Mediocre or Magnificent?

A friend of mine posted this article on Facebook. I think it's a little extreme but it's certianly a good read. I'm wholly on-board with the Free Range Kids philosophy and I think this is central to what the article is getting at (even though it's never mentioned). I want to raise an independent child with a wicked immune system who has a mother who lives her dreams, even if that means she has to spend a fair few hours self-occupying and occasionally eats Cheetos for dinner (not that that ever happens in our house, ahem). I spent many a year working in daycares and felt bad for the kids who had no problem solving skills, cried at the drop of a hat and couldn't even use the toilet on their own. Their parents had become so obsessed with everything that was bad for them I was dealing with 6-year-olds who had never made a single independent choice. Needless to say these kids were in no way prepared for life on the outside. I don't think NOT over-parenting makes me "mediocre", in fact I think it means I'm going to raise someone who can one day function in our less than perfect society. And isn't that sort of my job as a mother?

Thoughts?

Every Can't

I like to think of myself as a pretty strong person. I’m confident, independent and fearless. Intense, focussed and driven. According to my mother I’m “scary” because I get more done before breakfast than most people do all day. All of this is true when I’m in my element, but if I get pushed outside of my comfort zone I tend to crumble underneath the weight of every ‘can’t’ I hide behind. My world is divided very clearly between what I can and what I ‘can’t’ with the proverbial line-in-the-sand drawn so long ago I don’t ever remember a time I lived without my list of self-imposed limitations... until lately. You may say it’s growing older and more comfortable in my skin, but I’m pretty sure it’s Gaia that’s done it. Being her mother has made me question every ‘can’t’. If I want her to believe that anything is possible, then the very least I can do is lead by example.

For years I exercised half-heartedly, barely breaking a sweat with a half hour on the elliptical as I watched the hardcore runners on the treadmill. I’d look up training programs online before quickly reminding myself “I can’t run”. Still, as my world was falling apart over Christmas in Peru I began running along the boardwalk at the beach every morning. I did it as a way to escape when running in circles for forty-five minutes a day was as close as I could get to running away.

Walk nine minutes, runpantcrydie 1 minute.

When I came home I set my alarm for 6:00am every morning and learned to love the treadmill. These days I typically walk five minutes for every ten I run. One day while I watched Tiger Woods atone for his sins in a press conference booming from the gym TV I ran for the entire twenty-some minutes without even noticing. I’m seriously considering training for a marathon.

Running makes me feel strong, confident, independent and fearless. Running makes me feel brave.

I tried and failed at every attempt to learn the Spanish language in my years in university and beyond. I cried in the advising office and choked out “I can’t learn languages” until they believed the truth I’d created. Still, when Gaia was born I was determined she be bilingual so I enrolled in Spanish 100 at the University of Regina. I went to every class and studied for hours a day. I spoke to Gaia in broken Spanish and read her Spanish stories and conjugated verbs every night before bed.

Yo puedo, tú puedes, él/ella/ud. puede, nostoros(as) podemos, vosotros(as) podeís, ellos/ellas/uds. pueden.

I got an ‘A’ in Spanish 100, spoke the language every chance I got in Peru and enrolled in Spanish 101 when I got back. I aced it too. Last week I received the following letter.

I had officially declared my intention to get a Certificate in Spanish about a month ago.

Mastering Spanish makes me feel strong, confident, independent and fearless. Mastering Spanish makes me feel brave.

I started cooking meals from scratch and looking for freelance writing jobs and lifting weights. I sang out loud in Starfish class and made a monthly budget and applied for jobs that scared me (one of which, I now work at). I started dancing in the kitchen and dancing in the park and dancing at work. When I think of every ‘can’t’ I’ve left in my wake since Gaia was born I feel powerful, which is a very different thing than everyone just telling me I am. Especially when I remember that I did it all on three hours sleep with the very best of me going towards the epic tornado that is my daughter. In essence, sloughing off every ‘can’t’ that’s lurked in the shadows of my past is how she gets the very best of me.

She deserves to have a mother who is strong, confident, independent and fearless. She deserves to have a mother who is brave.

Walking the Tightrope

On what a parent looks like:

"You know how the tightrope guy at the circus wants everyone to believe his act is an art, but deep down you can see he's really just hoping he makes it all the way across?"
-- My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult

In spite of the emotional avalanche that was reading this book the first time around, I'm now re-reading it in the hopes of avoiding looking stupid at my new bookclub this week. I'm also studying for a Spanish quiz, trying once and for all to get my house organised and unpacked, reading over one hundred pages of art history essays on the culture of exhibiting and making appropriate discussion notes (which have to be submitted weekly thankyouverymuch), organising an oral presentation on Emily Carr at the Vancouver Art Gallery (or should I do something less entrenched in Canadiana... hmmm... perhaps I should spend another two hours online researching blockbuster exhibitions), going to the gym five days a week (and baby yoga and stroller fitness and Starfish lessons), doing never ending amounts of dishes and laundry and seriously considering moping my floor. Oh, and I'm also taking care of six month old on my own. The last few weeks it has also become a serious goal to get at least four hours of sleep a night. Here's hoping.

Welcome to Crazy Town

You know you’re going crazy when you leave your daughter’s toys in the sink to soak and when you walk by them a minute later you’re struck by a brief wave a panic thinking “Oh SHIT, Periwinkle’s drowning... Gaia’s going to be so upset”. True story.


