It was the summer 2004 and Mark and I had been trying to conceive since just after getting married in September of 2003. With each passing month that my period arrived, despite perfectly timed sex according to my very normal 28 day cycle, 16 day luteal phase, I grew increasingly despondent and withdrawn. Having a baby consumed me.
In June, we decided to go on vacation to Las Vegas. We tried to plan it around my cycle, but we went away with another couple and the dates didn’t quite work out the way I wanted them too. Our week in the City of Lights would either greet with me a baby or my big stupid period.
Even though we were on vacation, I was still temping and charting, and when I woke up on day 29 of my cycle, I fully expected my temperature to have dropped and my period to have arrived. But Lo! That was not the case. My temperature 17 days past ovulation was still up. My heart fluttered with cautious hope and anticipation.
By evening, when my period had not yet arrived, I decided to take a pregnancy test. I walked into a CVS Pharmacy on the Strip, grabbed a test and approached the cashier to pay for it. The girl behind the counter looked at the pregnancy test, gave me a sheepish look, and rang it in.
“Good luck,” she mumbled as I walked away.
I can only imagine how that whole purchase must have looked in the self proclaimed City of Sin.
I took the pregnancy test in a public washroom at the Bellagio. It was negative. And that was exactly how I would describe my attitude for the rest of our vacation.
The next morning my period arrived, compounding my misery. There we were in a city of perpetual reinvention, distilled neon history, high rollers, night clubs and non-stop mind blowing entertainment, and all I wanted to do was sulk. Not even the majestic grandeur of the Grand Canyon seemed to mend my crushed spirit.
Mark and I always swore we would go back to Vegas someday. And that day will arrive in two months when we return to the Kingdom of Surreal to spend a full week lounging by lavish pools and swaying to the rhythm of sizzling Vegas nightlife.
This time, however, we’re going to do Vegas right. There will be no sulking, no big stupid periods, and no baby-making. Just pure, mesmerizing fun with some much anticipated unadulterated sex between consenting adults.
And it is very likely that what happens in Vegas will end up on this website in a much edited PG version.
2004 Vacation to Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon (UPDATE: Video by Mark)
So, how can you tell if someone was a pet owner before a commander of kids? Easy – they teach both the pint-sized human and the fur-covered mammal the same tricks.
Except maybe for the part where Nate’s doing somersaults. Samson hasn’t quite mastered how to roll over on his head yet, but we’re working on it. He’s just having a hard time on account of his elbows and torso being in all the wrong places.
Also, no need to worry about pointing out what a hot little number my red slippers and pink pants make. I am so in the know on that one. Or not.
While searching for a daycare provider here in Ajax, it quickly became apparent that the one day a week schedule was not something most providers were interested in, mostly because it fills a potential full time spot. I can totally understand this from a financial perspective.
Of the few that were open to one day a week, I decided to meet with the two providers that made the best first impression over the phone.
After meeting them, I ended up choosing a provider that came highly recommended from a personal friend of mine whose opinion I value and trust. She sent her own child there, and had nothing but glowing feedback.
This is where I’m trying to take a step back to see the forest through the trees, so to speak, because just like my friend, I instantly felt comfortable with this woman. Her home was bright and cheerful, the air was filled with the smell of freshly baked muffins and her eyes shimmered with warmth and compassion. She has over a decade of experience, and when she swooped down to pick Nate up in her arms, he uttered nary a peep, nor a whimper, and he seemed perfectly content in her presence and the surroundings. Another bonus was that she only cares for pre-school kids, so all of the other children were very similar in age to Nate.
I left her home feeling confident that she was the perfect caregiver for Nate’s weekly day out to spend in the company of other children.
Fast forward to last Friday. When I woke Nate up in the morning, I excitedly explained to him that he was going to spend the day playing with other kids, and while I packed his lunch and milk, I kept reminding him how much fun he was going to have.
Before walking out the door, I made sure to grab his blankie, an item of comfort and security, because I can only imagine how scary the first time being away from home for an extended period of time must be to a child.
Although the daycare provider said she generally recommends a quick drop off, because it was his first day, she encouraged me to linger around for a bit. When it was time to go, Nate started crying, and as much as it hurt to leave him while he was upset, there wasn’t much else that I could do besides say goodbye, turn around and leave.
