Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 5.0

Sloane's been a busy beaver this week, soaking up everything her new play centre (thanks Auntie Thab!) has on offer: squeaky bits, twirly things, a kid-sized funhouse mirror, lotsa colours and contrasts, and a singing seahorse. Hours of fun and fascination, this thing has provided... for us, I mean. Cheering as Sloane accidentally bats around the dangling octopus has recently taken over as the favourite Chez Bristowe Turner spectator sport.

Categories: Sloane

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One Month Ago

...Sloane was born. Happy one month birthday, munchkin!

Categories: Sloane

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Overheard, 7:02pm

After Sloane's dinner, Turner in the livingroom:

"...I know what would bring on the burp, eh? It's if I moved this towel away, right? Then you'd spit up some good, eh? ...And if we put on the Beatrix Potter outfit, right?" [whenever Sloane wears her Peter Rabbit sleeper she barfs all over everything. It's a whole theme.]

and

[patting Sloane on the back, leaning her back and forth on his lap] "You get the feeling that it's like one of those pedestrian crossings things - 'push this button to cross'...? Like, does this even do anything? You know? Like, you're going to burp when you want to burp, so am I doing anything constructive here?"

and

"Are there going to be no burps today from baby Sloane? ...No burps today, madam? ...I gave at the office?"

Categories: Dad-ness | Sloane

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By Popular Demand

Sloane now has her own website, www.sloaneturner.com, a gift from Papa Mike. It's skinless and utilitarian at this point, and the only thing online is a photo gallery. However, for those of you who just aren't getting enough photos of our spawn here, there's a growing whack of images at Sloane's site. FYI.

Categories: Sloane

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Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 4.0

Vote vote vote for little Sloaney...

Who's that knocking on the door, on the door?   

If it's Mumma let her in,

And we'll sock her in the chin -

And we won't wait for dinner anymore

Slam the door!

Categories: Sloane

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Arrrr! You Can Never Start Them Too Young

A former DJ and obsessive music lover, Turner gives Sloane the first of many pirating lessons

Categories: Dad-ness | Sloane

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Another Few Words About Episiotomies

Day 27:   "Dissolvable" stitches. ...Riiiiight.  

Spending so much time concerned with the perineal region (an area of the body I didn’t put much thought into, prior to Sloane’s birth, I must admit) has, oddly, reminded me of a story from long ago...

In my second year of university I lived in a house with six other people. Eventually the house imploded and we all stalked off in different directions in respective huffs, but back in the early days, it was a good place to live. Especially at the beginning, we managed to maintain a solid spirit of camaraderie and a good measure of practical jokerage. I don't remember the specific context or precursive events now, but at one point we started coming home to find various animal body parts nailed to people's bedroom doors, courtesy of the pre-med housemate. 

At some houses I'm sure this sort of thing would've been grounds for war (since tiny things like "dishes", "putting out the garbage", and "your skanky liar girlfriend is here all the time" have themselves broken up many a previously placid living arrangement), but at this house, we found animal parts nailed to bedroom doors rah-ther funnee, at least for a while. This particular campaign never got especially out of control or smelly, but as I recall there was at least one pig ear involved. (For the record, those things are much larger, and hairier, than you'd think.)

The final straw that marked the end of the run was, for some reason, a gziff. The housemate whose door was most often the means of display for the animal-parts-spree decided enough was enough when she came home one day to an otherwise unidentifiable rectangular piece of skin, nailed at about eye level. Beside it, a small note of explanation: "The 'gziff' is the part of the anatomy located between the anus and genital organs of an animal."

...Hm. In retrospect, I'm now surprised that living situation lasted as long as it did.

Categories: Mom-ness | Olden Days

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This Parenthood Moment Is Brought To You By Generation X

Getting Sloane prepped for her afternoon feeding, I found myself serenading her with, "Oh Alexander I see you beneath / The archway of aerodynamics / Oh Alexander..."

Categories: Mom-ness

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Warning: This, You Probably Don't Want To Know

There are a number of changes that happen to a woman's body when she gets pregnant.

Some are well known and real obvious - the giant protruding belly, for example. The waddling from side-to-side. The water retention and consequent puffy ankles.

