| MomBot 2000™ |
This is an analytical program summary of MomBot 2000™.
 MomBot 2000™ runs on coffee and bagels and is the Chief Executive Cleaner Upper of Colourful Plastic Toys in a humble suburban home specializing in the mass consumption of caffeine, production of mountainous piles of smelly diapers and safeguarding and maintenance of a busy toddler.
MomBot 2000™ comes pre-programmed with bionic eyes in the back on her head and several typical maternal sentences, including “blah blah blah did you poop?” and “ blah blah blah is it bedtime yet?” Also, if the right combination of buttons are pushed, like, say, the discovery of yet another pair of haphazardly tossed socks on the floor, MomBot 2000™ is capable of barking gravel-voiced commands of laundry weary frustration.
Furthermore, the speed with which MomBot 2000™ washes socks is directly proportional to the speed with which said socks appear INSIDE the laundry hamper.
MomBot 2000™ has several known software glitches including, but not limited to: mastering the labour intensive task of pre-heating an oven, opening a box and not burning store bought pizza as well as the effective decluttering of toys from an infinitely cluttered floor.
Inside the MomBot 2000™ unit is a collection of delicately balanced chambers, each filled with undying love and devotion for the offspring of which MomBot 2000™ has produced. It takes but a fleeting moment of passion to manufacture said offspring, and a lifetime of selfless dedication to foster and guide their development. The quantum physics of energy required to fulfill these duties occasionally results in the emission of a small amount of hormonal data externalization known as PMS. A mere haphazardly tossed man sock is enough to upset this delicate balance of hormones and send MomBot 2000™ to the fucking moon. PLEASE RESPECT THE DELICATE HORMONAL BALANCE OF MOMBOT 2000™ AND PICK UP YOUR SOCKS ALREADY!
All of MomBot 2000™’s components are indestructible and guaranteed for the life of the unit, but once this unit turns 40, it cannot be traded in for two 20’s. We are sorry, but MomBot 2000™’s warranty and perky boobs expired the day she dedicated her body to gestating offspring. Should a replacement part be required, please be prepared to spend the next several nights on the sofa.
Feel free attach an intravenous wine drip to MomBot 2000™ at any time for optimal relaxation and increased sexy time opportunities.
In conclusion, MomBot 2000™ is a solid mechanism that works tirelessly to create a warm and loving environment for her family and nothing can keep this machine from performing its main function; and that is to be the primary kisser of booboo’s and massager of man feet while maintaining her status as the most influential female figure in her offpring's life until they grow up, get married and stop returning her phone calls.Labels: Motherhood |
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| Before and After |
Typical Friday Night Before Kids:
5:30 pm: BEER!
5:39 pm: BEER!
Oh, what the hell, let’s keep this simple; 5:40 – 11:00 pm: BEER!
11:09 pm: Stumble into a restaurant, fill the room with drunken laughter and pile food into an already full belly of beer.
12:02 am: Stumble home. Have stumbly drunken sex. Pass out and die. Resurrect sometime around noon on Saturday, moan for several hours and then muster the insanity of youth and continue marathon weekend-long binge drinking.
Friday Night After Kids:
3:00 pm: Begin to have some serious concerns about dehydration because Nate has barely eaten or drank anything in a days and days and yet the diarrhea and fever continue.
3:02 pm: Call family doctor. Not in until next week. Decide against returning to the walk-in clinic we visited earlier in the week because the appointment felt detached and rushed.
3:03 pm: Suddenly remembered that a reader previously told me about a Children’s Walk-in Clinic staffed by Pediatricans here in Ajax.
3:04 pm: All-knowing Google tells me the clinic doesn’t open until 5:30 pm.
5:29 pm: Arrive at Children’s Pediatric Walk-in Clinic one minute early to (hopefully) beat the anticipated long and crowded wait.
5:31 pm: Notice sign on door apologizing for the inconvenience, but the clinic will not open until 7:30 pm. Curse under breath.
5:57 pm: Also curse at the volume of traffic in what should be a very quick drive to the pharmacy.
6:01 pm: Pull into parking space and cringe as the sound of curb pavement and van crunch beneath me. Make note to self to learn how to park this fucking behemoth of a van already. Cringe again as I put the van in reverse and the front fender slowly scrapes its way back off the curb.
