I love my wife and son, I love my mother and sister, I love my nephew, I love dill and cinnamon, I love cakes, I love at least one of our cats.
There is another love that, every 4 years, comes to the forefront to consume my waking hours and a great many of the sleeping ones. I will for the next month make my wife a football widow and see if I can get the boy to be at least a little bit interested in the figures dancing around on the screen.
For now I've resolved to try to write a little about this and while it may be a shortlived thing it is, still, a thing.
So if you like you might want to visit https://armchairsocceroo.blogspot.com/ while I turn my attentions there.
Thursday, 14 June 2018
Out and about...
There is a point at which you stop wanting to protect your new child from the outside world and to take him out to face it. For us that point came about a week in when we had to take him for an ultrasound and figured it was high time the government knew about him too and registered him for his paperwork so that if we encountered any "Papiere, bitte" moments we would be ready.
Amazed at how smoothly that all went we took him shopping and since he can't read or talk we breezed past the chocolate and chips aisle and didn't even hesitate in front of the toys. We went to visit his Aunty for her birthday lunch and then took him to his first licenced premises at the local Sports Club. Mindful of the lure of the pokies we had lunch outside but it was such a pleasant experience we ended up becoming members.
We were able to receive visitors as well and the little one was more than happy to be passed around like a, well, like a newborn baby and we marveled at what good parents we were and how lucky we were to have such an even tempered child.
We had lunches at restaurants but that was kind of cheating. We knew that the real test was going to be evenings. He was regular enough that we knew that early evening was his time to shine. By "shine" we mean be a complete cry baby. So we found a familiar family location and tried to see what happened. It was noisy and had many people while we enjoyed a trivia night in our regular haunt. Yes he cried a little but given the circumstance he didn't cry much and most of that was drowned out by all the ambient noise anyway. There's a lot to be said for crowded rooms. A crying baby stands out less and if they're comfy enough they'll just sleep anyway. Again, we kept him away from the pokies but there was Keno at the table. Luckily he can't grip the pencil to fill out the form yet.
Then it was time for some proper socialising by showing up to parents group.
Parents group, normally called mothers group but more accurately parents group because of my presence, is a mechanism where new mothers in a certain area are organised into a group to share their experiences and become a support network for one another. It was as awkward a start as you might expect with everyone testing to see how much they're willing to share with complete strangers. What I didn't expect was that a room full of newborns, and there were about 15 or so, could be as quiet as it was. Infact, and I'm sure we were not the only ones, there was some anxiety about which baby it would be to break the silence. That I don't remember which it was leaves me confident in saying it wasn't NotHeidi.
There were only 4 weeks of this facilitated weekly meeting after which the group was left to organise themselves which they did. In those 4 weeks a few more Dads showed up, I like to think it was my example, but the catch ups at various locations are father-free. It was noteworthy that many of the new mums were also new to the area and lacking the kind of support network that comes with being long term residents in one area. In that sense we fit that profile as well and that shared experience is also something that has helped bond the mothers despite the differences in personality, attitude and age.
NotHeidi thus is familiar with many children all sorts of adults and now it's time to give him access to some new locations. We took him on a bushwalk, though it must be said there was precious little walking done on his part. Where he didn't see a single fan but seemed quite intrigued by a few of the birds he saw. He enjoyed touching leaves and branches with his hands, though less so with the face. There's a price to be paid to have your child facing outwards in his BabyBjorn to see the world.
Having worked up a sweat walking around the bush we balanced it out with an experience of hustle and bustle (at least by Australian standards) of the city and dumplings in Chinatown. The trip to see his Grandma further west might be marginally longer distance wise but in terms of time spent in the car this was the longest one yet.
We went to visit the other Aunty and cousin, then have dinner with friends for what was, to that point, the longest time away from home (some 12 hours). Not once did he complain "are we there yet" or puke in the car. If he becomes someone who is keen on travel this might become chapter one of his book about his experiences.
Then, just before his 2month anniversary we took him back to where his parents were married and celebrated their love before all their friends and relatives. We explained to him the importance of love and finding someone who you are free to be yourself with and fear no judgement from. We kissed him and each other and reflected on how lucky we were to lead such wonderful lives.
Amazed at how smoothly that all went we took him shopping and since he can't read or talk we breezed past the chocolate and chips aisle and didn't even hesitate in front of the toys. We went to visit his Aunty for her birthday lunch and then took him to his first licenced premises at the local Sports Club. Mindful of the lure of the pokies we had lunch outside but it was such a pleasant experience we ended up becoming members.
We were able to receive visitors as well and the little one was more than happy to be passed around like a, well, like a newborn baby and we marveled at what good parents we were and how lucky we were to have such an even tempered child.
We had lunches at restaurants but that was kind of cheating. We knew that the real test was going to be evenings. He was regular enough that we knew that early evening was his time to shine. By "shine" we mean be a complete cry baby. So we found a familiar family location and tried to see what happened. It was noisy and had many people while we enjoyed a trivia night in our regular haunt. Yes he cried a little but given the circumstance he didn't cry much and most of that was drowned out by all the ambient noise anyway. There's a lot to be said for crowded rooms. A crying baby stands out less and if they're comfy enough they'll just sleep anyway. Again, we kept him away from the pokies but there was Keno at the table. Luckily he can't grip the pencil to fill out the form yet.
Then it was time for some proper socialising by showing up to parents group.
