This post is going to be very blunt, so feel free to skip it if you don't want gory details. Having a baby is something nothing and no one can prepare you for, but I'm going to describe it because I think there are some things that need to be said, if for no other reason than that it is therapeutic for me.
It was a Wednesday night. I had gone to sleep around 10:30, but I woke up when Husband came to bed around midnight. I sleepily realized I was having some odd cramping sensations in my back. Not too bad, I thought. The baby is due in 5 days, this must be Braxton-Hicks. I told Husband I was having some pre-labor symptoms and tried to go back to sleep. An hour later, I thought, you know, I should time these things. They were coming at regular 5-minute intervals.
We tried to call my doctor's pager, but our internet was down (yay for what is essentially a local monopoly--crappy service for lots of money and very few options--and what is worse, we rely on our internet signal for phone service because our provider has bad coverage in our area, and we use a microcell). Fortunately, it came back up after about half an hour. Sometimes it is down for as long as 11 hours.
The doctor said I was definitely in labor and should come in and get checked. The pain was getting more uncomfortable, but I could still easily breathe my way through it, so we grabbed the hospital bag I had so carefully packed the preceding week and took off.
The check indicated that I was dilated 2 cm, and the doctor felt the best thing to do was go home, try to rest, and come back in the morning when things had progressed more. We agreed. By this time, it was about 4 am. We went home, while the contractions came stronger and faster, and Husband made me some breakfast, which I promptly barfed up.
At that point, he was trying to help me with pain management—we learned all about pressure points and massage in our birth class, and he is a good man. For the next hour or so, it did help quite a bit, but by about 7 am, I was screaming and writhing while the contractions came at 1-minute intervals. We called the doctor back and went in again.
That ride back to the hospital was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. We got stuck in morning traffic, and I yelled and cried the entire way. Then we got temporarily stuck in the revolving door on the way inside the hospital, which was completely not fun.
As soon as we got back to the "triage" room, I told my doctor I needed an epidural. How quickly one can change the mind! I had drunk the Ina May Gaskin koolaid and convinced myself that I could give birth the natural, hippie way ... after 8 hours of that labor, I never want to hear another word about how your body knows what to do and you can breathe your way through the pain. I'm glad it works that way for some people, but if it weren't for modern medicine, I would never let my husband near me ever again.
It took a while to get wheeled into the labor/delivery room and wait for the anesthesiologist to show up and take care of things. By that time, I was dilated to 6.5. Once the epidural kicked in, I was ok for a while. The contractions, of course, slowed back down to 4 minutes apart instead of 1. And then, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Husband's parents both showed up in the early afternoon expecting to see a baby. I had not expected his dad to come, but I was glad to see him. They were great, and we had a nice time conversing. At that point, the epidural had made me comfortable enough to breathe through the contractions. Still uncomfortable, but manageable.
Then it was nighttime again, and still no progression. The epidural was wearing off, and my legs were completely numb. Our excellent nurse changed shifts, and we got another excellent nurse. It was a good thing we were at a teaching hospital, because the nurses all had students there to observe and help. It took both of them to lift my dead legs and shift my position in several attempts to get labor to progress again. Plus, some pitocin, which made the contractions even more uncomfortable.
It turns out labor did not move forward because Baby's head was sideways. I had always worried about either a breech or posterior baby. This didn't sound nearly as bad, but unfortunately, it was bad enough that my body couldn't manage to relax enough to allow her to descend into the birth canal; it was the wrong fit—I didn't know until afterwards, but she was banging against my pelvic bone (she ended up with a nasty, scabby bruise on her poor little head).
The doctor punctured the water bag so that it would drain slowly, in hopes that that would turn the baby. It did work, but it still took several hours and lots of assisted changes in position. In the meantime night fell, and I got sick to my stomach and threw up two or three more times. It was particularly vile, considering I hadn't eaten anything all day and had been sustained by IV fluids. I told husband I was going to vomit, and that, apparently, is the one thing he is squeamish about. I paged the nurse, and he ran to find something to catch it in—which was great, because he got back to my bedside right as it all flew out of my mouth (and splattered on his clothes). I felt so bad for him, but he handled it like a champ.
In addition to the vomiting, I also started having panic attacks. The room was dark, my legs were numb so I couldn't move, and I just felt claustrophobic and stuck. I couldn't sleep because every time I did, I would startle myself awake and freak out. Again, Husband was amazing. He just sat by me and held my hand and helped me breathe my way through. It was torture for him, because he hates to see me in pain.
Early, early in the morning I started to cry and told the doctor I just needed it all to be over. The epidural wore off several times and I had to ask for more and more. And finally, they had given me their strongest dose and had to switch to a different drug (yikes!).
One of the weird things that happened was the representative for cord blood donations kept coming and bugging us to read through the materials and sign the form. I wanted to participate and told him so, but I was a bit preoccupied with other things, so reading and signing didn't quite work out on his timetable. That was a major nuisance.
Then around 7 am on Friday, after 31 hours, I started to feel the pressure moving away from my back and into my pelvic area, and I was pretty sure the baby was coming out. The doctor came in to talk to me about it. She said I had been stuck at an 8 for long enough that they were concerned that we would need to discuss a c-section. They don't bring that up lightly (our hospital has very low c-section rates, and doesn't like to perform them at all), but if we couldn't make the baby come out with what we had already done, it would be necessary. I told her I thought the baby was moving into the birth canal, and I wanted her to check. She was also concerned to do that too often, because once the water is broken there are risks of infection if they poke and prod too much. But she did just look down without reaching in, and she saw the baby's head.
That was a great boost to my self-confidence—knowing that I had been able to correctly identify where the baby was, even as drugged up as I had been.
So, around 7:45 or so, they got everyone (EVERYONE) in the room and ready, and I started pushing. A few comments on that—the epidural had completely worn off by that point, and I let them know. They said it doesn't numb the parts that hurt during the actual delivery, so it wouldn't help to give me any more. She told me, very compassionately, that it was going to be terribly painful. I'm glad—I like to be prepared. The other thing was that there were suddenly a dozen people in the room. Nothing like being completely naked, with your business exposed for everyone. They called in a NICU team because there was some meconium in the fluid, and that is a potential problem (turns out it was fine, though); there was the nurse (our third one), her student shadow, our resident doctor, the resident doctor relieving her of duty (they change shifts at 8 am), their supervising doctor, Husband (of course), and some other random people he said were hanging out by the curtains.
The surprising part was that I didn't feel any pain while pushing, just lots of pressure and an urgent need to get it done. They all cheered me on and helped me focus on doing it right. Husband said it was very quiet and very spiritual. This part can last for hours, but fortunately, we got her out in about 30 minutes. Yay!
They gave her to me immediately. It was surreal. All this waiting. A lifetime of waiting. And then there is a wet, crying baby in your arms.
I didn't feel the placenta come out. I didn't feel the doctor stitching me up (I had a second-degree tear). I could only distinguish a few snippets of conversation. They were all anxious to know the baby's name, because we had kept it to ourselves until then. It was fun to finally tell people.
Baby was 8 lbs, 7 oz. A perfect size in my mind, considering the 36-week ultrasound predicted she would be close to 10 lbs. She had to get her glucose checked several times (she hated it and ended up a bit traumatized—for the first several days she screamed every time anyone even touched her feet, after all the times she had to be stuck) because of my diabetic condition, but we had controlled it so well, she was completely normal and fine. She was perfect.
I had some help getting into some crazy mesh underwear and some gigantic pads, someone came in to measure the baby, and then we went to recovery.
That was interesting as well. I can't say enough in praise of our hospital staff. I loved every single one of our nurses and attendants. But it was a trying time. They said they could take the baby to the nursery so I could get some sleep, but I was unwilling to part with her. Partially because I was completely in love and wanted to be with her every second, and partially because a woman I know told me that when she had her son, she let them take him to the nursery, and he died some time in the night, and no one ever found out why.
