Food for Thought

Here is an interesting quote I found:

                Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity. ~Voltaire

I don't know if you remember back to a certain blog post about how B had such a difficult time learning how to breastfeed. And then how he seemed to hate everything about it; the boob and the woman it was attached to, beating them up as hard as he could while trying to consume his dinner. Hardly a pleasure for mom or baby.

Yeah, well, enter a new bit of ammunition to the fight: FOOD.

Real, solid food. Food that you could offer to any grown-up human being (well, as long as they don't mind puree).

Here is a breakdown of how it's going so far:

Delivery:

Here, Mommy! Let me help you with that...

To give him credit, Bradley has gotten much better in the breastfeeding realm of things. He stopped beating me up eventually, and is obviously thriving, if that pot-belly is any indication. Just in time for me to start feeding him other things. Like rice cereal. Considering it took him over two months to adjust to feeding out of a breast, he's definitely done better with the spoon. It's been just over a month, and we've got the spoon-feeding thing pretty much down. He even attempts to help me by grabbing the spoon (and its contents) and cramming it into his mouth. Such a helpful boy!

Variety (or lack thereof):
We're not doing so awesome on the whole variety thing. So far, we've discovered that rice cereal bungs him up (so, no thank you, rice cereal). Oat cereal has been a favourite. Yams are the shiznit, and applesauce is tolerated only when we can't have yams. Carrots reduce my son to a whimpery, close-lipped mess; nectarines cause actual acts of violence to be committed (by my son, not me!!) and peas? Well, that was tolerated for two mouthfuls...maybe we'll have better luck today. Variety is apparently not the spice of life for my son. I can picture him going on a date when he's sixteen, ordering pureed yams with a side of applesauce, and his date looking intrigued but alarmed. Seriously B, we need to change things up...

Source:

Ta-daaaa!

I make my own baby food. Call me cheap, call me paranoid, but I just feel better about knowing what goes into my kid's food. If I didn't wash the carrots, that's my fault. And I did wash them, just so you know. The making of the food is actually kinda fun. There is something so satisfying about filling up a bunch of cute little jars with food you know is wholesome for your kid. There is also the excitement of shoveling the food you made into your kids waiting and open mouth, and the anticipation of his reaction. There is also something a little disheartening and downright maddening about seeing his little features screw up like he's just eaten the bitterest lemon of all time, and then watching as all your hard work gets shoved disdainfully out of his little mouth, the tiny lips clamping shut in all-out mutiny.

Mommy: Ok little beebee, it's time to try these yummy peas mama made for you! Mmmmm, all green and um...kind of electric-looking but oooooh yummy yummy, they're going to be good! That's it, open mouth...little darlin'....oooh, what a good boy you are!
Baby: Chew chew.....chew.............chew......eyes squint shut, face contorts...little pink tongue pushes green goo (diluted now) out of mouth...goo sludges down the chin...
Mommy: Now now, that's not how we eat our peas! Try again...scoops up green goo off baby's chin, adds fresh peas to the mix on the spoon...
Baby: Opens mouth to squawk about how much he hates peas and...
Mommy: Takes opportunity to shovel full spoon of pea/sludge mixture into baby's mouth... There you go, baby! That's a good boy! Opening your mouth for Mommy!
Baby: Realizing his mistake, shoves entire spoonful OUT of mouth with tiny but efficient pink tongue, clamps mouth shut...eyebrows go down in - what is that, anger?! - and procedes to make a series of angry noises, with mouth shut. Smart baby.
Mommy: Sigh. Baby: 1, Mommy: 0.

Please don't feed me peas again. Unless they are orange. And taste like yams.

So yeah. We'll keep on truckin' with the making of the baby food. At least I know it didn't cost much.

Frequency and Sleep:
I had to do a section on sleep...you know I did!

So at first, B was only eating one meal a day, late afternoon. It didn't affect his sleep and actually added nicely to our evening routine: B eats some kind of dinner, baths, breastfeeds, then goes to bed. Perfect.

