Summer Hits

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Uncategorized

It takes me several days to realize that June has arrived.  Once that realization hits, summer hits, and then, seemingly, out of nowhere, I hear grocery store shoppers comment as they slowly push their carts in sadness, “Can you believe how fast the summer is going?  It’s almost the fourth of July.”

Those are moments I’d love to ask strangers, “Summer officially began June 21.  It’s June 28.  It’s only been a week.  What are we being so dramatic about?”

Summer hits and just as it does, people are already sad that it’s coming to a close.

I don’t get it.

These days of dawg heavy humidity have Nick, Isaiah, and I on the go.  We just returned from good ol’ Russia after a lovely wedding on Nick’s side of the family for which I photographed the reception.  It was Isaiah’s first wedding and he was a pretty good guest at the table.  He didn’t eat any food.  He didn’t hassle the bartender for stronger drinks.  He didn’t complain to the DJ, asking, “Why aren’t you playing my song?”  No inappropriate moves on the dance floor.  He was a perfect gentleman, except for the fact he didn’t wear shoes.  Most gentlemen wore shoes to formal events.  Isaiah needs to see his toes, feel the air on those little piggies.  So he dressed up for the occasion, sans footwear.

This week we are heading to New Jersey to spend time with some close friends of ours and relax on the Atlantic coast.  This will be Isaiah’s first real roadtrip.  (I consider anything over 4 hours a roadtrip.  Anything under is a just a mere car ride.)  We have no idea how he will be, but this will be the first time he will be upgraded to first class seating with his new convertible car seat.

I tell you.  Life is all about the little things.

Gerber Head is just too adorable these days.  Sometimes I just want to roll him in sugar and take a bite out of him, he looks so scrumptiously sweet.  This weekend he enjoyed Borchers family worship in Russia.  His grandparents, uncles, and aunt were there to provide an abundant supply of affection and stares into his big brown eye wells of love and innocence.

Latest developments in babyland: he is scooting!  Backward!  I think he learned that from Tita (“aunt”) Carmen, fitness extraordinaire, who taught him leg lifts.  She did reps with him in sets of four.  Aigh nako.  (Tagalog expression for, basically, Oh my LORD!/OMG/Good heavens)

Latest developments in adultland: packing, shopping, planning for our big trip to the Atlantic coast.  First family roadtrip.

Random piece of news update:  We’re having a landscaper come out and tame our jungle look at our property.  Have I mentioned how Shaker Heights is the queen of celebrating landscapes?  There would be no surprises in this family if our block threw us an appreciation party for even having someone take a look at our pachysandra disaster.  I’ll keep you posted.

The Five Inconvenient Truths About Sexual Assault

Published on by Lisa Category: Accountability, Activism, Big Media has Big Problem, Feminism, Sexual Assault

The recent allegations against former VP, Oscar-winning, Nobel Prize joint holder Al Gore of sexual assault is enough to make anyone – Dem, Indie, or Republican squirm with uneasiness. I mean, it’s not everyday you hear that the former right hand man to the leader of the free world and near leader of the free world in the closest Presidential race in the history of our nation ask a masseuse to release the energy in his second chakra.

The collision of digital media and pop culture has enabled us to receive information about this case – and news in general – faster than at other point in human history. Anywhere, anytime in the world, if a story breaks, if you have access to the internet, you will have reasonable means to find out what happened.

Find out what happened, that is, from the viewpoint of the media. And the staff. And their collective point system to determine if a story is “true” or not. Granted, if I were a paid journalist for a reputable paper, I’d use my own point system of fact-checking. If you gotta report on whether XYZ is a legitimate story, you have to have all the dots connect. That’s understandable.

What’s not understandable and downright wrong is to apply the journalists’ point system of “truth” likelihood to cases of sexual violence, a field where the dots do anything but connect. It is the very nature of violence that the dots are SUPPOSED to not make sense. We’re talking trauma and memory here, not context and accuracy.

