B is for BabyBlog

Cy and I had our first big owie and subsequent trip to the hospital emergency last night.

Don't worry though - everyone is okay!

It all started with what seemed like an innocent slip on the bottom stair. Cy's foot didn't quite land right on the step and he fell, catching the edge of the stair with his forehead on the way down. He didn't fall far, or very hard, and it didn't seem like much of a spill.

Until I picked him up and saw a giant bruise growing fast and furious on his forehead. And a nice open gash to match!

That's when the panic set in.

If you recall, Dustin and I took a first aid class before Cy was born. We studied chocking, burns, and broken bones, but I couldn't recall for the life of me anything about rapidly doubling in size purple bruises on foreheads. Cy was screaming, Frank was barking, and I couldn't reach Dust on his phone. What to do?! What to do?! I tried desperately to control the bleeding (which wasn't much) while simultaneously trying to calm Cy down. Should I take him to the children's After-Hours clinic? Should I rush him to emergency? Should we even go anywhere? Maybe 911 should come to us???

In the end, I grabbed my purse and ran to the car. It didn't seem serious enough to warrant calling 911, but looked bad enough that it might need stitches. Better safe than sorry, I thought. And off to the hospital we drove.

I couldn't remember if I locked the front door. I forgot to bring a sweater for Cy. I might as well have left an iron burning into the ironing board. I was completely disorganized and unprepared. All very unusual for me. But in that moment, with blood running down Cy's head and all these thoughts rushing through mine - my only priority was to make him feel better. Fast!

But by the time we arrived at emergency, Cy was laughing. Yes, laughing. How do you explain to a 13-month old that if only he would scream and cry inconsolably, we may get in to see the doctor faster? He was too busy making friends. With the triage staff. With the security guards. With other victims in the waiting room. In less than 3 hours, almost everyone in the hospital knew him by name. Fall? What fall? That's how I knew my little Cy guy was a-ok. He was his usual bubbly, laughing self in no time flat. He didn't even cry when the doctor ripped off the band-aid and cleaned the wound - he was grinning at him from ear to ear!

Such a trooper that little hooper is.

I went away on my first business trip this week. A quick jaunt to marvelous Montreal. Actually, more like a whirlwind two day trip that went something like this: airport - office - hotel bed- office - airport. We did squeeze in one meeting on a patio just so we could say we saw more of Montreal than the inside of an airport taxi.

This was my very first separation from Cy. I have never been away from him. Not longer than a few hours really. And I had no idea what to expect.

I have to be honest, I was a little excited about it. Even though it was for work, the idea of getting away for a few days was appealing. No sudden middle of the night teething crankiness, no last minute grocery errands to run, no cleaning to do, no meals to prepare, and a 400-thread count sheet-covered king size bed and 4 perfectly fluffed pillows all to myself..well, suddenly the idea of staying up till 10pm working on punny ads seemed worth it.

Frankly, I don't think Cy noticed I was gone. He had his Uncle Ant wrapped around his finger, teaching him how to rub his belly. Da da was there too, ready to whisk him away to his usual bath time wonderland before bed. The fact that someone else served him his bottle and heated up his din-din, well, details shmetails.

I, of course, missed him like crazy. I proudly showed off my iPhoto library the first chance I got, and talked at length about all the cute things Cy does to anyone and everyone who would listen. They would laugh and say something in french - no idea what but probably something along the lines of 'this woman is crazy.' I had some trouble concentrating on my work at times because I would drift off wondering what my little Cy guy was up to. (I even cried a little on the plane, but don't tell anyone.) In the end, we both survived.

And seeing the huge smile across his face when he saw me the next morning was, well, super fantastique!

There is nothing worse than not being busy at work. I've spent the better part of my morning wondering what Cy is up to. What he had for breakfast? If he had a long nap? Did he go on the swing today? Or better yet, did he go on the potty?

Since I've been back to work, it's been pretty hectic. I guess I sometimes forget that even though I checked out for a year, the world has continued to chug along. Things here at my ad agency have been busy as ever, and I had no choice but to jump right back into the thick of things the moment I got back. Even had to work my first weekend! I'd be lying if I didn't admit it was a bit of a shock to the system - I've been changing diapers and pureeing carrots for the better part of the year, of course trying to string an articulate sentence together was going to be challenging! But it's turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Being busy has forced me to stay focused on work (and my grammar) and not on leaving my little Cy guy at home. I conceived and pitched a promotional summer campaign for a national client, wrote three TV scripts for another, and put together some videos for internal use. And I didn't break down and cry about being a bad mother once! I survived the first two weeks, and besides keeping a box of Kleenex on hand just in case, I am proud to say this work thing is working out - really well even - so far.

