My kid is a genius. I, however, am an idiot.

As per usual, I was late. 

Sophie the Giraffe was half falling out of The Bucket and the diaper bag was creeping off my shoulder and inching toward my elbow when I scurried into the auditorium where the mom and baby aerobics class was already in session.

I set to work quickly, preparing Huds for some tummy time with toys so I could get my jump on. That's when I felt a small pair of hands on my shoulder and breath on my neck. 

A cute little boy named Camden was using me as a post. As soon as he stood up, he sat back down, giggled and crawled away. Rather, he speed-crawled away with the sprite and nimbleness of an olympic gymnast.

"Sorry," his mom said, rushing over. 

"No worries," I said, initiating the polite conversation all new mom's partake in during classes. 

"He's very cute. How old is he?"

I fully expected her to tell me that Camden was nine or 10 months old.

"He's seven months," Camden's mom said.

S-e-v-e-n-m-o-n-t-h-s.... SEVEN?! Only seven? I sputtered. "Wow. Seven months?! Seven months and he crawls like that. Wow." 

Envy. 

Obviously, Hudson is a brilliant genius who, like 99 per cent of the kids I know and care about, is undeniably ahead of the curve, exceptionally bright and developmentally advanced (he is also practically perfect in every way). 

But, uhm, it certainly doesn't look like my almost-six-month-old son will be ready for Vancouver 2010 by next month.

"So, was he crawling like that at 6 months?" I asked with caution in my voice, praying Camden's mom would say something like, 'oh, no, don't be silly. He was doing exactly what your son is doing at exactly the same age!' 

But she didn't.

"Well," she said. "He was crawling at five months and trying to stand by six."

Well, you AND your son SUCK! ..... okay, I didn't actually say that. Or mean it. But after that conversation my whole body tingled with a mix of jealousy and shame. 

Seeing someone else's child whose abilities clearly exceed that of my own son - for the time being - was tough to take. I want to believe that my kid is the sweetest, smartest and the most agile.

I love Hudson with greater depth every day and more affection than I ever thought I could muster.. How dare I want him to be different? How could I even think of comparing him to someone else? 

Even discussing stuff like this - or making developmental comparisons - is a major no-no in the mom world, a topic of conversation covered in the unwritten, seldom discussed rules of mom-friending. Bragging about one's child is strictly off limits (for the record, Camden's mom was not violating the code, I was. I asked).

But it can be the toy elephant in many playrooms.

Sure I steal glances of other kids to see if they're "ahead" or "behind" Huds. I'm not proud of this, but I certainly do compare my son to others to see if he's progressing normally or fast enough. I do it even though I know damn well that each kid is an individual who will develop on his or her own schedule. 

At his or her own rate. 

And how advanced children are at six months of age certainly does not predict what kind of person they will eventually become.   

Still, I came home that night and whined to Ted.

"But why isn't Hudson the fastest?!" I said, in a very unattractive nasal-y voice. "You're smart, I'm not too much of an idiot, shouldn't our kid be a pole vaulting math-lete already?? Shouldn't he be mentally rotating objects, cracking quadratic equations and balancing basket balls on his pinky???"

 

Ted stared at me. He did not turn green. Not a flash or jealousy wrinkled his eyes. 

"I'm proud of my son," he said. "What do I care what anyone else's kid does?"

Ya know, Ted's right (for once!). 

Tasty Cereals!

At first, we thought it was the colour that grabbed his attention. 

The strawberries, ripe and crimson, were set into brilliant contrast by a white bowl and our white bed sheets (eating in bed rocks!). 

But Hudson's eyes weren't only fixed on the fruit. They were trailing the berries as they moved to our mouths.

"Oh look Ted - how cute is that? He's watching us eat!" I said. "Let's give him one!"

In total ignorance of strawberries' allergenic potential, we held one to Huds' mouth. As if by gravitational pull, his tiny hands reached out, grabbed the berry and forced it closer to his outstretched tongue. The boy was in full gumming mode before either of us knew exactly what was happening. 

Bits of red berry flesh flew everywhere, ricocheting off his legs and bouncing onto us, the rest of him and of course, the white sheets. Huds had a hungry, possessed look in his eyes. 

