Time - the long and the short of it

When you become a parent, it dawns on you that sooner or later you will no longer be around. Perhaps it dawned on you before becoming a parent, but something about becoming a parent makes it starkly real, slightly horrifying.  Time speeds up.  One day, you're at home with a newborn, all bewilderment, exhausted love and never ending piles of laundry, and then boom, he's about to start school, all backchat, skinned knees and running for the sheer joy of it.  This is the type of time that goes too fast.

Are we there yet?

Time also slows down.  Some days it drags like the long hungry walk home from school in the baking hot sun with your kid sister.  You. Are. Never. Going. To. Get. There.  This type of time is known as are-we-there-yet? time.

Nights

Then there are the nights.  The nights stretch out before you like a black abyss.  You are unsure whether this is the seventh or the fifteenth time you've gotten up, You are pretty sure you spend more time in pjs than day clothes, and you smell, just faintly, of sour milk.  This is night time.

The five stages of baby bedtime

Then there's bed time.  Sometimes it closely resembles are-we-there-yet time.  You enter the five stages of baby bedtime.  The first is denial.  You book a time in the evening to leave the house.  You tell yourself that your baby reliably goes to bed at 6.30-7, so you should be able to leave the house at 7.15.  In technical terms, the parent is trying to shut out the reality of their situation, and begins to develop a false, preferable reality.  This is denial.

The second is anger.  Once in this stage, the parent realises that denial cannot continue.  Surely this can't be happening to me tonight.  It's the only night in the last year that I need to get somewhere by 8pm and the baby is babbling and wriggling like he's snorted coke.  Perhaps I shouldn't have had that third cup of coffee today...

The third is bargaining.  This stage involves the hope that the parent can somehow bargain their baby to sleep.  If I do this bum-patting routine one hundred times, the baby will be asleep by then.  Just start counting.  You may or may not get there.

The fourth is depression.  During the fourth stage, the parent begins to understand the certainty of never getting the baby to sleep.  It is, like, NEVER going to happen.  You have possibly been patting the baby's bum for at least three hundred pats, your arm is about to drop off from the effort, and you have no idea how long you've been in that hell-hole of a bedroom.

The fifth is acceptance.  That is, the baby accepts the inevitability of sleep and finally, finally drops off, or you accept that it's never going to happen, bring the baby back downstairs to play some more, and cancel your plans.  He will sleep when he sleeps.

That is the fives stages of baby bedtime.

The time warp
Then there's the time warp.  This can happen at any time, day or night.  It commonly occurs at bedtime.  You might think you've been in that room doing that bum patting routine for three hours.  Turns out it was 15 minutes tops.  Or you might say "I'm just popping out to the supermarket to grab some milk."  Slightly giddy with freedom, you get a little distracted in the supermarket and surrounding stores.  You get home three hours later.

Travel time
Then there's travel time.  Each journey is carefully planned and timed to coincide with nap-time.  You know you need to leave THIS INSTANT or there is going to be HELL to pay.  Or you should have left two hours ago.  You're screwed.  The car journey is going to be a white-knuckle scream-fest.  You wish you could time travel.  Preferably back in time to that moment when you had a perfect body, very few responsibilities, and a bit of disposable income.

It may only have been a brief moment, but it's one you'd like to savour again.  Much like many other moments.

So, white-knuckle scream-fest or not, savour this moment, as it'll be over before you know it.  The lifetime equivalent of fifty more bum-pats.

Letter to a new mother

Dear new mother

Everyone will say 'congratulations' and you should rightly feel proud of yourself.  You just made a new human being.  They will usually follow the congratulatory remarks with a searching "and how are you?". They will study you for signs of cracking.  It's absolutely okay to get a little teary and say you're overwhelmed and confused most of the the time, not to mention exhausted.

Those who are already parents will tell you to "enjoy it - they grow up so fast".  As if they enjoyed every waking, shitting moment with their precious little bundle.  What they mean to say is to savor it.  Savor the highs and the lows.  Let the lows wash over you and tell yourself, repeatedly, this too shall pass.  And savor and celebrate the highs, commit them to memory, or better yet, take a photo.

There will be days when getting out of your pyjamas is a superhuman feat.  Put it on your 'to do' list and tick it off so you feel like you've achieved something.

Time in the shower, or even on the toilet, has suddenly become a precious commodity.  Sorry but I have no solutions here.  Console yourself with the thought that you're doing the planet some good by saving water.  Take evening baths with your baby.  Make up for lost shower time when you visit your parents or in-laws.

