I go back to work in four weeks. It may as well be next week for the amount of time I spend thinking about it. I am starting to get inquiries by my clients and my partners to do work. And I resist because I know its a slippery slope–once I start to do work, it will be like bloody waters to sharks (no lawyer jokes, please)–others will find out I am “back to work” and also call on me to do “a little job” for them. So I keep putting work off.

But I am starting to feel the pressure of things left unfinished that Friday when I left the office thinking I was coming back the following Monday–Sun WAS born three weeks earlier than my C-section was scheduled. So I am feeling the pull to at least return to those files.

When I think about returning to work, I get scared. It is similar to the feeling I had about simply having a baby–that general how-is-this-gonna-work scared. Here’s my list of worries:

1. I will miss Sun. But that is a good thing! I will be able to get away and have perspective and return full of feelings for her. I will still be home four out of seven days a week and so will CS. The only day not covered by either of us is Wednesday, and we have that worked out (and I am happy to say that I am not worried about that plan). So this whole missing Sun is a “checked worry”–meaning it is on my list, but it is checked as being something I need not worry about.

2. Working part-time (or at least part-time in the office) won’t work. The thing is, if it doesn’t work out, my decision will not be to return to full time. It will be to leave my current work situation. That is scary but doable. So this too is a checked worry.

3. Pumping and/or nursing won’t work out. Now here’s a topic I can sink my teeth into. I worry I will be leaking all over my desk; that I will have a reduced milk flow; that I’ll get mastitis again; that I will be a slave to a schedule of pumping and nursing. Worst case, I quit altogether. But I worry about the consequences of that too–to me and to Sun. This is one I cannot check off. Plus, how do I transition back to pumping on the three days I am in the office from the seven days a week I am home now doing all I can to get Sun nursing exclusively? My maternity leave to date has been spent getting this baby to nurse without me needing to pump. And in four weeks, I need to change that. All the trouble I’ve had with nursing makes me really fear this transition. I can’t afford to get sick again and then miss work over it! I’ve read La Leche League’s and other websites about transitioning, but really, they aren’t helping. So I am turning to working/nursing moms (or former working/nursing moms) to help!

In the meantime, I keep telling myself, “Stay in THIS moment. This moment. Now.” Even though this moment is consumed with nursing problems, it’s work-free and deserves to be that way. It is no more fair that I think of work now than I think of Sun while doing work later.

Focus, Nola, on just this moment.

So, this nursing thing. Indulge me in yet another post on this topic. This one is a PSA for all those women who have no idea what to expect. ‘Cause that was me, and, boy, am I getting more than I ever, ever expected. And not in a good way.

I won’t cover ground I’ve already posted about–the engorging, the shields, the cracking and chaffing, the blisters. No, I am past all that.

This past Monday, Sun nursed four times. But the next day I was really sore so I backed off, she only nursed once in the evening. This was all very good. Then Wednesday, she nursed all day and I did not pump at all. “We made it,” I thought, “at long last.” And I was pleased. That’s all–pleased. I no longer let it mean too much to me whether she ever nursed or not–I was more concerned that she get the milk than with how she got it. But I admit that it was NICE, so nice, to have her nurse and to be able to cut out the middleman of the pump.

Then came Thursday. Sun was nursing. Things were going well. But then around 1:15, my breasts started to feel sore. No problem. I put cold packs on them to get some relief. By 1:30, however, I was in abject pain: My breasts felt like they had shards of glass in them along with fire. Yes, glass and fire. And I had the shakes. By the time the hubs got home (45 minutes later), I was running fever of over 102 degrees. My joints ached, my back and shoulders hurt, my muscles were sore, my eyes burned, and my head pounded.

I spent an hour in a tub of hot water shivering. Then more hours under the covers sweating. And in between, I talked to my OB and a lactation specialist. The prognosis was agreed upon: mastitis–an inflammation of the breast. Antibiotics and pain relievers were called in to the pharmacy.

The cause? Apparently when Sun started to nurse full-time, I should have kept pumping. Because I did not, my milk supply increased and I did not express enough milk. How can that make sense? When I was pumping only, I didn’t have enough milk to supply all of Sun’s needs in a day. I must have missed this tip in all that I’ve read and been told about nursing. Rrrr.

The solution? Keep nursing. Wha??? My breasts are so sore. They hurt just having a t-shirt on them. And I am supposed to let a baby nurse on them? The lactation specialist gave me this snappy advice, “Heat. Rest. Empty breasts.” If I can’t bring myself to have Sun nurse, then I need to pump again.

