No Zen for You or Why I'm Not Regularly Updating This Blog

I apologize for the long silence here. Thanks for your support & encouragement. I miss writing about our little life within our life even as I struggle to live it. You see, the problem is this:


Adorable: absolutely. It's like having an infestation of bunnies. Completely heart-warming, but still overwhelming. My house looks like it's been hit by a 28-inch tornado. My solution: throw a dinner party. Why, you ask? Because I've never recovered the brain cells sacrificed during gestation.

Dinner plans aside, life here is busy. When I managed to squeeze in time to do a little parenting research reading, I discovered that we'd skipped several months of developing because of Katya's determination to be on the move. The section for five month-old babies recommended we master sitting up unassisted. Where, I scanned the pages, was the information on unassisted, one-arm push-ups? Did the six months section cover: how to convince your baby that scaling the walls of her playpen is not safe?

Yes, she is Andrew's daughter. But really? Where's the genetic predisposition to caution that saturates my blood? When I did find the section of the book that describes our child it was under the heading: Accident-Prone Babies.
Does your child race through mobility milestones? Check.
Does your child move on to the next feat without bothering to consider the demands of gravity? Check.
Does your child need to put any and everything in her mouth?
Check.
Diagnosis: You may get to know the staff at your local emergency room on a first-name basis.
And I can't turn to scotch for solace.

There is no tranquility from which to recollect emotion and write. There are occasional minutes of preoccupation in safe spaces (high chair, bouncer seat, middle of the room) that allow me to eat or perform brief mindless tasks.

Currently, I'm writing this standing up, bouncing, while Katya naps in the carrier (because she doesn't like to nap out-of-arms- obviously). You see, I'm learning, making some much needed progress. I even washed dishes the other day, all while playing an elaborate game of fetch from the high chair. Major victory!

When I finally got around to enrolling us in mommy & baby yoga classes (so darn bourgeois-bohemian I can hardly stand it), I discovered something rather telling: Our local yogi welcomes babies 6 weeks to 12 months old, UNLESS they can crawl. Mommy & toddler yoga classes are for children starting at 3 years of age. It dawned on me: Zen and all that accompanies the art of breathing and posing is evidently not for those with creeping crawlers. No zen for me.

Now that's Awkward

I'm proud of my labour and my daughter's birth. I know I haven't written about it yet, but I'm still working out how I want to present it out there on the world wide web, and well, I don't really have a lot of spare time these days... it's coming.

Suffice it to say, I worked really hard, did my best, had a pain-medication-free birth even though I did end up in a hospital on pitocen (stupid arbitrary timetables). I felt overwhelmed in the moment, but strong and capable in the afterglow.

Kim, my friend and doula and the most wonderful woman to walk the earth, was by my side for the it all. She somehow managed to hold my hand, mentor Andrew, play advocate vs the nurses oh, and shoot a great video at the same time. The woman is to be admired.

But to the video, which is the point of the awkwardness. I loved my labour and I'm proud of it. I believe that birth should be viewed as a natural, beautiful part of life, but who exactly should view my labour? (Before my mother begins to have a panic-attack, I am NOT considering posting this video online. She may already be phoning, lecture on internet boundaries primed.) No, I was just at church this morning not really thinking of my birth video when confronted by Kim's 7 year-old son, Niko.

Niko sidles up beside me and says, "Hey, my mom shot a video of Katya's being born."

"Yes, she did."

"She says I can't watch it, because I don't have your permission."

"Hemph."

"Can I watch your birth video?"

"Well, um, birth is a beautiful, natural..." (voice trailing off as I wonder where exactly I'm taking this speech).

"Or would that be awkward for you?" Asks the smiling, seven-year-old boy.

Now it would.

Good Cop, Bad Mom

My baby is sick. She has a cold, just a little one, and it's terrible. For me. I only assume that it's not really that great for her either. We're new. She coughed and we went to the doctor. Our doctor who is not really our favorite person said she was fine, but recommended we take her to the doctor if she gets worse. I am confused about who our doctor thinks she is and what she thinks we have just done arriving at her medical office and awaiting her white-coated opinion.

