Thoughts on a C-Section

When James wakes up from his nap, I’m going to give him a big kiss on his chubby cheeks and place him snug on my hips. My big ole’ birthing hips. Except those hips didn’t birth him. He came out of a 7-inch incision on the underside of my belly. I see that scar everytime I take my clothes off, a reminder of the happiest day in May when I became a mother. But, for some reason, lately I’ve been looking at that scar and wondering one question: what went wrong?

Of course, in the most important sense, nothing went wrong. I was pregnant in the 21st century and gave birth in a stellar hospital, under the care of wonderful nurses and physicians, coached by our incredible doula, in a country with a low maternal mortality rate. When my water broke at home without any sign of labor and baby’s risk of infection went up because his bag of waters was no longer protecting him, those nurses hooked me up to pitocin to start labor for me. And after kickin’ it the old-fashioned way for 22 hours, I got to labor without pain thanks to the guardian angel anesthesiologist who administered my epidural. And when my cervix refused to dilate past 4.5 cm, and I’d been on high levels of pitocin for too long, that wonderful team of doctors cut James out of my belly safely for the two of us, and I became part of the 30% of women who give birth via C-Section every year in the US.

That’s a substantial number, but I naively thought I would never be included in it. I had a very easy, healthy pregnancy and thus had the luxury of casually ignoring the possibility that I would deliver James via C-Section. Some mamas aren’t so lucky: risk factors like breech position and placenta issues often require a planned-for, scheduled surgery. But that wasn’t me. On top of my healthy pregnancy, I went to yoga classes and on daily walks, I took prenatal vitamins and ate well(-ish), I read pregnancy books, and Ian and I signed up for a 9-week long childbirth education class. Ending my pregnancy with a C-Section felt like being carried across the finish line when I had been training to run a marathon.

Moreover, as I prepared for a "natural" childbirth in the months leading up to our due date, all l I kept hearing was how women’s bodies are designed to birth their babies. And I couldn’t help but look at my own body in the mirror, with my big hips, big boobs and soft tummy, that I looked like a woman designed to push a baby out of her hoo-ha.

With the benefit of hindsight, I wish that I would have forced myself to envision James’ birth in different ways rather than believing that my birth plan would come to fruition if I wanted it hard enough.

That I didn’t mentally prepare for a C-Section has led to a bit of retrospective mourning for the birth I thought I was going to have, something scheduled C-Section mamas get to grapple with weeks ahead of time. Instead, after a whole day in labor with no sleep, the surgery team flooded our labor & delivery room and I had no time or energy to reconcile my emotions. I was left feeling like I missed out on something: the pushing, the baby on the chest, seeing my husband’s wide smile instead of trying to decipher it behind a surgical mask…

Most of all, I’m scared that James missed out on something, that being born through my abdomen will disadvantage him somehow. And that he’s disadvantaged not because of some unlucky pregnancy issue, but because of the decisions I made that precipitated his cesarean delivery. He wasn't breech and my placenta was fine, so I can't help but blame my own choices. If only I had waited longer for labor to start on its own, or asked about Cervadil at that last prenatal visit when I was past my due date, or used my birthing ball more… Maybe I didn’t just fail to have a vaginal birth; maybe I failed him.

But in the face of this doubt, I am certain of one thing: my C-Section was the right decision under the circumstances at the time. So perhaps James’ birth was my first big lesson in parenting: all Ian and I can do is make the best decisions we can with the information that we have. That’s what we did. As our childbirth education instructor told us, “As long as you love your baby, you’re making the right choice.” I love my sweet baby more than any words I could write here, and the choices we made on his birthday - being induced to avoid infection and opting for the C-Section to stop his prolonged exposure to pitocin - we made of out love.

I may not have been the first one to hold James in my arms - that was Ian - but I held him in my body for 41 weeks. And I hold him today, his little foot resting sweetly over the scar on my belly, in between my birthing hips.

*Amanda Megan Miller Photography

Biting My Tongue, Part 2

Over the past few years I’ve dined at Italian restaurants with a few family members who, of the plethora of menu options available, have ordered the veal parmesan. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn't eat veal parmesan; I’m sure it’s very tasty, and to each his own blah blah blah... But, like gifting Turkish delights to an Armenian, or eating bacon-wrapped cheese curds in front of a devout Jewish person, picking the baby cow off the menu in front of a vegetarian makes me do a little mental head tilt of confusion. It’s just a little... weird?

As much as I enjoy a good debate about the morality of meat-eating, I usually bite my tongue about others’ meals because nobody, especially vegetarian ole’ me, likes for their food choices to be the center of conversation. Even when the subject of my vegetarianism does come up, I try to be polite and never engage in a Wollenian style takedown of others’ carnism.

But the biggest reason I stay mum at the dinner table is because militancy - whether about gun rights, immigration, abortion, or calves being tethered into immobility - rarely works. At least not with friends and family.

As anyone who cares deeply about any issue knows, we impassioned folk have a choice to make everyday: to be outspoken about the wrongs that bother us, or to sit back quietly and lead by example. I think the latter works better in the long-run because, as much as we define ourselves by what we are, we also define ourselves by what we are not. The Other is just as much a part of our identities as The Self, so every time we say/tweet/post something divisive, we may harden the juxtaposition of opposing opinions.

