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Snowy Day Meltdown

During the first few weeks of my being a mother of two (Irene is three-months-old now), I did go on quite a bit about how good and even-tempered Colum has always been and how demanding and irritable Irene was. I was unwilling to label my new infant daughter as colicky or to make any sweeping judgments about her character, though. In order to make clear the difference in temperament, then, I shoveled the praise on Colum and his innate goodness, exalted him to angelic status and really started to believe that my son was the epitome of a perfect child. He really hardly cried as a baby and remained in good spirits no matter how much I monkeyed with his sleep routine and was a reasonably well-behaved and charming toddler. He showed nothing but love and affection for his baby sister, and was developing a great sense of humour to boot.

Imagine my surprise, then, to discover that he is actually the devil incarnate. He has, recently, begun fully freaking out and completely losing it over the most routine activities. (And this is not due to a complete lack of discipline on our part, I assure you. We have enforced boundaries and limits and been reasonably consistent in doling out the appropriate consequences.)

Let me take you back, dear reader, to noon-time today. We strove forth into the snows and winds and made the one and a half block walk to the Annette Library for Toddler Time. Irene was bundled up in the Moby Wrap under my oh-so-stylin’ massive gray coat and Colum was on foot, it being too snowy for a stroller. We arrived late, but enjoyed a story and some good action-songs. (And lots of new kids books at Annette, too!) We then went upstairs to the main library to return old books and check out new ones and hang out with Gracie and her mom in the kids’ section. Then it was time to go.

I gave a two-minute warning. I tried counting with the threat of “no story before naptime” if I didn’t get co-operation. I tried hugs and words of comfort when all the afore-mentioned tactics just led to more tears and tantrums. I then handed Irene (who has been all sweet smiles and coos and cuddliness lately, btw) to Gracie’s mom while I wrestled Colum into his snowpants. Pretty sure that wasn’t the way to go, I tried taking Irene back and bundling us up and pretending to leave with hopes that he would quickly help get his boots and coat on. Nope. Enter my mom friend again to shove his boots on and wriggle him into his coat while I held him. (Note that little Gracie is waiting patiently in her snowsuit this whole time.) I then had to carry him, Irene strapped to my front, kicking and screaming out of the building. He let me put his mits on outside before throwing himself down in the snow and refusing to budge. Fine. I carry him kicking and screaming across Annette St. and let him stand crying on the corner while I start walking home. I am sure he will follow eventually. Wrong again: he starts running into the street as a massive dump truck rounds the bend. I run after him screaming and catch him just in time. I finally acquiesce and accept Gracie’s mom’s help as she carries Colum all the way home and I pull her sweet little girl in her sled. I then leave him to cry at the foot of the stairs (thankful, again, that it’s not a shared entryway) as I get lunch started. He eventually makes his way upstairs still riding waves of despair when Irene starts joining in. I end up turning on the TV while I feed Irene and put her down.

I return to find a co-operative and cheerful little boy who turns off the set himself when his show is over and gobbles down his lunch and eagerly brushes his teeth and even consents to half a story before nap because his sister has woken up screaming. We did talk about how his behaviour was not acceptable and why over lunch. I got an apology from him and an admission that his tantrums are no fun for anyone, not even him. Punishments of any kind seemed too far removed from the scene at this point, and I’m going to have to figure out a better way of dealing with these meltdowns while we are out. At least he napped.

(Image courtesy of www.ninocka.com.)

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Cradle Safety: It starts at home

The hardest thing about breaking a months-long blogging hiatus is finding the time and energy to write the all-encompassing, profound post that will leave your readers in both tears and gales of laughter and praising your blogging muse. The kind of post that will instantly make up for the weeks of nothingness and leave instead a readership sated on a gratitude and fulfillment never before found within the confines of a mommy-blog.