Everyone will tell you to "sleep when your baby sleeps". I say do whatever the hell you want while your baby sleeps - this might be your only chance today to take a shower.

Strangers will want to hold your baby, or touch his cheeks, hands or feet.  I have no solutions here either.  Give over that baby and enjoy a break.  Watch those grandma-looking types - they usually know a thing or two about holding a baby - you might learn something.  

Most days you will have moments of misery and moments of triumph.  You will be baffled when the trick you used yesterday fails to work today.  

Learn to laugh at yourself.  Tell stories about your worst days and have a laugh. Tell them to other mothers - let your guard down and get some perspective.

You may not get to the end of every day in the same clothes.  Or if you do make it, by the end of the day, forgive yourself your dignity if you're covered in splotches of milk, drool and baby vomit.

You'll be baffled, repeatedly, by the question, 'is he a good baby?'. As if babies either come out innately 'good' or 'bad'.  What they mean to ask is whether your baby is an easy baby. To which you might answer "mostly".

I also want to tell you that it's okay to feel like you might throw your baby out the nearest window because he's been fussing and crying for three hours straight and you still haven't had a god-damned shower or gotten out of your pyjamas.  In these circumstances you also need to know that no harm ever came to a baby who was put in a safe place and left to fuss for 10 minutes while her mother has a cup of tea or a quick shower.

Contact with other parents with babies will save your sanity.  Or at the very least, should give you an excuse to get out of the house.  But don't engage in the parental one-upmanship that can sometimes be a feature of conversations at mum's groups.  Your baby might sleep through the night, or even sleep for more than three hours in a row at night.  Even if you want to shout it from the rooftops, remember that the mother sitting next to you is on the edge of sanity as she hasn't slept in three days and keep it to yourself.  Tell your parents, grandparents and anyone else who doesn't have a baby in the house.

Go easy on yourself.  Your number one job is to be a parent, not to run around like a blue-assed fly ticking off jobs on your maternity leave to do list and getting all manner of household chores done.  If your baby wants to sleep on you all day, slow down, forget about the washing, vacuuming and ironing, and savor the feeling of his gorgeous little body snuggled on your chest.  Try not to feel guilty when your partner arrives home and the house looks the same as when he left that morning.  Don't imagine he's looking around thinking "what the hell has she been doing all day?".  He'll realise exactly what the hell you do all day on Saturday when it's him stuck on the couch with a sleeping baby on his chest.

The God particle: may or may not be
related to whether your baby sleeps.

Accept the fact that the buck stops with you. You're his one and only.  You know his cries, his faces, his noises and his needs.  You know the special rhythm that will ensure his descent into lala-land faster than anyone else.  You know the bounce or special move that will get a burp.   You get him.  

Take comfort from the thought that all your rocking and bouncing is burning calories.  You can finish your meal or your cup of tea later.

Above all else, don't try to solve the mystery of baby sleep.  It's the parental equivalent of discovering the God particle. 

Keep calm and carry on.

xx 

P.S. I have so much more to tell you, but I know you'll work it all out for yourself.  Go you!

A happy Mother's Day

Mother's Day.  The one day in the year when mothers across the world know for certain they can expect just a little bit of special treatment... perhaps a lie in (hallelujah), breakfast in bed or out at a cafe, alone time (at least while going to the toilet), maybe even a present or an awkward card.  Like this one:

I got this card:

I'm not sure what Milkbaby was trying to say with this card.  I feel like it should be captioned with a "I can has cheezburger" caption.

According to Wikipedia, the modern version of Mother's Day started in 1907, when Anna Jarvis held a memorial for her own mother.  By 1914, it was a nationally recognised day, and by 1920, Anna was disgruntled with the commercialisation of the day, lamenting that:

A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world. And candy! You take a box to Mother—and then eat most of it yourself. A pretty sentiment.

By that standard, I am grateful for a homemade card.  I am also eternally grateful for the sleep-in, the brunch, the alone-time, and the spa vouchers (alright, self-purchased, but still holding the promise of more alone-time).

My own mother didn't receive the same treatment, largely because we weren't in the same city.  Though to be fair, that probably meant she got a sleep in and some alone-time.  I sent her a text, wishing her a happy mother's day, and complaining about being sick.  Shame on me.