Then there are the not-so-obvious pregnancy changes that vary from woman to woman, such as my amazing immunity from headaches for nine months. (This pregnancy superpower is sorely missed; of late things've mostly reverted back to the ol' mild-headache-most-of-the-time status quo I lived with for my whole pre-pregnancy life. It might be the sleep deprivation, but then, it sounds like we're not going to get much sleep for the next few years, anyway, so I better suck it up.)

And then there are the things that happen to you after the birth... the reported hair loss, the giant boobs (more on these in a coming post), the pelvic triage, and so on.

If you're a reader, or an obsessive-internet-researcher, you can find most of these physical symptoms and changes reported and predicted in a variety of media. You don't have to walk in the dark or feel captive to a mysterious process. There's almost a list that you can tick off: early pregnancy - nausea, check. Second trimester - linea nigra up my stomach, check. Post-birth - an econo-sized pack of pads for the lochia, check.

But there have been a few things I haven't found in any books or online fora. Most of them I could take in stride - OK, it seems that cottage cheese is a daily necessity... I can deal with that. Or, Turner get over here and rub my back or I'll have to throw myself through the livingroom window. You know, personal piccadillos and needs specific to your own experience.

But here's my dilemma: arm pimples. Arm. Pimples. They arrived two months ago. I thought they'd go away after the baby was born. They are not going away. For the first time since I was 15 I have arm pimples.

Like, wtf? W. T. F.

Go away, arm pimples!

Categories: Mom-ness

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It's A Whole New Era

INT: La Dolce Vita Restaurant in Bridgeland.

Dad and Ash are out to dinner, Sloane is awake but lying quiet in Ash's arms. Dad has recently returned from a Caribbean cruise on which he met a writer, the author of "The Ultimate Guide to Being a Grandparent". According to her, the #1 most important policy to adopt as a grandparent (if you want a good relationship with your kids and as much unfettered access to the grandchildren as possible) is simply this: Give No Advice.

We join a conversation about parenthood, already in progress.

Ash:    ...and, yeah - I really love being a mom.

Dad:    Yeah. [Smiling] ...It's pretty good, the grand speck-tack... [Stops short. Suddenly gets 'that look' on his face] ...But you gotta remember, Ash -- [Pauses. Takes a breath in to say something else.]

Ash:    [Recognizes 'that look'. Steels herself for some 'advice', gets ready to ignore the pessimistic spin on whatever's coming.]

Dad:    ... [Suddenly catches himself, shakes his head. Says nothing. Gets a goofy smile, slaps own face, vaudeville-style. Puts up his hands in a 'I give up, I'll shut up' gesture. Then makes the motion of zipping his lips, one-two-three times. Comically throws away the key. All in silence.]

Ash:    [Surprised, was expecting the mini-lecture and realizes it isn't going to come] ...Wow, Dad.

Dad:    [Looks up, smiles silently, puts his palms up, shakes his head: silent "Nope, I'm not going to say anything."]

Ash:    [Grinning] This is... this is, like, a whole new era for you, Dad!

Dad:   [Shrugs. Pleased with himself.]

Ash:   [Chortles] The lamb is delicious!

Categories: Family

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The Angry Grocer

Rrrrr! Soon after Sloane was born, Brother John looked around at the chaos and stepped up with an insightful gift: dubbing himself "The Angry Grocer", our boy is on daily call to pick up any food and sundries we might need. Even with a freezer full of dinners and our own weekly trips to the Forest Lawn Co-op, and even with relatives and friends dropping by with offers of assistance and gifts of food, it's amazing how jumbled and mismanaged a household can become in these first weeks of new parenthood. A shambles, even.  

But we fear not here at Chez Bristowe Turner, because although I may never again make it out of my pyjamas before 11am, and everything we own smells like sour barfed-up breastmilk, and I haven't checked the phone messages in three days, and can't seem to return emails anymore... despite all that I won't be driven mad by postpartum cravings for (par example) pimento'd olives, because thanks to Brother John the age of daily grocery delivery is not dead!

As an example of the fine arrangement, we bring you today's list via the MSN conversation from earlier this afternoon: 

Ashley "Got Breastmilk?" Bristowe says:

Categories: Family

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Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 3.0

The theme of the week has been "Disaster Poo".

