Friday, October 30, 2009
Considering making a conscious effort to prevent Angus's first word being "SHIT"
It has come to my attention that certain members of my family are reading my blog. Specifically, my grandparents. I THINK anyway. Last night I talked to my grandmother on the phone. She had a stroke in 2001? 2002? Anyway, it's caused her to be a little confused. Well, that's not accurate. She's still all there, really. She's the same person she always was, just has a little trouble finding the right words sometimes. I forget what the condition is called.
It's actually not too hard to follow along with what she's saying, because the inflection and tone of her words are there, and the subject is usually obvious. But once (year's ago when it was worse) I went to visit them, and upon arriving at the door, she asked me if I would like to have a shower in my suitcase. Another time, when they were going through the process of moving and getting rid of things, she rang me up and asked if I would like three dead bears.
Anyway, last night she was asking me how I was liking it over here, and mentioned something about it being flat, not mountainous like B.C. I know I mentioned that in my previous blog entry, and I can't remember if I mentioned that at any other time.... so I've deduced that grandma and grandpa are reading my blog. SHIT!!!
Now I'm mentally going back in time and trying to remember how many times I've sworn, and if I mentioned any sordid activities that grandparents shouldn't know about. Well, it doesn't really matter I guess. There's no reason to censor my writings. They may be my grandparents, but they're still people, and I bet they're not totally innocent. They haven't been grandparents they're whole lives! Just MY whole life! They used to be my age once. (Can you imagine?) That means, one day I'll be THEIR age! Holy crap.
Now I've really gone and offended them for sure.
I'm going to talk about something else now.
Last night I was determined to let Angus cry himself to sleep. I've been trying for quite a while, but I always end up sabotaging my efforts, because the sound of his heart-breaking cries eventually get to me, and I go in to console him. Then he starts waving his arms and grinning at me. So I know I'm being manipulated!
I used to be a huge believer in the "attachment" style of parenting. I was going to "wear" my baby constantly. To the store, doing housework, going the bathroom. All the Dr. Sears books said that if I do this, my baby will grow up to be secure and independent. But have you ever ACTUALLY tried to wear your baby while doing the dishes? Especially when your newborn is not the size of a newborn, but roughly about the size of a five-year-old? Impossible. Also, Angus turned out to be the kind of baby who hated to be restrained. I could only "wear" him, if I had him facing outward, so his arms and legs dangled. (Although, when he was that young, he pretty much hated everything.)
(The Moby Wrap worked pretty good though, I have to say. And I have actually gone to the toilet with Angus in it.)
I knew I was going to breastfeed. (And this I have not wavered on.) I planned to breastfeed Angus until he was thirteen, and I was definitely going to have him sleep right close to us, to make breastfeeding during the night easier. We got a co-sleeper for that purpose.
Well all this has come flying back in my face, because Angus turned out to be the kind of baby that attachment parenting doesn't actually work on. He doesn't like being "worn" constantly, he likes to be FREE, to kick his legs and flap his arms around. He doesn't like to be cuddled, which is why I enjoy breastfeeding so much, as it's my only cuddle time with him.
And finally, the co-sleeping started to become a problem. We were all starting to distract each other in the night. Angus grew bigger, and took up most of the bed, pushing Aaron to the very edge every night, and causing me to sleep in only one awkward position all night. Also, Angus was distracted by my boobs in his face all night long. Mom's Diner, open 24/7. He THOUGHT he wanted to eat, but he'd latch on and then change his mind and pull away, but then change his mind again and latch on, and pull away, etc... I became so irritated with this that I'd just put them away, but then I'd have Angus mouthing my shoulder or armpit, and then he'd start fussing when no nipple appeared in his mouth.
It was very frustrating. The whole "attachment" thing wasn't working for us. It was actually sabotaging our needs for a good nights sleep. I highly value sleep. Aaron needs his sleep to function at work, he needs to have his wits about him. Angus needs his sleep to be a happy, content baby, and to grow his little brain. Mom needs her sleep to deal with Angus, who is a nightmare to deal with when he is overtired.
Finally, Angus went into a crib. Now the issue is that it's in our bedroom. His bedroom isn't finished yet. But it's a start. Now I'm trying to give him the chance to learn how to self-soothe at night. He does NOT need to eat five or six times during the night. It seems to be purely recreational at this point. A habit that he's developed, and it's MY FAULT!
I am trying to not rush to him at the first signs of distress, which according to Dr. Sears, means he is going to be traumatized and emotionally damaged. Apparently, he's going to grow up to be insecure, unloved, and untrusting. Well, I don't buy it. Angus knows which buttons to push, and yes, he DOES know how to manipulate me! He's a very head-strong, stubborn, little boy, and I'm proud of that, even though it's driving me up the wall.
Last night I gave him a bath, powdered him up, and gave him a clean diaper and clean jammies, then nursed him until he was so comfy and clean and dozy, that he drifted peacefully off to never-never land, and he even smiled as he was going to sleep, as if to convey that everything is alright. Then I put him in his crib, which is when the screaming began. He cried for a total of eighty minutes. That's an HOUR AND TWENTY MINUTES! A few times it became too much for me, and I had to go in and console him until I figured I was only doing it for MY sake, because as soon as he saw me, he started grinning and arm-flapping, wanting to play.
The very last time I went in to check on him, his voice was hoarse and his little heart was pounding in his chest. I felt so awful, I had to pick him up and hug him. I then discovered that he was roasting hot. Stupid mommy dressed him too warmly, and had him wrapped in a fleece blanket. I guess he would've worked up a sweat with all that crying, too. I unwrapped him, and put him back down, and after five more minutes of pissed-off crying, he went right to sleep. I felt like the worst mother in the world. Throughout the night, I let Angus nurse as often as he pleased, because I was feeling so guilty.
