There's a lot of information out there*. There's information available in books and magazines, from friends, family and raving lunatics on street-corners (who may or may not fall into one of the former categories) and of course, the internet. Want to know the circumference of the world's largest donut? Check the internet. Curious about the origin of the phrase "Stunned as me arse"? It's probably there somewhere. Desperate to know whether that oozing lump on your left butt-cheek is something you should have checked out? Well, you could go to the internet for that one, but I'm going to hazard a guess and say yes, go see your GP.
The doctor's office has a lot of information, too. We were there a few days ago inquiring about a) what to do if our poor baby caught my cold (which seems inevitable, really), and b) whether it is, in fact, appropriate to drug the poor lad for our upcoming flight to Ontario. Apparently it is, but that's not the issue here. The waiting room was FULL of information, most of it useless. One poster inquired, "Are you suffering from shingles? Are you over 50 years old?" I was reasonably sure I could answer "no" to both questions, so I didn't continue to read up on that particular medical study. The information's there if I want it, though.
I did, however, pick up a brochure which included a handy checklist that would tell me if I should speak to my doctor about the possibility that I might be suffering from Alzheimer's. Please bear in mind that I didn't really think I might have Alzheimer's; I'm just one of those people who has to be reading something any time I'm not otherwise completely occupied. I have stooped to reading shampoo bottles while I'm peeing just to have something to read. Once again, however, that's not the issue. Alzheimer's. I was talking about Alzheimer's, and the checklist...
1. Does the individual often repeat himself/herself or ask the same questions over and over?
(yes, but to be fair, it's only because I don't get a response the first time. Particularly if someone is watching the baseball game.)
2. Is the individual more forgetful, that is, having trouble with short-term memory?
(OK, we've been over this- it's mommy brain. Or, if you prefer, CRAFT disease: Can't Remember A Frigging Thing. I- wait, what was the question, again?)
3. Does the individual need reminders to do things like chores, shopping or taking medication?
(unusually only the unpleasant chores. Oh, wait, that's all of them. And I do keep forgetting to give the cat his antibiotics...)
....
6. Has the individual started having trouble doing calculations, managing finances or balancing the chequebook?
[ Started?! Since when did I not have trouble doing calculations? Have you seen my credit card statements this year? And doing what to the chequebook, now?]
....
11. Does the individual have difficulty finding words, finishing sentences or naming people or things?**
(That's it, I'm doomed. Last week I forgot what a "plate" was called, and I called the baby by the dog's name. This is the end.)
So, by the end of the checklist, I had (out of 11 questions) five yeses, four no's and one don't know. Hang on, that's only 10... make that 6 yeses (with an asterisk beside that one about trouble with calculations). Apparently five or more yeses means I should speak to my doctor about this, as an early diagnosis is vital to treatment success.
You know, maybe there is such a thing as too much information. I'm sure that this checklist could be helpful, even life-saving in the right circumstances. I'm also pretty sure that I don't have Alzheimer's at this time. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and say that I'm just tired, hormonal and naturally bad at math. You could go nuts with all this information, seeing pneumonia in the baby's every sniffle and Avian flu in every sneeze. New mommies are particularly susceptible to this, or so I've heard. It's good to be informed, but I think I'm going to leave diagnosis to the experts and try to get on with what's left of my life.
Now where did I put the baby?...
* Yeah, I know: Captain Obvious called, and he wants his shtick back. Thanks.
** If you're looking for the brochure, it's titled "Stay One Step Ahead" and is "Sponsored by one of Canada's leading research based pharmaceutical companies"
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Poetry
Since I've been home with my boy, I've found that life is a series of moments. I'm not being philosophical here, this is just a fact. I don't have grand, long-term plans or projects anymore; everything important, good or bad, seems to happen in little bits. The focus of my life is small, and so are the highlights of each day.
A few months ago I had a super-duper experience, and my brain turned it into a haiku (probably because I'm not a good enough writer to make any more difficult poetry). I ended up with:
Something smells awful.
Simon's ass has exploded.
Grossest poop ever.
I liked it. It spoke to me. And yes, I am aware that small things amuse small minds, so there's no need to tell me, thanks. Soon after came my next great burst of creativity:
Simon was cranky,
Then he puked all over me.
Now he is happy.
A friend suggested that I should write a book called "Gross Haikus That You Can Use", but I found out later that a mommy has already done a book of haikus about mommying (though I have to say that hers lack the lyrical vulgarity that mine have). Darned if I can think of what it's called, but it's out there. Still, I'm enjoying condensing my life into bite-sized morsels of haiku-y goodness, so I'm going to keep writing them. You can see The Daily Haiku (obviously not so good with the titles, either) at www.myhaikusthatyoucanuse.blogspot.com
Go ahead and look.
If you don't like my haikus,
you can just bite me.
Or just not look at that site again... but that didn't fit into the haiku.
A few months ago I had a super-duper experience, and my brain turned it into a haiku (probably because I'm not a good enough writer to make any more difficult poetry). I ended up with:
Something smells awful.
Simon's ass has exploded.
Grossest poop ever.
I liked it. It spoke to me. And yes, I am aware that small things amuse small minds, so there's no need to tell me, thanks. Soon after came my next great burst of creativity:
Simon was cranky,
Then he puked all over me.
Now he is happy.
A friend suggested that I should write a book called "Gross Haikus That You Can Use", but I found out later that a mommy has already done a book of haikus about mommying (though I have to say that hers lack the lyrical vulgarity that mine have). Darned if I can think of what it's called, but it's out there. Still, I'm enjoying condensing my life into bite-sized morsels of haiku-y goodness, so I'm going to keep writing them. You can see The Daily Haiku (obviously not so good with the titles, either) at www.myhaikusthatyoucanuse.blogspot.com
Go ahead and look.
If you don't like my haikus,
you can just bite me.
Or just not look at that site again... but that didn't fit into the haiku.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Man of Constant Sorrows (My Soggy-Bottom Boy)
Before I had my own baby, I couldn't change a diaper without gagging. I couldn't clean up dog poop from the back yard. I could barely clean out the litter box without wanting to barf. If I've accomplished anything in the last eight months, it's been strengthening my stomach to near super-human levels of non-gaggage. I've seen stuff that could make (and has made) grown men cry, I've been up to my elbows in messes that make the average mudslide look like an oasis of calm and purity, and it has all come out of the sweetest, most innocent looking little creature on earth- my baby boy.
Oh, the wonders I have seen. The books try to prepare you for meconium, the stuff that's not exactly poop, but which comes out of the little darling's bottom soon after birth. Apparently this mess should be greeted with happiness, as it indicates that everything is working well at that end of things. I think "shock and awe" would better describe our reaction. What the books call "greenish, slightly sticky waste" is, in fact, a thick, dark, tar-like substance that could probably be used to cover roofs and fill wall cracks in an emergency. I guess God figured that He'd just throw that at you right at the beginning, and then anything that followed would be relatively easy to deal with... that, or He just gets a good laugh out of our faces when we open that first precious package.
Even if the diaper's not dirty (which, let's face it, it probably is), the parents of a baby boy have other challenges to deal with. If you have a boy, you are officially a target. Actually, I got off easy- Daddy was the preferred target in this household when golden fountains were flowing sans diaper. There were times my little darling actually waited until Daddy was in range, smiled happily, and wheeeeee! No one has got it in the mouth yet, and I think we're almost past that stage. Famous last words...
We thought we were ready. We had bags of newborn-sized diapers all ready to go in the nursery. We had wipes. We had vaseline. We had done the obligatory giggling over how ridiculously tiny the diapers were (only to find later that they looked way too big when they were actually ON the baby). I had even put a diaper on a vaguely baby-shaped stuffed monkey to make sure I remembered how to do it, and to get the dog used to what I'd be spending so many hours doing in the near future. We were wrong. What seemed like a mountain of diapers was actually about a three-day supply, thanks to our new poop factory's charming habit of holding back just a little poo in hopes of soiling a fresh target. We weren't prepared for the rainbow-hued packages our boy would be leaving for us: green, black, even rusty-red. And the leaks- oh, the leaks! The diaper commercials promise Fort Knox security; the reality is wet sleepers, wet crib sheets, and wet Mommy. And it's not just pee leaks. No, when you get the leaks that leave poor baby with poop from neck to knees, pee leaks actually stert to look good. This, folks, is why God made babies so cute.
Just when things were getting predictable, we had to go and start giving him "real" food. Talk about weird colours!
After this much time and this much poop, I've gotten over the gagging thing. I can clean up a head-to-toe mess without cracking a window, though I still hold my breath on the big messes until I turn blue (which, coincidentally, is just about the only colour he hasn't produced yet). Daddy's not quite there; yesterday he got to change his first poop since his little buddy started eating solids, and judging by the "oh, Good Lord!"s and the gagging noises, I'd say he gained a new appreciation for my work.
Oh, but I still don't clean up the dog poop. That's just gross.
Oh, the wonders I have seen. The books try to prepare you for meconium, the stuff that's not exactly poop, but which comes out of the little darling's bottom soon after birth. Apparently this mess should be greeted with happiness, as it indicates that everything is working well at that end of things. I think "shock and awe" would better describe our reaction. What the books call "greenish, slightly sticky waste" is, in fact, a thick, dark, tar-like substance that could probably be used to cover roofs and fill wall cracks in an emergency. I guess God figured that He'd just throw that at you right at the beginning, and then anything that followed would be relatively easy to deal with... that, or He just gets a good laugh out of our faces when we open that first precious package.
Even if the diaper's not dirty (which, let's face it, it probably is), the parents of a baby boy have other challenges to deal with. If you have a boy, you are officially a target. Actually, I got off easy- Daddy was the preferred target in this household when golden fountains were flowing sans diaper. There were times my little darling actually waited until Daddy was in range, smiled happily, and wheeeeee! No one has got it in the mouth yet, and I think we're almost past that stage. Famous last words...
We thought we were ready. We had bags of newborn-sized diapers all ready to go in the nursery. We had wipes. We had vaseline. We had done the obligatory giggling over how ridiculously tiny the diapers were (only to find later that they looked way too big when they were actually ON the baby). I had even put a diaper on a vaguely baby-shaped stuffed monkey to make sure I remembered how to do it, and to get the dog used to what I'd be spending so many hours doing in the near future. We were wrong. What seemed like a mountain of diapers was actually about a three-day supply, thanks to our new poop factory's charming habit of holding back just a little poo in hopes of soiling a fresh target. We weren't prepared for the rainbow-hued packages our boy would be leaving for us: green, black, even rusty-red. And the leaks- oh, the leaks! The diaper commercials promise Fort Knox security; the reality is wet sleepers, wet crib sheets, and wet Mommy. And it's not just pee leaks. No, when you get the leaks that leave poor baby with poop from neck to knees, pee leaks actually stert to look good. This, folks, is why God made babies so cute.
Just when things were getting predictable, we had to go and start giving him "real" food. Talk about weird colours!