Then he seemed to be smacking his lips in the morning before his nap, so I started feeding him before his nap. Well, all hell broke loose after that. We were napping for 30 minutes tops, and you all know what happens when Mommy doesn't get her time Bradley doesn't get his morning nap. It's not a pretty picture. So I stopped feeding him in the morning, and instead, fed him a meal after his morning nap. All went back to somewhat normal, and it's been great. Until yesterday. Now he wakes up from his nap an hour early because he's hungry. Not cool.

Conclusion? This whole latest adventure with food just re-enforces the thought that having a baby around (who inconveniently does NOT come with an instruction manual) is one big adventure. It's all trial and error. For someone like me, who likes things to be laid out and somewhat organized, planned with an accompanying list, this has been a bit of a hairy adventure so far, but I think it's teaching me that not everything fits neatly into the mold, and that I need to be a little more easygoing about the whole thing.

Heh heh...mold? What mold? Who needs a mold? I'm cute the way I am.

It's a good thing we get a year's maternity leave. I may need all of that time to figure Bradley out, because just when I think I've got him pegged, he changes it up. It certainly makes life very interesting. But it's been a pretty hilarious adventure so far too.

And with that, I'd better go warm up some peas. Bradley doesn't like his food cold...

Karma is a *B*

...and just so you know, Karma doesn't come in the form of the b!tch that many of you thought I meant with my title. Ha! No, Karma comes back to me in the form of my 5-month-old son. It just seems strange that anything I've said about him on this blog that may even resemble some form of bragging comes back to prove me wrong within the following week. Or weeks.

Sigh.

For example, when I said in another post that I had inadvertantly distanced myself from the mommy group I was attending by saying what surprised me most about motherhood was how well my baby was sleeping (HEY! Don't judge! They caught me off-guard!!), that very night, Bradley woke up at 5 and was hungry. For the first time in over a month. Yeah, Karma that night was my B.

Most recently, I wrote a blog about Bradley's naps and how he basically goes down without a peep most times. His morning naps have always been something I count on. Mommy time. When Bradley decides he doesn't want to sleep in the morning, my poor hubby comes home to a very grouchy mommy by the end of the workday. If two days go by and B doesn't get his morning naps, mommy is a sad cross between a neanderthal and someone who should be committed to the nearest nuthouse.

People, we are going on Day 6.

I. Am. Going. CrAzY! What has happened to my little, sleep-loving son??! It seems he has decided at the ripe old age of 5 months that naps "aren't his thing" and since he can't run amuck like the 2-year-old I spoke of in my last post, he squirms and writhes and flips all over his crib like a little fish, wrapping himself in his blanket like a little piece of sushi (but not a nice piece of sushi...one of the poorly wrapped ones at the cheap sushi places)...wailing and sucking his thumb and screaming intermittantly. It's awesome.

My little piece of poorly-wrapped sushi.
What kind of metaphor is that?! Poor kid.

Now some of you skeptics are saying to your screens, "Oh, just let him cry it out. It's a stage." No. No it's not just a stage. The action just crescendos and crescendos until it reaches a fevered pitch, and just when you think to yourself, Surely he is finished; this can't go on much longer. Who has the stamina for that? He answers you, I do! I do! I have more stamina than you have tolerance! Ha HAAAA! And I have to go in and get my son, pick him up, cuddle him, brush away his floods of tears and try over again, this time trying any new tactic I can to settle the poor kid down.

So NOW you're thinking, "Obviously he's not tired and is trying to drop a nap! Let it go, let it go." The thing is, eventually he DOES settle down, and sleeps soundly. The sleep is getting shorter (it used to be 2.5 hours) but it IS quality sleep.

And mommy needs a shower.

So we're not going to give up just yet.

And now, friends, I better go...for the baby still sleeps, and there are diapers to stuff, laundry to move, and a shower to be had.

