History lessons with a four-year-old

This afternoon, driving home from a big morning of playing at the park, the news on the radio reminded us that today is the commemoration of 100 years since the start of World War One.

"World War One?" asked Milkbaby, from the back seat.

He often overhears snippets of the news and makes comment; yesterday the weather report was "showers easing overnight" and he said with a giggle "there was sneezing in the night??!".  Oh how we laughed.

"Yes darling, it was a big war one hundred years ago.
"But why, mama?
"Umm, that's a good question.  Let's learn all about it this afternoon, okay?"

I'm floundering here.  The sad thing is, I'm a history major.  But how do you explain the causes of the First World War (or any war, for that matter) to a four-year-old?  The first thought that popped into my head was "some damn foolish thing in the Balkans", but I held my tongue as various ideas, phrases and images from long-ago-crammed exams bounced in my head.

As we pulled up, I thought I'd personalise the war conversation.  More fool me.

"Your great great grandfather was in World War One.
"My great great grandfather?"
"Yes his name was Albert Alfred.  He was killed in France."
[looking upset] "He died?"
"Yes darling, he was shot on Vimy Ridge" [Mama blunders on]
[bottom lip quivering and eyes getting moist]  "But he's died?"
"Yes" [realising that maybe this topic is too heavy and wondering how I can back out of it]
"But ... I wanted to play with him" [the pre-cry whine is threatening his voice]
"Oh that's really nice honey.  It's sad isn't it.  War is really sad because lots of people die.  What shall we have for lunch?"  [How's that for a mid-conversation-subject-change??]

I might have made a mistake here.  Or perhaps opened up a little door to a lifetime of curiosity for history.  Whatever the case, this conversation and the afternoon's activities (drawing a picture of Albert Alfred, watching historical footage of WWI, and poring over the world map discussing which countries were involved and where the major fighting took place) opened the question floodgates.

"But where was he fighting?"  In France, at Vimy Ridge.
"He was in Canada?"  No he was from Canada, and went to France.
"But how did he get there?"  Good question... by boat.
"But who went with him?"  His army mates, his Battalion.
"How old was he?"  I'm not sure, I will check and let you know in the morning.
"I think he was 36."  That's probably about right, he was probably about the same age as me and daddy because he had four young children.  [holy crap, FOUR children?!!  I checked: he was 35]
"But, mama?  You couldn't play with him?  And Cal couldn't play with him?"   No darling, we couldn't play with him either.  He didn't come home from the war.

He didn't come home from the war.  As I walked out of Milkbaby bedroom after blowing more goodnight kisses, it was this I thought of.  He didn't come home from the war, leaving my great grandmother with four children, the youngest of whom (my grandfather) was just two.  FOUR children!

The moral of this story?  Know your facts before starting a conversation with a four-year-old.  On any subject.  And be careful when discussing the war, his eyes might not be the only ones getting moist.

These are called my what?

I've always been a fan of real names for body parts.  So were my parents.  In fact they were the original 'real namers'.  Until we were teenagers we even called them by their names, instead of the usual "mum" and "dad".  One aspect of our teenage rebellion was reverting to the more-easily-grunted/whined/yelled monosyllabic monikers.

While we've not been quite so worried about Milkbaby calling us "mum" and "dad", we've encouraged the use of real names for body parts that might otherwise be called boobs, fanny, junk, nuts, dick etc etc.  This has led to a couple of hilarious moments.

One in particular, has led to a renaming of a particular body part in our house.

We're driving in the car, and I notice that Milkbaby is playing with his penis.

"Honey, leave your penis alone."
"I'm not playing with my penis."
"It certainly looks like you are."
"No, I'm touching my nexticles."
"You mean your testicles."
"No, they're my nexticles.  They're my nexticles because they're next to my penis."

Those are some nexticles.

Swearing: it's all about context

Everyone knows toddlers are like little parrots - they have an uncanny knack of picking out the most important or worst word in a sentence and repeating it back to you, usually more than once.  Over the last few weeks I've collected a few examples to suggest that it's not just parroting.  Because when it comes to swearing, context - and timing - is everything, right?

