Here's hoping this does not become another failed attempt.

For a lot of things.

Creating a worthwhile blog entry, for one. Because it has been six months since I last published here – either I have been busy or been simply too lazy to think, much more to write. 

The impenetrable web protocols at work is not helping either.

Qube's babyhood has gone by in a breeze without me being able to document each monumental step, literally and figuratively. Save for the occasional twitter and facebook posts, I haven’t been able to write at all.

Even the sort of writing that one just keeps to herself.  Hmmm. Now I am suddenly reminded to put in writing the mental notes that I have been keeping for quite a time now. Though I would have to muster enough courage for that.

Just a few hours ago, I was torn between panic and amusement because I (again) noticed posts in my twitter feeds which I did not make because I was then in the office, working my ass off, oblivious to the rest of the world. Well… not entirely true, but still. The point is, somebody else was posting on my behalf – of high scores in slam dunk, song quiz and fruit ninja. And if you think a one year, nine month old baby can't do that? Think again. 

Sometimes Most times, I am convinced that my child is a genius. How else could I explain him being able to recognize numbers zero through nine, regardless of what he is doing when you ask him? Or his ability to distinguish colors and make it sound like the most normal thing that a baby should know? Or, just a few minutes ago, the way he was searching for the "clear page" icon on his drawpad, and successfully finding it on the first try, the second, and all other succeeding tries, moments after he saw me pressing it to erase his scribbles to make space for new ones? 

Well, truth is, all mothers feel the same pride for their children. On my part, this pride is coupled with the prospect of us getting famous through him, and probably earning millions when, being the "superbaby" that he is, he'd discover something big that would revolutionize life as we know it. Hehe.

If the above does not prove successful, yours truly would seriously consider being a stagemom, given the "ahem" really good looks that he has. 

WARNING: Do not, for one moment, mistake this as conceit on my part. I am merely playing with possibilities. And a chance to earn BIG.

Like the possibility of him becoming a basketball superstar at nine-years old (that would be less than eight years from now). In our plans, the husband and I have even gone as far as planning to bribe his grade school coach so that he'd get drafted in his school's varsity basketball team. Justifying it as a necessary move so he won't be disillusioned so early, just in case.

If that, too, fails? There’s football.

Anyways, what's so special about this stage is that I could look at him building his LEGOs and think that he’ll probably design the next skyscraper wonder of the world, with his name etched on top of it (and probably have a lady CEO named Pepper). Or see him obsessing over his small stable of cars and conclude that he’ll become the first Filipino F1 car racing champion. Or see him playing Punch Hero on the iPad and decide that, well, he’ll probably get over it in a few days.

All these dreams I could see in him without (yet) being pressured to fulfill any one of it. Let’s see where it takes us in a few years.

But tonight, what’s real is the sleeping baby on my lap who clings on whenever I make an attempt to put him down on the bed, refusing to let go even to just let Mama pee.

There was no way to compromise, so now we're living SEPARATE LIVES.

 
My Medela sits forlorn on top of our dinner table.

And there's a part of me that feels guilty each morning when I leave without my not-so-little black bag that has become my closest companion since I resumed work after my two-month maternity leave.

Before this week, the longest goodbye that I could endure between me and my Medela Swing is four hours. Beyond this length of time is inconceivable. Long separations from it are literally painful and heavy to the chest.

So, you see, this relationship is really very intimate and is incomparable to anything I have had or am still having with anyone. You can even say that I have been too clingy and dependent in this case. And this has been going on for more than nine months, which is also longer than most past relationships that I've had.

Most importantly, this is the only relationship that did not disappoint me. All that was promised, it delivered. It gave and did not take anything in return. (Well, except for my initial investment which is, of course, necessary in every relationship.) It secured for me unrivaled benefits that not even the father of my son could provide.

But numerous demands at work leave me no time to nurture this relationship. That is why I have to give this up.