We *small heart* Camping!

It happened all in about 24 hours' time. There was a lot of anticipation, a lot of planning, a bit of anxiety (on my part) and a LOT of packing. We went camping.

In that 24 hours, so many things happened that it's hard to believe it only took that long. I learned what a "blow-out" is. I re-fell in love with and then re-hated the lush and green British Columbia. I discovered that as a breastfeeding mom, I'm now a tastier morsel for mosquitos. I learned that a down jacket makes a perfect down sleeping bag for a 4-month-old baby. I learned they weren't kidding when they said "bears in area." I found out that a quick once-over with the continuous-spray sunscreen doesn't quite cut it.

I figure that it will probably be a while before we go camping again.

Let's start with the arrival, as the trip there was fairly uneventful. Arrival was fine, although I think the guy at the little front office hasn't seen many people lately, judging by his excessive enthusiasm to show me the map of the campground and his explanation of the campground rules. I bought some way over-priced firewood, and off we went. Upon arrival at our site, Drew went to work setting up the tent and I fed Bradley in the Escape. He wasn't eating very efficiently, but that's ok, as I thought it best to leave Drew to his man-jobs (tent erection and extra firewood gathering).

Just as Bradley was finishing up his meal, he got that intense concentration look on his face that I know means a big mess for me to clean up later. Rolling my eyes, I waited for the frappacino sounds, and was not disappointed - Bradley definitely delivered! I picked him up and stepped out of the Escape, only to realize that his little gift was still giving...seeping out all over his pants, his top, and therefore, my jacket. The dreaded BLOW-OUT! I'd never experienced this phenomenon before, as we use cloth diapers usually, and they contain things a little better than the disposables I'd thought would make my life easier while camping in the great outdoors. Awesome.

Of course, Drew was nowhere to be seen. I think he was gathering more firewood. Of course.

Thankfully, a friend of mine (who is baby-less but also, thankfully, fearless) helped me contain the damage. In the process, we demolished many baby wipes and also may have damaged a wooden picnic table. I really don't know who will want to eat off it ever again. Then again, ignorance is bliss...? Poor Bradley had to stand, naked, on the table and get wiped down with wet wipes, shivering in the coolness of the early evening, but not making even a squeak of protest, so sweet was the post-poo euphoria.

Great. We'd been camping for less than ten minutes, and already outfit #1 was out of commission.

Bradley in outfit #2

Fast forward a couple of hours. We had roasted our smokies, eaten our dinner, and now were getting onto the much-anticipated drinks and roasted marshmallows around the campfire. Bradley had fallen asleep, but awoke after only 45 minutes, afraid of missing the action. He was now also hungry again, so I took him back to the Escape to feed him, hoping he would eat quickly so I could get back to the fire.

It took him for.ev.er. During which time I checked my emails and facebook on my phone, and watched a very funny video about some chick who is more than obsessed with cats and felt the need to share that on her eHarmony bio video...hilarious! Eventually we found our way back to the fire, and after a few minutes, Bradley, who poos maybe once or twice a week, did his best frappacino machine impression for the second time that evening!

Thankfully not a blow-out this time, but it still required immediate attention and time away from the campfire AGAIN. Camping for 3 hours by this point: Baby 2, Mommy 0.

Between feedings, poos requiring diaper changes, and two long treks to the wash-house, I got to sit at the campfire for maybe 47 minutes.

When we went to bed around 1am (how did THAT happen?), Bradley had only JUST fallen asleep, so counting his "nap" in the car on the way out, he had slept 2 hours and 47 minutes since about noon. Perfect.

The rest of the trip went along pretty well, actually. Bradley slept til a decent hour in the morning, and then behaved perfectly for the remainder of the trip. He got a nice morning nap of 3+ hours in (to make up for the night before) and was goo-gahing with the charm of a casanova when we finally woke up. Tell you what though, I've never seen that kid so excited for our regular evening routine before. After we got home, he giggled and smiled when we played on the floor, grinned ear-to-ear through his entire bath and fell asleep on the job while breastfeeding before bed.

