Postcards from the Mothership

Binky. Sucky. Nuk. Soother. Dummy. Paci. Pacifier. Suss. It has a million names, because it is legion. It is evil.

I have a love-hate relationship with the soother. Back in the day, when I was ignorant and childless, I decided that I’d never give one to my child. “You take an adorable baby and stick a hunk of gaudy plastic in the middle of her face. Who would do that?” Who indeed, grasshopper.

My boys have all been suck junkies. I held off for a couple of weeks with Tristan on the advice of our ped and numerous lactation consultants, because of the sorry mess that were my nipples due to questionable latch. For those weeks, Tristan pruned our pinky fingers while we pretzelled ourselves to accomodate him. He was three before he gave up his soothers, using them to “buy” a Gordon tank engine from a very understanding and patient Toys R Us cashier one memorable day. For years after, he’d look at family photos and point out all his favourite soothers. “Look, there’s the blue one. I loved the blue one.”

With Simon, even though my nipples were more shredded than ever, he had a soother in the first couple of days. I cursed my mother for bringing one into the house, then praised her sensibility when it bought me an extra 15 minutes or so of sleep at a time. I specifically bought the fancy Avent ones not so much for orthodontic concerns but so we could easily distinguish them from Tristan’s. At the time, Tristan was still using his at bedtime and I didn’t want him stealing soothers – which he often asked for and was refused during the day – from the baby. Simon was closer to three and a half when he finally gave it up a little less than a year ago. (!!) Seems like forever ago, and just yesterday.

So this time, I capitulated to the suck demons and had bought not just two but four soothers as part of the preparations for Lucas’s arrival. And the damn things are driving me bananas. I don’t remember this with the other boys, but Lucas is two and a half months old and still can’t hold the soother in his mouth. Every time I wrestle him into sleep (this is a child who does not simply “fall” asleep, he has to be wrestled and thrust into sleep with much jiggling and shushing and wrapping tightly of arms) I have to use one arm to support and jiggle him, one arm to pat his back, and one arm to hold his soother in place until he falls asleep.

If you can do the math, you can see my problem.

If he’s particularly frothed, we play the “I want the soother GIVE ME THE SOOTHER what the hell is this thing in my mouth GET IT OUT what are you doing I WANT THE SOOTHER” game. In and out, in and out. Not particularly fun during the day, and downright crazymaking in the darkness of night.

Speaking of night… I’m loathe to admit this one. You know how sometimes a parent will admit that for the first four months they were so desperate to sleep that they would do just about anything to get the baby to sleep, like sleeping on the recliner with baby draped across them like a sash, and you nod sympathetically but are thinking to yourself, “Sheesh, just put the baby down already. He’ll sleep when he’s tired.” You can call this my comeuppance. I now fall asleep every night perched precariously on the edge of my bed, my arm stretched across the gap to the cradle at my bedside and threaded through the rails so I can hold the baby’s soother in his mouth until he falls asleep. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up thinking my arm had fallen clean off, so profoundly numb it was. There have been nights that we have wrestled for more than an hour over the soother: in and out, in and out. I can’t sleep without it, I can’t sleep with it. Talk about crazymaking!

He’s got a new trick now. Little bugger has figured out which neurons to fire to turn his head (damn developmental milestones) and so he takes the soother while turned toward me, and before I can push my thumb up against it to keep it in place he flings his head to the side with such force that when he expels the soother he sends it flying over the cradle rail where it lands on the floor and takes a wonky bounce, never to be found again.

I can’t tell you how many hours of the past two months have been spent pretzelled into various positions as I try to hold that traitorous soother in place, whether with my back pressed against the driver’s side door in the car (one hand on the steering wheel and one hand snaked over the headrest and the canopy of the car seat) or crouched beside the cradle or swing, hoping hoping hoping that he’ll settle into a nap that doesn’t involve using me as a piece of furniture.

I’m always a little bit perplexed by parents who say their baby never took a soother; it’s a concept beyond my comprehension and just a little bit unnatural, kind of like elimination communication. Soothers are as essential to baby care as are diapers, at least in this house.

It seems like Lucas shares my love-hate relationship with the soother. Moreso than with the other boys, there have been times when I’ve wondered if I should just do away with the darn thing now as it often seems to irritate him more than soothe him. Likely because there is no milk coming out of it, I imagine. (I’ve really got to get a few more cuddling positions in my repertoire, because when I assume the “here comes the bottle” pose, which is coincidentally the same as the “here comes the soother” pose, and the “oh for the love of god, just go to sleep already” pose, he gets a little, um, ticked off when no milk is forthcoming.)

