Of Teeth and Hippies

Alas, two teeth. One at a time mind you but only a week apart. After a few slightly cranky but otherwise undramatic days, on the morning of her five-month birthday (Ya when it's your first kid you celebrate every month as a birthday...I figure it will wear of soon but it's also been a monthly tribute to us surviving as parents.) So she reached for my finger to gnaw and enthusiastically administer it's morning drool-bath as is her custom, when I yelped and yanked her mouth open to display a tiny but distinct little white ridge. After a wail in commemoration of the end of my maim-free nursing days we extended the expected congratulatory praise and made a fuss over our "big girl" all the while thinking we were pretty lucky to get through tooth number one without fever or tantrums or sleeplessness. Other than some exploratory nibbling that makes me highly uncomfortable I'm happy to report no major bites despite my, I feel, well-justified anxiety. I've decided I'm implementing a strict three-strikes-and-you're-out policy regarding her breastfeeding. People keep telling me you can teach them not to bite by pinching their nose etc but I'm pretty sure that just isn't a learning curve The Ladies and I are up for.
(Did you know the first two teeth come in together and then are followed by the top two a few months later? Now I wish I could draw you the terrifying picture that puts in my head but what animal has snapping jaws with two razor sharp teeth close together on the bottom and two on the top? The anatomy of the Pyranha comes to mind. That's messed up.) All that to say, tooth one was somewhat anticlimactic. 
Enter tooth two: way way worse.
I saw it starting to break through a few days later and it definitely seemed to be more sensive. I was nursing in the middle of the night when she jerked her head back with a sudden squeal of pain. I guess she bumped it or something. Now let me tell you as much as I love my child there's a limited amount of sympathy I feel I can extend in these circumstances..."I'm sorry, did you hurt your razor sharp tooth on my soft vulnerable boob...?". I feel this is the rough equivalent of someone crying about hurting their fist on your face. (But again...she has no perspective so I do comfort her). That was night one. Night two was an endless cycle of up screaming every 15 minutes. Next to no sleep for either of us and despite the tylenol and freezer teethers nothing seemed to be helping. I haven't felt that helpless since her colic days and was debating how crazy I'd look bringing her to the hospital (her pain-cries were escalating to a point where we were both crying). I'm pretty sure this stems from my unquestioning faith in the medical community and my comforting delusion that doctors can fix anything. I feel I'd be an ideal candidate for the medical equivalent of "Magic Monster Spray" as long as it's prescribed by a doctor with a bona fide medical degree and prefaced by "studies show that..."
Anyway, the next morning I packed up my miserable kid ("miserable" being her current state of mind and in no way representative of my feelings towards her. most days.) and headed to my favorite pharmacy (I will pay a few bucks more for a pharmacist that is knowledgeable and spends time giving me extra info. She also has a Parisian accent and the most charming little pixie haircut.) French-Pharmacist was out for the day and her younger and unnervingly eager-beaver replacement was happy to assist me. I should have known when I saw the little braided hemp bracelet peeking out from under her sleeve...right there, I should have known. (You know...the ones with the stupid little plastic beads that look like you made it in summer camp when you were twelve in which the only acceptable reason to wear them is if you have a kid who is twelve and made it at summer camp. Or if you're in fact that kid.)

Important sidenote: I hate hippies. I sincerely do. I'm sorry if you include yourself in this people group. I'm sure you're very nice and hopefully also a productive member of society who believes in bathing regularly. I'm sorry but as far as I'm concerned bathing is non-optional, gainful employment is essential to a society running smoothly, organic food is a silly selfish and unsustainable luxury of the first world, nobody cares what color your aura is and while I'm at it, Freelove brought us nothing but STDs. There. All my prejudice in a nutshell. (*deep breath*).
 She did however have cute shoes. I wonder if she knows leather comes from an actual animal that once had a face *eyeroll*. Okay, done for real now. End of sidenote.