6:17 pm: Arrive home and try to get an incredibly picky eater of a kid to drink pedialyte. Realize this is about as likely to happen as asking him to solve the height of an isosceles triangle. Realize that I don’t even know how to do that. Shrug off my dwindling mental capacity and demonstrate how great pedialyte tastes. MMM! LOOK! MOMMY LOVES PEDIALYTE!
6:20 pm: Dump a cranky and lifeless kid into the very capable hands of a husband still tired from a long commute and an even longer day at work so that I can go for a run.
6:22 pm: Realize that I have no clean running clothes. Shrug off my dwindling capacity to care and dig out a previously soaked with sweat sports bra and running socks from the dirty laundry basket.
6:26 pm: God, when was the last time I peed? Fucking broken main floor toilet.
6:29 pm: Go for speed run.
7:13 pm: Arrive home. Fall over. Die.
7:14 pm: Realize there is no time to be dead when you have a sick kid.
7:15 pm: Shower.
7:19 pm: Throw on a clean t-shirt and crops and slip on my bedraggled yet über comfortable six-year old peek-a-boo sandals.
7:24 pm: Strap a limp and feverish kid into a car seat.
7:35 pm: Arrive at Children’s Pediatric Walk-in Clinic.
7:42 pm: Feel guilty when my sick toddler walks over to a five-month old and coughs all over him.
8:15 pm: Pediatrician determines Nate has a very bad ear infection. Current antibiotics not working. And why were they prescribed in the first place? Start new course IMMEDIATELY! Also, for persistent coughing learn that honey is just as good as cough medicine. Good to know considering all children’s cold and cough medicines have been banned.
8:22 pm: Arrive back at pharmacy and tote around an unwanted sippy filled with pedialyte, a lifeless Spider-Man pyjama-clad toddler and his blankie. Wait for new prescription to be filled.
8:45 pm: Arrive home. Offer child cookies and ice cream hopeful that enticing him with something sweet will get him to eat SOMETHING. Dispense new meds, tempra and several doses of cuddling and love while child falls asleep in Mark's reassuring arms.
9:00 pm: God, when was the last time I ate? Cucumber and tomato on a toasted whole grain bagel counts as dinner right?
9:17 pm: BEER!
9:44 pm: Snuggle up on the sofa and drift off in a peaceful slumber against the comforting warmth of a burly man chest.Labels: Motherhood |
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| 44.5 hours |
I’m not sure how to say this, so I am just going to come right out and say it.
Our first weekend without toddler-centric responsibilities was fabulous.
And for the first time since, oh, I don’t know, our alcohol-fuelled pub frequenting days of the past, Mark and I slept a gloriously uplifting 11 hours Friday night. Without the eager squeals of a raring-to-go toddler in the morning, that’s almost an entire two nights sleep all rolled into one giant slumber fest. And when I rolled out of bed at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, I felt so rejuvenated that I bet I could have survived the day without coffee. But then I thought, "Why risk a perfectly healthy feeling head?" And downed several cups of body-jolting java just to keep the onset of a caffeine deficiency headache at bay.
I also went for a long run Saturday to try and clear away the full body weariness coursing through my bones from this never-ending cold. Not even Samson came along because even though one would think an energetic dog like him would be a great running companion, he has some serious issues with endurance.
His energy seems to come in fits and spurts, which is probably why he seems to enjoy unleashing pent up energy by running in vigorously fast figure eight circles all over the back yard, tearing up the grass under his feet as he goes. This speed-crazed, tongue-dangling sprinting only lasts for about two minutes though before he gets tired, and then he spends the next hour recuperating by drinking all the water from our toilets and chasing the cats.
And then there's keeping pace with a human. Our runs usually start out fine with Samson dutifully heeling at my left side, but after about 20 minutes of pounding the pavement, his giant dog body becomes fatigued, and then I spend the rest of the run tugging a 90 pound yellow anchor home.
To say it was entirely liberating being out on my own without a people-watching toddler being pushed in front of me or a tuckered out dead weight of a dog dragging behind me would be an understatement.
But no matter how rejuvenating it was to hang up my hat of responsibility for exactly 44.5 hours, I missed my boy something fierce. The house felt eerily quiet without the squeals of his contagious laughter and the pitter patter of little scampering feet.
