Rat vs Model Mother

Waaah, there's an enormous dead rat over there in the corner of the yard! Waahh, its head is several inches away from its body and there is blood all around. Waaah, I'm only noticing it AFTER I've finished putting out the washing, and Conrad has been roaming freely around me for 15 minutes. Waaah, I thought that was just innocent dirt all over Conrad's hands, and now I have to worry that he's been playing with, and therefore eating, rat entrails…..

"I'm going inside now!" I say brightly. Conrad makes no response, absorbed in the sight of leaves floating in rainwater. "Come on, darling," I entreat, holding out my hand and ignoring all the parenting rules not to break babies' concentration. And then, with a tone of panic: "Would you like some breakfast? Breakfast? BREAKFAST?!!??" completely throwing the parenting rulebook out the window by bribing him with food. Just get him away from that fucking rat! 

There is a time and place for perfect, conscious, respectful, politically correct, gender neutral, lahdidah parenting. And there is a time to just get that baby inside, lather up those hands, soap that mouth (yes, i really did!), lock the back door and wait for the man of the house to wake up and deal with decapitated rodents. 

Sleep, Sanity and Summer - and the lack of all three.

The last time I wrote here, my baby boy was just starting to roll around. Three months later, he is crawling, sitting, and pulling himself up to standing using the bars of his playpen. Yesterday his first tooth peeked through, and today came his second. The last few weeks, in particular, I feel he has really jumped from babydom into toddlerhood.

But these developmental changes have not been the object of my thoughts. I have been focused, nay, obsessed, with one thing: Sleep.  My sleep, baby's sleep, my partner's sleep. 

By dark, we've been trying to teach baby to sleep through the night. By daylight, we analyse and strategise, and I've been seeing an insomnia expert for my own sleep troubles. 

We've been living in a sort of chronic crisis state, every day a juggle of naps, anxiety, failed attempts at sleep, timekeeping, rocking, jiggling, back-breaking sessions of patting over the cot, sleeping tablets, camomile teas, hot showers and carb-heavy meals. Three-hour baby screaming sessions. Tearful phonecalls for emergency assistance. Arguments over which partner is more in need of sleep. Arguments over resettling techniques. Deal-cutting over which parent has to wake up when. And, let's not forget, several jubilant morning awakenings after seven glorious straight hours of unconsciousness. 

When I say it has been a crazy time, I mean it literally. I went a bit mad. I became so fixated on sleep that I lost all perspective. I couldn't think about anything else, and it seemed to me that Caroline didn't exist anymore. A whole month went by when I didn't socialise once without Conrad. More than once I lay on my kitchen floor at 5am and sobbed with sheer exhaustion and despair, only to find that, after a brisk walk and a few strong cups of tea, I actually have managed to cope quite adequately with my day. 

But then it was Summer, and though the rains have stayed, my personal fog has lifted. I realise I must savour these last pleasurable breastfeeding sensations before a full set of teeth turn it into a battle. I will gaze on that gorgeous gummy grin before it is forever changed by tiny white teeth. I love that my knees, thighs and hands are such ready supports for a baby attempting to get vertical by any means necessary. Soon he won't need me as a stepping stone, but will be running around on his own. I adore Conrad's triumphant smiles when he pulls himself up yet again. So, this too shall pass, and one day I will again sleep uninterrupted.

Conrad transforms solids into liquids and gases

Mmmm, cold porridge mixed with breastmilk, anyone? What if someone chewed it up for you, then spat it back in the bowl and fed it to you on a teaspoon? No? Well, this is what my baby has been offered the last few mornings, with mixed success. I can't imagine a worse introduction to a lifetime of gastronomic delight, but porridge-and-breastmilk is what the experts recommend when you start your baby on solids. 

I was disgusted by the chewing part, until I read a billion articles saying that the reason this generation is riddled with allergies is because we've been raised in such a pristine, disinfected environment that our immune systems aren't learning how to work properly, and are therefore overreacting to ordinary foods. A Good Weekend magazine story a few months ago, which I have in hard copy but can't find online, said that, before blenders, parents chewed their baby's food for them, and this is "still the norm in countries where food allergy is rare". Not exactly a direct causal link, but I figured it can't hurt to do it. 

