Trite and Maudlin, Part Deux

I wrote this letter when Gabi was a few days old, but didn’t post it as I was afraid that my new-mom hormones were making me more trite and maudlin than usual (and also, what would a newborn do with a letter? She didn't even learn to read until she was eight months old!). Now on the eve of her first birthday, similar hormones are convincing me that this is acceptable to post. I owe you something funny. And maybe an apology. And a stiff drink.

I want to preserve this moment. Put it into my mental album so that it can be retrieved forever. My sensory album, if such a thing exists. The velvet feel of the wispy hairs on your mostly bald head against my lips. The satisfied sounds you are making as you gulp, gulp milk, the way you are grabbing at me with your tiny hands, alternately pulling my sweater between your perfectly formed miniature fingers and rubbing my chest.

I want to remember the way you are furrowing your brows above your very blue eyes that will soon turn brown, or green or hazel, and your sweet stare, wide and trusting, covered by long still-sparse lashes. I want to remember looking down at your little nose and little ears and wondering how anything that came from me could be so perfect.

I want to remember your baby smell and your baby warmth, and how it feels to hold your little hand. I want to remember the way your mouth looks, wet with milk as you lean into my arms, milk-drunk and happy. I want to be able to pull it all up in my mental Filofax forever.

Soon you will grow out of the clothes you are wearing and when I eventually put them away, I will be surprised by how small they are. I will forget how perfect and tiny your toes are, and the feeling I get when your still-new-smile makes my heart leap into my stomach.

I will not forget how much I love you. Or how happy I am to hold you. How lucky I am that you are mine. But I will forget how tiny you are, and the sound of those tiny little happy moans, even though I will be convinced that I remember.

The Third Baby Myth (or Sleep is for Suckers)

As my last update was basically two years ago, a couple of things have changed. Shockingly, my children who were 1.5 and 3.5 are now 3.5 and 5.5. Wait, there’s more. My cat, formerly fifteen years old, is now seventeen. Also, I had a baby. Have a baby. She is seven weeks old today. I know what you are thinking, that having a baby has made me even smarter, wittier and more coherent than ever (as that was an actual attempt at humour, you can now cross wittier off the list)(and coherent)(and smarter will be taken care of by the end of this blog post).

In truth, having three kids has been the same as having two kids, but with one third more kid (thus leaving me with one third fewer brain cells) (luckily I had 9 left at the time of her birth, so there was no messy division).

There is this myth that the third baby is going to be an easy one. People with three kids come up to you and tell you things like “my third kid was so easy that we kept forgetting her places and not only did she not mind, she’d hitchhike home and bring dinner”. And frankly, I believed them. I felt like the universe owed me an easy kid after the second one, who was not easy. Not. Easy.

I have always known that my second child’s terrible sleep habits, extremely sensitive disposition and unwillingness to be anywhere other than my arms for the first two years of her life were my punishment for being a smug asshat when I had my first --ridiculously easy-- baby. And frankly, someone who says things like  “Read the Baby Whisperer. It changed my life” deserves a baby who doesn’t sleep through the night until she’s an adult. Just like someone who judges other people’s kids for screaming in public* deserves a kid who has constant, shrill, embarrassing public tantrums. And that’s what I got. And it humbled me. But then I thought we were even-- the Cosmos and me. Apparently I was wrong. So. Wrong.

My new baby will not sleep in her bassinet. She cries whenever I put her down and she is a constant spitter-upper (my second child’s one** redeeming quality as a baby was that she never spit up). Recently I took her to the pediatrician and she started screaming bloody murder when it was time to take off her clothes to be weighed. The doctor, who enjoys a spirited baby, thought this was hilarious, saying things like “you have your work cut out for you with this one!”.  Wait! No! “I thought that I was going to have an easy one after you-know-who” I finally sputtered, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the screaming. Her reply: “Nope. That one was just training you for this one.”

My new theory is that everyone gets one easy baby and you get your easy baby when you need her (or in my case, him) the most. Had I had one of my daughters first, my husband would never have agreed to continue our procreation experiment but as our son was just so easy, we presumed that we were awesome at parenting and kept going. And now I have three beautiful, challenging*** amazing children that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Not even for one of those well-behaved good sleepers you hear about****.

