Mother's Day: What I get out of it.

We talk a lot about sacrifice as it relates to motherhood. Mamas sacrifice their independence, their careers, their bodies, their personal goals, their marriages, their hairstyles... Pretty much anything you can think of to sacrifice, sometime, somewhere, a mama's done that for the sake of her child. I think we talk about this a lot because, a) mothers do make these sacrifices, and it's kind of amazing in an absurdist sort of way, and b) we're feeling a bit guilty because we don't really appreciate our moms, or motherhood, on a daily basis. So we have to idealize it and talk about its extremes.

But today, on Mother's Day, that most brunchy of holidays that doesn't rank high enough for a day off work, I'm going to write about what I love about being a mother. Not what I give it (that's for the other 364 days a year), but what it gives me.

Brunchy brunch-brunch brunch.
Women Laughing Alone With Salads (stockphotos at their worst best)

Meaning ~ 
I've always thought that children are the most precious things in the world. Precious and vulnerable. Raising children with love and respect is the most important thing. So, whammo! have a baby and never a day is wasted. Every day that passes in which I haven't maimed or traumatized our child, I'm helping him grow into a full-fledged person. Even on days that I can't get started, days when I'm *ahem* still sitting in my pyjamas and a milk-stained tank-top with a damp, milk-stained cloth diaper shoved down its front at 12pm. Life has meaning. This hang-nail, a direct result of not having time to maintain my appearance due to being a full-time mama? It has meaning, too.

Our new cloth-diaper-nursing-pad look, direct from Milan.

Company ~
It's hard to feel lonely with Sweet Baby James around. Sometimes I manage it anyway, but usually he's my pal who knows me (and my bathroom habits) like no one else (if you just clicked on that link, you are a disgusting, disgusting person. Just kidding!). The day before I found out I was pregnant I had just come back from a road trip. My new fiancé(!)* was still on the road. I spent the day alone, eating food from the freezer, unpacking, and soaking in the bath. I took a long walk up Mount Royal to see the season change into summer. I didn't talk to anyone. It was kind of blissful, but it was the end of an era. I haven't spent a day alone since. Spending them with someone who can't insult you and who wants nothing more than to entice you into a game of 'white plastic coat hangers look funny as a hat' is pretty darn nice.

*Ha ha ha, remember when Z was still my fiancé? No - you blinked? You missed it? Lolz.

Caretaking ~
I've always loved looking after people. This is not usually very healthy from a psychological point of view. I know, because my other job is therapist (which is kind of like being paid to look after other people). But anyway, having SBJ has been wonderful in this regard because I finally have someone into whom it's healthy and expected that I put almost all my energy. My friendships have suffered because mothering was pretty much the only way I related to people before (bossy, strict, nosey). But those dress rehearsals prepared me well for my onstage debut.

This is what never happens.

Movement ~
Becoming a mom has really changed my perception of my body. Yes, I would still like to be 10  (or 15, or 25...) pounds lighter, except that not really -- because then I couldn't carry my 30 lb. baby and I couldn't nurse him without body fat. As soon as I conceived, my body wasn't just something to be looked at and/or worked to the bone, it had a purpose. And it still does. Being a mother requires wrestling your son away from his self-appointed position as kitchen garbage inspector. Being a mother requires muscle.

For all these reasons and more, I feel blessed to be a mother. Happy mother's day!

11 Steps to Feeling Like Motherhood is a Normal Part of Life

There's this hilarious little note being passed around the ol' fb, called The Eleven Step Programme for Those Thinking of Having Kids. It includes such gems as,

Lesson 5: Dressing small children is not as easy as it seems.
1. Buy an octopus and a small bag made out of loose mesh.
2. Attempt to put the octopus into the bag so that none of the arms hang out. 