The inconvenient truth about sexual assault is that there truly is no way to determine what truly happened, except for the two people who were involved. It’s more often than not, though, that the survivor of sexual assault is a woman, the assailant is a man, and there was indeed a sexual violation. INCONVENIENT TRUTH #1: Rape actually happens. All the time. At an alarming rate that you don’t want to acknowledge or believe. And it is rare that the rapes are ever proven.

Unfortunately, society at large tends to use celebrity and public cases ala Kobe Bryant and Ben Rothlisberge for their field experience and education. People hear about a public allegation of sexual violence and the majority of media consumers jump on the PROVE IT! PROVE IT! PROVE IT! taunting bandwagon, rather than displaying any semblance of sensitive, mature decorum, or, heaven forbid, prudence. It’s disheartening, to say the least. INCONVENIENT TRUTH #2: The public’s response, sensitivity, and knowledge base about sexual violence against women is inexcusably deficient. Is it really any wonder so few women ever come forward? Or why we have such a hard time comprehending any sort of justice outside the legal court system? The public’s venomous need for graphic details and using “guilty” or “not guilty” as the barometer for truth only further darkens the already dark path for survivors of violence.

In a conservative estimate, the FBI reports that only 37% of actual rapes are reported. After working in sexual assault for many years in advocacy and counseling, I believe it’s probably more around the 3.7% not 37%. Many years ago, a colleague who worked as a researcher in criminal justice for the government once told me that the report she submitted for the Department of Justice, which included the data of the number of sexual assaults that occurred that year, was later published with altered data numbers. The actual number of rapes was published LOWER than what her findings suggested. Why, I asked. Because, she told me plainly, no one wants to hear about how many women are raped in this country. And no one wants to tell the truth. INCONVENIENT TRUTH #3 Even the most credible resources for sexual violence estimates are just that: estimates. Ask any person who has worked in the field for more than 1 year who has direct service experience. S/he will tell you what I will tell you: The statistics are wrong. It’s more. Much more.

Anytime I wrote or give a talk about sexual assault, inevitably, someone brings up two magic words that somehow make people, usually disbelievers, feel better about the world: FALSE REPORTS. Yes, false reports exist. Yes, false reports exist. Yes, false reports exist.

There. I wrote it. Three times just to make sure you know they they do exist.

They happen. Of course they happen. Just like how everyday people lie on the trial stand. Just like employees fudge the truth about billing hours. Just like how some people “forget” a number or two when filing their taxes. People give false reports. YES. And, in that vein, I pray that people understand that (INCONVENIENT TRUTH #4) for every false report there are about 1000 truth bearing women who will NEVER say a word because they understand that when it comes to rape, the benefit of the doubt is given to the assailant, not the survivor.

It’s also imperative that people understand the difference between a false report and a withdrawn statement.
Many, many women I worked with who suffered from post traumatic stress disorder, who were beaten black and blue, whose bodies were broken and spirits were crushed withdrew their statements and vanished into thin air. (WHY? Go back and read IC #4.) That’s a withdrawn statement. An actual false report is when the alleged victim admits to lying about giving a false statement. There’s no retracting of anything, just an admittance of lying. However, I must also interject, that there are women who also admit to false reporting out of fear of going forward. Not everything is black and white.

The overwhelming majority of women I work with never report and the ones that do face incredible odds of ever witnessing legal justice. My job, for many years, was to assist women in finding justice in other ways. Justice can be measured in how many hours of sleep you got, how many days were free of alcohol or drugs to numb the pain, entering a new, healthy relationship, communicating freely…Justice, for many survivors, is about reclaiming what was stolen. Rebuilding one’s life in the safety and love of their families and communities is often all one can do. INCONVENIENT TRUTH #5 Survivors often heal on their own, absent of any retribution or affirmation.