And as much as I’m looking forward to a vacation and spending some electrifying passion-sparked one-on-one time with Mark, I’m already looking forward to coming home and being reunited as a family again.Labels: All in the Family, Motherhood, Samson |
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| Should have bought a Chia Pet |
Last Sunday began in a typical weekend morning fashion with Mark and I sipping fresh brewed coffee to enliven our heavy and bleary eyes while Nate, wide awake and raring to go, guzzled his morning sippy of thirst-quenching milk. Samson, not much of a morning dog, was curled up by my feet still trying to catch up on his beauty rest. Simon, sickly and cadaverous from his failing kidneys, was perched in his usual resting spot near my head along the back of the couch, and Sebastian, gluttonous and fat, sat distanced from the family on a dining room chair, strategically positioned to swat the dog should he walk past his majesty’s obese resting zone.
Samson and the cats have never exactly learned to be friends. When Samson entered our family, the cats were approaching their senior years and his riotous puppy antics did nothing but annoy them. The scars on Samson’s nose are a forever reminder of their enemy status.
Sometimes, life with a kid, two cats and a lunging lunatic of a dog can be a bit zoo-ish because Samson has this very annoying penchant for chasing our aging cats and this often results in him knocking things over, like say, Nate. But shoviness aside, he is generally very well behaved, especially considering all of the ear pulling, tail tugging and countless bonks on the head he’s received from a boundary-testing toddler.
That being said, I still don’t trust him. I’ve heard far too many stories of even the most perfectly behaved dogs suddenly turning into vicious skin-shredding monsters, and for that reason, Samson and Nate are never left together unsupervised. The cats however, are so nonchalant and disinterested in having anything to do with the human or canine population that I’ve never really worried about Nate being around them. Never in a million years would I have thought that Sebastian would be the animal to cause Nate harm, especially with me right there.
While encouraging my body to perk up under the influence of caffeine, Nate, slightly unsteady in his gait, Frankenstein lurched his away over to see Sebastian on the dining chair. Although we’re working on the whole being ‘nice nice’ thing, authority tends to cause a colossal meltdown of a tantrum these days, and by meltdown, I mean total annihilation of any new behavioural instructions that were written to his brain. And because all the work we’d done on not hitting had been lost in a previous meltdown from, oh, 10 minutes prior, he went ahead and hit the cat with a giant yellow lego, and Sebastian retaliated by shredding the skin on Nate’s face dangerously close to his eye and all down his left cheek.
Before getting scratched by the cat, I have never really had to deal with anything alarming happening to Nate. All things considered, my role as a Mother has been rather uneventful in terms of accidents or illness so far, thank god/knock on wood. I mean, sure, Nate’s had a few colds, and one pneumonia scare when he was two months old that warranted exposing him to x-rays for the second time in his life (the first time was shortly after being born), but as he approaches 18 months, the kid has never really been ill yet, including no fevers, ear infections, and (unless you count occasional spit up as a tiny baby), he’s never even vomited.
Something terrible was bound to happen at some point, and hearing his screams and seeing the blood dripping down his cheeks made my heart palpitate. We called the free medical advice hotline here in Ontario to find out if there was anything specific we needed to do to prevent infection and treat his wounds, and they advised us to have Nate seen by a doctor within a couple of hours.
It turns out that the scratches weren’t overly deep, and the angry red welts were actually just superficial wounds that only required a topical antibiotic, but I’m still upset about this because how do you correct unwanted behaviour in a cat? Because seriously, the only thing in the whole wide world that fatty cares about is when the human with the opposable thumbs will dispense more kibble in his dish.
At this point, I’m seriously contemplating cutting his hazardous feline claws and legs off, and locking him and his stumps in the basement to eat and grow like a fat demented Chia Pet.Labels: All in the Family, Motherhood, Nate |
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| New Discoveries |
The chilled breath of winter has been twisting through these suburban hollows in the middle of the night, and in tow it carries a palette of brittle frost to paint intricate patterns of ice crystals and snow on the windshield of my car.
Winter is impatient like that. It always seems to be plotting an early arrival and furtively creeping across the boundary of the season and whispering songs of death to branches full of trembling leaves in the darkened shadows of the night.
