Separation Anxiety

At church this Sunday, Ryan experienced his first brush with separation anxiety. We got to church a bit early and I brought him downstairs to the church nursery. We got there before the nursery attendant did, so I sat him down and took out some blocks for him to play with. He was contentedly playing with the blocks when she arrived, so I stood up, gave her a quick overview of what was in his diaper bag, and started out the door. As I did, Ryan turned, saw me leaving, and immediately burst into tears and crawled after me at top speed and in full wail. I gave him a hug and sat him back down with the blocks, and as soon as he was distracted, I slipped out the door.

The way our church is laid out, the nursery is directly below the sanctuary, and there is a door at the top of the stairway that opens into the front of the sanctuary, right near where we always sit. So if Ryan is screeching at the top of his lungs, I would be able to hear him during a lull in the service. I didn’t expect that he would have had a full-out meltdown, but I was listening carefully just in case. I didn’t hear anything, so I assumed he was fine and enjoyed the rest of the service.

When I went to claim him after church, he had just finished his bottle and was dozing off. The attendant said there had been a few moments when he would suddenly look around, realize I wasn’t there, and cry for a few seconds, but he was easily distracted and never cried for long. I was relieved that it hadn’t been an issue.

I hope that he never reaches a stage when he’s inconsolable when Mummy or Daddy isn’t around, but if he does, we’ll deal with it. The difference between Herb’s and my response to that theoretical situation provides an interesting (but not surprising) comparison of the general difference in attitude between mothers and fathers. Herb stated that if Ryan screeched when he left, he wouldn’t even look back, and he’d leave him for the entire service without blinking or looking in on him. I, on the other hand, would come back and give him a hug, reassure him that I’d be back in a little while (even though at this point he wouldn’t understand), and then linger out of sight outside the door for five minutes or so to see if he calmed down. If he didn’t, I’d check back in 20 minutes or half an hour and if he was still screeching, I’d stay with him. Herb’s thought is that it won’t hurt him to scream for an hour, so if it doesn’t bother the nursery staff, it doesn’t bother him. My thought is that I don’t want him to make himself sick with screaming for an hour, and if I’m worrying about him through the whole service I’m not getting anything out of it anyway.

I suppose it’s a bridge we’ll cross when we come to it. I may find that it doesn’t bother me to leave him after all, especially if he’s calm and contented when we do go to pick him up. When I taught the 2- and 3-year olds in Sunday School, I always reassured the parents that it didn’t bother me if the kids screamed at first, and they almost always calmed down after a few minutes. But now with my own baby, I understand how heart-wrenching it is to leave your child in misery when you know that staying will make him happy. It really is a case of “This will hurt me more than it hurts you.” And I’ve promised Herb that I won’t be a helicopter parent who hovers over my children and never allows them to make a mistake, or hurt themselves, or be lonely, and I’ll stick with that. But I suspect I’ll have a harder time of it than I thought I would before I had kids.

We strike a good balance, he and I. If it were up to Herb, Ryan would never get a hug when he gets a tiny bit hurt or scared, and that would teach him to be self-sufficient, but possibly also a bit less trusting and secure. And if it were up to me, I’d never let him be hurt or scared to begin with, and that would teach him that he will always be safe and protected, but it would also make him overly dependent and ill-prepared for the world. But between the two of us, he’ll grow up knowing that he can solve his own problems, but that Mum and Dad will be there to reassure him and help him out whenever he needs us. I think that’s a pretty good compromise.

The Calm After the Storm

Ryan doesn’t have meltdowns very often (although since he’s been teething, it does happen just a bit more frequently), but when he does I always feel terribly helpless. There’s not much I can do to calm the storm, I just have to wait until it passes. Usually it passes because he’s fallen into an exhausted sleep. And I must admit, the sleep after a meltdown is the most beautiful, most peaceful, calmest thing I have ever seen.


I love watching Ryan sleep at any time, because either he’s being funny and singing to himself or making faces or wiggling like a puppy, or he’s out cold and as limp as a rag doll. But when I see his tear-streaked face relax into peaceful slumber – ahhh, there’s nothing more wonderful than that.

