Wordless Wednesday - Piano Man

On Sunday I dug out my old keyboard and set it up in The Imp's room. He's played it constantly since.

Things I've Learned - Croup

In a nutshell: not as much fun as you'd think.

Before Thursday at 2:00 am, I'd never come face to face with croup before. That's when The Imp woke up, crying, struggling for breath and barking that awful seal-sounding cough. While I comforted him and listened to my baby pant and wheeze, my husband turned to Dr. Google and gave us a preliminary diagnosis of croup. We called the British Columbia free 24 hour nurse line (which if you're in BC and haven't taken advantage of, you really should - they've talked me off the ledge more than once), and they asked us all the right questions and made reassuring noises. Croup was confirmed by our actual in-the-flesh doctor on Friday morning.

The sum total of my experience with croup up to this point was, at the age of seven, having read L. M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables, where Anne's experience with raising Mrs. Hammond's three sets of twins helped her, with liberal use of ipecac, save the life of Diana's little sister, reconcile with Mrs. Barry, and be joyfully reunited with her bff. Not having any ipecac handy, I had no idea what to do. (And having since googled ipecac, it's a good thing we didn't have any!) To be honest, I thought croup was one of those old-timey words for an affliction we've since started calling something more scientific sounding - like consumption for tuberculosis.

Image scanged from this website

Summarizing what our doctor told me: croup is a swelling of the trachea, usually caused by viral infection. In an adult it would only cause a cold, but in a little person, since the involved body parts are smaller, any swelling can cause obstruction of the airway. So it basically manifests itself as wheezing, some struggling for breath, and coughing that sounds exactly (and disconcertingly) like a barking seal.

It's really awful to hear, but not uncommon, and usually goes away by itself after a few days. Temporary relief can be achieved by getting outside into fresh air (Hello bicycle rides!) or sitting in a steamy bathroom (my pores have never been so open). If it doesn't go away on its own, a one-time steroid treatment can be used to reduce the swelling and allow the body to heal.

What made this extra fun for us is that croup is often, as was our case, accompanied by a fever. The Imp has a history of febrile seizures, so that put us immediately on Seizure Watch 2010. Diligent temperature taking, administration of Tylenol and Advil at regular intervals, and much anxiety are the hallmarks of Seizure Watch. Add total parental sleeplessness into the mix and that makes for a pretty frazzled, short-tempered, emotionally draining experience.

Fortunately, The Imp took it pretty much in stride, as he does most things. He's gotten so accustomed to having his temperature taken that if we leave the digital thermometer where he can reach it, he picks it up and tries to stick it in his own armpit. He knows the words for Tylenol and Advil and can identify which drops are which by the shape/colour of the container. (Which alarms and saddens me more than a little, I must say.) He was distressed by the sound of his own coughing, and didn't sleep particularly well, but was comforted by snuggling up to me in bed - which punctuated for me why we don't co-sleep with him anymore; sharing the bed with him is like trying to cuddle up to a very localized tornado. With the exception of a 3 second episode on Friday morning, he was seizure free. His fever's been gone more than 24 hours and he's sleeping comfortably in his own crib as I type.

And if it wasn't for the storm, howling winds and pelting rain against the windows, I'd be sleeping too. After the last three days I certainly need it.

The takeaway:

1) Croup: an actual thing. Who knew?

2) It sounds worse than it is. Which is good because it sounds really really awful.

3) The impact of twitter on my daily life cannot be overstated. I received good advice, commiseration, sympathy and support, and relief in the humour of the zombie apocalypse.

4) This parenting stuff is hard, yo.

Things I've Learned - Earth Hour

Striving for lucidity in between croupy sleepless nights on Seizure Watch 2010 with The Imp, I've been doing a little thinking as Earth Hour approaches. Last year my husband was working on the pilot of The Good Wife, and The Imp was sleeping, so I spent the designated hour alone, in silence, reading by candlelight in the living room. It reminded me of a time when I was a child in Reunion, and a cyclone knocked out the power for a few days. My mom was away, but I vividly remember sitting at our kitchen table with my dad and my little sister reading by candlelight before bedtime.

