Shhhh

I used to be the kind of mother that didn't worry much about noise in the house; no "please knock" signs on the front door for me. Perhaps that was because Julian never slept, anyway - it seemed pointless to try not to wake him when he was always awake.

But, now that he is more of a sleeper, I've learned what it's like to feel a stab of panic whenever the phone rings. Today, right in the middle of Julian's morning nap, some guy rang the doorbell, which set the dog barking - and the baby crying. He'd gotten the wrong house, but it was too late: Julian awoke in a fit of anger, and he wasn't about to go back to la-la land.

We've also got renovations being done, which has been quite a nightmare: I've had to tell the builder he can only do the job between a small window of time each day, lest he wake the sleeping baby. Once upon a time I wanted to renovate our bathroom, but now that I've learned it's probably a six week plus job, it might have to wait until our son's in his teens.

In my pram (6 months 18 days)

Photo Opportunity

A well-known photographer, who is also a good friend of David's, will be taking photos of Julian today. For the first time in about ten months, I actually pulled out the mascara; it was beyond comprehension that I was using the eyelash curler, too. It's funny, but when I was young, I dreamt of being the kind of mother who applied red lipstick carefully in front of a mirror, my well-coiffed 'do hairsprayed into a beehive, as I was about to go out for the evening. Now that I am an actual mother, it occurs to me there are several things wrong with this fantasy:

a) The time you use to go out is used to go out, not get ready. Any additional time spent with the hairdryer would mean that you couldn't go to dinner and see a movie, and given that you likely haven't seen a movie for close to a year, that's just not going to happen.

b) Who goes out, anyway?

c) A beehive? I'm not sure why my fantasy appears to be taking place in the 60s.

It reminds me of a book I'm reading at the moment by Faulkner Fox, entitled Dispatches From A Not-So-Perfect Life. In it, the author has a fantasy of living in a house with a man who cooks her paella while she works at her desk and a child plays quietly with blocks on the floor. By the time the couple eat the paella, the child has completely submerged into the background, having possibly put himself to sleep. When the author grows up and has two children and no time for paella, let alone time to write at her desk without her kids hanging off her pants, she realises that real life is not like daydreaming at all.

Cool Clothes

The Next Big Thing (6 months 17 days)

I've started feeling guilty about dressing Julian in baby clothes - the kind with little giraffes etched onto the sleeves and little booties attached to the feet. They're comfy and easy clothes, and I feel like if I was a baby, that's what I'd want to wear. But lately we've been seeing other babies, and they're all wearing real clothes, like overalls and jeans and jumpers.* The clincher came when I visited my (ever-opinionated) mother, who said, "He's too cold in what he's wearing - you have to put him in proper clothes."

As it turned out, we did own some real clothes - a few small pairs of tracksuit pants and long-sleeved tops. I put him in one such outfit yesterday, and it was like a magic trick: suddenly my little baby looked not-so-little. I could see it clearly for the first time, how he's slowly edging out of babyhood and into the next stage. I'm not sure what they call it - infancy? Toddlerhood? Either way, every now and again I catch glimpses of what he might look like when he's older.

I also read an article about how hip parents are dressing their babies in slogan tees. We got one - "The Next Big Thing" - as a present. I wish I could find some of the others mentioned in the article, like "I went through the birth canal and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." I did spy one which proclaimed "I Love Boobies" - a must-have, I figure.

Yesterday, I phoned Sleep School in a bit of a panic. They assured me that Julian would improve in a couple of weeks, but also gave me some advice: "Make sure that when you comfort him, it's because he's crying, not grizzling." Under the Sleep School rules, you can enter a baby's room after two minutes of crying in order to comfort him, or 20 minutes of grizzling. Everything sounds like a cry to me; what the hell is a grizzle, anyway? Grizzle, to me, indicates low-level grumbling, but I had a flashback to our stay in Sleep School, when Julian - loudly - voiced his displeasure. It was an up-and-down kind of screech, with occasional screams and a few breaks of silence in between. "That's grizzling," I was told.