And the best part is that when he wakes from a post-meltdown sleep, it’s as if the meltdown never even happened: he’s happy and cheerful and wants to play, and grins at whomever he sees when his eyes open. It’s as if that peaceful slumber has purged all the unhappiness from his mind and body, and he has a completely fresh start.

Even as an adult, every once in a while I have a really, REALLY good night’s sleep and I feel like the woes of the world are all washed away, and I have a completely clean slate. Waking up in the morning after sleep like that is one of the most joyous sensations I’ve felt. And Ryan gets that nearly every day! Babyhood has some rough moments, but there are benefits. Boy, are there ever benefits. And joy every morning is one of the best benefits of all.

Some Days Are Like That...Even in Australia

One of my favorite children's books is called "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" by Judith Viorst. Alexander gets up one morning, and from the moment his feet hit the floor, he's having a bad day. No, not just a bad day, a Bad Day. No, not just a Bad Day, a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. His brothers get great toys in their breakfast cereal, but all Alexander gets is breakfast cereal. His brothers get cool new sneakers, but the only sneakers in Alexander's size are ugly. He gets gum in his hair and drops the sleeve of his sweater in the sink with the water running and his mother forgets to put dessert in his lunch box and his best friend tells him that he's now only his third best friend. It's such a bad day that he decides to move to Australia. But in the end, his mother reassures him that a bad day isn't the end of the world, because tomorrow is always a fresh new start. Besides, some days are like that, even in Australia.

Well, some days are like that, even when you have a perfect baby. Yesterday was one of those days when I was ready to consider moving to Australia. Periodically out of the blue, Ryan would just start screaming and wailing for no particular reason. I thought his teeth might still be bothering him, so I went to give him some Tylenol, but we were out. So I took him to the pharmacy, but they were also out, except for the kind for older kids that comes with a little cup instead of a dropper. Not real useful with a protesting 7-month-old. But I didn't have time to ask if there was any more out back, because I could tell that Ryan was on the verge of a complete meltdown. We made it out of the store but I drove all the way home with a screaming baby in the back of the car.

By the time we got home, the temperature on the porch was reading 118 degrees. (No, I am not exaggerating for literary effect. It really was 118 degrees on my porch. Yes, Fahrenheit.) And since it's only May and most people haven't got their air conditioners installed yet, the entire neighborhood had their windows open and got to listen to Ryan screaming for 45 minutes while I tried to get him to go down for his much-needed nap. (Much-needed for BOTH our sakes.)

He finally fell asleep in my arms, but every time I started to move, he would stir and whine a little bit, so I ended up lying on the couch for an hour with a 30-pound hot water bottle on my chest. (Did I mention that it was 118 degrees on the porch?) It was indeed a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And when Ryan woke up, he didn't want to eat his dinner, and he didn't want to play with his toys, and he didn't want to sit in his exersaucer or his bouncy chair. He didn't know what he wanted, but whatever I was offering, that wasn't it. He was just having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

But fortunately, even though it may not seem that way, every day ends after 24 hours, even the most terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days. So finally when Daddy gave him his bath and tucked him into bed, our terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day was over.

And I didn't even have to move to Australia.

The Baby Rulebook

Yesterday, Ryan spent an hour and fifteen minutes in absolute hysterics until he finally dropped from exhaustion – but then his nap only lasted for 45 minutes. Doesn’t that seem a bit unfair to you? Mom spends an hour and fifteen minutes walking, rocking, bouncing, and singing, only to be rewarded with a mere 45 minutes of peace? I decided there should be a baby rulebook prohibiting such things.

So the first rule of my rulebook would be a minimal scream-to-nap time ratio. The time of screaming must be rewarded with equal time of napping. That’s a fair rule, right? But what other rules would I include in my rulebook?