This year, as Earth Hour draws ever nearer, what comes to mind is not the turning off of lights for a few minutes this evening, but some of the more substantial groping-for-sustainability changes I've made in my life since this time last year:

1) Transportation:  I've been using my car much less, walking, taking transit, and bicycling much more. The bicycling in particular I've enjoyed much more than I thought I would, and The Imp absolutely loves it; so much so that he often insists on wearing his "bicy hemmet" at breakfast.

2) Household cleaning: over the last year we've been moving away from standard (and often toxic) cleaning products and have been using good old vinegar and baking soda as our cleaners of choice. I first tried it in the bathtub "just to see" and was so impressed with how it worked that I haven't used anything else in the bathroom (or the kitchen) since. It's so much less expensive, doesn't leave noxious smells about the place, and I don't feel like I need to rinse the bajeesus out of the tub before we can let The Imp have a bath in it. So we're saving water too: bonus!

3) Re-usable shopping bags: I'm not rock solid on this one yet; I seem to remember the shopping bags as I walk into the store rather than as I leave the house, but we've definitely cut the amount of plastic bags coming into the house by about 80%.

4) Farmers' markets: being a die-hard foodie, I've been a fan of Vancouver's farmers' markets since they started holding them a few years ago. There's nothing quite like fresh in-season produce. But in the last year, I've been even more focused on buying local, in season, and cooking at home. Bringing my own bags and containers to the markets cuts down on the amount of garbage created too. The vendors at the markets are so excited about what they do; the love of good food is infectious. One Saturday last summer as I was buying tomatoes, the man who had picked them that very morning smiled at me and said, "You can still feel the sunshine on them, can't you?" Enchanting!

5) Re-usable coffee cups: my own personal rule, a New Year's 2010 resolution, was that if I forgot to bring my stainless steel cup with me, I was not allowed to get takeout coffee. As a result I've enjoyed some lovely if unintentional "for here" coffees when I did forget my cup. There's something to be said for just slowing things down for 20 minutes and watching the world go by once in a while. The French have that, like many things, absolutely right.

It's no coincidence that many of these changes have come into play after I became a parent. Something about watching your child grow up makes you intensely aware of the world they are inheriting.

Wordless Wednesday

I was looking through some old photos yesterday and stumbled across this one.



Me, the morning of my wedding. My friend Heather caught a final quiet moment before the mayhem of The Getting Ready began.

This was almost seven years and 20 pounds ago. It's now my motivation for my fitbyforty mission.

Things I've Learned - Helping Mummy!

My sister-in-law is celebrating her 50th birthday today. I'm the designated birthday-cake-maker in the family, so this morning I was up early looking through recipes for something worthy of the occasion. Cake, filling & frosting chosen, I got out ingredients and got ready to bake. The Imp picked that very moment to become desperately in need of my attention, clinging to my leg and insisting "Up, Mummy!" repeatedly. He WOULD NOT like to go read books with Daddy, thank you very much.

He was, however, delighted to help me stir flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt together.

And the problem with child labour would be...?

Well, I guess the problem with child workers is their tendency to eat the product.

Given that The Imp a) never stops moving, and b) has the attention span of a... well, an almost 2 year old, I was surprised at how diligent he was about stirring things together. He stuck with it until it was all mixed together, and then worked at it again once we added the wet ingredients. I can't even begin to describe how much fun he had - and how much I loved it. It's not often I recognize those perfect moments for what they are as they're happening. This morning I knew. As I stood there next to him, The Imp dressed in his too-big hand-me-down jammies on the chair pulled up to the kitchen counter, fork in hand, enthusiastically stirring cake batter, I knew.

This was one of those moments. I was so overcome with happiness that I had to struggle not to cry. I will remember the look on his face until the day I die. He was perfectly happy, stirring with purpose, saying proudly as he smiled up at me, "Helping Mummy!"

Happy sigh.


Daddy held him at a safe distance while the cakes went in to the oven.

Cake layers cooling on racks prior to filling/frosting
Far left is the layer The Imp made

Right then, dabbing a wee speck of sentiment from my eyes, on to frosting.

The genesis of cream cheese frosting


Add pure cocoa powder & icing sugar

Like most things in life, it needed more chocolate...

