don't want the silence, or the quietness, I want my little baby running around, and climbing onto things, and making a mess, but always, always putting a smile to my day. 

Of the surreal nonfirst day of school for Little Pb

Special needs kids get therapy through Early Intervention, an agency depending from the state. This agency covers services until the day a kid turns three, when he/she will be transferred to the public school system, for us CPS. Before that you have to have a meeting with therapists and bureucrats to determine which services CPS will have to provide for your child. We had that meeting, called IEP, a couple of weeks ago, and yesterday we received the placement letter. With that in one hand, and little Pb in the other, his backpack and blanket on tow, I drove to the school today, eager to see him start attending an oral/deaf program. 

To my surprise, when we arrived, we were told that his spot had been taken by another girl the day before. There I was, six months pregnant, with a toddler intent on climbing the walls or running away, a letter in my hand saying that they had to take them, and speechless after been told that they cannot. I was already quite skeptical about the whole CPS thing, but I didn't expect this kind of mess. 

Then, the surreal factor came in. As I was trying to figure out what was going on with this very helpful ladies, while doing my best to keep my kiddo from turning on the fire alarm, Mayor Rahm Emmanuel stormed in the office, all smiles, and handshakes, and cuteness towards the little fire alarm chaser. I guess that he was visiting the principal, but in the middle of a terrible morning, and out of CNN's Chicagoland, there he was, making me laugh for the first time in hours. Oh, the weird and unexpected...

We came home, and finally they fixed the problem and told me to bring him tomorrow again so he can start. But I will keep posting about our adventures in CPSland, which is an interesting part of Chicago.

Alguien que sea yo

This one is in Spanish, poetry again. I had never heard about its author,  but I saw the book during a trip to Spain in 2012 and I bought it. The author is just a couple of years older than I. I love poetry, but I don't love all poetry. I'm way more omnivorous regarding fiction. With poetry, particularly in Spanish, I am terribly bored by lyric works that rely too much in the aesthetical aspect of it, as many poets tend to do. The same ones tend to be quite arrogant, but otherwise they wouldn't be poets. The reason why I loved Manuel del Barrio Donaire's book is because it's none of that. He is not a well known poet (I couldn't even find the book in Goodreads), and he doesn't seem to belong to the old fashioned and endogamic Spanish literary circle. That may be what makes his look at reality acidic, cynical, raw and terribly entertaining. I had fun reading his poems. Many made me smile, and even laugh. They are quite realistic, but not like dirty realism, this is more of a 2.0 realism. Del Barrio Donaire talks about daily life, about writing, about the meaning of life or the lack of it. He is very americanized, and his verses are peppered with images and brands imported from the US, including the ubiquitous Apple and Starbucks. His references to sex are direct, probably even offensive to some delicate ears. Mine are not, so I find his direct and honest tone amusing. 

If you can get a hold of this book, read it. Even someone learning Spanish could handle it. If finding his book is hard, you can always visit his blog, www.delalinearectadelmarcodelapuerta.blogspot.com 

As soon as I can I will try to bring more of his books from Spain, as I think he deserves some more of my time. He sounds like the kind if guy with whom I would happily have a beer and a long conversation. And they aren't many of those anymore.

The Prophet

I had never read anything by Kahlil Gibran before. I have to admit that I am quite illiterate in regards of poetry written in English, or in most other languages, as I don't think you can grasp all the emotion that poetry should convey from a translation. Coming from a translator this sounds like a joke.

Going back to Gibran, I loved this book. A mother's day gift from 2009, It had been in my night table waiting for five years. I am not a religious person, but its spirituality reached me. I read it aloud in the hopes that the baby in my belly can hear it too, and in this way, the rhythm of the verses made it sound as a meditation chant, the kind that brings you peace.

Each one of its "sections" could start an hours long philosophical discussion. But there is so much kindness and respect in his words that if you read it alone, it can only give you calm, and make you smile.

