This evening, we were out to dinner at a couple friends house for easter. They made a lovely ham and full course meal. I offered to bring a dessert. Probably not the best idea. While I am perfectly capable of hosting my own dinner party, offering to bring only one course has its issues. For one, you want it to be show stopping, since it's the only thing you're providing. Two, it should be relatively easy to prepare, because you doubtlessly have underestimated the amount of time you have to make it before going out the door. Three, you should follow a recipe. It's not the time to wing it.
Well, I betrayed all three of those rules. I had decided to make a pear cheesecake. This relatively simple plan was immediately derailed by the fact that there were no grocery stores open in the vicinity. Mike had independent plans to barbeque some leftover meats from yesterday, so he didn't want to go too far afield. I was stuck with the meagre offerings of our local Hasty Market. With (spreadable) cream cheese, gelatin, condensed (unsweetened) milk, pear flavouring, and a (chocolate) graham cracker crust, I tried to make magic. It didn't happen. For some reason the whole time I was paralysed with fear that the spreadable cream cheese would have the wrong consistency for a proper cheesecake, which lead me to add not one, but four packages of knox gelatin to the mix. The result was a very strange, very dense, indescribeable gelatin cheese cake. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good, either.
At the last minute, I made Mike go out for his third trip to the Hasty Market to buy filo dough and canned peaches and made a last minute ricotta peach struesel. Which was not show stopping. It was eclipsed by the wierd cake that I also brought, that everyone spent the whole time politely eating, trying to describe what it reminded them of. I downed three glasses of white wine in an attempt to drown out the embarassment. It was returned to me along with the cake pan on my way out. Always a bad sign. Mike, on the other hand, ate it with relish. He was and is very glad it returned home with us.
This is all to say that despite the miracles I make in the kitchen, tell me it's my only chance to impress, and I will guaranteedly fail.
Thankfully, my child is very cute and distracting. Even when I've convinced myself that both Mike and I are the most socially awkward and unpleasant people in the world, our sunny, chubby baby redeems us as dinner company. He has begun pulling up on everything, scooching his little butt across the rug to get to his mommy or daddy, and babbling constantly. His words so far are 'mama' 'dada' and 'ubb' which we're pretty sure means 'up' since he always says it with his arms flailing in the air, sitting at our feet.
As usual, I am amazed.
I would like to take him to the doctor soon, though. I am worried at how lean he is in the torso. While I could chalk it up to mother's guilt, I'm worried that he's not eating enough, and he's still holding fast at the weight he was at nine months. This scares me. I would hate for his development to be halted because I was supposed to be supplementing with formula, or force feeding him, or something. He is so reticent to eat, that it shakes my seemingly unshakable belief that mother knows best, and babies lead themselves to healthful habits without intervention from medical authorities.
Well that is all for now, dear reader. More soon.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Giving
According to the Dalhousie website, a decision has been made on my application to the costume studies program in the theatre department. Whether the decision is yes or no, only time will tell. It's so nerve wracking to wait. Each possibility has its ups and downs. I'm not especially looking forward to packing up my house, renting it out, finding somewhere new to live, figuring out the logistics of childcare in Halifax once we get there. I am looking forward to the idea that it is possible to do something for a living that I enjoy.
I was thinking today about when I decided to move to Toronto. I had always said I never would do it. Toronto was too brash, greedy, loud, large and lacking in culture. It seemed like the brutish, overweight cousin of the genteel, chainsmoking Montreal I had gotten used to. In Toronto there was no cafe on every corner, the bars weren't open until 3 in the morning. Everyone in Toronto had house parties, because rent was so expensive no one could afford to go out to drink. In Toronto, you couldn't smoke inside. However, as I tried to decide what to do when my graduate studies came to a close, I knew I had to leave my sweet city of Montreal for greener pastures. I couldn't get a job outside of my university, because I wasn't fluently french speaking. Une bière s'il vous plaît was not sufficient and pretty much the full extent of my linguistic abilities. As I mulled it over in my mind, I began to say goodbye to my favourite spots, some of which I still have yet to see again. Parc Mont Royale in the summer, cafe presse in the winter. The fountain at Place des Armes that I fecklessly jumped into when I was seventeen, only to be rebuked moments later by a security guard who boredly pointed at the signs. Where could I go that could possibly match the city I had declared my love to, for so long? I remember discussing it with my mom's partner when I told him I didn't know where I wanted to live.
