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.

Diapering FAIL

I know I just posted a couple of days ago. But this had to be shared. Trust me.

We have been using cloth diapers with Bradley during the days, but we are still using disposables at night, simply because they are more absorbant and so he will feel less wet during the night (and therefore, sleeps longer). Filling up a bit o' landfill to get a bit more sleep? I know, it's selfish...but for now, it is the reason for my sanity.

Another contributing factor to my sanity is actually a funny little invention called the "Peepee Teepee". Bradley (as most little baby boys do) loves to pee all over creation, thus making diaper changes a little difficult (and a little wet). A friend of mine in Ontario suggested using these little teepees, and voila, we've hardly had any more incidents of fountainous pee.

So I go to change Bradley's diaper yesterday morning, and apparently I was pretty tired the night before and misplaced his Peepee Teepee, as it was no longer sitting on the change table. I looked around, found another one, and prepared to open the diaper (you need to have the Teepee at the ready to put onto his little willy PRONTO). Opened the diaper to find the first Peepee Teepee, squashed and utterly soaked, still IN his diaper. How I did not remember to take it off as I diapered him back up last night, I don't know but...GROSS!

Diapering FAIL. Send me back to Mommy School.

The Blushing Ostrich

Yesterday was Monday. As a rule, I'm not a big fan of Mondays and usually never plan anything important for a Monday because it inevitably doesn't work out the way I'd planned. So when the coordinator for the "I Grow, You Grow" class I'd signed up for called me last week and reminded me that classes would begin on Monday, inwardly I groaned.

So really, I should have known that some kind of disaster would befall me and anticipated it and maybe just not left the house. But I set off for Banff at 12:49 (the class started at 1:00 and it would take me 17 minutes to get there...already starting on the right foot, I know), with a smile on my face and the music (softly) pumping in my truck, ready for something new.

I got to Banff late, however, I had beaten the train I'd seen from the highway, so I didn't have to wait for that. Bonus! I found the building with no problem...double bonus!!...and went to find a parking spot. Here is where the trouble began. Banff can either be completely full, or have a plethora of parking spots available in any parking location, at any given time. And the dynamics can change in seconds. In the seconds that I drove past the building, there were NO parking spots. I circled the block and came back. No parking on the side of the street I was on...but there were two spots on the OTHER side of the street! I knew they'd be taken by the time I circled back, so I decided to park in the parkade a couple of blocks away.

In the parkade, I quickly found a spot (designated "Small Car" but I parked my Escape there anyway) and then there was the stroller/no stroller dilemma. I had a hunch the building was stroller-free, but then thought, if the Parentlink programs are held in there, surely there is a spot for stroller parking. In any case, P90x or not, I was NOT hauling an ever-heavier bucket seat down the street to the Parentlink centre, so I took my chances and used the stroller.

Fast forward to the front door of the Parentlink centre. There is a HUGIANT (hybrid of huge and giant...childish, I know, but it's very descriptive!!) sign on the door which said, "PLEASE NO STROLLERS IN THE BUILDING. PLEASE LEAVE ALL STROLLERS BY THE OTHER ENTRANCE." Yes, it was all in caps, like it was shouting at me. Now, we didn't buy our stroller...it was given to us by my in-laws and I LOVE...and that's BIG love...my stroller. I didn't want to leave it by the other entrance, which I observed was very close to the sidewalk in a very transient town. So I opted to pretend I didn't see the sign, and strolled right into the centre.

What I haven't told you about the centre is that it doubles as the community Seniors' Centre. Nobody loves "The Rules" more than seniors. In fact, I think they make up MORE rules just to make younger people do them. There is nothing worse than having a senior citizen come up to you with that worried look on their face, the extra furrow in their brow making the amount of wrinkles they had on their face DOUBLE in an instant, and then tell you what you're doing is against the rules and can you please stop? And because they are a senior citizen and you are worried that their face will never straighten out again if you don't, you just do what they ask.

So I enter the building, with my stroller, and bump right into the welcoming committee made up of three senior ladies and one not-as-senior gentleman.

Rats.

I managed to manufacture a look of complete innocence coupled with the tiredness of a new mommy, stick it on my face, and ask in a weary voice, "Do you know where the meeting is for the moms and tots?" The guy was completely fooled by my apparent lack of knowledge about the stroller rule, but the ladies were eyeing me - and my stroller - suspiciously.

One of the ladies pushed past the man, and showed me to the room (which I had apparently passed on the way in). She knocked on the door (no subtleties here) and announced to the inhabitants that there was a lady looking for the moms and tots class, but then she turned to me and said in a loud voice, "But you can't bring that stroller in. There are no strollers allowed." Dangit.

The kindly lady leading the class (who was NOT a senior, I might add) looked at me sympathetically, took my baby and bucket seat, and said, "You DO need to park your stroller outside, sorry...I'll just take Bradley and you can meet us back here in a few minutes." I peeked inside the room and found that some of the mommies were looking at me as if to say, Didn't you see the sign on the door? Of course, some of the mommies were preoccupied with caring for their babies, but I know some of them might've been thinking it too.

