It’s a truth universally aknowledged that babies cry.

Which is fine.

And truthfully, I really don’t mind it when babies around me scream their guts out. As the books say, they’re just trying to tell us something.

What I do mind is the sound of my baby crying. I mind it especially when it begins at 6 a.m. and it keeps up a steady and consistent pace until 7 p.m. when my baby mercifully passes out in snarling exhaustion.

Today was one of those days.

After I’d tried the bouncing and the shushing and the feeding and the burping and the singing and the dancing … and after I’d tried the trusty pacifier and had it spat back into my face five times, I resorted to yoga. Why not? All else had failed.

We began by singing three times the song of om. August cracked a smile which grew into a grin. But wait, was he laughing at …  me? Harrumph.

Enough of om. Aug lay back in savasana and I ran my hands down his torso to his toes.

At this point I had his attention and was it … focus?

Then we did a visualization exercise which went something like this:

You are outside, lying on a bed of soft grass. You are warm, well-wrapped in a blanket. (Actually let’s make that a swaddle.)

You are looking up at the sky. Surrounding you are trees, their leaves turning from green to yellow to orange. The yellow leaves start floating and spiraling down and land on your tummy. They land on the grass beside you. You can make out the branches against the sky.

You start to notice the sound of waves lapping at the shores of a nearby lake. A mist emerges from the water and twists among the tree trunks, rising up, up, through the branches to the leaves…

…And so on…

And then August started to cry. But hey, it soothed him for 10 minutes, and for today, that was a record.

Back to BabyAugie.com

Tags: Crying, Exhaustion, Parenting, Schedule

How much does a baby really need?

A pregnant friend asked me this on Facebook. Her friends keep telling her that she should be busy-busy-busy buying-buying-buying.

I beg to differ.

Here’s a short list of what a baby needs:

• A safe place to sleep
• A safe place to nurse
• A safe place to — occasionally — kick up its heels.

Babies also need: lots of love, lots of care, lots of attention, lots of cuddling, lots of bouncing, lots of burping, lots of calming,  lots of cleaning, lots of singing and lots and lots of milk.

Of course, there’s a list of what the mum (dad, caretaker) needs for the baby and that’s different. That list is long:

• Swaddle cloths x 20 (literally) since they come in handy for all sorts of unexpected purposes
• A sturdy crib which won’t break mum’s (dad’s, caretaker’s) back
• A good changing table with multiple covers that can be washed on stain cycle triple hot
• Extra cloths to cover the changing table cover. Mine have seen more action than an airplane lavatory and are worth their weight in gold. (Thank you Auntie Ashley. I’m sure I gave you crazy-eye when you lovingly bestowed those cloths on me, but you were right.)
• A closet/shelves in/on which to stow all the lovely figurines and piggy banks baby can’t touch until he’s 3.
• Baby shirts that cross over the chest rather than go over the head. It’s hard enough to dress a wiggly, wobbly baby without having to yank things across his face.
• Pacifiers, dummies, dibby-dops, choo-chos, call them what you will, but they are the crutch that has saved me countless times. Need.
• The blessed sterilizer by Avent. Admittedly a luxury, but anything, frankly to get out of boiling bottles and dibby-dops (see above).
• Some form of tub in which baby can be bathed
• A Baby Bjorn/Ergo carrier/sling in which to transport the baby to a restaurant for mum and dad’s “date night”
• A good stroller
• Nappies. Lots.

What have I forgotten? In the comments below, share your baby must-haves, like-to-haves and unnecessaries.

Tags: Baby Clothes, Nursery

Once upon a time the gender breakdown in the Donner Household leaned heavily towards girls. There was me, of course, plus Olive and Emma, two girlie felines who are partial to ribbons and the like.

Michael was outnumbered three to one. Girls ruled.

Then, along came August and the dynamic changed. Overnight the girl-namic became a guy-namic.

In the days following his birth, the cats slunk about and remained mostly out of sight. They did less than little to support the Pink Team.