Zzzzz...

In all, a successful trip. One that may be repeated this summer...just not tomorrow. I need to do some laundry... 

Terrible Twos + Naptime in Condo = DISASTER

Just a moment ago, I was cuddling with my non-two-year-old (thankfully, my beautiful baby is only four months old). We were reading Time for Bed by Mem Fox in preparation for his morning nap, as we do every morning. He was just starting to yawn, comfortably sucking on his blankie, when a horrible noise interrupted our serene moment. It went something like this:

BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!
(indescernable shouting by a very small person)
(indescernable but definitely very frustrated and angry shouting by a larger person)
(indescernable but defiant shouting by same small person)
BANG! BANGBANG!
thudthudthudthudthudthud (that could only be small person running)
THUDTHUDTHUDTHUD (large person running)
SLAM!!!!

Thankfully, Bradley seemed fairly oblivious to what was happening in the condo beneath us, but for me the situation was both entertaining and terrifying.

To set the scene a little for you, Bradley has, as of yet, been a star baby. He sleeps well, he (now) feeds well, is in the 50th percentile for pretty much everything, and only cries when his situation is absolutely dire (diaper soiled beyond recognition, crowds screaming at a sporting event, being made to "make nice" when completely random people try to hold him for a minute...you know, typical scared-baby situations). He goes down for his nap without so much as a peep most of the time. We do have times here and there where he decides to change his schedule slightly, but then we adjust and move on.

What on earth will I do when he decides napping isn't for him? Is he going to scream at me and bang the crap out of his bedroom door? Will he scream and run away from me, slamming things as he goes? Will he have tantrums? Will my child be the one at Safeway, kicking and screaming on the floor? Will people look at him, then look at me with their judgemental looks, shaking their heads and self-righteously sniffing in my direction?

A good friend of mine whose child is just coming out of that wonderful stage told me that she used to look at other people with their two-year-olds and think, That will never be my child. However, she said, once you're in the situation for yourself, you realize pretty quickly that a two-year-old does what he/she wants, no matter what you do about it. You just need to let the stage run its course, and eventually, you will have your cuddly, loving child back.

Great.

So for now, I will cuddle my son, savour his naptimes, and elicit as many giggles and smiles out of him as I can. I have no idea what the Terrible Twos holds for us, but I will just enjoy this moment for as long as I can.

And for the people with the Little Terror living downstairs? Hang in there. As my mom always said, this too shall pass. I just hope that in the meantime, he doesn't wake the baby.

Shades of Baby Blue

I'm currently sitting on the couch, in my usual breastfeeding spot. Baby is sleeping blissfully and peacefully. The laundry is swishing around in the machine. The dishes are done. The clean laundry is folded, diapers are stuffed. And I am shades of baby blue.

Maybe it's the clouds that have come to settle so low on the mountains, it looks like there aren't any. Maybe it's the slow drizzle of rain, drumming steadily on the roof and preventing us from having any fun outside. Maybe it's the drop in the temperature, indicating that it's still indeed Spring, and NOT Summer (as we gleefully supposed last week).

Every day I make a TTD List (that would be Things To Do List), and then gloatingly cross each item off as I finish it. I write literally everything that I have to do on that list, short of using the toilet, just to make myself feel like I'm accomplishing something. And to be honest, most days I do get a lot done. I have always made lists, ever since I was a kid. I made my list today, just like every other day. Blogging wasn't on it, but here I am. I feel the need to write.

I feel lost. I feel overwhelmed. I feel like crying. I feel empty. I feel dissatisfied with myself. I feel angry and frustrated. I feel lonely and alone (they are two different things). I can imagine each one of those words in a different shade of blue, even the word 'angry', which is usually in red. Today it's blue. Like me.

