The Happiest Baby on the Block

First though, hello Leanne! Nice to meet you!

You know what's weird? Maybe I'm jinxing myself here, but I'm going to venture out and just say it anyway: Josh has gone from the most miserable sad sack to the most delightful, easy-to- manage-and-predict child. How did this happen? Did Heaven open up and sprinkle down some angel dust? Did Josh just finally realize how unbelievably fucking spent I was and figured out that his days as a Parker were numbered if he didn't give me a break soon? Who knows? AND WHO CARES!?

Sing it with me: Glory, glory hallelujah! My baby is a nice guy to be around!

I still struggle with the mundane day in and day out of caring for him. It's hard to go from 1200 miles an hour to a turtle paced crawl. I find myself getting REALLY excited about little dumb things like being able to go to the coffee shop or over to 7-11 by myself if someone comes and visits me. I get totally hyped up when I realize it's Thursday morning and that means Mom's Group! Yay! And now that he's easier to comfort and care for, my girlfriends are willing to come and babysit. I forsee a trip to Chapters in the near future...

O happy day.

Tardiness

You know what bothers me? People who are chronically late. I'm not talking about the dude who got stuck in traffic because a tractor-trailer rolled over on the highway. I'm talking about people for whom a set meeting time is absolutely arbitrary.

And they think it's cute. They think it's endearing. They say things like, "Oh you know me. I'm always late. I couldn't be on time to my own wedding", etc., as if that justifies the total and complete lack of regard for other people's time. Essentially, what they're saying is, "I know we agreed to meet at 6, but I don't care if you stand there and wait for 45 minutes while I take my time getting to you. Sorry." Sorry. SORRY. I'M SORRY. I'm always late. I'm sorry. Gah, I'm so bothered by it.

In some cases, it's a symptom of ADD. The person has no ability to judge how long a task or a trip will take, and therefore plans poorly. There's just no concept of time, so he will say he can get to the bank, get his haircut, and then make it to the restaurant by 7, but he's only started out at 6. Okay, this is understandable. With people in this situation, you anticipate that incomprehension and plan accordingly.

But with just normal joe-blow-can't-be-on-time-to-save-my-life's -- what do you do? How do these people function? How do they hold down a job when 9 a.m. sometimes means 9:30 or 10? What do they do with their kids? Do they leave them at school until the teacher finally calls to find out where they are? Aren't they embarrassed by their lack of regard for anyone else?

Geez. Get a watch. And some respect.

Though it is hard to imagine, there is some other stuff going on in my life besides caring for Josh. I'm afraid to talk about it, though, because I'm unsure who exactly is reading this, and I've learned my lesson about being careful with what I entrust to others via a journal.

Anyway, Josh decided last night at 3:30, he would much prefer to play and yell and kick than sleep, which he continued to do until 4:30. By that point, I had had it. I sat up and said, "That's it!" (as if that would strike him as anything other than hilarious) and I wrapped him up tightly in a blanket so he couldn't move his arms anymore, and plugged him up with a soother. Miraculously, he went back to sleep. Until 6:30.

I can't win! I can't leave him in the crib because he screams bloody murder and makes himself so upset he barfs. I can't keep him in the bed anymore either because he's not soothed back to sleep with nursing. I may never sleep again.

When you have a baby who refuses to stay in his crib all night, but insists on joining you in the bed, "sleeping in the wet spot" takes on a whole new range of meanings. In fact, I think a good game for new parents would be "Guess The Wet Spot". Is it pee? Is it breastmilk? Is it spit-up? Who knows? But it's ruining your sheets just the same!

The more I resist him, the more my 13 or 14 pound son asserts his right to make my life difficult. Example: On Saturday night, I decide that come hell or high water, he's going to figure out how to put himself back to sleep, in the crib, without my intervention. It worked for the first two times he woke up. And then, he decided to unleash the heavy artillery. He was all, "Enough with this shit. Where's the chick with the tits? I bet if I try hard enough, I could get her evicted" and then he let out what could only be described as skin-melting screeches. I'm so glad he's discovering the range of his vocal chords.