Shortly after 1:00 pm, I called to see how Nate was doing, and that’s when she informed that he was experiencing some separation anxiety. Actually, she called it extreme separation anxiety and said that he didn’t want anything to do with the other kids and just sort of wanted to sit off on his own, thumb planted firmly in his mouth, blankie securely anchored next to him, and observe. This surprised me and it didn’t surprise me all at the same time because if I had to describe Nate, I would probably peg him as a thoughtful observer. I’m not sure how an outsider would describe it, but he has never been one to barrel head first into new situations. For example, when it comes to other kids, he likes to watch and observe from a safe distance for a few moments before cautiously approaching new playmates. This cautious observation is always accompanied by several over the shoulder glances in my direction, which I have understood as his way of seeking security and encouragement. And here he was, the first time ever without me there to encourage him, and my poor child was uneasy and scared.
I asked if I should just go and pick him up, but she said he was having a nap and that maybe after a good rest he would be more relaxed, and encouraged me to let him continue with his day.
In hindsight, I should have just drove and picked him up right then and there, but I waited until 4:45 pm, and that’s when I learned the rest of the story.
This is where it gets hard to not sound a bit defensive, because although I recognize that her years of experience far outweight the one year that I have had the privilege to parent a child, and although I am a firm believer in feedback, both positive and negative, what followed next felt like nothing but a whole slew of negative feedback about my child, and I can't imagine that would be easy for any parent to hear.
So in light of sounding defensive, let me just present the facts, void of my own biases and opinions. My hope is that maybe you will see something I'm missing, because I really liked this woman, and I’m having a hard time seeing past all the negativity.
Basically, Nate didn’t stop crying, which she said was, “disruptive to her business,” because his crying upset the other kids, and although she said he seemed fine once he was being held, it just wasn’t feasible for her to hold him all day. For the record, at home, it is rare that he clears time from his play schedule for cuddling.
Also noted was some screaming. She said she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it meant. At home Nate is not a screamer, so I couldn’t quite put my finger on what he would have been trying to communicate either.
She also indicated that she thought he was developmentally behind with the social skills of a ten month old. In her words, “this is the problem with a one year maternity leave,” and “parents should start easing kids into daycare by three months.”
She reminded me that by Nate’s age (13 months), most kids are walking. She also made several references to the fact that he drank from his sippy cup the wrong way, that he was a very slow eater, and that he had a strong attachment to his blankie.
Although she didn’t exactly say to not come back, she did say that she didn’t think he was ready for daycare, and that if we continued, it would be an extremely long and difficult process due to his extreme separation anxiety. I inquired about easing him into daycare more slowly, and say, trying half days to start, but she wasn’t interested in doing that and suggested instead that if Nate was able to walk, he may have easier time interacting with the other kids. She said to think about what she said over the weekend and to get back in touch with her, but then as we were leaving, said “actually yeah, I think it’s better if you waited a while to bring him back.”
Which I totally gathered was her polite way of saying she wasn’t interested in caring for Nate anymore.
I’m not saying my child is all sunshine and roses, because we most certainly have a pail full of diapers to prove otherwise, but the fact that Nate has separation anxiety, even extreme seperation anxiety, sounds pretty normal to me.
I don’t know, I’m trying to be objective, but what do you think? Could she have been trying to tell me something about my child that she feels would have been overstepping her bounds so she was trying to deliver subtle clues and hints about his behaviour that could be a red flag for something else? Developmental issues? Behavioral issues? Something we should be working on? Improving? Or is she just not interested in dealing with Nate? Or?
On a lighter note - here is the little mischief maker himself, in the flesh, being a walky walker (sort of) and a squealy squealor of delight.
Nate and I are sick. Our chests are gurgly, our coughs are piercing and sharp, and our noses are damp and runny.
Nate is a real trooper though, and despite his congestion, he forges on, and continues to play with his shapes and bang the keys on his piano to the beat of his own soul warming music, determined not to let a drizzly nose interrupt his busy play schedule.
Because his birthday is so close to Christmas, and with the hustle and bustle of the holiday season upon us, his first birthday party is scheduled for this weekend. The invitations were sent weeks ago and I have been eagerly looking forward to celebrating his first year of life surrounded by the spirited laughter and comfortable glow of family.
