There is a special exhibition at the Montreal Art Gallery: Emperor Qin's terracotta soldiers. How ironic that I've been to China no less than thrice and have never seen the terracotta army, and my first glimpse of it is in Canada.
Obviously, seeing a few statues in an art museum must be nothing compared to seeing the entire unearthed army as a whole. Though, apparently, many of the soldiers have still not seen light in over 2000 years. Still, it would be amazing. I guess I'll just have to go back to China. One day.
But I digress. A terracotta soldiers exhibition is obviously not the ideal place to bring your one-year-old. Though she is incredibly patient and mild-tempered, I could not possibly have expected her to sit quietly in her stroller while we passed from room to room, looking at a series of grey statues. I'm sure she would have preferred to see big, quacking, dancing ducks (or something like that).
We had not been inside the exhibition for five minutes, and had not yet even seen one single soldier (just some vases and a drainage pipe from some palace), when my baby made it clear to me that she would not stay in her stroller one minute more without screaming. I picked her up, and for the rest of the tour, while my aunt pushed the stroller, I carried my 24 lbs. daughter in my arms. As she waived at every passing stranger, I looked at the terracotta soldiers and read the blurbs written about nearly every one of them. I figured I had better take my time, since I had paid 20$ to get in. It wasn't so bad, really. My lower back didn't hurt that much by the time I had passed through every room.
Afterwards we went to an Italian restaurant. My daughter sat in her high chair and waited patiently for her supper, passing the time by flirting with every waiter in the restaurant. These waiters were fairly cute men, and they loved smiling and waving at my baby. Who was just thrilled, naturally. When one waiter in particular began waving and winking at her, she became so excited that she grabbed (or rather, pinched) my arm as if to say: "Look mommy! He likes me he likes me!" As the waiter continued to smile at her, she pinched my arm harder and harder, until I practically yelled with pain. My aunt thought this was hysterical.
Saturday 26 March 2011
Tuesday 22 March 2011
The Seventh Circle of Hell (otherwise known as the doctor's office)
My husband left for Alberta yesterday. Not only did this depress me exceedingly, but this morning I had my daughter's 12th month doctor's appointment and vaccinations to look forward to. It's not the appointments themselves that bother me. It's the wait. The interminable wait.
The first thing I should point out about my baby's doctor is that the woman is perpetually late. About 85% of the times I bring my daughter in for an appointment, this doctor is not even in her office. And so we wait, and wait, and wait, until she decides to show up. No explanation is given of course by the ever hostile, bespectacled, balding receptionist (and yes, I am actually talking about a woman here), who, as you sign in, looks at you over her glasses as though you are nothing more than a piece of dirt that had the audacity to make it's way into the waiting room.
Any parent out there will understand that to wait with a one year old for the doctor is one of life's most painful experiences. Imagine now, that the reason you wait, is not necessarily because the waiting room is full of people. Today, I had only three people before me. Imagine that you are waiting because the doctor is for some unexplained reason incapable of showing up at her office on time. As I waited, silently and slowly coming to a boil, I started to make up my mind that, if this doctor did not show up by 10:30, I was going to leave. I was imagining what I would say to the receptionist.
But did not have need for such mental rehearsals, for it turns out I "only" had to wait 30 minutes after my appointment time to see the woman confidently step out of the lounge and coffee room, not even glancing at the pregnant women and parents of young children who had been sitting on their asses, making feeble attempts to entertain themselves or keep their babies busy. She grabs a file, heads to her office, and calls the first patient. Fifteen minutes later, I am finally granted my turn, my baby is looked over, I am given some advice (resulting in adding to my level of stress, as it happens), and am promptly shoved out of the office.
I will remind my readers at this point of a previous blog, entitled "Raising a Baby Ievitably Comes With a Certain Amount of Confusion," in which I wrote about strange advice I have received from other parents. One of these concerned the way my baby sits: on her bum, with her legs bent and her heels just by her hips. When one of my friends, after reading this blog, told me that what those parents had told me was indeed true, and that I needed to correct this sitting position, I figured I might as well ask the doctor. And so I did.
I was expecting her to laugh it off and tell me that the world of parenting is full of myths. Instead, she pulled out a chart as she told me in no uncertain terms that for my baby to be sitting in this position is very bad for her legs. She showed me the chart, on which were illustrations of positions babies should never sit or sleep in. These include sitting in the way I describe above, sleeping on her stomach, sleeping curled up in a ball (again on her stomach), and sitting on her knees. Right. Like kids never sit on their knees. All these images represented my baby's usual sitting / sleeping positions. How was I supposed to change every position that has become usual for her?
"So, what happens if my baby sits ... and sleeps in these positions?"
"Her legs will become all croooked. She will have problems with her feet. You will have to put special shoes and leg braces on her. These must be corrected."