"You know, Nic, your mom cries a lot." He said it matter-of-factly, leaning in and gripping his steering wheel more tightly.
"Like, generally?" I laughed uncomfortably.
"She would just like you to live closer. She talks about it. Montreal is so far away."
"But we fight every time I visit. If she wanted me to move closer then she'd be nicer."
"I think you both are guilty of that -- of not being nice."
My silence was complicit. Undeniably, both of us were incredibly petty in those years. A nasty feedback loop of one expecting sniping comments from the other, then preemptively striking. It was difficult to tell if either of us were mad at eachother, or just constantly defending percieved attacks.
"I could never live in Toronto though, it's awful there."
He shrugged, clearly feeling as though he had said his piece.
After that conversation, no matter how many reasons piled upon reasons why it was a good idea for me to move to Toronto, and yes there were many, it all came back to that conversation. Despite how much I rebelled, and continue to do so, I don't ever want to make my mom cry. Maybe some tears are inevitible, but I definitely don't want it to be a lot.
In retrospect, it was a good decision. Not only because Toronto was where I met my husband and gave birth to my child, but because it is the first marker for me of adulthood. It was the first selfless choice I made as an adult, and it gives me hope that at one point, after giving and giving and giving, your children give a little back. It's not what they give, but the fact they've learned to give at all.
I was thinking today about when I decided to move to Toronto. I had always said I never would do it. Toronto was too brash, greedy, loud, large and lacking in culture. It seemed like the brutish, overweight cousin of the genteel, chainsmoking Montreal I had gotten used to. In Toronto there was no cafe on every corner, the bars weren't open until 3 in the morning. Everyone in Toronto had house parties, because rent was so expensive no one could afford to go out to drink. In Toronto, you couldn't smoke inside. However, as I tried to decide what to do when my graduate studies came to a close, I knew I had to leave my sweet city of Montreal for greener pastures. I couldn't get a job outside of my university, because I wasn't fluently french speaking. Une bière s'il vous plaît was not sufficient and pretty much the full extent of my linguistic abilities. As I mulled it over in my mind, I began to say goodbye to my favourite spots, some of which I still have yet to see again. Parc Mont Royale in the summer, cafe presse in the winter. The fountain at Place des Armes that I fecklessly jumped into when I was seventeen, only to be rebuked moments later by a security guard who boredly pointed at the signs. Where could I go that could possibly match the city I had declared my love to, for so long? I remember discussing it with my mom's partner when I told him I didn't know where I wanted to live.
"You know, Nic, your mom cries a lot." He said it matter-of-factly, leaning in and gripping his steering wheel more tightly.
"Like, generally?" I laughed uncomfortably.
"She would just like you to live closer. She talks about it. Montreal is so far away."
"But we fight every time I visit. If she wanted me to move closer then she'd be nicer."
"I think you both are guilty of that -- of not being nice."
My silence was complicit. Undeniably, both of us were incredibly petty in those years. A nasty feedback loop of one expecting sniping comments from the other, then preemptively striking. It was difficult to tell if either of us were mad at eachother, or just constantly defending percieved attacks.
"I could never live in Toronto though, it's awful there."
He shrugged, clearly feeling as though he had said his piece.
After that conversation, no matter how many reasons piled upon reasons why it was a good idea for me to move to Toronto, and yes there were many, it all came back to that conversation. Despite how much I rebelled, and continue to do so, I don't ever want to make my mom cry. Maybe some tears are inevitible, but I definitely don't want it to be a lot.
