Nursery: Day 2

Today I spent 30 minutes at daycare with James, and then... left!  I walked down the street without a baby in my arms, feeling oddly... empty.  And free.  And relaxed.  I thought I would feel slightly guilty at leaving him, Instead, I felt... free!  I felt reassured that the nursery was, if not the most amazing place in the world, at least a safe place where James will be well fed and safely looked after.   There may be scuffs on the walls, and some of the toys may be a little worn, but there is usually a 2:1 baby to carer ratio, which means James will never be ignored for long.  I like the idea of little James as an independent entity, making his own way in the world. 

When I returned after two hours of errands to pick James up, he was just starting his lunch:  macaroni cheese and sweetcorn. One thing is certain:  James will not be ignored when he wants something.  If the daycare helper took too long between bites, James would begin a series of gutteral groans that were impossible to ignore.  I was proud of him for making his demands known. 

Maybe a slightly spoiled baby is a more resilient baby?   I never thought of James as "spoiled" before, but he has had a lot of undivided attention in his short life.  No wonder his little mind is used to it.  

Tomorrow: Day 3 of settling in.  And then, James is on his own!  

First day of day care

I may have been very slack so far in recording James' achievements in his baby book, but next Wednesday will be a landmark:  his very first full day at the nursery.  I can hardly imagine what it will be like to leave him in the little building across the street, and walk away for 7 hours.

Today was the first of a three day gradual settling in program.  It was relatively mild - 90 minutes, with me in attendance the full time.  Even so, we had a minor catastrophe only 10 minutes into his visit.  I was admiring the messy artwork created by some youngster, and while I was looking away, sweet little Celeste managed to whack James on the head with a plastic truck.  The attendant hurriedly put a cold compress on the bump.  The rest of the stay passed without incident, aside from James attempting to eat the paint off his paintbrush.  But clearly, we need to toughen our little boy up!

Hooray for baby videos

After I've played with James, fed him, cleaned his nappy, and given him naptime, I do what to some parents is unthinkable: I plop him in front of the television, mostly to watch the Baby Mozart videos.  While I don't honestly believe that these videos will turn the boy into a genius, he does genuinely enjoy watching them.  He waves to the little girl, he claps his hand occasionally, and if he's whimpering to start with, he stops as soon as I turn it on.

At a dinner party a few weeks ago, a couple proudly proclaimed that television watching undoubtedly gives children Attention Deficit Disorder.  To me, it seems it has the opposite effect - he is able to watch consistently, and pay constant attention to his play tasks as well.

The moral, as always, is this:  while we don't know what exactly is best for the children, if we really aren't sure, let's side with the activity that is in our best interest.  And for the busy mother, an occasional educational video certainly is.

Internet Consumer Blitz

I look enviously back on my pregnancy as a time of consumer bliss.  I went into each baby gear store with excitement and wonder, examining the clothes//prams/baskets/toys, and making careful considerations.  I researched everything, and, not wanting to be "one of those mothers" who end up with lots of things they don't need, decided to select only the most important items. I compared prices and brands, asked advice, made electronic wish lists for those friendly gift-givers who sought them out. Each purchase was a joy, each thing carefully stowed away for when it was needed. Friends gave me heaps of things, and I treated them with the same careful consideration, sorting by age and purpose.

Now, things have changed.  I find myself conducting a sort of consumer blitz on the things I need, somewhat like the television show "Supermarket  Sweep."  I tend to buy as much as I can, as fast as I can.

Example: Today, in James' music class, I saw how much he loved the rattles and drums.  And this afternoon, when home again with him, I found that he is now, at age 7 months, getting more easily bored.  He needs more entertainment.  So today I decided to commit complete attention to amusing him, rather than letting him play on his own, or just steering him towards the soft hanging toys with one hand and typing on my computer with the other.  (no judgement - you know you've done it too!) So, determined to pay attention to only him, I sang to him, clapped with him, created voices for his stuffed animals, lifted him in the air, walked with him, pointed things out in the room.  I checked my watch:  only 5 minutes had passed.  Gasp.

These two factors contributed to my rash decision, once James was in bed, to go to a toy website and buy a bunch of things that could help me musically entertain him.  But I didn't do price comparisons, or research. And of course I didn't consult my husband, as I would have done in the past.  I just chose a website that I thought might offer good educational toys, selected a few, and checked out.

I may have spent too much, or not got the best things, or (worse) bought a bunch of things that will serve only to clutter our apartment.  But it feels good knowing that in a few days time, a box will arrive with all kinds of colourful goodies (don't ask me which ones) for James to amuse himself with.

Ah, consumerism at its finest.  

Revenge of the nester

I learned today that I may well be paying for the well-intended nesting phase I went through while pregnant.  I'm currently applying to renew my United Kingdom visa.  Much paperwork and documentation is involved, including sending in all passports, old and new.  It is vital to have every piece.

Unfortunately, I couldn't locate my old passport - it was not in the space below the cupboard where I usually keep it.  While looking, I realised I had a vague recollection of storing it away somewhere last winter in an effort to "reduce clutter."  Clearly, the handiwork of a pregnant nester!

After ransacking my bedroom, office, and even nursery, I finally found the culprit.  It was lodged between books in a plastic bag labelled "old passports."  I'm sure that there must have been some logic in the place I chose, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it had been.  And now I wonder - what other lost objects did our well-meaning pregnant nester hide, that are never to be seen again?

My advice:  Don't give too much power to the nester.

The baby food wars: American vs Britain

As a reminder, I spent most of August at my parents' place in North Carolina.  James was about 5.5 months old when we arrived - a perfect time to start delivering food into the small baby's yob (and hopefully beefing him up in the process, for he was still lingering at the fifth percentile for weight! I was still trying not to panic, but a burst of weight gain would have been highly appreciated.)  Starting to feed him while at my parents' gave me the added "grandparental" bonus - someone else to shovel in the food.

I liked the idea of Baby Fed Weaning, as described in the book by Gill Rapley and Tracey Murkett; or at the very least puréeing the foods myself, but my lovely American mother convinced me to go ahead with the standard, store-bought purées.  I could see her point.  Why fiddle with either puréeing foods yourself, or dealing with potential danger, mess, and nuisance of a baby with very limited motor skills trafficking  unfamiliar objects into his mouth? The quality of purée has improved, she explained, and there's no shame in using them. And besides, I have trouble enough devoting time to cooking for my husband and me.

Time saved?  I was convinced.  And so mom and I sampled different purées from different stores - Target, local grocery stores, Toys R Us.  In the end, we most liked Gerbers' simple concoctions.  James's gag reflex seemed to have been triggered by some of the unusual mixtures produced by Ella's, but the handy toothpaste-like squirt package was great for travel.  Regardless of the type of food involved, James loved mealtimes, and never wanted them to end.

And four weeks later, here we are back in London and away from all parental influences.  While I'm planning on introducing both baby-led weaning and home made purées (really, I am),  I decided to first stock up on some store-bought foods.  An "emergency" stash.  I reached a surprising conclusion in my completely unprofessional study conducted on internet grocery store Ocado: British baby purees seem to be more meat-intensive than the American variety.  I hadn't considered that, just as McDonald's menus vary depending on country, baby foods change as well.  British adults eat loads of meat, so why not the babies?

I was a little surprised to see things like "Roast Lamb Dinner with all the trimmings," and "Chicken Pot Pie," but now babies can get used to the flavours they'll be eating throughout most of their lives.  It could even be argued that a baby has a better chance for a happy social life if he likes nationally-beloved foods*, such as hot dogs for Americans and black pudding for Irish.

While the concept worked, I was none too pleased with the gelatinous format of these meaty delicacies. The veggie flavours certainly seem to have a better consistency, although baby James the voracious eater devours them all equally quickly.  (Except, of course, for Ella's blueberry - tomato - grape - baby rice flavour that he almost spewed across the room.  Atta boy!)

*not a real study

Back from summer holidays, and into the pool!

James (now a proud 7 months old) and I officially returned from our summer holidays with the start of a new season - and different provider - of swimming lessons. 

As a reminder, when James was six weeks old, we began lessons with London Baby Swim. I was committed to starting young James as early as the courses would allow, mostly because one of the concepts that convinced me to enter the world of motherhood in the first place was an image of a tiny baby swimming alone unaided.  (and no, I did not take this idea from Nirvana's Nevermind album cover!)  This was the only course that took babies so young and was not already full.  The one drawback - and it's a big one - was that the course was located in Hounslow, nearly all the way out to Heathrow Airport.  For the 10 weeks of the course, I managed to drag myself and tiny baby James out to the course, each time using various combinations of taxis, buses, tubes, and rental cars, and often with baby James strapped to my chest.  It was a commitment.  The course was wonderful, but unsurprisingly I opted not to partake again in such an adventure.