...and Kahlua.

And strawberries & whipped cream, of course.

Now for the assembly:

At this point in the process, I had to stop taking photos as things were getting a little messy. The four layers stacked were somewhat lacking in structural integrity. (Let's just say it's not an earthquake-proof cake.) And then the cream cheese frosting wasn't sticking to the whipped cream and the whole thing threatened to devolve into not so much cake as birthday pudding. I live in fear of the car journey to my sister-in-law's house.

I did manage to use ALL the frosting and filling, so.

The finished product:




The takeaway:

My husband and I were talking this afternoon about the things we remember from our childhood; the things that made us really happy. For him it was going skating with his whole family every weekend in the winter. For me it was sitting under a tropical night sky with my dad and having him teach me the constellations of the southern hemisphere.

We realized one of those Important Truths. It's not the fancy birthday party, the cool new bike, the "event" moments in our childhood that stick with us. It's the simple time spent standing on a kitchen chair with your mom stirring together your first cake.

Wordless Wednesday

Recently I decided it was time to quit mucking about and get back into some semblance of physical activity. I started on Monday, bicycling with The Imp of the Perverse to daycare and back every day. He loves being on the bicycle so much that he insists on wearing his helmet from the moment he wakes up, and chants "Bicy! Bicy!" to himself as he eats his banana and yogurt.

This morning, post-breakfast and pre-pants:

Wordless Wednesday

Pictures of my dad & my son as metaphor for the process of starting my own business:

Gee, Grampa, I don't know if I'm sure about this...




Maybe all I need is a little encouragement.




Oh jeez oh jeez oh jeez.
But it feels good.

Things I Love - Adding to the Blogroll

Some new names added to the Blogs I Love list on the right:

Pregnant Stephanie, no longer pregnant, has set up shop at The Tsunami Mommy. I'm keeping the link to Pregnant Stephanie up because there's lots of great stuff there and as far as I know she hasn't moved it over to her new home. Her twitter handle has changed too.

More Yummy Mummy Club: Sharon DeVellis at The Inside Scoop writes like I would like to write, only funnier. Which is to say, she's funnier than me, not that I want to write funnier than her. Er. Well maybe I do. I'm making a mess of this - just go check her out.

And Amber Strocel. Her twitter updates are always wryly amusing, and I really enjoyed her recent Carnival of Maternity Leave posts.

That's a good start - there are many more to come. There is an astonishing wealth of really talented women writing about their lives. I plan to add a few to the blogroll every week.

Wordless Wednesday

Well, it's 5am and I'm up, so...

A friend's 6 year old daughter & the Imp of the Perverse enjoying the view of Stanley Park from our apartment window

Forgive Me, Readers, For I Have Sinned

It's been more than three months since my last blog post.

No excuse, but it's been a busy three months.

I learned my job had evaporated while I was on maternity leave, three days before my leave ended. So that was fun.

Then The Boy turned 1.

And a good time was had by all...

There was The Weaning, which made me simultaneously joyous and sad. The Boy didn't even notice. (That was the part that made me joyous. And sad.)

There was the beginning of daycare, which The Boy, now known as The Imp of the Perverse, absolutely loves. Which, you know, makes me both joyous. And sad.

There was the end of crawling and the beginning of walking. And the many bruises that accompany the severe listing to starboard inherent in that learning process.

And then, and then...

Then there was the "Hey, I should start my own business one day" which became "Hey there's an EI funded program that could help me start my own business" which morphed to "Hey the deadline for applying to that program is in a couple of weeks." What followed was along the lines of "Hey, I got an interview" and then "Wow, my application's been shortlisted & gone to an independent panel for review." Hard on the heels of that was "Wahoo, I've been accepted into the program!" which today, as I started the first day of ten weeks of classes, became "Hey, check me out, I'm an entrepreneur!"

Remember way back in the mists of history, when I said I'd work free for a clothing designer if money wasn't a concern? Well, I didn't win the lottery but I am working free for a designer.

Me.

I'm the designer. I know, crazy! I'm designing children's clothes, starting with a line of funky hats for boys.

The Imp of the Perverse models my first prototype

Today I registered my company name: Chill Monkeys Apparel. It's starting to become really real.

