To H1 or to N1, that is the question

My head is spinning, my entire body aching. Is this what it is to be the mother of a baby on the cusp of toddlerdom? (And just for the record, when exactly does that pivotal shift occur: 12 months? 18 months? 24 months? when you stop quantifying your infant in terms of months?) Exhaustion of a different kind, but exhaustion no less, has plagued the new mom -- ie. moi -- these past couple weeks. No longer content to sit in a quiet lump and play, Little Green One seeks me out constantly and then uses me as a human trellis. Or worse, a human bread stick. I know his gums are hurting, but hey, those existing teeth are little exacto knives and I figure someone's got to tell him so, right? The difficulty is imparting the meaning of 'no' to someone who has as much sense right now as the collective housemates of Big Brother (UK and US editions). It is a double-edged sword, if you'll forgive the pun, in that while I am eager to see him moving, his very movement feels like three rounds with Tyson, but a Tyson who fights dirty. Who fights like... a girl. Pinching. Stomping. Hair pulling. Biting. Don't believe me? I have the bruises and occasionally, the teethmarks, to prove it. Again, there is no maliciousness, no 'I hate you mommy' to accompany the gestures that are more about discovery than aggression. Although aggression by any other name is still aggression, and takes its toll.

This afternoon, in my ongoing, utterly futile attempts to socialize my only child, we invited another boy not much younger than Little Green for a play date at our house. Murphy's Law. Sod's Law. Who ever made the law please explain me this: why when it counts, when there is a lot going on and you're counting on a given day to run smoothly, does your undersized one declare Armageddon? There were fangs on show alright. Oh yeah, there was carnage. He was indifferent to the boy, who seemed overjoyed exploring the new turf. There was no biting, at least, but Little Green made sure the neighbours at the house five doors' down knew of his discontent. He howled so that I could no longer hear my own heart being pummelled inside my chest. I tried to stay calm, I tried to talk over him. I tried to act like a grown up with a toddler. But I might as well have been that referee holding a dinky whistle in between Tyson and his latest victim. Just two hours in, my guests had promptly packed up and shouted their excuses, and the house was suddenly pin-drop quiet. My Tyson triumphant. Does he genuinely despise other babies, I wondered. Doubtful, since he doesn't take enough notice to actively despise them. Is this a symptom of his increasing clinginess to mommy? As in: if I can't have her undivided attention for a tenth of a second, then no one will... God help me.

Little wonder then, while every good parent out there has been obsessing over the H1N1 flu vaccination (to get or not to get, that is THE question), I have been too distracted to weigh in on the debate. I have been too exhausted to read the fine print, the pickets, the pros and condiments. My Tyson seems more robust than most full-grown men. But I know enough to recognize the fallacy in this kind of thinking. If anything should happen to him, I would die. Not physically, of course. I would carry on living, but I would be a cut-out version of my former self. I would be a non-living thing. The wilted lettuce at the bottom of the crisper. No amount of years or shopping sprees and 6-star stays in Dubai would help me recover. And yet why am I not buying into the mass mommy hysteria about the 'flu pandemic. People are dying, indiscriminately it seems. Under 5s are particularly vulnerable. I worry that I have not been worrying enough. That I have continued, against all odds, to take my baby-cum-toddler to the grocery store, to the library, to the park. He has touched various things then chewed on his fingers. I have touched various things then chewed on my fingers. Old habits die hard. My nails are down to the quick and in the middle of the night, half asleep, I fiddle with them. I nibble on them, panicking. Filthy habit. You should know better, and yet... What else can I do if I can't bite my nails, now that smoking nicotine, and pretty much anything else, is off the cards? What halfway respectable bad habit is left for a thirty-something mother of one? The gym? Gasp. Maybe while he's at it, Little Green's pediatrician could inject a seasonal pick-me-up for the moms while they are waiting in line for the H1N1 vaccine. I would so be there.

