Year: 2011

IComLeavWe Time!

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It’s that time of the month. ILCW time, which stands for International Comment Leaving Week. I check out your blog, you check out mine, I comment, you comment and around it goes…

I’ve come across some wonderful blogs this way and one of my favorite is Twinside Out. Jennifer has not one but TWO babies just a couple of moths older than my son and is therefore very relatable. Have I mentioned that I adore her writing? So much so that her recent March ILCW post prompted my very own. Thanks Jennifer!

So without further adieu, for those who know me, welcome back! For those who are visiting for the first time, here’s what’s worth knowing…

  • My name is Reedu Taha Wood and I have a fabulous shoe collection that I rarely get to wear since becoming a mom.
  • My husband, Jason, is a saint for putting up with my control-freak ways. Just when I am about to get crazy on him, he tells me to “lower the Taha-ometer.” It *almost* always makes me laugh and lucky for him (and me), I reign in the crazy.
  • We live in a luxury doorman building in Brooklyn Heights but we would trade the elevators and Manhattan views for a brownstone fixer-upper ANY DAY.
  • I am passionate about ALL animals, not just the domesticated ones.
  • We have a pitbull rescue who’s physical handicaps are a result of animal cruelty. We used to have two geriatric cats, although we sadly and very recently said good-bye to one.
  • I have two tattoos. I used to have three but got “the mistake” removed.
  • I LOVE the vegetarian burrito bowl at Chipotle and eat there at least once a week, some times even twice.
  • To support my Chipotle habit I try to make time to run every week which is no easy feat (no pun intended) as a sleep-deprived mom. And when I can muster up the energy to get out there, I am even MORE exhausted because I’m pushing an extra 38 pounds. Twenty pounds goes to my jogging stroller and the other 18 belongs to my son, Mylo.
  • I haven’t been a mom that long but I am certain that it’s going to be my life’s greatest work.

Our babies.

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If you are new here and would like to leave a comment (I hope you do!), please tell me three things about yourself.

Bittman Bites Down on Agribusiness

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I recently read a post by Mark Bittman about the new bills that were recently introduced by Florida and Iowa that aim to crack down on people who shoot photographs and videos of agricultural operations. In other words, big-farma is fed up with the undercover work exposing the vast inhumane treatment and suffering of farm animals.

Bittman writes:

The Florida bill would require anyone wishing to photograph a farm to first secure written permission from the owner. And what if they don’t? First-degree felony. The implicit goal here is to deter and criminalize damning undercover exposés like this one. The bill would also make it illegal for an agenda-less passerby to snap a picture of a farm from the side of the road, but my best guess is that those “crimes” might not be prosecuted quite so diligently.

As for the Iowa bill, we get this gem from the Animal Agriculture Alliance (AAA): “It is imperative that activists be held accountable for their actions to undermine farmers, ranchers and meat processors through use of videos depicting alleged mistreatment of animals for the purposes of gaining media attention and fundraising—all in an effort to drive their vegan agenda.”

If activists, radical vegans, or whatever you want to call them, break the law by sneaking onto private property to document animal or farm worker abuses, then yes, they should be held accountable for their actions – though unless I’m misinformed, that’s what trespass law is for. But these people shouldn’t have to sneak the cameras into the farms that are torturing animals or mistreating workers: the cameras should already be there. It should be the state’s responsibility to find and monitor the few farmers that are giving the rest of them a bad name. You want to quiet the crazy vegans with the video cameras? Do their job for them.

It’s so true. Quiet the crazies by making it a state law to monitor the farmers that practice inhumane farming.

While most vegans advocate for plant-based diets, most vegetarians, myself included, understand that man can’t live on plants alone. I think it is a waste of time to even lobby for that. But as meat eaters, I think it is incumbent on man to come up with more humane ways to end these creatures’ lives.

As an animal welfare advocate who does not eat meat, I would be honored to live to see that day. According to animal rights philosopher Peter Singer, I will.

