Santa Claus and other lies we tell our children

Last week I came across a blogger who claimed that they didn't have Santa in their house because they don't tell their children lies.  And because Christmas is not about Santa, it's about God.  Um, hello??  Old white guy with beard, lives and/or flies in clouds, just "knows" if you've been naughty or nice, is watching you all year...

Santa

God

Yeah yeah, I know, there's more to Santa than that.  For a start, the guy he's modelled on was once a real person - Saint Nicholas.  Sure, his image seems to have been misappropriated for dastardly commercial reasons.  If Saint Nick was around these days he'd probably be living the high life on the proceeds of his lawsuit against Coca-Cola for portraying him as a ruddy fat bastard in their latest ad campaign.

Coke Time: otherwise known in my house as
Wine Time.

Santa, like all white lies, serves a very important purpose.  And that purpose is to allow the gift-giver to remain anonymous, so either a) that uncreative gift of socks and a hanky can be blamed on Santa; or b) as your child unwraps the latest toy, everyone is focused on the sheer delight beaming from his face, rather than the chagrined faces of his parents, who are wondering how they will pay the credit card bill in January.

And you know what else?  A bit like God, the tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny, unicorns and whatever else you believe in, Santa brings just a little bit of magic into our lives.  And it's magic that makes a childhood.

Now I'm pregnant, feel free to comment on my body

It's a common gripe amongst pregnant women.  Suddenly your body is not your own, people feel free to comment, they touch your stomach without asking, bla bla.  Last time around, all the comments about my shape and size floated right past me, mostly unchecked and unnoticed.  I was also slightly in denial, telling everyone who commented on my size that I would be having a nice, normal-sized 7 pound baby, thank you very much.  Little did I know.

But I'm really noticing it this time.  Probably because I'm a little bit tired, and, according to the last person who looked at my scan, and the one before that, "this is going to be a very big baby".  Great.  Nice to know.  But does everyone have to comment on the fact that I look like I'm either (a) carrying twins or (b) about 8 months' pregnant?  And what is it about these comments that makes me conversationally inclined to make the commenter feel better about the faux pas they've just committed?

Almost daily I have a conversation that goes something like:

"You haven't got long to go."

"Three months, actually.  I'm not due till January."

[surprised look, reassessment of belly size] "Gosh, are you sure there's just one baby in there?"

"Yes, definitely just one baby.  He's just a big baby."

Or this one:

"Wow you look like you haven't got long to go!"

"Months actually, I'm not due till January"

"Gosh, really?"

"Yeah, don't worry, it's just a big baby boy"

[someone else, chipping in] "My daughter's about to have a baby in a few weeks and she's the same size as you"

"Is that so?" [Did you seriously just say that to me?!]

These one-liners didn't really deserve a response:

"You're huge!!!" [Thanks, I was hoping I could just stand over here unnoticed]

"You look really tired, have you got the weekend off?" [Are you kidding?  I have a three year old at home]

For some reason, I find it even more surprising that it's men doing a lot of the commenting.  Men are well-trained to know that comments on body shape/size/appearance, even the most positive and well-meaning, should be approached with extreme caution.  But once you're pregnant, it's like that rule goes out the window, and it's open season on commenting.

Babycenter.com actually has some great suggested responses.  My personal favourite:

"My excuse is that I'm pregnant, what's yours?"

Okay, so it's an ad

But it's pretty hilarious...

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.

The cult of "motherhood fundamentalism"

While on my sickbed, I took to reflecting on my approach to motherhood.  Mostly, I wondered if my 'die hard' attitude to breastfeeding had somehow left me disadvantaged.  Before I go on, I should say that this situation I found myself in (ie, with a baby who refuses to take a bottle or formula, and who showed, until recently, very little interest in solid food) was not something I really gave much thought to - it just happened that way, before I really had time to convince Milkbaby that the boob was not the be all, end all, breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert and midnight snack.

