Whip out a boob? Don't mind if I do!

When I first heard about the woman who caused a city-wide ruckus by breastfeeding in a public pool, I was months away from becoming pregnant and so naturally, I was appalled. Appalled at the idea of naked boobs in a public place (when it's not art or in a nightclub, of course). Appalled by the concept of breastfeeding in water, though I'm not sure why. Appalled, really, at such a wanton display of motherhood. But now? "Michele!," my husband yelped recently when he discovered me part topless in the foyer of the YMCA. "For god's sake cover yourself. You're in public. There are children around!" "Oh yeah?" I replied, raising an eyebrow and sighing. "They've probably seen a lot more breasts than you, honey." It was a busy Saturday morning at the Y and Hudson was hungry. So, I did what I do at least six times a day - I whipped out a boob. And why not? The cracked nipples healed long ago. My Breast Friend pillow has been retired for almost two months. It's liberating - for my social life and sanity - to stop, drop and feed anywhere and everywhere. I'm just too tired these days to care what other people think. Frankly, after giving birth any modesty I once had has flown clear out the window. And, all we grownups eat in public. So why can't babies? It's gross to watch some adults slobber all over ribs at a barbeque, but somehow we've come to accept the sight of sauce dripping from their chins and pork bits oozing from their teeth. So why does the sight of a nursing mother make so many of us squeamish? To be fair, I don't get any mean looks when I'm feeding Huds at the mall, in the park or a restaurant. But I do get strange glances from some friends, my husband on occasion and overall, for whatever reason, society has deemed certain settings, such as the pool, unacceptable as nursing stations. But our culture has to make up its mind. If breast is best for baby, as doctors, doulas, nurses, scientists and lactation consultants say, then we should all put our nipples where our mouths are! Now I'm not about to grow my armpit hair, stage a sit in or burn all Hooter Hiders in a bonfire. But I can't help but see those makeshift nursing screens as a symbol of repression. Yes, I use them too - my male relatives and friends don't need to see me half naked. But don't those mom-bibs just feel like society's attempt at putting boobs that are doing an unsexy job - as in not peeking suggestively through a lace nighty - behind closed doors, rather, a lively polka dotted piece of wire rimmed fabric? Ladies, I think it's time to take back our boobs! So we don't feel ashamed or embarrassed about B-feeding in any public space. 

And if we're swimming and the kid starts crying and the only way to get him or her to a happy place is to pop them on, then I ask you, what's wrong with that?

Better paranoid than sorry, no?

The nurses were friendly, the doctors first rate and Hudson only cried a little - probably because he was hungry, annoyed and inconvenienced. He definitely wasn't hurt. 

Still, I feel horrible for subjecting the little boy to my paranoia. 

I'm a first time mom. I don't know what I'm doing. Aren't I supposed to be paranoid?

This story starts about a month ago when Huds and I spent a hot day (the only one so far this summer) strolling around the city. It was 7 p.m. (past his bedtime), when we finally got off the subway and headed home. 

I was multi-tasking - guzzling water from a sport bottle, texting, pushing his stroller and trying to squeeze my gluts with each step as I walked along Bloor St. - I gotta lose that weight!. Huds was chuckling to himself. All was good.

Then he stopped breathing. 

"Hudson!" I yelled, after glancing down purely by chance, despite all my distractions.

His neck was craned. He was struggling for breath and I heard a gasp, then another and another before I could grab him, hold him upright and slap him on the back. 

He started breathing again, but my heart nearly stopped.  

In that moment, as I struggled to catch my own breath, I was struck by the awesome responsibility of raising another human being, of wanting more than anything to do it properly and just how powerless and bereft I would be if something went wrong. 

Who knew I could love someone so much?

So, after clutching my tiny son in a strong embrace for a long time on a dirty street, then walking home - him slung over on my shoulder with one hand, the other hand zigzagging the stroller along the sidewalk - I raced him to the doctor. 

And raced him there a second time after he stopped breathing once again a few days later. 

That's how we ended up at The Hospital for Sick Children earlier this week.