But today's a new day, and he doesn't appear to hate me. He's playing happily beside me, on his own, while I waste the day on the computer googling "How to encourage hair growth" and boring everyone else with details about how my baby sleeps.
It's actually not too hard to follow along with what she's saying, because the inflection and tone of her words are there, and the subject is usually obvious. But once (year's ago when it was worse) I went to visit them, and upon arriving at the door, she asked me if I would like to have a shower in my suitcase. Another time, when they were going through the process of moving and getting rid of things, she rang me up and asked if I would like three dead bears.
Anyway, last night she was asking me how I was liking it over here, and mentioned something about it being flat, not mountainous like B.C. I know I mentioned that in my previous blog entry, and I can't remember if I mentioned that at any other time.... so I've deduced that grandma and grandpa are reading my blog. SHIT!!!
Now I'm mentally going back in time and trying to remember how many times I've sworn, and if I mentioned any sordid activities that grandparents shouldn't know about. Well, it doesn't really matter I guess. There's no reason to censor my writings. They may be my grandparents, but they're still people, and I bet they're not totally innocent. They haven't been grandparents they're whole lives! Just MY whole life! They used to be my age once. (Can you imagine?) That means, one day I'll be THEIR age! Holy crap.
Now I've really gone and offended them for sure.
I'm going to talk about something else now.
Last night I was determined to let Angus cry himself to sleep. I've been trying for quite a while, but I always end up sabotaging my efforts, because the sound of his heart-breaking cries eventually get to me, and I go in to console him. Then he starts waving his arms and grinning at me. So I know I'm being manipulated!
I used to be a huge believer in the "attachment" style of parenting. I was going to "wear" my baby constantly. To the store, doing housework, going the bathroom. All the Dr. Sears books said that if I do this, my baby will grow up to be secure and independent. But have you ever ACTUALLY tried to wear your baby while doing the dishes? Especially when your newborn is not the size of a newborn, but roughly about the size of a five-year-old? Impossible. Also, Angus turned out to be the kind of baby who hated to be restrained. I could only "wear" him, if I had him facing outward, so his arms and legs dangled. (Although, when he was that young, he pretty much hated everything.)
(The Moby Wrap worked pretty good though, I have to say. And I have actually gone to the toilet with Angus in it.)
I knew I was going to breastfeed. (And this I have not wavered on.) I planned to breastfeed Angus until he was thirteen, and I was definitely going to have him sleep right close to us, to make breastfeeding during the night easier. We got a co-sleeper for that purpose.
Well all this has come flying back in my face, because Angus turned out to be the kind of baby that attachment parenting doesn't actually work on. He doesn't like being "worn" constantly, he likes to be FREE, to kick his legs and flap his arms around. He doesn't like to be cuddled, which is why I enjoy breastfeeding so much, as it's my only cuddle time with him.
And finally, the co-sleeping started to become a problem. We were all starting to distract each other in the night. Angus grew bigger, and took up most of the bed, pushing Aaron to the very edge every night, and causing me to sleep in only one awkward position all night. Also, Angus was distracted by my boobs in his face all night long. Mom's Diner, open 24/7. He THOUGHT he wanted to eat, but he'd latch on and then change his mind and pull away, but then change his mind again and latch on, and pull away, etc... I became so irritated with this that I'd just put them away, but then I'd have Angus mouthing my shoulder or armpit, and then he'd start fussing when no nipple appeared in his mouth.
It was very frustrating. The whole "attachment" thing wasn't working for us. It was actually sabotaging our needs for a good nights sleep. I highly value sleep. Aaron needs his sleep to function at work, he needs to have his wits about him. Angus needs his sleep to be a happy, content baby, and to grow his little brain. Mom needs her sleep to deal with Angus, who is a nightmare to deal with when he is overtired.
Finally, Angus went into a crib. Now the issue is that it's in our bedroom. His bedroom isn't finished yet. But it's a start. Now I'm trying to give him the chance to learn how to self-soothe at night. He does NOT need to eat five or six times during the night. It seems to be purely recreational at this point. A habit that he's developed, and it's MY FAULT!
I am trying to not rush to him at the first signs of distress, which according to Dr. Sears, means he is going to be traumatized and emotionally damaged. Apparently, he's going to grow up to be insecure, unloved, and untrusting. Well, I don't buy it. Angus knows which buttons to push, and yes, he DOES know how to manipulate me! He's a very head-strong, stubborn, little boy, and I'm proud of that, even though it's driving me up the wall.
Last night I gave him a bath, powdered him up, and gave him a clean diaper and clean jammies, then nursed him until he was so comfy and clean and dozy, that he drifted peacefully off to never-never land, and he even smiled as he was going to sleep, as if to convey that everything is alright. Then I put him in his crib, which is when the screaming began. He cried for a total of eighty minutes. That's an HOUR AND TWENTY MINUTES! A few times it became too much for me, and I had to go in and console him until I figured I was only doing it for MY sake, because as soon as he saw me, he started grinning and arm-flapping, wanting to play.
The very last time I went in to check on him, his voice was hoarse and his little heart was pounding in his chest. I felt so awful, I had to pick him up and hug him. I then discovered that he was roasting hot. Stupid mommy dressed him too warmly, and had him wrapped in a fleece blanket. I guess he would've worked up a sweat with all that crying, too. I unwrapped him, and put him back down, and after five more minutes of pissed-off crying, he went right to sleep. I felt like the worst mother in the world. Throughout the night, I let Angus nurse as often as he pleased, because I was feeling so guilty.