And so, this time, I went through some hoops (including convincing the organisers that even though we had used a different provider the first time, James was indeed a qualified "beginner" baby, ready for the "intermediate" course) to start him with Water Babies.  Many things are similar about the two courses.  For one, the logistics involved are enormous.  Before entering the pool, the list includes (but is certainly not limited to)

1.  Packing up all the necessary things (my bathing suit, a disposable swimming nappy, James' outer "happy nappy" to prevent leakage, towels, dummies, breast feeding cover, etc etc)
2.  Managing to clamber into a cab or public transport with the baby and his gear without spilling anything or causing injury to the boy
3.  Squirming into a swim suit six weeks after giving birth while managing to avoid all mirrors
4.  Doing all the calculations involved in timing feeding and naps
5.  Navigating a new neighbourhood without getting hopelessly lost and rendering the entire class pointless

And then, we reach the pool.  For both classes, we were faced with a mad scramble.  We didn't want to get the babies in their swimsuits too early, for fear they would become cold and miserable, so there was no hope of starting early. Almost exactly 7.5 minutes before the class was to start, the mothers would spontaneously dash from the viewing area into the changing area and begin flinging the baby's clothes off, changing and clothing the baby, and getting ready themselves.  Amazingly, we remained good natured through the process, though always silently panicked.  (the post-swim process was infinitely worse than even this, as we were soaked, freezing, only partially clad, and dealing with hungry/tired/cold/wet babies.)

Basically, it's no wonder that after today's class, I am more exhausted than James.  The classes always involve lots of singing and torturous lifting-the-babies-into-the-air routines performed while we simultaneously spin around and walk in circles.  I did feel at times like a synchronised swimmer. 

But enough about me.  What was it like for the babies?  Was it all worth it?  It was indeed, and I can't wait to begin the torturous cycle all over again next week.  All four of the babies present in today's class laughed practically the whole time.  The songs and twirling may be monotonous to us, but it's like candy to the babies.  The highlight of today's lesson was donning a pair of goggles and a swim cap and going underwater, then seeing little wide-eyed James wafting towards me underwater after being released by the instructor.  When I brought him back to the surface, he looked completely calm, relaxed, and happy.  And safety is taught too:  By the end of the session, they knew to hold tightly to a horizontal bar (good life saving skills) when placed in front of it. 

It's hard for me at this point to determine which class is actually better.  We'll see again next week. 

memories

During my summer of maternity leave, I've challenged myself to sort out all my possessions and determine what to keep - and what to pitch.  It's amazing how much I had amassed.  Many of my class notes from high school and college, old movie stubs, stuffed animals.  I was saving it for... what, exactly, I'm not sure.  It must be a symptom of youth to think that all our relics will matter.  Now, I know the truth: they don't. 

It's been illuminating to venture back into these periods of my life with the added reflection that comes with having a baby.  I look at my education, and think of James following me through the multiplication tables and handwriting classes, through summer camps and vacations.  And I fiind myself wondering:  what is the point of all this?  Why is it that we want our kids to have the best education, the best experiences? 

I've thought it over, and I think I may have an answer.  It's not as simple as training them to make money, or have a family - those things are relatively easy in the scheme of things.  It could be just instilling in them a love of learning, and an appreciation of life.  Or, from a more selfish perspective, training them to be a person that we actually want to be around.  According to all three criteria, our happy boy is doing well.

Drum roll... James' first food!

It's two weeks until baby James six month birthday, and today we gave him his first taste of solid food.  And none too early - the babe is no longer sleeping sweetly through the night, seemed a bit more irritable than normal, and had been trying to reach for all my food.

I wanted to start with one of the lovely (relatively) looking veggie purees, but hubby insisted that we follow the common advice and start him on baby rice.  There was one complication.  The rice should be either mixed with formula, which he has yet to taste, or breast milk.  I'm still enjoying breast feeding, but am utterly sick of ineffectual pumping, and couldn't manage to get any out after a feeding.  So, we used water. 

The resulting paste looked disgusting, but baby James adored it, and continually reached for more.  He has entered the world of foodies!  And if he loves this paste like substance, think how he'll react to pad thai?

War of Consumerism

I'm now in the house where I grew up, staying with my parents for the next month.  I figured that since I'm not returning to work until December, I might as well get a little family time in.  My brother, who normally lives in Los Angeles, has decided to come back home for this great adventure.  (or non-adventure, which might be a good way to describe staying with the family.)  My husband decided one week was an appropriate length for his stay, and so next week he will leave me to family fun.

Three days in, and there has been no conflict of note (at least none involving baby James.)  Until now, that is.  We have just had a round of I-Want-That-For-My-Son-Even-Though-It-Is-Completely-Extravagent. 

It was shocking to my mom, but I wanted to spend $80 on a little jumping toy, the Fisher Price Rainforest Jumperoo, for James.  It's in the spaceship family, and has springs allowing the baby to jump, with toys that allow the baby to play and make annoying noises. It's my mother's worst nightmare: it's not practical, it's expensive, it's not necessary, it takes up tons of room, I can't travel back home with it, and James will only be able to use it on this particular visit - by the time we come back, he may well have outgrown it.  In other words, it's like pretty much every toy on the market. I wanted it because the baby in the picture looked like it was trembling with fun.  I'm a sucker for good photography. 

And she didn't want me to get it.  I wanted it.  We debated.  She tried to fashion a similar toy out of a highchair, a piece of foil, and a paper plate.  (too much MacGyver viewing) I pointed out the rave reviews on Amazon.  I explained that the price was only half that of a dinner out.  I described the expensive classes I had eschewed so that I could spend money on other things.

In the end, I waited for her to leave the house, and cheekily ordered it on Amazon to be delivered next week.  If James doesn't like it, my kind parental hosts may not be so supportive of my whims.  If he so much as giggles the first time he uses it, I'll be in the clear. 

Buying junk for our babies is hard enough, but when you do it in a semi-public forum, it becomes downright painful!

Organizational disaster

I learned the hard way that I need to step up my organizational game. 

We travel a lot.  And we're unfortunately not happy with little towns, or family visits.  We love travel to world cities.  And travel of this sort generally involves long distances, crossing massive bodies of water, and skipping across time zones. 

Of course, all of this requires air travel.  In addition to the well-publicized problems of traveling with kids, I've learned of another challenge:  travelling while keeping all of your valuable belongings together.  This is hard enough when you have only yourself to take care of - it's all to easy to leave a camera or cell phone behind when you're distracted.

Having a baby takes it all to a new level.  And sadly my loss today was not monetary (which are the easiest loss to recover from) - it was emotional.  In the flurry of leaving the airplane toting the baby and all our belongings, I lost my journal. I had started it two years ago, had written in it at least three times a week, and hadn't backed it up in any way shape or form. I've filed a lost report for it, but I'm partially convinced these online forms are there for the mental health of loss victims, and don't actually see the light of day.

I have to tell myself to be more organised next time, and to start trying to replace and remember the information it contained.   I keep telling myself that "at least I didn't lose the baby."  But let's face it: losing something of immense personal importance is a bad experience, no matter how you view it.

I simply have to adopt a new strategy: never carry anything you will care if you lose.  Period.  Back it all up, duplicate it, sell it, lock it up.  But never carry it on a plane, and never put it in the seat pocket in front of you.  When the baby starts screaming as you land, you'll forget everything else.

A missed milestone

Has all my work for the past five months has gone for nothing? 

I have spent nearly every one of my baby's 3600 hours of life with him.  I can count on one hand the exceptions, and all have been for periods of 4 hours or less. 

And somehow, with such a stellar track record, I've gone and missed James' first official milestone.  And, I must admit, I am a bit resentful.

The tragic tale began innocently enough.  Our little family of three was visiting New York City, where we each have several friends.  We were in the city for a ridiculously short period of 30 hours (essentially an extended layover, courtesy of our flight booked with miles).  As we needed to make the most of the time, we decided to split up so that we could each see respective friends.  Uncharacteristically, husband Brendan offered to take the baby for lunch - but only so that he could show him off to his Child Friendly buddy.  I agreed - my Child Blind friend (many of our single friends don't dislike children - children simply do not enter their conciousness)  didn't need to be saddled with expectations of simulated affection for the infant. 

It must have been the spirit of pride that  led Brendan to decide that today was the day for James to try a high chair for the first time.  James loved it, and was apparently the star of the entire restaurant.  (ok, Brendan does tend to exaggerate, just a tad...)  I heard the story with mixed feelings... happy that father Brendan was proud, proud of the little man myself, fear of this new sign of maturity, and disappointment that I missed the milestone myself. 

I also decided that I must exact revenge.  Today, while Brendan was playing golf, I repeated "ma ma" 500 times to little James as we played.  I will be victorious!

Taking my eye off the boy

I am suddenly panicking.  I promise you, in the past three days, our little baby has changed into a bigger baby.  We have been on holiday in Canada for the past two weeks, touring family, landmarks and various events.  In all the excitement, I've stopped paying attention.  I realised today that my little one can grasp my neck while I'm holding him.  He's started to do all the annoying things that I used to loathe about toddlers - grabbing hair, throwing toys on the floor, and crying when you set him down. 