So, last night, I decided to err on the side of grizzling. He woke up once, and I fed him. He woke up twice, I listened, and he fell asleep after three minutes. A third time, his crying/ grizzling went on for over ten minutes - I listened as hard as I could, and still couldn't work out which it was. Through the monitor, though, everything sounds louder than it is. By the time I got up - after about 15 minutes - he had stopped. He woke up twice more in the night, but stopped whatever he was doing after about 60 seconds. I never had to go in once to comfort him. So maybe he's been grizzling all along. Whatever the case, we both had a much better sleep last night.

* For the Americans, a jumper = a sweater. A windcheater = a sweatshirt.

Sleep School - Ten Days On

Julian at Ali's Pug Play Group with admirers (6.5 months)

Our visit to Ali's pug playgroup today proved one thing: a baby is just as much a chick magnet as a little pug is.

We're all screwed up because of Daylight Savings time; I didn't realise it had finished, and so let Julian get up at 7am, which was really 6am, and now we're all out of whack. Ten days post-sleep school, he has not been that great at nights, and last night he woke four times. It's a lot when you have to get up, comfort, leave the room, lather, rinse, repeat. I rang up Sleep School in a panic, but they told me it takes three weeks to see the true results, and I just have to be persistent. Easy for them to say; they get enough sleep!

This afternoon, I am being visited by my friend and editor of a magazine where I am a contributor. This is a woman who used to come into my office at 9am to peek at which pair of fabulous shoes I had on that day; I wonder what she'll say when she sees my (ratty) slippers now. My unbrushed hair. It's funny, some people are in such a hurry to get back to who they were pre-pregnancy, but I'm quite happy in the moment. I think work will be good for me, but I'm not dying to do it again; I'd love to fit into my old clothes, but I'm quite happy being a slob in the ones I'm wearing now.

Uh-oh, crying baby, awake from a veeeery short nap. Damn sleep school and their false promises.

Cheeky monkey

The Chipmunk Song

My mother could find anything to love about Julian. Case in point: lately, he has developed this high-pitched screechy scream that, if you're being kind, sounds like a dolphin mating call. If you're being unkind, it sounds like an Alvin and The Chipmunks album is being played at too fast a speed and too loud a volume. Never mind, this is music to my mother's ears. Several times, she too tried to screech as loudly and weirdly in order to get Julian to do the same. I could only close my eyes and imagine all the neighborhood dogs running for cover.

Work

Yesterday I met with my bosses at the newspaper, to determine when I would start work again. The answer: they've given me a new column to write for now, which will begin "whenever you're ready," said my benevolent employers.

In truth, I don't think I'll ever be ready to work again. Me, the once-ambitious career girl. Yeah, it's kind of a shock to me, too. On the other hand, my company have been very kind and understanding to me; even when I told them that I'd like a second child in the not-too-distant future, they smiled and said that was fine, they would work around me. I can't let a job like this go, but I really don't have my head around producing work to deadlines again just yet. Soon, though, soon...

Super Nanny

I'm pretty sure I like apples! (March 23)

I’ve just been watching the TV show Super Nanny, in which families with problem kids call upon this British gel for advice. She storms in, like a strict Mary Poppins, teaches the family a thing or two about discipline and naughty stools and respect, and everyone is happier. Watching it made me very, very anxious.

Julian seems like the kind of child who won’t create any kind of problem at all, but I know better. For starters, look at our dog, Ali. We’ve given her no boundaries at all. We don’t follow through with discipline. We send her mixed messages. And we’ve learned it’s easier to give in to her than take the hard road. The result = Very Naughty Dog. Doesn’t take too many mental leaps to imagine the problems we could run into raising our son.

Also, I was a brat of a girl, or so I’ve been told. And whenever I threw tantrums and caused trouble, my mother promised me that, one day, I would have the same kind of child as I had been. Uh-oh. (Although, for the record, mum: I don’t think sitting on your child when she’s naughty is considered effective discipline any more.

