Dear Fraggle, Don't Ever Let Me Stop You From Being Who You Are

Dear Fraggle,

You are generally a polite and cooperative little person. But every single time we ask you to go to the bathroom, you squawk and resist with ferocity.

Once you eventually concede, you spend 15 minutes doing god knows what in there. It doesn't seem to matter how often we ask you not to play in the bathroom, you are not deterred.

I think it's because, most of the time, your play isn't "play." Your play is work. You're working on something. You're practising, observing, exploring - and doing so in the most direct, linear way possible. The way a surgeon practises sewing up dolls.

So tonight, just after you went to bed, you got up to go to the bathroom just one more time "Because... In the middle of the night, if I *really* need to go pee, I can. Yeah I can. It's ok Mama."

You were in there for a while, but Hubby and I didn't pay much attention.

And then, just now, when I came up to bed, I found this on my bathroom counter.

A handful of about 50 sheets of toilet paper. Individually separated and stacked in a perfect little Fraggle pile.

And I've never been so happy.

Because this is YOU my darling. Quietly working in the bathroom and then toddling off to sleep on your own.

I love you. You are my joy.

Mama

How to be good at chores in 16 easy steps

Parenthood is an unrelenting barrage of chores. It's a barrage of other things too, but the chores - good god the chores.

Now, to be clear, I don't really care about chores. My house is not one of those pristine magazine houses. On a good day, it barely passes for hygienic. My house is a solid tolerable, and often in some state of repair or renovation (thank you Hubby).

Generally my house borders on embarrassing, but can sometimes look like at least I turned on the robot vacuum.

However, I still do chores. A fucking endless, painful, surprising series of chores that keep my house precariously perched on the fence between "hmm what's that lingering stench?" and "holy shit we gotta call someone my socks are stuck to the floor wait is that poop of course it is what else would it be."

So today I had a single chore goal. Usually, I have zero chore goals. Each day passes with a three-year old yelling and running and making all matter of messes (including, but not limited to, playdoh on the table, milk on the couch, rice on the floor, and paint in her hair) as well as a six-month old who actively spits all of his saliva, food and breastmilk on any and all surfaces.

Whatever chores get done in between all that are a miracle. On an average day, the dishes don't get done and piles of clean and/or dirty laundry become excellent floor pillows for Hubby and I during our best "yes I'm parenting even if I am laying on the floor with my eyes closed" moments.

But this morning, Fraggle marched into our bedroom at her precise 7:17 and announced that her nighttime diaper had leaked into her pants, and therefore into her sheets.

Enter: chore goal.

Today's chore simply had to ensure that I am a good enough parent that my kid doesn't have to sleep in a possibly pee-ish bed.

Chore goal failed, as I'm sure you predicted. Because life.  Fraggle napped in her possibly pee-ish sheets this afternoon.

BUT - I did not allow myself to be deterred. I swore, tonight I will be a better parent than I was this morning. Tonight I will change those godforsaken sheets if it kills me.

And kill me it nearly did.

After washing windows, making dinner, sorting closets, and then feeding, bathing and bedding the baby, this is what it takes to complete a single chore goal in my house:

Step 1 - Strip the pee-ish sheets.

Step 2 - Realize you don't have a clean sheet.

Step 3 - Go down to the main floor to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, for the clean sheet.

Step 4 - Return upstairs, put away those clean clothes, spread out the clean sheet but then realize you don't have a clean towel to lay under the sheet to protect the mattress from other pee-ish nights.

Step 5 - Go down to the basement to retrieve a clean towel from the dryer.

Step 6 - Fold all the laundry from the dryer and put it into a hamper.

Step 7 - Put the wet stuff from the washer into the dryer.

Step 8 - Put new stuff in the washer.

Step 9 - Carry the hamper up - wait, stop - scoop the kitty litter.

Step 10 - Wash hands.

Step 11 - Carry the bag of cat feces up to the garbage.

Step 12 - Take the recycling out because it's overflowing on the back deck and Hubby keeps ranting about it.

Step 13 - Wash hands.

Step 14 - Return to the basement to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, dig out the clean towel buried at the bottom because fucking idiot.

Step 15 - Heave the clean laundry hamper up the stairs and make the child's bed.

Step 16 - Put the pee-ish sheets into another hamper - wait, stop - all the hampers are already in use fuck that - launch the dirty pee-ish sheets over the stair railing.

Oh, and, you have to do all that silently because - duh - sleeping baby.

There it is.  Now you, too, can be the best mediocre parent. You're welcome. Pass the beer.

I think my daughter is moving out soon

My daughter just turned three... and how does the rest of that story go...? She just turned three and then she got a car and then she graduated and then she had her own kids and then I died.

Ok, so maybe it isn't quite as abrupt as all that. But it feels like it.

Fraggle just turned three and she continues to remind me - in endless, hilarious, and infuriating ways - how quickly she's growing up and getting ready to leave me.  She's quickly becoming a not-so-small person.  She has (mostly) logical expectations and (usually) an effective method of articulating them. She has impressive skills and abilities. She's figuring shit out you guys. And it scares the hell out of me. I'm pretty sure I could leave her alone for, like, three or four hours and she'd be totally fine.  She'd probably make me dinner.  She'd at least wash the floor.  

This child has an astute memory and level of determination that rivals most adults. Not just the regular adults - the bold and feisty ones.  Months ago, when asked what she wanted for her birthday, she was quite clear: a(nother) pink stuffy cat, a teddy bear, and a big bucket of animal "guys" (to accompany her existing collection of no less than 80 miniature animals of various types).

When asked the same questions on subsequent occasions, she'd sometimes add something new ("And a train, Mama. And a dog. And a tv.") But despite these additions, her commitment to the pink cat, teddy bear and bucket of guys never wavered.  So of course we obliged, and she was not at all surprised.  She did, however, ask why she didn't get a train.  (No matter that her favourite gift was actually one she didn't ask for - a collection of fake food that she sorts and hoards like she's preparing for the apocalypse.)

This child is also very self-sufficient, and she knows how to use it to her advantage.  Each night after we jump through the 35 bedtime hoops, she says goodnight, all tucked in and ready for sleep.  And three minutes later she emerges to announce that she has to pee.  Again.  For the fourth time in the last hour.  She walks herself to the bathroom, turns on the light (pulling the ribbon we've placed for her), carefully (and quietly, so as not to wake her baby Warner Brother) places her stool, pees, wipes, washes her hands, dries them ("I dry dem berry berry way-o so I don't get all my fings wet"), turns off the light, and returns to bed.

Now, you may say that's great - and it is - but it's also frightening.  This is a prime example of my daughter very strategically working the system.  This child knows we will not - nay, cannot - say no to pee. She knows she gets to leave her bed, no matter what, and that we have to like it.  She knows. She reads it in our eyes.  And although her voice says "I have to pee, ok Mama and Dada?" her eyes respond to ours with "Yep I'm going pee.  Right? You're not gonna do anything about it, are you? Nope. See you in a few, suckers."

There are a million other examples of this little three-turning-thirteen masterpiece that are equal parts impressive and terrifying. She breastfeeds her baby doll. She finds the exclamation points in her books. She spells CAT. She weeds the garden. She climbs the rock wall at the park and swings on the big-kid swing, by herself. She knows the name of our street, city, province and country.  She dances at weddings.  She even watches Full House.

On the bright side, she may need me for a few more years - at least to help her pronounce anything with a second consonant after an S, and possibly to log her into Netflix.  So at least there's that.