Oh shit. Now I have to actually DO this.

Wordless Wednesday

We really are all about the hats in this family

Things That Are True - Validation

Okay, so yesterday I did the Walk for Kids Help Phone. Like seven kinds of idiot, I left my camera at home. Fortunately my team mates brought theirs - check out Rachael's blog for a fun photographic account of our morning. Mmm, Trevor Linden...

I couldn't really tell you why I decided to take part in the event. If I was a better person than I am, I would say it was to raise funds for a very worthy cause. (Which we did, to the tune of $3 million nationwide.) Participating in events like these is a little bit like buying a secret insurance policy: if I contribute to Kids Help Phone, maybe my son will never need it. Never be scared, never be bullied, never be suicidal, never need to turn to an anonymous friendly voice to discuss the pain he can't talk about with anyone else.

But for me it was also a chance to get out of the house, and out of my own head for a while. And, as it turned out, a chance to meet two remarkable women: Yummy Mummy Team Captain Catherine (aka EarnestGirl) and All Around Excellent Energy Rachael. I could not have had a better time, or found two better people to share those 5km with.

I've never been one of the cool kids. And new motherhood feels a lot like being an awkward teenager, uncertainly edging up to the popular girls, not ever sure whether what you're doing will earn the scorn or laughter of those you admire.

After the event, as we were saying goodbye in the parking lot, Catherine told me that it sounded like I was doing well in my first year as a mom. I almost burst into tears. You don't realize, sometimes, how much you need some validation until you get it. It may have been an offhand comment for her. For me, it was like wandering around the cafeteria, tray in hand, and being invited to sit at the cool kids' table for lunch.

Thanks to Yummy Mummy Club for being what got me off my (ample) behind to get out and walk the 5 km in such excellent company!

Things That Are True - Breastfeeding

“Your rack is shrinking.”

Said my husband, the poet, the other night as I was undressing for bed.

And it’s true.

The Boobs of Doom, we named them early in my pregnancy, when they swelled from a B to a D cup seemingly overnight, when my aureolae grew to the size of demitasse saucers and my nipples became rather aggressively brown and determined to have a look around for themselves. Post partum, as the milk came in, they ballooned to a DD/E. Yes, from a B to an E. That’s 4 cup sizes for those of you playing along at home… We began to affectionately call them The Boobs That Ate New York.

My husband, delighted, felt like he was married to a 1950’s pin up.

I found my new mammarian bounty cumbersome. Although I appreciated that the giant boobs balanced out what had become a seriously generous ass, I couldn’t get used to them. They were in the way. Running to catch the elevator left me gasping in pain. No bra could adequately contain them, and they were inconvenient, leaking milk at inopportune moments. And the nursing pads, and their failures. Classy, that breast pad peeking up out of the top of your shirt, milk leaking out of your no longer protected nipple below. Especially in the grocery store when you’ve finally carved out 15 minutes for yourself away from your adored but exhausting little one, and someone else’s baby starts to cry and oh dear here come the pins and needles and… Gush. Awesome.

I may be the only woman in the history of breasts to rejoice that mine are slowly disappearing. I am so happy, now that The Boy is getting most of his nourishment from solid food, that these unruly milk factories are now tucking themselves sensibly into D cups again. (D cups! What I once would have considered “stripper boobs” are now something I find sensible…)

But here’s the thing:

I have loved breastfeeding. LOVED IT. Far more than I ever could have guessed, back in the unknowing days of my pregnancy, reading all the reasons that breastfeeding is a Good Thing, approaching it as an intellectual concept, wanting to do what was best for my child.

I have loved it so much more than I would have imagined in those early difficult days. (And they are difficult. Don’t let anyone fool you on that count. It is hard, and it does hurt, and you will torture yourself with guilt for wanting to give up, even if you keep going. Gawd, the senseless guilt we new mothers heap on our own heads…)

And here’s why I have loved it so:

I’m an admitted control freak. I like to know what’s coming. I have to have a plan. I have to know how it’s all going to happen, fit together, and turn out in the end. And I've always been this way. My parents tell stories of having to prepare small-child-me for outings by describing, in detail, what was going to happen. Once they didn’t know there would be a dog at a friend’s home we were visiting, and apparently I freaked out to an embarrassing degree.

