fanging

The poor little miss can't seem to catch a break these days. She's a drooling mess soaking through bibs and onsies and covering anyone who holds her in slime. I was putting some homeopathic topical stuff on her gums today and I could feel the tiny bit of loose gum on the bottom covering the teeth. They seem so close, yet so dreadfully far away.

Having a baby really brought out my latent hippie tendencies, I mean I had a home birth, I drank weird tasting teas, and I was certainly all against drugging my child. However, the other day I was talking to a woman from La Leche League, who I assume to be about as hippie as they come, (they promote and help women with breastfeeding) about Leila's teething and she was all, "give her infant tylenol." And so I did. And a chorus of Birkenstock wearing angels sang. Seriously though, I give her half the recommended dosage when she starts to wail like a banshee and she chills out and drools pink stuff down her chin and looks like an adorable baby vampire with a hankering for barbie blood. I'll try to take a picture next time. In the meantime, here is Leila chilling in her Jolly Jumper, and yes that's a drool bubble on her lower lip.

One big thumbs up for jumping.

how nice

My wonderful aunt and uncle tell this joke they picked up when they were sailing in the states. It goes like this: two women are sharing are recovery room in a hospital after delivering their babies. Woman number one, we'll call her Charlotte, turns to her neighbour and says with a Southern drawl,"well now, this is my third child and I just wonder what my husband will give me as a present, for my first child he gave me a diamond neckless..."
And the second woman, Jane, says, "how nice," but Charlotte just carries on with her monologue, "and for my second child he gave me a Rolls Royce, and I just can't imagine what he'll be giving me for this one, maybe that little sailboat I've always wanted..."
Jane nods her head and says again, "how nice."
Charlotte looks over and Jane and says, "this is your second child, right? What did your husband give you for your first?" To which Jane responds, "my husband sent me to finishing school."
"Oh," says Charlotte, a little perplexed, "and whatever did you learn there?"
"Well," says Jane, "I used to say, 'fuck you,' and now I say, 'how nice.'"


At any rate, I just read the blog of a man with a three month old daughter, who claims his baby only cries for two reasons, because she's hungry or because she's sleepy, and I found myself thinking, "how nice."

captain cranks

A little while back, I started referring to Leila and Captain Cranks when she would get in a mood where she needed to be constantly bounced, rocked, moved around and etc. Those times where I felt like I was doing everything I could to keep hysterics at bay, and I was just barely winning.

Right now, I feel like the Captain is winning. Leila used to fall asleep in my arms at nap time. I would bounce her or rock her and she would, after a few tears, drift off happily. But I can't do that anymore. I need new tricks. It seems like every time you figure our how to be a parent the game changes. For once, I'd like to be ahead of the curve.

Tom took the day off work today, due to a mounting concern I might throw myself off the balcony. I'm kidding by the way, but I had a rough day yesterday. I really had no idea how hard having a baby would be on the relationship. I guess I really should have since being utterly sleep deprived tends to take a toll on any relationship. It took a little while but I think we're at a place where we're working at as a team rather than as two clueless individuals. I turned to him tonight and said, "you know, I think if I was doing this with anyone else I would have killed them by now." Am I not a true romantic?

things you like at three and half months

Today a friend asked me what Leila likes. I thought this was a really lovely question since most of the time babies are seen more as unreasonable objects rather than as very small people with definite opinions. The following is a list of things Leila likes in case you want to know, and in case she wants to know when she's much older and reading this long love letter to her I'm calling a blog.

In no particular order:

1. Rubbing noses with me
2. Her giraffe Sophie
3. Chewing on receiving blankets
4. Cooing
5. Blowing bubbles
6. Going for walks
7. Staring at the bird mobile Auntie Ashlee made
8. The Norton
9. Dad
10. Eating

Last night Leila laughed for the first time, it was pretty much the best thing ever.

eight minutes to freedom

When Leila was brand new she would sleep no where else other than plastered to my side. Even if she was fast asleep and we tried to move her to her cradle she would instantly wake up. So it was much to my surprise that after another horrible night of sleep Tom put her in her cradle in the living room and after crying for eight minutes (during which he held me to the bed so I wouldn't go to her) she fell asleep and stayed asleep. Since then, she's only been waking up once a night usually around 3am to eat, then she wakes up and 6:30 and comes back to our bed for cuddles and another snack. Sure, I'm not basking in sleep, but this is so much better than waking up every 30 minutes between 3 and 6am. I almost feel like a normal human.