Here’s what I mean:

• I am a woman; I am American; I like Coke; I am a Chicagoan; I am a vegetarian
• I’m not a man; I’m not an Afghani; I don’t prefer Pepsi; I’m not a New Yorker; I don't eat meat

So every time you say something about being a man; it reinforces my womanhood. Every time someone in suburbia posts about their 2nd Amendment rights, it reminds me that I’m a Chicagoan who hates gun violence. Everytime I share a video about overfishing or ag-gag laws, I’m forcing people to identify themselves at meat-eaters.

In other words, sharing strong opinions cultivates defensiveness. We think that the rightness of our own beliefs will entice people to step over to our side, but it usually makes people take big steps away from us. So, as much as I love the chance to correct someone who thinks that the milk in their fridge comes from a farm like Dotty and Kit’s in A League of Their Own, I try my best to stay mum on the subject of modern-day animal agriculture because, if I push my points to strongly, I’m going to push people away.

Perhaps the most persuasive action is a quiet, kind patience.

Take my cousin, Emma, for example - a lifelong vegetarian who gave up meat as soon as she learned who it came from. When I started thinking about transitioning to a meat-free diet, I naturally thought of her. But I didn’t think of her Tofurky or her leatherless shoes. Rather, I thought of her kindness and her patience with the rest of us; her constant acceptance of our different food choices. She was the quiet vegetarian who never made me feel guilty for eating turkey at the holidays or having down feathers in my winter coat.

And that’s the thing: when people hear the word “vegetarian,” I don’t want them to think of me. Or if they do, let it be with the kindness with which I always thought of Emma. Let my presence as a plant-eater in others’ lives be but a brief respite in their minds before going on to ponder the real substance of the word.

Militant vegetarians - or environmentalists, or Tea Partiers - do their cause a disservice. Combativeness should stay in the town hall or on the streets in protest, but not at the dinner table because - and this is the the truth that makes me bite my tongue every time a family member orders the veal - had I ever been made to feel guilty by a vegetarian, I probably wouldn't be one today.

I made the transition, and now there are two vegetarians at our family gatherings. Last Thanksgiving, Emma and I sat together at the far end of the table, happily plopping vegan stuffing and butter-free mashed potatoes on our plates while handing off the turkey slices and corn casserole to those around us. Then, at our most recent family gathering a few weeks ago, the turkey master himself, my grandpa, gladly scooped up a slice of of our vegan dish for the first time ever. A vegetable pot pie. He really liked it.

Family & Politics

My mom won't tell anyone who she voted for in 2008. Ian and I have unsuccessfully reassured her over and over again that, "No, seriously, we promise we won't be upset!"  At this point I'm convinced that you could water-board that woman and she wouldn't spill the beans. I think she's taking her vote to the grave with her because she's afraid of offending two people: me and my father. Me because I did a poly sci internship with then-Senator Obama in college; my dad because he is an ardent Republican.

Poor mom, right? Right. She's stuck between two political opposites. Mi padre is a Fox News-watching, Chick-Fil-A eating, Romney-supporting conservative. He listens to Rush Limbaugh every. single. day. I do not. My favorite arguments come from the Real Housewives reunions, and I like to get my news from Anderson Cooper because... yum.

I certainly have my own well-defined political beliefs, but I've grown weary of arguing about them. My dad, on the other hand, has the debate energy and longevity of George Will.  He luuuurves to talk about politics and can masterfully turn an otherwise innocuous comment into a reason to debate. Once, when I called his attention to the beauty of the windmills against the sunset over the cornfields of Indiana, he abruptly responded "I don't support wind energy because it takes more energy to make wind turbines than they actually produce."

He loves political debate so much that a few years ago he called in to a talk radio show to discuss the importance of oil in our everyday lives. True enough, I suppose. But still... he actually called in, proving once and for all that behind every great dad is a daughter rolling her eyes.

But I haven't rolled my eyes at him recently because he isn't talking about politics with me at all anymore, and I know why. I totally lost my cool with him earlier this year. It started with a text message conversation one evening last spring:

"Hi Annie you should change to Fox News right now. John Stossel is on."

"No thanks, I feel like being able to sleep tonight."

"He is smart and it's an important message."

I pushed the Guide button on my remote and scrolled to FNC to see the program title: No They Can't: Why Government Fails But Individuals Succeed." Ugh. I texted back, "Yeah, government ALWAYS fails. I hate the interstate highway system," and clicked my phone closed.

Before I could change the channel back, Rascal Flatts began blaring from my phone. My dad was calling. I picked up.

His palpable frustration was choking his normal tone of excited debate. Feeling patronized, my annoyance quickly morphed into fierce aggravation. Alone in my apartment, I stood up out of my chair and shouted into the phone receiver: "HOW DARE YOU CALL ME JUST TO LECTURE ME ON YOUR RIDICULOUS CONSERVATIVE TALKPOINTS? ALL YOU EVER WATCH IS FOX NEWS SO HOW CAN I BELIEVE ANYTHING COMING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH? YOU ARE JUST A PUPPET OF ROGER AILES AND THE KOCH BROTHERS, AND I'M COMPLETELY SICK OF IT!"