I was desperate. I was NOT sticking my stroller outside to be taken at leisure by the passing crowds of Banff...or at the very least, to get snowed on. Yes, it's April and snowing. Welcome to the mountains..

So I turned back to the elderly lady who had "helped" me and the gentleman that had followed her, and said, "Isn't there ANY way I can just keep this in here for today and then I won't bring it back ever again?"

"NO." The elderly lady shook her head sadly, but adamantly. "Elderly people have walkers. We made the rule for a reason, you know."

I looked around the spacious lobby and spied a corner with a chair in it, then got a brilliant idea. I clicked the triggers on the stroller, instantly folding it in half, which I think shocked my little audience...the man, with appreciation...the lady, with added skepticism. I think I heard the man mutter, "Well, isn't that nifty!" with awe in his voice.

"I could just stow the stroller here, behind this chair, for the time being, and nobody would even notice," I suggested, moving swiftly before the old bag elderly lady could protest. The man moved quickly to help me, a twinkle in his eye. "Ooooh, I don't know if this is such a good idea...BETTY is here today!" the lady protested desperately, in one last attempt to adhere to "The Rules". The man hesitated, stopping in his tracks. Apparently BETTY was someone we don't want to mess with.

I sighed in exasperation and gave the chair one last heave, moving it into place. "There." I said with finality. "Look, Betty won't even notice. It will be our little secret for an hour." I placed my finger over my lips in a Shh! face, smiled at the lady, and quickly scooted out of the room and into the class.

Nobody even really looked up as I entered the room, quickly found a place in the circle, reclaimed my child, and sat down. Good. At least these were people who would understand my lateness, and my struggle with the stroller dilemma....these people were also new mommies, and all would be forgiven. I was excited at the possibility of getting to know these people and their little ones. Who would become close friends? Which of our kids would end up in school together? Would one of these little babies be my baby's best friend? Dare I say it, would one of these little girls one day be a bride for my little baby boy? The possibilities were endless, and my thought train was getting WILDLY out of hand, when there was a small "ahem" to call me to attention...

The leader of the group was looking at me with sympathy (for the stroller, or for the glazed look in my eyes, I don't know) and probably a little exasperation, and when she was sure she had my attention, she told me that we had been going around the group, saying our names and how old our babies were, and what had surprised us most about motherhood. We were nearing the end of the group (the stroller had cost me that much time) and I was only half-listening as my mind whirled frantically. What had surprised me about motherhood so far? I had a million different things, many of which I've written about on this blog. The amount of time it takes to get out of the house (oh no! A mommy just said that one!)...the vomit...the poo....the way you can function on almost no sleep...but wait, Bradley had been sleeping like an angel lately and....OH CRAP, it's my turn!!

"Well, uh, my name is Kelly and this is Bradley..." I began feebly and almost a little breathlessly...

Breathless? Why was I breathless? Was I nervous? Why should I be nervous about speaking in front of other new mommies? It was the stroller! They were judging me about the stroller?! No they weren't. You're imagining things. Keep going....KEEP GOING....they're looking at you.....

"and...he's um, 10 weeks old..." (was he 10 weeks? Am I speaking the truth? Yes. Yes he is. Go ON....)

"and...ummm...what's surprised me most about motherhood?" Drum roll please...the big moment... YOU CAN DO THIS.....

"Well, I agree with these other mommies we've just heard..." LAME. OMG, Kelly...say something brilliant...

"aaaaaand, I'm surprised actually by..." What was my last thought again? Sleep? Oh yeah...

"...at how well Bradley's been sleeping? He's um, been sleeping pretty good and...." CRASHING! BURNING!!! Ohhhhh MAYDAY.......

"....and yeah. Heh. Um...yeah."

Oh brilliant. You idiot. You wanted to be friends with these people? You now just put up the BIGGEST BARRIER POSSIBLE. Several pairs of eyes narrowed and turned away from me like I was some hated thing. Or like I was an idiot not worth their time. Which may or may not be true...

The rest of the class went by without incident. Mommies listened and breastfed and chatted and got along swimmingly. The mommies I already knew in the group either didn't hear me because they were distracted with their babies, or chose to forgive me because they knew I was flustered, or really, I'm making a big deal out of nothing and they didn't care what I'd said.

After class I retrieved my stroller from behind the chair (apparently Betty hadn't noticed, or no seniors had chosen to walk behind the chair with their walkers) and quickly left Banff for the comfort of home, a Tim Horton's hot chocolate with 1/4 French Vanilla in my cupholder, and a Fruit Explosion muffin in my lap. I sighed with contentment. Maybe Mondays weren't so bad after all.