But that is the lot of mothers - to wipe butts, noses, mouths, and other miscellaneous orifices all without a jot of thanks.  Though now Milkbaby is almost three I get the odd "tink you" for some act of service or glass of milk delivered.  

I think this diagram explains it all:

Anyway mum, "tink you"!

Dispelling second baby myths

Lately we've been talking again about having another baby.  Some days (usually when I've had at least 8 squares and a few drinks), I think yeah, maybe.  Other days, I'm more like the Tui side of this ad I made up:

Before we go further, there are some myths surrounding second babies that I felt the need to explore and/or dispel.

You forget the pain of childbirth

No you do not.  Nor do you forget the nine months of alcohol, caffeine and nice cheese deprivation.  And don't even get me started on the sleep deprivation.

What's another fart when you've already shit your pants

Or, more accurately, what's another 9 pound baby when your vagina already looks like last week's used dishcloth and your stomach, no matter how much of that god damned cream you put on it, will forever slightly sag over the top of your jeans?

It's cost effective

Yeah, ok, so you might as well get full use of the cot, high-chair and umpteen bags of baby clothes, but frankly getting to use your baby crap again does not equate to cost-effectiveness.  Secondly, "cost-effectiveness" is not a good reason for going through the aforementioned nine months of alcohol, caffeine and nice cheese deprivation, not to mention the 25 years of sleepless nights that are likely to follow.  Sorry, did I mention these two things already?  I'm a bit sleep deprived.

The second time around will be easier

Yes, the second time around we might actually have some clue as to what we're doing, but that doesn't guarantee it will be any easier.  My sister and I are a case in point on this one.  In fact, my sister can claim to have single-handedly forced my parents to relinquish their dreams of having a large family.  Three months worth of colic resulting in hours of crying in the evenings will do that.

Milkbaby needs a sibling

Does he?  I'm pretty sure he would see things differently.  There are variations on this theme: "you need an heir and a spare" (this argument only holds water if you actually have something for your kids to inherit).  Or: you'll want more than one kid to look after you in your old age.  Yeah, maybe.  

So why exactly do we have children?

Looked at in the cold hard light of day, even on limited hours of sleep, it doesn't really add up.  Put succinctly, children will ruin your body, your house, your bank account and your mind.  And all your nice shit that you've forgotten to put out of reach.

The only way I can explain humans' urge to breed is that we are, at base, animals.  And therefore we are programmed to do our part to continue the human species.  Though overbreeding - and by extension - overpopulation - is probably what is going to bring the human race to its knees, if not decapitate it altogether.

So there we go folks: another blog post with no pithy ending, no answer.  And I haven't even begun to explore the feminist angst raised by more time off from my career.  All that "can women really have it all?" stuff.  For another time.

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.

Reflections on being a working mama

Last Friday I officially completed 10 weeks back at work.  Even though I've actually only worked about 6 out of those ten weeks, I thought, being a nice round number and all, that today I'd bring you ten thoughts on being a working mama:

1. Work* is the easy part.  It's the three hours either side that are diabolical.

2.  If I get to work without snot, food or some other unidentified substance on my clothing, the day's off to a good start.

3.  Ditto if I actually get to work at all.

4.  Being "high functioning" at work is pretty much impossible.  The best I hope for is to stay awake while at my desk, and to be able to speak in full sentences while trying to say something erudite during a meeting.

5.  My colleagues don't care (and some think it's kind of funny) that I only got three hours sleep last night.  And the night before that.

6.  I can go to the toilet BY MYSELF.  No interruptions.

7.  I can actually make, and drink, a hot cup of tea.

8.  If I have to stay home from work, I pine for work and find any excuse to join in workplace shenanigans.  I had to teleconference into my team meeting the other day.  I've taken to bringing work home with me, just in case I ever have a spare moment.

9.  Velcro shoes and nylon stockings are not a good combination.

10.  A cleaner is a good idea.  But a cleaner who understands that 'clean the bathroom' means clean the bath, toilet, shower, sink etc - not just the 'bath' and the 'room'... now that's a brilliant idea.

Today's blog post is brought to you by the number 10 and the letter W.

*Disclaimer: I use the term "work" here to denote "paid employment outside the home".  I know all you mamas do at home is sit around drinking cups of tea and having playdates.  Don't try and tell me there's any "work" involved in that. (just kidding)

We've got the pox

It had to happen sooner or later: chicken pox.

It's not caused by chickens.

Though they kind of snuck up on us.  Or rather, snuck up on Milkbaby.  No fever, no irritability, no general feelings of malaise.

