Friday, November 20, 2009

My Doodles

I used to wonder why it's such a big deal to get to go grocery shopping by yourself when you're a mother. Yeah, I get it now. I even treated myself to a ginger ale that was the best damn ginger ale I've ever had.

But as I was driving, I noticed that I already missed the kid. I enjoyed the feeling of missing him. It's good to step away and take a reading. It wasn't a mad panic to get home or anything, just a slight ache that there is now someone I love enough to miss, even when I'm only gone for an hour. [EDITED: Of course I love you this much, Trev. But I can usually go to Superstore without pining for you. I'm just saying]

As much as I complain about him, there's a permanent Doodles-shaped impression on my soul. And it's more than any schlocky Mother's Day card could ever convey. It's how when he turns his head a certain way, I can see his father in his face and I fall in love even more. Or when he makes a certain expression that sends a pulse down as deep as my own DNA.

I love those moments. Of course, there are other moments, like right now, when he's shrieking at the top of his lungs and peeing on his own face. Blog post-ending moments.

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Tuesday, November 17, 2009

"Client" vs. "Patient"

Here you go, a non-you-know-what related post.

So my studies are going, well, just okay. I tend to get easily distracted by the you-know-what, and of course all of the great television there is to watch. I loves me some good television, particularly when my studies are less than engaging, which one particular course is. Not. Engaging. (cough) I absolutely despise the textbook. It screams make-work project for some overly bureaucratized institution somewhere. It's outright obfuscatory; if there is a convoluted way to relay the simplest Nursing concept, they find it and beat it to death with a confusion stick.

Anyhoo, as a way of distracting myself from a particularly dry chapter (in which I thought I was going to find out what RN's actually do, but no luck, just more words like "needs theories" and "simultaneity theories" that I'll have to memorize for the final), I started a debate on the general discussion board. And if you have time, I'd like to know what you think. You know, as General Public types:
I take issue with the term 'client'. I always have, ever since I heard that's what we're meant to call patients. It makes absolutely no sense to me. To me, 'client' always has, and always will, imply a financial transaction for professional services. Lawyers have clients. Realtors have clients. Doctors have patients. Psychiatrists have patients. Now which category should we be in?

I bring this up now because it's being addressed in Week 10 of Potter / Perry: "By the 1960's, professional leaders recognized that nurses did much more than simply care for hospitalized clients. Because of this, nursing theorists started to use the term *client* rather than *patient*, to refer to the person at the centre of any nursing process." (p. 66 under "Client and Person).

Essentially, it's the argument that the term 'client' offers patients more respect. Well, if the patient is at the centre of care, and people in the general populate are more comfortable with the term 'patient' and think 'client' is just plain confusing and weird (ask someone, anyone, they'll think it's weird bureacratic-speak), then shouldn't we, as a patent-centered profession, respect the patient's chosen terminology? Doesn't that lead to better communication with said patient, as determined by the patient? And if we put it to a patient vote, I bet they'd chose patient. 'Client' is a nurse-chosen word. Worse, it's a 'professional leaders' chosen word. Where is the patient in that?

There is absolutely nothing wrong with the word patient, nor do I believe it affects peoples' perception of nursing. The act of nursing affects the perception of nursing.

Anyway, it's a pet peeve I can't get passed and I'm going to use the word patient until convinced otherwise.

Thoughts?

[UPDATED: I realized after writing this that Psychologists may also use the word 'client', but again there is generally a financial transaction. Social workers are the other field I can think of that may use 'client' (also use the term 'case'?). Still, this doesn't change my perception that people are comfortable with the term 'patient' in a health care setting. As a patient, it kind of makes me feel cared for.]
Thank you.

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Marital Conversations

WORKING: Doodles, stop yelling!
TREV: Listen to your mother!
WORKING: Here. Have your Sophie. Take it! Don't turn your nose up, Sophie cost us $21!
TREV: $21?! We can't be spending that kind of money on a chew toy!
WORKING: Oh yes we can. It's non-toxic, hand-painted using baby-safe paint. And if it's something he's going to be chewing on all the time, I'd rather there were no chemicals.
TREV: Fine.
WORKING: And it was made in France, not China.
TREV: Does that mean we have to give it four months of holidays?

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Monday, November 16, 2009

Dear Mac: Four Months

(Wow, Mac dominates this blog. Tomorrow, tune in for something completely different! That means I have until tomorrow to figure out what that might be. But I have to write the ode to four months today - it's his lunaversary!)

