Anyone who knows anything about babies (and even those who don’t know much, say, myself) has heard of the witching hour.

For those who haven’t, it’s a stretch of time from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. (or is it 10 p.m.?) during which baby is extra cranky, colicky, fussy and snarly. There are squawks, there is kicking and there is general discomfort-in-one’s-skin. This coincides perfectly with the end of the day, just as mum and dad are ready to kick back and unwind with a glass of wine. How painful is that? (Click here for a more professional primer on Witching Hour)

Traditional witching hour never made it into our home, but August not to be outdone by other babies and imaginative as always invented his own witching hour — one that revs up in the morning. Ugh!

Here’s how it works: Between 5 a.m. and 6 a.m. when mummy and daddy are passed out in their bed, August’s eyelids suddenly flip open and his status switch tunes into AWAKE AWAKE AWAKE! This information he transmits to his parents by way of shrieks which crackle through the monitor (now parked outside the parents’ bedroom in the hallway) causing the light display to fire up and cast blue shadows on the walls. Then mummy drags into August’s bedroom where he waits for her AWAKE but EXHAUSTED which any parent will tell you is the very worst combination.

Then the soothing, go-back-to-sleep routine begins and the eyelids flutter back to their closed position. But no sooner has that happened when the legs sling up: AWAKE AWAKE AWAKE!

After extreme coaxing, sleep eventually takes over by which time ol’ mummy herself is way, way, way too wide awake to close her eyes. One might even refer to her as AWAKE but EXHAUSTED. Sound familiar?

Yay! August’s own personal witching hour! Go Aug for the creativity on this one. I’ll have to remind you of it when you’re a lazy 15-year-old sleeping in until 11 a.m. Or, make that noon.

Tags: Napping, Sleeping

There’s no doubt about it, this mum works hard to be the very best mum she can (most of the time), but occasionally a task is set before her that challenges her to hilt and she is doomed to fail.

In this case: dressing August.

When dad picks out his clothes, August looks put together in stylish pants and T’s (see helicopter outfit, above), muted colors paired with muted colors, patterns and designs just enough to bring out the boyish charm and making August look ever-so-slightly cool without trying too hard. Oh, he looks cute.

But when daddy’s away and mummy has free range of the closets, somehow August ends up looking like a mismatched patchwork quilt of bad fashion.

Today he wore: A pair of yellow quilted pants with ducks balancing red balls on their beaks, a white T-shirt, black Argyle socks underneath his green fleece “Robin Hood” boots and a navy blue Baby Gap cardigan. Even this mum had to admit it was a bit of an embarrassment. (No photo taken to protect August’s reputation.)

Hey, we can’t all be good at everything. And as they say, variety — in this case clothing styles — is the spice of life.

Tags: Baby Clothes

When it comes to mothering I like to think of myself as one tough cookie, but really I’m a big softie. A big, squishy, caramel-ly softie.

That means, when August does cute things, I melt. And when he cries, I go running. And when he needs something, I’ll jump through hoops to make it happen.

So, tonight, when distressed squawks emerged from under the nursery door, you know mummy went a-running.

August was asleep … but crying. Under a soft light, I could make out tightly shut eyelids and little hands balled up into fists, his face scrunched and red. Oh, heavens above, it was baby bad dreams. Could I make them go away?

I scooped August up into my arms, held him against me. The squawking slowed and petered out and the breathing resumed its normal pace. Bad dreams banished.

My blessed lamb, it just about broke my heart. I hope we don’t see too many of those.

A cold virus has descended on the Donner Household.

Under normal circumstances, this would be tiresome. But now that August is here it becomes a small-scale tragedy — for August and mummy alike.

In the old days before August, when I got a cold, I might have frittered away the afternoon on the couch, working my way through a heap of books and magazines, sipping hot teas, with two cats curled up at my feet. There was almost a guilty pleasure in holing up, sick. But those simple pleasures are long gone.

Now all my energy is consumed in babying my little monster who, sadly, shares my snotty nose. And really there is nothing sadder than a tiny little boy with snuffly nostrils. Especially since he can’t partake in our home remedies — ginger tea, salt gargles and the like.

Earlier today we had to employ the nose sucker which we nickname the elephant trunk to make it more appealing to August. Truth is, August couldn’t care two jots about the cute euphemism. He is just wondering why we are sticking blue plastic vacuum-y, suction-y pipes up his nose holes. I think he’d like us to stop. But the truth is, he feels so much better after an unclogging.

