The Grampy Diaries

Hell hath no fury like that of a sickly child. Really. Nevermind PMS. This past week or so has been a living H-E-double-hockey-stick. What started innocuously enough as a case of sniffles quickly turned into a full-blown cold, complete with hacking cough that not only prevented our One 'n' Only from napping during the day but also for most hours of the night... And this went on for oh, about six consecutive nights. So it seems he has inherited his dad's low threshold for pain: he who still trembles in his size 12s at the sight of a dental hygienist and who nearly passed out when I had to have MY waters forcibly broken by crochet needle almost 16 months ago! (But who, paradoxically, doesn't at all mind the tattooist's needle buzzing and slicing into his arm for hours at a time, go figure.) 

Poor LGO. I could not wipe his snotty, ever snotting nose enough. We elevated his mattress, put on the Vicks vaporizer, sang all the lullabies in heaven and rocked him till the sun started shining again. All to no avail. He felt tremendously yucky in his skin and couldn't get comfy enough to get the rest he needed to get well again. Still, his spirit was amazing throughout. He was a chipper little man during the day, even though he must have been exhausted.  His walking has come a long way in the past few weeks.  He is 'running' at times, walking in dizzying circles, and pacing the living room like a caged lion.  His balance and coordination have also come along through practice; he can squat better than his mother, bending to retrieve balls and tiny blocks, then standing again.  He loves climbing up stairs but we have yet to learn a safe way of going down them.  Still no words as such but his language, if it can be called that, is sounding more word-like.  And anyway, even though he isn't expressive, I can tell the comprehension is there -- ie. when I ask him to do something or where something is, I can tell that he 'gets it' -- so this fact alone has put my fears to rest. 

Just as I am a perpetual worrier, LGO is a perpetual late starter, a fact I am belatedly realizing.  And it's no biggie as far as facts go.  But I know I am not the only mother out there worried about her infant's development, or lack thereof.  Said dental hygienist has a tutor for her toddler because the other kids in his kindergarten class already know their ABCs.  Said toddler even asked her if he was dumb, which is telling to his emotional intelligence at the very least.  Asked if he was dumb, at something like 4 years old!  It is not enough for kids to develop at their own pace any more.  It's not enough for parents to worry about things like autism, ADD, and dyslexia; their kids shouldn't just keep pace with their peers but there is the expectation, even at preschool, for them to excel and exceed their peers.  Is the sluggish economy responsible for this parental montessori insanity?  Surely all said parents need shrinks, not the kiddos.  I mean, Kumon!!  What happened to childhood for children?  I've seen the lives of city lawyers close up; no way do I want that kind of dog house existence for my son.  I want a happy plumber or burger flipper.  I want him to enjoy his time in the sun, dissecting earthworms, just as I did.  That's why we moved to the Canadian outback after all.  So he can have the opportunity to play hockey in the street, if he wants to--

But back to the sickness...  Of course this would be the week when Mr Green had to set sail (or Nissan) on business south of the border for a few nights. For Pete's sake and Murphy's law, it figures.  Cue my parents to step in and save the day. It literally took three pairs of hands and round-the-clock shift work to get through last week's wreckage. Never have I been so sleep deprived except for those few bleary weeks last October. Now Little Green is making progress. Not quite so crusty and snotty but oh, how he has grown accustomed to those three pairs of doting hands. The rocking and the lullabying, and the cuddling everywhere but in his crib, till his heart's content. In the space of a week he has turned into a five-star baby and expects that kind of service from now on, if you please. Now that he is on the road to recovery it's a hard withdrawal process. But it's high time to spoil the rod and spare the child, so to speak. He must re-learn how to fall asleep on his own. It's for his own good, I know this. And I don't begrudge all the mollycoddling that went on. It's what little ones need when they are poorly; as vital as vitamin C and as crucial to healing as good ole Campbell’s chicken noodle.