Let me instead, then, dear reader, tell you about the mesh bumper pads I bought for Irene’s cradle today. This cradle was made for my husband by his grandfather at the time of his birth. It is truly beautiful and nowhere close to meeting today’s safety standards. My primary concern is the space between the bars is probably big enough to trap a baby’s head. (Particularly a head so tiny and round as my dear Irene’s.) The easy solution — and what we did when Colum was using the cradle — is to use bumper pads to protect the baby from the bars. Alas, those are also not recommended anymore (and haven’t been since well before Colum was born) as they are suffocation hazards and have been linked to SIDS. Still, the SIDS-inducing bumper pads lined her cradle for the first ten nights of her life as I weighed the risks of bumper pad vs. bare bars vs. the less beautiful and seemingly more wobbly bassinet we aren’t using vs. co-sleeping because she wasn’t having any of this sleep-on-your-back-in-your-own-bed business anyway. And then I thought why not just line the cradle with some sort of mesh netting that would both protect baby’s head and be unlikely to smother baby. Why, I could probably fashion such a thing myself out of the right material. Wait. I can barely make it to the shower every ( … other …) day. (Why it is that having a newborn makes me want to do things — crafty things — that I have neither the time nor ability for, I’ll never know.) Instead, I Googled “mesh baby bumpers”, or some such thing, and found that I could just buy one ready made, which I did. There are two layers of meshing, which I worry might make the product somewhat less “breathable” than it claims, and I’m not convinced that this bumper would be strictly recommended by the safety powers that be either. It is lacking the pretty eyelet lace and satin ribbons of the other bumper pads. “Don’t take off the ribbons, Mommy!” Colum pleaded. Nonetheless, I will be able to sleep easier with this bumper pad in place — even if Irene would rather sleep cradled on my forearms as I type than spend one sleeping minute in her cradle.

I am still on a babymoon of sorts since I have my husband home until next Monday. In preparation for the upcoming week I am lowering expectations on what I might hope to accomplish on all fronts. In that spirit, then, you might look forward to blog posts on such topics as “how I spent my pregnancy”, midwifery and natural childbirth, Irene’s birth story (and Colum’s for that matter), and breastfeeding: dos and don’ts. But, really, I wouldn’t bank on it.

Let me also throw to another Junction mommy-blog, one that actually delivers on it’s promise of regular posts, and is both informative and entertaining: Junction Parents. And who knows? Maybe I’ll also get around to making up a proper blog roll and resource list, too.

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Which One Looks More Sophisticated?

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Top: My rendition of the sun, two birds, a flower, a tree and grass.

Bottom: Colum’s study of colour and brushstrokes.

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Cars, Kids and Cash

I have never owned a car. My husband has never owned a car – he doesn’t even have his driver’s license. We live in the city of Toronto, right on two bus lines and a 15 minute walk from the nearest subway station. My husband uses the TTC to commute to work, and Colum and I can meet all our daily needs right in our neighbourhood. Even my parents are only a 15 minute walk away.

We don’t get out of town much, admittedly. But when we do, we hop on a Greyhound bus or Via Rail train. Unlike airports, which are always perched at the edge of whichever city they serve, bus and train stations are right downtown. Still, there are times when you need to go to the suburbs; to visit family, mostly, or to make a purchase at a big-box store. And a car is really nice to have then.

I must admit, though, that with a second baby on the way I keep thinking that a car might be really nice to have more and more often. We still wouldn’t need one on a daily basis, but the longer cross-city transit trips are exponentially more patience draining with kiddies in tow. And while it’s one thing for you and your girlfriend to bum a ride to the nearest subway station, it’s another entirely for you and your wife and two kids and car seats and gear to rely on other people’s vehicles. It stands to reason, then, that we should consider picking up a small used car to keep in the driveway and use sparingly. And that is precisely where I see my next big pay cheque (first big pay cheque, actually) going.

But the economic and environmental repercussions are not that simple. My in-laws are out of town for two weeks and have lent us their car. I can already see how just having a car in the driveway will instantly multiply the number of uses we will have for one. A trip to Sunnyside Beach, for example, is something we might make once a month during the spring and summer. It’s a pleasant hour’s walk down to Bloor Street and through High Park from our home. We would then either walk back or hop on a bus. Last night, though, I found myself suggesting we could pack up our dinner and drive down to the beach for an impromptu picnic. We can go further afield for all kinds of things and drive when we otherwise wouldn’t.