Easier doesn't mean easy

When I was pregnant with this Warner Brother, several of my friends told me how easy the second child was.  Less anxiety they said.  Less stress they said.  More knowledge, more tolerance, more confidence, they said.

All of that is true.

However: More or less of something does not equate to all or none of something.

Newborndom is certainly less anxious and less stressful this time around. I don't panic as easily regarding his well being.  I don't worry as much because I sorta have the hang of this.  I know when he's hungry, I can tell when his cries are gas, I have an idea how to teach him to nap, and I totally knew as soon as I saw his first real smile.   I don't have to learn as much, so I can enjoy more.

Although I feel tremendous empathy for the first-time parents in my life who have not yet caught up to my level of experience, I still want to be completely clear:

This is not easy.

I am not one of those parents who "forgot" how hard it was.  I remember the misery of newborndom. I remember walking her around the mall trying to get her to sleep.  I remember standing over her bassinet with my pinky finger in her mouth for endless minutes, maybe hours.  I remember the fear associated with her breastmilk intake - nipple shields, pricey consultants, painful boobs, and cold washcloths on her bare, sleepy back.  I remember late-night cluster feeds, kicky gas legs, and crying on the bathroom floor (me, not her).  I remember whisper-arguing with Hubby and assuming we'd be divorced by the end of the day.  (He would have called a lawyer if he didn't have a sleeping baby on his lap.  The survival of this marriage is attributed to a long nap and a rescue visit from @msfreshfish.)

After all of this, though, I also remember that IT GOT BETTER.  I remember drinking coffee while she peacefully napped, visiting with friends, playing in the sun, smiling above her on a yoga mat.

So, when we diligently weighed the benefits and risks of a second baby, I was not operating in a hormonal or sentimental illusion. I knew precisely what I was in for.  Disaster at first, and generally ongoing heartache and exhaustion in one form or another for the foreseeable future.

Until my friends confused me.  They somehow convinced me this would be effortless.  They claimed "It's so easy this time!" And sure, by comparison, it can be... easy - but only in relation to last time.  Not standing alone.

Standing alone, this experience is just a different kind of impossibly hard.  I still only get two hours of sleep at any given time, except I also have to entertain a toddler most of the day.  I still have a baby who won't allow me to set him down, but I also have a toddler asking for my help to reach the soap/put her socks on/play in her tent.  I still spray breastmilk all over the house, except I also spray it into my toddler's dinner.  I still have to whisper and tiptoe all day long while he attempts to sleep, but I also have to make a toddler whisper and tiptoe while she attempts to play live.

I still have the hard parts - albeit minus some of the anxiety - but with a whole other whack of shit to fill its place.

I still have to take off to the children's hospital when my infant seems to have a fever (with the same unnecessary panic attack). Except this time, I have to do it by myself while Hubby stays home with our other precious child who just wants me to tuck her in.

The constant competition between opposite emotions is staggering. Parenting is wonderful. It's bliss. It's joy. It's pride. It's a gift that we are ever-grateful for. It is an incredible satisfaction, a surprising sense of purpose, an indescribable love.  But it is never easy.

Dear Fraggle, My favourite little girl

Dear Baby Fraggle,

Except you're not a baby anymore.

When I was pregnant with the Warner Brother, another mom told me that when she left for the hospital in labour with her second child she had a little toddler at home.  But when she returned home with a new infant she had a giant child waiting for her.  In those few hours her baby had become a life-sized person.

This is what you are, my darling.  A person, the size of life.

You have big finger-paint handprints and a big grownup head that you squeeze through a 3T shirt hole all by yourself. You tell jokes. "I am going to... put DoDo Cat in the toilet! Nooo!"  You play. "Ine just tryin to be funny!" You run away from a Mama Monster. You hide and seek (mostly hide and then reveal yourself shortly thereafter.)

You elaborate. "When, when, when it's Friday? When it's Friday, I stay home and watch *whispers* Peppa Pig and I can have branna cake and when it gets womma out we can, we can play with my water table. You remember my water table Mama? And we can put bubbles wit soap in dare."

You sing full songs with perfect pitch.  "Down by the bay.  Where the watermelons grow.  Back to my home. I dare not go. For if I do. My Fraggle would say.  Have you ever seen a ducky, driving a fucky? Down by the bay!"

You help.  With everything.  "Can I HELP?" Laundry, dishes, dinner, washing the cupboards, washing the table, and now bathing and changing the Baby Brother.  You totally understand his existence. You know that he was in my belly, but now he came out ("You push him out yike dis uhhhh and now you can bend over and put my boots on.") You know Baby Brother is crying because he can't talk.  And he sleeps a lot.  And baby brothers will poop, and baby brothers will cry, "and you better watch out or he pee in your eye!" And he loves you; you know he loves you.  

And my darling, when I was in labour - major active labour - waiting in the car to drive you to daycare, you were so patient and calm.  You were quiet, but not too scared.  You just wanted to finish your breakfast, but there wasn't time.  You knew what was happening.  You are so smart my dear, so clever, so understanding.

You are such a lovely person.  I am so proud of who you are.  I sincerely adore spending time with you.  You are a joy.  You are my joy.

I miss you so much right now, two weeks into newborndom.  I am pulled toward two little beings for whom I have unimaginable, aching, heartbreaking, all-powerful, knee-weakening love.  Two beings that I want to be with, want to be for, every single moment of every single day.  But life doesn't work that way, does it? As I'm always telling you, sometimes we can't have what we want.  And that fact makes me want to scream like you do when things don't go the right way.

I wanted you both so much. I wanted this big, full family that I didn't have when I was small.  Now I have you, but I can't quite have enough. I sit here with tears down my face because I am in so much love and there just isn't enough of me.

Wait for me, my lovely.  I will come back.  I will always, always, do everything I can to be there for you, even when it isn't enough.  Ultimately, we will all be here, all four of us, together in this life.  I love you my baby.  My favourite little girl.

Goddamit, New Year. Gimme a break.

Happy New Year!  And sincere apologies if you, too, are in the process of readjusting to the throes of Real Life.  

Having 10 days of vacation during the Christmas holidays is a blessing and a curse.  What we actually need is 10 days off beforehand to prepare all the things (Sorry Gram, I haven’t mailed your gift yet but I still love you.), and then 10 days off afterward to recover.  

If you’re like me, you run yourself ragged before and during Christmas (Sure, let’s make lunch for 15 people on Boxing Day.), and then spend the remaining holiday sitting in your pajamas eating Lindt chocolates and watching Downton Abbey.  

Until.  

Until the return to Real Life, where all of a sudden it snows two feet, and shifts from a balmy, non-winter 16 degrees on Christmas Eve, to a painful, colder-than-a-witch’s-titty minus 30 degrees the Monday I return to work.  

This is all miserable for most people, I’d venture.  For me, add a toddler who needs to wear nine layers of wool and can’t zip up her own snowsuit because her giant mittens turn her arms into little, useless, puffy snowman sticks floating off the side of her body.  Plus:  A tiny human growing increasingly cumbersome in my abdomen, making it near impossible to bend, sit, stand, breathe, or otherwise function.  

It’s all a bit much.  

Then today happened.  Still minus 30 degrees, still a floating arm toddler, still a breathless mess, and – wait for it – stuck in a snowbank.  

Driving away from daycare, I misjudged (read: didn’t look at) the width of the poorly-ploughed residential street and drove into a pile of snow/ice boulders and couldn’t move an inch.  I don’t know if you’ve ever floored your car in reverse, but if you’re stuck, nothing happens except a big cloud of exhaust.  

