Conversations between Father and Child

Today at lunch the following occurred (translated from the Danish for your benefit):

The DB and the Spawn were sharing a little juice box with their lunch.  Spawn reaches for the box.

DB: Here, let me help you with that.

Spawn: NO!  I can myself! *picks up box and drinks from the straw* See?!

*slurp slurp slurp*

DB: Can I have some?

Spawn: NO! *slurp* It’s empty.

DB: Empty?!

Spawn: *slurp slurp slurp* Yes. *slurp slurp slurp*

DB: You cheat!  There’s more in the box!  You are drinking it right now! 

Spawn: NooOoo.  *slurp slurp slurp* Empty. *slurp slurp slurp*

Her poker face was impeccable.  There was just the problem of the overwhelming evidence to the contrary of what she was saying.

*slurp slurp slurp*

The Dane and His Daughter

The Danish Boy has had his hands full this week.  As he will for the next 15, provided I keep passing exams.

I get up at 5 am and head for the ferry at 6.  He’s got to catch the bus at a little after 8 am, with the Spawn. 

So Monday was a little rough for them both, but they made it on the bus.  That night, he asked to be woken up at 5:30, so he could take a shower and I would be available if the Spawn woke up and needed whatever it is that my child wants at the ass-crack of dawn. *

Tuesday, I woke him up.  He was a little out of it, so he said “hello” and woke the Spawn.  Bless him, he handled the mess he made while I ate breakfast and caught the ferry.  That night he said, screw it, let ‘em both sleep.

Wednesday I let them be.  They were both sleeping when I left.  Later he got up and showered before she woke up.  He got her dressed; they ate breakfast and were out the door on time.

Thursday.  Same again, only the Spawn woke up a bit earlier than the Danish Boy wanted.  Something I’ve noticed about the Spawn.  After she wakes up, you must hold her until she’s ready to be put down, usually about 5 to 10 minutes, after which she is Happy Baby and ready for anything.  Trying to hurry this process up, however, results in Angry Baby. ** The Danish Boy, fresh out of the shower (so, naked, then), was unaware of this charming side to our child’s nature.  He put her down to get dressed.  He confessed later, “I had to put her in Time Out.”  The Danish Boy never puts the Spawn in Time Out.  He talks to her reasonably until she works herself into a fit and then declares, “she needs her momma” before handing me a hysterical child.  Then I get to put her in Time Out because she promptly begins to hit me and we do not hit momma. *** So this was a big moment for him, he actually had to do the discipline.

Despite this, he says he’s actually quite liked having this extra time with the Spawn.  She’s going through a growth spurt and teething like mad, so she’s been the total Velcro baby recently.  If it ain’t momma, it ain’t happenin’ was the motto around the house.  These mornings (and afternoons, since he’s the one who picks her up from daycare) have refocused her little mind on him.  Daddy also makes food.  Daddy also cuddles.  Daddy is also cool.  They talk together and on the way home, they take a little walk and eat berries.

Of course, as soon as I come home, she lights up and runs to me.  (You want a total ego boost?  Be greeted at the door by an enthusiastic toddler.  It’s all “Oh WOW!  It’s YOU!  How great to see YOU!”)  Then she just wants me and only me from then until bed, but that’s fine.  For me.  The Danish Boy is then stuck doing the cooking, which I used to do, and the washing up, which I also used to do.

Only after Spawn and I have gone to bed does he get to do whatever it is he wanted to do by himself.  He almost complained about this, but then wisely remembered that there were months where I never had any time to myself, any time where I wasn’t cooking, cleaning, or breastfeeding and shut up.

* Usually: a boob.

** Angry Baby hits and kicks and, as of recently, bites.

*** She’s one and a half, so she gets one and a half minutes of Time Out.

We're talking Serious First World Issues here, man

I want to talk about something that is seriously wrong with the world today.  An important topic that I am sure is near and dear to your hearts.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH BABY CLOTHES DESIGNERS??!!

What, that’s not on your list of crimes against humanity?  Oh.  Well, I guess you can just keep reading this post as a humorous rant.  The rest of us will just be over here, rending our clothes and gnashing our teeth THANKYOUVERYMUCH!

Baby clothes designers are obviously mentally incompetent asshats, who (and this is very important) have NEVER seen a baby in real life.

Kind of like how Karl Lagerfeld has never actually seen breasts and therefore designs clothes for women who don’t have them and Manolo Blahnik, who has apparently never seen a woman try to walk on anything other than a runway, keeps designing objects for foot-fetishists.

But baby clothes are so cute!  How can you say such a thing?!

I’m glad you asked, Voice of Unreason. 

Because those cute baby clothes are all “wash cold” or “delicate cycle” or “hand wash separately.”

WHAT THE HELL, MAN!?

Have you see the shit that gets on baby clothes?  I mean SHIT gets on baby clothes!  Cold water, delicate cycle, hand wash separately BULLSHIT!

Secondly, WHAT IS UP WITH ALL THE BUTTONS?

Have you ever tried to button a wriggling child into clothing?  Let me ask you this, do straightjackets have buttons?

Warning to readers: be wery wery careful if you Google to find out the answer to this question.

So then tell us, oh wise one, do straightjackets have buttons?

I note a tad bit of sarcasm in that question.

Moi?  Never!  I am the Voice of Unreason and I would never use sarcasm… or irony!

Hm.

The answer, since you crave enlightenment-minus-the-Power-of-the-Google, is NO.  No buttons on a straightjacket.  Because trying to button a person that needs restraining into any garment is the apex of ridiculousness.  Someone is going to lose an eye!  So why on god’s green earth would someone put buttons on baby clothes?  Babies are simply smaller mental patients whom you aren’t allowed to sedate!  Or sit on.  APARENTLY.

Then there’s the size issue.  As a woman, I’m used to clothes that say one size but mean another and never believing the size on the label anyway.  But whereas I can try on clothes before I buy, it’s kinda hard to try clothes on a baby.

Doubt me?  Go take a drunken frat boy shopping.  Try to get him to try on clothes.  Try to keep him in said clothes.  Try to keep him from peeing on someone.

I’m pretty damn lucky, though, I get huge boxes of hand-me-downs (in good condition) from a SIL.  I can chase my half naked child through the privacy of my own house.  Provided that all the doors to the outside are closed, I stand a pretty good chance of catching her too.

