Our bed is up against a window, and the soothing patter of rain woke me at 4:22 a.m. Within minutes, Alice was awake. Hungry, chilly, a squirming worm in Eric’s arms, anxious to burrow against my belly and nuzzle into my breast.

This happens often. Some unseen force nudges me out of open-mouthed slumber; a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I’m awake, listening, before there is a need to. It’s happened with both my girls, at all ages.

For a few seconds each time I open my eyes, when the mind is a blank canvas before life is instantly painted on, I forget. I feel like…me. Just Carly. My body, my interests, my own thoughts, with no one else to consider.

And then I blink, and this life seeps into my skin.

_____

Do you ever look around at the world you have created for yourself and wonder how it happened?

There are days when I feel like I’m out of my own body. Pregnancy, so visceral and consuming when you are living it, seems like eons ago — if it happened at all — yet here before my eyes are two beautiful and healthy little girls. That I helped create. That came out of me.

_____

“I just LOVE Mumma!”

Lucy, my sensitive, emotional soul, says this out of the blue frequently. My heart tightens, elongates, lodges in my throat each and every time. I can’t cry because it upsets her.

“Oh, Baby Goose. I love you, too.”

“Mumma, I’m not a baby.”

“I know you’re not, Lucy. But that is my name for you.”

“You tell me to, ‘Stop growin’, Lucy!’”

“I do. Stop it. Right now!”

“Mumma, I will go to school soon.”

“I know, Honey. Not for another whole year, but very soon.”

“I won’t need you when I go to school.”

I pause, wondering how to handle this — inane toddler conversations can spin wildly toward the significant in an instant.  Lucy is suddenly very interested in her school, which is down the street. We have explained that school is only for girls and boys to go to, and not Mummies and Daddies.

“Well, you might not need me when you’re at school, but I think I should still stick around.”

She throws her arms around my neck, and gives me a “seximo” kiss (rubbing noses together).

“Mumma,” she whispers into my ear. “I will always need you.”

_____

I don’t think you can regret your children.

Sure, you can yearn for the time before they catapulted into your life, changing every aspect of it forever. I wish, daily, for more hours in the day. I want to reach back into time and shake the old me who had endless stretches of emptiness in her lap. I want to sleep more, hating 6:15 a.m. when Lucy and Alice are simultaneously whining from their rooms and Eric and I poke each other under the warm sheets to try and force the other out.

But would I ever not have them, in order to secure these things? Never. Would I change anything about how they came to be? Never.

_____

In those late afternoon/early evening hours, when the TV is blaring, Spencer is barking at the wind, and Lucy is clinging to my knees, Alice is on my hip, and I’m stirring a pot with flushed cheeks, time stands still. So often I clock watch, counting the minutes until Eric comes home and I can disentangle myself.

But others, I close my eyes and inhale. I try to burn the chaos to memory. I want to remember it all, this feeling of being needed every single moment.

Soon enough, like the past life I occasionally miss, this time will be over.

Anie, one of the women from my weekly Durham Mom’s Night Out group, is due with her first baby right about now, and is already thinking about daycare for her daughter — and rightly so.

She is only able to take four months off from work.

Can you click here to pop over to the Durham Region Daycare blog, where I’ve done a post with her questions, and share some advice?

Thanks!

p.s. — I finally finished Alice’s birth story this weekend. You can find it here.

It was the perfect late August day for photos: Slightly overcast outside and not too hot.

Karla is a calming, cheery, pixie-personality woman, and armed with a camera she is a dangerous lady: Her talent and demeanor result in just gorgeous shots, as these show.

Look at the outside colours. The sky. The grass. They are surreal. And the photo of Lucy — she looks like a porcelain doll. Her eyes just pop off the screen.

I was around seven months pregnant with Alice when these were taken. I was admittedly a little uncomfortable with the one on the couch — not being wrapped half-nekkid in white, but that the pics would turn out suggestive or something.

But then I saw the photos, and was so glad I trusted Karla’s instinct. They are beautiful and warm and such a lovely keepsake.

