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Over the years at SavvyMom, we’ve celebrated Father’s Day hockey-style, golf-style, grill-style and just plain old sentimental style. But one thing remains constant—we hear from our scouts out there that Dad (just like us) wants a little time alone on Father’s Day and a little time with his beloved family. So we’re making some arrangements for Dad to get out on the course, court or rink and then planning to gather round en famille later that day to celebrate him and all he does.
What are you plans for Father’s Day? We’d love to hear them.
(Week Two of Daddyhood)
I begin by admitting that ‘SavvyDad’ is a premature title, but I will strive to earn it in time, proudly ‘settling’ today for just Dad. This in and of itself, is a daunting enough title, bequeathed on Tuesday, May 24 at 7 am when my son Baxter was born at home surrounded by his mom (Amy), two talented midwives, and me.
There’s so much to share. Every new day, every moment brings change and wonder. But let’s begin at the beginning.
Being a good dad through your partner’s pregnancy is pretty simple: do whatever she wants, whenever she wants. For me this was no challenge. Amy is not demanding and rarely complains. But that doesn’t mean that her discomfort, her aches, sleep deprivation and general hormonal sea-change wasn’t making her life just a tad miserable. I tried to take on more chores and assist her before she had to ask. It was just like business management—remove obstacles to create a productive environment. It also meant taking part in whatever preparatory courses or appointments were required.
Beyond the midwife’s clinic and ultrasound, Amy had discovered, through a friend, a book and class on hypno-birthing, which claims a path to a pain-free natural birth. Yeah, I know. But to be honest, Amy did acquire new skills, learned to control her breathing and gained a better understanding of the sensations (pain) her body would go through during birth. These are very useful tools during labour and birth. To make everything more peaceful, the course renames a lot of terms. “Contractions” are “surges”, “delivery” is a no-no (because babies are not UPS packages); and “pain”? Suffice to say I can’t remember what their word for it was, but it’s still called pain to me and Amy has a few more words for it in her vocabulary today.
Labour and birth found me part nurse, part breathing coach, cold compress manager, hand-holding partner, part statistician, tracker of contractions… surge lengths and patterns and part gofer. In a three-story house, after 15 hours of all this multitasking, I felt I had run a marathon.
But the gold medal goes to Mom. Partners, you will feel a sharp and intense indebtedness (for lack of any better word) to the mother of your child. A respect and awe that was previously incomprehensible, and now that the magic moment has passed, even more so.
Next subject: the Push Present—a term so foreign it had to be spelled out to me.
A good friend of mine with two teenage boys told me pregnancy is like walking up to a large set of double doors and waiting. Then unexpectedly, they burst open and you are bathed in a blinding white light that you step through into a complete unknown (excuse any parallels to death).
Well our wait at the doors was ‘normal’. Then one week past our due date, Amy’s labour began. There I was, ever vigilant with pen and paper and stopwatch (iPhone). We tried different positions where Amy hung off me on the deck, staring at blossoming trees, used her ball, sat, crouched, stood, walked, sat then finally hit the bath. Now this is an audience of moms so I needn’t describe in detail the mounting discomfort that creeps up. We existed moment to moment and I watched the one I love become more and more pained. I held her hand, a cold compress to her forehead and breathed along with her as she looked at me with a burning desire for relief. That’s when we called in the marines. Our marine is General Tracy Gerster with the East York Midwives Clinic (and her band of merry troops—shout out!). I shuddered as Tracy said, “Why didn’t you call earlier?”.
At this point Amy and I were both grateful to have a third person in the house, someone to call the shots, someone to explain the sensations, position mom, call in back-up, set up accoutrements that turned our master suite into a triage. And through this all I could think was, “How can I take the pain away from the love of my life?” It’s an emotional and powerless position. Men daydream of saving their wife from peril, being the hero. Truth is Amy entered the zone—a zone where real superheroes reside. I witnessed a metamorphosis that truly blew my mind. My timid, sweet, seemingly-fragile partner became a blazing, red-hot woman succumbing to nature and all I could do is quietly whisper accolades and encouragements.
