– 10:53 am
Sass
Category: 3 to 12 Months
Inter what now?
– 4:28 pm
You and I are in the car at quite possibly the dingiest place I’ve parked at in a while, JustPark on Sydney street. It’s dark, damp and underground. Once the doors swing open, the piss smell is inescapable. So I’ve got the windows up. I’m surprised I didn’t hit the car driving in through that narrow bend that takes you by surprise. I’m fully expecting to kiss a wall or pillar on the way out.
Why are we here I hear you asking… Well, your mother is having a post-pregnancy ultrasound on her leg veins. She’d had some troublesome ones removed before you were conceived as a measure to reduce the risk of blood clots during pregnancy. We got here late and realised you had to prebook a parking spot. So I let her dash to make her appointment and stayed back to figure things out.
The plan was to join her but I don’t know where the hospital is or its name. And you’re fast asleep. We know how you get when woken up abruptly. Best not to get you singing. So I decided to wait it out till she gets back. In the meantime, I’m on my laptop to that new Nas record, giving it a second listen. What a great body of work.
Yesterday, your mother pointed out some light bleeding under your neck while she was changing your diaper. Turns out, all that spitting has paid off, in the worse way possible. You have a drool rash called intertrigo. Great name I know. But yes, that’s what you have. It’s pink under your neck and I imagine it’s sore and stings when milk or other liquids settle in those folds. Thankfully the remedy is simple and something we already have i.e. vaseline.
You’re making some very odd breathing sounds… Now that’s a loud fucking cry… Going to try feeding you…
The bearer of bad news
– 10:53 pm
We’ve just given you a hot bath. Your love for it is consistent and unwavering. Your mother is upstairs trying to bottlefeed you. I have no idea how she’s getting on. Hopefully well. Unfortunately, you returned with a cold the last time you both went out. You have a cough and a clogged nose.
Kim (Lennon’s mum) picked up some remedies whilst she was out from Boots. She’s the best. Dr Maalouf responded to Liza’s email on what to do with “use saline nose spray four times a day and Calpol twice a day for next 5 days”. She was already giving you the saline spray which helped a great deal. I just oiled your chest with a vapour rub and used a nasal aspirator to suck out the snot. The latter is nowhere near as gross as it sounds. The bedroom is vapoured with lavender and chamomile coming from the plug. It’s so strong I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep in there. My sleep is so easy to disrupt. I definitely don’t need help in that department.
It amazes me how much cheer you still have despite your predicament. It’s not bringing you down at all. Even with a runny nose you still have your smile and bounce. What a child we have. You’re taking it very well. Nevertheless, you hate the spray the most. I’m sorry but it’s for your own good. This moment will pass, eventually. I promise.
Your mother just came downstairs. She said you had about 210ml of Aptamil when I asked. So it looks like eating went well.
There’s a cry you cry that breaks my soul. I know it because I cried it when your grandmother died. You get it from me and I recognise it too well. It’s the most painful thing for me to hear because it’s a pain so true and so genuine. It’s distinct and not an ordinary cry. I heard it again yesterday when I was trying to comfort you. Something wouldn’t let you be, maybe the cold. I couldn’t hold you tighter and there aren’t enough hugs I can give you. It reminds me of the grief that continues to haunt me every waking day. I have to fight to remain whole.
Second dose of vaccines
– 4:10 pm
You were your usual self when I fed you early this morning, chatting, kicking and chewing off your hand. I recorded a minute or so of it and decided to play it back to you. You looked stunned, dazed and swallowed whole by what you were watching. I haven’t seen you this still and captivated.
At around 9:30 ish, your mother and I took you in for your second round of vaccines. You had the first dose last month and this is meant to be more of the same. Almost identically to last time, you’ve been fine all day. However, we’ve both struggled to get you to settle for more than five minutes within the last hour. I managed to calm you down to sleep for a bit.
Prior to that, you’d wake up intermittently in hysterics. And I’d have to shshshs you back to sleep while holding your hand. Your cough and cold are a lot better but not gone. That probably isn’t helping either. I feel terrible for you. Liza was mighty close to tears at the hospital. I’m sure she’s cried at some point since we got back. It was inked all over her face.
By the way, we’ve stopped giving you Calcough. It works no doubt but it’s also giving you an allergic reaction. There’s a red rash on your face and eczema on both your sleeves. Luckily, treating the latter doesn’t require medication or something we don’t already have. Just hygiene and vaseline.
Calcough probably has an additive in it, an ingredient that starts with E… E211 in this case. Liza is much the same. If she touches anything with flavours and additives, the rash is almost immediate. And she didn’t eat these types of foods during her pregnancy. So it’s completely foreign to your system. we tend to stay away from “E-stuffs” as we call them.
