Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Identify This 2
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
A Dignified Response
Here’s my letter to the editor, which was published in this week’s paper:
Grossness and All
Fellow local author, Tracie Hotchner, wrote up an extremely nasty review of my book, Frankly Pregnant in last week’s Arts section. She starts out by saying, “a book so obnoxious in tone and demeaning to women that if 12-year-old boys could get pregnant, this would be their book of choice. Given that ‘grossing each other out’ is an essential pastime for prepubescent fellows, this book would be as satisfying to them as it is grotesque to a mature female.” I wonder how Ms. Hotchner could conclude that 12-year-old boys would enjoy my book? Is she a psychologist? Did she thoroughly study the mind of prepubescent boys? Does she have boys of her own, from which she draws such conclusions? No, she does not have boys of her own. In fact, Ms. Hotchner has never been pregnant.
Regardless, I don’t think Ms. Hotchner gets the point of my book. In Frankly Pregnant, I acknowledge many pregnancy books, including What to Expect When You’re Expecting and Ms. Hotchner’s Pregnancy & Childbirth in order to clarify the difference between my book and the others. I feel these books are extremely useful to pregnant women as they cover many aspects of health and medicine. I wanted to write a different kind of pregnancy book, one that tells more about the experience, as if talking to a pregnant girlfriend. My aim was to share the journey of pregnancy, yes- grossness and all, with other pregnant women to give them some assurance in knowing they’re not alone with all the strange, wonderful and sometimes extremely embarrassing changes you and your body can go through. During my first pregnancy I remember thinking, “wouldn’t it be fun to have a girlfriend who was pregnant and due about the same time, so we could share the experience and compare notes?” I wrote Frankly Pregnant so that other pregnant women could have what I didn’t– a week-by-week chronicle of the hormonal highs and lows and everything in between. I hoped that by sharing my story I might give a more personal insight into the real experience of pregnancy and giving birth.
My book may not be everyone’s cup of tea, as I warned in the introduction, “not for the dainty-mannered gal,” but for those pregnant women who are looking for something more candid than clinical Frankly Pregnant may be a welcome addition to their library of pregnancy books.
Monday, August 21, 2006
A Scathing Review
“Frankly Pregnant” Stacy Quarty
With Miriam Greene
St. Martin’s Press, $14.95
By Tracie Hotchner
What has our world come to, when a pregnant belly has become a fashion statement — so much so that there was even a report in The New York Times that the “un-pregnant” are now surreptitiously buying designer maternity fashions? This latter phrase, by the way, would have been unheard of not so many years ago, when the words “designer” and “fashion” could never logically have been linked in the same breath with “pregnancy.”
But the modern image of pregnancy has been changed by movie and television stars flaunting their burgeoning condition at every public opportunity like modern-day fertility goddesses, wearing those stylish clothes to accentuate their bellies.
It is a far cry from the long-gone era when pregnant women were kept entirely out of sight “in confinement,” or even the recent past when pregnant women walked amongst us but in maternity clothes that were concealing tents, revealing no contours or particulars. But now in the 21st century an expectant belly is delineated in skintight clothing or even peeks out in the nude below a too-small top and low-slung maternity pants.
And what has happened to our society when the perception of childbirth itself has been distorted into a celebrity “survivor” contest, a childbirth media event? The weekly glossies hovered voyeuristically: “Is Katie Holmes a hostage of Scientology? Will she be able to pull off the required Silent Birth?” (Especially given that Tom Cruise and his church have already pooh-poohed the whole concept of postpartum depression as a bona fide mental health crisis.)
Then the stakes rose with the whole “Brangelina” birth event, in which a movie star went halfway around the world to have her baby in Africa, “away from the watchers” (a publicity stunt that actually caused an intensified media appetite for news, thereby increasing her leverage to get insane amounts of money for photos of the newborn).
Old-fashioned pragmatists (knowing that Hollywood babies born at Cedars Sinai Hospital are fully protected from medical ill winds as well as prying eyes) might wonder what greater good could possibly come from Brangelina gambling on having an uneventful labor and delivery by giving birth in a country with the highest infant mortality rate in the world?