Finding out whether cases like Gore, Bryan, or Rothlisberger are true is not my interest. The last thing on my agenda is to convince anyone if someone is a perpetrator or not. What I am most interested in is pressing critical and comprehensive understanding of sexual violence against women; and how powerful and damaging this issue truly is. And if people understood how prevalent this is in their local communities, not as many folks would be interested in the celebrity cases. I guarantee it.

Sexual assault is a the issue with no silver lining. There is no upside or sentence that begins with, “Well, at least…” No. There is no middle ground, safe haven, or pill to make this pain go away. For the survivor, it is a vicious, damning cycle of violence, judgment, disbelief, and a tedious road of recovery. There is no silver lining, but there is hope. There is hope that everyday people, like you and me, can see through the BS of media’s portrayal of sexual assault and, if nothing else, better understand the issue at hand for ourselves. The more people who understand the true facts of violence against women, the more hope we have of preventing it in our own communities and families. And if it does happen, which it likely has and will, we are able to respond with gentleness, understanding, and empathy.

Letter #13

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

Dear Isaiah,

Two days ago you turned six months old. SIX MONTHS!

In this time, your life has changed, you body has developed, your everything is maturing with each little inch of life you live.

People often ask me if I write all your milestones down. They encourage me to do so because it’s supposed to help “relive” the moments later on when you get older. Well, the calendar that is supposed to act as your first year recorder is somewhat dusty and neglected. I prefer writing, not simply “recording.”

This site and all my previous writings have centered you, your germination, your birthing, your life. I don’t think the little sticker that reads FIRST SMILE will be able to truly convey the heartmelting moment when you first showed me your pink gums. I don’t think scribbling 20 lbs. 4 oz into today’s record book of your doctor’s appointment is going to preserve the pleasing grins your father and I exchanged at the doctor’s office when we heard your measurements and weight.

Years from now, you’ll read these passages and wonder what all the big darn deal was. You’ll probably think that I, an overly sentimental mother and writer, recorded and shared TOO MUCH INFORMATION with everyone.

Years from THAT moment though, someday, you’ll have your own children and God-willing, I will be writing and recording their milestones, how your son or daughter sucks their toes just like you did at six months old. How they loved to squeal in front of parents but behaved quietly in front of strangers.

Isaiah, I write these things because writing both releases and preserves moments that cannot be replicated. They will act as memory stones when we cannot recall what this feeling was like as new parents. Writing these letters may even come as a tool for me later on, when you’re a wiry adolescent and break rules for fun. These letters may help me remember that all stages of your life are as precious as they are passing. And no matter how far your crawl or drive the car without permission, I will always be behind you. Loving you. Hoping only for the best and most meaningful things in life for you. Because that’s the kind of mom I hope to be: simply there. Protecting, guiding, asking, feeling.

And writing.

You are more than precious. More than anything I could ever imagine or attempt to describe.

You are more than all of the milestones you will achieve. You are greater than all of the gifts you have given us, your family. Your life is more sacred to me than my own heart.

All of these emotions cannot be surmised from stickers on a calendar, you see. Actually, these moments cannot really be preserved by anything, not writings, not notebooks. They are burned into the bricks of our home, into the blankets you love, onto the bottles you throw.

And I pray that your father and I are able to continue to enjoy every little inch of your blessed life.

Love,
Mama

The Loose Vegan: How Food Tells a Story of Our Lives

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

loose vegan2

I love food.

This is not a surprise.

My family, immediate and extended, are the same.  And now that I come to think of it, there really isn’t anyone close to me that doesn’t feel the same.  Food is wonderful.  It is beyond satisfying and celebratory.

Food isn’t just about eating.  What you select, how you prepare it, how you feast on it, and all the different people and cultures that influence you are smashed into every little bite of food that goes in your mouth.