Now if anyone had told Amy that Baxter was going to be almost 10 lbs, I’m sure we would have been in a sterile hospital with foreign comforts and strangers casually recapping their holiday weekend at our feet. Instead we were home resting on our bed with professionals we’re tempted to call family, and blinded by a bright whiteness on the other side of that door, a new-found family.
Next week: the Push present. I promise.
A month has passed to the day since Baxter joined our family. Time is whizzing past and our routine is no routine at all. Life is lived in small moments, errands are tucked into gaps and the balance serves the needs of this helpless, yet rather boisterous little man.
Moments after his first official weigh-in, Baxter blew out enough meconium to patch the average pothole on the DVP. The regaining of this weight, combined with normal weight loss during any baby’s first week became our priority for the next three weeks.
Who would have thought that feeding a baby would be such a challenge? Big boys aren’t good latchers, we’re told. Finger feeding (a large syringe with a tube filled with breast milk) became the order of the day. Baxter doesn’t chug (he’s a sipper), so combine 50ml (50 min) of finger feeding, with 60 minutes of latch practice, a diaper change or two—then repeat every two hours—and you’ll find an exasperated family (especially during the night).
Three weeks later, Baxter hit his birth weight to the ounce, which means no referrals to specialists were required. Yay! A month down the road and he’s just hit the 10lb 5oz mark on the button. We can stop finger feeding and use a bottle for supplemental feeds which are administered during his ‘cluster feeding’ periods (we’ve dubbed ‘cluster *$%#’ periods). He now sleeps 4 to 5 hours at night, as if to say, ‘Finally you people are leaving me alone to sleep’.
The change is so constant and so positive, we forget the previous week’s challenges. We’re constantly distracted by Baxter’s goofy faces, wild staring eyes, his sleepy Damien Omen impression, his waking dance and random smiles that are for your eyes only. As I write these final words, I can hear Baxter blasting panicked breathless screams upstairs. We continue down the road.
We had the pleasure of having Amy’s mother, Brenda stay and help us out for a full 10 days after Baxter’s birth. She only planned to come for a few days (bless her heart, she didn’t want to be intrusive), but I threatened to tether her to the banister if she planned to leave early. It’s great having a grandma to help out, offer sage advice, expect the unexpected and allow some brief periods of respite and reflection. Brief.
We’ve been overwhelmed by the generosity of our friends and family. It’s been a veritable deluge of onesies, battery-operated chairs, teething giraffes, funny hats, diaper layer cakes, cards, cash and well wishes. We’re not sure what we’d do without the anecdotes and advice. We’re not the types to ‘go it alone’, nor are we the types to research topics ad nauseum (my siblings got that DNA). But that doesn’t stop me from making quasi-medical pediatric observations I personally consider as truths until such time that I am told differently.
For example, Baxter can get quite fussy at certain times of the day. No matter the time or place however, if strapped into his Baby Bjorn (pre-owned), Baxter will quickly lose consciousness. This is shocking as, until now, I’ve never noticed how terrible my gait is: uneven, clunky and of course, very fast. His head is thrown to-and-fro, yet he remains as limp as a blacked-out rodeo cowboy. ‘Doctor Bond’ believes this is because he slept in-vitro while Amy was out and about, rockin’ and rollin’. It’s his comfort zone. He’ll love my mother’s driving when we visit this summer.
So this post is dedicated to all our friends and family, a wonderful melody of disparate folks that orbit our little Baxter and happily pick up pieces or explain where they go (after we wipe the puke off them).
I love parties in any shape or form and ones that celebrate a milestone are at the top of my list. So weddings, christenings, anniversaries, adult birthdays (40th birthdays seem to be popular right now for me), family reunions, kids birthday parties…they are great excuses to throw a bash to mark an important date with friends and family.
Recently, I came across two new types of parties worth mentioning. Sadly, I haven’t been invited to either one yet (and anyone who knows me, knows I don’t like not being invited to a party).
The first one I learned about on the Bunch Family site: Divorce Parties. How cool. Parents want to celebrate the fact that they are getting a divorce and make sure everyone is OK with it, so they’re throwing a rock concert to announce the split. It works if you’re a rock star, I guess. I hope it’s inspirational for other families who aren’t rock stars. I can’t help but think that accountants might have a tougher time with the party element but who am I to judge? If there is a way to make things easier for everyone involved, I’m all for it.