I was reading this post on Reddit and found a thought-provoking comment. OP was talking about the rising cost of living in London and how expensive private education is for anyone trying to give their child a head start. This reply in the comments got me thinking…
Honestly, if you have the means, your kid will probably be better off if, instead of paying the private school fees, you just invest 27k for him (9k of this into a junior ISA) for 18 years.
It will be very, very hard for the returns on a private school education (which I guess would be the average salary difference between private school university grads and state school university grads) to beat the investment returns on such a large figure over such a length of time.
Especially seeing as your kid would get the investment pot upfront (meaning it could keep growing across its maximum value) from their early 20s or whenever you stop contributing. Whilst the private school “returns” would still have to be earnt incrementally over a career (which could go wrong for any number of reasons).
I would rather have been a millionaire by my late 20s than have gone to a nicer school and have a bit of a better job.
I called your mother to discuss the comment and get her opinion. My parents did what they could to ready me for life. I didn’t get a bag of money at 18 but I got a mindset I could will and apply. I am a big fan of this Redditor’s line of thought and we’ll do whatever we can to give you a good base to spring from.
Boule a zéro
– 7:15 pm
Yesterday was tough. We had to give you Calpol in the end despite what the nurse said. It seemed like your entire body hurt. So much so that we couldn’t move you. You screamed every time as though with every gesture you were being pierced by a million needles. Your mother couldn’t handle it. She broke down for sure.
After the bath and bottle, we swaddled you (a lot earlier than we normally do) so you could sleep. That combo of things seemed to work. We’ll do the final set of vaccines like we did the first, giving you Calpol an hour prior and between 4-6 hour intervals. According to the NCT group, the third dose is the worse so we won’t take any chances with that one.
Side note, it dawned on me that I’ve been secretly blogging for just over a year now. It flashed by. Uncharacteristically, I expected to have given up by now. Only because I thought I’d just have my hands way too full. I am by no means saying this has been easy. The experience has been so (rewardingly) hard that I’ve greyed. I don’t think these white hairs on my chin are a coincidence.
A few hours ago, we shaved all your hair off to give you a ‘boule a zéro’ as the French call it. You had a bit of a cradle cap and this was the only way to deal with it without a half measure. We used this Flake Fixer to great success, scraping it all off. Liza then applied some almond oil to your scalp. You’re good to go.
I was expecting full-on waterworks but got nothing. I figured the buzzing of the shaving machine and the sensation on your skin would give you grief but… Nada! Even the dummy we gave you as a precaution served no real purpose. I think you’re back to yourself. And thank fuck for that.
It comes with age
– 9:07
I fed you a few moments earlier and left you to kick and wrestle about on the floor, mouthing off sounds and trying to eat your hands, just as you like it. You’re now in a straightjacket swaddle noisily looking for a way out at the expense of your mother trying to sleep. Or you’re just fast asleep. The crossover is a fine line for you.
Today makes you four months. I woke up to a message from my ol’ man sending his best wishes. It’s interesting to hear him talk about God and being so religious. He never was. I still don’t think he is. The church was something we all got dragged to. He’s superstitious, but not a worshipper of the Most High. Maybe it’s just old age. I found an article that seems to support the stereotype. With age comes religion.
Some developmental psychologists and theologians have posited that religion – and spirituality more broadly – creates a sense of meaning and coherence in one's life that becomes especially important during the final stages of human development (Fowler, 1981; Tornstam, 1997). Some social psychologists have suggested that religion helps soothe fear and insecurity about one's own mortality (Vail et al., 2009), especially when religion offers immortality. Because ageing tends to amplify these concerns, the thinking goes, religion becomes more important to people as they get older.
I was talking to Manu last night when your mother brought you in to say hello and you stayed for the duration. It’s not your first encounter but another moment to cherish nonetheless.
You still have acne. Unlikely but I think it’s heat related (as you can be overdressed sometimes for the weather). I found a list of possible causes but it seems modern medicine is none the wiser. We’ve been doing your laundry with ours so Liza thinks it’s the detergent we’re using. To that, she bought this special baby laundry liquid. I hope it works.
Crabs in a bucket
– 9:11 am
Zeddie visited last week Sunday, driving all the way from Birmingham. Long drive that. She’s so full of soul and giving. From what I gather (and it’s pretty shallow telling), Liza helped put her on the career path she’s now on through skilling, connection or both. But what they are today goes beyond that. They are the selflessness that exists between them.
I don’t remember what the prompt was but a few days ago, Thursday evening I believe, I decided to put you in a bucket. We may have both needed our hands at the time and I thought, “fuck’it, let’s try the laundry bucket”. I threw in a few toys and voila, you self-entertained for a while, trying endlessly to swallow everything.