I grew up with Filipino food.  Filipino food is a cross between Malaysian, Chinese, and Spanish cultures, I’ve been told.  How I think of Filipino food can be summed up even more quickly than that: it’s just awesome.  It’s rice based with lots of different kinds of ways to stew meat, potatoes, vegetables, fish, rice, noodles, and sauces.  There’s no real complexity to the flavoring of things.  It’s usually just hearty, stick to your ribs kind of foods.  We ate with both fork and spoon at every meal.  When Iwent to college, I was dumbfounded to find that most people reserved spoons for desserts and soups.

It also wasn’t until college that I tasted my first salad.  I always thought the idea of cold vegetables – with no rice anywhere on your plate – was a novelty.  I didn’t grow up with fancy spices or dashes of this or that in the pot.  There was no real complicated way to prepare food in our house.  The only thing lesson I knew growing up about food was that the best tasting things often take the most time.  Foods need time to marinate, soak up the ingredients, or let out its robust flavor.  Good eating means good cooking and good cooking means caring and giving your time.

Food tells a story.  Regardless of what your diet consists of, there’s ALWAYS a story as to what you eat.  Even if it’s drive thru menus or dollar deals at Popeye’s – what you put in your mouth reveals something about who you are.

I began understanding this in my early 20s, when I was introduced to Indian, Thai, and more American gourmet foods.  I grew interested in how whole foods were put together to have a completely different taste.  I started experimenting and buying spices.  Then I started researching recipes on the internet and adapting to my own taste buds.  Eventually, the experimenting including dipping my fingers into desserts and baking.  Getting over my fear of the oven, I baked my first batch of brownies circa 2005.  I wasn’t always this adventurous.  When I was 16, I tried to cook my first pot of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese.  CULINARY DISASTER TRANSPORT.  I forgot to strain the noodles.

Yeah.  That’s where I was 15 years ago.  Forgetting to strain pasta.

Too shy to call myself anything but a cautious experimenter in the kitchen, I simply observed others in grocery stores during my shopping trips.  Particularly in the produce department, I meticulously read labels and perked up to listen when overhearing a conversation on how to cook arugula or the use of bibb lettuce.  As a writer, a sometimes painter, and a photographer, the creative life is always calling me in different directions to experience life – and flavor – more deeply.  Cooking is just another channel to better enjoy the rich variety of life.

When Isaiah was born, I quickly began selecting the best foods for my diet.  Several weeks later, this was complicated by his eczema and frequent trips to the allergist and pediatrician.  For now, Isaiah is allergic to milk, eggs, all dairy, and peanuts.  The doctor believes he will grow out of it, but for now, I have to be pretty observant about what I put in my mouth and eagle-eye strict with his solids.

So I, reluctantly, became a vegan+meat eater.  I started reading more and more about plant based recipes and how to enjoy a dairy free world, or at least, an extremely limited dairy life.

The basic social functions of my and Nick’s life should just be titled DAIRY FEST because, I swear, there is NO getting around dairy in the ingredients and core solvent in most recipes.  The first six weeks were full of bitching and moaning, complete with sulking in the parking lot at Whole Foods.

I missed cheese.  Sour cream!  Cream cheese!  Milk!  Cream!  Omelettes!

By the 8th week, my passion for food grew in an extremely unexpected way.  I learned that there is life without dairy.  Seriously!

And with that revelation came a burst of creative energy.  Books about the effects of dairy began filling my reading shelf with cook books on how to cook vegan on the cheap.  Nick even began tasting my creations and, no surprises there, exclaims, “This tastes great, babe!” (He says that about everything I prepare…)

But the conflict remained:  I didn’t want to opt out of all the dairy-ful culture that is the midwest, particularly holiday functions, weddings, and special occasions like Game 7 of the NBA where I will inevitably want pizza while I yell obscenities at Kobe Bryant.  That’s life.  Things come up that leave you with two choices: eat dairy lightly or starve.

