Useful Things I did Today – Page 10

Proof of life

There has been some knitting. Nothing complicated, nothing interesting, but I wanted to prove that I do still knit. A little.

Here is Oscar in his pram blankie and beanie set, knitted years ago when I was off work recovering from my collapsed disk. It is knitted in Bendigo Harmony which, sadly, looks like it has been discontinued. I love this stuff, a wool cotton blend with a little lycra, it is lovely and soft to knit with, sproingy, and great against the skin. It always had a pathetic colour range, but it’s been shrinking for the last couple of years, and now seems to be disappearing all together.

Oscar Knit

And here we have Ella, Inigo’s cousin wearing her new winter hat. It’s based on the Umbilical Cord Hat from Stitch ‘n Bitch, but made a little larger to fit for a little longer. The yarn is bamboo cotton from Spotlight – exactly one ball with about 30cm to spare!

And soon here is Inigo in his new bootees. Cecelia made three pairs of “Christine’s Baby Booties” for Inigo, which have been fantastic. They are the only footwear that reliably stay on his feet, but he is growing out of them, so the time came to make some in a larger size.

The yarn is Stella, 100% bamboo, and has a lovely sheen and drape. I’ve held it double and knit on 4mm needles to make a larger bootie using the same pattern (it calls for a “fingering weight” yarn).

Tresillian will be calling me tomorrow for an admission interview. Apparently they expect me to tell them what I expect to get out of the Tresillian experience. Give me strength.

Yesterday I went to the Inner West mothers group that Miriam goes to. Needed to get out of the house to preserve sanity and escape rising hysteria. Being around so many healthy, normal babies was really hard, and I nearly cracked when one mother said to me, “I’d be really worried if that was my baby”. Apparently it isn’t obvious to the casual observer that I am consumed with fear, bleeding terror from every pore, and only barely managing to breathe through each new day that brings no news.

But on a lighter note…

Yesterday the child exploded. There was such a tidal wave of poo that it gushed out of the nappy, down the trousers, and welled into the top of the new booties. So I gave up on the modern cloth nappies for now, his thighs are too thin to plug the leg holes in the nappies. So it’s cloth terry at home, and huggies newborn for outings. Unless I want to buy a whole lot of newborn sized modern cloth nappies, this will have to do. I do feel like a bit of a failure, but right now I have other battles to fight.

Five Months Old

The perfect age for his first visit to the TAB.

Inigoattab-1

After my appointment with the nutritionist yesterday, I met up with Dad and Alex. Dad just happened to be at the TAB, so in we went.

Apparently my diet is pretty good. I was told to always have some juice when I have iron rich plant foods, as the vitamin C helps to metabolise the iron, and to try not to skip breakfast, no matter how difficult the infabeast is.

That’s one more thing to check off the list of possible reasons that my child is so thin.

Have spoken to Tresillian “centralised intake”, am now waiting for a cancellation.

On Monday he weighed 5.11kg, and while we were in the bath before the appointment with Dr McVeagh, INIGO REACHED OUT AND GRABBED THE RUBBER DUCKIE!!!!

I then made him repeat the feat a few times to make sure I wasn’t delusional. It’s the one thing we’ve been worried about with his development, despite the fact that he is a virtuoso of two handed dummy tricks…

The Mask of Motherhood

Yesterday on Monday, I baked.

I did three loads of laundry, tidied the house, made minestrone, went shopping, and made cupcakes.

Which sounds impressive when you know I have a nearly five month old baby. Until I tell you that I had a staff of three.

Yup, one to mind the baby, one to sort out five months of mail (bills, superannuation for two people, and health fund stuff), and one to help me read the recipe and do the baking, since I am so damn sleep deprived.

Mark was home sick, so he was primary baby wrangler, Dad did the paperwork, and then Mum came over after work to help me cook my first ever batch of cupcakes. And thank god she did – apparently sleep deprivation messes with your ability to read and follow simple instructions.

I read “The Mask of Motherhood” before the boy was born, and can see that the “mask” has fallen on me a little too. Which is funny.

I never thought I would be a mother, I never thought I had “it” in me. Which I suppose made it easier for me to quit my job and live off Mark while I was so ill during the pregnancy. I felt ok about not pulling my weight financially because my physical impairment was a shared burden. And Mark absolutely supported me and my needs every single day.

But now I am a Mother. With a capital M. And I don’t feel entitled to anything.

Thank you one and all for your insightful and supportive comments. I am going to do a lot more thinking about this, maybe one day it will make sense to me.

In the meantime, I’m asking for help.

I need it.

Aaaaarrrgghhhh!!!!!!!

The boy cries a lot. Perhaps that is why he refuses to gain weight. Still 5.06kg as at last Thursday (17/04/08).

This does my head in more than I am willing to admit publicly, but his head circumference is increasing, as is his length. Apparently his brain development is going great guns, and breast milk is the best thing for that. Still, you have to have a sense of humour.