The whole situation left me hunched over the front wheel, seven months pregnant, sad and tiny yellow shovel in hand, ridiculous pashmina scarf in my face, hacking away at the bottom of my already demolished bumper.  At minus 30.  With the gas light on - because of course it was.  

Fifteen minutes and several cursey rants later, I managed to rock my car free and make it to a gas station in time to pump 17 dollars’ worth of over-priced gas at a freezing, windy gas station.   

I’ll take my year on maternity leave with no sleep and a screaming baby now, thanks.  

Because toddler.

Insisting on being left alone to pee with the door closed, and proceeding to unravel and entire roll of toilet paper and feed it into the toilet. 

Singing Happy Birthday to the candle inside the jack-o-lantern. 

Singing Happy Birthday when the Christmas lights turn on. 

Insisting on singing the wheels on the bus all. the. time. 

Singing the ABCs and completely messing up the LMNOP part. 

Counting to 30 but always forgetting one of the teens. 

Playing make-believe with several small figurine horses inside a giant styrofoam box on the front lawn. 

Apologising to her own toe for stubbing it. So-yee toe! 

Carrying handfuls of leaves to the paper garbage bag. 

Yelling "self!" whenever anyone offers to help, or hands her something, or touches her. 

Asking "What *dat* noise?" for EVERY SINGLE SOUND EVER HEARD BY HUMANS. 

Yelling MAMA from her bed. Repeatedly. For 15 minutes. 

Peeing the couch. 

Doing puzzles better than I do. 

Running in giant, endless circles around the dining room, fanatically screeching at maximum lung capacity with surprisingly ear-piercing pitch, until she's falling-over dizzy and punch-drunk. 

Working Parent Morning Parenting

Of all the brands of parenting I've been attempting for 22 + 9 months (Late Night Feeding Parenting, Child Throwing Food Parenting, Child Falling of the Bed Face Bruise Parenting), I think the most challenging/ridiculous brand of parenting is Working Parent Morning Parenting.

Yesterday morning, I arrived at work having forgotten my office employee pass, so I borrowed one from the security desk, thereby having to trade my driver's license.  Seems like an unfair trade, but there it is.  

Then yesterday evening, upon leaving work, I forgot to trade back, so I drove home without a driver's license.  ("Sorry Officer, will my temporary employee pass suffice?")

Last night before bed, I carefully and deliberately set my temporary pass on top of my employee pass, perched on the bathroom counter, so I would remember to bring both to the office in the morning.  

Enter: Working Parent Morning Parenting.  

Working Parent Morning Parenting means frantically brushing my teeth and curling my hair while Fraggle yells "MAHMA!" from her crib.  It means pulling Fraggle away from the cat, whose tail does not want to be yanked like tug-of-war. It means forgetting deodorant at least twice a week.  It means forgetting to put socks on, but deciding to go without because running back upstairs to get some isn't worth it.  It means arriving at work with sweaty bare feet that won't come out of my boots.  It means that I'm a coked-out chicken with multiple heads, all cut off.  

And so, of course, this morning I did not remember either of my employee passes.  Both are patiently waiting, as we speak, on the bathroom counter, meaning I had to approach the security desk this morning, requesting a second temporary pass.  

Why can't I just go home?

Dear Fraggle, Just learn the good stuff, k?

Dear Fraggle,

Newsflash my baby: Lately you are less "baby", more "small human taking over our house." You recently turned 18 months old, and it is finally becoming clear to me what people meant when they promised this parent job would get fun - because holy hell my little monkey, you are so. much. FUN.

Sure, raising a small human is still hellish on a fairly frequent basis.  There are moments when literally pulling out my hair seems like a perfectly reasonable reaction to a toddler who just hit me in the face or chucked her dinner across the room.

That said, those hellish moments are becoming more balanced with neat, hilarious, fun things that I had never quite anticipated, that I am grateful for, that I wish could be bottled and preserved forever.  Like scotch.  (That's a bad example.  Don't drink scotch.)

My point is, Fraggle, you're making our lives so much more fun than they were before.  Life before you was, well, boring, as far as I can tell.  Life now is exhausting, yes, but also exceptionally engaging.  For example...

You talk.  

Like, a lot.

Before I went to sleep the other night, I was counting sheep baby words.  You have almost 40 distinct, regular words - plus a dozen hand signs, a couple special squeals, and a minimum of 50 animal sounds, including camel and penguin.

Obviously there are only a handful of people who can understand these "words," but that fact matters very little when you look at me and say "sheesh" (meaning, please, I want that, help me mama); or "bAL" (meaning, hey look, a balloon); or "WHOA" (meaning, WHOA LOOK AT HOW COOL THAT IS I CAN'T BELIEVE IT).  Or my personal silent favourite: tapping one hand on top of the other when we chase/tickle/toss you (meaning, more! more!).

Communicating with you, my darling Fraggle, is the highlight of my day.


You dance.  

You adore music, bursting a giant grin and wide eyes that light up your face when you hear a guitar strum or a drum beat.

Even better than witnessing the beaming smile is watching you dance (aka run) around our kitchen - with moves including the Knee-bend, the Moonwalk, the Smooth Criminal, and your most recent addition, the Peg Leg.


You count.  

Kinda.  It's more like pointing. You point at all the frogs, or bears or butterflies and say "da da da" as I count.  You understand the concept - a concept that you wouldn't catch if someone (that is, we, your parents) didn't teach you.  

What I'm getting at is that you learn.

You are a person that I grew inside my body, and who, since that time, has absorbed every minor tidbit of seemingly useless information, and then somehow successfully applied it to your own little world.

You use a spoon.  You stack cups.  You tidy up.  You carry your pajamas into the bathroom.  You clap and say "yaaay!" when you place a puzzle piece.  You have a hand sign for toilet, and you run to your potty, hand waving, when you're about to pee.

You copy everything.  You hear everything.  You observe everything and store it away for later.  And when you reveal some new thing you've learned, I get to think to myself: "I taught her that. She got that from me."

Unfortunately, that whole copy-cat thing is bound to bite me in the ass.  One day you'll crack your neck like a prize-fighter, or argue with a stranger in a parking lot, or shovel a slab of cheesecake into your face like it will save your life.  And on those days, I'll have to be there apologizing for teaching you the wrong thing, showing you the wrong example, leading you down the wrong path.

I only hope you'll also be glad that I taught you how to count frogs, how to host a very exclusive living room dance party, how to spit like a camel - because these are the things I want most for you.  I want you to be clever, independent, active, helpful, polite, communicative, engaged, and a fan of Michael Jackson's music.  I want you to absorb the good stuff, the fun stuff (and ignore the shit) because I'm starting to realize that nothing else much matters than being happy.

You're happy, my doll, and I hope I can help you stay that way.

PS.  Seriously, don't drink scotch.  That never ends well.

The Strangercare Show

After 23 months (9+14) of being my baby’s sole provider of care (i.e., eat, drink, sleep, play, learn – let’s be honest, I was her sole provider of life for all intents and purposes), I am now two weeks into my ominous Return To Work. 

This unfortunate Return To Work ritual is one that apparently every parent can relate to – some after only a few weeks of parental leave, others after several months or years.  There seem to be some customary phases of this momentous event, putting your child into Strangercare. 