Our poor little chicken noodle. As sorry as I felt for him, I felt just as sorry for myself and for my saintly parents who not only tolerated but thrived on very little sleep for the duration of our 'visit'. I am not someone who can go without sleep. It doesn't take long for me to get very ugly, indeed. I'll be the first to admit that. But isn't it surprising who steps up to the plate in times of need? Remarkable. Assuming you've ever found yourself in a time of need, I'll bet the most help has come from those you least expected, and the least from those you expected most. Unlikely angels. Mine is my stepdad, formerly the Anti Christ. Now a Superstar in my books. I wouldn't even believe it myself; it's the stuff of the worst kind of made-for-TV movie. Growing up, I couldn't stand him and the feeling was oh-so-mutual. He was the muse for my angst and many spiral notebooks filled with angry scrawls and Alanis Morrisette-type 'poetry'. Now he is the Baby Whisperer. So helpful. So considerate and wonderful with my baby boy, exuding tireless patience when LGO is at his most tiresome.

While I sorta wish he'd been like that with me, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or any horse for that matter. I appreciate his help. I am grateful for the new understanding and the surprising bond that has sprung out of the weeds between us. It's weird how well we get along now, how similar we are... I'd go so far to say spooky, even. Maybe if he had met my mom sooner -- say, while I was still a baby or a toddler (since my birth father had long gone AWOL) rather than a moody pre-pubescent -- things might have been different. But the past is dead and buried, right? There's no sense even looking backwards when all anyone can reasonably do is walk on the solid ground above it. And so I am looking forward, with a baby nurtured back to health, knowing a good deal of that nurturing came from his grandfather.

My Cuddle Bug

A new year -- 2010, OMG!!! -- and I resolve here, in front of all you e-witnesses, to relaaaaaax (well, as much as my genetic pre-disposition will allow me).  As LGO approaches the 15-month mark, I'm still doing my damnedest to help him reach his milestones and to make his days of discovery as fun and happy as possible.  Having said that, at a local community centre this week I just so happened to pick up a communication checklist, which breaks down what your kiddo should be doing by set times.  I know, I know, this is EXACTLY the sort of thing I should be avoiding like the plague that drove Noah into his big ass boat... But.  I couldn't help myself.  I was curious to see whether my paranoia was at all founded in reality.  Sadly, it was.  According to the checklist, he still isn't doing quite a few of the things he should be doing (waving, pointing, imitating words/sounds, etc).  Before I throw myself over the coals yet again, I've resolved to have a sensible chat with his pediatrician this week when he gets his latest round of immunizations, to see whether he thinks the checklist is a load of stinky baloney.  His pediatrician is incredibly laid back.  He pretty much 'whatevers' every hyper new mom's questions, so I'll be curious to hear what constitutes his own personal checklist to get a real sense of where LGO is at -- and what, if anything, we can do to help him along. 

Saying that, he has done a bit of walking (eureka!) this week, having watched his friend parade around our house last Sunday.  I think the coin finally dropped when he saw his little friend nimbly walking all over the show and getting to the toys faster.  What an eye opener!  Nothing like a little healthy competition to kick him up the diaper.  We start a new play group this week, and I'm excited for him.  He needs more social stimulation than just boring old mommy all the time.  Seeing kids his own age might egg him on.  For all of my moaning and worry-warting, though, he is friendly and affectionate.  I could hardly make it through the food shopping this week without literally a dozen women -- and men -- stopping to chat and coo over him.  Could be because he's still virtually bald, and his cheeks are perpetually squirreling away a winters stash, that he's clinging to the baby look that most infants have all but lost by his age.  And even though it probably drives other parents nuts, the whole being talked to by strangers thing, and admittedly slows down the shopping, that kind of grocery store attention and chit chat is something I will sorely miss when he's all grown up and his cheeks are decidedly less squishy. 

Another thing I'll miss is the affection.  Rue the day when he crosses the street and rolls his eyes as if he would rather DIE than give his poor, freaky old mom a peck or, god forbid, that three-letter offence:  a hug.  And while I do love to moan and do more than my fair share of it here, know that I wouldn't trade his willing, sloppy kisses right now for a handful of words or some fancy footwork.  I would rather he be slow but sentient than have Aspergers.  (And sorry if that sounds insensitive on my part, but I'm not one to mince words in this blog so I won't start now. It is what it is.)