For now, I am grateful that the warmth of the autumn sun is prevailing and keeping the shivery chill of winter at bay because Nate is really enjoying playing in the leaves.
One of the best things about having kids, I think, is watching them, in all of their unbridled joy and wonder, explore and discover the world in front of them.
Leaves included.
 Labels: Baby Nate, Motherhood |
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| A Measure for Time |
Time is a strange phenomenon. I mean, at a quick glance, it seems simple enough; a day consists of so many hours and a certain number of minutes. But the underlying fundamental nature of time baffles me.
If Universe(Matter(Energy(Time(Creation))))2 + (Common Human) = Sense of Time*, why then, am I left scratching my head wondering where all the time in the Universe went? Because I swear, all I did was blink, and all of a sudden Nate is ten months old.
And speaking of time, in the span of one week, Nate has learned to: pull himself into a sitting position, crawl, pull himself into a standing position, insert shapes into their corresponding slots, give me 'five' and wave and point at anything and everything under the sun.
For months and months, Nate didn’t do much of much. He sort of sat around like a quiet little philosopher, played with shapes and observed the world around him. But then, bang, just like that, he’s cranking out milestone on top of milestone on top of milestone.
And now, all I am left with are memories stitched into the fabric of a time when my baby was not mobile, and photographs to prove that, yes, what they say is true. Time passes way too quickly.
Except at 3:00 in the morning when my child decides to exercise his lungs while two new teeth poke through his gum line. That’s when time can’t move fast enough.
*Alternate Formula:
Karla + Pretty Blue Sky + No Understanding of Space/Time Physics = Makes Shit Up.Labels: Baby Nate, Motherhood, Thinking Out Loud |
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| The Grounded Half of Our Dyad |
I worry about Nate often. I worry about his heath. I worry about his safety and I worry about his general well being.
What if I’m not doing enough to enrich the learning sponge that is brain? Or what if the cuss words that occasionally slip out of my mouth echo through the hollow chambers of time until they reverberate back into my future teenage son’s ears and turn him into an angst-fuelled, school skipping, potty-mouthed hooligan? Or what if he is showing signs of autism? Or?
Generally, I try not to overanalyze things. Like, when my washing machine eats one half of every pair of Nate’s baby socks, I could try to rationalize the situation by believing that the socks have magically teleported themselves into another dimension where single-socked organisms are evolving and multiplying and plotting to take over the Universe, but I don’t really think that is true because I am a rational person. This is how I know it must be the sock fairy.
But when it comes to my son, all the gray that can found between the black and white of parenting clouds my ability to be rational every now and then. It’s not like I walk on pins and needles of doom and gloom, it’s more like I gently tiptoe around issues of health and wellness very loudly.
Ava’s death caught me so off guard that in order to protect the fragile shell that defines me as a mother, I proceed cautiously and defensively. Because I do not ever want to be struck from behind again with a cosmic 2x4 and left feeling as lost and defenceless as I did the day Ava died in my arms.
And so, I read. And I arm myself with information. And this adds more shadows to the already ominous gray fog that so often rolls through the valleys of motherhood.
Take autism for example. I would be lying if I said this isn’t something that concerns me. And it’s not like detecting it in babies is an exact science. There are signs and symptoms, but at Nate’s age, that’s about all they are. Signs and symptoms. There is nothing concrete to go on and this is exactly the kind of thing that drives me crazy.
The signs can be so obscure. Like does your baby cry when you leave the room? Sometimes Nate does. Sometimes he doesn’t. And sometimes it depends on whether he’s chomping on a triangle or an octopus and how he feels about the colour green that day.
I always raise my concerns with Mark. He is my rock. The strong shoulder to lean on. The grounded half of our dyad. He is also the wise ass in our marriage and according to him, if we applied my logic to the current state of my own medical symptoms, then for the love of all things impossible, the Internet just diagnosed me with testicular cancer.Labels: Motherhood |
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| Little Body, Big Heart |
Nate had his nine month well baby check up last week and he is barely tipping the scales at 15lbs, 12oz.
As far as head circumference and height goes, he’s chugging along just fine and continuing to plot the curve in the 50th percentile range, but when it comes to weight, not only is he no longer plotting the curve, but his tiny frame does not even register on the chart.