In retrospect, it was a good decision. Not only because Toronto was where I met my husband and gave birth to my child, but because it is the first marker for me of adulthood. It was the first selfless choice I made as an adult, and it gives me hope that at one point, after giving and giving and giving, your children give a little back. It's not what they give, but the fact they've learned to give at all.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
hand to mouth
As much as I love to eat, it would seem that this is not a genetic trait. My 11 month old son hates to eat. Hates hates hates it. While he will, with various tricks, consume his purees, anything else is a complete exercise in futility. He will bring nothing hand to mouth. I have sat with him all day long, due to worry, trying to feed him everything and anything in little chunks. Finger foods, they say, should be easily and happily consumed by nine months. It is in his hair, on his clothes, in his little fat wrist folds, everywhere but in his mouth.
I could weep from frustration.
I watch him play, and I realised he rarely brings anything to his mouth. When he was a drooling machine, around six months, everything went in the mouth. Now it's my cell phone, once or twice a day that he chews on, and that's all. I've tried to get him to eat little chunks of pear, peach, avocado, cookies, digestive crackers, cake, pieces of bread, nada. And it would seem, after this day of mommy trying her best to get baby to feed himself, Ender has noticed that there is a battle taking place. Now he is refusing food from the spoon too. Great.
I am hoping it is just one of those days. It has been a crappy day, generally, and I think Ender is noticing my growing hysteria. I know I should wait, patiently. Instead, I google what could possibly be wrong. I read about six year olds eating purees. About occupational therapy and malnutrition and weight loss. I freak out.
People who have had kids who haven't had this problem are unsuprisingly unsympathetic. They suggest different foods, insinuate that I'm feeding him too much milk, as though what I'm doing is the problem. My mother keeps talking about how nice it is when they just eat off your plate in restaurants, rather than having to deal with a messy purees at home. I read recommended intake of food for eleven month olds and balk. In one day? I think. Those kids must look like sumo wrestlers. The amount of puree being consumed is becoming untenable. My tiny baby food maker overflows. The floor is scattered with uneaten crackers and pear chunks.
Today is not my day. I will deal with all of it tomorrow.
I could weep from frustration.
I watch him play, and I realised he rarely brings anything to his mouth. When he was a drooling machine, around six months, everything went in the mouth. Now it's my cell phone, once or twice a day that he chews on, and that's all. I've tried to get him to eat little chunks of pear, peach, avocado, cookies, digestive crackers, cake, pieces of bread, nada. And it would seem, after this day of mommy trying her best to get baby to feed himself, Ender has noticed that there is a battle taking place. Now he is refusing food from the spoon too. Great.
I am hoping it is just one of those days. It has been a crappy day, generally, and I think Ender is noticing my growing hysteria. I know I should wait, patiently. Instead, I google what could possibly be wrong. I read about six year olds eating purees. About occupational therapy and malnutrition and weight loss. I freak out.
People who have had kids who haven't had this problem are unsuprisingly unsympathetic. They suggest different foods, insinuate that I'm feeding him too much milk, as though what I'm doing is the problem. My mother keeps talking about how nice it is when they just eat off your plate in restaurants, rather than having to deal with a messy purees at home. I read recommended intake of food for eleven month olds and balk. In one day? I think. Those kids must look like sumo wrestlers. The amount of puree being consumed is becoming untenable. My tiny baby food maker overflows. The floor is scattered with uneaten crackers and pear chunks.
Today is not my day. I will deal with all of it tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Pictures of food
I realised recently that I take a lot of pictures of the food I cook, but rarely post them. Food photography is way harder than it looks, so don't judge me too harshly. I really have no idea what I'm doing.
So here we go...