(Huds' pediatrician didn't think anything was really wrong - the boy probably just had some reflux, he said, because Hudson merely turned a bit red each episode, not blue. But to assuage my fears, and do doc's due diligence he sent Hudson for a gastro-intestinal scan.)

Of all the problems and trials this kid will encounter on the road of life (cheesy, I know), he probably doesn't need his mother making things more difficult. 

What this kid has to put up with! 

First I bathed him in too cold water. Then I sputtered with saline solution I was using to clear his nose - instead squirting him in the eye. I barely remember when I'm supposed to give him vitamin D. Now this. How on earth am I going to handle any of his future existential dilemmas?

His mother just means well. I swear she does. 

I thank heavens everything turned out okay - "his insides are as beautiful as his outsides," the radiologist said before I returned the tiny hospital gown to the technologist and got Hudson dressed. But I wouldn't hesitate to race to the doctor again. And again. 

He's my precious little boy. So what if he had to fast for four hours and drink an ugly barium/sugar solution? 

Better paranoid than sorry, right?

thumb thucking...

It's been brewing for about a month. 

At first I thought it was a mistake, a coincidence or a glitch that would just stop happening. Something that would go away on its own before I had to intervene. 

But now, it seems, the writing is on the wall: my boy is a thumb sucker.

It is undeniably adorable, however - he narrows his eyes and trains them on his left hand. Then with all his might and concentration brings his thumb into contact with his tongue, sometimes sticking it too far into his throat and gagging. Mostly, he just gums it to slobbery success.

This is an issue. I don't want Hudson to suck his thumb. 

Not one bit. 

But if he inherited his mother's resolve he'll be dependent on the soothing power of that appendage for years to come. He'll be the only sissy teenager who loses a softball game and runs to the dugout for a private thumb suck ("Hudson, what are you doing down there??" "Nothing, leathe me alone!"). 

"What's worse?" I recently asked a friend, who just happens to be a dentist with a specialty in pediatrics. "Thumb or pacifier?"

"Well," she said, "You'll have to take the pacifier away and that could be tricky."

Ah, long term thinking. I prefer, for right now, to live in the moment. 

"But a pacifier is better than a thumb!," I nudge. "Because I can't get rid of his thumb."

No, she agreed. I can't. 

I'm mounting a pretty good battle against the thumb. Every time I see him lift his little hands to his lips, I say: "Hudson! No!" But he totally ignores my parenting. 

Or, I replace the thumb with a pacifier (in my house we call them "googlers" because of the googling sound they make in the mouth). 

I've even perfected the Reach 'n Put driving maneuver, where I reach my hand all the way to his car seat from the driver's seat, fish for the googler and plop it in his mouth. No dangerous driving ticket yet!

But my manually un-dextrous little boy somehow finds a way to rip out his googler and jam his thumb right back in his kisser.

I just can't get him to can it (Can I lace his thumb with castor oil?).

Never before have I owned something that refuses to do what I want. This is challenging. 

And I, like so many times in the last three months, am at a total loss. 

Suggestions welcome...!

Gremlin!!!

Gremlin: an otherwise sweet child who turns into a head-shifting, leg-kicking, fist-punching demon who contorts his or her tiny face into funny drunken come hither looks when he or she becomes overtired. 

Smiles, grunts and squeals of delight turn quickly into pained, shrill cries. 

While the child subdues with a pacifier, he or she becomes enraged when unplugged, almost like a tiny meth addict suffering withdrawal. 

Cousins with the cute furry creatures from that 80s movie....

My son, my smiley, cherub-cheeked, blue eyed angel morphs into a dark, frowning, grunting monster when he needs to sleep.... 

.... then he spends hours fighting shut eye, thus making it impossible to put him on a schedule!! 

If he misses one morning nap, I'm screwed for like, two full days. 

And I won't even tell you what happens if I feed him!!!

Just saying is all.....

Oh Lululemons, how I love thee

Pregnancy and its aftermath prove what I learned in first year biology class: that nature just uses you up and spits you out. 

The postpartum body is yucky! There's fat where there was none before - pouches and pockets of it. And that stupid linea nigra refuses to quit bi-secting my middle into unshapely hemi-spheres.