Certainly more than one person [read: almost everyone] who heard my mastitis misery tale asked whether I'd thought about giving up breastfeeding.  Even the specialist, during one of my mama-exposes-boobs-to-all consultations, asked me sternly:

How old is he now?
One.
And how much longer do you plan on breastfeeding him for? [picture his stern but bemused sort of face]
Ummm.  Err.  I don't know?  Until he doesn't want milk any more?  [I'm thinking, hang on mate, you're a breast surgeon, and you're asking me to put some kind of time limit on this thing? We both know the World Health Organisation says "two years and beyond"]

As if it was somehow my decision anyway.  The truth is, I probably would stop if I could.  Or I would if Milkbaby had showed any disinterest in the boob whatsoever.  I know he'll stop wanting milk sooner or later... surely.  But at this stage I can't bear the screaming when I refuse him.

I mentioned to a friend, in a passing comment sort of way, that maybe I shouldn't have been so committed to breastfeeding.  Or that I should have at least introduced (and persisted with) a bottle and formula.  Just for the odd occasion.  Just so that I could have the odd night out.  Or so that I could have had a whole night on my own in hospital.  Or perhaps, so that I wouldn't have gotten the damn mastitis in the first place.  (Notice how these reasons are all about me and my freedom?)

Elisabeth Badinter

So this friend sent me an article about Elisabeth Badinter, contrary feminist and apparently France's most influential intellectual.  Here's a picture of her, cigarette in hand.  Tres French, non?

In her latest book, "Le Conflit: La Femme et la Mere", she rails against what she regards as a cult of "motherhood fundamentalism" that is spreading in the West.

Since "fundamentalism" has become synonymous with "terrorism", the phrase "motherhood fundamentalist" has me picturing a motherhood suicide bomber.

"If he doesn't go to sleep within the next ten minutes,
I swear I'll explode."

I digress.  "Motherhood fundamentalism" is apparently a spreading cult which advocates a more natural, green style of parenting.  Cloth nappies, breastfeeding, and homemade baby food are the main targets of Badinter's criticism.  She argues that women are burdened with intolerable guilt unless they stay home and breastfeed for as long as possible.  And shame on you if you try and give your kid baby food from a jar.  Cloth nappies are a life sentence of washing (which, apparently, men do not help with).

Elisabeth Badinter (or at least what I understand of her argument - most of it is in French), gives voice to the extreme version of the thoughts that had been niggling at me.  Whereas I wonder, (in a vague, sleep-deprived sort of way) "have I taken this breastfeeding thing too far?", Badinter shouts, "almost certainly!".

I don't agree with her.  Some of our differences might be cultural.  France has the lowest breastfeeding rates in the Western World.  So low, in fact, that the country is not even included in World Health Organisation breastfeeding statistics for babies older than three months.  And in France, unlike in my household, women still do 80% of the household chores - which goes some way to explaining her aversion to cloth nappies.

I wouldn't call myself a "Motherhood fundamentalist" or even a "Crunchy mama".  But I don't think much harm can come from a little effort to reduce my impact on the world (and cloth nappies are more reliable than disposables anyway), and for most people, little harm comes from a healthy commitment to breastfeeding.

Would I do it the same way again?  If you're asking me that question in a hypothetical, abstract sort of way, then yes, absolutely.

Would You Rather...

Would You Rather...  was one of my favourite books as a child.  It involved all sorts of awful options.  Like, would you rather... stay in a haunted house?  or run through a field of stinging nettles?  Ummm...  Of course I was that annoying kid who was always trying to negotiate: "well as long as it was only one night in the haunted house" or "that depends on how big the field of stinging nettles was".  Seems I was destined to be a lawyer.

Lately I've been comparing horrible adult tasks to giving birth.  My darling sister sent me a coupon deal for a Brazilian bikini wax, suggesting thoughtfully that I might like to surprise the DH.  She obviously didn't give much thought to what a bald, post-partum vagina looks like.  It would be a surprise alright.  Perhaps just not a pleasant one.  But I digress.  I emailed her back: "I'd rather give birth than get a Brazilian."

And then I was at the dentist this morning, lying there, jaw and lips stretched out of all proportion, having my teeth cleaned and polished, the little grinder making that awful fingernails-down-blackboard noise thinking "I think I'd rather give birth than go through this again."  And I wasn't even getting a filling!  Or, heaven forbid, a root canal.

And I'm still traumatised by having seven-week-old Milkbaby immunised.  I think I'd rather give birth than do that again.  Or run through a field of stinging nettles.  Or even stay in a haunted house.  But those options weren't available, so he's fully vaccinated (See?  Sensible, old, wise Mama).