There are two quotes that I highlighted:

"And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret". (p. 26)

This quote resonates with me, as I have never felt as alive, as womanly and as powerful as I did when I gave birth to my second son. The energy that fills the room when you are laboring is impossible to match or recreate, and having a man put this in writing in 1923 is just amazing. I will keep his words next to me when the time comes, and that energy returns to me for the birth of my third son.

"Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside.

For you come to him with your hunger,

and you seek him for peace". (p. 58)

Also seeing friendship among the basic things of life is rewarding. I wouldn't be who or where I am without my friends, who listened to endless evenings of love hits or misses, cheered me up when I needed it, pushed me or stopped me when it was called for. They are still there, some far away, someclose by, and I keep meeting more of them, and I will never be grateful enough to all of them. 

Before the hormones take over, I will just recommend that you read this book, this beautiful edition by Knopf in thick cream paper, with illustrations by the author. Read it, digest it, discuss it, as there is so much in such a little number of pages... 

Tennyson

Over the years, I have accumulated a fair amount of books that await to be read, taking up a whole bookshelf in my house. A few arrived in the form of gifts (most people are afraid of giving me books, something I don't understand since they are my favorite thing in the world), most I brought from Spain, some I bought here. At any time in my life I'm reading several books: at least one poetry book, a light narative one I carry when I go out to read on buses and coffee shops, the big novel by my bed and the literary theory/critic book on my desk. At this point in my life, they come in all sizes and colors, and both in English and Spanish. Now that being pregnant gives me a great excuse to rest during Little Pb's nap, something I will never do again once I have my third boy, I'm set to go through at least part of that bookshelf. And I may blog about it. Since I'm better at reading than at blogging, I'm not going to make big promises. But I would love to write a bit about each book I finish. I don't intend for it to be serious critic, although my career, in perpetual hiatus, is literature. I will just write my impression of the book.

I will start with something light, like Tennyson. This book was given to me by my husband at least six years ago. I know because it was purchased from my beloved and extinct Borders. He gives me a poetry book for every birthday and Christmas, and it doesn't matter what comes with the book, be it an IPhone, hat or bag, I will always like the book better. It is a beautifully done little pocket anthology, with no introduction or editor notes. Pure and simple poetry. Reading it aloud, in the hopes that the baby on the belly is listening, has helped me appreciate the craft needed by older authors to try to achieve perfection according to the standards of their times. Normally, having to abide to the rules of rhyme affects the feelings transmitted by the verses, as form trumps content. Just a few authors can maintain a balance between the two, and Tennyson is one of them. With his beautiful language games, he can transport you to gardens and battles of other times, and make both equally appealing. And although I normally favor raw, blunt contemporary poetry that cares more about the punch than the rhyme, I really enjoyed reading this classic.

Chiberia

I check my phone, and the temperature is 0º F, -18º C. That doesn't count the windchill, which makes it around ten degrees colder. Luckily it's not very windy today. Many times people who have never lived in such a cold place ask me what it feels like. If you are wearing a good coat, boots, gloves and a warm hat, it's not that different from 32º F, 0º C. That is until you breathe. When you breathe you feel your nostrils freezing, quite literally. It's not an easy feeling to describe. It hurts a little. And you feel like the air is thicker and cannot really reach your lungs. Then you run and hop on a bus, house, office, coffee shop... hopefully without breaking a leg on your way.

This is the coldest winter I have seen since I arrived in Chicago almost eleven years ago. I have worn snow boots every single day since I came back from Spain on January 12th. The snow doesn't bother me, I like it. What bothers me is that it is too cold to play with it, and that the city is not doing a very good job clearing it. That's an understatement, courtesy of a good humored day. Actually, they are doing a terrible job. 

I won't be one to complain, as I will take this any day over the hot, steamy, humid, mosquitoed summer. Any day. I will report on that hot weather later. Maybe in August.

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.