Then I learned about another new party trend from reading through Emma Waverman’s blog, Embrace the Chaos. They are for Dads who are married but haven’t had kids yet. Apparently they are throwing parties for themselves called ‘Daddymoons’, ‘Dachelor Parties’ or as I prefer, ‘Man Showers’. Man Showers is a more appropriate name I believe, because I want to think they stem from the fact that women have baby showers. That is the only logical argument for man showers I can find. There is a distinct difference between a party where women congregate on a Sunday afternoon, drink tea, talk about contractions and make the poor mother-to-be wear ribbons on her head to a party where men drink from a ‘Diaper Keg’. I’m just sayin’.
I won’t judge the dads, but I will say that I do hope they are having the parties well enough in advance of the due date. I just can’t help but smile thinking about the first morning it’s his turn to get up with the baby. I hope he doesn’t have to smell the fumes from the diaper genie the morning after consuming a diaper keg.
Here’s to parties!
My job is all about adapting schedules, expectations and deliverables around clients’ unique needs. Adapt and deliver, that’s what I do best…but baby Baxter messes with my head. Just when you think he’s got a schedule, my basis for that conclusion disappears and all new ‘habits’ take hold.
We enjoyed two nights of bliss last week by putting Baxter down rather early in the evening. We cooked and ate our dinner while he slept blissfully in his bassinet on another floor of the house. We nestled on the sofa and caught up on some television (why this feels like a victory, I have no idea) then before our bedtime, we gave him a good feeding and a pit stop. Sweet.
For two evenings, we relished in this newfound routine. We turned a corner. Parenthood was allowing us some peace and time to ourselves. There was no turning back, we could only move onward and upward.
This is where the experienced moms are rolling their eyes or perhaps laughing a little. Of course those two days feel like a mirage now. For a full week we attempted to recreate our fleeting success—to almost superstitious efforts: “I’m sure we turned this light off and had the red blanket over here and, OH NO the temperature and humidity are all off in this room”. We were back to confused, tired new parents, seemingly outwitted by our own progeny.
But last night was different. As always, in our futile robotic reproduction we put Baxter down early and began doing whatever we could before we would be interrupted. Exhausted from a hot Sunday out, we started to do what we could to relax. Having learned something, we sat down to watch Marley & Me presuming it to be a vacuous light comedy we could half-watch. Well we watched it all (I bawled—who knew it was a vacuous modern day Old Yeller minus the froth?). Amy and I were then able to tidy up, chat, snuggle and… well, this is a family blog but let’s just say I can easily adapt to one evening a week like last night.
No road trip can be planned without the Mother-In-Law’s respective doomsday advice about getting our new child over the border. Maybe it’s our natural sinister air or Amy’s impulsive panic-response to border agents, but according to our moms, our baby will be confiscated and the next time we call home, it won’t be on a cell, it’ll be from a cell. Luckily it’s that same paranoia that motivated them to investigate and determine for themselves that a land border crossing only requires a birth certificate. This was presented to a pleasant, young US border agent who wished us well as we entered New York State via Niagara Falls.
I have to admit, seeing The Falls is always a highlight for me. Barring the casino-drama and downtown kitsch (which still has its place), this natural wonder is so accessible and incredible, it makes for fantastic ‘new family photo ops’. Call it our two-hour honeymoon.
The subsequent ride to Albany took all of our gas and ended in a midnight check-in at a rather seedy hotel that took the ‘un’ out of ‘unexplained ankle bites’. Through all the tolls and random pit stops, Baxter was a trooper—our little state trooper. But what will happen after two days of interrupted routine as our overstuffed wagon pulls into the valet parking at Boston’s swankiest hipster hotel?
It’s funny how tourists sit on statues of Mrs. Mallard and her ducklings. Inspired by McCloskey’s Make Way for Ducklings, the brass mom was just the setting for our family portrait (yes that’s Baxter strapped to my chest). It was there that I realized I can’t smile normally when other people take pictures of me. Can you blame me? I was excited! My new family was traveling in a new town with friendly people. I had a happy wife and a more or less behaved son on my sweaty chest.