All this has lead to a rather serious discovery. My helpmate, my partner, my co-parent, the father of my child has apparently chosen his role and apparently he called it first. He is good cop. Leaving one of us to pick up the slack, in this case, saline drops.

To help Katya (pronounced almost like "Caught-ya" in case you were wondering) breathe better we need to give her tiny nose a little nasal spray. This, incidentally, helps her sleep quieter which helps me sleep better which is never a trivial thing. I tried this nasal sprayer thing out, it's very helpful (I also have the cold), but incredibly unpleasant. She HATES it.

Last night as we were getting ready for bed, it was time for another round of nasal spray. I turned to Andrew to ask which task he wanted: holding her head or spraying her nose. He firmly opted for holding. Then he proceeded to duck out of site by the bed side while offering a single hand around her head. "I'm not getting associated with this thing," he said.

I had an image of Andrew calling out to a teenage version of our daughter, "No you can't go to the movies with that boy," while ducking leaving me standing there alone, bearer of all things unpleasant.

I Wasn't Always Like This

When she's older, someone needs to let my daughter know that I always like this. When she's sixteen, rolling her eyes at how impossibly weird her mother acts, I would appreciate it if a friend or family member tossing a bone in my defense.

On some level, I expected motherhood would change me. I was just hoping that change could be a calming, graceful one. I was hoping that we could say, "Well your mother used to have a short temper, but you wouldn't know it." Or: "Your mother's zen-like mastery of the present, wasn't always so obvious." Maybe I've mistaken motherhood for grandmotherhood.

Instead, I find it may just make me strange(r). I firmly believe that the continuous monologue is enough to shed a few braincells and maybe drop a level of self-awareness. I spend hours upon hours talking to a tiny person whose rare reply consists of bubbles and the highly-prized rare, "Goo." The really rewarding grins and smiles come not from my eviscerating wit or sardonic silences, but from high-pitched squeaky noises. So, yeah, I'm cooing with the best of 'em.

Mommy loves baby's smiles and so mommy forfeits her use of pronouns.

The love of the smile also has transported me to a special place where life is a musical. Every occasion can issue a burst of song. This would perhaps be easier if Mommy wasn't tone deaf or strapped for creativity. "We're gonna change your diaper. Yes we are. Yes we are." I seek inspiration everywhere and am drawing heavily from what little I remember of the nursery rhymes. This little piggy went to market and this little piggy, well, he went somewhere else but I know this one cried wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, all the home. Oh hey. One stayed home, right.

And as long as I'm cooing and singing, I might as well dance. Alone. With no music. I bounce all the time now. While out with some people the other night, a young woman asked me, "Do you always need to rock the baby like that, or is this just something you do?" I wasn't feeling too charitable to the question so I let her know that I always rock myself back and forth while sitting at pubs, it makes me feel safe.

Speaking of pubs, once I was quite a home in them. I enjoyed hanging out in bars with friends, without friends, I even went while pregnant (skipping the usual consumption of course). But as I enjoyed a beer with my baby the other night, I noticed a group of college guys pointing at me and talking. I was just about to feel pretty good when I saw that they were talking about the baby being at the bar. Yes, I am going for the mother of the year award.

Open Letter to the Man who wrote the Baby Passport Photo Qualifications

This is not an example of a neutral expression.

Dear Sir:

I want you to know, sir, that I am no stranger to exercises in futility. I was an English major, hell, I specialized in 19th-century British literature. The second language I speak most fluently is pig-latin. I don't remove tags that threaten legal action. I blog one-handed. But, I have never engaged in a task so futile as attempting to meet the qualifications for a infant passport photograph.

Even if I manage to suspend my disbelief to grant that an infant needs a Canadian passport in this post-9/11 world, I still cannot forgive you for requiring that an infant passport requires a photograph. In three years, will the border guards be able to discern which two-month-old has grown into which toddler? What happens if her eyes change colour? Will our passport be invalid? In short, I was not feeling charitable toward you from the beginning, but did not imagine how difficult you could make this.