Day 1: it began with just one pox.  (or is that pock?) Thinking it was an insect bite, I sent Milkbaby to creche.

Day 2: another pox.  I began to get suspicious.

Enter Dr Google.  It is safe to say that there is very little that will make you feel queasier than looking at images of other people's pox-covered children.  Don't try it at home.

Day 3: about 100 tiny spots come up, all over Milkbaby's trunk.  I call Healthline, confirm Dr Google's diagnosis, and resign myself to another week off work.

Only this week, the Darling Husband took a couple days off too.  And what a revelation.  Now I don't claim to be any kind of whiz-bang supermom housewife, but his efforts put me to shame.

I leave for work on Tuesday morning, feeling a mixture of glee and guilt.  All day I'm texting the DH with handy hints and tips ("Don't forget to give him lots of snacks!" and "If you can't get him down for a nap in the cot then maybe try getting him to lie down on the floor with you.").  The DH finally replied: "Quit worrying.  The boys are fine.  We're having Egg Foo Yong for lunch.").

I arrive home that afternoon.  The house is spotless, classical music whines from the radio, dinner ingredients are on the bench and the oven is prewarming.  I climb the stairs with anticipation.  Milkbaby is quietly playing at the top of the stairs while the DH mucks around on the computer.

"How did it go?" I ask, wanting all the details.
"Yeah, fine.  We had a good day", says the DH.
"Did he sleep?"
"Yep.  I just popped him in his cot and told him to lie down and go to sleep, and he did.  He slept for about an hour and I got a couple of loads of laundry done, and cleaned the chook house out. "

I am rendered speechless with a mixture of shock, awe, surprise and just a little envy.  Can it be that the DH is a better House-spouse than yours truly?

Better believe it sister.  He not only cleaned your house, he cleaned ours too.  

I might have put it down to beginners luck, but he repeated the performance today.  I bags going to work tomorrow.

The pukester

Milkbaby's a puker.  And when I say "puke", I'm not talking about your usual baby posseting.

Posset (the Old English kind) 

"Posset" - isn't that such a lovely polite Victorian word?  You can use it next time your co-worker turns up to work with baby vomit on his shoulder ("is that posset on your shoulder?").  Or to tell your friend that your baby's spilled on her new carpet ("sorry it's just a bit of posset").  It doesn't sound as horrid as "vomit".  Actually "posset" is Old English for "a spiced drink of hot sweetened milk curdled with wine or ale" (mmm).  But I use it here to describe the small amount of curdled milk that's often regurgitated onto your shoulder after a feed.

Milkbaby was definitely not a posseter.  He didn't even start this puking thing until he was around 6 months old.  But since then he's made it his special talent, to be practised at least once a week, sometimes every day.  And when I say puke, I mean stomach-emptying, projectile barfing.  I often wonder if it's payback for all the vomiting I did throughout my childhood - on pretty much any car, plane, bus or boat trip longer than 30 minutes.

It's been a bit of a household mystery.  The start of the puking coincided with the introduction of solids (and unless you're new to this blog you'll know that Milkbaby is all "meh, solids, schmolids - just give me some milk please").  The puking also coincided with the arrival of teeth.  So our list of possible causes have been:

• food allergy (I even kept a Puke Diary for a while - but no clues)
• teething
• constipation (the Plunket nurse suggested this)
• motion-sickness
• a series of bugs (this was the doctor's suggestion - then she suggested I keep Milkbaby isolated from other children for 6 weeks...)
• wind
• overactive gag reflex
• all of the above??

Last night's puke, and the inspiration for this blog, caused Mama a few tears.  After a weekend of eating very little, Milkbaby finally had a semi-decent dinner, scrambled eggs and some avocado.  I dared to think that I might get a decent night's sleep - or at least a stretch of longer than 3 hours.  He then proceeded to jam his fingers under the bathroom door, and in the midst of the screaming, vomited said dinner.  My hopes of a decent sleep went down the gurgler, literally.  I wept with frustration as Milkbaby, now happy, threw bath toys out of the bath.