But there’s always that moment where I’ve picked out something to put on my child for the first time and even though the size should be appropriate, it just SO DOESN’T FIT!  Problems include:

• My child is not a linebacker and doesn’t have the shoulders to fill out the onesie
• My child is petite (takes after her mother, she does, not that you’d know if from looking at me these days, but trust me, we have gelfling ancestry) and so wears 6-9 month onsies with 1-1½ pants
• So normally our problem is that clothes are too big, this then renders me completely unprepared for clothes that are too small

There is nothing like wrestling your child into clothes and then discovering that said clothes are too small.  Really, there isn’t. 

First you have a moment of incomprehension.  Did I put this on wrong? Followed by a tense face-off between you and your spawn.  You have less than ten seconds to magically remove the offending garment while your child inhales for that piercing shriek while simultaneously tensing his or her body for the coming fit.  Then there’s the struggle to get the item back off.  No matter how easy or difficult it was to get on, it has now shrunk another two sizes and WILL NOT COME OFF!  Somehow your child is now trapped in a garment that has no flexibility, one arm pinned across the chest, hand struggling out the neck opening with the elbow still caught in the sleeve… how did this happen? 

The moment you ask “how did this happen,” it’s all over.  The child is screaming.  You are wailing.  Your spouse will choose this moment to enter and ask, “What are you doing to our child?” and all you can think is “THIS IS ALL HIS/HER FAULT!”

But let’s be honest.  It’s the designer’s fault.

Fuck baby clothes designers.

The Guilt, I Has It. Also, I Has Two Days of Rest a Week.

I always over-think things.  I know I do.  Every single one of the good decisions I’ve made in my life was made spontaneously, from the heart.  Usually followed by a good amount of supportive data collected after the fact, but always first proposed in an “OMG I’VE GOT IT!  I’M GOING TO [insert crazy thing here]!”  And if I try hard to make a good conscious decision, thinking and weighing the consequences, I’m likely going to make the wrong decision.  My past regrets are always ending with “well, it made sense at the time.” 

Sure, there are decisions that were made that made sense at the time that did not turn out to be bad.  This epitomizes that logical saying, “all trees are green things but not all green things are trees.” 

But because I over-think things, I then go back over the decisions that I made that I deemed “made sense at the time” to make sure that they still make sense and that they weren’t one of those bad decisions, because I know that I didn’t make it spontaneously so it could mean, in fact, that it was a bad decision but sometimes they aren’t bad, so which one is this, a bad decision or a good decision and oh, my god, someone hand me a drink ‘cause my head hurts.

If that last sentence made sense to you, you should have a drink too.

So what am I over-thinking these days?  Well, I put my child in childcare at 9 months of age. I could take a year off of school, but I wanted to go back before I forgot everything and when I went on maternity leave I was only a few months from finishing.  So I went back when Spawn was 6 months old and the Danish Boy took his three months of paternity leave to watch her.  But after three months, I wasn’t done with Danish, so once again I had to cross off another “when I have a child, I’ll never X” on my list. 

She’s in a private daycare, with one woman and a total of 5 children (including mine, the only baby), not one of those massive institutions that they have in DK, which may have a better ration of adults to children, but where the adults are often spending time with the other adults or focusing on one child exclusively because they assume the other adults are watching the other kids.  I get some flack for this, not just from Danes, but from other foreigners who say “oh, that’s a lot of children for one adult” but I feel far more comfortable watching our daycare minder keep tabs on her charges than when I see the ten children running wild at the large daycare while three adults sit on a bench chatting away with each other.

We originally chose our daycare minder because of location, but then when we met her, it just felt right.  And it always feels right when I drop the Spawn off (she tends to tear away from me and dive head-first into one of the toy boxes) and when I pick her up (she’s always glad to see me, but she’s never in a hurry to leave).  To this day, I’ve never once had to unwrap a crying child from my neck when we get to daycare.  The DB once remarked on this to a colleague, who suggested that it was because OBVIOUSLY we are such awful parents that our child must be glad to get away.  I told the DB that it would totally have been justifiable homicide, but he prefers to think that that not cutting the bitch is evidence of his highly evolved nature.  As an American, I am by default not as evolved… so she best sharpen her “It was just a joke, don’t you get Danish humor?” defense because I am sharpening my knives.

But why the guilt?

On Wednesday and on Friday, I don’t have class.  And on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, I am out of class at 1:30.  And I don’t go get the Spawn from daycare.  I leave her there, until 4:30, every day.

At first it was because she naps in the afternoon, so getting her at 1:30 was interrupting her nap.  We did that the first week she was there and it SUCKED.  Then there was the problem that her schedule was all out of whack.  She only went three times a week, so establishing a routine was impossible.  See, it totally makes sense.  *Sound alarm bells!*

The truth is, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I really need non-baby time.  Yeah, time to do homework and housework, but also time to catch up on sleep and read and cuddle the cat.  *Open the big bag o’ guilt.*

It was only after I pulled a chest muscle and couldn’t lift the Spawn, which forced us to put her in daycare every day, all day, that I realized how much better it was for everyone.  Sure, I miss her bunches and I’m glad when she comes home.  But that’s just it - I actively look forward to seeing her!   After a long weekend, where I am the Spawn’s main companion (Dad and the cat are fun, but nobody beats the Mommy-lady), I’m exhausted.  Before I had the Spawn, I worried that I would be the kind of mom who just couldn’t wait to go back to work.  I discussed it with the Danish Boy, what would happen if I just really didn’t like being a mom?  What if I felt trapped or felt resentful?  So really, I like being a mom a hellufalot more than I thought.  But then the pendulum swings the other way.  Why can I not be the perfect mom who wants to stay home and nurture the child?  Some moms are forced to go back to work (cultural or economic reasons) and they would LOVE to be able to stay home or have more time with their child. 

So yeah, I’ve got some nice excuses: routine is good, she’s socializing, she’s getting her Danish lesson of the day, blah blah blah.  The truth is I cannot parent full-time.  In order to have that boundless patience, to be able to interact completely, to be able to read the Barnyard Animal book one more freaking time, I need to be able to sit in my pajamas until 3 in the afternoon twice a week.

One Year In

Okay, actually it’s 13 months because I had weeks of catching up to do.