"Give him another one!" I cried. "Let's try some nectarine!"

And that was our unconventional start to solid foods more than a month ago.

Since then - ignoring my husband's anxiety, my mother's advice to "start slow" and all the wisdom I've read in baby cook books - Hudson, like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, has eaten his way through fruits and veggies all the colours of the rainbow, mush-ified beets, curried squash, cheeses, and a variety of pureed meats - excluding that nice green leaf, of course.

All to messy satisfaction and in no specific order.

"He eats meat?!" another new mom friend said recently. "Wow. I can't believe you're already feeding him meat."

Call me crazy, nuts, a daredevil or just plain irresponsible, but I refuse to follow any rules when it comes to introducing my bouncing, growing bundle of joy to the culinary pleasures of real people food. 

I tried to adhere to the "one new food every three day rule" but that flew out the window the first week - once I discovered how fun it is to cook baby food (bake, add water, puree).

(note: I rely heavily on Mother Gerber to do a lot of the cooking too. While feeding the boy nothing other than home-cooked slop was appealing... what am I perfect?! Who has that kinda time?!). 

"So I can feed him anything I want? Anything at all? Even turmeric, the mushy pork in dim sum? Curry?" my eyes widened to see what our pediatrician would say. "Yup. Curry. What do you think babies in India eat?"

A few restrictions: no nuts, egg whites, or honey before Huds' celebrates his first birthday. And he needs grain cereal twice a day (we call this Tasty Cereals! said in a loud, high-pitched voice). 

I can live with that. 

Growing up, food was never held over me as a reward. It was never kept away from me in hard-to-reach cupboards and everything - even cookies and diet coke, in tiny minuscule amounts, were permissible in my diet if I expressed an interest in consuming them. And today, I love food. Any and all types of it. 

And I want the same for Hudson. 

(note: I realize the boy may exert his will at any time and what I want will fly clear out the car window) 

"Strange that you don't seem nervous," a family friend said, when I divulged my non-plan plan for introducing the boy to what his mom and dad put in their mouths at least three times a day. 

"But it's good," the friend added. "We were really anxious about feeding our daughter different foods and today, she'll only eat macaroni and cheese." 

Mmmm macaroni and cheese..... 

mmmmmmm....

Back to my point: So far, Huds has happily (and luckily for me) consumed everything I've prepared for him. He also uses it to soil me, himself, and the floor around us at every meal (will this stop at some point?!). 

And so solid foods begins...... and so does it's companion: constipation. Argh.

As promised...

As promised in a comment I wrote below one of my posts, here is a recent column written by New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd.

Apparently, women are unhappier than ever, even though we are, at this point in history, the closest we've come to having it all..... Interesting. 

The article is called Blue Is the New Black and I enjoyed it. So, maybe some of you will too?

M

Here's a pic of Huds at 4 months... Be kind!

Yes, I write a public blog about my private life. No, I'm not shy.

But I've always been a bit protective of information about myself. For instance, I do NOT have a Facebook account or a MySpace page. Unlike many of my friends and relatives who do so with their kids, I've never sent around pictures of my son in e mails. 

What if people scrutinize me and my child? I've thought often while opening attachments bearing pictures of friends' babies. That might be too much to bear. So I never use to understand how some people put their kids out there, if ya know what I mean.

Until now.

You see, I'm in love. And when you're in love, it's customary to want to show the whole world the object of your affection. 

So here he is. This is Hudson at four months, as captured by a good friend of mine. The boy is sitting in our living room and wearing our favourite sweater, a present. Correction: he's sitting in HIS living room!

Sleep. Sweet, nourishing, vital sleep. Gimme some.

The elbow is a vital part of the human physique. Without it's angular bend, we couldn't enjoy tennis, golf, bench pressing.

Or, that all-important middle of the night jab to the husband's ribs or groin.

"Go down put googler (pacifier)," I had been mumbling nightly to Ted just a couple weeks ago. "been down three times. Caaaan't... go... again...."

Exhaustion. 

In roughly five months I think I've slept about 20 hours. Total. 

