I was so sure I'd manage to tough it out. I'm not really much of a crier, you see. But my boy does tend to bring out the teariness in me.
I felt a little off from the minute I woke up this morning. The hugs lasted a few seconds longer. I didn't realise what was underlying all of this — a sadness at having to 'abandon' him. It's not rational, it's ridiculous, but when his little knees dug deeply into my waist, and his sweaty head pressed against my shoulder, I could feel the tears starting to spring. The lovely ladies took such gentle, affectionate care of him, popping him into a highchair next to the other little ones, talking softly but confidently to him, giving me a reassuring smile. He just screamed at first. He wouldn't touch the pear muffin I'd lovingly baked. But after a few moments he did eat, sitting quietly, cautiously, aware that things weren't quite right.
I said bye-bye, kissed him swiftly, and left. He cried and cried.
I cried and cried! Walking down the street, for all the world to see.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Trying something new...
So, I definitely spoke too soon. Otis had a few good nights, and then a couple of bad ones again. It has been dreadfully, unbearably hot — even in our lovely, usually-cool, well-insulated unit. We've been sleeping directly beneath the breeze of our pedestal fan, with the screen door wide open, no covers, and as little clothing as is deemed suitable when sharing a bed with an infant. All three of us toss and turn — we wake one another up over and over again. It's simply not an efficient sleeping situation. But what are our alternatives?
Well, we've already established that he hates his cot. So, one night, I had a moment of genius — I folded up our doona, popped on the floor next to my side of the bed, popped a pillow on top, and plonked him down beside me. We haven't looked back! He has the reassurance of knowing I am right there with him, the comforting familiarity of our bedroom, and plenty of space — he can roll around without hitting his limbs on the bars of his cot. There is the small chance he could roll so far as to end up under the bed, but I am such a light sleeper, I react to his smallest movements and subtlest noises.
Last night Otis didn't come in with us until 4:30am! He still sleeps fitfully, and still requires the odd a sip of water or patting session, but we haven't had ant crying episodes, and we are all sleeping more comfortably and for longer periods.
OK, I know, I probably seem to have some sort of sleep obsession. There IS more to life. My days are full to the brim with loving my boy, with watching him in amazement. He can do so many different things now — he displays a new talent almost daily. He stands alone every now and then, but is still pretty unsteady on his feet. He climbs constantly — up onto the coffee table, onto the lounge, up the sixteen stairs to our unit! He's increasingly agile. And very, very fast.
His "talking" is also improving. He says Mama meaningfully almost always now. He says "hello" — mostly to passers by when we are on our balcony — "Gor" for Gordon his goldfish, and "bd" for bird. Birds fascinate him, he'll immediately stop whatever he is doing when he hears a loud tweet, or glimpses rustling feathers. He's also quite partial to watching the garbage trucks from the balcony — so stereotypically masculine an interest I nearly cringe.
His favourite thing to do at the moment is to kiss my tummy. He lifts up my top, over and over again, and laughs his head off. Then he kisses it. I am trying to use this to teach him anatomical terms. Not having much success so far!
His favourite foods at the moment are all types of fruit — banana, watermelon, strawberries, grapes. He also loves cake, which he's had quite a bit of recently due to his dual birthday celebrations — one on the day, and another party just last weekend. He's got a sweet tooth which, I have to admit, I haven't even bothered trying to curb. I don't want to be hypocritical, after all.
12 month statistics are impressive, if a little extreme and disproportionate — he's on the 95th percentile for height, off the charts for head circumference, yet only average for weight. But, I assure you, he does NOT have that lollipop look so sought after by Hollywood starlets.
I am bursting with love for my baby, who I think is the yummiest, scrummiest, loveliest creature on the planet.
Well, we've already established that he hates his cot. So, one night, I had a moment of genius — I folded up our doona, popped on the floor next to my side of the bed, popped a pillow on top, and plonked him down beside me. We haven't looked back! He has the reassurance of knowing I am right there with him, the comforting familiarity of our bedroom, and plenty of space — he can roll around without hitting his limbs on the bars of his cot. There is the small chance he could roll so far as to end up under the bed, but I am such a light sleeper, I react to his smallest movements and subtlest noises.
Last night Otis didn't come in with us until 4:30am! He still sleeps fitfully, and still requires the odd a sip of water or patting session, but we haven't had ant crying episodes, and we are all sleeping more comfortably and for longer periods.