Another sign of madness? The fact that each of her toys has a name and personal history. Periwinkle Penguin is one of her favourites. He’s BFFs with Allister. Allister is a crocodile. The joke goes like this:

A: “Nice to meet you, my name is Allister.”
New Guy: “Oh, I get it. Like Allister Alligator right?”
A: “Um no. I’m a crocodile.”

Gaia thinks I’m hilarious. There’s also a sordid love triangle going on between Gaia, Marv and Ellie. Marv and Ellie are colourful spiders that hang off her car seat and as for the love triangle, well, I’ll save that for another post.

PS. Regular posting to commence tomorrow. Seriously. I almost promise.

Pop Quiz

It’ll be two weeks tomorrow since Gaia and I have been home from Vancouver. In the last two weeks which of the following things have happened?

a) Gaia moved into her own bedroom marking our first night apart. I left both our doors open and slept with my head at the foot of my bed so I could see into her room lest she panic. She didn’t. In contrast I’m not sure I slept a wink.

b) I took Gaia in to get her four-month immunizations. After seeing how wiggly and active my child is the nurse proclaimed “Well it’s a good thing you’re married because I sure can’t imagine taking care of this little one on my own!” Ahem. Perhaps I should have asked if she’d call the embassy in Lima on my behalf.

c) I checked the Immigration Canada website (as I do every Tuesday) for any updates on our case. Not only were there no updates (nor have there been for three months) but the estimated wait time for Peruvian cases has jumped from five to eight months to nine to fifteen. Whoopie!

d) Gaia went from sleeping a successive nine to twelve hours through the night to waking up every hour, on the hour for ten days straight. She also began a campaign to abolish naps and more than thirty seconds of independent play.

e) One sunny morning in a winding Tim Hortons drive-thru line up I finally learned what a “double-double” is. The teenager in the window looked at me like I was crazy as he explained then (judgementally I feel) asked me where I was from.

f) I started a quest to fold one hundred paper cranes to hang from the ceiling in Gaia’s new room. Over fifty cranes in and it started to seem more than a little foolish. The box of cranes in the corner taunts me and guilts me into making ‘just one more’. I should be done by the end of the week.

g) During a particularly hellish night Gaia peed on my bed while getting her diaper changed at 5:00am. Too tired to change the sheets I simply piled towels on the puddle until the urine stopped soaking through and the two of us slept on said towels for the remainder of the morning. For six successive nights I simply added another towel or blanket to the pile to mask the smell of pee and continued sleeping on the soiled sheets. I am disgusting.

h) I joined a gym which (thankthelord) has a daycare. Friday marked the first time I have ever left Gaia in the care of a stranger. After a quick hour of cardio I went to pick her up and found her smiley and nuzzling up against one of the staff who proclaimed “I just love your baby... she’s so sweet and cuddly!” The shock on my face was hard to deny as I coldly responded “Well... that’s lovely for you.” (PS. Have I mentioned my daughter still won’t cuddle with me?)

i) I officially decided that caring for a four-month old is more difficult than caring for a newborn. The honeymoon is over people.

j) All of the above.

Perhaps it goes without saying that the correct answer is j). On the bright side things are looking up. I had a wonderful day visiting with friends at a beautiful farm where Gaia got to catch up with her BFF and meet chickens and horses and sheep and, oddly enough, a llama. When we got home she was in such a great mood she rewarded my weeks of endless patience with her first real giggle. Until now her laugh consisted of a high pitched, open-mouth scream. Tonight she laughed like a big-girl without pause for almost five minutes straight as I pretended to eat her legs. At least somebody thinks I’m funny.

Raising Tomatoes

Imagine if you will the following scenario. You’ve always loved tomatoes. They are juicy and delicious and the best part of a salad. You’re at a store in early spring and you notice a tomato plant amidst the plethora of gardening options. You think “Hmmm... I do enjoy tomatoes... maybe I should grow my own. How hard could it be?” So you buy the tomato plant and stick it in some dirt in your backyard. Since you’ve never grown tomatoes you’re not entirely sure what you’re doing. The abundance of gardening books and fertilisers and advice from old ladies seems overwhelming so you settle for an apathetic approach, watering the plant occasionally and feeling guilty when you forget to protect it from the frost. Then, out of nowhere, you go into your garden one day to discover the most beautiful, round, red tomatoes have sprouted on your semi-neglected plant. Are you proud of the tomatoes? Of course. But you feel a little guilty. You invite your friends over for dinner and offer up dish after dish of tomato-based goodness. Your friends are in awe. “Those are the most beautiful tomatoes I have ever seen” they gush, “you simply must tell me your secret.” Part of you longs to shout “Secret? What secret? There’s no secret you fools! These tomatoes are a fluke! A FLUKE!” That same part longs to confess you have no idea what you’re doing but a bigger part of you relishes the attention and loves that by some chance of fate you managed to grow the most beautiful tomatoes in town. So you say nothing and smile politely and thank everyone humbly for admiring the fruits of your (apathetic) labour. When you go to bed at night you are consumed with thoughts about the tomatoes. You live in constant fear that any future gardening failure might out you and people might find out the truth – you have no idea what you’re doing. Worse still is that you might lose the tomatoes forever and that, well that must be avoided at all costs.