This is not so bad, in and of itself, but the sky-rocketing cost of oil and the snowball effect that is having on our oil-dependant society has me freaked. An article in this week’s Macleans lays out all the doomsday predictions for us to wallow in. Of course, it does vindicate our choice of not looking into buying a home in the suburbs and continuing to rent in the city. Still, there are going to be a lot of young families stranded in their remote cul-de-sac ghettos when they can’t afford to drive anywhere and the value of their homes take a nosedive. And even I will have to learn a little discipline if I ever get my own car. Taking a midnight freedom ride on the open road with classic rock blasting on the radio might be one of life’s greatest pleasures. (Sorry, nature lovers.) But it’s one that we cannot afford to indulge. At least not very often.

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Big-boy Bed Time

Young C is sleeping soundly for the first night in his new-to-him big-boy bed right now. He’s been sleeping really well (i.e. through the night) in his crib for almost a year now and still loves it and doesn’t try to climb out at all. Still, as of April 29th he’s a bona fide two-year old and it feels like the time is right. I’m also four months pregnant, of course, and we want there to be ample time for Young C to forget about his crib before the new baby arrives on the scene. And it’s getting a little hard for me to hoist him in and out of the crib several times a day right about now. So new bed it is.

This is the way you’re supposed to make the crib to bed transition: You hype up the new big-kid bed and include your toddler in the purchasing of new bedding. You keep everything else about their bedtime routine and sleeping environment the same. You keep them safely in place with a guardrail. You make sure the timing doesn’t coincide with any other major changes in your kids routine. I really did intend to follow those guidelines, but … well, this is how we did it: We accepted an offer for a hand-me-down bed and didn’t get around to purchasing any special new bedding before the bed got here. We had family over for dinner the same night the bed arrived and didn’t have time to remove his old crib from his room before bedtime. In place of the guardrail we haven’t yet gotten is his old crib mattress on the floor beside his bed to cushion his inevitable tumble. And, just to seal the deal, he’s set to start daycare for the first time ever on Friday. (Yes, the Daycare Despair is finally over and he’ll be going to Novus Day Nursery three mornings a week so I can try to make a buck or two.)

Despite the lack of special new bedding and the presence of his old crib right in the same room, Young C really was eager to get into his new bed. He kept breaking free from the dinner table to run to his room and get into bed and happily read his bedtime stories all tucked in. It was only when we reached the tail end of his bedtime routine and the tell-tale words, “Here’s your snuggly blanket …,” triggered the realization that he was actually supposed to fall asleep in this new bed that all hell broke loose. He screamed “No!” and jumped out of bed and ran out of his room. We then repeated our goodnight to Dad and the end of his routine and I put him back into bed where he started screaming and crying. After one more escape attempt was quickly intercepted he just stuck to the crying. I waited by his door for him to calm down. I listed all the animals at the High Park zoo that were sleeping and I even tried singing. After more than 30 minutes of alternating crying and sitting up to name some more animals that might be sleeping (“And bugs, Mom. Is the bugs sleeping too?”) I lay down beside him. Happily, this worked like a charm and he calmed right down and snuggled in under his covers. He kept reaching over to make sure I was there, though, and eventually backed me right off the edge. So I sat on the crib mattress and reassured him that I was still there until he finally fell asleep.

I hope that after a few days he’ll feel secure enough in his new bed to fall asleep on his own and this won’t compound the difficulty he’ll have adjusting to daycare. Like his reaction to his new bed, Young C seems happy enough about daycare. He’s been there before and knows that there will be other kids and toys for everyone to share and that Moms and Dads are not allowed. Still, when I walk out the door and leave him in the company of total strangers there are bound to be tears. In the meantime, I’m preparing myself for some nighttime visits and early morning wakings. And I’ve really got to find a guardrail to fit this bed.