Milkbaby, immediately after throwing up ALL OVER his bed: "oh shit".

Milkbaby, upon the discovery by mum and dad that the car keys had been left at creche for the weekend: "fuck".

Milkbaby, after peeing all over the lounge floor: "oh gawd".

and the kicker:

Milkbaby, tonight, instead of saying goodnight to his dad and yelling down the stairs: "see ya, sucker!"

I'll worry about the odd swearword when they start to get used out of context.  Hopefully that won't happen until the teenage years.

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.

Motherhood lesson #3

How to take your toddler to get a passport photo, and leave the shop with your nerves in tact.

Sorry, I'm afraid it's not possible. Either get his passport photos done when he's a few weeks old, or forget about international travel until after age five. The latter approach probably involves less stress for everyone anyway.

If you want to know how "the third way" might go for you, read on...

I took Milkbaby to get a passport photo last week.  Naively thinking that it would only take a few minutes, I popped in to the photo shop on our way home.  The rest of the afternoon went something like this:

I sit him on the seat.  He stares, open-mouthed, at the girl taking his picture.

"He'll need his mouth closed." she says.

He grins at her, displaying his pearly-whites.  I encourage him to close his mouth, by making closed-mouth faces at him.  He laughs at me, then stares with his mouth open some more.

He gets bored and starts investigating the chair he's sitting on.  He tries getting down from the chair.  I sit him back on the chair.  He grins at the girl some more.  He points and waves at her.  By now, he figures, they're becoming friends.

We turn the chair around, so he's kneeling on it. The girl tries to get his attention again.  I try holding his gaping mouth shut, and then taking my hand away at the moment of the photo.  It doesn't work.

We try lying him down on a white sheet.  Before the girl lifts the camera to her face, he rolls over and crawls away.

Apples: useful for enticing Snow Whites
and small children.

I'm starting to feel flustered and embarrassed.  The girl asks if I can think of anything that we can give him to eat so that his mouth will stay shut.  I remember an apple in my handbag.

We sit Milkbaby back on the stool, and I give him some apple.  He chews it, while grinning and waving at the two other shop assistants who've come to watch the spectacle.

He spits the apple out on the floor.  I try to look composed while picking bits of apple off the carpet and making sure Milkbaby stays sitting on the stool.  He points at the apple, wanting more.  I give him some more.

He sits and chews, seemingly offering a few closed-mouth photo opportunities.  But he's not looking at the camera, and the girl points out that his fringe is covering his eyebrows, something which is not allowed.

I do a very mumsy thing and lick my fingers to wet his hair, clumsily attempting to tame his fringe away from his eyebrows.  By now I'm very flustered.  I wonder aloud why it's so important to have your eyebrows showing in a passport photo.  It's like customs officials are playing some sick joke to ensure that everyone, including babies, look hideous in their passports.

The girl gives up and hands the camera to a colleague.  It's the end of her shift.  Her colleague goes and gets a bigger, better camera.  He's pulling out the big guns.

Milkbaby points at the apple.  I give the whole thing to him, figuring things can't get much worse.  I'm considering giving up on the possibility of overseas travel.  Who'd want to travel with a toddler anyway?

All of a sudden, Milkbaby seems to get it.  He gives up on the gap-toothed grinning and gormless staring, and puts on his best Blue Steel pout.

The guy casually snaps a couple shots, then says, "yep, I think we got one".  I breathe a sigh of relief, and leave the shop before they can tell me they need to do them again.  Fingers crossed the mugshot is good enough for the authorities...