It's strange in a way to let go like this. Before I had her I read a lot of stuff about "attachment parenting" or the gospel according to Dr. Sears, where it sounds like, given a choice, babies would rather sleep with their parents for ever and ever until they were fifteen. Leila certainly doesn't want to sleep next to us anymore though. For a while she did, but now she's far too grown up for that. I feel like I sleep more deeply now that I'm not always unconsciously aware of her in the bed. I'm still in tune with her, I just don't wake up every time she inhales.

Even now that I'm grown up and I have a daughter of my own, nothing hurts more than having my mother yell at me. Like Robert Munsch said, "forever and ever, my baby you'll be."

the good, the bad and the sleepy

When I was in high school my dad used to wake me up every morning by saying, "there's good news and there's bad news, which do you want first?" I would croak something about "the good" and he would answer, "well the good news is that it's morning, the bad news is that you have to get up."

Right now I feel like that. The good news is, I've reintroduced coffee to my life. Yes, the caffeinated kind.  The bad news is I need it desperately. I didn't drink coffee throughout my pregnancy, and except from a stolen sip from Tom here and there, I haven't had any since she was born. This morning I sat down and drank a whole cup, and it was magnificent. I feel like I could conquer the world. I was actually going to go for a walk but Tom went out with my keys by accident. I feel like it can't  be worse for Leila than having her mother who is so sleep deprived she can't function normally without bursting into tears.

The bad news is that Leila has decided she does not need sleep. The past couple of nights she has refused to go to sleep before 10pm and then has slept for a couple of hours and has woken up thrashing around like a mad baby. Rinse and repeat every half an hour. Last night Tom drove her to Squamish and back so I could get some sleep. She was hysterical because she'd only taken one short nap and had refused all my attempts to get her to sleep. Around 8pm I was holding her on the bed rocking her back and forth sobbing, "I just want you to be happy baby, I love you so much, please just be happy." Fortunately, Tom stepped in told me to go to bed, picked her up and took her down to the car.

She did wake up in the middle of the night again, somewhere around 1am. She was kicking and thrashing and trying to nurse, but then pulling her head away. I tried swaddling her and she just wriggled out of it like an pissed-off caterpillar. I've never been angry with her before. I always manage to divert my frustration onto poor, long-suffering Norton or Tom or a pillow.When she is freaking out I will snap at one of them, but last night in the middle of the night I was furious with her. I picked her up and I was taking her out of our room and I was going to put her in the cradle in the living room and leave her there even if she cried. I didn't care. As soon as I put her down in the cradle (and woke up a bit more) I realized what was going on, she was drawing her legs up to her chest and then kicking them out like she does when she's gassy. My anger evaporated and I scooped her up and took her over to the couch where I held her on her stomach and patted her back until she was gas free. Then I made some "stomach calming tea" (fennel, cammomile, and peppermint) that is suppose to pass through my milk into her stomach and help her relax. After an hour or so she'd pooped, eaten and was feeling much more pleased with life. I swaddled her up and again and brought her back to bed, where she fell asleep instantly.

It's hard somehow not feel angry when I don't know why she's upset. I would do anything for her, but I can't  do anything if I don't know what to do. Yesterday I missed Tom's mom so much. My mom is stuck in Iceland waiting for a flight home and there was seemingly no one I could call for advice on what to do. My friends with babies are all in the same boat as me, figuring out what works and what doesn't, and I really needed some sage grandmotherly advice. Even if it was just to tell me that, "this too shall pass."

The even better news is Tom's mom is coming for a visit in less than a month. When I am awake at night and can't fall back to sleep I count down the days until her next visit. Twenty-two, in case you were wondering.

A rare moment these days.

three monthday

Dear Leila,

Today you are three months old, although it feels like you've been around forever and ever. I can no longer picture a life without you. You rule our house like a very small tyrant, demanding attention, cuddles and bounces. You especially like it when your dad or I lifts you under your armpits so you're horizontal with the floor and make you fly around. You've also discovered your hands and you love sucking on them, pulling your soother out of your mouth, pulling my hair and playing with the spinning thing on your bouncy plastic baby immobilizer (I think its called an 'exersaucer' but I think that sounds dumb).