But now I’m not sure what I should do.
There are a still a few days left for him to rest, but I don’t know if that will be long enough for his tiny body to heal and recover.
Should I just go ahead and cancel? Or should I take a wait and see approach? What would you do?
~ : ~
Also, Nate learned his first official word last week. He’s been stringing together random consonants and vowels for a while now, but I don’t think he understood what he was saying.
Nate is on the verge of crawling, and I am on the verge of never being able to take my eyes off him ever again because have you seen the size of my dog? Nate could very well drown in Samson’s water dish!
And remember that cute little noise that Nate makes?
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.
Nate’s personality is really starting to take on a life of its own. Which, you know, makes sense because he is a person. It’s just that I still dress him in footsie pyjamas and sing silly songs to him and the fact that he is starting to show an interest in growing up and doing the stuff that babies do makes me feel all nostalgic for those days where he just sort of sat there. And did nothing. Because my job as a mother was much less complicated when all I had to do was make faces and offer him my boobs every now and then to keep him happy.
His new thing these days is exploring. Apparently, my face is no longer that interesting. I guess the entertainment he found in shoving his fingers up my nose has run its course. I think it’s great that he's starting to show an interest in stuff besides me and my breasts because my little dude needs to branch out eventually and discover stuff like Samson's kibble dish, but for the love of not having to pay attention, this whole exploring and testing his boundaries thing is trying because everything he touches goes into his mouth.
And there are just something things that he should not eat.
Like diapers.
Or my nipples.
And then if I take what he wants away, or yelp in pain, depending on whether or not he has chomped on a sensitive body part, the baby drama ensues and he interjects with exaggerated screeches of baby frustration.
Exhibit A:
Sweet Bethlehem of mercy, I have no idea what to do. It’s not like I can reason with him. But he needs to start learning what he can and cannot shove in his mouth/yoink/pull/chomp on because there might come a day that I will want to wear my hair down again and last time I checked, having my nipples chomped on was not on my list of things to experience before I die.
Also, totally unrelated, but don’t you just love chubby baby legs?
A big heartfelt thank-you is in order to everyone who voted for my sweet baby boy in the photo contest. Unfortunately, we did not win, but that’s OK because I don't need a silly contest to know that my heart is still orbiting around his tiny little baby universe with a gravitational pull so strong that not even the might of a meteor could penetrate the silken surface of my motherly love.
Now that being said, although my affection for Nate is met with an intensity that rivals the keen eye of an eagle, and everyday I profess to him my creed of undiminished devotion, if I could grant but one wish for him today, it would be that he would skip the whole vegetable drama and just accept that fact that it is not a beastly burden to eat peas and carrots.
Samson is not the most graceful dog on planet Earth. In the span of a year and half, our dog has evolved from a cute as a bug’s ear, six pound glutton of snuggles into a goliath-sized plunderer of pillows.
He is also special because his head is made of rocks. And since he likes to be wherever the humans are, we don’t even bother closing our bedroom door anymore because he will continuously ram his great big giant dog head into the door until someone opens it for him. And then by the time you turn around to go back to bed, he has already managed to steal your spot and fluff your pillows and rearrange the blankets justso for his morning nap.
Last weekend my brother and his fiancée came to visit. They are used to sleeping in on the weekends, but morning time around here starts at around 6:00am thanks to the addition of a tiny human that insists on eating the very second he wakes up and because we forgot the door to our guest room doesn’t shut properly and maybe also because we think it's funny, we unleashed Samson on them as soon as he finished his morning pee.
So Samson proceeded to barrel up the stairs at breakneck speed and use his big dog head to bang down their bedroom door before making like superman and lunging onto the bed to greet whatever humans were peacefully sleeping on its surface, or, land directly on my brothers crotch. Since his head is made of rocks, either option suited him just fine and apparently, Samson chose the latter.
Sorry little bro! You didn’t really need those pesky external male genitalia parts anyways did you?
And because Nate does not understand what having 85 lbs of dog landing on your balls feels like, he found it all very funny.
Mark imitating the sound Samson’s big dog head makes when he rams it into a closed door.
