Brooklyn in Love

by Amy Thomas

  The minutes ticked slowly. I kept looking between Andrew and the clock, waiting, waiting, licking my dry lips. I was crawling out of my skin, not from the drugs coursing through my veins but in anticipation. I needed to know that our baby girl was okay, that she was healthy and alive—it was clear she was already adorable and determined, as she’d appeared in the 3-D ultrasound print-out I’d been staring at for months, with her fist up near her chin, Rodin’s Thinker-style.

  “I see a foot!” The lead anesthesiologist peeked her head over the screen, giving me a thumbs-up. Here it was: the final stretch. My ears tuned in to what was happening down there, waiting for that newborn yowl. When I heard it, it wasn’t so much a piercing cry as the sweetest little whimper. As soon as I heard it, the tears started flowing. “Is she okay? Is she okay?” Andrew’s glasses were fogged up with emotion. And then the cries came. She started wailing, really wailing. The nurse held up this writhing, slimy, pink, impossibly cute baby before quickly ushering her over to a scale beneath a warming lamp. “She looks great! Andrew? Get over here!”

  Andrew jumped up, heeding the first call of his brand-new paternal duties. He ceremoniously clamped the umbilical cord and started snapping photos of our screeching seven-pound-four-ounce wonder, returning to my side repeatedly to assure me everything was fine, she looked beautiful. It wasn’t until forty-five minutes later, when I was all stitched up and back in recovery, that I finally got to hold my baby girl.

  I’m not a religious person but experiencing pregnancy and giving birth changes you. As I stared at this water-logged creature, eyes nearly swollen shut, lips already finding my breast, swaddled tightly into a football of white, blue, and magenta blanket, I could hardly fathom that she had grown from a couple of cells and become someone inside of me. That she was the result of me and Andrew having sex. That his sperm connected with my egg and cells divided again and again and again and again, creating a skeleton and a heart and lungs and eyelids and hair and little fingers and toes and that little tongue that kept poking out of her lips like some alien being. Once again, I was awed by what the human body—a woman’s body—is capable of doing. That my skin had stretched and internal organs shifted and my own system had provided sustenance, shelter, and life to this new being for months while we talked to her, wondered what she’d look like, who she’d be like, and what we’d name her. It is beyond biblical, beyond science fiction. But it had happened. There she was. There we were. A new family of three.

  • • •

  I admit it now: I was cavalier toward all my friends who had kids in our twenties and thirties. No, I take that back—I was a shit. I didn’t give them any credit or even try to appreciate the radical intensity of new parenthood. The sleep deprivation. The upside-down reality. The colossal change of priorities. The helplessness and overwhelming responsibility of it all.

  Now that I was being awoken every two hours to nurse the peanut—as we started calling our baby girl—shell-shocked from the cluster feeding that no one had told me about, I got it. And yet, as the coming weeks and months would attest, I was getting only the tiniest tip of it. My world would never be the same again.

  Those first days and weeks after the peanut was born were warped bands of time that extended forever and yet were broken down and carefully tracked by the minute: she fed thirteen minutes on the left breast, fourteen on the right; it was sixty minutes since the last feeding; she’d had an eight-minute crying fit and a twenty-minute nap. All this timekeeping of the peanut’s eating and sleeping—along with her every pee, poop, fart, hiccup, and scrunched facial expression—was scrupulously recorded in a notebook I kept at my side. I filled three notebooks of cryptic numbers—reminding me, uneasily, of the schizophrenic mathematical genius John Nash from A Beautiful Mind—every entry seemingly critical to the peanut’s well-being and absolutely essential to my confidence and sanity. So much was riding on my competence and yet—hel-lo?—I had no idea what I was doing.

  I was afraid I’d break the peanut’s arm putting her in a onesie. Afraid I’d snap her neck by holding her incorrectly. Afraid she’d catch a chill and then pneumonia if I brought her outside. Afraid I’d drown her giving her a sponge bath (did you know a baby can drown in a teacup of water?). Afraid I’d fall asleep while nursing her and either drop her from my lap or crush and suffocate her, depending if I was sitting or lying down while doing it. Afraid I’d drop her on our hardwood floors. Afraid Milo would attack her, though, to his credit, he was keeping a curious but detached distance, undoubtedly recognizing that his number-one status in the household had been usurped. I was afraid, afraid, afraid—which I realized was yet another aspect of this new life called parenthood I hadn’t been expecting.