This bothers me because if you plot him on a chart for breastfed babies from the World Health Organization, this is not the case.
Even so, it’s hard not to feel like I am doing something wrong when the doctor marks that little dot on his chart completely outside the range of “normal”. I just wish doctors would stop using those dated charts from the 70’s that reflect the weight gain patterns of formula fed babies that started solids before the current recommended age of 6 months.
Because on paper, it looks like my baby is starving.
But I know he isn’t. He eats to his little heart's content, and when we breastfeed, he comes off my breast in a tender haze of milk-infused breastatic glory.
Nate was exclusively breastfed until just before the 6 month range when we introduced him to cereal, followed by vegetables and fruits.
When we took him to see a paediatrician shortly afterwards, she reaffirmed for us that solid foods in the first year of life are more for socialization and introducing babies to different textures. She recommended keeping the focus on breastfeeding and infant cereal with breast milk because breast milk has more bang for your buck nutritionally speaking than say, applesauce or peas.
So we worked hard at trying to find a balance between breastfeeding and solids and just a few weeks ago, we introduced him to meat.
All in all, he eats fairly well, as long as the food is his mouth is not made of carrots or squash.
At nine months old, Nate is still breastfed on demand, and this averages about 3 to 4 times a day now.
He doesn’t always feed from both breasts because I can’t get my milk to let down with my manual Avent Isis breast pump. Nate, and only Nate, can initiate a let down. So while he drinks from one breast, I pump the other and try and keep a rolling supply of about 8 ounces in the fridge.
He eats three meals a day and I let him eat to his heart's content, or until he starts spitting his food back at me, which ever comes first. His total daily food intake consists of between 2½ to 3 jars of food. He also eats cereal mixed with 3 – 4 ounces of breast milk twice a day, for an average daily total of about 21 tbsp of cereal mixed with 7 ounces of breast milk.
I usually offer him a baby cookie, like a Farley’s biscuit, for a mid-afternoon snack, which he always tries to share with Samson, who gladly obliges to take it off his hands if I am not looking.
We have tried offering him small pieces of well cooked noodles, but he just sort of stares at them like, dude, where’s the alfredo sauce made with breast milk?
Overall, I would say that he is a very happy baby. Except on the days that he isn’t. But there are more good days than bad days.
He is meeting his development milestones and although we frequent the doctor’s office more than normal to monitor his weight, she is not worried.
So why then, am I?
And even though I know every child is different, I am going to ask this anyways because I have nothing to benchmark his food intake with.
If you don’t mind sharing, how much food does or did your baby eat in a day?
 Labels: Baby Nate, Motherhood, The Learning Curve |
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| Black Hole of Need |
One of my most favourite time of day is Nate’s bath time.
The ultimate goal of bath time has little to do with cleaning remnants of dinner out of his ears and eyebrows and more to do with encouraging Nate to unwind before bed in a relaxingly warm bath, followed by an evening night cap of warm milk served out of his decanter of choice – boobs.
I am usually the one that bathes Nate and I find it easier to actually get in the tub with him. So while I run the water for his bath, Mark takes care of getting him undressed and helping him expend pent up energy by squeezing out as many calorie burning belly laughs as possible. It always amazes me how easy it is to make a baby squeal with laughter because I don’t remember finding it very funny at all the last time Mark draped me over his shoulders and turned my ass into a drum bum.
While waiting for Mark to bring me a naked baby to wash, I try and make use of my precious time alone and do productive things - like maintain my status in the animal kingdom as a woman – and shave my legs.
Sometimes Mark arrives bearing a nude baby quicker than I expected and shaving must be put on hold because Nate is a boy, which also makes him a loose cannon equipped with reckless boy parts. That squirt. Unexpectedly.
Also, bath time is right after dinner time. And you never know what surprises may hail from the flatulent squawk of his butt trumpet.
I’m not exactly sure why, but every time Mark hands Nate over for his bath, I ask if he pooped. I’m even less sure what purpose being gifted with knowledge about the state of his diaper serves either. Because if the verdict comes back that yes, he pooped, then he has a bath. And if the verdict comes back that no, he did not poop his pants, has still has a bath.
But that is what I do.
I ask.