I feel the fear.  I'm getting a glimpse of the future.  I've lost my little fashion item, who was content to eat, sleep and stare, and have replaced him with a child who seems to already have a mind of his own.  Today, in the afternoon, I realised:  maybe it's true what nearly every experienced parent has already told me.  They Grow Up Too Fast.  I've ignored that cautionary message until now. 

But what can I do about it?  How do I stop the wretched flow of time?  And what will I do if I don't like the little boy who emerges at the end of this growth phase? 

Business class for baby

At four months old, James was ready for his first transatlantic flight.   We were flying from London to Toronto, and Brendan had spent approximately 100 hours researching possible flights, frequent flier miles combinations, and upgrades.  He managed to secure us two business class seats on the transatlantic flight.  All set!

But not really.  About two weeks before the flight, it dawned on us that we may have to register our lovely son for the flight, too.  (although he sometimes feels like luggage, he does count as a human being, after all.)  So, we called, and, for a small additional fee, landed him a spot on our flight. 

There was a catch.  In an apparent effort to dissuade passengers from carrying babies in business class (the crying can prove distracting for business travelers), the little baby bassinets are not available in business class!  This meant that we would have to carry little James on our laps for the entire flight.  This somewhat mitigated the appeal of the upgrade - after all, isn't it hard to truly enjoy a glass of champagne with a baby tottering on your lap? 

On this particular day in July, the baby travel gods must have been smiling on us.  The seat next to me was empty, and the lovely stewardess offered the place for James.  He flew across the Atlantic in a fully reclined adult-sized bed.  The little tyke, at only four months old, has been privy to a top notch travel experience. Brendan and I were able to eat, drink, and watch films in peace.  He cried only slightly as we landed, and we received no dirty looks from passengers.  I still was caught midway through a film, though, and really didn't want to leave the plane...

Moral: upgrade your seats! 

Dirt

It's time to find daycare.  A busy baby momma like myself couldn't stay home full time, could she?  (or, at the very least, she would need a ready supply of spending money, something that currently isn't available...)

So, I need to find a place to leave little Jimmy when I'm at work.  Conveniently, there is a daycare just across the street from us.  Perfect, I always thought.  The outside looks cute enough, and normal looking people seem to find their way inside during pickup times.  (How do I know this?  Our favourite pub is conveniently located just across the street, making the daycare location even more appealing.)

I made the mistake, it seems, of scheduling a visit.  Inside, the floor was littered with crumbs and a carpet was stained.  Four babies and three adults were positioned around a shallow tray of oatmeal, their hands (and some heads of hair) coated with the sticky stuff.  I felt almost like wretching.  They use food to play with, the director explained, because the kids tend to eat it.  I stumbled out of the place, sure that I could never leave James there.  He deserved a pristine, perfect place, where the staff members are creative geniuses.  At this place, they seemed merely average, as judged by their accents. 

In the days that followed, I did research on other daycare centres further away.  I began scheduling visits with them, even though they would add an extra 30 minutes to my commute.  I visited one.  The kids were bright and smiley, but the place was littered with crumbs. I've talked to other mothers who have noticed similar things about various daycares.

I have since come to the conclusion that I need to keep my ego and guilt in check and use the daycare closest to me.  Kids are messy, and I can see that they get even more so as they get older. (let's face it - right now, he eats only milk - very predictable.  Who knows what terrors we can expect when he goes to solid foods?)  The babies seem happy, and I'm not the one who is going to be spending the day in this place.  Thank goodness. 

A way to share work

James is now four months old.  He's been growing well and seems to be "meeting milestones."  Perhaps my role will increase later, but for now, I'm amazed at how parents tend to take credit for such successes.  Basically, the babies do it on their own, as long as you communicate with them, feed them, and occasionally clean them. 

So, James is taken care of.  Now, for me.  What will it take to make me happy, and to help me continue to grow? (or, at the very least, stay sane - a theory exists that a woman gets 25% crazier with each child.  A theory propogated by men, of course.) 

As you know, I split my time between North Carolina and London.  Today, in an effort to expand my realm, I am at London's Third Door, a workplace/nursery.  I've left James downstairs with the childcare people and am upstairs working and drinking coffee.  It's an amazingly freeing concept.  I can pop down and breastfeed James when I want, or leave a bottle (James prefers the mimijumi type) of expressed milk.  Meanwhile, James gets to interact with other babies and toddlers, and gets to use new toys and be exposed to new things.  Upstairs are a series of tables, phone booths, meeting rooms, and a kitchen.  For me, the appealing thing is that, unlike a standard nursery, I can use the "pay as you go" option and not be committed to a specific period of time.  Even though these facilities are about 45 minutes from me by bus, I feel liberated. 

So, James and I are each taking care of ourselves, one floor apart. 

The gym finally wins

A few weeks ago, on a sunny day, I ambitiously signed up as a member of our local gym.  It's a great gym, with childcare facilities and a swimming pool, which also means it is very expensive.  Signing up was as far as I got.  Best intentions aside, I just never made it over to workout. 

And finally, after seeing the monthly fee deducted again from my account, I decided that I had to start going.  But going to the gym meant facing quite a few challenges:  1.  finding my workout clothes   2.  finding some of my workout clothes that would actually fit   3.  wriggling into these workout clothes   4.  leaving little James in childcare for the first time!   5.  actually exercising. 

I took it slow.  Last month, I created a space in my closet that had only my workout clothes.   Today, I found a few pieces that would work.  I have a bit of a roll above my shorts, but I feel brave enough to subject the random world (luckily, I have no friends who are members!) to the sight of this roll.  James was having a great day, and I felt confident leaving him in the childcare facilities. 

I ran a ridiculously slow 1 mile on the treadmill, then did 30 reps of a low weight on several different machines.  I ended with stretching, which I desperately needed; after the pregnancy, I seem to have become even less flexible (in many ways) than before. 

And after the workout, I felt amazing, and proud.  I got dressed, left the babe, did the workout, and got myself and the baby home in one piece.  Such things would have seemed so easy to me before, but times have changed, and my standards have had to as well. 

Now, if I can just keep this up...

Water Baby

During the year I've taken off work to spend with little James, I wanted to do as much with him as possible.  Early on in his life, I took this idea to the extreme and started attending many free and paid classes with him.  17 weeks later, I've become weary of most of all but a handful of these. 

One that remains is his weekly swimming lesson.  It takes place on a weekly basis in a heated pool with about five other babies.  Some of it is very fluffy - for instance, we all stand in a circle, hold the babies, and softly sing "The Wheels on the Bus" while slowly revolving.  James shows little interest in these silly games - while they are probably designed to make the babies comfortable in water, James was fine from the beginning.  The real value of the class lies (for me, at least) in the challenging parts - the dunks under water, for instance.  Most recently, the instructor would take the baby and push it underwater towards the mother, who would take it out.  It was a scary moment, but he emerged fine, and seemed to like it well enough.  It seems that with parenthood, it's the scary moments that will end up being the most rewarding.  Singing in a circle is safe, but forgettable.  And cringeworthy.

The beauty of local coffee shops

Nearly four months into the parenthood adventure, I find that staying home brings out all the worst feelings of parenthood: feeling a bit trapped, bored, lonely, and sometimes resentful of my much more free male partner.

But today I have found the perfect solution.  As I sit here at the local Starbucks (although it could be any coffee shop, really) I find myself wondering how mothers used to survive without these.  I've discovered that a coffee shop offers everything a mom could want:

1.  Food and drink
2.  A crowd of people to help prevent isolation and insanity (and to witness examples of insanity in others, thereby making one feel more sane)
3.  No limits on the amount of time one can spend
4.  Built-in entertainment for the baby
5.  Free internet

The two of us have been here for two hours now.  James took a nap when we arrived and woke up hungry.  Happy for a break from work, I fed him, and he's now playing by staring at people at other tables, staring at his fingers, twirling his blanket, listening to music.  Every now and then I look at him and smile, and he smiles back.  We're each working in his own way:  me doing admin on the computer, and he building his brain.  Should I need to feed him, I carry only the most valuable items: my purse (which contains the changing materials), the baby, and my computer.  Remaining at my table are the pram, my coffee and my computer charger. 

Help you help me

Much has been discussed about the effect that having a child can have on a couple's relationship.  And most of it is true.

No more high schoolish games of "try and guess what I need to make me happy," or "I'll act cryptically upset and wait for you to figure out what to do."  Melodrama, martyring, and passive aggressive behaviour, not optimal in a  childless relationship, have absolutely no place in one with children.  Somewhat sadly for the drama addicts, only straightforward honesty will do.

So, if you're feeling that you are doing more than your share, don't withdraw, or act petulant in hopes that your partner will notice.  Consider what you will need to make you happy, and tell your partner.  "Can you please start washing the dishes more frequently," or, "I'd like it if you not smoke cigars around our infant," or "I would like to attend XXX on XXX date and would love it if you could stay home with junior."  If you're upset, or feel overwhelmed, don't lash out indiscriminately.  Try and figure out why, and figure out what you need.  Not even the best partner can read your mind.