Time allowed for this - all morning.

and

Lesson 7: Go to the local grocery store. Take with you the closest thing you can find to a pre-school child. (A full-grown goat is an excellent choice). If you intend to have more than one child, then definitely take more than one goat. Buy your week's groceries without letting the goats out of your sight. Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys. Until you can easily accomplish this, do not even contemplate having children.

The (unknown) author reminds us that this is all meant in fun, completely tongue in cheek, of course having kids is worth it, etc. She reminds us that we need to have a sense of humour, and it's true. I laughed when I read it. It's funny.

But it's also a glimpse into a part of our society, which, really, I just hate. I hate that when you're pregnant all anyone call tell you is how TOUGH it is to be a mama and just how much giving birth is going to HURT (grapefruit through the nostril -- ever heard that? Every day for nine months?). Yes, being a mama can be challenging. Yes, it's going to completely turn your life upside down, show you just what you (and your marriage/partnership/fuck buddy) is made of, age you at least five years, and move your life into a milk-soaked realm from which it will never, ever return.

But here's the rub: you won't want it to.

OK, maybe sometimes you'll wish for a few extra nights of non-stopwatch-timed snuggling with your partner, and there are projects and fitness goals you fear you might never get back to, but birth and motherhood are some of the peak experiences of life (notice how I didn't say 'pregnancy'?). And all around the world people don't dread (and alternately ossify with unfair expectations) motherhood like we do in the industrialized West. In some places, motherhood is a normal part of life. Even if you're an unwed teenage girl or -- worse! -- haven't finished your master's degree or saved your first 100K. It's a thing to celebrate.

So here's my

11 Step Programme for Those Thinking They Probably Shouldn't Have Had Unprotected Sex Because Now They're Going to Have Kids And it's Going to Suck.

Lesson 1

1. Go to the grocery store.

2. Stock up on all the foods you loved as a kid.

3. Go home.

4. Throw them all away because you're too health-conscious to indulge.

5. Go to bed skinny (but hungry).

For the last time, ever.

Lesson 2

Before you finally go ahead and have children, find a couple who already are parents and ask them about their...

1. Child's first smile.

2. Child's first word.

3. Child's first two-word phrase.

4. Child's first steps.

5. Discuss the last night you had on the town, how you and your partner got drunk, he spilled a drink on your new dress which seemed like a big deal and so you had a big embarrassing fight. Listen as the crickets chirp.

Enjoy it because it will be the first time of many that you get to bond with other people over parenthood.

Lesson 3

A really good way to discover how the nights might feel...

1. Spend a week away from your dog/cat/twitter. Then come home to its warmest welcome. Play.

2. At 10PM, put the animal/computer gently down, set the alarm for midnight, and go to sleep.

3. Get up at 12 and massage your nipples for an hour.

4. As you can't get back to sleep, get up at 2AM and look up at the beautiful full moon/snow falling/other night-time scene you haven't seen for years.

5. Go to bed at 2:45AM.

6. Sleep snuggled up with your pet/partner/computer in a big doggy-pile until 6 AM.

7. Get up. Make breakfast. Get ready for work and go to work (which is suddenly meaningful).

Repeat steps 1-9 each night. Take advantage of the fact that everyone expects you to look exhausted because you're doing the most important job there is. Sleep when the computer sleeps.

Lesson 4

Can you embrace the new person your children will make you? To find out...

1. Get drunk and sing "The Ants Go Marching" in your best Donald Duck voice. Repeat.

2. Stay home with your partner and enjoy watching each other perform 'Itsy Bitsy Spider' and 'Patty Cake'. Sexy.

3. Make peanut-butter cookies. With fork marks.

4. Practice leaving the house without your hair/makeup done, wearing yoga pants and flat, practical shoes. You are now ready to take over the world.

5. Effortlessly decline any social invitation because you can't get a babysitter.

6. Get rid of all the ugly knick-knacks you've received over the years. You wouldn't want the baby to choke.

Lesson 5

Dressing small children is fun.

