Now I Lay Me Down to F*cking Sleep...

Ah, sleep. How I miss getting a full night of it.

To be fair, the Reds are pretty good about going to sleep. It's the STAYING asleep that confounds them. That they can rush about all day, full of energy and yet awaken mere hours later, ready to play confounds me. Many's a night that finds me wearing a path between their room and mine, refilling water cups, rubbing aching knees, banishing monsters, drying tear-stained cheeks.

And if by chance I don't go to them, I can rest, assured that my darling boys will always come to me.

Most mornings find Mark protecting himself with all the pillows, me clinging to the edge of the bed with someone's tiny elbow lodged in my nostril, and somebody else's whole body curled between my legs.

I drool. Two of us snore and three of us grind our teeth.

Isn't that a lovely mental picture?

It could be worse. It used to BE worse, when Luke was born and nursed every 10 minutes. Matthew kind of lost his mind and took to shrieking like a banshee at odd hours - usually after midnight and before dawn. It was, as you can imagine, a very challenging time as a parent. DH could - and still does - sleep through anything so I was on my own. How I wish I'd had this book then:

"Go the Fuck to Sleep!" by Adam Mansbach

It's pure, unadulterated, adult-oriented, parent-centric, HYSTERICAL genius.

I know you've heard of it, because it's been all over the news and discussed heatedly on parenting boards everywhere. Some parents are shocked and aghast, but they're usually the parents of newborns, who believe that they've come through the worst of the sleep-deprivation.

Ha!

Most parents cheer and applaud Mr. Mansbach's brutal, potty-mouthed honesty and this book was written for them. For all of us, really, if we're honest about it.  My friend Moe sent it to me and UPS (yay, man in uniform!) dropped it off today. I've been giggling and reminiscing and reciting it under my breath ever since.

A snippet for you because I think that you should go and buy up every copy you can find - give it as a shower gift, parting gift, gag gift, whatever. It is, quite possibly, the best bedtime story I have EVER read:

"The tiger reclines in the simmering jungle.

The sparrow has silenced her cheep.

Fuck your stuffed bear, I'm not getting you shit.

Close your eyes. Cut the crap. Sleep."

Pass it on. Genius such as this deserved to be celebrated and shared!

Welcome to Parenthood: Part II

* This is Part Two of a piece written for my neighbour, who has recently had her first child. For Part One, go here: Welcome to Parenthood: Part 1*

Breast vs. Bottle

This is a doozy - deciding whether to formula-feed or breast-feed. Since I've done both, I feel compelled to offer my opinion about both methods, both of which were the best decision that I could have made for my child. The formula-fed child is gorgeous and healthy and I loved watching him grow into himself. The breast-fed child is gorgeous and healthy and I loved watching him grow into himself.

Whichever you decide, know this: She will grow and thrive and love you.

Period.

Formula Pros
1. Anyone can do it. Even your husband who may try to claim ignorance. Don't let him. He can and WILL feed the child you both created. So there.
1 b) This means you can shower. Alone. For at least 20 minutes, 25 if burping takes awhile.
2. It doesn't hurt.
3. You can eat tons of spicy food and drink a glass of wine celebrating parenthood without worrying that you're risking your child's future mathematical skills.
4. As long as you have water and a bottle, you can feed the baby pretty much anywhere.
5. Around Month Six or so, you can prop the bottle in your baby's hands and she can feed herself.
5 b) You can shower.
6. There is no awkward fumbling about with clasps on your bra or worrying about exposing yourself to passerby. Or your father.
7. It's good for your baby, providing valuable vitamins and nutrients and other such yummy goodness.

Formula Cons

1. It can be expensive. If you buy the ready-made tins, you'll pay for the privilege and the powdered stuff involves measuring and teaspoons, which is a LOT to deal with at 3 a.m.and you've been awake since yesterday.
2. It involves measuring and teaspoons and access to hot water at all times.
3. You may find that your child's sensitive digestive system does not appreciate certain formulas. Half-open and discarded tins of various formula brands will pile up alarmingly in your recycling box until you find the right one.
4. The poop of a formula-fed baby is, quite possibly, the worst smell known to man. Unless you've wandered into my house after Luke has filled his diapers, at which point, your baby's poop will smell like roses. I'm just saying.

