Captain Boringvoice to the rescue

In the days when there was the time and energy to read and be read to in bed, the DH used to read the occasional page or two of philosophy to me (romantic eh?).  Just whatever he was reading.  A page or two is probably hyperbole.  It only took a paragraph or two before I was off in the land of nod, snoring happily.  I always thought it was the subject matter - to me, reading philosophy is about as fun as watching paint dry.

But the other day we discovered it's not the subject matter at all - it's the DH's sonorous and extremely boring voice!

So I am re-monikering him Captain Boringvoice, or CB for short.  If Milkbaby's having trouble getting to sleep, they just settle in for some light reading, a little Nietzche or a few pages of Emily Carr's autobiography.  "I'm quite enjoying it", says CB.  A few pages is all it takes, and Milkbaby is fast asleep.

Nietzche says go the fuck to sleep.  Seriously.

Thinking the other day that perhaps it was the subject matter, I picked up the book and tried to read it - to no avail.  I put on my most boring monotone.  No luck.  CB walks in, and Milkbaby, realising the game is up, turns to me and says "bye bye", before flopping down on the bed, ready for Captain Boringvoice's melifluous tones.

CLUNK

That's the sound of a useful tool dropping into a moderately empty get-the-baby-to-sleep toolbox.

Monstrous mastitis strikes again!

Just when I thought I could relax, on Sunday evening I felt just a suggestion of that old familiar pain, this time on the left side.  For a while I tried to pretend I was imagining it.  Then I tried to explain it away ("must have bumped it during my woman-conquers-weedwhacker gardening frenzy").  Then, as the pain grew worse, I did some bargaining with it ("just let me get a good night's sleep and I'll be fine in the morning").  Then there was a bit of self-medicating.  None of it worked.

The pain was worse in the morning.  There was an angry pink stain spreading across my breast.  Milkbaby didn't care, or notice.  He still wanted his milk.  In case I haven't mentioned it before, feeding with mastitis is ridiculously painful.  It pretty much tops my "Would You Rather?" list.  But unfortunately, it's also necessary.  But strangely (and luckily), this time these were my only symptoms.  No fever, chills, vomiting, nausea and general crappiness that accompanied my last two battles with mastitis.

The DH dropped me at the doctor on the way to work.  There I faced the usual barrage of questions, poking and prodding.  What stood out for me this time was the noticeable change in attitude towards breastfeeding.  While the response 7 months ago to me still breastfeeding my 1 year old was fairly harmless (along the lines of "well you've made it to a year now, when do you plan to stop?"), the response this time from both the doctor and nurse I dealt with was more like with-raised-eyebrows "you're still breastfeeding?".  "It's not like I've had a lot of choice in the matter", I grumped at the nurse.  "You'd rather not continue?" she said.  "Well, no, it's not like that, it's just...well, he's not even two yet anyway", I stammered, somewhat defensively.

And then the doctor said, "so are you just comfort feeding now?"  [Just comfort feeding?!  I'm pretty sure there's some nutritional value there - and you haven't seen how my kid eats!]

Perhaps, given my in-laws' hints and pointed questions over the Christmas holidays, I should have expected it.  Whattoexpect.com says, in their mini-guide to nursing a toddler, that extended nursing (that's beyond 1 year!) "is bound to raise some eyebrows".

I manage a half-assed explanation that Milkbaby is MOSTLY down to two feeds a day, whilst trying to ignore the fact that the doctor's holding my breast in a pincer-grip and feeling for an abscess.

"Hm, well the good news is that there's no abscess there.  You should book an appointment with your doctor in a day or two to get checked for an abscess."

"Uh, yeah, I know what one of those feels like." [Dude, in case you hadn't worked it out from the long story I just told you, I'm pretty much an expert now.  And if possible I'd like to avoid having my boobs poked and prodded by yet another person.]

I left with a prescription for two types of antibiotics.

I finally arrived at work.  At the other end of the reaction spectrum, my colleague, upon hearing the news that I had mastitis again said, "you're still breastfeeding??!!  You LEGEND!"

Now that's more like it.

3DD: teaching anatomy to an eighteen-month-old

The DH got a very special book for Christmas.  It features pictures of topless women - in 3D!!

Just a whole book of breasts.  But it's not as lewd as it sounds.  It's the kind of fun book you have on your coffee table.

And that's exactly where it was when Milkbaby came across it.  He looked at the front cover for a few minutes, then pointed at the barely-covered breasts and said "milk".  "That's right", I said.  He then picked up the book and brought it over to where I was sitting, turned around, backed his little nappied butt up and proceeded to sit on my knee, all the while holding the book.  It was clear that we were going to read it, together.

I hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if this was some kind of parenting no-no.  After all, the book's basically just tasteful soft porn.  But there's no getting between Milkbaby and his Milk, and no point trying to distract him.

So we "read" the Milk Book.  There were no words, so all I had to do was turn the pages while he pointed and narrated.  His narration went like this:

"Milk." [pointing at breasts]
"Milk." [again]
"Puku." [pointing out a stomach]
"Milk." [back to breasts]
And the clincher: "Mummy!!" [pointing out a very beautiful woman with long dark hair].

If only, I thought.  If only.

A not-so-sleepy New Years

Well, unlike last New Year's eve (when I barely made it to midnight), this New Year's we did the unthinkable... we left Milkbaby with his doting grandparents, and drove over 3 hours across the countryside to have a few quiet beers with some friends.  His first night alone without either of us.  And for us, there was no coming back in the event of some unforeseen disaster ("he won't sleep!").