This is Irish colcannon. It's like potato salad, but with more cabbage and served warm. I later used it to stuff my pierogi. I made up a crapload of this a while back when I was worried about money (needlessly, it turned out) and we ate it for a whole week. I think it made me feel closer to my Irish ancestors I only recently found out about. It also had pork bits in there that I had slow cooked with pepsi one night on a whim. The pepsi made it kind of...spicy. I don't think I'll do it again, though.
Coconut oil biscuits and tomato gravy. The tomato gravy just tasted like the best tomato soup you've ever had. This is from when I was experimenting with any fats that were cheaper than butter. Coconut oil is now a mainstay in our household. We use it for cooking, for hair conditioning, and I make up batches of biscuit mix and keep it in coffee tins whenever the desire strikes us.
My Julia Child chocolate souffle. Perfect. Delicious. Way easier than I thought it would be. It's basically just a roux/bechamel with yolk and whipped whites.
Homemade Montreal-style bagels. It was a big job, and I needed my husband's assistance, but it was totally worth it. As we kept on shouting, as we ate the entire dozen in the next two days, "It's so bagel-y!"
Comfort food. Chickpea dumplings in a yogurt-curry sauce. I can't take full credit for the sauce. I buy simmering sauces and then majorly stretch them out by adding yogurt, honey, plain tomato sauce, gram masala, cardamom, onions, garlic and ginger. The dumplings are way easy, just besan (chickpea) flour, water, and whatever seasonings you like. Roll into sausages and boil until they float. Cut into bits and simmer in some oil until brown. Pop in curry sauce.
I hope you enjoyed this food interlude. I recently cleaned and reorganized my cupboards, so hopefully there will be some more interesting things coming soon. :)
Monday, March 22, 2010
Last name, first name, date of birth?
Well it was a productive, if not incredibly busy, weekend. I made a chocolate souffle (pictures to follow, my camera is out of reach at the moment) which turned out perfectly. Mike and I decided to make Montreal style bagels on a whim, and it was way too much fun. Boiling breads and baked goods has become my new obsession. It's just so gratifying as you drop those blobs of dough in the water and watch them puff and rise to the top of the pot. Dumplings were never de rigeur in our household, but I've learned to love them. I think boiling wheat/besan/anything products is highly underrated. It's not just for pasta, people!
I'm thinking a lot about school lately. I hope both Mike and I get in, and are given the opportunity by these random arbiters of destiny to fulfill our dreams. How odd is it that some bureaucrat gets to decide this? And it is all based on a couple pieces of paper, in my case. A short letter pleading my worthiness, and a computer printoff filled with numbers that signify, in turn, my intelligence and stick-to-it-iveness. I've always had a bit of an obsession with school applications. In my senior year I applied to thirteen different universities. My parents, clearly not keeping track, kept doling out the application fees.
"How many is that now?" My mother asked offhandedly. I think I mumbled something vague about open opportunities with a dash of world as my oyster rhetoric that I love so much.
In the end, I got into one university, which was perfect because it was the one that I wanted to get into and it saved me the trouble of having to decide. I should say from the outset that my lack of options wasn't from poor grades, but rather, overambitiousness. I had graduated a year early, but my graduation was only going to come through in August. I hurriedly completed the last of my coursework in the chunnel, reading the Great Gatsby beneath the Tour Effiel. I found the contrast of European historicity and feigned American classism most ironic. Most universities weren't willing to give me a conditional acceptance except my alma mater, which did. As time went on, I would continue to love the bendiness of their administration, the flexibility of their manifestos. There was always someone sympathetic that you could wheedle if your tuition was late, or you really really needed to get into that class that was full.
I think those thirteen applications were the harbingers of the future. I learned to fill in my name, last then first, in caps in those tiny blocks. Birthdate, SIN, address, phone number, signature. It's a formula that is the catalyst for all of the hallmarks of life: school applications, marriage certificates, mortgage papers and your child's birth registration. Little did I know, as I pressed out those facts about myself to thirteen different schools through whitened knuckles and ball point pen, that it would eventually determine my entire future. Even if I did only get in to one of them.