Parents group, normally called mothers group but more accurately parents group because of my presence, is a mechanism where new mothers in a certain area are organised into a group to share their experiences and become a support network for one another. It was as awkward a start as you might expect with everyone testing to see how much they're willing to share with complete strangers. What I didn't expect was that a room full of newborns, and there were about 15 or so, could be as quiet as it was. Infact, and I'm sure we were not the only ones, there was some anxiety about which baby it would be to break the silence. That I don't remember which it was leaves me confident in saying it wasn't NotHeidi.
There were only 4 weeks of this facilitated weekly meeting after which the group was left to organise themselves which they did. In those 4 weeks a few more Dads showed up, I like to think it was my example, but the catch ups at various locations are father-free. It was noteworthy that many of the new mums were also new to the area and lacking the kind of support network that comes with being long term residents in one area. In that sense we fit that profile as well and that shared experience is also something that has helped bond the mothers despite the differences in personality, attitude and age.
NotHeidi thus is familiar with many children all sorts of adults and now it's time to give him access to some new locations. We took him on a bushwalk, though it must be said there was precious little walking done on his part. Where he didn't see a single fan but seemed quite intrigued by a few of the birds he saw. He enjoyed touching leaves and branches with his hands, though less so with the face. There's a price to be paid to have your child facing outwards in his BabyBjorn to see the world.
Having worked up a sweat walking around the bush we balanced it out with an experience of hustle and bustle (at least by Australian standards) of the city and dumplings in Chinatown. The trip to see his Grandma further west might be marginally longer distance wise but in terms of time spent in the car this was the longest one yet.
We went to visit the other Aunty and cousin, then have dinner with friends for what was, to that point, the longest time away from home (some 12 hours). Not once did he complain "are we there yet" or puke in the car. If he becomes someone who is keen on travel this might become chapter one of his book about his experiences.
Then, just before his 2month anniversary we took him back to where his parents were married and celebrated their love before all their friends and relatives. We explained to him the importance of love and finding someone who you are free to be yourself with and fear no judgement from. We kissed him and each other and reflected on how lucky we were to lead such wonderful lives.
Getting to know you
Our house guest has now spent 4 months here and we're starting to understand him a little better.
His life is a simple cycle of eating or, more correctly, drinking, observing his world, crying as he finds another flaw in the way things are done sleeping and starting over. At intermittent intervals he will require a cleanup but don't we all. It's the moments he spends taking in his surroundings that are the most interesting and it's odd what catches the eye.
Much like cats deciding to play with the box their intended present came in NotHeidi will ignore the ever growing menagerie of stuffed animals and stare at the ceiling. Not in an idle head-in-the-air vacuous kind of way but a very intense stare at the item hanging from it.
He loves fans.
Whenever there's a fan in the vicinity and he sees it he will make an effort to continue seeing it. In an attempt to go with the flow I decided to humour him and tell him about how fans are quite useful in their own way, maybe not as much as ducted reverse cycle air conditioning but to illustrate the point of having them I switched one on. He became giddy with excitement, all his limbs twitching uncontrollably in utter delight that such a perfect thing could become more perfect still by moving in this way. It's then I became slightly envious of a man in a world so new that the sight of a ceiling fan could provide such an enthusiastic response.
His hands are enormous.
This is not to say I'm implying something that President Trump has previously been known to allude to, I'm not talking about that. When he was younger (not the incredibly ancient age he is now) his hands were semi permanently in a fist, with the thumb curled inside his other 4 fingers. As he slowly gains control of his muscles and learns to move them his hands have opened and now grasp things in ways that are encouraging. His hands are incredibly soft and his nails painfully sharp. It's an exercise in extreme patience and quite some concern to trim his nails. He will not hold still and the fear of trimming some finger along with the nail is frighteningly real. His hands can grasp his milk bottle and he will try to guide it to his mouth. Once in place it is possible to let go of the bottle for quite some time before his clutches fail him. I am thinking they might be goalkeepers hands.
Anything he does successfully grasp is usually guided to his mouth. Seeing him suck on fingers (both his own that those of others), books, toys, blankets and so on I am wondering if the term mouth is derived from the mouths of rivers. Bear with me. The mouth of a river is where water comes out into the ocean. So if you were going to name that geographic feature after a part of the body what would you choose? You'd go with penis, or vagina, or maybe bum if you're talking about the Ganges. No, it wasn't to protect the sensitivities of people who do not like to see those words that made them call it the mouth. It was the gushes of drool from a baby's mouth that did it. NotHeidi has an unending supply of saliva that falls out of his mouth at such a rate that we were left surprised at how many bibs we went through. Holding him on you for only a short amount of time will result in a wet patch where his mouth had been resting and any new bib is almost instantly soaked to the point where you start to wonder if maybe he is going to get dehydrated.
He has started to smile and giggle.
His mouth curls up at the edges to reveal a toothless smile that is so delightful and heartwarming that I am convinced, if he set his mind to it, he could melt steel just be smiling at it. It's an interesting transaction. His parents are genetically programed to want to see him smile. Things that please him make him smile. Therefore the parents expend a lot of effort into making him smile by pleasing him. So far tickling is completely passé. He finds getting undressed amusing, Daddy dancing makes him laugh (he's not alone) and looking in the mirror is also up there for him. It looks like the goalkeeping dream might make way for a career as a stripper.
The only thing standing against this is an embarrassment of riches when it comes to gas. Forget fracking, just hook this guy up to some generator and watch him go. Thankfully he's not yet on solid food but when he is I suspect that we might have to get him some charcoal filtered pants. Possibly as tear offs incase his dream of being a stripper is strong enough. It's not like he's eating Sauerkraut yet, heaven knows what gelatin will do to him.