As in, going from sweet-smelling babymoon to TOXIC CHAOS ZONE standing at the Crossroads Market Hungarian Deli.

As in, going from cool and collected to TOTAL OUTFIT DESTRUCTION on a visit to the Niedzwiecki Farm out in Balzac.

As in a word bubble above Sloane's head: "I'm sure this happens to every baby, so howcome the diapers don't go up higher in the back? ...Could they be putting them on me, wrong? ...Nah."

And yes indeedy, that is an actual dirty diaper in the background (breastfed babies exclusively produce yellow-orange sludge until solid food is introduced). Sloane thought it an apropos prop, fair dinkum warning to the grandparents: You know she's cute. But did you know she can also poo in a trajectory that squirts as far north as the armpits?

Hell yeah, we're proud.  

Categories: Sloane

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Lazy Mom Confessional

INT: Chez Bristowe Turner, 3:10am

The middle-of-the-night parenting deal is this: Ashley is in charge of what goes into the kid, and Turner is in charge of what comes out, a share-and-share-alike model for the sleep deprivation. Turner has gone to burp-n'-change Sloane after her night meal, and Ashley is in bed, awaiting their return.

Ash: [waiting in bed for what seems like a very long time for one diaper change] ...Turner? [nothing] ...Turner? [Ash hikes up on one elbow, looks down the hall. Sounds of Turner mumbling to Sloane in the nursery] ...Something wrong? Turner? [Ash considers getting up to investigate, decides to stay in bed. Rolls over, falls back asleep. Some time later, Turner returns with Sloane] ...Henh? Oh. Turner - what the hell took so long?

Turner: Nothing, everything's fine.

Ash: [taking baby] Hello my bibi! ...Was she wearing this before?

T: No. [climbing into bed] I had to change her.

Ash: Why? Diaper explosion?

T: No no no. [Droning tired voice, relating story as fast as possible] Everything was fine, we were all clean and changed, I swaddled her back up, it was a good wrap, good and tight, and then she spit up on the double-wide receiving blanket. ...So I had to unwrap her, and then she was unwrapped and I had a towel by her head and she spit up again and managed to just get a little down the crack between the cloth and her head and it dribbled onto her shoulder. ...So I had to change her. It seems like no matter where I put the towel, the spit up always finds a way around it.

A: Was it a lot?

T: What?

A: The spit up.

T: No no, not much, just a spot. ...But I had to change her, it got her shoulder a bit.

A: Hm. [Admitting] I think I probably would have just dabbed it clean and wrapped her up and brought her back to bed, me.

T: ...I couldn't do that -- how would you like to sleep with a wet shoulder?

A: [Thinking she would not like to sleep with a wet shoulder. Also thinking she's glad for the nighttime deal that sees Turner in charge of changing Sloane out of sleepers with dribbly wet shoulders] Hm. Wouldn't. ...Way to go, Dad.

T: ...Yeah.

Categories: Dad-ness | Mom-ness

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Whut We Got In Thuh Mail

Sent to Sloane by Papa Mike, a tool of infant hypnosis arrived in a suspicious-looking bulky brown paper parcel the other day. After we hosed it down and ripped it open, this awesome educational bumper went straight into the crib (I hear you screaming, "Crib bumpers are dangerous! SIDS! SIDS!" -- calm down, Sloane sleeps in a moses basket beside our bed and just visits the crib in the daytime) to start its brainwashing work. And just in the nick of time... since Turner had begun making noise about how Sloane might be, and I quote, "falling behind". Seriously, I heard him mention flashcards. I heard him reference this learning toy he saw the other night on a Sex In The City rerun. And then I heard him making plans to go out looking for an educational mobile.

Now, there's something you need to know about Turner, and it's that he spent some of his formative childhood years living in the United States. Most of the time you'd never know anything was amiss (unless you count that stubborn anti-Reagan thing T has going on) - he's as Canadian as the rest of us. But then every so often, he comes out with a twangy and bizarre pronounciation of some word which, north of the 49 parallel, shurrr don't sound like that. Impossible to predict when they'll crop up or why some words stuck and others didn't, these pronounciations must've sponged into his brain as a kid, somehow escaping the process of Canadianization en route to adulthood.