Happy New Year: the sequel

As we all know, life gets on the way. After deciding that the party was too much for the sick kid, we were content to stay home, cook dinner, bake a Yule Log with Little L, eat the grapes on Skype with my family at 5 pm (midnight in Spain), have dinner, drink a bottle of cava from La Rioja, and eat a second plate of grapes at Chicago's midnight. But after lunch we realized that there was some fluid coming out from little Pb's ear, so off we went at 4 pm to the ER. We left Little L with our new neighbors, and run. Of course, as most moms, I'm paranoid. Particularly since the kiddo got a cochlear implant in that ear one month and a half ago, any menace of an infection on the area put me in panic mode. We had already taken him to the pediatrician on Saturday, and he was clear, it was just a little cold. But of course, after five hours in the ER on New Years Eve, we came back home with antibiotics, antibiotic drops and a diagnosis of ear infection with a ruptured eardrum. Isn't it a lovely way to end the year? In a way it ironically fits the rest of 2012. Let's hope that 2013 starts in a better way.
Hopefully the kids will sleep for a bit so we can eat the pizza and pasta I just ordered. In five minutes we went from a fairly decent home cooked dinner to delivery... At least we have that chilled bottle of cava.

Happy New Year!

Spending New Year's Eve in Chicago is weird for me. I'm used to my messy and crazy Spanish house, with everyone rushing in order to have dinner on time to have the twelve grapes at midnight, a Spanish tradition, and see my niece and nephew get ready to go out and celebrate. Not so long ago I was the one getting ready and begging for a ride to the city. This year we have to stay here for the audiology appointments for Little Pb's cochlear implant mapping. Since that was the case, we decided to go to a kid friendly party at a Spanish friend's house, to make it easier to pass. But it turns out that Little Pb has had a nasty cold for the last three days, and we owe it to him to stay home so he can recover.
That being the case, I decided to go for a haircut to at least start the year in style. I don't like going to the hairdresser, and I keep it to a minimum, which means that I only go a couple of times a year. I'm also very picky, and in the last twelve years I had only had two hairdressers, one in Spain and one here. Both of them did a fine job, but the Spanish one quit, and I was a little bored of going to a fancy salon in Chicago. Lately I have taken Lucas to this cool punk/rock barbershop by our house, Floyds 99. While they were cutting his hair there, I decide to give them a try today. After having my hair cut by the same guy for the last nine years, it was a leap of faith. I went, and I loved it. Since I'm talking hair, I should post a picture of the haircut. The funny thing is that, while talking to him, I found out that my new hairdresser used to work at the posh salon I used to go to before. You see, Chicago is not that big...

New Year resolution

As I can barely find my computer in a desk that has never been messier (and for this lover of chaos in desks, that means big fat unstable piles of stuff), and try to play with a kid who refuses to and just wants to look at his books, I started thinking about this blog. When I first posted here, I just wanted to vent, as stay at home mommyhood's isolation was driving me crazy. Then I wanted to add restaurant/book/movie reviews that I hardly have time to write. And finally, when we found out that Little Pb is deaf, I thought that it could be a good idea to document his journey in case it can help other parents. As if I don't have enough with teaching three classes, raising two kids, learning ASL, going to therapy at least three times a week with one of said kids, being a room parent at the other kid's class so he doesn't feel left out, running a house and occasionally taking a shower and entertaining guests, I will try to update this blog more often, a few times a week. I don't want to broadcast my life, which is quite boring, but help other people in any of my situations: Spanish (or foreign) mom living in the U.S., U.S. resident suffering cultural shock every summer when she goes back home, alien feeling more alien than ever as she has to spend Christmas without her family, frustrated PhD student who doesn't give up the dream of finishing up one day, mom to a deaf baby who needs to become a dragon mom in order to help him succeed, but only after figuring out what success means, mom trying to raise bicultural/bilingual kids, opinionated food lover/book lover/film lover, amateur cook...
If I am good enough at writing more often, my three month reward will be to get a proper design for this blog, the kind you pay for. We'll see where it ends.
For now, I will keep multitasking as nurse to my two coldish babies. Chicken noodle soup, here I go. And after that, I will clean up my desk :)