But today's a new day, and he doesn't appear to hate me. He's playing happily beside me, on his own, while I waste the day on the computer googling "How to encourage hair growth" and boring everyone else with details about how my baby sleeps.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Nothing on my mind today, so here's some pictures instead.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
A rant about a bad haircut, posted here because nobody else wants to listen.
I'm having a hard time trying to find the perfect bedtime for Angus. Ideally, I would like him in bed by seven, sleeping right through the night, and waking up at seven. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?
Last night I thought I did it, I had him in bed by seven. Aaron went out for the night, and I was thrilled to have some quiet time to myself. Earlier, I had sent Aaron out for doritos and chocolate. (My PMS/Pregnant food. He eyed me a little shiftily after reading the shopping list. Not to worry, I said, it's ONLY PMS. Remember my earlier post, gloating about not having a period, therefore being exempt from woman hormones? Well, it returned. With a vengeance. Turns out I'm NOT one of those lucky women who doesn't get a period for the duration on breastfeeding. NOT FAIR!)
I had a bottle of Riesling in the fridge. I had a Margaret Atwood book half-finished that I couldn't wait to get back into. (The Robber Bride.) Oh, joy! I was even going to take the opportunity to do some internet posting!
Of course, I soon as I settled myself onto the couch, I heard Angus yell, "MOOOOOOOOM. Come and get me. You're not allowed to have fun without me!"
Actually it was more of a huffing, irritated fussing, which would have escalated into a cry, and then into full-blown, pissed-off screaming. He's not one of those babies who whimpers or bleats quietly.
I tried to just nurse him back to sleep, but he wasn't having it. Oh sure, he ate. But he didn't fall back sleep. Instead he bit my nipple and then grinned at me in the dark. I could see his eyes glowing mischieviously. That kid is going to be a very cheeky child, I think. A little devil, a monkey.
So I brought him into the living room and made him watch two episodes of Flight of the Choncords with me. (No cable yet, so we're at Blockbuster every night.)
I still got to eat my Doritos and chocolate, and drink my wine, so it wasn't a total loss.
Did I mention I was all dolled up and had nowhere to go? I had makeup on, my hair done, and I was dressed nicely, and my only audience was my five-month-old son, who kept narrowing his eyes suspiciously at me, because normally my hair looks like an electrocuted mop, and normally I'm still dressed in my pajamas, and I NEVER put makeup on anymore. (What's the point?)
I did all this because of this awful haircut I got. I had a coupon for a free haircut, from the Welcome Wagon, which was perfect because I had been moaning since we moved here that I needed a haircut, and how would I know where to go?
As soon as I got to the place and looked around, I should have left. The salon was in this lady's house, and it was a MESS! In my professional opinion, a hair salon should be kept clean and clutter-free. It's just kind of common sense, don't you think?
Then out walked an oompa-loompa. She was so overtanned she was orange, she had on these spray-on jeans tucked into THIGH HIGH, shiny, black hooker boots. And a button-down shirt. Her hair was over-thinned and overprocessed. (That should have been my next clue - I'm not a fan of overly textured hair, unless it's short, but I don't WANT short hair, nor did I want OVERTHINNED hair, and it looked like she was a big fan of the razor and thinning scissors. )
So I told her about how I'd done all these things to my hair and now I just wanted to grow it out and stop dying and have flowing, healthy, beautiful hair. I told her I had gone a little overboard with the thinning scissors on my own head. I told her I wanted the scraggly ends cleaned up.
So she says this, "Ok, well I'll just get the razor.."
NOOOOO!!!! I made her put the razor down. So you know what she did? YOU KNOW WHAT SHE DID?? She took her thinning scissors and CHOPPED my hair.. AT THE ROOTS!!! WTF?
And I just sat there like a dummy, watching in disbelief as clumps of hair fluttered to the floor. I couldn't exactly stop her halfway through a haircut. Although in retrospect, I probably should have. And then got Angus to cut my hair, because I think he would've done a much better job.
So now my hair is much more thin and scraggly than before, which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to have done. Experiences like these make me lose faith in hairdresser's as a whole. It's very disappointing. And if I wasn't traumatized BEFORE (which I was) about finding a new hairstylist, I've now given up, out of fear.
Anyway, the point of that story was to explain why I was all dressed-up with nowhere to go. I was in a pissy mood yesterday morning, because I woke up and remember that I had awful hair. Every time I run my hands through it, I get a huge shock because there's NO HAIR, and every time I look in the mirror I get pissed off all over again. I was stomping around in a foul mood all morning, fuming about my hair.
THEN, I decided to go through a box of clothes I hadn't unpacked yet. My pre-pregnancy clothes. Well, my body FEELS like it's back to normal. I thought it was. I honestly though all the scales I had stepped on that said I weigh 157 pounds were lying, off by about twenty pounds. Then I tried to put on a pair of my old pants, and they wouldn't even go over my thigh.
At this point I wanted to commit suicide. Can you imagine anything worse that having bad hair and being twenty pounds heavier than you used to be? Oh, the horror!
So in a moment of cleverness, I put makeup on, styled my hair, and put on flattering clothes, and minced around the house all day, feeling attractive. When Aaron came home, I was bending over in my sweater-dress and putting T-bone steaks in the oven to broil, and I'm pretty sure his jaw visibly fell open. Yes, I can be a good little housewife when I make the effort.
Making an effort over your appearance sure goes a long way. I couldn't see the point of it before, if I was just going to be hanging out with a baby all day. But subconsciously, it lifts the spirits.
In closing, here's a picture of a fire hydrant, painted like Frankenstein.
