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*
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
Thursday, 13 October 2011
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.
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)
Monday, 3 October 2011
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.
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