I almost wanted to laugh at her doomsday predictions.
"But, how can sleeping on her stomach hurt her legs?"
"It could crush them."
Huh?
"Um, all right. So how do I correct these positions?"
This was followed by an explanation of how I should teach her to sit with her legs in front, tell her no when she sits in the "wrong" positions, check on her before I go to bed and turn her on her back if she is on her stomach. Then I am allowed to go to sleep and forget about it. Well, thank goodness.
"I mean," the doctor said, with a laugh, "you can't just wake up every ten minutes to check on her."
When I got home, I began right away to correct her horribly dangerous sitting positions. I quickly realized that it's not that easy. I found myself constantly moving her legs to the front of her, but she is always moving, and how can she push herself up on her knees when her feet are in front of her? I also realized that, when her legs are in the "correct" position, she is very limited in her ability to reach for a toy. Needless to say, my poor baby found this very frustrating. So did her mother. It became hard to tell which one of us would crack first. I finally decided to compromise and allow her to sit with one leg in front, the other bent to the side. I don't remember seeing that particular illustration on the chart.
I will leave my readers with two questions: How many children out there are sitting in the "wrong" position, without being corrected, simply because no one told the parents anything about it, and consequently they never asked their baby's doctor? And, just how many children are walking with corrective shoes and braces these days?
The first thing I should point out about my baby's doctor is that the woman is perpetually late. About 85% of the times I bring my daughter in for an appointment, this doctor is not even in her office. And so we wait, and wait, and wait, until she decides to show up. No explanation is given of course by the ever hostile, bespectacled, balding receptionist (and yes, I am actually talking about a woman here), who, as you sign in, looks at you over her glasses as though you are nothing more than a piece of dirt that had the audacity to make it's way into the waiting room.
Any parent out there will understand that to wait with a one year old for the doctor is one of life's most painful experiences. Imagine now, that the reason you wait, is not necessarily because the waiting room is full of people. Today, I had only three people before me. Imagine that you are waiting because the doctor is for some unexplained reason incapable of showing up at her office on time. As I waited, silently and slowly coming to a boil, I started to make up my mind that, if this doctor did not show up by 10:30, I was going to leave. I was imagining what I would say to the receptionist.
But did not have need for such mental rehearsals, for it turns out I "only" had to wait 30 minutes after my appointment time to see the woman confidently step out of the lounge and coffee room, not even glancing at the pregnant women and parents of young children who had been sitting on their asses, making feeble attempts to entertain themselves or keep their babies busy. She grabs a file, heads to her office, and calls the first patient. Fifteen minutes later, I am finally granted my turn, my baby is looked over, I am given some advice (resulting in adding to my level of stress, as it happens), and am promptly shoved out of the office.
I will remind my readers at this point of a previous blog, entitled "Raising a Baby Ievitably Comes With a Certain Amount of Confusion," in which I wrote about strange advice I have received from other parents. One of these concerned the way my baby sits: on her bum, with her legs bent and her heels just by her hips. When one of my friends, after reading this blog, told me that what those parents had told me was indeed true, and that I needed to correct this sitting position, I figured I might as well ask the doctor. And so I did.
I was expecting her to laugh it off and tell me that the world of parenting is full of myths. Instead, she pulled out a chart as she told me in no uncertain terms that for my baby to be sitting in this position is very bad for her legs. She showed me the chart, on which were illustrations of positions babies should never sit or sleep in. These include sitting in the way I describe above, sleeping on her stomach, sleeping curled up in a ball (again on her stomach), and sitting on her knees. Right. Like kids never sit on their knees. All these images represented my baby's usual sitting / sleeping positions. How was I supposed to change every position that has become usual for her?
"So, what happens if my baby sits ... and sleeps in these positions?"
"Her legs will become all croooked. She will have problems with her feet. You will have to put special shoes and leg braces on her. These must be corrected."
I almost wanted to laugh at her doomsday predictions.
"But, how can sleeping on her stomach hurt her legs?"
"It could crush them."
Huh?
"Um, all right. So how do I correct these positions?"
This was followed by an explanation of how I should teach her to sit with her legs in front, tell her no when she sits in the "wrong" positions, check on her before I go to bed and turn her on her back if she is on her stomach. Then I am allowed to go to sleep and forget about it. Well, thank goodness.
"I mean," the doctor said, with a laugh, "you can't just wake up every ten minutes to check on her."
When I got home, I began right away to correct her horribly dangerous sitting positions. I quickly realized that it's not that easy. I found myself constantly moving her legs to the front of her, but she is always moving, and how can she push herself up on her knees when her feet are in front of her? I also realized that, when her legs are in the "correct" position, she is very limited in her ability to reach for a toy. Needless to say, my poor baby found this very frustrating. So did her mother. It became hard to tell which one of us would crack first. I finally decided to compromise and allow her to sit with one leg in front, the other bent to the side. I don't remember seeing that particular illustration on the chart.