As much fun as he has having his clothes taken off it's sometimes the case that they will not fit back on at the next cycle. His incessant eating has resulted in some serious growing and while it's a good thing that he does you can't help but feel bad for the clothes that barely got a look in. There's some seriously cute outfits that barely got a showing before they go into the pile of too small to fit anymore clothes. Looks like I might have to buy some more supporters gear before he turns 6 months after all. I'm not letting go of the goalkeeper option. He could combine the 2 careers... it would make for an amusing penalty shootout.
His life is a simple cycle of eating or, more correctly, drinking, observing his world, crying as he finds another flaw in the way things are done sleeping and starting over. At intermittent intervals he will require a cleanup but don't we all. It's the moments he spends taking in his surroundings that are the most interesting and it's odd what catches the eye.
Much like cats deciding to play with the box their intended present came in NotHeidi will ignore the ever growing menagerie of stuffed animals and stare at the ceiling. Not in an idle head-in-the-air vacuous kind of way but a very intense stare at the item hanging from it.
He loves fans.
Whenever there's a fan in the vicinity and he sees it he will make an effort to continue seeing it. In an attempt to go with the flow I decided to humour him and tell him about how fans are quite useful in their own way, maybe not as much as ducted reverse cycle air conditioning but to illustrate the point of having them I switched one on. He became giddy with excitement, all his limbs twitching uncontrollably in utter delight that such a perfect thing could become more perfect still by moving in this way. It's then I became slightly envious of a man in a world so new that the sight of a ceiling fan could provide such an enthusiastic response.
His hands are enormous.
This is not to say I'm implying something that President Trump has previously been known to allude to, I'm not talking about that. When he was younger (not the incredibly ancient age he is now) his hands were semi permanently in a fist, with the thumb curled inside his other 4 fingers. As he slowly gains control of his muscles and learns to move them his hands have opened and now grasp things in ways that are encouraging. His hands are incredibly soft and his nails painfully sharp. It's an exercise in extreme patience and quite some concern to trim his nails. He will not hold still and the fear of trimming some finger along with the nail is frighteningly real. His hands can grasp his milk bottle and he will try to guide it to his mouth. Once in place it is possible to let go of the bottle for quite some time before his clutches fail him. I am thinking they might be goalkeepers hands.
Anything he does successfully grasp is usually guided to his mouth. Seeing him suck on fingers (both his own that those of others), books, toys, blankets and so on I am wondering if the term mouth is derived from the mouths of rivers. Bear with me. The mouth of a river is where water comes out into the ocean. So if you were going to name that geographic feature after a part of the body what would you choose? You'd go with penis, or vagina, or maybe bum if you're talking about the Ganges. No, it wasn't to protect the sensitivities of people who do not like to see those words that made them call it the mouth. It was the gushes of drool from a baby's mouth that did it. NotHeidi has an unending supply of saliva that falls out of his mouth at such a rate that we were left surprised at how many bibs we went through. Holding him on you for only a short amount of time will result in a wet patch where his mouth had been resting and any new bib is almost instantly soaked to the point where you start to wonder if maybe he is going to get dehydrated.
He has started to smile and giggle.
His mouth curls up at the edges to reveal a toothless smile that is so delightful and heartwarming that I am convinced, if he set his mind to it, he could melt steel just be smiling at it. It's an interesting transaction. His parents are genetically programed to want to see him smile. Things that please him make him smile. Therefore the parents expend a lot of effort into making him smile by pleasing him. So far tickling is completely passé. He finds getting undressed amusing, Daddy dancing makes him laugh (he's not alone) and looking in the mirror is also up there for him. It looks like the goalkeeping dream might make way for a career as a stripper.
The only thing standing against this is an embarrassment of riches when it comes to gas. Forget fracking, just hook this guy up to some generator and watch him go. Thankfully he's not yet on solid food but when he is I suspect that we might have to get him some charcoal filtered pants. Possibly as tear offs incase his dream of being a stripper is strong enough. It's not like he's eating Sauerkraut yet, heaven knows what gelatin will do to him.
As much fun as he has having his clothes taken off it's sometimes the case that they will not fit back on at the next cycle. His incessant eating has resulted in some serious growing and while it's a good thing that he does you can't help but feel bad for the clothes that barely got a look in. There's some seriously cute outfits that barely got a showing before they go into the pile of too small to fit anymore clothes. Looks like I might have to buy some more supporters gear before he turns 6 months after all. I'm not letting go of the goalkeeper option. He could combine the 2 careers... it would make for an amusing penalty shootout.
Didn't we have a sofa there?
To answer the question of how long it takes for your life to change in such a way that you cannot remember how it was previously I'm pretty sure the figure is about 10-12 weeks.
I can't remember any time not worrying about whether we have plentiful supplies of wipes, nappies and formula (NotHeidi is getting breast milk for the most part but the way that kid eats a little extra on the side is useful). I'm not sure where the bouncers, playmats, plush toys and books all came from but I've no idea what used to occupy the spaces they now take up. Eating dinners in turn so that one party can dedicate themselves to the needs of NotHeidi is basically how I assume I've always eaten. I mean intrinsically I know that can't possibly be the case... I just can't fathom how it would work otherwise.
Every day brings a new variation on the theme of parenthood. The rashes, the coughs, the expelling of fluids and other decreasingly fluid matter are not what you'd call highlights but they inform you of how utterly dependent NotHeidi is on us both for everything. I recall once having to take similar care of another, much older, part of the family tree and the feelings that engendered in both parties. At it's root both occasions were borne of need and the tasks were performed with a sense of duty but while one was a memory I'd gleefully forget the other is one I will come to cherish.