The Strangercare Dress Rehearsal

Also known as The Transition.  Partial days, or partial hours, easing into the reality of leaving your most precious being in the hands of some hack who will probably drop her on her head and let her play with cigarettes.  Usually exudes only a small portion of the total strength eventually required for the actual Strangercare opening day, partly due to your continued significant daily role, but mostly due to denial. 

The Home Nesting Interpretive Dance

A fast and sometimes furious flutter, organizing and cleaning in an attempt to prepare for the new world order.  An often fruitless but necessary exercise. 

Before you know it, though, it’s opening night and the performance truly begins. If you don’t know your lines by now, it’s too late.  The show must go on. 

The Opening Prayer

A slow and cautious pleading to anyone who will listen, begging for empowerment.  Usually in the vein of “This is good for me.  And for her.  She’ll get used to this.” and ending with a single repeated phrase “I can do this.  I can do this.  I can do this.”

The First Day Acrobatic Display

Usually accompanied by a sense of confusion and awe that fogs you into a convenient submission. Running out the door in high heels, carrying 1-2 children on your hip, 3-to-4 bags on your shoulder, and a giant coffee mug in your hand. Followed by an 8-hour intermission. Then followed by a dash home in the same fashion with desperation in your eyes/heart/soul.   

The One-Woman Show

Also known as The Panic Attack.  When the reality of this being reality becomes a reality and the whole show almost comes (or does come) crashing to an end.  Usually accompanied by frequent (possibly extreme) crying for everyone involved.  This image is a hard one to shake – spectators be warned.

The Team Building Exercise

The rally.  The getting-to-know-each other and setting-a-plan group activity. Comes in the form of a meal planning diorama, or a "Juggle the Flaming Schedule" show, or a guest-starring role for your psychologist.  Or all of the above.

The Meditation

A slow and steady decline of emotions into a pattern of rhythmic movements. Not necessarily in a state of calm, but a state of acceptance. 

The Finale

The reflection on the overall event and how it has impacted your life.  Consideration of how you might change your life based on its influence.  For some, this will have shifted their perspective entirely – finding a new job, or a new income, or a new approach for their family.  Others will make moderate shifts – selling their house, moving close to work.  Some will make small allowances – hugging their kids more often and more fiercely. Some will do all three.  Ultimately, the finale is what brings you to your new you, your new world.  Or at least inspires you to create your own spin-off soap opera entitled Wine and Tears: My True Life Story.    

The truth about Baby-Led Weaning

If you have children, you're probably accustomed to the constantly shifting rules of acceptable parenting... Your baby should sleep on her stomach, NO WAIT HER BACK. Breast milk is all your baby needs, NO WAIT VITAMIN D SUPPLEMENTS. Your baby should sleep in a crib, NO WAIT YOUR BED, NO WAIT HER CRIB, NO WAIT HER CRIB BUT YOUR ROOM.

I think most of us eventually figure out that we just gotta do what works - short of, say, leaving our babies at home alone while we go out for beers.  (I would never do that.  Probably.)

Regarding solid food, Hubby and I adopted a baby-led weaning approach.  Essentially, we skipped the cereal and purees and jumped straight to finger food, for a two reasons:

1) we hate cooking, so preparing separate baby food was a traumatic thought; and,

2) we liked the idea of her feeding herself alongside us, rather than us shovelling food into her face.

This approach has to do with our general laziness, but also to do with acknowledging that Fraggle is a person with independence and free will.  But mostly the laziness thing.

And so I bring you: the truth about baby-led weaning.

("Truth" is a relative term, as in: it's my truth, and I'm no expert.  But I assure you it isn't false.  Or at least I wouldn't lie.  About this.  Although, there is a distinct possibility that the absence of adult interaction has skewed my view of reality.)

Tip #1 - Read the book
But maybe buy it used. If you're already on board with the whole my baby should just feed herself philosophy, then you don't need the propaganda.  The book spends a lot of time convincing you how crazy you are if you don't choose baby-led weaning, with very little time teaching you how to actually implement this genius idea.

Tip #2 - It's messy, get over it
Hubby dislikes Fraggle's grubby food fingers and the pile of sloppy mess spread across her highchair and caked onto the floor.  I could care less.  I just hand-bomb that goop like it's my job (because it kind of is).  I take one cloth, wipe her face and hands, then her chair, then the floor.  One cloth, moving on.

Tip #3 - She didn't choke
Each parent has a certain level of comfort with certain things.  I'm (irrationally?) afraid of jolly jumpers, but choking doesn't worry me.  I might be unfit, but I trust her gag reflex to push out any food that isn't quite right.  If it worries you, stick with purees.  But keep in mind that by six months, rugrats are far more capable of eating and digesting solid food (rather than at four months, when babies used to start cereal).  Also, I actually think learning to chew before swallowing is helpful. I suspect switching from puree to solids is challenging.

Tip #4 - Don't expect too much too fast
As with all of my parenting decisions, I second-guessed myself hourly.  For six weeks, I watched Fraggle chew a ton of food but swallow very little, while her cohorts inhaled giant spoonfuls of mashed goodness.  HOWEVER, by the time she grew two teeth (around eight months) and figured out what we were trying to accomplish (um, eating) she was feeding herself large volumes of hamburgers, avocados, and sweet potatoes and LOVING IT - while my friends were trying to sneak peas into their babies' yogurt.  Also, be patient for the pincer grip, which may actually develop quickly with lots of practise.  Like all aspects of baby-raising, it gets better precisely when you think it never will.

Tip #5 - Roll with it
Some people prefer a hybrid approach - some finger food, some sauce.  The book will tell you that makes little sense, and I think I agree.  Jumping back and forth seems like an unnecessary and confusing endeavour.  The bottom line is that after a few weeks, Fraggle was eating more than she would have been otherwise, and we were all happier.  Just do what your baby seems to want.  For example, Fraggle likes those store-bought puree packets.  This works for me because it tops her up after dinner and I don't have to make it.  It works for her because she can just suck the mush out herself, as much as she wants, and then throw it on the floor to spray across the room.  Win-win?

Tip #6 - What to make and how to make it
The book claims you can give your baby whatever you're eating.  I'm here to tell you that isn't exactly true, at least for the first few months.  Just don't get discouraged.  The little turd will be eating you out of house and home before you know it.  For some more detailed observations, read onward.  Otherwise, however you decide to feed your offspring, good luck and have fun.  Or get a nanny.  Whichever.




The Details

It was a bit of a pain at first, but still not as bad as blending food (in my opinion).  For example:

• I had to prepare our food without salt and without bottled/jarred/canned sauces. A life without mustard is a travesty. 
• I had to cut it into finger shapes. 
• I had to cook it longer.
• I had to take it out sooner so it would cool. (I still have to do that.  Obviously.)
• Eating away from the house was a bit trickier, messier at least. 
• At first there was a lot of food she simply couldn't manage. It was too small (like peas), or too awkward (like tortillas), or impossible without a spoon (like soup).  
• Another annoying bit: she doesn't eat an entire anything, so a tupperware container stocked with half-eaten oranges and tomatoes lives in my fridge.  

