For the last ten years or so, I’ve been increasingly aware of the romance of the Christmas story. I think every female can relate to the image of domestic bliss held in every Christmas creche. The radiant mother and her precious child, the pair admired and brought gifts from far and wide.
The joy of holding your baby while others gather around to marvel at this new life is something that every one deserves to have at least once in a lifetime.
Since many experts agree that is probably somewhat or entirely apocryphal, I sometimes fancy that it was women who told the story first, only to be picked up later by the likes of Luke and Matthew.
A poor woman gives birth to her child.
Away in a manger, no crib for a bed
She has no crib for him, no toys, not even a onesie that says “iPood”.
This, this is Christ the King, whom shepherd guard and angels sing
But in her eyes, he is prince among men.
Oh come, let us adore him.
Admirers travel from afar to gaze at her baby and worship him, which is no less than his due.
our finest gifts we bring, parumpapumpum
They bring gifts which are wonderful, but impractical. Gold instead of a crib, Frankincense instead of recieving blankets.
Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes of life of gathering gloom
It’s the thought that counts.
A boy beats on a drum to amuse the baby.
Then He smiled at me, parumpapumpum
The baby has gas and everyone chuckles delightedly.
What child is this who laid to rest on Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Comfortable in his mother’s arms, the baby does not know that he lacks a crib, or that he is in possession of myrrh.
The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes. But little lord Jesus no crying he makes.
This is definitely a woman’s fantasy.
I am always grateful for my baby but I feel a special gratitude this Christmas, as I hold my own blessed child and think of another.
The Babe, the son of Mary.
To all mothers everywhere, and their babies wherever they may be, and their worshippers, I wish the warmest and most loving Christmas.
When I saw the snowsuit my mother had purchased for Babby in celebration of his imminent arrival in the Maritimes, I felt bad that she had wasted her money. Not only was it mild and rainy outside, but the suit itself was clearly too big. She did purchase a 3 month size, but at 12 pounds Babby isn’t the biggest of three month olds.
Mum was disappointed when I didn’t feel the need to bury my baby in padding in order to carry him through fifteen feet of drizzle before we reached the airport parking garage. The next day when we went out, she fretted over my devil-may-care plan to just carry him to the car from the front door without the snow suit. To humor her, we put it on him anyway. His feet only went halfway down the legs of the suit, and his hands were swallowed by the suit’s arms, which stuck straight out. His eyes looked out anxiously over the neck of the suit, while the hood flalloped emptily above his head.
He looked like a cross between a headless plush bear and that kid in A Christmas Story who can’t put his arms down.
“I don’t think he’ll fit into the car seat with this,” I said diplomatically, “and he might get a little warm.”
Sure enough, he didn‘t fit in the car seat with the suit for much the same reason that I wouldn’t fit in the driver’s seat if I covered myself in sofa cushions, and after half an hour of struggling with the seat straps my mother called it quits for that particular trip.
The next day, though, she was at it again.
In the meantime I was bringing him in and out of the car wearing only a warm sweater and hood. This caused my mother great concern lest her only grandchild be chilly for a few moments. She kept pushing.
“Do you want to put on his snowsuit?”
“Don’t you want his snowsuit?”
“We’d better put him into his snowsuit.”
“It’s windy out there, shouldn’t you put him in his snowsuit?”
Perhaps she thought the snowsuit offered magical protection against the Wendigo.
Eventually she figured out a way to loosen the straps and I consented to putting him back in the snowsuit. My mother lay him down, stuffed him into the suit, and then went to put on her coat while he continued to lie helplessly on the floor like a beached starfish. His eyes found mine and seemed to be thinking “how can you laugh at me at a time like this?”
We carried him out to the car, arms and legs akimbo, and with a little folding and tucking managed to stuff the suit into the car seat while little baby eyes peered at us from within the plush.
The return journey was similarly complicated. The wind was gusty and it was nice to have that protection, but the suit was so indubitubly large that I really was doing it more for my mother than for my child.