In any case, Karma came back to bite me in the ass...Bradley woke up at 4:40am, something he hasn't done in weeks. I smiled as I walked downstairs to get him and continued smiling to myself as I fed him in the semi-darkness of the living room. Really? This wasn't bad at all. The words of one of my other mommy friends came back to me and reverberated in my head as I fed him: What's so bad about baby needing you in the middle of the night? It's actually nice to be needed.

I couldn't agree more.

P90x vs. Childbirth...and the winner is...?

Ok, so I know that when comparing amounts of pain, childbirth will win ANY day over anything else. I don't care how big a guy's kidney stone is, it doesn't weigh 7lbs 8oz and you didn't require any stitches after it came out.

However, today as I began my daily torture regimen with Tony, I contemplated that there is definitely cause for comparison...

That's me, second from left. Ok no it's not. But it will be...?

My husband wanted the P90x for the past two years. He'd seen it on TV. He'd youtubed it. He'd been talking it up since the day I suffered from temporary insanity and ordered TurboJam off the TV (he figured if I could do it, he should also be allowed). I'd listened to him rave about it and even watched the infomercial with him. I agreed that it looked bonafide, and that these people didn't sound scripted...and you couldn't argue with washboard abs. But it looked like you needed weights and a chin-up bar, and there's no WAY I was installing a chin-up bar in my condo! There are only 943 square feet of space in this thing; there is no room for a chin-up bar ANYWHERE. Ok, so I also didn't want to have to do chin-ups, because I can't do one to save my life, but I wasn't about to admit that. And so for the past two years there has been on-and-off raving about the P90x in our house condo. Childbirth, or more specifically 'child', was NOT something my husband was super keen about, much less raving about, for the past two years. Although let it be said that once he got used to the idea, he actually became pretty supportive. And once I got used to the idea of the P90x (more like, once I got it into my head that this would be the fastest way back to body-normalcy), we bought it AND have been using it (unlike my TurboJam DVDs). I think it was a good compromise.

Both involve a lot of grunting and willful controlling of the breathing. Although I will say that childbirth also involved much moaning with a touch of crying thrown in here and there, just for fun. I haven't cried during P90x yet, but it's only Day 16.

Childbirth did not involve anyone named Tony, nor did anyone tell me to "Bring it." However, it goes without saying that of COURSE you're going to bring it...you've been toting it around with you for 40 weeks, and I'm pretty sure any woman I've talked to who has had a baby would say that they were pretty stoked to finally BRING IT!

There are twelve different DVDs that make up the P90x. Each workout is about 60 minutes long, so that means there are about twelve hours of torture (over and over again for 90 days) involved in order to get the body you want. Pregnancy lasted for (almost) ten months, and childbirth lasted (for me) about 6 hours. Yes, it only took that long to destroy my body as I'd always known it, but Tony and the P90x team are going to put it back together again. In ninety days. I hope.

Both require you to stay hydrated. Tony allows you to take little drink breaks throughout your workout. The hospital decided I was dehydrated (who wants to eat ice chips when your teeth are grinding in pain?) so they decided to empty an entire IV bag into my arm during labour and delivery. My face looked like I'd been stung by a swarm of angry bees for a good few days after the main event because of that IV bag (well, and because of, you know, giving birth). I would much rather have had drink breaks, but my body didn't really give me the option...

Nobody interrupts you during childbirth. However, during my P90x workouts, I have been interrupted by (quite obviously) Baby, deciding he'd had enough of sleeping for the time being, text messages from my husband at work asking me if I was working out yet, phone calls from kindly people offering to walk my poor dog (yes, I know, I haven't missed the irony of the fact I'm hopping around and working out, while my poor dog is lying there, imploring me with his doggy-eyes to take him for a walk), phone calls from telemarketers offering me 1000 BONUS Air Miles if I will only press the number 1 on my touchtone phone, and goodness-knows-what-else. If any of those people had tried to interrupt me during childbirth, I think they would've had another thing coming...but nobody did, and so I digress...

You're supposed to eat (and not eat) certain foods for both pregnancy and P90x...and I didn't listen to either one. Tony comes on at the end of each workout to explain that his special after-workout-drink is formulated specifically for P90x users and that nothing else will ever compare. There is also a book that comes with the program, detailing what you should be eating and not eating during your use of the P90x program. I'm a breastfeeding mom. Short of eating onions and super-spicy things (which I wouldn't eat anyway), I eat what I want. During pregnancy there is also a plethora of things you aren't allowed to eat, so much so that at one point early on, I felt as though I was supposed to be subsisting on bread and water for the duration of my pregnancy (but only whole-grain bread so that it would keep me regular), and I gave up on THAT notion pretty quick. No deli meats during summer? No sushi?? Yeah right. I think Bradley is fine for it too...haven't noticed any strange tics as of yet...

In any case, childbirth is over. The child is here. And while he sleeps, I'll give my time to Tony and his P90x team in the hope that one day, I'll have rock-hard abs again, just like it promised on youtube. Bring it!

Do what the nice man on the poster says...