All I can think is, “Jane! Stop this crazy thing!” I want off this wild ride, but there seems to be no end in sight. All roads lead to nursing and pumping. Forever. I mean, once I am past this hurtle, how do I (1) wean to doing nothing, or (2) get to where I can nurse exclusively and pump only when away from Sun?

Oh, and I am told to eat yogurt every day lest I develop a yeast infection. Well, hell, I just KNOW I am gonna get one now. I mean, what is there left for me to endure in this attempt to get Sun to nurse?

I go back to work in four weeks. This has GOT to be resolved one way or another by then–I can’t pump for five hours a day at work. So I think we are going to go back yet again to the lactation specialists next week to get everything straightened out.

Wish me luck!

Two of the Fore!Kids fleurs have been stolen. Who would do this? These fleurs were done for charity. For children.

One was Lorainne Gendron’s sculpture taken from Washington Artillery Park (Pete and I didn’t get its picture yet), and the other sculpture was done by Clifton Faust and Aisha Patrice and was located outside of the Arts Council office.

Dammit this pisses me off. Errr.

Food Network’s Dave Lieberman is traveling around the country in search of “real food.” And there’s one dish that comes to mind as being (possibly) a unique New Orleans real food to me: Brociolone. I had never heard of this dish growing up. When I was dating my husband, I did what any self-respecting woman would do who was trying to win her man over–I offered to cook his favorite home-cooked real-food meal. When I asked what that dish was for him, I expected him to say gumbo or pot roast or lasagna. Instead, he said, “Brociolone.” I, having never heard of this dish, was at a loss at how to make it. So my man e-mailed his mother for the recipe. This is what she e-mailed him:

Thin cut round steak
Slice of ham
Italian seasoned bread crumbs
Hard boiled eggs

Cut piece of round steak about as big as your hand. Place a slice of ham (as big) on top. Place about one teaspoon of bread crumbs on top. Place a slice of hard boiled egg on top. Roll all ingredients in steak and wrap string around to hold it all together. (Hint: wrap in one direction a few times, then wrap long way a few times. Leave a long enough string to find the end when unwrapping.) Brown the wrapped bushaloonies [her spelling, not mine], in a tablespoon of olive oil. Place in a large pot with spaghetti sauce (either store bought or make your own). Cook forever, or for about one hour or more. More is better. The more you cook them, the more tender they become. After about an hour, however, you can remove the strings so they are easier to eat. I hope this helps. If not, let me know, and I’ll fly to New Orleans and show you how. Love, Mom

Preparing this dish was a daunting task for me back then. I mean, how can I compete with his mother’s offer to fly down and cook it for him? Further, her recipe leaves a lot of room for interpretation. So I searched the web and my cookbooks for others’ recipes of this dish. And I discovered that this seems to be a New Orleans-Italian dish. I could find few recipes close to this dish (and with spelling it every conceivable way) that did not reign from New Orleans or come from a New Orleans cookbook. Well, that fact just perked my interest and, I persevered on cooking it. Am I glad I did. It is now one of my favorite dishes, too.

I have found it served in only two local restaurants (and never in out-of-state Italian restaurants). The first restaurant did a terrible job with it. But the second restaurant, Venezia’s, does a fantastic job with it. The original Venezia’s is in mid-city and was badly damaged by Hurricane Katrina. They just recently reopened. There is also a second location in Jefferson Parish. This is the location we dined at tonight.

Venezia’s does not always serve brociolone (and, sadly, they have not yet served it since Katrina, but I hold out hope). Luckily, their veal parm is really good and their pizza is truly the best in the city. You need to go to New York for better pizza. Seriously.

Over the years, I have modified and tweaked CS’s mother’s recipe. There are some folks who don’t cut the steak into strips (the way I do) but instead make one big roll that they serve on a platter. Some people add pine nuts (I don’t). All respectable recipes call for that bit of hard boiled egg in the middle. One friend call that egg the “surprise in her meat” when she ate it for the first time at our house.

This dish is a labor of love. It takes a good bit of time to prepare and even longer to cook. My mother-in-law did not lie: the longer you cook it, the more tender and tastier it is. You cannot overcook this meat.

If you are having company over and want to knock their socks off with a delicious “home cooked” meal, this is the dish to serve. All that time in the kitchen is not wasted. Your company will feel special indeed for your efforts in preparing this real food dish for them.

Crazy Hip Blog Mamas have a collaboration blog going about childhood dreams. My dreams did come true, sort of, but they sure took a circuitous route.

When I was a child, my parents let me and my siblings be children. They didn’t pressure us to do well in school or to really prepare for our futures. They cared, of course, but not in a pressure-cooker way.