Until we got home.
He had fallen asleep in the car seat and strangely, did not wake up when I lifted him out. Since the suit prevented any bending of his body, perhaps he was not fully aware of the transition.
Despite the fact that the process of laying Babby down while asleep is only successful one time out of every ten, I still remain inexplicably optimistic and continue to attempt it often. With no real hope that he would actually remain asleep, I set him in a green rocking chair, which leans back a bit and therefore seemed like a safe place to put him. Legs stiff, arms held at ninety degree angles, Babby stirred for a moment, then sighed and settled back into sleep, pretty much standing up in the chair.
It was a minor miracle.
Unfazed by the fact that he resembled a propped-up teddy bear, Babby continued to sleep in that ridiculous get-up for over two hours. I was free! Free!!
It happened again the next day. He fell asleep in the car again on my return from lunch with a friend. I repeated my actions of the previous day, proving B.F. Skinner right about rewarded behaviors being repeated. Again, he slept for over two hours, leaving me free to have a fantastic chin-wag with my friend in my old room. We felt like teenagers again.
The next day he was fussing in the afternoon, as tends to be his wont. My father lit a fire (Babby enjoys watching the fire) and my mother suggested putting on his snowsuit, since he had slept in it so well the past two days.
It may make no sense to think “well, he dozed off twice in the car and continued to sleep while inside, so let’s dress him in the same gear just to see.” But it this same logic that leads Baseball batters to wear the same socks again and again. Again, B.F. Skinner could explain.
Babby sat propped up in the green chair, arms and legs held in place by layers of polyester, and watched the fire uncomplainingly. His eyes grew heavier and heavier and heavier…
And he slept.
He slept without the help of a car ride, being carried, or the comfort of booba. He slept without wailing or thrashing or screaming.
He just dozed off where he lay.
In that snowsuit.
That, my friends, is a miracle.
Today he is again sleeping in the snowsuit after a car ride. He hasn’t eaten in over three hours, but still he sleeps.
I have learned several things from this experience:
1) Christmas miracles still abound
2) Mothers are always bloody right
Perfect Husband forgot that I brought my Netbook to Nova Scotia! I have been so amused in observing his blogging antics that I simply lurked, but I think now it’s time to take back the reins. Don’t despair, though. I’m glad PH is such a popular guest poster and he’s sure to reappear.
Time flies so quickly when you’re on vacation. I’ve been here over a week and I still haven’t seen all the people I want to see and I’m already beginning to suffer guilt for my upcoming departure – my mother keeps clinging to her grandson and telling him how much she will miss him (as an aside, I just want to point out that this is the woman who once declared to me “you wouldn’t love your grandkids as much as your own children”). Yesterday my father was watching Dr. Phil while holding Babby and saying to him “oh, you’re going to leave me and I won’t have any little boy to hold….”
We were met at the airport by a phalanx of admirers (of Babby, not of me). My parents, PH’s parents, two of my best friends, my goddaughter, and a dog were all waiting in a bunch at baggage claim.
The Babby Worship has continued apace since then. Visitors come bearing gifts for the young prince and take turns holding him. It is amazing to simply be able to go to the bathroom whenever one wants. There is never a lack of arms to take him from me. I even left him with my parents for two hours and went down to the pub with a friend! That’s the first Girls Night Out I have had in I don’t know how many months.
It is so wonderful to come home. My room, which I have not been sleeping in because the virginal single bed is not appropriately sized to hold my bulk plus Babby, is like a shrine to my youth. Old posters still hang on the walls. The victorian wallpaper, chosen when I was 13, still beflowers the room. Only the bare patches – half empty bookshelves, a computer desk with no computer, a TV stand with no TV – indicate that the inhabitant has left the nest.
This time last year I had Babby inside me, but I didn’t know it yet.
This year, he’s in our arms.
PH back for another kick at the can.
