The Baby Balabusta can now roll over, if you start her on her side, and let her struggle a little to get over her shoulder.
Wunderkind!
There are other things I should blog about--for example, the latest job hunt, and the amazingly awful way in which it came about, and what happened with the miscarriage, and my pregnancy with the BB. But for now, rolling will have to do.
She rolls!
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
Making the Baby Balabusta: Part One
A year ago, I got pregnant. Again. I tend to say that 'we' got pregnant, but the Balebos rejects that formulation. I got pregnant, he points out, he did not get pregnant. I have had to settle for 'we were expecting'.
At any rate, I got pregnant, again, a month or so after a miscarriage at nine weeks that shook me badly.
I'd never been pregnant before the pregnancy that miscarried. And I was not entirely convinced that I was going to get pregnant, not at thirty-eight, not for the first time. I obsessively pored over websites explaining how your fertility dropped off a cliff in your thirties. I reckoned the odds. I worried.
I hadn't worried much before then. All through my twenties, and into my early thirties, I told people confidently that if by the time I had my financial and emotional act together I was no longer fertile, I would adopt. By thirty-eight, however, I had realized that my financial act might never be together to an extent that would allow for adoption. If I wanted to raise children, giving birth to them might be my only option.
And so, at thirty-eight, I put my foot down. I wanted children, and I could see the end of my eggs from where I was standing. There was no more time to give to hoping for a better job situation, or paycheck. There was no more wiggle room. We were going to do this thing.
The day I took the pregnancy test and learned about my first pregnancy, I was almost manic. I had realized that I was at least two or three weeks past when my period should have begun. And I had gone to get a pregnancy test from the drugstore, while firmly convinced that I would not be pregnant. On the way home, I had a vicious imaginary argument with a doctor who was telling me that I had waited too long to have children. I marched home with the CVS bag, bawling her out in my mind, surged upstairs on a wave of pure righteous anger, and peed on the brush end of the test.
And the two lines that indicated a positive came up, so fast that I didn't even have to wait the prescribed minute.
I assumed I had done it wrong, so I waited an hour and tried again. Two lines, strong and blue.
The biology, it seemed, worked.
I'd never been pregnant before the pregnancy that miscarried. And I was not entirely convinced that I was going to get pregnant, not at thirty-eight, not for the first time. I obsessively pored over websites explaining how your fertility dropped off a cliff in your thirties. I reckoned the odds. I worried.
I hadn't worried much before then. All through my twenties, and into my early thirties, I told people confidently that if by the time I had my financial and emotional act together I was no longer fertile, I would adopt. By thirty-eight, however, I had realized that my financial act might never be together to an extent that would allow for adoption. If I wanted to raise children, giving birth to them might be my only option.
And so, at thirty-eight, I put my foot down. I wanted children, and I could see the end of my eggs from where I was standing. There was no more time to give to hoping for a better job situation, or paycheck. There was no more wiggle room. We were going to do this thing.
The day I took the pregnancy test and learned about my first pregnancy, I was almost manic. I had realized that I was at least two or three weeks past when my period should have begun. And I had gone to get a pregnancy test from the drugstore, while firmly convinced that I would not be pregnant. On the way home, I had a vicious imaginary argument with a doctor who was telling me that I had waited too long to have children. I marched home with the CVS bag, bawling her out in my mind, surged upstairs on a wave of pure righteous anger, and peed on the brush end of the test.
And the two lines that indicated a positive came up, so fast that I didn't even have to wait the prescribed minute.
I assumed I had done it wrong, so I waited an hour and tried again. Two lines, strong and blue.
The biology, it seemed, worked.
Israeli Couscous: I Have Learned Something New
Israeli couscous from Trader Joe's holds a special place in the hearts of the Bay Area's local pro-Israel activists. TJ's, bless them, have gone on stocking Israeli products in the face of considerable pressure from the BDS crowd to get them to stop. They have all kinds of lovely Israeli products. My own personal favorite is the Dorot frozen garlic cubes, but I am aware that many of my friends at one time bought a lifetime supply of Israeli coucous from Trader Joe's, to the extent that local activists were trading Israeli couscous recipes for months, desperate to use it all up.
I confess: I never bought any. The garlic cubes, yes, and matzo in season, but not the product I thought of as the 'fake couscous'. When I first became aware of this stuff, I had no idea what I was looking at. Couscous, to me, means, well, actual couscous, and in my childhood was usually eaten in the form of tabouli. It was also generally cooked and served by Israelis, adding to my bafflement--surely Israeli couscous is no different from normal couscous, I thought, puzzled. This odd stuff from TJ's, made up of little pasta balls like tiny ball bearings was a new substance altogether, and confused me. What made it Israeli? Why wasn't it actually couscous? What the heck was this?
I've learned a little more about it though, now, and I'm fascinated enough to be planning the purchase of a few boxes. It turns out that this peculiar carbohydrate is unique to Israel, and is actually a piece of Jewish history.