Boob Pros

1. Breast milk is free.
2. Breast milk is always the perfect temperature and portable.
3. Although a light breeze going by hurts them, your boobs look absolutely fan-friggin'-tastic in ANY shirt    you own. Take photos because they will never be this high and smokin' hot again. Trust me.
4. It's good for your baby, providing vitamins and nutrients and other yummy goodness ending in "oxidants."
 5. If conversations bore you or you just want to drift off for 20 minutes, you can use nursing as an excuse to leave the room. Ditto for any social obligation that you resent having to fulfill: wedding, funeral, baby shower, Pampered Chef party...
6. You are, literally, growing a human being with your body. Powerful, heady stuff.


Boob Cons

1. Nursing hurts.
Holy mother of God, it hurts so much - in the beginning - that your toes curl at the mere thought of nursing and you've taken to hunching over while walking because every time your baby so much as whimpers, your milk lets down and you're simply assuming the position in advance. This too shall pass. Eventually.

2. Nipples.
Everyone will have an opinion about the state/shape/size/dimension and usefulness of your nipples. You will find yourself talking about your nipples with strangers in the ER, the Health Unit or the nursing room at Sears. Some of those strangers may even reach out as though they mean to TOUCH your nipples, especially women who've nursed so many children they consider themselves honourary lactation consultants.

Here are some examples of the sorts of things you will ponder or be asked. Or both:

Are they inverted? Why are there hairs on them?
Is the baby sucking them so that they look like a lipstick, and if so, is she creating the right shape for the nipstick, because it's supposed to matter.
Do your nipples bleed or itch and why are that woman's purple?
Is the baby getting enough nipple or not enough?
Does she prefer one to the other and in the name of all that's holy, will the ever stop feeling like they're on fire?

This too shall pass.

3. Thrush.
It's itchy and painful - like the yeast infection it actually is, just not in the spot you'd previously envisioned before reading this - and makes you crave bread and sweets and then you fart. A lot. (Which is neither here nor there, except that you may have noticed that since giving birth, farts ripple from areas of your body not previously known for flatulence. Anything you can do to alleviate that sort of weirdness is recommended.)

You can get a prescription for thrush, but it involves the coating of nipples and then rinsing before nursing, so be warned. Gentian Violet is purple and you coat it on your nipples before nursing, too, only the baby will suckle it off, which a) saves you from having to rinse your nips 5,678 times a day and b) coats her tiny, perfect mouth and rids it of any lingering yeast.


4. Mastitis.

Take the drugs.


Speaking of boobs....

S-E-X (alt. title: Are you effing kidding me?)

You're gonna have to do it again, sometime. Perhaps even sometime soon. If you have a wise and compassionate OBGYN or midwife, s/he will write a note to your husband, excusing you from sex for the next three months. It's unlikely, but s/he might, if you ply her with wine and chocolates first.

If you have any friends or relations who "did the deed"  before their six-week check up, make certain that they do NOT, under any circumstance, mention this fact in front of your husband.


If you have "that" friend or relation who insists that she made gentle love in the hospital bed mere hours after pushing a human being into the world through her vagina, stop speaking to her immediately. NEVER speak to her again. If YOU are that woman then even thought we're neighbours, you'll understand that I can no longer speak to you.

Let's say you did not receive a "get-out-of-sex" card and are dreading looking forward to a passionate reunion with your husband. Here's the truth:

It's gonna hurt. Maybe a lot. Maybe for several months afterward. BUT:

It gets better. You may find yourself buying stocks in lube and wine from the County, but it does get better.

I promise.

Now snuggle up with your daughter. Tomorrow, we'll talk about sleep and why housework is overrated.

Love,
Belly

Growing Your Family: Part II - Mama Guilt (The Early Days)

See Part I here: Growing Your Family: Part 1


Shakespeare's take on female fury: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.


To that I say, "Phfffffftttt! Whatevah, Willie."

To hell with fury - there ain't nothing in the world quite like Mama Guilt. It's an overwhelming, clawing heartache like no other and frankly, I'll take a good ol' scorning over a minute's lie-in-bed-thinking-about-the-ways-I-damaged-my-child-today session. In fact, I'll see your scorning and raise you a public humiliation AND a Facebook de-friending, if only you could take this guilt, just for five minutes.

Please?

No? You've got too much of your own, thank you very much? In fact, as the Interloper snuggles in for yet another nursing session and your Firstborn has stomped off to locate the gardening shears, your guilt is washing over you in waves? You feel torn asunder? You cannot breathe for the weight of it?

Ah, yes. Welcome to the REAL guilt. All that stuff you suffered whilst mothering one child was just practice for this:

1. I Don't Think I Can DO This:

I can admit this now and laugh about it, but while I was pregnant with the Interloper I felt consumed by the guilt of knowing that I wouldn't love him as much as I loved his brother. Oh sure, everyone told me that I'd be fine and of course I'd love another baby, but in my deepest heart, I was adamantly unconvinced and it was awful. How could I possibly love another human being the way I did my only child?