 So I asked her about Orajel (it's a topical benzocaine gel that temporarily numbs an infant's gums during the teething process.) She advised against harmful "chemicals" in the bloodstream. Beg your pardon but isn't the study of pharmacy essentially a specialty in these "chemicals" that we tend to disperse through the bloodstream? I schooled myself to silence and instead she asks me how I feel about homeopathic remedies and instead of replying "similar to how I feel about placing rocks on my stomach to re-align my spiritual energies" In the name of diplomacy I opted for "I don't have much confidence in them". She then (??) directed me to the naturalist section and recommended these oral drops from a company I've never heard of in a box that felt the need to advertise that it was made from recycled paper. I use to work in pharmaceuticals. I'm no expert but I can recognize glorified chamomile under a fancy name for $17. (Which scientifically actually has it's merits but not $17-worth-of-merit. Not even in a recycled box.) I had to make a considered effort to confine my eye-rolling to my minds eye. Seeing as I found myself without my handy indelible black marker and scribbling "fraud" on her posted pharmacy license wasn't an option, I smiled politely and said I'd think about it and unceremoniously walked out making a mental note to instill in my daughter the necessary disdain for such pseudo-scientific quackery.
I walked into pharmacy number two.
"Tempra and Orajel?"
"Aisle two."
Done

Paint-By-Nightmare

Between first smiles, baby-giggles and morning cuddles life has been full of newfound joys. That said, when you're home all day with a baby you start going a little mental. The glaringly white walls were starting to look asylum-esque and I kept having this waking-dream of being a prisoner staring at the partially obstructed moon through the lace-curtain bars of my baby's room. (like Leonardo DiCaprio in Man in the Iron Mask...only with more screaming. And pink.)
There was only one thing for it: I had to paint.
And by "Paint" I mean everything in sight.
And by "I" I mean Marc.
No more white. White is for grownups who have left all the wonder and excitement of their carefree twenties behind them in exchange for dullness and responsibilities but I, I am a vibrant twenty-seven; Daring and full of personality; As confident in this new pant size as in this new stage of womanhood. A woman who must symbolically free herself of the oppressive and heavy mantle of White, discover her true (and way cooler) inner artist and re-ignite the boldness of her youth.
We had to paint the house.
So Marc took me to pick out colors. I love paint swatches. (I've always thought the paint section at Home Depot is like a happy and magical room made of rainbow...) Six minutes later, happy with my choices we drove home and I left Marc to his mostly-voluntary labour of love while I took Jade to stay with my mother for a few days. When I returned to my would-be-magazine-ready home I had to school my face to blankness while I fantasized about possible fates for Paint-Swatch-Guy. Someone had taken the "whisper yellow" paint I picked for the kitchen and swapped it for a horrid and sickly hospital-yellow. My bathroom plans had suffered a similar coup and the heartless vandals had left me with manically-bright baby-blue walls next to brown cabinets and brown tiles.
It looked like someone barfed on a Carebear.

"It's fine"
"You hate it"
"I don't hate it...it will be okay. It's not that bad..."
"I've been painting for three days. I'm not re-painting."
"I know. Ya it's fine. I'm sure it will grow on me..."
"I'm not re-painting"

Twenty minutes later we were back at Home Depot and my world was looking decidedly brighter. Not too bright. There's nothing wrong with beige after all. It's not like white. It's worlds away from white. Beige can be fun. You can still have a fun personality and a bright future with beige walls. *sniff*

A Love Story

It was love at first site. A match made in heaven. The forming of an inseparable pair. The creation of a deeply bonded couple. It was magical. Jade and her "Sucy"; a love story.
I fought it. I swear I did. In the name of "nipple confusion" and all the rest...but bottom line, when you're red and raw and your inconsolable kid has colic and they've been screaming for 10 days straight (that means they break only to sleep. Maybe.) and the pediatrician pats you on the head and assures you it should pass in about 12 weeks (and you manage to avoid incarceration by NOT cramming his stethascope anywhere ungodly) you buy a freaking pacifier. You do. Judge me I dare you.
I won't pretend all our problems went away after that...but it made it a heck of a lot easier. And it gave us options. It meant Daddy (who's, alas, still boobless though I still pray every night...) could sooth her while Mommy tries to sleep off some of her infanticidal tendencies. And as she started coming out of her colic it even meant we could go places where there was a chance of encountering other human beings. We even made it out to a restaurant once (I remember those...) because the Sucy kept my gassy lassy in dreamland through all of dinner. (I'm convinced they mix some kind of heavy sedative into the silicone when they're making those things and thank God.) And with the sucy comes all the sucy rituals: like the ceremonial "passing of the sucy". When the sucy is passed from one parent to the next it symbolizes the transition of responsibility and communicates "my shift is over and this child is now your problem for the next hour or until otherwise hungry...". That and the golden rule for whoever asks to hold her. It's not "don't drop her" not " watch her head " or "wash your hands". Its "don't loose the sucy". Lest you scramble and grovel like peasants before the titanic wrath of the newly-born. I seriously get pissed when people hand her back to me and when I ask where her soother is they shrug and say "oh I don't know. somewhere". If you don't know then you don't get it. You get one chance and then you're banned from baby-holding. Ya I'm hardcore.
The one hitch is you do have to be sure your kid isn't actually sucking from hunger but I find when mine is actually hungry (she's no fool) she spits out the sucy with howls of indignation and lets the world know she's been deceptively wronged. I'm also careful to take the time for lots of cuddles if she's fussing even with the soother as it shouldn't be a substitute for Mommy's comfort and attention (Just her boobies.) And it gives her something to suck on thats not in danger of bleeding, chafing, swelling, falling off or having a mental breakdown.
 