1. Buy two of everything you love. One in your size, one in adorable.

2. Happily accept the endless hand-me-down or gifted onesies, booties, and hats that come through your door on a daily basis.

3. Sing songs about them, especially in other languages. "PANT-a-lon-es, pant-a-lon-es, pant-a-lon-es, pant-a-LON-es!"

Time allowed for this - all morning.

Lesson 6

Forget the BMW stroller and buy a baby-carrier.

1. Wear it around the house because you're "trying it out". 

Leave it on when you go out.

2. Notice all the pure joy your (invisible) baby elicits (before people notice it's not there invisible).

3. Smile at all the other new parents you see. Watch how they smile back.

4. Get onto the bus and watch people fall over themselves to offer you their seat.

Lesson 7

Go to the local grocery store. Take with you the closest thing you can find to a pre-school child. (A friend's pre-school child is an excellent choice). If you intend to have more than one child, then definitely take more than one child. Buy your week's groceries while also letting them thrill-ride the outside of the grocery cart down the canned goods aisle. Poke all the mushy cheeses. Impress them by picking an apple from the bottom of the display pyramid. Introduce them to Ben and Jerry's. Dance in the mist of the produce water-sprayer. Hand them your credit card and let them "pay" for the groceries. If you haven't done all of this for at least ten years, you are definitely ready to have children.

Lesson 8

1. Hollow out a melon.

2. Make a small hole in the side.

3. Suspend it from the ceiling and swing it from side to side.

4. Stick a bunch of toothpicks all over it.

5. Stick various fruit chunks onto the toothpicks.

6. Edible ch-ch-ch-chia!

You are now ready to entertain a 12- month-old baby.

Lesson 9

Make a list of all your favourite childhood TV shows. Find them on YouTube and watch one per day, while lounging on the floor and eating chocolate chip cookies. Take a nap. Climb a tree. You don't know where to find the nearest climbable tree? My point exactly.

Lesson 10

Watch Baby Ethan Laughing repeatedly. Play this video everywhere you are (every doctor's office, every lineup) for the next four years. You are now ready to do life with a toddler.

Lesson 11

Start talking to an adult of your choice. Have someone else continually on your mind while also picturing Baby Ethan Laughing from Lesson 10 above. You are now ready to commit to having your "heart go walking forever outside your body."

First Class, Baby

I always wondered what it's like to travel first class. I've done a lot of traveling spending as little money as possible. Well, not exactly. I've done a lot of traveling spending as little money on extraneous things like plane tickets and breakfast as possible. In Sweden I pitched my tent in a city park and stole food off someone's reject cafeteria plate. I also bought this gorgeous canvas coat and took weekly trips to Copenhagen. Anyway.

I got upgraded one time after spending the night in the foetal position under a desk in the Colombo airport (take pity on a poor white girl). There was someone working for an international aid agency in the seat beside me. She had nice hair and a perfectly modulated voice. I had so many questions to ask her but instead I slept through the flight -- a full nine hours. I still have the complimentary eye-mask.

I've most certainly never traveled first class with a baby. Now that I'm on the road with Sweet Baby James, hitting up all my favourite cities on a Last Hurrah/Give Me My Green Card, Bitch cross-Canada tour, I'm willing to give it a try.

Our introduction to the Executive Experience happens on Air Canada flight 758 to Montréal. It's an early morning flight and I begin the day exhausted, tripping over my own two feet which is kind of obscene when you're carrying a baby. I've always felt I should dress up for air travel but today my hair is still damp from the shower, pulled back into a drooping bun. You could say 'drooping' is kind of the unifying theme here: bleary eyes, sagging jeans, and somehow also the once-trusty ring sling which Sweet Baby James has learned how to wriggle loose.

I am constantly readjusting it, tightening it around him for some semblance of safety as we go through baggage check, security, washroom pit-stop, airplane boarding, minuscule airplane washroom pit-stop... It's driving me crazy. And my pants are falling down. I am that mom. That harried mom with frizzy hair and a kid who looks like trouble. The passenger no one wants to sit beside.