Observations from a New Mum

In a recent conversation with an old friend, I was asked what I would do if I had a moment to myself for some fun. What would I do for fun? What IS fun these days? And I became very aware very suddenly that the idea of fun and of what I consider "fun" to have completely changed.

The answer I gave at the time was that if I knew Bradley was in capable hands for a day or two, I'd go skiing for a day, have some drinks apres-ski (not enough to get drunk, but just enough to make merry and go to bed), get up the next day to ski, and then head home. If he was referring to something a bit more exotic and longer in duration, I'd go with Drew and Bradley to an all-inclusive in Mexico or Jamaica or pretty much ANYWHERE else in the Caribbean and just relax and be WARM for a week.

Alack and alas, my ideas of fun have changed...but I have to say, I don't regret it for one second! The idea now of going to the bar and having drinks til my head spins, and then stumbling home really doesn't appeal. For one, what's the point? Two; I'm on mat leave...who wants to spend that kind of money on something that only lasts a couple of hours and makes you feel like garbage the next day? Three; who wants to feel like garbage the next day when it seems that every precious second of Bradley's life, he's growing like crazy? I don't want to miss a thing, as Aerosmith would attest (although I don't know if he was really singing in regards to his babe in the same way I am).

When I really stop to think about it (and being a breastfeeding mum, there is a LOT of time for sitting and thinking), there are a few things I've learned during these short two months since joining the ranks of motherhood:

        1. Breastfeeding babies don't poo much. After getting over the initial panic and resulting aftershocks (see The Poo Fiasco), this is actually a very pleasant perk of breastfeeding a baby: I don't have to change many poopy diapers! Now, I know that will change once he starts eating solid foods, but for the next few months, this is going to be pretty easy...

        2. Babies fart like frat boys. Especially after eating. And if you're anywhere in public, particularly a QUIET public place, be aware that you just may become the centre of attention, and NOT in a good way. Oh, and the farts sound like adult ones, so trying to blame the baby doesn't convince a lot of people, unless they, too, have experienced their own baby farting in a public (and inconvenient) place.

        3. Making baby's hand/footprints is like trying to ride a raging bull at the rodeo. I think that should provide enough of a mental picture for everyone...so roll on number 4...

Hand- and footprints well worth it...I think!

        4. Acrylic paint gets in places you'd never imagine when trying to hand/footprint a baby, and then doesn't come out of clothing very well (or off surfaces, either on body or otherwise). 'Nuff said once again.

        5. Babies don't die when they sleep on their tummies. I've mentioned it in captions to photos and comments on status updates, but let us be clear: Bradley sleeps on his tummy, MUCH better than he slept on his back, and when I quietly but defensively mentioned this to my doctor this past week, I didn't get reprimanded at all...not even a slap on the wrist! So if doctors and nurses KNOW that babies sleep best on their tummies, why the hell do they keep writing books saying not to? I think it's a conspiracy for making an entire generation of flat-headed babies, and sleep-deprived zombie-mommies. Don't ask me how either would benefit the medical profession, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

        6. Exercising like a maniac does NOT get rid of baby pudge in a week. In fact, those 12 pounds of baby weight I started my après-baby journey with are still hanging out. On a positive note, doing daily exercise for the past week and a half has improved my cardio, and my muscles are starting to remember their existence - YAY! - but the hardening muscles (I use this term loosely) are actually pushing the pudge further outward on my body, making me look FATTER than when I started! Now, I know this is all part of the process, and has NOTHING to do with the fact that I refuse to give up my Cadbury Mini-Eggs entirely, but it's still rather disheartening, especially when other new mommies are already fitting back into pre-baby clothes and I'm still stuck wearing maternity wear. I'm not fishing for compliments and I am realistic SOMEWHERE inside my head, so I will keep plugging away and suck it up, knowing (hoping?) that someday in the not-too-distant future, the belly pudge will slowly but surely make its way out. Oh and it can take its friend Muffin Top with it.

Above all, I've learned that the most fun I've ever had in my life is watching with fascination as Bradley begins to discover the things around him. Seeing him learn how he can grasp something made me smile; listening to him coo and squeak with contentment brings me the most ridiculous joy; watching him as he stares at hanging toys for a few minutes at a time, memorizing their shape and returning his gaze to the ones he found most fascinating just gives me a sense of wonder for how babies learn things about their environment. It's like this whole baby adventure was sent to teach ME to slow down and appreciate each and every small discovery Bradley makes as my own.

What an amazing year this is going to be...filled with fun I never knew I could have. Sorry to get sappy on you all, but it's the way it is. I blame the hormones.

Baby Boredom

When we first began talking about trying for a baby, my mother-in-law warned me about my husband's energy levels as a toddler. She described scenes where she was walking down the street, observing other mothers and their toddlers, walking in serenity, hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. Some mothers pointed things out to their toddling little ones by way of teaching them about the world via observation and informative discussion. With a sigh, she would turn her attention upon her OWN little son, who resembled the ball from a pinball machine, zooming from bush to lamppost to crack in the sidewalk to parking meter and back to mom again. Ding ding ding ding ding!!