But there you have it.  One year (plus) of livin’ in the Mommy 'hood.  A year of burp-rags and poop-filled diapers.   A year of surprises.  And yes, sometimes poop is the surprise.

You know how there’s this whole joke about babies not coming with a manual?  LAME!  There are a gazillion books about pregnancy and birth and then everyone stands around and goes “boy, I really wish that they had a manual for babies!”  What the hell man!?  I spent half the year googling “is [insert behavior/strange physical manifestation] normal?” A book would have been really handy.

And there ARE books out there on childcare and development and all that other stuff that you might want to know about.  But no one ever gives those books to you.  No.  They gift you with a dozen books on pregnancy and then it’s up to you, in your sleep-deprived, manic-new-parent way to wonder how long does projectile spit-up last and when, exactly, should one begin to worry.

I went with the old stand-by: until there’s blood, there’s no problem.

I still really could have used a book, though.

Here are some things that I’ve learned over the year.  Some of which came as a surprise. 

1) Whatever annoying behavior your child has, he or she will soon grow out of it.  And develop an even MORE annoying behavior.

2) Poop is just gross.  It never gets any easier, in fact it gets worse, but you do get better at holding your breath. 

3) Why the hell did people keep going on and on about doing Kegels?  Push-ups, people, PUSH-UPS!  You can wear panty-liners or Depends, but if you have weak arm muscles, you are in for a world of pain when you have to hold that baby for a few hours.  And you WILL have to hold the baby for hours at a time. 

4) The reason that you lose so much weight while breast-feeding is not because your fat is magically transformed into milk.  No, it’s because you end up trapped on the couch, nursing, while your dinner goes cold and then is eaten by the cat.  You miss a lot of meals while breastfeeding. 

5) When you are pregnant, you always have to pee.  You get very good at holding it and being uncomfortable until you can get to a toilet.  This is good practice because you will always have to pee while breastfeeding and you’ll just have to hold it until the baby a) falls asleep and you can hand her off to someone b) decides he’s done eating and is ready to play.  Either of these scenarios can also end with you holding a sleeping baby or a baby who is determined to beat you senseless with a stuffed bear WHILE YOU PEE.

6) When I was little, I imagined what it would be like if I had no hands.  (Didn’t everybody?  No?)  I taught myself to write (badly) with my feet.  Just in case.  Turns out this was great training for parenting.  Almost everything can be done one handed.  This does NOT include putting on a watch.  Try as I might, I cannot put on my watch while holding my child.

7) At some point, you realize that you are missing too many meals and start making your child more food than they need, just so you can eat the leftovers.

7b) Baby food tastes better than I thought.

8) There is nothing better in the whole wide world than when your child wraps their chubby little arms around your neck and gives you a hug. 

9) The three-second rule* becomes the three-day rule and I’ve decided that cat food can’t possibly be that bad, it hasn’t killed the cat, so it shouldn’t kill the child either.

*Wherein you can eat food that you’ve dropped as long as it has been on the ground for less than three-seconds.  Not applicable in every situation. 

10) Every “when I’m a parent I’ll never…” promise has been broken.  If fact, I’ll guarantee that if you say, “When I’m a parent I’ll never…” you WILL.  It’s like the Murphy’s Law of parenting.  Better not to verbalize what you won’t do.   People who have kids WILL CONTINUE give this advice to people without children and those people WILL CONTINUE to say, “When I’m a parent I’ll never…” It’s a vicious cycle.  It will never end. 

11) Being a parent has not made me less selfish or a better person.  I’m just too tired to give a crap about looking pretty.   

12) Having a child is like wearing a huge sign saying, “Please make snap judgments about me based on the performance of a small, willful, cranky human being with impulse-control issues.”

13) I have discovered a vast reservoir of patience that I never knew I had.  Unfortunately, the husband and the cat cannot tap it.  Neither can the stupid old people who pull out right in front of me when I need to get somewhere and DON’T THEY KNOW THAT MY CHILD IS SCREAMING IN THE BACK SEAT??  DIE, YOU GREY HAIRED BIDDIES, DIE!

14) I do amazing impressions of dogs, cats, sheep, cows, roosters and pigs.  Geese, on the other hand.  Geese are impossible.

15) Everything is more important than shaving your legs.  However, you should trim your toenails because it’s faster and easier to do than darning socks.

16) So far the weirdest thing I’ve had to do as a parent is hold my girl’s hands and whisper encouraging words while she has a particularly difficult poop.  Constipation is a BITCH and I would stab it in the eye if I could.

16b) Prunes work wonders.  And now you’ve been warned.

17) Buttons on baby clothes are the work of the devil.  After a child reaches 6 months of age, no buttons should be in use until they learn how to sit still again… approximately age 18.  Also, after six months, Velcro is a dumb idea.  “Hey let’s put something that makes an interesting noise and is easy to use on this article of clothing!  We’ll put it here where it’s easy for the child to reach!  And we’ll put soft, fluffy, decorations all around it for the Velcro to also stick to!”  Who the hell designs this stuff anyway?

18) There comes a day when you realize that your child is smarter than your cat or dog.  Suddenly, you can no longer assume “out of sight, out of mind” and you have to remember that they have opposable thumbs.  The only safe place for your valuables is in a locked trunk at the bottom of the sea.  Until they learn to swim.  Which they will, clever little monkeys.

19) Develop the “ah, how interesting” face - slight smile, slight lift of the eyebrows, slight nod of the head.  Non-committal and non-confrontational.  You need it for Judgy McJudgersens and it will probably come in handy when your child reaches puberty.

20) I look forward to doing things and seeing things even more because the Spawn will be part of it.  It’s like the whole world has been made new again!  It's amazing and awesome.

I Hate Vacations

Actually, that's not true.  Or rather, while it is to some extent true, it is only true for a given value of true or dependent on the variable Who.  Who is vacationing?

I hate when everyone is on vacation EXCEPT me.

There.  That's a whole lotta true right there.

First it was most of Denmark that was on vacation.  Winter holiday.  Schools are out, so parents who have children and who can (in that their bosses allow them to because their bosses are not also parents with a summer home in Turkey) go away.

For reasons that mystify, we toiling away in Danish class did NOT get holiday.

But my daycare minder did.

