Friday, August 31, 2007
10 Reasons why I am a Bad Birthday-Mother
#1 - Mae's first birthday was two days ago and I didn't even write a big, long, sappy, thoughtful post, reflecting on what an incredible year it has been. I meant to. I swear. I just didn't have time, and now it seems too late.
#2 - We only got her one gift: a googly-eyed monster puppet which only cost $17. And it wasn't even a surprise. She picked it out herself at the toy store.
#3 - I only took two seconds to wrap it, using second-hand wrapping paper from a better gift somebody else had given her the day before.
#4 - Betty Crocker helped me make her birthday cupcakes.
#5 - We ordered take-out food for her party.
#6 - I didn't even blow up any balloons.
#7 - I didn't even invite any other kids.
#8 - But that was just for the little party. This weekend, we have to have a bigger party for the whole family and I am totally resenting it already. She's going to hate it. There will be too many people, all vying for her attention. All picking her up when she does not want to be picked up. All making too much noise and stressing her out. And it's going to be a lot of work, and it means having my in-laws PLUS my bitterly divorced parents all in our tiny backyard at the same time. How do you spell 'hell' again? Oh yeah, B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y P-A-R-T-Y.
#9 - I bought Hello Kitty plates and party hats for the second party, but I only bought them because I was with my highly-organized best momfriend, and she was telling me about how she drove all over the city to find Curious George plates for her son's party, and about how she'd already ordered the balloons even though he won't turn 1 until the 15th. Then she said "Hey, want to walk over to the party store and see what they have?" and then I felt guilty... as if the fact that I wasn't planning to buy over-priced plates with cartoon characters on them made me a crappy mother, which maybe it does.
#10 - I'm letting Betty Crocker make the cupcakes for the next party, too.
#2 - We only got her one gift: a googly-eyed monster puppet which only cost $17. And it wasn't even a surprise. She picked it out herself at the toy store.
#3 - I only took two seconds to wrap it, using second-hand wrapping paper from a better gift somebody else had given her the day before.
#4 - Betty Crocker helped me make her birthday cupcakes.
#5 - We ordered take-out food for her party.
#6 - I didn't even blow up any balloons.
#7 - I didn't even invite any other kids.
#8 - But that was just for the little party. This weekend, we have to have a bigger party for the whole family and I am totally resenting it already. She's going to hate it. There will be too many people, all vying for her attention. All picking her up when she does not want to be picked up. All making too much noise and stressing her out. And it's going to be a lot of work, and it means having my in-laws PLUS my bitterly divorced parents all in our tiny backyard at the same time. How do you spell 'hell' again? Oh yeah, B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y P-A-R-T-Y.
#9 - I bought Hello Kitty plates and party hats for the second party, but I only bought them because I was with my highly-organized best momfriend, and she was telling me about how she drove all over the city to find Curious George plates for her son's party, and about how she'd already ordered the balloons even though he won't turn 1 until the 15th. Then she said "Hey, want to walk over to the party store and see what they have?" and then I felt guilty... as if the fact that I wasn't planning to buy over-priced plates with cartoon characters on them made me a crappy mother, which maybe it does.
#10 - I'm letting Betty Crocker make the cupcakes for the next party, too.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Hear me Roar
Yesterday I got bitten by a neighbour's chihuahua. Mae, my husband and I were on our way to the hardware store and passed by this house we pass by every day. Mae loves doggies, and the more ridiculous and spazzy they are, the more she laughs. So when this silly little doggy came running at us, gritting its teeny tiny teeth and yipping for all it was worth, we just laughed - at least, until it sank those teeny tiny teeth into my ankle.
The woman who owns the dog yelled at it, but she didn't apologize to me. Whatever, I thought. I asked her if the dog had had all its shots, she said yes and we kept walking. It was a chihuahua. No bigger than a very skinny, completely bald, very ugly guinea pig. I could have kicked it clear down the block if I'd wanted to. I probably should have. It wasn't a bad bite, anyway.