She asked me if I really knew what I was getting myself into.

With a reassuring gesture and a slightly amused look, I told her that she needed to keep in mind that the baby would also be half ME, and that I was a quiet, well-behaved child who really didn't do much.

"I never said he was naughty," she said dryly. "He was just....high-energy." I laughed it off, and didn't think much more about it until we actually DID become pregnant, and around the 18-week mark, began anticipating those first little kicks from the inside.

What I did NOT anticipate, once they'd started, was the AMOUNT of kicking that I would endure for the remainder of my pregnancy. What had I glibly joked about the baby being half me? No. This baby was ALL my husband. It kicked me even in its sleep, and when it wasn't kicking, it was poking. There were times when I swore the thing was practising jumping jacks or making snow angels (it WAS half-Canadian, after all). As the due date loomed closer and closer, the kicking got more and more powerful. I joked with friends about the baby trying to find its own way out by a side door, and that it needed to be reminded that the exit was SOUTH.

Please exit by the south door...

After Bradley was born, I could finally see for myself what he had been up to in utero. The kid spends most of his time kicking - one foot after the other, like he's climbing stairs on one eternal Stairmaster. Our first attempts at diaper changes were disastrous, as his little feet would kick-kick-kick; the diaper would get kicked off, the feet would get into the contents of the diaper, kicking would accelerate as mom or dad would try to catch the now-dirty feet and well, you can envision the rest, I'm guessing. He would kick and flail in his sleep (yes, even though he was swaddled!), waking himself up every time this happened, so you can imagine how restful our time in the hospital was (at home we figured out that putting a towel in his crib that had been rolled up at either end would keep him in one place, minimizing the movement and therefore, maximizing the sleep, much to the horror of the home-nurse).

With such an active kid, you'd think maybe he would be happy to kick and flail to his heart's content all day long, but this is not the case.

Bradley gets BORED.

Oh, don't get me wrong. During his newborn days, he was happy to sleep for most of the day (with episodes of epic breastfeeding in between...see earlier notes), but as he's now nearing the two-month mark, he's awake for a lot longer periods and the kid's attention span lasts five to ten minutes.

He's just like his father. We have spawned another Drew.

You can't accuse me of being unprepared. Drew's mum DID warn me.

I have a baby swing given to me by my sister after her baby was finished with it. It's ELECTRIC...read: you don't have to keep winding it up and it will never stop if you don't want it to. LOVE it. Bradley likes it for a while, and even falls asleep in it sometimes. But it's not a guaranteed sell for him.

We also bought a second-hand vibrating bouncy chair at Once Upon a Child (LOVE that store). More than one friend with a baby had recommended this item. In fact, anyone we spoke to said this item was absolutely INDISPENSABLE, and they didn't know how they would've gotten along without it. If I could put Bradley's reaction to the vibrating bouncy chair into one word (if he could utter words at this point), his word would be: "Meh." Seriously. He could take it or leave it, and when he's upset, he doesn't like it at ALL. This chair only buys me about 4 minutes of "sans-baby" time...just about long enough for me to dash to the bathroom, and only if I have to go "number one".

Bradley also has numerous toys and beautiful stuffed animals, but as he's only just started tracking, focusing, and really paying attention to things we vainly try to amuse him with, these have been sitting by the wayside, waiting patiently for their turn in Bradley's life.

Knowing all this, and that Bradley should apparently be spending some playtime on his tummy (something we hadn't been able to do for more than 2 minutes without him either falling asleep or throwing up), I decided to invest in a playmat/playgym idea. Also knowing my little son's pickiness with toys so far and knowing his father's tendencies towards ADHD, I endeavoured to procure the Rolls Royce of baby playmats. It took some doing, but eventually we managed to get the Baby Einstein Baby Neptune Ocean Adventures Playmat (see pictures below), complete with all the bells and whistles. It even comes with a crib toy (attached to the playmat for now) that looks like an ocean playground and has a little light show, set to bell-like versions of famous orchestral compositions by Mozart and Beethoven. Very flashy and VERY cool.

The Baby Einstein Baby Neptune Ocean Adventures Playmat

(say that ten times fast!!)

And hopefully...very entertaining...?

So far it seems to be working...until next week, when I'm anticipating he will be bored with each and every toy on that playmat, no matter how I rearrange them or no matter which verbal sound effects I use when trying to elicit his attention with them (much to the amusement of the dog).

I've definitely got my work cut out for me for the rest of this maternity leave, but call me a sucker, I'm looking forward to it. In any case, you can't say my mother-in-law didn't warn me.

Oooh! Pretty lights!

The Poo Fiasco

There's no other way to describe it, really; it was indeed a fiasco. But wait, let me start from the beginning.