But there is one item of clothing that makes getting dressed every day a whole lot less depression-inducing than it could be: Lululemon yoga pants.

An ode:

You sculpt my butt and never chafe and whisk my sweat away

You may be inert, synthetic tights in blacks or blues or grays

But for new mom gluts that sag and wobble, you act in miraculous ways

You hold them up where they used to sit some 14 months ago

And in the gym where people stare, it's you that runs the show

They say you are expensive and maybe that's the case,

But my wardrobe's crammed with costlier stuff that won't fit around my waist. 

..... Yup, that ode, written with help from a talented friend, pretty much sums up how I feel about the pants.....

Name another article of clothing that can do all that?!

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Just like being pregnant, being a new mom invites all kinds of advice - much of it conflicting.

Swaddle. Don't swaddle. 

Do the diapers up tighter. Stop pinching the poor thing's legs with the diaper. 

Always put them in a onesie. Don't wrap them in too much clothing.

Babies always need to be warm. Babies need to cool.

Supplement with formula. Never supplement with formula. 

You get the drift. And I'm sure you've heard it all. 

So when my mother told me to establish a bedtime routine, I didn't want to listen.

But when everyone told me same, I could no longer ignore it. And I'm glad I didn't. 

So here's our routine: 

Bath time: Huds kicks his legs in the water and doesn't cry when, every second day, I wash his hair. He really only sweats when his ears squish against my arm while he's breastfeeding, so I figure three shampoos a week is all that's needed. Yes?

Massage: keeps him smelling fresh like a daisy. Or like olive oil. But I rub him down and he seems to NOT hate it.

Story: Goodnight Moon. My husband wants to read him a different story every night, but babies thrive on unwavering routine, the books say, so a brief argument always accompanies storytime! I win every night!

Feeding: I try to cram him full of breastmilk to encourage lengthy sleeping.... sleeping... wish he'd do that for 12 hours straight....

Rocking: Huds gets comfortable in the crook of my arm and we sit in his big, pink chair (he loves the colour by the way) and sway back and forth until his eyes shut. This often takes a while, because he loves to fight sleep. Why do babies do that?!

Swaddling: Yes, I know what you're thinking: why do I swaddle him after I rock him? Well, I'll tell you: no matter how carefully and gingerly I lay the boy in his crib he always wakes up. 

So one day I said to myself "self, why fight it?" 

I swaddle him while he smiles at me with a charming little grin. Then I cover him with a blanket tucked tightly into the sides of the crib and walk away.

And you know what? He falls asleep on his own.

Now if only he would stay asleep for 12 full hours.....

I leave my child in daycare. I just do. Maybe I feel bad about that...

Hitting the gym hard was something I dreamed about while my stomach was busy busting through my clothes like a pimple through greasy teenaged skin. 

And it's one fantasy I've been working hard to fulfill since popping (why not extend the metaphor?).

"So don't think I'm a bad mother," I say to most people when I tell them what I'm about to divulge:

My name is Michele Henry and I leave my child in daycare with strangers for more than an hour a day while I workout.

I do. It's true. 

And I don't regret it. I don't. For real. I don't feel guilty at all. Not at all. Not one bit. 

Enter the YMCA.

For $3.50/h nice ladies with child-handling experience handle my child with the utmost care - I've witnessed said care through the daycare's glass window. 

If he's hungry they'll feed him (I leave a bottle). If he's crying they'll hold him and if he's content, they'll play with him. And if something's wrong, they'll come and get me from the weight room (I have yet to meet another gym in this city with such awesome credentials - and a kickass weight room and pool to boot. Is there another gym that's that good?).

What's wrong with that?

"Nothing," my friend Rob said, when I looked to him for guidance on how not to feel guilty about leaving my most precious asset with people I barely know.

"A happy, sane mother means a happy sane baby," he, a father, said. 

Yes. Yes it does. And the opportunity to shed this baby blubber is certainly sanity saving. 

Even though high waisted jeans are avant garde these days, I refuse to live the stereotype and wear "mom jeans."

So for those who said it couldn't be done/ to those who said I'd never work out again or leave my child with anyone but my mother, this is what I have to say: Phfffffooooey on you!