I was so tired on Sunday that I nearly fainted at church. While singing. At the front. That would have been hilarious. Except, not.

It's a good thing he's so bloody cute.

The days of hating Josh are over. I guess baby's really do turn a corner at 3 months. I get him now. I understand his game. Now I stare at him in wonder. Is this little person really from my body? Is he reall mine to care for and raise up?

I put him in his exersaucer and stare down at him from above. I reel when I see his vulnerability. I cringe and think, God, please don't let anyone get him. Don't let anyone take advantage of his sweetness. Please keep him safe from violation.

The thing is, I don't think I could live if I knew that someone had hurt my baby and I couldn't protect him. For now, it's okay. We're cozied up in our little apartment, and we're safe together. Except, one day, we're going to have to leave the haven and go separate ways. I now understand why my mother always said she never slept until she knew I was home, safe. Even when I was in my late teens, she still said that. I always thought she was overreacting and ridiculous. I get it now.

My favourite time of the day is morning, when Josh first wakes up. He always wakes me up, too (naturally) but then he rewards me with lots of coos and squeals and smiles. He's a born entertainer, I'm telling you.

I need to figure out how to get him to sleep for longer than 45 minutes at a stretch, though. I need to start doing yoga again so I can have some of my energy back. Oh, and my body. I am all stretched out and floppy. I've lost 41 of the 65 pounds I gained, but I'm still wearing clothes that are much bigger than I would wear if I had some muscle tone.

My life is so mundane, but I wouldn't trade it in for something more glamorous. I know all the words to every song on the Raffi album.

Seriously.

Since I decided to calm down and stop reading the books, things have improved vastly. When Josh cries, I put it into context (he's not telling me he hates me, he's telling me he's tired) and sometimes, I even laugh because his bottom lip will come sticking right out and he'll look like a caricature.

I totally want to enjoy these precious days of staying at home and getting to know my baby. He's got such a great personality.

Last night, I stripped Josh down in preparation for a bath and he was delighted! David was getting his tub ready and I was sitting on the toilet with him standing on my lap, singing and making faces with him. Suddenly, he peed all over me. ALL OVER ME. Somehow, my tiny little son figured out how to store litres and litres of urine inside his bladder and waited for just the right moment to uncork it. I was laughing so hard I almost couldn't hold on to him... and then Josh did the best thing ever: he laughed too! He laughed so hard he was yelling! What a difference around here lately.

I love him. I'll keep him. He's magic.

What I've Decided

I've decided to stop whining and complaining and moaning about Josh and his difficult tempermant. He's not a robot I can program; he's a human being with his own set of interests and dislikes and I can't somehow change that by force of my will. I think what's been happening here is akin to the way rams lock horns. That's not really how I want to parent him. I can do my best to guide him and set boundaries and give him a safe and loving environment to grow up in, but I can't keep making myself nuts by reading all these "experts" who insist that if I don't have him sleep trained by 3 months, I've lost the battle and he's destined for Kingston Penitentiary.

The thing is, I am very lucky to have a healthy, thriving, (mostly) happy baby. And okay, he doesn't like sleep. Well, neither did I (and I still struggle with it.) I've got to start counting my blessings and stop cursing my problems.

Starting today.

Last night, I tried to put Josh to sleep from 8:30 until 11 p.m. when I finally gave up and took him into the bed with me. I lay there crying, completely unable to imagine why no one I've talked to, not one person, has had an experience like mine. Everyone says, "Oh, I was really lucky. He/she went down very easily/slept all night/only woke up once in the night/very rarely cried at bedtime/slept in the crib with no problem..." It makes me feel like I'm either the worst mother on the earth, or that I've got the worst baby ever.

