Mumologic

Moving Shop

noreply@blogger.com (Claire) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 22:57:00 +0000

Hello Mumologic Patrons!

Do not be distressed by the lack of activity. I have been busy elsewhere (namely with a new blog host and also with Mexico) Mexico and I have parted ways (regrettably) but Wordpress and I are just starting to get cozy. I am going to be posting more regularly (daily? the commitment makes me sweat but I'll see what I can do) and with a wider variety of material.

Adios Blogger! I hope my archive tasted good (insert bitterness here)

www.mumologic.wordpress.com

Update your bookmark!

Coaxing Sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Claire) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 17:37:00 +0000

I was so sure that I wouldn’t be the kind of mother that tolerates guff from her babies, especially in the sleep department. Sadly, I am exactly the kind of mother that not only tolerates, but encourages guff. I can trace the trail of mistakes back to when I was pregnant and I bought a laundry basket instead of a crib. This was because we did not own a suitable drawer. J never did end up sleeping in the laundry basket because I happened to mention our plan to an acquaintance who insisted I borrow her bassinet. No really. Take it. I’ll drive it over. And assemble it. You know what, why don’t you just let me raise your baby.

I had heard many times over the course of my pregnancy that it’s not advisable to nurse one’s infant to sleep. I made a mental note but forgot to hit save and my brain crashed as soon as J was born. Now I am googling things like, “11 month old won’t sleep on his own because I am an idiot and have nursed him to sleep every night of his life.” I get approximately 12 million hits which makes me feel better.

About a month ago J decided that bedtime was the same as “tunnel-through-the-sheets-and-throw-myself-off-the-edge-of-the-mattress” time. Apparently my chest had started dispensing lattes which really threw a kink in my already abysmal sleep inducing practices.Since I was no longer serving any useful purpose, I decided to build an impenetrable pillow fortress around him hoping that would cue sleep. I would huddle on my hands and knees at the door waiting to see if it was, in fact, an impenetrable sleep aid. It was not.

I relayed my woeful tale to my other mum friends and shortly thereafter one of them had found us a crib. I remember back in the day thinking how much cribs resembled little mahogany jail cells. I was never going to put my baby in something so crass. But that ended up being EXACTLY what we were looking for: a jail cell. The transition to the crib was a success in its own right. This is probably because I would wait until J hit the emotional terrorist phase of exhaustion and then I would nurse him to sleep (ignoring that this is exactly what I was trying to circumvent), and then, just like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, I would lower him into the crib with controlled precision. This step was the most crucial of them all. If I messed it up, J would spring to life and offer me a fork to stick in my eye.

That routine went on for some time until J learned how to stand. I marveled at this achievement during the day but at night, I just wanted to disassemble his knees. When I’d lie him in the crib, he’d scream at the injustice of being horizontal - and then remember his skill. He’d hoist himself up and begin chatting with the window about what an accomplished baby he was. This would go on until he was either a) completely exhausted and unable to remember the steps involved in lying down or b) realize that the window was not giving him any desired feedback. In both cases an hysterical non-sleeping baby was the end result.

Just as my sanity and wits were coming to a dismal end, D offered to give the procedure a try. I was all, “yeah, ok, good luck buddy. He’s going to eat your face though.” Five minutes later, D walked into the living room, leaving behind a wake of sleeping silence. I wanted to punch him and make him brownies all at once. I don’t know how he did it - gravol in an eye dropper? a pressure point? I don’t care. The kid is asleep and that is quite good enough for me.

Buffalo Calf

noreply@blogger.com (Claire) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 05:23:00 +0000

Dear Mumologic patrons,

My husband, in a misplaced act of deletion, sent every single last one of my posts into oblivion. It's kind of the same thing as if he offered to help renovate the house in his spare time and then accidentally set off an a-bomb in the basement. I know he didn't mean to and it was so generous of him to offer in the first place. Plus it's usually me that finds the a-bomb and thinks it's a birthday cake so this evens the score.

Here is this week's post: Buffalo Calf

Sometimes I lift J and feel quite sure that it was a walrus calf I produced, rather than a human child. It seems he has reached the dimensions and mass of a kid entering grade four. I don't know how this happened. Neither of his parents...well, never mind. I recall a home video in which my mother's hands are fully engulfed by my six month old lipid deposits. I had armpit fat that won contests. But I highly doubt my mum and dad faced the same challenges as we do at the moment - I was the third child. Third children don't have the luxury of parental transport. If you're lucky, the dog or an older brother will happen by and you can hitch onto an ankle in order to cover a bit of ground.

But my genetics are not solely responsible. My mother-in-law has informed me that as an infant, the size of D's head raised eyebrows. So between my armpits and D's cranium, we had it coming. J definitely carries his pudge like a man, I have to say. From the back he looks quite svelte but a profile view reveals a gut that puts a lot of stress on his diaper shirt snaps.

Recently, I was carrying J and twelve bags of groceries into the house. (I'm one of those people that risk personal injury in exchange for efficiency) My back spasmed into a reef knot and when D came home he couldn't figure out why I was walking around like a duck with one leg shorter than the other. A number of consequences ensued. For one, I became the worst mother in the history of mothering. J would go about his typical pre-tot business trying to kill himself, and all I could do was watch and offer the occasional suggestion. "J, honey, I really wouldn't haul that toaster into the bathtub if I were you..." We were also unable to leave the house for well over a week which meant J's sole source of stimulation and social interaction was his crippled and humorless mother. When D would come home from work, J's head would nearly implode with excitement.

One advantage of the whole ordeal was that D took on the part of night duty that involves removing one's body from one's bed and fulfilling the pottying needs of one's infant. This is a procedure that I no longer begrudge. I learned very quickly that resentment between the hours of 11pm and 6am consumes my limited cognitive resources and thus increases the risk of brain damage. But my poor husband, unaware of the risks, toileted our son from dusk till dawn, cursing our natural infant-hygiene practices.

I saw a physiotherapist who treated me with a very professional yanking of arms and legs in opposite directions until something popped (could have been a joint, could have been an artery.) She then asked if I felt better. I responded in the affirmative, not wanting to hurt her feelings. She sent me away with stern instructions about how to more responsibly employ my back. Yesterday she spotted me in the grocery store parking lot hoisting J plus a week's worth of groceries into the back of my car all at once. She was horrified. "You're not going to carry those into the house by yourself are you?!" I hadn't really thought about it but truthfully, I probably would have found a way to do it in one trip - many mammals use their teeth to transport their offspring. "Of course not!" I replied, trying to act offended.

I have now recovered almost 100% (it just seems to act up right before bed. I tell D that I should avoid any undue stress throughout the night.) It is my hope that J learns to walk sometime before he enters grade four. We'll likely have several other children by then and they'll need a sturdy set of ankles at their disposal.