If what Singer says is true, that by 2020 all farm animals will be able to stand up, lie down, walk around, and stretch their limbs, then who knows, I may even start eating meat again.

Ok, so I’m probably exaggerating but it’s my way of trying to remain level-headed about something that deep-down inside, I am raging about.

Springtime in Brooklyn, if Only for One Day

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It was an absolute gorgeous spring day in New York City today. There’s something in a New Yorker’s’ step when the first signs of spring begin to unfurl themselves. The sidewalks are jam packed with strollers, parks fill up with screaming children, restaurants with sidewalk seating become standing room only.

I spent the day in the new park at the foot of Atlantic Avenue with my son Mylo, four of my mommy friends and their sons.

Matias, Odin, Mylo, Eli and Lucas 

The wind coming off the river had our hair running amok.

My friend Katie and I peeled off and took a stroll down Court Street so our little guys could nap. We landed outside Abilene’s where we sucked back a couple of pints and a plate of nachos, too.

The park, the boys, the sun, the Hoegaardens, the nachos. It was all very wonderful. And very telling of a delightful season that’s just around the corner!

Giving Up Bread for a Week

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I love bread. It’s in my Middle Eastern blood.

I love whole wheat bread, foccacia bread, garlic knots and croissants. It’s safe to say there is not a day that goes by that I don’t eat bread.

And well, I live in New York City, where there’s s something in the water that makes our pizza rock and our bagels rock, too. And lord knows how easy it is in this city to grab a slice and a bagel.

The old Reedu, the one who ran 40 – 50 miles per week could afford to eat all that bread. But the new Reedu can’t seem to get rid of every last pound of her pregnancy weight. The new Reedu only has time to run about eight miles per week at best, and the new Reedu is sick of feeling sluggish all the time. So she’s throwing in the towel on bread. For a week.

And now writing in the third person will end.

I told my husband Jason about my ban on bread after our four mile run over the Brooklyn Bridge this morning. Hopefully he’ll make my withdrawal period – because there will be one – easier by joining me.

It’s a big move on my part, not just because I love bread but because I don’t buy into fad diets. That’s exactly why I am not giving up carbs for a week. Besides the fact that it’s a proven scientific fact that your body needs carbs, I believe in eating what you want if you exercise regularly. And if exercise isn’t your thing or if your busy schedule doesn’t allow for it, then eat what you want but just keep it in moderation.

I’ll still be consuming grains and wheat through other yummy things such as rice and cookies (I allow myself two a day). But there will be no baguettes, no bagels, no pizza and no whole wheat toast for an ENTIRE week.

What’s the point then?

To lose a couple of pounds and to just feel better. To see how my body responds to not being bogged down by all that processed and refined sugar.

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Have you ever given up something you love very much? If so, what was it and for how long?

Guest Post on A Lot of Loves

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Happy St. Patty’s Day everyone!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wonderful Marilyn of ALotofLoves.com welcomed a guest post from me today. It’s the story of when I became a new mom — just six days into this incredible journey and I had made my first mommy-fail. I drove 55 miles with my son in the wrong car seat. I know I’m not going to do everything right, but at the time, I felt like the WORST mom in the world. Go on over to her blog to check it out.

Naming Our First Born

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I can’t remember the exact moment my husband Jason and I decided we wanted the sex of our first child to be a surprise. With friends and family weighing in heavily about our decision, I do remember feeling great relief that we were on the same page.

In their defense, they were simply just surprised that I wanted to be surprised. After all, I still shake the presents under the Christmas tree that have my name on them!

While I was pregnant I got used to the same four questions: “How are you feeling? Do you know what you’re having? Have you picked out names? Are you sharing the names?”

I generally felt wonderful throughout my pregnancy and we were firm in that we didn’t want to know what we were having. But the name questions, that was a personal matter.