OK, I know, I probably seem to have some sort of sleep obsession. There IS more to life. My days are full to the brim with loving my boy, with watching him in amazement. He can do so many different things now — he displays a new talent almost daily. He stands alone every now and then, but is still pretty unsteady on his feet. He climbs constantly — up onto the coffee table, onto the lounge, up the sixteen stairs to our unit! He's increasingly agile. And very, very fast.
His "talking" is also improving. He says Mama meaningfully almost always now. He says "hello" — mostly to passers by when we are on our balcony — "Gor" for Gordon his goldfish, and "bd" for bird. Birds fascinate him, he'll immediately stop whatever he is doing when he hears a loud tweet, or glimpses rustling feathers. He's also quite partial to watching the garbage trucks from the balcony — so stereotypically masculine an interest I nearly cringe.
His favourite thing to do at the moment is to kiss my tummy. He lifts up my top, over and over again, and laughs his head off. Then he kisses it. I am trying to use this to teach him anatomical terms. Not having much success so far!
His favourite foods at the moment are all types of fruit — banana, watermelon, strawberries, grapes. He also loves cake, which he's had quite a bit of recently due to his dual birthday celebrations — one on the day, and another party just last weekend. He's got a sweet tooth which, I have to admit, I haven't even bothered trying to curb. I don't want to be hypocritical, after all.
12 month statistics are impressive, if a little extreme and disproportionate — he's on the 95th percentile for height, off the charts for head circumference, yet only average for weight. But, I assure you, he does NOT have that lollipop look so sought after by Hollywood starlets.
I am bursting with love for my baby, who I think is the yummiest, scrummiest, loveliest creature on the planet.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Sleep: Making Progress!
Oh, what a stubborn, sleepless little thing my son has always been! I remember so vividly that first night, squished into our half of the hospital room, Otis screaming and squirming, all the nurses muttering to one another about the "unsettled" one. Yes, that one's mine! But I think we may have a turned a corner...
As all loyal readers of this blog know, I have tried a few times to wean my boy of his night breastfeeds. This has uniformly been met by incredulity and anger! He would sob so sadly that I'd reluctantly end up pulling my top up, and letting him latch on. I would spend the next day alternately bemoaning my own weakness, cursing the fact that he'd won, yet again, and hating myself for even attempting to deny him.
After a terrible few nights, and with the prospect of starting a new 9-5 job looming, I decided I'd try a modified, more merciful version of controlled crying. I planned to sit in his room and hold his hand or stroke him (no patting — for part of this grand plan was for him to self-settle), rather than leaving him to scream in solitude, but under no circumstances would I retrieve him from his cot, or breastfeed him. The night started poorly — it took an hour of following said methods for him to slump down, asleep, exhausted from wailing. I slept on an air mattress next to his cot from 10:30 until 1:30, which was when he woke up. That in itself was astonishing! But as soon as I heard him shifting, I felt sick with fear. Imagine, scared of my own baby! Silly, but so true. I refused to pick him up, just sang and touched him, but he persisted for over an hour. He just screamed. He poked all of his limbs out, between the cot slats, and bashed his head against the cot. It frightened me. Honestly, the scary girl in The Exorcist has nothing on him.
Eventually I gave in. I gave in, not so much to my baby's demands, but to my own instinct, which was telling me from the get go that this wasn't the appropriate way to do things. And I felt better the minute he was in my arms — my defeated, sweaty, sad little man.
He slept beside me, and didn't wake again until morning! So I managed to refrain from feeding him, and we were both OK. He had a few sips of water during that horror period. I haven't looked back! He has not had a breastfeed during the night for nearly a week! And he's absolutely fine.
My boobs are looking a little flaccid and diminished, I am a little disappointed to report. I guess two feeds per day simply isn't sufficient to maintain the perky fullness they once exhibited. Small price to pay for a better night's sleep though.
Things aren't perfect by any means. I still believe that he may never "sleep through". But 4 out of the 6 nights since have seen him wake only once or twice, which is a dramatic improvement.
As all loyal readers of this blog know, I have tried a few times to wean my boy of his night breastfeeds. This has uniformly been met by incredulity and anger! He would sob so sadly that I'd reluctantly end up pulling my top up, and letting him latch on. I would spend the next day alternately bemoaning my own weakness, cursing the fact that he'd won, yet again, and hating myself for even attempting to deny him.