I think we may have found a home. It has everything we are looking for, including a fridge – with pickles!
And I would love to write more, but right now I need to think. And it is very hard to think now that Nate has a new favorite hobby.
Screaming.
Lots and lots of screaming! And just when you think he is done screaming, he screams more - only LOUDER, you know, just in case I didn’t hear him scream the first time, the second time, or for the last hour or seven.
Warning: Earplugs may be necessary to avoid possibly feeling like ripping your hair out at the temples or a temporary relapse of sanity.
Recently, my little Naterbug has been getting his drool on. (Thanks for my new favorite nickname Misguided Mommy.)
At first it was kind of cute and it made me feel all motherly and June Clever like to gently dab spittle off his chin with a Kleenex, but then it got worse and now he makes enough slobber to house a small ecosystem of fish and marshy wildlife and sometimes after napping on my chest he leaves a small puddle of drool between the crease of my boobs and it looks like I am a wet T-shirt contestant.
I don’t mind so much mopping up kid spit, but when he shoves plush toys in his mouth, they get all wet and slimy and it reminds me of how Samson’s tennis balls feel like after a game of fetch. Oh, and the laundry. The endless laundry. On Sunday he went through nine outfits after factoring in all the drool and other forms of wetness from various bodily locations.
So to save on all the laundry that his drooliness is making me do, starting today, we will now equip the kid with a bib. Or, more precisely, a perma bib, as in, he must wear a bib 24/7, except for the hours that he is asleep, which are like never anymore.
And for fun, here is yet another video. I know what you’re thinking. “Karla – enough with the baby videos already! Don’t you have anything better to do?”
The long answer has something to do with having a baby and being tired all the time and being too lazy to do laundry, but the short answer is No.
My family came to visit us for Easter and since I have not wanted to let Nate out of my sight for a period of time greater than seven seconds, my parents came equipped with bribe tactics to get me out of house and brought hockey tickets for the game that would determine if the Toronto Maple Leafs qualified for the playoffs.
As much fun as going to a hockey game is, I couldn’t bring myself to go. Firstly, I am not ready to be away from my son for an extended period of time. Secondly, my boobs are not capable of being away from the human that they feed for an extended period of time without turning into rock solid milk cannons and thirdly, if I didn’t go, it would give Mark and my Dad a chance to have some male bonding time.
So while my Dad and Mark were out doing manly things like eating street meat and comparing chest hairs and cheering on the Leafs, we had a wild pajama party at home and Nate kept us all entertained by telling big fish tales.
Nate is doing absolutely marvelous. My champion nurser is back up to his original birth weight of 6lbs 11oz after dropping down to 6lbs while in the hospital. He still has a bit of jaundice, but it’s getting better each day, especially with his mini sky gazing/window seat tan sessions next to a natural light source. For now, we wait for Mr. Carrot Skin to become Caucasian once again.
I have so many thoughts screaming to get themselves into written words, like my c-section experience this time around and dealing with a head on the verge of explosion from a spinal headache to the marvels of double duty electric breast pumps to establish my milk supply while Nate was on oxygen, but tearing myself away from him sort of feels like what I would imagine removing one of my own limbs might feel like.
For now, his still beaming father has put together this marvelment of a video debut of our little Rockstar baby.
Let the precious art of bottling every single moment and memory of this kid begin.
Yesterday’s ultrasound revealed that baby Nate now weighs 5 lbs and is plotting on the 60th centile. Yesterday’s OB appointment also revealed that I have gained 26 lbs and although I am gaining the right amount of weight, I have secretly started plotting to stop depending on chocolate as a source of calcium and reintroduce yogurt into my diet.
I am starting to wonder how low is too low for blood pressure. Surely the reason I see spots when I turn my head too fast has something to do with the fact that my blood pressure is only 84/55.
We have ditched our icicle lights and jumped on board the LED Christmas light craze. I am skeptical if the huge difference in the cost of buying the lights will really save us any money on electricity.
I have learned that trying to figure out the mystery behind where our Christmas lights plug in is classified information because when I asked Mark about it he told me it was his man secret.