On days like this (which, thankfully, aren't that close together), I have an argument in my head going on all day. It's like the "angel on one shoulder, devil on the other" scenario, except my characters aren't an angel and devil; they are like Eeyore and Winnie the Pooh. One's determined to be sad, and the other doggedly continues to suggest things to cheer the other one up. The only problem is, the sad side gets irritated by the constant effort to cheer up and then I have fighting...and yes, folks, it's all happening internally. I know. I need help.

This blog is not for whining, so I'm not going to get into the issues that are dragging me down today. Neither is this blog for gushing about what I love about being a mom, so I'm not going to give you the "cheer up" arguments either. Just suffice it to say that both sides are very real to me, and very valid.

Please don't worry...I'm not about to go jump off a bridge or anything. I love...well...living...too much to leave at this point! Things are (usually) pretty happy and exciting and wonderful. I think everyone is allowed days like this.

Nobody tells you beforehand, when you're still pregnant, that your hormones will still be out of whack for quite a while after you actually give birth. Same goes for your body. Put the two together, and it could be rather disastrous. But factor the love you feel for your child into the equation, and it's a whole other story. It then becomes a story of perseverance; of finding strength you never could have imagined you have inside of you; of trusting that God will protect and care for your little one, even when you may fail; but most of all, it becomes a story of love that literally surpasses all other emotions and feelings. Get pooped on today? It's ok. Feel like you want to drop into bed and not get out until tomorrow or maybe even the next day? That's ok too. Because you know why?

You also get smiled at like you are the best person in the whole world. You get little arms reaching for you to pick him up, and happy gurgles when you do. You get to watch as a new little life begins. You get to be a part of it.

So in spite of being blue, varying shades of baby blue, I have glimpses of rainbow all day long.

A Newer, More Wonderful Me!...or not.

Sooo, baby is now three months old. He is the cutest, most adorable thing ever. (Disclaimer: if you're a mommy reading this, and you think YOUR baby is the cutest, most adorable thing ever, you're allowed to think that. We're all a bit biased. Don't be offended...just smile and nod.)

Are you smiling yet? Nodding?

Having said that, when I look in the mirror (especially after a shower), I'm still not the same person physically as I used to be. Not yet anyway. Now, before you go on a rampage about how it's only been three months, please understand that this is MY blog about MY musings about motherhood, and I'm allowed to make observations about things as I go along! I'm not saying that I want to go jump in the river about it, just that I'm observing. And here are my observations, top-to-bottom:

The Hair:


Pondering...what on earth have I done?!

About two weeks before becoming pregnant, I decided that I was tired of having to deal with my naturally stick-straight, boring hair. So I got a perm. To give myself SOME credit, I wanted natural-looking waves and brought in a picture of some celeb's hair to show the ancient lady at the hair shop what I wanted. She went ahead and gave me a circa-1980s spiral perm (but didn't tell me til she was almost done rolling it) and so, in a time when most pregnant ladies are revelling in having unusually lush, shiny, beautiful hair, I was growing out a frizzy, ugly perm. It's now been mostly grown or cut out, but now the postpartum shedding has begun and it's falling out by the handful. Thanks, ancient hair lady at the shop. My hair sucks. I'm blaming YOU.

My Boobs:
Ahhhh yes, the girls. Unfortunately, they currently belong to a small human who adores sucking on them at 3-hour intervals during the day. They have been stretched, kicked and punched, squeezed and abused more in the last three months than should be allowed. They do NOT look pretty. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful that we finally got the hang of breastfeeding, but it is definitely taking its toll! About a month ago, I was saying something to someone about how my body was gradually making its way back to somewhat normal, and he said something to the effect of, Well, at least you can enjoy the benefits of having bigger boobs!

How do you explain to a non-baby person that there ARE indeed no benefits to bigger boobs when they are breastfeeding boobs?! They are FUNCTIONAL. Not RECREATIONAL. Nice try.