Being a control freak and a brand new mom simultaneously is… Well, it’s imfuckingpossible, frankly. I felt so out of control. I felt so lost in not-knowing. Things were happening to me and around me without me having any clue what was coming next. For someone like me, this was at times sheer torture.

But I could feed my child.

Even when I was so tired I couldn’t remember my own name, I could feed my child. I held on to that, like an anchor keeping me still in the maelstrom that my life had become.

Yes, there are a million reasons to breastfeed. You can read about them somewhere else. Here’s the one that made the difference for me, and that I don’t see discussed much: breastfeeding gave me a tremendous sense of power.

And not the wrong kind of power – not power over something or someone. Not a power born of ego. At a time when I was plagued with insecurities, buried in guilt, and terrified of Doing It Wrong, watching my baby grow and thrive, knowing that my body was his sole source of nourishment gave me a real sense of quiet competence. I have, my entire life, always defined myself intellectually. As I watched him grow out of the tiny onesies I’d so lovingly bought before he was born, and saw his skinny little newborn legs fill out and develop pudgy rolls, I gradually grew into a sort of awe for my physical self.

Look! Look what my body can do.

The Boy at 3 months


His body takes breast milk I've made and turns it into eyelashes. And fingernails. And teeth! As an atheist, this is the closest to a sense of reverence I have ever been.

The Boy sleeps - 10 months old

Even today, as The Boy reaches 11 months on The Outside, I look at him and rejoice in how healthy and happy a little guy he is.

The Boy at almost 11 months

And I forgive my still alarmingly generous ass, and the way I look in a bathing suit at 11 months post partum, and all the physical imperfections my control freak self used to pick apart in the mirror.

Because look what my body can do.

The Boy at the playground a couple of weeks ago

Now that The Boy has started self-weaning (we're down to 3 or 4 feeds a day), I won’t miss The Boobs That Ate New York.

But I’ll miss what they’ve represented.

Things That Break Your Heart

I have started and deleted this post a half-dozen times. I lack the skill to convey what I want to say.

Tuesday, via Twitter, I learned for the first time about a woman I'll never meet, and the daughter she lost. I have been on the verge of tears for two days, every time I look at my son, and have been holding him tight far more than a crawling 10 month old is interested in being held.

Sweetney said it better than I can.
So did Her Bad Mother.

For anyone who thinks the internet is an isolating medium, the outpouring of love and heartbreak from strangers for Heather and Mike Spohr, and little Maddie, proves differently. The donations to March of Dimes' March for Babies in her name, which were less than $3000 on Monday, are now in excess of $20,000.

Sigh. Time to wipe my eyes and go gaze at my sleeping son, and feel lucky.

Things That Are Surprising - My Own Reactions, Also: Link Love

Alas, the Bumbo seat is no longer an adequate means of restraint. I knew this day would come, but I'm not really ready for it, in the same way that I'm not really prepared to see The Boy's grin now full of teeth. He looks less like a baby and more like a little boy every day. And when I first realized that, I died a little bit inside.

Don't get me wrong, I celebrate the milestones - my heart cheers every time he masters a new skill: the crawling, pulling himself up, self-feeding... It's just that he's one of one. We're not planning on having any more children. So this is it.

One child has always been the plan, so it's shocking to me that I'm reacting so viscerally to this, and I'm not expressing myself very well. Fortunately, Jessica Gottlieb has been here before me.

Here's her post on the subject.

And here's some link love for more writing that has knocked me on my ass in the last few weeks:

Sharon's take on why we never throw rocks.

Her Bad Mother's contribution to the adoption/abortion discussion.

And something a little lighter for this sunny Tuesday.

Things That Are True - You Know You're a Mom When...

You know you're a mom when you are breastfeeding your baby, enjoying a laid back morning, and the sun is streaming in through the window. As its rays catch the fine blond hairs on your son's upper lip just so, your first thought is:

"Oh God, in about 13 years I'm going to have to hide my laughter when he is sincerely trying to turn that into a mustache."

