As I was recutting the stems of some tulips last week I thought, ‘this parenting gig is not so tough.’ There are some concessions: I’ve been making simpler recipes than before (baked maple/walnut french toast with store-bought bread rather than individually bronzed slices of homemade challah, and purchased smoked salmon on pumpernickel with lemon/herb cream cheese rather than home-cured lox in savory crepes,) and I’ve been getting pretty lax about what goes in the dishwasher vs. what is lovingly washed by hand (wine glasses get fairly clean even when one of their cycle-mates is a lasagna pan.)
It helps that the baby sleeps fairly well, and eats very well. It certainly makes a difference that I’m old enough to keep calm in any number of minor storms.
If I’m being honest with myself, though, I can’t really take much credit. What really makes life easy for me is this:

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Thanks to the Ayudador, I’ve been out and about quite a bit these last few weeks. I know that the premise of this website is that we discuss food and eating, so here’s a list of places that Ida has breastfed lately:
-bathroom at Vietnamese restaurant
-museum cafe
-train platform
-booth of an Italian restaurant
-friend’s living room
-Department of Motor Vehicles waiting room

I could go on, but nothing’s going to beat that last one.

One of the cruelties of living in Germany is the lost opportunity for breastfeeding humor: no one laughs when, while preparing to breastfeed in public, I say, in my very deepest and most authoritative voice, ‘Excuse me while I whip this out.’ This doesn’t stop me from saying it, but it does make me miss my brother. George, come visit quick – I’m in danger of forgetting all my good Blazing Saddle quotes.

This period between birth and the baby’s first utterance is not without communication. She cries to let us know she’s hungry, she yawns to let us know she’s tired, she poops to let us know her digestive system is working. There are, however, some gaps that need filling. Thank god for captions!

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No, honey, that’s what the internet is for.

Some things are happening pretty fast here at Frida HQ. The babe is turning her head from side to side, sleeping for three hours at a stretch, and quickly outgrowing newborn-sized diapers and clothes. It’s fun to watch the changes happen, not only to her but to me as well. Let’s play…
Transitions
In the following list of befores and afters, guess the space between.

Before: Ugh, my stomach is queasy and nothing sounds good, but I have to eat or else I’ll get even more nauseous. What sounds least revolting? Crackers?
After: I can’t believe I forgot to bring a snack to the breastfeeding chair again. I’m starving. Hmmm, I wonder which domesticated animal would I eat first? A fat juicy snake? A nice meaty labrador? Certainly not a cat. Eewww. That makes me want to brush my teeth.

Answer: 8 months.

Before: That has poop on it. It’s dirty and I am putting it in the laundry immediately.
After: It’s just a tiny little fleck of poop, and this shirt just got washed…

Answer: 8 days. Eight days! That was fast.

Before: Onions and garlic might give the baby a tummy ache, so it’s best to avoid them during the first few months.
After: Oh, yum, Korean food!!

Answer: You can imagine.

The baby’s crying so I’m going to see if she can be placated with a combination of breast milk, motherly love, and the soothing tenor of my light snores.

I’m not going to bury the lead. There’s a new baby, and she’s a cutie.

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Ok, now that we’re straight on that, let’s talk about how and why last week’s hospital-grade bologna tasted so damned good. Was it only in relation to the “Veggy Nuggets” I’d had for lunch? No, even though anyone would be concerned when they see that name next to theirs on the plastic hospital catering tray, the “Veggy Nuggets” were drowned in mushroom sauce and somewhat flaccid but did not live up to the quotes, capitalization, or Americanization of their written billing. Phew.
Was the bologna delicious because it was attractively presented? No. I removed the cover of the dinner tray to find one slice of brown bread, one pat of butter (diet), and, all alone in the middle of the plate, one round of plasticky-looking bologna. I ate it as I waited for Herr R to get back from his excursion beyond-hospital in search of real food (Greek, which was not a terrific idea given that the living quarters and the dining quarters were one and the same, and heavily patrolled by staff who thought that the reek of stale garlic was much better for babies than a draft from an open window in January.) Surprisingly, the bologna was tender, flavorful, and pleasantly dense.
And speaking of surprises, did I mention I had a Kaiserschnitt? That’s C-Section in German. After (infinity-3) hours of labor, the baby’s heart rate was worryingly high. After (infinity-1) hours of labor and some pushing, her amniotic fluid was completely green and she needed to stop bathing in it like ASAP. My cervix, unfortunately, was only open to 8.5 centimeters and that’s just not enough for kids these days. So into the ER we went, and then out we came 30 minutes later not really all that much worse for the wear: Frida started nursing immediately, I have been recuperating nicely, and Frida’s dad is good about reminding us that we got to not only have a pretty full birthing experience, but also a real live healthy baby at the end, which is awesome. I’m trying not to be too mad at my uterus for accidentally trying to squeeze the baby into a diamond. The uterus’ instructions were to cramp down and produce something precious – we all get confused sometimes, right? Right?

ALSO, when the doctor came in for the final checkup before we were discharged, and she said, ‘Yes, the earlier high fetal heart rate that we saw when you checked in proved to be an indicator…[blah blah and maybe we should have taken her advice about starting labor early with misoprostol but oh well]… glad it turned out well in the end, sorry that things didn’t go according to your plan.’ I said, ‘Thanks. There’s always next time!’ AND SHE LAUGHED. Lifetime first for the Betster: making a German doctor laugh. Um, with me I mean.

Let’s Recap:

Baby’s Name:
Frida Rosenbaum, after her late grandfather Fritz Eifert, who died two weeks before she was born but who correctly predicted that she’d be born with dark hair.
Baby’s Weight:
This always seems weirdly competitive to me, so I’ll be stating this in calories.
16,800 if she were made entirely of sugar, 37,800 if she were made entirely of butter. We’re guessing she’s somewhere in between.

And now for the fun part – pictures!

What do you do if your carefully-laid plans for New Year’s Eve fall through*? You gladly accept the invitation to a last-minute dinner with friends, and you make some last-minute treats to bring along.

*My plan was to spend the evening breastfeeding at the beck and call of my newborn. She stood me up, and in fact has yet to arrive.

The following pictures demonstrate the Monet effect, as the little gingerbread houses are perfectly charming en masse, from a distance, but a bit scraggly up close.

As the frequent reader may have already noticed, I love that shirt! We’re down to a three-shirt rotation at this point; good thing all of them go very well with the yoga pants that are my constant companions. And now for the close-up:

That gingerbread house is tore up. It looks like it is both screaming and crying, probably because its roof is eroding and its brain is leaking down its face.
With that sort of scary detail, you can surely appreciate why this morning’s full-body picture is taken from a discreet distance.