So we did not sleep much in the hospital. Baby is of the sort that likes to be constantly held. She screamed every time we put her down. Breast milk doesn't come in for several days, but colostrum is supposed to be there immediately. I think I got too dehydrated to make much of it, because feeding in the hospital did not go well, in spite of several lactation consultants and an excellent nurse.
Husband was exhausted at this point, and he went to sleep on the couch next to the bed, but eventually I had to send him home because he was snoring. And between that and the crying baby I was not doing well. That was a sad, sad moment.
We went home a day early because I was done with hospital life. The food, oddly enough, was excellent, and I could ask for whatever I wanted, but the bed was uncomfortable, and just thinking about another night in tight quarters like that made me anticipate more panic attacks. It was actually really hard to say goodbye to our nurse—she was more like a friend than anything by then.
There was a flurry of activity to get our discharge paperwork completed, then Husband came for us and there was an issue with getting the car seat properly installed (again, help from our excellent nurse). He only had enough time to drop us off at home before he rushed off to work.
We were fine until the middle of that night. Then the post-traumatic stress really hit hard. I started re-living the labor emotionally, and having a physical response to it. It wasn't physical pain, but my body reacted as if it were—screaming, crying, writhing. We called the doctor for help, but we had to do it several times, because it took them a while to realize from what we were saying that it was me and not the baby who was having the problems. Baby was fine, even though I was convinced she wasn't. I thought I would never be able to take care of her and would have to give her to someone who could. Husband called his mom, and she came over, because he couldn't handle both me and the baby at the same time.
I don't remember a lot of what I said during those days, but I do remember hysterically pleading with Husband to be satisfied with just one child, because I couldn't face ever having another baby. He, of course, said I didn't need to worry about it, that one baby was enough.
We did get through it, but it took a few weeks, some prescription meds, and a visit to a psychiatrist for the attacks to go away. And did you know newborn babies are completely bizarre? Little girls bleed from their mom's estrogen, so it's almost like they have a mini period. Plus, there's a lot of choking going on in the first few days when they get the fluid out of their little lungs. Both of those things freaked me out and caused another call to the doctor.
Also, some people may not have any trouble whatsoever figuring out how to breastfeed, but it did not come naturally for me. My milk came in around day 4, which is pretty good, but it was slow going, and baby had trouble latching. The lactation consultants won't say this, but I am convinced it's because she has a tiny mouth. After lots of soreness and bleeding (I was ready to start calling her my little bloodsucker, because it seemed she was getting more blood than milk a few times), we got some prescription cream and a silicon shield. It helps a lot. She did not regain her birth weight during the recommended timeframe, so we had lots of follow-ups with the nurse and lactation consultants. I was desperately trying to feed her regularly, the way the books say—no more than three hours from the beginning of her feeding to the next. But how do you do that when it takes two hours to feed her? And then when she finally does go to sleep she wants to stay asleep and nothing, nothing will wake her? All their recommended tricks for getting/keeping her alert were complete failures. Also, it's impossible to tell if a breastfed baby is getting enough to eat, because you can't measure input. After 3 weeks of all the following up, we did some letting go. I refuse to put her through the stress anymore, and I just let her sleep. That has improved things quite a bit, even though there is still a lot of frustration with her efficiency in eating. She seems to be finally gaining weight, though, so I don't worry as much as I did.
My physical recovery went much better than I expected. The bleeding was not nearly as heavy as I was thinking it would be, and it was mostly gone after a few days. The stitches hurt, and I had to use a squirt bottle instead of toilet paper for a week or two, but that was all. I lost the baby weight super fast, mostly due to my diabetes diet, I think—within two weeks my pre-pregnancy clothes were a little too big. There is still a bit of a belly, but I'm not concerned about it. And I have this impressive array of stretch marks that looks like someone tried to draw a campfire on my tummy. I am told the marks won't go away, but their purple color will eventually fade.
So there you have it. I'm sure this is TMI, but really—why don't people talk about it? I thought I had been sufficiently warned! I would never discourage anyone from having a child, but I do think sometimes people don't talk realistically about how it works. There is plenty of warning about labor pain, but it's buried under so much cliche that it can't really sink in for someone who hasn't experienced it. Obviously it's different for everyone, and a lot of women say it wasn't that bad. Wow. Either they are much stronger than I am, or I was just not cut out for motherhood. We survived, obviously, but at a great price. I don't know if I would have survived if not for modern medicine. Pain like that is no joke. The part that was the biggest surprise, though, was the post-partum hormone drop. I knew it would happen, but I had no idea it would make me such a crazy mess.
In spite of all of that, or maybe partially because of it, I am completely in love with my baby. She is the sweetest and the cutest as far as I'm concerned. She mostly looks like her daddy, especially in profile, and I love to see them together. We are taking one day at a time and trying to enjoy every minute we can while she's still little. Being a mother is the best thing ever, now that we're past the crisis, even though it is so very difficult. It is one of the most bonding experiences we could have as a couple to be parents together, and I love Husband even more than I did before ... if that's possible.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Celebrate!
The baby will not be here in time for Mother's Day this year, but I think I can safely claim the title of "Mother" for the first time ever, without feeling a little like an impostor. All the sacrifices I've made to keep the baby healthy during her gestation certainly qualify me for it, I think.
I think it's actually pretty cool that, at least in the wards I've been in, the Church recognizes that every woman is a mother and gives her a little treat at the end of the first hour. Those of us who haven't (yet) actively participated in that role by raising children are still honored, and appropriately so. Some women may think it cheapens the sacrifices active mothers make, but I really don't. Their quiver is full, and they have their blessings. I would never belittle the effort they put in every day to raise their children, but we are looking beyond every-day tasks, at the eternities, and I feel like there is a lot we don't know about what the eternal role of a mother is, outside of the (important) task of bearing and nurturing children.
Even so, when I think of eternity, I think of roles and responsibilities being innate and without time, so even when it isn't our "time", we still have the role, and all the blessings that go along with it are ours. It was only my insecurity that held me back from embracing the recognition—and the chocolate.
Is it easier now to understand some of the eternities, now that all the desires of my heart are in the midst of tangible fulfillment? Of course. But the only thing that has changed is my understanding. I always had the same value, and the same eternal potential. The thing that makes life so difficult is often that we, all of us, are limited in our ability to see the challenges and the pains we face as the temporary things they are. I hope this doesn't seem to trivialize anyone's painful circumstances. Whatever it is I've genuinely suffered in this life so far has had a definite expiration date, unlike a lot of people I know and care about, so I'm not the most qualified to write about it.
I remember a huge breakthrough I made one day in how I perceived my life. It hit me to my core that no matter what blessings I did or did not have in this life—and at the time my main concern was marriage and children—I would never once in the eternities look back on my mortal experience and feel like I had missed something or been cheated of any important experiences.
We are promised that if we keep God's commandments, all of the blessings of eternity will be ours, and it's true.
I think it's actually pretty cool that, at least in the wards I've been in, the Church recognizes that every woman is a mother and gives her a little treat at the end of the first hour. Those of us who haven't (yet) actively participated in that role by raising children are still honored, and appropriately so. Some women may think it cheapens the sacrifices active mothers make, but I really don't. Their quiver is full, and they have their blessings. I would never belittle the effort they put in every day to raise their children, but we are looking beyond every-day tasks, at the eternities, and I feel like there is a lot we don't know about what the eternal role of a mother is, outside of the (important) task of bearing and nurturing children.
Even so, when I think of eternity, I think of roles and responsibilities being innate and without time, so even when it isn't our "time", we still have the role, and all the blessings that go along with it are ours. It was only my insecurity that held me back from embracing the recognition—and the chocolate.