After a terrible few nights, and with the prospect of starting a new 9-5 job looming, I decided I'd try a modified, more merciful version of controlled crying. I planned to sit in his room and hold his hand or stroke him (no patting — for part of this grand plan was for him to self-settle), rather than leaving him to scream in solitude, but under no circumstances would I retrieve him from his cot, or breastfeed him. The night started poorly — it took an hour of following said methods for him to slump down, asleep, exhausted from wailing. I slept on an air mattress next to his cot from 10:30 until 1:30, which was when he woke up. That in itself was astonishing! But as soon as I heard him shifting, I felt sick with fear. Imagine, scared of my own baby! Silly, but so true. I refused to pick him up, just sang and touched him, but he persisted for over an hour. He just screamed. He poked all of his limbs out, between the cot slats, and bashed his head against the cot. It frightened me. Honestly, the scary girl in The Exorcist has nothing on him.
Eventually I gave in. I gave in, not so much to my baby's demands, but to my own instinct, which was telling me from the get go that this wasn't the appropriate way to do things. And I felt better the minute he was in my arms — my defeated, sweaty, sad little man.
He slept beside me, and didn't wake again until morning! So I managed to refrain from feeding him, and we were both OK. He had a few sips of water during that horror period. I haven't looked back! He has not had a breastfeed during the night for nearly a week! And he's absolutely fine.
My boobs are looking a little flaccid and diminished, I am a little disappointed to report. I guess two feeds per day simply isn't sufficient to maintain the perky fullness they once exhibited. Small price to pay for a better night's sleep though.
Things aren't perfect by any means. I still believe that he may never "sleep through". But 4 out of the 6 nights since have seen him wake only once or twice, which is a dramatic improvement.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A few headlines, just to tease you...
OTIS STANDS, UNASSISTED!
OTIS ATTACKS HIS MOTHER'S BREASTS AT INAPPROPRIATE MOMENTS!
OTIS HOLIDAYS AT THE SEASIDE!
OTIS TURNS 1!
OTIS MEETS HIS NEW PET — GORDON THE GOLDFISH!
ROCHELLE AND OTIS ARE REUNITED IN THE BIG BED AFTER UNSUCCESSFULLY PURSUING A MODIFIED VERSION OF CONTROLLED CRYING!
OTIS IS WEANED OF NIGHT FEEDS AND WAKES ONLY TWICE PER NIGHT!!
OTIS MUMBLES A FEW WORDS OF ENGLISH!
ROCHELLE HAS A JOB INTERVIEW!!
OTIS ATTACKS HIS MOTHER'S BREASTS AT INAPPROPRIATE MOMENTS!
OTIS HOLIDAYS AT THE SEASIDE!
OTIS TURNS 1!
OTIS MEETS HIS NEW PET — GORDON THE GOLDFISH!
ROCHELLE AND OTIS ARE REUNITED IN THE BIG BED AFTER UNSUCCESSFULLY PURSUING A MODIFIED VERSION OF CONTROLLED CRYING!
OTIS IS WEANED OF NIGHT FEEDS AND WAKES ONLY TWICE PER NIGHT!!
OTIS MUMBLES A FEW WORDS OF ENGLISH!
ROCHELLE HAS A JOB INTERVIEW!!
Monday, January 5, 2009
Public VS Private...
I firmly believe that the unexamined notion that the private system offers better outcomes for mothers and babies when compared to the public system is a serious misconception. People really need to be more informed as to the very different attitudes proffered by midwives and obstetricians before they make their selection.
I could not be happier with the care I received in the public system. I was at all times made to feel empowered and respected. I achieved the drug-free — well, do a few puffs on the gas really count? — birth I had hoped for, and experienced a quick recovery.
If you are at all interested in this debate, have a read of this article:
http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/public-hospitals-versus-private-
the-painful-truth-about-childbirth/2009/01/02/1230681748836.html
I could not be happier with the care I received in the public system. I was at all times made to feel empowered and respected. I achieved the drug-free — well, do a few puffs on the gas really count? — birth I had hoped for, and experienced a quick recovery.
If you are at all interested in this debate, have a read of this article:
http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/public-hospitals-versus-private-
the-painful-truth-about-childbirth/2009/01/02/1230681748836.html
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