She deserved it, really.  Five kids and just her, and since she's a private daycare minder, she normally keeps working through other people's holidays.  So I'm really not going to begrudge her a week off.  And I would happily have stayed home with the Spawn for a week.  But no, I had to juggle school and baby.  I hate that.

Then came the Danish Boy's vacation time.

Once again I set myself up for failure, because once again I envisioned one reality in which he was on holiday and he envisioned a different one.  I see holidays as relaxing times where you get to be with the people you love.  He sees it as time to finally get things done that needed to get done but haven't been getting done because there was no time to get them done.

So last week as we were going over our schedule to make sure we knew where we were going and what we were doing (okay, so *I* could figure out where we were going and what we were doing because I never remember plans that were made six months ago or plans that have changed for the umpteenth time, look, just tell me where to be and I'll bring the baby, m'kay?), I remarked "boy, I'll be glad when all this vacation time is over and I can get back to relaxing" and the DB took it amiss.  Amiss?  No, he was downright pissy about it.  I tried to explain that really, what I meant was that we've been running all over the place and I was barely getting my homework done (and on a few notable occasions, didn't get it done at all) and I hadn't actually gotten to do any of the things I had wanted to get done.  This got me a "I thought you said you were sick of living in a pig sty!"

Yes, I *am* sick of unpacked boxes, piles of unfolded laundry, dishes everywhere, and overflowing recycling bins.  But, as I tried unsuccessfully to explain, my list of things I thought we could be doing did not include "hanging drapery" in the top ten.  I didn't think "oh, joy, the DB will be home - now he'll chop LOTS of wood for me!!"  And while I admit that "finally, someone to help me wash dishes" was in the top three spots, my main project was "spending time together as a family."

Ha.

Ha ha ha.

Hahahahahahahahhhhhhhh.

We did get to go on a walk, which did end in a picnic.  There, you happy, woman?  There was quality family time.  Now get the screwdriver.

And some curtains were hung and some wood was chopped and more wood was schlepped and family was visited (or came visiting) and some dishes were washed and some laundry was folded and the recycling was recycled and I baked a ridiculous amount of chocolate cake for the Spawn's birthday (for which no party was held, but people were still miffed that they weren't invited and other people invited themselves and the Spawn slept through her own non-party, because obviously I suck as a parent [actually, I think my parenting skills are top-notch, it's my hosting skills that are lacking]) and despite repeated vacuumings, the floor is still just as filthy as ever, not that you can tell because it's strewn STREWN with baby toys.

And now, weeks later, I am finally sitting on my own in the house.  Peace and quiet.  Just myself and Alot (who has been bringing semi-live mice into the house for his own fun and amusement.  When I tried to take one away he bit it in two [I luckily caught the back half on the dustpan, so no mouse-bowels landed on the floor] and after I had caught another under a pot, I had to fight off the cat while trying to scoop up the mouse [seriously, who's idea was it to give cats so many claws and teeth?] and the latest one got clean away and we have no idea where it is currently).

But what I'm really looking forward to is Friday, when I will get the WHOLE DAY OFF!!  Finally, a vacation for ME!!!

ZOMG, I think I'm going to pick up toys!!

The Best and Worst of Advice

Now I know that having a child is an invitation for universal, unending, unsolicited advice.  What, you thought that because it’s your child, you were the expert on it?  No, no no, having a child means you are an expert on other people’s children and other people are experts on your child.  You cannot be the expert on your own child.  It’s just not how it works.   So it does seem a little silly to be complaining about the buttloads of advice we now receive, because we knew we were in for it... but come on, it’s hilarious half the time!  I really must share!

So don’t think of this as a lament, think of it as a celebration of the absurd.

And if I had to narrow it down to the best and worst of advice I've gotten so far, it would be regarding my child's eating habits.

Yeah, she's not even 10 months old and already people are picking on her eating habits.

My child is an enthusiastic eater.  Wait, correct that, she's enthusiastic about food.  Not so much the eating of it, but the rubbing it all over the place, feeding the cat, the DB, the AG, the floor (which used to get so hungry, but thank god we had a baby, now the floor will never go hungry again!), putting some in her hair for later, in her nose for a midnight snack, and in her ears for, well, god knows when she'll eat the stuff she put in her ears... or it could be to use as ear plugs because the DB and I both snore.

But so does the cat!!

I'm such a tattle-tale.

Anyway, apart from being cute and annoying at the same time, cute because hair sticking out with mashed carrots in it is just cute and annoying because dammit I just washed the child and now it's like I dipped her in egg and rolled her in bread crumbs (I could tempura the heck out of the Spawn), I don't really have any problem with how we spend meal times.

This, however, does not stop the advice from coming in.

Best advice ever: There are clean babies and there are happy babies.

Okay, maybe it's not advice, per se, but it's a great rule to live by nonetheless.  And evidenced by my furiously happy (read: not clean) child.

Worst advice ever: You should hold her arms down so she can't touch the food.

Wait, what?  Are you suggesting I pin the arms of my child down so she can't a) examine the stuff I'm trying to stick in her face b) help learn to feed herself c) move?  Can we talk about great ways to introduce food issues at a young age?  Because I think you may be on to something here!

I'll cut the advice giver some slack, she's over 85 after all and it was a different time.  But it's still the funniest awful advice I've ever heard.

Not much of a post

Oi vey.

In the middle of the night I write brilliant posts in my head about the inequalities of the world, or assholes that need a swift kick in the taco, or silly things my child has done.

But as I sat here with an hour on my hands, a precious hour where the Spawn was being walked in her stroller by the DB, an hour where I had no laundry to fold, okay, maybe I had dishes to wash but screw them, and no pressing need to shower, I could sit down and write one of those blog posts.  I just couldn't bring myself to write a single one.

• A post about how people need to stop asking the childless-by-choice people when they're going to have children and going on about how "I don't want kids" is somehow not a good enough reason or deemed selfish, god only knows why, and this leads to justification, which leads to those of us with kids to justify (if only to ourselves) why we decided to have kids, and there's frankly no good reason other than "I wanted to pass along my genes and my knowledge" but because this is also deemed selfish, what you get is two groups of people yelling "you selfish bitch" at each other and really, seriously WHO THE HELL CARES?  By God, if you don't want to have kids, you should be able to say, proudly, "I don't want to have kids" and people who can't accept that should be shot.  Because I'm sick of hearing from each side how much better they are than the other.  The only reason we find ourselves doing that is because of the assholes who keep demanding that people have some deep reasoning behind their procreative choices.  GAH!