But no, this is not total non-commitment - because, as in all relationships, getting over does not happen overnight. And, in my case, I relapse much too often.

So, every night, when I arrive home from work - after kissing my Qube and asking how his day was - I lock myself up in our bedroom to have a little private time with my Medela.

And emerge right back with two 5-ounce bottles full of breast milk.To be stored for Qube's consumption the following morning.


Footnote: Despite having given up my pump-at-work routine, I am still night nursing Qube, and hope to do so in the months to come.

Bukol Survival Tips

Qube got his first bump in the head last night while playing with Papa. With how both father and son reacted, i cannot be sure who between them was more hurt.

Qube hardly cries whenever he tumbles to the floor, hit whatever part of his body with his toys, with the door, chairs, or even when he accidentally head butts me. But last night, he was fighting the urge, but let out a sniffle anyway. And it took several more minutes before he recovered to his usual self.

His usual self can be described by flashing back to 30 minutes before his minor accident:

I was singing “Are you lonesome tonight?” - this is his bedtime song - while feeding and trying to put Qube to sleep, when he pulled himself away from me, stood up, and sort of took over my singing (yes, he does that! I’ll probably have to cam cord it as proof.), prompting his Papa and kuya Jigz (who is on school break and came here for a visit) to come inside the bedroom and witness his little show.

Realizing that he had more than his usual audience, the singing turned to dancing and tumbling around while being held and restrained by his dad.

Then it happened.

Maybe I should still be thankful that Papa’s teeth didn’t fall as a result. Though he swears that it is really painful, which I totally believe because Qube once hit me with his head and my upper lip ruptured.

For similar future events, which I am told is inevitable, here’s my to do list:  

·         Stay calm. And tell the dad not to panic (because he has the tendency to overreact). I can tell from very limited experience that Qube’s reactions (crying, shock, etc.) are especially influenced by the expression of everyone else around him (e.g., the flower on his hair, the Ildefonso incident). 

·         Kiss, kiss. Both the bukol on Qube’s head or any other part which might have been hurt. When I was a child, a kiss from my mom always takes away 80% of the pain. I intend to pass on the tradition to my own kids. 

·         Ice, ice, baby. This one is no myth. And I am copy/pasting my internet research as support: Applying an ice pack will decrease the eventual size of the bump. Apply the ice for 20 minutes and then take a 5-minute break, then 20 minutes again. Offer your child a treat to eat during the icing to console him. 

Although for Qube, I did not need to offer anything else. The feel of the cold on his skin was enough to amaze him and stop him from squirming free of my embrace.    

·         Check for cuts, blood. Though if there is any, it would be hardly negligible. I was told though that cuts on the face, scalp area bleed much more than other areas of the body.  If there is bleeding, apply pressure to the cut using a clean washcloth with ice. The wash cloth, well, washes away the blood while the ice prevents the blood vessels from swelling. Basta, do it daw.  

·         Calpol. Whenever Qube has his monthly vaccine, his pedia always asks us to give him Calpol or Tempra every 4 hours to relieve the pain. Internet research suggests that this works as well for cuts, bruises, bumps and similar minor injuries.

But since the “kiss to the injured part” worked already, I saw no need to administer Calpol, though I’ve made it a point to have one handy, for emergency use which I am glad never happens.  

·         Go out for a stroll. To help erase the memory, the dad strongly advises taking Qube out for a walk. (Just like how the husband* goes out for a walk and a yosi whenever he is finding it hard to put up with yours truly) 

True enough, after the walk and play outside, Qube was again jumping and kicking and screaming in delight, as if nothing happened just a few minutes earlier.

When I locked us inside the bedroom for another attempt to put him to sleep, Qube was humming with me to the tune of “Are you lonesome tonight?” while his mouth latched on my left breast to feed. And his left hand was alternating between pulling my other breast and slapping my chest in rhythm with our goodnight song.