Here are a list of things that Josh doesn't like:

the car
the swing
the sling
the stroller
the vibrating chair
soothers
the streetcar
sleeping longer than 45 minutes at a stretch
me

Here is a list of the things that Josh does like:

nursing
baths

Every book I read says that babies his age need to sleep between 15 and 18 hours a day (ha ha HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA) and that at his age, he shouldn't be waking up more than once a night. Oh. Well, I'm afraid Josh hasn't had a chance to read these books yet. I don't know what I'm doing wrong. And if I hear, "Well, you just need to get him on a routine and it will all work out" one more time, I'm going to stab myself in the ears. I'd love to put him on a schedule, but for some reason, HE WON'T BLOODY TAKE TO ONE.

I love him, but I hate being his mother. I'm terrible at it. And everyone says it's going to get better, but you know what? I don't think it will. It hasn't, and it doesn't look hopeful. And I'm the one who's going to be responsible for his behavioural problems and his ADHD and his poor grades and all of that because I can't figure out how to get him to go to and stay asleep.

Last night I fantasized about killing myself and just leaving him to someone more adept at parenting. At least then he'd have a fighting chance.

I wish there was someone I could talk to. I wish there was some help, somewhere.

I swear, we're related.

This is me and Josh, 3 months in. I know we look nothing alike, but I'm telling you, this is the kid I gave birth to. And look what it's done to me... Oy.

Josh's Birth Story

My beautiful friend Renee is expecting her first child this summer and asked if I had typed up my birth experience, because she loves to read them. I remember spending the last two weeks of my pregnancy reading every birth story I could find on the internet, so I know where she's coming from.

Here it is:

Joshua was due on October 23, and that date came and went with nary a sign from the little man. My midwives told me that if I made it to two weeks overdue, they would have me admitted to the hospital to be induced because the chance of stillbirth increased 50% after 14 days past the baby's due date. I had several "stretch and sweeps" in their offices the two weeks before (which were the most awful, painful things EVER. They put their fingers into your cervix and then try stretching it open a bit. Then the run their fingers just inside the cervix, between the amniotic sac and the uterus to try and stimulate labour. Sweet Mother of God, does it ever hurt. Renee, DON'T GO LATE!!!)

That didn't work, so I drank castor oil. That made me barf (even the recollection of that experience gives me a little bit of nausea.) I went for lots of long walks, I ate spicy food, I did yoga, I used a breast pump... I really tried everything I could think of to try and bring on labour -- but no dice. The kid was nothing if not stubbornly content to hang out for as long as possible in his little womb hammock. Since I had been planning a home birth, the idea of having to go to the hospital filled me with apprehension. I wanted to avoid it at all costs, if I could.

Unfortunately, I couldn't. I went in on a Saturday night to have a catheter inserted into my cervix to try and stimulate its opening. I came back home and started having contractions, and they last until 1:30 a.m. But then they stopped and I fell asleep until I had to return to the hospital at 7:30 a.m. to be medically induced.

I got there and the nurses informed me that because I was being put on a Pitocin drip, my care would be transferred to an OB. I had never even met her, and here she was supposed to deliver my baby? She came in and checked me (I had dialated to 4 cm) and she broke my waters. Then the nurses told me I could get up and walk around for an hour. I wandered the hallways for a bit and had two contractions, and I was hopeful that if they just left me alone, labour would start on its own. But that was not to be. They started me on the drip at 10 a.m. I asked the nurse to please call my midwives so I wouldn't have to labour without support. She told me my contractions wouldn't start for a couple of hours, so not to worry about it, that she'd call my midwives when they were strong and regular. Well, they were strong and regular within half an hour. The nurse kept insisting that they weren't that bad, and I wanted to punch her in the head. I had some doozy back labour, as Josh was posterior, and I wondered how it was that she could tell me how I was feeling.

I finally convinced her to PLEASE call my midwives around 1 p.m. They arrived at 1:30, just as I was about to get an epidural after the nurse kept insisting that I should, because I'd "never make it without one". Up until this point, I had been stuck on my back in bed because I'd been strapped up with a fetal heart monitor and the nurse wouldn't let me get up or try to get more comfortable. It was the exact nightmare I had tried to avoid. When my midwife Janet arrived, I was nearly in tears because I couldn't get anyone to listen to me. Janet immediately took control of the situation, told the nurse to get me a labour ball and let me get out of bed so I could stand and lean on her for awhile. This changed everything.