Last night I thought I did it, I had him in bed by seven. Aaron went out for the night, and I was thrilled to have some quiet time to myself. Earlier, I had sent Aaron out for doritos and chocolate. (My PMS/Pregnant food. He eyed me a little shiftily after reading the shopping list. Not to worry, I said, it's ONLY PMS. Remember my earlier post, gloating about not having a period, therefore being exempt from woman hormones? Well, it returned. With a vengeance. Turns out I'm NOT one of those lucky women who doesn't get a period for the duration on breastfeeding. NOT FAIR!)
I had a bottle of Riesling in the fridge. I had a Margaret Atwood book half-finished that I couldn't wait to get back into. (The Robber Bride.) Oh, joy! I was even going to take the opportunity to do some internet posting!
Of course, I soon as I settled myself onto the couch, I heard Angus yell, "MOOOOOOOOM. Come and get me. You're not allowed to have fun without me!"
Actually it was more of a huffing, irritated fussing, which would have escalated into a cry, and then into full-blown, pissed-off screaming. He's not one of those babies who whimpers or bleats quietly.
I tried to just nurse him back to sleep, but he wasn't having it. Oh sure, he ate. But he didn't fall back sleep. Instead he bit my nipple and then grinned at me in the dark. I could see his eyes glowing mischieviously. That kid is going to be a very cheeky child, I think. A little devil, a monkey.
So I brought him into the living room and made him watch two episodes of Flight of the Choncords with me. (No cable yet, so we're at Blockbuster every night.)
I still got to eat my Doritos and chocolate, and drink my wine, so it wasn't a total loss.
Did I mention I was all dolled up and had nowhere to go? I had makeup on, my hair done, and I was dressed nicely, and my only audience was my five-month-old son, who kept narrowing his eyes suspiciously at me, because normally my hair looks like an electrocuted mop, and normally I'm still dressed in my pajamas, and I NEVER put makeup on anymore. (What's the point?)
I did all this because of this awful haircut I got. I had a coupon for a free haircut, from the Welcome Wagon, which was perfect because I had been moaning since we moved here that I needed a haircut, and how would I know where to go?
As soon as I got to the place and looked around, I should have left. The salon was in this lady's house, and it was a MESS! In my professional opinion, a hair salon should be kept clean and clutter-free. It's just kind of common sense, don't you think?
Then out walked an oompa-loompa. She was so overtanned she was orange, she had on these spray-on jeans tucked into THIGH HIGH, shiny, black hooker boots. And a button-down shirt. Her hair was over-thinned and overprocessed. (That should have been my next clue - I'm not a fan of overly textured hair, unless it's short, but I don't WANT short hair, nor did I want OVERTHINNED hair, and it looked like she was a big fan of the razor and thinning scissors. )
So I told her about how I'd done all these things to my hair and now I just wanted to grow it out and stop dying and have flowing, healthy, beautiful hair. I told her I had gone a little overboard with the thinning scissors on my own head. I told her I wanted the scraggly ends cleaned up.
So she says this, "Ok, well I'll just get the razor.."
NOOOOO!!!! I made her put the razor down. So you know what she did? YOU KNOW WHAT SHE DID?? She took her thinning scissors and CHOPPED my hair.. AT THE ROOTS!!! WTF?
And I just sat there like a dummy, watching in disbelief as clumps of hair fluttered to the floor. I couldn't exactly stop her halfway through a haircut. Although in retrospect, I probably should have. And then got Angus to cut my hair, because I think he would've done a much better job.
So now my hair is much more thin and scraggly than before, which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to have done. Experiences like these make me lose faith in hairdresser's as a whole. It's very disappointing. And if I wasn't traumatized BEFORE (which I was) about finding a new hairstylist, I've now given up, out of fear.
Anyway, the point of that story was to explain why I was all dressed-up with nowhere to go. I was in a pissy mood yesterday morning, because I woke up and remember that I had awful hair. Every time I run my hands through it, I get a huge shock because there's NO HAIR, and every time I look in the mirror I get pissed off all over again. I was stomping around in a foul mood all morning, fuming about my hair.
THEN, I decided to go through a box of clothes I hadn't unpacked yet. My pre-pregnancy clothes. Well, my body FEELS like it's back to normal. I thought it was. I honestly though all the scales I had stepped on that said I weigh 157 pounds were lying, off by about twenty pounds. Then I tried to put on a pair of my old pants, and they wouldn't even go over my thigh.
At this point I wanted to commit suicide. Can you imagine anything worse that having bad hair and being twenty pounds heavier than you used to be? Oh, the horror!
So in a moment of cleverness, I put makeup on, styled my hair, and put on flattering clothes, and minced around the house all day, feeling attractive. When Aaron came home, I was bending over in my sweater-dress and putting T-bone steaks in the oven to broil, and I'm pretty sure his jaw visibly fell open. Yes, I can be a good little housewife when I make the effort.
Making an effort over your appearance sure goes a long way. I couldn't see the point of it before, if I was just going to be hanging out with a baby all day. But subconsciously, it lifts the spirits.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Remembering the nightmare.
Did you know that being a mother causes your memory to leak out your ears? It's true. I was just re-reading older posts I had written about Angus. He used to have colic?? Really? I've already forgotten! He used to hate being in the car, really? God, it's only been two months since Aaron and I strapped Angus in his car seat and gritted our teeth because we were facing 1000 kilometres of endless screaming. Now when we put him in the car, he gazes happily out the window, or occupies himself by trying to get his foot in his mouth. If he starts to get squirelly, we crank up the music and it distracts him so quickly he forgets to fuss.