Yesterday was my first mother's day and you very cleverly told your father to make me french toast with strawberries and bananas. Then you got your dad to build be some planter boxes so I can grow veggies and flowers on the deck. So thoughtful of you. Today we planted, basil, dill, carrots, cucumbers and tomatoes. You started crying at one point because it was windy and when I went over to fix your hat you got very muddy.

Everything I've read says the first three months are the hardest, and honestly, I'm hoping they're right. You're wonderful with your grins and your coos and you sleep giggles but the waking up every half hour and crying for no reason part is difficult. All that being said, I love you more every day that I spend with you and I'm so very glad you came to our house.

Love you always,

Mom

re-introduction to the wild

Last night I went out. By myself. For longer than fifteen minutes. And had a beer.

I put the baby to sleep at around 9:30 and then sat on the couch with Tom feeling nervous and giddy like I was about to do some naughty. The conversation went something like this.

Me- She'll be alright, right?

Tom-Yes.

Me-You'll call if she wakes up right?

Tom-Sure.

Awkward pause.

Tom-You should get going if you're going to go.

Me-Yeah I guess so.

So I made the five minute walk around the corner to the Princeton to see my friends' band Bad Fate. And once I got over my initial paralyzing worry about Leila I had a good time. I talked about things other than babies. I giggled. I got to hang out with my two former room mates, Ben and Aaron, who I love more than most men. And when I got home, Leila was still asleep.

Eons ago, in the house of the rising sun with Benjuan and Aaroncho, ok Aaron's paint shop pro'd in.

This was our "album cover"

postcolonial angst

There's a native family that lives on the ground floor of my building. It's hard to tell exactly how many of them live in the one bedroom apartment as there seems to be a constant stream coming and going through the broken living room window. Yesterday, as I was putting the girl into the car, I counted five adults and seven children getting out of a purple minivan with an Ed Hardy steering wheel cover. The youngest, who couldn't have been more than three was wearing only a diaper, no shoes. I noted this mass exodus from the van with mild amusement. Sure it's not safe, but it's not really the end of the world, and I'm educated. I've read Frans Fanon. I have a lot of postcolonial guilt that I don't know where to put, so when I'm presented with situations like this I try to blame myself, not them.
Later that evening, Tom and I were getting ready to go out, putting the car seat in the car. Our building's parking lot is at the back by the dumpster, and the aforementioned family's window backs onto the parking lot.  There were three little boys belonging to the family playing on some discarded (and probably bedbug ridden) mattresses by the dumpster. They were four or five years old, none of them were wearing shoes, their faces were streaked with dirt and snot and they kept finding these huge rocks to hurl at each other. Eventually, one of them went flying off the mattress and crashed on the pavement and burst into hysterical tears. After what seemed like an eternity, some adult emerged through the broken window and picked him up, but not before Tom had had the chance to lean over to Leila and say, "you're not allowed to play with those boys." 

I couldn't say that I disagreed. Almost all of my wanted to pick them up and throw them into a hot bath and hug them, but at the same time, I don't advocate taking children away from their families. Their culture. The only thing I've really learned about babies in my three months of being a mother is that kids need a lot of love, an infinite, seemingly insatiable amount of love, and from what I could see, those kids weren't getting it. As we were pulling out of the parking lot I was reminded of the line from Ezra Pound's "The Garden" where he talks about, "the filthy, study, unkillable infants of the very poor. / They shall inherit the earth."

happy birthday aven

Today is Aven's birthday party, though her actual birthday is May the fourth. After Leila was born other people's babies became just that, other people's babies. They were still cute and cuddly, but they weren't as cute and cuddly and wonderful as mine. Aven is different. I love Aven, and watching her grow up this year has been an absolute joy. If there was no Aven there would be no Leila.

Tom and I met Aven one spring day last year when she was just two weeks old. We had been fighting and I almost didn't come with him, but I really do like babies so I relented. I rode on the back of Tom's motorcycle out to Burnaby with him. It was the May long weekend. I was going to visit my dad to get away from Tom for a while, to be alone and figure some things out. Aven was beautiful, cuddly and sweet. We stayed for longer than we probably should have now that I think about it. On our way back to the bike Tom grabbed me and held me whispered in my ear, "make me one of those."

Tom came with me to Pender Island that weekend instead of me going alone. Forty weeks and one day later, Leila was born.

Aven and me, the day we first met.