Is it easier now to understand some of the eternities, now that all the desires of my heart are in the midst of tangible fulfillment? Of course. But the only thing that has changed is my understanding. I always had the same value, and the same eternal potential. The thing that makes life so difficult is often that we, all of us, are limited in our ability to see the challenges and the pains we face as the temporary things they are. I hope this doesn't seem to trivialize anyone's painful circumstances. Whatever it is I've genuinely suffered in this life so far has had a definite expiration date, unlike a lot of people I know and care about, so I'm not the most qualified to write about it.
I remember a huge breakthrough I made one day in how I perceived my life. It hit me to my core that no matter what blessings I did or did not have in this life—and at the time my main concern was marriage and children—I would never once in the eternities look back on my mortal experience and feel like I had missed something or been cheated of any important experiences.
We are promised that if we keep God's commandments, all of the blessings of eternity will be ours, and it's true.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
"How Are You?" Is a Loaded Question
I usually don't mind being asked, "how are you?" It's a token that the person asking is thinking about my well-being, at least enough to ask the question, if not to listen to my response. It is a customary greeting, and it's better than most others I could think of.
But lately, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of people asking, because it could mean one of many things, two of which are:
1) I know you've been struggling, and I care about you, so I genuinely want to know what is going on.
2) I know you've been struggling, and I want to feel you out to see if you are emotionally resilient enough to help me unload my baggage.
I know this, not only because it has been done to me on countless occasions by other people, but also because I am sure I have done it myself. So this post is self-accusation as much as a rant against the treatment I have received from others.
The truth is, I am fine as long as I can talk about what is bothering me on my own terms. My terms include that you have to understand that I am grieving for something that might not be real for you but is catastrophically real for me. If you are unable to acknowledge that, I don't want to talk about it with you, but I definitely don't want you to assume that just because I'm not talking about it I am not thinking about it. I can't deal with being told that I should just shut up and be happy. I can't deal with being told that my fears and worries are irrational. I can't deal with being told that "everything will be okay, you'll see." I can't even deal with being told that it isn't my fault so why do I torture myself over it.
Grief doesn't make logical sense, particularly not to the person not experiencing it. For years and years I wondered why my mom grieved so hard (in my mind, irrationally hard) over the deaths of her father and brother, when we know that people die all the time and we will see them again in the next life. I hope I can be excused by the fact that I was a teenager who didn't understand how life works.
But the Millennial Generation, and those who raised them, seem to all have this problem to a certain extent. The prevalent belief in society is that "If you can dream it, you can do it!" and everyone can have a trophy if they just work hard enough ... and even if they don't work very hard, if they put in a token effort, they can have a trophy anyway, because it is the duty of everyone around them to be nice and fair and inclusive. We aren't equipped to process our own pain and sense of loss, because First World Problems are just that. Hey, to put it the way a friend did, we aren't starving in China with only one arm, so what's the big deal?
And someone else's pain? Well, that just doesn't compute. We want to apply the "If you can dream it, you can do it!" philosophy by telling them that if they would just adjust their attitude, everything would fall into place. Um ... no. There is a lot of value in positive thinking and in focusing on your own attitude as the source of your feelings rather than your circumstances as the source of your feelings. BUT. You can't help someone by making them feel that the big emotions involved in the grieving process are not valid or important. Chronic pain and illness? It's not all in their head, and they don't just "get used to it". Infertility? It's not as easy as quickly changing the plan from procreation to adoption without some feelings involved. Unemployment? More complicated than just going downtown and dropping in on businesses and handing them your resume.
Some advice to grieving people is good, but most of it is unwanted and unnecessary and can be downright damaging. What I'm really hearing with all these social media posts ("Seven things not to say to a migraine sufferer", "21 things you shouldn't say to a stay-at-home mom", "58 ways to avoid divorce") is that most of us are feeling, rightly or not, that empathy is a lost art, and we're tired, so tired, of being made to feel like we can't possibly have things to grieve about when we live in a time and place with so many things to be thankful for.
I think it is a form of survivor's guilt (and I didn't come up with this on my own--a friend pointed out to me today that this has a lot to do with my current situation, and I think she is right). It is a good thing to be aware of the horrible conditions people suffer in places like sub-Saharan Africa and the Indian slums. It is a good thing for me to be aware that not everyone who desires parenthood has the ability to get pregnant easily and carry a baby to term. However, it ceases to be a good thing when we are not allowed to enjoy any of our material prosperity without feeling like we don't deserve it because "starving children in Africa" or I am not allowed to mourn the loss of my plan for a healthy, risk-free pregnancy because "isn't modern medicine so great? If this had happened a hundred years ago, I might be risking death, and at least I can have a baby and isn't that what I always wanted?"
I do feel guilty. I feel guilty because I wanted a husband and a baby to love for so long that I'm still stunned about having them dropped in my lap like this, when I have many friends and family members who are still waiting. And I feel even more guilty because I still can't see, with the onset of our health complications, the possibility of a c-section being anything but irreparably traumatic. For some people, having a baby is enough, and they don't give a flip whether they push it out or have it cut out of them. For me, it's not enough. It is so far from what I expected and wanted that I don't know that it is something I could ever emotionally recover from. Does that mean I am lacking resilience? Probably. Would it be best if I could just suck it up and be happy? Heck yes. But does it give someone else permission to tell me that it's not a big deal and I am being irrational? I don't think it does.
As much as I hate the expectation that everyone is responsible for being so sensitive to the needs and individual concerns of every single person they talk to, to the point that if someone is offended by what you say, it is all on you and not on them; I still think the majority of us are in need of some thought and education in empathy. In the big scheme of things, my problems aren't much, but they are real problems, and I hope that, at the very least, I can figure out how to use this to be a kinder person, even when other people's grief doesn't make sense to me.
But lately, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of people asking, because it could mean one of many things, two of which are:
1) I know you've been struggling, and I care about you, so I genuinely want to know what is going on.
2) I know you've been struggling, and I want to feel you out to see if you are emotionally resilient enough to help me unload my baggage.
I know this, not only because it has been done to me on countless occasions by other people, but also because I am sure I have done it myself. So this post is self-accusation as much as a rant against the treatment I have received from others.
The truth is, I am fine as long as I can talk about what is bothering me on my own terms. My terms include that you have to understand that I am grieving for something that might not be real for you but is catastrophically real for me. If you are unable to acknowledge that, I don't want to talk about it with you, but I definitely don't want you to assume that just because I'm not talking about it I am not thinking about it. I can't deal with being told that I should just shut up and be happy. I can't deal with being told that my fears and worries are irrational. I can't deal with being told that "everything will be okay, you'll see." I can't even deal with being told that it isn't my fault so why do I torture myself over it.
Grief doesn't make logical sense, particularly not to the person not experiencing it. For years and years I wondered why my mom grieved so hard (in my mind, irrationally hard) over the deaths of her father and brother, when we know that people die all the time and we will see them again in the next life. I hope I can be excused by the fact that I was a teenager who didn't understand how life works.
But the Millennial Generation, and those who raised them, seem to all have this problem to a certain extent. The prevalent belief in society is that "If you can dream it, you can do it!" and everyone can have a trophy if they just work hard enough ... and even if they don't work very hard, if they put in a token effort, they can have a trophy anyway, because it is the duty of everyone around them to be nice and fair and inclusive. We aren't equipped to process our own pain and sense of loss, because First World Problems are just that. Hey, to put it the way a friend did, we aren't starving in China with only one arm, so what's the big deal?