Because apparently motherhood has reduced the magnitude of things that interest me to what surprises can be found inside my son’s diaper.
For all the ways that motherhood has changed me though, there is one thing I know for certain.
I had some mighty lucky stars shining on my lady parts the night my adorable little black hole of need was conceived.
I just love him to pieces.
Bottomless pails full of dirty diapers and all.Labels: Motherhood |
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| Becoming His Own Person |
Nate’s personality is not only starting to flourish, it is downright steamrolling ahead with the force of an avalanche these days. Trailing on the coattails of his developing identity is a temperament that erupts with the force of a volcano.
And somewhere, all wrapped up in the mighty roar of this burgeoning display of individuality and sense of self, are glimpses of characteristics that seem to stem directly from either me or his father.
I used to suck my thumb when I was a little girl. Nate also likes to suck his thumb. He willingly gave up his pacifier very early in preference of his little nubby appendage and although there is nothing special about slobbering all over your fingers, what is very special to me is that he sucks his thumb exactly the same way I used to – by surrounding himself in the warmth of a cozy blanket and gently rubbing and caressing the tiny crevasse beneath his nose to the quiet rhythm of his suckling.
What really gets my heart fluttering is when he snuggles in close to me when I nurse him and he weaves his tiny hand underneath my shirt and then pulls it against his face to gently massage the fabric against his nose.
The fact that Nate soothes and comforts himself the same way I used to makes me feel sort of wobbly and sentimental. Like, my kid likes the same things I used to.
And if that is any indicator of things to come, it is probably in my best interest to make sure that this house is well stocked with noodles and ketchup and diagonally cut toast with no crust or else the wrath of Mount Nathan may erupt and make his wishes known in the form of a tantrum.
Nate also loves all things musical, which absolutely must come from his father because to hear me sing would make you want to stuff giant pickles in your ears in hopes that one of the physical properties of sodium is an ability to dehydrate sound waves.
 I am so grateful that I have a front row seat in this extraordinary ride of life that Nate is on.
Each and every corner turned reveals new potential and endless possibilities and it’s absolutely amazing to watch it all unfold through the eyes of a child. Labels: Baby Nate, Motherhood, Video |
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| A Lesson in Physics |
There are days when I cast a glance in Nate’s direction and for split second I feel like I am looking directly at a mirror image of myself.
Even though deep down I know that he is a by-product of chromosomes and genes and a working example of DNA at its finest, it’s still mind boggling that he was once nothing more than a puzzle of cells furiously multiplying and dividing under the mysterious guidance of nature’s most intricate blueprint.
And now, here he sits, entirely a creation of two separate individuals, yet entirely his own person.
Even more mind boggling is trying to put into words how deeply I love him.
These feelings that I feel are so grand and magical that surely they must defy every single law of physics known to mankind. This awareness transcends physical boundaries and meanders through barriers with an uncomplicated ease. Its virtuosity can scale mountains and its brilliance shines brighter than the blazing halo of summer’s yellow sun.
Every day he changes so much. He is becoming more vibrant and more insightful and with each new milestone my heart grows and swells even larger, overflowing with motherly pride.
I confess. I am a swooning sentimental wrapped in an enigma of the jejune memories of my son’s youth.
Because everything happens so fast.
Blink. My baby can smile.
Blink. My baby can laugh.
Blink. My baby can sit on his own.
Blink. My baby has two front teeth.
Blink. My sweet baby has learned to wave hello.
Like the spirally swirl of the lock of my hair that I am forever grasping and twirling, these memories of my son are forever entrenched in my mind as snapshots of his life that can be replayed and relived.
I just wish that I could freeze time and capture these memories, carefully sealing them under an airtight lid so I can savour more slowly his sweet juvenescent elixir.
Except maybe for the part where Nate decided he loves prunes.