Later on though, I got to thinking... what if it had bitten Mae? I can guarantee you my reaction would have been different. I would have yelled at the woman who was yelling at her dog. I would have told her to keep her vicious, yippy, miserable little ankle-biter on a leash. I would have gone straight home and called animal control services. And all of this is very surprising to me because it never has been, and never will be, the way I react on behalf of myself when a stranger does me wrong. Not to say that I'm a total doormat... just mostly a total doormat. But, when it comes to Mae, I've discovered an inner mother bear.
I remember the first time she roared. Mae was a few weeks old and we were taking the subway to the mall. A whole gang of rowdy, rude teenage boys was messing around on the subway - pushing each other, swearing, being generally loud and obnoxious. One of them pushed another one straight into Mae's stroller. Normally, I'll admit to being intimidated by teenage boys, especially when they travel in packs, but something inside me snapped of its own accord. I gave it to those kids. I can't remember exactly what I said, but I know they backed off the train at the next stop, apologizing profusely. Mae slept through the whole thing.
It's happened a few times since, too. This one kid on a skateboard nearly ran into her. This other guy flung open a taxi door without looking. A man threw his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and it came within inches of her stroller. Every single time, I'm surprised, and secretly pleased, when the mother bear roars. She's got attitude and angry, angry eyes. She means business, and I like that in a bear.
Personally, if I were you, I wouldn't mess with her. She'd try to be reasonable about it, I'm sure, but if you hurt her cub on purpose, she wouldn't hesitate. She'd bite your head off and swallow it in one gulp.
The woman who owns the dog yelled at it, but she didn't apologize to me. Whatever, I thought. I asked her if the dog had had all its shots, she said yes and we kept walking. It was a chihuahua. No bigger than a very skinny, completely bald, very ugly guinea pig. I could have kicked it clear down the block if I'd wanted to. I probably should have. It wasn't a bad bite, anyway.
Later on though, I got to thinking... what if it had bitten Mae? I can guarantee you my reaction would have been different. I would have yelled at the woman who was yelling at her dog. I would have told her to keep her vicious, yippy, miserable little ankle-biter on a leash. I would have gone straight home and called animal control services. And all of this is very surprising to me because it never has been, and never will be, the way I react on behalf of myself when a stranger does me wrong. Not to say that I'm a total doormat... just mostly a total doormat. But, when it comes to Mae, I've discovered an inner mother bear.
I remember the first time she roared. Mae was a few weeks old and we were taking the subway to the mall. A whole gang of rowdy, rude teenage boys was messing around on the subway - pushing each other, swearing, being generally loud and obnoxious. One of them pushed another one straight into Mae's stroller. Normally, I'll admit to being intimidated by teenage boys, especially when they travel in packs, but something inside me snapped of its own accord. I gave it to those kids. I can't remember exactly what I said, but I know they backed off the train at the next stop, apologizing profusely. Mae slept through the whole thing.
It's happened a few times since, too. This one kid on a skateboard nearly ran into her. This other guy flung open a taxi door without looking. A man threw his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and it came within inches of her stroller. Every single time, I'm surprised, and secretly pleased, when the mother bear roars. She's got attitude and angry, angry eyes. She means business, and I like that in a bear.
Personally, if I were you, I wouldn't mess with her. She'd try to be reasonable about it, I'm sure, but if you hurt her cub on purpose, she wouldn't hesitate. She'd bite your head off and swallow it in one gulp.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Hear her Roar
Lately, when Mae is busy doing something important - like pulling all of the Ziplock bags out of the box, or splashing around in the cats' water dish - and you interrupt her, she throws the most amazing full-body tantrums. When you pick her up to redirect her away from her tail pulling, rock eating, shoe licking or other inappropriate activity, she starts shaking her head violently to tell you "NO" and then her arms get in on it. She punches at the air with tiny hands. She kicks her legs hard, like she's riding a very big bicycle.
And there's a noise that goes along with it, too, but it's a little hard to describe. Sometimes it's a long, sustained whine, but other times it's all kinds of funny, short syllables strung together, as if she was trying to tell you something and you kept rudely interrupting. "Be. Da. Da-dah. Be. Da. Un. De. Daaahhhhhhhh."
I guess we should be discouraging tantrums in general, and we do try not to laugh, but it's hard sometimes. There's something so endearing about the whole thing. She's just so, so mad, and so, so determined to let the world know about it. And then, fifteen seconds later, once she's on to the next thing, she's so, so over it.