Motherspeak

Julian at Sleep School with Nanna Minnie (just over 6 months)

I know my mother thinks I'm an excellent mother, but today alone I received the following comments from her:

"Don't freeze his food. Yuk. Make fresh food every day. It's easy, just one-two."
This from someone who admits she cannot recall if she gave me commercial baby food or homemade, but I do distinctly remember acquiring a taste for Heinz chocolate custard. I'm not sure what the "one-two" refers to, unless she's talking about hours: we made some sweet potatoes for him together, which means that we boiled the shit out of them until the colour disappeared. That's how she likes her veggies.

"Don't sit him so far back in the pram. He needs to be up more." (Same comment made about the high chair.)
For starters, the Maternal Health Care nurse today confirmed that Julian is not yet at sitting-upright stage. Secondly, today I attempted to adjust the high chair so that it had less of a recline, was unsuccessful so that it fell back to its original position, and she said, "That's better."

"Why is he crying? He didn't used to cry before."
She means before sleep school. Before then, she used to complain, "That child never sleeps." Now she complains that "he's always asleep".

"When does he go on the fresh air?"
See above.

"I was interested to note that when you tried to express some milk after feeding him, you didn't have any to express."
I believe this is her way of questioning whether I have enough milk. I don't know why she thinks I might have a low supply; if there was a competition for baby Sumo Wrestlers, my son would at least pass the weigh-in stage. When pressed, she claims she's not saying that at all, simply adding, "I was just remarking on how interesting it is."

Okay, now I better put it all into context. The other things she said today were how much she loved Julian so much (said, in various forms, about a million times). Then, she added, just to sweeten the deal, "It's exactly the way I loved all my babies." Awwww. Plus, she did rush over at 11am with a fresh sweet potato just so Julian wouldn't have to have boring old rice cereal for lunch. And she insisted on taking him for a short walk just so he could look at the trees. ("He loves the trees.") What a good grandmother.

Stats

Julian at sleep school - I'm not tired any more!

For the record, our visit to the Maternal Health Care Centre today yielded the following results:
Height: 71.5 cm/ 28.14 inches
Weight: 9.490 kilos/ nearly 21 pounds

And, our food experiment continues. Sweet potatoes were oh-so-yummy for lunch, but our discriminating food reviewer was totally off them by dinnertime. I think a little bit of fruit is soon in order; the chef can't stand this constant rejection.

Me and my Zaide (6 months 9 days)

The Second Night

My Sleep School updates will soon get tedious, I know, but for the record - Julian slept four hours yesterday during the day, with three naps in all. At night, he went down uncomplainingly at 7:30 pm, was woken up once for a "rollover" feed at 11pm, and only woke three times during the night. Twice, he got himself back to sleep on his own, and for one, he only needed a little settling.

When I found him in the morning, he wasn't crying - just playing by himself in his cot. What a champ! In other milestone news, he is now sitting up very well, but not on his own, and is enjoying three meals a day! Carrots weren't such a success, but we'll try again today. So far, rice cereal is the food taste winner!

It's hard to believe life could be normal again here. That David and I can enjoy a quiet dinner, and have a whole evening together, before actually retiring to bed and sleeping. The scene before sleep school was quite different; David and I would tag team during takeaway dinner, and then I'd watch TV while I tried to breastfeed Julian to sleep. During the night, I'd co-sleep with Julian in the big bed, propping myself up on pillows so that I was always on my side, so that he could have easy access to my breast. (If, God forbid, it fell out, he'd cry.) I'd also rug up in a dressing-gown and slippers so that I didn't have to use a blanket - just in case I smothered him with it (Julian would be in his sleeping bag). So, to reiterate: not only was I sleep deprived, but I spent my nights uncomfortable and cold! It's nice just to be able to use the doona again.