Moving forward

As usual, my blogging has been erratic at best. I have been wanting to write an update about Pablo's ANSD for weeks, and here I am, one day post CI surgery. He is playing in his crib, at home. I'm writing and hoping that the nurse I just talked to is right and that he is actually unable to pull his ear away. This has been a worry of mine all day long, until exhaustion kicked in and I decided that after ten hours glued to each other Pablo and I needed some time apart. In Spain, he would have stayed in the hospital for three nights (I know because I asked). Here, we brought him home four hours after he left the OR. To tell you the truth, that made me a little uneasy. I am not a nurse, or a doctor, just a mom who doesn't even know how to properly put on a Band-Aid.
I have to note that Mr Husband was away in London (to add insult to injury, my favourite city in the world) for six days until the very night before the surgery. Six days alone with the kids combined with a timely strep throat and the stress of having my little bug operated had left me almost agonizing. I can't work, read, write, cook or do anything else other than stupidly staring at Facebook. That needs to change. Although I suspect that the antibiotics I'm taking (since my strep throat is real) are partly to blame, so i may have three more days of this.
So, the CI (cochlear implant) was implanted yesterday in a three hour surgery. He had general anesthesia, which was my biggest fear and the main risk of this surgery in particular. It was a very long morning, but his surgeon was very pleases with the results afterwards. We came home a few hours later, and Pablo took care of his bandage during the night. Being a little bit afraid of stitches at first I didn't want to look, but our Dr did an amazing job and you can't even see them. He is comfortable, and the pain medication I gave him with the intention of helping him take a nap gave him a kick and now he is all hyper jumping and spinning in the crib. If I had gone through what he did yesterday, and would have the bruises and swelling he has, I would be weeping away in the couch, in tears. He is all happy, still my lovely always happy Pb. That was my other fear: that the surgery would somehow impact his bubbly personality. So far, it hasn't. And I hope it will remain like that.

Random

I just inadvertently found myself playing with Nymbler. What was I doing there? Nymbler is a website that helps you find baby names. But I'm not pregnant. I guess that while I stopped this morning at Carter's to buy PJs for my boys I saw all these baby girl's dresses, and footsies, and the likes, and I went all hormonal. As if I don't have enough in my plate. My last 30 days have been nuts. Just nuts. I returned to Chicago after two months in Spain, five days later my dad had surgery to fix a problem with the IAD  he has by his heart, I started a new job, Not so Little L started Kindergarten, Little Pb has had a good bunch (and that means more than 10) of appointments with therapists, audiologists, pediatricians, etc, and on top of all that my grandma passed away yesterday. I'm 5000 miles away while my whole family is saying goodbye to her. She lived a very long live, and she hadn't recognized us for a few years (she was in her late 90s), so it was expected. All her children had time to go by her side to say goodbye to her, which was good. But I think it has affected me more than I expected. As usual, when something happens when you are far away, it's effect on you multiplies. I should take a day to process everything that has happened in the last month. But that won't happen, for sure. The moms out there know that free days don't exist. So the processing will have to wait. Until then, I hope my hormones don't take over control. Or then I will need Nymbler for real.