Things I've Learned - C-Sections

I was a breech baby, born by scheduled caesarean section. My dad, for years, kept forgetting my birthday because he thought they’d chosen the second of the two dates available for surgery. Back then in the dark ages of 1970, my mom was oblivious to the whole procedure, knocked out under a general anaesthetic. Modern anaesthesiology now allows mom to be awake and aware of the birth of her baby, a fact I am particularly grateful for, since I had an unexpected c-section myself.

After almost 30 hours of labour with my son, he hadn’t descended at all, and I had dilated a grand total of four centimetres.

Four stinking centimetres. Not even half way there, after water breaking at home, labouring for hours, two trips to the hospital, being sent home both times to labour in the comfort of my own home...

(Aside – who the hell uses the words labour and comfort in the same sentence?)

Then finally being admitted when contractions were less than two minutes apart and I couldn’t see straight in the midst of them. Gas. Epidural. Constant internal monitoring due to a low baseline fetal heartbeat, and ever increasing levels of oxytocin being administered.

All that for four measly centimetres. The Boy was staying put.

My GP and the resident on duty suggested that the baby might be too big for my pelvic bones to allow his passage. They told us we could continue trying for another four hours if we wished, but that they were going to bring in the on-call obstetrician to consult. While they were out of the room, my husband and I had a rare quiet moment alone and talked things over.

I was exhausted. The baby, although not in distress, kept doing worrying things with his heart rate. I was worried that if this went on too much longer, that I wouldn’t have energy left to push when the time came, or that the baby might become distressed and then we’d end up with much drama, and an emergency c-section.

We decided it was better to choose a c-section and deliver the baby safely than to risk complications for either one of us. If they suggested it, we wouldn’t fight it.

Twenty minutes later I was being rolled into the operating room.

We're all about the hats in this family

Last week, in fact a week ago today, my cousin had a baby girl. Like me, she had an unplanned c-section. Visiting her in the hospital with that beautiful tiny little baby, surrounded by friends and family, memories started to wash over me: things I didn’t realize I’d forgotten in the ten months since The Boy was born.

The Take-away:

Here is some of what I wrote in an email to my cousin and her husband that night:*

1. You will feel like crying. This is normal, good and necessary. Let the tears flow. It's your body's way of dealing with its wild change in hormonal activity in the last 24 hours, and also of acknowledging the physical trauma of your surgery, not to mention the overwhelming emotions of becoming a parent. Think of the tears like a refreshing summer rain that scrubs the air clean and leaves everything revived. Let them wash away your insecurities and fears. Know that the tears will pass and you will feel better for having let them flow.
2. Your abdomen will feel puffed full of air. This is because it is - for reasons unknown to me, this is a common result of a c-section. The only way to get rid of this air/discomfort is the indelicate reality of much flatulence. So embrace your inner frat boy and let them rip. (Re: frat boy: I don't suggest lighting your farts. Open flame + newborn = poor judgement call, and only so much can be forgiven because of hormones.)
3. The hospital will likely give you stool softeners. TAKE THEM. The painkillers you're on can bung you up. You do not want this. Getting constipated (also common post childbirth whether c-section or vaginal delivery) is a whole deal you want to avoid at all costs, and it contributes to more discomfort in regard to item 2. Also, when you're able to, walk around. This helps get/keep things moving.
4. Dried apricots. Send someone out to get you some, and eat them by the handful. They will help you with item 3. Also they're a healthy source of energy and iron. And they're yummy. Much better than what passes for food from a hospital kitchen.
5. Sleep when you can. Feel no guilt whatsoever in asking people to leave when you need to rest. This is one of the hardest things to do, but girl, you need your sleep. You may feel an irrational compulsion to check on your baby every five minutes or so, to make sure she's breathing or just to gaze at her beautiful little face. This is normal. But let it go and sleep if you can.
6. The first time you look at your incision, it will seem big and ugly and kind of scary. Within a few weeks, as the stitches dissolve and the steri-strips fall off, and as your abdomen starts to shrink, the incision will get smaller, and less angry looking. What started out for me as the Joker's ghoulish grin carved into the top of my pubic area is now a small scar only three inches long that is gradually fading to match my skin tone (ie pasty fish-belly white).
7. Shower as soon as they tell you that you can. This will make you feel more like yourself. And make sure you shower every day, even if nothing else gets done. Including housework and thank you notes. (Anyone who gets their panties in a knot about not getting a prompt thank you note from a new mom can go piss in the wind. Seriously.) It is shocking how hard it is to manage something as simple as a daily shower.
8. You will sweat a disconcerting amount. This continues for the first week or so, then eases off. I remember waking up in the middle of the night literally in a puddle of sweat. This is how your body gets rid of that extra water you've been carrying around. And being on the IV for the c-section fills you up with even more fluid than your body would produce naturally.
9. Speaking of which, you may be really swollen for the first several days. Drink lots of water. And even though you may not be able to tell at first when it’s time to pee, go as often as possible. Know that one morning you will wake up, be able to see your ankle bones again, and feel like you’re Audrey freaking Hepburn.