And there's a noise that goes along with it, too, but it's a little hard to describe. Sometimes it's a long, sustained whine, but other times it's all kinds of funny, short syllables strung together, as if she was trying to tell you something and you kept rudely interrupting. "Be. Da. Da-dah. Be. Da. Un. De. Daaahhhhhhhh."
I guess we should be discouraging tantrums in general, and we do try not to laugh, but it's hard sometimes. There's something so endearing about the whole thing. She's just so, so mad, and so, so determined to let the world know about it. And then, fifteen seconds later, once she's on to the next thing, she's so, so over it.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Getting to Know You
I don't completely know Mae yet. If I had to pick one, most surprising thing about new motherhood, this'd definitely be it.
When I was pregnant, I had this naive idea that she'd be born, and then I'd know her... but, instead, she was born, and she was a little stranger and I was a stranger to her, too, and - ever since that day - we've been slowly working away at getting to know each other.
If I had to say who she was though... today... Tuesday, August 14 at 2:16 p.m, age 11-and-a-half months.... I'd tell you that she's a very joyful person, but also very cautious. She laughs a lot and loves to be around people... but only when you give her lots of space and time to adjust to new surroundings.
She loves to eat. Especially cheese and peaches. She dives for the spoon. She smacks her lips. She says "Mmmmmm" after each bite.
She grins ear-to-ear and babbles at strangers, but goes shy and hides under the brim of her sun hat if they respond.
She's a reader.
She's an explorer.
She's an excellent, steady stair climber. Solid on her feet. Careful, coordinated and curious.
She loves the wading pool, and the sandbox, and the science centre, but hates all other noisy places.
She goes bananas over doggies.
She started out quiet, but now she talks non-stop. She points at all the trees when we go for walks and tells big stories about them.
She's mostly laid-back and usually cooperative - at least - until she's not... and if she's extra tired, or very cranky, or feeling sick, she's really, really not.
She's gorgeous. She's lovely. She's scandalously cute, and I'm pretty sure she knows it.
And she's changing every day.
When I was pregnant, I had this naive idea that she'd be born, and then I'd know her... but, instead, she was born, and she was a little stranger and I was a stranger to her, too, and - ever since that day - we've been slowly working away at getting to know each other.
If I had to say who she was though... today... Tuesday, August 14 at 2:16 p.m, age 11-and-a-half months.... I'd tell you that she's a very joyful person, but also very cautious. She laughs a lot and loves to be around people... but only when you give her lots of space and time to adjust to new surroundings.
She loves to eat. Especially cheese and peaches. She dives for the spoon. She smacks her lips. She says "Mmmmmm" after each bite.
She grins ear-to-ear and babbles at strangers, but goes shy and hides under the brim of her sun hat if they respond.
She's a reader.
She's an explorer.
She's an excellent, steady stair climber. Solid on her feet. Careful, coordinated and curious.
She loves the wading pool, and the sandbox, and the science centre, but hates all other noisy places.
She goes bananas over doggies.
She started out quiet, but now she talks non-stop. She points at all the trees when we go for walks and tells big stories about them.
She's mostly laid-back and usually cooperative - at least - until she's not... and if she's extra tired, or very cranky, or feeling sick, she's really, really not.
She's gorgeous. She's lovely. She's scandalously cute, and I'm pretty sure she knows it.
And she's changing every day.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Our Little Unvacation
Traveling with a baby is a special kind of hell.
My husband had the week off so, in all our wisdom, we decided to kill two birds with one stone. First we went to his parent's cottage, then on to visit my family.
Just the sheer volume of stuff we had to take along was (as always) staggering. I reserved a large-ish rental car, and we filled the trunk to the brim with the playpen, highchair, baby-sized life jacket, towels, clothes, diapers, formula, ice packs, food, toys, the complete boxed-set of Baby Einstein videos, storybooks, pillows, etc., etc., etc. Mae easily needs ten times her body weight in stuff just to spend one night away from home, and we were looking at a full week here.