I'm thinking a lot about school lately. I hope both Mike and I get in, and are given the opportunity by these random arbiters of destiny to fulfill our dreams. How odd is it that some bureaucrat gets to decide this? And it is all based on a couple pieces of paper, in my case. A short letter pleading my worthiness, and a computer printoff filled with numbers that signify, in turn, my intelligence and stick-to-it-iveness. I've always had a bit of an obsession with school applications. In my senior year I applied to thirteen different universities. My parents, clearly not keeping track, kept doling out the application fees.
"How many is that now?" My mother asked offhandedly. I think I mumbled something vague about open opportunities with a dash of world as my oyster rhetoric that I love so much.
In the end, I got into one university, which was perfect because it was the one that I wanted to get into and it saved me the trouble of having to decide. I should say from the outset that my lack of options wasn't from poor grades, but rather, overambitiousness. I had graduated a year early, but my graduation was only going to come through in August. I hurriedly completed the last of my coursework in the chunnel, reading the Great Gatsby beneath the Tour Effiel. I found the contrast of European historicity and feigned American classism most ironic. Most universities weren't willing to give me a conditional acceptance except my alma mater, which did. As time went on, I would continue to love the bendiness of their administration, the flexibility of their manifestos. There was always someone sympathetic that you could wheedle if your tuition was late, or you really really needed to get into that class that was full.
I think those thirteen applications were the harbingers of the future. I learned to fill in my name, last then first, in caps in those tiny blocks. Birthdate, SIN, address, phone number, signature. It's a formula that is the catalyst for all of the hallmarks of life: school applications, marriage certificates, mortgage papers and your child's birth registration. Little did I know, as I pressed out those facts about myself to thirteen different schools through whitened knuckles and ball point pen, that it would eventually determine my entire future. Even if I did only get in to one of them.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Babyhawk Review
Alright, so my babyhawk baby carrier arrived. I'd say 'finally' arrived, but this one was ordered from a different website, and the other one refunded my money. This website actually had incredibly fast shipping. After excitedly ripping it from its packaging, I knew that the claim that the regular sized straps fit up to XXL size men and size 22 women wasn't going to be true. The ties that are advertised are ones that wrap around the body sometimes three times. I'm not a small lady, but I'm never larger than a size 14, and I've had to modify the wrapping that is recommended on the package. In retrospect, I would have ordered the longer straps option. My husband, who is a size medium, large at most, had the same problem. The fabric was of good quality and I was really happy with the day of the dead themed pattern that I chose.
I tried out three positions for my almost 11-month old son. The first was the back carry, since it was the one I was most excited about. The baby bjorn, as much as I loved it, did not have this option. After some tweaking, I finally got Ender in the right spot for a back carry. As I mentioned before, I couldn't do the cross tie because the straps were too short, so I tied it in the way that makes the straps like a back pack. Ender seemed very pleased, and it was fairly comfortable. My shoulders started to ache pretty soon into our walk, though, and I suspect the cross tie would have alleviated that issue. Then Mike tried the back carry, which he found much easier than the front carry which always hurt his back when we used the bjorn.
When I tried the hip carry and the front carry with the babyhawk, I was the most happy. The strap across the bottom provided some lower back support, making my baby feel weightless. The head rest was at just the right place, which is saying something for my very tall baby boy. Overall, I'd give the babyhawk five stars.
I think it's a real shame that such a great product is being hampered by such poor customer service and bad marketing. The fact that the babyhawk is not available in the myriad of trendy baby stores here in Toronto is inexplicable. The market is ready for it. I saw several bugaboo moms (read: more disposable income than brains) drooling over my carrier, and I grocery shopped with ease in it later in the day. It is made for the urban mom. Strollers are nice as the exception rather than the rule. If you want to grocery shop, run errands, take your child to the doctor, visit with friends, ride the bus, strollers are a big bulky hassle. Baby slings are great if your baby will tolerate it, but mai teis are great for kids up to forty pounds. That means no more dragging your toddler around the mall who refuses to sit in his or her stroller, and can't keep up.