However, there are ways to make food that works:

• In the early days, leave the peal on fruit to make it easier to hold, like bananas, avocados, and oranges.  Just wash them well.  
• The microwave is handy.  Zuccinni sticks cook quickly when they're wrapped in wet paper towel.
• Meatballs are a godsend.  I make dozens, freeze them, and warm them before her meals.   
• She learned to pull apart chicken and turkey breast early on.  I cook, cut and freeze.
• Pork remains difficult to chew, but I suspect that has to do with my terrible chef skills. 
• I found one brand of frozen burgers with minimal junk added.  Thanks to George Forman this was an awesome quickie meal.  If you make your own, make them very loose so they're edible. 
• Eggs!  (Read the latest on eggs, but basically, they're safe).  Mix them with lentils for iron (but beware of gas) and cook them omelette-style, then slice.  
• Carrots and apples are a myth.  They never get soft enough to chew, even when cooked.  Bell peppers and non-ripe pears presented the same problem until she was old enough to pick them up in tiny pieces to swallow whole.  
• When in doubt, spread cream cheese on it.  This is also good advice for life in general.
• Soft cheese like Havarti is easier than Cheddar. 
• For someone who doesn't like making food, I seem awfully willing to peel her grapes. They're easier to eat and the skin actually does worry me as a choking hazard.  I slice them in quarters and then the peel comes right off.
• Roma tomatoes are good in early days, sliced in hand-held pieces.  
• Asparagus is easy to hold and the tips are easy to eat if they're soft.  The stems are too stringy so get ready to eat the remnants yourself. Also, beware of smelly baby pee.  
• I steam sweet potatoes, but in hand-held slices with the skin for easy gripping. 
• Cauliflower is softer than broccoli but both are good because they have a built-in handle.
• Rice was impossible until she got older, but now it works - especially the next day after it's been in the fridge because it sticks together.
• She loves berries.  Strawberries (if they're mutant ones) are big enough to slice long for easy gripping. Smaller berries need to wait for pincer skills. 
• Pineapple strips. Mmmm. 
• Penne noodles aren't bad in early days.  
• She learned to pull the little green beans out of the stalk.  She's a genius.  
• She likes frittata (potatoes, veggies, eggs, cheese). Just chop everything to the necessary size.
• Mushrooms were impossible until she could eat them in small pieces because they're too rubbery (but I used to chop them up tiny in her omelettes).  
• I never found a good baby cereal in cookie form, they are all impossible for her to eat.  It doesn't matter anymore because now she eats oatmeal on a spoon mixed with fruit sauce, but for a while there I was super pissed.  
• Some people claim to make healthy muffins mixed with baby cereal.  I don't know who these people are. 

Fuzzy fleece sleepers shouldn't be depressing, but they are

Tonight's Birthday Month activity: going out to buy Baby Fraggle several new fuzzy fleece sleepers. 

Ok, not the obvious choice, but it truly wasn't about the sleepers. It was about leaving the house, by myself, at night, with a loud car stereo.  I also stopped at the bank and bought a McFlurry. 

There is, though, something very sad about the sleepers. The only reason I needed to buy them was that all of Fraggle's existing sleepers are too small. She grew out of them literally overnight. 

This is only one example of how quickly she is aging, and of course, how quickly I'm aging right along with her. What a cliché... They grow so fast. Well, I'm learning that clichés are clichés for a reason. She is growing so fast. 

After months of standing on furniture and rolling onto her back, and weeks of sitting up unassisted, she finally rolled onto her tummy - which was wonderful, until she decided she might like to sleep that way. So, with her face firmly planted in the mattress and my paranoia shooting off the charts, I sat and watched her nap most of the day yesterday. And do you know what I was thinking? (aside from "please don't suffocate")...  I was thinking: "Who ARE you?"

I didn't recognise this lovely little being. She was bigger and taller and she had longer hair. And she was sleeping on her friggin stomach. 

Who ARE you?

She's growing so fast, and I'm thrilled, but I can't keep up. She does something new every single day and yet stops doing something else. I miss her. I adore her, and I'm excited about all the fun places she's headed, but I miss her. 

Time is a jerk to me right now and my 30th birthday isn't exactly helping. But good god save me when she turns one year old. 

Oh my god, today

I had a lot on my plate today.  Regular Christmas prep coupled with the in-laws visiting tonight meant that I had to: make dinner, clean the house, wrap the gifts, and pick up some groceries - all while caring for a tiny human.  And oh, facing a snowstorm.

It started out fine, as most jerk days do, and then BAM it bit me in the ass.

To begin, my baby monitor randomly died during Fraggle's morning nap.  For those of you who don't know, this is basically a crisis.  First I had the initial OH MY GOD HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN OFF IS SHE ALIVE panic.  The the WHAT IF IT HAD BEEN NIGHTTIME anger.  Followed by the FUCK NOW WHAT frustration - because unless I intend to sit outside her bedroom listening for sounds of life, I need a monitor.  Plus, so. much. to. do.

I tried everything and couldn't fix the fucking thing, so I called the company.

Company lady: "Have you tried plugging it in?"

Me:  *resists snarky comment* "Yes."

Her: "Ok can you [insert troubleshooting obstacle course]."

Me: "Nada."

Her: "Well, we can send you a new one.  First we'll send you a voucher for free shipping.  Then you send us the broken monitor.  Then we send you a new one."

Me: "Oh, so you have teleportation capacity?"

Her: "...?"

Me: "Seriously? What am I supposed to do? Now I have wait weeks for a new monitor - a monitor I'm not sure I want if it's just gonna die.  And in the meantime I have go out to buy a new one. Three days before Christmas."

Her: "What's your address?"

UGH.  So my quick grocery outing became an urgent find a way to function today outing.

The rest of my day included: pushing a grocery cart through a snowy parking lot; terribly short and terribly upsetting baby naps; and, fifteen thousand chores.  I must be a fucking hero because somehow I managed to achieve it all... while watching White Christmas.

To top things off, my brother-in-law's flight was delayed (enter: snowstorm), so my in-laws arrived a couple of hours earlier than expected to kill time.  All  my chores were done (except my DISGUSTING floors which desperately need to be vacuumed), but it doesn't seem to matter because I'm a giant crazy stressball with a sore back and a baby on my boob and an un-shoveled walkway BECAUSE THE NEW STUPID BABY MONITOR DOESN'T WORK OUTSIDE MY FRONT DOOR.

Furthermore, my brother-in-law missed our dinner - lovely festive table setting and all- and I'm exhausted but still staying up to see him because I can't not.

I'm currently sitting here with a cat on either side, a computer on lap, and a crappy baby monitor on my hip, listening to a poorly-rested baby whine, while Hubby and Ma and Pa-in-law drive through a snowstorm to the airport.

I'm trying to find the merry here people.  But we're gonna press on.  We're gonna have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat ass down that chimney, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

Careful. Don't pee in the bath.

Last Friday was a good day.

Just like every Friday, we kicked it off with Baby-Mommy Yoga (aka "Baby-Mommy Sitting On A Mat").  This is the highlight of my week due mostly to the lovely moms I get to hang out with and our visit to the coffee shop afterward.

Later that afternoon, I got to experience my favourite part of motherhood - watching her learn.  You see, after a month of plainly sitting in her bouncer and staring at the toys, she finally figured out how to actually bounce. And bounce and bounce and bounce.

When Hubby arrived home, he played with Fraggle while I - wait for for - GOT DRESSED UP AND WENT TO A PARTY.  Yes, that's right.  I curled my ever-decreasing hair, put on a dress and heels, and went to dinner with a room full of adults - adults who spoke to me about adult topics.

(Although I adore talking with my mom friends at a coffee shop following Baby-Mommy Mat Sitting, my conversation earlier that day was primarily centred around the fear of having my nipples bitten off by a teething baby, and the joyous procedure of sucking snot out of her nose.)