Tale of the twisted ankle (or how all hell broke loose)

So, for reasons unbeknown to even me, I've been putting off blogging lately (although you just know I'm going to ponder the whys and wherefores right here, right now, don't you?).  Ah, well, I could say it's down to spraining my ankle and having to play the invalid at my parents' place for two weeks.  I could say it's down to moving house right before Christmas.  Or to Christmas itself, and to feeling unjolly.  I could put it down to virtually anything else that life with a capital L has thrown my way lately.  But I'd be lying.  Because when I really want to write -- or really, really want to do anything -- I always find a way.  I guess I'm annoyingly headstrong and impulsive that way.  Mr Green nods affirmatively.  But really, it most likely boils down to this:  on the days when I enjoy LGO's antics, I'm too busy nuzzling up to his soft baby loveliness, or just nuzzling up to the idea of motherhood in general. And conversely (of course you just knew there would be a conversely, didn't you?), on the days that are most 'grining', I wind up face to face with the laptop-cum-therapist.  Loathe as I am to use this space as a free-range b*tch session, I do sense a pattern emerging, and I don't like it one bit.

But now that I'm here, now that I'm conscious of it, I'll see what I can do.  Readers of this blog have previously told me that what they most appreciate, other than the exquisite writing (ha!), is that the blog pokes fun at the most trying aspects of birthing and raising a child in this day and age.  It's not easy.  What is, you say?  Ironically, writers I also admire tend to do this -- i.e. smile through kicked-in teeth.  It's a huge compliment to me to know that I'm succeeding, against all odds, to elicit some laughter through what has often been a very black (with occasionally pink lining) cloud of a year for me.  I don't know that the experience is as hard for other mothers.  It would be vain and foolish to think it's remotely easier for others.  I know the socio-economic gods are shining down on me as we speak, so I won't mock them to assert such a thing.  But I just wonder why, the minute my cup is half empty, do I not remember how good and how quenching the first half tasted. 

Case in point.  Mr Green and I gallavanted into the mountains for several blissful nights in late November, not having a care in the world. Not having to think about anything or anyone but each other.  No time constraints.  No holds barred.  It truly was blissful, and for that I'm grateful.  But it seems an eternity ago.  Sand through the hourglass and all that.

Fast-forward a few weeks later.  The sprained ankle was silly and a drag, and I'm too embarrassed to go into the whys and wherefores here.  Suffice to say, I swallowed what's left of my puny little pride and stayed with my parents till I could comfortably hobble around again.  Needless to say it was a sobering reminder of just how dependent your dependant is on you when they cannot yet walk.  A sobering reminder, too, of just how easily a fit young (ok on both counts: moderately fit and even more moderately young) adult can become a dependent dependant all over again, in the twist of an ankle. 

Then we moved into a house of our own, the second big move for the Greens in under a year.  The move went like clockwork, tick, tock, but that did little to diminish the stress of it all.  Stress that LGO surely must have ingested in some shape or other.  The strangeness of the new place disrupted his routine in a major way, as we suspected it would.  He woke an average of half a dozen times a night during the first week.  It brought back those early awful months before he managed to sleep through.  Understanding his need for security, I rocked him for ages and did everything the books tell you not to in normal conditions.  I let him use me to fall asleep.  Now that we're more or less settled, he has been more or less happy.  And he has made a couple developmental leaps recently that we're inordinately proud of.  First off, he has learned to give kisses -- hilarious, open-mouthed kisses -- on command.  Reserved not just to mommy and daddy but to family and favourite teddies.  Not total strangers.  That wouldn't be so good.  Seconds:  another little one of my 'tests' involving animal recognition.  LGO has a wooden puzzle with jungle animals on it.  When I empty the puzzle and scatter the pieces on the floor, then request either the 'elephant' or the 'crocodile' or the 'giraffe', you guessed it, my little wonder supplies the right wooden piece with no more than vocal prompting.  I'm sure whether this feat is impressive for his age, but nonetheless, the pickings are slim when at nearly 15 months old, he isn't talking or walking.  And his mother, dumb moo, isn't beyond caring and comparing.