Strange conversation #2: What school will he go to? and other silly questions

A conversation with an acquaintance last week:

"So what school will he go to?"
"Not sure.  He's only one so we've got plenty of time to think about it."
"Not really.  You should get onto it."
"Hmm"   [I'm wondering how deciding on, and enrolling in, a primary school will take 4 years]
"Are you Catholic?"
"No"
"Oh that's too bad... the Catholic school in this suburb is really good.  I've sent all my children there."
"Really?" [Feigning interest]
"Are you sure you're not Catholic?  I really thought you were Catholic for some reason."
"No definitely not.  Well, probably not Catholic enough to enroll in that school anyway." [I'm trying to help her out here...]
"But aren't you Greek?"
"Nope."
"Huh, I thought you were Greek, and you know, Catholic." [Greek? Catholic?  Whuck?]
"Nope, I can't claim any Greek heritage."
"Well anyway, you'll need to start thinking about what school to send him to." [Phew! Back on safe ground.]
"Yes definitely." [I thought about mentioning Montessori, but bit my tongue thinking that would really confuse things.]


I think I'll just concentrate on surviving creche for now...

It could've been worse

That's pretty much my motto for life: "it could've been worse".  My Poppa used to say it all the time, usually when we'd hurt ourselves or something hadn't gone our way.  He'd say "it could've been worse - it could have been Poppa".  It helped put things in perspective.

It's useful to keep some sort of perspective on this motherhood gig.  For example:

• poop all over baby?  Could be worse - there could be poop on you, the floor and walls.
• baby vomits on the floor of Noel Leemings?  Could be worse - at least you got a new dishwasher out of the transaction.
• sleep deprived?  Could be worse - you could have got up 5 times in the night instead of just 3.
• housework gone to the dogs?  Could be worse - at least you have a house to whinge about.

Lying in hospital, feeling not so great after three doses of morphine and a general anaesthetic, I'm thinking "yep this could be worse, at least I'm not a Somali mother right now, having to walk 30 days with no food to get to a refugee camp".  Now that's something to whinge about.  I bet those mothers never complained.  I saw one in a clip on the news who, despite already having four of her own children to look after, adopted another whose mother died on their 30-day walk to the refugee camp.

Now it's one thing for me to sanely keep my perspective, but it's another for someone else - nearly a stranger - to try and provide it.  Last weekend we had a visit from some of the DH's elderly relatives.  It happened to come up in conversation that I'd been in hospital.  And when I say "came up in conversation", it truly was mentioned in passing, rather than "hey, guess what, I was in hospital last week, poor me blah blah".  Anyway, of course they asked why and so I told a very short version of the whole sordid story ("oh I got mastitis").

The first thing they said?  "Well, it could have been worse -- at least it wasn't cancer."  They went on to tell a story about someone they knew with cancer.  It was a sad story, I felt for the cancer victim, and I was definitely glad it wasn't cancer.  But I couldn't help but feel a bit taken aback by the conversational one-upmanship that had just taken place.

But hey, it could have been worse - they could have been my relatives!

Overheard at creche

When I pick Milkbaby up from creche, I breastfeed him before we go.  I don't bother to find the quiet breastfeeding chair in the babies' sleep room and instead perch on the seat by the lockers, in the main thoroughfare to the bathrooms.  This means that all of the children in the over twos area can see us as we sit there.

Most of them ignore us, but I've had a few interesting conversations with the more curious among them:

Little girl:  Hahahaha [maniacal laughter and pointing], he's eating you!
Me: Yes I guess so, sort of.  He's having some milk.

Little boy: [staring from about 5 feet away] What's that baby doing? 
Me: He's having some milk.
Little boy: [coming a little closer] Why is it coming out of your tummy?
Me: Erm, well it's not my tummy, it's my breast.
Little boy: [getting even closer for a good look] How does the milk get made?
Me: [I'm starting to sweat now.  I start thinking about the pictures of milk ducts we saw in breastfeeding classes and realise I actually don't know how the milk gets made.] Um, ah well your body just is able to make milk for your baby.  I guess it's a secret recipe that only your body knows. [Little boy looks unconvinced, and after staring for a while longer, trails off.]

They're a tough crowd, these under fives.