Only cynics appreciate the irony of Angelina’s historic recklessness, since a technically at risk, older first-time mother choosing to give birth in darkest Africa (as it used to be called) promotes a fantasy that all you need for a safe delivery is a right-minded attitude — leaving aside the fact that her personal obstetrician from the U.S. was at her side the whole time, in one of the few clinics in Africa with a neonatal intensive care unit.
On the simplest level, the societal concept of “natural” childbirth for regular folks has devolved into meaning that a woman’s partner is with her in a so-called “birthing room” in the hospital, where she has pre-requested epidural anesthesia so she can feel nothing at all as soon as possible, embracing all the medical preinterventions that come with it, such as a fetal heart monitor, an I.V., and synthetic hormones to move along the labor that often stops when anesthesia is in the bloodstream. This current topsy-turvy pregnancy landscape is the only possible explanation for the existence of “Frankly Pregnant” by Stacy Quarty, with Miriam Greene, a book so obnoxious in tone and demeaning to women that if 12-year-old boys could get pregnant, this would be their book of choice. Given that “grossing each other out” is an essential pastime for pre-pubescent fellows, this book would be as satisfying for them as it is grotesque to a mature female.
Billed as the author’s personal journal of her pregnancy and a guide for others, it is little more than a self-absorbed graphic depiction of a series of humiliating intimate details of the supposed physical eruptions and emissions that apparently plagued her on a weekly basis (in years of research I never came across anything close to what she claims issued forth from her body).
The author actually cites one of my books as one of the “standards” she read without satisfaction about the nitty-gritty of pregnancy — which presumably spurred her to compile this tasteless journal to “share” her weekly experiences about the physically vile things that befell her.
The whole tone of the book is “fart in a space suit” humor, best suited to the campfire at a boys’ camp. Somebody must have given poor Ms. Quarty the mistaken idea that the theatrical telling of embarrassing malfunctions of her own body was wildly amusing and would be common to all pregnant women. Instead, the barrage of sickening personal details is an insult to other women’s intelligence and an affront to their sensibilities. There’s barely a page where the reader isn’t assaulted by some revolting imagery.
For example, the tone is set early on from the glossary of the author’s personal pregnancy symptoms: “Cauliflower butt: If you’ve got three or more hemorrhoids and they become irritated and inflamed, your anus may end up looking like a piece of purple cauliflower. Cheeseburger crotch: . . . my friend Grace and I fondly coined the term because that’s what it looked like she had stashed in her panties during pregnancy! Cocktail-wiener toes: retention of fluids in the lower extremities can leave you with toes that resemble overcooked cocktail wieners.”
Should you doubt how juvenile or irritating her writing can be, when the author wants to express frustration that she has found out she’s pregnant but can’t tell her husband immediately, she writes simply: “Arrrrggggghhhhhhhhh! I needed to tell someone! I was bursting.” This follows the equally mature and telling reaction just a few pages earlier when she writes about her reaction at age 7 when she asks her mother how the egg is fertilized by the sperm: “I learned that the man puts his penis inside the woman’s vagina to insert the sperm. Eeeeeeeeeeewwwwwww!”
This is a precise quote and a comment on Stacy Quarty the writer, rather than about the birds and bees. I think it gives compelling evidence that between 7 years old and whatever her current age may be, Ms. Quarty got arrested somewhere. Or perhaps should be — by the editorial police.
Other than being a potential source of delight for young boys who are drawn to being horrified at the revolting stuff our bodies are capable of, the only redeeming feature I can find in this sorry little book is that it may be the antidote to celebrity pregnancy and the myth of glamorous childbirth. “Labor” is called that for a reason, and is an intense and painful process that often leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth — not unlike reading this book, the difference being that with childbirth you come away with something precious of lasting value.