After this much time and this much poop, I've gotten over the gagging thing. I can clean up a head-to-toe mess without cracking a window, though I still hold my breath on the big messes until I turn blue (which, coincidentally, is just about the only colour he hasn't produced yet). Daddy's not quite there; yesterday he got to change his first poop since his little buddy started eating solids, and judging by the "oh, Good Lord!"s and the gagging noises, I'd say he gained a new appreciation for my work.
Oh, but I still don't clean up the dog poop. That's just gross.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Silly Bill
I have this fear that I'm irreversibly messing my kid up. I know that everyone has that fear from time to time- nobody's perfect, therefore we're screwing up at something at any given moment. Parents are particularly prone to having this fear, maybe because there's so much at stake when we make mistakes. I don't think the poor little guy is going to end up in a bell tower with a shotgun or bouncing on Oprah's couch or anything. But given the environment he's growing up in, he's bound to be at least a little weird.
For one thing, the poor guy will have no idea what his name is. They (ooh, the infamous They) say that when your baby is looking in a mirror, you should say "Ooh, look at baby (insert child's name here)." This will presumably promote self-awareness. Too bad we've been calling Simon's reflection "nomiS" (i.e. Simon backwards, for anyone who missed that) since the first time they met. Apparently Simon and nomiS will grow up being the best of friends, but at no time will my baby go, "hey... that's me!". Also, the little guy has more nicknames than anyone I've ever met. It started out when he was a newborn in the hospital- for various reasons we started referring to him as "little monkey" and "turtle". Next came "Fartin' Martin", "Tootin' Newton", and "Gassy Gus" (notice a theme here?). His Daddy referred to him as "anger ball" when he got fussy. Lately he's earned himself the nickname "Silly Bill", and I seem to call him a weirdo at least 3 or 4 times a day. I really do try to use his name when I think of it- I'm pretty sure I say "I love you, Simon" more than "I love you, Bill."
He may or may not also develop some confusion about the correct names for things. Yesterday he was eating some exceptionally un-appetizing cereal with prunes mixed in, the sight of which prompted Daddy to encourage him to "eat your poop!" If this continues, I can see my poor baby either a) thinking that eating poop is not only acceptable, but encouraged in our household, or b) showing up at kindergarten telling his teacher that Daddy makes him eat poop. It's probably karma, actually. I once had a toddler in my mom's daycare convinced that the wallpaper in the kitchen was called "cereal". Or "sleeliuls", as he said it. Oh, come on... it was funny at the time, OK?
Another minor issue is the stuff he hears every day. We don't swear much (aside from the occasional "Bloody Hell!" from Daddy), and we try not to watch movies or TV shows with questionable content when Bill (oops) is around. Still, there's a good chance that his first full sentence is going to be "Otis, stop that or I'll kill you!" Won't that be cute in the grocery store?
There are worse things we could be doing, though. Simon, Nomis or Bill, at least he knows he's loved. The kid already has a great (if odd) sense of humour- he thinks it's hysterically funny when you tell him to go to sleep, and his giggles make me laugh even when I'm exhausted and desperate for him to have his nap. And at least his poop has 14 essential nutrients... I don't think we're really doing all that bad a job. Good old Bill might not grow up normal, but at least he's happy.
For one thing, the poor guy will have no idea what his name is. They (ooh, the infamous They) say that when your baby is looking in a mirror, you should say "Ooh, look at baby (insert child's name here)." This will presumably promote self-awareness. Too bad we've been calling Simon's reflection "nomiS" (i.e. Simon backwards, for anyone who missed that) since the first time they met. Apparently Simon and nomiS will grow up being the best of friends, but at no time will my baby go, "hey... that's me!". Also, the little guy has more nicknames than anyone I've ever met. It started out when he was a newborn in the hospital- for various reasons we started referring to him as "little monkey" and "turtle". Next came "Fartin' Martin", "Tootin' Newton", and "Gassy Gus" (notice a theme here?). His Daddy referred to him as "anger ball" when he got fussy. Lately he's earned himself the nickname "Silly Bill", and I seem to call him a weirdo at least 3 or 4 times a day. I really do try to use his name when I think of it- I'm pretty sure I say "I love you, Simon" more than "I love you, Bill."
He may or may not also develop some confusion about the correct names for things. Yesterday he was eating some exceptionally un-appetizing cereal with prunes mixed in, the sight of which prompted Daddy to encourage him to "eat your poop!" If this continues, I can see my poor baby either a) thinking that eating poop is not only acceptable, but encouraged in our household, or b) showing up at kindergarten telling his teacher that Daddy makes him eat poop. It's probably karma, actually. I once had a toddler in my mom's daycare convinced that the wallpaper in the kitchen was called "cereal". Or "sleeliuls", as he said it. Oh, come on... it was funny at the time, OK?
Another minor issue is the stuff he hears every day. We don't swear much (aside from the occasional "Bloody Hell!" from Daddy), and we try not to watch movies or TV shows with questionable content when Bill (oops) is around. Still, there's a good chance that his first full sentence is going to be "Otis, stop that or I'll kill you!" Won't that be cute in the grocery store?
There are worse things we could be doing, though. Simon, Nomis or Bill, at least he knows he's loved. The kid already has a great (if odd) sense of humour- he thinks it's hysterically funny when you tell him to go to sleep, and his giggles make me laugh even when I'm exhausted and desperate for him to have his nap. And at least his poop has 14 essential nutrients... I don't think we're really doing all that bad a job. Good old Bill might not grow up normal, but at least he's happy.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Sick, Sick, Sick
I need a day off. If I had a real job, seven (almost 8) months without a day off would be unthinkable. I might be getting into a heck of a lawsuit... and quite frankly, I could use the money. I get time off, though. I work odd shifts (7-10, 11:30-2, 4-7, on call 7-6 and all times between shifts), but nap times are nice. I'd like a sick day, though. Today would be a good sick day. Today I have a migraine. Not a regular headache like I get once or twice every week, but a full-blown, raging, pull-down-the-blinds, no-just-leave-the-toilet-open-please, shut-that-cat-up, what-the-hell-am-I-doing-at-the-COMPUTER migraine. My mom had them a lot when I was growing up, and they were always "quiet" days, though I don't remember them ever disrupting our lives. I think I can safely assume that she would have liked a few days off, too. It's 3:00 in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas. To some people, pajamas in the afternoon is a luxury. For me, it's just sad.
But my little employer isn't offering to let me have the day off, and he's just a bit too young to appreciate my situation, anyway. Right now he's happily bouncing in his Jolly Jumper and probably wondering why we haven't been playing on the floor much today. The poor kid is quite likely enjoying a serious caffeine buzz; I've been consuming massive amounts of tea in an attempt to make the pain in my head go away, so he's enjoying un-deceive boobie lattes today. At least he's happy.
I won't be difficult to negotiate with on the days off thing, I swear. I don't even need regular days off; I'd probably spend them at home with my family, anyway. I'm even flexible on paid sick days- pay me the same for sick days as for regular work days, pay me nothing- it's all the same to me. No, really, it's the same. Deal? Hello? Well, think about it and get back to me. I'll be brewing a fresh pot of tea if you need me.
But my little employer isn't offering to let me have the day off, and he's just a bit too young to appreciate my situation, anyway. Right now he's happily bouncing in his Jolly Jumper and probably wondering why we haven't been playing on the floor much today. The poor kid is quite likely enjoying a serious caffeine buzz; I've been consuming massive amounts of tea in an attempt to make the pain in my head go away, so he's enjoying un-deceive boobie lattes today. At least he's happy.
I won't be difficult to negotiate with on the days off thing, I swear. I don't even need regular days off; I'd probably spend them at home with my family, anyway. I'm even flexible on paid sick days- pay me the same for sick days as for regular work days, pay me nothing- it's all the same to me. No, really, it's the same. Deal? Hello? Well, think about it and get back to me. I'll be brewing a fresh pot of tea if you need me.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Everybody's Mama
OK, so by now anyone who reads this blog (and most of you know me, anyway) knows that I am mommy to a lovely 7 1/2 month old boy who I love to bits. I realized yesterday, though, that I am actually not only his mommy, but everyone else's mommy as well.
Not everyone in the world, of course. Just in my household. The revelation hit me as I was cleaning the laundry room yesterday. It's not usually a big job, but in this case I was cleaning up after a sick cat had been shut in there for 24 hours. I'll spare you the messy details here; I'll just say that it wasn't pretty. Though I wasn't happy to be doing the job, I felt bad for my poor puss, and I wasn't angry at him for making the mess. I had visions of future nights to be spent sitting up with my own little man when he gets sick, cleaning up his messes and comforting him as best I can. It was later, while holding a sterile baby-food jar under said cat's back end, waiting for a urine sample, that I realized that this goes way beyond having an animal. I have always thought of the cat, Charlie, as sort of a furry roommate, but the truth is, I am a kitty mommy. Is there a support group for that?
And it's not just the cat, folks. I'm dealing with sibling rivalry on a daily basis from a dog who should be almost developmentally mature (please, Lord, let him be almost grown-up!), but who still acts like an 80 lb. baby. He gets attention in any way he can, whether that means lying on the baby's blanket during floor-play time or digging into the garbage while I'm busy feeding the little man. He tries to sit in my lap whenever it's free, which leads to some awkwardness (and occasional bruising).
As for the hubby... well, he doesn't read this blog, but I'm still not going to go into that today. He's not as bad as the rest, but he needs a lot of attention, too, not to mention nutritious lunches and clean clothes. At least he can tell me he appreciates it!
So I guess I'm everybody's mama. And I kind of like it that way. Yes, the dog makes me want to kill him at least four or five times a day, but he does keep the bed warm at night when he cuddles me. And though I'm not particularly fond of inhaling cat-pee fumes, it was pretty rewarding when Charlie climbed up on the sink, put his paws on my shoulders and rubbed his head under my chin- kind of a kitty hug. I'm already getting rewarding smiles from my "real" baby, and I know that while the challenges will get bigger as he grows up, so will the rewards. And the hubby- well, I don't know if he notices everything I do for him, but he tries to return the favour and take care of me when he can, and that's good enough for me... most days!
PS- Charlie has a diary... I know, I'm a big geek. If you want to see him, he's at www.catster.com/?270662
Not everyone in the world, of course. Just in my household. The revelation hit me as I was cleaning the laundry room yesterday. It's not usually a big job, but in this case I was cleaning up after a sick cat had been shut in there for 24 hours. I'll spare you the messy details here; I'll just say that it wasn't pretty. Though I wasn't happy to be doing the job, I felt bad for my poor puss, and I wasn't angry at him for making the mess. I had visions of future nights to be spent sitting up with my own little man when he gets sick, cleaning up his messes and comforting him as best I can. It was later, while holding a sterile baby-food jar under said cat's back end, waiting for a urine sample, that I realized that this goes way beyond having an animal. I have always thought of the cat, Charlie, as sort of a furry roommate, but the truth is, I am a kitty mommy. Is there a support group for that?