TGIF and Friday thank yous.

Believe me, if most part of your nights are spent breast feeding an insatiable baby, and your work days monitoring the time for your next pump session and the number of ounces you express everyday, you'll be as obsessed as i am to discuss this topic.

Scenario 1:
I was telling the husband* (asterisk stands for "almost") yesterday that the child of my pumpmate at our company clinic yesterday is almost 2 years of age.

Husband* said: "So, you are seeing yourself 16 months from now".


The initial goal was two months (baby steps)... which then became six months and, before yesterday, was fixed at nine months.


Now the goal is not to live forever, but to pump forever?

Scenario 2:
Also yesterday, while snacking on Country Style's chocolate doughnuts, i casually mentioned to the husband* that i have not been taking Natalac for several months now.

Husband* said: "Wow. Means you're really becoming an expert at it. You are Supermom!"
Me: "No. I am Supercow!"

Now i know why i used to love this game:



But no, i am not complaining. If anything, i am very happy to have someone who totally supports me, who encourages and pushes me on when i am losing faith in my capacity to produce enough milk for Qube.

And of course, no small part is played by The Best Nanny in the World who, in her own way, continues to support my breast feeding profession:

• who has learned fast that Qube's main source of nourishment should be breast milk. And that he is to be fed infant formula only, and only, when there is no more frozen pumped milk;
• who, by now, knows that my temper shoots up whenever there is excess unconsumed breast milk in the sink;
• who, despite the lure of the easy mixture of water and powdered formula, coupled with a crying and impatient baby, chooses to patiently thaw chilled milk everyday;    
• who persistently packs an extra pumping bottle for me everyday, even when in the past two weeks, i was not able produce enough to fill those bottles. But maybe because of the pressure of seeing an extra empty bottle, i am now able to produce a few more ounces, to get rid of the empty-bottle malady.

 So, given this overwhelming support, i guess i am really off to Supermom-hood. I just hope my Medela can cope with the pressure.

Homesick is.

• when you left the house at 7am and realized that 12 hours has passed and you're still stuck in the office. The fact that this only happens every once in a while still does not make it less tiring;
• when you catch yourself intentionally not touching your computer keyboards so that the screensaver would flash a smiling Qube, which in turn would result to a smiling you;
• when you begin blogging instead of finishing a report for a 730am meeting the next day.
• when you can't wait to go home, because the husband* has been texting, asking what time you will be home since four hours ago, and more importantly because you don't want to miss every dinner that he prepares;
• when your breasts literally ache because it knows that by this time Qube should be breast feeding already;
• when you hit publish, thus posting an incoherent blog entry, and subsequently shutting the laptop down because you had to get home fast, nevermind the traffic that you we're supposed to avoid.

Bite me.

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you" has lately become my regular saying whenever i am with Qube.

A joke that he does not yet get, but one that i keep on repeating nonetheless because i love how his Dad reacts and shakes his head, as if wondering how in ef's world did his Qube end up with a crazy mom who talks in idioms. And i love how Qube looks up to smile at me after i say those words, as if confirming his Dad's thoughts.

But really, i am not talking figuratively whenever i say that to Qube because, at 7 months, Qube literally bites everything, my hands included. Put him down on the bed and he’ll surely attack Panda’s and Leopard’s noses, Turtle’s head, Spongebob’s arms and feet, blankets, pillowcases, mobile phones, everything. Give him his frozen teethers and he’ll chew on them nonstop, a stranger would think we are not feeding him enough (if not for his very plump arms and legs).

Last week, his first front tooth appeared and just the other day, i noticed two of them already. Given this recent development, i might now revise my saying into: “Don’t bite the breasts that feed you”, which i am sure will make Qube’s dad cringe even more, especially because i am posting this for the public to read.

And yes, i am talking about breastfeeding and my now emerging fear of  being Qube’s human teether.  But biting or no biting, i still hope to continue breastfeeding Qube long after his next sets of teeth appear.