He was immediately taken aback and could only muster out a "No, you're the puppet" before quickly calming me down. He spoke gently and hurriedly apologized, "Okay okay okay okay, I'm sorry, Annie. I'm sorry, I promise I won't talk politics with you ever again."

"Good. Have a good night." I hung up.

My dad has kept his promise so far. But I don't feel relieved; I feel bad because now he's afraid to include me in his favorite pastime. He avoids talking politics around me altogether. I fully realized the extent of his avoidance a few months ago when he quickly unmuted himself as soon as he found himself alone with Ian. The two of them left to run an errand together, and, as Ian told me later, the first words out of my dad's mouth were "Hey, if Democrats are proud of government spending, then why aren't they proud of the national debt?"

My poor dad. I lost my cool because I forgot my most important political lesson - one I learned from my dad, of course. We've hardly ever agreed, but no matter how much I rolled me eyes or told him he was wrong, he always knew how to end our political conversations. Ever the sensitive guy, he'd always say, "Annie, you're not mad at me about what I said are you?"

"No." I'd say with a clenched jaw and crossed arms.

He'd come over to hug me, "Okay, good. I love you."

Sigh. "I love you, too, " I'd smile, "Even though you're wrong."

Father Time

In the darkness of our little bedroom a few nights ago, Ian had one of his hands wrapped cozily around his pillow, and the other around my waist.  He was close to falling asleep, but I was still awake, my mind flooded with philosophical nighttime ponderings as I gazed at the popcorn ceiling.  My eyes eventually drifted from the ceiling to his pillow-obscured face, and my voice punctuated the silence of our bedroom as I asked him a most inappropriate bedtime question:

“Baby?”

“Yeah”

“How often do you think about death?  Like, about you or your loved ones dying?”

“I dunno.  Not much.”

“Oh.”

“Why, Annie? How often do you think about it?”

“All the time...”

It’s true.  I feel like Father Time is always looking over my shoulder.  But before you check my body for pagan symbols and ship me off to live with the Addams Family, I should clarify that that I don’t think about death in a scary way.  I’m not walking around in constant fear that I’ll be hit by a bus or bitten by a poisonous spider.  Nor am I emotionally depressed at the ever-presence of suffering and death in life, a la Emily Dickinson.

On the contrary, I’d characterize my “thinking about death” as “ruminations on mortality,” and I believe that my daily ruminations are a good thing for my life.  A really good thing. Father Time may be standing right behind me, but I welcome his presence.

The first time I remember thinking acutely about death/mortality/life was on a cold street corner in London when I was studying abroad in early 2006.  It was winter, it was raining, and I was miserable as I waited for my big red bus to come pick me up to take me to Ealing Broadway station.  The winter rain pricked my hands and feet, and the wind blew against my face, stinging my cheeks red and challenging my little H&M umbrella.  I wiggled my toes around in my soaked shoes and swung my shoulders from side-to-side to stay warm.  I wiped my runny nose and cursed the germy buses for giving me my second cold in two months.  I looked at my watch to track the passing time, and then up at the dripping wet houses, and down at the slick stone sidewalks.  And then, in the midst of my cold misery, I paused as a profound thought crossed my mind: When I’m dead, I won’t be able to feel the cold rain.  Or the biting wind.  Or my damp skin.  Or a stuffy nose...  

So as I waited for my big red bus, I took one of my hands off of my umbrella handle and jutted it out away from my body.  I held my palm up to the wet sky and felt the icy rain collect on my freezing fingers, and I felt the glory of Life, of living.

Six years later, I gladly let Father Time walk beside me everyday as a reminder to bring levity to my beautiful life.  As the weight of two heavy shopping bags and a purse dig into my shoulders during my mile-long return from Trader Joe’s, I refuse to focus on the discomfort of walking home; instead, I marvel at the beauty of my body’s ability to carry such a load and remind myself that One day, I will not be so strong.  When the summer weather is oppressively hot and makes me sweat through my clothes, I turn my face towards the sun and tell myself that someday I won’t be around to feel its radiance.  When Teddy makes me trip upon exiting the shower because he’s napping on the bathmat, I give him an extra hug once I dry off because I know that all too soon, he won’t be here to follow me around.  And every time I hear my mom or dad’s voice on the other end of the call, I say a little prayer of thanks, because one day they won’t be there to pick up the phone.

After I surprised Ian by responding that I think about death “all the time,” he asked me why I think about it so much.  
“It helps you appreciate the present,” I said, “Because one day one of us will be lying in this bed alone.”  
His opened his eyes and sat up.  “Annie, no!”  Ian didn’t want to think about that eventuality, but he managed to lighten the conversation with some self-deprecating humor, “Well, it’ll probably be you.”
He squeezed my hand, lied down, and we fell asleep together.  We held each other a little closer that night, and maybe Father Time smiled in contentment as he saw us over my shoulder.  

The Kids Question, Part 2: Opportunity Costs

I have pretty faint memories of my Intro to Economics course in college.  The 8am class time rings a sharp bell, but the rest of that course is just a blur of colorful supply and demand curves on the whiteboard, fat textbooks squeezing onto our too-small pull-out desks, and my vague environmentalist concerns directed toward “infinite growth.”  But one memory stands out: the lesson on opportunity cost.  That morning, my petite, gray-haired, lovingly uncool professor taught us the definition of opportunity cost by talking about NBA basketball players.  She explained that if LeBron James had gone to college for four years after graduating from high school, he would have lost out on four years of his gzillion-dollar NBA salary.  For LeBron, college came with a really high opportunity cost, so of course he went straight to the pros.  Thus, opportunity costs are the things you give up when you choose another path.  Or, put in economics mumbo jumbo, an opportunity cost is:

The loss of potential gain from other alternatives when one alternative is chosen.