And it's given me Mommybrain, which is so much worse than Preggo brain. 

While the latter turned my grey matter into mush, the former makes my mind race through feeding/pooing/sleeping cycles every few minutes. It constantly reminds me not to leave the boy alone in the bathtub, and mocks me if I ever think about myself. 

(who am I, again?!)

And this whole lack of sleep thing made me a menace to society. I shouldn't be operating an electric toothbrush let alone a motor vehicle ("I can't believe your husband let's you drive," my mother said recently, her nails digging into the dashboard of my car.)

The NO-Sleeping situation reached a fever pitch a few weeks ago when Huds decided to start waking up every hour and a half. 

"What am I doing wrong?!" I sniveled to about 15 moms I don't know that well at the end of a strollerfit class. "Why won't he sleep?!"

Am I letting him fall asleep on his own? Yes. 

Am I feeding him to sleep? Not really.

Am I putting him to sleep enough during the day? I DON'T KNOW?!

Am I swaddling him too tight? Too loose? Perhaps.

The books weren't helping either.  According to Healthy Sleep Habits Happy Child - I know this is the bible to many - I learned that I'm depriving my child of sleep and turning him into a psychopath and this is all partly because I think women need to work outside the home.

Argh!

"Sleep, it's all I ever think about, it's an obsession, it's what I want more than anything," a fellow first time mom said to console me a little while ago.

"I can't get it off my mind either."

.... so I called the doctor..... 

And so began the next phase of raising baby. Food! And, as a fellow new mom calls it - CIO (crying it out!).

More on all this in the next post!

Guilty as charged.

"Would it be horrible if we just stopped for a few minutes?" I asked Ted. "I mean, he IS sleeping."

It was 7:11 p.m. last night - about an hour and 11 minutes past Hudson's bedtime - and the three of us (me, Huds and Ted) were in the car on the way home from my parents house. 

It seemed like a fine time to tempt fate. 

"I guess so," Ted answered. "We'll circle the block. But be fast."

I dashed. I bought. And found Ted parked at the closest curb. I could tell, even before opening the door, that Hudson didn't appreciate my corner store jaunt (I just NEEDED chocolate, so sue me!). 

The boy wasn't happy. 

Even though he's a good baby (I'm so lucky, he really doesn't cry a lot), he was pissed off that a) he wasn't in his bed b) he was strapped into the bucket, which he HATES c)  this was the second night in a row I've kept him out late and d) he wasn't in his bed (did I mention that already?!)

My heart sank into my feet - it always does when I put my needs before his - as we tucked him into bed while he sniveled and screamed.

Poor kid. 

Bad mother. 

But that's just a typical feeling for me now. As a new mom, I am always riddled with guilt. 

Guilt when I keep shopping for clothes even though my son is rubbing his eyes in that cute "I'm tired" way. 

Guilt when I wake up the boy from his morning nap so we can make our strollerfit class. "You'll sleep in the stroller, won't you my baby?"

Guilt when I don't give Huds enough tummy time. "You were on your tummy yesterday, no? The day before? Yes?" 

Guilt that I put him in a dirty sleeper - because coming face to face with another load of laundry might just make me lose my mind.

Guilt when I sit Huds in his bumbo - in front of the TV.

Guilt that I'm eating too little and my milk production might be low (I've started eating the chocolate to remedy this problem. Okay, fine. I just frickin' want chocolate! SUE ME!!).

Guilt that I left him in a poo diaper for a little too long....

Guilt that I've been exposing him to all the germs in my body - [ So, I just learned that I should NOT put the boy's pacifier in my mouth to clean it off after it falls on the floor. I thought I was being altruistic by popping it in my kisser after it fell in the mud, but apparently, my pediatrician says, "your mouth is a sewer! Don't do that!"... Well, you learn something new every day!] 

Guilt that I wanted to dash into a corner store past his bedtime.

So when do I ever get to take a moment for myself? Do what I want? Put my needs ahead of his?? 

"When he's sleeping?" a friend suggested.

"I tried that," I said. "But he woke up. And then he was mad."

"Okay," my friend returned. "Never?"