I laboured for another couple of hours with the support of Janet and my friends who were there to help, but it was brutal. Josh was backwards and his head was pressing into my tailbone, the drip was bringing on contractions every 30 seconds, there was no time to rest in between them, and I was running out of energy fast. I asked Janet if I could be checked to see if I'd made any progress and she called the OB. By that point, I had made it to 6 cm, but the OB said, "You have a long road ahead of you, and it's going to be very hard. If you want to get an epidural, I'd suggest you get one now." I looked at Janet and she said that it was my decision, and she'd support me in either case. I decided to take the epidural because I couldn't get any reprieve between contractions -- neither could I walk around, neither could I sit in a comfortable chair, neither could I get into the bathtub... it was miserable. The whole reason I wanted to avoid the hospital was becoming a reality and I felt defeated.

Once I got the epidural, I felt much better and I was even able to joke around a bit with my friends. But let me tell you, I was stoned. It was like being awake and asleep at once. I finally gave in to my exhaustion and fell asleep for the rest of the afternoon. When I hit transition, something weird happened. I started shaking all over, violently, and I felt like I was losing consciousness. My friend kept squeezing my hand every few minutes and talking to me, and I'm glad that she did, because I felt such a strong pull to go ... somewhere else. I don't know how to describe it. It was what I imagine dying must feel like. I could hear the people around me talking (my friend asked everyone who came in the room why I was shaking like that, and why I looked so pale. They all said it was a side effect of the drugs.) But then I got super nauseated and I thought I was going to be sick. A nurse gave me a shot of Gravol and I fell into an even deeper sleep.

A nurse I'd never met woke me up at about 7 and told me it was time to have the baby. I didn't remember being checked by the OB, but I do have a vague recollection of hearing someone say "10 cm. She's done", though I thought it was a dream at the time. I told the nurse I was too tired to push, and the OB said to leave me for another hour and let the baby descend a bit anyway. She woke me up again at 8 and said, "Come on Mom, it's time to push that baby out".

It all happened so fast. There was no build up or anything. She just pulled my completely numb legs up and told me to hold them behind my knees. Then she said PUSH! and started counting. She counted to ten and then told me to take a break. As soon as the next contraction started, she told me to start pushing again. This went on for awhile, and then I said, "Look, is anything happening down there? I can't feel anything." She grabbed my hand and brought it down to feel Josh's head poking out. It was all the motivation I needed. I started pushing again and she said, "Let's have this baby by quarter to nine" and my friends chipped in with, "Yeah, so we don't miss Desperate Housewives".

Josh was born at 8:38 p.m. I just looked down and saw him all squirming on the bed in front of me, but I don't really remember anything. I know I pointed at him and then flopped back down. The OB tried to hand me the scissors to cut his umbilical cord, but I was like, "Nah, it's okay. You go ahead." I was so, so, so doped up. I don't remember anything that happened in the time following his birth. I guess someone handed him to me and tried to get me to nurse him, but I was lying on my back and this was nearly impossible. I'm glad someone took photos because the whole thing is a blur.

I do know that by 11:30, I was ready to go home. I asked Janet to please let me leave, and she said I could as soon as I could walk to the bathroom and pee. I was hell bent on it. The first time I stood up, though, I just wobbled like I had a hula hoop around my waist, because my legs were going nowhere. I sat back down and said, "Just give me a minute. I'll get them working again." I stood up again in a few minutes and made it to the bathroom. I peed and got the green light to go home. I was back here by midnight.

I know I didn't sleep very much that night, but I don't remember most of it because I was still so stoned from the epidural and Gravol. In the morning, though, I remember waking up and seeing the baby in my bed with me, and running out to the livingroom to show my friend this marvelous little person who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. I was laughing and crying and holding him out to show her. I was like, "Look! Look! This is a BABY! And he's MINE! Do you believe that?!"

It didn't go as I had planned, but then, neither has motherhood, so I guess it was good preparation for getting used to never having my way again. Ever.