My professor’s apt analogy not only seared the definition into my head, but also created a Pavlovian reminder of professional athletes’ lack of higher education / extremely high pay every time I watch a sporting event.  

Nowadays, opportunity costs have moved from the theoretical to the practical.  As Ian and I consider if and when to have children, we are critically pondering the emotional and financial costs that accompany parenthood.  Certainly, children come with some hefty opportunity costs like sleeping in, melt-down free trips to Disney World, and, of course, and the actual financial cost or raising a child.  

But whenever I think about the opportunity cost of raising a child, one item seems to have a larger price tag than the rest: travel.  Specifically, living abroad.  As Ian and I consider if and when to have children, the badgering voices of Leslie Mann (Debbie) and Paul Rudd (Pete) in Knocked Up rings loudly between my ears:

Pete: Isn’t it weird, though, when you have a kid and all your dreams and hopes go right out the window.

Debbie: What changed for you? What went out the window? You do everything exactly the same.

Pete: No, I love what I’m doing. But say before you’re married with children you want to live in India for a year. You can do it.

Debbie: You want to go to India? Go to India! Seriously.

Pete: Do you want to go to India?

Debbie: No. You can go.

With my fertility clock a-tickin’, I’ve been ruminating over the “India” question.  You see, many of my friends and college alums joined the Peace Corps or moved abroad for work after we all graduated college five (!) years ago.  I stayed in Chicago, choosing to battle the cold winters instead of the heat in West Africa.  But even with my propensity for heat rash and my penicillin allergy, I can’t help but wonder if my choice to stay is one that I’ll regret.  And the Kids Question has put this India Question front and center because having children is the denouement of the slide into adulthood known as "settling down."

If you want to know why I never joined the Peace Corps, and why I’m not jumping on a flight to Delhi, it’s these guys:

I love travelling, but I love my boys more - and I refuse to see love as a limitation.  But I didn’t quite realize how this powerful love factor plays into the Kids Question until I heard the answer come out of my own mouth earlier this summer.  Two of our teacher-friends stayed with us over a weekend in June, and they both love dogs.  But they’ve hesitated adopting one because they fully intend on travelling the world during their summer vacations.  We enjoyed their company of course, but Teddy thought they were the best house-guests ever!  They wrestled with him and threw his favorite ball to fetch.  They gave him lots of cuddles and pets and loved on him like any dog-lover would.  So during one late-night cuddle session, I looked over at them and just had to say what I’d been thinking all along, “I know you want to travel every summer, but you guys should really think about getting a dog.  Sure, Teddy keeps me and Ian from doing everything we want to do, and he limits our wanderlust.  But it never feels like a limitation because every day with him is an adventure.”

So when it comes to the Kids/India Question, I think I may have answered it in my heart awhile ago.  I never joined the Peace Corps because I wanted to stay in Chicago with my Ian.  I can’t imagine spending a year abroad now without my Teddy.  You might say I’m giving up too much for them.  Call me a Romantic, but when you sacrifice for love, it doesn’t really feel like a sacrifice.  It just feels like the right decision.  

In my book, Love should never be an opportunity cost.  So maybe the sleepless nights are worth it after all.  

The Kids Question, Part 1: Where's My Village?

Ian and I celebrated our two-year wedding anniversary on Tuesday.  He got me some pretty red and pink gerber daisies, now sitting happily in a white vase on my nightstand, and we ate Chipotle and drank slurpees on the grass watching Sherlock Holmes under the stars at Movies in the Park.  Vive l’amour!  We also received some well-wishes from friends and family who celebrated our big day with us on 7/10/10.  But one of the biggest markers of our 24 months of marital accord happened a couple weeks ago when someone asked us that most casual, yet most significant of questions: “So, when are you guys gonna start having kids?”

Two years into our marriage and eight years into our relationship, this big-little question has started to nudge its way into casual conversations with our friends and family.  And the public shift in expectations can be striking: pregnancy has evolved from an aversion to an inevitability.

Not that it’s just our friends and family wondering about our procreative intentions.  We’ve been wondering, too.  A few days ago I complained to Ian that Kourtney Kardashian named her new daughter Penelope, “I liked that name first!”  And just last night, before falling asleep, I said to Ian, “Hey, if we ever have a baby and it’s a girl, what do you think of the name Nina?”  To which he quickly responded, “Pinta... you finish.”  I sighed, “Santa Maria.”  

No Penelope.  No Nina.  

Sure, I enjoy a good baby-name brainstorming session. And I still have periodic, biochemically-induced dreams about being a parent.  But these happy parenting fantasies have run head first into two big walls of parenting reality.  First, the popular parenting articles and op-eds that have flooded my News Feed in the past few months. Ann Marie Slaughter’s brilliant piece “Why Women Still Can’t Have It All" bravely confronted the under-discussed challenges motherhood poses to careers, while underscoring the inherently demanding and strenuous nature of parenthood itself.  

