What you forget

There is a vignette in Anne Enright's book Making Babies, where she recounts a conversation with her mother.  I am probably going to make a hash of the retelling as I can't find the book (I blame baby brain), but in short, she asks her mother why kept having children (she had four).  Her mother responds simply: "you forget".

It is these words I keep returning to as I relearn how to dance with my newborn babe.  Even in labour I thought, with some indignance, "holy crap I don't remember it being THIS painful!". There is good evidence to suggest that if you've had a positive childbirth experience, your memory of the pain will diminish over time.  In my case, as soon as he was born, the relief was so immediate I wondered what all the yelling was about, and I have since struggled to recollect the pain of giving birth - much more so than the pain of a paper cut, a stubbed toe or a grazed knee.

Not only do you forget how painful labour is, you actually forget a lot about babies.  Luckily, it all comes rushing back to you, whether you want to remember it or not.  Like my total novice mistake last night of taking an unfed baby into the bath with me and Milkbaby.  I figured feeding him in the bath would relax him.  And it did, a little too much.  In no time the bath was full of baby poop.  I've never seen Milkbaby get out of the bath so quickly.

What you forget

What you forget is the utter simplicity of baby sleep
And the complexity sometimes involved in getting him there
Whisper incantations in his ear, hold him just right, bounce on one leg and hold your tongue right - and maybe, just maybe, he'll go down without a fuss
What you forget is the snuffling and sighing and snoring that will keep you awake at night
As well as how still and black it is, when it's just you and him, nursing
What you forget is the sheer physicality of new motherhood
How your body, still recovering, aches throughout the day, and each night
Your arms ache for holding, and then when empty, ache to hold again
What you forget is that a baby will not be rushed
You're on his timeframes now.
But what you won't forget is the downy feel of his head against your nose and lips
As you lean in for a kiss
And that new baby smell
Of moses basket, sour milk and fresh laundry
What you won't forget is the warm snugness of your babe nestled into your chest, learning your heartbeat.

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"!

The magic (and science) of kiss betters

I'd always secretly scorned parents who used the old "kiss it better?" with their screaming child.  And believe me, having worked in a children's store throughout my teenage years, I've seen my fair share of this parenting trick.

Recently, I've had outstanding success in deploying the "kiss-better" on Milkbaby.  Our conversations go something like this:

[bump, bang, stubbed toe/banged elbow/head etc]
[inconsolable screaming]
Me: "oh no, what's happened?"
Milkbaby: [more screaming]
Me: "Where does it hurt? Show me"
Milkbaby: [through vicious sobs] "on there" [pointing to hurt body part]
Me: "Want me to kiss it better?"
Milkbaby: [still sobbing] "yea"
Me: [administering a kiss] "there, all better"
Milkbaby: stops sobbing immediately, runs off to play.

It's incredible!  From screaming to silence in a 5 second interaction.

A kiss better also works better if administered
while wearing your best dress and high-heels -
though beware the surreptitious
nose-wipe-on-the-shoulder. 

Turns out there's actually some science behind it - it's the toddler version of the placebo effect.  One study even suggests that the placebo effect may be doubled in children.


However, like any parenting technique, google it and you'll find advice suggesting it's not such a good idea.  Apparently, one should not kiss better:

• a snake bite
• a jellyfish sting
• an open wound.

You would think that in all of the cases above, you'd be better off administering first aid than a smacking great kiss.  Or even thinking about removing your child from the situation causing the jellyfish sting or the snake bite?

You may also want to refrain from administering a kiss better on a bitten tongue.

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...

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.