So sorry it's been a while....

Sorry to disappear for a while!

There will be more posts right after the weekend.... I promise! 

Love,

M

I'm screwed. I know it.

Ted frowned.

"Bad news," he yelled over the music - Michael Jackson's Thriller, which filled the event hall like a sumo wrestler fills tight shorts. "Hudson's refusing to take a bottle."

"What do you mean 'refusing'?" I yelled back. We were standing side by side and looking out at the dance floor where many of our friends were shaking their butts. Ted just got off the phone with his mom, who generously agreed to babysit for the night.

"If he's hungry, how could he refuse?"

Time: 10:51 p.m. Day: Two Saturday nights ago. What: A wedding, where we were enjoying being out without the boy.

"Is he crying?" I shouted. 

"Yes," Ted said. 

And there it was: the end of my evening. 

I raced home (obeying the rules of the road, of course), and stepped through Huds' bedroom door just in time - my MIL seemed ready to throw him away!

"Should I undo your zipper?" she said, sizing up the back of my dress for accessibility (typically, I'd prefer that statement to come from a man, ya know? Still, it hearkened back to my wilder days!)

"No, no, I got it," I said sulkily. 

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy breastfeeding - the convenience, the bonding, the weight loss - but, mamma still needs some freedom sometimes!

Stuffed into our kitchen freezer are chicken breasts, fruit for smoothies, tubs of homemade chicken soup, and of course, bags upon bags of frozen breastmilk. Purple monster nipples every day for three months is what it took to yield that bounty, which is just waiting to be thawed and drank by our son. 

But he's having none of it.  Why?!

(ASIDE: I retired my dual action Pump n Style a few weeks ago, because 20 minutes of feeling like a moo cow, with suction cups stuck to my teats only to render three measly ounces just didn't seem worth it anymore, ya know? I figure there's about 15 days of fun times in that freezer, before formula makes an appearance in our lives... more on this later!)

We've been giving Hudson bottles since he was two weeks old and just now, at close to five months, he's begun developing habits, such as asserting his disgust with synthetics. What did I do to deserve this?

There is no such thing as Nipple Confusion. Huds isn't confused. He knows exactly what he wants. He wants the boob.

Am I screwed?

"Some kids just won't take a bottle," one woman yelled over the music. She threw me a sympathetic smile before I scurried out of the wedding without saying goodbye to anyone.

Poo's creek is populated by nice people!

Last Wednesday I was up poo's creek without a diaper. 

It wasn't a fun place to be. Not at all.

I was trying on jeans for the first time in more than a year when I heard a poo-splosion inside Hudson's shorts followed by a relieved giggle. 

"Uhm, can you hold these for a few minutes?" I asked a salesperson, as I peeled a too-small pair of denim pants from my thighs as quickly as possible. "I've just got to change my son, but then I'll be back."

Thankfully there was a cushy table in the washroom (to me that was a sign I was shopping in the right place!).

"Okay, sweet pea," I said in a sweet, high, googly voice, as I wiped away all the green grit from Hudson's tush. 

"Are you going to do this every time mommy goes shopping? Is this because you're a boy and you're asserting some genetic male hatred of shopping? Cuz that would be mean to mommy. I feed you, you know?"

My sarcasm quickly turned to alarm. "Wipes: check, hooter hider: check, extra change of clothes: check, sophie the edible giraffe: check, diapers.... DIAPERS??? ONE DIAPER??"

Damnit.

"Okay, don't pee," I instructed Huds as I snapped up his shorts over his naked lower half, forcing my tiny boy to free willy it for the first time. "Please don't pee."

And the race was on. 

Annoyingly, there were three flights of stairs and an up escalator between me and a Shoppers Drug Mart, where I would overpay by $10 for 72 diapers that probably won't fit the boy in two weeks.

.... as an aside, Hudson went for his four month checkup earlier in the week and we found out he was in the 75th percentile for height. As an insanely short person, I am thrilled over the moon at this news and that he's growing so quickly!! Now back to our show... 

To my surprise, there were several lovely people on the way who volunteered to help me surmount those urban obstacles when they saw me struggling to lift the stroller up one stair at a time. (Poor Hudson didn't enjoy the tippiness of the situation).