But a recent New Yorker article wins the gold medal in the Birth Control Games.  In “The Case Against Kids: Is Procreation Immoral?”  Elizabeth Kolbert references various ethicists and oft-quoted statistics about parenting and happiness (read: unhappiness). This disquieting piece stresses the need to hold the should-we-have-kids question in much higher regard:

Whatever you may think of Overall’s and Benatar’s conclusions, it’s hard to argue with their insistence that the decision to have a child is an ethical one. When we set the size of our families, we are, each in our own small way, determining how the world of the future will look. And we’re doing this not just for ourselves and our own children; we’re doing it for everyone else’s children, too.

These persuasive articles may be haunting my pregnancy dreams, but they’re not the main reason I keep perusing the Family Planning aisle at CVS.  Nope.  Something else is keeping me from jumping on board the baby train.  Something even scarier than over-scheduling and sleep deprivation: that we’d have to do it alone.  

You see, none of our close friends have children.  A few of them are fiercely devoted to never having kids.  All but two of our family members live in other states, and the ones that live here aren’t exactly down the street from us.  I may be nervous about pregnancy, giving birth, and generally being wholly responsible for the life of a fragile human child.  But most of all, I’m nervous about feeling isolated.  Feeling like I’m burdening my family and friends with questions and favors, or just losing friends all together.


Maybe modern parenting is isolated parenting, relative to years past - a murky underbelly of the great American virtue of self-determinism and do-it-yourself-ness that perhaps causes some of stresses discussed in the Slaughter and Kolbert pieces above.  And maybe that’s why some couples are choosing to opt out of parenting all together.


If our love of parenting our furry son is any indication, I don’t think we’ll be one of those couples. Until then, I’ll always be pondering the endless enigmas of parenthood.  But as I sit here on our comfy couch, snuggled under a summer linen blanket, looking out the window at the frenetic city 20 floors below, I see the busyness of the world that surrounds me.  Does it have time for a child, or would a baby be a burden? If it takes a village to raise a child, I can’t help but wonder: where’s my village?

Home Is Where The Heart Is

A year ago we moved from Chicago to my hometown in Indiana.  A few weeks ago, we moved back.  Instead of walking outside at night to the sound of crickets and the bright yellow flicker of lightning bugs, I now walk outside to the loud rumbling of El trains and the orange glow of street lamps.  Golden cornfields and green trees have given way to a lively cityscape of gray sidewalks and angular buildings jutting toward the sky.  We traded the 2nd floor for the 20th; car-rides for walking; and friendly neighborhood policemen for baton-wielding riot police during the NATO Summit.  It’s good to be back.  

I love Chicago.  I love it for everything that makes it unique to the world like the lakefront, deep dish pizza, and ‘Da Bears.  But most of all I love it because of the many happy memories and important life moments that Ian and I have shared together in this city.  We leased our first apartment in Hyde Park, Ian proposed to me at a Lincoln Park florist, we got married in the Gold Coast, and we brought puppy Teddy home during the winter that featured the famous Lake Shore Drive-closing blizzard of 2011.  So when I was packing up our boxes for our Chicago-to-Indiana move last year, I expressed some bittersweet concern to my aunt about leaving the city that had meant so much to us.  I told her, “We’re both really excited to move to Indy, but I think it might be hard to drive south on Lake Shore Drive one last time in May,”  to which she predicted, “I’m sure there will be some tears.”

Chalk it up to moving stress and U-Haul adrenaline, but I didn’t shed any tears the day we moved to Indiana.  We put on our business faces, plopped our belongings into our 2nd-floor walk up, and happily began our year-long adventure as Indianapolis suburbanites.  Little did we know how meaningful that year would be.

Admittedly, walking around my old hometown last year sometimes felt a little bit...weird.  Every street corner had a memory to share, and even the brand-new buildings stood as glaring reminders of what used to be there - an indelible reminder that the only constant in life is Change.  And when I saw movies at my hometown theater with Ian or went on day trips to go apple picking or antique shopping, I felt my nostalgic childhood memories of those places give way to new, seemingly-less meaningful ones. As if my adult memories are less worthy than those of my childhood.

Even though living in my hometown sometimes felt a little weird, I loved living near my family.  Childhood with my family was certainly a special time, but last year was, too.  We planted a garden with my parents, dared them to go vegan with us for a month, rooted for the high school football team together, and accompanied my aunt every Tuesday for her chemotherapy treatments. All of these experiences fought a hard battle against the prospect of moving back to Chicago earlier this Spring.  Ultimately, Chicago won.

After only a year away, moving back to Chicago was going to be easy.  We hired movers this time (whose presence on this earth I now consider to be a precious gift from 6lb 8oz Baby Jesus), and on May 3rd they arrived on time and hauled everything into their truck with frightening efficiency.  I loaded a few things into the back of our car, and fetched Teddy with those unfailable words “Wanna go for ride?” - except I added “to Chicago?” to the end.  He hopped right in and we set off to meet the big truck in the big city.