Little Green One turns one!

So, it came and went. Little Green One's biggest milestone to date --with the exception of being born, that goes without saying. Since he was struck down by a nasty hacking cough during the latter part of the week, we contemplated cancelling the whole weekend affair. After a few sleepless days and nights (for both of us), I wasn't sure he would manage the five-hour drive to my parents' place and even if he did, what sort of gremlin he would be when the company arrived. To his credit, he slept well in the car and even more to his credit, he cranked on the charm when it counted and the spotlight shone down. His father's son, for sure. Charming, almost unrecognizably so, our little changeling smiled and cruised his way along the couch, flirting shamelessly with family and friends. When the cake came, he reached out, grabbed a fistful of icing and sugary gloop, and stuffed the hole in his face. His father's son, indeed.

Twelve months has been a turning point. His gift to us on his birthday: he crawled. I had finally given up hope that he would ever deign to do what most babies his age had already been doing for four months. And yet, what better incentive than to covet --and subsequently wrench-- your own toy from another baby's tiny hands. Nothing like a bit of selfish ambition to get things rolling at your party.

In the post-festivity week, Little Green has been unstoppable. Not exactly a cyclone, like some tots I know. But he has certainly graduated to toddler almost overnight. He hates to sleep and insists on using his crib as a bouncy castle; he regards most suppers I serve with the contempt usually reserved for airline fare. Yay for toddlers... At least the word NO hasn't yet made it into his lexicon, but I know it's coming. He is cruising the coffee table like nobody's business --often with one hand if you don't mind (his father's son)-- and scaling the walls like Spidey minus the spindly web. The crawling continues but still at a plod and only really for things that truly warrant the effort: like Mr Green's 50-odd-inch home cinema. And his disposition. Sometimes I have to pinch myself. I know a dingo didn't eat my baby, but it is as if someone swapped the 'griner' in the night for a happy chappie who has started to clap his hands, laugh spontaneously, and bounce on his wobbly feet for no apparent reason. Not quite his father's son...

My theory is that for a while now his size has restricted and frustrated his physical prowess. In short, his body couldn't carry out his brain's commands. Furthermore, because he couldn't get around as much as he would have liked, he continually had problems releasing wind, which led to painful cramping --the black colic that never really truly subsided. Now he can slither and writhe and sidestep and lunge, LG toots like no tomorrow, all the while looking pretty thrilled with himself. As if there was any doubt by now --his father's son.

Only (but not lonely)

With Little Green's first anniversary coming up next week, I thought I would touch upon the mania that is THE FIRST BIRTHDAY PARTY. Mania is no exaggeration. Where there are entire websites devoted to cake decorating -- from superheroes to teddy bears to the cartoon sensation of the moment -- there should also be sites devoted to post-birthday counselling for the moms who labour over said iced masterpieces.

Of course the occasionally ultra sensible Mr Green doesn't get this phenomenon. 'What's the point,' he says, 'the kid isn't even going to remember any of it?' True enough, but there will be photos, there will be full-length feature films, there will be documentary evidence of that first magical occasion. And if it isn't quite magical enough... Well, therein the problem lies. Much of the birthday party craze is down to other mothers, to other, preceding parties. A keeping-up-with-the-Joneses sickness that starts way too early in the mite's life. Birthday parties dominate the social scene for both the child and the parent, who must dutifully drive and chaperone the festivities at any given house on nearly every given weekend. And then there's the present to buy. I hear that once kids are in school, the phenomenon turns pandemic. After all, it's rude not to invite the WHOLE class, least anyone be 'left out', right? And while it is great to receive 20-something gifts at your own child's party, reciprocation is very much expected. That's 20-something parties to survive, 20-something gifts to search out and buy at a Walmart near you, 20-something gifts to wrap with a pretty bow. I'm not one for maths, but in this case the numbers are loud and clear.