I've already forgotten how I used to feel like I was in prison at home in our shoebox apartment with my cell mate, the homicidal baby. In the heat of summer, instead of being out and about like everyone else, I was inside with the curtains drawn, staring exasperated at my screaming baby, every baby-calming device deployed. Sometimes I would just sit there and watch him scream, knowing I had tried everything, and all I was able to do was cry into my coffee cup, immobilized.
I was afraid to leave the house, because I thought I would die of embarrassment if Angus pitched a fit in public. He always did of course- and I did always wanted to die. I think once, Aaron and I attempted to go out for lunch with our disgruntled baby, and he, of course, threw a huge tantrum. We finished our lunches in a hurry and threw Angus in the stroller and tried to walk him around to get him to shut up. It was a bright summer day, so we had the stroller visor completely pulled down, so you couldn't see him. But everyone heard him. We walked four blocks downtown, engulfed in tourists milling around, paving the way with our screaming carriage. I think at one point, I stopped and stuck my head in the stroller and yelled, "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!!" People stopped and stared in surprise.
I finally got to the point where I didn't even care what people thought anymore. I used to worry that people would think that the reason my baby screamed so much was because we deliberately starved him. I thought everyone else's babies were all serene, easy-going babies. That's how it appears on the surface anyway. Nobody wants to admit their child is a nightmare.
Anyway, it seems so long ago now. He's such a delightful baby now, I can't even remember those awful three months unless I really try.
I don't know how we survived it. I actually don't even think we were conscious most of the time. We had to shut our emotions down. We had to forget who we were for three months. Something switches on when you're a parent, and even if you're the most incompetent, ignorant asshole who had a baby, you have no choice but to just DEAL. You don't have a say in the matter, you just do it automatically. You don't even think about it. And somehow the baby survives.
My heart goes out to parents of colicky babies. Hearing "It only lasts for three months" can be more despairing than comforting. All I can say is, have faith that your baby will wake up one day out of the blue, smiling sweetly at you, the sun will shine out of his ass, and you will totally forget that you once googled "How to sell a baby on the black market."
I would like to expound more on the subject, but Angus is waking up from his extra-long nap. I can hear him squawking. It will escalate into pissed-off crying if I don't pick him up right away, and he'll flap his arms and slap the matress angrily, but I usually delay and watch him for few minutes because now I think it's cute when he gets mad.
I've already forgotten how I used to feel like I was in prison at home in our shoebox apartment with my cell mate, the homicidal baby. In the heat of summer, instead of being out and about like everyone else, I was inside with the curtains drawn, staring exasperated at my screaming baby, every baby-calming device deployed. Sometimes I would just sit there and watch him scream, knowing I had tried everything, and all I was able to do was cry into my coffee cup, immobilized.
I was afraid to leave the house, because I thought I would die of embarrassment if Angus pitched a fit in public. He always did of course- and I did always wanted to die. I think once, Aaron and I attempted to go out for lunch with our disgruntled baby, and he, of course, threw a huge tantrum. We finished our lunches in a hurry and threw Angus in the stroller and tried to walk him around to get him to shut up. It was a bright summer day, so we had the stroller visor completely pulled down, so you couldn't see him. But everyone heard him. We walked four blocks downtown, engulfed in tourists milling around, paving the way with our screaming carriage. I think at one point, I stopped and stuck my head in the stroller and yelled, "WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!!" People stopped and stared in surprise.
I finally got to the point where I didn't even care what people thought anymore. I used to worry that people would think that the reason my baby screamed so much was because we deliberately starved him. I thought everyone else's babies were all serene, easy-going babies. That's how it appears on the surface anyway. Nobody wants to admit their child is a nightmare.
Anyway, it seems so long ago now. He's such a delightful baby now, I can't even remember those awful three months unless I really try.
I don't know how we survived it. I actually don't even think we were conscious most of the time. We had to shut our emotions down. We had to forget who we were for three months. Something switches on when you're a parent, and even if you're the most incompetent, ignorant asshole who had a baby, you have no choice but to just DEAL. You don't have a say in the matter, you just do it automatically. You don't even think about it. And somehow the baby survives.
My heart goes out to parents of colicky babies. Hearing "It only lasts for three months" can be more despairing than comforting. All I can say is, have faith that your baby will wake up one day out of the blue, smiling sweetly at you, the sun will shine out of his ass, and you will totally forget that you once googled "How to sell a baby on the black market."
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Oh Canada!
It's eight thirty in the morning and Angus is already napping. He'd only been awake for forty-five minutes before getting growly, so I put him back to bed. I greeted the day this morning full of enthusiasm and drive, intending to clean up and unpack, and generally just be productive. I was going to take advantage of Angus napping to get stuff done for once - as soon as I finished my book.
I just finished my book.
Now I'm on the internet, ignoring the debris of dirty dishes and clothes and half unpacked boxes strewn about.
The primary school is about two blocks away from here, and every morning at this time I can hear the Canadian anthem playing over the loudspeaker. At first I thought it was just an assembly, because I remember from school always having to sing the anthem at the beginning of assemblies. But then I realized that I hear it every morning! How patriotic! I love starting the day being reminded to be a proud Canadian.
My sister-in-laws boyfriend mentioned that this place is the most "Canadian" place he's been, and it's true.
In the 'other' house (the one with the ghosts - have fun with those ghosts Natasha and Bryce! Er, squirrels, riiiiight) I'd look out the window and either be looking at a very old church, gravestones, or a very large tank beside a war monument, proudly bearing the names of fallen soldiers. Did I mention the Canadian flags fluttering majestically in the Atlantic wind?
It fills me with pride.
Last night we took Angus to get his four-month shots. He's already over five months old, but we missed the shots in all the excitement of moving.