But other times, I can’t imagine how we’d do without it. His little eyes practically roll up in his head in blissful relief when I stick the plug in his mouth some days, and his limbs will stop flailing and relax completely the instant his lips close around it. For about two minutes. Until he spits it out. And starts rooting around for it. And then starts wailing for it. And the wails turn indignant when I try to put it back in his mouth. So I take it away again. And the wails turn hysterical with desire for it. Until I give it to him.

Repeat, ad infinitum, all… day… long.

When Tristan was a newborn, our weekly highlight was a Thursday trip to the Well Baby Drop-In at the local community centre. He’d had weight-gain issues (though not as severe as Lucas’s) and the weekly weigh-ins provided me with an empirical validation that we were in fact doing at least something right. It was also the only time I spent with other moms, as most of my friends at the time were either childless, had older children or were people I met through the Internet. Online friends are great for emotional support, no doubt, but as one of my friends said, sometimes you still need someone to hold the baby while you pee.

Anyway, nothing would prevent me from my weekly visit to the Well Baby Drop-In, even though I was intensely intimidated by all the other moms. It was a lot like high school all over again — seemed (to me, at least) a little clique-y, like everyone knew everyone else and was inviting each other over for coffee or out for a walk. Even though most of them were first-timers too, they all seemed to be more comfortable in their roles as mom-on-the-town — and they all seemed to have better fitting pants, cooler strollers and fancier diaper bags, too. I tried not to care, not to feel inferior, but I did. I’d chat with some of the other moms, but I never felt part of the in-crowd, even when Tristan was an old man of 10 weeks and a new mom would show up with a pink and wrinkly two-weeker. It still seems a little sad that as a woman in my thirties, accomplished and confident in my career and in life, I felt this way.

When Simon was born, there were no weight-gain issues. When you feed every two hours ’round the clock and are so chubby your rolls have rolls, there’s no doubt you’re doing well. And, Tristan was all of 22 months old when Simon was born, so it was more work than it was worth to visit the Well Baby Drop-Ins. We’d go to the playgroups at the Early Years Centre so Tristan could play while I nursed Simon and pondered the limits of human sleep deprivation, but there was never the same feeling of inclusion or exclusion among the moms there — maybe because many of them were caregivers instead of moms, or perhaps I was just too sleep deprived to notice.

So when the ped was finally satisfied that Lucas’s weight-gain was back on track at his two-month appointment and said, “Good work, see you in two months,” I was a little bereft without our weekly weigh-in. I tried to go to the Well Baby Drop-In last week, but we were late arriving and had to leave to pick up the big boys from school before our turn came up. I planned a little better this time, and we managed to get Lucas weighed at least. The public health nurses actually seemed a little put-off by my rather abrupt “weigh him and go” attitude — she asked me three times if I was sure I didn’t have any other questions or concerns, and I kept saying, “Nope, just his weight thanks!” Maybe I looked like I needed help or an intervention of some sort?

What was most surprising to me was how intimidated I was to be back in a waiting room full of new moms and babies, and I found myself again sitting by myself in the corner, too shy to join in any of the conversations going on around me. Once again, they all seemed to know each other and were making plans to strollercize together or to go to the stroller-screening at the cinema. (I’m so glad to live in the kind of neighbourhood that has these things, even if I don’t avail myself to them!) On one hand, the whole thing left me feeling a little lonely and isolated again. Even if I were to start chatting with some of the other mothers, I wouldn’t really be able to socialize with any of them during the day. We’re finally letting the nanny go at the end of this week, and Lucas’s and my days of quiet leisure are at an end as Tristan and Simon will be home with me starting next week. It didn’t seem like any of them had older children at home, and there seems to be a vast chasm between mothers of new babies and mothers of older children sometimes.

On the other hand, though, I was a relieved to not be those new, inexperienced and frightened mothers anymore. I remember how much I looked forward to the interaction with other moms at the drop-in when Tristan was born, and how lonely I was on the other days I stayed home. I remember how eavesdropping on the conversation of other moms was so satisfying, even if I didn’t say anything to myself. “Oh, she’s having a hard time with nursing, too… it’s not just me.” And, “Oh, her baby is only sleeping two hours at a time? Tristan is sleeping all night, I guess I should be grateful!” (Snicker. I had no idea how good I had it at the time!) I’m glad now to have more confidence in my mothering skills, if not my social skills.

The best news is that Lucas continues to gain. He’s up to 12 lbs 14.5 oz, which is a gain of 20 oz in two weeks. The norm is 0.5 oz to 1 oz a day, so he’s doing some great work catching up. We still have two weeks left before Lucas is too old and “graduates” from the well baby program. If I’m feeling especially social, I might drop in next week or the week after to check his weight gain once more. Or maybe I’ll take the time to catch up on a few blog posts – mine or yours. While I may sit in silence when faced with actual people, for some reason I’m never too shy to comment in the blogosphere…