There would probably be a whole section on diaper rules. Minimal time between diaper changes, for example. Ryan has had several episodes where I changed his diaper and less than fifteen minutes later he needed to be changed again. I would institute a 30-minute minimum policy. Also, peeing on the changing table would be prohibited at times when a) baby is wearing a dressy and/or dry-clean only outfit, and/or b) mommy is running late and doesn’t have time to dig out a second clean outfit. Oh, or c) we are out and about and either didn’t bring a change of clothes or already peed/pooped/spilled on the first outfit and have used up the change of clothes we brought. Also, peeing on the changing table at such velocity and volume that the stack of clean diapers, clean clothes, various assorted teddy bears, or the carpet below the table receive a dousing would be strictly prohibited.

Closely related to the diaper rules would be general laundry rules. Spitting up would only be permitted on outfits (baby’s or mommy’s) whose color coordinates with the dinner of the day. Carrots and sweet potatoes are acceptable on orange or yellow shirts, green beans and peas on green or khaki clothing. Pears, bananas, and rice cereal are wild cards. Similarly, overflow pooping would be prohibited on white onesies but acceptable on brown or khaki pants. Wet-only leaks are acceptable on quick-drying fabric only.

What about behavior? I’m not so unreasonable as to ban crying or whining altogether, but there are limitations. Whining at mealtimes should be limited to the end of the meal, not beginning just as the family sits down to eat. Crying in church is welcome during hymns, loud anthems, and the passing of the peace, but must be avoided during prayers and sermons. Church crying should also begin quietly so as to allow a parent a moment to escape unobtrusively. Sudden screaming without warning is unacceptable. Restaurant behavior should follow church behavior with the exception that pleasant cooing and the occasional reasonably quiet interjection is acceptable.

I bet I could get scores of other moms to support this rulebook. Now if only I could figure out how to get the babies to read it…

In Our Easter Bonnets

Yesterday was Easter, so of course the entire family got all dressed up in our Easter finery and went off to church. My mom had gotten Ryan a pair of adorable yellow plaid overalls with a matching yellow polo shirt, I was wearing a pretty cream and mauve chiffon dress, and Herb had on a crisp pink shirt and a classy lavender tie.

As we walked up the steps into the church, we were admiring the families ahead of us who were also all dressed up: little girls in pastel dresses with white sweaters and shoes and little boys in shiny dress shoes and button-down shirts. Even the parents all look crisper and dressier than most Sundays.

As with most churches on Easter Sunday, we had plenty of visitors and extra family filling the pews. We sat one row closer to the front than usual because of the crowd, and a family that slipped in the pew behind us whispered, “Someone’s sitting in our regular pew! I don’t think that’s ever happened before!” Many of the children were obviously not regular church-goers, which is always amusing to me. As well as the usual hubbub and scuffling noises, one little boy a few rows behind us announced at regular intervals, “Daddy, I want to go home now!”, much to his father’s chagrin and his mother’s mortification. I was quite relieved that Ryan was on his best behavior and napped through most of the service, waking up only when the choir sang – he was laying crosswise in Herb’s lap at the time, and when the music started his eyes popped wide open, startled, and then he turned and stared at the choir, absolutely mesmerized, until they finished singing. At coffee hour after church, a fellow mom confided to me that she was tempted to point to Ryan and tell all the embarrassed parents, “Your child would behave like this if you came to church more often!” Of course, this is the first time in about 2 months that I didn’t have to take Ryan out of the service, but at least he saved his best behavior for a particularly important Sunday!

I was actually feeling quite proud of myself as we drove home from the service, with my handsome husband, my well-behaved son, and myself wearing an outfit unadorned with spit-up, my hair washed and brushed, and even wearing a bit of lipstick! (I had two big runs in my pantyhose, but they were mostly hidden by my skirt and shoes, so I wasn’t even counting that against myself.) In fact, we looked so good that we called over a neighbor to take our photo in front of the house, and as I admired the photo later in the day, I was a bit deflated as I realized that on the front door of the house, plainly obvious in the background of the photo, was our Christmas wreath and Christmas swag, very much in evidence. I was embarrassed for a moment, but then I just laughed, knowing that having my family together for a joyous Easter celebration was so much more important than taking down the Christmas decorations.

