Authors: Alex McCord,Simon van Kempen
Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle) (3 page)
BOOK: Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle)
3.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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Once I made the decision to go natural, I wanted to give myself the best possible chance to succeed, and thought, what do you do if you’re going to put your body through a huge physical ordeal? You work out and you train. Prior to becoming pregnant with François I had topped the scales at my heaviest weight ever, about 130 pounds. At 5’8” that still wasn’t too shabby but more than I was used to or comfortable with, and the day I knew something had to give was when I met up with a college friend who exclaimed, “Alex, you’re zaftig and I like it!” It was said as a compliment (I think), but to someone who thought of herself as young and svelte, it was not what I wanted to hear. Simon was also getting up there on the weight chart; with no children and relatively sedentary jobs, we’d settled into a life of entertaining regularly and going out for delightful tasting menus at fabulous restaurants with wine pairings and desserts. I’ve always said I’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat me first, and without a regular exercise plan that was a recipe for larger sizes and muffin tops. Oops. My pregnancy gave us both a wakeup call and we were able to undo the damage pretty easily. We hired a trainer who had worked with a couple of pregnant women before, and got him to work us each out three times per week. In effect I was training for the birth, just as you’d train for a marathon. We joked that I was training for the extreme sport of natural childbirth. Deep squats, hand weights, leg lifts and treadmill speed-walking ensued for six months, and continued up to the week of my due date.
Alex, Pregnant
People often ask me what my secret is for maintaining a slim body after two babies, and I usually say that there is no secret, though if there were I’d write a diet book and call it
Mama-So-Thin
or something terribly catchy, make millions and retire to St. Barths. Good genes play a big part—everyone on both sides of my family is tall and skinny. However, I’m a firm believer in using whatever excuse you need to in order to eliminate bad habits, and going into the childbearing years I did have a few. Having gone to school in the Midwest, I had fallen into the trap so many do and become addicted to fast food, soda and junk treats. I used my pregnancies as an opportunity to kick those addictions. It didn’t happen overnight. I had pretty nasty morning sickness with François through the first and even into the second trimester, and the only thing that would settle my stomach in the morning was a sausage biscuit and hash browns from McDonalds. This was the one time in our lives together that Simon even teased me about being “so American,” with my Coke and my McDonalds. Once I stopped getting sick, however, I started to crave spinach, and recognized that I had a real opportunity. Shortly after the morning sickness wore off, I lost my taste for soda and vowed not to let it come back. I immediately started drinking sparkling mineral water like Perrier or Pellegrino to replace the bubbles, and allowed myself plain chocolate if I needed a sweet fix. I replaced the caffeine with lattes and cappuccinos, although during pregnancy I had one a day, not three. When I wanted to have a drink, I did, and would drink half a glass of wine or Champagne. My opinion is that women should take good care of themselves while pregnant, so that they feel positive and feel well. While I wouldn’t recommend keeping up a drug habit or smoking, I made the choice to have wine when I felt like it, dye my hair and eat whatever I wanted within reason. I did research to see whether the most extreme admonitions, such as swearing off caffeine, alcohol, hair dye, mayonnaise, etc., really seemed to be valid, and after reading up on them decided that moderation was key. Throughout my pregnancy I gave in to any craving I felt, such as the spinach and others that popped up like scrambled eggs, veggie pizza and raisins. If I had suddenly craved chalk, ecstasy or Elmer’s Glue, I’d have thought twice, but I reckon in the long run eating too many supersize value meals will cause many more long-term health problems than a nice glass of Burgundy when you want it.