Meanwhile, the Blue Team was going strong. Michael had found an ally, and August was more than willing to play along. Boys will be boys, after all. Michael (a.k.a. dad) was fun, entertaining his son with song and dance. Mummy was merely useful. August laughed at his dad, learned to coo and his eyes got big. Mummy remained merely useful.

Now that August is older (practically a BIG BOY) the division is even more apparent. As in… Michael and August dart behind the door, August strapped to his dad in the Baby Bjorn, arms splayed out to each side, eyes shiftily looking to the left. As in… Michael and August hide behind the bed in a fort of pillows — “sneaky boys!” — while square mummy is hunting her son down for a feeding.

I see where this is going. And goodness knows it’s only the beginning. I envision: road trips and football games, rugged expeditions with scraped knees, park excursions, bike rides. Tractors, trains and trucks. Wheels and tool kits. Dirt and worms and “puppy dog tails.”

Next summer, Michael plans to go camping in the garden with August.

Let me say this: Have fun, my friends on the Blue Team, with the slugs.

The Pink Team will hold down the fort inside. We’ll be the ones cozy on the sofa drinking hot chocolate. Then we’ll see which team comes out on top. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“Cooo!”

Just about the cutest thing a momma could hear. Yes, even at that hour.

Nobody could ever say that having a baby is easy. Or that it doesn’t change your life. Or that it won’t occasionally interfere with a good night’s sleep.

But I’ve about had it up to here with folks who have nothing but misery to report once they become parents. How many times have I heard that the first weeks are hell, miserable, a nightmare? Too many times to count, I tell you.

When I was pregnant, I anticipated the very worst because I’d been told that life with a newborn is the very worst. It’s rot, I tell you, absolute rot.

Parents-to-be, listen up: having a baby is not that bad. It is occasionally even — gasp — fun!

Everybody talks about the first smile at six weeks but there’s so much more to it than that. There’s the feeling of his warm breath on your cheek. There’s his skin smooth and supple and sweet. There’s the downy fuzz of his hair like silk through your fingers. There’s the feeling of his tiny foot in your hand; his hand on your arm.

And that’s just for starters.

Of course, there are moments when you want to throw up your hands and throw in the towel. But take those moments step by step by step by step and you — yes, you — will be just fine.

Tags: Parenting

Birthdays. Ugh.

Who likes getting older? Ugh.

Another notch on the belt of Father Time. Ugh.

UNTIL my most recent birthday, when everything changed.

For one, it was no longer a day streaked in self pity because it was no longer about me. If there’s one thing a newborn is good at, it’s taking focus away from one’s self. Whew!

For two, I have a new appreciation of what it really means to be born having given birth myself. What gratitude I feel! (Thank you, CMEC!)

And here I was thinking birthdays were about cakes and candles for the young and the grim aging process for the old. Now I know why they’re worth celebrating. Gosh it took me a long time to work that out.

(1) Snarls when interrupted during feeding (attack dog)

(2) Roars in proximity to food (lion)

(3) Occasional grunting (pig/wild boar/warthog)

(4) Gnashing gums … August doesn’t have teeth, but if he did they’d be sharp as sharks’ teeth (shark)

(5) Jaws of steel … akin to a vise … Clamp & Snap! (alligator)

(6) Sharp claws which grow back almost instantly after clipping (tiger/common house cat)

(7) Spiked hair … not in itself dangerous but gives a monstrous impression (stegosaurus)

(8) Daily screeching (banshee/bat)

(9) Legs of iron designed to strike blows at his victim’s (make that mum’s) softest body parts (wild horse)

(10) And last but not least … poo … strikes at random, targets with precision (snake)

* * *

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Crying, Feeding

Who’s to say what it is, exactly, that August does when he’s alone, asleep in his nursery?

You never quite know what you’re going to find when you wake him up. Or rather, when he wakes you up.

For example, there was the time he had turned himself a full 90 degrees in his crib so instead of laying longways (normal) he was laying latitude-ways (not normal). (Remember, this is a child who can’t walk, let alone roll over, find his mouth with his fingers or control his head — though on the latter three, he’s definitely making progress.)