What nobody knows is that the last time we took a flight, I kept this baby quiet like my life dependend on it. I walked him up and down the aisles. I took him for a poop in the bathroom. I comfort nursed him whenever he looked a little peevish. I sat paralyzed, staring straight ahead as he slept because I couldn't quite reach my magazine. I tied disposable cups to strings and hung them from different parts of the plane, creating a beverage-themed mobile for his batting convenience.

God dammit, I kept him so content and entertained, no one had cause to complain. No, instead they complimented my husband when he came to pick us up at the gate. "He was so quiet the whole flight! What a good baby!" I don't know why they congratulated him when they should have been thanking me. Anyway.

This flight starts off well with Sweet Baby James relaxing into my arms in our Economy Class seat during take off. I'm a bit on edge because although I took him to the washroom a few minutes before, he hasn't had his morning poop. And he didn't have one yesterday.

For the first ten minutes, it's clear sailing. The man with the aisle seat has begrudgingly consented to switch with me if the baby starts crying and I have to walk the aisle at some point. I'm thirsty. We hit some minor turbulence and the captain turns the seatbelt sign on. I put Sweet Baby James back in his sling and wait for the sign to be turned off. He fusses a bit so I sing him some ants.

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah.
The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah. The ants go marching one by one, the little one stops to suck his thumb --
and they all go marching down, to the ground, to get out of the rain.

(bum ba-bum bum)

And then I sing him some more. And some more. We're up to ten ants (the little one stops to pet a hen) and still the seatbelt sign has not been turned off. There hasn't been any turbulence for at least fifteen minutes. I'm not the only one getting antsy. Poopageddon seems also to be nigh for several middle-aged men, who jump out of their seats in a desperate bid for the washroom, only to be turned back by a sour-faced stewardess. She comes onto the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has left the seatbelt sign on. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelt, for your own safety and that of others around you, or I will publicly humiliate you in ways only I know how. Thank you."

Sweet Baby James is looking at me like, "Mom, I really have to go..." 

He's a little disturbed by all this. Not so much the seatbelt sign, which I have now come to believe El Capitan has forgotten to turn off, but the accusatory voice emanating from the ceiling. She clicks off loudly and that's when I hear it: the unmistakable sound, the sound I would know anywhere. It is the sound of a pooptrastrophe in the making. Sweet Baby James looks at me, not altogether displeased with himself. I check his diaper and see the tide rising. I quickly snap it back and press down, not wanting to invite our new friend to further explore the terrain of his lower back.

I should take a little time-out here and explain something. Some of you may be wondering what the big deal is, because I have a baby and babies poop their diapers all the time, whatevs. The thing is, we practice 'Elimination Communication' (or Natural Infant Hygiene, as Isabelle Bauer calls it in her inspiring book, Diaper Free: The Gentle Wisdom of Natural Infant Hygiene). Most of Sweet Baby James' poops actually happen on the toilet when we cue him to go. I'll write more about this in another post, but for now I'll say that I do not feel good about letting my baby sit in his own crap. I also prefer not to be its intermediary processor, especially not in confined spaces 30,000 feet above sea level.


So we subsist for a while, me singing more ants and trying to keep Sweet Baby James in a standing position, his twists, turns and dives reduced to a minimum. He complains greatly at this new restriction, lunging for the earbuds of the woman sitting next to us who is watching an old Seinfeld episode and politely ignoring the aroma wafting out of my baby's pants.

At long last, the captain remembers us and pushes his benevolent finger on the off-button. Cue the sound of 300 seatbelts unbuckling. This is my chance. I should be the first in line. I should be running down the aisle as fast as those pudgy middle-aged guys, I should be -- there is no way. Fifteen people line up on each side. In my sleep-addled brain I do the calculation. If they all take an average of three minutes in there (and let's be honest, some of them are going to take a lot longer than that), we're looking at 45 minutes of waiting.