And it's not just the cat, folks. I'm dealing with sibling rivalry on a daily basis from a dog who should be almost developmentally mature (please, Lord, let him be almost grown-up!), but who still acts like an 80 lb. baby. He gets attention in any way he can, whether that means lying on the baby's blanket during floor-play time or digging into the garbage while I'm busy feeding the little man. He tries to sit in my lap whenever it's free, which leads to some awkwardness (and occasional bruising).
As for the hubby... well, he doesn't read this blog, but I'm still not going to go into that today. He's not as bad as the rest, but he needs a lot of attention, too, not to mention nutritious lunches and clean clothes. At least he can tell me he appreciates it!
So I guess I'm everybody's mama. And I kind of like it that way. Yes, the dog makes me want to kill him at least four or five times a day, but he does keep the bed warm at night when he cuddles me. And though I'm not particularly fond of inhaling cat-pee fumes, it was pretty rewarding when Charlie climbed up on the sink, put his paws on my shoulders and rubbed his head under my chin- kind of a kitty hug. I'm already getting rewarding smiles from my "real" baby, and I know that while the challenges will get bigger as he grows up, so will the rewards. And the hubby- well, I don't know if he notices everything I do for him, but he tries to return the favour and take care of me when he can, and that's good enough for me... most days!
PS- Charlie has a diary... I know, I'm a big geek. If you want to see him, he's at www.catster.com/?270662
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Conspiracy Theory
Listen carefully. The truth has been revealed to me in a dream. There is a conspiracy, and it concerns every woman of "child-bearing age" (ugh- I hate that term. Like you get your period and suddenly THAT's how you're defined?) and those who shop for them. What you are about to learn will shock and anger you. You have been warned.
Here's how the dream went, as far as I can remember: I'm sitting at a table at an outdoor cafe with my mom and her twin sister, Kathy. Kathy has been complaining about the back pain she has been suffering for years...
Kathy: My doctor told me there's really nothing they can do for me. They can't do surgery or anything... I guess I'll have to get my painkiller prescription refilled on the way home. I don't know what I'm going to do... [rubs her lower back]
Mom: [slamming her fist down on the table, rattling the water glasses and silverware] That's it! This has been going on way too long! I went through the same thing, Kathy, and you need to know that there is a solution to your problem, but it's not one that They are going to tell you about...
At this point in the dream, mom tells us about The Tampon Industry and their Conspiracy. The details are a little fuzzy, but what it boils down to is this: My aunt's back pain, and that of millions of other women, is caused not by a back problem, but by a uterus problem. That's why back surgery will never help the pain, you see. The obvious solution (at least according to dream-logic) is to perform a hysterectomy on women suffering from this ailment, and all will be well. But someone is standing in the way of this solution. That's right: The Tampon Industry.
See, if women are all out getting hysterectomies to cure their back pain, where will that leave the Tampon Industry (or Big Tampon, as it will now be called)? They're making billions off of their over-priced product.
You may have wondered, as I have in waking life, "why do tampons cost so much, anyway?" Two answers: 1) What the hell are we going to do, boycott the product? I think not. 2) The Tampon Tax. In the dream, my mom whips out a pie chart. It looks a lot like the ones you see on gas pumps, the ones that break down a dollar spent on gas- materials, refining costs, profit... and TAX. The big piece of the pie. Yes, the government is in on the conspiracy, people! If women aren't buying tampons, the government isn't getting its tampon tax, and that cannot be allowed to happen.
"Oh, they're all in on it," Mom tells us in a whisper, stashing the pie chart. "Big Tampon, the government, even the doctors. You don't think they're getting paid off to keep the back pain thing a secret? Please. They're making millions off of this little secret they're keeping..."
That's all that I learned in my dream, and no more details came out in the nights that followed. Weird, right? And yet strangely plausible... listen, if I suddenly disappear, you know they came to shut me up.
PS- I'm not crazy. I am fully aware that this was just a dream, and unfortunately, it was a fairly typical one for me. Some day I'll have to tell you the "A Part of our Heritage" dream, with the Chinese immigrants in the hotel room... never mind.
PPS- I am also aware that this has nothing to do with mommyhood. Except for the part about "child bearing age". But really, wasn't this more fun than me whining about teething? I thought so.
Here's how the dream went, as far as I can remember: I'm sitting at a table at an outdoor cafe with my mom and her twin sister, Kathy. Kathy has been complaining about the back pain she has been suffering for years...
Kathy: My doctor told me there's really nothing they can do for me. They can't do surgery or anything... I guess I'll have to get my painkiller prescription refilled on the way home. I don't know what I'm going to do... [rubs her lower back]
Mom: [slamming her fist down on the table, rattling the water glasses and silverware] That's it! This has been going on way too long! I went through the same thing, Kathy, and you need to know that there is a solution to your problem, but it's not one that They are going to tell you about...
At this point in the dream, mom tells us about The Tampon Industry and their Conspiracy. The details are a little fuzzy, but what it boils down to is this: My aunt's back pain, and that of millions of other women, is caused not by a back problem, but by a uterus problem. That's why back surgery will never help the pain, you see. The obvious solution (at least according to dream-logic) is to perform a hysterectomy on women suffering from this ailment, and all will be well. But someone is standing in the way of this solution. That's right: The Tampon Industry.
See, if women are all out getting hysterectomies to cure their back pain, where will that leave the Tampon Industry (or Big Tampon, as it will now be called)? They're making billions off of their over-priced product.
You may have wondered, as I have in waking life, "why do tampons cost so much, anyway?" Two answers: 1) What the hell are we going to do, boycott the product? I think not. 2) The Tampon Tax. In the dream, my mom whips out a pie chart. It looks a lot like the ones you see on gas pumps, the ones that break down a dollar spent on gas- materials, refining costs, profit... and TAX. The big piece of the pie. Yes, the government is in on the conspiracy, people! If women aren't buying tampons, the government isn't getting its tampon tax, and that cannot be allowed to happen.
"Oh, they're all in on it," Mom tells us in a whisper, stashing the pie chart. "Big Tampon, the government, even the doctors. You don't think they're getting paid off to keep the back pain thing a secret? Please. They're making millions off of this little secret they're keeping..."
That's all that I learned in my dream, and no more details came out in the nights that followed. Weird, right? And yet strangely plausible... listen, if I suddenly disappear, you know they came to shut me up.
PS- I'm not crazy. I am fully aware that this was just a dream, and unfortunately, it was a fairly typical one for me. Some day I'll have to tell you the "A Part of our Heritage" dream, with the Chinese immigrants in the hotel room... never mind.
PPS- I am also aware that this has nothing to do with mommyhood. Except for the part about "child bearing age". But really, wasn't this more fun than me whining about teething? I thought so.
Friday, March 10, 2006
How To Put a Baby to Bed (in Under 3 Hours)
According to parenting experts, all you need for happy bedtimes is a good evening routine. Here’s what that looks like in real life (at least some of the time):
6:30- Dinner time. Prepare various mushy foods and serve to baby. Shoo dog away from under the table, where he’s patiently waiting for flying food.
6:45- Remove food globs from baby’s high chair, hair, face, clothing, ears and nostrils. Wipe down all floors and furniture in a nine-foot radius of said high chair. Attempt to remove sticky streaks from own hair; quickly give up. Wish dog was around to help clean up.
6:50- Wonder whether any food actually got into baby.
7:00- Bathe baby in a warm tub of lavender-scented bubbles (to promote relaxation). Change into handy bathrobe after getting soaked by splashing, squirming baby, who is happy but obviously not relaxed.
7:10- put sweet-smelling baby in cute little footie pyjamas.
7:12- smell foul odour; notice stain spreading across back of baby’s pyjamas.
7:13- change slightly less sweet-smelling baby into clean jammies; start a load of laundry.
7:20- return to scheduled events. Story time: read Guess How Much I Love You and Goodnight Moon, gently removing books from baby’s mouth every few minutes. Marvel at baby’s obvious appreciation for literature.
7:30- Chase dog out of room after he starts growling at the ceiling for no apparent reason. Ignore the fact that he has stolen a sock and is carrying it away. Return to bed for last feed of the evening.
7:35- Yell in pain after being bitten by over-zealous teething baby; baby cries from fright. Cry from guilt (and fear of having scarred the poor child for life)
7:36- Husband runs in and comforts everyone. Back to scheduled events, once again...
7:35- Lullabye time. Try "rock-a-bye baby"; find self unable to finish due to realisation of how beastly the words are. Try "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star". Sudden attack of "mommy brain" causes memory loss- can’t finish song. Hum for a minute, then take it home with a stunning rendition of the theme song from "Friends".
7:45- first attempt at bed. Put baby down while he’s still awake (as per instructions in baby books). Head out to living room for quality time with husband.
7:50- hear strange noises- baby seems to be singing.
7:51- ... and now he’s crying. Pat him on the back- still crying. Pick him up- nope, still crying. Take another crack at "Twinkle, Twinkle"- baby starts laughing hysterically. Realise that he’s about a quarter-past overtired already. Put him back to bed.
8:00- Baby crying again. Have short "discussion" with the Hubby about whose turn it is to go in, as he did nap time this afternoon.
8:01- Hubby goes and walks baby to sleep. So much for putting him down awake, but at least he’s asleep.
8:30- Haul wailing baby to rocking chair in the living room; wish Hubby was watching a movie that did not involve gunfights and swearing. Return to baby’s bedroom to cuddle and sing. Give up on pacifier after he spits it out for the seventh time.
8:40- Resign self to life imprisonment in the baby’s room, singing self hoarse.
8:45- Baby’s eyes start to close. Hold breath...
8:46- Nope, they’re open again. Release breath and return to singing. Oh, there they go again...
8:50- Success! He’s finally asleep. Find self unable to put him down, after all- enjoy time to cuddle without any squirming, screaming or biting.
9:05- Put Baby down in crib. His eyes flutter open; offer hasty prayer that they’ll close again.
9:08- Offer prayer of thanks while backing out of the room and closing the door.
9:10- Collapse into living room chair, ready for quality time with patient and understanding husband.
9:15- Zzzzzzzz...........
See? Nothing to it.
......12:30 a.m. - Remember that load of laundry. Get out of bed to move laundry over to dryer, motivated entirely by guilt at the thought of mold growing all over poor baby's pyjamas. Peek in at sleeping baby- goodness, he does look sweet. It's good to be me.
6:30- Dinner time. Prepare various mushy foods and serve to baby. Shoo dog away from under the table, where he’s patiently waiting for flying food.
6:45- Remove food globs from baby’s high chair, hair, face, clothing, ears and nostrils. Wipe down all floors and furniture in a nine-foot radius of said high chair. Attempt to remove sticky streaks from own hair; quickly give up. Wish dog was around to help clean up.
6:50- Wonder whether any food actually got into baby.
7:00- Bathe baby in a warm tub of lavender-scented bubbles (to promote relaxation). Change into handy bathrobe after getting soaked by splashing, squirming baby, who is happy but obviously not relaxed.