These I'm-so-upset-I-need-to-puke pukes don't really worry me.  They're unusual, but sometimes crying's a violent habit.  It's the I've-been-sleeping-for-2-hours-puke for no apparent reason that's a bit baffling.  We're no closer to working out the cause.  And I have my suspicions that the puking is linked to Milkbaby's lack of interest in solids.  But in the meantime we've got a great list of puke spots - all christened by Milkbaby:

• down my chest
• the floor of Noel Leeming
• the floor of his room and every other room in the house
• the bathroom sink (bullseye!) or the bathroom floor
• the grandparents' houses
• into a sick bag on a plane (another bullseye!)
• the back of the rental car in Australia
• the back of the complimentary car while the VW was in the shop
• the garden bar of the Southern Cross pub (we'll remind him of this when he's a teenager)
• in his crib
• in his carseat
• outside the fish & chip shop (in the gutter)
• outside Queen Sally's Diamond Deli (in the gutter)
• in our bed (I've never seen the DH move so fast)
• in a friend's car and carseat (sorry about that!)

I'm sure I've forgotten to list a few places.  Perhaps I should start carrying one of these around:

Starting creche

Milkbaby started creche about a month ago.  Leaving my firstborn with strangers is one of the harder things I've had to do on this motherhood caper (it's right up there with going to the dentist).  The first day he barely noticed my departure, too engrossed in exploring his surrounds.  I walked down the street back to the car, eyes streaming, boobs leaking milk all over the show.   It's the latest thing I've shed tears over, apart from the cat dying.  It was like this for the first week.  Then in the second week, it was him doing the crying as he cottoned on to the fact that I was leaving him.  I managed to hold it together.  And it's gotten better ever since. Last week, on my first day of work, I got a smile and a wave.  I couldn't have been more pleasantly surprised if he'd said "have a nice day at work mama!"

In my quieter moments alone, I ponder that age-old philosophical question: "if a baby cries at a creche, will his mother know?"

Then I think, "hey, I should be enjoying this 5 minutes to myself without interruption".  Even if it is just the third stall in the work bathroom.

Ah, pees and quiet.

The maternity leave TO DO list

My maternity leave came to an end last Thursday.  I am now officially a "working Mom" (more on this later).  As opposed to a stay-at-home-Mom, or SAHM in internet speak.

My maternity leave TO DO list (the optimistic version) went something like this:

• reorganise book collection
• sort and put wedding photos into an album and some others into frames
• get vege and rose garden sorted
• unpack boxes from moving (almost 3 years ago)
• become a proficient baker/sewer/knitter/homemaker

It should have looked more like this:

• have baby
• sleep
• ignore piles of washing and dirty household
• feed baby
• sleep
• sleep

Needless to say, I achieved NONE of the tasks on my original and very optimistic maternity leave TO DO list.  And only achieved ONE thing on the REAL TO DO list.  ("Have baby" - duh!)

I guess everything else will have to wait until I go on maternity leave again.

NOT!!!!

Getting old (and wise?)

A friend was complaining that no one took her seriously at her job because she seemed too young.

I said (helpfully, I thought) "Just wait till the shoe's on the other foot.  Like when you're giving birth and the doctor delivering your baby looks like he's about 22."

Not kidding.  When he walked in at the 27th hour and, get this, politely introduced himself, I wanted to yell "you're not old enough to be delivering babies!".  (I also wanted to yell "I don't care what your bloody name is!").

He wasn't quite as young as Doogie Howser MD, but close.

Becoming a mother is a turning point in one's life.  That's a cliche.  But overnight (and yes literally, overnight), I feel like I grew up and became "old", all at once.  Not "old" in the "a-little-bit-older-and-more-responsible" sense, but really just old, in the "I-could-be-a-Grandma-if-I-wasn't-30" sense.  I'm obviously having trouble picking peoples' ages.  My muscles, bones and other unmentionable body parts hurt (or just look a bit saggy).  I am constantly tired.  I could do with an afternoon nap (or three).  I'm sure I've got a few extra wrinkles.  And the DH, upon becoming a father, suddenly got grey hairs and an obsession for laundry.

But are we any wiser?  Probably not (though we could certainly impart a tip or two on parenthood).  A bit jaded?  I will say yes, definitely.  Happier?  I think so.

A new emotion

Let me introduce you to my new, least favourite, emotion:

[drum roll] da da da daaah!

RESENTMENT n. Indignation or ill will felt as a result of a real or imagined grievance.

Not such a common emotion in my repertoire - until having a baby.  It's one of those ones that creeps up on you, and you find yourself cursing into your decaf (yes furking decaf) about almost any little thing that just happens to set you off.