I will leave my readers with two questions: How many children out there are sitting in the "wrong" position, without being corrected, simply because no one told the parents anything about it, and consequently they never asked their baby's doctor? And, just how many children are walking with corrective shoes and braces these days?
Thursday 17 March 2011
Feeding your baby is easy! When going out, go for Asian food.
First, let's talk about ease in feeding your baby. By the time she's one, it's so simple, it's practically laughable. Prepare food, place food on tray, occasionally hand her a sippy cup, and that's that.
Of course, there's always the screaming that comes after dinner, while I'm busy cutting up a piece of fruit for dessert. The scream that says plainly: "You're not giving me my fruit fast enough gimme-gimme-gimme-gimme NOW!" Frantically cutting up pieces of orange, I'm praying I don't slice off my finger with the knife; finally, I practically throw the first pieces onto her tray and watch her gobble them down as I speed through preparing the next slice.
But other than that, it's easy. Not like some baby food preparation gadgets commercials would have you think. If you've been watching Comedy Gold during the day, you might know what I'm talking about. The Baby Bullet. Babies are sitting in their high chairs, screaming until they grow purple in the face, and all because mommy has the gall to try to feed them baby food from a jar. As if babies can tell the difference.
A young mom sits with her contented baby on her lap. "You need the Baby Bullet," she gushes. "It allows you to prepare the best organic baby food for your baby." Notice the redundancy of the word "baby"? The commercial would also have you believe that preparing your own baby food automatically means it's organic. But in order to prepare organic food, you have to buy organic. I'd love to know where they get organic sweet potatoes - I've noticed they're kind of hard to find at the grocery store.
And what about the extra sugar they claim comes in the food jars? Here are the ingredients for jarred apples: apples, citric acid. Oh, and by the way, if you want to save money, buy the unsweetened Mott's Fruitpacks. Same thing as what comes in the baby jars. Only much less expensive.
Preparing baby food is not complicated. It certainly does not require the entire Baby Bullet set. For the three months your baby will be eating purée (months 6 - 9), one might as well use the blender one most likely already has stored in one's kitchen.
My baby's pediatrician told me on the ninth month visit: "Your baby can now eat whatever the family eats. Except the obvious things, like egg whites and peanuts, at least until the first year. Just cut into little pieces. Oh, and not too spicy." That sounded just perfect.
Of course, meals have become increasingly messy. Pasta sauce in the hair, potatoes in the ears, and bananas up the nose. That's what happens when you eat with your fingers. But I love watching my baby eat and appreciate (and yes, even wear) her food. I also love occasionally taking her out to restaurants.
This afternoon, my husband and I took our baby out for a walk in downtown Montréal. It was a beautiful, early Spring day. It was 9 degrees celcius, the sun was shining and the snow was melting. We were in a carefree mood, and hadn't even brought a booster seat or (gasp!) a bib along with us. When we decided on an Asian restaurant for lunch, I wondered if we had come too little prepared. The restaurant had one high chair, but no tray. I figured we'd have to place her food directly on the table. But that was not necessary. Actually, we managed to have one of the most mess-free meals ever.
I started by giving her pieces of a half-a-muffin I had left over from that morning. I gave her one piece at a time straight in her hand. When our plates arrived, I decided to try something new. I had ordered a Pad Thai with egg and chicken pieces. The wonderful thing about Asian food is, the meat is already cut up into little pieces. I also discovered that there is in fact nothing so easy as feeding your baby with chop sticks. I had ordered a Pad Thai, and all I had to do was pick up a piece of chicken, egg, veggie or noodle (one of the short pieces), and placed it directly in my baby's open mouth! Easy! And, unlike with a spoon or fork, it makes virtually no mess! Plus, my daughter loved being fed by two bright red sticks, expertly handled by mommy!
Of course, there's always the screaming that comes after dinner, while I'm busy cutting up a piece of fruit for dessert. The scream that says plainly: "You're not giving me my fruit fast enough gimme-gimme-gimme-gimme NOW!" Frantically cutting up pieces of orange, I'm praying I don't slice off my finger with the knife; finally, I practically throw the first pieces onto her tray and watch her gobble them down as I speed through preparing the next slice.
But other than that, it's easy. Not like some baby food preparation gadgets commercials would have you think. If you've been watching Comedy Gold during the day, you might know what I'm talking about. The Baby Bullet. Babies are sitting in their high chairs, screaming until they grow purple in the face, and all because mommy has the gall to try to feed them baby food from a jar. As if babies can tell the difference.