Unless your parents turned in a well-constructed essay on why you deserve to exist, as well as a balanced budget, letters of recommendation from people who can testify to their abilities to parent, you shouldn't even BE here, you planet-cluttering sprog!

• A post about how shocked I was to discover that while I am at the perfect BMI number, right between too skinny and too fat, I STILL don't fit into any clothes.  I know from my plus-sized friends that clothes don't fit big girls.  I know from being rail-thin that clothes aren't made for the skinny (no matter how much you may whine about "only models fit these clothes," I tell you, not the clothes on the rack, nosireebob). So now at the perfect size and shape, if I still don't fit into anything, I can only come to one conclusion - clothes were not made to be worn.  They are made only so that closets, chests of drawers, and wardrobes have a function.  It's a plot from Ikea to sell more flat-pack furniture.

Looks a lot more insidious now, doesn't it?

• A post about how the Spawn continues to teach me about life, the universe and everything.  Including: Mommy can pick Mommy's nose.  Baby can pick Mommy's nose.  Nobody on this planet is going to pick Baby's nose!  Back off bitch!  I bite you!  NOM NOM!  

Trying to get the snot out of my child's nose is like reaching into a sink garbage disposal in a horror film.

That's not soap bubbles!  It's Soap Slime from Space!!

It kills you DEAD!  And leaves a nasty waxy coating on your wine glasses!

AHHHHHHHHHH!

• A post about how culture shock makes friendships hard because you're all moving through the stages at different times so one day you are all Honeymoon stage and hating on the haters and then the next day you are telling the newbies to take off the damn rosy glasses and then suddenly you are over it and focusing on the important things in life, like who ate the damn After Eights because *I* sure as hell didn't get any and people are telling you that you've drunk the kool-aid and you're all, take that back or I'll cut you and then you feel like you can't even tell people that you're happy because they get all nasty and tell you that you must not be paying attention or are deluded or are naive and you start thinking deep thoughts like "misery loves company, while happiness is a solitary pursuit" and think about changing your name and leaving no forwarding address.

Or until you block me, whore

• A post about teething and why did Mother Nature arm infants before they learn how to understand "NO" and "OUCH"?  Mother Nature is a total bitch.

I did a Google image search for Mother Nature and the hippistaria overwhelmed me.

I feel like I'm having LSD flashbacks and I've never even DONE LSD, so how sucky is that?

In the end, I just couldn't be bothered to write those posts, or finish those posts.  Maybe in part because I know that some people might read one of those posts and get offended or hurt or pissed off, even though I'm not writing about a specific person or event although I am inspired by a collection of people, events and no small part by some rather violent mommy-forums that I am SO not going to read any more.  (Childless-by-choice friends - if you ever feel like the Mommies of the world are judging you, don't worry, they are saving their major judgements for the Other Mothers.  Google "cry it out.")  Maybe I'm too distracted because I've gotten a damn head cold, which I am sharing with the Spawn.  She gets the runny nose, I get the stuffy head.  Maybe it's because just one hour to be brilliant and focused is just too much pressure.

So instead I opted for this post which isn't much of a post but a series of post-lets.  Which took me all damn day to write anyway.

I was going to say "post-it" but that term has already been taken.

Apparently.

Finger Pies

At 6 months old, the Spawn has passed many well-known milestones.  In no particular order: she rolls over, crawls, stands with help, smiles and makes eye contact. Recently she began using her fingers to pinch, poke, and prod things.

Okay, poking things isn't on the list like "first smile" or "first step" but it's important.  Right next to bipedalism and lack of cranial ridges, manual dexterity (that amazing opposable thumb) is what separates us from the rest of the apes.  So when she adeptly pinched my nipple between her thumb and index finger, I cried out with pain joy.  

Well, at least there were tears.

She's learned that not only can she experience things by putting them in her mouth, she can also touch and feel them with her fingers.  Usually right before or right after she puts the object in her mouth.  This poking and scratching is how she knows something is real.

But I really wish she'd take things on faith.  Like my aforementioned nipples.  There is no reason to stop mid-nurse to pull back and have a good pinch and prod at my nipples.  That hurts, dammit.  Trust me, kid, the nipples are there, the milk is flowing, you do not need to stop and investigate the process.

She's also discovered that she can poke her finger in my belly button.  This, judging by her laughter, is great fun.  I'm pretty sure I've got to get better at cutting her fingernails.

For a while there, she'd nurse with her hand in her mouth - which, if you've ever tried to drink a milkshake while sucking on your fingers, you'll know is almost impossible and when successful, extraordinarily messy.  Now she puts her fingers in my mouth, because maybe I want something to suck on too.

Being more dexterous has not led to more intelligent use of the fingers, however.  Does she pick her own nose?  Nope, I'm still doing that for her.  Which is probably why she then picks my nose.

You know the saying, "you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose"?  Apparently there is an addendum, "you can't pick your mom, but you can pick your mom's nose."

At some point we'll have to clarify who's nose she should be picking.  And that it's very bad form to pick your mom's nose and then try to stuff that hand into your mom's mouth.  Because I gave up buggers for Lent.

In 1983.

She's also started on "grown up" food.  If grown ups eat spelt porridge and pureed apples.  Does any one else remember baby food being mashed peas OR mashed potatoes OR mashed carrots?  Because last night my child sat down to pureed corn, potatoes, and turkey.  It was a full-on three-course meal inna jar!!

Of course she's gotta help me while she eats it.  She grabs the spoon and helps me bring it to her mouth.  I try my best to keep it upright, because she hasn't quite understood the effect gravity has on semi-solids.  She also has to touch the food.  To feel it and then scoop it off the spoon into her mouth.  Which she then shoves her fingers into.  And tries to swallow.

Try this sometime with mashed potatoes.  Preferably when no one is around and assuredly NEVER in a restaurant on a date.  Trust me, bad plan.  Try to see how far you can shoot your spuds.

And if they land on the table in front of you, go on, give 'em a good slap or two, to speed them on their way.

Oh well, as a wise woman said to me the other day, "you can have a clean baby or a happy baby."

That said, my child is a furiously happy baby!