For the Americans: dressing gown = robe. Doona = duvet. Sleeping bag = sleeping sack. Takeaway = takeout. Rug up = dress up for the cold.

The Heavyweights

Julian and Ali (6 months 8 days)

For those of you who asked, Julian now outweighs Ali by about 1.5 kilos, or more than 2 pounds.

No Overnight Success, But...

Okay, so the first night at home post sleep-school wasn't exactly a raging success. However, we were told to expect regressive behaviour, and as bad as it was, it still wasn't as bad as it can get. Julian woke up a total of 8 times last night. One time, he put himself back to sleep; the rest, he needed re-settling. Most of the time he was easy to re-settle except for one hideous 90 minute period at about 1:30 am. On the bright side, between 2:15 am - 7:45 am he only woke once. So, that is still a vast improvement on how things were, and I have to remember that he is learning, too. It's as hard on him - if not harder - than it is on us.

And, on another bright note, he did go down easily for his morning sleep today so far! I have high hopes for the future...(now, if only I had stolen a stash of those sleeping tablets.)

Sleep School: The Results

Ahhh, sleep school: I recommend it to everyone. I just had no idea how beneficial it would be for everyone, not just Julian. Then again, I had no idea how much I liked sleeping tablets. I could get addicted to those suckers.

This mother-baby unit was a five-day residential program that began on Sunday. The aim is not just to teach babies to sleep and give parents settling techniques; it also looks at the family as a whole and tries to work out how you can be best supported. For starters, your baby sleeps in a bed far, far away from your own private room. Bliss! The only downside is that you can be stuck opposite the newborn's nursery (I was, it wasn't too bad) or near the labour ward (I wasn't, but one of the other mothers says that after hearing a pregnant woman scream for ages, she wanted to shut out, "Just push already!").

For the first two nights, I was - as promised! - given sleeping tablets so that the nurses could do Modified Controlled Comforting techniques with Julian. This isn't just to give you a break; it's because they've proven that when the mothers catch up on sleep, they're better equipped to deal with the program. On night #3, David and I were given a chance to go out for dinner (like real grownups), and for the last two nights, I settled Julian myself.

During the day, you're also doing settling techniques as you put your baby down for three naps (two of 1.5 - 2 hours duration, and one late afternoon catnap). The rest of the time, the five women boarders (that's all there are, so it's a very intimate program) had various seminars to attend. We had a session on baby massage, where we all rubbed olive oil on our babies. We did a relaxation class, where we listened to a guided imagery tape. Our husbands even had a session, where a psychologist came in to explain to them why their wives need support. And, we also could take advantage of a massage therapist, physiotherapist, doctor (who administers a blood test to check thyroid functions and iron levels) and family counsellor.

And boy, did our babies sleep! It was as if we were given different babies immediately. To reiterate: Julian used to sleep for 2 hours max during the day, but more often would do 45 minutes all day. He'd be down again at 7pm, but up again every 45 minutes, pretty much until the next morning. In sleep school, he slept for around 4 hours per day and then 12 hours at night. By night #3, he would wake during the night but self-settle, which meant that the nurses never had to get me up to put him back to sleep. I would feed him once during the night at 10:30 pm - a vast change from feeding him all night.

And that was another big difference: since the program was about incorporating a fairly heavily structured routine, we all went from feeding our babies incessantly to feeding five times in 24 hours. A huge change. And, Julian got put straight onto solids - he's now enjoying three meals a day! To date, he's had pumpkin and carrots, and is a very good eater. But no surprises there.

Another bonus: medicare and my insurance covered almost everything. I was out of pocket for the massage therapist and physio, but think I'll get reimbursed for those when I claim them, too. So, a very cheap week. And, such a relaxing one. I got to read. Watch TV. Sleep. Okay, the food was fairly crappy, but you can't have it all, right?