Don't play games or make him guess.  Help him help you.

Sterilising: is it necessary for breastfeeding materials?

I am going to reveal a somewhat embarassing and contraversial truth:

I do not sterilise my pump, and do not always sterilise my the baby bottles before using them for breastmilk.

After suggesting to a friend that it may not be necessary to sterilise bottles, she was appalled.  Of course it is necessary to sterilise them, she said: after all, all the bottle and equipment manufacturers say so.  I myself believed them for the first few weeks. 

But then I read the fine print in one of my many books about breastfeeding.  According to the la leche league, one must only sterilise bottles and equipment if you are using formula.  When using formula, it is mandatory.  But when you are breastfeeding, and simply using the pump and bottles for breastmilk, no special sterilisiation procedures need to be followed. 

After three months of this, my baby has yet to get sick with anything.  I can only conclude that the la leche experts are right, even though the concept of not sterilising sounds so foreign to today's mothers who have been taught that a steriliser is a necessary piece of equipment.

But please note that I do wash the things thoroughly.  I may not be the most detail-oriented of mothers, but I am not a dirty one. 

**Please note that it is indeed necessary to sterilise all equipment when using formula**

Clearer Cues

I had heard from my mother friends that at three months, a new phase of childhood begins.  The "fourth trimester" ends, and the child begins to be slightly more self-sufficient. 

I am pleased to be able to confirm this.  Seemingly overnight, James began communicating in more obvious ways.  He has a strong "tired cry,"  which is almost a loud scream.  He laughs and smiles more than ever.  He wakes, sleeps and eats more regularly.  His size is bigger, making him more managable, and me less afraid.  Even the types of clothes he can wear is expanding (slowly) from the standard onesies and into miniature versions of real shirts and pants.

After seeing this transformation, I wonder why there is such a clamour for grandparents to see little newborns.  Wait 3 months, I say, and you'll be rewarded with a real little person that not only takes love and effort, but returns it as well.  I still can't even imagine what this baby will look like as a boy, but I'm getting closer to learning what parenthood is all about. 

First airplane ride!

We have successfully navigated our first airplane ride with little baby James.  It was a short flight, so we didn't have to deal with the dreaded "ear pain" problem, but it was a signficant milestone.  Having previously been one of the selfish travellers who would cast a disapproving eye over parents with screaming children, I boarded the airplane fully ready to accept such glances.  But James never cried.

Flying with a baby is simple:  you place him in his stroller, somehow manage to push it along with all your bags, take the infant at the airplane gate and leave your stroller to be placed in the cargo hold.  Contrary to logic, the stroller is not given to you at the landing gate.  Instead, you must manoeuvre down the hallways, and through customs, while holding your baby.  The stroller then comes out with the rest of the checked luggage.  (after a few years of speedy travel with no checked baggage, I must get reacquainted with the luggage belt!)

This would be a nightmare were it not for the baby Bjorn, a contraption that has become one of my most used possessions.  When you strap your baby in, you become free to carry your other baggage, and you're usually able to lull your baby to sleep.  With a relatively small carryon, a luggage cart, and the Bjorn, you're ready to face preparation for any flight.  (the flight itself, and potential screaming, is another issue.)

Obsessive Life Sculpting

I've often wondered what exactly it is about parenting that attracts people.  For some, it's the chance to unselfishly love another.  Others - gardeners, if you will - enjoy watching the baby grow.  A few procreate because it is expected.  There are always the accidental parents. 

But I've been exposed recently to parents who fall into a more insidious category:  the Manic Life Sculpter. 

We are all life sculpters to a degree.  We need to make choices about our children - where they will live, where they travel, who they stay with, what they eat, what they call their grandparents.  But some parents take this too far. 

In many cities, there are private schools.  Some of these private schools are difficult to get into, and require elaborate testing.  Others are difficult to get into because of lottery systems that are used.  One of these with the highest reputation uses a system whereby they take the first two students born in each month.  This system was created because of its randomness.

We learned that an acquaintence of ours scheduled an elective c-section to be on the first of the month so that their little girl is assured a place.  The c-section went as planned, and the little girl was awarded a place.  It brings success-obsession to a whole new level - if the parents are exerting this much pressure on her even before she was born, what type of childhood can she expect?

One distant from her parents, it seems.  The parents have already lost interest, it seems, in their child, and began using babysitters and nannies when the child was only 2 days old.  It was not for a major event - a wedding that was unmissable, or a return to work.  No, the parents did this solely so that they could have a regular meal at the local restaurant. 

I try to refrain from judging the actions of parents, and I know that we all approach it with different motivations and expected outcomes.  But this striving for "success" while ignoring true acts of successful parenting is in an entirely different category.

Goodbye, Abscess

After several trips to the doctors and many bits of conflicting advice, it seems that my abscess is clearing on its own.  I've seen approximately 10 different medical professionals about it, and the advice has been all over the map.  One advocated surgery; another drainage with a needle; still another suggested that nature would take care of it.  One scowled at my continued breastfeeding and insisted that I stop immediately; the others lauded my perseverance.  One said I should not stop taking antibiotics, no matter what; another mandated that I stop taking antibiotics, no matter what. 

I have learned one thing from all of this:  the breast is a much more complex piece of machinery than I had ever guessed.  I will never see this organ as a sexual object again.  To me, it is simply a functional device.  When I head to a doctor's office about this problem, I now automatically lift my shirt while discussing the problem, to the occasional embarassment of the medical professionals present. The male doctors assume I will feel violated and sometimes request a female nurse to attend.  I now scoff at such protective precautions.

In my case, aspiration with ultrasound, antibiotics, and continued breastfeeding did the trick.  But were I not so intent on breastfeeding, I doubt I would have made it through all the treatment. 

This all points to the most important lesson of breastfeeding:  if you have a lump, massage it out before it turns into mastitis.  If you have mastitis, by all means treat it with antibiotics, feeding, and massaging before it turns into an abscess.  And if you have an abscess, try everything.    

Travel planning with baby

It's done.  We've officially booked our first flight that includes baby James!  I must admit that this is upcoming trip is a daunting prospect.  We've navigated cars, taxis, trains, and buses, but the idea of taking a plane is so different!  There's planning and packing, taking the taxi to the airport, navigating security while juggling all the various and necessary baby items... and this is even before we make it onto the plane.  Once on, we'll have to figure out how James will sit/lay, how to make sure he's secure, how to deal with angry stares from fellow passerby in case he starts crying (I must admit, I used to be one of the starers.  It will be hard to transition to staree!), and, worst of all - how to deal with the potential ear pain involved in the landing.  And, once there, our bags may have been lost.  I personally can go for days without my luggage, but things will not be so easy with the little one. 

Travel used to be one of my favorite things.  Has all that changed?  Have I really changed into the paranoid and overplanning parent?  Parenthood has suddenly taken on a new level of seriousness. 

Nappy emergency

I'm beginning to understand why moms complain about all the equipment they need to prepare to leave the house, even before the baby is drinking anything besides milk.  It's not the things you need that take all the space - it's the things you MAY need.

This is particularly true for busy baby mommas who enjoy being out of the house for extended periods of time.  Yesterday, I left the house for lunch at around noon with James' uncle and father.  We were meeting friends for dinner at 6:30.  Since we now have a little one, I decided to ignore my usual motto that it's often easier, and more sensible, to simply plan for a day long expedition than to return home for a rushed 30 minutes in between.  I thought that with a baby, I would no longer want to be out all day.  I was wrong.  Clearly, having a baby has not completely changed my personality, because once out, I wanted to stay out.  We had lunch, went on a walk, enjoyed the lovely Spring weather in a park, stopped by a pub to watch a tennis match, and before we knew it, it was 5:30 pm... really too late to go home and come back.  It made more sense to remain.

This was slightly unfortunate, becuase I was not fully prepared for all situations.  I wasn't prepared for the huge poop that James did at 5:35, nor the leaky diaper that acted as little more than a sieve.  While the boys enjoyed the sports on television with our half-naked baby, I found myself in the bathroom scrubbing James' little outfit with handsoap, then holding a still slightly spotted and soapy onesy up to the handdryer for ten minutes as women looked amusedly on. 

The lesson:  prepare for the worst, even if you must carry an entire bag full of items you never use.  More diapers than you could use in a week, two extra changes of clothes, an extra pack of wipes, extra pacifiers... there must be more I can add to my defensive arsenal.  As this baby grows, so will the bag.  I shudder to imagine it, but nor can I imagine a world in which I am chained to the house. 

The outcome was that the baby looked fine, dinner was fun and fabulous, and we had a great time.  Not coming home was worth the added stress.  But next time, I hope to avoid it completely through proper planning.