How that one peice of silicone instantly rights all the wrongs in her universe I will never understand but like my mother, I've always believed that if you find something that really works...buy twenty. My condo is only 800 square feet. I have one near the couch, two in the kitchen drawers one in the washroom vanity one by her crib one on her change table three in her diaper bag and one in the car. My best friend has one in her purse at all times as do my parents and I'm seriously considering asking Loblaws if they'd mind me leaving one at the cash...just in case.

I'm sure ill pay for the oral fixation I've created one day...but I figure anything learned can be unlearned eventually and if it increases the likelihood of everyone making it to her toddler years so be it. Until then: long live the sussey and the critics can kiss my finally-feeling-something-resembling-well-rested backside. (or babysit)

Lies and Lunatics

This post is extra close to home for me. Gentlemen may step out for this portion of the evening. Today's topic is what I call "The Great Breastfeeding Myth; breaking the silence". Before the Laleche crowd grabs their pitchforks hear me out: Breastfeeding is great and by far the best nutritional choice for your baby. It is NOT "the greatest gift you can give your child". That would be, I don't know...decent parents maybe? A happy home? Or even, say, vaccinations against potentially lethal childhood diseases for crying out loud? All this to say: Way too much pressure. Way. And this is coming from an avid breastfeeder. But while you're still vulnerably open to stupid opinions (you develop some immunity after aunt Betty recommends Pablem at a week old or uncle Roger swears a touch of whiskey will help them sleep better...not kidding. You develop some kind of smile-and-nod shield against Stupid.) Some hospital nurses will have you convinced that a bottle of formula is tantamount to force-feeding your kid cyanide or leaving them out for wild dingos...(Nestle. Who knew...Kit Kats seemed so innocent...)

Second point: Hospital posters lie. While you're recovering from whichever way you wind up ejecting your little bundle of joy, they bombard you with serene black and white propaganda photos of blissfully joyful new moms staring down peacefully as they nurse their perfectly proportioned nearly-sleeping infants. lies lies lies. Lies and the delusional lunatics who propagate them. It took everything I had not to grab a permanent marker and scribble on every stupid poster an evil maniacal gleam and snapping jaws on the purple swollen-faced kid (who by the way looks like something that was dragged out of a river for a least the first day) and a scream of anguished torment on its unfortunate maternal victim who should look like she hasn't slept in days and is at that moment wondering how our species survived this long. That said, I still think breastfeeding is the best thing for Baby so it's a challenge worth facing but be warned: Breastfeeding is Everest. Would-be moms: I don't care what the white-coated crazies say: there is nothing natural or intuitive about breastfeeding. You don't know what you're doing and neither does the little creature snapping at you like its a self-serve buffet (where all the chefs leave in agony and rethink their line of work...). It hurts like hell. Okay for the sake of comparative perspective: Labor sucked, breastfeeding was worse. I poured paint thinner all over my arms once. Breastfeeding was worse (apparently it isn't an efficient hair-remover...don't ask. Teens are dumb). Cracked a rib coughing after a three-month bout of pneumonia. Breastfeeding was worse. Put my head through a car windshield last fall and spent three weeks recovering from a concussion: Breastfeeding? you got it: way worse. Now I won't claim the experience is equally grueling for every new mom. Only that a healthy dose of realism would go a long way with frightened first-timers and that it is number one on my list of seriously-under-rated-new-parent-things that should terrify you. (by the way, that list includes black-tar poop, your second night with baby and any and all subsequent sexual activities involving boobs.)