(The start of the third trimester is a great time to take pics like this, too. It’s that time when you’re cutely rotund, and before you get really big and clunky and the beloved stretch marks appear.)

Karla is a sweet friend I wish I saw more often, a frequent commenter here, a touching and humourous blogger at Untangling Knots, and lives in south Durham with husband Mark, son Nathan and pup Samson.

She specializes in family portraitures with her recently-launched Karla Cadeau Photography.

Spit bubble smiling

 Baby Power arm wavin’ smiling

Chillin’ smiling

Oh, oh, wait for it…

Hooray!

Coaxing these out of her is a lesson in throwing your inhibitions away: I “coooo” like a confused owl — or perhaps a drunk pigeon? — and “ahhhhh” like a bad refreshment commercial on repeat. She, however and obviously, loves it, though. And the reward for the ridiculousness? Priceless.

Did anyone else spend the weekend getting their house all Christmas-ed up?

We got the inside done Saturday and the outdoor lights up Sunday. It would have taken Eric and I just a few hours to accomplish both, but it turned into a weekend extravaganza working around Lucy’s naps, Alice’s feeding schedule and our energy levels.

Plus Saturday was the Santa Claus parade, which Eric took a bursting Lucy to. She was so excited to hear the music and see the fire trucks and animals. And man, from a parental power perspective, it’s fabulous having an event like that to use as leverage in the days prior: “You have to get lots of sleep/be a good girl because the parade is tomorrow!”

(Anyone else do this? It works WONDERS with Lucy.)

When she got home, red-nosed and thrilled at the adventure, she proudly showed me the candy she got: candy canes and suckers and small wrapped chocolates. She knows candy is a special treat, and uses all her toddler powers of persuasion to score some: “Can I have some canny now, maybe? Please, Mum-Mum?” she asks, batting her long dark eyelashes and tilting her head. For goodness sake, she even adorably raises the tone of her voice at the end of the plea. How do they know how to do this already? Godhelp the first love interest that gets hit with that…

Lucy is very into the holidays this year, which is so exciting as a parent. As an adult, the holidays are much more about visiting with family and time off work and food than the wonder and anticipation of Santa; Christmas takes on a whole new feeling when your kids are in that stage of Believing. I am loving building up the magic of the season with her:

“Santa is coming soon, Baby Goose!”

“And he’s going to bring me presents!”

“What kind of presents do you want Santa to bring?”

“Pink ones!”

“And what about Baby Alice?”

“A pink doll.”

“Ohh, OK. And do Mummy and Daddy get presents, too?”

“Yes, you do. But only one.”

Gee, thanks, kid.

Dear Alice,

I know what They Say, that babies are not supposed to smile until weeks from now — certainly not at one month old — but you do. When I change your teeny diapers and nuzzle your soft belly and cheeks and rub noses with you, those corners of your mouth curl north and your eyes light up, and I know you know I’m your Mummy.

This morning I carried you downstairs, and had to put you on the couch for a few minutes while I washed my hands and went pee before feeding you. You turned as red as a fire cracker at the injustice of having to wait two minutes for your breakfast, screeching that chest heaving-yell with your tiny baby fists clenched and ready for a fight. But the second I scooped you up and started whispering in your ear, it was like a cork was jammed in your mouth: The silence was deafening.

You may not be able to talk, and don’t interact much at just four weeks, but that moment proved to me once again the undeniable power of motherhood.

For the daughter of two routine-loving parents, you are very much a routine baby: You eat, you stay awake for around half an hour after, then you sleep for hours. When you wake, you snort and fart and fill your diaper, and we start all over again. While the timing of your meals and sleeps change daily, it’s rather comforting for you and us — I think it’s the reason you don’t cry much. As second-time-around parents, it’s much easier to anticipate your needs and be more laid back about it.

Your eyes are slate gray. You have a mess of almost black hair that fascinates everyone, and follows the exact hairline of your father. You have long fingers and scrawny legs and lips like me.