They were scheduled for seven 'o clock at night. What a ridiculous time of day to do immunizations! I believe kids should be in bed by that time! Mine usually is. Or at least napping. Or resisting sleep and grinning at me in the dark.
As soon as we got to the hospital I could feel my irritation begin to bubble. It wasn't just Angus getting his shots - I guess they have certain days they do immunizations, so the hallway was crowded with parents and their germy, snotty, bratty children. It was blistering hot in there, and Angus and I were both sweating and cranky.
The timing was terrible - I had just gotten Angus to sleep and then I had to wake him up to get him to the hospital on time. He was overtired and probably hungry, and so he was the only baby fussing and squawking BEFORE he had his shots.
I'm not a fan of other's people's children, unless they're someone I know. I especially don't like being trapped in a hot, germy hallway, that smells like baby shit and cigarette smoke, surrounded by other foreign children probably rampant with GERMS, listening to each child scream as they went in and got jabbed.
Angus, of course, screamed. Oh, he didn't just scream, he SCREEEEEAMED. He was PISSED OFF. It broke my heart, of course. After that you're supposed to wait around for fifteen minutes, but after five, I grabbed Aaron's arm and we fled.
And the worst part is, we have to go back, because I couldn't remember if he's had his Hepatitis immunizations in B.C., and do you think I know where his records are? I have a vague recollection of the nurse handing me a piece of paper after his last set of shots, and me vacantly stuffing it into my handbag, where it probably got lost and disappeared forever along with all the crumpled up reciepts, half-used chapsticks, and dirty, stray sticks of gum.
Anyway. Enough procrastinating.
I just finished my book.
Now I'm on the internet, ignoring the debris of dirty dishes and clothes and half unpacked boxes strewn about.
The primary school is about two blocks away from here, and every morning at this time I can hear the Canadian anthem playing over the loudspeaker. At first I thought it was just an assembly, because I remember from school always having to sing the anthem at the beginning of assemblies. But then I realized that I hear it every morning! How patriotic! I love starting the day being reminded to be a proud Canadian.
My sister-in-laws boyfriend mentioned that this place is the most "Canadian" place he's been, and it's true.
In the 'other' house (the one with the ghosts - have fun with those ghosts Natasha and Bryce! Er, squirrels, riiiiight) I'd look out the window and either be looking at a very old church, gravestones, or a very large tank beside a war monument, proudly bearing the names of fallen soldiers. Did I mention the Canadian flags fluttering majestically in the Atlantic wind?
It fills me with pride.
Last night we took Angus to get his four-month shots. He's already over five months old, but we missed the shots in all the excitement of moving.
They were scheduled for seven 'o clock at night. What a ridiculous time of day to do immunizations! I believe kids should be in bed by that time! Mine usually is. Or at least napping. Or resisting sleep and grinning at me in the dark.
As soon as we got to the hospital I could feel my irritation begin to bubble. It wasn't just Angus getting his shots - I guess they have certain days they do immunizations, so the hallway was crowded with parents and their germy, snotty, bratty children. It was blistering hot in there, and Angus and I were both sweating and cranky.
The timing was terrible - I had just gotten Angus to sleep and then I had to wake him up to get him to the hospital on time. He was overtired and probably hungry, and so he was the only baby fussing and squawking BEFORE he had his shots.
I'm not a fan of other's people's children, unless they're someone I know. I especially don't like being trapped in a hot, germy hallway, that smells like baby shit and cigarette smoke, surrounded by other foreign children probably rampant with GERMS, listening to each child scream as they went in and got jabbed.
Angus, of course, screamed. Oh, he didn't just scream, he SCREEEEEAMED. He was PISSED OFF. It broke my heart, of course. After that you're supposed to wait around for fifteen minutes, but after five, I grabbed Aaron's arm and we fled.
And the worst part is, we have to go back, because I couldn't remember if he's had his Hepatitis immunizations in B.C., and do you think I know where his records are? I have a vague recollection of the nurse handing me a piece of paper after his last set of shots, and me vacantly stuffing it into my handbag, where it probably got lost and disappeared forever along with all the crumpled up reciepts, half-used chapsticks, and dirty, stray sticks of gum.
Anyway. Enough procrastinating.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Angus's mom loses her marbles.
Well, now that we're officially in our new apartment, which is still not quite finished, things are very quiet. Being at home alone with a baby is very isolating, but for right now, I'm kind of enjoying it. Being alone has never been a problem for me, and I still don't know if it's because I grew up an only child so I'm used to it, or if it's a personality trait. If I'd grown up with brother's and sister's, would I still be the type to enjoy her own company just fine?
Angus likes to have an audience. When the seven of us were all squished into the one house, tripping over each other and biting our tongues and smiling to keep from snapping at each other, Angus thrived. Somebody was always interacting with him, and he heard people's voices all day. Now it's back to just him and I. It's been two months since it was just the two of us.
He's been very quiet and observant today. He keeps staring intensely at me, as if he's suddenly remembering who I am again, after being constantly entertained by everyone else for the last couple of months. He seems disappointed in me. I don't blame him, I'm not very entertaining. I've been struggling with what to do with him.
I'm not one for baby talk. I'm not one for talking much anyway... but talking to a baby is a huge effort. I feel like it's something I should be doing, but I honestly don't know how. Since baby-talk is out of the question for me, I try and talk to him like a normal person, but I feel silly, like I'm talking to myself. His response is usually one of his intense stares, usually with an eyebrow raised mockingly. He DOES like baby-talk - his grandma does it perfectly, and usually has him grinning and giggling, but I just can't do it myself. I feel like he knows I'm a fraud.