According to Wikipedia, Would You Rather is a party game.  I might try it at the next party I go to.  That'll be like, never.  So consider this a blog party.

What would you rather?

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.

Puppetry of the infant penis

If you ever wondered the point at which men become obsessed with their penises, I would venture to answer: IN UTERO.  I am casting my mind back to the early tiny-baby days and I cannot really remember a time when Milkbaby's little hands did not wander to investigate his junk.

A common nappy-change-time conversation in our house:

"Ok let's just change your nappy.  Let me just get it undone...  No, get your hands out of there!  Look why don't you hold onto this? [hand over random item]
Okay, let's just get you cleaned up.  Hey, what's happened to your toy?  No, oh gosh, you really shouldn't do that to yourself.  Hey hey hey, really, I don't think it's meant to stretch like that.  Ouch, that's gotta hurt.  Just hang on, let me find you something else to play with.
Let me just finish this and put a new nappy on.  No, hands off that now.  There.  All done."

Or if DH is participating in the nappy change:

"Dude, that's really not a good idea.  Jebus buddy.  Ouch.  No really, don't do that!  Buddy, it's not a good idea to pull on it like that.  You might need it in future!"

Last night in the bath, in an effort to get a better look at things over his portly tummy, Milkbaby toppled over backwards, landing with a splash and giving himself a fright.  It didn't discourage him.

I know from conversations with other mums that Milkbaby is not alone in his obsession.

Yes we really do talk about these things.  And if we didn't have each other to talk to, I suspect we'd be posting questions on public forums like "My baby grabs his penis every nappy change.  Is this normal?".  Yes honey, it's totally normal.  Just spend five minutes people watching and you'll see grown men doing the same thing.  Or if you're really worried, just check out this article.  It will prepare you for the toddler and teenage years.  And you'll be pleasantly surprised to find out that this behaviour is not contagious.

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!

Baby fashion crime #1

While having a recent sort out, I came across this:

Total baby fashion crime.  

Made from scratchy wool, bunchy in all the wrong places, and with a neckhole small enough to ensure that you'll feel a bit strangly while wearing it.

It's also the same colour as our carpet (minus the puke stains):

Don't stare for too long or those contrasting orange stripes will make your eyes bleed.

And don't even get me started on the matching hat with oversized pompom.  Wear only in cases of dire baby facial emergency.  Like the worst case of cradle cap ever.  Or a snotty nose so bad you want to distract everyone from looking at it.

All you need

Our spare room is filled with a few small mountains of baby clothes.  And other baby stuff.  Swaddling cloths, a moses basket, a playgym, a year's worth of clothing, and knitwear that, unfortunately, was never modelled.  Having promised to lend "all you'll need for the first year" to a friend, I spent a good part of the weekend sorting through it, ditching never-worn or worn-out clothing, trying to find missing pairs to about 30 pairs of booties, and feeling nostalgic (only a little) for those early newborn days when, provided there were no poo explosions, Milkbaby could stay in the same onesie for a good 24 hours.  Hey, it was winter - why change his clothes for no good reason?

It got me thinking though - what does a baby really need?  The answer?  Not much.  Not much at all.  Though consult any baby store and they'll have you believing otherwise.  In no time you'll have spent a small fortune on clothing and other "necessities", a pram that was more expensive than your first car (but it fits so well in the impractically sporty car you currently drive!), and a carseat so big you need to get rid of your impractically small vehicle.  I just think how lucky we are to have escaped with purchasing just the pram and the carseat - the mountains of beautiful clothes were hand-me-downs from my talented quilting cousin (who, incidentally, is giving away some beautiful fabric on her blog at the mo).

Then there are the toys.  Upon announcing your pregnancy, you'll find you start accumulating soft toys.  I could probably pull together an audience of at least 20 softies in our household, of various shapes and sizes.  Despite diligently scattering these around, Milkbaby ignores them unless they are animated by an adult speaking in a silly voice and shoving them in his face.