In any case, today's word of this sort is: mobile. In Canada this word is pronounced moe-bye-ull. In his keeping-Sloane-up-with-the-baby-Joneses jonesing, Turner has come out with this word a number of times, and off his St. Louis-and-Denver-tainted tongue it sounds decidedly like "moe-beel". As in, "We need to get Sloane one of those educational moe-beels".

As in, "Hot damn, woman! We needs to get this chile one'a them ejukayshunull moe-beels!"

Anyway, the fortuitous timing of the arrival of Papa Mike's educational bumper filled our moe-beel void in a big way. Now, we'd read and heard that newborns see contrast way earlier than colour and shape, but it's just one of those many many bits of advice and information you're given in the period leading up to the birth of a child. In one ear, and hastily shelved near the back. So when we unwrapped the bumper and saw the black n' white pictures, we had one of those, "oh yeah, the books say babies like contrast" moments, but it didn't really hit too strong a chord. 

Nonetheless we wasted no time in rigging up the bumper, and then lay Sloane in the crib for a test run. Our gurgling and unfocussed two-week-old suddenly fell rapt and silent as she stared in awe at the bumper. I am not shitting you, this thing stopped her cold. I actually reached in and poked her to make sure she wasn't having some kind of silent baby seizure; that's how marked was the reaction to the pictures along the pad. ...I'm not sure what exactly she's learning from it, but you can almost hear the wheels turning in her brain as she lies there gaping at this thing.

"Falling behind" no more, our child goes to the head of the class in stripey lines and dots, and without the aid of a moe-beel. All hail the educational bumper pad!

Our child, mesmerized by the gift of patterns-in-contrast

Categories: Dad-ness | Family | Mom-ness | Sloane

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New Mom Soundtrack: Week The Third

Well, we're at the top of Week Three here and there's a whole new set of songs banging through my milk-engorged brain...

Asleep by the Smiths

Sing me to sleep / Sing me to sleep / I'm tired and I / I want to go to bed

Appropriate for so many reasons in this period of sleep deprivation, mostly I find myself singing this as a lullaby to Sloane when she's being fussy. Someday she'll blame all her problems on the fact that she was repeatedly lulled to sleep in her early days by a song about a guy looking forward to his own death, but for now: sshhhhhh...

Sleeping in Toronto by Jim Bryson

I got tired of sleeping in Toronto / I got tired of never really knowing what I should do

Aside from the fact that Jim is Turner's aunt Mary's cousin (...got that?), he's really nailed something amazing in this song. Our world has shrunk to the head of the pin where Sloane dances, which sometimes makes our old life in Toronto seem very far away indeed. This song reminds me of driving the Lakeshore at the bottom of High Park, at the height of summer with the windows down, with the lake ruffling in the wind and the metallic smell of the streetcars as the road swings down at Harbourfront. ...Suddenly seems like a long time ago.

How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You), the version by James Taylor

I just want to stop / And thank you baby / How sweet it is to be loved by you

Unfortunately this one comes with the unbidden image of the scene in American Pie where Chris Klein has joined the choir and is singing in the locker room. Eeeeehhhhhhugh. ...But otherwise a lovely song, and certainly better than some that have stuck in my head.

Categories: Mom-ness

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What They Don't Tell You In Breastfeeding Class

They really don't say a whole hell of a lot about the projectile vomiting.

Now, understand that when I say "projectile vomiting", I actually mean "really impressive arc on that spit-up". Serious projectile vomitting would be cause for concern of course, whereas the gnarly air Sloane achieves is apparently not unusual when it comes to yer standard infant mid-meal reflux.

Remember what we were saying about the laundry? About how having a kid generates a lot of it? Are you starting to see how it all comes about?

Today's spit-up incident was particularly spectacular, mainly because (despite appearances here) I got hit with the least of it. Most of the mess went up in the air and landed square back in Sloane's own face (not shown). I was on the phone with Nanny at the time and had to decide between watching my child coughing half-digested milk out her nose, and hanging up midsentence on my own grandmother. ...I flung the phone across the room and yelled for Turner, and lunged for a washcloth to clean up my milky-whitefaced and dripping offspring.