Mama-So-Thin
or something terribly catchy, make millions and retire to St. Barths. Good genes play a big part—everyone on both sides of my family is tall and skinny. However, I’m a firm believer in using whatever excuse you need to in order to eliminate bad habits, and going into the childbearing years I did have a few. Having gone to school in the Midwest, I had fallen into the trap so many do and become addicted to fast food, soda and junk treats. I used my pregnancies as an opportunity to kick those addictions. It didn’t happen overnight. I had pretty nasty morning sickness with François through the first and even into the second trimester, and the only thing that would settle my stomach in the morning was a sausage biscuit and hash browns from McDonalds. This was the one time in our lives together that Simon even teased me about being “so American,” with my Coke and my McDonalds. Once I stopped getting sick, however, I started to crave spinach, and recognized that I had a real opportunity. Shortly after the morning sickness wore off, I lost my taste for soda and vowed not to let it come back. I immediately started drinking sparkling mineral water like Perrier or Pellegrino to replace the bubbles, and allowed myself plain chocolate if I needed a sweet fix. I replaced the caffeine with lattes and cappuccinos, although during pregnancy I had one a day, not three. When I wanted to have a drink, I did, and would drink half a glass of wine or Champagne. My opinion is that women should take good care of themselves while pregnant, so that they feel positive and feel well. While I wouldn’t recommend keeping up a drug habit or smoking, I made the choice to have wine when I felt like it, dye my hair and eat whatever I wanted within reason. I did research to see whether the most extreme admonitions, such as swearing off caffeine, alcohol, hair dye, mayonnaise, etc., really seemed to be valid, and after reading up on them decided that moderation was key. Throughout my pregnancy I gave in to any craving I felt, such as the spinach and others that popped up like scrambled eggs, veggie pizza and raisins. If I had suddenly craved chalk, ecstasy or Elmer’s Glue, I’d have thought twice, but I reckon in the long run eating too many supersize value meals will cause many more long-term health problems than a nice glass of Burgundy when you want it.
Even after I was no longer racing to work in the morning with a barf bag, I still got really terrible motion sickness, and anyone who has taken a taxi through stop-and-go traffic can relate. I swore off cabs for the rest of the pregnancy, and even insisted on taking the subway home after a couple of late nights out. The last thing I wanted to do was have a nice dinner and then lose it on the way home. I really hate throwing up—wow, that’s profound, eh? I don’t think I know anyone who
likes
vomiting. Anyway, one of the great things about being pregnant is that people assume you’re crazy, so I was able to entertain myself by yelling at overzealous taxi drivers before giving up riding in cabs altogether.
likes
vomiting. Anyway, one of the great things about being pregnant is that people assume you’re crazy, so I was able to entertain myself by yelling at overzealous taxi drivers before giving up riding in cabs altogether.
All along the way during both pregnancies, but especially the first as everything was such a new experience, I kept thinking, “What is the big deal?!” People constantly asked me if I was OK and gave me the hairy eyeball if I dared to order anything on the pregnancy watch list such as wine, soft cheese or sushi, and once I almost got myself thrown off a plane. On the way home from St. Barths we hadn’t been able to get a direct flight from St. Martin and took a 20-seater to San Juan, Puerto Rico. A very short, very large flight attendant made a huge deal about me sitting in an exit row at six-and-a-bit-months along. She insisted I wouldn’t be able to open the door. I knew good and well I could open it much more easily than she could, and asked her if she’d like me to demonstrate. She didn’t like that. Simon stood in the background snickering, and only intervened when I started yelling and he didn’t want me to be removed from the flight and wind up in airport jail. It just really bothered me that people assumed pregnancy is a debilitating condition, when it isn’t. If anything, that care should be applied to new moms, who are often so worn out they can barely function.
Simon
We’d discussed and agreed that neither of us wanted to know the sex of the fetus. By the time of the next sonogram and knowing that now at 20 weeks it was possible for the technician to ascertain its sex, we told him to tell us everything else he saw throughout the sonogram but nothing that would indicate its gender. As Alex was lying on the bench, with goo all over her swollen belly, and he moved the “thing” over her skin, he suddenly had a short sharp breath that indicated to us that something was awry. Our eyes darted and interlocked and I, somewhat tepidly, asked him what was the matter. He paused, then let out a little laugh but said nothing to comfort what by now were two confused and concerned parents-to-be. He broke this speechless segment with comforting words; everything was fine. Alex and I although a little assured, were wondering exactly what had caused both his and our hearts to skip a beat. He said that any explanation would reveal the gender and we quickly decided that it was more important for us to understand exactly what he’d seen than to remain in the dark. He calmly explained that as he moved the camera around he had been unable to locate both arms. Alex and I breathed a little harder as he stated that the second arm was in an unusual position. Apparently the arm was angled over its body with its fingers tightly clasped around its testicles.
He laughed and so did we.
That was the stage that we discovered that our healthy five-month-old fetus was male and had been busy holding his dangly bits. A boy! Henceforth named François, in honor of my father.
Alex
About six months in with François, the Elizabeth Seton Childbearing Center where I intended to deliver closed due to a huge increase in their insurance premiums, apparently because the center was not located inside a hospital. We were all outraged, and I was disappointed to learn that I’d have to deliver in a hospital. St. Vincent’s in Greenwich Village was willing to take all the existing Seton patients and basically stay out of the way, so we reconciled ourselves to the idea. With natural childbirth, a good midwife knows when medical intervention is needed, and during François’ birth, the St. Vincent’s crew gave us a room and let us do our thing without unasked-for meddling.
