| ...but Daddy farts louder |
I swear having a toddler is like the craziest, most insanely entertaining trip in life, ever. Not a day goes by that I don’t have to stifle a giggle or leave the room to hide my face in a pillow and keel over from uncontrollable laughter over the fact that my kid told me I have a penis only minutes after we so totally established that girls have vaginas.
Just today Nate announced in a very crowded play room filled with coffee-drinking adults and hyped-on-juice toddlers that MOMMY TOOTS! And it wasn’t just like he could mention it in passing and I could, you know, pretend to ignore him. It was like THE MOST IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT EVER that needed to repeated over and over and over. I finally said yes, but but Daddy toots louder! I am so all about The Diversion.
And just a few hours ago, after Nate woke up from his nap, Mark and I were sitting with him on the sofa eating a snack and while we were having this really great family moment, we tried to teach Nate the concept of a middle name and a last name. This worked well except for the fact that Nate decided his full name is Nathan SpongeBob.
This kind of reminds me of my cousin, who, after seeing a picture of my long-haired Father during his teenage hippie years asked, “Is that a picture of Paul when he was a girl?”Labels: Kids Say the Cutest Things, Motherhood |
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| Ill |
Our family has been plagued with illness. But not all at the same time. No, that would just be too easy for everyone to be sick all at once and done with it, right?
THE ILLNESS started a few days ago when Nate, feeling unsettled, spent the night snuggled up under my chin. I don’t mind co-sleeping. In fact, I quite like being able to place my hand on his tiny chest and feel the gentle rise fall of his peaceful slumber by my side. But what I do mind is when he wakes up at 4:00 AM. And because I am conveniently, like, RIGHT THERE, he thinks it is also a convenient time to demand milk. And friends, once Nate decides he wants milk, the Universe could blast off into a black hole of of anti-gravity and perpetual darkness and he would still be all, "milk?”
Bleary-eyed from only five hours of sleep, I wrapped Nate in his blankie, scooped him up in my arms and headed downstairs so that Mark could sleep. We snuggled up on the sofa together, eyes glued to the glow of cartoons when I decided that while Mark slept, Nate and I would would go and watch the sun rise together over a winter-calmed lake of frozen ice and snow.
Rising to put on pot of coffee, I was very suddenly hit with a horrible wave of nausea and an immediate need to begin a love affair with a porcelain throne. And just as quickly, the rising fever and full-body chills set in. I don’t even remember the last time I’ve had a fever like that let alone threw up so much that stomach bile came thisclose to burning a new hole in my nose. I know! For the visual? You’re welcome.
A nice side effect of being sick is all the sleep. I mean, despite feeling like a bag of shit, sleeping for 12 straight hours was pretty much bliss wrapped in a blanket. At least until Nate got sick. And the cats started throwing up. And Mark.
And I don’t know what it is with 4:00 AM around here, but that is the time on Thursday morning that I woke to the sound of Samson hurling a massive pile of chicken by-product and mush on the floor beside me.
I didn't realize illness could cross species. Is that really possible?
I have no idea why our entire house is so ill but while our family rehydrates and recovers, I would like to direct you to my very good friend’s new blog. Beth guest posted here for me last month while I was away and has since become addicted to blogging and finishing telling the story that she started.Labels: Motherhood |
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| Intensity |
I just got home from the most treacherous ride of my life. And I am not exaggerating in the slightest. This morning Nate and I headed out under sunny skies to make the two hour drive North where he will be staying with his Grandparents for the next ten nights and I swear, as soon I was out of the city limits, the sky turned ominous and dark and all of a sudden all I could see was white, everywhere, and oh my god, where is the road?
While navigating the slippery slope of snow-coated roads, I kept remembering this horrible accident that I read about. Or maybe I saw a tribute on You Tube, I can’t remember for sure, but the life of a mother and father where shattered when a transport truck, unable to stop in time, rammed into their van from behind instantly killing their three children.
That story just haunts me to the depth of my core and knowing that I was carrying precious human cargo in the back while inching through the white-out of a blustery snowstorm made me feel so, so, intense about it all. I mean, man oh man, could I survive the death of another child? I’m not certain my heart is capable of that.