Not only did I relish in adult conversation, I also enjoyed belting out K-Os' "The Dog Is Mine" at the highest possible volume on my fancy car stereo, ate a giant steak meal, downed a glass of pinot grigio, and... ATE ICE CREAM FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FOUR MONTHS.  (Thank you Fraggle for your improved tolerance of dairy in my diet.)

I arrived home a mere two and a half hours later after what felt like a miraculous three days of freedom.  After ranting to Hubby about my joyous solo outing, I headed upstairs for my regular evening bath, Kobo e-reader in hand.

This is where I was unceremoniously reminded of my new parental identity.

I was enjoying my hot bath and e-book, when I suddenly had the urge to pee.  Now, in case you didn't already know, a mother's bladder control is not what it once was, before she pushed a tiny human out of an even tinier hole.  So, the urge to pee is not something that can be ignored.  I jumped out of the tub and in my haste dropped my e-reader directly into the water.

This was precisely my fear four years ago when Momma bought it for me.  Of course the damn thing went sketchy.  Ruined I was sure.

Hubby happened to come up and I begged him, dripping wet and precariously holding my pee, to bring me some rice - because when you accidentally immerse your electronic device in water, burying it in rice helps eliminate the moisture.

That said, I had little hope of saving my Kobo, humbled by my realization that no day is perfect.

It seems, however, that the universe was watching out for me that day, because guess what?  My Kobo works.  Perfectly.

So now I want to thank the people of Kobo for making an e-reader with the durability to survive a new mother, a bathtub, and weak bladder control.  And also Uncle Ben's rice, for supporting its recovery. My only question is if the rice is still edible...

Dear Fraggle - Volume 3

Dear Fraggle,

Three months? Are you kidding me? I'm still unclear on how the final six months of pregnancy dragged on like a tortuous apocalypse, while the first three months of your little life have flown by like the Roadrunner on meth.

One of the saddest things about you being three months old is that I don't think I'm allowed to count your age in weekly increments anymore.  Technically, you're 13 weeks old, but if I say that to people they're going to think I'm a weirdo.  "This is Baby Fraggle, she's 13 weeks old.  My name is Marianna, I'm 1544 weeks old.  Pleased to meet you."

Another exciting/sad thing since the last time I wrote is simply how much you've changed.  I woke up one morning and I swore to Hubby that you looked different.  You changed, literally overnight.  He thought I was crazy. "No, it's just her hairstyle" he said.  But then, when he arrived home that night... "She looks different" he said.  I TOLD YOU.

When you were 11 weeks old, you achieved the most amazing feat.  YOU ROLLED OVER.  Apparently it's early for this particular accomplishment, but I don't really consider it all that werid - given how much you've wanted to MOVE since your days inside me, as well as how much you dislike being forced to sit on your tummy.

The actual roll-over event was more of a two-minute process of forceful grunts and heave-hos as you tried desperately to get the hell off your stomach.  I obviously videotaped the whole thing - complete with my screeches of delight in the background.

Since then, you roll over about half the time.  It seems to depend on how much energy you have and how much you're hating your stomach in that particular moment.  Every single time you do it, the pride in me swells like a hot air balloon - a really big, bright hot air balloon.

My other favourite thing is your coos.  You gurgle and gobble at me all the time and I have an unhealthy number of video recordings of you doing it.  I goo and you gah, I ah and you ahrg.  The joy this beings me is indescribable and ridiculous - second only to your smiley kicking delight upon waking when I come to rescue you from your crib.  These are the best parts of my day, every day.

When I last wrote, you were refusing to nap.  I later learned it was less of a "refusal" and more of a "Mom, I'm a textbook and just because you can't figure me out doesn't make that my fault get your act together I'm tired K thanks" situation.

Turns out you're a rockstar napper, if I conduct the "prance around the nursery saying goodnight to things" routine.  Actually, you nap so much that I'm bored much of the day. (Sorry other moms.)

So, contrary to my previous advice, I'm going to now suggest that you wake up, at least a little bit, just to hang out with me.   Because the bottom line is that you're so freaking cute that all I want to do is hug you, and sing to you, and smell you, and stroke your hair, and kiss your cheeks, and otherwise gobble you up all the livelong day.

Also, I'm cool and fun and you oughta want to hang out with me.  Just saying.

Love,
Mom

Dear Fraggle - Volume 2

Hello again my dear.  I wrote to you a few weeks ago, and here I am again because I have some new thoughts I want to share.

You will be nine weeks old this Monday.  NINE WEEKS.  I don't have a friggin clue how that happened, but here we are.

The first couple weeks with you were an impossible gong show.  The following four were pretty good - life abounded with small victories and I regained a small semblance of sanity.  You learned so many neat things...

You grabbed stuff - like really reached out and GRABBED it - and then you pulled.   Hard.

You started standing.  Ok, not standing, per se, but extending your legs and pushing off while we held you up.  Your little head and neck got so strong.  Hubby and I predict that you won't really crawl, rather you'll start walking around holding onto our fingers.  Mark our words.

And the piéce de la resistance:  SMILES.  You, my sweet little koalacorn, learned to smile.  You do it all the time.  You grin when you wake up and I lean over your bed.  You grin when I change your diaper in the front window sill.  You grin. At me. And then I melt.

Then the six-week mark hit.  One day I was saying to people "Nah, she never really cries..." And all of a sudden, well, you cried.  It's like you just learned how and you simply had to show off your new skill.  Huh. What a novel idea Mom.  If I cry you'll notice me?  COOL.

And so it went, you crying (and probably spurtishly growing) for 10 days straight.  Hubby and I thought we'd go crazy.  I mean, you were still cute as all-get-out, but holy hell girlie.

Here's the good part though.  After your 6 week vampire conversion, you were the sweetest little angel.  Your dad and I were over the moon having our lovely little darling back again.

For three days.  Three days you were a perfect little doll.  By the fourth day you made a pretty big life decision. No more naps, you said to me one day, and then you cried and cried and cried all the livelong day.

Now.  Here is some advice for you my sweet:

When you are old like me, you will adore, nay, RELISH, any single solitary chance to NAP.  You may nap on a bench in the sun during your lunch break.  You may nap at your desk in the afternoon, with your hand on your mouse so your colleagues think you're working.  You may nap at a friend's house.  You may nap on the bus.  You may nap on a couch, on a pool floatie, on a lawn chair at Home Depot.

When you are old like me, you will not only wish you had more time to nap, but you will wish you capitalized every previous napping opportunity as the precious gift that it is  because naps are cumulative, and priceless.  So nap now, my sweet.  Enjoy it while you can.

I love you Fraggle,
Mom

PS Please nap.

Kickin' ass and takin' names. Or not.

Today was going well.  Better than yesterday at least. 

Baby Fraggle woke at a decent time, and we were on track - on track for our newly created get-the-baby-to-nap-so-we-don't-go-insane plan.  She had a half-nap this morning IN HER CRIB (never mind the fact that I sat there with her) before we walked over to the grocery store and pharmacy. 

I was kickin' ass and takin' names.  These are big accomplishments, people.  Don't doubt me. 

Furthermore, on the way home I encountered an actual mail man at the actual mail box, with whom I had an actual conversation and he even mailed my actual letters. 

By the time we arrived home, Fraggle was still sleeping in her stroller (WIN), so we sat on the front step allowing me a precious 10 minutes to soak up the sun and tweet up something fierce.

Then something went awry...

About 15 minutes after coming inside, I noticed the front door was open. 

Fucking holy hell shitballs craphole dammit where are the fucking cats. 