Happy 1st Birthday

About 15 months ago, 13 couples sat nervously in a church hall, awaiting the start of their first antenatal class.  As we introduced ourselves, we were asked to reflect on what we were most apprehensive about.  One said (and I'm paraphrasing here) "I was a bit nervous about who we'd end up with in the group, but just from looking around the room I think we've done alright."

Last weekend, 11 of the original 13 couples and their babies gathered to celebrate the babies' first birthday.  It was an informal affair, with most of us taking the opportunity to have a well-deserved beer.  The mamas took the opportunity to catch up on the minutiae of motherhood and other gossip (we've been seeing each other every week for a year now), while the dads got reacquainted with each other and each other's offspring.

This event would have passed without mention, but part of it was particularly memorable.  We decided to do an obligatory "1st birthday line-em-up on the couch" photo.  Previous attempts at similar photos have been notoriously unsuccessful, invariably resulting in a chorus of babies screaming at about 300 decibels.  Now that all the babies are very mobile, getting them all to sit nicely together on the couch was never going to be possible.  But somehow we wrestled them all into the frame, with some sitting nicely, some standing on the couch and some standing on the floor in front of the couch.  The whole thing seemed on the verge of meltdown, with a few of the babies already crying, Milkbaby standing on the head of another baby who'd slipped into a very low slouch from her sitting position, and about four others squished into the corner of the couch.  I started to clap and cheer, largely to gain the attention of Milkbaby, and this stunned a few of the babies into silence, and then someone started to sing Happy Birthday.  And there we were, a group of 30-somethings singing Happy Birthday to our precious 1 year olds.  We were singing for them of course (the incredulous looks on their faces said it all), but in a way we were singing for ourselves too.

If you'd asked me at that first antenatal group if I could visualise myself with a one year old, singing happy birthday together with the people in the room, I would have smiled and thought "nah probably not".  I don't think any of us could have imagined it - or any part of this wild and wonderful journey for that matter.  At the risk of sounding a bit cheesy, I'd like to publicly thank all the other mums in our antenatal group - our catch ups were the highlight of my week and helped me more than anything else to retain some semblance of sanity and good humour.  And I know now that we'll be staying firm friends.  I can almost taste the beer and hear the Happy Birthday chorus at the pub in a year's time.

Let's have another one

The "let's have another" conversation was going to happen sooner or later.  I just didn't think it would be the DH who would bring it up.

In everything I've read lately, it's always the female wanting another child, and the male politely resisting.  A couple of examples:

Ann Enright in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood:

"When the baby is a month old - he is so gorgeous - I come, momentously, to a decision.  I can't help it.  I just have to say it.  Of course I should bide my time, I should wait a month, or more: I should be canny about this thing, because this is an argument I feel I must win - but I end up blurting it out instead.
I say, 'I really think we should have another one.  I really do.'
And Martin says, 'I am trying to drive the car.'"

Or Eva in We Need to Talk About Kevin:

""Franklin, I want to have another child."
I opened my eyes and blinked.  I had surprised myself.  It may have been my first experience of spontaneity in six or seven years.
You wheeled.  Your response was spontaneous, too.  "You cannot be serious.""

We were having an in-car-conversation about our short-medium term plans.  I was talking about what we could achieve once I went back to work, starting with getting some of our house renos finished.  Then BOOM, the DH says, seemingly out of the blue: "And how about you being up the duff by Christmas?" (he's so romantic this one - what a catch!).
Me: Glazed-eyed silence.  I stare out the window.  My eyes water a little.  Then I let out a little laugh just in case it was a joke.  There was no laugh in response so I gathered he was serious.  So I said: "you've enjoyed this fatherhood thing then?"
DH: "Well it's been hard, but yeah I enjoy it.  So how about it?"
Me: More staring into the distance.  Brain not really computing.  "Umm, I'll think about it."  The DH obviously never read this blog post.

I'm still thinking about it.

At the risk of becoming passe, I've devised another appropriate Tui ad for this situation:

Goodbye Miss Lily White

The star of My Cat Likes to Hide in Boxes, Miss Lily White, passed away peacefully on Monday evening, after a short battle with an unknown illness.  