7:10- put sweet-smelling baby in cute little footie pyjamas.
7:12- smell foul odour; notice stain spreading across back of baby’s pyjamas.
7:13- change slightly less sweet-smelling baby into clean jammies; start a load of laundry.
7:20- return to scheduled events. Story time: read Guess How Much I Love You and Goodnight Moon, gently removing books from baby’s mouth every few minutes. Marvel at baby’s obvious appreciation for literature.
7:30- Chase dog out of room after he starts growling at the ceiling for no apparent reason. Ignore the fact that he has stolen a sock and is carrying it away. Return to bed for last feed of the evening.
7:35- Yell in pain after being bitten by over-zealous teething baby; baby cries from fright. Cry from guilt (and fear of having scarred the poor child for life)
7:36- Husband runs in and comforts everyone. Back to scheduled events, once again...
7:35- Lullabye time. Try "rock-a-bye baby"; find self unable to finish due to realisation of how beastly the words are. Try "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star". Sudden attack of "mommy brain" causes memory loss- can’t finish song. Hum for a minute, then take it home with a stunning rendition of the theme song from "Friends".
7:45- first attempt at bed. Put baby down while he’s still awake (as per instructions in baby books). Head out to living room for quality time with husband.
7:50- hear strange noises- baby seems to be singing.
7:51- ... and now he’s crying. Pat him on the back- still crying. Pick him up- nope, still crying. Take another crack at "Twinkle, Twinkle"- baby starts laughing hysterically. Realise that he’s about a quarter-past overtired already. Put him back to bed.
8:00- Baby crying again. Have short "discussion" with the Hubby about whose turn it is to go in, as he did nap time this afternoon.
8:01- Hubby goes and walks baby to sleep. So much for putting him down awake, but at least he’s asleep.
8:30- Haul wailing baby to rocking chair in the living room; wish Hubby was watching a movie that did not involve gunfights and swearing. Return to baby’s bedroom to cuddle and sing. Give up on pacifier after he spits it out for the seventh time.
8:40- Resign self to life imprisonment in the baby’s room, singing self hoarse.
8:45- Baby’s eyes start to close. Hold breath...
8:46- Nope, they’re open again. Release breath and return to singing. Oh, there they go again...
8:50- Success! He’s finally asleep. Find self unable to put him down, after all- enjoy time to cuddle without any squirming, screaming or biting.
9:05- Put Baby down in crib. His eyes flutter open; offer hasty prayer that they’ll close again.
9:08- Offer prayer of thanks while backing out of the room and closing the door.
9:10- Collapse into living room chair, ready for quality time with patient and understanding husband.
9:15- Zzzzzzzz...........
See? Nothing to it.
......12:30 a.m. - Remember that load of laundry. Get out of bed to move laundry over to dryer, motivated entirely by guilt at the thought of mold growing all over poor baby's pyjamas. Peek in at sleeping baby- goodness, he does look sweet. It's good to be me.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Friends
If you read parenting magazines, you've probably noticed several common themes: potty training, bed sharing and whether it's still appropriate when the child in question is fifteen, and discipline (or lack thereof). And there's always a page or two devoted to the trials and tribulations of being a parent, including the lack of privacy, lack of sex life, lack of... well, you get the idea. The one that always worries me is the lack of friends issue. OK, not lack of friends, exactly, but the changes that friendships go through when one friend has a baby.
I've never had a lot of friends. I had a good group in high school that I hung out with, and my dorm-mates at university were an amazing group... but I've managed to lose touch with all but a special few of those people as our lives changed and went in different directions. I might as well be honest- I had lost touch with every one of my high school friends before we went back for our graduation ceremony in the fall. It's not that I don't care about my friends- I really do. I just don't notice how much time passes between letters or phone calls, and then I'm too embarassed to call and say, "hey, remember me?" I'm also not much good at meeting people. I'm shy, I'm generally a lousy conversationalist, at least until I get to know you. Then you can't shut me up.
That's why the idea of losing the friends I DO have is so worrisome. The magazines tell me that we're living in different worlds, now. I'll annoy my friends by talking incessantly about my baby, and they won't understand why I don't have time for partying... hang on. I never had time for partying. Well THAT'S a relief, anyway! Actually, I don't think it's a problem I need to worry about right now. Here's why:
I have great friends.
I'm not trying to suck up to anyone, this is just what's on my mind today. Mr. Cranky Pants and I went to the mall yesterday with a friend who (insert dramatic music here) doesn't have kids. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. Little Mister makes shopping trips difficult, but my friend (heck, lets call her "Jenn") just goes with it. Have to go back to the little room at Sears to breastfeed? Sure, meet you back here in twenty minutes. Want a cup of tea, but the line at Tim Horton's stretches down the escalator and out the door? No problem, I'll stay here with the little guy. You get the idea. So yesterday I got adult conversation AND I got out of the house. It was great! Last week "Jenn" and her husband (hmm, what to call him?... "Chris" sounds good) invited me over for dinner while Mr. Me was at work. The food was amazing. The company was better. The baby was... crying. Not exactly an ideal accompaniment to a nice meal. But they've never made us feel bad about having to leave the table during a meal- heck, they offer to do it for us. Like I said, I have great friends. They love our boy, even when he's being a Cranky Pants. They go out of their way to get me out of the house and into adult company. That just doesn't sound to me like those friends the magazines talk about!
I've been blessed with friends here in town and half a country away who, even though they've got totally different things going on in their lives (and would probably be justified in dumping a friend who does, in fact, talk about the baby all the time), do their best to keep our friendship alive. Whether it's a trip to the mall or a conversation online with my roommate from school, they all keep me going however they can. I can't think of any way to repay their kindness, except to say that if you ever need me to get YOU out of the house, I'm there. And thanks for everything.
I'm the luckiest mommy in the world!
I've never had a lot of friends. I had a good group in high school that I hung out with, and my dorm-mates at university were an amazing group... but I've managed to lose touch with all but a special few of those people as our lives changed and went in different directions. I might as well be honest- I had lost touch with every one of my high school friends before we went back for our graduation ceremony in the fall. It's not that I don't care about my friends- I really do. I just don't notice how much time passes between letters or phone calls, and then I'm too embarassed to call and say, "hey, remember me?" I'm also not much good at meeting people. I'm shy, I'm generally a lousy conversationalist, at least until I get to know you. Then you can't shut me up.
That's why the idea of losing the friends I DO have is so worrisome. The magazines tell me that we're living in different worlds, now. I'll annoy my friends by talking incessantly about my baby, and they won't understand why I don't have time for partying... hang on. I never had time for partying. Well THAT'S a relief, anyway! Actually, I don't think it's a problem I need to worry about right now. Here's why:
I have great friends.
I'm not trying to suck up to anyone, this is just what's on my mind today. Mr. Cranky Pants and I went to the mall yesterday with a friend who (insert dramatic music here) doesn't have kids. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. Little Mister makes shopping trips difficult, but my friend (heck, lets call her "Jenn") just goes with it. Have to go back to the little room at Sears to breastfeed? Sure, meet you back here in twenty minutes. Want a cup of tea, but the line at Tim Horton's stretches down the escalator and out the door? No problem, I'll stay here with the little guy. You get the idea. So yesterday I got adult conversation AND I got out of the house. It was great! Last week "Jenn" and her husband (hmm, what to call him?... "Chris" sounds good) invited me over for dinner while Mr. Me was at work. The food was amazing. The company was better. The baby was... crying. Not exactly an ideal accompaniment to a nice meal. But they've never made us feel bad about having to leave the table during a meal- heck, they offer to do it for us. Like I said, I have great friends. They love our boy, even when he's being a Cranky Pants. They go out of their way to get me out of the house and into adult company. That just doesn't sound to me like those friends the magazines talk about!
I've been blessed with friends here in town and half a country away who, even though they've got totally different things going on in their lives (and would probably be justified in dumping a friend who does, in fact, talk about the baby all the time), do their best to keep our friendship alive. Whether it's a trip to the mall or a conversation online with my roommate from school, they all keep me going however they can. I can't think of any way to repay their kindness, except to say that if you ever need me to get YOU out of the house, I'm there. And thanks for everything.
I'm the luckiest mommy in the world!
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Mr. Cranky Pants
I just remembered something. When my mom used to do daycare in our home, it seemed like mommies always went back to work when their babies were about six months old. This might have had something to so with the length of their maternity leave, but I'm re-discovering another truth: six month-old babies just aren't that much fun.
My little buddy turns six months old today, a fact that I find hard to believe. Was it really 6 months ago that the hubby took me to the hospital at 7 in the morning? Was I in the recovery room a half-year ago (to the minute), cuddling our new little bundle and trying to move my frozen legs so we could go upstairs? It doesn't seem possible. And yet here I am with a cranky little fellow half-way to his first birthday, and I'm trying desperately to figure out what I can do to make him happy. The last six months have, overall, been amazing. I love my sweet little man, and we have way more good days than bad. The last week, however, has been... less than blissful.
Is he teething? I really hope so, because at least that would mean that the end is in sight. I don't see any bumps on his gums, though. My mom says that six month olds get cranky because they can see so much going on around them, but they're not mobile yet- they can't get to all that cool stuff, and they get frustrated. That's a bigger issue- Mr. Cranky Pants (as he's affectionately known these days) rolls onto his tummy and holds his head and shoulders up very nicely, but he's a long way from crawling. A long, frustrating way from crawling. Whatever the cause is, he's CRAN-kay. If he's not asleep, he's grumbling, whining or crying. His Baby Einstein DVD keeps him occupied; I confess that I'm letting him watch more TV this week than I ever have before, just to keep him happy. Yesterday I made him a "train" out of a cardboard box and pushed him around the living room. That kept him happy for about 5 minutes, which I considered a huge victory. We try to read stories, but we only get about half-way through "Goodnight Moon" before he gets restless. He won't eat a good meal. He won't have a good nap. He won't play on the floor.
Am I complaining? You bet. For the record, I'm aware that I signed up for this job. I still wouldn't trade it for anything else. That doesn't mean I can't bitch about my bad days.
That said, it could be worse. There are good moments in between the whining and crying; a few days ago I was getting some big laughs when I bounced him up and down on my foot. And even the difficult times aren't all bad. Yesterday when my poor fellow couldn't sleep, I cuddled him during his whole afternoon nap just so he could get some rest. I really didn't care if it was spoiling him- he got some sleep, and I got to sit and watch him do it. Good deal.
I know there's a reason that he's upset. When I think that looking after a cranky baby is the hardest job around, I try to remember that being a baby is a lot harder. And I'm praying, for his sake and mine, that this stage passes REALLY soon!