So I plan on keeping this photo close at hand, and any time I feel like I’m getting behind with the mundane things of life like laundry, or dusting, or taking down various holiday decorations, I’m going to look at it and see what a wonderful happy family is gathered in front of those Christmas decorations that have been up for five months, and I’ll remember what is truly important to me.

Happy Easter!!

Better Living Through Chemistry

I’ve blogged before about the advantages of technology in raising a baby these days. But my generation also has the advantages of huge chemical and medical knowledge. The list of health and hygiene products that never existed when my parents were children – and even during my own childhood – is immense. And I don’t mean just the biggies like immunizations and antibiotics that save babies’ lives. I mean all those “minor” products that save parents’ sanity.

When my mother was a baby, the accepted remedy for teething pain was to rub whiskey on her gums. I very much doubt that my staunch Baptist grandmother ever did this. But there have been rumors of homemade elderberry wine that may have been put to medicinal use! When I was a baby, my mother kept a tiny vial of oil of cloves in the medicine cabinet to rub on my gums. I’ve smelled that stuff, and I admit that it may or may not have dulled the pain, but it certainly would have created a sensory distraction. But when Ryan seemed to be in pain from teething yesterday (I know, I know, I’ve been claiming he’s teething for two months now – but I’ll keep saying it and eventually I’ll be right), I had my own magic vial of infant Tylenol that numbed his pain and allowed him to finally get some much-needed (as much by me as by him) rest.

Another problem that I, fortunately, have not had to deal with is gas and colic. I have no idea how my grandmother dealt with it, but my mom’s best resource for me was to plop me in the car and drive around the neighborhood for hours, usually at 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning.

For my generation of moms, however, not only do we have the option of the late-night drive (with much safer and simpler car seats, to boot), but we have a cabinet full of products like Mylicon drops and infant Tagamet, Prilosec, Prevacid and Zantac to calm and soothe those tender tummies.

Cough or cold? Forget about sitting on the side of the tub with the shower running full blast to create a steam room. We have warm mist, cool mist, high mist, low mist, with medication, without medication humidifiers. We have twenty-seven brands of cough drops and cold liquids. We have products to loosen a cough, dry a cough, prevent a cough, prevent a cold, unstuff a nose, and stop a runny nose.

And even on the non-medicinal side of things, we have shampoos, skin creams, diaper rash creams, powders, body wash, and bubble bath. Hypoallergenic, organic, aromatherapy, vegan, non-animal-tested – whatever you want, you can find it out there.

Gone are the days of a single bottle of Johnson & Johnson No More Tears shampoo that served to wash everything. These days you can find a specialized product for every conceivable body part with every conceivable twist – moisturizing, drying, anti-itch, softening, and on and on.

So although it may be a little overwhelming to look at those store shelves full of thousands of products, I’m glad to have all those options. Because somewhere amidst those bottle and vials and jars and tubs is one item that will make my baby happy and contented. And when baby is happy, everybody is happy!

The Soundtrack of My Life

I grew up in a musical family, always surrounded by every kind of music imaginable: classical, folk, Broadway, movie soundtracks, children's songs, and hymns. My dad listened to the Limelighters and the Kingston Trio, my mom listened to Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky, and they both listened to Rodgers & Hammerstein and Lerner & Loewe. And the whole family sang in the car: Found a Peanut, Amazing Grace, The Beer Barrel Polka, The Oscar Meyer Weiner Song. So it's not surprising that I usually have some song or another running through my head, and often coming out of my mouth as well.

It would be an interesting study to try to analyze what triggers a particular song for me. Sometimes it's obvious, especially with theater songs - a word or phrase in conversation echoes some lyric and I break into that tune. For example, if Herb says, "The trouble with the world today is that politicians don't listen to each other," I would naturally break into a chorus of, "The trouble with the world today is plain to see: it's coffee in a cardboard cup!" Or, to use a more well-known example, if he said, "The weatherman said the sun is supposed to come out tomorrow," I'd break into a chorus of - well, you all know what chorus I'd break into.  