You resent having to get up AGAIN in the night.  You resent the fact that weekends now closely resemble weekdays, complete with 5.30am starts.  You resent your body for having betrayed you into thinking that you really, really wanted one of these crying, pooping, hungry things (WTF were we thinking?).  You resent the fact that you're stuck at home while the DH gets to go to work, and the DH resents the fact that you get to lounge around at home (haha) while he has to work.  You resent it if the DH gets home late from work, or wants to go out in the evening.  You resent the fact that you're the ONLY one (at the moment) who can satisfy this baby's needs (if he would just god damn well eat something it wouldn't be such a problem).  You resent the fact that you can't take hour-long showers like you used to, or if you spend longer than 5 minutes with the bathroom door shut Milkbaby screams like he's being abducted by aliens (if only!).

Then you get The Guilt for resenting the defenceless little bugger (he's just a baby after all).  Don't get me wrong, it's not all hell in a moses basket.  But if I could just have a 20 minute shower without interruption I would be eternally grateful.

If I can't party, no one can

A conversation had last Friday:

Me: "I'm thinking about going to a movie tonight - is that ok? (A reasonable request, I hear you say)
DH: "Sure, that's a great idea. (You're thinking, what a great guy)
Me: "Are you sure it's ok?  You'll be alright at home with the baby? (Why didn't the conversation end with "sure, that's a great idea"? What's with this woman, is she paranoid or what?)
DH: "Of course it's ok.  Why wouldn't it be? (He's so reasonable!)
Me: "Well, I don't like it when you go out. (Now she's starting to sound a little unbalanced)
DH: "Yes well that's because you don't like other people having fun. (He's hit the nail on the head there)

Too true.  I hate the thought of the DH going out and having fun.  Without me.  I say terrible things like "You're leaving me stuck at home with the baby?"  Which, technically, is what I've been all day, but somehow it seems different at night, when the DH has a choice of whereabouts.  "But what will I dooooo?" I whine.  "Get some sleep?" the DH says.  Ok, point taken, I'm not much of a conversationalist these days.  Full sentences are a bit of a struggle when you've been getting up at 5am for the last 3 weeks.

Anyway.  I went out to a great movie, laughed, cried and got home feeling refreshed.  And the best part?  The baby didn't even wake up!

Telemarketers - the scourge of those who are home during the day...

This little rant isn't exactly about motherhood.  It's about those people who conspire to keep you from your FULL-TIME OCCUPATION of being a mother.  Yes, that's right folks, I'm talking about telemarketers.  For those who don't believe they exist, come and spend the week at my place, and answer my phone for a few days.  I think someone's marked our number with "suckers live here".

Or at least used to.

You see, I used to be one of those polite people who would wait for the long-distance "hello? hello?" and then listen, again very politely, to the person on the other end, before saying, "no thank you, we just don't really need discounted holiday accommodation in Australia for $125 right now."

Then my politeness factor decreased, and I started cutting them off before they got into the schpiel: "Look, I'll save your time, I'm not interested." Click.

Then [interrupted while trying to get an overtired Milkbaby into a bath]: "I'm really busy right now [screams from Milkbaby], I'm not interested." Click.

And now, I barely wait for the long distance pause, the telltale click on the line and the "hello?" before I hang up, WITHOUT SAYING A WORD.

At the moment I save the expletives for after I've hung up.  Usually I've run from the other end of the house to answer the phone - the exertion of that alone (usually with babe on hip) deserves a swear word or two.

I'm sure it's only a few more phone calls (and a few more sleepless nights) before I let loose on the hapless sod on the other end of the line.  Either that or start trying telemarketer pranks.  Here's a few of my favourites:

In perfect English say: "I don't speak English, sorry". Click.

or

Telemarketer: Is Mr. (someone) home?
You: No he's in the back yard digging a hole, he's been out there for 6 days.
Telemarketer: Is there a Mrs in the house?
You: No, I haven't seen her for 6 days I don't know where she is, sorry!

or

If they are selling windows, tell them that you live in an underground sod house.  Or even if they're not selling windows, tell them that anyway.  You might as well be.

Occupation: Mother

Arriving back from holiday last month, I stared at the customs form, faintly baffled by what to write in the blank boxes following Occupation or job:

I ran through the possibilities with Milkbaby, who, strapped into the frontpack, could not escape my musings.

On leave from high-flying government job?  Ex-lawyer?  No, hardly current.

Homemaker?

Nah, too American 1950s (despite that fact that I am actually in possession of an excellent canning system...)