My little buddy turns six months old today, a fact that I find hard to believe. Was it really 6 months ago that the hubby took me to the hospital at 7 in the morning? Was I in the recovery room a half-year ago (to the minute), cuddling our new little bundle and trying to move my frozen legs so we could go upstairs? It doesn't seem possible. And yet here I am with a cranky little fellow half-way to his first birthday, and I'm trying desperately to figure out what I can do to make him happy. The last six months have, overall, been amazing. I love my sweet little man, and we have way more good days than bad. The last week, however, has been... less than blissful.
Is he teething? I really hope so, because at least that would mean that the end is in sight. I don't see any bumps on his gums, though. My mom says that six month olds get cranky because they can see so much going on around them, but they're not mobile yet- they can't get to all that cool stuff, and they get frustrated. That's a bigger issue- Mr. Cranky Pants (as he's affectionately known these days) rolls onto his tummy and holds his head and shoulders up very nicely, but he's a long way from crawling. A long, frustrating way from crawling. Whatever the cause is, he's CRAN-kay. If he's not asleep, he's grumbling, whining or crying. His Baby Einstein DVD keeps him occupied; I confess that I'm letting him watch more TV this week than I ever have before, just to keep him happy. Yesterday I made him a "train" out of a cardboard box and pushed him around the living room. That kept him happy for about 5 minutes, which I considered a huge victory. We try to read stories, but we only get about half-way through "Goodnight Moon" before he gets restless. He won't eat a good meal. He won't have a good nap. He won't play on the floor.
Am I complaining? You bet. For the record, I'm aware that I signed up for this job. I still wouldn't trade it for anything else. That doesn't mean I can't bitch about my bad days.
That said, it could be worse. There are good moments in between the whining and crying; a few days ago I was getting some big laughs when I bounced him up and down on my foot. And even the difficult times aren't all bad. Yesterday when my poor fellow couldn't sleep, I cuddled him during his whole afternoon nap just so he could get some rest. I really didn't care if it was spoiling him- he got some sleep, and I got to sit and watch him do it. Good deal.
I know there's a reason that he's upset. When I think that looking after a cranky baby is the hardest job around, I try to remember that being a baby is a lot harder. And I'm praying, for his sake and mine, that this stage passes REALLY soon!
Friday, March 03, 2006
Mommy Brain
I don’t remember ordering a lobotomy to go with my c-section, but it seems that they gave me the 2-for-1 special, anyway. My brain seems to have gone AWOL since the little guy was born- that, or it quit it’s job and I lost the letter of resignation in that pile of unsorted papers on the dining room table.
Now I’m certainly not claiming that I was a genius before I got pregnant- I’ve had more than my share of not-so-bright moments, and math in any form has always been a little beyond me. But I’m not taking about normal memory lapses here. I’m talking about those "what-the-hell-was-I-thinking-oh-my-gosh-I’m-losing- my-mind" moments (or let’s be honest, days) that generally mean one of two things: advances senility, or motherhood.
Last week after I made a cup of tea, I put the sugar bowl in the fridge. That was fine, but it was a bit harder to explain the next day how the milk got into the pantry. I lose the car keys, I lose the camera, I lose the glass of water I was drinking 30 seconds ago. I baby talk to my poor husband. I sing and dance to TV commercials. I answer the door in my pyjamas. Nearly every day I let the dog out and then forget that he exists until the cat yells for me to let "his" dog in. But that could happen to anyone, right?
It didn’t occur to me that I had actually lost my mind until the night that I lost the little man’s diaper. He was lying on the bathroom floor, fresh from the tub, waving his sweet smelling little hands and feet in the air. I reached for the diaper that I had laid out with his little footie jammies (see what I mean about the baby talk?)... And it was gone. There was the bum cream, open and waiting... and the baby lotion... there were his jammies... but no diaper. Yes, I know I could have gone and got another one, but I REMEMBERED putting this one out. Quite clearly, in fact. I looked on the counter, under the towels, behind the toilet, even in the tub- nothing. I was ready to go check the pantry when I looked down at my laughing baby- who was happily patting the diaper I’d already put on him. It was clear that I needed a nap. Or a stiff drink. Maybe both.
At least I know I’m not alone in this. "Mommy Brain" seems to be almost as common as mommyhood itself, and there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot we can do about it. Is it caused by hormones? Possibly. Lack of sleep? Probably. Being distracted every waking moment by the little bundle we've brought into the world? Definitely. Too bad none of them are things we can do anything about as long as we have children. But there is an upside to all of this, I guess: everyone knows that crazy mommies are way more fun than sane ones!
Now I’m certainly not claiming that I was a genius before I got pregnant- I’ve had more than my share of not-so-bright moments, and math in any form has always been a little beyond me. But I’m not taking about normal memory lapses here. I’m talking about those "what-the-hell-was-I-thinking-oh-my-gosh-I’m-losing- my-mind" moments (or let’s be honest, days) that generally mean one of two things: advances senility, or motherhood.
Last week after I made a cup of tea, I put the sugar bowl in the fridge. That was fine, but it was a bit harder to explain the next day how the milk got into the pantry. I lose the car keys, I lose the camera, I lose the glass of water I was drinking 30 seconds ago. I baby talk to my poor husband. I sing and dance to TV commercials. I answer the door in my pyjamas. Nearly every day I let the dog out and then forget that he exists until the cat yells for me to let "his" dog in. But that could happen to anyone, right?
It didn’t occur to me that I had actually lost my mind until the night that I lost the little man’s diaper. He was lying on the bathroom floor, fresh from the tub, waving his sweet smelling little hands and feet in the air. I reached for the diaper that I had laid out with his little footie jammies (see what I mean about the baby talk?)... And it was gone. There was the bum cream, open and waiting... and the baby lotion... there were his jammies... but no diaper. Yes, I know I could have gone and got another one, but I REMEMBERED putting this one out. Quite clearly, in fact. I looked on the counter, under the towels, behind the toilet, even in the tub- nothing. I was ready to go check the pantry when I looked down at my laughing baby- who was happily patting the diaper I’d already put on him. It was clear that I needed a nap. Or a stiff drink. Maybe both.
At least I know I’m not alone in this. "Mommy Brain" seems to be almost as common as mommyhood itself, and there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot we can do about it. Is it caused by hormones? Possibly. Lack of sleep? Probably. Being distracted every waking moment by the little bundle we've brought into the world? Definitely. Too bad none of them are things we can do anything about as long as we have children. But there is an upside to all of this, I guess: everyone knows that crazy mommies are way more fun than sane ones!
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Britney Copied Me
OK, anyone who knows me personally has already heard me bitch about this. I’m sorry, but it pissed me off just a little when I was pregnant. You know how every woman who gets pregnant wants to be the centre of the universe for a little while? Some get to do it publicly (many of you also heard my rant several years ago about how Celine Dion apparently thought she was the ONLY woman to have ever squeezed one out), but most of us just enjoy this special time with those people who are closest to us, knowing that the child growing within us is undoubtedly the most special one ever conceived. It’s our right as pregnant chicks. I was thrilled (if also terrified) when I found out I was pregnant. Imagine my shock when not long after, tabloid headlines in supermarkets everywhere started screaming that BRITNEY IS PREGNANT!!! (Bold letters and exclamation marks standard).
What the hell?!! Britney was SO copying me! It was a joke I shared with a few people, as in "Oh, she’s such a me wannabe!" as if the fallen Pop Tart was closely following the goings-on in the life of a middle-class retail worker in Canada. As time passed, though, the tabloids informed me of too many similarities for me to think that it really was just coincidence:
-Britney was having a boy. I found out that we were having a boy WAY before she did, or at
least before the news leaked to the press. TOTALLY copying me.
-Britney had a caesarean section. Now, one could argue that having a boy was not strictly copying me, if you buy into the argument that she didn’t choose the sex of her baby. Fine. But after I had my emergency c-section, I learned that Brit (I now felt that we were close enough to refer to one another informally) was going to have a PLANNED c-section. Some might have said she was just "too posh to push". I knew the truth- she was trying to be like me.
-She gave the baby an uncommon name. Not the same name as we chose (thank the Lord!), but one that's equally uncommon. We chose Simon- a good, strong name, but not one you hear every day. She chose Preston. Sean Preston, to be exact, but still. Work with me here, people. On a related note: Earlier in Britney’s pregnancy, I heard that she was thinking of a name for a baby girl that we had talked about OVER A YEAR EARLIER. Still think I’m paranoid?
-And the last straw: A few months after my baby boy was born, I took him on a trip to Ontario to visit my family. The hubby had to stay home because he couldn’t take the time off work. So what does Mrs. Federline do? She takes her baby boy home to Louisiana for a visit, and leaves her husband at home. Folks, this goes way beyond coincidence. The woman is obviously stalking me.
You’ve seen the evidence. Now, I’m not trying to say that everything she does is copying me- I’ve never gone into a gas station bathroom bare-footed, and I haven’t taken the dive into trailer trash couture yet (though we looked at a lovely mobile home a few weeks ago...). But come on... it’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?
All joking aside, I wish Ms. Spears all the best, and hope she's enjoying her little guy as much as I am mine. We might be from different countries, different backgrounds and from slightly different income levels, but we've got the best thing of all in common- we've got sweet little bundles to love. And I'm not even going to be mad at her for that one.
What the hell?!! Britney was SO copying me! It was a joke I shared with a few people, as in "Oh, she’s such a me wannabe!" as if the fallen Pop Tart was closely following the goings-on in the life of a middle-class retail worker in Canada. As time passed, though, the tabloids informed me of too many similarities for me to think that it really was just coincidence:
-Britney was having a boy. I found out that we were having a boy WAY before she did, or at
least before the news leaked to the press. TOTALLY copying me.
-Britney had a caesarean section. Now, one could argue that having a boy was not strictly copying me, if you buy into the argument that she didn’t choose the sex of her baby. Fine. But after I had my emergency c-section, I learned that Brit (I now felt that we were close enough to refer to one another informally) was going to have a PLANNED c-section. Some might have said she was just "too posh to push". I knew the truth- she was trying to be like me.
-She gave the baby an uncommon name. Not the same name as we chose (thank the Lord!), but one that's equally uncommon. We chose Simon- a good, strong name, but not one you hear every day. She chose Preston. Sean Preston, to be exact, but still. Work with me here, people. On a related note: Earlier in Britney’s pregnancy, I heard that she was thinking of a name for a baby girl that we had talked about OVER A YEAR EARLIER. Still think I’m paranoid?
-And the last straw: A few months after my baby boy was born, I took him on a trip to Ontario to visit my family. The hubby had to stay home because he couldn’t take the time off work. So what does Mrs. Federline do? She takes her baby boy home to Louisiana for a visit, and leaves her husband at home. Folks, this goes way beyond coincidence. The woman is obviously stalking me.
You’ve seen the evidence. Now, I’m not trying to say that everything she does is copying me- I’ve never gone into a gas station bathroom bare-footed, and I haven’t taken the dive into trailer trash couture yet (though we looked at a lovely mobile home a few weeks ago...). But come on... it’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?