Your mother took you to Maalouf yesterday. I couldn’t go with work commitments, not for a routine check-up anyway. The feedback is, you’re still very much in the heavyweight class at 7.9kg (probably 10 after this morning’s feast), 66cm long with a head size in the upper 95% of babies your age. So yeah, you have a big head alright (which somehow isn’t disproportionate to the rest of your body).
Rather unsurprisingly, Dr Maalouf said your neck is still a bit wobbly (trying to steady your head). So he suggested doubling the tummy time and supported sitting with toys in front of you to help develop your spine – hello bucket!
But I think I found one better. Among Kim‘s donations is the Bumbo floor seat. I’ve already put you back to bed but we’ll try it later.
Interestingly, I sat you up for a bit after your breakfast and noticed you didn’t spit out anything during the transition back to bed. I wish I knew gravity could assist in such a way. The carpet on the stairs could do without some of the returned milk stains. Not all, just some. The others are for posterity.
We also don’t have to sterilise bottles anymore. Oh, the joy Liza must have felt hearing that. She has to wash them every single fucking evening. It’s only a step up from watching paint dry I tell ya. So out goes the steriliser and in comes the drying rack. I hope for your sake you’re ready to dabble with tap water ’cause here come the germs. Good luck! And God bless!
Given your size and how much you eat, we can start you on solids at five months. Hell, I might even mash something for you to try today. Let’s give your digestive system a challenge, shall we? Looks like you’re a go after four months anyway.
Eczema on your arms and legs is fading. Maalouf said not to sweat it regardless. But it looks like the Aveeno baby cream is working wonders. You’re also not teething, despite what we thought.
PS – I don’t know if you’ve seen your face lately but you look like a Viking returning from war. You’re using your nails to fight the wrong enemy son. Liza bought an electric nail file to try.
Christmas on a plane
– 3:43 pm
We flew into Riga late last night. Your mother and I were mentally prepared for you to have an abnormal reaction to being on a plane for the first time, dealing with that noise and sensation. There are helpful tips on this website for flying with a baby. But you went about it like business as usual. I saw on Reddit to feed you during takeoff and landing so your ears pop but those events were a breeze, free of tears or drama. You slept and ate like any typical day. Honestly, I was surprised and it’s fast becoming a theme. I don’t know where you get the chill from. (From me I’m told). But long may it continue. As a four-month-old baby, I have no expectations of you but it’s a relief for the parents when you’re unexpectedly this considerate and well-mannered.
It was a first for us trying out the long-stay car park at Gatwick. We hauled all 57 bags onto the shuttle bus servicing the airport. I had to run back from the first stop to the car to get my phone as I forgot it in a frenzy trying to make the bus. It was a great test for my leg and knee running that fast with a ten-kilo backpack which I really should’ve left with you and Liza on the bus. Glad to report, I passed the test.
It was minus five when we landed. Your grandparents met us at the airport with a Car Guru. Liza and I stayed back and took a Bolt cab while you went ahead with most of our luggage.
I never get tired of the fresh air that hits my lungs whenever I come out of the Riga airport. It makes our departure area feel so polluted. The contrast is stark. And so with great pleasure, I let that ice-cold air hit every corner of my anatomy.
You had a torrid time settling into your new environment. Despite the frequent virtual exchanges with Julia and Valerie, you yelled hysterically every time they tried carrying you. It went on repeatedly all evening and every time, Liza or I had to intercede to calm you back down. That was the first time I’ve ever seen you be picky with people. It was so bizarre and uncharacteristic of you. But very understandable.
In hindsight, perhaps they were a bit over-elaborate in demonstrating their joy and excitement. Valerie especially. I can see how overwhelming it all was. A bit much I would agree. Your grandfather is forcefully loving. He’s very loud with it. Your grandmother is very space aware. She just let you be after the first clash.
You’re a lot calmer today, and way more accepting of the change. But I never heard you cry this much in such a short elapse of time.
It was also the first handshake between you and Uncle Andrew. He’s a chain smoker and likes a drink but in spite of all that, he hasn’t aged one minute. How can he though? He lives by the sea, a stone’s throw from a crowd of hundred-meter-high trees where he picks mushrooms from the forest floor as a hobby. No smoke can cloud his lungs. The air he breathes is grade fucking A. He’d be dead in London. He’s also never travelled out of Latvia, never. No need he says. The furthest he’s been is fishing. He’s quite the (gun collecting) character and I love him without understanding a word he says.