I also had a lot of trouble with nursing for lots of reasons some of which were medical. I've come through it now and after almost two months of tears, trials and more lactation consultants than any sane person would see. (Some if which were godsends and some of which need a one way ticket back to whatever aggressive fascist anti-formula regime spawned them...) Jade and I have sort of found our nursing groove. But everything flooded back in an angry flood of all-too-recent memories when Marc went to pick up a breastpump we bought from a young woman who was crying her eyes out even as she gave it to him. Despite all her efforts her son just wouldn't nurse and she was utterly heartbroken and so burdened with shame from all the pressure. My husband looked at her and said "you know what? No matter what people think or say, nobody loves your son more than you do".

Amen, Brother.

Death by Vitamin D...

This morning I nearly drowned my child with those wretched vitamin D drops without which you can't possibly hope to raise a healthy child (*eyeroll*). 

I was all set to administer a little liquid sunshine to my little sunshine when I noticed that my usual dropper decided to go hang out in the magical land that has claimed the other half of Jade's socks and most of my pre-baby sexdrive and so was mysteriously unavailable. I pulled out the one that came with my baby first aid kit which I'd been avoiding mainly because it looks more like a turkey baster than an infant dropper. The thing is scary-huge...
My other observation has been that if I let her suck it out herself she makes a mess. My genius solution was of course to put the dropper farther into her mouth and squeeze it rather than let her attack the end pyranah-style. I clearly mis-gauged the necessary velocity which resulted in a stream of sugary liquid being unexpectedly launched down her esophagus. I figuered all was well since she remained quiet. (well-meaning people who ask "how do you know she's not too cold/too hungry/too tired etc" make me laugh...one advantage of a spirited child is you never need to wonder if something is wrong when your kid screams if you dare set her swing one setting slower than her Majesty deems appropriate...)

Anyway I was about to self-high-five and declare my administration successful when I noticed her eyes were kindof bugging out. It was weird. And her little face was getting all red. It didn't take me long to put two and two together and panic. I grabbed her and frantically started patting (okay fine, "smacking") her back. My heroic efforts (sidethought: is it "heroic" if you endangered the person in the first place..?) were rewarded by projectile purple barf all over my shirt and I've never been so glad...

Actually I must say she was rather forgiving about the whole thing. She didn't even cry. She just stared at me with a sortof confused expression. I wonder if almost-choking on grape syrup is the baby equivalent of almost-drowning in a vat of 20-year old Porto; After it's over you have to admit there could be worse ways to go...

Misha 

Welcome to the Mommy Chronicles... (by me)

Sigh. A blog. I don't think there's anything more self-indulgent than writing a diary and having the expectation that people will read it but here we are. I'm justifying it on the grounds that "writing is therapy" and will get me through the tumultuous new experience of motherhood while thoughtfully logging these precious moments for my darling daughter in years to come. (*cough* and so people will read it).

As for required intros:
Enter: Moi. Slightly scattered but generally optimistic 27-year-old mom to Jade, my "Spirited"11-week old baby girl/pride and joy ( I feel I should state that from the get-go as my writing style can be somewhat cynical at times. I truly love my child. All misadventures and frustrations are recorded for entertainment and posterity-related purposes.)

 This morning in a needlessly-hysterical-baby-induced moment of frustration I decided that my two-month-old seriously lacks perspective. I genuinely feel that if she had any idea what children in the 3rd world endure she would't cry so much...about putting a onsie over her head for 3 milliseconds longer than strictly necessary. Really, Child? As Louis C.K. says, when they're this young your job is pretty much to make them not die. I've tried explaining this to her when she fights me on the most mundane but necessary tasks but am always met with a look I interpret as silent indignation until I remember that as much as I believe she will one day be a Harvard Honor student at this point I'm pretty much talking to a mini-human with all the comprehension and memory span of the goldfish I bought (and subsequently starved) in the second grade (R.I.P "Fluffy").

Welcome to the Mommy Chronicles,

Misha