  Eight days in, as I melted into our living room couch at 2:00 a.m. with the peanut passed out on my chest, I had flashbacks to my sophomore year of college when, in an effort to broaden my social circle, I pledged a co-ed fraternity. For two months, I had been awoken in the early morning hours with hot whiskey shots, taken to a dark basement in the middle of nowhere for no reason, and then would have to resume normal academic and social behavior hours later. Hazing and sleep deprivation—it’s no joke, both on college campuses and with newborn babies.

  I’d hear the peanut cry in my sleep and get out of bed to feed her only to discover her fast asleep. Or in the middle of the night, while I was on the couch and Andrew slept in our bedroom, I’d witness wild dance parties in our neighbor’s apartment. But when I incredulously put my glasses on, I was embarrassed that what I was seeing were plants, not writhing people, in the neighbor’s window across the way. It was just like that pledge semester when I’d mildly hallucinate during French class. You go a little mental in the new parenthood bubble.

  • • •

  Aside from sleep deprivation, probably the biggest challenge those first few weeks was breastfeeding. Fraught with anxiety, it raised all kinds of questions, which led to insecurities. Was I doing it right? Was my posture okay? Was I producing enough milk? Where was the milk coming from, anyway? How would I know when to change breasts? How would I know when to stop? Why was she crying? Why did she fall asleep? Should I burp her now? Are these gigantic breasts really mine?

  Not for nothing, my mom gave me formula when I was a baby. But I was living in a time, in a city, where it was expected that you’d submit to breastfeeding. In Tina Fey’s book, Bossypants, she refers to all those holier-than-though mothers who look down on other moms who give their babies formula as “Teat Nazis.” They consider breastfeeding about the noblest act of motherhood, if not life, and, according to Tina, “Their highest infestation pockets are in Brooklyn and Hollywood.” Indeed, I was surrounded by them.

  The peanut had a mean latch when it came to breastfeeding, so at least I didn’t have to deal with her not latching, which is a common problem for new moms trying to nurse. Every two hours, I’d dutifully pop out one of my breasts, and then the other, so she could feed and my body would keep producing milk. And yet she wasn’t gaining weight. My pediatrician had us return every three or four days for a weigh-in and, with each visit, I got progressively more uptight. What was I doing wrong? How could she not be putting on weight? Was I not producing enough milk? My right breast seemed full and abundant, but my left breast less so and the peanut less interested in it. Newborns typically drop a few ounces in the days immediately after birth, but regain it within two weeks. We were now three weeks in and the peanut hadn’t regained her birth weight. I was officially freaking out. So what’s a new mom embedded amongst Teat Nazis to do? Hire a lactation consultant.

  The Friday of my appointment fell on Halloween. All the other parents in my neighborhood were putting final details on their kids’ superhero, princess, and zombie costumes while I stripped to the waist before an utter stranger. “May I touch your breasts?” asked the beaming Trinidadian woman standing directly in front of me, hands paused in midair as if she had been about to cop a feel.


  “Sure, of course,” I agreed, totally unfazed. Now that I pretty much lived with my breasts hanging out, regardless who might be in the room—friend, father-in-law, neighbor’s awkward ten-year-old—what difference did it make if this stranger touched them? And touching them was only the beginning.

  For the next four hours, the lactation consultant kindly manhandled me, teaching me different breastfeeding positions—the cradle, cross-cradle, side lying, and football hold—while weighing the peanut along the way as I nursed. Just as it was amazing to see her weight steadily go up ounce by ounce over the course of the afternoon, it was enlightening to understand the challenge I was up against. If I was having one or two bad feedings a day, the peanut was losing a half ounce of milk, which is why she wasn’t gaining weight. Suddenly, mere ounces had the same urgency in my life as minutes. But this fastidious and optimistic lactation consultant was going to help me figure it out. Her goal that day was to teach me the tips and tricks of baby nutrition and feeding techniques that would make me the ultimate breastfeeder.

