Fake Coughing and the Scream-Fart

I am strangely and repeatedly surprised that Henry continues to grow.  I seem to expect him to be a static being who will remain a baby forever, but he isn't so little anymore.  He has 8 teeth now and he tears around the house like a super-commando on his belly.  He yells, "Muh!" when I bug him too much.

I have always been fascinated by human behaviour and have found parenting an infant to be a veritable fun house of stimuli, reactions and reinforcement.  Henry, as I'm sure all munchkins are, is extremely observant of his surroundings and continually tries out different sounds and actions to gauge the responses.  I have two favorites.

The first is fake coughing.

Henry loves attention.  He loves people watching what he's doing and getting to make his funny faces and noises.  He is a shameless flirt and is quite confident in his ability to amuse someone once he has hijacked their consciousness.  He has a large bag of tricks to get my attention and could write a manual on how to make his Mom laugh if his little fingers could type.  His dilemma, however, has been how to reliably gain a stranger's attention.

When he was smaller, people would fall all over him.  But now that he's a grabby shopping cart monster that does a lot of random yelling and hooting, passersby are quicker to write him off as a bratty kid and continue without notice.

The little turkey, in his infant wisdom, has overcome this barrier.  He has discovered that if he coughs loudly, people will always look.  It works 100% of the time.  It's also a brilliantly broad-targeted strategy as he will wait until we are near 3 - 5 people before he begins to "choke".  This will cause at least 40 - 60% of the unwitting strangers to turn suddenly to see if he needs infant CPR, giving him a variety of suckers to choose from.

Then he can turn on the Henry show.  They are putty in his hands.

The second thing he's doing started quite innocently last night as I was putting him to bed.  We had been to two separate Superbowl parties, so he was pretty wound up from being Party Baby for several hours.  I sat in the rocker and held him while he got all of his alligator-twists and owl-hoots out.  

As he was just starting to really settle and drop his head into the crook in my neck, I felt his little body tense a bit.  Certain that he was going to thrash one more time before conking out, I was unconcerned.

And then it cuts through the darkness - the scream-fart.

Henry gets a bit backed up now and then with all of the new solid foods and he used to cry when his tummy would hurt.  It seems that he has again evolved.  The scream-fart is a combination of a fart worthy of a large adult man and a shrill scream.  It appears to relieve the pesky abdominal pressure whilst providing a reason to randomly screech.  The two things together are certainly greater than the sum of their parts.

In the darkened room, time slowed down and I tried to tell myself to behave like an adult and not laugh as he was almost settled to sleep.   I knew he couldn't see the expression on my face, but I was unable to control the massive belly laugh that the scream-fart had caused.  I lasted about 4 seconds and then busted out laughing.

Henry, now extremely pleased with himself, also begins to chuckle.  So there we are in his dark little room, strongly reinforcing the scream-fart.  This is not recommended in the Baby Behaviour Manual.

I eventually got him to sleep and then went to tell Mark about our adventure.  I hoped that Henry would forget about this, but I underestimated the positive reinforcement combination of Mom laughing, the relief of farting and screaming at the same time and getting to stay up later.  The scream-fart has visited us again today, unfortunately for me, with the same response from me.

I've always wondered how I would handle opportunities to be a proper, adult role model.  I assumed that it would be tough to keep a straight face at times, but I had not anticipated this level of assault.  I am powerless to the scream-fart.  I am, however, really looking forward to the next thing that is too hilarious not to laugh at.  I can't even guess what it will be.

The Peanut Butter Barrier

I'm certain that this will make me a pariah amongst my peers, but I proceed anyway.  I gave Henry, who is 8 months and a few days old, peanut butter with his apple this morning.  I know.  If anyone needs a few seconds to compose themselves, please enjoy this video I found.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMNDdnYOjWw

Recent thinking generally dictates, with respect to introducing little ones to certain foods, to withhold eggs, milk, peanuts, wheat, soy, tree nuts, fish, and shellfish until the child is a year old.  I did some more reading online, though, prior to my extreme experiment, and it does seem that attitudes are beginning to shift (back) towards a higher variety of food earlier . This article, dated November 23, 2011, details some of this newer thinking: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthnews/8909837/Children-allowed-to-be-picky-eaters-develop-allergies.html

 

So, I used my decision-tree skills and reviewed the facts.  Solid food has been going well.   Henry has liked everything we've given him so far and his throat hasn't swollen shut once.  Neither Mark nor I have any specific food allergies and we live within walking distance of the nearest hospital, so should the little guy react poorly, we'd certainly make it there in time.  Just to be safe, I had Mark ready the car seat and start the car.