So, what happened when we got home? I was worried, as we were warned that our babies would test us in their home environment, and we'd need to be persistent for several weeks. It's been less than a day, but I can't complain. He did two big naps today, and I even had to rustle him after the second. He didn't do a catnap, but went down happily at 8pm. So far he has woken once - after 75 minutes of sleep - but he was settled within about 2 minutes. So, I think he's really getting the hang of it.

Goodbye to ongoing breastfeeds! Goodbye to co-sleeping! Goodbye, hopefully, to the bags under my eyes (and under his). It's a brand new us.

PS Oops. Baby crying and it's 10pm. Have to wait two minutes before I'm allowed in. But I'm still confident...(they told us to expect some regression when they first come back!!!)
PPS Okay, baby stopped crying after ten seconds; no intervention necessary! We're on a roll!

Jigsaw Family

Just the three of us (6 months old)

It’s our five year wedding anniversary today, and it’s got me thinking about us, and what Julian will know about his parents. Sure, there will be those stories repeated over and over than become part of family lore – David’s numerous treks to Nepal, Rachelle’s tuk-tuk accident in Thailand; David’s dabbling in paleontology; Rachelle’s half decade stint as a New Yorker.

Julian will come to know the obvious things about us, from the trivial to the important. That his father is interested in dinosaurs, and even dabbled in paleontology. That David jots things down on scrap pieces of paper and then misplaces them. That Rachelle resorts to reading true crime books if she needs some escapist literature and prefers sitting halfway down the cinema when she goes to the movies. That both of us get irritated if we can’t find our keys, which is often. That David’s greatest wish in life is to have a good relationship with his son, that Rachelle worries about her children perpetuating their religion in a climate geared towards assimilation.

But, what about those stories that are part of us, yet that we’ve almost forgotten? The fact that I went to a horse-riding camp when I was 12, and had to ride horseback dressed in warpaint as we filmed a movie? How about when I got the best mark in my university class in an obscure philosophy subject, or once worked for an ice-cream store who made me wear a t-shirt emblazoned with the message “Just Ask Me For A Lick?”

And what will he do with that flotsam of information, if he acquires it? Will he use it to piece together a more accurate jigsaw puzzle of his family? Or will it simply be brushed aside as our child searches for the knowledge of who he is, the rest all deemed unnecessary?


Rolling (6 months, 1 day)

Countdown to Sleep School

Julian had his six month shots today, and was suitably miserable after. Poor baby. In five days' time (but who's counting?) we're off to Sleep School, an in-house program, held at a hospital, designed to teach babies to sleep and mothers how to settle them. We'll be staying there for five days and nights, but I'm not looking forward to it. There are some good aspects to it - for starters, the first two nights, they give the mother sleeping tablets and take care of your baby themselves. Having said that, I don't know how much sleep I'll get - the mothers stay in rooms that are either opposite the maternity ward's nursery (lots of young crying babies) or next to the labour wards (lots of screaming women) on one side and sleep disordered babies (lots of older crying babies) on the other. Apparently they give you ear plugs, but I can't see that helping.

The best thing about Sleep School is that I'm taking the opportunity to do a small renovation at home - to get rid of our indoor plant garden, that looks like it's straight out of that Peter Sellers movie, The Party. Hopefully I'll come home to a brand new house. Hooray.

World's Best Smile (March 7, 2005)

Before I Was A Mother

Before I was a mother, I had no idea that washing a towel could be an act of love. That a mother is careful when she selects washing powder, making sure that it's not too abrasive. That she puts it onto a gentle cycle. That she dries it to ensure maximum softness, and then rubs it against her cheek before folding it. That she carefully and neatly stacks it, with an attention to detail that she doesn't show towards any other household chore.

Then again, before I was a mother, I had no idea that baby poop could smell so nice. I debate this with my husband all the time; he thinks it smells horrible. I think it smells fragrant and perfumed, or, at least, as fragrant and perfumed as poop could be.

And before I was a mother, I had no idea that reading ten pages in a row of a book could feel like such a luxury. Ditto sparing ten minutes for a hot bath, or going to sleep, as opposed to simply collapsing in an exhausted heap when everything has been done.