  It was the first time, but definitely not the last, that I realized everything about motherhood is about being the best.

  • • •

  Ordinarily I relish any excuse to drink champagne and eat cake. But with my own birthday landing three weeks after the peanut’s arrival, I wasn’t whipping up any celebrations that year. And yet it ended up being one of my favorite birthdays ever. After all, I awoke to the smell of warm, buttery pretzel croissants.

  While Dominique Ansel has received deserved worldwide publicity for his doughnut-croissant hybrid, the Cronut, the original croissant mash-up gets little fanfare. Maury Rubin of City Bakery developed this signature pastry, a beautiful specimen of classic handmade French technique made modern, in 1996. The pretzel croissant is tender and flaky, buttery and stretchy, then twisted, not quite so far as a pretzel, but further than your normal croissant. It’s then dusted with sesame seeds, giving it its signature look and savory flavor. Andrew had cleverly smuggled in two the night before, warmed them in the oven, and surprised me, serving them on a tray with coffee and tea in the living room when I woke up. It was better than Christmas morning.

  After first prolonging the anticipation, admiring the croissants and their flaky skins, and then devouring them, I opened the gifts and cards that Andrew had gotten for me from the peanut even though she, cradled comfortably in my left arm, was clearly my gift. To ensure I remained in a happy place, holed up in the apartment alone all day while he was at work, Andrew also left me with two City Bakery chocolate chip cookies that were slick with creamed butter and sugar and a promise to return in the evening with more treats.

  Ten hours later, Andrew appeared with a brown shopping bag containing my birthday dinner. I once again asked myself how I had gotten so lucky to find this man. He had gone to James.

  • • •

  Andrew and I had discovered James, located on a picturesque residential block filled with brownstones with majestic stoops and verdant trees, during our real estate hunt the previous year. In all our Sunday afternoon crisscrossing, we passed the restaurant several times and there were always gobs of people waiting out on the corner for brunch. By the second or third drive-by, we knew we had to check it out. When we finally did—splitting the fluffy ricotta lemon pancakes in blueberry syrup and scrambled eggs with greasy duck sausage, by then happily in our sweet-savory splitting mode at restaurants—we hoped that, if we didn’t wind up in Prospect Heights, our future neighborhood would at least have a comparable spot with such awesome food and a warm and chic ambiance.

  James had been building its devout following since it opened in 2008. Back then, the neighborhood was more on the cusp, located on the “wrong side” of Flatbush Avenue. The closest main drag for local residents, Vanderbilt Avenue, didn’t offer much in the way of sit-down restaurants, much less cozy spots for bourgeois burger-and-beer types like us. James changed that.

  It had previously been a restaurant called Sorrel, and before that, it was one of the city’s thousands of nondescript delis. It resided within a three-story brownstone on a corner lot and the couple who lived in the apartment upstairs, Deborah Williamson and her-then husband, Bryan Calvert, just so happened to be in the market to open a restaurant in Brooklyn. They had been looking for a space for two years, so when Sorrel was closing, they jumped at the opportunity.

  Bryan was a chef with six restaurants, including the four-star Bouley, under his belt. Deborah had a background in magazines and production. They both had a knack for cooking, farming, and design—three altars at which Brooklynites genuflect. It was a no-brainer to open a neighborhood restaurant that would rely on fresh, local ingredients and serve modern comfort food in an understatedly cool atmosphere. When all the paperwork was done, they were more than ready to get in and make the space theirs.

  The couple gutted it, restoring original architectural details, including the aged plaster wall behind the bar and pressed tin ceilings. They outfitted the rest with simple, modern touches, painting the brick walls white, installing brown banquettes, and anchoring the modest square dining room with an oversized Plexiglas chandelier. “We wanted a natural, organic feel and to keep its original charm,” Deborah explains. It was the same philosophy with the menu. They created one that changed with the seasons and was supplemented by their own eight-hundred-square-foot rooftop herb garden. When James debuted, it was one of the first restaurants to work with farmers and purveyors, offering “seasonal, sustainable, locally inspired” dishes, and it was immediately popular.