I will admit, however, I couldn't help but laugh mid-wipedown at the sight of Sloane confusedly blinking milk out of her eyes, her lashes all coated and sticky; she had this look of "What the hell just happened, there?" on her face. Show me someone who thinks that having a kid isn't fun and I'll show you a person with no sense of humour.

Categories: Mom-ness | Sloane

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Sloane's Pictoral Week In Review: 2.0

Tap tap tap  ...Is this thing on?

Categories: Sloane

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April Fool's Day Walk

Sloane's First Walk in her sooper dooper Zooper stroller finally happened today amidst an initial flurry of energy and activity. I got dressed all proper-like (actual clothes versus the sweat pants and bathrobe uniform) and hurried to take advantage of my body's actual and sudden willingness to get physical.

Preparations for departure from the house began at 10am and continued apace for well over two hours... Lesson One in "Having A Kid": You will never again leave the house when you think you will leave the house. If you have a child/children, you can skip the next few paragraphs. You've been through it. I was telling Ainsley on the phone this afternoon that it took us two and a half hours to get out of here for the walk, and I don't think she believed me. Here's the blow-by-blow:

So. First off I got Sloane all dressed to go out, and then realized as I headed out the back door that the newly-put-together stroller's wheels weren't inflated. Turner leapt into action to remedy the situation as I rocked Sloane in her car seat. Of course we discovered the pump that comes with the stroller inexplicably wouldn't pump air into the wheels... whereupon there was a small chain reaction temper tantrum starting with Turner and spreading to me. You know, good role modelling for our 13 day old baby. It took about ten minutes to establish the correct trajectory for our bile (i.e. the stroller wheels themselves, and not each other), after which there was a protracted mutual apology and marriage-affirmation session. All bandaged up, we promptly called the stroller manufacturer to give them what for. 

They told us to take the wheels to a gas station to have them inflated, which begged the question of course, why do the instructions show the (provided) pump inflating the wheels? "Oh that," sez the girl at the other end of the phone, "that pump is for emergencies." Ah, sez I -- but we've already established that it doesn't inflate the tires - so, what good exactly would it be in an emergency? "...Um, well... I don't know," sez she.

...Okay. Fine. Whatever. So Turner went to inflate the wheels while I undressed a seriously pissed and overheating Sloane (strapped for the last fifteen minutes into her car seat and clearly not going anywhere soon) and set about attempting to entertain our lovely girl-child until her dad returned. We turned a corner when I introduced Sloane to a gift that arrived today in the mail from Papa Mike, an educational bumper pad. I set her up in the crib and she was happy as a clam to stare at the various black-and-white pictures for, oh, minutes on end. Meanwhile, I tidied the nursery and sorted some baby clothes a neighbour dropped by a few days ago. 

Turner arrived back home with the now-inflated tires, and everything seemed copacetic, so we got Sloane all dressed again and headed for the stroller to strap her in. That was when Sloane suddenly decided that she was hungry, like, seriously hungry, like, feed me right now, you fuckers hungry. Uh, alrighty then - never ones to argue with a screaming baby, Turner and I unpacked her from the going-outdoors clothes and onto the boob she went. Twenty minutes later, Sloane was all milk-dopey and fairly pliable, so I packed her back up into all her going-outside gear (third time a charm).

And just as we were loading her into the stroller, there it was: the unmistakeable sound of a serious poop being let go, overflowing the diaper and threatening to overtake the whole rear of her outfit, the blanket, and her hair.

So, back to the nursery, unbundle the child, change the diaper, swaddle'r back up (#4), and finally, finally, finally buckle her into the stroller once and for all. And out the back door we go.

Two hours and twenty minutes after we initially tried to depart. Yes.  

Sloane was a mite unhappy with the delay(s). But I have to give it to this kid - spirit, yeah-yeah, she's got spirit

Turner manoeuvres the stroller through our oh-so-ghetto yard

Out in the world! And with something to lean on as I limp along, it's all good

Starting at the X (Chez Bristowe Turner), I made it two blocks before having to veer sharply for home. Turner had to push Sloane up the wee incline we encountered en route as I straggled along behind. Amazing what a wallop 20 hours of labour, a nasty episiotomy, and 13 days of convalescence (read: muscle atrophy) can deliver

Yep yep yep... tomorrow I'll go for three blocks

Categories: Mom-ness

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