You obviously are a single man; you probably still live at home, in your mother's basement. She probably told you a stork dropped you on her doorstep. You may never have met a real baby. Babies, you see, don't really understand the command, "make a neutral expression." It's not what makes all those Kodak moments. To be fair, I have captured hundreds of blank expressions while begging for smiles. However, the professional photographer, strange studio, and plethora of clapping, snapping, clucking strangers really threw my daughter off her game.

But that wasn't all you asked of us. You couldn't just let me hold her. You specified no hands or arms holding the baby in the picture. You should try holding that neutral expression while someone has their hands under your shirt. Those hands seemed necessary, sir, because my two- month-old baby cannot perch on the stool by herself. She's slow like that. She doesn't hold her own head up consistently.

We might have managed your hoops had you left it at that. We had to come back for a second appointment because it seems the baby wouldn't make eye contact with the camera. Now don't think that she doesn't hold eye contact, because she's an eye-contacting genius of a baby. She just is particular. She doesn't make eye contact with strangers, five feet away, even if they say that name which she doesn't really know is hers.

Now after the second trip, after I WOKE HER UP from a lovely sleep, the baby gave it her very best shot and we emerged with two photographs. We had our priest guarantee that the photo was of our baby, he swore and signed it himself. We have respectfully (more or less) submitted the photograph and application.

The nice woman who took processed our information looked at the photographs and said, "Gosh, they may not accept these photographs." As I gathered my jaw from the floor to ask why, she said apologetically, "you can't see her neck."

Sir, the answer to that is simple: she doesn't have one. She only has chins which attach directly to her torso.

Yours sincerely,

Dana JW Telep

Did you know there are really 24 hours in a day?

I do now. I know those hours differently than before, because now I could be awake for any one of them. I should probably be careful here, because deep down, I suspect that my baby may be on the angelic side of the spectrum and there are probably people with far more cause to complain out there. But wow! Motherhood is not for the weak.

A few days ago, Andrew and I were musing on how our baby could possibly be three weeks old (crazy!), when I confessed that in some ways it seems like more than three weeks had passed. Andrew, without missing a beat, said, "That's because we've been awake for most of them."

And it's TRUE. We HAVE been awake most of that time. We sleep in one to two hour stretches and increasingly often we have three hour sessions. It is blowing my mind that a person can live like this, but I am living (I think this qualifies as living). Mom has reminded me that sleep deprivation is a torture technique and so perhaps that means I'm even more inclined to give up any secrets I might have been keeping. I have promised her that soon I'm going to make use of my breast pump in order to take a longer break, but somehow I'm not quite ready yet.

These last few weeks have been a continuous loop with only a few notes: feeding, sleeping, changing and some staring at each other and rocking. I don't know if it's possible to convey how incredibly engrossing these tasks have become. Superficially, it seems quite simple and in theory a person should be able to function normally. Oh, but did I mention that we haven't yet mastered the art of sleeping out of arms or really even away from someone? Don't get me wrong, we see remarkable improvement each day, but we started with a cuddly baby who loves to be held and we have a cuddly baby who loves to be held.

Have I mentioned how fond she is of eating? She is definitely her mother's daughter and heck she's also her father's daughter in this aspect. The kid loves to eat and she doesn't just eat: she dines. Casually taking her time, she eats for twenty to forty minutes at a time. Occasionally, she eats so long she wants to eat again. (Yes, that's technically cluster feeding and is a normal practice before longer sleeps or when trying to get more milk to come in). Breastfeeding is also not for the weak. I see how those with less conviction could end up formula feeding.

Speaking of eating, Andrew has arrived home with dinner and our baby is at the end of a sleep. I better dash to dine while I can.

Churching Katarina

Katya's introduction to the church was just lovely. She managed to sleep throughout the Holy Saturday morning liturgy, waking only when she was to be the center of attention for the ceremony that welcomes her into the church. She then carefully observed the proceedings with her trademark wrinkled brow. As her grandmother Kitty said, she behaved perfectly and set the bar pretty high for a baby's first church visit.

Her Telep grandparents were there to celebrate Easter with her and we were joined by Aunt Lizzy who provided us with these beautiful photographs. Also, in honour of the occasion, Katya wore her Aunt Lizzy's dress.