A young mom sits with her contented baby on her lap. "You need the Baby Bullet," she gushes. "It allows you to prepare the best organic baby food for your baby." Notice the redundancy of the word "baby"? The commercial would also have you believe that preparing your own baby food automatically means it's organic. But in order to prepare organic food, you have to buy organic. I'd love to know where they get organic sweet potatoes - I've noticed they're kind of hard to find at the grocery store.
And what about the extra sugar they claim comes in the food jars? Here are the ingredients for jarred apples: apples, citric acid. Oh, and by the way, if you want to save money, buy the unsweetened Mott's Fruitpacks. Same thing as what comes in the baby jars. Only much less expensive.
Preparing baby food is not complicated. It certainly does not require the entire Baby Bullet set. For the three months your baby will be eating purée (months 6 - 9), one might as well use the blender one most likely already has stored in one's kitchen.
My baby's pediatrician told me on the ninth month visit: "Your baby can now eat whatever the family eats. Except the obvious things, like egg whites and peanuts, at least until the first year. Just cut into little pieces. Oh, and not too spicy." That sounded just perfect.
Of course, meals have become increasingly messy. Pasta sauce in the hair, potatoes in the ears, and bananas up the nose. That's what happens when you eat with your fingers. But I love watching my baby eat and appreciate (and yes, even wear) her food. I also love occasionally taking her out to restaurants.
This afternoon, my husband and I took our baby out for a walk in downtown Montréal. It was a beautiful, early Spring day. It was 9 degrees celcius, the sun was shining and the snow was melting. We were in a carefree mood, and hadn't even brought a booster seat or (gasp!) a bib along with us. When we decided on an Asian restaurant for lunch, I wondered if we had come too little prepared. The restaurant had one high chair, but no tray. I figured we'd have to place her food directly on the table. But that was not necessary. Actually, we managed to have one of the most mess-free meals ever.
I started by giving her pieces of a half-a-muffin I had left over from that morning. I gave her one piece at a time straight in her hand. When our plates arrived, I decided to try something new. I had ordered a Pad Thai with egg and chicken pieces. The wonderful thing about Asian food is, the meat is already cut up into little pieces. I also discovered that there is in fact nothing so easy as feeding your baby with chop sticks. I had ordered a Pad Thai, and all I had to do was pick up a piece of chicken, egg, veggie or noodle (one of the short pieces), and placed it directly in my baby's open mouth! Easy! And, unlike with a spoon or fork, it makes virtually no mess! Plus, my daughter loved being fed by two bright red sticks, expertly handled by mommy!
Tuesday 15 March 2011
A one year old in the house!
On Sunday, I celebrated my daughter's birthday with my husband, parents, in-laws, and husband's best friend who happened to be in town. My daughter's birthday is actually not until next Sunday, but hey, we're optimists.
No, actually, it's just because everyone happened to be able to come to our place last weekend, so it worked out better that way. Besides, it's not like my baby knows the difference. Plus, she definitely appreciated all the spoiling.
My father spent approximately four hours Sunday morning icing a Care Bear cake we had baked the night before. My parents had brought over the cake pan they have had since the '80s - when my brother and I were young, we used to love having our Care Bear cake on our birthdays. I suppose, once we entered our pre-teens, my father must have been thankful he didn't have to slave over these cakes anymore.
He should never have kept the cake pan. Poor Dad. Four hours of hard labour later and I was placing the immaculate, perfectly iced, upright bear in front of my daughter. Giving her free reign to do whatever she wanted to with the cake.
At first she merely tapped it in the face with the palm of her hand, flattening its right eye and ear. Then she started planting her fingers in the icing. Finally, when she began looking at me as if to say, "So, what am I supposed to do with this thing?" I decided it was time to give the bear a lobotomy (that is, cut a piece out of its head).
I placed the piece of chocolate cake, covered in icing, on my daughter's tray, and she had films and pictures taken of her as she dug in, getting icing all over her clothes. Miraculously, she did not get any in her hair. We all thought she would simply play around with her cake a bit, but when she started hungrily shoving sizeable pieces into her mouth, my mother suggested someone had better take the tray away from her, before she made herself sick. I snatched the tray away, and my daughter gave me a chocolatey, icing-filled grin.
That day, she didn't so much as have a stomachache. Evidently, she is a chocolate-lover in the making. Just like her mom.
No, actually, it's just because everyone happened to be able to come to our place last weekend, so it worked out better that way. Besides, it's not like my baby knows the difference. Plus, she definitely appreciated all the spoiling.
My father spent approximately four hours Sunday morning icing a Care Bear cake we had baked the night before. My parents had brought over the cake pan they have had since the '80s - when my brother and I were young, we used to love having our Care Bear cake on our birthdays. I suppose, once we entered our pre-teens, my father must have been thankful he didn't have to slave over these cakes anymore.