Now, after a day of almost nineteen degree weather, my baby is napping and I'm treating myself to homemade chocolate pudding and strawberries. This chocolate pudding is actually a modification of my favourite drink, cioccolata calda, and can be served as a pudding or as a beverage. It's very easy to make. If your baby is napping, forget the dishes for a minute. Go ahead and treat yourself to something nice:
I tried out three positions for my almost 11-month old son. The first was the back carry, since it was the one I was most excited about. The baby bjorn, as much as I loved it, did not have this option. After some tweaking, I finally got Ender in the right spot for a back carry. As I mentioned before, I couldn't do the cross tie because the straps were too short, so I tied it in the way that makes the straps like a back pack. Ender seemed very pleased, and it was fairly comfortable. My shoulders started to ache pretty soon into our walk, though, and I suspect the cross tie would have alleviated that issue. Then Mike tried the back carry, which he found much easier than the front carry which always hurt his back when we used the bjorn.
When I tried the hip carry and the front carry with the babyhawk, I was the most happy. The strap across the bottom provided some lower back support, making my baby feel weightless. The head rest was at just the right place, which is saying something for my very tall baby boy. Overall, I'd give the babyhawk five stars.
I think it's a real shame that such a great product is being hampered by such poor customer service and bad marketing. The fact that the babyhawk is not available in the myriad of trendy baby stores here in Toronto is inexplicable. The market is ready for it. I saw several bugaboo moms (read: more disposable income than brains) drooling over my carrier, and I grocery shopped with ease in it later in the day. It is made for the urban mom. Strollers are nice as the exception rather than the rule. If you want to grocery shop, run errands, take your child to the doctor, visit with friends, ride the bus, strollers are a big bulky hassle. Baby slings are great if your baby will tolerate it, but mai teis are great for kids up to forty pounds. That means no more dragging your toddler around the mall who refuses to sit in his or her stroller, and can't keep up.
Now, after a day of almost nineteen degree weather, my baby is napping and I'm treating myself to homemade chocolate pudding and strawberries. This chocolate pudding is actually a modification of my favourite drink, cioccolata calda, and can be served as a pudding or as a beverage. It's very easy to make. If your baby is napping, forget the dishes for a minute. Go ahead and treat yourself to something nice:
1 oz semi-sweet baker's chocolateIt's rich without being sickeningly sweet, or overly creamy. It's probably diet friendly, though I'm not sure about that. You can also do it stovetop, if you have more patience than me.
1 1/2 cups milk
2 teaspoons cornstarch
In a deep mug or bowl, put in your chocolate and milk. Nuke for three one minute intervals, whisking with a fork every time. When the chocolate and milk have somewhat blended after three minutes (your chocolate will look grainy in the milk) whisk in your cornstarch. Nuke at two more one minute blitzes. It will bubble and expand as it thickens. Let it cool for a few minutes, and enjoy!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Weaning and OAMC
OAMC - have you heard of it? It stands for Once a Month Cooking, and I think it sounds like a fantastic idea. You spend one full day cooking your butt off, shove it all in the freezer and then enjoy your loads of free time. Plus your meals are more likely to be balanced with this little bit of forethought. I think I'm going to do it. Hopefully I can get Mike on board, since it'll mean blowing our whole food budget in one day.
The weaning of my son is going well. My goal was to breastfeed for one full year, and I think I may go past that. Still, without really trying more and more feedings are being dropped every day. I was worried because Ender is a very boob-dependant baby. When he was brand new he just spent hours and hours eating, which was very frustrating for busy-body me. He has yet to bring food to his own mouth and eat it, which is strange, but he does eat his solids now with great enthusiasm. Since he turns one year old in a little more than a month, I think complete weaning is a little overly optimistic, but daytime weaning is a definite possibility. Tonight he fell asleep on me without feeding. Amazing how quickly they decide to take these steps without even asking our permission! At this point, one week shy of eleven months old, he is feeding twice to three times a day. Once before each nap (which is one or two a day) and then once before/during bed. I can't wait to get my boobs back! This may sound weird to anyone who hasn't breastfed before, but the idea of having one's body to oneself is incredibly exciting.