Lily was a Lower Hutt foundling, rescued from a woman with pleurisy and a five o'clock shadow.  (Seriously. Pleurisy!  I thought it was some 1950s disease that no one got any more, since we now all have plenty of gumboots.)

Most likely to be found curled up in front of the fire (or in a box if you've left one lying around), Lily also loved to sit on your lap.  Every night of Milkbaby's gestation she slept next to me on the bed, curled somehow around my growing belly.

I thought we might have to play recordings of a cat purring to get Milkbaby to sleep after he was born.

Milkbaby was present at her death, and was completely oblivious to the emotion and high drama.  He shook my keys and pointed wildly at random things in the room, saying dah, did, doh, doh.  It was only fair, I said afterwards, since she was completely oblivious to the emotion and high drama at his birth.

Lily, relaxing in front of the fire at Milkbaby's birth

Well known for her unique appearance, Lily never let her short ears, skinny legs and bald stomach get her down.

Milkbaby: WTF?

Her gentle, quiet nature will be missed around here.

Goodbye Miss Lily White.

Motherhood lesson #2

How to pee in a public toilet while wearing your baby in a backpack.

So you've just got the damn pack on your back and suddenly you need to pee.

Step 1: Wedge yourself and your baby into a toilet cubicle, taking care to lock the door behind you.  No one needs to see you do this.

Step 2: Attempt to sit on the throne in the normal fashion.  You can't can you?  Because the baby-filled backpack is jammed up against the wall behind you, and your tush is not sitting where it should be.

Step 3: Think for a minute.  Employ your once amazing problem solving skills (they were amazing until you went for about 256 nights without decent sleep).

Step 4: Turn around and sit on the throne backwards.  Straddle it, in other words.  Hey, it actually makes no difference.  Though in case you're wondering, there are actually wrong ways to use a toilet:

"Flowchart" in Massey University bathrooms

Step 5: Congratulate yourself on having conquered another perennial motherhood dilemma, without having taken the wretched backpack or baby off your back.

Step 6: Give a smug smile to the people giving you strange looks as you come out of the bathroom.  Bet they couldn't work it out!

Motherhood lesson #1

Never, I repeat NEVER, undo a nappy without wipes handy, unless you know exactly what's inside...

I was getting Milkbaby ready for his bath.  He was standing, almost naked, at the bath, excitedly leaning over and watching it pour.  I blithely whipped off his nappy, only to be greeted by... yes you guessed it... a GIANT poo.

Obviously my sense of smell had failed me.

I looked around the bathroom for the wipes, knowing that they were handily tucked in my handbag.  Beginner's mistake.

Before I had finished yelling "Darling I need some help in here!!!", Milkbaby had somehow gotten himself covered, from head to toe, in poo.  I'm not joking.  He'd reached down and spread the poo over his cheek and into his hair.  I immobilised his poo-covered fingers, but then he decided to use his feet to spread it.

And then somehow, there was poo on the bathroom floor, poo on Milkbaby's fresh bath towel and poo on me.  It took two of us to clean him up enough to be able to put him into the bath.  Somehow he knew not to drink the bathwater.

And so I repeat: never NEVER de-nappy a child without wipes handy, unless you know what's inside (or not inside) that nappy.

Square carrots: adventures in solids

As his nickname might suggest, Milkbaby's a tits man.  He continues to show very little interest in food.  Mealtimes for him range from being a boring distraction to a form of unusual torture.   During which time he practises smushing the finger food I've given him, dropping things from his high chair, blowing water and food raspberries, and garroting himself with his bib (he hates bibs with a passion, and I don't really blame him).

Thinking, somewhat simplistically, that better eating = better sleeping, I called the Well Child nurse in desperation.

"He's not really eating that well." I said, fighting back tears.

"I'd better come for a visit, and watch you feed him.  Then we can make sure his mouth is working."

"Right.  Okay."