The second urine test came back with contamination again, not sure what’s going on there.

On Wednesday, he slept for a whole hour without waking, and I sewed.

Yes, that is a cotton chenille bib with mauve chenille rick rack trim. I even (after a false start with homosexual snaps) installed snaps that work. I am legend.

Mark looked at it and claimed it looked “like a dishrag”. I am considering a divorce.

Inigo is OK.

Still skinny – he is still 5.06kg, which he has been hovering around for the past five weeks, but the tests were pretty much clear.

The urine test showed possible contamination, so we have done a re-test (it was my cleaning Emily!), but she is pretty sure it will be fine. The other thing that we discussed is his iron levels – they should be between ten and thirty. At seventeen, the paed thinks it should be a little higher.

So tomorrow I am off to get another foul tasting liquid to give him twice a day to make up for the reflux meds that he isn’t taking any more (with no noticeable change in behaviour).

And I’m to wake him up for an 11pm feed – hopefully feeding him once more per day will start to make a bit of a difference to his weight.

He grew more than a centimetre in the 10 days since she last saw him, and his head got bigger too. He’s bright and active and alert, and apparently shows early signs of being a challenging toddler.

Hopefully, by the time he’s a toddler he won’t look like a chuppa chup any more.

So, on to me.

This last few weeks has been rough on me. Hearing that my little guy doesn’t have some foul wasting disease has been a huge weight off my shoulders, and also knowing that it’s not my fault is good too. Of course the first thing that you think of with something like this is that you have done something to cause the problem. Rationality is next to impossible.

In the last week I’ve tried feeding him more, feeding him more often, and obsessed about every little thing. Nothing made the slightest bit of difference, except that he spewed more and was grumpier. He is still 5.06kg.

Mum has been worried too. Unfortunately she chose tonight to grill me about my diet, and I wasn’t capable of hearing any criticism tonight. Then Mark had a grump at me when I asked him to put away his laptop and play with his son.

And I realised, with a crashing thud, that I have unrealistic expectations.

I realise that I won’t have a body like Kate Moss six weeks after I had a baby. Especially since I didn’t have one before.

I realise that having a clean house is something that is almost impossible to maintain at a high level once you have a child sharing your space. Especially since I was somewhat of a grot before.

I realise that I won’t always have perfect communication with my partner or my mother, they won’t always understand what I need unless I tell them, and there are some things about them that I will never understand. This one is something I have got better at, but we can all use some work in this area, right?

Now here’s what I don’t really get. I don’t get why a woman of my generation, who is supposed to “have it all”, is still controlled by guilt and fear of exposing a less than perfect underbelly. My mum had help from her mum in raising my brother and myself, and it’s her expectation that I will need help too. She wants to help. She has arranged to take time off from her highly stressful, very well paying job to help me clean up baby vomit. She offers to help all the time.

So why can’t I say yes?

Because women all over the country, and the world – my peers, don’t have help. They work full time, they clean their own toilets, they raise kids and they cook meals. They may be stressed, and they may be medicating their way through each and every day (or they may cope without pharmaceutical help, who knows), but they do it. And I don’t even have a job.

And when I ask Mark to help out with housework, I wish I didn’t feel that it’s unfair of me to ask him to do it after he’s been at work all day. That’s just plain stupid. He works for 8 hours a day, I’m on call for 24. He can have a bad day at work and break some code, if I have a bad day at work the consequences can be much worse.

So though I usually have a pretty healthy self esteem, there is something about this motherhood gig that raises the stakes, it not only makes us care more, it also makes us more vulnerable to self criticism.

My thinking brain knows that Inigo is a lot of work, and that if I don’t get some help I might not be able to cope in the long term, and yet I still feel like I don’t deserve help, that I should be able to welcome Mark home every night to a gourmet meal and a happy smiling baby.

The reality is that even if other women can cope, I can’t. And some help would be great. I just wish I could believe that I deserve it, that accepting it doesn’t make me a failure, and that Inigo will have a much better life if his mother gets a little R&R.

And now I am going off to have a little cry. Tomorrow will be better.

My Day

A baby, a cat, and Star Trek Voyager.

I’m taking the pyjama cure.

No longer a newborn

At 2:18pm today, Inigo was 12 weeks old. Officially he’s now a baby, and he gets more and more cute and funny and entertaining to be around every day.

These are some crappy images from my mobile phone.

Gummygrin-1

In health news, he’s doing OK. Breastfeeding is going brilliantly – except that he hasn’t gained any weight in two weeks, approximately the same period of time that the breastfeeding has been going well.

He’s also still having periods of intense pain, which are frequently turned around instantly by 1ml of Mylanta. I have a referral to see another paediatrician, but I can’t get an appointment until early April. I tried another one, he doesn’t have an appointment available until June. His receptionist was quite narky on the phone, and treated me like I had Munchausen’s by Proxy.