It was Wednesday. Bradley hadn't pooed since Monday. In my world, that would be appalling (and very uncomfortable) but in a baby's world, apparently this is completely normal. He didn't appear to be in any kind of pain, so I guessed we would wait and see what happened. I met another new mommy in the grocery store, and she told me that HER baby had just pooed for the first time in SEVEN days, so I guessed that two days really wasn't so bad.

Fast forward to the next day. I was speaking to some friends of ours who both happen to be pharmacists, and I happened to mention that Bradley hadn't pooed since Monday.

"Supposetories! Get some supposetories! Works like a charm every time," he said in an almost gleeful tone.

"Um, eww? Gross!" was my response. "There's no WAY I'm sticking something up his bum. Poor little baby!!"

"In Italy we use suppostories for everything. You don't have any constipated babies in Italy. Get him a supposetory. Here I've got some right here..." he said, while walking briskly to his bathroom and returning in an instant, "If you're squeamish about doing it, just bring him over here. I'll do it. I've done this for all of my friends' babies!"

His wife rolled her eyes. "I don't know if you've done it for ALL of our friends...maybe a couple." She turned to me and explained in a slightly embarrassed tone that in Italy, there are supposetories for EVERYTHING, even Tylenol, and that nobody takes oral pills. They're almost unheard of. At this piece of news, I thought back to my childhood - imagine having a headache? You'd think twice before complaining about it if you knew THAT was coming your way!!

Back to the present situation, I politely refused the supposetories but told him I'd keep it in mind if he started to show any sign of pain from constipation.

Well what do you know, that very night when I went to feed him his before-bedtime-feeding, he was inconsolable. Crying and obviously in pain, I was guessing, from not pooing for 4 days. After 15 minutes, I caved. I sent my husband to Safeway to buy glycerin supposetories, and called our friends to ask what to do.

"Now, with our girls, it was instant!" he said after giving instructions. "Make sure you have lots of towels handy!"

So, armed with a crying baby, towels, wipes, extra diapers, scissors (to cut the supposetory thing in half) and of course, the box of supposetories, we soberly made our way to the family bathroom. The thing went in pretty easily, and I had to pinch his little bum cheeks together to keep it from popping back out again, and then we waited. And waited.

No poo.

After a few minutes, exasperated, I put his little diaper on, packed up our stuff and went back upstairs to attempt our nighttime feeding again. No luck...he still wasn't having it. I swaddled him up and put him to bed, fully expecting him to wake up in an hour with a full, steaming diaper and hunger like he's never known before. So at 7:21am when I heard his "I'm beginning to wake up" squeaks, I couldn't believe it!! Checked his diaper...NO POO!! He has to be the only baby in the world who doesn't poo from supposetories!! He WAS hungry though, so I started to feed him. Our friends called us about 15 minutes later to ask about the success of the supposetories (and, I'm pretty sure, to say a big fat I TOLD YOU SO) but they were met with the news of no poo, at which they suggested to try again with another one.

Sighing, I didn't know what else to do but take their advice. After the second supposetory, still no poo, so I put him down for his morning nap.

At about 10:40am, I woke him up as we were supposed to be at a friend's house around 11. My thought was to change him, dress him, and get going. What's that saying about the "best laid plans"...?

I put Bradley on the change table and took off his diaper. He had done a little poo, which wasn't exactly what I was expecting but better than nothing, and at the very least, encouraging! I cleaned him up and was just putting his new diaper on when he let out a little toot. I looked at his bum...there had been a little bit of "follow-through", if you know what I'm saying...so I cleaned him up and was just about to close up the diaper when...

Well, let's just say that NOTHING prepares you for this moment in motherhood. Nothing. A RAINBOW-ARCH of poo shot out of his bum, over the diaper, onto the change pad, and everywhere! There was poo all over the table and pooling nicely under his bum. I looked at his little face, and it was the face of a very relieved little man. I couldn't help but feel happy for him, but I didn't feel so happy for me! Feebly, I took the wipe in my hand and tried (in vain) to clean his bum when he let out another little toot. My eyes widened. I thought, Surely there can't be more...? and WHOOSH! Another arch, bigger than the first, came pouring, nay, GUSHING out of his bum! This time, the supposetories also ejected themselves out of his bum, one of them skidding to a halt in the open top drawer of the change table (I had been getting out a fresh diaper) and covering everything with a fresh round of poo. There was more poo pooling under his back, all over his blanket, in the top drawer, and dripping down the side of the table.

I felt so helpless and more than a little disgusted, but all I could do was laugh and laugh. Bradley looked serene, and then chose this moment to smile and emit a coo of pleasure! How could I not melt, even amidst all of that poo? My eyes traveled from his precious little face down the wreckage that was my change table and came to rest on his little peepee...just as it came to life and wee'd all over the wall and the shelving unit next to the change table, before I could even react. Thankfully I managed to cover it with my hand before it did any more damage, but by then it was too late. He had liberally decorated the walls and shelves with his mark, and my hand did nothing but deflect the onslaught downwards to mix with and dilute the poo which was already pooling on the change table, causing it to run and drip gleefully to other locations.