As I left my apartment and turned down State Road 32, next to the newly planted cornfields and below the clear blue sky, Teddy poked his head out the side window enjoying the sunshine and the warm Indiana air.  I put on my sunglasses and changed the radio station to a local favorite for the last time.  As I looked in the rearview mirror at my hometown in the reflection, I felt the sharp pang of bittersweetness at leaving it behind me for the second time in my life.  And my aunt’s prediction came true, just one year late.  

I love Chicago.  I love Indiana.  When your heart is in two places, maybe home is, too.

Engagement Ring Thing, Part 2

I’ve started to mind the public gaze towards my engagement ring when I wear it atop my wedding band.  But I didn’t always feel so self-conscious about it.  In the months leading up to our big day, I excitedly showed off my pretty diamond ring.  It was an outward symbol of my impending nuptials and, more importantly, my commitment.  But with our wedding day behind us and with new wedding bands to represent our commitment, my engagement ring now somehow feels a bit different.  Because it’s not a stand-in for the wedding band anymore, it feels... flashy.  Like a status symbol.

Indeed, the diamond solitaire ring is flashy by design, isn’t it?  It’s not like I have a Kardashian-style, bzillion carat rock sitting on my left hand, but my engagement ring draws attention anyway.  It sparkles and glimmers, and the gem juts out from the flesh of my knuckle like a crystal in Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.  And when I push it up next to my wedding band, the diamond acts like a gemological prima donna, overwhelming the simple streamlines of the gold band, just screaming to be looked at.  

And people do look at it.  Women especially (we are very skilled left-hand gazers, aren’t we?).  Indeed, when I stopped wearing my engagement ring last summer, a few people asked me where it was.  If its absence is so noticeable, I thought, then my ring’s presence must be even more conspicuous.  And when I started wondering if it’s customary to nix the engagement ring after the wedding day, Google led to to some public forums whose participants reinforced the prominence of the public gaze towards the engagement ring:  “You want to show the world the diamond engagement ring that your husband chose for you when he proposed- don't you? And don't you want to show them forever?” read one comment.  Another said, “You wear the engagement ring because what woman in her right mind is not gonna sport that diamond?”

But, permit me to be a wet blanket for a moment: perhaps there’s something more sinister going on with engagement rings than just wanting to show off our pretty diamonds.  Once you look into the history of the marketing of diamond engagement rings, they quickly lose their romantic veneer.  And I’m not even going into the conflict diamond stuff.  Here are a few quotes about the engagement ring industry from Anne Kingston in her brilliant book The Meaning of Wife:

• “De Beers also put a value on the future wife directly linked to her husband’s earning potential.  That arrived with its edict that an engagement ring should cost two months of her future husband’s salary.  The size of the diamond, went the marketing message, represented the depth of love, as illustrated in one De Beers ad: ‘You can’t look at Jane and tell me she’s not worth two months’ salary.  Just look at her.  So I wanted to get her the biggest diamond I could afford.  One that other men could see without getting too close.’” p. 55
• “De Beers’ marketing also influenced the engagement dynamic.  In promoting the ‘surprise’ proposal, the company perpetuated the notion that women play a passive role in the marriage decision...this strategy was calculated to benefit diamond merchants.  Its research revealed that if women are asked to pick out their engagement ring, they pick a less expensive ring than their fiance does.” - p. 56
• “Within De Beers, however, no one deludes themselves about the gem’s financial value.  As [De Beers’ chairman] … told a British reporter in 1999: ‘...diamonds are intrinsically worthless, except for the deep psychological need they fill.’” - p. 56

This over-valuation of the engagement ring may actually reflect a sadder truth about women in our society, as suggested by Meghan O’Rourke in Slate Magazine:

So it's easy to simply regard a ring as a beautiful piece of jewelry and accept it in kind (I'm guilty myself). But it's also the case that a murkier truth lies within its brilliance: Women still measure their worth in relationship to marriage in ways that men don't. ... (It's telling, for example, that in many parts of Scandinavia, where attitudes toward gender are more egalitarian, both men and women wear engagement rings.)

Womp, womp.  It’s no fun to think of engagement rings so negatively, is it?  What these authors ignore is the loving intention behind the act of proposing with a ring, one of joy and unadulterated happiness. In spite of the great marketing ploys and the gender inequalities, we rightfully celebrate engagements and the gemstones that accompany them because we love Love.  And that’s a good thing.  

I once heard someone once describe engagement rings as the promise of marriage and the wedding band as the fulfillment of that promise.  Indeed, both rings are special symbols of love and commitment.  Yet, for me, the “promise” and the “fulfillment” are special in very different ways.  

Engagement rings are publicly special.  Designed to be seen and shown off, they’re gorgeous, flashy, protruding announcements of a proposal and a sparkly message of “Sorry, I’m taken” to the world.  Extrinsically valued, we celebrate engagement rings as we celebrate engagements. I love seeing relationship statuses changed to “engaged” on Facebook with corresponding ring pictures; I smile watching YouTube videos of surprise proposals; and I happily read gossip magazines’ articles advertising "all the details" on celebrity engagement rings.  

But I won’t remember what Drew Barrymore’s engagement ring looks like, and I’m sure I’ll forget about Jessica Biel’s ring whenever she finally decides to wear it out in public.  The ring I remember the most belonged to a professor in college.  He had one of the thinnest gold wedding bands I’d ever seen.  It communicated promises without pretension, love without wealth, and commitment without status. I thought it was beautiful.  Unpolluted by vanity, his ring was a symbol of his marriage in its purest form.