Realistically, I can’t prepare every single meal vegan.  Veganism, I’ve found, means lots of prep work and committing yourself to the cooking process.  I have no problem with that 75% of the time.  But the other 25% –  life happens.  Hurry up moments drop themselves everywhere.  Stomachs growl.  Children need to be nursed and you can’t nurse (I’ve found) on an empty stomach.  Disentangling myself from dairy and eggs means disengaging with friends and potlucks.  I’m not ready for that.  Or, at least, I’m not ready to cook something in preparation for every. single. time. I. go. out. to. meet. friends.

I’m trying to be a loose vegan.  Meaning, when I have the power and means to do so, I eat vegan.  When I do not, I allow myself – lightly – to something else being served.  Let me be clear though: I prefer vegan meals.  Fully, whole-heartedly, I prefer vegan meals.  I think they taste better and make you feel much more healthy.  There is absolutely NO deprivation whatsoever, so long as you take the time to cook and enjoy yourself in the process.

For now, I embrace my coined identity as a loose vegan.  And to encourage anyone else out there who finds themselves wanting to try something new but is too afraid to do it full force, think of approaching it loosely.  Not everything needs to be full force.  There’s a reason Nick sometimes calls me “The 4th Quarter Girl.”  I tend to be, uh, kind of intense about things.  But, for this,  I’m going to be doing my best to not be so absorbed and consumed by the details.  Approach it with fun.  With lightness.  With a lot of sway.

This Loose Vegan believes that food tells a story and while I am learning more and more about this particularly lifestyle, and the political insinuation it comes with, I plan to share the ups and downs of this yummy endeavor by writing about different creations and recipes I use.  By no means am I am turning my site into a vegan website because there are a gazillion sites that are gorgeously laid out and go much more in-depth than I will ever go.  Nope.  My sharing is simply for fun and to inspire any hard core burger eater, like myself, to open yourself up and try something different.

Being a light vegan appeals to the side of me that truly does love inventing and finding ways to make something that was once ordinary taste heavenly.

Hop on the LFB delish train.

Loose Vegan Recipe:

Tofu Scramble with Golden Couscous and Blueberry Fudge Mint Smoothie

The scrambled tofu scramble is basically saving my life since I really miss eggs.  Here’s what I put in mine…(I don’t measure, I eyeball everything)
Extra firm tofu – cut up and dried (cut in half and press paper towels into them to soak up the water)
1/2 sweet red pepper, 1 med vidalia onion, 3 cups baby spinach, 3 cloves garlic, 1/2 c cubed vegan monterey cheese
1/2 tp or so of Tumeric, 1/4 ts Ground Coriander, 1/4 ts Curry Powder, dash of bread crumbs
Throw it all in there with some EVOO (add cheese and spinach last) and sautee on med-low until you hear the baby crying and you have to turn it off and run upstairs for 15 minutes while it cooks on the lingering heat.
I love golden couscous because of its yummy fluffy texture.  I throw in 2 tsp of vegan spread to replace butter.  Cooks in 5 minutes.

Blueberry Fudge Mint Smoothie

1 c frozen blueberries
1 banana
depending on how thick you like the consistency about 1 cup of soy milk or unsweetened brown ricemilk
1 scoop of non dairy marble mint fudge ice milk
a handful of ice
Blend until you have desired consistency.
The mint and slight hint of fudge goes FABULOUSLY with the blueberries.  Completely refreshing and rocking for summer mornings.

Before and After: How Motherhood Changes Concepts of Time and Communication

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

Much of motherhood is very much about intuition.  Intuition is about as subtle as a fading tan in September.  You look at your child and simply KNOW what their current expression is all about.  Same goes for their squirming and head turns and mini yelps when you leave the room.

Intuition is reading between the lines; understanding the unsaid and what most cannot see.

Prior to Isaiah’s birth, I lived my life very much in the intuitive world.  I “felt” more than planned.  If a free Saturday rolled around, I would mentally make a list of my “Hope To Do” list.  While others simply make a To Do list, my list was always open to variation.  For example, I would plan on 1. grocery store shopping  2.  laundry   3.  calling a family member

But, if life just happened to throw me a curve ball and, I unexpectedly find a gorgeous 60 degree day sunning into my room in February or a friend calls, squealing details of her latest beau into the receiver, I adjust my Hope To Do List to accommodate other activities.  I adapt.