Needless to say, I didn't make it to my friend's house. I'd love to tell you a valuable lesson about motherhood that I learned from this experience, but there isn't one, except to reinforce the lesson that your plans must be flexible when you have a baby.

That, and two supposetories = ONE BIG MESS.

The Establishment of MAAM and Further Adventures in Breastfeeding

I went to visit another new mommy the other day. We chatted for a while about how we were doing, emotionally and physically...and then her baby got hungry. She smiled at me apologetically, and then took out her boob to breastfeed. What I witnessed was the perfect textbook breastfeeding session. Baby lets mom know she's hungry, mom produces boob, baby latches (which took all of 3 seconds) and then sucks faithfully until full, breaking for the occasional burp (but then latching back on without hassle).

I was floored.

Of course, Bradley decided in a half hour's time that he, too, was hungry and so I took out my boob with a little trepidation and some embarrassment at the impending battle I knew my friend would witness.

Yes, friends, it's been three weeks (and a bit) since Bradley came into the world and we had our first Adventures in Breastfeeding. He has now figured out how to latch and then feed, and is gaining weight. His little cheeks are filling out and he is developing the most fetching pot belly. But for some reason which still escapes my understanding, he isn't happy about it. No, not at all. Instead, I wrestle with my 3-week-old infant for at least 5 minutes to make him understand that the boob is a friend, not a foe. The boob brings nourishment and comfort (and big relief for mommy when it's finally emptied)...it shouldn't need the battering it gets every time we try to latch.

Some of you may have read an earlier note, and may be familiar with the term "Latch Game". The Latch Game, for those of you who don't know, entails baby to latch, suck for a small amount of time, and then become unlatched and upset about it. The Latch Game, which seems fairly harmless now in comparison, has morphed into Battle of the Boob, whereupon the infant simultaneously loves and hates the nipple, and the boob it is attached to.

Let me paint the picture for you. Baby indicates he is hungry. Mom produces boob. Baby looks at boob with obvious appreciation and even desire (eyes light up, mouth makes sucky motions while simultaneously grinning...very cute). The part I didn't mention is that the hands begin to flail with excitement, which is what probably ruins the whole experience right from the beginning. Mom cups baby's head in opposite hand (cross-cradle hold for all you mommies out there) and grasps boob with same-side hand, then guides head to nipple (also a textbook move). This is where all breastfeeding-hell breaks loose.

Baby's mouth opens to receive nipple, while placing a hand on either side of the nipple and PUSHING WITH ALL OF ITS MIGHT!! So just as baby latches, it pushes off at the same time. Shakes his head in frustration, as if he doesn't know what hit him, and tries again. Can we just also mention here that the force baby used to push off would've thrown himself right onto the floor if it wasn't for Mom's hand grasping and desperately holding him on the boob?

Baby's mouth opens again, a more determined look on his face. Mom guides baby's head to boob. This time, instead of just pushing off the boob with both hands, baby also arches his back, throws his head backwards (taking the nipple with it), and kicks the other boob with his feet. If Mom wasn't holding on carefully, baby would've launched himself across the room with this force.

Repeat. Repeat. REPEAT until baby is so tired, he cannot possibly push himself off anymore and finally just gives up, latches on, and sucks happily for about 8 minutes until such time as a burp would be prudent. By this point, baby has had some fuel and has gotten a second wind, so the whole process repeats for the next latch.

My boobs are black and blue. My nipples feel like they have been sandpapered by paper with a coarse grain. This is abuse and I shouldn't have to take this, when other mothers seem to have established their breastfeeding with no problem by this point!! I think I should establish a new club, called MAAM - Mothers Against Abuse of Mammaries. No, this has nothing to do with getting a mammogram - ladies, get your mammograms when you're supposed to. Nope, this group targets infant abuse of mammaries. It's so not fair. But as with anything else in life, we are reminded that life is not fair and we need to move on.

This past week, I became aware that I spend at least 10 hours of each day with a baby at my breast (sometimes feeding, more often than not, abusing)... and that I exist right now for the sole purpose of keeping this little being alive to abuse another day. Incredible.

It's a darn good thing he's cute, that's all I have to say. 

Is that boob for me?

So, back to the present story at my friend's house, Bradley played the Latch Game for three minutes, then latched and was content to suck the way a good baby should. He fed from both boobs without incident, showing me he really does know what he's on about...and then proceeded to spit up the entire contents of his stomach all over himself (45 minutes of good breastfeeding down the drain), gurgle happily, and fall right to sleep. It's a darn good thing he's cute. And that pot belly really is quite fetching...