See, that’s how I feel about parenting. I know there are a lot of people whose experience differs from mine but I got pregnant with Gaia out of nowhere with no plan and no experience with infants. Did I like infants? Sure! Who doesn’t? But did I have any idea what I was getting myself into? Not entirely. Here’s where I think our society fails new mothers. When you get pregnant you’re overwhelmed with a barrage of advice about carrying the baby and its eventual eviction. There are nutritional guides and hospital tours and birthing classes and specially made vitamins in pink bottles with a glowing pregnant woman on the front (you can’t miss ‘em). Frankly, if you’re informed enough to avoid the big no-nos chances are the cells in your womb are going to grow into a healthy baby (barring what I believe to be unavoidable tragedies like miscarriages). An even greater sure bet is that once the baby’s ready to come out it’s going to do so, regardless of whether your prepared with labour mix tapes and breathing techniques and the perfect scented candles. Yet all the educational focus for new mothers is on the before without any assistance in the crucial after (which if you ask me you need a lot more guidance for). Just like the gardener and their tomatoes with little effort on my part I woke up one day with a perfect baby girl. Am I doing the best I can? Absolutely. Do I have any idea what it is I’m supposed to be doing day by day? Not a chance. I’m flying by the seat of my pants here and it’s terrifying. In fact, if not for Google and my solitary mommy friend I’m not entirely sure I’d be equipped to problem solve at all.

Last night is a perfect example. Gaia had her four-month immunizations yesterday afternoon. They are for the same diseases and in the same doses (in proportion to her higher weight) as her two-month immunizations which had absolutely no effect on her at all. Still, from the time I put her to bed at 9:00pm to 1:00am she woke up crying on the half-hour and needed to be soothed back to sleep. Finally I realised she felt a little hot and took her temperature. It was just over one hundred and one degrees. I didn’t panic. I reached for the unopened Infant Tylenol and gave it to her as directed. Then I tried to get her back to sleep and waited. Over an hour later when she hadn’t gone to sleep and her fever hadn’t gone down I realised I had no idea what to do next. The photocopy I’d been given claimed the Tylenol was a fix-all and offered no advice beyond that. Add to the situation that Gaia was getting alarmingly overtired and her nose and throat were so mucusy she was breathing in laboured, raspy breaths and I was at a complete loss. Eventually I stripped her down to her diaper and bounced her on the ball for two hours straight while she slept with her hot face curled into my neck. If I shifted her in any way or stopped bouncing for a second she was wide-awake and crying again. By 5:00am her fever was down to what seemed like a more manageable ninety-nine degrees, but she was still tired and cranky and clingy and I ended up spending the rest of today trying to manage her fever and my exhaustion without falling apart while my heart broke for her.

Maybe they don’t prepare you because there’s no way to prepare. After over ten years of work experience and university and travelling and challenges so great I felt like nothing would ever be that hard again this is easily the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I have never taken on anything I put my mind to that I wasn’t instantly good at. When the doctor handed me Gaia it seemed simple enough. Bluntly put, my job is to keep her alive. Like the Tamagotchi I had in elementary school I feed her and change her and keep her clean. I give her lots of love and attention and do my best to make sure she’s reaching all her milestones. Unlike the Tamagotchi I can’t press reset and start again at square one if I make a mistake and that is terrifying. The pressure I put on myself, like the pressure I’m sure every mother feels, is immense.

Poo Fountain

I hesitate to write anything more about my ongoing struggle to find a formula that doesn’t make Gaia

a) fussy
b) gassy
c) have excessive diarrhea
d) constipated
e) break out in a rash
f) all of the above

until we’ve finally locked down a bonafide solution. For the purposes of this post all you need to know is that our current formula seems to have solved the majority of our concerns save for the fact her diarrhea is so excessive it’s like her baby bum is a rusted tap in an old farm house that persistently sputters out brown water. Don’t worry, you don’t have to thank me for the visual. Today she was sitting in her Bumbo, happily playing, when she let out a series of farts. As I always do post fart I stopped what I was doing and approached her to survey the scene. The smell seemed to confirm a poop, but I picked her up to be sure. Instantly my hands felt wet. I turned her around to see a gigantic skid mark that traveled up her back and culminated in a diarrhea splatter on her neck. I can only surmise that the force of her farts caused her brown water poo to shoot up and out of her diaper like a glorious, disgusting baby poo fountain. Needless to say the damage control was extensive and included anti-bacterial soap, a washing machine, no less the twelve wipes, a shower nozzle, a wash cloth and an entirely new outfit. On the plus side the dog saw fit to lick the Bumbo clean for me while I was washing myself and Gaia. Like a revolting and hairy Mother’s helper she is. Now if I can just remember to be extra diligent in my attempts to keep the dog’s mouth away from the baby for the next few days we’ll be just fine.

Oh and if reading this post made you feel uncomfortable or cause you to mutter a serious of judgmental “ewwws” at any point please take a moment to remind yourself… this is my life.

Planet G

Two days before I found out I was pregnant I bought two pairs of the most indulgent six-inch heels. I traded them in exchange for over three hundred dollars, my entire bank balance. I fell in love with them the moment I slid them on my feet at danced around the store with glee. One pair was outrageous in purple patent shine and smooth grey suede with a stripper-worthy platform. You know, a classy stripper of course. The other pair was only slightly more wearable. Luxurious caramel leather with multiple wide straps that crossed well past my ankles. They were finished in the perfect teak without a hint of that shine that makes a wood heel look cheap. Oh. My. Goodness. I’m drooling just thinking about them now. They were exquisite. The evening I bought them was spent trying them on with every article of clothing in my closet, stopping periodically to bat my eyelashes at them admiringly.