Housewife?  I have an aversion to the term "wife", but I thought house-spouse sounded a bit too Dr Seuss.

Stay-at-home mum?  Caregiver?  Blah...

Milkmaid?  Night-comforter?  Short order chef?  Bath lifeguard and soap administerer?  Swimming coach?  Storyteller?  Wardrobe assistant?  Washerwoman?  Nappy expert?  Ruskmaker?  Cheerleader?  Household safety inspector?  Sometime blogger?

Or (d) all of the above...

I thought briefly, with pity, about the public servant who would have to do something with my answer.  Then I wrote, in my best capitals, M O T H E R.

"That'll mess up their database", I muttered to Milkbaby.

Because how will the Government's statisticians distinguish between mothers (ie, those who do all of the above), and mothers or muthas (ie, the non-childbearing bad-ass ones)?

Picture the database entry person sighing, "Mother - my ass".  It seems the technical term is "Unpaid Family Worker".

I couldn't find the statistics on how many "mothers" arrived in or left New Zealand last year.  In fact I couldn't find any data on the occupations of comers and goers.  I guess the question helps our customs officers to screen arrivees.  Writing "mother" as your occupation suggests you're probably harmless (that is, unless you write "mutha").  However, writing "terrorist" or "spy" or "operative" may raise a few eyebrows.

When I rejoin the workforce, I might just continue to use MOTHER.  It's a full time occupation, after all.

Enjoy yourself

Me, to Milkbaby: "The sooner you start creche the better buddy.  I'm pretty much over this motherhood caper."

Milkbaby: "Ohm"

DH: "You should enjoy it you know, there's not much time before he starts, and it'll go so fast."

Me: "There's nothing enjoyable about it."

Milkbaby: "AAaaeergh" (frustrated scream, translating as "would you stop trying to shove that bloody awful porridge down my throat and let me go and play on the stairs")

Me: "Yeah buddy, I feel the same way - I've had three hours sleep and now Dad's giving me a lecture on how I should be enjoying myself."

DH: "I'm not giving you a lecture."

Me: "It is a bloody lecture!  Stop pushing my bloody buttons!"

Milkbaby: "AAEEeerrgh!!!"

Me: "Please would you eat something?  Come on, it's really tasty."


And so it goes.  That was breakfast.

Daylight savings (or, teaching a baby to tell the time)

Ugh, this morning's 5am wake-up call reminded me how much I dislike daylight savings.  Even if the waker-upper cutely showed no sign of fatigue and was certainly not fazed by the fact that it was still dark.
 
In principle, daylight savings is probably a good idea.  It means that we get an extra hour of daylight in the evenings in the summer months.  BUT ... the time change wreaks havoc in every household with small children and dairy cows.  A bedtime that was a reasonable 7pm becomes 6pm, and suddenly bathtime is no longer so much fun.  A wake-up time that was an unreasonable 6am becomes a downright rude 5am.  
 
Just as dairy cows can't wear wristwatches, babies can't tell the time.

 
Strangely, parents don't feature much in debates on the introduction or extension of daylight savings.  The Opposition did, however, express some sympathy for women when daylight savings was introduced in 1927:
 
It will bring no happiness to the women of New Zealand who live in the backblocks. [the Bill] does not make the case for now requiring the wife of the working-man to get up an hour earlier in order to get her husband away to his work.
 
Luckily for us women, in the last century or so, men seem to have developed the skills necessary to get ready for work all by themselves.  

That just leaves the babies.  If anyone has any tips on teaching a 9-month-old the time, let me know.

The Motherhood Archipelago

It's like a forced labour camp, this motherhood business.  

Solzhenitsyn's classic, "The Gulag Archipelago", is a three volume description of life in a Soviet labour camp (I can only claim to have read the first volume).  An archipelago is a chain or cluster of islands (notice a theme?).  According to Wikipedia, the word Archipelago (in The Gulag Archipelago) compares the system of labor camps (gulags) spread across the Soviet Union with a vast "chain of islands", known only to those who were fated to visit them.  The Motherhood Archipelago is very similar - a vast chain of islands known only to the inhabitants fated to live on them, upon which various forms of torture take place.  Sleep deprivation is the usual method of torture in the motherhood gulags, followed closely by being regularly doused in bodily substances, dancing/jiggling on one spot while holding a heavy weight in your arms, having your hair pulled, eyes poked and cheeks and neck skin pulled.  It is worth noting that the forms and severity of torture vary according to the age of the torturers and the other inhabitants of the island.