For starters, we hadn’t yet agreed on names, especially for a boy. We also didn’t want to hear people’s opinions on the names we had chosen. Say we were considering the name Lonnie, someone might have said “Ugh, I had an Uncle Lonnie who had an unfortunate LSD habit.” Get my point?

I did exactly  this to a friend of mine who was due around the same time. She and her husband also wanted to be surprised but shared the names they had picked. Matthew for a boy and Reese for a girl. I remarked how Matthew was an interesting choice since the couple had a close friend with this name. She fell silent after I said that, and well, could I really blame her? I had just did to her what I was trying to avoid having done to me!

The spiritual side of us believed our child would bring its own name into the world. Or we at least wanted to meet the baby before saying ‘yes, he is a Harry,’ or ‘yes, she is a Sally.’

That’s not to say that we didn’t have some front runners, we did. We didn’t want our baby’s name to be as common as my husband’s name, Jason or as different as my name, Reedu, but some place in between.

My brother-in-law suggested we name the baby ‘Pomegranate.’ And my dad liked the name “Jazz.” I rest my case.

I was more than half way through my pregnancy when we were thousands of feet up in the air on our way to my brother’s wedding in San Fransisco. I was listening to something on NPR and the reporter’s name was Milo Miles. I leaned across the isle to where Jason was sitting (a great compromise by the way for two people who hate the middle seat), and asked what he thought of the name Milo. He flashed a big grin at me and his blue eyes beamed the answer back. It was the first male name we had agreed on.

Just a couple of days before I gave birth,  Jason presented me with another boy name that I liked a lot. We went into the delivery room with two strong contenders for a boy, and three options for a girl.

In the moments after our son was born there was a ton of commotion and excitement in the room. My mom was bouncing around like a kid in a candy shop and my husband was holding on to the wall, fighting off happy tears.

It seemed like a half hour had passed before our midwife quipped, “So what’s this kid’s name?!”

Jason looked at me then, quite like the way he looked at me on our flight out to San Fran, and we agreed it would be Milo. Accept we would spell it M-Y-L-O in honor of our moniker for one another, “my love.

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How did you arrive at the name(s) of your baby? Did you share it with friends and family, why or why not? Please share with me, I’d love to hear!

 

 

Mylostone – Pulling Up

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Last night my son Mylo pulled himself up on to the shelf underneath the coffee table – about a half foot off the ground.

Up to no good.

I was proud of this mini-Mylostone but was also under the impression we had some time before he could actually pull himself up. Well, the very next day he crawled over to the TV console, held on to the drawers and pulled himself up. The video I snapped below is of him performing this new trick for the second time. We’re screwed, right?

YouTube Preview Image

I guess rolling off his playmat and chewing on the rug tassels is soooo two months ago!

 

 

 

Good-bye Kitty Good-bye

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We said good-bye to Kitty on Friday. Though both our cats are seniors, Kitty was the oldest of the two. She was the cuddliest of the two, the bossiest of the two and in the end, the most difficult of the two.

Kitty & Bug

My head has been a big pile of empty mush. I’m happy one minute, sad and confused the next. Below is an attempt at jotting down some of the thoughts that are moving like a freight train through my head.

I think about how I discovered Kitty and Bug, by chance. I think about the many homes they had until they landed me. I think about how my parents thought I was crazy for taking in two cats who were seniors. I think about my life with them being as old as my relationship with my husband, Jason. I think about how Jason, in the beginning, thought I was making a rash decision. I think about how Jason, in the end, had a harder time with the decision to put Kitty down.

I think about how the cats, once the center of attention and affection, got pushed down the totem pole when we rescued our dog, Ella, and then again, when our son Mylo joined us this past summer. I think about how Kitty liked to sleep in my underwear drawer. I think about how Jason called her my sapphic lover because of this. I think about how she used to groom herself in the morning sun on the balcony in our old apartment. I think about how she stopped grooming herself months ago. I think about our traumatic trips to the vet. I think about the time she knocked over a can of Pounce, pried it open with her paws and devoured the entire thing. I think about how, declawed and all, she stood up to every rescue pitbull who passed through our home.

