In England they call them dummies. In the States they call them pacifiers. My sister’s kids call them choo-chos. My brother’s kids call them dibby-dops. In our house, we call them dippy-dots or dippy-dops or dibby-dobs and nobody’s really quite sure of the exact term. But since August can’t even speak, it’s really neither here nor there.

When August was just a small boy (as opposed to now — he’s such a *big* boy), we experimented with various dibby-dop brands. There was the bizarre-looking Soothie pacifier in hospital green which made Augie look like a fish but fell out of the mouth way too easily (although I now appreciate the merit in that). There was the rather severe-looking brown rubber Natursutten pacifier which August detested from the get-go. There was the adorable MAM-brand pacifier which sported cute pictures of zebras but with which August simply couldn’t bond. And THEN… there was the mother of all pacifiers, the Nuk. It came in a variety of soothing coolers, the plastic was smooth and nicely-molded, the shape was just right and it came with a handy ring for yanking. As far as August was concerned, it was love at first suck.

In fact, before you can say dibby-dop, the mild attraction to his dibby-dop had turned into — how to phrase it — an all-out addiction. He needed it in the daytime. And he needed at night. And then he needed it every hour at night. And then he needed it to be popped into his mouth by his mum. Inevitably, he’d hook his finger around the ring and yank it out and call for mummy. 12.30, 1 a.m., 2 — August became my hourly alarm clock.

In case you can’t see the punchline coming a mile off, we put a ban on dibby-dops. “No more!” we said. And August snarled at us during the first two hours, whimpered at us for the second two hours and began stuffing his fingers into his mouth not long after that.

And that, my friends, is the story of how August learned to suck his thumb. I say: God bless thumb-sucking.

When I was awakened this morning at 5.20 a.m. by robust squawks from the nursery, I didn’t have too much to complain about. Michael had sportingly taken the lead in manning the nursery door, delivering the line — “Good night, August. Sweet dreams. See you when it’s time.” — and August had magnanimously refrained from crying most of the night. Sleep training … so far, so good.

All in all, I had a relatively good night’s sleep under my pajama waistband. I was encouraged. August and I started our day well: We hung out. We sang. We fed. And THEN it was time for the morning nap.

See, what I had omitted to factor into this whole sleep training thing, is that the training doesn’t stop when the sun rises. Nope, it continues well into the next day and naps — sigh — are no exception. We are on the express track, my friends.

Before we set loose the sleep train, I had envisioned every nighttime scenario and planned out appropriate solutions. What will I do if he cries for three hours nonstop? What will I do if he wakes me up before I wake him for the dream feed? What will I do if he can’t fall back asleep? What will I do if … well, you get the idea.

But stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to me that the following day I’d be sitting on the sofa listening to more shrieks issuing from under the nursery door. Call me a fool today. But trust me, this time tomorrow, I’ll be prepared. Oh, and for the record? Daytime nap training is far worse than nighttime sleep training. Especially when you’re home alone.

Tags: Crying, Sleeping

The sleep train? Well that sounds like fun. But trust me, it’s no fun. We’re currently riding it down to hell and back (or wherever the sleep train travels).

Our journey began at 6.45 this evening. August had been fed, washed, creamed, brushed, deposited into his sleep sack, and placed squarely into his cot. Mummy delivered a previously agreed-upon set phrase — “Good night August. Sweet dreams. See you when it’s time” — and she walked out of the room closing the door firmly behind her.

Forty-five minutes later there was debris on the track, so to speak, in the form of “Cough, cough, splutter, squeak, wail, waaaaaaaaaah!”

Under normal circumstances, Mummy or Daddy would have rushed to August’s rescue, dashing into the nursery to deliver cuddles, hugs and dibby dops (still more on those later). But not this night.

It was Daddy’s turn: He opened the nursery door, walked in, placed his hand on August’s chest, delivered the agreed-upon line, turned on his heel and walked out closing the door behind him.

The squealing continued. And continued. The pitches rose and fell. The lights on the monitor were on fire with screeches.