An uncooperative breast

You may recall that I have been facing difficulties with a breast - mastitis, to be precise. I hadn't been able to kick this problem, despite three courses of antibiotics, massage, continued feeding on the breast in question, and a goal of drinking massive amounts of water.  Perhaps my attemps at these activities weren't as strong as they could have been, or there was a problem with my breast to begin with.  Whatever the reason, my mastitis seems to have progressed into an abscess - a pocket of infection that needs to be drained.  It's red, sore and difficult to feed with, and the nipple is looking slightly skewed.  (ok, really skewed, red and swollen - my husband refuses to even look at it.  Nope, no second baby for us anytime soon!)  Were I not so completely dedicated to breast feeding, I would have easily given up. 

My doctor has referred me to have an ultrasound so that the doctors can see whether the mastitis has progressed to an abscess.  If it has, I believe the solution will be to lance it and let it ooze.  Sounds lovely.  Pregnancy and breastfeeding continue to make my body into a punching bag for my own body.  It's like an internal version of Fight Club - it's just as secretive and serious, but no one on the outside can see the pain. 

As a temporary measure, I've begun steadily expressing from the affected breast and feeding James a bottle.  He had difficulties with the Medela bottles, but loves the Mimijumi bottle I was given as a gift.  It looks a bit odd - it's shaped like a breast to make the experience better for the baby - but it seems to work well.  I'm hoping that using this breast-shaped bottle will make it easier for James to return to the actual breast when the situation has improved.  If I can go through the added hassle of pumping, surely he can go through the added hassle of latching to the breast!

Things change... but stay the same

Eight weeks after the birth, I decided it was time to take a step away from bottles and nappies, and back towards the real world.  I braved the rush hour to meet with three of my colleagues after work.  We had arranged to meet at 5:30, and I figured we would have a glass of wine, then perhaps head to dinner for food, drinks, and cheer.  I would hear all the office gossip and news about how people had shifted positions in the dynamic organisation for which I work. 

I had forgotten it was Monday, that it is somehow more difficult to spend money when one has a steady income, and that, in a big bank. very little can change over 2 months.  My colleagues weren't in the mood to drink or spend (which I, still weak physically and financially, decidedly was) and I quickly learned that there was very little new gossip.  No one had quit or gotten fired, there had been no accidental "reply alls,"  and although I had begun over the past few days to look forward to returning, I was vividly reminded of how repetitive a 9-to-5 job can be. 

While it was fantastic to catch up with these women on their personal and professional lives on an individual level, it's clear that while parenthood can be repetitive by nature, the financial world - despite the air of excitement that surrounds the suited and booted rush hour crowds - can be just as much so. 

Feeding gymnastics

I have now officially become obsessed with feeding.  From the beginning, I've been determined to breast feed.  I lived through the first two weeks of severe nipple pain (why do none of the books talk about how common this is?), made it through a bout of mastitis, and have braved public scrutiny on several occasions. 

But now, as the boy's weight seems to continually drop in the charts and James has begun actively crying when I offer him my "bad" left breast (probably due to the hard lump of unmilked tissue that remains), I have begun to realise that motivation is not enough.  I have to do some serious creative maintenence work. 

Last night, my husband came upstairs to find me in an incredibly ridiculous position:  holding baby under one arm, with his legs out behind my back, in an effort to allow him to approach the breast from a different direction. (yes, it worked - he actually took it.)  If that stops working, I've read about even more ridiculous positions to try:  1)  Baby on bed, me on all fours with breast dangling into his mouth; 2) baby slung over shoulder, with head approaching breast upside down.

These positions are crazy.  Must babies be gymnasts in order to suckle contentedly?  It all looked so easy in the government informational materials...

The weight gain game

Six weeks in, I've discovered what seems to be the major mark of achievement for new mothers and associated health practitioners:  baby weight gain.  And somehow, I have fallen behind.

Upon birth, James' weight was firmly in the 50th percentile, meaning of course that his weight was "about average."  Sounded good to me - I had no hopes or fears around the figure.  Two weeks later, he remained in the 50th percentile.  But last week, the nurse looked alarmingly at me after weighing him:  apparently, even though he had continued to gain weight, James had fallen to the 25th percentile. Shock!  Until that point, I had breastfed exclusively, and once I got past the standard initial two weeks of pain, I felt I had found my rhythm.  James seemed happy, and his little cheeks were getting fat.  I felt the breast feeding to be a success. 

But, upon getting the news, my resolve begin to weaken.  I extrapolated, and imagined him dropping down to the 10th percentile, then the 5th.  Maybe he could be taken away from me?  Suddenly, I realized why it was that so many women give up breastfeeding - the fear of the percentages.  In the western world, we are almost cursed with too much knowledge.  Everything becomes a competition.  And no matter how confident I am that my baby looks healthy, I can't help but fearing accordingly. 

Since I've become aware of this information, I've been on a feeding frenzy, putting in the boob as soon as James utters a cry.  The nurse says that she'll weigh him again next week to see how he's doing.  I'm determined to fatten this little baby up accordingly.  And if I don't?  Time will tell. 

Baby's favorite color

Those without babies of your own, stop reading; this will address the most feared topic of non-baby owners: baby poo.  It seems to me quite ironic that while very young babies cannot easily discern different colors, their poo takes on a vast variety of hues, textures and characteristics.  I've seen it described as black, white, green, pale, frothy, seedy.  And these differences are not subtle - they are as obvious as big, flashing neon signs. 

But while these signs are obvious and easy to describe, they seem less easy to interpret.  Today I've been suffering from the main problem with researching baby issues on the internet:  TMISI, or Too Much Information Supplied by Imbiciles.  I was so concerned with the change of James' poo color from the "normal" mustard color to white and then green, however, that I spent an hour sifting through first-hand accounts of incidents involving various shades.  I ended my research period more confused than I started. 

I did learn, however, that the change of poo color to green is often a symptom of too much "foremilk" and not enough "hindmilk."  Women in Africa know of no such difference in milk - they simply latch the baby on and wait for it to feed - without this chiming group of anonymous internet voices following their moves. 

I now no longer care what this particular color of poo means.  I know that the baby seems happy and healthy, and any diagnosis would require more symptoms anyway.  What I'm more concerned about, honestly is this:  how did my brain get to such a state that baby poo is now interesting?  Bring me a copy of the Economist, please!

Spiritual Motivation

In preparation for James' baptism this Sunday, tonight my husband and I attended a "baptism preparation" class conducted by the church.   This session, which we attended along with four other couples, was mandatory for parents of children who will be baptised.

Our church makes a strong effort to avoid patronising or lecturing, which means that it is naturally difficult for them to hold classes of any sort.  It is difficult to talk about religion without resorting to sermon or lecture, and as a result, the main focus of the session was a women with long hair sitting on the floor, moving around replicas of Noah's Ark and the animals and reciting the fable that all of us already knew.  The room was silent aside from her narrative whispers punctuated by long pauses. During these vast periods of silence, I stared at the floor, hoping (or, should I say, "praying") that I wouldn't laugh. 

There was one relatively interesting element of the session.  We discussed the rationale for our decision to baptize our little one.  Why, indeed?  When I was a child, my parents allowed me to choose my own religion and my own church.  Aside from being given reference materials and various religious texts including an illustrated bible, I was never really pushed in one direction.  It occurred to me tonight that by baptizing our son, we may be pushing him in a particular direction - one that I am not even sure of. 

I ended the night realizing that there are other elements of the church that I am pursuing for James.  The local church community, the shared understanding with our family members, the traditions that have been passed on through my husband's family - all of these may be equally valid reasons for pursuing a particular religion for our children.  While people may not be quick to admit it, it is probably these tangential benefits, rather than the chance to worship, that encourage most parents to join a religion.  Now, we must wait and see how our children like our choice.

The family descends

Family have begun to arrive.  They are coming from all corners of the earth to stay with us.  They will bring offerings of clothes and toys, and will come with offers to help with laundry and cooking.  Next weekend is the crown jewel of the visits:  the christening of young James.  He will be only a month old, a bit young for a christening, but this is the day that was most convenient for everyone.  As a consequence, family and friends are able to come in vast quantities, and are making vast efforts to do so.

I am beginning to feel the pressure.  James cannot hold his head up yet, can hardly stay awake during the day, and barely  sleeps at night.  He has about 23.5 minutes per day of alert "play-time," during which he can either stare blankly into the eyes of the person holding him, or gaze blankly out of a window.  It is fascinating to me, because this boy is under my care, but I can hardly imagine that this will be entertaining stuff to the rest of the family.  I have begun to worry that they will think their travel efforts have been in vain, or scheduled too early. I predict that the grandparents will leave feeling that they are leaving at just the time they should have been arriving in order to see the most development. 