All joking aside, I wish Ms. Spears all the best, and hope she's enjoying her little guy as much as I am mine. We might be from different countries, different backgrounds and from slightly different income levels, but we've got the best thing of all in common- we've got sweet little bundles to love. And I'm not even going to be mad at her for that one.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Worst Mommy EVER
Have you ever had the feeling that you might, in fact, be the worst mommy in the world? I have. This is not a rational thought- I love my little Man to pieces, bathe him regularly, and I have no hang-ups (pardon the pun) about wire hangers. But there have been moments in my new career as Mommy when I think that maybe I shouldn't have quit my day job.
The first time it happened was the day my boy turned two months old. I was getting him dressed to go to his uncle and aunt-to-be's wedding. Now, I have issues with baby clothes that have their closures on the back at the best of times (who designs these things?!), but this was the worst. Mr. Wiggly was lying on the floor. I pulled the shirt over his head... all good. Did up the crotch snaps (ugh, I HATE that word! "Crotch", not "snaps")... still OK. Then I became the Worst Mommy Ever. I caught the sweet, soft skin at the back of his neck in a snap. He yelled. He wailed. I cried. I scooped my baby up, kissed him, and prayed that no one was going to call Children's Aid on me. For a few irrational moments, I was sure that I did not deserve to have this poor baby. I was going to ruin him. He stopped crying after a few minutes, even before the red mark disappeared from his neck. It took me a little longer.
The second time was just a few nights ago. The little guy has been affectionately known as "Mr. Cranky-Pants" for a few days, now. We're pretty sure he's teething. We were having some nice quiet time, though, just me and my little buddy, before his bedtime. We were in his room. He'd had a bath and a story. It was time for his last meal of the day. All was going well... until he bit me. This might not seem like a big deal to anyone who has never breastfed (or had breasts, in many cases). He doesn't have teeth- how much can it hurt? Imagine someone taking a pair of pliers and squeezing your nipple (which is already a bit sore, might I add, from previous maulings) as hard as they can. Not surprisingly, I yelled. I didn't mean to; it was the shock, the pain- take your pick. I yelled and I frightened my baby. He let go immediately (Thank God!) and stared up at me for a half-second... and then his little face crumpled and he WAILED. I think I gave him the shock of his short little life. Once again I apologized over and over, and once again I cried all over him. This time, at least, the Hubby was there to comfort both of us. But how did I feel? All together, now: Like the Worst Mommy Ever!
I've been told by many people that this is something every mommy feels at least a few times. My own mother confesses to feeling that way after I rolled over for the first time... right off my changing table. I recovered faster than she did (notice a trend, here?), and I think I turned out all right in spite of my tumble. Then there was the time she took me to church with no underpants on... I'll let her tell you that one another time. The point is, I turned out OK. As for her being the Worst Mommy Ever? Hardly. I used to think I'd get her to raise my kids for me so they could have as good a mommy as I'd had.
I know I'm a good Mommy- at least, I'm the best one I can be. But I'm sure that I'll have lots more Worst Mommy Ever moments... and that the little guy will turn out alright in spite of them.
The first time it happened was the day my boy turned two months old. I was getting him dressed to go to his uncle and aunt-to-be's wedding. Now, I have issues with baby clothes that have their closures on the back at the best of times (who designs these things?!), but this was the worst. Mr. Wiggly was lying on the floor. I pulled the shirt over his head... all good. Did up the crotch snaps (ugh, I HATE that word! "Crotch", not "snaps")... still OK. Then I became the Worst Mommy Ever. I caught the sweet, soft skin at the back of his neck in a snap. He yelled. He wailed. I cried. I scooped my baby up, kissed him, and prayed that no one was going to call Children's Aid on me. For a few irrational moments, I was sure that I did not deserve to have this poor baby. I was going to ruin him. He stopped crying after a few minutes, even before the red mark disappeared from his neck. It took me a little longer.
The second time was just a few nights ago. The little guy has been affectionately known as "Mr. Cranky-Pants" for a few days, now. We're pretty sure he's teething. We were having some nice quiet time, though, just me and my little buddy, before his bedtime. We were in his room. He'd had a bath and a story. It was time for his last meal of the day. All was going well... until he bit me. This might not seem like a big deal to anyone who has never breastfed (or had breasts, in many cases). He doesn't have teeth- how much can it hurt? Imagine someone taking a pair of pliers and squeezing your nipple (which is already a bit sore, might I add, from previous maulings) as hard as they can. Not surprisingly, I yelled. I didn't mean to; it was the shock, the pain- take your pick. I yelled and I frightened my baby. He let go immediately (Thank God!) and stared up at me for a half-second... and then his little face crumpled and he WAILED. I think I gave him the shock of his short little life. Once again I apologized over and over, and once again I cried all over him. This time, at least, the Hubby was there to comfort both of us. But how did I feel? All together, now: Like the Worst Mommy Ever!
I've been told by many people that this is something every mommy feels at least a few times. My own mother confesses to feeling that way after I rolled over for the first time... right off my changing table. I recovered faster than she did (notice a trend, here?), and I think I turned out all right in spite of my tumble. Then there was the time she took me to church with no underpants on... I'll let her tell you that one another time. The point is, I turned out OK. As for her being the Worst Mommy Ever? Hardly. I used to think I'd get her to raise my kids for me so they could have as good a mommy as I'd had.
I know I'm a good Mommy- at least, I'm the best one I can be. But I'm sure that I'll have lots more Worst Mommy Ever moments... and that the little guy will turn out alright in spite of them.
The Exercise Dilemma
I really thought it would have gotten better by now... the exhaustion, I mean. My boy is almost 6 months old (oh, how the time flies!), and I'm still pooped. Not that this is really something new for me; I've never really been bursting with energy, but... I guess maybe I was hoping for a miracle!
It's not because he doesn't usually sleep through the night... OK, so that's part of it. It's a lot of things. Sure, I'm not getting enough sleep, but I'm also not getting enough exercise. Thanks to various media campaigns and high-school gym teachers, we're all aware of the benefits of "regular, vigorous exercise" (it's always vigorous. Not fast-paced, not sweat-inducing, just vigorous). It will make me healthier, happier, and (you knew it was coming) more energetic. Yes, this vigorous exercise will fill me with vim and, well, vigor. But here's the problem, folks: I'm too freakin' tired to exercise!!! It's a cruel irony, isn't it? The apparent cure for my problem is made inaccessable by the very problem I'm trying to solve.
Time is a bit of an issue, too. I'd have to exercise when my boy is asleep, partly because my exercise of choice is strip-aerobics... not real appropriate for the diaper set at any time, and I don't think we'll be able to afford the therapy bills later on. So, exercise while he naps... hang on, that's my nap time! I know... if I exercised, maybe I wouldn't need to nap. But I'm too tired to exercise, and I need a nap before... well, you get the idea.
In the spring we'll go for walks. We'll go to the park, or just walk around the neighborhood. It's February, though, and the snow here is St. John's covers the sidewalks to a depth of about four feet. Not exactly conducive to stroller marathons, to say the least!
I'll get there. Some days I can do the physical activity thing, when by some miracle I have no desire to nap- it happens once a week, sometimes twice. Until then... I'm going to have a nap.
It's not because he doesn't usually sleep through the night... OK, so that's part of it. It's a lot of things. Sure, I'm not getting enough sleep, but I'm also not getting enough exercise. Thanks to various media campaigns and high-school gym teachers, we're all aware of the benefits of "regular, vigorous exercise" (it's always vigorous. Not fast-paced, not sweat-inducing, just vigorous). It will make me healthier, happier, and (you knew it was coming) more energetic. Yes, this vigorous exercise will fill me with vim and, well, vigor. But here's the problem, folks: I'm too freakin' tired to exercise!!! It's a cruel irony, isn't it? The apparent cure for my problem is made inaccessable by the very problem I'm trying to solve.
Time is a bit of an issue, too. I'd have to exercise when my boy is asleep, partly because my exercise of choice is strip-aerobics... not real appropriate for the diaper set at any time, and I don't think we'll be able to afford the therapy bills later on. So, exercise while he naps... hang on, that's my nap time! I know... if I exercised, maybe I wouldn't need to nap. But I'm too tired to exercise, and I need a nap before... well, you get the idea.
In the spring we'll go for walks. We'll go to the park, or just walk around the neighborhood. It's February, though, and the snow here is St. John's covers the sidewalks to a depth of about four feet. Not exactly conducive to stroller marathons, to say the least!
I'll get there. Some days I can do the physical activity thing, when by some miracle I have no desire to nap- it happens once a week, sometimes twice. Until then... I'm going to have a nap.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Time Goes By
You know what? I stink at time mamagement. I should have enough hours in the day to keep the house clean, play with the little guy, feed him, change him, etc., get some rest, cook, work on my blog, and spend time with the hubby. That's the problem with 'should', though. I don't think I've ever gotten everything done that I wanted to or thought that I 'should' in a day. And I think that's OK. There are too many 'shoulds' out there. I don't need to put any more on myself.
I'm going to keep trying, of course. And some days I'll probably be too hard on myself for not getting everything done, or not getting the right things done. I'm going to try to be easier on myself, though. Life (and babyhood) are too short and too precious to worry about that dust bunny in the corner.
As for the blog... I'll keep working on it. It might not be as polished as I would like, and maybe I'll only have the time (or the mental capacity) to post a thought of the day sometimes. Here's one:
I think I understand why mothers used to rub brandy on their babies' gums when they were teething. Not only could it provide relief for the cranky infant, but also for the cranky mother. "There's one for you... and one for me. One for you... and two for me. *HIC!*" Much better!
On another topic: I can eat chocolate again! I'm not going nuts with it (actually, I'm not a fan of chocolate with nuts, anyway), but I can have a treat now and then without giving my little guy gas attacks. Mmmmm... chocolate!
I'm going to keep trying, of course. And some days I'll probably be too hard on myself for not getting everything done, or not getting the right things done. I'm going to try to be easier on myself, though. Life (and babyhood) are too short and too precious to worry about that dust bunny in the corner.
As for the blog... I'll keep working on it. It might not be as polished as I would like, and maybe I'll only have the time (or the mental capacity) to post a thought of the day sometimes. Here's one:
I think I understand why mothers used to rub brandy on their babies' gums when they were teething. Not only could it provide relief for the cranky infant, but also for the cranky mother. "There's one for you... and one for me. One for you... and two for me. *HIC!*" Much better!
On another topic: I can eat chocolate again! I'm not going nuts with it (actually, I'm not a fan of chocolate with nuts, anyway), but I can have a treat now and then without giving my little guy gas attacks. Mmmmm... chocolate!
Friday, December 23, 2005
A Christmas Without Chocolate
'Twas the week before Christmas,
and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring,
...except for me, stirring the fudge mixture I was making to give away with Christmas presents. Being on maternity leave is great, but the pay cut makes home-made gifts something of a necessity.
Why, oh why did I decide to make fudge? Yes, the recipe looked easy: chocolate, condensed milk, vanilla. I threw in some marshmallows, because I'm just that good a cook. Making the fudge was the easy part. Not eating the fudge? Just a bit harder.