At one point when visibility was minimal, at best, I noticed there were no cars in the southbound lanes and after several minutes of driving I saw the police cars and ambulances and fire trucks blocking the road from any oncoming traffic. There was a horrible accident. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and dared not even take my eyes off the road for one second to steal a glance back at my sleeping toddler.
And almost just like that, we were out of the storm, and when I pulled over to call my Father-in-Law, I realized that my entire body was trembling and even though I shouldn’t have, I crawled in the back and gently stroked Nate’s cheek until he woke up and I told him that mommy really needed a hug and a kiss.
And then all was fine with the world again.Labels: Motherhood, Nate |
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| Admitted |
I’m home for a brief second to splash some water over the bleary purple sacks that are my eyes and pack my bags for an undetermined stay at the hospital.
After getting no sleep last night listening to the increasingly worsening sounds of Nate’s laboured breathing, I took him to the Emergency Room at 4:00 AM this morning. In the span of 12 hours, he has had seven ventolin mask treatments and the little veins in his hands still turn a frightening shade of purple-blue if his lungs are not being assisted with additional oxygen.
He’s in isolation right now; his struggling lungs being assisted with a haphazardly taped-to-the-face oxygen nose prong, his tiny body immobilized by the too-short tubes of an IV drip, and his face covered with a ventolin mask every hour, on the hour.
I never expected Motherhood to be easy by any stretch of the imagination, and there's a lot that I don't know, but the penetrating fear piercing through the clear blue innocence of Nate’s eyes is something that will haunt me forever. This I know for certain.Labels: Motherhood, Nate |
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| S(h)it |
Nate's most favourite thing to do in the whole wide world right now is teach Samson how to shit.
All he wants do all day is feed Samson kibble and tell him to shit. And I can hardly say no. He’s happy. Samson’s happy. They’re both out of my hair. Shitting makes us all happy.
I know Mark hates it, but I like it when Samson shits in bed with us. I could do without the flatulent squawk of his butt trumpet though. I don’t know what’s wrong with that dog’s intestinal organs, but I’m pretty sure the fumes from his dog farts could be bottled and sold as the next generation of tear gas.
When he was a puppy, he used to love shitting in the bathtub, but these days, trying to shove his giant 90 lb dog torso in the tub is a job in and of itself, let alone expecting him to shit in there.
And despite the hairy mess he leaves behind, we do let Samson shit on the furniture.
Oh, and then there’s the van. OMFG! The van! That dog totally LOVES shitting in the van. He didn't have much room to shit when he had to share the back seat of our compact car with Nate's car seat, so he especially loves it now that he has the entire back row all to himself to shit on.
Sometimes Samson shits outside, but only if it's sunny and he can catch a tan, too. He mostly prefers to shit in the house and spend his time outdoors running and playing.
And even though Samson has his moments of riotous disobedience, he's mostly a good dog and shits on command. Especially if the fridge door is opened. You should see what a good shitter he is then. Also, whenever we're out for a run, I make him shit before he crosses the road, too. You know, for safety.
Our dog goes absolutely apeshit crazy when we take him anywhere, so we always have to work very hard at helping Samson to relax and shit at the front door before we ring the doorbell. I know our friends and family appreciate it.
Ysterday, when Mark got home from work, he asked Nate what he and Mom did all day. Nate said shit.
And that is exactly what my life as a Stay-at-Home Mom is like.
I stay home all day and do shit.
 Such a good shitter. Labels: Motherhood, Nate, Samson |
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| Better |
While waiting for some test results, I went outside to make a few phone calls. And standing right there, in front of a No Smoking sign and puffing away on a cigarette, was the woman who I had seen when we first arrive at the ER. The same woman who, several hours earlier, I overheard saying she was concerned she hadn’t felt her baby move.
She glanced over in my direction and as our eyes locked, mine narrowed into disapproving slits and hers, clearly recognizing my disapproval, shifted towards the ground in obvious guilt-infused avoidance. My mouth opened to say something, the rage boiling through my blood was thick, but nothing came out. Feeling slightly faint as another wave of nausea welled from deep within my stomach, I lowered my gaze and concentrated on my phone.