A stewardess approaches me. She must have seen the desperation on my face because she's smiling and suggesting I use the washroom "up there." I can hardly believe my ears: where? In First Class? You want me to take my poopy baby up there into the dimly lit foreskin of the plane, where men in business suits are drinking Sake and... watching old Seinfeld episodes?

I saunter up the aisle, baby on my arm. Apparently people in First Class don't have to pee quite so often because, Hurrah, hurrah, I'm at the head of the line. I slip into the washroom, eager to unclip the changing table and get the baby out of his padded fecal bag when my hand grazes against... nothing. Nothing at all, save the bare beige wall, mottled airplane plastic. There's no changing table.

NO. CHANGING. TABLE.

I do my best. We do our best, Sweet Baby James and I. He cries as I set him down on the toilet seat, perhaps out of surprise at the cold metal on his back, perhaps out of fear at the precarious nature of his position. I can't protect him from rolling off, though I try by straddling the seat with my legs, my hands busy with the task of un-sticking the diaper from his bum. And how the hell am I going to get a fresh diaper out of the case without getting poop on his pants, which are also in my hand? I do it, we do it, and when we exit the washroom to walk back to our seat, not a few of the passengers are smiling at us.

I smile back. No poop to be seen here, folks. Just your average mama with your average adorable baby.

----

Is there something inappropriate about having a baby in First Class? Or is it just that no one does it, and that's why there are no changing tables in those washrooms? Could it be that most First Class passengers are male, and therefore much less likely to be traveling with a baby? I don't know. I took a picture of the changing situation for the 'I've changed my baby...' project. Next time I'll be putting up a sticker.

In a few days we're taking the train to Toronto. I just booked the ticket, a five hour trip. First Class, baby.

Hot Topics

 Nov. 6 - 13 2011:

Our babies' love of inanimate objects. Sarah started the conversation with her post, For the Love of (Inanimate) Objects and followed up with a description of her baby P's desire for a vacuum; Svea wrote about her frustration with sharp edges on household products meant for babies.

Breastfeeding. Sarah wrote about her joy in the let-down action coming from her right nipple (and some great tips on increasing milk production). Svea wrote about La Leche League and being over-prepared for breastfeeding. She also came up with the genius idea of the combination vibrator breast-pump because, "...when lactating women are turned on, they spray milk everywhere." On that note, the lovely Anais discussed the challenges of maintaining sexual rapport during and after pregnancy in her Sunday Brunch interview.

And of course, there was much bemoaning the lack of changing tables in public washrooms on Mamactivism and oohing and aahing over badass babywearing on Too Hot For Stroller.

J'accuse! / Little things that make a big difference

It just took me three whole minutes to get the word 'diaper' into a text message and those are three minutes of my life I'm never going to get back.

Yes, my pre-child self says, because nobody wants to receive a text with the word 'diaper' in it. Well, missy. Let me tell you. The story is, last night I was at a high-stakes Rock Paper Scissors tournament and I couldn't very well compete with a dirty diaper in my hand. So I passed it off to one of the refs, who graciously dealt with it. I needed to thank her.

And of all people in the world, new moms don't have three minutes in which to leisurely spell out a six-letter word when auto-correct is being an auto-asshole.

Things need to change around here. In the tradition of middle-class feminism, I hereby declare a general strike against a few things that just really bug me needlessly provide barriers against new parents enjoying their lives.

In the words of Emile Zola: J'accuse!

1. The lack of changing tables in public restrooms. Where do we change our babies if there isn't one provided? On our laps (danger, rolling babies!) or on the floor (gross, rolling-in-excretion babies!). I even have a blog about it www.mamactivism.wordpress.com, showing all the ridiculous and unsafe places I've had to change Sweet Baby James' diaper. I also just ordered some 'Install Changing Table Here' stickers, which I will distribute to new moms (you can order them from the Cafe Press Mamactivism site or email me at svea.boyda.vikander@gmail.com if you want some).