But for all his wonderment, of course there are some off days, today being one of them.  I know I should chalk it up to an off day.  We all have them.  True, but his tend to rub off into mine.  How, how, how you ask does such a little man exert such a big ass influence over my moods?  Last time I checked I was a grown up, for Peter's sake.  Why then can't I remain chipper and upbeat in the face of the Griner??  Why must I crumble, recoiling, hardening into granite, instead of softening into the malleable, motherly thing that he craves?  I want to be loving and patient, and all the things you associate with blessed motherhood.  But the grining...  Oh, the grining, it gets me every time.  It is sustained and unlike any other sound I've heard from another infant...  The incomparable way it drags its talons down the back of my skull.  When the Griner does his thing, I just want to retreat as far away as possible, and the feelings I have at such times are far from loving.  Then, in direct response, guilt bubbles to the surface.  How can my only child ever, even for a moment, be anything other than loveable to me?  Does that mean my love for him is conditional?  Does that mean I am evil to the core?  These questions plague me to the point of insanity sometimes.  Because I know how I would answer them.  I want to do what's right by him.  I want not to care or worry about what he is or isn't doing.  About the fact that he is lagging behind developmentally.  I want my love to be such that nothing else matters. Not even his behaviour when it galls me, when it grates against my skull.  I want to hate the sin, not the sinner.  And the grining is trivial; it's only the beginning of possible sins, I know it is.  And while we're at it, here's another question for you:  How unconditionally should you love your child?  Or two:  Can you still love him when he does unspeakable things?  I love Little Green One, but I admit openly and honestly, I sometimes find it hard to like him very much.  In spite of myself, I compare him to others and sometimes he comes up short.  I feel so guilty I could puke.  There, now you know why I didn't want to blog.  Sometimes words are too ugly to be turned into a punchline.

Sex -- there, that got your attention

Ok, so serves me right for tooting the proverbial horn with the last post. Let that be yet another moral lesson to you, my LGO: Smugness never pays! After my intrepid explorer performed the magical feat of five solo steps last week, and no doubt saw just how excited this made mommy and daddy, he decided he didn't really feel like doing it anymore. In fact, whenever we try to 'practice stand' with him now, he often makes his legs go limp under him. Ah, careful what you wish for? Here my long-suffering back was hoping that a walking toddler would mean less lifting therefore less strain on the back. That a walking and soon-running toddler would mean a slimmer toddler therefore less strain on said back. Alas, my little heavyweight seems to be getting heavier still, despite the roughened crawler's knees and the advent of homo milk -- or gay milk as Mr Green likes to call it, if you'll indulge for a moment his childish brand of humour.

To boot, we have as of late seen the return of the blasted Grine, so whether it's more molars cutting or the frustration of not having the words to express himself (I've been working on specificity, i.e. 'up', 'more', and so on, with little result) is up for debate. But the grining really does get me down. I know it's a phase and like all phases, will inherently pass. And of course I love my little rascal, grining and all, but let's face it, toddlerdom has a bad rep for a reason. I will no doubt get through it only to, with my purple heart tacked to my breast, brag along with the scores of veteran parents out there. And you, lucky, lucky you, will get to suffer all the while through my stories of petty hardships and equally petty victories. After that, you'll deserve a medal of your own.

So all things considered, it's high time Mr Green and I got away for some you-and-me-without-the-baby time. Yes, that monumental first parting from our beloved grining son is scheduled for this weekend to commemorate ten years of (mostly) wedded bliss. So it's not a week in Aruba -- see, even good old St Nick's pinching nickels this year -- but three nights in a five-star hotel in picturesque Quebecois mountain country is nothing to grine about, either. We're not saying just where in Quebecois mountain country lest LGO tries to track us down... Suffice to say, we are ready. We are trying hard not to show so much teeth when we smile. Lest we look like Matt Damon. But we are sooo ready for this.