August is more squawky than usual with pink-rimmed eyes. It’s pathetic. His mum isn’t much better. We make quite the sorry pair. On the other hand, baby’s first cold is not as bad as I’d anticipated. Yes, I was fearing the very worst.

Tags: Health

When it comes to sleeping at night, I give August a solid B+/A- with the occasional C thrown in.

B+ for only occasionally (but still occasionally) needing encouragement at bedtime.
A- for sleeping fairly long stretches at a time.
A- for not being reliant on the pacifier and only using it 50% of the time.
C for flipping like a switch between smiling (awake) and snarling (tired) with the put-me-to-bed-now-or-this-will-be-the-end cry.
A+ for sleeping in his crib, on his own, in the dark with no reliance on swings or other movement sources.
B+ for more or less being able to alternate between the crib and the stroller.
A for giving up his bassinet when he was still a tiny piglet; and A for being willing to go back into the bassinet after he’d clearly given it up, when the construction project upstairs was giving us all a headache.

It’s true August is not sleeping through the night and it’s true he demands dinner-time-top-ups at various unpredictable moments between midnight and 6 a.m. But who am I to complain about that? That’s small potatoes.

I’ve heard the horror stories, my friends.

One young fellow, a four-and-a-half-month-old from Baby Yoga needs to be bounced on the bouncy ball — vigorously — before he falls asleep. That includes before bedtime, before every nap and before every middle-of-the-night wake-up-call.

Babies wake up and go to sleep a great many times in a 24-hour period. So, can you imagine vigorously bouncing a baby on a ball at 2 a.m.? And then, say, again, at 5 a.m.? And then again at around 8.30 a.m.? And then again at around noon? And then maybe at some point in the mid afternoon? And then in the early evening? Well, exactly.

So I’m not going to rock the boat: I’ll take what I’ve got and not complain about the occasional wrinkle in August’s sleep habits.

Tags: Sleeping

There is talk in the Donner Household of possibly taking a trip.

Not a relaxed, laze-about-on-the-couch trip to visit the grandparents, but rather, a passport trip. An overseas trip. A 10-hours-jammed-into-an-economy-seat trip. A trip to a place we have never been.

In the past, this would never have fazed us. But toting a baby about, the question becomes…

Do we dare?

Frankly, the getting there is the least of it. (Or is it??) I mean, JFK is lousy whichever way you slice it, strollers or no. But there are other, bigger things to consider. For example, will the jetlag tip him over the edge? Will we be able to find our brand of nappies when we run out 50 miles from nowhere? Will the hotels provide babysitters? (And if so, will they be OK?) Will we be lugging August about lolling in the Baby Bjorn until our feet fall off? Can we bring him into restaurants? Will he cry? And will he cry LOUDLY?

Fortunately, our first choice of destination (Argentina — Buenos Aires, Mendoza) bypasses the jetlag problem since it’s more or less on the same longitudinal line as New York (give or take two hours). So that’s good. But the flight remains questionable. I am happy to plonk August down in Michael’s lap for the duration, but is he going to embarrass us and yell from wheels up to wheels down? Good gracious, I am not prepared to be that parent, the one we all hate, the one with the noisy child.

Then there’s the matter of keeping August entertained. He’s only three months now, but at six or seven months, will he be willing to be toted about from winery to winery and restaurant to restaurant? Or is it going to rapidly devolve into a game of hang-with-mummy-in-the-hotel room?

On the other hand, fellow parents tell me there’s no better time to pack your bags for a trip because baby is portable but not independently mobile and throwing food on the floor isn’t a daily thrill — not yet, anyway. Plus, we’ll have a Christmas trip to New Orleans as a test run. Of course, that’s slated to be a laze-about-on-the-couch trip to visit the grandparents. But no matter, travel is travel.

So, what do you think: Argentina here we come?

I really ought to wear one of those “Hello, My Name Is: ________” stickers on my coat.

I’m not sure whether it’s because August isn’t terribly talkative yet or I’m alone much of the time, but I keep finding myself chatting up strangers in strange places.

For example, the other day I met the mother of Colston in the Oval at Central Park. I sidled right up to her, totally unabashed and asked her “how old?” Turns out he’s just six days senior to Augie. We got to talking as new mothers will and then, when August started squawking, I went on my merry way.

Later on, I got to chatting with the check-out lady at Zabar’s. Telling her about August — his age and such — full of motherly pride.