How mature of me. I am sticking my tongue out. 

He's not a lap dog or a purse. Darnit.

It's depressing. So depressing. But I think I finally have to come to terms with being - gasp and phooey - housebound. 

Darnitall.

The boy will no longer sleep "on the go." 

Never one to sit still (even through recovery pain), I've spent the last three months (rather, the first three months) shlepping said "boy" around the city: to my parents' house, lunches, dinners, shopping, the gym (read next post!) and on countless errands, such as the bank, the dentist, to buy non-fat popsicles.

And we'd stay out from 10 am - or as early as I could pack up his gear, feed, pump, feed again and get out of the house - until 5 p.m. or so just in time for our bedtime routine (see next next post!).

But no more.  Darnitall (did I sat that already?).

Goodbye sanity, interaction with adults, independence.

Hudson hates the "bucket." He prefers to spend his time in the car, making faces at himself in his monkey mirror and gurgling at me with a cheshire grin. 

He likes to nap in his crib. Only his crib. 

And he turns into a Gremlin, kicking and punching and wiggling and squirming and just plain over tired, if he doesn't get enough shut eye. And then I don't get enough shut eye and then nobody wins.

Isn't he too young to only sleep in his crib?? So you mean I have to be home two or three times a day now?? Home? All by myself? Not strolling along Queen Street? Not getting stuff done? 

Is anybody else's kid like this??

Why?!? 

Without mincing words my mother recently told me that I have to stop using my son as an accessory. He's not a lap dog or a purse and I have to consider his needs first, she said.

"I love him so much, does that count?" Sort of, but no, people tell me.

"What are you complaining about," my friend Naomi said when I expressed my discontent. 

"Would you prefer a kid that only slept on the go, so you had to drive up and down for hours just do he'd sleep a tiny bit??"

"Maybe? Fine. I guess not."

So, now I'm home. Forever?

Why didn't you tell me?!!?!

When I came to, all I could see were my knees and the shadowy outline of two doctors between them.

"No, don't do that!" one whispers to the other. "Stitch it like this. Quickly. Trust me." 

I muster all my strength and try to pull my torso away from the bed. I quickly learn abdominal muscles and legs I can feel are necessary to do so.

I have neither.

"What are you doing?" I ask. "Did I tear or something?" 

"Don't worry about it," a doctor answers curtly. "We'll be finished in a second."

And so my recovery began.

 Uhm, why did no one warn me about what was going to happen to my body after the baby??? What the hell?!

Somebody could have told me about the swelling, the excruciating pain, the stitches, the inability to walk for a few hours, the fear of peeing – or worse: the fear of “going to the bathroom.”

 What’s wrong with you people (and by you people, I mean all women everywhere)??

 Argh. There’s like some icky cone of silence around what happens after the delivery.

True – I should have expected, or at least anticipated, discomfort…. But I could never have thought it would be thaaaat bad.

 Now, 11 weeks later, I’m just starting to feel totally normal again, like my body is finally snapping back to normal… down there, I mean.  

Let's never keep secrets like that from one another again. Okay?

We're those people. Feel free to hate us.

My husband and I love to argue. Rather, we used to. Now it seems, we tend to agree on everything. Of course, “everything” is our son.

Herein is a typical conversation:

Me: Isn’t he so cute?

Ted: So cute!

Me: Don’t you love him so much?

Ted: So much!

Me: Our son: great or the greatest?

Ted: The greatest!

Me: Can you believe we’re parents to this adorable, crazy, cutey shmoockey, snooky-ooky,  teey tiny little puppy?

Ted: I can’t believe how cute he is. It’s effing crazy. I think, and I can’t believe this, that he’s gotten even… cuter. Don’t you?? It’s kind of his downfall that he’s so cute.

Me: yes! Yes! I feel that way too!! Totally. Why do you say that?

Ted: Because everyone falls all over him!

Me: It’s so true. Do you think they think he’s as cute as we think he is??

Ted: Totally. Of course. Obviously.

Me: We’ve turned into “those” people, haven’t we?

Ted: (pause) yes.

Me: (pause) But, isn’t he so cute??