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

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