We decided to head out as early as possible. So, after dinner last Friday night, we changed her into her jammies, put her in the car seat and left. We figured she'd sleep through the drive this way, and she did. But when we got to unfamiliar cottage, in the dark, and Mae woke up, she wasn't pleased. Actually, I've never seen her scream like that. I'm sure people could hear her clear across the lake. And nothing would comfort her: not cuddles, or books, or toys or even (the big guns) the tiger puppet in the Baby Einstein Numbers Nursery video. We walked with her for hours until I finally had to let her cry herself to sleep - something I've never done before and never want to do again.
Things got a bit better after that screaming start, but it was still the most un-relaxing vacation I've ever had. Mae still isn't walking much on her own, but she crawls quickly and can stand up without help. She's in to absolutely everything. The cottage wasn't childproofed, and my dad's house was even worse. They never, ever throw anything away. The tippy piles of stuff on every surface are treacherous. Not to mention the extremely chokey and dangerous things we kept finding on the floor... a bottle cap here, a knife there, an ant trap under there...
Then, to further complicate life, Mae is in a clingy stage. Nobody but mommy or daddy will do. She didn't want her grandparent, uncles, aunts or anyone else picking her up, snuggling her, giving her a bottle, changing her diaper or even holding her hands to walk her around. They all tried to be tough about it, but you could tell it hurt their feelings. And while I also know that, one day, when she's a teenager and doesn't want to be within ten feet of me, I'll miss this stage, right now I'm finding it pretty exhausting.
Every single time we come through the front door after a trip like this - arms loaded with baby gear, throats dry from singing one too many overly-cheerful rounds of "The Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly" - I say: "That's it. We're never going anywhere again." But this time.... this time, I definitely mean it.
My husband had the week off so, in all our wisdom, we decided to kill two birds with one stone. First we went to his parent's cottage, then on to visit my family.
Just the sheer volume of stuff we had to take along was (as always) staggering. I reserved a large-ish rental car, and we filled the trunk to the brim with the playpen, highchair, baby-sized life jacket, towels, clothes, diapers, formula, ice packs, food, toys, the complete boxed-set of Baby Einstein videos, storybooks, pillows, etc., etc., etc. Mae easily needs ten times her body weight in stuff just to spend one night away from home, and we were looking at a full week here.
We decided to head out as early as possible. So, after dinner last Friday night, we changed her into her jammies, put her in the car seat and left. We figured she'd sleep through the drive this way, and she did. But when we got to unfamiliar cottage, in the dark, and Mae woke up, she wasn't pleased. Actually, I've never seen her scream like that. I'm sure people could hear her clear across the lake. And nothing would comfort her: not cuddles, or books, or toys or even (the big guns) the tiger puppet in the Baby Einstein Numbers Nursery video. We walked with her for hours until I finally had to let her cry herself to sleep - something I've never done before and never want to do again.
Things got a bit better after that screaming start, but it was still the most un-relaxing vacation I've ever had. Mae still isn't walking much on her own, but she crawls quickly and can stand up without help. She's in to absolutely everything. The cottage wasn't childproofed, and my dad's house was even worse. They never, ever throw anything away. The tippy piles of stuff on every surface are treacherous. Not to mention the extremely chokey and dangerous things we kept finding on the floor... a bottle cap here, a knife there, an ant trap under there...
Then, to further complicate life, Mae is in a clingy stage. Nobody but mommy or daddy will do. She didn't want her grandparent, uncles, aunts or anyone else picking her up, snuggling her, giving her a bottle, changing her diaper or even holding her hands to walk her around. They all tried to be tough about it, but you could tell it hurt their feelings. And while I also know that, one day, when she's a teenager and doesn't want to be within ten feet of me, I'll miss this stage, right now I'm finding it pretty exhausting.
Every single time we come through the front door after a trip like this - arms loaded with baby gear, throats dry from singing one too many overly-cheerful rounds of "The Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly" - I say: "That's it. We're never going anywhere again." But this time.... this time, I definitely mean it.
Friday, August 03, 2007
You know you've finally relaxed when...
You know you've finally relaxed when, not only have you completely stopped sterilizing bottles but - yesterday - you didn't even flinch, or stop to think about it before letting your baby drink from the garden hose.