In the spirit of Christmas and humour, I will post a few more search terms that have lead people to this blag, with a decidedly Christmasy flavour.
“am i selfish or is my boyfriend a scrooge”
Could be one, could be the other. Does he want to buy your Christmas tree used on Boxing Day? Then he’s probably a Scrooge. Are you upset because he refused to have the butler flogged for using the wrong salad tongs? You’re probably being selfish. More details, please.
“accidentally took a sip of tequila while pregnant”
I know how you feel. I accidentally drank a whole bottle of tequila while Carol was pregnant. Babby turned out fine in our case, so you should be okay too.
“my husband thinks he’s perfect”
My ears are burning.
“how was scrooge kind”
There’s a book called A Christmas Carol that can really help elucidate that for you. It’s a short book. Go read it and see if it helps answer your question. I’ll wait.
“husband has been sleeping for 36 hours”
I envy that man with the combined envy-power of all the stars in the universe, if there were a way to convert nuclear fusion directly into envy.
“nova scotia scrooge like christmas”
Why is a Nova Scotia Scrooge different than a normal Scrooge? By definition, Scrooges, no matter their province of origin, should not like Christmas. Unless you meant “Nova Scotia Scrooge-like Christmas”, and if you did…well, someone should write a song with that title post-haste.
“you know it’s gonna be a bad day when”
………when WHAT? Don’t leave us hanging here!
“my baby cries when he is overtired”
They all do. The goal is to get them not to be overtired. If you figure out a way to achieve that goal, please email us immediately. We will pay you handsomely.
“hitler when he was a baby”
Very cute, but the moustache hinted at future evil.
“scrooge childhood how different”
Grok think Scrooge childhood VERY different! Him no happy because childhood bad! Make Scrooge mad! Make Grok mad! Grok smash!
“percentile penis size chart”
So Carol left for the other side of the country yesterday to show off Babby to all and sundry, while I was relegated to stay home and keep making this “money” thing they continue to tell me is important. I figured that I, like everyone else, would have to go without reading her blog for a few weeks, which is a shame, since it’s one of my best insights into what she’s thinking about – what with me being away at work for most of the day, and when I get home, us not being able to hear each other over the wails of rage that emanate from all-wrathful Babby most every night. Add that to the fact that she probably wouldn’t want to log in to her blag on her mother’s computer, and that makes for a perfect recipe for no posts.
But then, as I was coming back home for my first night of re-bachelorhood in many a year, a thought occurred to me:
Carol hadn’t logged off her blag on her computer.
[insert maniacal laughter over the next five minutes]
So. Now I have the keys. And the first stop will be the passenger’s choice! What would you like to learn about Carol? Any niggling little questions you want to know about her? Likes and dislikes? Further elaboration on previous posts from a different perspective? Embarrassing childhood stories or idiosyncrasies? Have your say in the comments!
We have so much to do today, my last day before the Dreaded Plane Flight. Not only do I have to assemble and pack gifts for various and sundry, but I also have to pack my clothes and Babby’s stuff. Plus I have to get my hair cut, drop off library books and (we almost forgot) buy disposables. I am not looking forward to using disposables for the next two weeks, but what else can we do? The diaper service doesn’t deliver to NS and they need their diapers back while I’m gone.
Anyway, we also need to take a gift to the next door neighbours who have been so kind to us, and I need to finish off the Christmas cards. Oh did I mention we haven’t found anyone to take care of our dog and cat over Christmas?
So I’m stressed because there’s a lot to do, and poor Perfect Husband is trying to accept that I am leaving him alone for ten days and taking his son with me.
Next to the actual title of my blog, the most common search that leads people here is “my perfect future husband”. It makes me sad that for most people, perfect husbands only seem to exist in the future tense. Then again, I suppose those of us who have found their perfect husbands don’t need to run Internet searches for them.
A couple of people have run searches on “being the perfect husband” which leads me to believe that some men feel they just aren’t meeting standards, poor guys. I wonder if finding my page helped?