Because the unbounded infinity of the love that I have for Nate does not even come close to the laws of physics that are being broken from the effect the prunes have on his already overly active colon.Labels: Baby Nate, Motherhood |
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| Perennial Cutie |
My mother is an avid gardener. So is my father. Together, they spend countless hours in their yard, planting and weeding, weeding and planting. They enjoy it. It’s something they take great pride in and they have a beautiful yard to show for it. Me on other hand, I don’t love gardening so much. And a quick glance at my yard will prove it. My grass is brown, hard and crunchy. Some spots are green, but I don’t think it is grass growing there. If I had to hazard a guess as to what the green spots are, I would bet they’re weeds. I have two gardens in my backyard, and except for a bone or two that Samson has buried beneath the dusty earth surface, they are empty. Those gardens will remain flowerless because I can’t seem to figure out the complicated science of a watering schedule. I mean, you would think that if you forget to water your flowers for a whole entire month that you could just give them a bunch of water when you finally remember to make up for your carelessness, but apparently, plants can drown. Who knew? My front yard has a few hedges, but they only exist because I have to expend zero effort to keep them alive. Mark even gives them their annual trim because I am much better at doing other important yard work. Like sitting. In a chair. With a cold drink in my hands. Although I am self admitted failure when it comes to taking care of things that requires sunshine and photosynthesis to prosper, I sincerely hope that my gardening skills do not surpass my parenting skills because I have gestated my very own little weed that needs someone to nurture and care for him. And from what I hear, my perennial cutie will be a thorn in my backside for like, at least 18 years. Unlike gardening however, nurturing my son brings me so much joy. I love watching our family build its roots. Maybe one day when my nest is empty I’ll try my hand at gardening again, but for now, this little weed of mine keeps me busy enough.
Which is exactly why we’re keeping the fertilizer under wraps to keep the rest of the weeds at bay if you catch my drift.
Labels: All in the Family, Motherhood |
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| Ripple in Time |
It is moments like this - when a ripple in time captures a look on my son’s face of sheer wonderment and sublime innocence - that I am overcome with whispers of victorious pride and overwhelming happiness, despite the heavy losses I have faced.
 And maybe, just maybe, Ava is nearby, sent down from a starry firmament to hover over her baby brother on white wings of seraphim and a delicate gossamer prayer.
Labels: Baby Nate, In Memory of Ava, Motherhood |
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| The Learning Curve |
I find it hard not to get so wrapped up in the enigma of mothering. And whether its about breastfeeding today or discipline or my parenting philosophy tomorrow, it still all boils down to the idea of being responsible for the well being of an entire human. With arms and legs and a head and a face capable of adorable little expressions that transcend the boundaries of anything I ever thought possible before life with a child.
The moment I brought my baby home from the florescent tomb where he was born and took those first steps into the unchartered microcosm of parenting, a huge portion of my self-confidence suddenly dissipated into nothing more than a sodium vapour mist of particles and atoms so small and random that it was nearly impossible to find any remnants of the fallout to grab hold of.
The newness of it all, the possibilities, the mistakes that I was bound to make, the uncertainties, the memory of the child that was no longer with me and the gossamer innocence of the baby I was holding in my arms felt so entirely overwhelming. And while I floundered around like a lowly bottom feeder, it felt like the rest of the parenting pool were swimming around like proud pufferfish way above the depths of my knowledge.
But I’m learning. The curve just feels so steep sometimes.
And yet despite the learning curve, my son continues to thrive like a deeply rooted seedling under the steady guidance of a morning sunrise.
Sure, he’s super tiny – but he is not even 7 months old and already 1/7th of my body weight.
Sure, he’s not a classic textbook baby – but that is because he is a perfectly normal human baby.
Sure, there are days that I leave him idling in his rainforest jumperoo while he talks to a blue bee with polka dot wings while I take a much needed break to do other things - like taking a step back to really see the forest through the trees.
Because let's face it, the blue bee never gets bored.