Okay, what did I miss? Any other advice for a new mom with a c-section? Feel free to leave a comment, or you can reach me at alexishinde at gmail dot com. I look forward to hearing from you!


*Edited for clarity, typos, to take out names, and to make self seem more clever.

Things I Love - Bugaloo Shoes

Top 6 reasons why you should buy these shoes right now:

6. They're made in North America. To steal from this website: They're made for children, not by children. This dovetails nicely with what I've been reading recently as well as my own long-established prejudice/preference for buying from small business, more-or-less local, and hand made.

5. Free shipping (including international) with an order of 3 pairs.

4. Five percent of your purchase goes to Justice International Mission.

3. Cheaper by a significant margin than Robeez (which are now owned by a huge multinational and manufactured in the, to quote the nebulous term on their corporate website, Far East).

2. Excellent customer service, quick turnaround, and Heidi Wells answers her own emails.

And the number one reason to buy these shoes without delay:

1. The most important reason to buy any shoe, any time, for anyone: they are almost unbearably cute!!


I stumbled across the website almost by accident when looking for baby shoes on craigslist, and was impressed with the beautiful designs for both boys and girls, and the ease of placing an order. I chose the Sneakers (which I loved so much I ordered them in two sizes), and the Clives. When I got the shoes three days later (three days including shipping internationally), I was even more impressed. They're really well made, they fit well without being too tight or falling off, and they're even cuter in person than on the website. Whenever we're out and about The Boy never fails to get compliments on his shoes.

The Boy checks out his new footwear

Even better, Bugaloo is currently running a spring sale. Many of the shoes are only $14.

Note: I have no financial interest in Bugaloo Shoes, nor have I been offered free product or samples to write this review. Just like other reviews under Things I Love, I have found them myself or through the recommendations of friends, and used them in the real world.

Things I've Read - Sleep Is for the Weak

In the last few weeks, I’ve been reading a series of books that have made me angry. So it was a pleasure to tuck into this lovely little book one afternoon as The Boy was napping.

When I first started this blog, I had no illusions that I was unique in my struggles and questions and daily triumphs as a new mom. I’ve lived long enough to know that if I’m thinking something, a whole bunch of other people are thinking it too. Advertisers count on this, it’s called demographics. What I did not know, however, was just how many women have taken to their keyboards and written exquisitely and unapologetically about their lives.

The thing about being a mom, especially a new, first-time mom, is it’s easy to feel alone. Despite caring friends and family, when it’s 3:30 in the morning and your beloved is sleeping and you’re trying to feed the baby and dammit breastfeeding hurts, you’re on your own. The Groundhog Day-like sameness to your days has you striving to be a better mom and person, without even the fun of a car chase. (Seriously, the chase scene in that movie is one of my favourites. Ever.) And conversations with your still-childless friends can leave you feeling pretty isolated. Not because of anything they’ve done or not done, just because they can’t possibly understand why it's such a personal triumph to get to the coffee shop, on time, with baby, both of you recently bathed and in clean clothes. No matter how supportive your partner, and even if you’re lucky enough to have friends with kids the same age, there are so many moments when you feel alone; when the enormity of the decisions you have to make every minute weighs on you almost unbearably.