I loved the birth, and the two weeks that followed - time spent with just the three of us.  But now, I feel that I have to emerge into the world and its pressures.  This week of family events may be a severe trial by fire.  My parenting abilities will be on parade, I feel.  As I still have trouble keeping young James from spraying me as I change his diaper, I am concerned as to how I will perform.  And then I ask myself: does everything have to be a competition?  Can I just do my thing, let the family do theirs, and let judgements fall where they may?  Or does my newness as a parent mean I will fall victim to senseless criticism.  Time will tell.  Let's hope this week passes quickly. 

... and we have lift off!

Today, as our son grew ever closer to his three-week birthday, I had a breakthrough on two fronts. 

First, I realised that my body is almost back to normal.  The birth process had longer-lasting effects that I had anticipated, but finally, I find I am able to move freely!  Glory be.  The breast feeding pain has subsided as well, and my nipples seem to have developed a steel-like resilience.  (in both cases, there is also the possibility that my pain threshold has simply expanded enough to obscure all of these things.)

The major event of today, however, was an amazing day out with the baby and my husband.  After popping him into the baby Bjorn and putting a few diapers and some wipes into a bag, we were off on a quest for freedom.  We went on a series of walks - through the mall, through a park, and through an art museum.  Those were easy (particularly when you're carrying the diaper bag and let your husband carry the heavy baby!)  The crown of our achievements, however, was a proper lunch at a nice restaurant.  I left James on my lap during the meal, feeding him when he stirred using a Hooter Hider - a fantastic coverup that I do recommend! 

When the day was over, I felt as if I had regained my independence.  It was an amazing feeling, and while having James has been wonderful, I felt more completely fulfilled today than I had since he arrived.  My next step towards a more liberated life will be mastering the breast pump!  More on that to come...

Marsha

A Language of Crying?

James is now just over 2 weeks old, and already we've had 2 nights of almost no sleep.  He started out a little angel, and seems to have gradually grown into his crying skills.  As a consequence of all this crying, we've by necessity spent much time listening to the various cries and trying to decipher them.  Hungry? Wet?  Just a complainer?  Is he feeling unloved?  Is he just tired? 

In the end, despite our best efforts, we really weren't able to figure out what he was trying to tell us - we just used simple trial and error to try and solve the problem.  Embarassingly, we would sometimes forget an obvious possibility in our sleep deprived states.  After trying for 30 minutes to comfort a steadily crying James, a friend came over and suggested that his diaper was dirty.  My husband and I looked accusingly at each other.  Surely we had already tried that?  But neither had, and indeed, the boy had been sitting in feces for an hour.  Parents of the month are we!

While at the charity shop this week on a rare outing, I came across the Duston system.  The set of 2 DVDs was on sale at a bargain price, so I picked it up.  Apparently, a mother in Australia with acute hearing developed a system of understanding the significance of babies' cries.  One sound means Hunger, one Fatigue, another Discomfort.  They deal mostly with the first consonant sound of each cry... "nyyyyyyah" is different to "yahhhhhhhhh," which is different to "einhhhhh."  Exhausting, all of it.  (and it doesn't take long to explain - the two DVDs had a total running time of about 15 minutes.)   At first, my husband and I thought we were picking up on sounds, but in the end, we just kept following our intuition.  I've learned that the boob seems to work almost all the time.  So much for my freedom!

Busy Baby Momma.... ain't so busy

9 days since the birth, and I have officially become a homebody.  Even last week I judged myself poorly if I didn't make it outside at least once a day.  Today, I don't think it's going to happen, and I don't think I want it to.  I ordered new cookbooks just before James was born, but now the idea of starting a recipe seems so daunting.  Today was the first day that I turned the television during the day until today, and I have a feeling it is a trend that will continue.  Seeing advertisements for cleaning products has always depressed me... I can't believe I've become the classic stereotype. 

I was partially consoled by my husband's words yesterday.  All that I have to be concerned with for the next few weeks is giving the little baby a good foundation in life.  Everything else isn't important.  It doesn't matter if I'm not following current events, (and I've been sadly out of touch with the events in Tunisia, Egypt and beyond) not partaking in cultural activities, or not completing some of the DIY projects I started before the baby arrived.  (He didn't say it's all right if I don't cook, but I'm going to assume it is.)  It's amazing how much pressure we put on ourselves in the modern age. 

There is one last bit of hope.  Maybe, when my body has fully recovered from the effects of pregnancy (and wow, are there are a lot of lingering effects!  I feel like I've returned from fighting a war) I will regain my incentive to go out in the world.   I hope there is hope...

Cross-generational conflict

As I introduce a new generation into our family, I find myself thinking more than ever about the older generation: that of my grandmother (the baby's great grandmother.)  

Aside from the great divide in technological understanding, (ie, "there is no way grandma is ever going to start using email!") I am starting to realize that beliefs about raising children is the most controversial issue between us.  So much about the childrearing process has stayed the same across the decades:  no matter how much the world has changed, children still grow at the same physical pace as they did 50 years ago.  

Yet, a vital underlying philosophy of early child rearing has changed.  Today, childcare experts and classes recommend that babies be held, cuddled, and given as much love as possible.  "There is no way to spoil a young baby," writes childcare expert Dr. Spock. 

Many in the older generation would strongly disagree.  The divide has become so shockingly great that it seems that my greatest fears for new little James are directly opposite the greatest fears of my grandmother.   Above all else, I want to make James feel loved and adored.  James has met grandma twice in his week-long life, and both times, she cautioned strongly against cuddling him unnecessarily.  She sternly advised I not go to him today as he cried during our lunch.  I did anyway.  When I see him, I see a little creature who has been on the earth for only a week, and has no idea what anything is.  When she sees him, I believe she sees layers of intelligence and planning that I cannot possibly imagine are yet present.  

According to the fourth trimester theory, babies in the first three  months of life are, in terms of development, essentially still in the womb.  They need little more than to be cuddled, carried and fed.  It is only starting at six months or so that babies can learn to be manipulative.  

Now, demonstrating the confidence I feel after 1 week of parenting, compared to grandma, who has raised five children and has been a mother for 60 years, is quite a challenge... 

The most painful cry

Babies are supposed to cry.  When we hear babies cry, we may be annoyed or sympathetic, but we never think of the noise as abnormal.  We certainly wouldn't think, "Oh, that baby is crying!  It is being mentally disturbed and will never be the same again."  The thought would never have crossed my mind.

But that was before I had a baby of my own.

Today, I made my first solo trip out with James in the stroller.  My husband had been with me, but left to go to a meeting.  I decided to continue on alone.  Being alone with my baby in the world was on my list of "standard expectations."  How hard could it be?  My husband departed, and I walked home using a different route than normal.

Immediately after he left, two things happened:
1.  I realised that I was slightly lost, and wasn't at all sure which the most efficient way home was.  So, the way home - originally planned to take 15 minutes - now looked to be about 30.

2.  James immediately started bawling.  Of course.

I started out calmly trying to calm the baby.  He yelled louder.  I tried to lull him to sleep... moving quickly, slowly, over rough patches and smooth patches.  I tried again to console him.  I considered whipping him out of the stroller and breastfeeding in the middle of the sidewalk.  I probably would have tried it, no matter how ridiculous the concept, had I thought I could have managed.   I was getting desperate.  My baby was hurting himself, and I couldn't stop it!

Now,  from the comfort of my own home, with the safely sleeping baby in front of me, it seems somewhat silly, but I ended up crying in unison with him as I pushed the stroller home.  Passerby must have thought the scene slightly ridiculous.  No one was being hurt, and babies are supposed to cry.  Indeed, I made it home safely, and the baby stopped crying almost immediately.

Except for mine, of course.  Motherhood is a selfish business.

Breasts: not the easy solution they appear.

Recently, a blog follower asked me to describe some equipment important in baby rearing.  I'm 48 hours into my first baby, and for most of that time, my thoughts and actions, and those of my baby, have revolved around one particular piece of equipment that my parents gave me for free.

The equipment is my set of breasts, and they're at the center of my continuing struggle to feed my infant.  Prior to the birth, I knew that I wanted to breast feed, and I thought it would be simple, easy and straightforward.  It seemed like such a natural process, and looked simple in the books.

Now, 48 hours in, I'm seeing that breastfeeding isn't as simple as I originally thought it would be.  There are a two main reasons for this:

1.  Pain:  While feedings 1-3 were ok, I soon noticed a growing pain in my nipple when I put little James on to suck.    The helpers at the hospital told me that I was doing the feeding correctly, but an intense, very painful burning sensation began to occur when I put him on.  I don't mean a slight twinge.  I mean a sharp burn that continues to make me draw sharp breaths each time he "latches."  After my hospital experience (yes, I still refuse to go into details), I feel I have had enough pain.  Anyone who gives birth, in whatever fashion, must feel the same way: after our intense experiences, it's time for a peaceful, painless rest.

2.  Lack of independence:  I'm realising that it's such a shame that my husband, who is happy to help with baby maintenence tasks, isn't able to contribute to feedings.  The past 2 nights, I've seem him snoozing calmly while I've gotten very little sleep.  It's not his fault; my husband simply has no breasts!  (and it's a good thing, too, for other reasons.)  I'm quickly realising that this drawback will tether me to the child in other ways as well:  nights out with the girls won't be as possible, I can't just leave the baby with my parents, etc.