—Tracie Hotchner wrote the million-copy best-seller “Pregnancy & Childbirth” as well as “Childbirth & Marriage,” “Pregnancy Pure & Simple,” and “The Pregnancy Diary,” and has appeared on the “Today” show and “Oprah” as an expert in the field. Stacie Quarty lives in Southampton.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Lucia has passed
My dearest friend, Lucia, has finally passed this week. It's a blessing that she's no longer suffering but we all miss her so. Here's what she requested for her prayer card...
In Loving Memory of
Lucia Terzi Bagan
August 15, 2006
Don't grieve for me, for now I'm free.
I'm following the path God made for me.
I took His hand when I heard him call.
I turned my back and left it all.
I could not stay another day, to laugh
to love, to work or play.
Tasks undone must stay that way.
I found peace at the dawn of the day.
If my parting has left a void, then fill it
with remembered joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss,
ah, yes, these things I too will miss.
Be not burdened with times of sorrow.
I wish you the sunshine of tomorrow.
My life has been full, I've savored much:
Good friends, good times,
a loved one's touch.
Perhaps my time seemed all to brief.
Don't lengthen it with undue grief.
Lift up your hearts and share with me,
God wants me now. He has set me free!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
“Fixing” My Belly and Me?
During that second pregnancy I noticed my belly button becoming more and more sore and protruded. I was soon diagnosed with abdominal muscle separation and a herniated navel. My doctor said it was quite common and something I could later get corrected with a minor surgery.
Since that time (more than 4 years ago) I’ve been more than just a little annoyed by my herniated navel. Not only is it ugly but, at times, it can be quite painful too. Sometimes while playing tennis or reaching for my big salad bowl on the top shelf something will pop out and get pinched. Yeeeeouch! I stuff the rubbery protrusion back in with my fingers and hold it firmly in place until the knife-stabbing pain ebbs.
Since I’m not all that fond of elective surgery, I’ve been trying to remedy the bum belly issue myself. I stuck to a strict exercise regimine for more than 2 years, including 300 crunches, 3 times a week. My stomach did get more muscular, but I can still see the 1.5” x 3” gap in the muscle wall every time I do a sit up and the painful episodes continue on a semi-monthly basis.
So, I guess it’s time to get the surgery. I always thought, if I’m going to go ahead and have a knife taken to my navel, I might as well get a tummy tuck too. The skin around my navel is terribly stretched and scarred from pregnancy. Then, maybe I could have a somewhat better looking bod in a bikini. But, (here’s the big BUT) if I do get the navel surgery, which would mean the tummy tuck too, than I’d have to be sure that I’m not having any more babies. Imagine how uncomfortable it would be to get pregnant after a tummy tuck? The skin wouldn’t stretch; it would tear. Big OUCH! And ugly, that would be terribly ugly. Don’t you think?
The question is: Am I ready to give up the possibility of having another baby? My husband wants to have another. We have two girls and he wants one last shot at the boy. But, of course HE wants to have another baby. Another baby would hardly affect his world. He won’t become big and uncomfortable for 40 weeks. He won’t have to give up alcohol and sushi, even after pregnancy, because he’s still breastfeeding. He won’t have to get up in the middle of the night to feed the baby and change a gazillion poopie diapers. He won’t have to put his career on hold (again) and revamp his whole life and family plan. He probably will come home to a much more cranky wife though.
I always thought two was a good number. “Two and through,” I’ve often said. They’re close enough in age that they can play together and be buddies for life. And, with two, us parents are never outnumbered.
Plus, I am 40 years old. My eggs aren’t getting any fresher. What if I should have a Down’s baby? After 35, women are statistically more at risk for all kinds of complications with pregnancy and the developing fetus. But, then again, one of my very best friends just had her third, perfectly healthy and adorable baby (a boy, after 2 girls. And, yes, my husband is jealous) at age 43, last year.
I’m pretty convinced that I don’t want any more children, for a lot more reasons than listed here, but it’s just so hard to permanently close the door on the possibility. Life is such a precious and beautiful thing, especially the life of a newborn. Oh crap! I can’t decide!