So many of the child care books I’ve read are emotionally disappointing, discussing developmental milestones and common questions in a detached and impersonal, generic way. This book, however, is a quick read that is the cure for what ails you; the literary equivalent of hot chocolate or chicken noodle soup. (Or, you know, a gin and tonic. Whatever.) Comforting.

In this book you’ll find, as Stacy Morrison says in the Foreword, “…a story from someone just like you, or not at all like you, that will shine a light on something true you didn’t even know you needed to know until you found it.” These are fragments of the lives of women who have written honestly and unflinchingly about their parenthood experience, recognizing the joys of the process, but not glossing over the bits that hurt, that terrify, and that ultimately unite us. I was so moved as I read through the pages. Compassion for Jennifer Satterwhite, struggling to stay clean as she raises her kids, recognition as I read Amy Corbett Storch’s description of her visceral love for her son: “I feel like someone scraped off the top layer of my skin and created an entirely new little person with it,” and tears of solidarity as I read Kelli Oliver George’s advice for a new mom.

Get your hands on this book, or visit the websites of its contributors. I'll be adding them to the blogroll in the next few days and weeks.

Things I've Learned - Pacifiers

The British call them dummies.

And that is how I was inclined to think of them, back in my pre-parenting days. None of this new age North American re-branded touchy-feely “soother” or “pacifier”. Back then, I was inclined to be judgy and sanctimonious about all manner of things. This is easy when you are completely ignorant about that which you are judging.

All I knew was that I hated the look of a soother in a baby’s mouth, and I swore that I would never use one.

You know what's coming, right?

We had The Boy.

I steadfastly stuck to my anti-soother stance for two entire months. How? Simple: I became The Boy’s soother. He was on the boob a lot in those first weeks. And a pinky finger inserted in a screaming baby’s mouth works wonders…

You know, except that you can’t really do anything else. An alarming percentage of your finger disappears into that little mouth. One arm full of wriggly, fussy little person and the other hostage to his need to suck pretty much precludes anything more complicated than asking your partner to order take-out for dinner. And the suction power generated by a newborn is impressive. If you could harness and redirect that kind of energy, you could probably restore electricity to the people of Iraq in short order. Seriously, my fingers at times felt quite bruised.
And you can’t not soothe your child. Not only does the sound of his crying make you crazy, but as a new mom, you’re terrified of creating the slightest disturbance or inconvenience for anyone, anywhere, any time, for any reason. No one wants to be the mom that everyone’s looking daggers at.

Which is why I broke down a couple of days before The Boy and I went to Provence for a two week holiday. A ten hour flight across nine time zones with an infant put the fear in me. I was so worried about being the lady on the plane with the screaming baby that I caved and bought a couple of soothers. Not to actually use, you know. Just in case.

As it turned out, The Boy was a perfect angel on the plane. It was once we’d been in France for a couple of days that he lost his mind one morning and was inconsolable. Even the magic pinky wasn’t working, and he was making such a racket I feared my generous and easygoing hosts might ask us to leave. (That never would have happened, but new moms are not renowned for clear and logical thinking…) Out of desperation, I popped one of the soothers in his mouth.

The Boy at 3 months

Ah, the bliss of sweet silence. It was unbelievable, amazing. Just like that, he was happy, sucking away contentedly, and making me feel like a complete bonehead for having been so stubborn for so long. Sigh.

The Takeaway:

1. There are hills to die on. This is not one of them. It's simple: happy baby = less stressed you. Everybody wins.
   
2. Look for BPA-free soothers with silicone teats. Silicone's less likely to crack and crumble than rubber or plastic, and is odor/taste free. Plus it just looks cleaner somehow.
   
3. If baby prefers to suck their thumb, even better. Their thumb can’t get lost and is less likely to be dropped on the floor right when you need it most.
4. We used a soother for about six weeks. When The Boy was 3 1/2 months old, we started phasing it out, using it only at nap/bed time, and then eliminating it entirely. By that time he’d learned to self-soothe and didn’t need it anymore.
   
5. I’m still a judgy person, and I still hate the look of a soother in a baby’s mouth. In a toddler’s mouth bothers me even more. But if The Boy still wanted it, we'd still be using one.
   
6. As it turns out, even a dummy can teach you a few things.

Grin.