When I returned to the hospital room, a Pediatrician was talking to Mark about sending Nate for an X-ray. God, the thought of yet another x-ray in his already less than two-year existence made me feel sick to my stomach all over again. I know x-rays are commonly used for so many things, but geez, there’s a reason the technician gets to hide behind tombstone-thick lead walls. AND IT’S CALLED RADIATION.
Entering the x-ray lab to hold Nate’s hand through the process, the technician asked if I minded if Mark stayed with him instead. “You never know if there’s a little brother or sister in there,” she said, gesturing towards my stomach.
As the night wore on, so did our worry. The doctors didn’t quite know what was wrong. X-rays for pneumonia were inconclusive. The Respiratory Therapist mentioned something about Croup, or Bronchiolitis. One nurse wondered about allergies. Another nurse seemed concerned about asthma. But no one knew anything for certain. There was blood work. Lots of blood work. And one frighteningly long q-tip swab up the nose.
Finally, the only thing left to do was wait. Turning out the lights, I wrapped Nate in his blanket and softly caressed the tension from his forehead until he fell asleep in my arms.
Eventually, after more inconclusive test results, we were sent home with a ventolin puffer and chamber attachment. The Respiratory Therapist showed us how to use it, and told us to administer it to Nate every three hours throughout the rest of the night. “Someone will call you in the morning with a follow up appointment to see the Pedatrician at his practice,” she said. And then, more seriously, “I’m sure everything is fine, but just in case, please don’t take your son into the waiting room. There are lots of babies and newborns there.” I said I understood. “And please.” she reiterated, "If his breathing deteriorates at all tonight, bring him back right away.”
We went home, weary and spent, too tired even to notice the dinnerless hollow of our stomachs. Tearing apart the storage room, I found Nate’s baby monitor, and after setting the alarm to wake me up in an hour for his next scheduled drug-assisted opening of the airways , I set the monitor on full and began drifting between islands of uneasy sleep while trying to concentrate on every single breath being taken by a sleeping toddler down the hall.
After a restless night of weary protests from being awakened to a forced drug-filled mask in his face every couple of hours, Nate woke up gasping and tugging for breath again. Nearly forgetting to switch off an untouched pot of coffee, we rushed back to the hospital. Navigating the morning rush hour traffic, I fought back yet another wave of nausea while Mark furiously pounded the too-tiny keyboard of his BlackBerry, cancelling meetings and notifying his team that he wouldn't be in the office.
We arrived at the ER shortly before 7:00 am, and let me just say, if you’re going to pick a time to fall off a roof, or have a heart attack, just make sure you do it first thing in the morning. Because I am so not kidding, the quiet was eerie. I have never seen an Emergency Room so empty.
After another mask treatment, we were sent home with reassurance that Nate’s lungs sounded much better, and because of that, pneumonia was unlikely, but we still needed to wait for the final verdict from the Pediatrician.
For the Love of Pete, as it turns out, Nate just has a really really bad cold, which, in kids under two, is called Bronchiolitis. I know? Bronchio WHAT? That’s what I asked, too. Bronchiolitis, although sharing many of the same symptoms as asthma, is really just a bad lung infection and because of that, hospitalization can be very common.
Sometimes though, this can actually be the beginning signs of asthma, or allergies, and it's something we need to be aware of, but as of this moment, Nate's fine. He’s on antibiotics, and we’re equipped with a puffer and a special toddler-friendly chamber attachment to use if something like this ever happens again.
And after all was said and done, I am so relieved that this entire ordeal only cost our family $21 in hospital parking fees.
My baby, my son, although better now, and resting safe and sound in the comfort of his own bed, keeps telling me that he’s shad (sad), and that he wants to go home. And even though we are home, something tells me what he’s really trying to say is that he’s still haunted by the memories of the florescent tomb of bleached-white lab coats and forced oxygen masks and that he wants to go back to the way things used to be: to a time when he didn’t know so intimately how it feels to be so afraid.
Thank you, everyone, for your incredible outpouring of support. The heartfelt emails, the sincerity of your comments. It all means the world to me. I'm humbled and eternally grateful.Labels: Motherhood, Nate |
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| 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 to 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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