Conrad is the very picture of health so I think he can handle a bit of my bacteria. He is curious, non-stop active, mostly happy, and loves to socialise. His skin is like cream and his eyes are sharp. His body is a bundle of muscle, while his face has nice chubby cheeks and a double chin. My boobs are responsible for all that, by the way. We just took our baby for his six-month check up, and found that he weighs 7.8 kilos, which is right on average for his age. Babies are supposed to double their birthweight by six months, and Conrad has almost tripled his. It is my breastmilk that has done that. Me!

But breastmilk alone is not cutting it anymore. Conrad has been RAVENOUS over the last fortnight, since he started moving around more, and my boobs just can't keep up with his appetite. I can't help feeling a bit sidelined, a bit impotent, but I always knew this day would come, so I have to be tough. It's good emotional preparation for the blow of him moving out of home in a couple of decades' time.

So, solids it is. Thus far, it has been only the afore-mentioned porridge, plus a few spoonfuls of avocado, none of which has met with much of a response either way. The only change is in the nappies - phew!! The delicate aroma of milk poos has made way for some seriously stinky deposits. I can't wait to witness the results of dairy products. Hmm, and maybe some asparagus, hommous and cabbage? I'll put up with anything if it means I can stop getting my boobs out every two hours.

ready to roll

Ok, so, you think 'babies', you think 'babies moving around'…. therefore you think 'crawling'. At least I did, B.C.

I ran into the kitchen this morning, asking Tom, "Did you just lie Conrad down on his tummy?" 

"No…" was the answer. 

"Wow - well that means he just flipped from his back onto his front!" I exclaimed.

And so he had. He's been going from front to back for weeks now, so it could be just days until he combines the two motions and he'll be rollin rollin rollin.

I never knew that some babies have a rolling stage and, frankly, I think it's a ridiculous way to get around. I've been told that parents can pop out of the room for a moment, returning to find their baby has disappeared. Only a muffled squawk alerts mama or papa to the fact that their pride and joy has rolled under the sofa.

How am I going to be able to respect Conrad while I'm fishing him out, covered in dust, from under our couch? I hope he'll be one of those who skips straight to the crawling phase, hopefully wearing nothing but a pure white nappy and a sweet grin, like in the ads. 

a slobby day

It's a quarter to five in the afternoon**, I'm in my tracksuit pants and ugg boots, all I've eaten today is a Dickensian diet of porridge and bread, and I haven't left the house or done any exercises. I feel most un-yummy, more like bummy slummy mummy.

It's a long time since I've been so slothful - not since those first six weeks of motherhood, those dark, dark days. Usually now I make a point of getting properly dressed every morning, which does wonders for my mood. Today feels like a slippery slope, and I can see how stay-at-home parents end up isolated, unkempt and wearing stretch fabrics. Actually, I can see why daytime drinking and repeat scripts for valium were popular for mothers during the '50s. 

Some days I feel like I barely cope, and I've only got one baby, plus a helpful partner, a cleaner once a fortnight, two keen grandmamas and lots of friends happy to babysit.  I actually cannot fathom how people do this with several kids, but then, once upon a time i couldn't fathom how people did it with one. You just do, I guess.

**Well, it was when I first started writing this. Yesterday.

super ma!

Oh my god you can get so much DONE when your baby naps for longer than 40 mins! I am showered, dressed, fabulously accessorised, breakfasted, have done pilates, put out the washing, packed the car for visiting grandma, and have now completed a blog post…. and Conrad is STILL ASLEEP!!! I feel like one of those supermother type people!

self supporting

Two little progressions for Conrad this morning: usually, when I lie him on his stomach I have to put his hands out in front of him or he just lolls face down like he's doing some kind of infant planking, but today he brought his own arms out to hold up his body. 

Then, once he had himself supported, I put a rather fetching plastic cow enticingly close to him, and he reached out for it. It's the first time he's ever done that while on his tummy, and it's the same kind of arm extension he would need to crawl! Wow! I thought, and in the next second looked around the room at all the electrical cables, exposed bars of the radiator, fragile objects, plant pots and Tom's camera equipment, and felt panic. PUT THOSE ARMS BACK UNDERNEATH YOU! I screamed. I WANT TO BONSAI MY BABY FOREVER!! No, I didn't say that, but the panic was real. It's time to go on hazard patrol.