My Tummy:



Took 10 months to get this way...it's not gonna shrink much in 3!



Whoever said that breastfeeding takes all the weight off pretty quickly was LYING. Yeah, my inside parts shrunk back to their regular sizes, but there is now a layer of pudge that has settled on the outside of my once-beautiful abs. I have been P90x-ing faithfully (until my inlaws arrived last week, at least) and let me tell you, no amount of exercise can shed that pudge. I even had a friend (who is a crazy Ironman athelete) tell me she also has experienced this, and she has been out running again since 8 days post-partum! So that made me feel better. I'm sure the pudge will gradually shrink, or may not go away entirely until I'm done breastfeeding, but...I've come to accept it. I will be ok. I just have to get used to it hanging out over my jeans...*shudder*...and speaking of jeans, we've now come to...

THE BOTTOM HALF:

Ummm, no.

This is where the true magic happened late that January night (or early that January morning...?). Ladies, I'm hoping that one day my hips find where they were positioned before, because currently, they are residing precisely where they went at 5:59am on January 29th. WIDE OPEN. If I got pregnant and had to give birth tomorrow, that baby would just fall right out. And so, in desperation to finally get out of maternity wear, I went and purchased some jeans that would accommodate my new hippy-ness (and I don't mean the flowers and love kind). I'm sad to say, the jeans I purchased are like the modern-day version of the "mom jeans" I so scorned before. They are higher-waisted (to contain the muffin-top), and since there are no higher-waisted flared jeans out there, and there's no way you'll find me in current, trendy "skinny jeans", I went to a "premium boot-cut". Read here: modern-day mom jeans. I'm disgusted. But comfortable. Sort of. See the tummy section above....

My Feet:
We've reached the bottom of the body parts. My feet haven't changed at all (thankfully)...but my choice of footwear has. I was upset that the coming of spring meant I couldn't wear my pull-on boots anymore. Who has time to do up laces when you have a baby screaming in his carseat, waiting to leave? I need some sort of slip-on shoes that are acceptable to wear with jeans...or um, sweatpants...and I REFUSE to wear crocs (sorry to those of you that do...). So, we're still working on this one.

Wow. Who knew I could write so much about personal appearance? It's not vanity...it's observation. It can't be vanity when you're less-than-impressed with yourself. However, as I said at the beginning, it's a work in progress. It's only been three months.

I have to go now. P90x is calling my name..

Boy oh Buoy...

Yeah, stupid title but my creative juices aren't flowing in the realm of titles just now. At least you should be able to discern that this post will have something to do with water...and something floating in it. Which just makes it funny right off the bat, as your imagination runs with it...

Let's backtrack to about a month ago. Bradley was about 8 weeks old, and my hubby was playing with him on the floor with the Baby Einstein Playmat (see Baby Boredom...it's seriously an amazing playmat). I had just fed little B, and he hadn't wanted to eat much as he was just coming off a cold, but I'd kinda forced him to keep feeding past his "comfort" point, thinking it would do him some good to get a decent dinner into him. Dinner being breast milk... just to clarify that for everyone. MISTAKE #1: Don't feed baby beyond what he wants to eat, even if it's only breast milk!!

Moving on to MISTAKE #2: Don't bounce baby when he's just had more breast milk than he wanted to eat, particularly if he's been sick recently! Drew picked Bradley up off the playmat, and was bouncing him lightly in his lap, when Bradley let out a little burp with follow-through, right onto Drew's sleeve. Drew was DISGUSTED. He gingerly held Bradley up and away from his lap so he couldn't do any more damage to his clothes, and turned to me with a wrinkled nose. "Quick quick quick! Gemme a spitty cloth! QUICK!"