In the end, I made a silent, fervent promise to myself: I would go ahead and love my Firstborn more but I would never, EVER tell another living soul and would carry my terrible, horrendously shameful secret to my grave.

Days after this terrible promise, the Interloper was born and as the nurse placed him in my arms, I realized that I'd been terribly, wonderfully wrong. I loved him instantly, wholly, without reserve. "Hello, sweet angel. I've been waiting to love you for my whole life."

Sadly, my elation at losing the guilt of not loving him enough was swiftly replaced by the equally heart aching shame of even thinking that I wouldn't....sigh....minutes old and he'd already broken my heart.

This, I have come to realize, will continue until I draw my last breath of this life: In loving these little people, we are vulnerable in ways we'd never imagined. And if we're not, they'll find a way to make it so.

 2. Your Darling Firstborn Has Been Possessed by the Devil.

Looking back, I now see where my Firstborn began his slide toward Satan.

When he and Daddy arrived at the hospital to meet his new baby brother and to take us home, he wouldn't even hug me, barely spared me a glance. All he wanted to do was hold Daddy's hand and cover Daddy's neck with kisses. It was almost like he'd thought to himself, "Hmm...what's the quickest way to punish Mummy for growing me a brother? Oh, yes: Love. Daddy. Best."

The days that followed were tiring and weirdly calm as we began to adjust to a new family member, but I knew. Knew that my Firstborn was feeling pushed aside and pushed out. I knew by the way he leaned over the nursing Interloper and instead of laying a gentle kiss upon his brow like I'd been hoping, he head butted him RIGHT ON THE SOFT SPOT so hard, the Interloper popped off my breast and wailed without sound. Yeah. That cry.

I could tell that his frustration was rising when he began throwing temper tantrums over wearing socks with his shoes and wailing like a banshee at 3 a.m. for no good reason at all. (Naturally, this was his way of getting my clear and furiously undivided attention, and I ought to have ignored him but the guilt and the hormones got the better of me and I ended up sitting upright all night long with a boy at one breast and a boy curled next to the other, weeping. But I digress...)

I knew by the way he dropped his little chin to his chest when I gently explained that I couldn't take him to the park right now, Sunshine, Mummy's nursing the baby.

Sorry, Sweetheart, Mummy can't play soccer with you right now, I'm nursing the baby.

Oh, Magoo, I-Love-You, I WANT to bake our special "Mummy & Matthew" cake like we did last week, but right now, I'm nursing the baby...

In just a minute Matthew...
In a little while Matthew,
When I'm done nursing the baby, Matthew,
When I'm done changing the baby, Matthew,
Not right now Matthew,
Don't wake the baby, Matthew,
There, you've gone and woke the baby, Matthew!!

I literally ached watching my own father step in and perform every, single one of my duties: he dressed, fed, changed, played with, bathed, scolded, cuddled, read to, chided, and tucked my beloved firstborn child in every night for a week straight.

You know what I did for a week straight? Nursed the Interloper and let the guilt - now doubled because I was feeling guilty for dumping all of my responsibilities on my father, whom I'm pretty sure just really wanted to mow the lawn and drink beer - completely and totally overwhelm me. Three years later, the looking back is easy. Hopefully, these tips will help you in these early days.

To survive:

1. Try to be there when your Firstborn wakes up in the morning, arms empty of the Interloper and waiting just for her/him. Let your smile be the first thing he sees and greet the day as you did before the Interloper came along - just you and him, together.

2. Let him pick out his clothes for the day and which cereal to eat for breakfast. (Go ahead and buy a box of sugar-coated crap. Do NOT allow yourself to feel badly about this. Baby teeth fall out and it's not like you're feeding him crap all day long, right? Water down his juice if this makes you feel better.)

3. I made up a silly song for mornings and we still sing it. If anything, it puts ME in the right frame of mind and at the very least, lets me have 30 seconds of "Good Mummy" ness to recall later in the day when both children are in Time-Out and I'm about to hurl myself out the window. It goes like this:

"Good morning! Good morning!
 Happy day to you!
 Good morning! Good morning!
 I love you, Magoo!"