OK, I'll admit that "cherish" is not quite the right word. NotHeidi's shit certainly does stink and it happily sticks to everything it ought not to. Still, you are engaged in an activity you know will be limited to a fixed time period, the length of which the wife and I might disagree on, but it's all in aid of progress and a continuation of your place in the world. Once your life has come full circle and you're back in nappies, have no idea what's going on and have trouble making yourself understood the task of looking after you is not the fulfilment of potential and promise but more one of karmic insurance payments. NotHeidi is going to be in for a bit of a surprise.
It is also at this juncture that NotHeidi's mere existence is kickstarting some of the intentionally neglected grownup activities that previously were better off left alone. Reviewing insurance options, checking finances, setting up wills, considering the things we would all rather not consider. After all there's new episodes of your favourite TV show to watch. A child in your life is an interesting way to distill the things that are essential in your life. The results are sometimes surprising. I never thought I'd give up my football club membership but it seems pointless to pay to not attend any games. That they will lead a nomadic existence for a few years unless the state government comes to its senses (unlikely) isn't helping.
There's also the question of empathy. I've never really considered myself as unfeeling or without compassion. Still I'm now pondering why it is that halfway through watching the most recent series of the TV show Ash vs the Evil Dead I got a little squeamish. I'm not a huge fan of horror, at least not in the way that Homer Simpson is a fan of Donuts, but the jokesy stylings of Bruce Campbell as he and Sam Raimi flog the dead horse of the latters one good idea amused me. Until NotHeidi came along and then the demon fetus killing splatter-fest became a little harder to take. He's just a baby! Certainly one born of demonic incantation and with a thirst for human blood but it's hardly his fault.
I'm not always entirely comfortable with who I'm turning into but you have to accept that life is a constant series of changes and you change along with it or you end up being that weird 50-something guy on the train with the shoulder length hair, bell bottom jeans, platform shoes and brown shirt with giant lapels. Sometimes I don't miss getting on the train at Kings Cross. I mean it's one thing to forgo stretch denim, stonewash, acid wash, whiskers, rips, holes and the jeans that look like you walked out of the bathroom without having completed all the tasks. You can live without those. But if you end up in a place where everything you are, have and do are the best they will ever be then... well... aren't you done?
I'm pleased to say that as splendid as life is I am not done. There are changes left to go through and while I'm hoping that they're all positive I'm prepared for some of them to not be.
I can't remember any time not worrying about whether we have plentiful supplies of wipes, nappies and formula (NotHeidi is getting breast milk for the most part but the way that kid eats a little extra on the side is useful). I'm not sure where the bouncers, playmats, plush toys and books all came from but I've no idea what used to occupy the spaces they now take up. Eating dinners in turn so that one party can dedicate themselves to the needs of NotHeidi is basically how I assume I've always eaten. I mean intrinsically I know that can't possibly be the case... I just can't fathom how it would work otherwise.
Every day brings a new variation on the theme of parenthood. The rashes, the coughs, the expelling of fluids and other decreasingly fluid matter are not what you'd call highlights but they inform you of how utterly dependent NotHeidi is on us both for everything. I recall once having to take similar care of another, much older, part of the family tree and the feelings that engendered in both parties. At it's root both occasions were borne of need and the tasks were performed with a sense of duty but while one was a memory I'd gleefully forget the other is one I will come to cherish.
OK, I'll admit that "cherish" is not quite the right word. NotHeidi's shit certainly does stink and it happily sticks to everything it ought not to. Still, you are engaged in an activity you know will be limited to a fixed time period, the length of which the wife and I might disagree on, but it's all in aid of progress and a continuation of your place in the world. Once your life has come full circle and you're back in nappies, have no idea what's going on and have trouble making yourself understood the task of looking after you is not the fulfilment of potential and promise but more one of karmic insurance payments. NotHeidi is going to be in for a bit of a surprise.
It is also at this juncture that NotHeidi's mere existence is kickstarting some of the intentionally neglected grownup activities that previously were better off left alone. Reviewing insurance options, checking finances, setting up wills, considering the things we would all rather not consider. After all there's new episodes of your favourite TV show to watch. A child in your life is an interesting way to distill the things that are essential in your life. The results are sometimes surprising. I never thought I'd give up my football club membership but it seems pointless to pay to not attend any games. That they will lead a nomadic existence for a few years unless the state government comes to its senses (unlikely) isn't helping.
There's also the question of empathy. I've never really considered myself as unfeeling or without compassion. Still I'm now pondering why it is that halfway through watching the most recent series of the TV show Ash vs the Evil Dead I got a little squeamish. I'm not a huge fan of horror, at least not in the way that Homer Simpson is a fan of Donuts, but the jokesy stylings of Bruce Campbell as he and Sam Raimi flog the dead horse of the latters one good idea amused me. Until NotHeidi came along and then the demon fetus killing splatter-fest became a little harder to take. He's just a baby! Certainly one born of demonic incantation and with a thirst for human blood but it's hardly his fault.
I'm not always entirely comfortable with who I'm turning into but you have to accept that life is a constant series of changes and you change along with it or you end up being that weird 50-something guy on the train with the shoulder length hair, bell bottom jeans, platform shoes and brown shirt with giant lapels. Sometimes I don't miss getting on the train at Kings Cross. I mean it's one thing to forgo stretch denim, stonewash, acid wash, whiskers, rips, holes and the jeans that look like you walked out of the bathroom without having completed all the tasks. You can live without those. But if you end up in a place where everything you are, have and do are the best they will ever be then... well... aren't you done?
