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:

Alcohol and motherhood makes for a bad combination

The state of motherhood is a special kind of madness.  This blog is evidence of that.  But combine it with a bit too much to drink and you get some strange outcomes...   I just had to reproduce this story in full - it's too good not to share.  This woman is ALL class.

Lactating woman arrested after spraying officers

A lactating US woman was arrested and charged with disorderly conduct after she sprayed sheriff's deputies with breast milk as they tried to remove her from a vehicle, police said on Monday.

Ohio-resident Stephanie Robinette, 30, was arrested and charged with domestic violence and assault linked to a domestic dispute, as well as resisting arrest and disorderly conduct, according to the Delaware County Sheriff's Office.

It said Robinette's husband told authorities the pair had been attending a wedding when his wife got drunk and started a dispute. He said that she hit him many times before locking herself in her car outside a banquet facility on Saturday.

Sheriff Walter L. Davis III said that when police approached the car to speak to her, she yelled profanities and refused to get out.

"When deputies attempted to remove Robinette from the vehicle she advised the deputies that she was a breastfeeding mother and proceeded to remove her right breast from her dress and began spraying deputies and the vehicle with her breast milk," Davis said.

Robinette was later removed from the car and arrested after more deputies arrived on the scene.

"This is a prime example of how alcohol can make individuals do things they would not normally do," Davis said.

There's even a video:

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!!!!

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.

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: