Baby Tings are everywhere

When Eloise turned 9 months, one of the babies we knew around her age started walking and I thought, wow, that's early! When Eloise turned 12 months old a few more of the babies her age had started walking, and I thought, ok, she can take her time, no rush. When Eloise turned 15 months old and nearly all the babies we knew her age were walking but her, I complained to the other mothers. I want her to walk already! It would be so much easier, I said. The mothers said to me, with one eye on their baby who was running away, careful what you wish for! Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts!

And now at 16 months she is walking, and yes, there is more running around and chasing and the danger that she can get into has upped my mom senses to amber alert. But because my friends had prepared me for this next step, I feel ready. And since we waited so patiently, I am still in the proud mama bear phase (ps. Eff you Sarah Palin for taking the "mama bear" concept and smearing your giant Alaskan poo all over it). But what I was not prepared for was the spread of the baby things. Her junk is EVERYWHERE. What used to be contained to little pockets of pre-determined Eloise areas is now invading the rest of the house.

After she is in bed and I go around tidying the house up, I find rubber ducks in kitchen cabinets, baby spoons on book shelves, children's books in the bathtub.

She is taking over the house. And it kinda makes me smile.

Cleaning

My biggest downfall as a daughter was my inability to clean up after myself. I think my sister would agree that this was her biggest downfall as well. It certainly wasn't intentionally out of a lack of respect for our mother, more a lack of respect for the act of cleaning. I just could never understand why bother cleaning something if you were just going to mess it up again.

I remember when Claire and I would hear our mother's car in the driveway there would be a mad dash to put dirty plates into the kitchen sink and move school books to the bottom of the stairs to avoid being yelled at.

It's only recently that I've got a bit better at cleaning and especially with the addition of Eloise there is a certain level of hygiene I try and maintain for her safety. But there's a lot of cleaning tasks that I am still rubbish (ha!) at.

When my mom would tell me to clean my room, a hot rage would burn in my stomach. It wasn't so much that I minded cleaning my room. If I was in the right mood and with the right "cleaning" music, I could actually quite enjoy it, and certainly enjoyed the satisfaction of having a clean room. But something about being told to clean up would make me seethe.

These pictures have nothing to do with the post. But someone needs to knit me that sweater in a mom large.

I know my sister's and my inability to pick up after ourselves drove my mom crazy. And who can blame her. Single mother, working hard, and her two intelligent, thoughtful daughters can't muster up the energy to keep their mess in check. I'm impressed all she did was yell.

I want to do whatever I can to avoid this struggle for cleanliness between Eloise and me. So I've made a point of singing songs* as I clean-up small messes, or putting on good music to clean a whole room. I'll use the vacuum to suck up her shirt to make her laugh. I read a tip saying that when your baby is old enough, get them to help with the cleaning. If they throw all their food on the floor - no problem, but when you're done with the meal, get the kid down there with you helping to sweep up.

I don't know if what I'm doing is going to have any impact in the long run, but this past week Eloise has snuck baby wipes behind my back and started wiping whatever surfaces she could find. The other day while I was wiping the food that missed her mouth off of her highchair, I turned around to find her wiping my chair clean with a baby wipe. And you better believe I praised the shit out of that behavior. My voice shot up 8 octaves "Good Girl! Are you cleaning? You are so clever! Mama's little helper! That is some REALLY GOOD CLEANING ELOISE".

So of course now that she has shown an interest in wiping down surfaces I am doing what I can to show my support as a mother in what my daughter enjoys. Which lead me to what happened yesterday when I found myself sitting on my fat ass with my feet propped up drinking a cup of coffee while my child was on her knees below me mopping the floor with her own toilet paper.

*Does anyone know of any good clean-up songs apart from that horrible "Clean-up, clean-up, everybody everywhere.." that makes me want to punch myself in the head?

Oh the places we'll go!

Just today Eloise wrapped her stuffed animal in a blanket and patted her to sleep. I feel like we are on the cusp of the really good stuff. My childhood, like most, had its ups and downs, and as simple as it was I think the best moments of my childhood was paying pretending games with my little sister Claire. Animal games we used to call them.

We played these games for as long as our imaginations were stronger than our self-conscious. Which I am proud to say took us far into the double digits. Our beds became boats as we rescued mewling kittens from the jaws of sharks nipping at our bow. Blankets became caves where we would nurse our sick pets back to health out of the rain while the other would forage for berries so we could eat. Closets became abandoned cottages in the woods in which we could become the youngest pair of squatters with a travelling family of injured pets.

The other day Eloise was playing with my computer. To lure her away to more baby friendly play I cuddled a floppy black cat to my cheek, shushing it and singing it lullabies. She took the bait and bum shuffled over to me, but instead of pushing the cat out of the way in a fit of jealousy as I suspected, she came to cuddle me, but made sure that I kept cuddling the cat too. Could it be? Her first Animal game? Lets pretend we’re a bunch of cats that need to be cuddled by mama.

Oh the worlds we have ahead of us! The injuries to nurse, the teddy bears to wrap in blankets to keep from catching cold, the forts to build to take shelter from the thunder storm that is happening in our living room.

This right here is why I became a mother. I just pray she will let me play with her for a few years before she realizes these games are so much more fun without adults.

Lesson learned. Baby 1 Mom 0

While I was pregnant I had it in my head that I would breastfeed until 6 months as recommended and then put my baby onto formula for the next 6 months until she could drink cow's milk at age 1. It's no secret that my life before motherhood was a rather boozy one and I figured that after the 15 or so months of near total sobriety Mama could use a night out on the tiles.

Of course getting drunk now is a whole different ball game. Not only would I have to contend with baby care on top of hangover, but I am such a lightweight these days it is not even funny. Except that it is funny. Because half a pint of beer and I am GONE. I mean like flashing my lopsided milk jugs for free shots GONE.

But my whole plan of putting my baby on formula after 6 months of exclusive breastfeeding didn't factor in the fact that my baby would have her own opinion on the matter.

After the disastorous Paris trip where Eloise went 20 hours sans eating we had a few more attempts at getting her to take the bottle. Not even formula perse, just my milk but in a bottle. She refused. I decided my last attempt would be her nursery. Totally different evironment, no trace of me, and in the hands of child care experts. After 4 days of them trying to get her on the bottle with no success I finally decided to give up. I mean if they can't do it, it just ain't going to happen.

Your boobs are MINE MilkLady.

So there it is. No big boozy night in my future. My boobs are still being held ransom by a tiny being that is growing remarkably sharp teeth as we speak. A very opinionated being who knows what she likes and won't settle for anything less. And as much as I would love to share a bottle of wine or 5 with friends I am quite proud of my little girl for sticking to her guns.

So this is the payback for coming home past curfew all those times.

Ever since I became a mother I am surrounded by accidents waiting to happen. Life-changing accidents that knock the soul straight out of your throat. I notice the cables under the coffee table and see an 8 month old Eloise in a mass of tangles. I think of the huge house plant in the dinning room and see Eloise at 14 months attempting to climb it, ending in a pile of rocks and dirt. I think of her bedroom window to which we have no lock and see her hanging over the decrepit BBQ screaming for us to save her.

Is this normal? Will this be how I view the world for the rest of my life – as potential death traps for my off spring? As soon as you become a mother are you doomed to be overly sensitive to any potential danger to your young? Because this is beyond stressful.

Often instead of gazing at my sleepy daughter as she nurses her last few mouthfuls of milk before bed and being filled with warm delicious wonderment I have my heart in the back of my mouth racing with the frantic images of how my daughter could potentially come to harm.

This motherhood job sure ain’t no walk in the park. Oh God. The Park. What could happen there? Please tell me this uber vigilant over protective mama fear ends at some point.

A load of pink.