And someone else's pain? Well, that just doesn't compute. We want to apply the "If you can dream it, you can do it!" philosophy by telling them that if they would just adjust their attitude, everything would fall into place. Um ... no. There is a lot of value in positive thinking and in focusing on your own attitude as the source of your feelings rather than your circumstances as the source of your feelings. BUT. You can't help someone by making them feel that the big emotions involved in the grieving process are not valid or important. Chronic pain and illness? It's not all in their head, and they don't just "get used to it". Infertility? It's not as easy as quickly changing the plan from procreation to adoption without some feelings involved. Unemployment? More complicated than just going downtown and dropping in on businesses and handing them your resume.
Some advice to grieving people is good, but most of it is unwanted and unnecessary and can be downright damaging. What I'm really hearing with all these social media posts ("Seven things not to say to a migraine sufferer", "21 things you shouldn't say to a stay-at-home mom", "58 ways to avoid divorce") is that most of us are feeling, rightly or not, that empathy is a lost art, and we're tired, so tired, of being made to feel like we can't possibly have things to grieve about when we live in a time and place with so many things to be thankful for.
I think it is a form of survivor's guilt (and I didn't come up with this on my own--a friend pointed out to me today that this has a lot to do with my current situation, and I think she is right). It is a good thing to be aware of the horrible conditions people suffer in places like sub-Saharan Africa and the Indian slums. It is a good thing for me to be aware that not everyone who desires parenthood has the ability to get pregnant easily and carry a baby to term. However, it ceases to be a good thing when we are not allowed to enjoy any of our material prosperity without feeling like we don't deserve it because "starving children in Africa" or I am not allowed to mourn the loss of my plan for a healthy, risk-free pregnancy because "isn't modern medicine so great? If this had happened a hundred years ago, I might be risking death, and at least I can have a baby and isn't that what I always wanted?"
I do feel guilty. I feel guilty because I wanted a husband and a baby to love for so long that I'm still stunned about having them dropped in my lap like this, when I have many friends and family members who are still waiting. And I feel even more guilty because I still can't see, with the onset of our health complications, the possibility of a c-section being anything but irreparably traumatic. For some people, having a baby is enough, and they don't give a flip whether they push it out or have it cut out of them. For me, it's not enough. It is so far from what I expected and wanted that I don't know that it is something I could ever emotionally recover from. Does that mean I am lacking resilience? Probably. Would it be best if I could just suck it up and be happy? Heck yes. But does it give someone else permission to tell me that it's not a big deal and I am being irrational? I don't think it does.
As much as I hate the expectation that everyone is responsible for being so sensitive to the needs and individual concerns of every single person they talk to, to the point that if someone is offended by what you say, it is all on you and not on them; I still think the majority of us are in need of some thought and education in empathy. In the big scheme of things, my problems aren't much, but they are real problems, and I hope that, at the very least, I can figure out how to use this to be a kinder person, even when other people's grief doesn't make sense to me.
Friday, January 2, 2015
2014: What I Read Last Year
It seems like I just wrote one of these. Maybe I should stop doing them annually and skip to more like once every 5 or 10 years... and then I would never remember to do it and thus cheat the world of such great reading pleasure. It looks like I didn't read so very much this year. I used to be more competitive about it, but this year has changed a lot of things for me. Besides, there are some serious whoppers on this list. Check it out. If you read all the way to the end, you deserve to have someone buy you a steak dinner. But, unfortunately, it won't be me.
* Harry Potter's Bookshelf: I picked this up off one of those display tables at Barnes and Noble on a whim. That store kills me ... or at least my pocketbook. It took me a while to decide to read it, but I'm glad I did. It explores the classic literature and philosophy that influenced J.K. Rowling in her writing of the Harry Potter books. I'm a big enough fan to have read all of the published Harry stuff, but I've lost patience with the Pottermore site and so have not been able to read recent online backstories. Disappointing, for sure. If you have any interest in literary history and theory and/or Harry Potter, read this book.
* Call the Midwife: Shadows of the Workhouse: This is the second in Jennifer Worth's Call the Midwife memoirs. I must say that while I tired of the television show's sappiness and was very well glad the last season was actually the last season, I loved the books for providing a unique and real perspective on a time and place and profession I really didn't know anything about.
* In the Beginning: At one time (ahem, my depressive phase in college), I was Chaim Potok's biggest fan. I still think he writes a beautiful book, but this was one was sorta been-there-done-that. I might have liked it a lot more if I hadn't already read The Chosen, My Name Is Asher Lev, and even Davita's Harp—all of which are far superior.
* Phantom Island: Watermark: Continuation of a fun teen series written by my friend. It was good.
* The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands: My reading of this book came about because of a conversation I had with some married girlfriends. They both said that they have read it and re-read it, and it always helps their marriages. I had been curious about it since my parents mentioned it to me many years ago, but never enough to read it. After all, I didn't need to know what to do with a husband. I wasn't married. But the conversation was powerful enough that I suggested it as one of the monthly readings for my book group, and it got enough votes to be included. It was funny hosting that discussion, the only single woman in the group (with my boyfriend hanging out in the background because we hadn't got to spend much time together that week, and anyway, he was curious how women's book club meetings rolled). It sounds like a book that would mortally offend any strong-minded, independent, feminist woman ... and I don't think Dr. Laura particularly cares if she does offend that group of people. However, she did write what, in my opinion, is an eye-opening book about respect and how many women may just not understand that many of the things they do are sending the wrong message to their husbands. The premise is so refreshing—most men (excluding obvious jerks and sociopaths) want their wives to be happy, and they are willing to do quite a bit to make their wives happy. A man just needs his wife to communicate what she wants in a way that is intelligible to him, and women can, and should, take equal responsibility for effecting change when a relationship is heading in a troubling direction.
* Call the Midwife: Farewell to the East End: They run together. I don't have anything to say about this one that I didn't already say about Shadows of the Workhouse.
* How to Make People Like You in 90 Seconds or Less: I listened to this short audiobook one day while I was bored at work. It had some good pointers, but nothing earth-shattering, other than just making sure you practice coming across as a friendly, empathetic, and well-adjusted person.
* Eater's Manifesto: Another trendy audiobook I picked up when I was bored. He pretty much thinks people should avoid processed food.
* Between Two Ends: This is one of those advanced reader copies I got at the last library conference I went to. The premise sounded pretty exciting—a kid being magicked into another world in order to save Shaharazade from an untimely death—but it was ultimately predictable and doesn't stand up well to other similar stuff if you've ever read a children's book before.
* Anne Frank: The Anne Frank House Authorized Graphic Biography: Good, but I've read an awful lot of Anne Frank stuff over the years.
* The Gate Thief: Second in Orson Scott Card's Mither Mages series, this one was as good—and weird—as the first. I do look forward to more. The main characters can open gates in space and transport themselves (or things) to other places. Pretty cool stuff.
* Miss Buncle's Book: This adorable book was recommended to me by my sister. I recommend it to anyone who wants a sweet, light read. It's not without substance, but it doesn't take any effort. Barbara Buncle is completely endearing without being sappy, and the picture of small town drama is quirky enough to not be as predictable as one would fear.
* Laddie: A True Blue Story: I'm not sure what to make of this one. On one hand, it's terribly sappy and preachy. On the other, it's pretty brilliant. Told from the perspective of "Little Sister", who only half understands what's going on, it is an attempt to paint a picture of a set of parents who have good hearts and did everything right, whose efforts yield honest, happy lives for their children—both the ones who are grown up and the ones who are still small. Its effort to portray the pastoral American family, one with the land and faithful to God, as vastly superior to those corrupted by either city life or the classist ways of the Old Country is both touching and annoying.