I'm pleased to say that as splendid as life is I am not done. There are changes left to go through and while I'm hoping that they're all positive I'm prepared for some of them to not be.
Honeybunny
In all this discussion about NotHeidi and how I'm affected and changing because of him I'm intentionally glossing over how his mother is changing too. One of the axiomatic pieces of advice for any writer is to write what you know about and when it comes to that I am, at the very best, only the second most qualified person. However there are some things about motherhood that, when viewed from the fathers side, do bear mentioning.
This is not the woman I married.
I mean it is. Obviously. It's not like she walked off into the sunset and I just replaced her with a suitable facsimile. No, but you can't help but notice some changes.
Let's start with coffee. Like most nine-to-fivers there was a certain ritual to a cup or three of morning coffees. When the barista knows your name, and your favourite coffee you officially have a habit. NotHeidi's mum had a habit. Then, slowly, there was a conscious effort to remove that stimulant from the diet to the point where there was a slight embarassment as she walked past the coffee shop trying to avoid the eyes of the barista as he (and they were all "he's") got ready to greet her only for her to continue past leaving him a little deflated. "Maybe tomorrow...", he might have thought to himself.
There is always a benefit to having others to share your guilty pleasures with. It's why smokers tend to go out in groups because nothing bonds you quite like emphysema. It's why people only eat dessert if they can convince someone else to have one too, though I've never had that problem. What about when you can't stop talking about that stupid reality TV show you like so much when you find someone else does too. It's a camaraderie that you can share, a common experience and a talking point. So too with coffee.
How often have I been invited out for a coffee and I politely decline saying I don't drink it? It's like you're in a club called the human race and having to admit you're not actually a member. You become an outcast, people discuss you and whether your ability to sustain a morning without coffee might be linked to a rampant addiction to uppers. Perhaps it wasn't icing suger from a doughnut that was on his nose. Is he on some sort of disgusting health kick? Obviously my physique quickly dispels that last hypothesis. The only thing that could be worse is being a member of the club and then choosing to leave. This is what NotHeidi's mother did.
Then NotHeidi himself came along and because consistent sleep deprivation is something that simply cannot be overcome without help the coffee returned. It got called go-juice, I understand both interpretations of that name are apt.
My beautiful wife with coffee, her after giving it up and after resuming it again are not so different from each other. What has changed is that where before there was tenderness and an unending supply of optimism we have a newly found sense of steely resolve. There is pragmatism and there is a new, unspoken air of "If you don't like it I don't care and while you're at it please get the fuck out of my way". She would never utter those crude words but she doesn't have to and it's nice that I imagine she would still say "please". I put this down to a complicated result of what is best described as PTSD.
This is why mothers groups are generally so successful. No matter what else you might have opinions on or what you do each of you have carried around a human being for far too long. Each has gone through all sorts of prodding and probing for the health of their child. Expelled it through an opening natural or man made but in either case with lasting damage left behind. Then, on top of that, have this child continue to drain you of fluid through one of the more sensitive areas of the body and now it stops you from sleeping as well. If that kind of shared experience doesn't bond you what will?
There is a single mindedness and a willingness to overcome any obstacle that changes your stance, your attitude and your tolerance for idiocy. If my baby needs something I shall go get it. Store's closed? No problem, there's somebody with a key. Oh look, there's one right here.
Ummm... honey, that's a brick.
1000-yard stare.
I'll just start the car, shall I?
Having a child is like Occam's razor for life. I love my wife, I love her values, her humour and her unquenchable desire to do what is best for our child. She personifies everything that I could ask for in a mother and nothing of what she does is ever in any way too much trouble, or part of a convoluted quid pro quo arrangement. It's a selfless love for one human being and ensuring that everything is right for him to make his mark on the world without wanting for anything a child can reasonably expect.
I'm just here trying to help her do it. And not get in the way.
This is not the woman I married.
I mean it is. Obviously. It's not like she walked off into the sunset and I just replaced her with a suitable facsimile. No, but you can't help but notice some changes.
Let's start with coffee. Like most nine-to-fivers there was a certain ritual to a cup or three of morning coffees. When the barista knows your name, and your favourite coffee you officially have a habit. NotHeidi's mum had a habit. Then, slowly, there was a conscious effort to remove that stimulant from the diet to the point where there was a slight embarassment as she walked past the coffee shop trying to avoid the eyes of the barista as he (and they were all "he's") got ready to greet her only for her to continue past leaving him a little deflated. "Maybe tomorrow...", he might have thought to himself.
There is always a benefit to having others to share your guilty pleasures with. It's why smokers tend to go out in groups because nothing bonds you quite like emphysema. It's why people only eat dessert if they can convince someone else to have one too, though I've never had that problem. What about when you can't stop talking about that stupid reality TV show you like so much when you find someone else does too. It's a camaraderie that you can share, a common experience and a talking point. So too with coffee.
How often have I been invited out for a coffee and I politely decline saying I don't drink it? It's like you're in a club called the human race and having to admit you're not actually a member. You become an outcast, people discuss you and whether your ability to sustain a morning without coffee might be linked to a rampant addiction to uppers. Perhaps it wasn't icing suger from a doughnut that was on his nose. Is he on some sort of disgusting health kick? Obviously my physique quickly dispels that last hypothesis. The only thing that could be worse is being a member of the club and then choosing to leave. This is what NotHeidi's mother did.