Postscript: If you have had more than one easy baby, I don’t want to hear about it. Really.

*”I bet that child would be much calmer if the parents followed the Baby Whisperer’s nap schedule. That poor, poor overtired baby” is literally something my husband and I would say to one another on a semi-regular basis.

**not including extreme cuteness which is a trait all of my babies tend to possess (objectively speaking)

***easy babies don’t necessarily grow up to be easy five-year-olds
****or for a frozen yogurt franchise

Who needs sleep? How could you not love these little faces?

Why I Wish I’d Bought a Designer Handbag Instead of a Doula

A doula can provide comfort, support and guidance during pregnancy and labour and that extra boost of confidence you need after your baby is born. The cost? About $750. Or you can buy a really great designer handbag - a handbag that can also provide comfort and support (it would carry all you r stuff, right?). And, not unlike a doula, your fancy new purse can give you an extra boost of postpartum confidence when you are walking around in your stretchy pants, not quite able to fit into your pre-pregnancy jeans (as people will be looking at your awesome bag instead of your post-baby muffin top). The cost? About the same.

Two years ago I would have told you that the doula is the way to go, no matter how nice the bag. The first time I gave birth my husband and I engaged the services of a doula. It seemed only logical given how apprehensive my husband was at the thought of seeing our beautiful child burst out of my body. And she was fantastic- calmly guiding my husband through my labour and convincing me that pushing was the ONLY way to get the baby out when I refused to do so after learning that it was too late for an epidural. She helped me with nursing and our son’s first bath and showed me how to use our carriers. She was such an invaluable resource that we called her immediately after the 18-week ultrasound to book her for baby 2. And when we learned that she would not be available for our baby’s birth, we hired the woman she recommended after one meeting-- no references necessary.

Thirty-six weeks into my pregnancy my very conservative OB suggested that we induce around 38 weeks. Not sure what to do, I called the doula for advice. And then I called her again. And again. It took so many tries for her to return my phone call that I started to worry about what would happen when I was actually in labour.

When she finally called back I could tell that she did not think the induction was a good idea, telling me that my baby was obviously a tough baby and didn’t need to be born early (what?). She also told me that the best (and only real) way to know what to do was to lie down in a dark room and ask my baby whether she was ready to come out. Now I am not a medical professional (okay, I haven’t taken science since high school), but from what I understand, most babies are not super-keen on coming out (hence all the pushing). I also feel like it is probably hard to communicate with one’s unborn child about such issues, no matter how dim the lighting.

Once the induction process was underway we called the doula from the hospital to give her a status report at which time she reminded us that we didn’t have to go through with the induction (super helpful). She also told us to call back in a couple of hours because she was one hundred percent (!) sure that I was going to have a baby that night.  But I didn’t have a baby that night. Or the next day. So when we finally called her after twenty-six hours of contractions to tell her that my water had broken and that I was in active labour, we thought that she would be almost as excited as us to get this baby out. As it turned out, she was more excited about her supper, which she told us that she was just sitting down to and would need to finish before she got ready to come meet us. My designer bag on the other hand would have been at the hospital with me as soon as I needed it, radiating beauty while holding precious things.

When she finally did arrive, I wished that she hadn’t. Her advice was annoying (No. I don’t want a bath) and often contrary to what the (amazing) labour and delivery nurse was suggesting. And as the evening progressed her questions went from irritating (are you sure you don’t want a bath?) to downright annoying (are you going to eat this sandwich?)(I gave her the sandwich but was tempted to do so on the condition that she eat it somewhere else).

Around 2 a.m. my husband decided to take a nap, which I fully supported. I was less supportive of the doula’s nap owing to the fact that I was paying her to, well, not nap. Also, I feel like the least she could have done was ask if I minded. That being said, my biggest regret was waking her up when it was time to push four hours later. If I had to do it again I would have let her sleep. In fact, I would have had everyone whisper while I pushed on the chance that she might wake up.

It will not come as a surprise to learn that her post-partum support has been less than stellar, though happily I remember most things from the last time I did this. I guess the thing with a handbag is that you know what you are paying for when you buy it. A doula on the other hand, requires a little more research as she -unlike a handbag- is not returnable.

*An edited version of this piece was first published by b5media www.mommyish.com.