* All Creatures Great and Small: If you haven't heard of it before, this is part of a series of memoirs written by a man about when he was a young veterinarian in England. It's hilarious—more so because of his dealings with his employer/room mate and with the farmers and other clients than because of his stories about animals. I got a tiny taste of it when I was still an 8th grade teacher and an excerpt of one of the chapters was used as text for one of the kids' standardized reading test practice material. In spite of my inauspicious introduction, it is a serious treat. Read it. You'll love it.
* On Writing Well: A surprisingly entertaining take on how to (and how not to) write nonfiction. It should be standard reading, along with Strunk and White's Elements of Style. And anyone who thinks a book on the mechanics of writing is boring needs their head examined.
* Lady of Devices: My first foray into the genre of Steampunk. These books were recommended by a friend whose taste is sketchy, but because the first one was free for Kindle, I gave it a shot. It was a fun little ride. I read several of the sequels as well—which I will go ahead and list here because they're really all just one continuous story split up into several parts. Her Own Devices, Magnificent Devices, and Brilliant Devices. They are about a privileged young woman in Victorian-style England (like all Steampunk) whose days in prep school are followed by a family disaster that necessitates her going to the streets and figuring out how to live by her wits, incognito, while still maintaining what relationships to "society" she still can. The action is peppered with lightning guns and airships, all while girls wear corsets and little boys speak Cockney. It impressively avoids a lot of the cliches of most of the teen fiction aka drivel out there these days.
* The Fault in Our Stars: It wasn't bad, but it didn't really have much to offer. It was just a typical story of two teenagers who fall in love and then die. And why, why do they always have to sleep together? I understand that teenagers have a really strong sex drive, but there are plenty of other meaningful things to do when you know you're dying, aside from losing your virginity.
* I Am a Mother: This book was pretty good, but it wasn't really anything I hadn't heard before, and really, I have a problem with books that try to make motherhood sound super hard—at least I did at the moment, because I was planning on having a baby. I think there is a such thing as a healthy amount of fear, but when you're in the midst of the "I think I might be pregnant" phase, you don't want to be told that a woman who never, ever slept and worked as a news anchor in one of the most demanding careers out there found being a full-time stay-at-home mom more difficult than the career she left. Admittedly, that is the fault of the reader and not the author, though, and I think even with that dire warning, the sheer hardness of parenthood is likely to catch me off guard—rather like how naive I was about morning sickness. I seriously had no expectation that I would find pregnancy to be anything other than joyful and fulfilling (which it really is, now that the 8 weeks of nausea and 3 weeks of headaches are mostly behind us ... addendum, by the time I finished writing this post I got another headache, so no, pregnancy isn't super fun). But yes, I think it was probably a good book, but I didn't need all the feel-good quotes of how important motherhood is, I just needed something that told me I wasn't going to ruin my kid (embryo).
* Atlas Shrugged: I already wrote about it in an earlier post. Husband is still reading it. Hehe.
* Man's Search For Meaning: Nothing I say will do this book justice. I was expecting something terribly depressing, but it is a triumphant account of how people survive the unthinkable and a beautiful tribute to those who never came back.
* Home: Home is the third-person limited account of Glory Boughton, one of eight siblings, a middle-aged woman gone back to her home-town to take care of her dying father. It is one of the deepest and most interesting explorations of perspective I've ever come across. Her reflections center around her "black sheep" brother, Jack, who left home in scandal and never came back, not even for their mother's funeral, until she wrote and asked him to come see their father as he grows increasingly feeble and wants nothing out of the rest of his life but to see his beloved son. None of the problems and questions Glory asks have easy answers. It's difficult to tell if the author figured the reader would pick up on certain details that Glory didn't, or if Glory's sudden understanding of one more piece of the complexity is meant to be just as much a surprise to everyone sharing her tale. Either way, this story was not a neat, clean little package and all its ends tied up.
* Gilead: a sort of companion novel to Home, this one is written as the memoir of John Ames, the Boughton family's neighbor, the father's dearest friend, also a minister (of a different faith). Ames writes to his small son, Robert, who was born to him so late in life that he never really got over the shock of finding himself, after decades of loneliness (his first wife died in childbirth, along with their only daughter, when he was very young), a husband and father with something to live for. His voice is beautiful—a humble, unpretentious man who sincerely believes what he preached and lived for all the years of his life, but also a man who understands that his religion doesn't always answer everyone's deepest and most heartfelt questions. There is an understanding and reconciliation he has come to in his own heart, but he admits his own inability to express it to those who grieve and mourn and wonder, without sounding cliché, flippant, or dismissive of their sorrow. I love the beautiful things he observes about his wife and little boy and how he describes his love for and joy in them.
* Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea: I didn't want to read this book because I knew it would be depressing, but I had been to too many book club meetings (one?) for which I didn't do the reading, so I checked it out from the library and made myself sit down and read it until it was finished. It took most of a Saturday. Worth it? Yes. The author, a journalist, interviewed six different people who had lived in North Korea and escaped to tell the tale. It is every bit as horrible as you could imagine. Probably worse. I don't want to go into detail, but if you read the book, don't expect a happy ending even though you know because they are available for interviews that they got out of it. People don't survive things like that unscathed.
* The Way of Kings: Highly recommended. Every Mormon who likes fantasy loves Brandon Sanderson, and with good reason. This is not light reading, though. It is well over 1,000 pages and is only the beginning of what plans to be a 10-book epic series. Lots of violence. Lots of despair. But there is also lots of characters understanding that the way to conquer evil is not to embrace it but to listen to the better, encouraging, inspirational voices. The main characters are Shallan, a girl from a rich and influential family who are extremely down on their luck and desperate not only to make a comeback but to avoid certain death; Kaladin, the gifted son of a village surgeon who has been cruelly enslaved for trying to do the right thing; and Dalinar, renowned warrior and brother to the former king, who becomes increasingly conflicted about his role under the rule of the new king, his nephew.
* Bringing Up Bébé: Ok, I really liked this when I was reading it, but it has some serious flaws. The author's objective, other than to continue her successful freelance career, was to write a memoir of her own observations—and some light research—about the difference between French and American parenting. Some of it was quite good, but it must be taken with a grain of salt. It's easy to lump all American parents into one category and all French parents into another, but really, most of her observations were solely of New Yorkers and Parisians, and I'm not so sure they are a representative sample of all American parents and all French parents. But she doesn't claim they are, so that makes it ok. I like a lot of the French conventions she points out—there are no "Mommy Wars" in France. French people tend to think their parenting is their own business and don't worry too much about what other people think. Their kids are not their trophies, they are their kids. The author claims that most French children sleep through the night by the age of 2 months, always eat their vegetables, learn to bake on their own when they are three, are better able to entertain themselves and interact with adults, and never feel undue pressure to be ahead of the curve in school. At first I totally bought the sleeping through the night thing. Well, I really wanted to. I'm expecting a baby and the thought of going back to my full-time job after my brief maternity leave and still staying up all night with an infant is terrifying. There is something to it, I'm sure, and I'm not going to be one of those insane people who comments on parenting blogs and accuses people who use the cry-it-out method of child abuse and claim those people deserve to have CPS come and seize their children and revoke their parental rights for good. And goodness knows I hope my baby will want to sleep through the night so I don't lose my job after I fall asleep at my desk for the seventieth time. But everything else I have read proves more empirically that babies thrive when they feel safe, and if that means I need to pick it up every time it cries, I will do it. I like the theory that exposing a child to "adult" (read: real) food early—puréed or chopped tiny according to the child's needs—and not making a fuss about things is more likely to help the child develop a varied palate. I don't like that the author claims that French people consider daycare to be essential once the baby is three months old, even if there is a stay-at-home mom. I'm vain enough to think that my kid needs more attention from me than the best of paid childcare providers ... I may end up having to put my kid in daycare, and my heart hurts about that already. I definitely want to teach my children to be independent in the kitchen, as well as elsewhere around the house, but that is always easier said than done. Time will tell if I'm successful. The last thing I will comment on is the claim that French parents do not helicopter. They teach their children that they are there for them, but that it is not their job to entertain them, and they teach them that it is common courtesy to say "hello" and "goodbye" to everyone they interact with, including adults. Even very shy kids know this is expected of them. I think it's a very healthy expectation, acknowledging and welcoming people's presence. Anyway, I'm sure there are plenty of American parents who do it "right" and plenty of French parents who do it "wrong", so again, the book has its limitations, but it was an interesting read all the same.