You're four months old! Wow, four months. Really, only four months? Cuz it feels like we've known you for at least a year already. You're getting so big. Accordingly, we moved you into a crib today. "Evil pen of isolation and rejection" to some, "cozy, safe rolling-around place of comfort" to us. You're still in our room, so the cacophony of snoring that erupts from your dad and the dog should provide some familiarity tonight. And I'm particularly pleased that I don't have to maneuver around the cradle to get in and out of bed.

So new on deck:
  • You grew out of all your 3-6 month clothes.
  • You're laughing! It's so cute. Kind of deep, a little raspy, definitely giddy. Your eyes get so huge and round and seem to fill to the brim with happiness. And such dimples!
  • You use your hands so much more. When you nurse you play with my cheek, my chin, you stick your fingers up my nose and hook my lip. You love to pull my hair. You push my shirt up, pull it down, push it up, pull it down. When you fall asleep, your thumb is in your mouth while the other hand strokes my neck. Trev says you've started playing with his beard, too (hours of fun in that thing).
  • I can usually make you stop crying instantly if I pretend to eat your hands. You think it's hilarious.
  • You are using the potty. I shit (ha!) you not. We hold you over it, make a little sound and you let go, both poops and pees. Of course you still wear a diaper and you probably don't notice either way, yet, but we're hoping the potty will already be a natural part of your life by the time your awareness of such things kicks in.
  • You love-love-love the jolly jumper, especially if I clap my hands and cheer.
  • This isn't new, but I don't think I've mentioned it before; you love to be held (well, no kidding, you're a baby). What I mean is, you love to be perched on my arm, looking out at whatever I'm doing, wherever I'm going. I tried you in the sling, no go. Baby Bjorn, nope. Basotho-style on my back, no thanks. You want to be perched on my left arm, which is now totally muscly, thank you very much.
  • You've started making strange with people a little. You don't cry, necessarily, but you stare at them with an overly serious face and no matter how hard they try, you're reserved with your smiles. I feel like I get to see a completely different kid from everyone else.
  • You've tasted a few different foods. No chunks, and just little tastes. So far nothing has really gotten you overly excited. Solids are probably a ways away.
  • You may or may not be teething.

Well, I'm off to gaze at you in your new crib again. You look so small, which is nice, because it felt like you were growing too fast for awhile, there.

Love,
Mommy

video

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Round Whatever

Apparently this is a sleep journal now! Oh well, better than a boob journal. Or a puke, poop and pee journal. All of which it has been at various times. I'm under no illusions that this is interesting to anyone but me. I do edit these down (you're so lucky). Thank you for indulging.

So, Mac napped for his usual half hour (urgh! So short! Can't do anything! Frustrating!) and started crying like usual. And like usual, I plodded upstairs to pick him up and bring him down for his post-nap feed (which I've jokingly referred to as "his coffee" because he's intolerable until he's had it). And as usual, he had "waking up face" - red eyed, looks like he just snapped out of an intense dream.

I was mid-reach when suddenly I remembered a section of this book I've read off and on since he was born where it says that sometimes waking up isn't really waking up, but rather transitioning. Having nothing to lose (but my sanity), I started to rock him. He cried quite a bit and I almost gave up, but then he popped his thumb in his mouth and went back to sleep and he's been down for almost an hour.

Is it possible all this time I've had a sleep-deprived child? Come to think of it, after those rare long naps, he does wake up really happy...

(insert d'oh)

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Saturday, November 14, 2009

Round Five

We took you to CrossFit. You started to fuss. I was about to give up my workout when fellow CrossFitter, A., who was sitting this one out, picked you up and told me to get back to work. 15 minutes into the workout I looked over and you were sound asleep. Some say A. has a magic touch. I think it's because she's both in law enforcement and the mother of two. You knew she wouldn't take any shit. Round five to A..

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Rounds Three and Four

Trevor took Round Three. You screamed for about 20 minutes. Then you 'went to sleep' and just as we were high fiving, you started up again. Round three to you.

I took Round Four. I nursed you ( you still get to feed 2-3 times a night, but not in my bed, yo!). Then I put you down. You started to fuss. I unclenched your fingers and shoved your thumb in your mouth. You started to suck away with me holding your hand and stroking your fingers. You fell asleep. Round Four to me.