Which is why it’s very difficult for me to stick to a plan.  What if something better comes along that needs attention?  What if my feelings change about what needs to get done?

None of this was a problem until I met Nick.

Nick L-O-V-E-S to know what I am planning on doing with my day,  “so I can make sure you accomplish the things you need done,” he figures.  Nick’s a planner.  He’s one of those people who was, like, BORN with a small clock radio in their heads.  Even without a watch, he knows whether he’s on time or running late.

Now that Isaiah is here, my intuition and “feeling my way” through a day is limited.  Nick and I need to be in sync.  Not just for Isaiah, but for our own personal sanity.  Who takes care of Isaiah and for how long determines who gets to go for a long run in the morning or who gets to lounge and read in the backyard.  Planning for Isaiah’s welfare isn’t just about Isaiah’s welfare.  How symbiotic our relationship is translates into a lifeline for our own individual equilibrium.

More and more, I am beginning to understand how absolutely critical it is to communicate clearly about what you want.  There are countless studies that report that new mothers postpartum are more susceptible to mental health struggles and illness because of stress and anxiety.  The culprit is multitasking under hard conditions.  New mothers feel all the domestic responsibilities fall on their shoulders.  New mothers put baby, spouse, community, and family before themselves.  Time, like a pie, is cut into pieces.  The largest pieces often go to caretaking and making sure OTHERS are ok.  New mothers rarely take time for themselves.

But, I noticed, much of those reports (sorry, I can’t find links directly to them) associate this overwhelming stress with women who are unable to delegate responsibilities, or, women who cannot simply ASK their partners to do more.  I can’t help but think that the traditional roles of women, motherhood, and caretaking impress upon us precisely when we are most vulnerable: sleep deprived, borderline neurotic with worry, and physically exhausted.

I don’t pretend that my life or marriage is perfect.  Far from it.  But Nick and I work tremendously hard at communicating with one another and keeping the other balanced and reasonably happy.  It can’t be a euphoric party every night, but I think we both realize that the happier we are as individuals, the better spouses we are and more loving parents we are to our son.  I encourage women I encounter to become, if nothing else, a better communicator with their families.  To effectively communicate what one needs isn’t about laziness or complaining – it’s about being a better parent and sharing the workload in a manner that demonstrates respect and self-dignity, love and compromise, and evenness.  This balance isn’t always struck, but the efforts to do so pays off in dividends.

Isaiah forces me to say what I need because if I fail to communicate effectively, I end up taking on more than what I can realistically do, and when I fail, slip into a dark corner of self-punishment.  Isaiah, and certainly Nick, can do without that.  I can do without that.

The intuitive parts of my day have quieted into a more determined planner.  This transformation was necessary, critical even, to my development as a parent.  I can’t “hope to do” anything, I must put Isaiah’s needs first and then assess how much time is left in the slithered pie crusts.  With those hours (minutes, really), I am able to breathe and hope that I get in a long hot shower or a ranting post like this.

Our children need to see us happy, attentive, and loving.  Working to make ourselves mentally and emotionally sound so we are 100% present to our children is the most radical act parents can do these days.

The Humbling Pill of Parenthood

Published on by Lisa Category: Parenthood

When I was a kid, I remember watching TV and movies and thinking that adults were overly sensitive about stupid comments.

Anytime there was a scene – probably some afterschool special about smoking or drinking or smoking the reefer – that involved two arguing adults and one of them growling, “Don’t tell me how to raise my kid,” I remember thinking what’s the big deal?  Someone gives you advice on what you should do with your kid?  What’s to get so touchy about?

Well, not that I AM a parent, I see what the big deal is all about.