And during a late afternoon run to Duane Reade, I made friendly chatter with a mom in the pharmacy line whose six-month-old was squealing to high heaven. (She said he cries all the time, God bless him.)

I’ve stopped moms in the street, I’ve stopped ladies after baby yoga, I’ve latched on to pregnant women to tell them that everything is going to be fine. I’ve gotten to know the parents on my block. I’ve sent emails to mothers I barely know and forwarded the names of good babysitters. I’m friends with two Rachels and a Tiffany from mommy school, I go walking with Kristin and Sarah from the ‘hood. And on and so it goes.

You know, come to think of it, all of a sudden, I’m friendly. There’s just no telling what becoming a mum will do to you.

OK, I’ve got a greedy guts on my hands.

Given that the child issued from the loins of Greedy Guts Herself (c’est moi), that may come as no surprise. But seriously this is ridiculous.

The child cries as if he has never eaten before.

The wails begin small and slow. Let’s say that’s a 2 out of 10 on the hunger scale.

After a minute, the cries elevate to a solid 4 out of 10. The mouth tips down to a frown.

Then, before you can say milk, the hunger stacks up to piercing, 10 out of 10. Blink once and it’s 11 out of 10. Then 12 out of 10.

(“Help! Help! Somebody save me!”)

We’re now at 13 out of 10.

14 out of 10.

Grab the trusty Boppy…

(“It’s been hours since I ate!”)

Unhinge the nursing bra…

(“I am deprived!”)

16 out of 10.

(“If I don’t eat in the next 10 seconds, I will never survive!!!”)

20 out of 10.

(“Help! Help! “)

Sling baby over the Boppy…

(“Kkkkkkkkkk. Kkkkkkkkkkkkk.”)

Offer baby the breast. BUT in the 2.7 minutes it’s taken to get organized, the greedy guts has worked himself up into such a state that he is simply too hungry to feed at all. One tiny fist flies through the air to punch ol’ mum again and again. The world is a mess of tears and sorrow.

Oh, but wait, is that gulping, I hear? The rhythm starts up and great big loud swallows that makes starvation sound moderate compared to what he’s been through. Glug, glug, glug, gulp, swallow, glug, glug, glug, gulp, swallow, glug, glug, glug…

We’re just fine now.

To try and avoid these types of antics, we’ve enforced a new feeding schedule:

6.30 a.m. (half feed)
7 a.m. (other half)
9.30
12 noon
2.30 p.m.
5.30 p.m. (half feed)
6.15 p.m. (other half)
10.45 (dream feed)
2 / 3 / 4 a.m. (Auguie’s choice)

You think that’s deprived? Hmm, me neither.

Tags: Crying, Feeding, Schedule

It’s a gorgeous, ever-so-slightly crisp Friday night in November. The kind of night that, a year ago, I would have likely skipped out onto the town for drinks and a good dinner.

But that was then and this is now.

Now, on this Friday in November, we hang out in the apartment while the mini-munchkin sleeps. Dinner delivered; Harry Potter on the TV; lazing about in pajamas and long socks. It’s not a bad life. There’s a sort of romance to it, if you know where to look for it.

We all have our talents. Some of us are good at mathematics, others are better at sports. Frankly, it’s what makes the world an interesting place and keeps things competitive.

And August, like other 11-week-old youngsters has his talents too. He is very good at greedily drinking milk. He has good focus and can pay attention to small things. He can also cry with the best of them, producing a shriek so shrill it burrows deep into mummy’s ear canals and propels her out of bed with a single leap. (I’d say that denotes a good ability to read and manipulate people.)

But there are some things our perfect boy is not so good at. Namely, tummy time.

I know, I know, you’re thinking all parents complain about tummy time because all babies protest it.

But August doesn’t.

On the contrary, he slips merrily into tummy time and willingly lays on his stomach for required 10 minutes. I used to think this was just another expression of August’s good humor. Now I realize it’s less about how obliging he is and more about the fact that he’s not doing anything at all. He just lays there and licks the sheets. It’s an exercise in sheer laziness.

Yesterday the pediatrician asked about his tummy time flipping him stomach-down. And as usual he just lay there and licked the paper. Brilliant, August.

“He doesn’t, you know, raise his head or prop himself up on his arms or elbows?” she asked.

Nope.

Wow, our son sure is clever to trick him mum into thinking he was doing it right. See, top of the class again!

Tags: Exercise