Wet or poopy diapers really piss you off. You hate the bath, too, and routinely poop everywhere during them. The first few weeks you confused the hell out of us by rooting like mad after a feed — trying to eat blankets and shirts and the hair on your father’s chest — making us think you hadn’t eaten enough, but rejecting the boob. Turns out you just annoyingly do this before falling asleep.

You feed for long lengths of time. You are difficult to burp. So far, you rarely spit up. In the hospital — because you were almost born still inside the amniotic fluid sac and didn’t get all the liquid squeezed out of you coming down the birth canal — you brought up ridiculous amounts of mucus. I worried you’d be permanently wearing a bib from birth on, but thankfully no. I think that time two weeks ago when you calmly sent a pool of half-digested milk into my bra and between my breasts seemed to satisfy the urge for the time being. Thanks for that.

Spencer Dog, surprisingly, doesn’t seem to care at all about you. Let’s give that a few months until you’re crawling and Lucy’s tearing larger circles around us, mmkay?

You love the big black metal star in our living room. Also ceiling fans. Not surprisingly, your father figured this out. He also loves to make you dance in front of the mirror above the fireplace. The way your eyes scrunch up and your cheeks flare out makes him laugh every time.

You may respond the quickest to me, and enjoy playing with your Daddy the most, but you turn your head the farthest to your big sister, Lucy. Already you are fascinated by and looking up to her. Your eyes bug out and you slowly turn your head to wherever she is. You are still a rather boring novelty to her — a loud and demanding and poop-filled creature that she refuses to share her pink facecloths with — but oh, I can see the adoration already.

And that alone makes every single second worth it.

Love Mummy

I still remember when 2 a.m. meant closing down a club, sashaying tippsily to a cab and wolfing down breakfast at our favourite 24-hour Golden Griddle across from Maple Leaf Gardens.

2 a.m. now is a pitch black, mercilessly isolating time, pierced with Alice’s angry, hungry wails. You wouldn’t believe the way these cries reverberate through a house in the dead of the night, but they do — bouncing off walls and ceilings, causing my ears to ring and my breasts to tighten up in reactionary let-downs.

It is the worst time of day. When the sun rises, the events of the night before usually melt away with the dying light. But being woken by a newborn’s cries when it feels like you just shut your eyes is the absolute worst feeling in the world. It’s dread and anger and helplessness and the fleeting feeling of willing to give anything — anything — for just a bit more sleep, oh please.

It doesn’t matter how cute she is, how much I adore her and want her and need her. It doesn’t matter that she’s just a tiny baby with a tiny belly, and needs me and my milk to grow and develop and survive.

There is no love at 2 a.m.

I know this will end, for a 12-hour-a-night sleeping toddler upstairs is my living proof. But no matter how many people gently remind me of this proverbial light at the end of the tunnel as a way of comfort, or how many times I chant it to myself when Alice wakes us with the farts and poops that signal an empty bowel and empty belly and subsequent cries for food, it doesn’t make it any easier to live through at 2 a.m.

____

Eric gets up first, and changes her. Ironically, for it is I with the attuned Mom Ear, he hears Alice before I do. I blame this on lack of sleep, and know it will return with time and more rest.

I get dressed. I pee. Eric hands me said hungry baby with a sympathetic smile and hug.

I trudge downstairs to the couch and the Boppy and snippets of 2 a.m. movies on cable. It’s best this way, and works well for us — I still feel like he is helping and sharing some of the brunt, and it mitigates most resentment. Plus, a new job, Very Important Clients, and drives home in the dark and snow mean he needs the bigger blocks of sleep.

The biggest challenge with our wee girl is that she likes to eat, then be awake for a half hour or hour afterward. Fun, adorable and entertaining during the day…not so nice at 2 a.m. when you so desperately want her to sleep so you can, too. On top of this, Alice — just like Lucy — is a long eater. Minimum 20 minutes, and usually more like 40, often draining one breast and needing more from the other.

Thankfully, the past few nights she is dozing off after eating. So a few times, the 1.5-2.5 hour wake-ups are only an hour.

Bliss.

_____

2 a.m., like childbirth and pain, will soon be one of those times I won’t be able to recall. At least not with the clarity of emotion and physical exhaustion as now.