I've never been much of a girly-girl, I was a full fledged tom-boy as a child, and although I have come to embrace my inner diva in my twenties I have never immersed myself in pink. Many people know this about me and so I received lots of very cool baby clothes for Eloise that were all colors of the rainbow bar pink.

But when you have a girl it is just impossible to avoid

Even when I shop for her it's hard not to come back with some sweet little pink onesie.

I'd be curious (though not curious enough to do my own research of course, 6 months of broken sleep here people!) to find out the how when why of girls in pink and boys in blue.

Any ideas?

Did you know I have a baby? Cause I wasn't sure that was clear from this blog.

Somewhere along the way my newborn turned into an infant. A proper chunky little baby ready and willing to discover the world in front of her. It's amazing to think that at one point she couldn't hold up her own head. Now she's grabbing, she's standing (with my help of course) and she can manage a total of 2 seconds of sitting before wobbling over.

I never understood parents that could go on and on about their baby who had just learned to do basic things like eating from a spoon, rolling over, getting on all fours. I mean I've been doing those things for ages - some of them in heels and lingerie - and you don't hear me boasting. But when you go from being the prime witness to someone who started out life as essentially a wobbly headed blob that can't poo and breathe at the same time these milestones are incredible to see.

29 hours and 20 minutes too long

29 hours and 20 minutes apart. It should have been 53 hours. We have a very stubborn daughter who spent over 20 hours of those 29 refusing to eat. Paris did not turn out as planned. I spent the time there with what felt like a bag of knives in my stomach, fitfully sleeping with dreams of accidentally drowning Eloise from my negligence. 300 euros later I was on a eurostar heading back home to stop my baby from becoming dangerously dehydrated and having to go to hospital.

As I lessened the distance between me and my heart I stared at the ceiling of the train so as not to burst into a fit of guilty tears.

My work once let me go to a conference about women in the workplace. A feisty Canadian was giving us pointers on how to better control our emotions at work. Rightly or wrongly, the ability to burst into tears in an open plan office is not a skill often sought in an employee. The Canadian said if you feel yourself getting close to tears, look up. Looking up is connected with reason and logic. Looking down is connected with our emotions and feelings.

So there I was staring at the ceiling of the Eurostar train in hopes of not turning into the wailing childless mother in seat 62A when it dawned on me. When we raise our children we are looking down at them through an emotional filter. Reason does not apply to a mother whose child needs her. Our hearts are swollen watching their face look up at ours. And then they grow up, and they are bigger than us. If we have done a good job they will have surpassed us. And we will look up to them with reason at the incredible adult before us. It will be their turn to look down at us and be filled with emotion at the sight of us as the aging person who sacrificed what we could to give them this view.

Dents

I put Eloise in her big crib while I went to the bathroom to get ready to go out. She wasn't too happy about it, but I knew she was safe and so didn't mind too much that she was crying. When I came to her a few minutes later, she had pushed her body so that her head was pressed against the bars of the crib. Not the most comfortable of positions and I immediately felt guilty for having left her for so long. I quickly picked her up and calmed her down when I noticed it. Two symmetrical dents in her head from where the bars dug into her skull. I knew kids were impressionable, but this?

Sweet unsuspecting little Eloise

The dents didn't last more than an hour, but it got me thinking about how much power I have to make or break this person. I could have changed the shape of her head for the rest of her life for crying out loud. Think about all the damage I could unwittingly inflict on my beautiful daughter. What if she picks up my emotional instability? My laziness? My appallingly poor math skills? What if she becomes an overweight lush with a weakness for men with accents?

And then there's her Father. She could pick up his OCD. His inability to throw anything away. His need to be overly cautious with nearly all aspects of his life. But then she could pick up his unbelievable kindness and generosity. Eloise's father is the nicest person I have ever met, and if one of the "dents" we leave in her is his kindness I will be so proud of my child.

Of course if she doesn't inherit his kindness she can always sit with her mother at a cafe terrace and make fun of the people walking by while drinking an unladylike quantity of rouge.