I am learning a lot.

Food, Glorious Food

Julian's first meal! (March 6)

Part of me thinks I started Julian on solids 5 days before the 6-month mark just so I would have something to write about today. But I know that's not true - I've bought the dishes, the first spoon, the cereal, the high chair, and I've just been waiting for the right moment. Since he was born a week overdue, I figured any time this week was good.

So, another milestone reached. I put the bib on him, imagining that we would both be covered in rice cereal by the experiment's end. I don't know why I really thought this; at the beginning, you only offer a teaspoon of the stuff, so even if it all ended up on my clothes, it still only amounted to a tiny dot of food. Nevertheless, it all went into Julian's mouth who, despite the photographic evidence, seemed to relish every morsel, putting his hand on mine and guiding the spoon into his mouth. If anyone was disappointed, it was David. "You mean we've been waiting six months to start solids, and all he gets is that?" he asked, pointing to the meagre portion. "I thought he was getting a meal."

It won't be long, though. I figure that by the next Friday night dinner, he can have a wee bit of chicken soup. And vegetables/ fruits are just around the corner...

PS My friend Anne alerted me to a funny term coined for mothers who are always competitive about their kids' achievements. It's called "mompetition", or "mumpetition" in Australia, which doesn't really have the same ring to it, seeing as how the latter doesn't rhyme with "competition". But it's still a good word.

Smarts

Aunt Jennifer, cousin Delilah and Daddy (March 5)

Today I opened up the weekend newspaper to discover a lengthy feature about child geniuses. In it, a mother claims that she knew her daughter was "gifted" when she was just five months old and "she used to point at the light and go, 'That's a light'." She what? Did this kid come out of the womb talking?

The article went on to say that many children with a high IQ hit their developmental milestones early: they move earlier, they walk earlier, they talk earlier. They crawl at about 7.5 months, which gives Julian just under two months to prove himself as gifted. I don't know what else the article said, because I couldn't help wondering about the aforementioned facts.

So, David and I tested him. "Where's the light, Jules?" Sure enough, Julian looked skyward. Then David said, "Where's Ali?" and yes, my bright boy looked at the floor, where the dog was. Then he followed up with "Where's Mummy?" and even though I was right next to the little chap, he didn't look my way. At all. Not even when I said, "Here's mummy!" David, instead, had to say, "Where's Daddy?" which was an easy one, since Julian was looking at him in the first place.

Then I thought - why do I want my child to be so smart, anyway? Sure, I don't wish him to be at the bottom of the class either, but do I really need him to be at its top? Since when does intelligence equal happiness? And I should know, she said, her tongue planted firmly in cheek.

I don't need my child to be part of mensa, or invent the cure for cancer. It would be nice if he read well, so we could have lively discussions about books we've both liked. But I'd also like him to have street smarts, so that when the rental agent tells him that the crappy, mouse-infested apartment is a steal, he'll know enough to walk away. That when his uni (okay, I'm presuming he'll be smart enough to get into university) friend introduces him to a pyramid scheme, he'll also know when to walk away. That kind of thing.

One thing it said in the article is that the very, very smart seem to need less sleep. Score ten out of ten on that count.

Wow, the world looks different from up here.

Advice For Beginners

Six months ago I knew very, very little about motherhood. And yet this week, I found myself giving support to two different women, each new mothers, who later thanked me for it. Yep - it's hard for me to believe, too.

My advice, actually, wasn't very complicated. Each woman was tied to routines for their newborns, and what other people said they should be doing. I told them to chuck out the clocks/ schedules and go with their instincts. They did, and they were happier for it.

No, my advice wasn't very profound, but who knew, six months ago, that I'd be in a position to give any advice at all? Not me. Likewise, who knew, six months ago, I'd still be breastfeeding? Not me. I was hanging on to each day by a thread, telling myself at 8.5 weeks: "If only I can make it to the 9 week mark." Every day inched forward torturously, and I never thought I'd reach the point where I'd enjoy it. Yet here I am, so much so that when my doctor recently advised me to wean, I told him that I didn't want to for another few months at least.