Today's Parent recently reported that the cost of putting on a party for your child can run anywhere from CD$50-$500, with the average being $20 per tiny head. Our Little Green's party, though it falls (cover your ears, Pipsqueak) in the 'el cheapo' bracket, will be a weekend-long affair, with cake and Little Green Family on Saturday, followed by pizza, toys, and my own top-secret cake concoction, attended by all manner of Little Green Friends on Sunday. There will be loot bags and decorations to think of. In addition to making 'practice' cakes (trust me, a common occurrence since the gateaux in question are worthy of Ms M Stewart herself), I have been slaving away at a birthday banner, too.

Needless to say, the time and money involved are a shameful reflection of the age we live in. We all want the best for our little princes and princesses, no question. But it seems to me that in this quest to give them the very best of the best --and in an (un)conscious attempt to compensate for what our own childhoods may have lacked-- we have taken the birthday party to new, utterly senseless levels. Anyone about to quibble the point needs only watch that show documenting Sweet Sixteen parties in the U.S..

For my part, I am already feeling the heat of the social crunch, and my almost toddler hasn't even reached school age yet. Most week days are filled with his extra-curricular activities: from swimming lessons, to music classes, and now storytime. Already I worry about his sociability. As Little Green is an only child (and foreseeably staying that way), I understandably want to do my utmost to mitigate against The Only Child Syndrome otherwise known as loneliness and spoiled-ness. Being an only child myself, I know all too well that a lack of siblings can often foster a greater closeness to your parents, as well as a heightened imagination (cue: imaginary playmates) and creativity. But on the flipside, I have also known the loneliness, acutely and intimately at times. Teachers were quick to pin the 'shy' label on me growing up and as a result I often struggled to make friends. However, the few friendships I have developed over the years are of the close and long-term variety, friendships which I wouldn't trade for the world. Wouldn't even trade, all this time and hindsight later, for a sibling.

With any luck, Little Green will cultivate the same kinds of friendships, even if it means several years of birthday mania for his parents.

Mom, what are you DOING trying to fart on my tummy?

So Little Green celebrates his one-year anniversary in a couple of weeks. Incredible. As for me, this past year has been akin to a dog's; I've aged seven. But sadly, unlike a vintage red, it's done me no favours. Why is it that when men sprout a few greys (and I don't mean from their noses) and get a few lines chiseled around the eyes, they look distinguished -- they look like Daniel Craig, they look like Clive Owen -- while we women just look like the witch in Snow White? As if Mother Nature or the Almighty or Whatever wasn't cruel enough by making us carry and bear children -- at least most of us stop in single figures these days. Small mercies.

As for Little Green, well, it's baby steps and not even. I'd been consoling myself to some extent in thinking that at least if his physical prowess lagged behind (how many almost toddlers do you know who still aren't crawling, aren't even really attempting by their first birthday?), his mental agility must be Samurai sharp by now from all the books. As a little experiment to self this morning, I tested this theory by holding up two balls from one of his toys. One red, one yellow. 'Where is the red ball?' I asked. Would you believe my little boy astutely, and without a moment's hesitation, chose the red. Oh, the pride! Oh, the glorious, glorious pride! I repeated the exercise a moment later, just to be sure. Not only did he seem indifferent this time around, you got it: he chose red again... when I asked for yellow. So long ink blots and scholarships! Hello, would you like fries with that?

Isn't it ridiculous that I get so hung up on his development (or lack thereof) at his tender, overly ripe age? I know it is, but I can't help myself. The whole blowing raspberries thing is his dad's domain, and I always feel embarrassed trying to pull it off. Even Little Green looks embarrassed. Like, 'Mom, what are you doing trying to fart on my tummy?' So it's up to me to be the worrier, the organizer, the educator, and later, the tyrant. Of course, I would much rather be the funny, F-U-N parent but I already know how this will play out -- pardon the pun -- down the line. When I am destined to become Nazi Mom. It's not a pretty picture, but there are already days when I struggle just to keep it together.