We turned on the TV, opened a bottle of wine. Daddy called his parents for moral support. Mummy made a slick escape to pick up a pizza. And while she was dawdling at the pizza parlor, her phone rang: August had cried himself to sleep, Daddy reported.

Already? And the pizza wasn’t even done yet.

So here we are, having completed stage one of the sleep journey, but the night is long with ample opportunity for August to shake himself awake. If he does, we’ll march in to the nursery, deliver the line and march out, loaded with purpose. Then, we’ll hole up in the bedroom with happy thoughts and good books and a slab of chocolate and try not to cry ourselves.

What’s the reward at the end of this journey, you ask? After two or three days, we’ll have a perfectly delightful, sleep-trained child who settles for naps and goes down peacefully at bedtime. At least, that’s what the experts say.

The jury’s still out on whether it will work with August.

Tags: Sleeping

You haven’t lived until you’ve nursed your four-month-old under a Hooter Hider next to an unknown bearded man in coach. No sirreee, you have not.

We were all wedged together in the second-to-last row of the plane, next to the lavatories. Tucked under my seat, my diaper bag exploded with spare bibs and nappies and creams and potions and dibby dops (more on those later) and balled up baby socks and two round apples in plastic sacks. Propped up in my lap August drooled into his bib.

My neighbor was gnarled with a frizzly, grizzly ponytail. I was close enough to see his ear hairs (clipped) and he was large enough to require that the armrest remained up throughout the flight. We were cheek by jowl doing the Delta Air Lines economy-class dance. It was terribly romantic. He kept his hands folded in his lap, his nose directed toward the window. August looked at him and yowled.

Truly, Michael and I tried our best to keep August entertained with bouncing and songs and stories but even a four-month-old is wise enough to know that flights — even short flights — are borrrrring. I slung August over my shoulder so he could sleep. But then he was awake. And he wanted food.

Nursing is a clunky business at best. Nursing under a nursing cover — a flowery cape slung around my neck to hide baby and breast — turns it into a full-blown comedy. It was dark and stifling under my super-mommy cape. August poked his head up out of the top to get some air. He looked around. He snuffled and snorted and yanked. He bat at the folds of cloth. We worked at it for five minutes until neither of us could stand it any longer. August shouted and screamed. That was the end of that meal.

Meanwhile my neighbor expressed deep, deep interest in the view out the window.

And now I know why they call it cattle class.

Tags: Feeding, Nursing

August doesn’t like the gym. And August doesn’t like gymnastics.

No, that’s really too mild for how he feels about it. August hates the gym and August despises gymnastics.

He’s a child who doesn’t cry too much without good reason and he’s still whimpering over the gym experience.

Here’s what happened: I took him to class at a gym for babies. We made our way down a foreboding corridor and into a rickety too-small-for-a-stroller elevator and up to the second floor. In retrospect, all the signs were there, urging us to turn back.

We checked in. I was skeptical at best. I was never one for the ropes or the hoops or the monkey bars or the scratchy shorts and dorky gym slippers we had to wear in school — ugh. But I wasn’t going to let my own loathing of gym creep into his psyche. Who would I be to hold him back?

So in we marched with purposeful confidence. Class had started; we were late. August and I surveyed the gymnasium: big plastic mats in primary reds and blues and yellows; parallel bars; crash pads; balls and bouncy benches. “Here we are, Augie!” Did he detect the uncertainty in my voice? Was it my imagination, or did he shrink back?

We jigged and danced to warm up. We experimented with hoisting baby over the head in a tipsy somersault. August vomited milk down his front. I found my eyes veering toward the clock. Fifteen minutes had gone by. Was that all?

We bounced about on the equipment and looked at the impossible bars and did clunky rollovers down an inflatable mat. Finally, August turned looked me dead in the eye: “Mummy, what is this place?” I gulped. He tried to be brave. And the second hand moved slower and slower until each minute became an eternity. Oh my heavens, it was just like the gym classes of yore. Gym is gym, I suppose.