Of course I know that there are parents that seek medical attention for kids that behave completely normally, and I am very aware of that possibility. I also am very aware that because the boy had a rough start, it is expected that I’ll feel a bit precious about his health.

But I also feel like it’s my job, as his mother, to be his advocate. And if a doctor doesn’t listen to me, I’ll find another doctor who will listen to me.

If a doctor listens to me, or better still – sees what I am seeing, and then tells me that he’s fine, I’ll be really happy. But until that happens, and I see my little guy screaming in pain regularly, I want to do everything I can to get to the bottom of it.

Happy 1/4 birthday little guy.

Valentines Day

Inigo in his hand knitted organic merino soaker for the first time – kit from Eco Yarns

I took the squirt to see our community health nurse on thursday morning, as I wanted to ask her if she thought his issues were normal and nothing to worry about, or if it was worth pursuing further doctoring. My confidence was rocked rather badly by the Tresillian paediatrician, so I wanted to be sure I was on the right track before going off half cocked. She thinks it’s worth pursuing – screaming in pain an hour after a feed isn’t normal apparently. So we’re getting back on that horse, and I’m not getting off until we get an answer.

Alex sports a new hairstyle after a bath

I then went in to visit Alex, Adam and Sarah, and Sarah gave the boy a manicure and pedicure. Little fingers and toes have very little nails, and I still can’t bring myself to cut them. I tried once, it took me an hour to convince myself that I could do it, and then 15 minutes to cut one nail. I have a phobia about finger and toenails (I once put a staple through my thumbnail, and had to have someone else change the dressing until it had completely healed), and I come out in a cold sweat at the thought of having to trim his nails. As it is, I have to keep his hands in socks when his nails get too long, until I can get him over to see his Aunty for a manicure.

Users Lara Library Application-Support Ecto Attachments Img 0794
The view of the city from Balls Head at twilight

I picked up Mark from work, and we took the boy to Balls Head Reserve for a picnic. Since it was the day before payday, we had about $11 between us, which bought some chips and BBQ sauce, and a bottle of very cheap plonk, which we drank out of the bottle.

We were almost molested by a wild possum, who only left us alone after we convinced him that all the food was gone, and he went off to pester someone with food. One of the other picnickers was startled by a wet possum nose pressing against her leg as she was absorbed in conversation.

A fuzzy view of my Valentines Day. A gorgeous view, a beautiful husband, and a superb baby.

Ted, Inigo & Bev – his first “portrait” with grandparents

And Ted is fine.

Mark’s dad had to have surgery for a blood clot, which he was told was very dangerous. We were all very worried, and news that he was OK was a huge relief for all of us, especially Mark. We’ve all heard the stories about scary in-laws, controlling, manipulative, and downright mean, so it’s taken me a few years to get my head around the fact that Mark’s parents are exactly as kind, thoughtful, generous and caring as they seem. It’s a little bit strange to me that people can be that nice and not have a hidden agenda, but they are. Better parents in law you could not hope for.

Oh, and I finished knitting the socks. Now I just have to graft the toe and weave in some ends, and it’s safe for dad to have another birthday.

Bad news, and good news

Not going in to the really bad news, but the slightly bad news is that the boy seems to have regressed to feeding every 3 hours (after being on 4 hour feeds since hospital).

The GREAT news is that for the past two days Inigo has had every feed from the breast (except the morning one that Mark does), AND IT DOESN”T HURT!

Of course, it could all turn to shit tomorrow, and he’s still really unsettled and looks like he’s in pain after every feed etc., etc., but I FINALLY feel like we’re getting some progress with breastfeeding.

I know it’s bad manners, but I feel like the SHOUTING is justified!

PS. I stayed in today (after an intense week of going out every day last week), and instead of going stir crazy, I did laundry, tidied up in the boys room, and made French Onion Soup from scratch. Only impressive because all we had in the house was a bag of mouldy onions and a glass of wine left in a bottle from three months ago. I am legend.

Of course, I didn’t finish the sock, and I nearly burned down the house making croutons for the soup, but hey…

Sorry

We’re a little broke right now, so I won’t be buying one of these to wear next week when our PM says sorry.

But you should.

And on a side note – this article discusses the increase in animal abuse prosecutions in the US – by my friend Michelle! Rock on Michelle!

Today Inigo weighed in at 4.75kg, and Oscar at 7.1kg. Woo hoo! When he had his shots last week, the doctor said Inigo was “underweight”, but his paediatrician (the one that oversaw his care in hospital) said on Tuesday that he is “thriving”. Apparently, the NSW Department of Health uses outdated growth charts that were calculated for bottle fed babies (who tend to be bigger). The World Health Organisation just published new charts for breastfed babies, but we’re still using the old ones. According to the old charts, Inigo is in the 10th percentile (bottom 10% for weight), but the WHO chart puts him a little higher. Not a huge difference, but it makes me feel better!