Gitmo

Well. I must speak the truth. Motherhood has taken me by surprise. RJ is an absolute joy, and I feel like the luckiest person in the world to have him (thus far). This is obviously totally against expectation, but more than that, it is also totally counter-intuitive. Why? Well, because I am becoming increasingly convinced that he is the reincarnation of a prison guard from Gitmo.

For example, using references I sourced from the infallible Wikipedia here.

1. Sleep Deprivation

RJ is EXPERT at ensuring this. By outgrowing his crib at four months instead of the six we’d expected, he ensured that we would have to turn his crib into a cot and therefore have no room to fit his sleeping quarters other than into our own bedroom. I’m actually fairly lucky in that he wakes at about eleven to make sure mum and dad are home before falling back to sleep. He then wakes up around four and comes into bed with us, which is lovely. This, of course, is when he’s not teething. He’s seven months tomorrow and has managed to sprout a tooth for every month, albeit in consecutive weeks that commenced when he was about four and a half months old. I genuinely sometimes feel that I am hallucinating from the exhaustion.

2. Beatings

Given that babies put things in their mouths to learn, and then progress to slapping surfaces, RJ should be a baby genius. Sadly a lot of the things that have ended up in his mouth have been my extremities (see above re teeth), those chompers of his are a force to be reckoned with. I gave him a wooden toy to play with last night, and it actually came away with splinters. I sometimes worry that he’ll gnaw his way out of his crib but then I figure all that fibre must be good for him.

The other beatings I suffer are the slaps to/clawing of my face every morning.

3. Prolonged Constraint in Uncomfortable Positions

Sometimes, when he’s a little ratty, RJ just wants to be held. And held. And held. He weighs about 10kg at the moment, and is as long as a 15 month old, according to the wisdom of H&M kids (the best kids clothes in HK, I think). The combination of these two traits mean that I have to hold him across my belly, wedged under my spaniels ears. This often leads to cramping and stabbing pain in the elbows.

4. Forced Injections

I have to admit that I haven’t had too many of these – he’s actually been the victim of these. Having to hold him down and lull him into a false sense of security while a nurse and pediatrician prepare for the simultaneous injection is fairly traumatic for me. Especially since he went puce the first time it was done (as he holds his breath to ready himself for the massive bawling). Emotionally agonising.

5. Cultural Humiliation

I am constantly berated by random strangers these days. Apparently there are many reasons that I am publicly a terrible parent, one of the most commonly articulated being that I choose not to hood, sock, layer and glove him when the temperature is above fifteen degrees. I am not trying to freeze him to death, as many people accuse me of doing. It’s not actually tough love (though I concede this on other points). I just figure that if I layer him into heat rash, it’s not a good thing. I generally let him tell me what is good and bad for him, and he’s already vocal or quick to respond if he is unhappy about anything. He gets that from his dad.

The other thing that appears to shock people is when I let him eat off my plate. As far as I’m concerned, if it hasn’t been soaked in sugar, brined, or pickled in alcohol, he’s welcome to attempt it. For example, when I was at my favoured burger joint the other day, he ate the burger bun, mushrooms, cheese and a sliver of burger. No fries since that had been salted. He loved it. Random drunk and unwelcome lady came over and told me off for letting him eat. Apparently it was my responsibility to ensure that he didn’t put things in his mouth that could pose a choking risk. Apparently Baby Led Weaning (which, admittedly, I know nothing about), isn’t as well thought of as I’d thought.

The last shocker (apparently), is that he goes to Gymboree, PEKIP (aka naked baby) and Tutor Time for Mandarin immersion. People speak to me as though this is something akin to abuse, paying absolutely no heed to the fact that He. Loves. It. Gymboree is an all singing play time with obstacles courses and all kinds of toys I couldn’t hope to afford on my current paycheck (banking, not what it used to be). What baby doesn’t love being naked and peeing on people? The mandarin classes do confuse him somewhat, but he loves being able to sit at the baby-sized furniture like a little man, eating food and flirting with the ladies.

6. Sexual Humiliation

I have been peed on, pooed on, puked on. Actually, puked in, since he somehow managed to hit the target that was my mouth. These are games I never previously agreed to.

7. Exposure to Loud Noise or Music

The wheels on the bus, they go round and round, round and round, round and round.

I wonder if this newfound adoration for him is some form of Stockholm Syndrome or PSD?