He should never have kept the cake pan. Poor Dad. Four hours of hard labour later and I was placing the immaculate, perfectly iced, upright bear in front of my daughter. Giving her free reign to do whatever she wanted to with the cake.
At first she merely tapped it in the face with the palm of her hand, flattening its right eye and ear. Then she started planting her fingers in the icing. Finally, when she began looking at me as if to say, "So, what am I supposed to do with this thing?" I decided it was time to give the bear a lobotomy (that is, cut a piece out of its head).
I placed the piece of chocolate cake, covered in icing, on my daughter's tray, and she had films and pictures taken of her as she dug in, getting icing all over her clothes. Miraculously, she did not get any in her hair. We all thought she would simply play around with her cake a bit, but when she started hungrily shoving sizeable pieces into her mouth, my mother suggested someone had better take the tray away from her, before she made herself sick. I snatched the tray away, and my daughter gave me a chocolatey, icing-filled grin.
That day, she didn't so much as have a stomachache. Evidently, she is a chocolate-lover in the making. Just like her mom.
Friday 11 March 2011
Sleep deprivation (but it has nothing to do with the baby!)
These last few days, I have not been getting enough sleep. Not because of my daughter. Oh no. The obliging little angel does 12 hour nights. She's wonderful. So why am I not getting enough sleep?
Who the bloody hell knows. My body has, for the past few days (or is it weeks?) inexplicably decided to wake up one to two hours before my baby usually gets up. It's exhausting. Especially as I cannot seem to be able to get back to sleep. I just lie there, stupidly, thinking about all sorts of things. I feel like a super stressed career woman. Who doesn't have to go to work.
No. I have to go shopping. Because I am having a party on Sunday for my daughter's first birthday. Actually, her birthday is a week from now, but this Sunday my husband, parents, in-laws, even my husband's best friend, are in town; an opportunity too perfect to pass up. So we're celebrating a week early.
So, as I was saying, I'm planning a birthday lunch for Sunday. Until yesterday, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to serve my guests. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about it. That is, I had planned on a Care Bear cake. But that was about it. I phoned my mother in a panic.
"Mom! I'm going to have eight people plus a baby at the house on Sunday! What do I feed them?"
"How about some nice quiches?"
Right. Like I want to be baking quiches on my husband's first weekend home.
"How about I order pizza?" I asked hopefully.
Hmm. Maybe not.
Finally I decided on a really simple soup I could prepare in advance and stuff in the fridge until Sunday. I'll go to the groceries for baguettes, cold cuts and cheeses on Sunday morning. Oh, and wine, of course.
This morning, after I dropped my daughter off at the babysitter's house, I did a couple of loads of laundry, took a shower, and went shopping. Except I was really tired even before I stepped foot out of the house. I had woken up at 5:30 this morning and for one hour lay in bed revolving the following cycle of thoughts in my brain:
"Where am I going to find time to make the stupid soup? Should I do my Jillian Michaels workout this morning? Should I get rid of the dog? What if I don't find anyone decent to take her? Why can't I get back to sleep? Can't forget to pick up gift for baby's birthday. Where am I going to find time .... etc."
After the groceries, I headed to the mall, where I decided on two beautiful books with poetic texts and bright illustrations for my daughter's gift. I was going to be rushed to pick her up at the babysitter's, but I just had to get myself a Starbuck's mocha frappuccino (light). I was starting to feel my head spin, my eyes were watery from fatigue (and those horrible bright lights at the mall), and I felt like my face was paling.
On the way home, I quickly drank my coffee. For those of you out there who don't know me personally, I am not a regular coffee drinker. At all. And Starbuck's doesn't skimp on caffeine. It took me no more than five minutes to feel totally awake (finally) and with that came a feeling of complete cheefulness. Even the radio, which usually plays complete rubbish, decided that it would enhance my good mood by playing some of my favorite songs. When Tom Petty (yes, I did say Tom Petty - and why not?) came on, I put the volume up and started belting out: "Yeah I'm free! Free falling!" Next, I was upper-body dancing and tapping on the steering wheel to the Black Eyed Peas' "Tonight's gonna be a good night." By the time I got home, I was practically bouncing.
I picked up my baby and took her home, where I gave her some milk and prepared our lunch. I watched "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" (again - seriously) and laughed my ass off. It was the episode where Will and Carlton make Geoffrey (the butler) believe that he won 26 million dollars, prompting him to quit. I love the part where they go to the restaurant where he started a new job, and Will says to the snooty Maître D': "Oo am I? I'm a black man with a short fuse!"
While my daughter ate her half-grapes, I played my favorite song on my laptop: "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga. I sat in front of my baby and danced as I sang out loud "I want your love, and I want your revenge, you and me could write a bad romance." Perhaps not the most appropriate song for a baby, but she can't understand the words anyway! Besides, she loved it! She laughed and even danced, sitting in her high chair, as I sang to her! I mean, she must have felt pretty special, having her own private dinner and show!