(Image courtesy of www.dn.anglican.org.nz/resources/liturgical/arts/clipart/)

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Chug a chug a choo choo, we hear you

We had our 12-week appointment with the midwife on Tuesday and were able to hear the baby’s heartbeat with the Doppler. Colum said it sounds like “Chug a chug a choo choo”. That’s not an altogether inaccurate description, either, but I hope he’s not expecting a baby train. I’m already starting to show and my uterus is a bit bigger than my midwife would expect at this stage. She assures us that this is likely because everything grows more readily in second pregnancies. Since we are pretty sure about our date, the only other explanation would be more than one baby, but nobody’s buying that. Twin pregnancies are often accompanied by pretty extreme first trimester symptoms, but I had only the slightest queasiness here and there and typical fatigue. And there are no twins in my family. We’ll find out for sure at our 18 to 20 week ultrasound, but, like I said, we’re not really worried. Really, hardly at all.

There’s lots to say about midwives versus OBs and I hope to find the time to delve into some of that. I’ve given my notice at the restaurant for the end of May, so I’ve been picking up extra shifts while I can. This will be my last week of extra work, though, and I’ll just cruise through my last month working one shift a week.

Lastly, Colum’s at the stage where his internal dialogue is still external and it can be so funny. I just heard him in the hallway saying, “I going to ask Mom for another one cracker.” And then seconds later he comes charging through the door, “I have another one cracker, Mom?” Don’t you wish we could all be so transparent?

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Health Canada Declares Bisphenol A Dangerous

Health Canada broke new ground today when they officially declared bisphenol A a dangerous substance. I wrote about the potential dangers of this common chemical in this post a few weeks ago. Or link to the Globe and Mail for their news brief about Health Canada’s pioneering decision. Canada is the first country to recognize the dangerous affects of bisphenol A and will hopefully act as a trailblazer for the US and EU. This is the first step toward regulating sales and production of compounds that contain this chemical, and I, for one, am quite pleased.

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Daycare Despair

“What do you do for childcare?” This is a seemingly innocent question that can really get under my skin. The true answer is that we care for our child ourselves. I’m home (and often out and about) with Young C from Monday to Friday and Ed picks up Saturdays while I work. That leaves Sunday for family time. Still, I tend to babble in circles. “I work from home, you see … uh, yeah, freelancing … well, no, I’m not very productive, I guess … he’s on a wait list for part-time care … I do work Saturdays …” The problem is partly that while I did not want to work a full-time job and have to hire someone else to care for my child, I also had no visions of becoming a stay-at-home mom. There was no love lost for the tele-help job I’d held before Young C was born, either, and I thought I would be able to pursue a part-time career as a writer while I stayed at home. I have done a teensy bit of writing, but I finally have had to face up to the truth that I’m just pretty drained after putting in a 12 hour day as a mom. I wound up having to pick up one or two waitressing shifts over the weekend to make ends meet, which, of course, leaves even less time and energy for doing the work I want to do. It hasn’t been a horrible set-up considering that I get to take care of Young C all week and then can make pretty good money in just a couple nights. Until now. The fast pace and long shifts and crowded dance floor of the restaurant cum live music venue where I work means I won’t want to be there for the second half of this pregnancy.

The other part of the problem is that I have been trying to get child care. At 18 months, I decided that Young C would probably do well in a daycare setting on a part-time basis and set out to register him somewhere. But this is Toronto and unless you’re willing to let the retired lady around the corner watch your kid, you have to wait. (And we’re not even looking for a subsidized spot — that’s a whole other story.) Now I know there are great agencies that assist with finding a regulated home care spot, and I’m sure that many of those women do a wonderful job. But I wanted Young C to have interactions with his peers and be cared for by fully trained Early Childhood Educators. I wanted a daycare centre, yes, but I wasn’t particularly picky beyond that. I wasn’t worried about getting him into a Montessori program, for example, particularly after learning about their TWO YEAR wait list. So we toured the local High Park Jr. YMCA and spent $40 to get Young C’s name on an estimated four month wait list for any two days a week. Five months later, I’m told that a spot has opened up but they no longer support part-time care. What?!? We had all our eggs in this basket, assuming that our flexibility would make it fairly easy to find a match. Hell, we could even do one or three days a week if we had to. I was told that they would double check the policy and call me back.

