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Enslaved by the baby.

2009-02-16 - 7:57 a.m.

Iíve been up for Ĺ an hour and Mr. McBarferson has spewed 4 times. Heís taken out 2 of my shirts, 1 of his outfits, and a chenille throw (the first time, when I didnít realize he was feeling a bit delicate). He managed to hit only the hardwood and his bare arm with the latest, biggest puddle.

I donít think heís ill, but man, when does the cardiac sphincter (the one at the top of the stomach that closes it off to anything that wants to go out the in door Ė the one at the bottom of the stomach separating it from the small intestine is the iliac sphincter (youíre welcome)) toughen up? I canít even blame his overly-sensitive gag reflex on this one Ďcause he wasnít stuffing his fingers in his mouth like he often does.

And when, oh when, is he going to take to solid foods? I donít, surprisingly, mind nursing him every two to three hours, 24 hours a day. I would, however, like to have another reliable source of nutrition for him. Our plan back in January was to put him in someone elseís care one day a week so that the transition to full-time daycare when I go back to work wouldnít be so traumatic like it was for his sister. This was predicated, however, on him being able to be fed something while heís apart from me. The boy, as I think Iíve mentioned, hates everything, from the mild, innocuous-tasting stuff like rice cereal and applesauce, right through to the stronger-but-sweeter sweet potatoes and bananas. And heaven forbid he should encounter a lump of any type: instant gag. He likes chewing on rice rusks and accidentally ends up swallowing some of the resulting mush, but thatís not really deliberately eating and thereís almost no calories in those things, never mind actual nutrition.

Le sigh.

Heís also getting harder to leave with anyone, even his father for an evening or at the gym childminding for an hour. If youíre not his mumma, youíre not the one he wants dancing attendance on him, and he lets you know with this new, loud, blatting, goose-like honk heís developed. Most mothers would recognize their own childís variation because itís the sound that elevates your blood pressure from across the house. Donít get me wrong: I love that he loves me. It melts me to have him actually put out his arms for me to pick him up. I would love him to love other people too though, at least almost as much. How can that proverbial village lend a hand if he rejects them all roundly as they approach?

Okay, I may be exaggerating a tad, but not much I swear. He was so unhappy when I returned from a couldnít-really-not-go bachelorette party, that I held his little body, stroking his back as he rooted at the boob with relief, finally quiet after (if my husband is to be believed, and he is) almost 4 hours of crying for me, and swore Iíd never leave him again. Of course I canít keep that promise because he will grow up and grow out of the need for my constant presence, but man, in the meantime I suspect I will look like one of those moms who are slaves to their kids. ďYou want me to go out after 7 pm? Sorry, no can do.Ē I may be a slave to a pint-sized master, but at least Iím a willing slave.

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