And that’s the beauty of the wedding band.  In contrast with the public gaze towards engagement rings, wedding bands are privately special. They may be exchanged in front of an audience, but their simplicity does not demand public attention.  No one notices them like they do engagement rings, and no one grabs your hand excitedly to see your new wedding band.  Rather, like the uniqueness of the love between spouses, wedding bands’ specialness can only be understood by the wearers.

So I guess that’s the real reason I sometimes prefer to wear my wedding band by itself nowadays - because its value is intrinsic.  Within its precious metal is something even more precious: the blessings of our families and friends and the private vows Ian and I pledged to each other on our wedding day, all imbuing a specialness even the largest diamond couldn’t match.  

But I suppose I can wear my engagement ring freely now that you know that, even though my diamond gets all the attention, it’s the thin band underneath that really matters.

Engagement Ring Thing, Part 1

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

1 Corinthians 13:4

I twisted my engagement ring back onto my finger last week for Valentine’s Day.  Ian surprised me with a cooking class for the two of us for the holiday (what a guy!), so I decided to don some of my special jewelry for the evening, including the earrings I wore on our wedding day and my diamond solitaire engagement ring (don’t worry, we didn’t get our hands too messy during the class).  It’s still sitting pretty on my the finger typing the letters s, w, q and x in this post.  

I hadn’t worn it for many months before last week.  I took off my engagement ring last summer because it’s a bit tight, even more so when my already-stubby fingers puff up in the summer heat.  After wearing it for nearly two years straight (a year before the wedding, and a year after), I was surprised that I didn’t miss it very much.  I enjoyed the simplicity of just wearing my wedding band.  So I kept my engagement ring in my jewelry chest, wearing it only sporadically.

But after a few comments about its absence last year, I started wondering: should I always wear my engagement ring with my wedding band?

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my engagement ring.  Ian and I picked out the diamond together at Leber Jeweler in Chicago.  It’s a sustainably mined 3/4 carat diamond from Canada.  (Adorable fact about Canadian mined diamonds: in a effort to build a national brand, Canadian diamonds are etched with a microscopic image of either a bear or a maple leaf.)  I remember sitting in the jeweler’s office watching him pull various diamonds out of their red maple leaf-emblazoned paper squares, spreading them delicately across a soft velvety piece of black fabric.  It all felt very James Bond. But the gems didn’t even matter that much to me because all of the sparklers laying in front of us represented something much more precious: that we were acting on the commitment we both felt in our hearts.  

I proudly wore my engagement ring for the year of wedding planning, and quietly slipped it onto my right hand on our big day.


 

And with these words: “this ring which we have chosen together, I give in token of the covenant made this day between us.”  - we crowned our wedding bands as two of our most important possessions, knocking engagement ring off its meaningfulness throne  Because it plays second fiddle now, I don’t mind not wearing it.  Simply put: I’m not engaged anymore.

So I take pleasure in the simplicity of my wedding band. It doesn’t draw attention, no one asks to see it, and no one judges its size.  Therein lies another, perhaps more important reason I sometimes choose to keep my engagement ring in my jewelry chest: because it makes me feel a little bit self-conscious, which I’ll explore in Part 2.

Chemo Tuesdays

Tuesday is quickly turning into one of my favorite days of the week.  Not because of any Domino’s pizza deals or even the half-off movie ticket prices on Tuesdays at the cinema.  Nope.  I love Tuesdays because that’s when my aunt comes in to town for her chemotherapy treatments.

I know.  Chemotherapy, like cancer, s-u-c-k-s.  It makes my aunt sick and sleepy and initially caused her to lose her hair.  But, in her true fashion, she died the peach fuzz on her head hot pink.  And now she has managed to make her Tuesday poisoning appointments into one of my favorite weekly activities because I get the spend the whole afternoon with the lovely ladies that are are my aunt and my mother.  I love them both by themselves, but the sum of them together is different/funnier/crazier than the individual parts.  Indeed, Chemo Tuesdays renew my appreciation for living close to my family.

It all starts when I pick my mom up from her elementary school at 2:45, where she works as an ESL teacher and instructional aide.  On the drive over to the Indy hospital where we meet my aunt for her appointments, I ask my mom about her day.  She explains the triumphs and the difficulties of teaching foreign-born children, all while trying her darndest to avoid stereotyping whole ethnicities based on the academic performances of a few ten-year olds: “Ji-eun always come to class prepared, but Mahdad won’t even stay in his seat!”

As we walk into the cancer treatment center we smile and nod hello to the familiar faces of the staff nurses.  We find Aunt by the Keurig machine brewing her very own cup of “butter toffee coffee.”  I like the way that sounds.  She knows I don’t drink coffee so she generously offers to make me a cup of chai tea.  I say, “No, thanks.  I always thought chai tea tasted like Christmas.  I love Christmas, but not in my mouth.”  

We all settle down into our respective seats - Aunt in her plush recliner, finished in a warm fabric that’s the same color as her sweet coffee.  My mom and I sit facing her, and we chat casually with the nurses about the easiest of current conversation topics: the Super Bowl last Sunday.  After affirming their Indy-born allegiance to the Giants (read: Manning’s) against the Patriots, the three of us are tacitly surprised that none of the nurses have heard of the Puppy Bowl, whose popularity is a difficult thing to explain: “Well, there are these puppies playing football on a mini-field, and you can see them through the water bowl cam.  And then there’s kitty half-time...”  