Seeing eye to eye, we began to plot our escape. Sneaky baby and his mum on the run! We were the first ones out. Down in the elevator, along the corridor and into the fresh air. Whew, it had been a close call.

And really, that makes August a child after my own heart. I think we’ll just stick with baby yoga.

Having a child brings out the holiday spirit in the Scroogiest parents.

Last year, we never got around to getting a proper tree. Instead we decorated a wooden branch we’d purchased in Iceland with miniature baubles from Gracious Home. The cats bit the baubles and knocked them behind the couch. We salvaged what we could and re-hung them. It was a wicked recurring game that kept the cats entertained until Twelfth Night when we finally tabled the ornaments.

This year, the story is very different. We have a proper tree. A grand 7-foot affair whose pine-y smell reaches all the way to the other end of the apartment.

Selecting the right tree was a family-wide endeavor. We examined the firs, the pines, the balsams. We weighed the pros and cons of the various heights (taller = BETTER!). We priced out tree stands and assessed the various designs — plastic vs. metal. We looked at trees on every street corner and waited for the finest shipments to come in from Lapland (or from wherever they hail). And when we finally bit the bullet and bought the best tree on the block, we decided we simply had to have a pretty wreath dressed to the nines with a rich maroon ribbon. Michael dragged the tree home and I jaunted back with the wreath slung over my arm like a bracelet. August looked cute.

Then came the lights. Hundreds of them; zillions of them, because the tree needed to look fine. Ornaments we dragged out of their deep, dark boxes. We laid “snow” at the base of the tree. And two tiny presents at its foot.

And do you want to know how much notice August has taken of this magnificent tree? Well, let’s put it this way: not as much as I’d like. Really, his hands are just so much more exciting than a giant pine (or was it fir?) covered in twinkling lights. But we’re working on it. I’ll park his bouncer next to the tree for a good half hour later today.

So, I was gearing up to write a post about how my sleep transmissions have finally paid off. You know, the hypnotic mutterings I pipe directly into August’s ears when he’s in a receptive state. “You are verrrrry sleeeeepy. You will not wake until mooooorning. If you do, you will falllll asleep again…”

I backed up up these transmissions with a portable Sleep Sheep for additional sleepy insurance — Stream! Rain! Ocean! Whale Songs! (August’s favorite, of course, is whale songs) — and I spent hours dangling over the side of the crib soothing my beloved with restful tummy rubs and head strokes. Plus, there was the pacifier.

And you know what? It paid off. Really it did. August began sleeping great big long stretches that filled his mother’s eyes with tears of gratitude. Indeed, after a late-night feed at 11 p.m., he’d close his eyes and not open them until a reasonable — even alarming — 6.30 a.m. or 7 a.m. It made me want to sing with the angels. Tra-la-laaaaah!

AND THEN…one night, it changed. He fussed at bedtime. His eyes sprang open. He snarled. Two nights ago, the hourly wake-up calls began at 2 a.m. I shushed August with my eyes closed. I dangled over that crib. We played whale songs at unprecedented levels. “August,” I said, “We need to talk.”

The following morning, I was the walking dead. After five non-consecutive hours of fake sleep, I felt like I’d flown twice around the world holed up in an economy seat and just woken up to 12-hours-worth of jetlag. I was so fried, I could have slipped unnoticed onto the McDonald’s dollar menu.

Last night the shouts began at 1.30 a.m. I went into the nursery. I shushed and patted. And it occurred to me (or rather, it occurred to Michael) that maybe, just maybe, he was suffering another teeny tiny cold. Out came the elephant trunk and we rooted around in his nose for a while. And before you could say, “snot!” he was asleep. He woke up at 6.30.

Chance?
Luck?
A legitimately blocked nose?

Only tonight will tell… stay tuned!

Tags: Health, Sleeping

If you know me, you’re probably aware that Francesca & Sports don’t necessarily go together.