Who the bloody hell knows. My body has, for the past few days (or is it weeks?) inexplicably decided to wake up one to two hours before my baby usually gets up. It's exhausting. Especially as I cannot seem to be able to get back to sleep. I just lie there, stupidly, thinking about all sorts of things. I feel like a super stressed career woman. Who doesn't have to go to work.
No. I have to go shopping. Because I am having a party on Sunday for my daughter's first birthday. Actually, her birthday is a week from now, but this Sunday my husband, parents, in-laws, even my husband's best friend, are in town; an opportunity too perfect to pass up. So we're celebrating a week early.
So, as I was saying, I'm planning a birthday lunch for Sunday. Until yesterday, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to serve my guests. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about it. That is, I had planned on a Care Bear cake. But that was about it. I phoned my mother in a panic.
"Mom! I'm going to have eight people plus a baby at the house on Sunday! What do I feed them?"
"How about some nice quiches?"
Right. Like I want to be baking quiches on my husband's first weekend home.
"How about I order pizza?" I asked hopefully.
Hmm. Maybe not.
Finally I decided on a really simple soup I could prepare in advance and stuff in the fridge until Sunday. I'll go to the groceries for baguettes, cold cuts and cheeses on Sunday morning. Oh, and wine, of course.
This morning, after I dropped my daughter off at the babysitter's house, I did a couple of loads of laundry, took a shower, and went shopping. Except I was really tired even before I stepped foot out of the house. I had woken up at 5:30 this morning and for one hour lay in bed revolving the following cycle of thoughts in my brain:
"Where am I going to find time to make the stupid soup? Should I do my Jillian Michaels workout this morning? Should I get rid of the dog? What if I don't find anyone decent to take her? Why can't I get back to sleep? Can't forget to pick up gift for baby's birthday. Where am I going to find time .... etc."
After the groceries, I headed to the mall, where I decided on two beautiful books with poetic texts and bright illustrations for my daughter's gift. I was going to be rushed to pick her up at the babysitter's, but I just had to get myself a Starbuck's mocha frappuccino (light). I was starting to feel my head spin, my eyes were watery from fatigue (and those horrible bright lights at the mall), and I felt like my face was paling.
On the way home, I quickly drank my coffee. For those of you out there who don't know me personally, I am not a regular coffee drinker. At all. And Starbuck's doesn't skimp on caffeine. It took me no more than five minutes to feel totally awake (finally) and with that came a feeling of complete cheefulness. Even the radio, which usually plays complete rubbish, decided that it would enhance my good mood by playing some of my favorite songs. When Tom Petty (yes, I did say Tom Petty - and why not?) came on, I put the volume up and started belting out: "Yeah I'm free! Free falling!" Next, I was upper-body dancing and tapping on the steering wheel to the Black Eyed Peas' "Tonight's gonna be a good night." By the time I got home, I was practically bouncing.
I picked up my baby and took her home, where I gave her some milk and prepared our lunch. I watched "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" (again - seriously) and laughed my ass off. It was the episode where Will and Carlton make Geoffrey (the butler) believe that he won 26 million dollars, prompting him to quit. I love the part where they go to the restaurant where he started a new job, and Will says to the snooty Maître D': "Oo am I? I'm a black man with a short fuse!"
While my daughter ate her half-grapes, I played my favorite song on my laptop: "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga. I sat in front of my baby and danced as I sang out loud "I want your love, and I want your revenge, you and me could write a bad romance." Perhaps not the most appropriate song for a baby, but she can't understand the words anyway! Besides, she loved it! She laughed and even danced, sitting in her high chair, as I sang to her! I mean, she must have felt pretty special, having her own private dinner and show!
Wednesday 9 March 2011
Raising a baby inevitably comes with a certain amount of confusion
Raising a baby is confusing. Take, for example, the flood of advice that comes your way. Some good, some contradictory to other advice, and some just plain ludicrous. Some advice comes uninvited. When I was still expecting my baby, I read somewhere (or in several places) that parents always encounter other parents who will feel it incumbent upon themselves to share their wisdom. Only thing is, once these bits of wisdom come out of their mouths, they often tend to sound more like folly. The first time I met such "other parents," the first thought that came to my mind was, "Wow! They really do exist!" As they gave me the benefit of their experience, I sat back, enjoyed, and indulged in a bit of suppressed giggling. For what else can one do?
The most valuable piece of advice (and I am speaking strictly of entertainment value, of course) these parents in particular gave me was this: upon seeing my daughter sitting on her bum, knees bent and feet by her hips, they suggested that I ought to teach her not to sit like that, or she would develop knee problems. I smiled at them and said, because I really could not help it: "Why? because she's already in her mid-fifties?" Still, they meant well, and I thank them for their concern. Of course I have no intention of following their advice. If my daughter's knees hurt, she will sit in a different position on her own. Or learn not to bend her knees (giggle).