In the meantime, two other nurses are getting my aunt’s chemo cocktail ready.  After checking her blood work and prepping the port embedded in her chest, they hook up a network of plastic chutes that funnel into a single tube that drips liquid into her body.  I stare, as always, amazed at the insignificance of the little plastic bag that contains the chemo drugs.  I always expect it to be filled with radioactive green goop and marked with fiery red and black words of warning, yet the clear bag of anti-cancer drugs looks as innocuous as the saline.  But I know those are powerful chemicals in there, and I say a little prayer of thanks for the medicine and for its effectiveness.  

Once the bag is empty and the nurses detach my aunt from the web of plastic tubes, we leave a few business cards at the nurses desk for our next destination: a dark and cozy den in Indy where we get our feet rubbed by Chinese men.

Seriously.  Aunt started going to a Chinese massage parlour called “Foot Fitness” initially to help with neuropathy in her toes, which can be a side-effect of chemotherapy.  But with the $25/hour pricetag, the soothing music, and firm-but-soft hands, the three of us are hooked.  Lucky me, this week my foot-rubber had the upper body build of Daniel Dae Kim.

Yum.  

Normally the masseurs conclude by rubbing my back.  After interweaving his fingers in mine (normal for the hand massage) and throwing my arm against the back of the cushy massage chair (new to me), I was kind of hoping we’d conclude with a little make-out session in the dark.  No such luck.  When he finished pushing on my lower back he said, “Okay, lady, you done.”  

Leaving with my hair-tousled from a head massage and looking like I did just have a make-out session, we head across the street to our third destination: Costco.  I smooth out my hair in the cold parking lot as my aunt and mother tear through their purses looking for their Costco membership cards.  My mom has the audacity to make fun of the sound of papers ruffling in her sister’s purse.  I don’t even think to complain about the wait because A. The two of them rummaging through their purses makes me laugh and B. because I know they’re about to spoil me rotten with fun Costco food purchases.

Suffice it to say that my mom and aunt are not so great at passing up a good bargain.  So walking past the Costco bouncer into the bulk store is kind of like walking into a candy shop with my husband: I know we’re not leaving empty handed.

“Let’s get this 24oz jar of olive muffaletta spread.”

“Annie, can you eat this?  No, it has milk protein in it. But this one’s gluten free!”
“My friend told me Ensure shakes tastes like chocolate metal.”
“Where are the fiber tablets?  I see Calcium supplements, but where’s the Fiber One?”  This search for powdered ruffage inevitable ends with the lone call of “HUCKLE BUCKLE BEANSTALK!” - my mom found them.

We leave with a probably-too-large receipt (I blame the 144 pack of Sam Adams my mom bought for my dad), but also a few six-packs of Glide dental floss on sale for $10 each - holla!

In our final Chemo Tuesday indulgence, we eat dinner at McAlister’s Deli before Aunt drives home. In celebration of our Costco purchase, Mom decides to get the New Orleans Muffaletta Sandwich.  I order a baked potato with veggies and veggie chili on top, no cheese.  Aunt orders the yang to my yin - a bacon spud with sour cream and regular chili.

“Your total is is $30.57.” The cashier says.
“Who has 57 cents?!” challenges my mom.
“I do!”
I pull out my wallet to help.  But in the ultimate head-start, Mom empties the contents of her change-purse directly onto the deli counter.  She gets the two quarters, a nickel, and two pennies before I can even reach for my first quarter.  
“You win, Mommy.” I say. “And by ‘win,’ I mean you ‘lose’ because you have to pay.”

“Have you ladies ever been to the Foot Rub place across the street?” My aunt asks the cashier and the young girl filling up our iced teas.
“No, I’ve never been in there.”
“I’ll give you one of their business cards.  I have a few in my purse somewhere.”
“I’ll look in mine, too.  Who can find one first!?” says my mom.  So begins another three-minute paper-shuffle to find the Foot Fitness cards in their respective purses.
“Man, you guys compete for everything, don’t you?”  The cashier remarks.  
“Found one!”  My Aunt wins again.  She’s 2 and 0 for finding cards in her purse.  I’m impressed.

Once we sit down to dinner, the conversation comes easily, like it always should with family.  At one point, they both start tearing up as my mom recounts a story she watched on ESPN about the Baltimore Colts Marching Band: “The football team left in their Mayflower trucks in the middle of the night in whatever year that was, but the marching band showed up the next day at the stadium with their instruments in hand, all ready to play!”  They may both be tearing up, but I smile at their likeness.

Once the plates are cleared, the bulk purchases divided (who really needs two jars of Grey Poupon, after all?), the Foot Rub cards distributed, and the chemo drugs are at work inside my aunt’s body, it’s time for us all to drive home.  

Teddy greets me at the door with a look of excitement and exhaustion at wondering where I’ve been all day.  “I missed you, Teddy, but it’s Chemo Tuesday and I had so much fun.” I say.  “I hope someday soon I can start calling it Foot-Rub Tuesday.”