Flying with kids

I was very happy to find this article yesterday on Huff Post. Then I was horrified to read some of the several thousand comments that it thread. Do I really live in a country that hates kids so much? Some of them were terrible, and borderline recommended abuse. Maybe it is because I come from a country where spanking your kids is basically illegal ( a couple of moms have ended in jail for slapping their kids), and drugging them would be unthinkable. I would never do any of the two, and I would certainly not give any drugs to my kid in an enclosed space without access to an ER in case of a bad reaction. Regardless of their behavior, kids are persons, not some second class citizens who need to be kept away from the public. A two year old is a two year old, and convincing them of not doing certain things is sometimes mission impossible, as much as the moms try. My kids pay as much as anyone else on a plane. They have the same right than the other passengers to travel. When you hop on a plane, you should lower your expectations. You are there to be transported from point A to point B, not to relax, work, rest, enjoy... If someone expects that from nowadays air companies, they need a reality check. Planes are uncomfortable with or without kids.
That said, I always try to keep my kids as quiet as possible, for everyones' sake, starting with theirs. Some things I do:
1: Since he was 2, my now 5 year old Little L travels with his own backpack and carry on. Having to take care of the carry on ( a crocodile, in his case), keeps him busy in the airport and gives him a sense of responsibility. Plus, he can put there any heavy toys that I cannot carry on my backpack.
2: Until he was 4, I would bring his car seat along. Once he slept all the way from the runway in Chicago to the runway in Madrid. I actually had to wake him up. And I didn't give him anything.
3: An IPad is a great choice if you travel often. You can load movies, games, drawing apps... On my first solo flight with it, my then 4 year old and his 4 month old brother I got complimented on his behavior at the end of the flight. And, trust me, as anyone who knows him would tell you, he is not the quiet kind. My friends call him "terremoto", earthquake in Spanish.
4: If you are traveling with an infant, ask for a cot. They sleep there quite comfortably, and you can rest your arms.
5: Bring snacks. They keep them entertained for some time. Stickers and kids magazines are also great. Books are too heavy, and last for too little.
6: I don't want to sound patronizing, but this is one more reason to breastfeed. You will always have a way to calm an comfort them if their ears hurt, they get upset, etc. Plus you may freak out the passenger on your side thus getting an extra seat.
7: Call the airline the day before and try to get a bulkhead seat. That way you get rid of the kicking problem altogether, and they have some space to play if they want. If the plane is not full, they will be willing to block an extra seat so you have some extra room. That helps greatly.
8. Take walks on the aisles to visit the flight attendants when they are not busy. As far as you don;t interfere with their resting time, they usually love it.
9. Try to fly with European companies. They are way more kid friendly. I didn't like Iberia until I had kids. Now I don't fly anything else when coming to Spain because they are very kid friendly and usually helpful. I even once had a pilot run after my stroller when the handlers mistakenly were taking it to the cargo bin. And last winter a flight attendant held my baby for some time to give me a rest.

Some of us need to fly with our kids. In my case, my parents cannot travel because of health issues, so if we wouldn't come to Spain twice a year they would never see my kids. Plus I'm raising bicultural kids, and spending three months a year in Spain is a big part of that.
One of my most pleasurable flights started with a disappointment. Little L was 10 months, and when the lady sitting next to us saw him, she asked to be changed. A grandma offered to change her seat, and she helped me throughout the flight. Four years later, we are still good friends, and meet whenever we are in the same town.
The persons for whom flying with kids is the most challenging is the kids themselves and their parents. I cannot believe that 95% of parents don't care. I'm sure they are doing their best, but sometimes, their best is not enough, and nothing will change that. I will post about my next flight in August with a 5 year old and a toddler. It will be my most challenging flight yet.
I will address socializing kids in the US vs Spain in another post. That should be fun ;)
Kuddos to the author of the article. She was dead on.

The next step

It's been a while since my last post. It's not that I haven't tried, but I barely have time. Between my classes, little L, and little Pb's therapy this is the first Saturday morning when I have a few minutes to write. And that's because I'm ignoring the pile of plates that await me in the kitchen sink. Little Pb has been doing therapy with three different ladies for a couple of months. There has been some progress, but not enough, so yesterday he got his first set of hearing aids. So far, so good. He wore them one hour yesterday and three hours today. He didn't seem bothered by them, and he actually cried a little when I removed them before putting him to nap. Of course, he takes them off, but much less than we expected. We'll see how he does when he has to wear them all day long. It's still too early to know whether they are helping, because even if they make him hear more, that doesn't mean that he is understanding what we say, since this is a neural problem, and not a sensory one. A small percentage of ANDS kids do well enough with hearing aids. It would be great if he is one of them.
Little L and I have one week of classes to go, and then we will have a couple of weeks in Chicago's steaming summer before we all go to Spain. I think it will be good for everyone, we really need a break, and spending the summer there makes things much easier. This is like going back to the 80s, when my friends from the cities would spend the summer in my village with their grandparents or mothers while the  parents worked. We are doing the same, but I think that will be healthy for the kids.
In a few days I will post complaining about the heat, no doubt ;)