The first thing I did when I found out I was pregnant was return them both. Before I told Jose or my family or saw a doctor or dealt with the news in any emotionally mature way I did a final lap of my house in the gorgeous shoes, placed them delicately back into their boxes and took them back to the store. If you’re not a shoe person this may seem ridiculous to you, but that was the first time in my life I had ever returned a shoe. It was like giving away a child (my two hundred and forty seventh born). I think about those shoes every day. Not because I miss them or because I wish they were in my closet today, but because those shoes will forever represent the moment I became a mother. For a girl like me those shoes were my first act of sacrifice and I didn’t think twice. I had no idea what I was going to do after I returned those shoes, but I had an inkling that three hundred dollars might come in handy.

Since Gaia was born we’ve gotten pretty much everything we’ve needed with the help of a variety of generous friends. I can’t stress enough how lucky we are to have so many amazing and generous people around us. It chokes me up to think about it. Still there was one thing, however unessential, I felt we were missing. I wanted a baby gym and I wanted one bad. One sure sign of Gaia’s maturity seems to be that we’re finding it harder and harder to fill the gaps between feedings and naps. The bottom line? She’s been getting bored. Today after a quick look at my finances it appeared I could afford diapers, food and a little something extra so we headed to the mall. Gaia was fast asleep when we arrived so I figured I could sneak in a little shopping for myself. I perused Vancouver’s finest. Shoes and handbags and dresses and more. I should have been in shopping heaven, but like growing apart from your best friend in high school, my favourite old stores just didn’t hold their same appeal. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but somehow shopping just didn’t seem satisfying and I didn’t buy a single thing. Gasp!

When Gaia started to stir I steered us full speed ahead for Babies-R-Us. There amongst the aisles was the very thing I’ve been coveting while struggling to keep Gaia entertained for the past few weeks – a Fisher Price Precious Planet Deluxe Musical Activity Gym. I scooped it up and I felt that familiar stir. On my way out I grabbed some three to six month bottle nipples to replace the newborn ones we’ve been using and a Spanish speaking Baby Einstein Octoplush. Paying for my purchases I felt it. The supreme satisfaction of buying something you really, really want. When we got home Gaia watched me eagerly from her Bumbo as I constructed her new world (a world I’ve appropriately coined Planet G). We spent the next hour lying on the floor together listening to a plastic Polar Bear sing us songs as we swatted the dangling animals above our head. At one point Gaia caught a glimpse of herself in the sunshine mirror hanging above her and regardless of whether she recognised it or not she promptly welcomed the reflection with a barrage of coos and giggles. My heart swelled with the same consumer satisfaction I’d felt eleven months earlier with the shoes.













Becoming a mother wasn’t as jarring as I was expecting. I was ready for the sleepless nights and often overwhelming responsibility and letting my whole world revolve around someone small enough to fall asleep tucked comfortably in my arms. But the fact that I’ve happily given up designer duds and six inch heels for Fisher Price baby gear, well I don’t think anyone saw that coming.

Mommy Guilt

I admit it. I have a serious and prolonged case of ‘Mommy Guilt’. I feel guilty when I take Gaia out without a hat on. When she wakes up in the morning hours before I’m ready to get up I feel guilty for wishing she’d just go back to sleep. I feel guilty when I choose to make myself supper and let her to amuse herself in her swing, even though she’s usually laughing. I feel guilty when I wish for extra-long naps so I can have a few hours to clean. I feel guilty if she sits in poop for more than thirty seconds. I feel guilty if I don’t anticipate she’s about to get hungry/sleepy/playful and haven’t got a bottle/nap/structured play prepared. I feel guilty that I miss working. I feel guilty when I call her chubby, lest she get a baby complex. I feel guilty that I bounce her to sleep every night instead of arming her with the skills to fall asleep on her own. I stay up at night with guilty dreams of a co-dependent three-year-old dancing in my head. Sometimes I feel guilty for considering how well I would handle the guilt if I stopped bouncing her to sleep at night and let her cry-it-out. I feel guilty when I take her out and I feel guilty if we stay in. I feel guilty about the fact I have to use the bathroom and shower and sleep. I feel guilty about just about everything I do and I can’t help it. I especially feel guilty for feeling guilty because by all accounts there should be no room for guilt amongst all the joy. Still, my guilt knows no bounds. Why is my guilt topical you ask? I’ll tell you. After twelve-weeks as the happiest baby I’ve ever met, Gaia has spent the last three days in the worst baby mood I have yet to experience. Tonight my guilt came to a head as she screamed herself hoarse and I lay beside her crying and repeating “I’m sorry... I don’t know how to help you...I’m sorry...” When she stopped screaming and put her hand on my chest I felt guilty that she’d noticed my breakdown. Like a loyal dog who lays beside their dying owner, Gaia quietly laid beside me like that for twenty minutes and all I could do was feel guilty.

I pulled myself together eventually, as I always do, and got her lulled into a fitful sleep. Since then I’ve been doing some research on the internet and am starting to suspect she might be developing a milk allergy (which coincided nicely with what I think was her twelve-week growth spurt). She’s got the inconsistent, greenish poop, the sudden fussy and erratic behaviour and the small dry patches on her cheeks have turned into full-on scaly rashes. My guilt knows no bounds. Did I mention I had to diagnose this myself on the internet because there isn’t a single family doctor or paediatrician in Regina who is accepting new patients? Inevitably I feel guilty about living in a province with a shortage of doctors. Now I’m faced with the predicament of finding a lactose-free formula that isn’t iron fortified (since the iron has given her rock-hard poop in the past). From what I can tell this might be impossible. Of course this whole evening just has me sinking deeper into the thing that gives me the most ‘Mommy Guilt’ of all.

