Baby Hater

(Photo credit: Katie Trinque of Trinque Photography)

Last week, my sister and I herded the two littlest gremlins into an oversized restaurant booth. We met a friend and her new baby for breakfast. Gutsy was so excited to meet an infant. Spawning was more excited for sausages.

Baby Morgan is adorable: Smiley, cooey, beautiful. Gutsy was absolutely smitten. He took every opportunity to talk to her sweetly, hold her plump little hand, stroke the fine hair on her round little head.

Spawnling gave her nary a second look. While we were all taking turns holding her and gushing over her, he played with his cars and slurped chocolate milk.

If you couldn't already tell, Spawn isn't a big fan of babies, and everybody knows it. He finds them annoying or perhaps invasive. He takes no interest in them at this point unless they're trying to grab toys he's playing with (and then he's even been known to push them over, much to my extreme embarrassment) It's funny, because he loves animals and other kids, but not babies. Are they not interactive enough? Do they make him jealous? Who knows?

Poor Morgan. She kept looking over at Spawnling like he was some sort of god, craning her neck and cooing at everything he did. "Look, Spawn!" said mama Angie sweetly. "Morgan is so interested in what you're doing."

Spawnling sighed and didn't even look up. "Yeah, I know."

"My brother doesn't like babies very much," explained Gutsy.

"No, I don't," Spawnling agreed.

"Spawnling..." I warned, and tried to hide behind my coffee cup.

Gutsy continued. "In fact, he would probably kick a baby if he could."

I stopped mid sip. "Gutsy!"

Spawnling nodded. "Yeah, I would kick it."

"Spawnling! Don't say that!" shushed I. Meanwhile, Angie and The Sister were trying to stifle their laughter.

My youngest shrugged. "Well, I would," and went back to playing cars.

Thank you, darling. It's not every day I get to feel that level of intense mortification.

It's also reason #32 why my husband's vasectomy is a good thing, reason #181 why I'm glad I don't run a daycare anymore, and reason #568 why it's a damn good thing that boy is so cute.

(Thankfully, he did come around and end up taking a bit of an interest in little Morgan. No babies were kicked in the telling of this tale, and I am breathing a sigh of relief that we have no infants in our future. Hopefully, by the time one of his older brothers blesses us with a grandchild, Spawnling will be well beyond the baby punting stage. We hope.)

This is how we do it (or how we became attachment parents)

Know what's really cool about having a thirteen-year-old?

Introducing him to classic movies like Die Hard without cringing at every swear word or gunshot.

Playing an old Super Mario game and kicking his ass - after you play the new Super Mario game and he kicks your ass, of course.

Seeing the great kid he's becoming, and beginning to see the great man he'll soon be.

Admittedly, that last one was pretty cheesy. If I wasn't so doggone smitten with my eldest gremlin, I might puke a little in my mouth.

****

When Intrepid was born, we did a lot of things that felt perfectly natural to us as new parents. When he wanted to nurse, I would nurse him; I wouldn't go by what I thought his schedule should be, or what the books said. When I realized how much he would cry when I put him down, I carried him around in my arms or in a sling - I never left him to cry. And I quickly figured out that we both slept better together, so I brought him into bed with Geekster and I.

Nursing on demand, baby-wearing, and co-sleeping. Nowdays, people have a name for that stuff: Attachment Parenting. If it had that name back in 1996, I didn't know it. I just knew what being repeatedly smacked over the head by my instincts felt like, and they were telling me I had to listen to that baby boy, because he would tell me what he needed if I was willing to listen.

The naysayers roll their eyes at the concept of attachment parenting. They think it's some crazy tree-hugger crap brought on by overly-obsessed mothers. After all, why would you want to give up so much personal freedom in the name of your baby? As a 20-year-old mother, didn't doing all that stuff just cramp my style, anyway?

Not, really no. I would have needed a style - and probably a life in which to show it off - in order for it to be cramped. The Maven wasn't always all that, my precious lambs. She's like a fine wine or a good cheese, getting significantly more awesome as she ages. At the time, my life involved Geekster, Intrepid, and a handful of friends who hadn't completely vanished at the first sign of my pregnant belly. I had a lot of time to figure out how I was not going to conform to society's parenting standards - always a rebel, I am.