The power of no

Since I'm recovering of a ridiculously adult case of strep throat that has kept me in bed for the last three days, I'm going to blog about one of the articles that I have read these days. The author criticizes a certain group of parents for their selfishness, self entitlement and over protection of their kids. It's ironic and funny, but sadly true. The fact that a mom thinks that ice cram carts should not be around playgrounds just so her kid doesn't beg for ice cream is ridiculous. At least to this poor European mom. Did you really say that you don't care if someone loses his job so your kid doesn't cry? Really? And don't give me the "it says it's illegal" line. U-turns are also illegal in most places and no one cares around here. You are not supposed to bring balls either. Oh, I caught you, you brought one! And dogs are also banned, but I'm sure that many moms would be perfectly OK with them roaming around their kids. I'm also going to assume that this mom is going to want to ban other parents from bringing bikes and trikes to the park. I've had to explain to my son plenty of times that it's OK to be sad about not being able to play with someone else's three wheeler at the park, but that he still couldn't do it. Or that he couldn't jump from the top of the slide. Or that he couldn't have an ice cream, for that matter.
One of the most important jobs as a parent is to teach them the meaning of the word "no". It's hard, because they whine, and cry, and beg, and pout, and make cute sad faces. But you still have to say no. Not always, obviously. Someone gave me one of the best advice I have gotten early in the game: "pick your battles". So you have to choose your nos wisely, depending on what you want to base your parenting style on.
The problem of these parents, anyway, is not just the ice cream. Is that they expect the world to revolve around their kids. In Europe, when someone has a baby, the baby is expected to adapt to his/her parents lifestyle and rhythm. I'm sure many an American has felt tempted to call children services while visiting Spain and seeing two year olds playing around a cafeteria table at midnight while their parents are enjoying some time with their friends. That's because here the parents are the ones who are expected to drastically change their way of life, catering to every single little need their kids can have. And that only brings us self entitled and self absorbed adults, who are starting to arrive to the workforce now with disastrous consequences. Ask recruiters around, and you'll see. They expect the world in exchange for nothing. No one has taught them better. And I'm not telling that Spain does a great job, either. Discipline is barely known there, by now actually it's probably banned by law. I will discuss that in another post.
Going back to that poor ice-cream vendor... If your child gets fat, it's not the ice-cream vendor's fault, McDonald's fault or Elmo's fault. It's your fault. If you smoke it's not Philip Morris's fault. It's your fault. I could go on, but you get the idea, right? After all I have written about this before. So, let's reflect a little, take back our share of free will, and start acting like adults. The kids will take care of their part.

Disclaimer: I am by no means referring to all American parents. I neither presume that I'm doing a prefect job. Actually, I asume from the beginning that it is impossible to do a perfect job.

Cuteness

My oldest son sleeps with socks. He has done it since he stpped wearing footsies to sleep. And they cannot match. His favorites are always old socks that are too small. I have already warned him that eventually there will be girls (or guys, who knows) and he may have to sleep barefoot. But twenty days shy of five that doesn't seem to concern him. As long as he is wearing them now, he is fine. Those little details are what makes us who we are. And seeing him crossed in his bed, with his little feet on unmatched socks hanging outside the mattress, makes an otherwise not so good day worthy. That cuteness is what justifies motherhood. As trying as it is, little things make you be thankful for your kids. They are irresistible :)