* The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks: Henrietta Lacks was a black woman in the 1940s whose cancer cells were used in labs for replication and scientific research. The book is incredibly interesting as far as ethics—did you know that any time you have a sample taken in a doctor's office, they can keep it and use it without your knowledge or permission? That has always been true and has never changed. Poor Henrietta died before she had any knowledge of how influential her cells became in the scientific research department, but her family sure knew. Most of them were poor and completely uneducated, and their lack of understanding about what happened and how her cells were used was the source of unending grief and trauma. How do you explain a situation like that? They knew their mother's cells were used to discover the cure to all kinds of nasty diseases, but they were never even well-off enough to go to the doctor when they themselves were sick. Plus, many of them never understood what a cell even was. The book is one of the most interesting "biographies" I've read so far.
* Our Bodies, Ourselves: Pregnancy and Childbirth: Duh. I'm pregnant. They gave me this book at the clinic and encouraged me to read it instead of What To Expect When You're Expecting (that book gives me the chills—I have no idea why it's so popular; the woman who wrote it has no credentials). This one is a nice, no-nonsense, informative guide. It does lean a little too socialist for me at the end, when it brings up concerns about the plight of pregnant and nursing mothers in America. I agree that their concerns are definitely valid, but I disagree with their proposed solutions. Regardless, I recommend it to anyone who is expecting a baby.
* Lila: This is another companion novel to Home and Gilead, written from the perspective of John Ames' wife. She is given just enough attention in the other two books to be intriguing, and this one covers her back story, which is rather awful—but again, the book manages to be sweet at the same time. It ends before the other two books begin, just after little Robert Ames is born.
* Fever, 1793: has been sitting on my bookshelf for years, since I was a teacher and read other books by the author. I would have liked it a lot more if I had read it in middle school, because it is written for the young'uns. The Yellow Fever Epidemic in Philadelphia, when it was still the capital of the young United States, is an interesting part of history that doesn't seem to ever get covered in the standard public school curriculum. Oh well. I was interested in reading a fictional account of it, since I read a nonfiction book about it several years ago as a graduate student. It was a good read.
* The Boy Who Dared: Another one I picked up when I was teaching, this book didn't grab me like I wanted it to. It is the story of Helmuth Hubner, a young man growing up in Nazi Germany. He was actually a member of the LDS Church, and his beliefs about God and his fellow men and what was right and wrong were what came between him and his affiliation with the Nazi party. He got ahold of a radio and started listening to Allied news, then, with the help of some friends, started distributing leaflets with the truth about the War. Sadly, he was turned in, imprisoned, and executed. Definitely an impressive story. I wonder if there is another account of it published somewhere. The author is quite good, but I wasn't hooked by her present-tense narration.
* Twelve Years A Slave: Because of the movie that recently came out, most people by now have at least heard of Solomon Northup, who was born pre-Emancipation as a free black man and then captured and sold into slavery. His true account of the treatment he received at the hands of his psychopathic masters is a brutal read. There is a lot of speculation about Northup's life outside of those twelve years. Some say he was trying to make easy money by allowing himself to be sold into slavery with the promise that his partners would come get him back later. I don't know if that's a fair accusation. The really sad part was what I was told by my book club leader, whose copy of the book had annotations and commentary—after Northup's liberation, he went home and traveled around educating people about what slavery in the South was like, but not long after that, he disappeared and was never seen or heard from again. No one knows if he was abducted and sold again, or what. So terribly sad.
* The Story of the Trapp Family Singers: I read most of this when I was a teenager, but somehow I never finished it, so I started over. A very nice read. I don't think Maria Trapp is the best writer ever; she tends to ramble a bit, but it is delightful to read about the experiences of a family so devoted and unabashedly faithful to God. The Sound of Music is a sweet tribute to their experiences, but it really glosses over everything in true musical style, so the book lent a lot of excellent background.
* Brain Rules for Baby: A friend loaned me this book. She is just a few years younger than me and had her first child last year. We share the same philosophies on parenting, so I figured it would be a good book to read, and it was. It's an engagingly-written compilation of the research that correlates with raising a child who is happy and intelligent. Nothing in it is super surprising, but I'm glad I read it. The major premise is that humans are not driven by the desire to be happy and to learn, they are driven by the urge to be safe. This is particularly true for babies and children under 5. If children feel safe, they will learn. The best part was the chapter on emotions. Children whose parents teach them how to express their emotions and who model extreme empathy end up much happier. And children whose parents discipline consistently, timely, and lovingly (no corporal punishment), and who explain the logic behind their rules, are generally happier, moral people who follow their parents' rules not out of fear but out of their own acceptance of them. I like that the author doesn't present anything as causal or definitive, and even states several times that only about 50% of what a parent does is going to make a difference. The rest is all genetic. Anyway, most parenting books tend to leave me with a lot of anxiety and worry that I'll ruin my kid if I do a certain thing the "experts" say is wrong, but this one left me feeling more empowered to be a loving parent of a happy, well-adjusted child.
* Harry Potter's Bookshelf: I picked this up off one of those display tables at Barnes and Noble on a whim. That store kills me ... or at least my pocketbook. It took me a while to decide to read it, but I'm glad I did. It explores the classic literature and philosophy that influenced J.K. Rowling in her writing of the Harry Potter books. I'm a big enough fan to have read all of the published Harry stuff, but I've lost patience with the Pottermore site and so have not been able to read recent online backstories. Disappointing, for sure. If you have any interest in literary history and theory and/or Harry Potter, read this book.
* Call the Midwife: Shadows of the Workhouse: This is the second in Jennifer Worth's Call the Midwife memoirs. I must say that while I tired of the television show's sappiness and was very well glad the last season was actually the last season, I loved the books for providing a unique and real perspective on a time and place and profession I really didn't know anything about.
* In the Beginning: At one time (ahem, my depressive phase in college), I was Chaim Potok's biggest fan. I still think he writes a beautiful book, but this was one was sorta been-there-done-that. I might have liked it a lot more if I hadn't already read The Chosen, My Name Is Asher Lev, and even Davita's Harp—all of which are far superior.
* Phantom Island: Watermark: Continuation of a fun teen series written by my friend. It was good.
* The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands: My reading of this book came about because of a conversation I had with some married girlfriends. They both said that they have read it and re-read it, and it always helps their marriages. I had been curious about it since my parents mentioned it to me many years ago, but never enough to read it. After all, I didn't need to know what to do with a husband. I wasn't married. But the conversation was powerful enough that I suggested it as one of the monthly readings for my book group, and it got enough votes to be included. It was funny hosting that discussion, the only single woman in the group (with my boyfriend hanging out in the background because we hadn't got to spend much time together that week, and anyway, he was curious how women's book club meetings rolled). It sounds like a book that would mortally offend any strong-minded, independent, feminist woman ... and I don't think Dr. Laura particularly cares if she does offend that group of people. However, she did write what, in my opinion, is an eye-opening book about respect and how many women may just not understand that many of the things they do are sending the wrong message to their husbands. The premise is so refreshing—most men (excluding obvious jerks and sociopaths) want their wives to be happy, and they are willing to do quite a bit to make their wives happy. A man just needs his wife to communicate what she wants in a way that is intelligible to him, and women can, and should, take equal responsibility for effecting change when a relationship is heading in a troubling direction.