I feel like I should be playing with him more, but I don't even know how to do that either. Anyway, he usually ignores my ridiculous attempts at playing, shoots me a look of contempt and then returns to whatever toy or piece of furniture he was mouthing before I interrupted him.
I have to be honest - I'm looking forward to when he gets a little older and we can have conversations. Or at least understand each other a little better. I'm looking forward to when he is walking around, so I don't have to haul his 22 pound butt around with me everywhere I go. I'm looking forward to when he's out of diapers, because no matter how many poopy diapers I change, I still gag and want to barf. I just about retch every time I have to retrieve a booger out of his nose. (It'll be great when he can pick his own nose.)
I'm looking forward to hearing the appalling things that come out of his mouth when he's three. If he's anything like his daddy, it should be entertaining. Apparently Aaron was quite the talker when he was a toddler. A chauvanist, even. He used to hang out with all the guys. Once he walked up to his mother, who was drinking a beer, and said, "Mom, beer is for mens!"
Anyway, it's not like we're totally alone. Grandma and grandpa live right downstairs, so when I feel like I'm failing miserably at mothering, I can always go downstairs and deposit Angus at their doorstep.
On another note, this morning I looked out the window and saw a paramedic parked in a driveway across the street. It made me feel like there is something suspicious and ominous in the air, as there have already been two deaths in the last little while on this street. The other day a woman, probably elderly, was walking along and dropped dead on the sidewalk from a heart attack. A couple weeks, or months ago, some guy hung himself.
I'm probably being very superstitious. I always thought I had to much common sense to believe in ghosts or superstitions, but lately my imagination has been getting the better of me. All the houses here are ancient, and I always find myself wondering what kind of past lives happened in the house we're living in. Did anybody die in this house? Aaron told me the house next door has been empty for sixteen years, and apparently thousands of dollars were found stashed somewhere. What kind of person stashes that much money? How come the house has been empty for so long?
In the house where we were living, (Aaron's grandparent's old house) two sides of the property are flanked by a cemetary. (One the other side is a large TANK.) In our bedroom, there was a closet, and another door that led to the attic. I SWORE I heard thumping noises coming from that closet! Ghosts, I'm telling you.
Angus likes to have an audience. When the seven of us were all squished into the one house, tripping over each other and biting our tongues and smiling to keep from snapping at each other, Angus thrived. Somebody was always interacting with him, and he heard people's voices all day. Now it's back to just him and I. It's been two months since it was just the two of us.
He's been very quiet and observant today. He keeps staring intensely at me, as if he's suddenly remembering who I am again, after being constantly entertained by everyone else for the last couple of months. He seems disappointed in me. I don't blame him, I'm not very entertaining. I've been struggling with what to do with him.
I'm not one for baby talk. I'm not one for talking much anyway... but talking to a baby is a huge effort. I feel like it's something I should be doing, but I honestly don't know how. Since baby-talk is out of the question for me, I try and talk to him like a normal person, but I feel silly, like I'm talking to myself. His response is usually one of his intense stares, usually with an eyebrow raised mockingly. He DOES like baby-talk - his grandma does it perfectly, and usually has him grinning and giggling, but I just can't do it myself. I feel like he knows I'm a fraud.
I feel like I should be playing with him more, but I don't even know how to do that either. Anyway, he usually ignores my ridiculous attempts at playing, shoots me a look of contempt and then returns to whatever toy or piece of furniture he was mouthing before I interrupted him.
I have to be honest - I'm looking forward to when he gets a little older and we can have conversations. Or at least understand each other a little better. I'm looking forward to when he is walking around, so I don't have to haul his 22 pound butt around with me everywhere I go. I'm looking forward to when he's out of diapers, because no matter how many poopy diapers I change, I still gag and want to barf. I just about retch every time I have to retrieve a booger out of his nose. (It'll be great when he can pick his own nose.)
I'm looking forward to hearing the appalling things that come out of his mouth when he's three. If he's anything like his daddy, it should be entertaining. Apparently Aaron was quite the talker when he was a toddler. A chauvanist, even. He used to hang out with all the guys. Once he walked up to his mother, who was drinking a beer, and said, "Mom, beer is for mens!"
Anyway, it's not like we're totally alone. Grandma and grandpa live right downstairs, so when I feel like I'm failing miserably at mothering, I can always go downstairs and deposit Angus at their doorstep.
On another note, this morning I looked out the window and saw a paramedic parked in a driveway across the street. It made me feel like there is something suspicious and ominous in the air, as there have already been two deaths in the last little while on this street. The other day a woman, probably elderly, was walking along and dropped dead on the sidewalk from a heart attack. A couple weeks, or months ago, some guy hung himself.
I'm probably being very superstitious. I always thought I had to much common sense to believe in ghosts or superstitions, but lately my imagination has been getting the better of me. All the houses here are ancient, and I always find myself wondering what kind of past lives happened in the house we're living in. Did anybody die in this house? Aaron told me the house next door has been empty for sixteen years, and apparently thousands of dollars were found stashed somewhere. What kind of person stashes that much money? How come the house has been empty for so long?
In the house where we were living, (Aaron's grandparent's old house) two sides of the property are flanked by a cemetary. (One the other side is a large TANK.) In our bedroom, there was a closet, and another door that led to the attic. I SWORE I heard thumping noises coming from that closet! Ghosts, I'm telling you.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Oh, the suppository!
Another FIRST, in the adventures of parenthood! Warning - this is a descriptive post about poop.
Apologies again for my absence... Occasionally I go through periods where I'm embarrassed that I'm one of those people who writes things and posts them on the internet because I have this huge ego and believe that everybody on the world wide interweb needs to hear my story.