Kitty with prey-driven Lucy at left and her sister Ella on the right.

I think about how difficult life had become since she became hyperthyroid. I think about the senility and the incessant howling in the middle of the night. I think about the baby gate we bought to lock her in the living room overnight. I think about how frustrated I had become with her these last few months. I think about how she went to sleep behind my head on top of my pillows her last night, seemingly unaware that a vet would be coming to our home to take her life the next morning. I think about how I didn’t sleep at all that night.

Cuddling together in 6C-North.

I think about how much I’ve missed her. The old her.

Happier and healthier days in 5G-South.

I think about how our family is one less, now, and how life will be easier without her. And of course I think about how that makes me feel riddled with guilt.

 

Becoming A Doula

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There it is. I am thinking of becoming a doula.

My motivation for wanting to become a doula is my own birth experience.

Giving birth naturally was the crowning (no pun intended) moment in my life. It was the first time I understood the depth of my power and connection to the world and nature. It has changed the way I look at myself. I want more women to birth the way nature intended us to. When it comes to childbirth, I believe that women shouldn’t have to secede to man and his machines. Becoming a doula would affect what has become status quo when it comes to childbirth in this country.

Along with Goodnight Moon, my current bedside read.

My inspiration for wanting to become a doula is my mom.

Last year when I was pregnant, I told my mom that we were considering hiring a doula. She quipped, “You don’t need a doula, you’ve got me!”

Yes, I was one of those women who dared to let my mother be privy to one of the most vulnerable, intimate experiences of my life. And I should preface this by saying that my mom tends to wade in the bossy end of the pool (mom, if you’re reading this — I love you but you know it’s true).

I gave my mom clear orders weeks in advance of my due date. “Don’t talk down to the nurses. Don’t question my midwife. And whatever you do, DON’T try and run the show.”

As it turned out, having my mom as part of my birth team proved invaluable.

My mom timed my contractions at home. She held my hair back while I vomited profusely. She rubbed the small of my back in between contractions. She fed me water through a straw. She spoke to the nurses as if they were old college roommates. She kept an eye on Jason, my worried husband. She was in essence, my doula.

A Doula has to have amazing stamina. I know from my own experience that births could last 30 hours, possibly more! Now I’ll admit, I value nothing more than my sleep. And my designer shoe collection. And my son. But I also know I could go the distance. My stamina has shined in the four marathons I have trained for, and completed. The high of life entering the world is quite like the high that comes from pounding pavement for four hours.

Doula work is about providing emotional and physical support, something I know I would be good at. It’s not that far off from my time volunteering with hospice. Or time spent keeping company with homeless animals the night before they’re scheduled to be killed.

They are on complete opposite ends of the spectrum, but birth is strikingly similar to death. Difficult and hauntingly beautiful.

Childbirth. Few other events in the life of a couple bring them together in such a memorable and profound fashion. I would be honored to be a part of that.

14 Pitbulls Rescued in Bronx Fire

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Update

Dog Habitat Rescue in Brooklyn, is fostering the mama pit and her four newborns. All are said to be doing well despite their ordeal. Mama is extremely malnourished, but still able to feed, nursing her foursome regularly.

A big thanks goes out to Dog Habitat for stepping in!

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The story proclaims that the 14 pitbulls who were rescued from a fire in the Bronx yesterday were taken to the ASPCA, however the video shows New York City’s Animal Care & Control taking the pups away.

Even the news reporter refers to the dogs going to a local shelter? Why is it that ACC can never get any love? They are a city-funded and grossly underfunded shelter. Their budget pales in comparison with the ASPCA’s.

As for the pitbulls, that fire might have been the best thing that ever happened to them. Whether they get adopted or put down, it beats a life of breeding and fighting, which is most likely why they were holed up in the apartment in the first place.

A NYC fireman carries one of 14 pitbulls in a burning building, to safety.