At least now we know

We finally have a prognosis for Little Pb. It's not good, but it could be worse. The other day a friend told me that this is not a tragedy, and she is right. It's a challenge. And it's going to be hard to overcome it. Actually, we will not really overcome it. He is deaf, and he always will be. But we may be able to help him hear. And speak. We may not, and that will be fine too. I just need to process all the information I have been given in the last couple of days, start my own research, and get to the task. The prognosis is Auditory Neuropathy. If you want more info about it, go to the link, but it basically means that his ear is fine, his cochlea is fine, but the nerve that connects them to the brain is not working properly. The worst thing about AN is that it doesn't really have a cure. And treatment varies from one kid to another, including the possible outcomes. So far it seems like we have a plan. We are going to try to habilitate his hearing and speech. That means that we are going to be seeing a speech therapist and an aural pathologist who will try to teach him how to hear and talk. I know, how do you teach someone to hear? I'll let you know when I find out. Right now we have appointments for them for the last week of March, but I called our audiologist to see if he can do something to move things faster. His ENT also wants him to undergo an MRI, just to make sure everything else is fine. It sounds like a lot, but it cannot be worse than seeing him go under yesterday. He was a champ, and it's unbelievable that after spending two hours under anesthesia and having a procedure done today he is back to being the happiest baby of the world, all smiles and giggles. The broad plan is to try therapy for a few months. If that's working and we see progress, great, we keep doing that. If it doesn't, we may try a hearing aid. They don't usually work, but is worth giving it a careful try. The last resort would be a cochlear implant. Which could not work, either. But we have many months until that.
This whole thing sucks. For many reasons. Not So Little L also needs our attention, and he is not getting as much as he is used to. We still should be able to live somewhat normal lives. But if you look at my IPhone calender for the next month, you would see that it is impossible. I don't have time. On top of all this, I decided to go back to work a month ago, and I start teaching again on March 26. And I have also accepted a small translation project. I'm looking forward to both, because they will keep me busy, but at the same time that's time that I won't be able to spend stimulating my baby.
Eventually, I hope to be able to go back to normal, trivial, frivolous posts. But for now, this is what it is. And my next question is... How do you raise a bilingual deaf child? That seems like a quadruple jump with loops...
About the ear tube surgery and sedated ABR test done yesterday, I have to say that it was unnerving to spend two hours waiting for them to be done, but everyone was great with us at Children's Memorial Hospital. Which was more than welcome. Northwestern doesn't always have the best bedside manners, but yesterday they were great.

A leap day I would have liked to leap over

February 29th 2012 was a gorgeous day in Chicago. I started my day at 8:30, going for a walk in a wonderful and breezy 55 F/ 14 C degree weather. That would have been a perfect start for a perfect day if it wasn't because the walk was taking me to Children's Memorial Hospital, where my baby, little Pb, was going to see an audiologist and then an otolaryngologist (ENT doctor). For months we have been thinking he was not hearing well, for months we have observed that he wasn't babbling at all (until, of course, the day I set up those appointments, when he started to babble a shy neneneneh). We took him to the pediatrician, we had an audiology report done in December, I took him to an otolaryngologist in Spain, and other than a mild hearing loss, he seemed to be fine. We were told that his ears were in perfect shape, or in the worst case, he would have fluid that was easily removed with ear tubes. But yesterday, in a more comprehensive audiology report, they saw that he was not responding at all in one ear, and only to elevated sounds (beyond 90 decibels) in the other. He pass the preliminary physical tests because the ear itself is fine, but he didn't pass the Otoacoustic Emissions Test. Now we are scheduled for a sedated ABR (Auditory Brainstem Response) on Tuesday. In that test they will place electrodes on his head to measure the brain's response to sound. At this point, they suspect he may have Auditory Neuropathy, which means that the nerve that connects his ear and his brain is not working well. Doctors don't seem to know much about it (according to Google, because no other doctor is giving us any information at this point), and it appears to be difficult to manage because it's unpredictable, it fluctuates, and can change from hour to hour, day to day, week to week or even month to month. Sometimes they hear something, sometimes they don't, and it fluctuates on the same child. That makes it difficult to treat. Apparently one of the options is a cochlear implant. But we are not there yet, we need to wait for the results. So far, they include an ear infection. his ears were perfectly fine yesterday at the ENT's, but today when I took him to the pediatrician for a pre-test physical he had an ear infection on his right ear, and fluid in both ears. Sigh. Now he is on antibiotics, and I cross my fingers so this doesn't interfere with the test.
So far, my next week has a speech evaluation on Monday, ABR test on Tuesday, otolaryngologist on Wednesday. That doesn't include music/soccer/Dr's appointment for me, Dr's appointment for "not so little L" and whatever else gets peppered on our week. Do I scream? I think I'll rather keep doing laundry and have a glass of wine and a cigarette, because it seems that, once again, we have a long road ahead of us. Plagued with decisions. Thankfully, I have an aunt who is an specialist in speech therapy, and a very good friend who is an specialist in disabilities and has been working closely with the Deaf community. At this point, all I have are questions. Starting with: How do marriages survive in these circumstances? I'll keep you posted.