Then my friend Ashley asked me why I wasn't blogging anymore. Then my inflated sense of importance came back, and here I am, as irritating and narcissistic as ever before!
But you want to hear about the suppository, don't you!
Well, for the last few weeks, we've started Angus on solid food. Well, not exactly solid, as it's usually pureed or mashed beyond recognition, but food different than breast milk anyway. It started because the six of us would sit down to dinner, and I'd plunk Angus in his exersaucer, and he'd watch us eat, and he'd whine and whinge at being left out. So I'd pick him up and sit him on my lap, but that made eating one-handed difficult, plus he'd be swiping at everything within reach, including knives and glasses and whatever was on my dinner plate.
We started putting him in his high chair. His grandma had bought boxes of infant cereal so we thought we'd give it a try. I guess from watching us eat every night, he knew just what to do! I don't think eating will be a problem for this kid. He opens his mouth wide when he sees the spoon coming, gums it for a while, and actually swallows it, unlike some babies who eject the foreign food as soon as it passes their lips. Afterwards he wipes his face with his bib, then climbs out of his chair and goes and washes his dishes.
So we did this occasionally, trying rice cereal, oat cereal, mashed banana, and pureed carrots. THEN, one fateful evening about six days ago, we tried STAGE TWO cereal. And then he stopped pooping. This was a bit of a concern. I knew that it was normal for babies to go a while between poops. But this was not normal for MY baby, who's as regular and predictable as the church bells on Sunday... The pharmacist also told me yesterday that doctors usually have no problem letting a baby go ten days without pooping. TEN DAYS! Can you imagine how ten days of NOT pooping would feel?
For five days, wherever Angus went, a green haze followed. The smelliest farts you could ever imagine. One night, Aaron actually went to sleep on the couch, after having his nose hairs burned off and suffocating from these rotten fumes. (Angus is still in bed with us - NOT by our choice.... that's another story.) It got to the point where even Angus's PEE even started to smell bad, which I began to think was because none of the toxins in his body were being released anywhere else.
So off we went to see a pharmacist, who informed us that we would have to insert something in our poor little baby's bottom. Aaron and I looked at each other, horrified.
But the end of this story is actually pretty anti-climactic. The suppository involved inserting a little stick of glycerin in Angus's bum (which was a lot less horrifying that we'd thought it would be), then holding his bum cheeks closed for a few seconds. After this I put five diapers on him, then wrapped him up in plastic, covered myself in towels, and then nursed him. I didn't even notice that he'd already pooped! Normally everyone within a two-block radius can hear this child pooping, but this one was silent. I was expecting some kind of nuclear bomb, but to my disappointment, it was just a normal, albeit silent, poop.
The end.
The moral of the story is - pooping leads to happiness.
Apologies again for my absence... Occasionally I go through periods where I'm embarrassed that I'm one of those people who writes things and posts them on the internet because I have this huge ego and believe that everybody on the world wide interweb needs to hear my story.
Then my friend Ashley asked me why I wasn't blogging anymore. Then my inflated sense of importance came back, and here I am, as irritating and narcissistic as ever before!
But you want to hear about the suppository, don't you!
Well, for the last few weeks, we've started Angus on solid food. Well, not exactly solid, as it's usually pureed or mashed beyond recognition, but food different than breast milk anyway. It started because the six of us would sit down to dinner, and I'd plunk Angus in his exersaucer, and he'd watch us eat, and he'd whine and whinge at being left out. So I'd pick him up and sit him on my lap, but that made eating one-handed difficult, plus he'd be swiping at everything within reach, including knives and glasses and whatever was on my dinner plate.
We started putting him in his high chair. His grandma had bought boxes of infant cereal so we thought we'd give it a try. I guess from watching us eat every night, he knew just what to do! I don't think eating will be a problem for this kid. He opens his mouth wide when he sees the spoon coming, gums it for a while, and actually swallows it, unlike some babies who eject the foreign food as soon as it passes their lips. Afterwards he wipes his face with his bib, then climbs out of his chair and goes and washes his dishes.
So we did this occasionally, trying rice cereal, oat cereal, mashed banana, and pureed carrots. THEN, one fateful evening about six days ago, we tried STAGE TWO cereal. And then he stopped pooping. This was a bit of a concern. I knew that it was normal for babies to go a while between poops. But this was not normal for MY baby, who's as regular and predictable as the church bells on Sunday... The pharmacist also told me yesterday that doctors usually have no problem letting a baby go ten days without pooping. TEN DAYS! Can you imagine how ten days of NOT pooping would feel?
For five days, wherever Angus went, a green haze followed. The smelliest farts you could ever imagine. One night, Aaron actually went to sleep on the couch, after having his nose hairs burned off and suffocating from these rotten fumes. (Angus is still in bed with us - NOT by our choice.... that's another story.) It got to the point where even Angus's PEE even started to smell bad, which I began to think was because none of the toxins in his body were being released anywhere else.
So off we went to see a pharmacist, who informed us that we would have to insert something in our poor little baby's bottom. Aaron and I looked at each other, horrified.
But the end of this story is actually pretty anti-climactic. The suppository involved inserting a little stick of glycerin in Angus's bum (which was a lot less horrifying that we'd thought it would be), then holding his bum cheeks closed for a few seconds. After this I put five diapers on him, then wrapped him up in plastic, covered myself in towels, and then nursed him. I didn't even notice that he'd already pooped! Normally everyone within a two-block radius can hear this child pooping, but this one was silent. I was expecting some kind of nuclear bomb, but to my disappointment, it was just a normal, albeit silent, poop.
The end.
The moral of the story is - pooping leads to happiness.
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