But the truth is, that quiet time was the best thing that ever happened to us as a family. We were young, open minded, and willing to do things that felt right and made sense to us. Those early days laid the foundation for how we would raise our all three of our gremlins - by responding to their needs, listening to our instincts, and making that bond as strong as it can be.

Ok, and maybe a wee bit of screaming, and some time-outs, and copious threats to throw out the Wii if they keep fighting and interrupting my damn mommy time. But hey, nobody's perfect.

****

Intrepid is growing up at a breakneck pace. He's almost as tall as I am, and I can slip on his boots with ease. He goes to high school and deals with bullies and druggies and way too many girls already looking for boyfriends (back off, you hormonally-charged succubi!). He'll be driving in three years, voting in five, and getting exposed to a variety of tricky and often dangerous situations far too soon for my comfort level.

This is it; This is the time when we have to start slowly letting go of our baby boy, and hope we've done a good job. Raising a teenager is terrifying stuff. It makes every other stage to date look like a cakewalk.

(I suddenly got an urge for cake. Thankfully, we don't have any.)

But there's something else lingering in our household, and it's not just the stench of unwashed teenage hair: That pesky bond we've forged with our ever-sprouting boy seems to have strong roots. Intrepid touches base with his dad and I every day after school. He's confident, kind, proud of who he is, and enjoys having his friends over - even if I'm cracking lame jokes with them in the kitchen. He wants his parents around, hugs us often, and tells us how much he loves us. He's a good kid who enjoys being part of our family, as crazy as it is (and you know it's crazy if I'm in it!)

I don't lose sleep - yet; There are many more years to come. But I'd like to think that what we're seeing is some of the payoff from the years we've spent making him a big priority. From the time he was fresh from the womb, Intrepid has known he's very important to us and that what he thinks and feels matters.

You don't have to necessarily be an AP-style parent to have a strong bond with your child, of course. Even though that's what I do - which obviously makes it a freaking awesome way - there are other ways to do it, I'm sure. If a child truly knows how much they're loved and cared for - no matter how that feeling is achieved - good things will come of it.

I read a fantastic quote yesterday that said the following:

"Remember, you're not managing an inconvenience; You're raising a human being." - Kitti Franz

I could probably stand to remember that a little bit more, especially when my little inconveniences human beings leave the Lego out for me to step on in the middle of the night. Between you and me and the internet, I found it easier to do this attachment parenting gig before they started talking back. I think I've moved from 'attachment parent' to 'attached but realistic enough to admit I get stressed out and contemplate running off to an adult-only island parenting.'

But I hope we're doing enough, so that, when we gently nudge each of them from the nest, they will soar - knowing they can always fly back when needed for a little guidance and love.

Man. That was even more of a barf-fest than the last cheesy thing I said. That's what happens when I blog late at night. My bitch filter gets flaky and I start being all nice and loving and junk.

B is for "Babies". Your babies, that is.

You make really cute babies, you know. You have great genetics. Motherhood looks good on you. You have a beautiful baby belly - can I touch it? Wow! You're positively glowing. Are you going to have more? I just love your babies.

Your babies. Not mine. I don't have anymore babies.

Yes. That's a grin on my face.

It's been just shy of a year since Geekster had The Big V and ended our baby making spree that spanned more than a decade. (If you can call three births in ten years a 'spree', that is). He did so with no reservations, as he had been ready for a very long time. The Geek felt like he was done having kids after the first gremlin hatched, but knew my seemingly insatiable desire to procreate was as strong, if not stronger, than his will to live. Smart man that he is, he didn't stand in my way of having more.

And he is still breathing.

Over the last few months I've been putting myself through rigorous tests to see if I still feel as "done" as I did last summer. I'm not quite sure why I do this to myself, because my husband has made it abundantly clear that there is no going back. There will be no vasectomy reversal happening any time ever. Not that I've asked him, but he has reminded me now and then; perhaps it's some kind of maintenance program.

Still, the testing continues, and I've come up with some surprising results:

Looking

Testing begins with looking at babies. I like looking at them because they wear cute outfits and get to be chunky without anyone frowning at them. It's a good life, and for that I envy them. Other than the obvious niceties of infants, they're adorable and squishy and very, very small. On the other hand, they sometimes have puke running down their chins and it pools in the creases of their chubby little necks resulting in a cheese-like substance.

Result: Looking at babies does not make me want have more.