Of course motherhood is actually nothing like being in a gulag, and in fact most of the time it is pleasant and rewarding.  However, as I thought while hanging the washing on the line in a gale-force nor'wester, "it ain't no picnic".

I know many people who operate under the misapprehension that all mothers do all day is lounge around, drink cups of herbal tea and have playdates.  This post started out with the aim of dispelling that notion, though it's now gotten somewhat longer.

Solzhenitsyn's other novel, "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" describes a day in the life of an ordinary prisoner of a gulag.  I thought it would be interesting to document my day.  Read on for the gory detail, but if you can't be bothered, here's the summarised version:

• start time: 5.30am
• lounging time: 0 minutes
• cups of tea drunk: 1/2 cup of coffee with breakfast
• playdates: 1
• loads of washing done: 2
• nappies changed: 5
• loaves of bread baked: 1 
• meals made: 3
• bills paid: 4
• end time: 9pm

The detailed version:
5.30am Milkbaby wakes, feed Milkbaby, change nappy in the dark (is that poo?), attempt to put baby back to bed
6am Give up on sleep and bring Milkbaby into bed for more food and entertainment
7-8am Make breakfast for Milkbaby (mango and rice if you please), shovel own breakfast into mouth
8-8.30 Clean up mess in kitchen, shower, dress, make bed
8.30-9am Put a load of washing on and attempt a few other one-handed tasks while carrying He-who-will-not-be-ignored around the house
9ish Put Milkbaby to bed (not as easy as it sounds but I won't bore you with the detail)
9-10.30 Call bank to quibble over credit card bill, pay bills, hang washing on line in gale-force northwesterly, put on another load of washing - nappies this time (yes, this involves touching poos and wees)
10.30-11 Milkbaby wakes from nap, change nappy and commence daily wrestling match otherwise known as 'getting baby dressed'
11-11.20 Put a loaf of bread on and make muesli while defrosting baby food sans microwave and keeping an eye on baby playing
11.20 Feed baby, then feed baby some more (kumara, mmmm)
11.45 Get ready to go out, field phonecall (almost dropping old fashioned phone on baby in the process)
12-3.30 Take Milkbaby to Playcentre for SPACE
3.30-4.30 Fix snack for Milkbaby, supervise snack eating, put muesli and bread away (secretly admire own domesticity), supervise a solid session of jolly jumping, change nappy, retrieve washing from the line/lawn/neighbour's garden
4.30-5.30 Feed Milkbaby, then feed avocado to Milkbaby, then bathe Avocado-covered Baby, feed Milkbaby again
6pm Milkbaby sleeps
6-6.30 Clean carnage, think about dinner
6.30 Milkbaby wakes
6.30-6.45 More feeding, comforting baby, Milkbaby sleeps
7-9 Clean carnage and cook dinner, eat, clean up, fold laundry.
9 Retire for a spot of blogging
9.45 Predict that eyes will be shut before head hits pillow.

You can't call in sick

"hi, it's me, is the boss there?"

"hi boss, it's me.  Yeah look, I'm not coming in to work today... yeah I've got a cold, I think I'll just stay in bed and sleep it off.  I'll try and come in tomorrow."

"No, nothing due today, you'll barely miss me."

[source]

NOT!

As I groggily climbed back into bed after a midnight feed, I thought momentarily, "I'll have to call in sick tomorrow."  I then realised that I had no one to call in to - and that I certainly could not call in sick or take a rest from the relentlessness of motherhood.

Nothing that Vitamin C and a couple of panadols won't fix.

Swimming lessons here we come!

6 months down, 25 years to go

You spend most of your pregnancy thinking the labour's going to be the hardest bit.  As my cousin said to me after Milkbaby was born: "no one tells you before you have a baby that giving birth is the easy bit, or that progress is managing to shower before lunchtime.  Hang in there."  At two weeks post partum this was so close to the truth I had to have a little cry.

In terms of breastfeeding, everyone says the second night's the hardest.  Then there are lots of people who say the first six weeks are the hardest.  And a few who say it's the first three months that are the hardest.  And another bunch who'll claim that the first six months are the hardest.  It's all true.  

But now that Milkbaby has reached that magic 6-month milestone, I'd like to put my own milestone out there: the first twenty-five years are the hardest - I'm sure it gets easier after that.  I'll let you know in 24 and a half years if I was right.