Sometimes it's obvious if you know what I was listening to earlier in the day. Bits of commercial jingles from a few hours ago often slip into my thoughts, or a song I heard on the radio. So when we see the guy up the street walking his Newfie and Herb remarks, "That dog is just GIANT!", I might break into "One eight hundred fifty-four giant, done right, done fast!", or if he asks if I know a certain phone number, I sing, "Eight six seven five three oh ni-ee-eye-ine!" Even a bit of news can put a song in my head - after hearing of the death of actor Robert Culp yesterday, I found myself singing, "Believe it or not, I'm walkin' on air, I never thought I could feel so free. Flyin' away on a wing and a prayer - who could it be? Believe it or not, it's just me!" (That's the theme from "The Greatest American Hero", for those of you who missed the 1980s.) But sometimes, I just don't have the faintest idea where the music comes from.

Yesterday, when Ryan was so fussy, I was rocking him and singing every song that came into my head, trying to calm him. His favorites seem to be Papa's Gonna Buy You a Mockingbird, I'm a Little Teapot (although it must be sung in 3/4 time - and no, I have no idea why or how I even discovered that), and There Was an Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly (mostly for the "wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her" part, complete with wriggling, jiggling, and tickling). But when I've gone through those to no avail, I simply start singing whatever comes into my head. Yesterday, those three standbys were followed by The Itsy Bitsy Spider, There Were Three Little Ducks, and Old MacDonald (when I got to a verse about llamas, I knew it was time to move on - but believe me, Old MacDonald had QUITE the interesting farm yesterday!), all to no avail. But then, for no reason I can possibly fathom, I began humming the theme song to Mission: Impossible. Dum! Dum! Dah-dum! Dum! Dum! Dah-dum! Doo-doo daaaaahhhh, doo-doo daaaaahhh, doo-doo daaaaaahhhh, doo-doo! And it worked like a charm.

And come to think of it, considering how fussy Ryan had been all day long, that particular theme song was exceptionally appropriate. Jim Phelps might even have had to think twice about taking on a mission like that.

Would You Like Some Cheese With That Whine?

I really thought I wouldn't have to deal with whining until Ryan was able to talk. Ha! Rookie mistake. Since yesterday afternoon, he's been cantakerous and unhappy, and he's been expressing his displeasure by whining. Unlike a whining toddler, who can at least express what it is he's whining about ("No nap, Mommy! Nooooo naaaaaaaap!!!!"), all I get is a pathetic moan that sounds like it should be accompanied by a dramatic hand to the head and a collapse onto a fainting couch.

Ryan is the master of the pathetic moaning whine. He often uses it when he's overtired but doesn't want to go to sleep, and accompanies it with a dramatic clinging to me and a snurfling cry while wiping his face on my shoulder. He seems to prefer a rhythmic sound pattern: whine - snurfle - whine - snurfle - whine - snurfle . Occasionally, there are pauses in the rhythm for a few seconds, lulling me into a false sense of complacency, thinking that either he's asleep or, for some unknown reason, he's managed to calm himself. But those pauses are apparently only a chance for him to gather himself for a fresh onslaught, because the pauses are generally broken by kicking legs, flailing arms, and fresh wails.

The added problem of the flail is that when I'm not expecting it, since he's so heavy, I nearly drop him. In fact, when he flings his body away from me and pushes off my torso with those strong sumo wrestler legs, even when I am expecting it I can hardly hang onto him. If his logic circuits were a little more developed, I might be tempted to let him clock himself (GENTLY!!) once or twice, so he'd figure out that was a bad idea. But he's nowhere near ready to make that connection, so for now I just hold on for dear life every second. The added incentive to holding on is also that he's taken to clinging to handfuls of my hair (and snurfling into it, just lovely) so if he goes down he's taking a large portion of my scalp with him. No dope, this kid.

