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Enslaved by the baby.

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

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

I don�t think he�s 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 � the one at the bottom of the stomach separating it from the small intestine is the iliac sphincter (you�re welcome)) toughen up? I can�t even blame his overly-sensitive gag reflex on this one �cause he wasn�t stuffing his fingers in his mouth like he often does.

And when, oh when, is he going to take to solid foods? I don�t, 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 else�s care one day a week so that the transition to full-time daycare when I go back to work wouldn�t be so traumatic like it was for his sister. This was predicated, however, on him being able to be fed something while he�s apart from me. The boy, as I think I�ve 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 that�s not really deliberately eating and there�s almost no calories in those things, never mind actual nutrition.

Le sigh.

He�s also getting harder to leave with anyone, even his father for an evening or at the gym childminding for an hour. If you�re not his mumma, you�re not the one he wants dancing attendance on him, and he lets you know with this new, loud, blatting, goose-like honk he�s developed. Most mothers would recognize their own child�s variation because it�s the sound that elevates your blood pressure from across the house. Don�t 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 couldn�t-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 I�d never leave him again. Of course I can�t 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. �You want me to go out after 7 pm? Sorry, no can do.� I may be a slave to a pint-sized master, but at least I�m a willing slave.

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