Holding

Holding babies brings out the mother in me. They're so warm I could fall asleep. When they whimper my breasts start to ache in that familiar way. They're so fragile and helpless and yet so incredibly beautiful and.... and... smelly? What is that yellow stuff on the baby's back... and on my thigh? Ah. That whimper wasn't because she was hungry.

Result: Holding babies does not make me want to have more.

Listening

Baby babble is one of the sweetest sounds on the planet. Their brains are building vocabulary at an astounding rate, and I find their learning not only fascinating but downright enjoyable. Then they start to cry because they can't tell me what's wrong by using their words. And then I start to cry because they're crying and I can't make them stop.

Result: Listening to babies does not make me want to have more.

Playing

I like to play with babies, especially when they're learning fun games like peek-a-boo and pat-a-cake - basically all the hyphenated ones. They clap their hands together, smile brightly, put their hands on yours, giggle excitedly, pick up a wooden block and proceed to clock you in the side of the head. Ouch.

Result: Playing with babies does not make me want to have more.

Exploring

Watching infants familiarize themselves with new territory is... Oh, who am I kidding? It's not enjoyable at all. It's a mad dash around the house, picking up every little piece of fluff so it doesn't go into a mouth, blocking outlets, locking cabinets, blockading stairs, and then trying to get the baby interested in something that's actually safe to play with, like a toy. It never works. They always find the mystery dog hair under the recliner and you're back to fishing things out of a a small opening with sharp little teeth.

Result: Exploring babies definitely do not make me want to have more.

Having evaluated myself I have come to the following conclusions:

- I enjoyed my infant gremlins very much, most likely because the secretion of oxytocin into my blood stream during breastfeeding made the stress of raising a baby more on par with deciding between brand name and store brand pizza sauce

- I enjoy not being the primary caregiver of other people's babies so that I may appreciate all the joys and wonder of a little human being and none of the unfortunate side-effects of that joy and wonder

- the day I could leave the diaper bag at home felt very much like the freedom if walking out of prison after serving time (Not that I would know firsthand, mind you. That's pure speculation, but I'm sure it feels similar)

- I enjoy the money I'm saving by not ever having to buy pregnancy tests. I couldn't even begin to guess how much we'd have in our retirement savings right now if I hadn't of bought so many

- so far, I have no inclination to adopt, which is the deal I struck with Geekster before he disabled his little friends: "I want you to promise me that we can consider adoption if at any point a desire for a fourth child makes its appearance." I like the idea of adoption very much, I just can't justify spending the $20,000 when I already have three gremlins. That's a lot of coffee, you know

- I have this new thing called "a life", which is not the same as the life I had before where I brought my baby with me everywhere and my boob was always hanging out. I'm in full support of women being able to bring their babies wherever they go so that they can nurse and have a healthy bond. But I've done that three times now, and with my youngest being 2 1/2, I'm discovering the joys of "date nights" and "movies" and "going out before he goes to sleep because his dad can get him to bed without me" type things... It's like there's this whole world out there for people who don't have spit-up all over their shirts. I never knew... I never knew

So keep having those babies, everyone, and make sure to let your friendly neighbourhood Maven have a cuddle and some pat-a-cake time. I have no problem trying to manipulate you into having more for my own selfish desires. I'm nice like that.

I am done. Really, truly done.

It's weird. Good, but weird.

Mostly good.

(Update on the fundraiser: It went GREAT! I don't know how much we made just yet, but the bake sale table was incredibly busy and the dunk tank was seeing a lot of dunking. I spent money I didn't have on yard sale stuff that went 100% to Jacob's family, and Jacob himself even made an appearance with his little brother, mom and dad. A beautiful day for a beautiful family. Damn it, I'm crying again. I really should do something about all these emotions. Is there an "off" switch?)

The S.S. Uterus has sailed for the last time

So the Spawnling is sick again. Fever again. Cough again. Pulling at his ear again. The cold itself is pretty mild other than the Niagra Falls nose, but the rest of it makes me wonder if we're going to have to spend another lovely afternoon at the emergency clinic tomorrow.

Don't get me wrong: I love sharing space with people ill enough to want to share space in an emergency room with me. Who doesn't enjoy the germ melting pot? I also like to count how many times I visit the complimentary Purell dispenser. I get an addictive sting when the alcohol solution enters the cracked skin on my hands. I chant my mantra over and over: This is better than getting a stomach flu, this is better than getting a stomach flu, this is better than...