Then there was the time, he woke his mum at an irregular 1.30 a.m. and she found him laying at one end of the crib in just a T-shirt and diaper with the swaddle all the way at the other end of the crib. Mysterious.

Then there was the time that just one booted foot was extricated from the swaddle, dangling through the slats of the crib in the cool air.

And then there was the time that he’d somehow managed to propel himself to the top end of his crib so that his head was pressed against the slats and his neck was turned at a totally unacceptable angle. If he were stiff and old like a grown up, that would have resulted in a severe crick in his neck. Did August mind? Not one bit!

Meanwhile, his mum is dealing with her own nighttime antics, waking up at 4.15 a.m. by habit and feeling fully — gasp — awake by 5 a.m. Don’t worry, it doesn’t last. By 7 a.m., the exhaustion fairies take over and there’s nothing she’d rather do than stretch out in the bed and close her eyes and breathe deeply and relaaaaaaaax…

Of course, that never happens.

Tags: Nursery, Sleeping

It’s a fact: U.S. maternity leave benefits are some of the worst in the world.

I wrote about this last summer on my blog at Forbes in anticipation of my maternity leave.

In this country, mothers receive 12 weeks’ unpaid time off to care for a newborn or adopted child, with the guarantee of the same job when they return. That’s assuming they work for a company with more than 50 employees.

In fact, when you compare maternity leave benefits across 180 countries, the U.S. sits dumpily at the tail end of the list. It’s pretty pathetic.

Perhaps you already knew that Sweden is parent-friendly (it clocks in at 68 weeks of maternity leave plus paternity leave for new dads) but did you know that the U.K. gives mums 52 weeks? So do Albania and Australia. Mums in the Czech Republic can look forward to 28 weeks of leave while those on the Isle of Man enjoy 26 weeks.

In fact all of these countries (to grab a random sample) give mothers more maternity leave than the U.S. — Hungary (24 weeks), Russia (20 weeks), Cuba (18 weeks), Turkmenistan (16 weeks), Singapore (16 weeks), Cote d’Ivoire (14 weeks), Senegal (14 weeks), Togo (14 weeks), Zimbabwe (13 weeks). I could go on, but it’s just too depressing. (See the full list here, including the countries that rank lower than the U.S.)

Well, August is six weeks now (that’s the halfway point of my maternity leave) and there’s a lot I know now which I didn’t know before. For example, the idea of leaving one’s child with a caretaker at three months is enough to make even the steeliest momma weep. It’s an awful thought.

It’s no wonder so many mothers drop out of the workforce, rather than deal with the the separation and the complication and the frustration not to mention (ironically) the expense of going back to work.

It just goes to show the lower than low value this country places on motherhood and parenthood. And call me crazy, but I think it says something on the value this country places on keeping women in the workforce.

Sigh.

I’m calling for better benefits for new mothers and fathers. Who’s with me?

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Maternity Leave

Today, I’m writing about sleep deprivation.

YIKES.

It sneaks up behind you and nudges you. It starts you swaying, slowly at first. Without attention, it swells into a tidal wave. It brings you to the ground. Oh boy, without sleep, life is not worth living.

Today, sleep (or lack thereof) and Francesca butted heads.

It’s not that I’d had a particularly bad night. Nor had I had an especially grueling day. It wasn’t any one moment that I could put my finger on; but six weeks of sleeping with one eye open takes its toll. And today, the toll needed to be paid.

August was hungry. If he could talk, he would have told me he was starving. “I’m having a growth spurt, mummy.”

And he was squealing.

We tried everything: more food, new positions, songs. Meanwhile, I was keeling over, swaying on my own two feet, wondering whether you could just hire a babysitter to come over and watch the baby so you could take a blessed nap.

And then I realized, that maybe August was tired too. Which he was. He’d been telling me that all along, but I’d misinterpreted the signs.

And we both slept: he in his little bed and I in my big bed.

And I’m alive again.

Whew, it was a close call.

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Napping, Schedule, Sleeping