I mean, how do you entertain an almost toddler with an attention span even shorter than your own? Sure we have the odd scheduled activity (if I hear The Itsty Bitsy Spider one more time, I swear there will be blood...) but my son isn't a cuddler, much to my dismay. (Hell, his 'attachment' toy these days is none other than a plastic palm tree. I know. I keep thinking back to that damn Rhesus monkey from first year Psych. My child would rather cuddle up to a plastic tree/wire monkey than me, yowsa.) And weighing in at 28lbs in the left corner of the crib... he is too much 'baby' for me to rough and tumble even if this did come naturally to me. Deep breaths. Stop caring quite so much. Little Green won't turn out to be Hannibal Lecter OR Doogie Howser, MD. He'll simply grow up to be himself, a perfectly average man. No wonder I'm worried.

Black colic and beyond...

As Little Green approached the eleven-month mark, I broke down and got a book from the library all about the fussy baby. It's the first time I am openly admitting that after all this time my mini man is what the book diplomatically refers to as a 'high maintenance' or 'high needs' baby. (By no means to be confused with 'special needs'... Parents of special needs children are nothing short of saints in my humble books.)

In all likelihood I will always feel guilty about the months of colic and the suffering he has endured for the first eight or so months of his life. Just as I will always be secretly (or not so secretly anymore) niggled by the possibility that I could have done more something to help him, i.e. switched his formula to some funny soya-based one. I will wonder whether this cruel start may have marked him to be the baby he is today, a baby who is markedly more intense than other babies, and markedly less inclined to play or sit happily for even the briefest periods. Oversensitive, easily overstimulated... I will wonder whether there is still something wrong that countless doctors have overlooked, unable to quite admit that all these traits form his temperament. The book stresses the positive, which of course is why I need to read it. To focus on being the most responsive parent I can be since he cannot yet communicate his needs in any other way, and since I cannot change the fact that he is demanding. To focus on accepting his fussy nature as it currently presents itself, rather than trying to change him or hope that his behaviour 'improves' with age (highly unlikely on the cusp of toddlerdom). Sometimes, the book claims, the exasperating traits of so-called high needs babies turn out to be desirable teen/adult traits -- e.g. empathetic, sensitive, and caring. Hm. Of course none of this psychobabble stems from scientific basis, and perhaps the whole theory about the fussy baby serves merely to help me cope with the here and now. But so be it. Anything a parent can do to ease the burden of a challenging baby is time and energy well spent. Hear, hear!

People have often remarked on how serious Little Green is for a baby, as though all these thoughts were going on behind the scenes. I hope his intensity is not a mask for continued discomfort. And I must accept that this is who he is, his personality already shaped to a shocking degree, and already -- I hasten to add -- shockingly aligned with my own dark intensity. (Perhaps this fact, ultimately, is what shocks and disappoints me so? It was certainly one of my biggest and most tangible fears about giving birth to a person who mirror imaged the highlights, and lowlights, of my own personality. How you pray, as a parent, that the bad will always gloss over your unblemished child. I was more than willing to concede that he resemble his father in all aspects, rather than risk him being subjected to my own goblins. But alas, I am responsible for half of his genetic makeup so this was bound to be wishful thinking on my part.)

And so it goes. Each day I wake not knowing what mood my baby will be in, and how I will bear the hours with him if it turns out to be A Bad Day. To strangers I will find excuses -- teething, wind, tiredness -- for my son's distinctive sound that is one part whine, one part grunt: a sound I have almost lovingly dubbed a 'grine'. I catch his smiles, when they come, and smile till my own jaw hurts. And such times, when the sound of his inimitable laughter resounds through the house, my heart swells in my chest like that Grinch character, and feels like it might burst from love and from gratitude. Reminded, as if I should for an instant risk forgetting, how the pain as much as the love of life, can hurt.