Here are pics of Qube at seven months (totally unrelated to this teething entry):

 

Dear Qube

You weren’t the Qube I imagined. First of all, for seven months in my tummy, you weren’t Qube. I used to call you Azira, your would-be name had you been a girl. But since it took us forever to think of a perfect name for you, you were Azira for the longest time, even when we already knew that you would be a boy. Your pre-birth documents and pictures all have Azira in their file names too (which reminds me that I have to change all of them.)

It seems to me that your goal in life at this point is to surprise us every day and bend our plans your way.

You were born a month early and, while I had in my purse a print-out list of all that we should bring with us to the hospital when my and your due date comes, your dad and I ended up bringing shopping bags of unwashed newborn baby clothes and towels to the hospital (thank God, we advanced some of the items in our baby shopping list!). All because you probably decided that you already want to spend Christmas with us, which was really sweet, but my Dear Qube, you almost gave your dad and me a heart attack – your dad, especially, because it is not a secret to everyone that he hates hospitals but he did not have a choice then because it was just him and me at our house when I felt you were about to come out. This, ladies and gentlemen, is surprise number one.

The second surprise was when you finally came out after my 10-hour long labor. Although I have fairly managed not to expect too much in terms of size, I was still not prepared when I was told that you were four pounds and 11 ounces. My immediate thought was that it was a mistake. I remembered asking the nurse how to convert ounces into pounds and how many more ounces is needed before you reach five pounds.

Silently, I blamed myself for not drinking Anmum, for having an occasional soda and coffee, for sometimes missing my pre-natal vitamins, and for simply not being healthy enough to provide you with the nutrients (and genes!) that could have made you bigger, heavier, taller. What will become of your dad’s dream of letting you join the PBA? Subconsciously, this might have become my biggest motivation to breastfeed you, even when I had no milk the first few days after your birth.

When we were about to leave the hospital, your in-patient pedia told us that she thinks you are turning yellow which could mean that a) I get to leave the hospital but leave you behind for photo sessions (I was told this is not the photo op that vain people do); b) I could decide to stay and wait for you to recover but this would mean additional costs for me, of course; and c) we both get to go home and spend our very first Christmas together. And because this is a happy story, we were able to go home together and we spent our first Christmas eating take-out food from Jollibee and Ineng’s (because all the other nearby restaurants are closed for the holidays). The end.

But the surprises kept on coming.

There is the realization that you had just taken away one more month of freedom from me when you were born early, but that it’s okay because had you stuck to the plan, your Papa would not have been there to witness your birth, your first cry, your first smile because he had an out-of-town work assignment during your supposed birth week.

There is the realization that when I decided to breastfeed you, I had also given up small pleasures like shopping and going to the movies (for two months), drinking tequila, soda, coffee, and eating unhealthy food (for as long as I am breastfeeding) because I don’t want any of these in your system.

And this one is quite painful for me: I also had to give up the dream of having straight long beautiful hair (after nine agonizing bad-hair months), because I was told that I can’t get my hair rebonded just yet – and what’s the point, anyway, when I just have to tie it all the time because the strands coming in contact with your skin might cause you allergies.

There is the realization that I can no longer sleep all day during weekends because there’s you sleeping between your Papa and me: waiting to be fed, to be held, to be told stories that I am not even sure you already comprehend, to play with, to spend the entire weekend with.

In return, you grace us with your smiles, with your squeals of delight whenever we make funny faces and sounds while playing with you; you stop my story-telling with your own speech comprised of ohhs, ahhs, kiii, and other monosyllabic sounds that I and your papa pretend to understand to encourage you to talk further, and just lately, you amaze us with your ability to sit by yourself, to jump up and down nonstop when held in a standing position.

I know that this is just the beginning. Your surprises will keep on coming and I will be here to witness you becoming the Qube who is way way better than anything I had imagined.