Baby Cries and Lullabies

Twice last week, my normally cheerful son had two panic attacks in the car. And I mean total panic, not just some regular crying. I don’t know if he saw something scary out the window, or if he just had really bad gas. Either way, he freaked out and I found myself singing “The Wheels on the Bus” over and over again until we got home. This always calms him down, and it reminded me of a long ten months ago, during his first few weeks on this earth, when he cried a lot.

You see, when my son was very tiny, he would scream every single time we drove somewhere. It was awful. I would get two minutes down the road and he would wail as if he were being tortured. I would pull over every 10-15 minutes, until I figured out that singing almost always stopped the screaming. And so I sang. And sang and sang.

The problem is, I don’t really know that many baby songs. I started with “The Wheels on the Bus” because it was the first one that popped into my head. But after a few verses, I couldn’t think of what else was on the bus… the wipers go swish swish swish, the horn goes honk honk honk, the rain goes pitter patter pitter, the change goes clink clank clink…

If I paused for even a second to think of what else to sing, he would cry again. So I improvised. Oh hey! Now we’re on a bus in Panama! The dogs go woof woof woof, the chickens go cluck cluck cluck, the pigs go oink oink oink.

And there I was at the stoplight, singing at the top of my lungs about pigs on a bus, feeling pretty ridiculous. But it worked.

This happened to me again when I was bored of my regular lullaby and tried to branch out to other songs that I only vaguely remember. I started with “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Simple enough. Except that singing one verse over and over is really boring, and we have this toy that sings “Twinkle Twinkle Firefly” to the same tune, so I thought I’d give that a try. But of course I didn’t know the words, so I just made it up:

Twinkle, twinkle firefly, up above me in the sky…. Lalalala firefly, pretty pretty firefly. Twinkle twinkle firefly, twinkle twinkle firefly.

Inspired. You’d think I was a writer or something.

So I tried singing the mockingbird song (see, I don’t even know the real song title). I could only get as far as “momma’s gonna buy you a billy goat” before I got stuck.

What comes after billy goat? And if that billy goat won’t… I was stumped. What? What does a billy goat do (or not do) that would make me buy yet another thing for this little baby? And why does this baby need mockingbirds and diamond rings and looking glasses to hush and go to sleep? Jeez, high maintenance baby.

And that was the end of that tune. I still don’t know what the billy goat does or doesn’t do. So now I’m back to lullaby and goodnight… hmm hmmm hmmm hmmm hmm hmm hmm.

But hey, it works.

Oh, Daddy!

This week I’ve realized more than ever how lucky I am to have a partner in this crazy journey called parenthood. I must tip my figurative hat to single mothers, because I really don’t know how they do it.

My husband was virtually absent for the last two weeks due to insane amounts of overtime, and now that things are back to normal, I am heaving a big sigh of relief.

You see, while my husband leaves the house at 8am and usually doesn’t return until 6:30pm, those few precious hours make a big difference. Having him around to do bath time and story time while I clean up and maybe, just maybe, zone out to trashy TV for half an hour, is essential to my sanity. (Yes, I admit it. I watch eTalk. Don’t judge me.)

On days when I’m flying solo, bedtime is a lot earlier for our munchkin. It’s only 6pm? The sun is still shining? Well, mommy’s exhausted, little one, so it’s time for bed.

Daddy also gives long, fun, playful baths, chases the naked baby around the room, and reads lots of stories. Mommy, on the other hand, is all business. She has played all day and now she’s done. Soap up, wash the hair, rinse, dry, diaper, PJ’s, story, nurse… and done! In 15 minutes flat!

I think my son and I both like it better when daddy does bedtime.

I remember in the early weeks how my husband would come home from work, exhausted and hungry, and I would burst into tears, apologize that there was no dinner, thrust our tiny infant into his arms, and escape into the shower. I would call him at work, sobbing, with the baby wailing in the background, begging him to come home early. I would crawl into bed at 3am, weary from an hour of soothing a crying baby, and he would sleepily ask: “Any idea why he keeps waking up?” And I would suppress the urge to throw something. No, I have no idea. If I did, I would solve it. Honey. Sweetie. Love of my life.

Now my days are much easier (and involve less sobbing), but I still want a break by the end of the day. If he needs to stay late at the office, or if he goes to play squash after work, I look at him forlornly, as if he has abandoned us. As if he doesn’t have long days too.