Well it was, until this morning. Because this morning I've actually had a couple hours of down time. This often happens in this business. It's go go go. And then nothing. You sit around, twiddle your thumbs and brace yourself for the next wave of craziness. I've tried to catch up on the news (something about a really expensive fence in the downtown core?), made a list of chores that still need to be done (oh yeah, all of them), took care of some bills (paying for all those toys we bought Cy for this birthday is not nearly as much fun as playing with them) and planned what I'm going to make for dinner (tandoori chicken with apple raita sauce). That took all of 45 minutes.

Now I'm just sitting here at my computer dying for another distraction, secretly hoping someone will pop into my office to discuss 'deliverables' or that I'll get pulled into some pointless hour long meeting about a meeting, where I can quietly sit, nod my head when appropriate, chime in with some 'creative considerations,' while rudely and furiously checking my smartphone throughout so that I look very, very busy.

Busy looking at pictures of Cy, that is...

Exactly one year ago, I woke up Dust (who fell asleep on the couch watching Saturday Night Live) and said, "it's time!"

Well, actually, it was more like "DUST!!!! I think my water broke but I'm not sure because I was peeing right before it happened and now I can't check because it all went into the toilet and mixed together."

16 hours of labour and a full day of Masters coverage later, at 7:52pm, our little Cy guy came into this world. When it happened, I couldn't help but cry. Partly, because the most excruciating pain I have ever felt was finally over (and I thought I had a high tolerance for pain!) but mostly, because it was the most unforgettable moment of my life. There are no words, even for a writer like myself, to describe the feeling of becoming a parent. The instant swelling of pride, the overwhelming protectiveness I suddenly felt, the unrelenting desire to hold him as tight as possible and never let him go...the moment of realization - "Oh my god, this is really happening - I have a baby" - all these new feelings. So much happening so fast. Cy wasn't the only one born that night: Dustin and Marta "The Parents" were born too. That night, everything in the past ceased to matter. Right there, staring right at us, in that neatly swaddled 7 pounds 8 ounce package, was our future.

And it was saying "feed me."

Despite all the drugs, and pain, and general daze of the whole experience, I will always remember this day with perfect clarity. I cannot believe a year has passed already. There are so many things we have learned in the last year. Like the art of the swaddle...the importance of changing diapers very quickly...that we can survive on 2 hours of sleep and still manage to smile in the morning. We have all grown so much. Our little Cy guy is not a baby anymore. He's a little man full of personality, character, and charm. And we are parents. Not just two shell-shocked individuals with no idea what to do next. We instinctively scan a room we enter for possible baby dangers. We always leave the house armed with a diaper and a bottle. And we both boast extensive baby photo libraries on our iPhones.

Of course, we will never stop learning. and he will never cease to amaze us with. Next thing we know he'll be packing for college. But he'll always be our little buddha baby.

There is only one thing harder than having to leave your little cuddlebug. Having to leave your little cuddlebug with someone who, in all respects, is essentially a stranger.

I've been experiencing what I'm sure can be classified 'expected and routine' anxiety, at having to go back to work and leave little Cy at home with a nanny. Every time I close my eyes I picture that little cherub face of his looking up from his crib and that plump little bottom lip breaking into a quiver as he realizes the face staring back at him does not belong to his 'mama'. This thought is so incredibly painful I've been pretty much a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown for the better part of the last few weeks. My eyes threatening to overflow with tears at any moment and my composure so fragile, I so as much as stumble and am in danger of shattering into a million emotional pieces.

Of course, this is completely normal. I also felt this way the first time I left him for more than an hour - and that was with my own mother!

I will get over it soon enough. But it's not going to be easy.

What's even harder, however, is having to choose who this very special person responsible for Cy's daily happiness and well-being is going to be.

A complicated process really, since neither I nor my friend and co-nanny-sharer have ever been through it. Thinking ourselves proactive, we started early; wanted to make sure we had plenty of time to find just the right candidate! And we thought we did. She was super sweet, and bubbly, a mid-wife by trade, and a natural caregiver - the boys took to her immediately. After having checked her glowing references we made the official call and congratulated ourselves on a search well done.

With 2 weeks left before the big day, we called our nanny to finalize last minute details and get everything in order. To our surprise, she did not immediately return our calls. Or our emails. Or the subsequent barrage of our, at this point, frantic calls, made repeatedly throughout the day, from various phones to make sure she wasn't screening our calls. She was.