That's the amazing thing about motherhood. You go from novice to expert in the tiniest fragment of time.

Mother's Group + Alcohol = A Good Afternoon

This week I've only had two mother's groups on, which turned out to be really fantastic. Yesterday's what I'd always imagined - a group of mums getting together who share the same sense of humour and basic parenting philosophies, so that our children can know each other but we can have a good afternoon out, too. Champagne was cracked open (with one mother claiming it was actually good for nursing mothers because it contains potassium, or something) and it was just fun, fun, fun. So, time to cut the cord with my other groups.

In very boring related news, I finally bought a high chair, and also spent the bulk of yesterday morning getting a new birth certificate for Julian. Somehow, at 2am the morning before, it had struck me that I never put it back after I had to produce it to get the $3000 government baby bonus. Since it was in a broken bit of tubing, it was not unlikely that it got thrown out. And, because I was up all night worrying about it - I can't imagine why; did I think I'd suddenly have to flee the country with him and therefore need to get him a passport straight away, or something? - I had to go to the Birth, Deaths and Marriages registry office first thing the next day.

I wonder if Julian will be anal like his mother in this regard - there are certain tasks that I can't bear putting off. Like, when I realised his storm cover on his pram had also gone walkabout, I had to buy one the moment the stores opened - never mind that the weather was sunny with no forecast for rain. On the other hand, I delayed doing something about putting my wedding video on DVD for so many years that the videographer as since misplaced the master copies of the tapes. Ho hum.

Boys Vs Girls

A woman I know just gave birth to her second boy. When she told me she was expecting a son, she said so with some disappointment - it was clear that she thought it would be ideal if she had a boy and then a girl. I'm not even going to go into how much this mindset disturbs me, but suffice to say, for a long time, I would have been happy with a baby of any type. It didn't have to even be my biological baby, and I would've been perfectly happy with a little Chinese or Ethiopian baby. In fact, it didn't have to be a baby - if you'd given me a child of two years old to raise, I would've been pretty damn happy with that, too. The most I dared wish for, beyond a child of my own (and by "own", I mean mine to raise) was for a healthy child. To ask for anything else would've been silly, like wishing you had blue eyes if you're Cindy Crawford.

I knew I was expecting a boy when I was 20 weeks pregnant, although I suspected as much before then. I was elated, because once I was told it was a boy, it seemed exactly right, although there was a little bit of panic there, too: did I know anything about boys? Could I relate to a little person's boyhood? Would I be able to educate myself well enough?

Turns out, there was nothing to worry about. Every day, my experience with Julian is about being his parent, and about him being my child. It goes far beyond his sex, and I can't imagine it being different if he was a girl.

But, a lot of people say that raising boys and girls are fundamentally different. One friend has two daughters, and she says that when she goes out with her friends, her girls are happy to scribble drawings on a pad at the table, whereas the boys are routinely under the table chucking things at one another. Another pal with three children says that her 8 year old son wakes up on a Saturday morning and can't do anything without her - he wants her to make his breakfast and plan his day. Whereas her younger daughter, who's 5, will wake up and make breakfast for herself and the 3 year old.

There's an Australian therapist who has written a book called Raising Boys which I think claims that many people tend to do a mess of raising little men, and that a different approach is needed than the one used to raise girls. Some of the things he says, at a glance, make sense, but in the early days, I still think that parenting is fundamentally the same. You've just got to love them in bits. Everything else comes after that.

PS In other Julian-related news, Ali the pug got her first hefty kick in the face from him today. Then, for an encore, he kicked her again. She seemed to be quite sore in the face after, rubbing her eye and blinking a lot, but didn't react to him at all. Good dog!
The other thing he's been doing for a couple of weeks is lifting his arms skyward when he wants to be picked up (the baby, not the dog). I love it!