Newborn baby gift delivery

Tracy Hogg, a real-deal English nanny, dispenses homespun advice to Hollywood moms. Who else would a producer call when her baby has gas?

IN THE MOVIE BUSINESS, you need a crew of 40 people to produce even the smallest independent movie. After five years of false starts, development and preparation, I was finally engaged in the most independent of productions--having a baby--and my husband, Tony, and I were thrilled to be doing it alone. I was determined to have this child and keep my life on track. Friends suggested labor coaches and doulas. As my due date got closer, I realized what I really needed was a mother's help ... and fast. But even my mother suggested a baby nurse. I'd heard about Tracy Hogg. She's a British-trained nurse, midwife, labor coach and lactation specialist who has been hired by some of the most famous Hollywood mothers, including Jodie Foster and Jamie Lee Curtis. Her clients, generally successful two-career families, affectionately refer to her as "the Baby Whisperer." They say she has an instinctive ability to soothe any baby, just like the man who could calm unruly horses in the Robert Redford movie. She is so attuned to babies that parents call her to help figure out why their newborn is crying. "Put the baby on," Tracy says. The distressed parents then hold up their wailing infant to the phone, and from the tone of the cry, Tracy can tell if the problem is overfeeding, exhaustion or hunger. And she has an unbeatable track record of getting babies to sleep through the night by the time she leaves, usually after three weeks.

I had also heard what she cost, so I interviewed others who were more affordable. I talked to a German grandmother type, then a woman who took care of babies at night and parked American Airlines 757s during the day. We thought someone who could hold her own on the LAX tarmac was our kind of baby nurse. Unfortunately, she'd promised her services to another mother-to-be.

So we decided to meet the famous Tracy Hogg. She called me "Luv" in her broad Yorkshire accent and made me laugh when she told me that half the baby stuff I was planning to buy was overkill. I sold a cherished painting to afford her. It was the best money I've ever spent.

Tracy, who has two daughters, grew up on a dairy farm with nine older brothers in northern England. As a registered nurse, she specialized in "special care" babies--infants with cerebral palsy and Down's syndrome. It was her job to give the news to parents that their child had been born mentally disabled, then to spend the next three weeks "tuning in" to the baby and the parents. That's when she realized she had a gift.

She came to California when her husband was transferred here in 1993, and after a short while, she decided to go into private practice. Her first client was Marilu Henner; rave reviews attracted other celebrities. Then she and her husband opened an educational center in Encino, Baby Technique, which offers breast-feeding support groups, as well as "Mom & Me" and "Dad & Me" classes.

On our first night home from the hospital, Tracy arrived. She works nights, giving parents a chance to sleep as she eases the baby into longer sleeping patterns. She carried a duffel bag filled with reams of paper for a book she was writing called How to Hire a Nanny Not a Ninny. (She has since signed a two-book deal for $750,000 with Ballantine, which will publish Secrets of the Baby Whisperer in the spring of 2001.) She moved right into the baby's room and said she'd wake me up for the feedings. Even so, I was stunned the first time she tapped me awake at 3 a.m. with our daughter, Madeline, in her arms.

Tracy was dressed elegantly in exquisite silk pajamas, her hair pulled back in a precise bun. I nudged my half-naked husband to make room for her and the baby in our bed. Worn out from his duties as labor coach, he sheepishly retreated to his side and pulled the sheets over his ears. Madeline was what Tracy called a "lazy latcher," so she showed me a new way to hold the baby. She took my breast in her hand and my daughter's little head in her other hand and brought them together. Never have I been so intimate with another woman. We sat quietly, listening to my husband's deep breathing harmonize with my daughter's soft sucking.

Early the next morning, Tracy put my electric breast pump together; it was like watching a great bartender in action. At breakfast, I asked hundreds of "what if" questions, repeating her answers like I was cramming for a final.

She said, "Everyone you know will give you their opinion on child rearing. Then there are thousands of books with more advice. Every mother has a basic instinct of what's right for her child, and yet, because of all this blasted information, women are terrified. The more educated, the more confused. I'm here to help you to listen to your baby and, above all, to listen to yourself."

She gave me remedies that no book had ever mentioned, like putting drops of breast milk in my baby's blocked tear ducts or stuffed-up nose. For colic, most people bounce and jiggle, overstimulating their babies. Tracy instead sat with Madeline and quieted her with womb-like sounds, humming and shushing in her ears. "Just common sense, Luv."

If this wasn't enough excitement, our house was up for sale. As potential buyers traipsed through at all hours, Tracy, the baby and I found places to hide so that I could nurse in private, but soon enough movie stars and directors with their real estate brokers, business managers and assistants would arrive and interrupt our peace and quiet. Suddenly, in two days' time, my breasts went from "never seen" to "public viewing" by a lot of Los Angeles (including numerous delivery men bearing flowers). So by the time one of the last groups--Nadia Comaneci and her husband, Bart Conner--and "their people" came for a tour, I stood my ground and breast-fed in the middle of the living room with my people, Tracy, beside me.

On the third day of Maddie's life, I got a call from an agent who represented a book that I had acquired to be made into a movie. Before Maddie, this project had been my "baby" for a long time, and I had tended it passionately. Our option had expired at MGM, but the author believed in me and gave me a free extension. Now Oprah Winfrey's company wanted the book for a TV movie. Oprah has the power to make any book a hit, so the agent gave me five days--a last chance--to set the project up at another studio.

I asked Tracy for her advice. I figured if she could take care of my baby so brilliantly, she could solve this, too. She told me to talk to Oprah and persuade her to back off. We plotted. In between feedings and diaper changings, I phoned studio executives, telling them they had five days to decide.

After three days, most of the studios had passed. But I had other things to contend with. My breasts were engorged--hard as rocks. Tracy had me do arm exercises. We stood in the bedroom flinging our arms in wide circles. The phone would ring and I'd run to answer. As I talked, Tracy hooked me up to the breast pump.

Doing business was far more comfortable than being a mother. I was so frightened of failing my daughter. When she got hiccups, I was sure she was choking to death. I felt hopeless burping her. Is my patting too strong or too light? I kept asking Tracy, "Am I doing it right?"

She'd say, "What do you think, Luvie?"

"I think I'm in deep trouble."

One afternoon, Maddie cried her lungs out. The mixture of our sleep deprivation and her screaming was lethal. Tony and I took turns trying to calm her down. Is it gas? Is she hungry? Maybe she's tired? We swaddled her tightly the way Tracy taught us. We used a low, soft tone to soothe her. Nothing worked. We called Tracy. She arrived in a flash.

"Hear the high-pitched wail? She's got gas," Tracy said. Then she massaged her until she rolled out a luscious burp. Within a minute, Tracy's soft shushing and gentle heartbeat-pat settled her. It may seem like a simple thing, but to us it felt like a miracle.

On Madeline's seventh day, her umbilical cord dropped off, and she had her first bath. Just trying to memorize the feel of the right water temperature on my submerged wrist seemed like a science class. We slipped her in and washed her body. In the background, I heard the phone ring and ring, calling me back to work. I rubbed my lips in the fuzz of her hair and, for the first time, her eyes focused on me. I realized that nothing would ever matter to me more than this child.

After Maddie fell asleep, I called the book agent. "I know I've got two days left, but this process is stealing the first days of my daughter's life. Please tell Oprah's people good luck."