Today I got some chores done, visited my dad very briefly to drop off some stuff, and enjoyed the beautiful weather. The whole family walked around the city, did some marketing and had lunch at a little polish cafe. I had goulash and dumplings, which I insist on reproducing at some point. Since the boys were sick, the 'to do' recipes have been piling up. So far on it are: hungarian goulash and dumplings, moroccan beef, lentil salad, chocolate souffle, and zucchini bread. Yummy. At the moment I'm making a very questionable crock-pot concoction which will most likely have bad results. Chicken, terragon, chinese eggplant and okra. Hmm. I think it will just be a tasteless mucky mess, but we'll see. It's the day before grocery day, and I had to clean out the fridge.
Due to the car breaking, we had to postpone travel plans to visit Ottawa. My friend had his baby mid-January and I wanted to go see her. I hope he's not having a too-hard time of it. She's two months old now. I had to go back and look at pictures of Ender to remember what two months looked like, and to bring back the memory of what he could and couldn't do, and what my own limitations were. It was a very different, and a very difficult, time. I found around two months that I was very hard on myself, expecting that by that time I should be 'good' at being a mom. The truth is, it's not about being good at it or not. A two month old baby is a lot of work. Full stop. And adjusting to being a mom takes a long time. I'd say I hadn't fully sublimated it until six or seven months in.
Until next time...
The weaning of my son is going well. My goal was to breastfeed for one full year, and I think I may go past that. Still, without really trying more and more feedings are being dropped every day. I was worried because Ender is a very boob-dependant baby. When he was brand new he just spent hours and hours eating, which was very frustrating for busy-body me. He has yet to bring food to his own mouth and eat it, which is strange, but he does eat his solids now with great enthusiasm. Since he turns one year old in a little more than a month, I think complete weaning is a little overly optimistic, but daytime weaning is a definite possibility. Tonight he fell asleep on me without feeding. Amazing how quickly they decide to take these steps without even asking our permission! At this point, one week shy of eleven months old, he is feeding twice to three times a day. Once before each nap (which is one or two a day) and then once before/during bed. I can't wait to get my boobs back! This may sound weird to anyone who hasn't breastfed before, but the idea of having one's body to oneself is incredibly exciting.
Today I got some chores done, visited my dad very briefly to drop off some stuff, and enjoyed the beautiful weather. The whole family walked around the city, did some marketing and had lunch at a little polish cafe. I had goulash and dumplings, which I insist on reproducing at some point. Since the boys were sick, the 'to do' recipes have been piling up. So far on it are: hungarian goulash and dumplings, moroccan beef, lentil salad, chocolate souffle, and zucchini bread. Yummy. At the moment I'm making a very questionable crock-pot concoction which will most likely have bad results. Chicken, terragon, chinese eggplant and okra. Hmm. I think it will just be a tasteless mucky mess, but we'll see. It's the day before grocery day, and I had to clean out the fridge.
Due to the car breaking, we had to postpone travel plans to visit Ottawa. My friend had his baby mid-January and I wanted to go see her. I hope he's not having a too-hard time of it. She's two months old now. I had to go back and look at pictures of Ender to remember what two months looked like, and to bring back the memory of what he could and couldn't do, and what my own limitations were. It was a very different, and a very difficult, time. I found around two months that I was very hard on myself, expecting that by that time I should be 'good' at being a mom. The truth is, it's not about being good at it or not. A two month old baby is a lot of work. Full stop. And adjusting to being a mom takes a long time. I'd say I hadn't fully sublimated it until six or seven months in.
Until next time...
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