Heeey, Good Lookin'!

Whaaatcha got cookin'?

Howzabout cookin' somethin' up with meee?

Placenta Pizza

Here in our freezer--beneath the various Trader Joe's frozen items and beside the ice--resides my placenta. Technically, it's Jack's placenta, but let's not get into semantics. 

Here's a closer look...

The placenta was born almost a year ago, and I have not done with it what most homebirthers do: no encapsulation, no burial, no bonfire, no stew (yes, some eat it like meat--the only meat, by the way, that does not require killing an animal). So, what to do? And why have I held on to it?

I didn't want to bury it under a tree in our yard because I hope we move soon, and I wouldn't want to leave behind such an intimate piece of my DNA at a house that I'm not completely connected to. It's too late to dehydrate it and put it into capsules. And I'm not sure what its expiration date is, as far as eating it goes. Plus it's probably freezer-burned. And I was too busy raising a baby this past year to think of other options. So there are my reasons for hanging on--or at least the surface ones. 

It goes deeper, I think. This placenta was Jack's constant companion for 39 weeks. It fed him; it cushioned him. And it was my link to him before I got to touch his face and hold his little body. This placenta is so heavy with deep meaning that I can't seem to part with it. But I will, and there will be a ceremony, prayers, and sage-burning. Maybe some candles and moondancing. It will be honored. More honored than it is sharing the same space as Kashi GoLean waffles.

Leave It to Grammy....

Yesterday was a pleasant, loungy Easter. Jack and I woke to beautiful church bells chiming down the street. He tried to bob his head in some kind of groove, but eventually settled on listening intently, squinting his eyes and leaning his ear in, as if he were a music producer listening for "it." You know, it. That quality that you know when you hear it. Some otherworldly something that speaks to the soul of the masses.

Mom came over to watch Jack while John and I went to the Todd Rundgren concert at The Belcourt, which is what everyone does on Easter, right? This, of course, gave Mom the perfect opportunity for another one of her photo shoots. She has the uncanny ability to capture Jack's inherent Jack-ness, or his it.

They're Here!

Jack's Waldorf playstands and play kitchen are here! I added his wooden and wool veggies, and he immediately got cooking. See? (Never mind the wooden potato and egg in the sink;)
Then I organized his other goodies, and voila! A playspace! Note the silkscape I made with Hillary a couple of months ago....
Jack loves his new space. It's a reading nook, an imaginarium, a house, a storefront, a puppet show stand, a hideaway...whatever he wants it to be. I've discovered that he likes things to be organized so he can mess them up. There's not really any fun in messing up what is already messy, now is there?

Attached at the Heart

This past Saturday, John, Mom, Jack, and I all went to Davis-Kidd Booksellers for a booksigning event. Barbara Nicholson and Lysa Parker--cofounders of Attachment Parenting International--signed Attached at the Heart: 8 Proven Parenting Strategies For Raising Connected and Compassionate Children. AP moms (and singer/songwriters) Carolyn Dawn Johnson, Kim Carnes, Ashley Cleveland, Oddessa Settles, and Jonell Mosser sang "Baby of Mine" before Barbara and Lysa spoke about their 15-year journey of researching and writing the book.
Meanwhile, Hillary and I were thinking the same thing: "I'll bet there's a book hiding in me somewhere." Jack just wanted to know why the music stopped.
Afterward, we hit the children's section, and we couldn't resist buying Jack this supercool Melissa and Doug stacking train. We played with it as soon as we got home. 
My guys aren't just attached to my heart: they be all up in it. Aiiight? Peace.