“What an incredibly lovely boy!”

(Yup, you said it, Auntie Ashley!)

Baby is screaming.
Inconsolable.

Back arched, hands rolled into fists, he is stiff as a board.

He breathes rapidly through his tears, trying to catch his breath as the cycle starts anew.

You pick him up.

You press his chest to your chest.
His head to your cheek.
His nose dips into your neck.

You circle your arms around him.
Cradle his head.
Whisper shush.

And all of a sudden, the crying stops.
He softens.
He melts.
Your arms are the the safest place in the world.

You feel his warmth.
His breath is slow and steady.

This, this, is worth living for.

Tags: Crying, Mother

I remember reading an article in Glamour about all the ways your body is not the same after you’ve had a baby. I’ll be honest: It was depressing and desperately worrying at the time. But that was years ago, when I still cared about thigh circumference and size zero trousers.

Now, when I look at photos of myself with child (say the above, taken the weekend before August was born) I am shocked, shocked by the sheer girth of my mega belly. He was big when he was born, but was he that big? (Answer: no. He was 8 lbs; 8 oz.)

Rest assured, I no longer look like the tank in the white tank top above, but I don’t really look like my previous self either. I’m some sort of momma-hybrid: lumpy, bumpy, curvy and soft. In other words, Glamour was right.

NEVERTHELESS —

This morning, I opened the trunk into which I had packed all my “slim clothes” and pulled out a  pair of normal-person corduroys (read: trousers with a button and zip fly and no maternity panel).

I’ve been wearing my maternity trousers up to this point and while they are great fun when there’s a baby inside, the novelty wears off fairly quickly once said child is born. Besides which, the stretchy belly panel is becoming somewhat loose causing the pants to sag and bag and on occasion slide all the way down. And trust me, it’s never as hard to hike up your trousers as when you’re juggling a baby.

So…. as I said, I opened the trunk and took out the corduroys and slipped them on and … buttoned them! The effect was far from pretty, but hey, they fit. Sort of.

And then I took them off. Because while technically they did fit, they didn’t really fit.

Which means, I’m woefully out of trousers. (I’m back in the maternity pants for the record.)

Someone needs to invent Post-Partum Pants. Maybe me. It’s a perfect small business concept for a new mum.

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Maternity Clothes

The Donner Household has hit another milestone: Francesca has experienced her first full weekend alone with baby; Michael has experienced his first full weekend apart from baby.

Here’s what happened: Michael had to go to D.C. for a bachelor party. So off he went.

A few friends looked at me askance: “You let him go?!”

Well, sure, I let him go. What am I going to do? Make him stay? Hardly.

In any case, Michael’s trip to D.C. was edifying for me in two ways.

ONE — I learned that looking after a baby by myself is totally within my realm of capability. It was fine. Manageable. Normal. Same routine as always: Baby eats; baby cries, baby sleeps; baby cries; baby eats; baby sleeps etc.

Sure, I had to operate as a one-armed machine, folding laundry with a baby in one hand; operating the sterilizer with a baby on one hip and so on, but aside from the fact that everything — everything — was twice the work, it really was doable. Really.

HOWEVER….

TWO — I learned that while everything alone was doable — twice the work though it may have been — it was half the fun. No, more like an eighth of the fun.

Dads are good at singing songs. They are good at carrying heavy, lumpy babies. They are good at matching baby socks. And they are much, much better at bathing baby than mummy.

But most of all, dads are… hmmm… dads. And that’s important.

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Father

When you have a baby, some things rise to the top of the list, others sink to the bottom.

Revised, reordered priorities:

(1) Drink water
(2) Feed the baby
(3) Eat food
(4) Run a load of laundry (for the baby)
(5) Calm (the baby)
….
……
….
(50) Nap
….
…….
….
(96) Pay bills / Ring Oxford Healthcare / Deposit checks (Sigh)
(97) Write thank you notes (Sorry)
(98) Run a load of laundry (for the grownups)
(99) Stay abreast of the news (Sigh)
(100) Take a shower (Sigh)
…
……
…
(149) Change out of pajamas
(150) Clean the bathroom

Back to Baby Augie.

There’s no doubt about it — mums are squares.

It’s not that I was ever particularly cool, but let’s put it this way: I was never as uncool as when I became a mum.

Dork, square, call me what you will. Either way, the desperately uncool antics spill over to every corner of life. For example —

You might catch this mum singing three consecutive cycles of “Baby Beluga.” In public? YES!

OR….

You might spot her doing dances and jigs and slinging her hips from side to side just to make baby feel wonderful.

OR….

You might overhear her talking about the weather — rain! sun! sad bones cloudy skies! — as if it’s the latest gossip.