* This song can later be altered to end with, "I love you, and YOU!" to include the Interloper, thereby neatly circumventing any guilt you may have about not including both children. *

4. 20 Minutes, Twice a Day

Set aside 20 minutes in the morning, after you've fed the Interloper and he's (hopefully) sleeping in his bouncy chair, to play with your Firstborn. You can play trucks or tea party or dress-up or line-up-the-shoes - but let your Firstborn choose and stay focused. Do NOT allow your gaze to wander about the disaster that is your kitchen or to rest longingly on the couch that's calling your name. Do NOT idly flip through the nearest issue of "Today's Parent" magazine when it's not your turn. Play! Engage. Be.

In the afternoon, before the witching hour leading up to dinner and before the fresh new hell known as "bed time", do it all again. 20 minutes. If you can manage a walk to the park, do it.

 Let your Firstborn stop and inspect every blade of grass along the way. Let him balance on the cupholder of the stroller if he wants to and ignore the clucking/shaking heads from your neighbours as you trundle by. Push him on the swing for 10 more minutes after you've given the 5-minute warning. If you need to nurse the Interloper during this time, then do so, but if some other Mummy offers to burp or hold him afterward, let her. Bring snacks - the good ones. Let him drink from your bottle, shriek as loudly as he wants and climb the playground equipment without his shoes on.

All in, these 40 minutes will sustain you later as you mentally beat yourself up, so enjoy them!

Because Mama?

This too shall pass. This too, shall pass. All too soon, this too shall pass.

Growing Your Family: A Survival Guide

My dear friend and fellow blogger Heather, has just given birth to her second child - a gorgeous girl she has nicknamed Sweet Pea, little sister to darling Peach.

This cheeky guideline is my gift to her, and to every mother whose world has been turned upside down by the arrival of a second child.

Part One: SLEEP

 (or decided lack thereof)

Old Wisdom: "Sleep when the baby sleeps."

Belly Version: What? Are you effin' KIDDING me? And who, pray tell, will watch over my Firstborn, my Very Heart, who is presently shoving books into the dishwasher in a fit of rage because for the zillionth time this morning, instead of playing trucks, I have settled into the couch with the Interloper and cannot move for the next 45 minutes while he suckles at a boob that is bigger than his head?

To survive:

First of all, let go of all your pre-children notions about limiting TV and sepia-washed fantasies about playing age-appropriate games on a white, stain-free carpet, devoid of all but a small wicker basket filled with brightly-coloured books and finger puppets.

That's right...let it all go.

Release yourself from the desire to be perfect and remember that this is about survival and nothing else.

Make a comfy nest of pillows and blankets on the floor in front of the TV. Turn on Treehouse/cartoons/soap opera/Sex in the City. Whichever. Anything will do as long as it holds your Firstborn's attention for more than 10 minutes.

 If you have a golf umbrella, open it up and plonk it behind your nest, supersititon be damned. If your living room is big enough to house a tent, pitch it. Gather snacks. Put the potty next to the three baskets of laundry you've not yet managed to fold, let alone put away.

 Better yet, bring out your secret stash of Pull-Ups and ruin weeks of potty-training. Whatever. Firstborn won't go to university in diapers so cut yourself some slack and ignore the clucks of disapproval from neighbours, family members and strangers, all of whom had their children potty-trained and reading before they even walked. (Insert eye-roll here)

Plop irritable, formerly angelic-but-morphing-into-the-Devil-right-before-your-bleary-sleep-deprived-eyes Firstborn in front of TV. Watch his/her eyes widen, jaw fall open and body finally, finally still. The electronic babysitter is on the job.

Relax. Breathe.

 Balance the Interloper on a pillow next to your ginormous, swollen boob and let yourself drift off to the high-pitched urging of a swollen-headed Dora. Dream of Boots the Monkey. Be still. Ressssttttt....

Alternate ways to catch some ZZZ's:

Load both children into the car. Drive to the nearest coffee place and buy a large coffee. Do not worry about the caffeine intake, reasoning that it's better to have the contents of a Tim Horton's double-double buzzing through the Interloper's tiny body for the 10 minutes it's in there between a nursing session and a blowout diaper, than to fall asleep behind the wheel and kill everybody.

 It's all about perspective.

Drive aimlessly until the children fall asleep (which, blessedly, mine did within minutes of being strapped into their car seats) and then steer yourself home. Park. Turn off ignition, but leave the music playing, battery power be damned. Crack the windows, ease back in your seat and close your eyes.

(During winter, roll the windows all the way down - your little darlings are snug as bugs in their snugglie car covers/sleeping-bag-thingys/snowsuits. Bellymonster Family Motto:  Have toque? Will travel.)

Do NOT worry about drool. Do NOT entertain a sick and twisted daymare about a masked bandit stealing the children from behind you while you snooze. Stuff like that only happens on TV. Or to really rich people. Or at gas stations. Or all of the above, but it will NOT happen to you so rest easy and sweet dreams!