Right now, I feel bad because whatever it is that's bothering him (teething? upset tummy? some itch I don't know about?), I can't figure it out. So the whine hasn't become annoying yet, although if it goes on for a few more days I'm sure it could. But God has apparently built babies with unusual instincts for self-preservation, because the last time I went to check on him in his crib while he was whining, he turned and looked up at me with tears running down his face, and he broke into a huge beaming grin and darned if he didn't GIGGLE at me. How can a mother possibly be annoyed at a cute face like that??

So go ahead and pass me the cheese, please. It'll be just lovely accompanying this whine.

How To Resist a Screaming Baby

Or perhaps this entry should be entitled, "How To Resist a Screaming Baby?" Because I haven't quite figured out the answer to that one yet. As I type, there is an absolutely exhausted baby upstairs in his crib, screaming like a banshee because he doesn't want to go to sleep, even though he hasn't had a nap in five hours and can hardly hold his head up, he's so tired. But he's reached that stage where he wants to take everything in, and all that's going on around him is so exciting that he can't stand to go to sleep and miss even a second of it. So he fights and fights and fights to avoid going to sleep. Which means that I have to listen to him screech for fifteen or twenty minutes before he finally drops off.

Every once in a while I'm lucky and he's so exhausted that he only screams for a few minutes before his body takes over and he falls into a sound sleep. But on days like today, he manages a second (and maybe third and fourth) wind and after a several second rest or two, starts screeching again. I should know by now that if I can resist going to him for those fifteen minutes, he'll tire himself out from crying and get that much-needed rest. It's incredibly rare that he doesn't fall asleep if I can only hold off for those fifteen minutes.

But it breaks my heart listening to those woeful, pathetic cries! I feel like I'm abandoning him in his hour of need, even though I know all his needs are taken care of. The only time I let him yell like that is when I know he has a full belly and a dry diaper, when he's been well-burped, when nothing is poking him or scratching him, and when I know the one thing he needs is sleep. And I watch him on the video monitor so I know he's fine. But my mother's heart wants to run and comfort him.

And every once in a while, he either screams for longer than fifteen minutes or I just can't listen anymore, and I go in and pick him up and cuddle him. And most of the time, he relaxes immediately and snuggles into the crook of my neck, which is such a wonderful feeling that it makes it that much harder to resist the next time. I just love knowing that a snuggle from Mummy is enough to cure all his woes. I love that he feels so safe in my arms that just being picked up soothes and comforts him.

So how to resist a screaming baby? I guess that answer is, sometimes you just can't. And that's okay, too.

It's All In the Timing; or, It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

Having a young child, I am discovering the great importance of "The Window of Opportunity". The Window applies at a number of levels, from long-distance planning ("Traveling is most manageable from 4 months to a year"), to the shortest of short-term goals ("He stopped wiggling; tape the diaper NOW!"), and everything in between.

I've learned to delay meals, chores, and phone calls so they coincide with nap time. This isn't as easy as you might think, though, as Ryan has recently become the master of the Fake Out. The Fake Out is especially effective for important phone calls, as they are generally the most difficult to stop in the middle of to tend to a crying child. This morning, for example, I needed to make a call and I knew I would be on hold for anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour. So this was my dilemma: Do I make the call before Ryan starts his usual nap, risking the I-changed-my-schedule-I'm-not-napping-now Fake Out, in the hope he'll still be sleeping if it takes an hour? Or do I risk the 5-minute-snooze Fake Out and call as soon as he closes his eyes? Would it be better to wait until he's been solidly snoozing for 10 or 15 minutes and therefore safely out of the 5-minute Fake Out Zone and risk him waking up mid-call? It's kind of like playing roulette: so many options on the table and only one is a winner, which means the house almost always wins (and by "the house", I mean "not me"). So naturally Ryan was calm and quiet for the entire 30 minutes I was on hold and even for the first 5 minutes of the phone call, but then burst into loud wails at a rather inopportune moment. Whoops. The house wins again.