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Friday, November 13, 2009

Round Two

You only screamed for 20 minutes! And you sucked on your own fingers! I was about to take the win when I glanced in the mirror and realized that the other hand, which was resting against my chin, was giving me the finger. Round two to you.

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Dear Mac: On the Subject of Sleep

Dear Son,
You and I just had our first big fight. It started this morning when I opened my eyes to the sounds of you fussing downstairs and your dad trying to talk you down. I looked at the clock. 9:20AM. Trevor had obviously called in late to work again to let me sleep as much as possible. But even still, he would have to be out the door soon. I had no choice but to drag my sleep-deprived, exhausted, fuzzy-headed self downstairs to take over your care for another long day of getting nothing done.

I'd like to call you a little shit for not letting me sleep again. It's been about two weeks of this. But if I'm honest, it's all my fault. One night not so long ago I was so tired that instead of getting up, nursing you and putting you back down in your cradle, I brought you to bed and nursed you to sleep. Then I did it for our nap the next day. Then I did it the next night, and the next night after that. It just seemed easier. You were ecstatic, like I was when I learned that our local Sobey's is now open until midnight every night.

Problem: you now need the boob and the pacifier to fall asleep. And since you wake up naturally every 50 minutes or so, I'm whipping the girls out like it's Mardi Gras. Pacifiers are flying around our bed like beads. So this morning, my sleep-deprived brain fought through the fog and came up with a plan. No more pacifier. No more boob.

Oh, how we fought. At first you thought I was joking. You smiled at me and puked down my cleavage. Ha, ha, so funny! Then it started to dawn on you that this wasn't a joke. You thrashed around, latching onto my arm, my chin, my cheek like a rabid piranha. Then you started to scream and, boy, you can scream. Upside, I could finally do a thorough evaluation of your gums from front to back, and your tonsils, too (they're fine. No teeth bumps, either).

You screamed and screamed and screamed, accusing me of betrayal through slitted eyelids. But I persisted. Rocking and rocking, shh'ing and shh'ing. For 40 minutes you screamed and I rocked. I stared at the pacifier on the bedside table. "COMFORT HIM!" one side of my brain screamed, "THIS IS CRUEL!" No, the other side of my brain said firmly. He's been fed. He has your arms around him. This is just anger that things aren't going his way. "YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE," the other side said. Maybe so. But I'm also right.

So I kept going. And then, suddenly, it stopped. Son, your eyes were closed. After I got over my shock, I laid you in your cradle and you sleepily popped your thumb into your mouth. Maybe, just maybe, this could mean the resumption of our beautiful friendship.

Love,
Mommy

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Thursday, November 12, 2009

Dreams

In another lifetime, I used to be a fitness instructor (all my fellow CrossFitters who have witnessed me try to do a pull-up are all like "whaa-?"). I taught the cardio component of a martial art called "Krav Maga", or literally "contact combat" (it is exactly as it sounds). I felt like such a tough guy, flying down to LA to be trained and certified.

I came back all pumped and confident. Then I taught my first class. To say I sucked would be to understate it. In the mirror, as I lost the beat and tripped over my own feet again, I could see the frowns on the faces of my students, and an outright sneer on the face of one of the guys who had been royally pissed that I'd been selected to teach in the first place. I had just proven his point.

"You'll get better," my boss said, "it just takes time" (oh, the parallels I could draw with motherhood).

Despite how hard it was at the time, it's taken this many years for it to come out in my dreams. Yup, I am now having anxiety dreams about Krav Maga. In the dreams, I am called in to teach. It's been years, so I can't remember the steps. The students are waiting and I can tell they're better than me. I can't seem to get my arms and feet to move the right way. I can't remember the combinations. I'm out of shape and out of breath. My boss never shows up. I'm on my own.

I suppose in about five years I'll start having dreams about final exams that I forgot to study for.

As a side note, when I was training in LA they were really big into the keeping it overly positive and making contact with our students to encourage them. You know, a touch on the shoulder, a pat on the back, a hand on the arm to enforce a movement. That "touch is essential" was hammered into our heads and we were even marked on it during our practical exam.

After a few weeks of teaching back in Canada, my boss pulled me aside and said, "the students don't want you to touch them. It makes them uncomfortable." I was mortified. Now I chalk it up to a cultural difference between LA and, well, the rest of the world.

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