So when I was five years old and told them I wanted to be a clown when I grew up, a real, legitimate clown, they were fine with it. Sure, I was five. But I was serious. I think it was Mardi Gras that inspired this in me–the parades had a lot of clowns making balloon animals for us kids. This dream lasted for many, many years.

Once I got to high school, I began to rethink this working-for-a-living plan I had. I recall being a Freshman and the topic in class was careers. I whispered to my best friend, “I will marry and he will be the head of my household. I won’t have a job.” And that was my new dream: to be a Mrs. Husband; married with children. I’d even started to practice signing my first name with the last name of my dream beau (which girl didn’t do this?).

But then I started to think maybe that tall glass of water of a man wasn’t going to show up in time and I’d need to work for a bit. So I started to think practically–dental hygienist, paralegal, writer, journalist, manager of a hotel….

When I was a Senior in high school, my parents sent me to Johnson O’Connor to have my aptitudes tested. My father had recently lost his job and was considering a career change and went to Johnson O’Connor himself. What he really took away from the testing was that he would have more greatly benefited by what he learned had he learned it years earlier. So he sent his children at a time when it could make a difference.

Now, I am not talking about the quick, couple-of-hours aptitude testing you get done on campus. No; Johnson O’Connor ran a slew of tests over two days. At the end, my mother and I sat down to hear my future.

In a nutshell, I was told that I didn’t have the finger dexterity to be a dental hygienist and that I was an analytical thinker and would get bored being a manager of anything. My reading skills were strong, math, not so much. But I was good with problems–math or otherwise. I like puzzles and do well at solving them. It was recommended that I be a lawyer–a problem solver with problems that are constantly changing.

Of course, my mother was delighted with this news. I was rather devastated. I hadn’t even started college and the thought of law school made me shudder. My parents, true to their nature, did not pressure me. They let me major in Business Management in college without any criticism.

And as college was coming to a close, and I had thoroughly enjoyed the few law courses my Management curriculum afforded me, that seed planted years ago began to sprout. Before I knew it, I had taken the LSAT and was accepted into the only law school for which I had applied. I have been practicing law for over ten years now.

And along the way, I did fall in love and marry. He was once a professional clown. He can still juggle and make balloon animals.

We have one child.

But I am not Mrs. Sarcastic. I did not take his name.

My dinner last night at Galatoire’s did not disappoint. As I sipped my very strong Old Fashioned, the waiter passed fried eggplant and souffle potatoes. Then we sat down to appetizers of Galatoire grand goute (shrimp two ways and a lump crabmeat dish) and fried oysters in brochette. This was followed by the salad maison and my entree of pan fried red fish with lump crabmeat with creamed spinach on the side. For dessert, we had banana bread pudding with coffee.

Seeing my coworkers, partners, was nice. I miss them. But it was a bittersweet evening. One attorney talked to me about his wanting to retire–he’s 65 and tired. I don’t blame him and encouraged him to do so. But like many strong attorneys, he feels guilty turning his back on the law–that jealous mistress being what she is. For the first time ever, it was hard for me to relate to this topic. I miss my practice; my work. I don’t miss all of it, and I don’t miss certain headaches that go with any office job. But I miss helping people and I miss using my brain to do what it was so sharply trained best to do. But I do understand walking away at the end of a satisfying and successful career. And I also understand his struggle to do so.

And as we were eating our salads, this same attorney mentioned that he’d done a good deed for a man in need–given him a ride to sell scrap metal then offered him lunch at his home. His point was that we take a dinner at Galatoire’s as another nice meal whereas many folks struggle just to bring bread to their tables for their families. And I agree with him; I certainly don’t feel a dinner a Galatoire’s is just another Thursday dinner. But I do eat out. A lot. And I agree that I have a lot to be thankful for in my life–meal-wise and else.

And then there was my toast for my dying friend. And another for a friend of ours that recently died. And talk about how a baby changes your life in ways that cannot be articulated to those with no children; how you’d give up all your dinners out and vacations to be sure your child has a good education; how you give in to faith that things will work out, and how, in fact, they do work out.

Sober evening, for sure. But it felt good. I felt alive; a muscle I hadn’t used in a while was exercised. It wasn’t necessarily the jovial evening I had anticipated, but it was well worth my four hours away from my family.

Since having Sun, I have checked my work voicemail and e-mail every day. And the benefit of this contact finally arrived: the invitation for the attorneys to have dinner with the summer clerks. At Galatoire’s. Tonight. One hour of drinks and hors d’oeuvres followed by dinner. Ahhhh.