Beaten up by a six month old

Okay, I confess, she's still 10 days short of 6 months... and she just kicked my ass.

I made the mistake of getting down on the play mat with her.  I forgot that down there, I no longer have the advantage.  My power rests in the fact that I can stand on two legs and that frees my arms to do other things.  Down there, on the floor, in my make-shift playpen (having three couches is the most brilliant idea the DB has ever had, all I needed to do was add a wall and TADA playpen) her inability to stand without support is not much of a handicap.

It began when she crawled over to me.  I rolled onto my back, at least freeing my hands to try to defend myself, but babies... they're slippery.

She grabbed my hair with one hand, close to the roots, and pulled back, pinning my head to the floor.  Then, with the other hand, she stuck her fingers UP MY NOSE and PULLED.  When I tried to remove her hand, she dug in with her nails and put an elbow in my eye.  Tears clouded my vision, but nothing softened my hearing as furious laughter erupted from my tiny conqueror.

Releasing my hair, she planted that hand in my remaining eye and relinquished my nose, only to clamp her sharp nails on my lips, pinning them together.  I inhaled sweet air, wincing as it burned where her nails had left paper-cut-thin wounds, only to lose even that precious pleasure as she brought her mouth down directly over my nose and stuck her probing tongue up one of my tender nostrils.

Drool flooded my nose and I was now unable to breathe, my lips held by steel-tipped pinchers, and I began to wonder if the police would believe that my 13 lbs (6.5 kg) child could have killed me.  Or if they'd charge my husband with my death, hauling the DB off to jail and leaving the Spawn to continue to kill unabated.

Suddenly she let loose my lips as she reached over my body to grasp my shirt at the shoulder.  As I took a deep breath, she lifted her head, apparently finished exploring my nose and grinned down at me.  Clearly, she was enjoying my plight.  I began to explain, patiently, that this was a bit rough for me and we hadn't really confirmed any "safe words" so I was becoming a bit alarmed, when she lunged abruptly, thrusting her knee into my tender breast.  My nipple may be well-worn leather by now, but the mammary glands are still remarkably delicate.

With that, all the air rushed back out of my body in a sudden "oh shiiiiiiiiiit" and she delivered the coup d'état - she simply took her fist out of my eye and dropped the weight of her body on my neck.  It was a perfect WWE maneuver.  I may have deleted all of the sports channels from our cable, but somehow she's learned how to body check.

"Garrrrrgh" was all I managed.

"Honey, do you need help?" asked the DB from downstairs, happily ignorant of the carnage above.

"Mmrph" I replied.

"Baby, don't kill Mommy" he called up the stairs as he headed back out to the garage.  Plausible deniability was now his.

After he was safely outside, she lifted herself up and crowed with victory.  Saliva ran down her chin and pooled on my chest.  Her eyes were bright and her grin toothless.  With a laugh that was only just this side of sane, she leaned down and gummed my chin.  It was the wettest kiss I've ever had.

And that was it.  I was defeated.

A Walk in the Park

Yesterday I had a fussy baby.  I still have a fussy baby.  Turns out she has a little cold, but that's not the point.  Yesterday I didn't know she was coming down with a cold - all I knew is that she Would Not Nap.

When feeding, changing, and walking to and fro no longer work, there is only one solution: a long walk.

Unable to wait for the DB to come home and take the Spawn for her long walk, it was going to be up to me.

Fine.

I can do this.

I got the baby and pram to the doctor's appointment off the island on Monday and that involved showering, breakfast, a bus ride, a ferry ride, lunch (energy bars, worth their weight in gold I tell you), appointment, another ferry boat and another bus.  I can totally take the baby for a spin around the block wheat fields.

Only I haven't showered in a few days (okay, since Monday) and my hair is now standing up in weird ways that no amount of hair wax will contain.

That's fine, I'll wear a hat.

Can't find my hat.  Any of my hats.  Not even a knit cap.

Okay, a bandana!

Nope, no bandanas to be found.  Nor head scarfs.  What the hell, man?!

Okay, so I remember that when I was out in the garage, frantically helping the DB move cardboard boxes off the floor during the Great Flood of Last Sunday, I spied my dig box (the plastic box that contains all my dig gear) and it was totally getatable (new word, Oxford, take note!).  In there should be hats, bandanas, AND head scarfs.

Baby goes into the pram, protesting wildly, and I run into the garage.  I tear open the box and... okay, I see dig stuff... but not ALL the dig stuff.  That must be in another box.  When did I get an extra dig box?  Oh, wait, 5 months in Qatar.  Qatar needed a totally new dig wardrobe of long pants, loose t-shirts, and some winter gear.  I stored it separately from my dear-god-what-lunatic-digs-in-the-Jordan-Valley-in-June-ME-that's-who wardrobe of short shorts, tight tank-tops, and teeny bikinis.  I'd raided the Qatar box earlier for my post-pregnant tubbiness and replaced the shirts with some clothes that I'll probably never be able to get over my ass ever again... but NO HEAD COVERINGS.

Frantic screams from the garden.  Frantic pawing at the clothing.  Frantic scrabbling from a tower of boxes behind me.

It's the cat, who LEAPS from his perch like a drunk bird of prey, lands on a precarious pile of odds and ends rescued from the Great Flood of Last Sunday, which promptly topples over, and vanishes in a puff of fur and indignation.

I triumphantly raise my fist - I have found a head scarf!  I now need to run out the back door of the garage, around the garage, and open the garage door in the front to see if the cat needs rescuing.  The frantic cries from the garden continue, unabated.  Note to self: cry it out - not gonna work.

I open the garage door and bits and pieces of several baby cribs slither out.  The cat is sitting to one side, calmly cleaning himself.  Nothing to see here.  Move along, move along.  I prop up what I can, mindful that another good rain could result in another Great Flood and partially close the door.  Note to self: tell the DB so he can check the pile later.  (I totally forgot to do this, but the DB noticed it himself.)

Run back to the garden, tie scarf over head.  Note to self: damn girl, it's a good thing you learned to do this on no sleep and in a cloud of mosquitos, way to prepare for life with kids!

Grab the baby pram and start shoving it through the grass towards the road.

Screaming baby.

Screaming baby has sun in her eyes.

