Kid Amnesiac

I’ve read about moms who invent handy gizmos for other mothers and make a mint from the small businesses that grow around their inventions.

My contribution to the genre–which I will never produce–is lullaby karaoke. Simon loves to be sung to. The problem is that I now realize most songs come in a few distinct categories:

1. Appropriate lullaby songs I don’t know the words to: This happens to me all the time; it sounds like this: “There are places I remember, da da, ta da, la, la, la, la..Though I know I’ll often stop and think, ta, da, da….In my life, ta da da ta” Abort. Great song–too bad I don’t know it well enough to sing it. Sigh.
2. Inappropriate lullaby songs I know all the words to: “I’m back in the USSR, You don’t know how lucky you are, boy, back in the US, back in the USSR…” Not the material to get Simon to sleep with. But of course, I know every single word. Sigh.
3. Great songs I know the words to but can’t sing: Another classic. I’m halfway through some k.d. lang song or a show-tune when it happens: I come to the note I cannot hit at all. I croak or squeak–depending on whether I’m reaching too high or too low for me– wince, and then try to think of a better song to sing. Sigh.

After several weeks of singing, I realize that the repertoire of songs I can sing, know the words to, and are appropriate is very, very limited. On a typical night, I start with the one lullaby I know the words to,”Little Goldie Goldfish.” Then I run to lullaby-like showtunes “Dites Moi” (South Pacific) or “Edelweiss” (The Sound of Music”. After a few of these, I run to a couple of gentle pop tunes like “Yesterday”.

Then I start to panic, as Simon’s lids are getting heavy and any break will result in his awakening. “What else can I sing?” I’ll sing to Simon. “What else do I know the words to?”

Somehow, inevitably, this is when I end up reaching to the Hebrew songs I learned as a kid from camp, Hebrew school, B’nei B’rith, etc. They are all in the minor key, I can sing them all, I know all the words, and being in Hebrew means I can zone out and not focus on the meaning. Who cares what they are about?! I’ve caught myself singing everything from Shir HaMa’alot (Psalm 121) to Hatikva (Israeli national anthem) to Taps in Hebrew. Seriously. And seriously disturbing.

What’s needed is a lullaby karaoke machine. I don’t need to be entertained with odd videos shot in some Eastern Block nation, I just need backing music, quiet vocals to help me out, and scrolling lyrics to keep me on track. Can someone please invent that? Because honestly, I think Torah readings I learned for various Bat Mitzvahs are up next.

Since I’ve been out and about with Simon I’ve noticed two distinct phenomena, one pleasant and the other not-so-much. I call it help vs. “help”.

Pleasant first. I’ve met more people in my neighborhood since I began taking Simon out for walks than I ever did before. It seems that the minute many people see a stroller they want to peek at who’s inside it, and you have to chat up the mom before that’s OK. As a result, I get greeted by countless “hi”s and offers to open doors. Then everyone sidles up to the stroller and fawns over Simon. It’s delicious. It’s also made it much easier to get in and out of cafes and small shops on Bardstown Road.

On the other hand, I’ve also gotten some “help” I could do without from the baby police. Yesterday, for example, I went for a walk in drizzle. It was in the ’50s–unseasonably warm for December in Louisville–and I was determined to get out of the house. I made a pledge a few weeks ago that any day when it was not freezing cold, snowing, sleeting, etc. I was going to go outside for some fresh air and exercise. A little light rain was not going to foil my plans.

Now, Simon was protected by a light-weight snowsuit, a hat, and the weather shield on his stroller. He was fine. And at the age of 36, I think I can decide whether I mind getting a little wet myself. And yet, I had three “helpful” neighbors say to me as I went by: “It’s raining you know.”

Well, yes, I do. And thank you for pointing that out. The subtext, I believe, was “Get your kid inside, you terrible mother.” My reply was a cheery, “Oh, yes, but so much less than earlier, you know”” Which translated as, “Yes, I know it’s raining. Now please do shut up.”

I’m hoping to continue getting more help than “help”, but I fear that may be unrealistic.

Today, at eight weeks, was the first time I felt like a tried and true mom.

Simon was in his swing when he got fussy this afternoon. He had been fed and changed, he wasn’t over- or under-dressed, and his reflux seemed fine. So why was he crying?

I picked him up, suspecting that I was in for a 20-30 minute crying jag, when he melted into my arms, nestled his head between my chin and chest, and almost immediately fell asleep. I hadn’t swaddled him. There was no shushing or swinging or side-lying. Just me cooing at him and holding him.

I think he was crying because he wanted his mom. Me. Imagine that. I got a bit teary (happy teary), settled into the glider, and mostly ignored NPR while I listened to Simon’s sleep-heavy breathing and enjoyed a few moments of pure joy.

Like many babies, Simon sometimes gets his days and nights confused. Unfortunately, last night he and Matt both had upside down schedules and dragged me down with them.