"Do you have baked beans?  We can give him some baked beans for lunch."

"Ahm, no, I haven't given him baked beans yet.  I thought they were a bit sugary and salty."

"Well maybe scrambled eggs then.  What kind of baby food are you giving him?  Does it have carrots in it?"

"Um, err, (fumbling with a jar and searching for the "correct" answer), well I mostly give him homemade stuff and yes I do sometimes give him steamed carrots."

"Okay, good.  It's just there's a brand of baby food that has square carrots.  Babies don't like square carrots."

"Umm, right. No I don't think I've been giving him square carrots."

At this point I was thinking "SQUARE CARROTS?!  I think the problem is bigger than [insert inappropriate swearwords here] square carrots!!"

www.squarecarrots.com

And so she visited.  And we watched Milkbaby:

• smush finger food
• drop things from his high chair
• blow water and food raspberries
• garrotte himself with his bib.

Then she said "have you heard of baby lead weaning?"

Given all the finger food at Milkbaby's fingertips, I just about said "yes I have, have you?"  Instead, I just said "uh huh" (extreme fatigue was setting in by this point).

Finally she said "well his mouth is working fine, and he seems to know what to do - you might just try giving him three meals in the afternoon.  Lunch, afternoon tea and dinner."

I smiled and nodded.  It's the best response in these types of situations.

An unseemly preoccupation with size

We are, as a society, preoccupied with size.  Particularly the size of newborn babies.  I find myself answering the question before it's even asked - you just know it's coming.

Grandad's reaction: "wow, over 9 pounds!  I caught a trout that big once."

[source]

As if hauling in a 9 pound trout was equivalent to 27 hours of labour.

And a friend: "just think, that's about 9 blocks of butter!"

All I could think was that I was glad babies don't have so many corners and scratchy wrapping.

At every turn, (it seemed almost daily in those first weeks), Milkbaby is weighed and measured, his growth carefully recorded in his book and plotted on a graph.  Yesterday he had another such weigh-in.

But why all this measuring and weighing?  Does it serve any real medical purpose?

Having done a little research, I'd like to record here, for posterity, that size does not matter.  It's growth that counts.

Strange conversation #1: Advice well meant

When you're pregnant, all sorts of people give you well meaning advice.  As I mentioned in my last post, I think it's probably a taboo of the secret society of parenthood for older males to give unsolicited advice about breastfeeding to the uninitiated (and especially if you're a stranger - or just strange).

I was browsing the pregnancy books in an op-shop in a small town, when I noticed a short, older man browsing the books near me.  He sidled up to me and started asking the usual questions (when are you due? do you know what you're having? etc).  He then started talking about breastfeeding, saying that it was obviously the most healthy and natural way to feed a baby.  I nodded and smiled, agreeing that yes I was planning to breastfeed.  This is where the conversation should have ended, and I could have gotten back to browsing the preggy books.  But no, the man launched into graphically describing how best to get a baby to latch, his hands fondling the breasts of his jacket while he talked.  

Old guy: "before a feed, you express a bit of milk, then rub it around the areola [picture his hands demonstrating that action], and maybe even put a little bit of milk on baby's lips - baby will be able to smell the milk and will be really interested in feeding.  Then when baby's mouth is wide open, you just pop baby onto your nipple."  [more demonstrating]

Me: "uh-huh" [red-faced and wildly looking around the shop for my husband].

Old guy: "I bet you're wondering how I know so much about breastfeeding."

Me: "erm, yes I guess I am actually"

Old guy: "I am a student of medicine, among other things, and I've learnt all about breastfeeding"

Me: "Really?  Well, thanks very much for that information - very useful.  I'd better go - oh there's my husband - it looks like he's wanting to get going."  [finally spotted DH - here that stands for Damn Husband - engrossed in checking out the kitchenware, oblivious to my need for rescue and not looking at all interested in leaving the shop]

I took my leave of the man with a friendly smile.  There are just some things you shouldn't talk to strangers about, even if you're a student of medicine and are very learned in such matters.