Finding a solution to this problem will be an incredible help.  I'm still exploring options, and I know there are several.

In the meantime, back to another painful feed!  (of course, little baby James is still always worth it...)

A live baby! I'm converted...

Exciting times.  Baby James was born this morning at 6 am!  He has two hands and two feet, and all the other parts seem to be in the right place.

You should be grateful that I won't go into further details on my birth story.  I'll leave the details within the hospital (and burned forevermore on my brain and that of my darling husband.)  I once read that a woman's birth story is like a person's dream of the night before:  no one really wants to hear it, but the person who experienced it loves to bore listeners.  And they are too polite to refuse to listen.

That particular rule is similar to the "my baby is cuter than other babies" phenomenon.  It's not a selfish or egomaniacal reflex.  It's just what happens.   Before Sunday morning, I was frankly ambivalent about newborns. I was never one of the women who goes crazy with well-expressed excitement at seeing a new baby.  They looked roughly the same, had no magical powers over me, and frankly seemed more of a hindrance to a normal life than an enhancement.

Then, James dropped from my body, and suddenly, everything changed.  The fact that I am responsible for the life and well-being of this little munchkin has made me adore him.  It's simply the tried and true management principle:  give someone ownership of a project, and their commitment and performance will dramatically increase.

Now, I just have to somehow use the equipment, knowledge, and books I have acquired over the past nine months to take care of this little guy.  I have motivation, but how will I perform?

We have lift-off... No, not quite yet! Just another expensive bill...

I had heard about "false labor," but I sort of dismissed it as something that most likely wouldn't happen.  Everything so far had gone smoothly, so why shouldn't labor?  And then, today, I am fairly certain I had about 3 hours of random contractions.... and now, nothing for a few hours.  Back to drinking raspberry leaf tea! 

Perhaps it was a result of the midwife poking around yesterday at my "membranes," a rather intimate procedure that I'll refrain from describing further.  I was so certain that yesterday's procedure would set things off that I pulled the husband out with me last night for our "one last night out."  We had a fancy dinner, went to a play, and then even found ourselves in the seedy cocktail bar that has historically been our favorite place for people-watching.

Combined with the new baby equipment, these "last suppers" are going to break the bank!

Visualizing: Truth or Fiction?

Upon learning that I was still waiting for the little one to appear, a woman from my birth class suggested that I try a technique of visualization.  I was to imagine the baby coming down the birth canal, picture my body responding to that of the little one, and then visualize myself holding this yet unseen being in my arms.

However, this wasn't as easy as it first appeared.  I am a rather literal person, and it is difficult for me to conceptualize anything with which I have no (remembered) direct experience. Birth canals fall into this category.  Frankly, when I think of birth canals, I think of narrow tunnels; and when I then try and think of the baby, I can only see its disproportionately huge head.  I think of probable pain, and then I turn my thoughts to other things.  Isn't there a shelf to dust, or some baby sheets to order?

Perhaps, then, my new friend is right; my mental block is somehow preventing the baby from taking the next step.  I wanted to do something.  And because I was having such trouble getting past this mental obstacle on my own, today I took a field trip to the local science museum that conveniently has a comprehensive exhibit on the human birth process, complete with images and short videos.  I examined each poster attentively and watched the films, and was honestly astounded (again) by the miracle involved in the whole process.  A new life formed by such a seemingly unlikely set of circumstances.  Tears welled up.  Really!

If the tears weren't embarrassing enough, I also felt a bit foolish standing next to the 11-year old students for whom this process may really have been a new concept.  I'm the size of a large beach ball; surely, I must already know how this pregnancy thing works?

Despite these concerns, I successfully exited the museum filled with the wonder of what I am about to do.  Better yet, I didn't once contemplate the potential pain.  I felt only pride at my current position in the ladder of life.  I am carrying a miracle that will emerge in days.  Perhaps literally is the only way I can think about this process - but when even the logical side holds so much power, it may not matter that creative visualization and imagination are not so easy for me.

The day has passed... now what?

Two weeks ago, we were completely ready for this baby. Our bag was packed, the furniture was ready, we had the birth plan in mind.  We even expected it to come early, for unknown reasons.  The days ticked by.  Unexpectedly, we reached the due date - with no baby!  Family called and wrote emails.  No news, we were forced to say. Again.  And, by the way, we love you, but leave us alone!  We began to feel powerless.

Now, we are less ready than we were before.  Our hospital bag is now only half packed, for I needed some of the things inside.  Our hospital notes are on the TV, where I ambivalently left them after our hospital appointment last week.  Family have stopped calling, texting and emailing.  The idea of the baby being born now seems so surreal as to be impossible.  I drink a  little more wine with dinner than I did two weeks ago.  We don't even consider the possibility of the birth interfering with plans we make, so we have begun to fill our social calendar again.

I was previously confident in the birth process, but now I wonder whether it will be as easy as I thought.  Perhaps I've been having contractions and not realising it.  Maybe I should analyse my physical changes more closely. While I know logically that it can't be my fault, somehow it feels like it might be.  Maybe I should have been going to the gym like other more physically-focused mums to be - I could have shaken, drilled, or squeezed the creature out using one of the machines.  Or coaxed it out with yoga.  Or...

Small baby, please arrive!  I'll even feed you in the middle of the night, and listen to your cries, and have no social life for weeks...

... oh, wait, remind me why I'm not content to wait a few more days?

The effects of a limited wardrobe

I've never been so into clothes.  From the days of elementary school, when I never seemed to have the "cool" shoes (white Keds); to those of college, when the "designed-to-look-as-if-you-were-just-out-of-bed-but-really-had-fixed-your-hair-just-so" approach was, for me, genuinely unkempt; I've simply ignored most of fashion.

No more.  After months of wearing a consistently diminishing assortment of clothes that will actually fit me, I now fantasise about wearing flattering clothes made for normal people.  I dream of what it would be like to have a (relatively) flat belly, to actually have a chance of garnering a fleeting glance from an unknown male.  I'm not looking for an affair; just a bit of a self-confidence boost that stems from the age-old goal of "looking good."

Already, I spend more time on my appearance than I did before.  Part of this is a result of having so much more time during the day, but part of it is a result of genuinely wanting to be physically regarded as a woman.  I wore white running shoes out the other day in the guise of "comfort," and was miserable.

I have little doubt that when I am actually within the realm of attempting to appear as a "yummy mummy," (competition is high in this category, mind you) my interest will have waned.  But I do think I have developed a higher appreciation for my normal body.  Going to the gym, eating well, buying new clothes... these previously somewhat tedious tasks now seem heavenly.

A new understanding for "The Sports Guy"

I'm not sure if any of you are aware of The Sports Guy.  I learned about him from my husband, a devout worshipper of sports of all kinds.  At first, I thought that this person was simply a pundit who wrote articles and blogs about sports.  But then I noticed that he had branched into other topics as well - including in-depth, frequent and lengthy analyses of current television programs like Mad Men.  He has even ventured at times into the realm of marriage and parenthood.

Although my husband listened just as fervently to Sports Guy's podcasts on these subjects as he did to the legitimate sports-themed ones, I remained skeptical.  If the dude is supposed to be analysing sports, what right does he have to branch out into babies and television?  There was no need to colonise the entire spectrum of entertainment options!

Now that I myself am blogging about a somewhat focused activity, I can better understand his actions.  While I won't be digressing into football or basketball myself, I can understand the need for diversity of thought. I can also see (vaguely) that a sports buff's thoughts on television may take a slightly more masculine approach. Similiarly, perhaps a baby momma's ideas about the world could take on a more maternal feel.

This is all hypothetical - as yet, while the potential target of affection is unborn, I have very little maternal feelings or expertise of my own.  But it's entirely possible, and very likely, that having babies makes you respect the ideas of baby mommas.  Perhaps a future as an ESPN columnist is in the cards for me after all.

You Look Great! Really, I mean it...

It's almost become a cliche.  Friends, acquaintences, coworkers alike - all have taken to telling me how "great/ amazing/ wonderful" I look.  But, taking a step back, I know for sure I don't look as "great" as they would have me think.  I look pretty normal, it's true.  But I'm realistic, and I realise that these are just lines that they have been trained to say.  Or perhaps it's a way of filling conversations without actually resorting to baby-specific talk. 

Whatever the reason, it makes me wonder what would happen if I showed up at a dinner looking truly awful.  Arm in a sling, black eye, having gained 50 pounds instead of 30, with hair completely frizzed, wearing rags.  Toothless, perhaps.  Would there be an awkward silence before they began telling me again how fabulous I looked?  I half suspect that I may lately have literally become invisible.  It's a special superpower that comes along with being pregnant.

The Waiting Game

We're ready.  We have the gadgets and the gear, we've packed the bag, we even have food ready in the kitchen.  Our families and friends are prepared. 