My credit card account was put on hold after I made an online purchase from Australia of men’s underwear. Apparently, purchasing a pair of ‘wonderjock’ underwear with promises of attention grabbing wondercup technology is highly suspicious and Mark’s monthly flights to the US, hotel stays and airport limo service is not. Since Mark answered the phone when the credit card company called his manly Christmas surprise has been ruined, which is too bad because I sort of figured that if my breasts are about to swell to comical mammary proportions than it was only fair that his boy parts got to share in the prominence.
Mark was promoted from Manager to Director of Development a few months ago and he is now responsible for 17 people. I don’t know how he keeps all the business balls in the air except that he must be a shining superstar that is fifty feet tall.
Yesterday was my dogs first birthday and all he got was a brief, but enthusiastic bum scratching.
Yesterday was also Samson’s grade two (intermediate) graduation. He has learned to heel, make right and left hand turns, stand, sit and lie down and stay from a distance for an extended period of time with distractions. He passed all of the above as long as he heeled through a crowd of zero people and there was nary a tennis ball in sight.
Observe his majesty in all of his gracefulness as his parents and trainer prepared him for his dignified graduation photo.
Samson is a total lackey – a leechlike parasite if you will, who always wants to be around, near and often sitting on top of the human household population.
At the top of his list of favorite activities is bath time - not his, but mine.
He has succeeded in figuring out how to make my relaxing time all about him and his dirty doggy bone.
I love that my dog rings a bell to let me know when he has to potty, I really do, but he sort of missed the boat on the whole gentle nose nudging thing and prefers to use the solid rigidness of his cranium to propel the mini blinds the bell is attached to into orbit so that they can come crashing down with a force equal to that of a torpedo on a mission of destruction, except in this case, it’s just a massive dog head doing all the carnage.
In 1988, President Reagan proclaimed October as “Pregnancy and Infant Loss Month” in the USA. Today however, many cities across North America hold a Walk to Remember to memorialize the brief, but significant lives of our babies.
On Sunday, my husband and I attended such a walk. The skies fittingly obliged to the atmosphere of heavily somber emotions by opening the floodgates and unleashing an overflow of tears from above.
We stood amidst the breezy chill of October rain and watched as four delicate porcelain white baskets of doves were set free in a fleeting symbol of peace, gentleness and purity.
I’m glad we went and I’m grateful for my memories of Ava.
If you asked someone close to me to describe my greatest incompetence, I can guarantee they would respond with a definitive pointedness that my cooking credentials lack finesse and palatability.
I’ve never taken an interest in cooking. I tend to lean more towards the “eat to live” adage rather than “live to eat”, and it’s long been a running joke amongst my friends that cereal is a dinner staple for me.
Since I’ve been home these past few months, I’ve started to notice a tiny hint of my inner Martha Stewart digging herself out of the thick culinary cobwebs wrapped around my anti broil/roast/sauté psyche.
Maybe it was partially out of boredom, or maybe I can attribute it to greater levels of maturity, or maybe I am just shamefully embarrassed how much I suck in the kitchen, but in any case, learning to cook, for me, means first learning to burn stuff. And burning stuff means the fire alarm goes off, and setting off the fire alarm sends the dog into a dizzying freak out frenzy.
My quest to learn the fine art of using an oven has essentially taught the dog that opening the oven door sets of waves of ear piercing shrieking fire alarm sounds often accompanied by a stenchful black cloud of incinerated food stuffs.
Although I have, for the most part, moved past the stage of assassinating everything I put in the oven, the dog has not forgotten the holy hell he’s been through while I perfected the art of temperature setting and using timers. To this day, the oven is a mysterious orifice of doom and terror that must be bounteously barked at and defended from the evil wrath of whatever lies behind its door – as sadly demonstrated in the video below.
Speaking of dogs, our friends just had a litter of the most magnetically adorable black and yellow labs. They live on a farm with wide open space and giant pond where the dogs swim and fetch sticks. They love their babies, and live with five of the most gorgeous and sweet champion purepred labs I have ever seen. Samson isn’t exactly a purebred, but when united with the blue bloods for a puppy playdate they shared their doggy snacks with him and humoured his boundless energy by running marathon laps around endless field space together. If you’re looking for a puppy and live in the Toronto/Guelph area, one of these pudgy little munchkins will most definitely enamour and charm their way into your heart and captivate and inflame you with much puppy love.