Thanks to the generosity of friends on the occasion of our recent marriage, we were treated to a stay at Beacon Hill’s newly renovated former city jail, now the Liberty Hotel. It’s like Toronto’s Drake Hotel taken to the next level with lots of “look-at-me’s” who come out at night to be seen.
So it’s Saturday night and there’s a buzz of multiple parties going on inside the chic, modern hotel with seventeenth century granite walls. In walks the Bond family with a stroller the size of a Humvee. We’re a little sweaty and we smell like pretty-good Indian food. 90 feet under the soaring cupola and guard’s catwalk, we weave through the sudden evening crowd, past the white leather high back chairs, around the Bloody Mary Bar, and past the friendly concierge on our way to the elevators. Once settled in our room, we attempt to keep our uber-cool neighbours awake with baby Baxter’s screams. Now this is living!
In our two-day visit, Baxter made one very fancy dinner miserable but the lack of any discernable schedule excused his evening exorcisms. All in all, he was a gem. He always drew the attention of adoring fans and we began to understand the depth of this new fraternity we’ve joined as we came across so many sympathetic parents with kind, silent stares that communicated a book-full on patience.
As the mercury rises we drive up the coast to Topsham, Maine where we will visit friends who are also new parents. Excited to continue our journey, we’ll be totally oblivious to their lack of air conditioning and lovely loft accommodations.
Have a great vacation! Say hello to the fam! See you all when you return home ;). Big hugs and kisses from your god daughters and friend xoxox
If you’ve been following our gripping tale, you’ll know we’ve been traveling up the eastern seaboard of the United States of America from Boston to Topsham, Maine. At this stage in our journey, we switched from interstates to smaller highways, really enjoying the scenery, fudge shops and cheese dispensaries along the way.
Stopping in Freeport for lunch, we discovered just how hot it was. On the advice of ‘experts’, we have yet to apply sun screen to Baxter. Instead, we covered him like a vampire and scurried past factory outlets to the extremely air-conditioned restaurant. There we saw a family with a Snap-N-Go, a clever stroller that lets you snap a car seat on a stroller frame without removing your child. Knowing we could never check the Humvee (a.k.a. our over-sized stroller/pram) for our upcoming flight to Vancouver, this seemed the perfect solution. (We ended up acquiring a Snap-N-Go for $40 from our local used shop when we got back home.)
Amy’s good friend and fellow glass artist, Stephanie Sersich, her husband Tom, and their two children, Obi and Amos, warmly welcomed us to Tompsham. Obi (pictured with Baxter) is a month older than Baxter and Amos is 13 months. An impressive signer, with his a goofy smile and jerky arm movements, Amos can communicate that it’s raining outside, or that he wants juice versus water, or that he’s sleepy. Hands appear easier to control than tongues, a trait that remains as we age.
I have begun signing with Baxter in an ad hoc manner, as there is no doubt in my mind how effective it is. (Granted, ‘sky eat’ is as good as we’ve got so far.)
It was a great visit with generous hosts and a peek into our future should Baxter become a big brother—one step at a time people.
Amy sits in the passenger seat as Baxter sleeps during the majority of the long ride back to Toronto from Maine. I’ve become a chauffeur. As a new dad, I’m noticing countless, minute occurrences that I would never have considered before, like when your wife gets into the backseat while you’re left in the front alone (without a black cap). Fortunately, for the majority of our last day’s drive, I had the pleasure of sharing the sights with Amy while she rode up front with me.
While driving together, we discussed the possibility of growing our family. Our friend, Stephanie, whom we had stayed with in Maine, was pregnant with her second child faster than either she or her husband could say, ‘perhaps we should try for a second’. By their calendar, Baxter would be on the fast track to having a sibling in a few months!
As the youngest of three in my family, I am the one who got away with murder and enjoyed the breakdown of family rules when the chaos became difficult to control. Amy is senior to her brother. Both of them were brought up with strict morals but benefitted from the lessons only siblings can teach each other such as the art of negotiation and communication (read: arguing), defensive and offensive combat skills, and the granddaddy of them all, sharing. Sure parents can teach all these things to a singleton, but not with the impatience, imprudence and immaturity of a sibling.