Then NotHeidi himself came along and because consistent sleep deprivation is something that simply cannot be overcome without help the coffee returned. It got called go-juice, I understand both interpretations of that name are apt.
My beautiful wife with coffee, her after giving it up and after resuming it again are not so different from each other. What has changed is that where before there was tenderness and an unending supply of optimism we have a newly found sense of steely resolve. There is pragmatism and there is a new, unspoken air of "If you don't like it I don't care and while you're at it please get the fuck out of my way". She would never utter those crude words but she doesn't have to and it's nice that I imagine she would still say "please". I put this down to a complicated result of what is best described as PTSD.
This is why mothers groups are generally so successful. No matter what else you might have opinions on or what you do each of you have carried around a human being for far too long. Each has gone through all sorts of prodding and probing for the health of their child. Expelled it through an opening natural or man made but in either case with lasting damage left behind. Then, on top of that, have this child continue to drain you of fluid through one of the more sensitive areas of the body and now it stops you from sleeping as well. If that kind of shared experience doesn't bond you what will?
There is a single mindedness and a willingness to overcome any obstacle that changes your stance, your attitude and your tolerance for idiocy. If my baby needs something I shall go get it. Store's closed? No problem, there's somebody with a key. Oh look, there's one right here.
Ummm... honey, that's a brick.
1000-yard stare.
I'll just start the car, shall I?
Having a child is like Occam's razor for life. I love my wife, I love her values, her humour and her unquenchable desire to do what is best for our child. She personifies everything that I could ask for in a mother and nothing of what she does is ever in any way too much trouble, or part of a convoluted quid pro quo arrangement. It's a selfless love for one human being and ensuring that everything is right for him to make his mark on the world without wanting for anything a child can reasonably expect.
I'm just here trying to help her do it. And not get in the way.
Please Dad...
We want to give the world to our children. It's a rubbish gift in many ways but essentially what it means is we want to do everything we can for them, but sometimes what we can do is not enough. NotHeidi was born with an abnormality in one of his ureters and that was picked up in-utero. We were assured that these things are not uncommon and usually resolve themselves soon enough.
Yet scan after scan continued to be of concern and we were given a referral for two tests to be conducted at Westmead Childrens Hospital.
Westmead is a sprawling complex providing care for sick children throughout Australia. Going to the doctor is natural enough, if not for yourself then certainly for your child. Being told to go to Westmead brings you two feelings. One of dread that it should be required that you go where the sickest of children need to go and one of confidence because you believe that this is where you get the best care for your child.
Now, as a parent you are conflicted about the correct course of action. The tests were explained and neither seemed what you might call pleasant. The medical professional has explained the potential for this condition to cause further problems and the tests will explore how real and imminent that potential is. Yet you want to prevent any discomfort to your child. We went ahead with the tests and arrived at Westmead early one morning.
If you ever want to get some perspective in your life you can spend a lot of money on a retreat where you detox, learn mindfulness and practice some yoga. You could help out in a charity. Or you could just sit and watch the comings and goings in a place like Westmead. There are children with afflictions that would cast the best of us into pathetic self pity and incapacitate us. Yet here these young children are bandaged, propped and augmented managing a smile as their tireless yet exhausted parents stoically and proudly help them in the fight of their lives. For their lives. There's no lamentation or pity, just an acceptance of reality and the knowledge there is no choice but to go on. The bustle of the place is chaotic but at every moment there is care and warmth and the effort to ensure that we treat the sick so that they won't have to come back to this place.
We are eventually ushered into a room with an x-ray machine to test whether NotHeidi's bladder is allowing fluid back to the kidney. This involves a catheter feeding fluid into the bladder until it's full and x-raying what happens. I can't even type the word without squirming and it's a mighty small tube you're dealing with. To mitigate there was some numbing creme for the entry point and magic capsules of sugar water that make a bothered baby instantly forget what's going on and concentrate on the sweet, sweet nummy coming into its mouth. The cheerful dog, cat, zebra and other motifs on the x-ray gowns were a nice touch but you were keenly aware of the fact that you had lead plates protecting your body from the x-rays while your son was being exposed to them. Several capsules later we were done and while we wouldn't receive any definitive results until our next doctors appointment the suggestion was there wasn't anything to worry about on this count at least.
My son had fared infinitely better than I would have in the same position and cried a lot less. He certainly didn't enjoy it though.
The next test was to determine that the kidneys themselves were functioning as normal and involved getting a cannula inserted, feeding radioactive material into the bloodstream and then tracing the movement of that material as it was processed through the kidneys and out the bladder. We were assured that the process was safe and would not result in NotHeidi gaining superpowers to help his fight against villany. The biggest issue here was with inserting a cannula. Finding a vein is tricky at the best of times, getting one in a baby is not easy. After the first unsuccessful attempt another limb was tried with a similar lack of success. Already having gone through several capsules of the magic sugar water it was then that NotHeidi turned to look me directly in the eye with an expression that haunts me.
As if to say "Dad, please help me", he conveyed a look so earnestly pleading that it might have fractured my heart. That look is the entire reason I am writing this entry. The best I could do in response was to say to him "I know this isn't nice, but we need to do this to make sure you'll be OK". I don't think he was impressed but at the 3rd attempt the cannula was in. The material was put through and he was strapped into the sensor for 20 minutes to watch his kidneys perfectly clean his blood and create radioactive pee. He even managed a little sleep while that was happening.