Yes, our nanny was MIA with a week left before our impending return to work. Our very own Mary Poppins just popped-out and never popped back in.

PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC etc etc etc......Breathe just breathe just breathe...etc...etc...

Instead of being reassured, all my fears, worries and second thoughts about leaving Cy with a stranger, have just been infinitely escalated. There is not enough sugar in the world to help this medicine go down.

Luckily, in less than a day, the wind has blown in a replacement. She's sweet and bubbly and has glowing references. And as an added bonus, she's the proud mother of two adorable pugs. I take this to be a sign. I think the other woman had cats...

Every parenting book and guide stresses that every baby is an individual. That each baby will develop and reach milestones at their own individual pace. And that's fine. For other babies. My baby is different. He is a genius. And he will break records, damn it.

According to some books, babies start crawling around the 7th month. Cy's 7 months 3 weeks, and he's not crawling yet. And he doesn't have any teeth yet either. Not one!

I have a friend I met in prenatal yoga class whose son is the same age as Cy. Our identical due dates and a friend in common is what got us initially talking. Living in the same neighbourhood cemented the friendship - we go on weekly walks for the exercise and the adult conversation. But that 'adult' conversation inevitably always comes back to our babies - how they're sleeping, how they're eating, and how they're teething. Yes, my friend's son started teething in his 3rd month and now boasts an almost complete set of baby teeth.

Friend:1 Cy:0

My friend has been so wonderful. Not only is she super nice and so much fun to hang out with, she's a great confidante and sounding board. Our weekly walks are also a time for us to exchange information. As first time moms - it helps to have someone going through the same thing as you. I am so grateful for our friendship. But having another baby to regularly compare Cy to can get the best of me sometimes. Like the whole crawling thing. Cy is sitting. And he does this hilarious thing when lying on his back - he tries to pull up to sitting but doesn't quite make it so he just looks like he's doing crunches. But he's not crawling yet.

Friend:2 Cy:0

On the bright side, cy is blabbing da da da, and my friend's son isn't quite yet.

Friend:2 Cy:1

But I would be lying if I said I didn't wish he was crawling already. I realize I'm going to eat my words the moment he starts cruising around the house and sticking his drooly fingers into electrical sockets. And I secretly wish I could just by-pass the whole baby gate stage all together. But I can't help be a little jealous of my friend and her crawling son. I'm competitive by nature and like every parent on the face of the earth, I want my child to be the best. Is that so wrong? Don't worry peeps - I'm not going to enter Cy into pageants or other contests. But now that I'm here, in Motherland, I can see how loving moms-next-door can quickly transform into terrifying stage momsters. Having a child is suddenly finding yourself with all this extra love just oozing out of you - like steroids for your spirit - and sometimes it's just hard finding a way to channel it.

I gotta go. It's time for Cy's crawl training.

This is going to sound horrible, but I hate that Cy's toys/various baby accessories don't match my decorating scheme. They don't exactly go with the furniture. Or anything else for that matter. They are loud, and plastic, and multi-coloured - a battery assault on the visual senses. and they're multiplying at an alarming rate!

Dust and I are modernists. We like clean lines, muted colours, minimal embellishments and no fuss. We have worked hard to amass a series of pieces that complement this aesthetic. And I'm quite pleased with our results thus far. We're still lacking some major items, (like a lamp for the dining room!) but all in good time. A well furnished home takes years of thoughtful planning and character building. I'm very much against insta-decorating. Unique pieces have to be collected over time, not maxed out on a credit card in one fell swoop. But I digress...

I'm sure I'm not alone when I say, I wish toys designers would rely on a little more, well, modern design. Be a little more eye and decor-friendly. Of course, then they would cease to be to true toys and merely decorations to be displayed on the mantle and not touched (gasp) by the little ones. Toys need to stimulate and educate and entertain. I get that. Yet I can't help but cringe every time I look at Cy's new exersaucer. He loves it of course. Functionally, it is pretty wonderful. Thanks to Babcia (bab-cha - grandma in Polish), he's happily amused for hours on end while I cook, clean or just sit on the couch and watch in wonder. The exersaucer plays music, rattles, crinkles, beeps, vibrates, spins, bounces, and makes me want to vomit. Every time I scan the room my eyes are magnetically drawn to the tacky blue and yellow and orange and green thing in the corner. Ugh.

I'm suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to redecorate everything in pure white - just to soothe my senses and balance things out. I now totally get the concept of a 'playroom.'