So before Baxter’s arrival, Amy and I decided there would be another Bond, something that could not have been further from our minds until this visit with Stephanie in Maine and seeing 18 month-old Amos casually poke his brother, the innocent, 4 month-old Obi, for two days. Beyond the competition for attention was a simple, sweet love and affection, a kind of abusive adoration.
As we return home, oblivious to the fact that Baxter will soon SCREAM during the ride from the Toronto suburb of Pickering to Queen Street, downtown, we’re once again thrown back into the blinding ignorance of that fraternity we barely feel valid to claim membership to, parenthood.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts :) Can’t wait to see your holiday pictures and see the BRB!
Baxter wakes up. It begins with a shuffling of the head (which we’re convinced is responsible for his unfortunate hairstyle—a tad thin at the top and patchy in places) and then some swatting at imaginary butterflies tickling his face. Soon Baxter grabs hold of the biggest butterfly and rubs it into his eyes, nose and mouth. Then his eyes open to a predictable expression of confusion, like experiencing an earthquake in Toronto.
Meanwhile his chubby appendages unfurl as his back arches in hopes that his bum will kiss the back of his head. The earthquake confusion quickly passes and he desperately searches for something familiar. He recognizes me instantly as I lean in close. The rewards are tremendous. A quick, earnest, gummy smile of appreciation and a speeding of the automated stretching and twisting.
This is my favourite Baxter. He is now so responsive and focused on my eyes and face. His gaze is intensely honest, and I’m loving the eye contact. It’s nothing I’ve ever experienced and I don’t want to disengage. But I shouldn’t forget my hair. Baxter is thrilled to have my curly locks dive toward him then bounce on his face. His mouth agape trying to hold back joy, his eyes flutter and then lock back onto mine as if to say, ‘Did you just see that?’
Baxter then begins to advise me of what he has in store for the day through gurgles, chirps and chuckles. Of course I reply, much to his glee. Then I stand him up on his less-than-lean legs and balance him as he stares this way and that. He is a scout, rediscovering his newfound land. Then his tongue and mouth make that familiar motion and I know my time has passed. Unless I grow a lactating breast in the next two minutes, I must plan a fun-filled handover to the Goddess-of-all-things who inhabits Baxter’s world. It was fun while it lasted!
I eagerly await with anticipation every Sunday to read this blog. Thanks big time Trevor. I would love to see Baxter in real life more often, but since I’m a 4-5 hour drive away that’s impossible. I’m thankful for this wonderful blog that brings laughter and tears as I read it. I can enjoy Baxter through the eyes of my son-in-law. The photos and stories are priceless. It’s heartwarming to hear about the wonderful birth of a child and then the adventure of child rearing thereafter. Until I can hug Baxter in person, my grandmotherly craving for Baxter says thanks Trevor for participating on this site and sharing your fatherly experiences. P.S. Grandpa enjoys it as much as me.
Who? Me?
But I’m an angel. I make the ladies smile and the children gather around. I chortle and giggle. When I sleep, the world sleeps with me. Clouds part and the air grows clear and crisp. A peace like no other blankets the world over.
I love to kick and punch at the air, but it’s only because my muscles are confused. I dream of the day I can bring you both breakfast in bed. Today, it’s just fun to put stuff in my mouth. How wonderful stuff is in my mouth. So you see, things are changing. I know I still spit up a lot, but that’s just an immature digestive system, it shall pass, I promise. But Mom, you say Daddy’s immature—I don’t see that passing. A little patience is all I ask.
More importantly Mommy, you seem distracted recently by these activities you call ‘work’. I guess it’s OK to go to the studio with you. I heard Christmas is coming and you must prepare for brisk sales. I understand. But it feels decidedly less about me.
I know my evening angst and vocal stretching isn’t making anybody happy. But before we change it up, I’d like to try something else new. Now don’t be frustrated, I just feel 2 am to 5 am is the best time for us to bond, recap our days and maybe drift away while cradled in your bosom. Lovely. No. No! I’m not ready for the crib, just another hour with you, that’s all I want. See what you’ve done! Now you’re going to have to walk me around the house and start again. Focus Mother. Why can’t you focus?
So funny…echoes my life right now with baby Charlie…I love it all though!