The Pot Belly

The Woes....I mean, Good Things about Breastfeeding

So before little Bradley arrived, I read all the books I could find about breastfeeding. I know its many virtues; the nutrients, the antibodies, the bonding time, etc etc etc. I was bound and determined that this was what I was going to provide for my baby. I had visions of sitting in the rocking chair, baby to breast (lying on my deluxe breastfeeding pillow I got on sale), gazing with that "motherly look" out upon the beautiful Rockies view that nearly all windows in Canmore afford.

 Yeah. Right.

Baby was 5 minutes old when suddenly I was bombarded with this great responsibility: getting Baby to "latch". Didn't seem to be a problem, except that Baby didn't understand that after latching, you need also to "suck". Seems like a simple concept. Nuh uh.

I had every nurse on shift, as well as my doctor, shoving my boobs into little Bradley's mouth, squeezing, pulling, yanking, pinching colostrum into his little mouth, blowing on him, wetting him with wipes and THEN blowing on him some more, poking and rubbing his little cheeks to the point where he (like anyone else would, I guess) wound up being not only hungry, but pissed off.

Burping baby with a disapproving nurse looking on.

With the nurse shift change, I got a new nurse who came into my room and said, "How's breastfeeding going? Mind if I watch?"  I took out my boobs. She crossed her arms, appraised them skeptically, and then said, "Oh. You've got flat nipples. Have you got a pump? Let me get you one." Now, it needs to be stated here that the hospital rooms are kept at a balmy 35 degrees Celcius, and NOBODY would have perky nipples at that temperature! Exit the nurse. Re-enter the nurse with a vintage-looking breast pump that would make a cow turn and run for cover. "They're flat because it's hot in here," I countered weakly. "The other nurses said I was doing ok." "Hmmmph," she answered, and hooked me up to the machine. I won't describe what happened next. Needless to say, it was degrading, upsetting, and somehow reminded me of the farm.

The "MACHINE"

With each new shift change, I hoped for a more neutral nurse...instead, each new nurse who came in would introduce themself as my new nurse, state that it said I had flat nipples on my chart, and that they would like to see me breastfeed, then offer "tips and hints" that completely refuted all the advice given from previous nurses. I was a happy girl to arrive home two days later to try to figure this out on my own. It's definitely a trying experience and I'm still figuring it out, but here are some new terms that have entered my vocabulary:

The Latch Game - This happens each time baby tries to latch to your breast. It goes something like this: baby latches onto the nipple. Suck....suck suck suck suck PHLWAAH! Spits it out. Try again. Baby latches. SUUUUCK suck suck suck...suck suck...PHLWAAH! Nuzzle nuzzle, latches. Suck suck phlwah. Cries in frustration. Repeat.

The Boob-Induced Coma - Once baby has latched and managed to consume enough milk to partially fill the stomach, some kind of drug/hormone found in the breast milk takes over baby's system, and baby promptly falls asleep. You can try as you might. You can try any of the methods mentioned above (squeeze, pull on, yank the boobs, blow on baby, wet and then blow on baby, poke/prod baby's jaw or cheeks to "remind" him he should be sucking). You can even burp the baby (see "GAS") or try to psyche baby out (see "The Psyche-Out) but to no avail. Baby is tapped out. At this point, just give up, swaddle the baby, and try again in an hour or two. Or five.

The Psyche-Out - This is a method for getting some last, desperate sucks in before you de-latch your baby: pull the nipple out of his mouth as if you're going to take it away. Unless baby is in a deep state of comatose (see above), he will try a few desperate, strong sucks. Great way to get baby back on track if all other methods are failing.

GAS - Never before has this word held such meaning. When you or I get gas, we might bloat up a bit. Fart a little. Be embarrassed about it. Try to hide it. Excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. When baby gets gas, it is CATASTROPHIC. When baby gets gas, it doesn't just fart and not say "excuse me". The whole body contorts; the back arches; the face distorts to such a degree, you think it won't straighten out again; the legs straighten as if experiencing some kind of electric shock. And just when you think there might be something permanently wrong with your baby, a little "brrrup!" comes from its rear end, and all settles back into normalcy. Incredible. You can try to stave off this gas attack by periodically burping baby during feeding, but then he just looks at you with this pissed off little look like, "Um, I was finally latched and now you interrupt me for THIS!?!?" and may not even burp at all, in which case you've ruined a perfectly good latch AND managed to make your baby angry AND need to try to latch him again. Well done.

Phlanged - pronounced flange-d. This is a word I got from What to Expect When You're Expecting. Apparently it means that your baby's lips are flared out around your areola, resembling fish lips (as if there was indeed a fish attached to your nipple). Hilarious. Although I will say that you can make your baby phlange its lips all you want...getting it to suck is another story. See above.

 I hope this has cleared things up a little for everyone. And just a small note to end my story...the Bow Valley sends out a nurse to visit you in your home the day after you arrive home from the hospital. So this nice nurse shows up, comes in and sits down on my couch, takes out her notes, frowns and says to me, "So how's the breastfeeding going? It says here that you have flat nipples..."