Just kidding! As if I would EVER say that. But I have felt like I've needed to decrease everything else.

I'm at the 5-pound stretch now. Almost there. Yes, only 5 pounds away from my original, pre-baby weight. Yes, a good portion of that may be my ginormous juggs, but there's still a little love-handle action I'm happy to let go. This is where the going gets really tough.

Thanks to the broken ankle incident and the consequent couch potato-ness, I ended up gaining well over 40 pounds during my pregnancy. (That's at least 10 pounds more than is recommended, by the way.) I always knew it was going to be a long and painful way back. But I've also always been very athletic, so I figured that with a little will power and determination - and if that failed, just looking at my new flabby pot belly for motivation - I could get back into shape. Except here's the catch. Remember the broken ankle? Well yeah, I can't really do any of that physical activity I'd been planning. No running. No tennis. No biking. Not yet anyway. And besides, even if I could, what would I do with Cy?

Plan B? Hire Madonna's trainer.

You laugh, but it's sort of true. I splurged ($30 US) and sent away for the Tracy Anderson Post-Pregnancy Workout DVD. I've never been the workout DVD kind. I can't even commit to a cardio class at the gym. I get bored easily. But the desire to squeeze into my old jean size has got me suddenly committed. And judging by my progress - it's working! Hundreds and hundreds of situps later, I can see the very early stages of an ab four-pack peeking through. 35 pounds down. Only 5 more to go.

AND I went out and bought a pair of skinny jeans - in my original size - and they fit!

Thanks Tracy! But when my arms start looking like Madonna's - stop me.
http://tracyandersonmethoddvd.amazonwebstore.com/The-Tracy-Anderson-Meth...

Ok. So this rolling over thing is really getting out of hand. Cy is one lean, mean, rolling machine. And I, the victim left in its wake. I put him down for a second, and I really mean a second, blink, and he's already on his tummy.

Of course, moments later, he starts to scream. Because, well, what's there to do once you're on your tummy? There's not much of a view. He refuses to learn how to roll back over, and crying seems as good as anything else at that point. I then rush to flip him back over. And we do this over and over and over again. All day long. Not only is the repetitiveness of this driving me bonkers, it also means I cannot put him down for a second. Unless I strap him in to something. So that means no showers, no pee breaks, and no time to eat. And if you've ever tried to spread nutella on bread with one hand while holding a baby in the other you know this is a futile task. Sigh.

At the end of the day, Cy might feel a sense of accomplishment for having really mastered this maneuver. But I feel like I'm living out my very own Groundhog Day. What a nightmare...

Gotta go. He's rolled over again.

Remember that late 90s commercial where a businessman freaks out at the airport because he accidentally checks his laptop? He's running around the terminal with a dumbfounded look on his face, slapping his forehead, and yelling:

"I checked my notebook. I can't believe I checked my notebook!!!"

Well, I've been having the same dream the last few nights. Except I'm running around the airport yelling:

"I checked my baby. I can't believe I checked my baby!!!"

Granted, I don't think airport personnel would ever allow me to do that, accidentally or otherwise. But it doesn't stop me from dreaming that it could happen. Yes, I'm going on 'vacation' at the end of the week and I've never been more terrified in my life. It's Cy's first flight.

Cut to ominous overture: DUM DUM DUM.

I'm going to be THAT woman with screaming child that everyone prays they don't have to sit anywhere near. And I'm going to have to endure 4 hours of this torture. It's not like church where you can always walk out if things get really bad and threaten to sell the child to gypsies outside, where no one will question your parenting skills or threaten to call child services. No, on a plane, there is no where to go. There is no where to hide. It's just you. A crying baby. And 100 strangers ready to throw you both overboard at the slightest whimper. There will be dirty looks. Potential kicks to the back of the chair. Or even a rude childless passenger or two who will 'politely' tap me on the shoulder and ask: "doesn't it come with an off button?"

I understand what it's like. There was a time when I cursed moms and babies on planes. I think there was even a time, during an unfortunate 24 hour return flight from Japan where i was stuck in front of a newborn that screamed for the better 23 hours of the trip, that I seriously considered starting a petition to ban babies from flying altogether. Seriously though, who hasn't, at one time or another, considered the potential merits of passing such a bylaw?

And now it's my turn. 3 more sleeps and I will have to face my very own worst nightmare. Will karma show it's ugly face and punish me for my evil thoughts with my very own screaming 3 month old? Or will Cy, with his chubby cheeks and winsome grin, be the apple of every flight attendent's eye?

Stay tuned...