2. Seize the Moments:

Foist the manic, clingy, whiny child that is your Firstborn onto your partner's/father's/neighbour's/Jevhovah's Witness's lap.

Unlatch the Interloper from your breast while tugging on your stretched-out yoga pants and grimacing. Gag, for effect. Announce that you NEED a shower RIGHT NOW and quit the room.

 Lock the bathroom door, turn on the water and climb in. Curl up in the bottom of the tub. Never in your life will chilly enamel feel more like fluffy cloud than it does at this moment.  Enjoy the warmth and the steam and the feel of something other than baby-spit up, formula or breast milk coursing down your body. Revel in it, but be sure to turn your head away from the spray:

You want a nap, not to drown with your ass sticking up in the air.

3. Relinquish Control

This is harder than it seems. At first.

But after you've stopped expending precious energy on making it look like you've got it together, you'll feel tons better and the lack of sleep won't seem as bad. Don't get me wrong, you're still gonna feel like you did during the drop-into-a-coma-exhaustion-first trimester of your pregnancy only now your hair is falling out and your nether region is unrecognizable, but you won't MIND as much if you do the following:

a) Stop putting laundry away. Seriously.

Get four baskets, five if you've been ambitious and done the sheets and towels instead of hauling the holiday stuff out of the basement and spritzing your bed with Febreze. Put 'em in the living room, next to the umbrella and the potty. Don't fold it, just rummage as needed.

 (Incidentally, freshly-washed piles of teeny-tiny diaper t's make a pretty good pillow. Actually, smelly towels and soiled footy pj's work well too, in a pinch.)

b) Hubby needs things pressed? Give directions to the iron and ironing board. Heck, you can set the ironing board up next to the umbrella too, and he can starch his way through the hockey game. If you duct tape an old coffee tin to the metal rack where the iron sits, you've got a ready-made beer holder.

c) Two words: Kraft Dinner.

Toss in some cut up hot dogs, maybe some salsa for colour, some carrot sticks and a juice box and you're done. Two boxes of every child's comfort food and your Firstborn AND your husband can have leftovers for lunch the next day. Around here, we are big fans of  "Snacky Supper" which is essentially this: crackers, cheese, keilbasa, grapes and applesauce.

Naturally, this is eaten in front of the TV, under the umbrella. And if you use paper plates emblazoned with the Backyardigans? You are just about THE coolest Mummy ever.

d) Rethink your sleeping arrangements: Do you have a spare room? Couch? Beaten-up old armchair in the garage? Good. Move your husband there and bring the Interloper to bed with you. I realize that tongues are clucking even as I type this and yes, I am aware that both the American and Canadian Paediatric Societies frown upon co-sleeping, but this is my blog, so there. And for spluttering husbands/partners/disapproving mothers-in-law I must gently remind them that this is about Mama survival, NOT domestic bliss.

Shove a body pillow into the space where your husband used to be, but underneath the fitted sheet. Doing so will alleviate any concerns that the Interloper will roll off the bed or roll under a pillow and suffocate. Nursing whilst lying down takes some practice and you may find yourself contorted into all sorts of whacky positions but at least you'll be lying down in a dark room.

Ah, bliss.

I'm not sure that I ever really slept while nursing my Interloper 6,328 times a night, but at least I rested my eyes and my weary body. And while I wouldn't wish a 12-hour night shift on anyone, I definitely leaned toward inappropriate glee when my husband announced that I'd be bedding down without him.

 I enjoyed the special kind of freedom that comes with stretching out diagonally across the bed and not feeling my husband's feet with mine.

Alternately, you can haul the mattress from the guest room into your Firstborn's bedroom and have a cuddly camp out there, Interloper on one side of you, Firstborn on the other. In doing this you'll be resting your aching body AND alleviating a teensy portion of the guilt weighing down your soul re: the state of your Firstborn's sense of self/place/sanity/security.

You may be lucky enough to snatch five minutes of peaceful slumber in the Nursery during Sunday Mass. If you can manage to sneak away for a haircut and have an understanding and sympathetic stylist, you can don a pair of sunglasses and saw logs right there in the chair - the hairdryer should drown out the worst of your snoring.

Tip well.

In combination with all of the above, or as a stand-alone, make this your mantra, prayer and wish:

This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass.

Because it will and it does and someday soon you will wonder how the heck you survived it, but you will.

You are.

Coming Soon:

Part II: Mama Guilt (aka: The Soundtrack of Motherhood)

Growing Your Family: Part II (Mama Guilt)