To say that I am looking forward to tonight is an understatement. I didn’t anticipate my senior prom with this much excitement. Galatoire’s with adults and liquor and no babies. On someone else’s dime. Folks, for me, this is quite the prize.

I scoured my closet and found a dress (a real, non-maternity! dress) that actually fits nicely. And I get to wear dressy shoes, too! Which necessitated a pedicure yesterday. I dropped Sun off with CS at our shop and spent a nice relaxing hour getting my feet rubbed and polished. Thinking about Galatoire’s.

The last decadent meal I had before discovering I was pregnant was at Galatoire’s. The last drink I had was there–an Old Fashioned. And it will certainly be the drink I order tonight!

I know that a lot of tourists come to New Orleans and go to Galatoire’s all aflutter because they’ve heard us locals gush about it being one of the best restaurants of our fine city. And many are disappointed–yes, the food was good. But they don’t “get it.” Let me try to explain it.

To me, Galatoire’s is really a bar with amazing bar food. They will seat you even if all of your party is not yet there (like a bar and unlike uptight she-she restaurants). Thus, it has been custom for folks to send someone to save a table for their party. Oh, the stories I have heard of my firm sending its law clerks to reserve a table hours ahead of time only to get sloppy drunk and say and do things in front of our most senior partners that have reduced some of them to tears on the kitchen floor. Now that they take reservations (for upstairs), this need to send someone to save a table isn’t as critical.

One thing to know about Galatoire’s is that things move really slowly in there. With deliberation. They won’t rush you out of your table to seat a new party and they will let you sit for hours waiting for your party to arrive. And once your party has all arrived, they want you to sit back, relax, and enjoy yourself. Really. Don’t rush it. Take a deep breath and slow down. They don’t rush with menus or order-taking (other than to get your drink order) or food-serving. No, it is all with deliberate slowness that the waiters move. For your benefit.

Next is their menu. Galatoire’s menu goes on for days. But the waiters can get fussy if you ask to see one. Instead, they prefer for you to tell them what you are in the mood for–what is your heart’s (or stomach’s) desire, and they will set you up, whether it is on the menu or not. So to the waiters, the menu can limit your imagination–a travesty of fine dining in their eyes. If you can dream it, they can serve it. Seafood, lamp chops, steaks, succulent salads. They even serve fried chicken. I don’t mean dainty, frilly, chic fried chicken. I mean down-home, buttermilk, southern fried chicken. Like ya grand momma made. Indulge your waiter and get his input on what you should order if you can’t settle on something on your own.

Speaking of their waiters, that’s another peculiar thing about Galatoire’s–as they seat you, they ask if you have a waiter you prefer. If you don’t, that is okay. Make friends with the waiter you get (which is amazingly easy to do–by the end of the night, you’ll feel like you’ve know him forever) and next time you come you will be able to get your same waiter (waiters make careers of working here). The waiter will even give you his card so you’ll remember to ask for him. If you want to cheat it, ask for Dorris–he’s who we ask for.

Back to their drinks. This place mixes drinks like its life depends upon it. I always feel like my grandmother drinking a “hi ball” (as she called it) when I am sipping their strong cocktails. These drinks have serious booze in them. Order a martini and they bring along with your drink a plate of garnishments–olives stuffed various ways (be careful of the one stuffed with an anchovy unless that is your thing) as well as cocktail onions.

And if you are in the mood for a mixed drink that can be done oh-so-wrong at your typical bar, then get it at Galatoire’s–it will be spot on. Thus the reason I ordered an Old Fashioned last time I was there. This drink was ordered in honor of a friend who has since been diagnosed with a very aggressive cancer. Her birthday is soon and a toast will be said for her tonight.

Galatoire’s is the equivalent of an upscale neighborhood bar. You walk in and see friends–even if it is just the wait staff. You can almost hear them screaming your name the way they welcomed Norm at Cheers. The mirrors wrapping around the first floor assist in this feeling of comradery–from wherever you sit, you can all but see everyone else in the place. Joviality abounds and table hopping is rampant. And the amazing food (because their food is really amazing) is just a bonus. A kick-ass, longed-for, soon-missed, decadent bonus.

And I get to go there tonight! Oh, lucky me.

I have found that I am singing a song to Sun that has become her own. I have made my own lyrics to an Elton John song. Here’s my lyrics:

Sweet little Sunnie
Sweet little Sunnie indeed
All that we wish for you
is a lifetime of sweetness and peace.
Ohhh

Cute, huh?

Is it wrong that these are the original lyrics:

Sweet painted lady
seems it’s always been the same
getting paid for being laid
guess that’s the name of the game.
Ohhh.