What an awful way to have to think.

I have found that a lot of parenting advice and literature is based in fear.  Fear of illness and fear of vaccines.  Fear of choking.  Fear of accidents.  Fear of abduction and evil people that put razor blades in candy apples.  Fear of post partum depression.  Fear of jaundice and anaphylaxis.  Fear of germs and dirt and animals.

I try to keep my head about me, but I fall prey to this stuff all the time.  When we were still in the hospital after Henry was born, we were bombarded with educational material.  We were given a video called The Purple Cry.  We were told (as I'm sure is the standard operation procedure, by every health care professional that entered our room) that we must watch this video to prevent us from wanting to shake our baby.  We were asked skill-testing questions about material from the book at regular intervals throughout our four day stay.

Now, to be fair, there was an incident in a Sears baby section where Mark had words with one of the  styrofoam practice-babies after it didn't want to fit into a baby carrier.  So realistically, we may have been singled out for the video.  But, I just remember thinking, "Is this going to be so hard, that I have to receive education on how not to shake this little creature to death?"  That's tremedously extreme for a first time Mom.

The other main piece of literature that we received was a tome, entitled "Baby's Best Chance."  I wondered what titles didn't make the cut: "We Think Your Baby May Be OK if We Send Him/Her Home With You," or, "Baby Might Make It," or my favorite, "Good Luck Suckers."

I'm a realist in many senses, but one of my absolutely favorite things about having a baby is the pure sense of optimism and wonder that comes from this little being.  He is a blank slate, and through the examination of my values, virtues and flaws, I can carefully encourage him to become a fantastic, well-rounded little person.  I will keep him safe through the use of common sense, calls to my mother and high school physics knowledge.

I fully believe that we, as parents, are innately programmed to care for our children.  I do see the value in child-care information, but as a back-up.  As reference material.   I think that the current fear-based way in which a lot of this material is delivered ultimately does a disservice to new parents. There is no chapter on trusting your gut. There is no video pep talk about reminding yourself that you're doing a fantastic job even if you're having a bad day.

This would be my preferred approach to new-baby literature.  It would be a big picture book, like Henry's board books. 

The first chapter would show a maniacally desparate Mom holding a tiny, wailing creature with a clock that reads 4:36 AM.  The caption would say, "I better you never thought you'd be this tired and not die.  But 6 months from now, you'll miss how little she is." 

It would then have a picture of an extremely tired Mommy holding a screaming baby with two little teeth buds in his bottom jaw, with a caption that reads "Teething.  It sucks.  But it will pass and you're doing a great job." 

There would be a section that showed a frustrated Mommy trying to stuff food into a child that is swinging his arms like King Kong while twisting out of his highchair like a crocodile in a death-spiral.  She and he would be covered in the food, and none of it would be in his mouth.  The caption would read, "He'll have to feed himself at some point.  It not, he'll just live in your basement forever."

Real life stuff.  From experience.  Not from fear.

The Henry Attitude Rehabilitation Program or HARP

Before having a baby, I worked a lot.  It was not uncommon for me to spend 60 - 70 hours per week working and there were weeks when it was a lot more.  My entire existence revolved around working, cycling, sleeping and eating.  

As an Occupational Therapist, I worked as a contractor for different insurance companies.  My primary population was people with chronic pain.  Chronic pain is a multifaceted diagnosis that involves physical, psychological and sociological factors.  Patients are often in lengthy engagements with insurance companies and have had difficulty with typical treatment protocols.  They generally experience problem froms injuries or illnesses long after the expected timelines, and this leads to friction at work, with the insurance companies as well as within their personal relationships.