I recently came across this list of ridiculous parenting products.  These top the list of things that a baby really doesn't need.  My favourites:

• the bathroom baby harness: need to pee in that public toilet but don't want to put your baby down on the dirty floor? Whip out your bathroom baby harness and hang baby over the door - right next to your handbag.  Just don't forget to collect him on the way out.
• The Snozzie: a handkerchief that's also a bracelet.  So handy for collecting those wayward boogers when you don't have a tissue.  Not a good idea to put it back on your wrist once you've used it though.
• And when you just can't get those baby boogers, you could try a Battery Operated Nasal Aspirator - as if having a giant tissue shoved in your face wasn't scary enough.

Rock that skull print: www.bebabean.com

And on my list?:

• the Pee-pee Teepee: for the sprinkling wee wee (in 24 exciting prints!).  Sorry but if nappy changes are so slow you've got time to faff about in your nappy bag finding a little hat for your baby boy's privates, no wonder you're getting peed on.
• a pair of safer sleeper triangle pillows, so that you can prop baby on their side to sleep.  Probably a SIDS risk - and what's wrong with a rolled hand towel anyway? 
• breast shells - "to collect excess milk" - not only do they make your boobs look weird, but once they're full (and in my case this took about 15 minutes) the milk starts leaking out the top, meaning you have a lake-sized puddle of milk down your front to contend with.

What's on your list of useless parenting products?

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.

How to be a yummy mummy

As I put the finishing touches on my outfit to go out a few weeks ago, I thought, "yes, I could pass for a yummy mummy".  Then I thought, "wait, why do I aspire to yummy-mummyness?"  Dumb question you're thinking - but isn't it like aspiring to be a slapper?  Depends on your definition of yummy mummy.  There are seven official definitions of "yummy mummy" in Urban Dictionary.  To summarise:

To be a "yummy mummy" you must be:

·        young (generally under 30) - if you're over 30 and aspire to the characteristics below you're probably a MILF (we'll come to MILFs in a moment)

·        sexually attractive (the definitions do not specify to whom)

·        interested in looking good ("Yummy mummies usually wear trendy clothes, have great hairstyles and always look fabulous." and "Yummy mummies disguise bleary eyes with Gucci sunglasses and recommend pregnancy to female friends as a fabulous way to detox.")

·        overall just a lovely person ("A yummy mummy does not judge other mothers, but shows kindness, compassion and cares for others.")

And my personal favourite:

"A 'Yummy Mummy' is basically a MILF, but the term yummy mummy is vastly used by male geeks and female fatties."

That brings us to the term MILF (do NOT google this term at work).  I'll leave it to you to find it on Urban Dictionary if you haven't heard of it.  MILF.  It even sounds a bit creepy, like a speech impediment.  And describing someone as one - sorry to point this out but hasn't someone already done that?

I am reading Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom" at the moment - his take on MILFs made me smile:

"Joey directed a smile of pure oppression at the ceiling.  There had always been something not quite right about his interactions with Carol.  She was what the prep-school boys on his hall and the fraternity brothers ... were wont to call a MILF (an acronym that, in Joey's opinion, sounded faintly cretinous for its omission of the T for "to")."

You get the picture straight away right?  I picture someone like Petal, played by Cate Blanchett in The Shipping News. 

It is telling, I think, that the Urban Dictionary contains only one (unintelligible) definition of "supermom" and no definition of "supermum" (though "supermurgatroid" is in there).  I think I'd rather be a supermum than a yummy mummy or a MILF.  My definition of supermum is as follows:

A “supermum”:

·        is usually showered and dressed by lunchtime

·        may or may not be able to whip up a batch of peanut-butter cookies while her LO is sleeping

·        aspires to do at least one load of washing in a day, but doesn't beat herself up if that doesn't happen

·        feels great about motherhood, most of the time

·        is not afraid to get down on the carpet and PLAY, even if the vacuuming hasn’t been done in a while

·        is someone you'd describe as supermurgatroid.

Now this is a label I aspire to.  I'll be entering it into the Urban Dictionary as soon as I've had a shower and whipped up a batch of peanut butter cookies.

Cast of thousands

Okay, so I'm in the final stages of labour, sweating and panting just like the movies:
 

Suddenly it occurs to me that there is a huge crowd of people in the room: my two midwives, a student midwife, the hospital midwife, my mother, my partner, the registrar, a trainee doctor, and three people from the paediatric team.  Kind of like this:

If I'd known so many people were going to be spectators at my birth, I would have gotten a bikini wax.