Damn it!  Drag the pram back into the yard and run into the house to find the parasol I'd discovered in the Great Flood and had set in the house to dry.  Unable to find the parasol, I grab some clothespins and run back outside to fashion something out of a burp rag.

I'm very pleased with my MacGyver skills.  The Spawn, not so much.  Now she can't see.

Not that she could possibly have been able to see through the tears anyway, but away we go.

Push the pram back to the road and walk about 10 meters before realizing that I have to pee.  Okay, fine, we turn around.  The Spawn is still screaming her head off and the cat is now watching us from the front step.  Obviously, we are the best entertainment in town.

Back in the garden, the baby is just not having it any more.  I'm hot, sweaty, thirsty, and I have to pee.

F*ck this Sh!t

I give up, take the baby inside and check my watch.

Well, at least we are an hour closer to the DB coming home.

TMI

Having children means a loss of modesty.  But not like oh-I-left-it-around-here-somewhere loss.  No, your modesty will be ripped from you.  And it doesn't end on the labor bed.  No, that's where it begins.  If you think that the worst thing that could happen to you is five strangers staring down at the business end of your child's arrival...  well, read on.

See, you don't give a crap about what's going on when you are at the end of labor (you do at the beginning, which is why they only bring in the big guns and all of their attendants once you are loaded up with drugs or blinded by pain).  A whole troupe of dancing dogs could have come in and I couldn't have cared less.  Nathan Fillion could have walked in and I wouldn't have noticed.

Shiny

But now that I'm moderately presentable these days... apart from repeatedly showing my nipples to random people (especially now that the Spawn likes to stop mid-suck to check out said random people)... I wanted to have at least some modesty back.

BWHAHAHAHAH!

I had to go for my final post-birth doctor appointment.  Er, I mean, appointment relating to birth.  OBVIOUSLY all doctor appointments from now on will be post-birth (ain't nobody backing up that train), but I think I'm done getting prodded for reasons DIRECTLY associated with the arrival of the Spawn.

Earlier I had two physical therapy appointments pertaining to the muscles used in pushing the Spawn out... and the less said about those two appointments, the better.

Okay, maybe just one thing - for the first appointment, in order to keep the Spawn from wigging out, I had to nurse her while I was splayed on the table having my pelvic floor stretched.  All while the doctor called out, "and... squeeze... hold it hold it HOLD IT!"

Cherish your modesty, ladies, because when it's taken from you, you will miss it so.

The DB came to the next appointment so that I didn't have to juggle baby and do Kegels at the same time.

Right.

So this appointment was a gynecological check-up, which the ladies all know well.

Only this was a check-up on steroids.

Not only was I physically probed (next time, can I have the ultra-sound from the OUTSIDE, thankyouverymuch), but my life came under examination as well.  I wonder if one of the nurses was in training or interning or something, because I don't usually get two to be examined.  Or maybe they'd heard about the nursing incident.  Or maybe they thought someone would have to hold me down when they checked for scar tissue in my rectum.

Yeah, I just put my rectum and Nathan Fillion in the same post.  You are SO WELCOME INTERNET.

I think the gynecologists were very disappointed that everything was fine.  The main gyno was really distrustful of every answer I gave.  Even as I said "but since I'm breastfeeding, I just need to remember to drink more fluids," she'd look concerned and immediately interject with "yes, yes, but, you really need to remember to drink more fluids."

Er... that's what I just said.

And the expression on her face when I answered a particular query with "I fart sometimes when I have a big sneeze."  Horror.  But this horror was not because I had mentioned something so awful as passing gas, oh no.  See, this means Something Is Wrong.

'Cause no one has ever farted when sneezing in the whole history of the world.

Dude, my child does that, should I get her started on Kegels before I introduce solid food?  'Cause I think that might be difficult.  The DB is trying to teach her proper crawling techniques and she continues to stop and slap the floor when she gets excited.  Sometimes with her face.  Poor baby.  Or is it that no one 'fesses up to sometimes farting while sneezing?

Be honest here.  Do you blame the dog?

The DB says we should blame the baby.  I'm totally down with that.

But my emission admission earned me 100 Kegels and 25 butt-clenches.  I guess you should not treat the doctor's office like a confessional.  The truth will be punished with repetitive exercises.

Speaking of repetitive exercises - I was assigned "more sex."  Yes, not content to know the ins and outs of my bowels, I was grilled about my sex life.  And told to have more of it.

Since I wasn't gettin' busy enough for my gyno, she concluded something was wrong with me.  "I'm tired, he's tired, and when the baby's finally asleep there are so many other more important things to do.  Like the dishes," is not a good enough excuse.  We should be bouncing like bunnies or something.  That we aren't means... "Does it hurt?" she looked at me sympathetically.  And I'm really tired, so I look confused.

Does she mean my relationship?  Because we're STILL a great team.  Does she mean emotionally?  'Cause sometimes I don't feel very sexy and it would be nice to have a physical reminder that I am one hot mama.  Oh, she means physically!  

"Well, I do have problems with my knees and my back is kinda sore from lifting... "

And after a few more minutes of further embarrassing conversation, I'm assigned more sex AND erotic massage.

Thanks, but I don't *need* an erotic massage.  I need a babysitter.  A regular massage.  And a hotel room.  Then maybe we could get down and dirty at the rate the doctor prescribes.

Although, to be fair, I think if the DB and I had a babysitter, massages and a hotel room, we'd probably just use it to get 8 uninterrupted hours of sleep.

Taking a moment to collect myself

Downstairs my child is in her crib screaming her head off.

I should go down and soothe her, but I need a moment.

I finally got so hungry that I had to eat, so I put her in the crib and microwaved the leftover potatoes.  I put butter on them, burning my finger in the process.  Then I ladelled some of the sour cream over the top.  Finally, as her cries reached fever pitch, I opened the cheddar cheese.  Gave it the sniff test.  It passed.  I glanced in, it looked fine.  I dumped it over the potatoes and BAM a big nasty moldy wad of cheese poured out and went SMACK into the potatoes.

Baby screaming, Mommy screaming.

I tried to get all the cheese off the potatoes.

But you know, I'd microwaved the fuckers so much that the cheese and it's mold melted all over the place.

I pondered eating it for about 30 seconds.  Then dumped it in the bin.

There went lunch.