My job often had me entering into situations where relationships had broken down between employees and employers.  It was my role to pick up the pieces and attempt to unify the worker, employer, physiotherapist, physician, union, insurance company and any other involved players in a plan to rehabilitate the worker while satisfying the other interests.

Because of the nature of the claims, meetings were often adversarial and at times down right nasty.  I had to make snap judgements and change tactics on a dime if a strategy wasn't working.  After doing this type of work for several years, I was often anxious long before the meetings, anticipating conflict and trying to guess all of the things that could go wrong.  I spent most days engaged in conversations with people who were angry, manipulative, depressed and at times deceitful and cruel.  This takes a lot of energy and truly begins to change the way you see the world.

Once Henry was born, it took me a considerable amount of time just to decompress from having operated in that environment for so long.  As he gets older and more interactive, I've found myself having to examine the way I interact with people as I believe that what Mark and I model will most heavily affect his behaviour.

I think I am generally a kind person, but am prone to being judgemental and reactive at times.  I have a sarcastic sense of humour and often, as I'm sure a lot of people do, will poke fun at someone's funny pants or an elderly person's attempt at parking their car.  I intially rationalized that this wasn't a big deal because I'm an adult, but came to a later decision that it is a big deal.

So.  I've decided to adjust my attitude.  The following is an ongoing attitude rehabilitation program that I am currently undertaking in order to attempt to model the most kind, open-hearted, gentle existence for my child.

1.  Purposeful Smiling.  This is certainly not my own creation and has deep roots in yoga practice.  The belief is that by purposefully smiling, you can channel more positive energy.  It occurred to me that every time I'm staring at Henry's face, he is generally staring back at mine.  His gorgeous little face always made me happy, but I wanted to make sure that he was getting the same benefit.  The pragmatist in me says that he should get used to a range of emotions, but I think as his Mom, it's my job to provide that happy place for him.  So I consciously smile.  Every time I look at him or he looks at me.  As I practice this, I find it comes more naturally.

2.  The "Maybe He's Just Having a Bad Day" Program.   I started this quite recently and have found it very effective for building empathy.  Many years of traffic in Vancouver left me with some road rage tendencies and I would often catch myself snarking at other drivers with Henry in the car.  I would mouth off if someone didn't drive fast enough or failed to yield to me.  I'd get worked up in the grocery store if the lady in front of me paid her entire bill with nickels and then realized she forgot to get peas, and then paid for the peas with nickels, and then needed a rain cheque for hazelnut cookies. 

Now, every time I start to label someone a jerk for parking their car diagonally across two parking spots, I stop and say out loud, "maybe he's just having a bad day".  I started to make fun of someone on a TV game show last night because I felt she was taking too long to answer a question.  Stop.  "Maybe she's just having a bad day".  I find it totally alters my train of thought and is a much happier place to live in.

3.  Taking care of Henry's Mom.  My guilty pleasure is Dr. Phil.  I can't watch it very often, but every now and then, I get a lot of glee from watching him fix people.  I'm amazed at how the guests prefer to be derided by a stranger on television than pursuing more conventional avenues of recovery.  But every now and then he gets something right. 

My favorite Dr. Phil-ism occurs when he works with parents who are usually engaged in some type of self-destructive behaviour.  For example, if Sally's mom was drinking herself to death, instead or trying to get her to negotiate with herself, he would ask her, "How would you take care of Sally's mom?  What would you do for her?"

The purpose is to take her out of her bubble and to spin the perspective towards empathy.  It is easier to see ourselves as sympathetic figures through our children's eyes.  I would treat Henry's mom a whole lot better than I treat myself sometimes.  So, when I decide what to eat or when to stop a workout, if I can't make the best decision for myself, I do it for Henry's mom.  Because I love that little boy, it has become a whole lot easier to love his mom. 

Happiness is a choice.  I don't get it right all the time.  I  have to practice these three things, but I find that I am learning to exist more peacefully. 

And I still reserve the right to cuss like a trucker now and then.  Out of earshot of the boy, of course.