To compromise and give us both some “free time,” Saturdays have now become a family game of tag. He leaves early in the morning to play squash, and as soon he gets home, I take off for a long run. I get home and he leaves to run errands, ride his bike, or work around the yard. He gets back and I take off to get groceries, get a haircut, or have tea with a friend. Thankfully, Sundays are our designated “family day,” and we all finally exhale and relax together.

My husband hugs me when I cry, cleans the coffeemaker even though he doesn’t drink coffee, lets me sleep in on Sundays, and goes out for milk at 10pm when I forget to buy groceries. And he never complains.

I think I might just be the luckiest woman on earth.

Career Work vs. Housework

This week, I decided to make career work a priority over housework. The result? Cereal for dinner, a sea of laundry flooding my bedroom, and peas drowning in applesauce on the kitchen floor.

Between caring for my son and restarting my freelance career, I have been putting in 16-hour days. And my house is the ratty and neglected victim.

Of course, my timing is especially poor because my husband had an enormous deadline at work this week. He has also been working insanely long days, and I’m finding it tough to survive without my co-pilot who faithfully does the dishes every night.

I’ve always been pretty good at juggling a million things, but being a work-at-home-mom turns out to be the ultimate multitasking challenge. I run before my husband leaves for work, then I check email and draft a quick writing pitch while my son eats breakfast. Afterwards, we play on the floor (I stretch while he crawls all over me), read books, put in some laundry, sweep the floor (he chases the broom) and get ready for naptime.

While he sleeps, I try to get in as much work as possible, compiling my portfolio, applying for jobs, researching publications… and just as I am getting into a groove, he wakes up. So we have lunch, go to the park, pick up some groceries and come home for a second nap. He refuses to have the second nap (of course), so we play outside in the backyard while I compose articles in my head.

I make dinner, we have a nice bath, read a few books, and he finally goes to sleep. Then my shift starts all over. Before returning to my computer, I do a cursory sweep of the house – dirty diapers into the wash, clothes into the hamper, books onto shelves, toys into baskets… how on earth did my house get so messy? I am baffled. There is stuff everywhere – it looks like Chapters and Babies "R" Us threw up in unison onto our house. And the strangest part is, I just cleaned the entire place two days ago.

My inner domestic diva rebels. As much as I hate a messy house, I cannot use another minute of my day cleaning. I only have a few precious hours of uninterrupted time before I will pass out from sheer exhaustion. So tonight I am accepting the mess. There are a few dirty dishes on the counter and the floor still needs washing. (I’m completely ignoring the Cheerios ground into the carpet.) Right now I need to write.

But tomorrow I’ll clean the house, top to bottom. Again.

10 Things You Should Never Say

A little while ago, a young mom told me how a stranger had tried to offer some advice while her two-year-old was throwing an epic tantrum in public. When the mother politely said that this was not a good time, the woman began to tell the frazzled mom (and now apoplectic child) that the incident reminded her of a McDonald’s commercial she once saw. This got me thinking – there are some things you should just never say to a new mom. My list is below. Feel free to add your own.

And don’t say I didn’t warn you.

1. “You look tired.”
Oh, really? Do I? You don’t say. Maybe that’s because I haven’t slept in NINE MONTHS. Now shut up and pass the coffee. Oh, I’m sorry, did that sound cranky? Maybe that’s because I haven’t slept in NINE MONTHS.

2. “Wow, it sounds like your baby is difficult.”
Difficult? Excuse me? He is not difficult. My baby is the smartest, brightest, happiest child in the world. Only I am allowed to say that he is difficult. Now shut up and pass the coffee.

3. “Why didn’t you come out last night? You missed a really great time.”
I know I missed a great time. I know I never come out any more. Don't rub it in. I’m too exhausted to even think about putting on a nice pair of shoes, much less finding a matching outfit and purse that aren’t covered in baby puke. A party is not something my sleep-deprived self can handle right now, so please don’t remind me of all the fun I might be missing. On second thought, maybe you are the one missing all the fun. How do you know that my house is not the coolest, most happenin’ place to be a Friday night? Maybe it’s a party here every single night, and you’re just not invited.

4. “Wow, you look great for just having had a baby.”
Ok, this one isn’t bad for those who have just given birth. But my son is nearly 10 months old. I didn’t “just” have a baby. So please just say that I look great, full stop, even if I don’t.

5. “Shouldn’t your son be wearing mittens?”
Yes, he should be wearing mittens. And, in fact, he was wearing mittens until 10 seconds ago, when he pulled them off for the fifth time and threw them onto the street. He was wearing mittens, even though he wails when I put them on like they are some sort of torture device. Anything else you’d like to know? No? That’s what I thought.