Of course, as a new parent, I am fully aware that I need help. Advice that is freely given to me, I take or I leave. Often I will seek advice. I am a strong believer in asking mom for help - since, obviously, she's seen it all and been through it all before. I also subscribe to a weekly parenting newsletter, and sometimes receive some quite interesting advice, not only on how to care for my baby, but how to help her learn about the world around her. For example, the last newsletter I received assured me that my baby ought to be learning about object permanence by now. To help her develop this, why don't I try the following experiment: show her a toy, then place it under a cup. Lift the cup, and give her the toy. Repeat two more times. Then, hide the toy under a different object, say, a box. Watch her look for it under the cup. Easy!
Sure. What do you do if your baby is more interested in the cup and doesn't want to have anything to do with the bloody toy?
Oh well. Never mind. I know she already knows about object permanence. She just likes to develop her own games, that's all. Like when she goes in the bathroom, closes the door, giggles as I ask myself outloud: "Where's baby? Where is she?", then swings the door open, shrieking with glee, because of course she knows her mother's there all along!
So, really, when you get to know your own baby, you develop your own instincts, and most of the time you know exactly what to do. Because you're her parent, and parents just know. And because you read all those books while you were pregnant.
Before I close, there is one thing perhaps some kind parent out there could help me figure out. Why is it that my baby goes around all day, speaking all the syllables in the history of language, especially NaNa, DaDa, BaBa, but refuses still to say MaMa, even though that's the first word she's supposed to say? According to the books, anyway.
The most valuable piece of advice (and I am speaking strictly of entertainment value, of course) these parents in particular gave me was this: upon seeing my daughter sitting on her bum, knees bent and feet by her hips, they suggested that I ought to teach her not to sit like that, or she would develop knee problems. I smiled at them and said, because I really could not help it: "Why? because she's already in her mid-fifties?" Still, they meant well, and I thank them for their concern. Of course I have no intention of following their advice. If my daughter's knees hurt, she will sit in a different position on her own. Or learn not to bend her knees (giggle).
Of course, as a new parent, I am fully aware that I need help. Advice that is freely given to me, I take or I leave. Often I will seek advice. I am a strong believer in asking mom for help - since, obviously, she's seen it all and been through it all before. I also subscribe to a weekly parenting newsletter, and sometimes receive some quite interesting advice, not only on how to care for my baby, but how to help her learn about the world around her. For example, the last newsletter I received assured me that my baby ought to be learning about object permanence by now. To help her develop this, why don't I try the following experiment: show her a toy, then place it under a cup. Lift the cup, and give her the toy. Repeat two more times. Then, hide the toy under a different object, say, a box. Watch her look for it under the cup. Easy!
Sure. What do you do if your baby is more interested in the cup and doesn't want to have anything to do with the bloody toy?
Oh well. Never mind. I know she already knows about object permanence. She just likes to develop her own games, that's all. Like when she goes in the bathroom, closes the door, giggles as I ask myself outloud: "Where's baby? Where is she?", then swings the door open, shrieking with glee, because of course she knows her mother's there all along!
So, really, when you get to know your own baby, you develop your own instincts, and most of the time you know exactly what to do. Because you're her parent, and parents just know. And because you read all those books while you were pregnant.
Before I close, there is one thing perhaps some kind parent out there could help me figure out. Why is it that my baby goes around all day, speaking all the syllables in the history of language, especially NaNa, DaDa, BaBa, but refuses still to say MaMa, even though that's the first word she's supposed to say? According to the books, anyway.
Monday 7 March 2011
Top Ten Funny, Disgusting or Disturbing Things My 11-Month Old Did This Month
10. Started a game where she sticks her mouth, tongue and nose to the glass panelled doors that lead to the dining room and makes faces - but only on the condition that her mommy does the same
9. Has taken to wearing her foam books as hats
8. Has suddenly got into the habit of calling me "NaNa" (???)
7. Has become obsessed with the telephone (but she's not even fifteen yet!!)
6. Has made numerous attempts to drink her bath water
5. Has thrown the remote control at the dog (and the phone, and her toys, and her table tray - I thought that one was securely fastened?)
4. Just yesterday, she lovingly caressed my face with her chubby, tiny little hand - and then poked her finger right in my eye
3. Has just now gotten completely entangled in the computer's power cord
2. Plunged her hand in the toilet bowl for the first time
1. One day, I smelled something funny coming downstairs in the morning, but was not able to identify the source - until my daughter showed me, clasped in her little fist, a piece of dog poop she had fished out from underneath the dining room table (what was the dog doing pooping there, anyway?)