Labels: Motherhood, The Learning Curve |
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| New Challenges |
| Nate and I have recently overcome something that I find very difficult to put into words. A few weeks ago, my son suddenly refused to breastfeed. For days and days, nursing was a constant battle. Whenever I tried to put him in the nursing position, tears would fill his eyes and he would scream out in distress. I didn’t understand what was wrong and all I could do was cry along with him while my confidence tumbled on a downward spiral of frustrated guilt faster than the fall of a skilfully crafted house of cards. This, I suspect, is the same way that mothers who wanted to breastfeed, but were unable to, feel. Like they are living in a shadow guilt over their perceived failure. I think that is the operative word though – perceived - because at the end of the day, we parents are all just trying to do what is best for our children and our family in the best way that we know how, and by definition that simply does not translate into failure. I just need to remember that. If you would like to read more about my breastfeeding challenges, please come and visit me over at Durham Region Baby today. I look forward to hearing about the challenges that you have had with breastfeeding, and how they have personally impacted you. Labels: Boobs, Motherhood, The Learning Curve |
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| Eye hate it when he's right |
| This morning when Nathan woke up, his left eye was all bloodshot. Kind of like he had spent the night boozing it up, but I know he didn’t leave his crib last night because you cannot lower the rails on that thing without creating enough clamor and ruckus to disturb the slumber of Satan himself in the vaults of hell. The crib annoys me that much. Anyhow, his left eye. The white has been replaced with a murderous shade of red. Mark took one look at it and said, “Oh, he burst a blood vessel.” And I didn’t believe him because the last time I burst a vessel in my eye like that was after a night of violently emptying the contents of a stomach full of daiquiri mix and rum. And for the record, I am not a light weight. It was the sugar. Ignoring Mark, I turned to the all knowing omnipotent powers of Dr. Google. After a quick scan, the bastard diagnosed my son with pink eye and said that he needed to go and see a real doctor with a real degree right away because his eye might fall out. Also for the record, I thoroughly enjoy reading websites that put the fear of God into me over totally harmless bacteria. So upon the advice of Dr. Google, I went to see a real doctor with a fancy degree and everything on their wall and as it turns out, Mark was right. Nate's eye has a bursted blood vessel. Probably due to coughing from all of the cigarettes he smokes. Anyhow, don’t tell Mark that he was right ok? Because I hate it when he’s right. Instead I’m going to tell him that the cats infected his son with their big crazy herpes. Labels: Baby Nate, Mark, Motherhood, The Learning Curve |
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| The Routine |
After I hit the publish button on yesterday's post, I suddenly realized that I had mentioned Nate was a perfect little sleeper and the last time I talked about his sleeping habits my words were more along the lines of complaining about my weary head and being up at all hours of the night.
Almost six months of not sleeping properly was more than starting to take its toll on me. As the dawn of each new day unfurled, I was slowly dissolving and becoming increasingly vacant. Not even the gentle haze of the morning sun could lift the fog from my head. I started to walk around in a constant daze of weariness and on the verge of tears.
And then I reached out to the interweb for help and many of you suggested books that have helped you immensely, so I decided to read Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth. I tried his advice and Nate slept through the whole night almost right away. The rest is history.
Our routine goes something like this now:
6:00 am: Nate wakes up. I nurse him on one side and pump the other side for his cereal for the day.
7:00 am: Nate and I eat breakfast.
8:00 am: Nate is usually ready for his first morning nap. I nurse him to sleep.
10:00 am: Nate wakes up. We nurse.
12:00 pm: Nate and I eat lunch.
1:00 pm: Nate starts to get tired again. The eye rubbing is a dead giveaway. I nurse him to dreamland.
3:00 pm: Nate is up and ready to tackle his afternoon, but not before he gets some boob action.
5:00 pm: Cuddle/Nursing and occasionally a quick 30 minute nap.
6:00 pm: Family dinner.
6:30 pm: Bath time.
7:00 pm: Before bedtime we snuggle and nurse.
And that is a typical day in our household.
Nate is notably different now. He isn’t as cranky. His attention span is way better. He does not get frustrated as easily as he did in life before The Routine and if it wasn’t for the birthmark on the back of his head, I swear I would have thought the storks brought me a new baby.
Before we tried this whole routine thing, Nate was going to bed at around 11:00 with Mark and me and I always thought that worked well enough because that let us get out of the house in the evenings as a family and go for a coffee or a drive or walk around the mall or whatever. And since Nate wasn’t sleeping through the night, I thought that if we put him to sleep later, he would sleep longer. But for whatever reason, that theory just did not work and he still got up during the night.
Although I suspect we are a tad lucky that our kid seems to go down for the night without much of a fuss and I can’t explain why going to bed at 7:00 pm means he is suddenly sleeping through entire night, I'm so glad we have finally found something that works so well for us.
Except for the fact that I feel like I a prisoner in my own home and still can’t cook for shit.
Labels: Baby Nate, Motherhood, The Learning Curve |
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Wednesday, August 27, 2008
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