"Please let me help you," offered one. 

"It would be my pleasure," said another. 

"Oh, let me get that," said a third.

Wow. As a preggo, no one gave me the time of day. I was never offered a seat on the subway and I swear one man even tried to slam a door in my face. But this was a whole different ball game. 

Not only do people stop and comment on the baby's cuteness, they offer to open doors, lift the stroller, hold the baby, fill up a water bottle, bend down and pick up a toy. 

I love Torontonians!

Even though four aestheticians stared at me blankly when I ran into a Bloor and Yonge Sts. shop with diapers in one hand, a flailing baby in the other, and asked to use the bathroom, the people in this city have extended a helping hand every time I've needed one.

"I'm a horrible mother," I said to the aestheticians, obviously frazzled and a little bit frightened I would have to drive home covered in my son's urine. 

"I forgot a diaper, my kid is about to pee through his clothes, may I use your bathroom?"

In retrospect, I guess I would have stared blankly at me too. 

Bagels, tuna and gender stereotyping.

Lunch has always been an important part of my day. Now that Huds is in the picture, it's vital.

Just after his morning nap and before his afternoon witching hour, it's the perfect time for us to be social.

And that's exactly what we were doing last week when our typically uneventful mid-day ritual turned into a still-raging debate about bringing up boys vs girls. 

Hudson was sitting in his stroller watching his mom (that's me) scoop tuna onto a flagel (flat bagel) at the uptown Bagel World, one of Toronto's old world lox and cream cheese institutions. He was playing with a toy generously donated to us by my sister-in-law and Hudson's first cousins. 

The toy seemed innocuous enough - a fabric thingy with lots of high contrast polka dots and stars. But it was predominantly pink - the same bold saturated hue as the hulking rocking chair in Huds' nursery.

I love pink. Not because I'm a girl; because I love bright colours, including green and blue.

"Poor Hudson," my friend Karen shrieked when she noticed my son nibbling on the near-fuchsia object. She turned to my son and spoke to him directly: "that's a girl toy," she said, wagging her finger. 

"You have a terrible mother. I'll give you the boy version. You'll thank me when you're a little bit older."

Girl toy? Boy version? Seriously?

Even though I delight in dressing Huds in tiny button downs and collared shirts, itsy bitsy bow-ties and tops emblazoned with skulls and cross bones, it's only because I lust for fashion. (And because I love dressing up dolls, no doubt, because I was given so many to play with as a child!).

Truly, at this point in time, I think of him as gender neutral. 

At four months old he certainly isn't lunging for cars over barbies and I'm certainly not giving him the option. 

"He'd better love sports," my husband, a die hard, hard core, crazy insane football fanatic, said earlier this week. "Seriously. I'll die if he doesn't. He'd better."

"I hope he loves arts and crafts!" I said in response. "I would love to do arts and crafts with him. I love gluing and sticking!"

Ted cringed. 

Here's what a good friend told me a while ago when I mentioned the arts and crafts thing then: when it comes to boys, an affinity for arts and crafts is the sort of thing you pray doesn't happen, but accept with dignity if it does.

Oh please. 

No doubt biology plays a big role in determining wether a child will crave the scream of a fire engine over the soft crunch of silk crepe skirt, but I feel that if society wasn't so squeamish, girls and boys would be happy - and un-embarrassed - to play with each other's toys. No?

So am I expected to buy Hudson cars and trucks and trains and steer him clear of colouring books? Cuz I refuse to do that.

"He'll get those things as presents anyway," my mom said, referring to the "boy" things. 

"He'll see that stuff at friend's houses on play dates," my friends tell me. And then I'll have no choice but to buy them or risk dragging him kicking and screaming from Toys R Us.

And, of course, I don't want him to feel out of place in the world because his mother has strange ideas about gender and stereotypes and pink and stuff like that.

But for the time being, while he's still my sidekick - shlepped around wherever I go - and still has no idea that he has feet - let alone that he's a boy - I'm gonna let him play with that fuchsia toy. 

And, he's gonna enjoy it!