As we left the hospital I wanted to buy him the world's largest ice-cream as reward for his courage. Instead I just shed a little tear as I got the horrible feeling that perhaps this was the first time I had failed him.
Yet scan after scan continued to be of concern and we were given a referral for two tests to be conducted at Westmead Childrens Hospital.
Westmead is a sprawling complex providing care for sick children throughout Australia. Going to the doctor is natural enough, if not for yourself then certainly for your child. Being told to go to Westmead brings you two feelings. One of dread that it should be required that you go where the sickest of children need to go and one of confidence because you believe that this is where you get the best care for your child.
Now, as a parent you are conflicted about the correct course of action. The tests were explained and neither seemed what you might call pleasant. The medical professional has explained the potential for this condition to cause further problems and the tests will explore how real and imminent that potential is. Yet you want to prevent any discomfort to your child. We went ahead with the tests and arrived at Westmead early one morning.
If you ever want to get some perspective in your life you can spend a lot of money on a retreat where you detox, learn mindfulness and practice some yoga. You could help out in a charity. Or you could just sit and watch the comings and goings in a place like Westmead. There are children with afflictions that would cast the best of us into pathetic self pity and incapacitate us. Yet here these young children are bandaged, propped and augmented managing a smile as their tireless yet exhausted parents stoically and proudly help them in the fight of their lives. For their lives. There's no lamentation or pity, just an acceptance of reality and the knowledge there is no choice but to go on. The bustle of the place is chaotic but at every moment there is care and warmth and the effort to ensure that we treat the sick so that they won't have to come back to this place.
We are eventually ushered into a room with an x-ray machine to test whether NotHeidi's bladder is allowing fluid back to the kidney. This involves a catheter feeding fluid into the bladder until it's full and x-raying what happens. I can't even type the word without squirming and it's a mighty small tube you're dealing with. To mitigate there was some numbing creme for the entry point and magic capsules of sugar water that make a bothered baby instantly forget what's going on and concentrate on the sweet, sweet nummy coming into its mouth. The cheerful dog, cat, zebra and other motifs on the x-ray gowns were a nice touch but you were keenly aware of the fact that you had lead plates protecting your body from the x-rays while your son was being exposed to them. Several capsules later we were done and while we wouldn't receive any definitive results until our next doctors appointment the suggestion was there wasn't anything to worry about on this count at least.
My son had fared infinitely better than I would have in the same position and cried a lot less. He certainly didn't enjoy it though.
The next test was to determine that the kidneys themselves were functioning as normal and involved getting a cannula inserted, feeding radioactive material into the bloodstream and then tracing the movement of that material as it was processed through the kidneys and out the bladder. We were assured that the process was safe and would not result in NotHeidi gaining superpowers to help his fight against villany. The biggest issue here was with inserting a cannula. Finding a vein is tricky at the best of times, getting one in a baby is not easy. After the first unsuccessful attempt another limb was tried with a similar lack of success. Already having gone through several capsules of the magic sugar water it was then that NotHeidi turned to look me directly in the eye with an expression that haunts me.
As if to say "Dad, please help me", he conveyed a look so earnestly pleading that it might have fractured my heart. That look is the entire reason I am writing this entry. The best I could do in response was to say to him "I know this isn't nice, but we need to do this to make sure you'll be OK". I don't think he was impressed but at the 3rd attempt the cannula was in. The material was put through and he was strapped into the sensor for 20 minutes to watch his kidneys perfectly clean his blood and create radioactive pee. He even managed a little sleep while that was happening.
As we left the hospital I wanted to buy him the world's largest ice-cream as reward for his courage. Instead I just shed a little tear as I got the horrible feeling that perhaps this was the first time I had failed him.
Sunday, 18 February 2018
Do Babies dream of Electric Sheep
What do babies dream about?
NotHeidi is not always sleeping, but he gets his fair share. He has his ways and little by little you start to know his idiosyncracies. Some are fairly universal, he'll cry when he's got air needing to escape, the exit strategy appears to be immaterial in this regard. He cries in a slightly different way to alert anyone who is lactating in the immediate vicinity that he'd like to do business and... somewhat more unusually when he likes to do the other kind of business I find it is best to wait until he's had 3 audible movements unless you want to bear witness to something I assure you you do not. He'll spend the remaining non-sleeping hours curiously contemplating the world for long stretches as he exercises his fingers, arms legs and toes all at the same time in a transcendent dance that captures your entire attention and sucks the time straight out of the universe. It would surely become the next gym craze if you could somehow formalise the movements.
Finally he will sleep for long stretches, usually after a food coma has been induced and the burps taken care of. He will sleep in the bassinet at night and during the day he will variously use the baby bouncer/rocker or the chest of either parent. On the occasions he uses me as a mattress I note various levels of sleep including what I would assume his dream sleep. His eyes are too pudgy (and slightly gunky) when closed to really discern REM but he does the same thing that cats do as they sleep and dream which is to make weird face twitchy movements and periodic jittering of arms and legs.
So the question is... if he's dreaming, what's he dreaming about? His total life experience is less than 2 weeks. His life is a bewildering blur of boobs, people and having his undercarriage cleaned I shudder to think what kind of dream you might contrive from these limited experiences. He's met a few people, and when I say "met" I mean has been held, stroked, cooed at, smiled at and prodded by the kind of people we can afford to associate with. This includes random grannies who spontaneously burst into tears when looking at something so sweet and innocent and the man at Centrelink/Medicare who, when we revealed Centrelink was his first post-homecoming excursion, said "well young man, I hope you won't make a habit of coming here".