The Seventh Sense

I have a relatively strong background in behaviour theory and have worked in a number of different situations that require consistent, specific responses.  I assumed that upon having a child, I would effortlessly apply my scientific background and experience and simply manage my baby like the black and white behavioural experiment that he is. 

  

No one told me, while I was trying to shape the behaviour of this little creature, that his different noises would actually cause me varying levels of physical pain.  I call this the Seventh Sense, as the sixth sense is apparently taken.  The Seventh Sense is an amalgam of physical pain caused by the child's screaming, Mommy Panic Syndrome-driven anxiety about whether or not he is actually dying this time and the Cave Mom response to perceived danger.

I used to teach parents of kids with autism about responding to different behaviours and how they could shape outcomes to help their children function in a more socially appropriate manner. I would imperiously order parents to simply ignore kicking and screaming and just remain in a calm state until their child stopped an unwanted behaviour and began to approximate the more desired behaviour. Simple.

Often times the kids would have difficulties eating, some of these related to sensory issues, but others just pure learned responses to avoiding certain foods. I, without children, would knowingly say to the parents, "Kids have to eat, you just have to wait it out." I would then go on to wonder why they had difficulty following through with such a simple concept as starving their child.

I would like this to serve as a formal apology from a well-intentioned, but completely uninformed non-parent therapist.

Henry is starting to crawl.  He's getting pretty quick going backwards, which leads to him ending up in funny places (wedged under the TV stand, stuck behind a speaker, etc.).  Unfortunately, he also still forgets that he needs to hold his head up against gravity sometimes, leading to loud bonks on the floor.  I assume that this is probably normal as they don't sell baby helmets for the crawling stage, but I'm pretty sure there's a marketing opportunity there.

Upon becoming wedged in an undesirable place or bonking his melon on the floor, Henry will let out an earth-shattering, "I'm going to die" scream followed by the saddest cry you have ever heard.  Instinctively, I rush to him every time.  He has begun to notice the expediency of my response to these cries.  I'm screwed.

Mark was out with the boys last night and Henry and I got to play a little game using my Seventh Sense.  Henry was hanging out in his play pen and I was attempting to get his bottles washed before bed.  After being out of view in the kitchen for about 30 seconds, I here an earth-shattering wail.  I drop everything and sprint into the living room expecting to kill a wild animal or smash a looming intruder in the knee caps.  What do I find?  A very cute little turkey smiling at me from his play pen.  This happens several times.  Each time I attempt to rationalize that he is safe in his play pen, but that Seventh Sense consistently beats my brain.

Henry has also started playing a game with mommy when she's trying to be serious.  If I'm trying to get him to go to sleep or be stern with him (as stern as one can be with a 6 month old child), he will flirt with me.  He bats his big blue eyes and then busts out this toothless grin.  I'm usually good for one of these, but if he does it twice, I can't help but smile.  Victory is his again.

I will continue to try to be a consistent parent and provide a level of relatively invariable discipline.  I am going to attempt to react as a rational adult and not a panic-stricken loony.  I do elect, however, to wholly enjoy the experience of being controlled by this 18 lb, blue-eyed little monster.

When Days are Hot, When Days are Cool

Last Wednesday was the final day of Henry's first round of swimming lessons.  He got a little certificate with his name on it that listed all of things he is able to do. Enter the water. Float with help. Move through the water. I had a real moment when I saw this.  It was amazing to me that someone else had written his name and evaluated the things he'd done.  Unfortunately my nostalgia was cut very short.

Henry had missed his morning nap as I left the house early to run an errand prior to going to the pool.  I overestimated the amount of time that I would need, resulting in us arriving almost half an hour early at the pool.

Instead of walking him around or hanging out in the car, I decided we should get into the pool early.  Not a great mommy decision.  Swimming lessons are usually half an hour long, and generally the little guy is pretty pooped by the end.  So, by extending his time in the pool by about 15 minutes, and factoring in the nap he missed, he hit his end about 15 minutes into the lesson.

Henry went from super-fun Aqua man to super-unfun screamy man.  Luckily, someone's kid (not in swimming lessons) pooped in the pool just at that moment.