Watching Baxter during his third month of life, I bear witness to many exciting changes. There is an awakening: eyes that notice what was always there, and a mind that distractedly tests new boundaries and questions laws of physics.
Baxter takes supported-standing for granted, and acts like lolling about horizontally is ‘so last season’ (although he still can’t roll over). He tends to focus when milk is involved—sometimes I can get him to hold the bottle all by himself (always using a spotter). He sleeps for longer, uninterrupted hours, and his mornings are still my favourite as life literally dawns on him. If I’m lucky, with a quick bob of my hair and a wee tickle, Baxter will scream out a giggle that’s like candy for the soul.
Grabbing and gnawing are new. He limits this skill to bibs, blankets, digits and sometimes his teething giraffe. This brings me to the crux of the issue at hand: Baxter is like a leaky faucet. Drool, puke (and tears) make this one soggy dude, even before he’s finished a fresh wardrobe change. As the air clears and grows crisp in the evenings, his hands are greased and freezing. He insists on always keeping one arm hanging out the pram like teenager driving Dad’s Trans Am (that is, until it goes back in his mouth). He is oblivious to how cold his hands, chin and face become. Covering him is like putting a straightjacket on someone suffering a grand mal seizure. And mitts? Seriously?
The only comfort is the change itself. Perhaps by the winter’s edge, Baxter will have learned his own coping mechanisms. Perhaps he’ll be carefully putting on his own mitts, mindful they are warm and dry and remain that way. Perhaps he’ll use a damp cloth (from a baggy he keeps in his breast pocket) to dab gingerly at drips and danglers. Perhaps golden piglets will leap from my backside, prancing and showering all with valuable coins and best wishes!
The mommy blogs and twitter were all a-buzz last week over the story of a husband who declared he was going to exist on his wife’s breast milk for as long as he could. The California couple, Katie and Curtis, had a freezer full of pumped breast milk they didn’t want to see wasted. Katie is also a doula, so she was likely inspired to raise awareness of the health benefits to breast milk.
So, she and her husband started a blog called Don’t Have a Cow, Man, in order to document his journey. The blog was taken down two days later, however, due to the high volume of negative comments that came in.
People were disgusted at the notion of a grown man (a 6’4”, 185-pound father) drinking his wife’s breast milk, while others judged them for not donating it to a family in need.
On that—I have one quick question to throw in the ring: why does human milk carry such a large ‘ick” factor over cows’ milk? If you think about it, cows are a bit dirtier. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I wish my husband had done the same thing, but logically, it’s a fair question. But I digress…the story continues and it has a good ending.
When the Don’t Have a Cow, Man blog was taken down, Katie read through the comments and connected with a Montreal mom, Emma Kwasnica, who runs a global milk-sharing network (Human Milk 4 Human Babies). Emma was able to introduce Katie and Curtis to a mother in California with quadruplets who needed the milk. It worked out perfectly.
From where I’m standing, this California couple achieved quite a bit in one week. Firstly, they went ‘viral’ and became an internet story in two days. That in itself is an accomplishment. But even better, they were able to raise awareness, spark debates and discussions online that eventually lead to the most desirable ending. Everyone won.
What do you think? Is a human mother’s milk gross?
This couple should be celebrated! For all the well-intentioned ‘breast is best’ talk out there, I still encounter negativity, misinformation, and discrimination on a regular basis as a breastfeeding mother. These folks have made a much needed statement about mother’s milk and the value of breastfeeding. Why are people, women included, so uncomfortable, and often disgusted, by the unique capabilities of the feminine body? Because a woman’s body is powerful, life-giving and God-like. It could be said that Curtis, the father, was bowing at the alter of his wife, and mother of his children, by drinking her milk. How humble, noble and endearing.
I guess my question would be WHY? I can imagine the couple sitting down and if their true reasons for doing this was the abundance of human milk in the freezer, surely they are responsible enough to look at other options. Surely this was a publicity stunt. Anyhow, happy it ended well, but hope that others be more considerate (or less idiotic) in future!
Comments
I have just recently heard of the Push Present and look forward to reading your next installment on it!
Congratulations Trevor and Amy! I too tried hypno-birthing, with much the same (lack of) result! Look forward to your next post Trevor!