Did I mention the hot tub yet? Did I mention the sleeping in till at least five past seven in the morning and the eating our meals WHENEVER WE DAMN WELL PLEASE, and for that matter getting the Barry White On or having a nap WHENEVER WE DAMN WELL PLEASE? See, now you're smiling now, too. It's contagious, isn't it? Sure, we'll wonder how our baby is doing as we linger over crème brulee or a nice Irish coffee by the fireplace, over breakfast the next morning, and again throughout the three-course lunch that we have time to taste. We might even feel a tad guilty for deserting him with Nanny and Grampy with no concept whatsoever that we will return at all. We will no doubt pine to hear his squeals of delight at bath time and to see his chipmunk-at-the-height-of-autumn cheeks. At some point, being without him may feel physically painful, and we will make far too many 'just checking in' phone calls to my parents, who will chuckle to themselves right after we hang up.

Being away from Little Green One will be hard. But somehow we'll come through it. And when we come back, after four long days of sun and fresh mountain air, I feel sure we'll be better parents for being away. For remembering what it once was like when we were just two.

These booties are made for walking

Well, well, well. Talk about tortoise and the hare... On the cusp of LGO's birthday (13 months tomorrow), he up and takes five steps solo with no prior warning at all. This from the guy who only started crawling less than a month ago, and prior to that was the baby equivalent of a couch potato. I'll be darned. So he's a late crawler and early-ish walker. Serves me right for being concerned all those weeks when he sat there, like a little turnip, on his mat. I should have known that he was plotting and waiting for just the right moment to dazzle mommy senseless.

No camera to hand to record the big event since we were at Gymboree at the time, and I kid you not, the contempt of the other moms sitting in the circle with their own little turnips was palpable. I wasn't smug; at least I don't think I came off that way. How could I be? I reminded one mom that there was a world of difference between a 9- and 13-month old and I should know. Not sure if she believed me (a few short months ago I wouldn't have believed me) or felt any less contemptuous. But at least I tried. And let's just say -- since I can afford to be a little smug here, in the safe confines of my own blog -- that it felt damn good to wear the other penny loafer for once. To be the mom of that incredibly busy babe, even if the others were weeks if not months his junior.

We pretend all this stuff doesn't matter, of course, we pretend that there is no competitive edge at sing-alongs, that we're all just proud as peas no matter what our Jimmy and Janey do or don't do by a certain age. But oh, let me burst that precious bubble right now. The edge is there alright. Just look at how some of these babies are dressed. I have never in my life worn such coordinated and fetching ensembles (I couldn't even afford the labels). This is a serious game, especially these days where it's career mom vs career mom. They're a fierce bunch, fresh from the boardroom to the playground and bloodthirsty beneath the Stepford veneer. I'm praying Little Green One grows up as klutzy as his madre, and plain sucks at hockey -- not to mention soccer, baseball, basketball, and... Otherwise I'm in for it. I'd be run down by a Land Rover long before the Zamboni came out in between periods. Here's hoping Little Green stays oxen-big and clinging to that 90th percentile throughout puberty so he can protect his little mother when the going gets ugly. He may not have to worry about bullies, but I will.

Not much else to report. We move house for the third time in under a year and as I stuff boxes, I'm worrying (me, worry?!) about how our lad will adapt to the new place. Previously he was so young that I knew, even though it was strange to consider, that he would have zilch recollection of his life in England. And that the transatlantic move and all the ensuing craziness would be all but obliterated from his long-term memory. I truly wish it was for me. But this time around he's showing signs of the dreaded separation anxiety and I wonder whether another uprooting will be more noticeable for him this time around. Obviously he will be surrounded by familiar 'things', albeit he still hasn't taken to a certain toy for comfort. And mommy and daddy will be on hand, as will nanny and grampy, to make the transition as smooth as possible. But I'm sure my own stress will leave a stench like that Coty perfume I bathed in when I was twelve.

At least Mr Green and I are determined -- I mean, the mortgage lenders are determined --that this will be the last stop for quite a while. If I have my way, at least until LGO finishes elementary school. Maybe even high school, whereupon we can kick him out and nab a fancy condo (just kidding, errr....). In the meantime, happy days, right? In the meantime, looks like I have yet more adapting to do. This time as a poor housewife in a rich(er) neighbourhood. Does that mean I can't shop at Walmart and Value Village anymore? Maybe it is a good time to practice looking smug after all, especially when I am the only one who knows how much I didn't pay for that 'new' sweater.