And even if you don’t know me, you can probably tell from a mile off that back in the day, I was the one who skulked at the sidelines of the lacrosse pitch or the netball court or the rounders field while my sportier counterparts made strides. Let me put it this way: Even though I did make the house swimming team (bless you, LAC) and even though I can catch a ball with fair accuracy, sport just isn’t my thing.

I tried to explain this to the Strollercize trainer. Really I did. But she was having none of it. “Honey, this class is about being a fit mom. It has nothing to do with sporty/not sporty.”

Strollercize? Yes, indeed! It’s an outdoor exercise class for Manhattan’s Type A / uber-energetic mommies who feel who feel the need to do back-breaking sit-ups and plant their “tushies” on ice-o-cold stone steps to tone away their baby rolls. And there’s also running. Lots. And galloping and skipping. And all the while we’re pushing the strollers. Soothing for babies, as you can imagine. In fact, August never smiles and sleeps as well as when I’m lugging my beastly body up a hill to the marching orders of trainer, Lizzie.

“Mom on a mission; march!” “Enemy Territory; get down low! “U-turn to the left and wheel back” Grunt…grunt…grunt…

So the fact that I make it out to these boot camps at all is itself impressive and while that may separate me from the other really lazy Manhattan mommies who don’t do any exercise at all, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m forever the laggard at the tail end of the line as we skip, swish and sway our booties through Central Park, lumbering to keep up with the others who are svelte runners and more.

As I said, Francesca & Sports…

Some things never change.

Tags: Exercise, Health

In the park today, after a sweaty session of Strollercize (more about that to come) I took the long route home, curving along the east side, up to the Oval and across.

As I lumbered along, limbs-a-tingling from the workout, a little brown and white dog went running past me, his leash flying out behind him. Gallop, gallop, gallop. His owner ran a few paces behind, calling the dog by name. Gallop, gallop, gallop.

A dog has escaped! There was merriment. Onlookers laughed. The owner laughed.

“Stop dog!”

But the little dog sped up. His sleek hair whipped back in the breeze. He listened not.

The dog zipped along, turned a sharp right. The path led straight to the park gate and the gate spilled out onto Fifth Avenue.

The dog’s owner cried out. His cries became more shrill.

All of a sudden, it wasn’t funny. The merriment of a naughty dog sunk into horror as the unthinkable began to unfold…

“Stop that dog! Stop that dog!” The owner became frantic, panicked. He picked up his pace. And the dog picked up his pace. The owner ran; the dog ran.

People tried to block the dog, but the dog was sleek and small and quick. He darted through legs, evaded hands and — wham! — he was gone, out that gate, right out onto Fifth Avenue.

As I turned to the left and headed up the hill toward home, I thought about what it means to be a parent. There will be times when August ignores my cries. He will do as he chooses. He will dart out of gates and put himself in danger. And my palms will get slippery, my breath will get shallow, the terror will freeze my heart to the very core. And when he returns to my arms the relief will be so very vast that I forget, even, to get cross with him.

I looked back over my shoulder. I hadn’t heard the screeching of brakes and traffic continued as normal down Fifth. Hope tells me the dog was captured just in time.

There are toys and then there are toys.

And there are toys and then there are obsessions.

Enter: The Owl

I found the owl the other day at Planet Kids. She was strapped into a cardboard box and her wide eyes looked at me and spoke to me. And if they spoke to me, I thought they might speak to August.

Little did I know…

August is, frankly, addicted to the owl.

She’s a silly-looking thing. In lieu of feet she has one green plastic leaf and one wooden ring which are strung on to cloth “legs.” Her wings are one red, one blue and they make crinkly noises. When you shake her, a twinkling sound emanates from her fat tummy. And speaking of tummies, she has a baby owl attached by a string tucked into her tummy pocket. August spent a good portion of yesterday licking the eyes of the baby owl. And August spent a good portion of today sucking on the pointy tip of one of the momma owl’s ears until it was damp through.

There we are. August loves his owl. I didn’t even know children as young as he could have obsessions. But they do. And clearly this is his.

Tags: Playing, Toys