The ugly guilt-monger who’s taken up residence in my head keeps repeating “if Gaia was breastfeed we wouldn’t be having these problems.”

I knew absolutely nothing about infants when I got pregnant but I did know this... I was going to breastfeed. My breasts have always been on the smaller side of average. Never in a place to flaunt them for fun breastfeeding was going to be their moment in the sun. Sure they’d never draw eyes the way some breasts do, but they were going to feed a baby and frankly, that’s what they’re there for right? Gaia took to breastfeeding like a pro. She latched in mere seconds only minutes after being born. The nurse watched in awe, ready to jump in and fix the inevitable problems that never came. It seemed I was a pro as well, if I do say so myself. I never experienced a single pain, crack or blister. Even as we made our way from the hospital to home and Gaia began cluster feeding my breasts never complained. I was worn out and sleepy and achy but my breasts soldiered on. They were the heroes in our epic first days. Unfortunately about a week later my milk still hadn’t come in. Gaia was undeniably starving. I made an appointment with Regina’s own ‘Nipple Whisperer’ – the crème de la crème of lactation consultants. We were all confident she would have me lactating in no time. She took one look at Gaia at my breast and determined we had a good latch and adequate suction. Save for a few pointers on positioning (which did make me much more comfortable) she didn’t have much to say. She told me to ignore the Public Health Nurse and her insistence I begin supplementing and wait it out. She assured me my milk would be in by the following day. By this point Gaia had dropped over fifteen percent of her birth weight. I gave it a day and began supplementing with formula, offering each breast for a minimum of fifteen minutes before giving her two ounces of formula per feeding. Nipple confusion be damned, Gaia accepted both with ease. In the moments I had my hands free I pumped at least fifteen minutes per breast. For over two months Gaia took both breast and bottle. Her weight improved and she began thriving. My milk never came in. At one point I went to see a doctor who prescribed me a stomach acid drug whose side-effects included an increase in milk production. I can count on one hand the times I’ve agreed to take pills for anything in my adult life and I took pills for this. I was breastfeeding regularly (day and night), pumping a minimum of five times a day and taking two pills every four hours for almost a month. My milk never came in. Gaia was a trooper but it soon became apparent my breasts were more soothing device then sustenance. About three weeks ago I gave up entirely.

In the time I was struggling I read a number of books and articles on breastfeeding. All of which inevitably made me feel like if I formula fed exclusively I would end up with a lethargic, obese baby who, would have serious trust and attachment issues, drop out of high school and have a string of abusive relationships as she searched for the love she never got from her mother. The mother who didn’t love her enough to breastfeed her in the first place. And that was just if she didn’t die of SIDS. But as everything I read warned me, she probably would. Every mother has their cross to bear and breastfeeding is mine. The guilt damn near crushes me and I find myself soul-shatteringly jealous of every breastfeeding mother I know. I tried to tell myself there was a time (AKA: The 1970s & 80s) when formula was thought to be superior to breastmilk and we all turned out okay, but I remain unconvinced. After weeks of searching I finally found a website that assured me that my loving attention, and not just my breast was the most important thing I could give my baby. I turned a blind eye to the fact it was a website written by makers of a name brand formula. My breasts may be faulty but love, I feel confident I’ve mastered that.

On Saturday Gaia and I are flying to Vancouver. Of course, I feel guilty for going ahead with the trip when she’s obviously distressed. If I didn’t worry about the wife-guilt I’d feel over not going we’d probably forfeit our ticket. I know, I know. With all this guilt piling up around me you’d think I was Catholic, but no, I’m just a mother.

For those of you who know where I live please don’t worry. You don’t need to put me on post-partum-suicide watch or anything. I’m fine. Gaia’s fine. We’re going to be just fine. It’s just been a bad week. We’re strong, hearty, Saskatchewanese women and if nothing else we’re both due for a pretty serious family hug on Sunday. I can’t imagine any better cure for ‘Mommy Guilt’ then a hug from a man who tells you every day how lucky he feels to have found the perfect mother for the baby who means the world to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you’re having trouble breastfeeding there are a number of support systems available in the Regina area. To get started check out La Leche League Canada or call Linda Cheston (AKA: The ‘Nipple Whisperer’) at (306) 586-4930.

I Am Mother... Hear Me Roar!

Gaia and I talk to Jose every day on Skype. It’s inevitable that at least once in our conversation she’s going to do something adorable. It’s also inevitable that when she does this adorable thing I’m going to proudly proclaim... “Look at her baby! Isn’t she beautiful/cute/smart/funny”... you get the picture. I like to gush. It’s become our routine that whenever I gush Jose responds with “Yes baby, she is sooooo beautiful/cute/smart/funny. Thank you.” For months I’ve vainly assumed his thanks were based on some belief that Gaia’s adorable babyness was in some way linked to my outstanding genes. As she grows older and starts to resemble him in every way imaginable I've been beginning to feel a bit guilty about these thanks. Last week I finally bit the bullet and said something.

“Baby,” I said “You don’t have to thank me... she’s really more like you anyway.”

“No baby,” he said “I thank you because you are the one taking care of her. You are feeding her and playing with her and making her happy every day. She is growing and healthy because of you baby. You are doing such a good job with her. So thank you... for that.”