So, plan B. Novus Day nursery is around the corner and offers half-day care, which is even better than two or three full days for us, and they start at two years old. So we make an appointment and are told that Young C would be able to start within a couple weeks. Even though he’s not quite two, they are impressed with his language and independence. Great. Tick, tick, tick … I call back a month later to find out exactly when Young C can start and now the story has changed. They have space, but are only licensed to care for two children between the ages of two and two and a half. So we have to wait until the end of June. The difference between having him in for six months before baby number two arrives and we likely have to pull him and four months seems huge. Starting him now would have meant a few weeks of financial cover while I worked at writing during the week and kept my restaurant gig on the weekends. There will be no such cover in July. The cost will be even harder to justify since my father and teenage brother will be available for occasional child care during their summer vacations. So we’ll see how it goes. I’ll try to drum up some work in the meantime and maybe we can enroll him for just three mornings a week.

So, what do I do for childcare? I’m still figuring it out, and something tells me that there’s really no long term solution when it comes to kids. We’ll do what we can for now, and when there’s two babes in the picture, we’ll figure something else out.

Image courtesy of sideshowtoy.com.

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When to Tell … Fatigue … Pickles & Ice Cream

One of the first decisions you have to make upon finding out that you’re pregnant is who you should tell and when. There are two basic camps: spread the joy right away or wait about 12 weeks. The rationale for waiting is that you won’t have to later spread the word that you are not expecting after all in the case of a miscarriage. With Colum, Ed and I decided to tell our parents and siblings right away, but to wait until the end of the first trimester before letting the rest of the world in. One problem with that approach is that the news is bound to leak, which was okay. More troubling, perhaps, is making excited new grandparents keep such a big secret for nearly two months. This time around, then, we decided to just tell everyone right away and cross the miscarriage bridge if we came to it. I did keep it a secret at my Saturday night job for a good 10 weeks, though, just to be sure. The truth is that I’m just not very good at keeping big news to myself. I’ll keep someone else’s confidence, no problem, and love to keep secrets (like the sex of the baby) from myself, but I can’t imagine not telling my close friends and family about a pregnancy. With my first pregnancy (and baby) I really did think there was a single best way to do things. With enough reading and critical thinking I was sure I could figure out what that best approach was. Now I realize that rules like “Wait 12 weeks before telling” are not for everybody. Don’t get me wrong, though, I still have some strong opinions about what is best for my baby. I’m just a little more open to being proven wrong.

I thought for sure I’d be blogging about this pregnancy non-stop. (That was another reason to share the news right away.) But I was so completely immersed in a fog of fatigue and, let’s face it, stupidity, that it’s been a record-setting six weeks since I’ve posted here. I don’t remember feeling this tired with Colum and I probably wasn’t. For one, I would sleep in as late as I wanted during the first trimester. (I was working nights as a bartender.) And I was drinking caffeine! Colum’s pregnancy was a surprise, so I had to pretty radically change my lifestyle in a hurry. I wasn’t a particularly heavy drinker, but after quitting smoking cold turkey and then dealing with a bar full of drunk university students at 2:30 am, I really did miss those couple of drinks. So when I read that a moderate amount of caffeine had no demonstrable harm on the fetus, I decided that I’d sacrificed enough thank you very much. This time, though, I came across a new study that links caffeine to an increased risk of miscarriage. Add that to my mother’s conviction that coffee caused one of her two miscarriages, and her uncanny ability to be way ahead of the rest of us, and I thought I’d better skip the joe this time around. The haze is finally starting to lift from my frontal lobes, though, and I feel like myself again. Here are some tips for anyone still looking to beat that pregnancy fatigue, but I really think you just have to wait it out in the end. It’s time to gear up for an ultra productive second trimester to make up for lost time and the impending sluggishness of the third trimester.