I had good reason to stay away, though. Sure, I have the same challenge this year that every new mother faces, especially during the Christmas season, of laying off the sweets in a desparate attempt to shed the baby weight. I have another reason to avoid chocolate, though, and it's not just for my own good. Every time I eat chocolate, the Little Man gets gas. I'm not talking about funny little toots, or even a raunchy belch or two. That I can live with. I mean the kind of gas that seems to build up in a little tummy and then just stay there, causing discomfort and tears. (It seems to trouble the baby, too.)
Not long after he was born, the little guy started drying until he exhausted himself and us on a regular basis. He was inconsolable, and we tried everything. We bundled him up; we let him flail his limbs around like a little tree in a hurricane. We gave him gripe water (alcohol-free, though the alternative was tempting some evenings!). We gave him warm baths, we walked him, we rocked him. We didn't think it was colic; the crying wasn't happening every night, and it only lasted for an hour or so. It was time to look at my diet.
Some experts say that what a mommy eats does not affect how breast milk tastes, nor does it give the baby gas. I'd like them to explain the look on my little guy's face when he nursed after I ate chicken shwarma, but that's another story. I have no doubt that my diet was the source of the trouble, and I promised him I'd do whatever I had to to help him. Now, I don't eat cabbage. I don't eat much broccoli, and I never touch brussels sprouts (thank God for vitamin supplements!) or any foods that tend to cause gas in grown-ups. Then I read somewhere that chocolate could be a problem. I reluctantly decided to try going a few days without. Now, please bear in mind that this was the week before Halloween, and the hubby (God love him) had just brought home a huge box of mini chocolate bars, all of them favourites. I feel guilty admitting this, but I actually half hoped that it wouldn't work. Then we could find some other source of the problem, and I could continue to stuff my face with chocolatey goodness. No such luck. The situation improved immedeately. I was crushed.
Once we got through Halloween, things were OK, though sometimes less than satisfying. I missed my chocolate bars, chocolate donuts, and chocolate chip cookies. I slipped up occasionally; I honestly forgot that hot chocolate does, in fact, contain chocolate, and my poor babe paid for my mistake. We were surviving. But now... Christmas. Season of egg nog, turkey dinners, and, that's right, chocolate. Chocolate advent calendars, chocolate cookies, chocolate stocking stuffers. Aisles of the stuff in Wal-Mart. And the holy grail of the chocolate world... Lindor. They say that a majority of women would rather have chocolate than sex, and if we're talking about those creamy little balls of chocolate, I'm there. I haven't had a Christmas (or a week of PMS) without them since mom and I discovered them several years ago. I'm drooling all over the computer here just thinking about them. That's a tradition I'll have to forgo this year if I want anything resembling a Silent Night.
I'll miss my annual affair with my beloved sweets, but this year I guess I've got a bigger craving. I want to see the Baby Boy smile. His happy little face melts my heart, and that's the sweetest treat I could ask for. Besides, a happy baby is WAY better for my thighs and butt!
and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring,
...except for me, stirring the fudge mixture I was making to give away with Christmas presents. Being on maternity leave is great, but the pay cut makes home-made gifts something of a necessity.
Why, oh why did I decide to make fudge? Yes, the recipe looked easy: chocolate, condensed milk, vanilla. I threw in some marshmallows, because I'm just that good a cook. Making the fudge was the easy part. Not eating the fudge? Just a bit harder.
I had good reason to stay away, though. Sure, I have the same challenge this year that every new mother faces, especially during the Christmas season, of laying off the sweets in a desparate attempt to shed the baby weight. I have another reason to avoid chocolate, though, and it's not just for my own good. Every time I eat chocolate, the Little Man gets gas. I'm not talking about funny little toots, or even a raunchy belch or two. That I can live with. I mean the kind of gas that seems to build up in a little tummy and then just stay there, causing discomfort and tears. (It seems to trouble the baby, too.)
Not long after he was born, the little guy started drying until he exhausted himself and us on a regular basis. He was inconsolable, and we tried everything. We bundled him up; we let him flail his limbs around like a little tree in a hurricane. We gave him gripe water (alcohol-free, though the alternative was tempting some evenings!). We gave him warm baths, we walked him, we rocked him. We didn't think it was colic; the crying wasn't happening every night, and it only lasted for an hour or so. It was time to look at my diet.
Some experts say that what a mommy eats does not affect how breast milk tastes, nor does it give the baby gas. I'd like them to explain the look on my little guy's face when he nursed after I ate chicken shwarma, but that's another story. I have no doubt that my diet was the source of the trouble, and I promised him I'd do whatever I had to to help him. Now, I don't eat cabbage. I don't eat much broccoli, and I never touch brussels sprouts (thank God for vitamin supplements!) or any foods that tend to cause gas in grown-ups. Then I read somewhere that chocolate could be a problem. I reluctantly decided to try going a few days without. Now, please bear in mind that this was the week before Halloween, and the hubby (God love him) had just brought home a huge box of mini chocolate bars, all of them favourites. I feel guilty admitting this, but I actually half hoped that it wouldn't work. Then we could find some other source of the problem, and I could continue to stuff my face with chocolatey goodness. No such luck. The situation improved immedeately. I was crushed.
Once we got through Halloween, things were OK, though sometimes less than satisfying. I missed my chocolate bars, chocolate donuts, and chocolate chip cookies. I slipped up occasionally; I honestly forgot that hot chocolate does, in fact, contain chocolate, and my poor babe paid for my mistake. We were surviving. But now... Christmas. Season of egg nog, turkey dinners, and, that's right, chocolate. Chocolate advent calendars, chocolate cookies, chocolate stocking stuffers. Aisles of the stuff in Wal-Mart. And the holy grail of the chocolate world... Lindor. They say that a majority of women would rather have chocolate than sex, and if we're talking about those creamy little balls of chocolate, I'm there. I haven't had a Christmas (or a week of PMS) without them since mom and I discovered them several years ago. I'm drooling all over the computer here just thinking about them. That's a tradition I'll have to forgo this year if I want anything resembling a Silent Night.
I'll miss my annual affair with my beloved sweets, but this year I guess I've got a bigger craving. I want to see the Baby Boy smile. His happy little face melts my heart, and that's the sweetest treat I could ask for. Besides, a happy baby is WAY better for my thighs and butt!
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Terrifying and Wonderful
I've been in love before. I love my family. I fell in love with the hubby pretty quickly, and very hard. That hasn't changed. But this new person who has come into my life has introduced me to a new kind of love that is at once wonderful and terrifying.
I love the Baby Boy. I always knew that I'd love my children; that's what mommies do, right? But the ferocity of this love has taken me completely by surprise. In my case, it was love at first sight, but the love has grown so much more since that first meeting on an operating room table, since the first time we looked into each others' eyes, since the first days at home. It has taken over.
I'm not saying that there's nothing else in my life that's important. If anything, my love for the hubby has only grown along with this new love. I still enjoy the things I enjoyed before. Things are just different, now.
Now this little fellow invades my dreams at night, for better or worse. Sometimes I want to cry when I watch him sleeping, because my body can't hold in everything that I'm feeling. I pray every night when I put him to bed that God will watch over him through the night, and then I go and double-check that the doors are locked. The thought that anything could take him away from me tears me to pieces. It's not a rational fear; I know that the odds are that everything will be relatively OK. And I don't obsess about his safety during the day - I like to think I'll be able to let him be adventurous and independent as he grows. I trust that God will take care of us. It's not easy, though.
The fear that we'll be separated is terrible, but it has one benefit: When the Baby Boy and I are together, I remember to enjoy every minute we have. Life is unpredictable, and childhood is mercilessly short. Every moment with my love is precious, and I plan to enjoy every one, especially during this time when I'm still the centre of his world.
And the love itself, while it scares the bejeezus out of me sometimes, is truly wonderful. My heart warms at the thought of this lovely little person. He makes me laugh. He pulls me out of myself, and lets me live for someone else, because it's hard to be selfish when you're so full of love for another person. I wonder if God allows us to have His precious little ones so that we can have a little taste of the love he feels for us.
My own mother told me something when I was pregnant that I believed, but didn't understand at the time. She said that to have a child is to allow your heart to live outside of you for the rest of your life. What a terrifying thought... and what a wonderful gift.
I love the Baby Boy. I always knew that I'd love my children; that's what mommies do, right? But the ferocity of this love has taken me completely by surprise. In my case, it was love at first sight, but the love has grown so much more since that first meeting on an operating room table, since the first time we looked into each others' eyes, since the first days at home. It has taken over.
I'm not saying that there's nothing else in my life that's important. If anything, my love for the hubby has only grown along with this new love. I still enjoy the things I enjoyed before. Things are just different, now.
Now this little fellow invades my dreams at night, for better or worse. Sometimes I want to cry when I watch him sleeping, because my body can't hold in everything that I'm feeling. I pray every night when I put him to bed that God will watch over him through the night, and then I go and double-check that the doors are locked. The thought that anything could take him away from me tears me to pieces. It's not a rational fear; I know that the odds are that everything will be relatively OK. And I don't obsess about his safety during the day - I like to think I'll be able to let him be adventurous and independent as he grows. I trust that God will take care of us. It's not easy, though.
The fear that we'll be separated is terrible, but it has one benefit: When the Baby Boy and I are together, I remember to enjoy every minute we have. Life is unpredictable, and childhood is mercilessly short. Every moment with my love is precious, and I plan to enjoy every one, especially during this time when I'm still the centre of his world.
And the love itself, while it scares the bejeezus out of me sometimes, is truly wonderful. My heart warms at the thought of this lovely little person. He makes me laugh. He pulls me out of myself, and lets me live for someone else, because it's hard to be selfish when you're so full of love for another person. I wonder if God allows us to have His precious little ones so that we can have a little taste of the love he feels for us.
My own mother told me something when I was pregnant that I believed, but didn't understand at the time. She said that to have a child is to allow your heart to live outside of you for the rest of your life. What a terrifying thought... and what a wonderful gift.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Of Bottles and Breastfeeding
Have you seen the posters they put up in hospitals and doctors' offices that promote breastfeeding? They show happy mothers cradling contented infants to their breasts, happily nursing in public, surrounded by laughing friends. Why don't we tell the truth to new mothers? Because if we did, no one would give it a shot, that's why.
I'm happy that I'm able to breastfeed my baby. There's so much to love about it: I know he's getting the best food for him, there are health benefits for both of us, and nothing beats the feeling of closeness. The way he gazes up into my eyes, like I'm the absolute centre of his world. This little guy lived inside me for nine months, give or take, and I miss him sometimes. When he's nursing, though, we're just as close as we've ever been. That's the good stuff, and I wouldn't have it any other way... But that's not the end of the story.