Tuxedo was, as usual, under the shrub by the front step, since he's too damn stupid to venture far.  I spooked him, so he came flying into the house - covered cobwebby junk.   

Patches though.  Where was Patches?  I called her name, no luck.  I clinked her food bowl, no luck. 

Umm, uh oh. 

And a tiny human inside that I couldn't, ya know, leave alone. 

This is when it happened.  A matter of time, really.  The "turns out I don't love the cats as much as the child" moment officially occurred.  It's been coming for a while (such as when they are meowing like lunatics at 3am), but this was the true moment in which changing and feeding the baby was potentially more important than hunting for the stupid cat...

But then it wasn't. 

So back in the stroller goes the baby, and off we go, wandering through the neighbours' backyards, clinking bowls and shouting PATCH for everyone to hear.  The little shithead emerged from a backyard a few houses down, running for the food her clinking bowl seemed to indicate. 

Thanks to all that I missed the baby's "sleep window" so Fraggle is now accidentally sleeping in her swing, rather than her crib (but at least sleeping thank heaven). 

Oh, and I just unloaded the grocery bag and it turns our that I bought the wrong fucking coffee.

So, not acing this motherhood thing yet, eh?

You don't have to read this

I wasn't going to write this because, well, nobody gives a shit.  But then I remembered my rule about this blog:  write it for ME, and don't leave anything out.  Ultimately, this is a creepy online diary which I fully intend to read years and years into the future - and what woman's diary doesn't include her birth story?

********* 

I wake up on Monday July 8th - two days after my due date - around 6am, with ridiculous back pain. This is the same back pain I've woken up with for the past several months.  Hubby is busy getting ready for work and I'm busy propping up 50 pillows so I can lean over them like a drunken hobo.

By 7:00, Hubby is about to leave, making a bowl of cereal, when he hears from upstairs: "Ahhh!  HUUUuuubbbyyyYY!  MY. WATER. JUST. BROKE!"

Which it did.  In the bed.

Aaaannnnnddd... PANIC.  Because that's what I do.  It's kinda my thing.

Hubby calls the hospital.  They say we should come in, but we could probably have breakfast first.  We jump in showers, wolf down cereal, pack last minute crap in our bag, climb in the car, and of course STOP FOR GAS because Hubby's goal in life is to make me crazy.

We arrive at the hospital around 8am.  I'm having regular contractions but they aren't much different from the constant Braxton Hicks I've been having for eight weeks already.  Problem is, I've learned, even if you are in labour, no medical professional will even look at you until you're screaming.  There are six screaming women ahead of me.

So we sit.  And wait.  My contractions are getting worse, but I'm breathing through them.  Maybe I won't be one of those screaming woman, maybe I'll be able to breathe through it, at least until my epidural.

We finally see Smart Smiley Nurse.  I'm three and half centimeters dilated.  Progressing, but still early enough for MORPHINE.  Shoot me up, doc.

We go sit in the "Early Labour Lounge."  How charming.  Hubby gets snacks and I call our car dealer to ask him to hold the car I've been trying to buy.  True story.

A couple hours pass, I keep leaking, but pain is fine.  I try to pay brain games but I'm loopy from the drugs.  Bonus.  Hubby discovers a cereal spoon in his back pocket that he apparently brought from the house.  You know, in case he needed it.

By noon the pain is getting worse.  Back to Smart Smiley Nurse.  Five centimeters!

Time passes. OUCH OUCH OUCH.  Epidural please!  NOW.

Funny how they start paying attention to me.  Now I'm the screamer. Seven centimeters.

Oh, the anesthesiologist is in surgery? Oh, he can't come and drug me up? Oh, I have to keep enduring this pain?  Oh, you can't find a wheelchair?  Oh, FUCK YOU.

Somehow I get to my delivery room, screaming every minute or two.  It's getting worse.  WAY WORSE.  Where is that godforsaken anesthesiologist?  I'mma kick that mofo in the shin.

I remember staring at the wall, trying not to lose my fucking mind, smacking my lips as a signal for Hubby to feed me ice chips.  I remember wondering why the hell we attempted that pinky toe massage reflexology shit the night before to encourage labour because it apparently worked and I totally regret it.  And I remember the worst part: when each contraction begins because I know what's coming...

Mofo Anesthesiologist arrives.  Once upon a time, I was afraid of the needle-in-the-spine process, but now I'm just terrified that I have to STAY STILL for ten minutes, through a few contractions, while he does his work.

I lean over Friendly Nurse André's shoulders begging her "You. Have. To. HELP. ME."  Hubby sits helplessly nearby.

Oh, that's better.  Hey Mofo Doc, they should pay you more.  I mean, I know you make a lot of money already, but you deserve more.  Hubby, get my purse.

Clearly, I'm feeling much better and acting less insane.  New Nurse is putsing around the room, and informs us that it may take a few hours to get to 10 centimeters.  Once I do, we'll wait TWO MORE HOURS before pushing, so the baby can get closer to her grand entrance on her own. Baby will probably arrive around 10pm or midnight.

Huh. Clearly New Nurse has not met my baby.  My baby is in a rush to join this world, or hadn't you heard? But ok, you're the professional.  I trust you.

Hubby goes to grab dinner.

All of a sudden, a skippy dude doctor waltzes in.  Apparently Fraggle's heart rate has been too high for a while...

Doctor Skippy:  "I'm just gonna check you.  If you're fully dilated we're gonna start pushing.  If not... well, let's check before I scare you."

Yes he said that.  And no, Hubby was not there.

He checks, I'm fully dilated, and Baby Fraggle is blowing New Nurse's estimated timeline out of the water.

Oh great.

"Let's try pushing."

Um, WHAT?

"Just try a push.  I want see how you do.  If it's tricky, we'll do a C-section."

WHAT THE FUCK.  Uhhh... ok... here goes...

"Oh, you're doing great.  You push for a while and I'll come back in a half hour."

Hubby returns, hearing from Doctor Skippy that I'm pushing.  "Not my wife" says Hubby.  YEP, YOUR WIFE.

New Nurse is panicked because she was too stupid to set up her baby table.  I'm begging her to warn me when I'm having a contraction so I know when to push.  She says she will, but she never does, so I end up pushing whenever the mood strikes.

And here's where it gets really nuts.

Apparently I'm a rock star pusher (something for the resume).  This baby is coming out, and she's coming out NOW.

From across the room, New Nurse is counting to five instead of ten on every push, and Hubby and I are concerned that there's nobody there to catch the child when she slides out of my body.

Finally, Smart Smiley Nurse returns and makes this seem fun and exciting instead of TOTALLY FUCKED UP.

We do a few more pushes and everyone praises me for my skills.  Hubby looks at all the hair emerging from my vagina.  Everyone says "So much hair!" - a phrase I've been hearing on a daily basis ever since and, for some reason, take great pride in.

Smart Smiley Nurse adjusts our pushing pattern, counting to TWO instead of ten.  I push a couple more times.

In total, I push for 17 minutes, mostly miniature pushes.

Baby Fraggle arrives at 7:40. ("Arrives" makes it sound like she danced into the room.  Let's be clear: the tiny human is pushed out of my loins through an even tinier hole.)   They plop her on top of me.  I think whoa, she's bigger than I thought. Hubby cuts her cord, I don't notice.

They take her away for a second to clean her off (damn meconium), then bring her back.  She's 7 pounds, 8 ounces.  She's round and cute and pink and LOOKING UP AT ME and HOLY FUCK WHAT IS HAPPENING.