Simon
Fathers can breathe deeply, too. Although dogs mightn’t need a birth plan in these touchy-feely times it’s almost de rigueur that both parents-to-be attend birthing classes, which encompass the birthing process as well as breast feeding; complete with little plastic dolls to feed. All throughout my schooling as well as subsequent studying as an adult I have often been too impatient to learn from reading books and attending classes. I have always been more of a learn-on-the-job kind of guy and so it was with some reluctance on my part that we attended classes. I firmly believe that humans and in fact all female mammals had been birthing for millennia and that our primeval instinct would assert itself when faced with what is a most natural process. I remember sitting on the floor with my legs crossed and a pillow stuffed up my shirt trying to invoke the feeling of having a pregnant belly and stifling my laughter at the absurdity I felt. From my memory we failed to attend the last couple of classes as by then we both just wanted to let instinct take over when the time came.
Alex
One downside to my laid-back attitude was the fact that I didn’t keep regimented track of my periods, so couldn’t be 100 percent sure when the last one was prior to conceiving. For that reason we did an early ultrasound, but between that uncertainty and switching providers three times, François’ due date was moved up two weeks. We didn’t know it at the time, but that would come back to haunt us.
At 7:30 p.m. on October 25, 2003, François was 11 days late and counting. The 14-day mark was approaching, and Simon and I were both becoming worried. That point is normally “game over” for natural childbirth, and I would have to have a synthetic induction. Even for someone with a high pain tolerance like me, the speed at which contractions start during induction usually causes most women to give up on a medication-free delivery. In order to get labor going, I tried everything: from speed-walking up and down the stairs in our triplex to watching
Bowling for Columbine
while drinking castor oil that Simon had thoughtfully prepared in a milkshake. He then (even more thoughtfully) cleaned up the projectile vomit that occurred five minutes later. After trying that twice I opted for drinking it straight, which stayed down and worked. Finally, over a dinner of moules frites and Champagne at Belleville in Park Slope, contractions started, and we were ecstatic. We stayed up all night, and since the Rugby World Cup was on, Simon used the counter clock to time the contractions. Twenty-seven hours from the first twinge, François made his entrance.
Bowling for Columbine
while drinking castor oil that Simon had thoughtfully prepared in a milkshake. He then (even more thoughtfully) cleaned up the projectile vomit that occurred five minutes later. After trying that twice I opted for drinking it straight, which stayed down and worked. Finally, over a dinner of moules frites and Champagne at Belleville in Park Slope, contractions started, and we were ecstatic. We stayed up all night, and since the Rugby World Cup was on, Simon used the counter clock to time the contractions. Twenty-seven hours from the first twinge, François made his entrance.
Baby François with Alexis (Alex’s mom)
Although he arrived 12 days late by the calendar, the midwife and nurse agreed that upon examination of the vernix, he wasn’t late at all. Apparently that white stuff covering the baby at birth starts to look less like body lotion and more like cottage cheese the later a pregnancy goes, and his was very, very smooth. Who knew? Not me. Evidently the first date was right, but hindsight was 20/20—at least the date snafu didn’t interfere with the ability to go natural. We learned from François’ birth not to go to the hospital too early because we didn’t want to wait around, which almost caused a commotion with Johan’s birth.
One of the best things about natural childbirth was the rush of adrenaline afterwards. Although the final stages of labor were very, very painful, I never used our code word (tin can) for “game over, give me drugs.” I definitely recommend using a code word, because it was kind of fun to scream, “I want drugs, give me drugs” through a contraction and have the midwife, nurse and Simon all know I wasn’t serious. Once he was finally out of my body, I experienced a tsunami of endorphins that was almost orgasmic, and I understand completely the stories other women have written about ecstatic birth. Simon was sitting behind me at the point of birth, and later when we untangled ourselves he discovered he’d actually ejaculated though hadn’t felt any of the normal lead-up to that. It may seem distasteful to some, and definitely neither of us was thinking of sex at the time, but with the rush of emotion and my lower nerve endings going crazy, it’s not too far a stretch to say that it’s a profound experience. Once François was out and we’d bonded, I passed him to the nurse who did the weighing and the testing and such, while I bounded around the room and through a shower like I’d just won a race, and Simon ordered pizza so that we didn’t have to experience the joys of hospital cuisine.
BOOK: Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle)
3.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
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