6. “Do you want some advice?”
This is fine in some situations – everyone needs advice from those who have been there. But exhausted and frustrated moms rarely want advice in the midst of a crisis, especially if they don’t know you. If a child is screaming in the middle of a store, her mom does not want to hear about the tantrums your child used to have. She just wants to get out of there without killing someone, so get out of her way.

7. “Don’t you just LOVE being a mom?”
Depends on the day. Most of the time, yes. Sometimes, no. Don’t ask it like there is an obvious answer, like we all LOVE being moms every single hour of every day. On a day when my child refuses to nap, bites my nipple while nursing, pukes green beans all over my best sweater, and leaves a poop trail across my bathroom floor, I do not LOVE being a mom.

8. “Should you really be drinking wine when you’re breastfeeding?”
Yes, I should. I really, really should. And don’t worry, I have carefully calculated when I have nursed him, when he will nurse next, and how much I’m drinking. My one glass of red wine will not kill anyone, but I might if you take it away from me.

9. “My friend’s 6-week-old is already sleeping eight hour stretches.”
Oh, really? That’s just great. I might have to crawl into a hole and die now, thank you very much. Please don’t remind me of other mothers who get to sleep. I don’t get to sleep, and it doesn’t help me to hear about other moms that do. I want to hear the horror stories about the 18-month-old kids who still wake up every two hours, or the 20-minute nappers, or the kids with night terrors, because that makes me feel better. Because it’s good to know that my kid is not totally freakish, that I’m not the only one patting bums and going “shhhh” in the middle of the night. It makes me feel less alone.

10. “When I had a baby, I was back to my pre-pregnancy clothes within a month.”
Be warned. If you say this to a sleep-deprived, stressed-out, hormonally-unbalanced new mom who still can’t fasten the button on her skinny jeans, it may be the last thing you ever say.

Potty Strikes

I didn’t used to find this funny. But, like many things in parenting, if you don’t laugh, you’ll just end up crying.

I’m talking about baby poop. Pee. Diapers. Potties. Believe me, I have never been one for toilet humour. I used to think of myself as too educated and sophisticated for that. (Hah!)

But if you are a parent, I guarantee that you have laughed about poop at least once, no matter how sophisticated you are. If you have an infant, you likely talk about the p-words on a daily basis. I even know a couple who did a celebratory “poo dance” when their newborn finally did his business, because it meant their baby was healthy. I could not even fathom doing such a dance before I became a mom. If you aren’t a parent yet, you’ve probably never done a poo dance either (I hope). But you will.

With my nine-month-old son, we have been practising “Elimination Communication,” or EC, as some parents call it. EC is based on the idea that infants are born with the instinct not to soil themselves and that we train them to poop in their pants. If we keep this instinct alive by encouraging them to use the potty from birth, they will never feel comfortable in soiled diapers and will learn to use a potty faster – a plus for everyone.

Now, some of you are rolling your eyes and thinking that this is crazy. Not so. We have done this with our son since birth, and from about six months of age we have rarely changed a poopy diaper. This is not because my son is magical. He just has a very obvious “poo face.” There is no mistaking it. He looks at me for help, eyes wide, lips tight and wide in this weird grin. When that happens, I rush him to the potty and he promptly does his business. No dirty diaper, no mess, and everyone is happier. Simple as pie.

The problem is, every once in a while, the munchkin goes on a potty strike and simply refuses to sit on the toilet. He arches his back and protests. Loudly. (I often wonder how such a small being can be so loud.) So I take him off, assuming that he doesn’t need to go. But he does need to go, he just doesn’t want to go in the potty. He’ll crawl away only to leave a puddle on the floor two seconds later, grinning happily like he just played a great joke on mommy. My husband left him in the bathroom for two minutes the other day, sans diaper, and came back to a trail of poop across the bathroom. Even I thought that one was gross, but since I didn’t have to clean it up, I laughed hysterically.

Yesterday, the potty strike continued. I put him on his little toilet seat and he started to cry, so I quickly took him off (the last thing I need is a child traumatized by the potty). He was then standing happily by the bathtub, pants around his ankles, when I turned on the faucet. This apparently inspired his reluctant bladder, and he let loose all over his pants, socks, and the floor, giggling the entire time. Like he did it on purpose. Like he thought it was so very funny to pee on the floor. Despite myself, I giggled too, because it was funny. Because apparently, despite my education and obvious sophistication, I now find toilet humour funny.

My son will someday be a teenage boy. I figure I might as well embrace it now.