OR…

You might observe her reading aloud from “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” with the same relish as a normal person would devour a Stieg Larsson novel.

It’s just part and parcel of being a mum. (Or so I tell myself.)

Of course, if August were 15 (actually, make that 9 … or even 7?) he would be mortified by the sing-songy-hip-slingy lady who is his mum. But, today he’s not complaining. And who’s watching, anyway?

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Moms, Mother, Playing, Songs

It’s not enough to call August, August. We need additional names. Many additional names that get to the heart of his highly complex and multifaceted personality and emotions. (“Feed me!” “Cuddle me!” “Change me!” “Let me sleep!”)

As I reflect on the nicknames that have cropped up most frequently in our household, I can’t help noticing that none of these names sound particularly endearing or charming. But they’re charming to me. And so’s my little piggie wig wig.

General Food-Related Names
Meatball
Ham Sandwich
Honey Glazed Ham
Pork Chop
Pork Thighs
Turkey
Heavy Goose

Size- / Shape-Related Names
Smudge
Scraps
Scrap Heap

Facial Names
Snarly
One-Eyed Jack

Crying Names
Squawker
Squeaky

Bathtime Names
Smelly Fish
Squishy Fish
Squeaky Fish

Feeding Names
Monster
Shark / Shark’s Teeth
The Machine

In the comments below, share some of the nicknames you’ve used for your own children, nieces, nephews, baby brothers, baby sisters et al. C’mon, it’s fun! (No need to reveal your real name.)

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Crying, Feeding, Sleeping

See the pathway to paradise, above? It’s gorgeous, and I get to trot down that path with my little munchkin every day. (It’s Central Park in September, for the record.)

It’s enough to make even the most brazen mother blush. I mean, this is my job right now: Looking after a baby, doing circuits of the park, staring into my son’s eyes. Sometimes it makes me feel almost guilty.

Of course my life isn’t all paradise. There are mountains — MOUNTAINS — of laundry to scale. There is a hungry and demanding mouth that shouts to be fed. There’s the 4 a.m. wake-up call.

Still, while mum pushes her stroller, dad is busy with conference calls and meetings. And that’s where the guilt comes in.

But then — here comes the double edged sword part — all of a sudden, those conference calls and meetings sound rather intriguing. It’s the big, bad world of adults, of intellectual stimulation, of power suits and three syllable words.

And then my path to paradise feels just a bit narrower.

At which point I remind myself that this is a blessing. And I must enjoy what I have in the time that I have it. Sure the grass always looks greener, but even a 5-year-old can tell you that’s just an optical illusion.

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Guilt, Maternity Leave

Yesterday, August didn’t want to sleep.

He was cheerful and chirpy from morning to noon to night.

He lay on his playmat and kicked. He smiled. He cooed. He refused to nap.

So….

His mum decided she was going to be especially active with him today. She’d sing songs. She’d read stories. She’d give him an extended (extra fun!) bath. She’d take him on two walks instead of one. She’d bring out all the toys. She’d play music.

But today, August didn’t want to be awake. All he wanted to do was sleep.

So….

His mum folded up the playmat. She silenced the CD player. She put away the books. She dropped the toys back in their bin. She did one walk. She did a shortened bath. She sang only the softest songs.

While his mum may have decades of experience over him, at age five weeks, August has once again foiled his mum.

Predictability is not the name of August’s game.

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Playing, Schedule, Sleeping

Baby Knows Best

Mothering is HARD. There’s no one way to do things. There’s no right way to do things. It’s an art form that’s desperately devoid of facts — trial and error are the rules of the game.

But it’s not for a lack of literature on the topic. There are manuals galore, yes, but they all contradict one another. Never cuddle your baby; Always cuddle your baby; Sometimes cuddle your baby. So which is it?

In the end, you have to make your own rules. And just when you think you’ve established some sort of formula about the way things are going to be done, then you find yourself backtracking on all you’ve decided. Two steps forward; two steps back: The momma-baby two-step.

In fact the only thing you can really count on is baby’s yelling. Because you can be absolutely sure he’ll let you know when your so-called rules don’t fit his agenda.

Sometimes, I try things that make my baby cry LOUDER THAN EVER.
Sometimes, he looks at me in horror as if to say, “I can’t believe you just did that!”

And that’s when the doubts creep in. Because, truthfully, I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’m an infant novice. What if August works this out? What if he puts two and two together and realizes I’m not the perfect mum?!

And it’s times like these that I have to remind myself that we’re each just learning one another. He’s new to me; I’m new to him. At some point we’ll find our rhythm. You know, maybe when he’s 20 and I’m 53.

Back to Baby Augie.

Tags: Crying, Fears, Mother