Let me take you back to the 1950s, when the newborn State of Israel is struggling to survive, and to feed its exploding population. Food is rationed. Immigrants and refugees from the Arab world are flooding into their ancient homeland and new haven. Rice is a staple food for these new Israelis, but it's not readily available because of the limited food supply and lack of imports.
David Ben Gurion to the rescue! Approaching the Osem company (yes, that same Osem whose tahini and matzo ball mix you still buy today), he asks them to come up with a rice substitute that can be produced in Israel. The result, called in Hebrew 'ptitim', is a baked wheat product, shaped like grains of rice, which can be boiled like pasta and served hot or cold. Dubbed "Ben Gurion's rice", it made its way into Israeli culinary history. The round balls of 'couscous' shortly followed.
Israeli couscous is currently very chic with foodies, to the amusement of Israelis, who seem to think of it as kid food. I am fascinated by its legacy. If matzo is the bread of affliction, this is the rice-substitute of the Ingathering, a tribute to Israeli ingenuity and determination to survive and thrive. I plan to learn to cook with it, and to give it a place in my kitchen, this most Zionist of foodstuffs.
Some reading:
http://www.haaretz.com/ben-gurion-s-rice-1.245490
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ptitim
I confess: I never bought any. The garlic cubes, yes, and matzo in season, but not the product I thought of as the 'fake couscous'. When I first became aware of this stuff, I had no idea what I was looking at. Couscous, to me, means, well, actual couscous, and in my childhood was usually eaten in the form of tabouli. It was also generally cooked and served by Israelis, adding to my bafflement--surely Israeli couscous is no different from normal couscous, I thought, puzzled. This odd stuff from TJ's, made up of little pasta balls like tiny ball bearings was a new substance altogether, and confused me. What made it Israeli? Why wasn't it actually couscous? What the heck was this?
I've learned a little more about it though, now, and I'm fascinated enough to be planning the purchase of a few boxes. It turns out that this peculiar carbohydrate is unique to Israel, and is actually a piece of Jewish history.
Let me take you back to the 1950s, when the newborn State of Israel is struggling to survive, and to feed its exploding population. Food is rationed. Immigrants and refugees from the Arab world are flooding into their ancient homeland and new haven. Rice is a staple food for these new Israelis, but it's not readily available because of the limited food supply and lack of imports.
David Ben Gurion to the rescue! Approaching the Osem company (yes, that same Osem whose tahini and matzo ball mix you still buy today), he asks them to come up with a rice substitute that can be produced in Israel. The result, called in Hebrew 'ptitim', is a baked wheat product, shaped like grains of rice, which can be boiled like pasta and served hot or cold. Dubbed "Ben Gurion's rice", it made its way into Israeli culinary history. The round balls of 'couscous' shortly followed.
Israeli couscous is currently very chic with foodies, to the amusement of Israelis, who seem to think of it as kid food. I am fascinated by its legacy. If matzo is the bread of affliction, this is the rice-substitute of the Ingathering, a tribute to Israeli ingenuity and determination to survive and thrive. I plan to learn to cook with it, and to give it a place in my kitchen, this most Zionist of foodstuffs.
Some reading:
http://www.haaretz.com/ben-gurion-s-rice-1.245490
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ptitim
Saturday, April 06, 2013
Adventures in Bad Housekeeping: Crib Solutions
Well, the Baby Balabusta refuses to sleep in her crib, so for the time being she sleeps in her bouncer seat. Meanwhile, the corner of our bedroom is dominated by this giant crib from IKEA, occupied only by a forlorn-looking pacifier.
Also meanwhile, a mound of laundry that needs to be done was taking over the earth.
Today's solution: take the laundry, and put it in the crib. This gets it all out of the way, in one place, and I'll have to do the laundry if I ever intend to get the child to sleep in there.
Simple solutions!
Also meanwhile, a mound of laundry that needs to be done was taking over the earth.
Today's solution: take the laundry, and put it in the crib. This gets it all out of the way, in one place, and I'll have to do the laundry if I ever intend to get the child to sleep in there.
Simple solutions!
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Mommyblogging
So, the Balabusta is now a yiddishe mama. I have a daughter.
OK, I realize it's been an age, and this blog more or less fell by the wayside, and I never even told the blogosphere I was expecting.
It's been a long crazy ride. But the Baby Balabusta is now eleven weeks old, and I'm back to work, and considering the possibilities of Jewish mommyblogging.
Stay tuned for the adventures of a working mom, an at-home dad and a baby, as we learn the ropes of being an interfaith, eclectic, Bay Area family of three.
OK, I realize it's been an age, and this blog more or less fell by the wayside, and I never even told the blogosphere I was expecting.
It's been a long crazy ride. But the Baby Balabusta is now eleven weeks old, and I'm back to work, and considering the possibilities of Jewish mommyblogging.
Stay tuned for the adventures of a working mom, an at-home dad and a baby, as we learn the ropes of being an interfaith, eclectic, Bay Area family of three.
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