* Call the Midwife: Farewell to the East End: They run together. I don't have anything to say about this one that I didn't already say about Shadows of the Workhouse.
* How to Make People Like You in 90 Seconds or Less: I listened to this short audiobook one day while I was bored at work. It had some good pointers, but nothing earth-shattering, other than just making sure you practice coming across as a friendly, empathetic, and well-adjusted person.
* Eater's Manifesto: Another trendy audiobook I picked up when I was bored. He pretty much thinks people should avoid processed food.
* Between Two Ends: This is one of those advanced reader copies I got at the last library conference I went to. The premise sounded pretty exciting—a kid being magicked into another world in order to save Shaharazade from an untimely death—but it was ultimately predictable and doesn't stand up well to other similar stuff if you've ever read a children's book before.
* Anne Frank: The Anne Frank House Authorized Graphic Biography: Good, but I've read an awful lot of Anne Frank stuff over the years.
* The Gate Thief: Second in Orson Scott Card's Mither Mages series, this one was as good—and weird—as the first. I do look forward to more. The main characters can open gates in space and transport themselves (or things) to other places. Pretty cool stuff.
* Miss Buncle's Book: This adorable book was recommended to me by my sister. I recommend it to anyone who wants a sweet, light read. It's not without substance, but it doesn't take any effort. Barbara Buncle is completely endearing without being sappy, and the picture of small town drama is quirky enough to not be as predictable as one would fear.
* Laddie: A True Blue Story: I'm not sure what to make of this one. On one hand, it's terribly sappy and preachy. On the other, it's pretty brilliant. Told from the perspective of "Little Sister", who only half understands what's going on, it is an attempt to paint a picture of a set of parents who have good hearts and did everything right, whose efforts yield honest, happy lives for their children—both the ones who are grown up and the ones who are still small. Its effort to portray the pastoral American family, one with the land and faithful to God, as vastly superior to those corrupted by either city life or the classist ways of the Old Country is both touching and annoying.
* All Creatures Great and Small: If you haven't heard of it before, this is part of a series of memoirs written by a man about when he was a young veterinarian in England. It's hilarious—more so because of his dealings with his employer/room mate and with the farmers and other clients than because of his stories about animals. I got a tiny taste of it when I was still an 8th grade teacher and an excerpt of one of the chapters was used as text for one of the kids' standardized reading test practice material. In spite of my inauspicious introduction, it is a serious treat. Read it. You'll love it.
* On Writing Well: A surprisingly entertaining take on how to (and how not to) write nonfiction. It should be standard reading, along with Strunk and White's Elements of Style. And anyone who thinks a book on the mechanics of writing is boring needs their head examined.
* Lady of Devices: My first foray into the genre of Steampunk. These books were recommended by a friend whose taste is sketchy, but because the first one was free for Kindle, I gave it a shot. It was a fun little ride. I read several of the sequels as well—which I will go ahead and list here because they're really all just one continuous story split up into several parts. Her Own Devices, Magnificent Devices, and Brilliant Devices. They are about a privileged young woman in Victorian-style England (like all Steampunk) whose days in prep school are followed by a family disaster that necessitates her going to the streets and figuring out how to live by her wits, incognito, while still maintaining what relationships to "society" she still can. The action is peppered with lightning guns and airships, all while girls wear corsets and little boys speak Cockney. It impressively avoids a lot of the cliches of most of the teen fiction aka drivel out there these days.
* The Fault in Our Stars: It wasn't bad, but it didn't really have much to offer. It was just a typical story of two teenagers who fall in love and then die. And why, why do they always have to sleep together? I understand that teenagers have a really strong sex drive, but there are plenty of other meaningful things to do when you know you're dying, aside from losing your virginity.
* I Am a Mother: This book was pretty good, but it wasn't really anything I hadn't heard before, and really, I have a problem with books that try to make motherhood sound super hard—at least I did at the moment, because I was planning on having a baby. I think there is a such thing as a healthy amount of fear, but when you're in the midst of the "I think I might be pregnant" phase, you don't want to be told that a woman who never, ever slept and worked as a news anchor in one of the most demanding careers out there found being a full-time stay-at-home mom more difficult than the career she left. Admittedly, that is the fault of the reader and not the author, though, and I think even with that dire warning, the sheer hardness of parenthood is likely to catch me off guard—rather like how naive I was about morning sickness. I seriously had no expectation that I would find pregnancy to be anything other than joyful and fulfilling (which it really is, now that the 8 weeks of nausea and 3 weeks of headaches are mostly behind us ... addendum, by the time I finished writing this post I got another headache, so no, pregnancy isn't super fun). But yes, I think it was probably a good book, but I didn't need all the feel-good quotes of how important motherhood is, I just needed something that told me I wasn't going to ruin my kid (embryo).
* Atlas Shrugged: I already wrote about it in an earlier post. Husband is still reading it. Hehe.
* Man's Search For Meaning: Nothing I say will do this book justice. I was expecting something terribly depressing, but it is a triumphant account of how people survive the unthinkable and a beautiful tribute to those who never came back.
* Home: Home is the third-person limited account of Glory Boughton, one of eight siblings, a middle-aged woman gone back to her home-town to take care of her dying father. It is one of the deepest and most interesting explorations of perspective I've ever come across. Her reflections center around her "black sheep" brother, Jack, who left home in scandal and never came back, not even for their mother's funeral, until she wrote and asked him to come see their father as he grows increasingly feeble and wants nothing out of the rest of his life but to see his beloved son. None of the problems and questions Glory asks have easy answers. It's difficult to tell if the author figured the reader would pick up on certain details that Glory didn't, or if Glory's sudden understanding of one more piece of the complexity is meant to be just as much a surprise to everyone sharing her tale. Either way, this story was not a neat, clean little package and all its ends tied up.
* Gilead: a sort of companion novel to Home, this one is written as the memoir of John Ames, the Boughton family's neighbor, the father's dearest friend, also a minister (of a different faith). Ames writes to his small son, Robert, who was born to him so late in life that he never really got over the shock of finding himself, after decades of loneliness (his first wife died in childbirth, along with their only daughter, when he was very young), a husband and father with something to live for. His voice is beautiful—a humble, unpretentious man who sincerely believes what he preached and lived for all the years of his life, but also a man who understands that his religion doesn't always answer everyone's deepest and most heartfelt questions. There is an understanding and reconciliation he has come to in his own heart, but he admits his own inability to express it to those who grieve and mourn and wonder, without sounding cliché, flippant, or dismissive of their sorrow. I love the beautiful things he observes about his wife and little boy and how he describes his love for and joy in them.
* Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea: I didn't want to read this book because I knew it would be depressing, but I had been to too many book club meetings (one?) for which I didn't do the reading, so I checked it out from the library and made myself sit down and read it until it was finished. It took most of a Saturday. Worth it? Yes. The author, a journalist, interviewed six different people who had lived in North Korea and escaped to tell the tale. It is every bit as horrible as you could imagine. Probably worse. I don't want to go into detail, but if you read the book, don't expect a happy ending even though you know because they are available for interviews that they got out of it. People don't survive things like that unscathed.
* The Way of Kings: Highly recommended. Every Mormon who likes fantasy loves Brandon Sanderson, and with good reason. This is not light reading, though. It is well over 1,000 pages and is only the beginning of what plans to be a 10-book epic series. Lots of violence. Lots of despair. But there is also lots of characters understanding that the way to conquer evil is not to embrace it but to listen to the better, encouraging, inspirational voices. The main characters are Shallan, a girl from a rich and influential family who are extremely down on their luck and desperate not only to make a comeback but to avoid certain death; Kaladin, the gifted son of a village surgeon who has been cruelly enslaved for trying to do the right thing; and Dalinar, renowned warrior and brother to the former king, who becomes increasingly conflicted about his role under the rule of the new king, his nephew.