I refuse to stay home all the time, keeping my baby and my person away from the view of polite society. And I refuse to quietly change my baby on a public restroom floor. The revolution is here.


2. Sharp corners on things meant for infants. Babies love to play with 'grown-up' things much more than real toys. My co-blogger, Sarah, wrote about her (foiled) desire to find 'real life' toys for her baby this week, and his obsession with inanimate objects last week. Sweet Baby James is no different. He likes to handle, mouth and generally bash around anything he sees us use, like the specially-made-for-babies sunscreen bottle.

I'm forever trimming the sharp corners off their plastic edges. It only takes a minute but it requires me to a) notice that there's a sharp corner, b) remove it from Sweet Baby James' hands (harder, and noisier, than you might think), c) locate the scissors, and d) manage to cut off the corner with one hand, without also cutting the baby in my other arm. Simply smoothing the edges during the manufacturing process would make a world of difference to any mom who's interested in introducing her child to the real world. And if you're going to charge $30 for some flippin' sunscreen, I think you can afford to do it. (Blue Lizard can charge that much because we're desperate for UV protection that doesn't contain chemicals that cause skin cancer, which leads me to my next point...)

3. Carcinogens in things meant for infants. I really, really care about my kid. I also really really don't like reading ingredient lists. It's so time-consuming to be googling everything he comes into contact with, and it pisses me off because I'd rather be playing peek-a-boo.

Here's the deal: when someone gives your baby an outfit, you have to wash it with special detergent because the dyes in most fabrics can irritate a baby's skin (and sometimes they come off in baby's mouth); if your baby is lying on a cushy foam mat (you know, those primary colour puzzle-piece ones we had in kindergarten?), it's probably off-gasing formamide. If baby's licking the floor or walls, there's a good chance he's also licking cleaning chemicals, floor varnish, and/or lead paint. Yeah.

Even if I mostly breastfeed and am careful (and privileged) to buy organic, there's still the chance that pesticides and GMOs are present in my baby's food. The special plastic Nuby Hot Safe Spoons
(which don't cut his mouth but are also somehow designed to change colour when they touch 'too hot' food – I am suspicious of them but they were the only ones available at the pharmacy) also probably release something icky. His super-absorbent overnight diapers have sodium polyacrylate in them (but he still pees through them on the regular). And now, even baby's shampoo (such as this Johnson and Johnson 'No More Tears' -- yes, I also remember this from the bad old days...) is a known evil. My family doesn't use it, but they gave us a good-sized sample when we signed up for a Babies R Us registry (don't sign up for a Babies R Us registry).

Can't we all just get along and agree to stop doing this? Is there really someone out there who's thinking, "Oh, this thing will give babies cancer. We should advertise it to new parents. We should also just give it away for free to make sure it disseminates widely. Leave no child untouched." To that person I say, take a step back and think about what's important. Just, stop. Please.

4. People who want to touch my sleeping baby. This doesn't happen very often but when it does it really gets my mama goat. What if it were really hard for you to get to sleep, but you also had a condition in which you NEEDED to sleep 12 hours/day, or you (or your mother) would meltdown into a hysterical, crying wretch? Would you want to be poked awake by a stranger who just wants to feel that special joy of having your momentary attention?

In our society, it's impolite to touch a baby without asking his/her caregiver first. I'm not always sure I like that rule, but everybody should know it. Those of you who just want a quick smile before you get off the bus: J'accuse! Let sleeping babies lie.

Wordless Wednesday: THFS and Mamactivism

Want more 'I've Changed My Baby...' pics? Check out our Mamactivism blog: www.mamactivism.wordpress.com



Want more über fashionable (and sometimes historic!) babywearing? Check out
Too Hot For Stroller: www.toohotforstroller.wordpress.com . THFS!