Meals are almost as bad. Not only do you need to schedule eating time, but preparation time as well. Admittedly, the preparation part isn't always an issue, since some kinds of meal preparation actually count as playtime. Making a salad, for example, creates endless amusement for a small child in a front pack. No sharp knives or open flames are involved, only lots of walking around the kitchen finding ingredients, including things on high shelves and in low cabinets, which means lots of mommy stretching up on tippy-toe and then stooping to squat. Fun, fun, fun, do it again, mommy! But any kind of cooking that involves actual, you know, cooking, that can be a problem. I have long enough arms that I occasionally dare to cook over a low flame, standing as far from the stove as possible, turning sideways, extending my arm until it's about a millimeter short of dislocating my shoulder, and holding a long-handled spoon with my fingertips. (I'd like to see Rachel Ray try THAT.) But anything that needs to go in the oven, that's just not happening unless the Little Man is either happily in his bouncy chair on the far side of the kitchen or napping upstairs. And if he's happy and/or napping during prep time, guess what that means for actual eating time. Yup, fussy city.

And don't think that finding a set mealtime that coincides with naptime will help. Herb works flexible hours so our dinnertime varies by as much as 3 hours from night to night, but some kind of baby radar wakes Ryan up as soon as we sit down to eat no matter what time it is. We had a dinner party a few weeks ago and Herb actually had to take my plate and cut up my meat so I could eat one-handed while I held the boy. In fact, we've gotten in the habit of starting dinner together, then when Ryan inevitably needs to be held, I take him, and when Herb finishes eating he takes him and I finish eating. We're both getting pretty good at the one-handed eating thing, I must admit. I can even do it left-handed, as long as the food isn't too messy (mashed potatoes is good; mashed potatoes with gravy poses some difficulty). Somehow when your options are either eating oddly and creatively or possibly never eating again, you learn to manage.

Even with eating at odd hours, fitting in showers or laundry at 3pm (or 3am, for that matter), and making phone calls only when there's active snoring coming from the nursery, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Having a baby in my life right now is definitely the best of times.

Location, location, location

That's the mantra for real estate: "Location, location, location." Exactly the same house in different places will bring wildly varying interest levels and prices. Nothing else matters as much as where you are. Today, I discovered how that mantra applies to mothering.

Let me backtrack for a moment to explain one of the huge disparities between my husband and me when it comes to parenting: he's the toughie and I'm the marshmallow. At least, that's the case in terms of our tolerance for hearing Ryan cry. Herb will hear an unhappy yell, glance at the video monitor, and think, "He just finished a bottle, I just changed his diaper, he's just crabby because he wants to play instead of going to sleep. He's fine, he'll cry himself to sleep in 10 minutes." When I hear it, I think, "Did he just spit up? Is a clothing tag poking him? Is he still hungry? Even if it's nothing, he'll be happier if I go snuggle him. He just needs his Mummy." And I rush right up to the nursery and scoop him up.

At a certain level, I know he's fine, and I know it won't hurt him to cry for a few minutes for no particular reason. I even know that at some point it will be good for him to learn to comfort himself. But at only ten weeks old, I just can't stand hearing him wail when I know that my simply picking him up will comfort him and calm him down.

So what does this have to do with location, you ask? Excellent question! And here's the answer: For all that it breaks my heart and upsets me to hear Ryan crying when I'm not there, it hardly fazes me at all when he wails in my arms. I suppose it's because when I'm right there, I can plainly see that he's fine and that he's just crying because he's overtired, or overstimulated, or just crabby on general principles (his nose he gets from his father; the crabby he gets from his mother). And also because I'm actively doing something to fix whatever's bothering him. The attempted fix may consist of singing, bouncing, walking, or simply snuggling with him, but I'm doing SOMETHING other than just ignoring his distress. It doesn't even bother me when what I'm doing has absolutely no effect, but it soothes my need to DO.

And it's all simply because of where I am. Because whenever I'm with my sweet baby boy, everything in the world is pretty much OK.