I certainly feel like I may have disappointed the people who got here using the following search terms:
…Does the searcher love their own belly button poked, or are they looking for someone who wants to receive some poking? Either way, I’m sorry I couldn’t help.
Erm… are you experiencing it, or looking for it??
“popsicle dog sod no”
“pregnant for the second time really sad”
This search makes me feel blue, and I have no idea how they got here, considering that I was pregnant for the first time and pretty pleased about it.
“guy dressed up as a donair”
Now there’s an image. But the important thing is – is it a HALIFAX donair?? Here’s a clue – if he has lettuce on his costume, he ain’t a real donair.
“everyone thinks their dog is pretty”
Really? Even people who own Chinese Crested dogs?
“sad sack puppy stuffed animal”
This search time has actually come up several times… Not sure why…
“husband thinks he is perfect”
That must really suck, because anyone who believes that about themselves is definitely NOT.
“he call me babby what is babby”
This is why I don’t get into relationships with people whose language I cannot speak.
why does is call me jiggly
I don’t know, but… I’m sorry. Damn. Worst nickname ever. Bitch-slap “is” from me.
“i gave birth at12.38 today by caesarian my baby hasnt latched on to my breast yet how long will it take before he takes fluids”
Um… you know that Señor Google doesn’t actually answer your searches personally, right?
“will husband hit mucus plug”
…I don’t know, will you be pitching it like a fastball or like a curveball?
“if someone is called “babby” what is their real name?”
I dunno… Rabert, maybe?
inconsiderate husband snoring pregnancy
My husband has also been known to snore inconsiderately. How dare they make noise while unconscious, especially when a pregnant lady is suffering insomnia next to them? Jerks. If they loved us, they’d just never sleep.
women milk and hasband in badroom and sextes
I wander why people tand to overuse a as a vowal sound? I always imagine tham talking like Jahn Cleese doing a Manty Pythan skit.
husband put in bulging diaper
Thank heavens that infantilism is not a fetish of Perfect Husband’s. I don’t think I could deal with that.
eight month fetus penis
Hmm. “Fetus Penis”. Good name for a band?
I have to fly from Vancouver to Halifax with Babby next Tuesday.
Keep in mind:
This kid doesn’t sleep.
He is very active.
He likes to scream.
Perfect Husband won’t be with us – he’s joining us on the 24th. So I am doing this on my own.
This is going to be a painful experience, isn’t it?
We took Babby to the pediatrician yesterday, and we were much reassured. He thinks that Babby does have some reflux, but that his weight may be levelling out. To be sure, he booked an appointment for next month to make sure he continues along the same line and hasn’t continued to drop through the percentiles.
In essence, his attitude was pretty much “any kid this strong can’t have much wrong with him. Shame about the screaming. Keep up with the Zantac.”
People keep telling us that he’s very strong for his age. I knew the rolling over was early, but I didn’t realize that the other things he does, (like hold his own head up or standing himself straight up on my lap when he’s in a rage) were unusual for his age. But it seems like every time I take him somewhere, some woman comes over to coo, asks how old he is, and then startles.
“Really? Only 12 weeks? He’s very strong for his age!”
“Oh, is he?” I ask weakly, “well, he was overdue when he was born, so maybe he’s a couple of weeks ahead…”
I was hoping for one of those babies who is talking away but not crawling yet by a year. I figure those are the best babies because they can tell you what they want but can’t go tumbling down the stairs yet. But I may have the opposite. My neighbour the lactation consultant, who has six kids of her own, warned me, “if he can stand now, he’ll probably be walking by the time he’s 10 months.”
Well, that’s just great. We haven’t even baby-proofed yet.
Luckily, lest we become overly proud of our herculean infant, our friends’ ever-honest four year old was quick to bring us down to Earth.
“He’s not THAT strong,” he said sullenly, staring at his Wii game dismissively. “He can’t LIFT anything.”
Thank heavens for small mercies!