Everyone was asked to clear the pool and we all ran for the exits, holding the babies high out of the water, presumably away from the floating offender.  I took this as an convenient excuse to take our leave of swimming lessons for the day, and go get Henry warm and fed.

Henry has several screaming gears.   1st gear is sort of mild complaining.  2nd is intermittent crying and yelling.  3rd gear is constant crying in a still-tolerable decibel range.  4th gear requires hearing protection if you are exposed for longer than 30 seconds at a time.  When we entered the change room, Henry was somewhere around 6th gear.

Holding him in one arm, I opened our locker and managed to paw everything out onto the wet floor.  I grabbed his towel and clothes and went into one of the stalls that has a bench about 8 inches wide.  Henry reached 8th gear at this point, and the magnification effect from the fully tiled change room created a noise that would make anyone nuts.

There is a relatively large group of developmentally disabled adults that swim with their aides at the same time as our lessons. Due to the early evacuation from the pool they all funnelled into the change room at the same time and I entered with the unhappy Henry.

After about 3 minutes of banshee-like screeching, one of the ladies reaches her end from Henry's screaming.  She loses it, and starts screming "STOP THE BABY! STOP THE BABY! STOP THE BABY!" over and over again.  To her benefit, I felt like doing the same thing. I'm amazed that it didn't trigger some kind of riot alarm.  I start to go to the happy place in my head, away from the strange hell into which I`ve descended.

I manage to get Henry out of his swim suit and into clothes.  He continues hollering.  I mix a bottle and stick it in the gaping, wailing hole in his face.  I've begun to freeze at this point as I was still soaking wet and realized that I had forgotten my own towel at home.  Avoiding the inevitable, I let the little beast feed for about 5 minutes and then try to remove the bottle in order to allow myself to quickly throw some clothes on.

Big mistake.

He ratchets up to 10th gear (I think this translates to, "Mother, I was enjoying that bottle and would appreciate it if you could please return it to my mouth.  Thank you and you look lovely today."), which causes the lady in the next change room to chime back in.  I give the bottle back and attempt to wedge him against the tiny changing bench while balancing his bottle with my leg.  I give up on toweling off and simply tug my clothes onto my freezing, wet self.  I have to pee.

Peeing while holding an infant is a challenge.  The pants down part is OK, as is the important part, but getting your pants back up is tough.  I urge everyone to go try this.  Try it with an wet, angry cat and you'll likely get a fairly accurate representation of how things should go. 

Unfortunately at this point I, without realizing, fumbled the "easy part", getting my pants off and free off the impending flood.  I manage to pee all down the back of my pants.  As I feel the back of my legs warm, it has become painfully clear that this is a lost cause.  I give up.

I pull my soaked pants back up, stick the baby under one arm, grab our giant, wet swimming bag and quickly run past the other moms.  Henry is asleep by the time we get to the car and  I drive home sitting on 2 burp cloths, alternating between crying and laughing. 

At least no one died.

Out of the Wild

I used to think of myself as an intrepid adventurer.  I would decide I was going to undertake a giant bike ride from Vancouver to Seattle, climb some rock face or jump out of a perfectly good airplane. 

Adventure has taken on an entirely new form since having Henry.  Now, instead of packing climbing gear or food rations for 3 weeks in the woods, I tote a giant bag full of diapers, formula, two changes of clothes, toys, diaper wipes, socks, health records and anything else a good sherpa would bring. 

My return to being a wild woman started innocently; I would ocassionally forget to pack things in the diaper bag and then feel like an idiot and a bad Mommy.   After a bit of time, however, I started to find that I could actually satisfy my need to live dangerously by purposefully forgetting things that I might need. I got a bit of a rush upon returning home with only one diaper left in the diaper bag.  My adrenaline surged after the time I actually forgot a bottle and went to the grocery store and back without incident.

I really only do this accidentally, or when I'm about 99.8% sure that we will not need whatever item it is that I'm getting my kicks from that day. But that 0.2% is enough of a margin to allow me to feel like the reckless, danger-junkie that I am.

The toll for not preparing correctly when starting our on an adventure has changed, as well. It is no longer a slow death from exposure or a 10,000 foot fall to the earth.  It is now a quicker, but more painful social death by grocery-store people judgement, or savage noise from the little person whose needs I have failed to meet.