You might wonder why you would need a Medicare number when aged barely 1 week but rest assured that bureaucracy does not discriminate based on age. When we went to get his referral ultrasound to check on a condition discovered in-utero we struck 2 problems. One, his name was not on the referral slip because at the time he didn't have a name. Two, we were advised when making the appointment that unless he, not us, had a medicare number we would have to pay the full amount of the service.
To tackle the first problem the referral was re-issued by fax (finally I understand why this technology still exists). The second was a bit trickier. After an initial interchange upon our arrival I felt I might have burned all my bridges. Still, I managed to return when it came to pay and remain cordial enough for the receptionist to offer to look NotHeidi up on "the system". Lo, he was there with Medicare number that was shared for my future use and I did not have to pay $170. Sometimes things work out.
He's been shopping with us and did not pester us for chocolate, chips or soft drinks and on the checkout we had no need for the school sports dockets. I don't know which of those things are more evil but I hope it's not chocolate.
He has also partaken in the greatest of all Aussie pastimes, the Bunnings sausage sizzle. It was for the local Rotary club, they used hotdog buns, which I feel is not traditional, but they were fresh and the sausages were above average so I'd rate it a 7/10 sizzle. Side note - to get a 10/10 I have to really be on board with the charity in question, so a 7 is pretty good.
So if I had to construct a dream from that... maybe stuck in a Bunnings with shelf upon shelf of boobs while hungry for breast milk but unable to buy any because he doesn't have the right card all while being chased by a sonographer. Or maybe stuck in a car with your parents while boring 80's music is playing and all you can see is trees running away from you. As of last night he has the ultimate nightmare of seeing the Sydney FC ladies team losing the grand final. I tried to turn his bouncer away before full time... his football team will have plenty of opportunity to disappoint him in future.
Though am I coddling him by sparing him painful truths? Should I show him the matches from the 2008/09 season?
NotHeidi is not always sleeping, but he gets his fair share. He has his ways and little by little you start to know his idiosyncracies. Some are fairly universal, he'll cry when he's got air needing to escape, the exit strategy appears to be immaterial in this regard. He cries in a slightly different way to alert anyone who is lactating in the immediate vicinity that he'd like to do business and... somewhat more unusually when he likes to do the other kind of business I find it is best to wait until he's had 3 audible movements unless you want to bear witness to something I assure you you do not. He'll spend the remaining non-sleeping hours curiously contemplating the world for long stretches as he exercises his fingers, arms legs and toes all at the same time in a transcendent dance that captures your entire attention and sucks the time straight out of the universe. It would surely become the next gym craze if you could somehow formalise the movements.
Finally he will sleep for long stretches, usually after a food coma has been induced and the burps taken care of. He will sleep in the bassinet at night and during the day he will variously use the baby bouncer/rocker or the chest of either parent. On the occasions he uses me as a mattress I note various levels of sleep including what I would assume his dream sleep. His eyes are too pudgy (and slightly gunky) when closed to really discern REM but he does the same thing that cats do as they sleep and dream which is to make weird face twitchy movements and periodic jittering of arms and legs.
So the question is... if he's dreaming, what's he dreaming about? His total life experience is less than 2 weeks. His life is a bewildering blur of boobs, people and having his undercarriage cleaned I shudder to think what kind of dream you might contrive from these limited experiences. He's met a few people, and when I say "met" I mean has been held, stroked, cooed at, smiled at and prodded by the kind of people we can afford to associate with. This includes random grannies who spontaneously burst into tears when looking at something so sweet and innocent and the man at Centrelink/Medicare who, when we revealed Centrelink was his first post-homecoming excursion, said "well young man, I hope you won't make a habit of coming here".
You might wonder why you would need a Medicare number when aged barely 1 week but rest assured that bureaucracy does not discriminate based on age. When we went to get his referral ultrasound to check on a condition discovered in-utero we struck 2 problems. One, his name was not on the referral slip because at the time he didn't have a name. Two, we were advised when making the appointment that unless he, not us, had a medicare number we would have to pay the full amount of the service.
To tackle the first problem the referral was re-issued by fax (finally I understand why this technology still exists). The second was a bit trickier. After an initial interchange upon our arrival I felt I might have burned all my bridges. Still, I managed to return when it came to pay and remain cordial enough for the receptionist to offer to look NotHeidi up on "the system". Lo, he was there with Medicare number that was shared for my future use and I did not have to pay $170. Sometimes things work out.
He's been shopping with us and did not pester us for chocolate, chips or soft drinks and on the checkout we had no need for the school sports dockets. I don't know which of those things are more evil but I hope it's not chocolate.
He has also partaken in the greatest of all Aussie pastimes, the Bunnings sausage sizzle. It was for the local Rotary club, they used hotdog buns, which I feel is not traditional, but they were fresh and the sausages were above average so I'd rate it a 7/10 sizzle. Side note - to get a 10/10 I have to really be on board with the charity in question, so a 7 is pretty good.
So if I had to construct a dream from that... maybe stuck in a Bunnings with shelf upon shelf of boobs while hungry for breast milk but unable to buy any because he doesn't have the right card all while being chased by a sonographer. Or maybe stuck in a car with your parents while boring 80's music is playing and all you can see is trees running away from you. As of last night he has the ultimate nightmare of seeing the Sydney FC ladies team losing the grand final. I tried to turn his bouncer away before full time... his football team will have plenty of opportunity to disappoint him in future.
Though am I coddling him by sparing him painful truths? Should I show him the matches from the 2008/09 season?
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