* Bringing Up Bébé: Ok, I really liked this when I was reading it, but it has some serious flaws. The author's objective, other than to continue her successful freelance career, was to write a memoir of her own observations—and some light research—about the difference between French and American parenting. Some of it was quite good, but it must be taken with a grain of salt. It's easy to lump all American parents into one category and all French parents into another, but really, most of her observations were solely of New Yorkers and Parisians, and I'm not so sure they are a representative sample of all American parents and all French parents. But she doesn't claim they are, so that makes it ok. I like a lot of the French conventions she points out—there are no "Mommy Wars" in France. French people tend to think their parenting is their own business and don't worry too much about what other people think. Their kids are not their trophies, they are their kids. The author claims that most French children sleep through the night by the age of 2 months, always eat their vegetables, learn to bake on their own when they are three, are better able to entertain themselves and interact with adults, and never feel undue pressure to be ahead of the curve in school. At first I totally bought the sleeping through the night thing. Well, I really wanted to. I'm expecting a baby and the thought of going back to my full-time job after my brief maternity leave and still staying up all night with an infant is terrifying. There is something to it, I'm sure, and I'm not going to be one of those insane people who comments on parenting blogs and accuses people who use the cry-it-out method of child abuse and claim those people deserve to have CPS come and seize their children and revoke their parental rights for good. And goodness knows I hope my baby will want to sleep through the night so I don't lose my job after I fall asleep at my desk for the seventieth time. But everything else I have read proves more empirically that babies thrive when they feel safe, and if that means I need to pick it up every time it cries, I will do it. I like the theory that exposing a child to "adult" (read: real) food early—puréed or chopped tiny according to the child's needs—and not making a fuss about things is more likely to help the child develop a varied palate. I don't like that the author claims that French people consider daycare to be essential once the baby is three months old, even if there is a stay-at-home mom. I'm vain enough to think that my kid needs more attention from me than the best of paid childcare providers ... I may end up having to put my kid in daycare, and my heart hurts about that already. I definitely want to teach my children to be independent in the kitchen, as well as elsewhere around the house, but that is always easier said than done. Time will tell if I'm successful. The last thing I will comment on is the claim that French parents do not helicopter. They teach their children that they are there for them, but that it is not their job to entertain them, and they teach them that it is common courtesy to say "hello" and "goodbye" to everyone they interact with, including adults. Even very shy kids know this is expected of them. I think it's a very healthy expectation, acknowledging and welcoming people's presence. Anyway, I'm sure there are plenty of American parents who do it "right" and plenty of French parents who do it "wrong", so again, the book has its limitations, but it was an interesting read all the same.
* The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks: Henrietta Lacks was a black woman in the 1940s whose cancer cells were used in labs for replication and scientific research. The book is incredibly interesting as far as ethics—did you know that any time you have a sample taken in a doctor's office, they can keep it and use it without your knowledge or permission? That has always been true and has never changed. Poor Henrietta died before she had any knowledge of how influential her cells became in the scientific research department, but her family sure knew. Most of them were poor and completely uneducated, and their lack of understanding about what happened and how her cells were used was the source of unending grief and trauma. How do you explain a situation like that? They knew their mother's cells were used to discover the cure to all kinds of nasty diseases, but they were never even well-off enough to go to the doctor when they themselves were sick. Plus, many of them never understood what a cell even was. The book is one of the most interesting "biographies" I've read so far.
* Our Bodies, Ourselves: Pregnancy and Childbirth: Duh. I'm pregnant. They gave me this book at the clinic and encouraged me to read it instead of What To Expect When You're Expecting (that book gives me the chills—I have no idea why it's so popular; the woman who wrote it has no credentials). This one is a nice, no-nonsense, informative guide. It does lean a little too socialist for me at the end, when it brings up concerns about the plight of pregnant and nursing mothers in America. I agree that their concerns are definitely valid, but I disagree with their proposed solutions. Regardless, I recommend it to anyone who is expecting a baby.
* Lila: This is another companion novel to Home and Gilead, written from the perspective of John Ames' wife. She is given just enough attention in the other two books to be intriguing, and this one covers her back story, which is rather awful—but again, the book manages to be sweet at the same time. It ends before the other two books begin, just after little Robert Ames is born.
* Fever, 1793: has been sitting on my bookshelf for years, since I was a teacher and read other books by the author. I would have liked it a lot more if I had read it in middle school, because it is written for the young'uns. The Yellow Fever Epidemic in Philadelphia, when it was still the capital of the young United States, is an interesting part of history that doesn't seem to ever get covered in the standard public school curriculum. Oh well. I was interested in reading a fictional account of it, since I read a nonfiction book about it several years ago as a graduate student. It was a good read.
* The Boy Who Dared: Another one I picked up when I was teaching, this book didn't grab me like I wanted it to. It is the story of Helmuth Hubner, a young man growing up in Nazi Germany. He was actually a member of the LDS Church, and his beliefs about God and his fellow men and what was right and wrong were what came between him and his affiliation with the Nazi party. He got ahold of a radio and started listening to Allied news, then, with the help of some friends, started distributing leaflets with the truth about the War. Sadly, he was turned in, imprisoned, and executed. Definitely an impressive story. I wonder if there is another account of it published somewhere. The author is quite good, but I wasn't hooked by her present-tense narration.
* Twelve Years A Slave: Because of the movie that recently came out, most people by now have at least heard of Solomon Northup, who was born pre-Emancipation as a free black man and then captured and sold into slavery. His true account of the treatment he received at the hands of his psychopathic masters is a brutal read. There is a lot of speculation about Northup's life outside of those twelve years. Some say he was trying to make easy money by allowing himself to be sold into slavery with the promise that his partners would come get him back later. I don't know if that's a fair accusation. The really sad part was what I was told by my book club leader, whose copy of the book had annotations and commentary—after Northup's liberation, he went home and traveled around educating people about what slavery in the South was like, but not long after that, he disappeared and was never seen or heard from again. No one knows if he was abducted and sold again, or what. So terribly sad.
* The Story of the Trapp Family Singers: I read most of this when I was a teenager, but somehow I never finished it, so I started over. A very nice read. I don't think Maria Trapp is the best writer ever; she tends to ramble a bit, but it is delightful to read about the experiences of a family so devoted and unabashedly faithful to God. The Sound of Music is a sweet tribute to their experiences, but it really glosses over everything in true musical style, so the book lent a lot of excellent background.
* Brain Rules for Baby: A friend loaned me this book. She is just a few years younger than me and had her first child last year. We share the same philosophies on parenting, so I figured it would be a good book to read, and it was. It's an engagingly-written compilation of the research that correlates with raising a child who is happy and intelligent. Nothing in it is super surprising, but I'm glad I read it. The major premise is that humans are not driven by the desire to be happy and to learn, they are driven by the urge to be safe. This is particularly true for babies and children under 5. If children feel safe, they will learn. The best part was the chapter on emotions. Children whose parents teach them how to express their emotions and who model extreme empathy end up much happier. And children whose parents discipline consistently, timely, and lovingly (no corporal punishment), and who explain the logic behind their rules, are generally happier, moral people who follow their parents' rules not out of fear but out of their own acceptance of them. I like that the author doesn't present anything as causal or definitive, and even states several times that only about 50% of what a parent does is going to make a difference. The rest is all genetic. Anyway, most parenting books tend to leave me with a lot of anxiety and worry that I'll ruin my kid if I do a certain thing the "experts" say is wrong, but this one left me feeling more empowered to be a loving parent of a happy, well-adjusted child.
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