We tried to warn them: "he probably won't sleep that well".  And, well, they'd seen his atrocious eating habits over the previous week.  But the doting grandparents insisted that we should leave Milkbaby with them and take their convertible on a jaunt across the South Island.  "A second honeymoon" said Grandad.  I smiled gratefully, thinking about the potential for 8 hours uninterrupted sleep.

But that's the irony... all that potential was wasted.  We were going to be drinking, watching fireworks, socialising, and then sleeping in a tent on the front lawn, with the waves crashing on the beach 30 metres away.  So I was about as likely to get 8 squares as I was if I'd stayed with Milkbaby.  But hey, what you haven't had in 18 months you don't miss.

And Milkbaby?  He ate well and slept well (of course), and hardly noticed we were gone.

Co-sleeping - NOT!

Co-sleeping, rather like breastfeeding, is another one of those controversial, damned if you do, damned if you don't-type topics.  There are a number of perspectives:

• The government "lowest common denominator" advice says no co-sleeping. Fullstop.
• Attachment parenting advocates say it's a great idea.
• Some experts say it's ok as long as you're not fat, drunk or on drugs, or a heavy sleeper, you only cover yourself with a sheet and your mattress is firm (ie, no roll-together!)
• Dr Sears says "yes, no, sometimes?". 

I've got a tendency to follow the rules.  With a fair degree of rigidity.  My Myers-Briggs profile says so.  So in the time Before Child, I thought there would be no question about where Milkbaby would sleep.  In his cot of course!  I know you're all smiling smugly at my naivety.  The very night he was born, he woke up after only an hour or two and a nurse came into my room and popped him into bed with me.  You can imagine my consternation at this blatant breach of government and probably hospital policy.  But I couldn't sleep anyway so it didn't really matter.

Once home I quickly discovered that Milkbaby slept much better when I was nearby.  And when I say "nearby", I mean right next to him, and he would say ideally with a nipple stuck in his little gob.  Nearly 18 months on, he's still the same.  I don't hesitate to bring him into our bed if I think it means we might all get some sleep.  And it usually does result in a couple of people getting some quality sleep - namely the DH and Milkbaby.

But me?  I'm the sucker stuck on the last 10cms of bed, with my arm stuck in a weird position and without a sheet, let alone a duvet, to cover me.  If I do get some sleep, it's certainly not quality, and I'm almost guaranteed to wake up with a krick in my neck or a dead arm.

So instead of running ad campaigns that are designed to fill you with fear - like this one from Milwaukee...


The government should just run a few public service ads which warn people of the most likely outcomes of co-sleeping (pah! what a misnomer).  Like this...

Don't let me put you off

Not so long ago, a childless friend remarked to me "you know, if I didn't know better, your blog would really put me off having kids".  "Yeah, I know" I responded quickly.  "But there's nothing interesting or funny about blathering on about how moonily in love you are with your newborn, or his latest achievements.  And plus there's like a tonne of those blogs on the internet already."

So, just to even things up a bit, this blog post is me blathering on about how moonily in love I am with my toddler.  In small doses.  Like just evenings and weekends.  But whatever, that suits us both.

If you asked me to name the best thing about having a child, I would say it's the ability to experience your baby-days and childhood all over again, with the wisdom and knowledge that you've gained from having been there, done that.  Something as simple as the texture of the leather on the couch has a whole new fascination when you're a baby, nothing is more delightful than the feel of running your hand through a hedge as you walk past it, and water... now that's a whole other cup of tea.

At the moment we're all about language development.  We're working on two word sentences, the best one of which has been "yellow bus".  Milkbaby knows what a bus is, but the concept of 'yellow' is proving tricky. I had a the following conversation with him tonight:

"Okay, hold onto your car" (I'm changing his nappy)
"Car"
"That's right, car. What colour is your car?"
"Yellow bus"
"Well, it's more of a red car really"
"Yellow bus"
"Red car?"
"Yellow bus."
"Okay, sure, whatever."
[There's a pause]
"Car?"
"That's right, red car" (I'm like, wahoo, he's getting it!)
"Yellow bus."
"mm hmm" (I give up.)

Yellow bus? Red car? Who cares?

What's your favourite thing about parenthood?

I hate weekends

As I walk through the Creche gate on Friday afternoons, my mind turns to the 48 hours looming ahead of me. Usually I'm looking forward to some quality time with Milkbaby.  Though often that pleasant thought is accompanied by a small ironic voice that says "Ha, 48 hours straight with your kid... how will you cope?  Will you even remember what to do?".

I'm usually a bit of a planner.  I keep numerous To Do lists.  In the time Before Child (BC), I saw weekends as potential time for getting stuff done.  I mean real stuff.  Like entire house renovations.  And having a bit of a sleep in.  Only till 8.30am at the latest though - any later and that would interfere with getting stuff done.

Now, not only is it nigh-on impossible to get anything but a few small jobs done, but any kind of sleep-in is a far-distant memory.  And since it's been a week since I last tried to get my little monkey down for a nap, today I seemed to have lost the knack.  I gave up, leaving him yelling angrily in his cot, shut his door, and got back into bed, quickly pulling the covers over my head to drown out the screaming.

Luckily, the DH, wondering what all the noise was, came to investigate.  After getting Milkbaby off to la-la land, he came into our room.

"what's up?" he said
"I hate weekends" I mumbled from under the duvet
"really?  you'd prefer to be at work?"
"yes... I wish creche was open on the weekend...  I feel like I've forgotten what to do... And I've got so much to do I don't know where to start..."
"you're obviously a bit tired.  Just try and get some sleep while Milkbaby is sleeping."
"mmm nhmm... [snoring]

24 hours down, 24 hours to go.  Maybe I'll remember how to get him to sleep tomorrow.