I went out to lunch with a group of about 12 friends and acquaintences this weekend.  I arrived a little early, so was nestled in behind the table when most of them arrived.  One told me congratulations under the notion that the little one had already arrived.  Otherwise, why would I be out?  It's as if people have taken what they can from the current situation, and are already looking to the next step. Me being pregnant is boring already. 

And I can't decide - am I still content to be in this very pregnant, mobility-limited, state?  Last week, I was more than happy with this existence.  But now, as workless week 3 starts and I become more and more annoyed with the increasingly sore legs and swollen feet, I think I'm about ready for the little one to make its appearance.

There has been an advantage to having a waiting period.  Each night, I've been going to sleep later, and our mornings get correspondingly later too.  Perhaps early maternity leave is a modern day method of preparation for the flexible sleeping hours that must accompany a newborn.  Whether it serves a function or not, I do feel a little surreal, and I have even caught myself having moments of laying on the bed contemplating the purpose of existence.

Baby, it's time! 

Extreme Nesting

I've been done with work for about 10 days, have been in our new apartment-one that we deliberately chose as a "fixer-upper"-for only about 3 months, and am pregnant. It's the perfect combination for what my friend has termed "extreme nesting." 

Although it's gotten a bit out of control, it started out innocently enough.  I unpacked our belongings.  But then I realised that there was far less storage in our new place than was optimal.  Things needed to be properly separated and stored for easy access.  As I acquired extra storage boxes, I soon saw that we needed more shelves and spaces for these boxes.  And so, I began ordering them.  And I haven't stopped. 

Over the past 2 months, a partial list includes: a chest of drawers, a wine bottle holder, a spice rack, a utility hook, 4 shelving units, 10 plastic boxes with lids, 2 underbed storage boxes with wheels, door hooks, small shelves, and file boxes.  I've been to auctions, yard sales, and single item offers I found on eBay and Craig's List.  I've gotten rid of the previous tenants' junk that had been cluttering existing storage areas, and I've rearranged, filtered, eBayed and pawned some of our own junk. 

Nesting, I've learned, isn't just about rearranging the twigs and bits of string you already have.  It's about shipping out the old and unused, and bringing in the new and efficient.  It's about making the difficult decision to throw out the old Christmas Cards, and putting the effort into displaying the current ones.  I'm not a neat or very organized person, but somehow I've become more focused on these things. 

Nesting can also involve an education into the use of hand tools.  I've become adept at power drills, at myriad types of screwdrivers and hammers, at a variety of multi-purpose picture hooks.  Just this week, I acquired a new, very masculine item:  a hacksaw.  It doesn't feel very maternal to be bent over a hollow metal curtain rod, sawing to make it fit a small window; but evolutionarily, it probably makes sense.   And while these changes probably won't affect the baby's life in the slightest, they will hopefully contribute to a higher level of sanity for his or her parents. 

Bumps & Babies

Nine days until the due date.  Tired of working on DIY projects around the home, I put the hacksaw down this morning (yes, literally, I was using a hacksaw.  I needed to cut a metal tube for a roller blind I'm installing. I must say, I feel quite liberated) and left the house to join a group called "Bumps and Babies."  I had learned of this group in my birth education class. 

The term "bumps" led me to believe that there would be both pregos and mothers at this group.  That was wrong.  I found myself sitting on a foam mat surrounded by toys, babies, and mothers.  Once I had sat down, I found it very difficult to move, and so I spoke to whichever mothers deigned to speak to me, the pregnant, clueless one.  One of them did trust me to hold their infant - and of course, it was the baby with the eye infection. 

Without a baby, and without any stories to share about cribs or playpens or diapers, I felt distinctly out of place while politely nodding to these stories swirling about me.  I was comforted to know that a group like this exists, and I will likely return when I have a squawling one of my own.  But, for now, I was happy to be able to easily walk away.  (well, once I had managed to move myself from the sitting position!)

One more task accomplished: steriliser assembled

After many years spent acquiring a variety of useful kitchen gadgets and appliances that now sit proudly on the counter, today I reached a milestone:  my first new appliance for the baby.  I somewhat reluctantly moved the Nespresso milk frother across the counter to make room.  From the books I have read, it is absolutely essential:  a bottle steriliser. 

The concept seems easy enough - toss the bottles and the accompanying pieces into the machine, throw in some water, and push the button.  Once the machine is opened, the bottles lose their sterilisation, but if you leave it shut, they hold their "clean status" for several hours.  I can't help thinking, though, that what seems to be an easy, straightforward process now may quickly become tedious.  And now I have less counter space. 

Other baby mommas

One of the perks of new motherhood is a completely new set of friends.  Suddenly, former "acquaintences" make great efforts to upgrade their relationship status to "friends" solely because they also have babies.  It's a great lesson: if you feel that your social life is languishing in any way, have a baby!  It will attract other mothers like bees to honey.

Another example of this is the group of women I've met in my childbirth classes.  Two weeks ago, I completed this set of birthing classes where the instructor taught us about everything from changing diapers to breastfeeding to pain management during birth. But most of us knew that course material was not the primary reason we were taking the class.  It was a very simple goal: to make friends with other mothers in the same situation. 

And so, although the classes are now complete, our meetings continue.  We meet over coffee once a week to discuss our fears and concerns, and to coo over the babies that are starting to pop out.  It's a bit like "Survivor," where you feel slightly fortunate (or unfortunate?) that you remain on the "childless" island of independence and watch as the others get picked off, one by one.

Pumps and sterilisers and pads, oh my!

Yesterday I was chatting to a friend who has a brand new 1 week old baby.  Apart from raving about how great it was to have employed a "night nurse," who basically takes over the baby care at night, she said that the most important piece of equipment she had was a bottle sterilizer. 


While I'm planning to ride the breastfeeding train, I realize that pumping, storing and freezing may allow the husband and grandparentals to lend a hand.  So, a sterilizer must be necessary.  But which one?  Which bottles are compatible with which sterilizers, and which with which pumps?  Medela, Tommee Tippee, and Avent seem to be the market leaders.  But when I don't even know how to use a sterilizer, and have still not handled a bottle, how can I choose? 


In the end, I chose the Medela swing pump and the Avent sterilizer. The first was recommended by more of my friends in an informal poll.  The second seems to be able to manage many different sizes of bottles and equipment, which may give more flexibility. 


Ok, feeding products, check!  One less thing. 

A late-night visitor

Tonight the husband and I were awakened at 4 am by our doorbell.  We groggily arose and somewhat ridiculously talked through the mailslot (I was too protective to open the door, imagining all kinds of strange schemes that might be planned) and learned that the woman on the other side needed cash to pay a taxi to take her to a friend's house. She was yelling because she was deaf, she said. It was a strange, convoluted story, but we decided to give her some money through the door slot on the (very slight) chance that it really was a woman in distress.  


I'm not sure if it's the fact that I just stopped working and don't have the pressure of waking up tomorrow morning, or the knowledge that soon we'll be awakened in the middle of the night multiple times to administer feedings, but we decided we couldn't sleep and stayed up to watch television.  We considered it a late night feeding without the feeding.  It seemed an almost surreal precursor to this upcoming surreal period of our lives.


Now, if I were really motivated, I would use this time to sit on the "birthing ball..." 

Finally: we have a (semi) packed hospital bag!

Today was a landmark day.  After weeks of procrastination, I motivated myself to start packing my bag for the hospital.  As you all know, websites are teeming with ideas of what to put in this bag.  Multiple changes of clothing, cameras, money, food, paper, books, energy drinks, music and entertainment sources. I even found books that recommended flashlights and sturdy walking shoes.  Am I packing for a trip to the hospital, or am I preparing to cut myself completely off from the world for an "Into the Wild" style venture?  Do I need a guide to edible plants, and perhaps a shotgun and a machete?  Some books further recommend that partners bring full changes of clothing and food for meals for themselves.  Considering my hospital is located in the middle of an urban area, with a burger restaurant and full cafeteria even located on the premises, I feel that these precautions could be slightly exaggerated.   


I had to pack the bag in two installments.  For the first shot, I packed for myself - changes of clothes, my toiletries, etc.  I put a little suit in for the baby to come home in and beamed proudly at the perfection of it all.   I even remembered to include the receiving blanket that my husband was brought home in - major brownie points with the in-laws. 

And then it hit me - I needed to go much further.  It wouldn't be enough for the baby to look cute and feel soft.  I needed to bring feeding and changing materials as well - fun things like diapers, cremes, breast pads, cotton balls for cleaning.  Stuff that most people would easily call "boring" and "logistical."

In the end, although I managed to keep my bag contents to a minimum and didn't include any of the prescribed camping gear, I had to transfer everything from a small, practical shoulder bag to a rolling suitcase. While said bag could still fit in an airplane's overhead compartment, let's face it - my days of packing light are likely over.  And the baby isn't even born yet!