It’s the body’s way of survival, right? Of ensuring the extension of the species and sanity of all parents.

Sure worked on us.

Hope yours was better.
_____

I never remember Lucy pooping in the tub, even when she was this new. But Alice, oh, poop-filled Alice. Every single bath. Even sponge baths, when she’s mostly covered and not placed so meanly in the baby bathtub to warrant such ass-plosions.

At least this morning she did it on the way out, and sprayed only me, the floor, the big tub, the baby tub and half her towel — completely missing herself and thankfully not requiring us to start all over.

Lucy, when I put her down for her nap, followed with one of the biggest craps I’ve ever seen. (Perhaps we have to cut out the prunes as an after-dinner snack?)

 Alice, nestled in a Boppy on the floor, happily tooted and grunted, and filled her seventh poopy diaper of the day.

Eighth, actually, if you count the above.

Probably pooping.

Inspired by our recent Best Parenting Advice You Never Wanted But Received Anyways Contest, my friend Angie (who has authored some great guest posts) emailed this in:

Your advice contest made me recall a piece of advice given to me about how babies loved their car seasts and how they are the magic solution to getting babies to sleep.

Well, the first week I was alone with Isaac, he was fussing and I could not get him to sleep other than in my arms. He was in a full-out crying spell so I put him in the car seat and was rocking and rocking it, and he just continued to wail. Me — and my inexperience — frantically wondered WHY ISN’T THIS WORKING? WHY ISN’T THIS WORKING?

What a silly new mom I was.

I can’t recall a specific incident like this (well, except for when we dropped Lucy off the stove…), but there are several things I notice we’re doing differently with Alice:

• Not tip-toeing around the house when Alice is sleeping: I remember being afraid to empty the dishwasher when Lucy was asleep upstairs, for goodness sake. Now, Lucy is running around, Spencer barks, the phone rings, and Alice is learning to sleep through it all — usually in her bouncy seat or swing in the middle of the chaos
• Waiting eight weeks to give a bottle: I was so worried Lucy would reject breastfeeding…she totally rejected the bottle instead. It was very frustrating not being able to leave the house for more than an hour and a half at a time. While Alice won’t be getting a fake nipple anytime soon, we definitely plan to try a bottle on her sooner, probably just after she’s a month old
• Leaving the baby with someone else: This ties into the bottle battle, too, but it was weeks and weeks before I felt anyone in the world could look after Lucy as well as I could. Or at least well enough not to cause anxiety and worry. With Alice? Pfft. My mother-in-law had her for almost two hours last week — she wasn’t even two weeks old — while Lucy and I ran errands
• Obsessive weigh-ins: Because breastfeeding was a struggle at first with Lucy, I was at the hospital’s breastfeeding clinic twice weekly, and would weigh Lucy every time. While I’m curious about Alice’s growth, I feel no overwhelming need to see numbers on a scale to know she’s thriving — the multiple daily poopy and wet diapers, plus chubbing up in her thighs, hands and cheeks are good enough

What about you? Do anything ridiculous with your baby, something that you look back on and roll your eyes at?

Such a classic newborn pose: The frog legs tucked up, the hand beside the face, the pouty bottom lip.

Her ample hair twists into the tinest curl right at the top of her forehead.

It’s too bad we don’t remember these early newborn weeks of bliss: Sleep, eat, poop. Innocent and completely carefree, without a single worry in the world.

She smells as good as you think she does.

_____

I have posts and posts and posts and half-started pages, but my eyes literally cross and blur if I stare at the computer too long. A side-effect of sleep deprivation, I’m sure. But I hunger for all your words and emails — you prevent that feeling of isolation and lonliness that so permeates new motherhood.

_____

Alice the Pumpkin is grunting, which means she is covering her adorable tushie with yet another yellow, seedy poop (every. single. diaper. change.), which means she will howl to be fed a few moments after. What comes out must be replaced, right?

Time to go. Please say hi. What are your plans for the weekend? Or, what did you have for lunch today?