We got off to a rough start, my little man and I. He was in the NICU for 3 days (which is another story entirely). I visited him as often as I could to try and nurse, but I was up in the maternity ward trying to recover from a caesarian section, and often needed help getting to him. He wa a sleepy little fellow, nearly impossible to wake up for feedings, and the fact that he was being fed by IV didn't exactly motivate him to wake up and eat. I had to wake myself up every 3 hours to hook up to the torture machine (which the nurses referred to as "a breast pump"). During my stay in the hospital I developed a distinct appreciation for what dairy cows go through every day. But I digress... We were both frustrated and ended up crying more than a few times. It was only with the help of various nurses and lactation consultants that we made any progress at all.
The little guy did latch on before we left the hospital, and everything was going well, if you don't count the fact that my new nursing bra was lugging boulders instead of the soft, full breasts I had entered the hospital with. They were no longer boobies. They were knockers. We did really well for a few days. We slept like babies(meaning that we woke up every three hours for feedings), but I didn't even mind that. I loved having more cuddle time with my baby, plus I discovered the wonderful world of late-night TV. I think I might actually have been having an affair with Conan O'Brien; I spent more nights with him than I did with my husband.
Of course, one of the things they don't tell you is that it hurts. A lot. Every time he wanted to eat, I cringed, knowing what was coming. The books said that the pain would last for a few seconds; I was in pain as long as he was feeding. It got worse and worse, until I was crying at every feed. My husband suggested (God love him) that maybe I was building it up in my mind, and the expectation of pain was making it worse. Now, one advantage of our early troubles was that the little fellow had taken some supplemental feedings from a bottle in the hospital, so I could give him formula for a few days to give my poor, aching nipples a break. Out came the breast pump, necessary both to keep the milk supply up and to relieve the pressure. It turned out I was not able to, as Madonna sggested, express myself. The pump I had (and have) at home bears little resemblance to the milker at the hospital; it's a discreet manual model that leaves lovely flower-shaped imprints on my boobs. I sat down while Baby Boy was napping, and pumped... blood. No milk came out, but I got a nice, dark red clot... it was like a horror movie. I was raising a vampire baby. It did, however, explain why his poop was a rusty brown colour; the poor kid was drinking some kind of mamary coktail, blood and milk (shaken, not stirred). It also explained why it made me cry when the human leech was attached to me.
That was the worst of it for me, at least so far. I've heard the horror stories about mastitis, infections, and (God forbid!) sagging, but we're OK for now. Baby Boy will take a bottle of pumped milk, though he'll give you a dirty look when you first offer it. He hasn't had formula since that first month, and I thank God for that, because that stuff is horrendously expensive.
So what is the truth about breastfeeding? All I can tell you from my own experience is that, while it can be as beautiful as those posters would have us believe, it's hard. Really hard. As a wise woman once told me, "Breastfeeding is natural, in the sense that it's something our bodies were designed to do, but when you try it, you'll find that it feels like the most UN-natural thing in the world." It takes work and practice, and in the end, it might not be for everyone. I have nothing but sympathy for mommies who have switched to bottle-feeding - I know many of them had a harder time than I did. And I know that they share just as close a bond with, and have just as much live for their babies as I do.
And as for nursing in public? We haven't really figured that one out, yet. Thank God for stores with comfortable fitting rooms!
I'm happy that I'm able to breastfeed my baby. There's so much to love about it: I know he's getting the best food for him, there are health benefits for both of us, and nothing beats the feeling of closeness. The way he gazes up into my eyes, like I'm the absolute centre of his world. This little guy lived inside me for nine months, give or take, and I miss him sometimes. When he's nursing, though, we're just as close as we've ever been. That's the good stuff, and I wouldn't have it any other way... But that's not the end of the story.
We got off to a rough start, my little man and I. He was in the NICU for 3 days (which is another story entirely). I visited him as often as I could to try and nurse, but I was up in the maternity ward trying to recover from a caesarian section, and often needed help getting to him. He wa a sleepy little fellow, nearly impossible to wake up for feedings, and the fact that he was being fed by IV didn't exactly motivate him to wake up and eat. I had to wake myself up every 3 hours to hook up to the torture machine (which the nurses referred to as "a breast pump"). During my stay in the hospital I developed a distinct appreciation for what dairy cows go through every day. But I digress... We were both frustrated and ended up crying more than a few times. It was only with the help of various nurses and lactation consultants that we made any progress at all.
The little guy did latch on before we left the hospital, and everything was going well, if you don't count the fact that my new nursing bra was lugging boulders instead of the soft, full breasts I had entered the hospital with. They were no longer boobies. They were knockers. We did really well for a few days. We slept like babies(meaning that we woke up every three hours for feedings), but I didn't even mind that. I loved having more cuddle time with my baby, plus I discovered the wonderful world of late-night TV. I think I might actually have been having an affair with Conan O'Brien; I spent more nights with him than I did with my husband.
Of course, one of the things they don't tell you is that it hurts. A lot. Every time he wanted to eat, I cringed, knowing what was coming. The books said that the pain would last for a few seconds; I was in pain as long as he was feeding. It got worse and worse, until I was crying at every feed. My husband suggested (God love him) that maybe I was building it up in my mind, and the expectation of pain was making it worse. Now, one advantage of our early troubles was that the little fellow had taken some supplemental feedings from a bottle in the hospital, so I could give him formula for a few days to give my poor, aching nipples a break. Out came the breast pump, necessary both to keep the milk supply up and to relieve the pressure. It turned out I was not able to, as Madonna sggested, express myself. The pump I had (and have) at home bears little resemblance to the milker at the hospital; it's a discreet manual model that leaves lovely flower-shaped imprints on my boobs. I sat down while Baby Boy was napping, and pumped... blood. No milk came out, but I got a nice, dark red clot... it was like a horror movie. I was raising a vampire baby. It did, however, explain why his poop was a rusty brown colour; the poor kid was drinking some kind of mamary coktail, blood and milk (shaken, not stirred). It also explained why it made me cry when the human leech was attached to me.
That was the worst of it for me, at least so far. I've heard the horror stories about mastitis, infections, and (God forbid!) sagging, but we're OK for now. Baby Boy will take a bottle of pumped milk, though he'll give you a dirty look when you first offer it. He hasn't had formula since that first month, and I thank God for that, because that stuff is horrendously expensive.
So what is the truth about breastfeeding? All I can tell you from my own experience is that, while it can be as beautiful as those posters would have us believe, it's hard. Really hard. As a wise woman once told me, "Breastfeeding is natural, in the sense that it's something our bodies were designed to do, but when you try it, you'll find that it feels like the most UN-natural thing in the world." It takes work and practice, and in the end, it might not be for everyone. I have nothing but sympathy for mommies who have switched to bottle-feeding - I know many of them had a harder time than I did. And I know that they share just as close a bond with, and have just as much live for their babies as I do.
And as for nursing in public? We haven't really figured that one out, yet. Thank God for stores with comfortable fitting rooms!
Monday, December 12, 2005
Occupation: Not Specified
So here I am, setting up to start blogging (which I once mistakenly thought was a euphemism for vomiting). I look at my profile, thinking I'll add some information about myself, but I'm having some trouble finding myself (aren't we all?) in the occupations list. I used to work in retail, and I guess I'll have to go back when my maternity leave is up, but that's not the work I'm doing now. I'm a mommy, and I have been for a little more than three months. Of course, job preparation started a year ago... more about that later. This is the hardest job I've ever had; my industry has to be listed somewhere. Let's check the list:
accounting- that's part of my job, but only a small one. I'm the family bookkeeper and general initiator of shopper's remorse (sorry, Sweetie!), but this hardly covers it.
chemicals- no, but a huge portion of my time is spent dealing with biological waste...
education- this is getting a bit closer. My little guy has a lot to learn, and for the next few years, I'll be his most important teacher. So what if the most profound lesson I've taught him so far is that "the doors on the bus go open and shut"? I'm an English teacher, a Phys Ed teacher and a Music teacher. I do more than that, though...
law-enforcement- ask me again in a few years.
non-profit- nobody's paying me to mother, unless you count maternity benefits, which hardly cover the basics. I profit, though, more than I ever would have believed. I'm paid in chubby-cheeked, toothless grins and warm nighttime cuddles. Some day I'll get a raise - kisses and hugs, and if I'm lucky, maybe a construction-paper purse or coloured tissue corsage for Mothers' Day. Definitely not a "non-profit" position!
student- more than anything. There's no steeper learning curve than the one you're on when the hospital sends you home with your little bundle packed securely into that new infant car seat. I'm learning a whole new language, interpreting cries and responding in noises that have never been a part of grown-up conversation. I'm learning how to make a new person smile, how to balance the needs of myself and the two men in my life (the big one and the little one), and how to stay sane while stranded at home. (Just kidding- I lost my marbles months ago.) This education is never going to end, as far as I can tell. I know there are going to be tests and plenty of pop-quizzes, and I know I'll fail some, but I hope to pass most.
So where do I fit in here? All of the above, I guess. Like I said, this is absolutely the most challenging job I've ever had. I have to work through hunger and total exhaustion. I don't get to call in sick, and I don't get days off. I'm on call 24/7. And I love it. This is the best job I'll ever have. I guess I'll just leave that space on my profile blank until there's an option that says "mommy". That will say it all.
accounting- that's part of my job, but only a small one. I'm the family bookkeeper and general initiator of shopper's remorse (sorry, Sweetie!), but this hardly covers it.
chemicals- no, but a huge portion of my time is spent dealing with biological waste...
education- this is getting a bit closer. My little guy has a lot to learn, and for the next few years, I'll be his most important teacher. So what if the most profound lesson I've taught him so far is that "the doors on the bus go open and shut"? I'm an English teacher, a Phys Ed teacher and a Music teacher. I do more than that, though...
law-enforcement- ask me again in a few years.
non-profit- nobody's paying me to mother, unless you count maternity benefits, which hardly cover the basics. I profit, though, more than I ever would have believed. I'm paid in chubby-cheeked, toothless grins and warm nighttime cuddles. Some day I'll get a raise - kisses and hugs, and if I'm lucky, maybe a construction-paper purse or coloured tissue corsage for Mothers' Day. Definitely not a "non-profit" position!
student- more than anything. There's no steeper learning curve than the one you're on when the hospital sends you home with your little bundle packed securely into that new infant car seat. I'm learning a whole new language, interpreting cries and responding in noises that have never been a part of grown-up conversation. I'm learning how to make a new person smile, how to balance the needs of myself and the two men in my life (the big one and the little one), and how to stay sane while stranded at home. (Just kidding- I lost my marbles months ago.) This education is never going to end, as far as I can tell. I know there are going to be tests and plenty of pop-quizzes, and I know I'll fail some, but I hope to pass most.
So where do I fit in here? All of the above, I guess. Like I said, this is absolutely the most challenging job I've ever had. I have to work through hunger and total exhaustion. I don't get to call in sick, and I don't get days off. I'm on call 24/7. And I love it. This is the best job I'll ever have. I guess I'll just leave that space on my profile blank until there's an option that says "mommy". That will say it all.
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