Of course this got me thinking and you know what? He’s right! At this stage Gaia’s happiness is completely dependent on the care I give her. If she’s hungry I feed her. If she’s sitting in poop I change her. If she cries I soothe her. If she’s tired I help her fall asleep. I take her for walks and sing her songs and play games and teach her important things like how to cultivate a unique sense of style. I mean, it’s not as if those delightful baby outfits appear on her by magic.

See that smile?

I did that!

And this one...

All me!

I’m not just a grown woman sitting around in her pyjamas all day... I am Gaia’s mother! I have the most important job in the world! I’m the most important person in the world! I am the world! Gaia’s world. And with that I’ll leave you with this video... pregnancy is just the beginning.

Bye Bye Baby

Last night when I was putting Gaia to bed I noticed she didn’t quite fit into her Pack n Play bassinet the way she used to. “Hmmm,” I thought, “I don’t remember her feet hanging over the edge like that last week.” And it’s not just her bassinet that has me puzzled. It seems that I’m confronted with the reality of her growing up every day. A couple weeks ago I tried to put her in one of the stripy newborn onesies that were the only thing that fit her for the first month of her life. I should have seen it coming when her head could barely make it through the neck hole. Perhaps that was a clue they’d gotten a little small. Of course it wasn’t until she was snapped in with a killer baby wedgie that I gave in and dressed her in something else. The way she spills over the edges of the newborn hammock in her bathtub, the fact that she sits up and grabs for toys and makes noises... on purpose. She’s even wearing the second size of diapers already. Sigh. Frankly this rapid rate of growth has got to stop. I know, I know, it’s completely normal. Of course I know. But the fact that it’s normal isn’t the least bit comforting when I feel like I’m watching Gaia’s babyhood slip away only eleven weeks after her birth.

Logically I know I’m being silly. Logically I’m glad she’s growing up. Logically I’m proud of every accomplishment and encouraging of her development. Emotionally I wish she’d stay a baby forever. Every time I notice how much she’s grown her whole unlived life flashes before my eyes. Talking, walking, her first day of Kindergarten, boyfriends (or girlfriends... whatever), broken hearts, homework and soccer practice and art class. I see her grow up and I see her leave me and then I cry, which of course makes me feel ridiculous.

The funniest thing about these new emotions? I’ve always been terrified of newborns. I’ve jokingly stated more than once that I wish I could give birth to a three year old. I think I’ve even claimed I’d go through the process of carrying and birthing a toddler to not have to deal with a newborn baby. Of course, you know, I wouldn’t because that’s just weird. Anyway, after mocking them for years I now understand the women who keep having babies every time their youngest starts approaching toddlerhood. Last week I even tried to convince Jose we should have another one, like, tomorrow if possible. Of course his valid points about focussing on a) getting him into the country, b) us both finding full-time jobs and c) finding our own place to live hesitantly dissuaded me. Not to mention the fact Gaia’s not even three months old. Seriously people, what’s happened to me?

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: “Kids... (sigh) ... they grow up so fast.”

Now I’m off to take the bassinet out of the Pack n Play and weep.

Water Baby

One of the perils of having a baby with a partner who lives four thousand, six hundred and twenty five miles away is a decided drop off in personal hygiene (thanks again Canadian government). Back when Gaia was napping for a solid three to five hour chunk every afternoon I was managing to shower regularly. Now that she’s abandoned napping almost all together I’ve had to get creative. Lately our routine has me putting her in her chair at the bathroom door and playing peek-a-boo behind the curtain as I frantically wash. Alas, yesterday she was in such a cranky baby mood that I knew our routine was a no go. By the time her bedtime hit I felt disgusting so I did what any inventive new mama would do. I ran a bath for two. Until now I’ve been too scared to bathe with Gaia. I learned quickly that wet babies are slippery and always felt it best to have one of us with two dry feet planted firmly on the ground. Still, I decided to take a chance.

I lowered us both in the water and I waited. Gaia looked up at me, obviously wondering what the big deal was. Before I knew it I was bouncing her and pulling her through the water and she was positively giddy with delight. Then it happened. I got sloppy. In my co-bathing bliss I let my guard down and lost my grip on Gaia. I watched as her happy little face slid under the water. It only lasted a second but panic washed over me in waves. Of course I knew she’d be OK, but I was sure that in one moment of carelessness I had just ruined my high hopes of her loving the water. Perhaps I was being a tad melodramatic. I pulled her back out of the water and apologised as earnestly as I could. I expected a pouty lip and tears at the least, full blown cries of course and obviously a look of deep seeded mistrust in her eyes. Instead, she blinked for a minute, blew a few raspberries and sneezed. Little streams of water poured from her nose and she smiled as if to say “that was fun... let’s do it again!”

Now I feel justified in the fact that my ten week old baby owns three bathing suits. 2028 Summer Olympics here we come.

Muffin Top

Domesticity is not my forte. Before I married Jose I made sure he was fully aware of the strict no cooking, no cleaning, no mending clause in our vows. Lucky for him my talents lay in other areas. Still, since I’ve been at home with Gaia I’ve been thinking more and more about what type of mother I want to be. Turns out I’d like to be the kind who serves homemade muffins, fresh from the oven every morning as I prepare my babies for their day. Who knew?