It started when I awoke Simon from a three-hour nap to feed him at around 8:15. Frankly, he wasn’t that interested in eating. He got fussy–as he almost does at his 8-ish feeding, then settled down in time for his 10-something feeding, after which he stayed absolutely wired until he decided to eat again at midnight, after which he dozed lightly on again and off again until his 2-something feeding.

By 3:00 a.m. I had spent seven straight hours holding, gliding, dancing, and singing to Simon and was completely out of gas. So I rather guiltily put him in his swing and decided to wait him out. I went into the bedroom and tried to get started reading Born to Kvetch, checking on him every ten minutes or so. To my great relief, he finally conked out at 3:40.

Meanwhile, Matt was tied up on a “little work call” that was supposed to run from 9:00 p.m. until around 11:00 p.m. or so. Instead, things went terribly wrong and he didn’t wrap until around 3:45.

Needless to say, Matt and I were both bone tired when Simon woke up to eat at 6:30, and when we got up for good at 9:30 (me) and 11:30 (Matt) we both felt sluggish and crabby.

In contrast, Simon seemed to feel great today, and greeted me at 9:30 with a big smile and bright eyes as though he was reminiscing about a particularly fun night. If only his grumpy parents could keep up with him…

Since I was very young, I’ve always been prone to catastrophic thinking. More than prone: If it were a sport, I’d be in medal contention. For the uninitiated and unencumbered, catastrophic thinking is when you take one negative possibility, extrapolate it to it’s (il)logical extreme, and end up at a worst-case scenario.

When I was in school (elementary, middle, high, college, and grad school), I could take one possible bad test or paper grade and assume the repurcussions were so great that I’d never make it to whatever the next level of schooling was and would clearly end up in a gutter.

When I entered the work force, catastrophic thinking continued. It was obvious to me that any work problem would result in my being fired, I’d never find a job again, and I’d end up in a gutter.

I almost had a handle on this–or at least could recognize it for what it was–when Simon came along. Now I think I’ve taken catastrophic thinking to an entirely new level. Yesterday, Simon had a particularly fussy period around his 8:00 feeding. He was crying, I went to nurse him, and instead of feeding and calming down he shrieked even louder and got hysterical. Well, believe you me he had company!

I got wound up myself and began assuming the following:

1. Simon was rejecting nursing from me. He was associating me with reflux and was on a nursing strike.
2. If this rejection continues, I will have a malnurished child since he also rejected a bottle when we tried.
3. Further, this pain seems greater than normal. Obviously, Simon’s umbilical hernia is complicated and requires surgical repair.
4. Dear God it’s a Friday night and the pediatrician’s office is closed. Do I go to the emergency room?
5. If I make the wrong decision or ignore this, my child might end up an emotional or physical cripple.
6. If that happens, he could end up the gutter and it will be ALL MY FAULT

So there it is. Textbook catastrophic thinking. And I could not see it at all, as at the end of the day I am frequently exhausted and this context (Simon) is new to me. Truly, I thought I was being totally rational–if not a bit stereotypically Jewish–in my mothering and could not understand how Matt could remain so calm when something was obviously greviously wrong with his child.

Forty-five minutes into this panic Simon passed some gas, pooped, stopped fussing, flashed me a great big smile, nursed happily, and slipped into a six-hour sleep.

So for now, the gutter is averted. The sanitorium? Possibly not. But certainly the gutter. Perhaps I’ll remember this the next time and let someone else take home the gold medal in catastrophic thinking.

Today is a special day for me for three reasons:

1. It’s Pearl Harbor Day. That one’s a gimmee.

2. It’s my zadie’s birthday. Lester M. Wolfson was born on December 7, 1911. Even though he died almost 13 years ago, I still think about him often and miss him very much. Simon’s middle name, Wolfson, is to honor my zadie. For that matter, both of my brothers named their sons after zadie as well. He was that special.

3. Today was the year’s first snow and Simon’s first snow ever. I held him up to the window so he could see the flakes fall, then brought him over to the glider for a nice long morning snuggle session. He makes a lovely hot water bottle.

I know the !Kung tribe in the Kalahari reportedly have babies that never cry and own practically nothing, but as an American it is my cultural heritage to acquire stuff. Plus, I’ve tried to soothe with only my voice and arms, and I failed mightily. So below is a list of some of Simon’s (and my) favorite things. It doesn’t include wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, but it certainly includes many items that arrived at my doorstop as brown paper packages tied up with string.

The Baby Swing: This gizmo has transformed my days, literally. I can plop Simon in this and he’ll swing his little heart out happily for quite some time, allowing me to eat, shower, fold laundry, etc. Bonus feature: On many days it will swing him to sleep, meaning he’s gotten better daytime naps lately. And better daytime napping begets better nighttime sleeping. Ours is the Fisher Price Power Plus, but I’m sure any swing will do. Yay swing!