My other symptoms have been pretty subtle. A bit of queasiness when I forget to eat and some breast tenderness. I’m actually in a bit of awe again at the dramatic breast changes that happen during pregnancy. Last time, I had stretch marks on both breasts after three months and went from a pre-pregnancy 32 B to a 36 DD when my milk came in. I put on a good deal of weight in general, but still. This time there was only a three month window between weaning Colum completely at 18.5 months and getting pregnant again. So I guess I thought all the duct work would still be in place and ready to go. Guess again. Having just nearly returned to my pre-pregnancy size, my breasts are quickly swelling up again with all the weird tugging and tingling sensations that entails. Also, my right nipple is extremely itchy and I haven’t read about that symptom anywhere. My belly is also quickly adopting the pregnant look now that all those pesky abdominal muscles that kept it reigned in for so long last time are nice and loose. I have had some constipation and seem to want to eat a lot of fresh fruit and veggies. I’ve also had hankering for salty cured meat, and ice cream, and pickles. But not together. I must say, though, that Colum has really come around to enjoy a “spicy” (as he calls it) dill pickle as well.

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Nameless Home Test Works Just Fine Thanks

stb_1708.jpgThere are certain commodities that make a sucker out of us all. Faced with an array of intimate hygiene products, over-the-counter medications, or even batteries, we tend to shy away from the cheapest option. Maybe we don’t go for the dearest choice either, but the disparity itself makes us suspicious. So when I went to my local independent drug store for a home pregnancy test (hpt), I very nearly spent more than twice as much money as I needed to.

The unbranded One Step Pregnancy Test pictured above sold for a mere $5. There was a Rexall brand for a couple dollars more and both Clearblue and Clearblue digital for a lot more. The only other hpt I’ve used is the Shopper’s Drugmart Life Brand test and even that costs about $10 a test. I know that the only difference between tests is the sensitivity, and I was pretty sure that there isn’t necessarily a correlation between cost and sensitivity. Unfortunately, the tests themselves do not list the exact amount of HCG (ie. the pregnancy hormone) needed to trigger a positive result. So you can either scour the internet for lists of tests and their corresponding sensitivities (many of which are not even sold in Canada) or call the number on the box. Standing in the store with an antsy toddler I decided to give the cheapo test a go.

I have since developed a rationale for my decision, and thereby declare expensive pregnancy tests a waste of money. The way the pregnancy tests work, you see, is by detecting the presence of HCG in your urine. If it’s there you’re pregnant, and if it’s not you’re not. False positives are almost impossible (excepting certain rare medical conditions and medications), so any test that is positive will certainly be right. A negative result, however, may not be accurate because there needs to be sufficient levels of HCG to be picked up by the test. It could be too early, in other words. And this is how they get us. All kinds of tests advertising early detection and clear results tug at our purse strings. The thing is, HCG does not even begin to be produced until implantation occurs between one and two weeks after ovulation. So even if your test is extremely sensitive (and remember there’s little correlation between cost and sensitivity), you will not be able to trust a negative result until you’ve missed your period anyway. Once HCG is being produced, however, levels rise exponentially and even the least sensitive test will detect a pregnancy by one or two days after a missed period. And, really, how clear do the results need to be? I cannot imagine needing a digital reading on a pregnancy test.

On the day after my period was due, then, I peed on my no-brand hpt stick (manufactured at the same place as Clearblue, by the way) and almost immediately got a dark, clear, unmistakable positive. I’m pregnant! That was a week ago and it still hasn’t sunk in. I’ve since confirmed with my doctor and my incredible dopiness also bears witness to my surging hormone levels.

One last thing. If you’ve stumbled upon this post in a desperate, achy-yearning for any glimmer of early pregnancy symptoms, welcome. I hope you find yourself with child in the very near future, but know that there are no signs. I’ve been getting my period for 17 years and this is my second pregnancy and there is simply no way to differentiate between early pregnancy symptoms and PMS. As soon as you test positive, of course, the symptoms will start to snowball and you can look back and say, “Oh, that’s why I’ve been so hungry all weekend. And that’s why I started to cry over a lost bus ticket.” But there’s really no way of knowing if you just happen to be a little hungry and maybe it’s just PMS emotions. So stop obsessing and peruse my other non-pregnancy-test posts, and just wait another week or so.

It really is a small miracle of modern science that we are able to diagnose a pregnancy so easily and reliably. Thank god we don’t have to keep frogs anymore. Here’s some more history; it’s pretty interesting.