I'm so hungry.  And I just wasted all the fast food I had.  And because I get loopy when I'm hungry and because my hormones are still all out of whack (when will they calm the fuck down?) this is just The Most Awful Horrible Bad Thing to Ever Happen In The Whole Wide World.

I'm gonna crawl into the crib with my daughter now and cry.

*** Edit: Having FINALLY eaten, I can say that I suffer more from low-blood sugar than post-partum.  In fact, the word "loopy" should be changed to "raging lunatic."  Ask the DB.  Ask my BFF.  Feed me on demand or face the WRATH. ***

I need more than 30 minutes a day

A while back I told my BFF that all I really wanted was 30 minutes to myself.  But I totally waste it sleeping or showering when I get it, so what that means is…

I totally need more than 30 minutes a day.  To myself.  Minus a baby.  And minus a husband.

Don’t get me wrong - I absolutely ADORE my child.  And I suppose, the Danish Boy… but…

OMG I want some time ALONE!

Let’s take dinner.

An average dinner is one of us eating while one entertains the baby (we’ve had a rare meal or two where she entertains herself, but alas, dinnertime is also Cranky Baby time) and while I take the baby upstairs to play or something so she doesn’t fuss, the DB stands by my chair while I eat, bouncing an increasingly unhappy baby.

Ever try to eat while your child makes unhappy grunts?

Damn near impossible.

I try to not be That Mom who tells the unfortunate father what to do… but COME ON, walk with the baby, talk to the baby, do something with the baby that IS NOT IN THE DINING ROOM!  Let me eat in peace!

Let’s take last night.

Last night I scarf as fast as I can while he sits with the grumpy baby, across from me, so she can stare at me with plaintive eyes.  “Mommy, this man will not entertain me!  I’m bored!  Hold me!  I miss you and your funny faces!!  Please?” And having Not Finished My Beer, I scooped her up and away.  An HOUR later, I head back to the dinning room, cause you know, my Not Finished Beer remains to be finished and I’m thinking, maybe I can bounce the baby while drinking it, I’m multitalented.  I rock.  I’m THE MOMMY!

He’s read the newspaper.

The newspaper.

Dammit man, I eat in 10 minutes flat so you can take an HOUR for a leisurely meal? 

ARGH!

*** To be fair, I could also write a post about how a few nights ago the DB washed all the dishes while I was trying to feed the baby to sleep and how on Saturday mornings he often takes her for long walks so I can sleep a bit longer.  I kept repeating this to myself last night so that I didn’t take a frying pan to his head.  He's still alive, so I guess it works. ***

1001 Kisses

Something happens when you have a baby.  Your brain melts or something.  Things that used to be important are suddenly completely unimportant and you find that you can spend five hours doing nothing but kissing your child's toes.

Now that she's four months old - things have gotten even better.  She's started to "kiss" back.

I put "kiss" in quotation marks because it's somewhere between a kiss and a drool attack.

And it's probably one of the most wonderful things in the world.

She also smiles when she sees me.  Not a little grin, but a full eye-squinting-gum-showing-little-bit-of-tongue smile.  She laughs when I blow on her belly.  She giggles when I nibble on her fingers.  She gets surprised when she farts loudly.

I never thought farts were funny until now.  But her shocked face is TOO FUNNY.

There is a lot of truth in the "fourth trimester" - the first three months after birth are pretty dull.  Eat, sleep, poop.  And cry.  She was constantly gazing just over my shoulder at something that wasn't there.

At least I hope there wasn't something there.

One time I was looking in her eyes to see my reflection (the only way to see if she was looking right at me or, as usual, just past my ear) and I thought I saw something move behind me.  I must have jumped two feet in the air.  There was nothing behind me when I looked.  But... well... I turned the lights on in the rest of the house and was jumpy for the rest of the evening.

And while I adored my little Spawn, she wasn't really all that exciting.  It was hard to keep talking to her when there was absolutely no response.  You begin to feel pretty stupid talking to a baby that just keeps looking at you like you are an idiot.

Why won't this woman just SHUT UP!  What do you want from me?

But over the course of the last month she's turned from a newborn into a baby.  She looks at me.  She smiles and talks, laughs and "kisses."  She's become, dare I say it, FUN!

How could you not kiss this??  Her hands and feet are slightly blurry in this photo because she was waving them around and telling me about how she's wriggled her way from one end of the crib to the other using nothing but her head and heels.  

I mean, obviously the dishes aren't done and the clothes aren't folded and there is cat hair ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE, because I'm busy kissing this amazing baby!

All About Alot

You may be wondering, "how did Alot deal with the move?" or "how is Alot dealing with the baby?"

'Cause, poor Alot, you know - he thought he was moving to this big house with a doting couple and then SHAZAM he's suddenly scooped up and deposited in the middle of wheat fields in a house half the size of the one he'd so carefully chosen and there is this new screaming entity that takes up the space on Mommy that was HIS!

I call this one "Whistler's Mother and Her Cat"

Sometimes he'd even stand on my belly.  However, it was too difficult to get photos while he'd do that, so you'll just have to imagine a large cat on my prodigious belly.

But now there's no belly, but there is a baby.  An increasingly large and demanding baby.  How would Alot deal with such a thing!?!  

Boy am I glad I wore a sweater or I might have gotten chilly... oh wait...

I'd say he loves it here.  He bounds about, bouncing off of our fruit trees, climbing up the side of the house and coming in the upstairs windows - even if the back door is wide open.  I guess it's more fun?

He also is pretty fond of the Spawn.  If she's crying, he comes running to me.  This happens whether she's in her crib or in my arms.  Alot hears her yell and runs to me and begins meowing.  You could say that he's just begging me to shut her up.  I prefer to think he's a watch cat for the baby.  

Then when I'm holding her or nursing her, he cuddles up next to me and purrs.  He puts up with her kicking him in the head.  He loves to watch us change her.  Preferably from the changing table itself, which means it can get a bit crowded up there.

The only time he's a little creeped-out by the baby is when she's on the floor, which is becoming more and more frequent.  He looks at her and looks at me and it's very much like he's saying "Mom, you dropped it!  You wanna pick it up or somethin'?" and then he retreats to a higher vantage point.

I'm fairly sure he'll get over it by the time she actually begins crawling.

I took this right after he dove into the wheat field across the road from my home.  

I swear there was a tail visible.  I just can't find it now.