The Rocking Cradle: A few months before Simon was born, my dad brought over a cherry Shaker rocking cradle that he made for us. I adored it but was worried I’d never actually use it. Between his crib and the Moses basket, when would Simon need a cradle? Answer: All the time, starting yesterday. Turns out Simon loves rocking. So if he’s on the cusp of sleeping but can’t quite get there, I can put him in this, rock him to sleep, and then leave him there. With other calming devices (like the swing, infant seat, my arms, etc.) I have to move Simon to a bed after he nods off, transfers that inevitably wake him up. Yay cradle! (Thanks again, Dad)

The Kiddopotamus Swaddle Me wrap, aka “The Autoswaddler” (TM Matt): I registered for these fleece swaddle wraps because they seemed like a very cool idea. Then I hardly used them because I was wicked good at swaddling with receiving blankets and liked showing off my skills. Swaddle Me wraps were for amateurs! Then Simon got bigger and my swaddling got less effective. With the autoswaddler, there is no chance that Simon’s arms can escape. Until he learns that those things clawing his eyes are attached to him, we’ll be swaddling, swaddling away. Yay Swaddle-Me!

The Snuggle Nest: Designed for safe co-sleeping, the Snuggle Nest has rigid side walls to keep babies in place and to prevent parents from rolling over onto them. I’m sure it’s brilliant for co-sleeping, but Simon and I love it for other reasons. Simon hates sleeping on his back because it startles him and frequently makes him vomit. With the Snuggle Nest, I can easily put Simon down on a slight incline and on his side, a position that makes him feel better and sleep better. Best of all, I put the Nest in his cradle, crib, or anywhere else we happen to be. Yay Snuggle-Nest!

Zantac: OK, to be honest Simon hates the stuff. Every time we dose him with it he cries. But that two-minute cry from the nasty taste has replaced–for a full week as of today–the all day off-and-on cry of acid reflux. Yay Zantac! (Thanks Glaxco Smithkline!)

The Dutalier Glider: I’d kill myself if I didn’t have this glider. No joke. It helps me sit in the perfect position for nursing, then lets me relax, recline and glide with Simon afterwards. Matt and I have both logged countless hours gliding away in a semi-comatose state in this sucker. Yay Glider!

NPR: Matt and I play DVDs on our TV set and that’s it: we have no access to broadcast television shows. Many friends advised strongly that we get cable (or at least an antenna) for the countless hours we’d spend in a semi-comatose state while feeding or soothing a new baby. I resisted, partially because I am a mule and partially because I have a bad history of addictive TV watching.

Thankfully, PBS has rescued me from, well, myself. Now I spend countless semi-comatose hours learning about world news, the history of the cocktail, the future of Gallaudet University, and trends in Israeli rock music. So Michael Krasny, Ira Flatow, Terry Gross, Neal Conan, Diane Rehm, Robert Siegel,etc. I thank you and I salute you. Yay NPR! (I guess I should join, now, huh?)

Mylanta: Zantac is great and all, but babies with reflux still urp a lot. And Zantac can’t zap all the acid in the body, so sometimes those urps burn. Mylanta truly does coat and soothe. Plus, Simon seems to enjoy its minty taste. I’ve taken him from screaming to smiling on the turn of a dime more than once thanks to the blue bottle. Yay Mylanta!

The Gumdrop Pacifier: When Simon was in the NICU, they “plugged” him with a funky, peach colored pacifier. It has a hole in the middle so you can position the sucker in the baby’s mouth, is countoured to the young baby’s face, weighs next to nothing, and is lactation-consultant approved. The Gumdrop doesn’t always keep Simon from crying, but when it works it really works. Yay Gumdrop Pacifier!

My Fair Lady: When Simon was a 35 week-old work in progress, I went to see My Fair Lady at Actor’s Theater and he kicked around every time music started up. He loved it! Now, as a newborn, some of his favorite songs still come from My Fair Lady, with The Sound of Music running a close second. Yay Lerner and Lowe!

Enough about me. I also have some updates on Simon to post.

Simon is now just over 7 weeks old and I’ve noticed a few changes. He smiles much more often now–true social smiles that I just live for. And he’s also developed some new vocalizations. He now coos and spurts out some extended vowels and surprised gurgling sounds. It’s adorable. He serenaded his grandparents with an especially long “talking” session at dinner Monday night.

In other news, Simon’s reflux seems better since he’s been on the Zantac. The only downside is that he clearly hates the taste of it. So I always offer a milk “chaser” when he gets it twice a day.

And finally, ever interested in giving his mother (still shocked to use that word in relation to myself) something to worry about, Simon also has a mild umbilical hernia. These are common enough and are officially no big deal, usually healing on their own within a few months with no medical treatment. Still, it was a little wild to suddenly see his cute little outie belly-button button become a cute not-so-little outie belly-button. We’ll spare you all the pictures of that one!