9. Has taken to wearing her foam books as hats
8. Has suddenly got into the habit of calling me "NaNa" (???)
7. Has become obsessed with the telephone (but she's not even fifteen yet!!)
6. Has made numerous attempts to drink her bath water
5. Has thrown the remote control at the dog (and the phone, and her toys, and her table tray - I thought that one was securely fastened?)
4. Just yesterday, she lovingly caressed my face with her chubby, tiny little hand - and then poked her finger right in my eye
3. Has just now gotten completely entangled in the computer's power cord
2. Plunged her hand in the toilet bowl for the first time
1. One day, I smelled something funny coming downstairs in the morning, but was not able to identify the source - until my daughter showed me, clasped in her little fist, a piece of dog poop she had fished out from underneath the dining room table (what was the dog doing pooping there, anyway?)
The Battle with the Tempo Car Shelter
Ironically, my very first post has nothing to do with being a mom at home. Though it has everything to do with all those big outside-the-house chores one must do on one's own when one's husband is not around.
We have a Tempo car shelter in our driveway - it looks like a big white tent and they're all the rage in Québec. When I stepped outside my door this morning to take my daughter to the neighbor's where she spends half-days (and I get a break to write - or deal with house chores), there was a full-blown storm and I was up to my knees in snow. The front flaps to the car shelter were opened (indeed they were never closed all winter - this morning was our first real snowstorm), and I noticed a snow-drift just behind the car. I dropped my daughter off, returned to the shelter, and began shovelling.
So far so good - until I got the snow out and tried to close the flaps. They were iced over and stuck to the metal frames; I had to yank hard to de-crust them. The result was that it loosened the snow that had built up on top of the shelter. I didn't realize this right away, however, as I was working from inside the "tent". I finally managed to pull the flaps loose, and proceeded to glide them down the metal bars where they would join in the middle and I would be able to close them with a series of hooks tied at the end of elastic bands.
Right. It's never that easy. The flaps wouldn't join - there was at least a foot-long gap between them. Now what?
I stepped out from under the shelter and began pulling with all my might. Snow was gathering quickly in my jacket's hood and on the back of my neck. My struggling yielded little results, and I decided to take the lazy route and tie the flaps down by inserting the metal hooks in the holes for the elastic bands - which is not where they are supposed to go but what the heck. I was freezing, it was windy, and I was fighting with two heavy flaps that were flying like sails in the wind. I pulled the upper metal hook to the nearest hole, looking up as I did so, gave it a good yank - and received a mouthful of snow as the buildup on the roof of the shelter finally gave way. Sputtering and spewing, I cursed out loud (thank goodness there were no kids around - lucky for me the schools were closed). After I shook the snow out of my hair, I proceeded to the remaining hooks.
Once I was done, I surveyed my work, and finally walked into the house, two good inches of snow stuck under my boots, and swore not to step foot outside for the rest of the day. Except to pick up my daughter at the neighbor's, of course.
We have a Tempo car shelter in our driveway - it looks like a big white tent and they're all the rage in Québec. When I stepped outside my door this morning to take my daughter to the neighbor's where she spends half-days (and I get a break to write - or deal with house chores), there was a full-blown storm and I was up to my knees in snow. The front flaps to the car shelter were opened (indeed they were never closed all winter - this morning was our first real snowstorm), and I noticed a snow-drift just behind the car. I dropped my daughter off, returned to the shelter, and began shovelling.
So far so good - until I got the snow out and tried to close the flaps. They were iced over and stuck to the metal frames; I had to yank hard to de-crust them. The result was that it loosened the snow that had built up on top of the shelter. I didn't realize this right away, however, as I was working from inside the "tent". I finally managed to pull the flaps loose, and proceeded to glide them down the metal bars where they would join in the middle and I would be able to close them with a series of hooks tied at the end of elastic bands.
Right. It's never that easy. The flaps wouldn't join - there was at least a foot-long gap between them. Now what?
I stepped out from under the shelter and began pulling with all my might. Snow was gathering quickly in my jacket's hood and on the back of my neck. My struggling yielded little results, and I decided to take the lazy route and tie the flaps down by inserting the metal hooks in the holes for the elastic bands - which is not where they are supposed to go but what the heck. I was freezing, it was windy, and I was fighting with two heavy flaps that were flying like sails in the wind. I pulled the upper metal hook to the nearest hole, looking up as I did so, gave it a good yank - and received a mouthful of snow as the buildup on the roof of the shelter finally gave way. Sputtering and spewing, I cursed out loud (thank goodness there were no kids around - lucky for me the schools were closed). After I shook the snow out of my hair, I proceeded to the remaining hooks.
Once I was done, I surveyed my work, and finally walked into the house, two good inches of snow stuck under my boots, and swore not to step foot outside for the rest of the day. Except to pick up my daughter at the neighbor's, of course.
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