Not to fear, I haven’t completely mutated into some 1950s housewife. I still plan to toss said muffins at my children as we run out the door on the way to school (them)/a super satisfying career (me). Luckily a good family friend and secondary mother figure passed on a recipe for delicious muffins that even I feel I can master. Yesterday I got together with some Mommy friends and made a huge batch. From what I could tell they looked pretty easy to make. Of course, I took a backseat in the actual prep opting to measure the ingredients that most closely resembled candy (raisins and craisins and dates oh my). On my own away from the real action I operated on a strict one for you, one for me policy. I have hopes for domestic competence but feel baby steps are best.

Take it from me, normally I hate anything with bran on the ingredients list, but these muffins are super tasty. And the best thing about them, the batter can save in the fridge for up to six weeks, thereby stretching my once monthly attempts at baking and creating the illusion that I’m domestic goddess. When Gaia’s old enough to appreciate it (and you know... eat solid foods) I have big plans throw a batch of these in the oven a few mornings a week. Until then I’ve got a stockpile in my freezer to enjoy.



6 WEEK BRAN MUFFINS FROM LANA'S KITCHEN

6 cups combination of Bran Flakes Cereal, All Bran Cereal, Natural Bran
2 cups boiling water
Place cereals and water in bowl and let stand.

1 cup margarine/butter
1 1/2 cups white sugar
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
4 eggs
4 cups buttermilk (can substitute 1% milk)
1/4 cup molasses (optional)
Cream butter, add sugars. Beat eggs in one at a time. Add buttermilk and molasses. Stir in cereal mixture.

5 cups flour
2 tablespoons baking soda
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups raisins
2 cups combination of craisins and chopped dates
Mix thoroughly and add to batter.

Fill muffin tins lined with greased paper muffin liners. Fill full to top and some above (this batter does not rise up as it bakes). Bake 400 degrees Fahrenheit for 20-25 minutes.

In honour of our adventures in baking Gaia debuted her own muffin top in her first pair of jeans. My muffin top was also in attendance but thankfully remained unphotographed.

What's the Opposite of Cuddly?

* UPDATED MAY 19, 2009 (10:41PM)

If it’s true you get what you deserve then I must have done something really special to deserve Gaia. I jokingly tell people she’s my reward for everything Jose and I went through in 2008. My reward for staying positive and not falling apart while struggles were casually and repeatedly tossed our way. She really is a wonderful baby. After the initial “getting to know you” stage and a few rough nights she’s barely cried in the past month and a half (save for a few isolated instances of gastrointestinal distress). She loves long walks and shopping trips and chats over coffee. She’s also super social and seems to thrive on the outings where she’s passed to someone new to be fussed over every ten minutes. Her personality is such that if she wasn’t my baby I’d secretly wish she was. Finally, the piece de resistance, for the last two weeks she’s been... dare I say it?... sleeping though the night. That’s right. In just two months I have stumbled upon the holy grail of all new parents. Of course I fear that saying it out loud might jinx it but every night, without fail, she’s fast asleep by 10:30pm and doesn’t wake until around 10:30am for more than a single fifteen minute feeding at the seven-hour mark. Some days I feel drunk with rest. Add in the fact she’s been waking up laughing and frankly, I feel almost guilty for having it so good. I’m not actually naive enough to believe her demeanour has to do with anything other than luck but there is one crucial area where it seems I truly am getting what I deserve. Practically perfect in every way, sadly my newborn hates to cuddle. Sigh.

Of course I know I’m being “rewarded” in this instance for a lifetime of refusing to cuddle with my own mother but honestly, it’s devastating. Who doesn’t want to cuddle with their soft, sweet-smelling baby girl? If anything it’s a mother’s right and one that Gaia repeatedly denies me. After her first week of indulging me by napping lazily on my chest, Gaia quickly began refusing to be held close. My attempts at co-sleeping were laughable as she did everything but say “seriously Mama, you need to back off, I’m trying to sleep and you gazing at me lovingly is beyond annoying”. Her rolled eyes said it all. My excitement is palpable when she falls asleep during a feeding. I wait for her to go limp stretched out on her back across my arm and carefully, ever so slowly shift her to my chest so I can hold her close. I barely get a sniff of her perfect baby head and she’s wide awake, doing her best Stevie Wonder impression* as she frantically turns her head and tries to come up with an escape plan. In the morning while scooping her out of bed I almost get close enough to kiss her chubby cheek and she’s pushing me away. Didn’t think a two month old baby had the coordination or drive to push her mother’s face away? Mine does. And it’s not just cuddly naps and morning kisses she detests, she’s also doing everything in her power to prepare her little baby legs for walking, surely so someday very soon she can walk away from me. Pumping and kicking in continuous motion she reminds me of a wind-up toy being held above the ground. If I let her go I secretly fear she’d zip across the floor. Baby carriers that warn against the forward facing position for the under three-month set have obviously never met my child. I have to shirk the warnings in fear of her little baby wrath should I make her turn in towards me and miss the big wide world she’s so eager to explore. The list of ways she desperately tries to be independent doesn’t end. If I didn’t know better I’d swear I gave birth to a seven year old in the underdeveloped body of an infant.


* Just in case you needed a visual on the Stevie Wonder reference... enjoy.

I know some of you might find my heartbreak more then a little annoying. Even I wonder what right I have to complain since a newborn who isn't clingy enough is my biggest baby issue. Not to worry though, if I get what I deserve in the teenage years I’ve got a lot of sleepless nights ahead of me.