I also managed to find a way to satisfy my need for self-flagellation through exercise.  The toughest thing about having had a C-section with Henry was the activity restriction that followed.  I'm not good at sitting still.  Having recovered well, however, I managed to start sneaking out on my bicycle 6 weeks after he was born.  We were given an amazing jogging stroller when Henry was born, and I now use it to it's full potential.  A couple of times a week I throw the reusable bags in the bottom, put Henry in wind-proof clothes (yes....because I'm that fast), strap on my running shoes, tie the dog to the stroller and head out to terrorize unsuspecting pedestrians.   

We plough down the sidewalks, 6 feet wide and 8 feet long. People scramble out of the way of the baby-dog-CaveMom juggernaut hurtling down the sidewalk towards them at, realistically, about 8 km/hr.  This activity manages to exercise the dog, exercise me, get some fresh air for Henry and get groceries. And, as you're not actually supposed to tie up your dog at Hillside Mall, we also have to dodge the neon-clad, bicycle-driving security gaurds, further exercising my need to flirt with the wrong side of the law.

I told myself I wouldn't change after having a baby, and certainly nothing could be farther than the truth.  My friends have taken endless pleasure at commenting on how soft and mushy I am now.  But I still find ways to be that wild and crazy, devil-may-care troublemaker that I've always been. 

Henry, the gymnast

After a protracted period of time, I am now able to discuss this.

It was later in the evening and Mark had gone off to play hockey.  I really only had about half an hour to watch the boy prior to putting him down for the night.  This was before he started really moving around, so I was still swaddling him and leaving him on the couch.  Henry was in said position, against the inside of the couch with a pillow blocking his exit route when I stepped into the kitchen (likely to get a greasy late night snack, but that's beside the point).

I then hear the worst sound that I have ever heard.  THUD.  The sound of my baby falling from the couch onto the rug.

I dropped whatever I was holding and rushed to get to him.  He actually settled very quickly and appeared unharmed.  I, however, sobbing uncontrollably, garnered all of the skills that I had learned from an education of 5 years of rehab school, 15 seasons of ER and too many late nights on the self-diagnostic medical websites.  I checked his muscle tone, his pupils for equal dilation, and as many cranial nerves as I could.  I checked his ears and his mouth (in case he had knocked out some teeth he didn't have yet).  I did full range of motion testing on all of his joints and palpated his abdomen.   He seemed entirely unhurt. 

Now what do I do?  I felt like an utter failure.  My next stream of panicked thought regarded whether or not I should call the police on myself, having been such a neglectful mother.   No, I reason, they'll certainly come and take him away and put him in a foster home that will only want him for the government money and make him work in a little sweatshop in their shed producing those soapstone carvings you see in all of the gift shops here.  (I know there are wonderful foster homes, but that's not where my mind was at the time).

Seeing no rational option, I decide to Google "my baby fell off the couch".  I am still somewhat concerned that even doing this will trigger some computer-linked child welfare alarm and the police will show up at my house and remove my child.  At this point, however, I'm starting to regain my composure a bit.  Henry is playing quietly while lying next to me on our bed.  Nowhere near the edge.

It's pretty funny what comes up if you Google "my baby fell off the couch".  I did get some good advice that basically said to watch for signs of a head injury, but that he was likely OK given that it was only about 18 inches onto a soft surface. 

But I was amazed to find all sorts of variations of "my baby fell off the couch."  There was "my baby fell off our waterbed", "my baby fell down 13 uncarpeted stairs", "I was carrying my baby and I fell on him", "my baby fell off the change table and sort of into the diaper pail" and all sorts of other traumatic stories. 

My spirits were raised when I saw that the Google search returned over 48,000,000 results.  I felt like I had brothers and sisters in folly. 

I fretted until Mark got home and relayed the story.  He, in his awesome Mark way, just says "geez, I thought I'd be the first one to do that".

I've since talked to other moms about this and it appears it's not uncommon.  Even I fell off things as a baby, which probably explains a few things.