You’re probably wondering how you got on a plane without a complete those of vaccines. You’ve had them all now. Your mother took you in solo for them. I couldn’t make it. But unlike last time, we didn’t fuck about not giving you Calpol. You’ve got a taste for things sweet now so administering the dose was a lot easier.
More sass
– 8:07 am
You were five months when we flew out of Riga on Wednesday. I went back to some of your earlier pictures and my word you’ve changed! Lookswise, you are a completely different person. You have more or less the same (evolving) personality but look more like Michael Jackson post-transformation.
Unfortunately, you developed a nasty cough and cold leading up to our departure. Those minus temperatures can be extremely harsh. So Liza and I have been struggling with you, doing our very best to alleviate your suffering. I’m sincerely surprised by how much pain I feel watching you cry from so much discomfort. Maybe it’s amplified because I know, by contrast, you are an extremely happy child, always laughing and smiling. And somehow, between the crackling cough and runny nose, you still dig deep enough to bring out your true self. I applaud you young man. Your father applauds you.
Oh, by the way, your mother and I now have the same chesty cough. My lungs want to come out every time I open my mouth. So thanks for that. But at least now we know how you feel. Also, administering your medication has been a pain. You fucking hate it. So I just bought this little thing to try out tomorrow.
You also have swollen gums so you’re probably teething. That’ll explain the at times incessant fretting, gnawing at anything and everything, unreal amounts of dribble and constant rubbing of the face. You’re going through the motions for sure.
I’ve been experimenting with your food for some time, not frequently but occasionally. Whether it’s bits of papaya or a wild fruit of some kind. You had juice from a granadilla once. I didn’t even know that’s what it was called. I googled “fruit that looks like a passion fruit” to find out. Your mother never stopped me but she always gave me the side-eye. But I’m just expanding your palette. I tried your Aptamil. It tastes like shit quite frankly. You’re an African, you must understand the range and variety of all things food. Besides, you didn’t complain once and seemed to enjoy exploring these new lands. Admittedly, just because you accept it doesn’t mean it’s good for you so I was very very careful. I also don’t know if you have any allergies.
And speaking of food, your mother bought a “how to wean your baby“. It’s very much like her, to buy a hardcover. Looking at our Amazon orders, she also has a “What, when and how to feed” on the way. I feel like for this I would break character and go in blind, giving you the closest thing edible. I was raised this way. That was a long time ago though and I am welcoming of structure and new information.
Right. I’m going to get out of your hair now. Every soft tissue in my body hurts. It’s like I’ve been badly beaten but no one believes me because they can’t see the bruises.
Thursday evening was the first time I went back to playing football since my injury. I don’t remember any nerves, just a strong desire to get the “look who’s back” comments out of the way. Everyone was great and welcoming, more worried than I was. No one would tackle me. Thank fuck for that.
I came out of that training session unscathed and grateful. My knee was (and is still) killing me though. I’d been running at less than fifty percent speed midway through but decided to push through the pain. I found a new limit to gradually exceed.
Good thing I had a sports bath that evening with magnesium flakes to help soothe my muscles. I’d be in a wheelchair otherwise. But yes, I definitely got that post-first game back feeling, with aches and pains all over. You can’t see it, but it’s there and I feel it.
Picking up from the last sass post…
This day today
– 3:38 pm
Lyn is calling me… I know the conversation she wants (and has) to have but I can’t handle it now so I won’t answer. I’ll message her later.
Two years ago, your grandmother passed away. I thought it’d been twelve months, at most. Thinking about it, in retrospect, that’s clearly impossible with everything that has happened in between. But somehow it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long. Where the time went I have no idea. It sure waits for no one. Nevertheless, nothing’s changed. I know the pain and handle it a lot better. What I still feel is her absence, in full effect.
These text messages I’m getting are triggering me, so I’m ignoring them for the time being. The only way I can hold it together is not to engage. Liza asked how I was doing and I said I couldn’t talk about it. I have to manage today in my own way, in a way that is a preservation of self.
One thing I know for sure though is my mother loved celebrating life. Whenever she could, she would.
This is a picture of you I took earlier today. Smiles and laughter to us were a celebration of life.
Every time I reminisced about happier times, I had my teeth on display and belly cramps, nearly choking at something funny. This photo is that. Your grandmother was the same. She’d laugh herself to tears.
When you lose the person most dear to you, you become numb and immune to a lot of things. Very little can kill you. Since she passed, I’ve become very comfortable with death. I don’t fear it, or anyone for that matter. My love for you is now the only thing that could possibly kill me. Nothing else really matters to that degree. I hope I can show you enough of it to help you succeed in life.
PS – You should know what I feel for you is weightless compared to that of your mother. It’s incomparable. I couldn’t save her if something ever happened to you. She couldn’t save herself.