  Now, kale salads are menu staples at every Brooklyn restaurant worth its farm-to-table credo, but James preceded the trend. Their formative years were dominated by much heartier fare, including bone marrow and sweetbreads, but by 2010, wanting something lighter for herself and sensing a change in collective appetites, Deborah pushed for greener additions. “I wanted to put a kale salad on the menu. I was craving something healthier,” she says of the signature dish’s early entry. And so Bryan developed the recipe and they introduced it to the world—or at least, the neighborhood—and it stuck. To this day, the kale salad rivals the burger as the most popular item on the menu.

  Andrew brought the kale salad home from James, along with their roasted chicken stewing in jus and leeks, and a superrich and buttery pasta flecked with sheets of Swiss chard. We put the peanut in the gargantuan mechanical swing that had overtaken our living room and was the only place she was content to just chill, and popped open some prosecco, my first bottle of booze since giving birth. Then we tore into the brown takeout boxes.

  When does a salad trump roasted chicken and creamy pasta? When the kale is finely shredded and tossed with quinoa and smoked almonds before being buried under copious amounts of grated ricotta salata and topped with a perfectly poached farm egg. It was smoky, crunchy, creamy, and savory at once. And, thanks to the added protein of the egg, “You don’t feel deprived,” Deborah points out. I crunched through several bites, intent on the mélange of flavors in my mouth and how the bubbles of the prosecco played against them. I definitely didn’t feel deprived; I felt totally, utterly indulged. Almost unhinged. As if reading my mind, Andrew clinked my glass and winked at me without a word. Forget all my previous cake-and-champagne-fueled birthdays: this was living.

  • • •

  Over the next week, I made three more visits to the pediatrician for weigh-ins, every one of them a big freaking deal. Everything in those first weeks after birth, including journeying six blocks into the outside world, had so many new layers of complications. Yes, I was forty-two now and, yes, I was getting a grip on breastfeeding and, yes, I had kept the peanut alive so far. But I was still wildly intimidated. For a doctor’s visit, first, I had to actually get dressed and look presentable and then decide what was temperature appropriate for the peanut to wear. I had to transport her somehow, which meant figuring out all that new gear, with multiple straps and belts and safety
latches, and packing her in it with care. I had to organize a bag with all the essentials that she might need: diapers, wipes, a new change of clothes in case of explosive poops, swaddle blankets, burp cloths, plushie toys for distraction, pacifiers to soothe, hand sanitizer, and insurance information for my new dependent. And I had to somehow time her feedings so I could get to the doctor’s while she still had full belly and wouldn’t break down crying in front of the pediatrician, making me look like an incompetent mom. For someone so tiny, she required a lot.

  But I did it. I got ready, packed the bag, mastered the gear, and stepped out into the world, and when I did, I saw parents with new eyes. I appreciated the men with babies strapped to and dangling from their torsos for being good partners and doing their parts. But I wanted to bow down and pay respect to all the women. I looked at them pushing strollers—you could always tell the new moms versus the nannies not by the color of their skin but by the wild look of panic in their eyes—and instead of getting annoyed by the space they deigned to take on the sidewalk as I always had, I’d give them a wide berth and an empathetic smile. I had crossed over. I was one of them, a fellow mom, as responsible and emotionally raw as I ever had been in my life. These women and I now shared the same fears and battle scars. We had a unique perspective on the world that started outside ourselves, with someone else. We were kindred spirits.

  And finally, four weeks in, after a half dozen treks to the pediatrician, the peanut surpassed her birth weight. The two of us together, minute by minute, ounce by ounce, we were making progress.

  ARTISANAL MANIA IN BROOKLYN

  Kale, the emblem of Brooklyn food trends, is only the tip of the iceberg. The small batch, organic, handcrafted, artisanal, hipster foodie scene continues to be alive and well across all imaginable food groups.