Fernando Aramburu

I'm excited, because this is the first post I write from my IPad. Which, I love, by the way, although I vow to never use it for reading. Nothing will substitute the feel and smell of paper, of the fabric that binds it, of the leather of old books. But I'm not here to discuss books vs digital books, but to talk about my favorite writer of the last year. He has been writing for a long time, but I just discovered him last Spring. Yes, it has taken me these many months to finish one of the two books by him that I have read. The other one was devoured during the summer. The name of the writer is Fernando Aramburu, and he is from my native Basque Country. I just finished today Viaje con Clara con Alemania, a road trip novel in which the main character, a Spaniard whom we only know by the nickname "ratón" (little mouse) that his German wife uses to address him, narrates a trip taken with her. The purpose of the trip is to obtain information for a road trip book that the wife, Clara, is writing. I assume that it's unnecessary to mention the metanarrative aspect of the book within a book. I laughed with this novel. Loudly. It's very ironic and a bit cynical, a pretty acid portrait of how Germans view foreigners and of marital relationships. The witty dialogues between husband and wife are at times hilarious. I highly recommend it, although I wouldn't say it's an easy read. Lighter in the literature, but way heavier in content, Los peces de la amargura is the short story book that I finished in a couple of days during the summer. I was very surprised to find a writer who deals openly with Basque terrorism, and dares to explore it from every angle. Julio Medem tried to do it a few years ago with La pelota vasca, a documentary that, in my opinion, fails to capture the real situation that we were living in the Basque Country. The documentary was a little bit naive and unrealistic, unlike the fictional stories crafted by Aramburu, which, despite their "unreal" nature, resonate way more with what life felt then and there, and gives you chills as you read some parts. Most stories are told from the victims side, but some others address the feelings of the terrorists, the killers and their guilt. It also describes in a chilling manner the impunity that they enjoyed, even being worshipped as heroes in their towns. No other author has written about these issues as openly and as freely as Aramburu has, trying to take into account all sides of the conflict, but without forgetting or forgiving for a second, without excusing criminal behaviors with political explanations. I will go back to him soon, but now, it's time to move onto another writer. Ironically, this was one of the original purposes of this blog, writing about literature. Funny enough, I think this may be the first literary post. Hopefully others will follow soon. That will mean that the stage of motherhood in which you can't read period has passed. Coming from a girl who used to read five books a week on graduate school, and is happy to read one every five months now, that tastes like a triumph.

Excellent article

And so right on. It's what this blog is or was supposed to be about. But the other way around. How a European mom sees child rearing in the US.
 http://www.huffingtonpost.com/debra-ollivier/bringing-up-bebe_b_1224589.html?ncid=webmail5