UPDATE: I just got an email from Momma Pants, my first (and thus far only) Mommy-friend. Apparently Gaia’s Stevie Wonder impression might be a sign she’s overtired. Thankfully it’s not just invaluable advice she’s doling out, I’m also the proud borrower of a magic swing that put Gaia to sleep for over three hours this afternoon. If you’re not lucky enough to have friends like her (or even if you are) make sure to read her blog – By the Seat of Mom’s Pants – I can’t imagine a more informed mother and, just your luck, she’s funny too.

Potty Mouth

I used to swear. Ahem. I used to swear A LOT. As I’ve gotten older I’ve tried to tone it down a bit and while it’s not uncommon to hear me drop a f-bomb in polite company I’d say I’m getting pretty good at keeping up appearances as someone with a touch of class. Yes indeed, I’m one classy bitch. Unless you happen to catch me in the driver’s seat that is. Sigh. I know it’s cliché but I have a serious case of Road Rage. Of course moving to Regina didn’t help. I think the worst drivers in the country all come to Regina and hop in their cars as soon as they hear my garage door open. Merging seems to be a lost art here, as is efficiently changing lanes. I can’t take the Ring Road without being prepared for the inevitable hoarse voice that comes after shouting “THE LEFT LANE IS FOR PASSING... YOU FUCKING MORON” over and over again as I speed by on the right. Aggressive driving seems to have no place here. It breaks my heart to see three cars turn on a green arrow where sixteen cars in Vancouver would have been and I swear I tense up at the very sight of a four-way stop. Note to all the drivers out there – politeness has no place at a four-way stop. To make matters worse everyone drives at or below the speed limit. I know it only takes about fifteen minutes to get anywhere in the city but I don’t think that’s any excuse to be so blasé with your time (or more specifically, mine). Besides, aren’t those “limits” a little arbitrary anyway? Driving anarchy, that’s what we need. Now who’s with me?

Gaia, that’s who. It seems that while my daughter snatched the majority of her good genes from my husband, she managed to inherit the Road Rage gene from me (I of course got it from the foul-mouthed road warrior more commonly refered to as my mother). For the last few weeks Gaia has started screaming the minute I snap her car seat into place and not stopped until I snap her back out upon reaching our destination. A few days ago, after a particularly long journey across the city, nearing the end of my patience for baby screaming, I flipped on my signal light and began plans for a quick lane change en route home. I checked my mirror. The coast was clear, save for a sporty black car a good ten car lengths back. Mere seconds later the same black car was purposefully accelerating to close the gap and deny me my rightful place in front of him. This seems to be a Regina specialty. I couldn’t help myself. I shook my fist with fury and screamed.

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! THAT’S RIGHT... YOU! YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE! ASSSSSSSSSSSSHOLE!”

Suddenly Gaia got quiet and, I kid you not, she laughed her little baby laugh and promptly fell asleep. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Wasn’t I concerned that my newborn found my screaming obscenities calming? Mildly. More concerning still was the brief moment I seriously considered screaming obscenities as a valid soothing strategy.

All The Hopes I Hope

It seems crazy that this time last year I had yet to meet Gaia. Crazier still that I didn’t see her coming now that I’m sure she was meant for me all along. Now I have trouble imagining who I would be without her. Mostly, I’m full of anticipation for the life she’s beginning and feel so privileged to bear witness. Someday I’ll be able to say “I was there all along”.

I hope she grows up to be a force to be reckoned with. I hope she always speaks her mind and that her mind is always full. I hope she reads more than she watches TV and learns to think critically. I hope travels the world and really sees it. I hope she never stops making mistakes, so that she can always learn from them. I hope she is always quick to smile and that she’s funny, like, pee-your-pants funny. I hope she is honest, especially with herself. I hope she learns to swim and play an instrument and takes on every challenge that comes her way. I hope she really likes art, and that if she doesn’t that she finds something, anything, that she really likes. I hope she is never ashamed to ask for help. I hope she doesn’t take herself too seriously and tries not to get embarrassed if she accidentally farts in a business meeting. I hope she is wise beyond her years. I hope that someday very soon she learns to give me baby kisses since the current kiss tally stands at Mama – 7,324,174, Gaia – 0. I hope she is a strong, capable woman who can take care of herself but knows when to let herself be taken care of. I hope she is empathetic and kind. Empathy, yeah, I really hope she has that. I hope she tries to see the good in every person and the silver lining in every situation. I hope she is proud when her father speaks to her in Spanish when he picks her up from school. I hope she learns to listen to herself and trust her instincts. I hope she never says she hates me, and even more that she never means it. I hope that when she looks in the mirror she likes what she sees and always sees what matters most (which, of course, you can’t see in the mirror). I hope she has pets. I hope that she finds someone to fall in love with and that they love her back. I hope every night when she goes to sleep she can think of one thing she’s done that she’s proud of and all the ways she is blessed. I hope she always knows that whoever she is is always okay to anyone who matters. I hope she never stops telling me “about her day”. I hope she always demands respect (that’s right, DEMANDS). I hope if she’s scared to try something new, she does in anyway. I hope she is humble. I hope she is confident and never lets the man get her down. I hope she is affectionate and greets people by kissing them on the cheek even though we don’t live in Peru. I hope she always, ALWAYS knows how much her papi and I love her. NO. MATTER. WHAT. I hope she doesn’t like mustard.

Since the day I peed on a stick (or three) and saw the line(s) turn blue my head has been filled with all of the hopes I hope for her and only one for me...

I hope I am always strong enough to raise the type of woman I hope she will be.

Happy Mother’s Day.