Giving unsolicited advice – about anything, really – is like shooting a canon across the ocean without certainty of when and where it’s going to land.  The more I understand how much goes into parenting – how a thousand decisions are made before noon – the more I begin to get it: parenting isn’t just about how you raise your child, it’s about who YOU are as a person.  What your values reveal.  What you choose to risk and not risk.

Parenting choices reveal who we are on the inside.  And when someone offers you their opinion or advice on how you should treat your own child, it feels very much like a cautionary note stapled onto your forehead that reads: I’M DOING A MEDIOCRE JOB.  I SHOULD TRY HARDER.

Yes, mistakes are made and some decisions turn into regrets that we’d like to take back, but for the most part, we invest our authentic, unapologizing selves into raising our kids.  While each child is an individual person, yes, while they are young, they are like huge empty fishbowls and we, the parents, fill them with all of our stuff – good and bad – with transparent glass so everyone can see, judge, and speculate what we are made of.

I think I’ve grown much more empathetic to the world all around me since I’ve become a mother.  I think that’s because raising Isaiah has been the most difficult and joyous adventure of my life and its softened any parts of me that were previously impatient or judgmental.  When you try your absolute best at something, and you see the mistakes you’re making along the way, your heart begins to cave in a bit for others.  I’ve begun looking at unsmiling strangers or rude encounters with random folks and instead of my normal thought process of wondering if there was a traffic cone stuck up their butts, I now approach it with much more humility.  Now instead of traffic cones, I wonder if they have an ill child at home and that’s why they’re rushing out of the parking lot and cut me off at the intersection.  I wonder if, for the most part, people ARE trying their best in life and instead of silently breaking them down in my head, I can send them good thoughts, pray for them even, since I know now a critical truth about growing up: sometimes your best isn’t seen as very much.

Parenting has been the most humbling experience of my life.

That, and when Nick beats me at a board game.

Backed Up

Published on by Lisa Category: Isaiah, Milestones, Parenthood

Someday, probably not too far off into the distant future, Isaiah is going to ask, probably demand, why I wrote about him so much in a public domain.  Specifically, he will want to know why I wrote about something so personal, so private to his life and dared to share it with 6 billion people (minus the folks with no internet access).

After seven days of only wet diapers, Isaiah finally pooped.

It was one week ago when it all began.  I noticed he hadn’t had any soiled diapers.  Didn’t freak out until day #2, but was somewhat mitigated by Nick, the unflappable father, who remarks,”I’m sure it’s normal.  He’s probably fine.”

And then day #5 came.  We finally got a hold of a nurse at the office who instructed

1) Prunes.  Lots of prunes.

2) Put him on his belly

3) Soak his fanny.  (And she did say fanny.)

4) Rectal thermometer.  (Oh dear…)

5) Pediatric laxative.

So, Isaiah turned into something close to a 20lb. fig when I started feeding him baby prunes.  He loved them, but not BM.

Soaked him.  Twice.  Nothing happened.

He went to the doctor who felt his stomach and figured it’s probably just his digestive system getting used to solids.  It probably doesn’t help that I fed him bananas.

And then this morning.  Day #7, he was playing on the floor, with a big grin on his face.  And then suddenly he went still, a peaceful look on this face and I looked up from my chair, wondering if a garbage truck had entered the room because the most FOUL odor wafted across my face.

He went.  He went big time.

And I rejoiced with him.  Coaxing him along, in the likes of Drill Baby Drill, “Poop Baby Poop!”

When he was done, his eyes got doubled lidded, he gave me a sloppy smile and fell asleep on the changing table.

Rejoice in the clean-up!  That’s my advice to BP.

Comments Glitch

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

Every new project has its problems and mine is no different. A big thank you to all of you who have let me know of your difficulties in trying to leave a comment. I’m looking into it and hope it will be resolved shortly.

Not only is that annoying, but I would love to hear what you have to say! Be not discouraged!