I grinned to myself, thinking, That's nothing!! but I turned to grab the closest spitty cloth anyway. Just as I turned, Drew put baby down onto the Baby Einstein mat, and then the real deluge happened. It reminded me of a certain horror movie in which a child continuously vomits pea soup at her mother for at least 5 seconds. This is what is known as "Projectile Vomit" here in the Trenches of Motherhood...and once it's happened to you, you're never surprised by it again.

So the kid vomited in a crazy Vomit Arch for at least 5 seconds right onto his poor, unsuspecting father (who moments ago had been completely grossed out by a bit of spit-up on his sleeve). Just as the vomit subsided, a strange sound like a muffled fog horn erupted from the playmat. One look at Bradley's face could tell you that he was now devoid of whatever had been troubling him and he was a happy, happy little man.

One look at my husband's face revealed he was NOT a happy man, but in fact a newly educated one. He was no longer grossed out by the spit-up on his sleeve, but had now been intiated into the world of Projectile Vomit and lived to tell about it! His helpless eyes gazed up at me, pleading with me to DO something...ANYTHING!

...and I did what any self-respecting mother would do. I laughed at his expense. Only for a minute though. Then I took pity and picked up the little pukey/poopy monster and whisked him away to his room, giving instructions over my shoulder for my husband to run a bath...pronto!

Moments later, a non-pukey/poopy baby and his daddy were in the bath, enjoying "Special Bathtime with Daddy". I have to say, I would be jealous of this special time they have in the evenings, because it's obvious that Bradley (and Drew) enjoy it so very much, but then, I get to be with baby ALL DAY, and I feel bad for my hubby who has to go to work all day. So I smiled and left them to it.

Just as I walked into the baby room to clean up the remnants of the disaster from earlier, I hear a screech coming from the bathroom. It kinda went as follows:

(in a sing-song voice) Are you having fun with Daddy? Lookit those little legs! Kicky kicky kick! Aww, you smilin'? You smilin' at Daddy? (in a slightly more strangled tone) Why are you smilin'? What the......?! What'r you...uh....OH! Get him out! Get 'em out! KELLY! COME QUICK!! GETEMOUT GETEMOUT GETEMOOOOOOUT!!!!

I rush into the bathroom, stop dead in my tracks, take one look in the tub, and start laughing hysterically. I couldn't even pick up the baby from his frantic father, I was laughing so hard. There was my poor hubby, sitting waist-deep in water with the baby in his hands held about level with his head. Floating in the water were several mustard-coloured blobs, happily making their way around the tub. One in particular was headed for his "special no-no place" and I think that's when the screams started becoming MORE hysterical and I had to take the baby for his own safety as my husband started scrambling to get out of the tub before the blob could reach its target.

What I ended up with was a baby in my arms who was quite tired out, but extremely happy and comfortable, and a husband standing, dripping in the bathtub with mustard-yellow streaks down his legs looking completely like someone who has just learned way too much about something unpleasant. Conveniently, he was already standing in the shower, so he quickly cleaned up, refilled the bath, and re-bathed baby for bed. Thankfully, he was able to keep his sense of humour about the situation and looking back at it now, it's actually pretty hilarious, so much so that hopefully I won't get killed for exposing him writing about it in this blog. Right, honey?

Fast-forward 4 weeks...back in the bath, having "Special Bathtime with Daddy" again (it's becoming a nightly ritual). I came in to see how they were doing, and looked at Bradley's face. He wasn't smiling, but instead, had a look of intense concentration. When I said this to Drew, he calmly looked at me and said, "That's because he's pooing." I was like, "Really?!" and sure enough, a long blob of Dijon made its way out from underneath my adorable baby boy and floated there, not knowing where to go in order to achieve maximum terror in the tub.

I looked back at my husband's face quickly, expecting a more frenzied response, but he calmly kept baby in the water for a moment to "make sure he was done", then went about cleaning him up, draining and cleaning the tub, refilling it and re-doing the bath without even seeming slightly ruffled.

Ahhh, how times have changed. We are more educated, and more experienced. I think it's official.

We are parents.