This week has been incredibly busy. My friend/client, or Frient, has had many ups and downs while attempting to successfully breastfeed her second child. Frayed nerves and plenty of coffee have been my companions as we've battled an iffy latch, jaundice, near hospitalization due to an infection in the cesarean wound, and in-laws who loathe the idea of breastfeeding and wish my Flient would just give up and bottle feed, already.

But you know what? She's still nursing. 9 days and counting! And the best part for yours truly (in the end it always comes down to yours truly)? I'm over my fourth baby fetish. Yep. Stick a fork in the tofu roast, people. I'm done. I personally thanked my Frient for this glorious turn of events. She said I was welcome.

It was a fun little pipe dream to birth a beautiful (quiet) baby (girl), but there just aren't enough positives to outweigh the vast chasm of negatives, be they potential risks or stark reality. The main one being that The Maven might want to have, oh, you know, semi-regular Maven time at some point in the next decade.

I've been re-living the baby thing on an average of every five years. What this means is that just as I'm starting to realize that people can shower every day, have hobbies, and enjoy sex for reasons other than procreation, I end up procreating. Mother nature greets me with a positive pregnancy test the impending smell of curdled spit up and a huge "gotcha again" grin on her face. Not this time, girlfriend.

There are advantages to letting my children grow up. For example: if I don't deal with the underlying issues surrounding my desire to pop out more and more babies and instead just let the boys get bigger and leave home, I can begin hoarding to fill up my empty nest like the lady on Oprah just recently. Then I can get my house decluttered and completely remodelled and score tickets to Chicago to tell millions to show off my new home. Maybe I can also meet Nate Burkus and convince him that he's not really gay and that he wants to run away with me. We could make beautiful rooms together.

Or, I can become unhealthily enmeshed in my adult children's lives, tying double knots on the apron strings and suffocating their desire to grow as individuals. Then, when they get married, I can one of those awful, overbearing mother-in-laws we all hear so much about. Eventually my son and his wife will bring me to Dr. Phil so he can tell me how wrong I am. Free trip to Los Angeles, nice hotel and all I have to do is be psychotic. I'm halfway there already!

Ok, seriously though. I'm done. For really real here. The Sister keeps laughing at me because she says I talk about it so much that I simply can't be done. That's not true. Sometimes I talk a lot about a book or a movie that I finished, but that doesn't mean I haven't finished it, right? Right.

I win. Neener neener.

In truth, there are some eerie things afoot in my life right now and I think they might be related to my decision not to spawn again:

1. I'm beginning to experience mornings where I'm able to open my eyes and not immediately dive for the coffee grinder and carafe. I believe this may be linked to a rare infliction in my life known as "uninterrupted sleep". It's not happening every night so I'm not freaking out just yet. I'm simply keeping an eye on it to see if it gets in the way of my exhaustion on a long-term basis.
2. Sometimes, during the day, I find myself with enough time to clean some of my house. And, if that's not strange enough, there are even times when I can sit down and watch a half-hour show without needing to get up. I know what you're thinking: how is this possible? What is this 'daytime television' and how can she claim to see any of it? It may have something to do with the gremlins... entertaining each other... and themselves... without my help. Did get that last part? Without my help.
   
3. I've gone out two nights in a row without my cell phone. Last night was to get coffee with a friend and tonight was my weekly shopping trip with my sister. Nothing out of the ordinary except that my cell phone was dead and Geekster couldn't call me if there was a problem. This would normally send me running for the charger but instead I... I... left it. Yeah. I left my cell phone at home. There was no need to bring it because he doesn't need me to be here. My husband can manage all three of them without me. I used to inevitably get calls from a hubby with a screaming, hungry nurseling and would have to promptly dash home. Not anymore. I might have to actually enjoy myself when I go out now. I don't know if I can handle that.

So, in short, I believe I may be able to get used to this strange and beautiful new existence. What will I miss about babies? A lot of things. What won't I miss? A lot of things. But I'm pretty damn lucky to have three healthy boys with a PCOS-inflicted body. And have you seen the price of groceries lately? I might have to have a fourth child just to work the fields.

Well, if we had fields. And then I'd probably want to work them at least a couple of hours every day just to be away from the yelling and the mess and the poop and everything. Working the fields could be my new hobby.

Must go. Spawnling's awake. Diving for coffee grinder tomorrow? Check.