New Nurse gives me a shot in the leg, I don't notice.  Smart Smiley Nurse grins and pushes on my tummy, I don't notice.  Doctor Skippy marches in (a bit late there shit head) and Hubby gets a rundown of the placenta.  He does not eat it. I wouldn't notice if he did.

I puke.  Then Student Doc somehow squirts my blood all over the walls and ceiling.  Seriously.  It looks like a CSI scene in there.

Doctor Skippy parks himself in front of  my vagina and goes to work like a mechanic or a painter.  I pay very little attention, but I do notice.

After a couple hours, Young Hot Nurse helps my broken body into the shower.  "This is a weird part of your job," I tell her.  She doesn't seem to mind.  Of course she doesn't - she looks great.

We spend the next two days trying to breastfeed, trying to absorb fifty different "expert" opinions on breastfeeding, trying to sleep, and trying to crack the code of this tiny child who is totally and completely dependent on us being at least somewhat competent in caring for her.

In the end, I could totally do that again for the reward.  It was survivable.  Pregnancy SUCKED, but if you could promise my next labour would go like that? Sign me up.

I'm a goddam medical mystery. And a failure to boot.

I wrote this in June, but I was afraid to post it.  It was a dark time for me; I wasn't sure how many details I wanted to share.  Time has since passed, and now I want to share it - for any woman struggling through pregnancy, with or without complications and/or antepartum depression. 

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How common is pregnancy?

Probably about half the human population is physically capable, and it's safe to say that most of those do happen to experience it at some point in their lives.  Even for those women who don't experience pregnancy, there are several others who experience it multiple times.

Not only that, but pregnancy has been going on since the beginning of time.  It isn't even specific to certain parts of the world - women get pregnant internationally.  Plus Arnold Schwarzenegger in Junior.  

I think it's safe to say, then, that pregnancy is the most common medical "condition" of all time.     

So, I find it continually dumbfounding that the most common medical condition, particularly in an advanced nation such as Canada, is such a FUCKING MEDICAL MYSTERY.  

Perhaps it's because I've never actually experienced a significant or long-term medical condition, nor have I ever had much direct exposure to the medical system, but tell me:  How is it possible that doctors have so few immediate or precise answers?

Not only is my little Fraggle's health and well being entirely relying on me and only me, but I have essentially little-to-no control over her safety and development, let alone any true knowledge of how she is progressing.  

Every time I speak to a medical professional, they seem to apply 50 different random and uncertain measures of baby wellness, but they don't actually know the answers to anything.  

Is Fraggle happy in there?

Well, here, let's strap this monitor to your belly and listen to it for 30 minutes.

Is she growing?

Well, we can put this measuring tape on your belly to see if it's getting any bigger...

Can't you measure her?

Well, we can do an ultrasound, but we just did one last week and so any change would be imperceptible.  

Am I in labour?

Well, that depends on you - What's your pain level, on a scale from one to ten?

Am I dilated?

Well, if we check, we may dilate you, so we're not going to check.  Actually, let's check and make matters way worse.  

Is there a chance of me going into pre-term labour?

Well, let's do a test. 

What were the results of the test?

Well, they're inconclusive.  

Is she moving enough?

Well, that depends on you - Here, hold this little clicker and click it every time she moves.  

How many Braxton Hicks contractions are normal?

Well, you're having too many. 

What do you mean "too many" - what does that mean?

Well, we don't really know, except that you should sit still for several weeks on end.  

What causes them?

Well, there isn't a lot of research but we think your uterus is irritable.  

Huh.  Doesn't that just suit me perfectly.  What "irritates" it?

Well, moving.  So sit still.  But don't limit yourself.  But don't go shopping or anything.  And drink lots of water.  But don't let your bladder get full.   

So, my uterus doesn't want this little one in there, or what? I'm a terrible mother already? My body is incapable?

Well, no.  Maybe.  We don't know. This is not your fault.  Just sit still. 

Ok, so can these constant, uncomfortable, and terrifying contractions lead to labour?

Well, there isn't a lot of research but we doubt you'll make it to your due date.  Then again maybe we'll have to induce you at 42 weeks.  But just in case, stop moving.  

So now I'm terrified of pre-term labour.  How can I prevent it?

Well, sit still, and call us if anything changes, but no, Braxton Hicks contractions are not real contractions.  But we don't want you in pre-term labour, so please sit still. Hopefully we can just get you to 34 weeks.  

Ok, 34 weeks.  Good news right?

Well, yeah.  But let's get you to 37 weeks. You should probably sit still.   

Ok, what about after 37 weeks? Then we're good?

Well, every week after that is better.    

So, we're still aiming for 40 weeks then...

Well, no, 37 is full term, but yes, 40 weeks.  Please sit still.  

I never anticipated that keeping myself physically well would be so fucking emotionally exhausting... 

Fraggle ended up staying put until 40 weeks and 2 days.  And she rushed out of there like a bat out of hell.  

Let's be honest - what it's like to have a newborn

People kept telling me it would be hell.  That doesn't describe anything. That just scares me while also making me doubt that it's true.  So as I was laying in bed at 3am, I decided I needed a way to describe the joy/misery that is nerborn-dom.

I figure it's kinda like a natural disaster, a tornado or a hurricane.

First, the storm is coming.  You have some warning from the experts and you start to prepare, but you don't really know how bad it will be.  Will it be like the one you saw on tv? Or maybe it will pass right over you?

When the baby comes, the storm hits.  In an adrenaline-rushed flurry, you run to your storm cellar.  You grab whatever supplies you guess you'll need and you barely keep your wits about you. For the duration of the storm, you hold up in the dark and inevitably go nuts.  You're scared and you can't concentrate.  You have moments of lucidity and moments of panic.  You can't fall asleep, even if the noise outside did subside long enough for you to try.  You're terrified of what will become of you.  You cling to your partner to keep you sane and safe.

Not only that, but you are weak.  You've just finished competing in the iron woman competition and your whole body is wrecked. Also, you may or may not be recovering from a "saw the lady in half" magic trick you were forced to participate in yesterday (after the iron woman events).

On top of it, in a freak occurrence of nature, you are suffering from puberty, PMS, and menopause, simultaneously.

Oh, and there are stitches in your vagina.

Furthermore, you aren't alone in the cellar.  You've been entrusted with the care of a very tiny, very delicate baby koala bear.  Sure, it's a cute koala bear, but you have no idea how to take care of a koala bear, particularly in these traumatic circumstances.

And this isn't just any normal koala bear.  This is the world's most precious koala bear - a koala unicorn - the first and only of its kind known to humanity.  Should anything happen to this koala unicorn, you will never forgive yourself, and neither will society.

This goes on for a couple weeks - you locked down in the cellar during the longest tornado in Earth's history, scared and crippled by exhaustion.

But then the storm begins to subside. You inch your way to the cellar door and gently open it inch by inch, carefully emerging into the light.  Sure, there's an utter disaster around you, everything is a mess, and your whole world is wiped out.  Parts of your life before the storm have been lost forever (including bladder control) and you're generally very fragile.

HOWEVER, your surroundings have never looked so beautiful.  You're in awe of nature.  It may look grim in some ways, but also so promising in others.  Your friends, family, and neighbours will help you put your Humpty Dumpty world back together again.

Ultimately, you're hopeful that everything will be better than it was before.  You're just so fucking grateful that everything truly important - you, your family, and your koala unicorn - are safe and happy. Everything else will fall into place.