What are Grannies for? February 2004 I have been hit with motherhood dementia. Grandmother to the rescue.

	Little hippos

I'm sure you remember me complaining about pregnancy dementia. I must say that today I recall, with a tear in my eye, the tiny irregularities in my behavior like flawed grammar. Pregnancy dementia was rather bearable, since I had consoled myself during all the time with hope that such state would terminate with the very act of birth. It terminated all right, but it was replaced by another, much worse, motherhood dementia. There is no end in sight of that.

	Tommy began with shy smiles at first ...

My life with Tommy turned into a well established routine. Perhaps, established too well. The other day I was zipping around a store with my stroller; Tommy was cute and asleep, but I still kept explaining TO THE PRAM, what all I was going to buy ("wait, mommy wanted some milk, where would they have milk, oooh yes it's here, so we take one..."). The worst discovery I made was that I was talking to the stroller IN LOW VOICE, as my motherly instincts would direct me, for I should not wake the baby! When I put Tommy into his carrier at Costco, I still rocked the shopping cart gently to and fro. At the climbing gym, while waiting for Sid, I chatted with Martin. Tom kept whimpering a bit, so I moved the stroller until my arm ached. Sympathetic Martin offered help, but he toiled in vain -- for the rest of the time I swayed my torso in the same rhythm with Martin. I could not control it; every time I stopped thinking about it and focused my mind onto something complicated (e.g. our conversation), the swaying kicked in automatically. I don't even want to elaborate about time when Sid takes me into his arms; I have to pay attention to stop myself from saying something like, "Now my sweet little coochi-coo, come to mommy!"

	... but eventually let us provoke him to real laughter.

My absent-mindedness, slight during pregnancy, now became overpowering. While shopping for a few small things in a baby stuff store, I found a nice T-shirt for Tom on a discount rack, for seven dollars. I reckoned that our little one deserves some fashion and took it. Going to my car, an alarm went off in my head -- I paid eighty dollars for approx. five things which cost around ten dollars each. Back at the register I demanded to know, which of my purchases was for thirty dollars, and a clerk briskly indicated this on-sale T-shirt - no matter how much I looked, there was no tag with seven dollars - only the one for $29.99. Naturally I threw it back in their laps, for thirty bucks I can have a full dress for myself! Some more confusion followed -- a machine spat that it would only return me fourteen dollars, hence invocation of a manager was on order; then they wanted me to fill out a complex form with my address and telephone, which I refused (even so, we get our mailbox stuffed with lots of useless junk mail, and there's certainly no law requiring me to furnish those data), and more haggling ensued. Eventually I prevailed and won: got my money back, which I had spent due to an illusion of nonexisting price tag. All ruffled up, I returned to my car, tossed my remaining purchases into the trunk, loaded Tom and drove away. At a second intersection I realized I did not recall to have loaded the stroller. I broke into a cold sweat, turned the car around and hurried back. Did not find the stroller at the parking lot. I kept hoping that someone nice brought it back to the store; I parked the far and readied myself for another round of contests in embarrassment, when my gaze fell upon Cecilia's (wagon) trunk, containing a neatly folded up stroller. Who put it there and when, remains a mystery till this day.

	Tom demands to be carried in a best-view position

Weekends are generally a relief, I confess, for under Sid's scrutiny I feel somewhat less dangerous, and I dare to participate in larger affairs. This time we took Tom to Point Lobos, which is about two hours drive (one way), making it a whole afternoon expedition. Of course the load in our wagon eventually amounted to stuff for a half-year whaling trip, but we actually did get out, eventually. We carried Tom around at Point Lobos in his "baby carrier"; unfortunately we did not realize that sun would be shining and we did not have a proper California hat for him, so we had to pack him most of the time in his less favorite position (facing the beast of burden), to prevent sun from getting into his eyes and onto his face (after all, we live at 37 degrees northern latitude and sun has been strong here in winter as well). Tom accepted this unfairness with dignity until the moment he became awfully hungry. I must say that in his attitude to food, he took strongly after his father (Hippo care manual mentions that hippos must be regularly and thoroughly fed), hence we half-ran our last half mile, with our baby turned into the equivalent of a fire alarm.

	Hippo is marching with Too at Point Lobos

Having reached our car, I was thoroughly deafened (Tom was obviously still full of energy -- certainly enough to maintain his acoustic output), so I did not waste time and began to breastfeed Tom right away. Then, the suddenly quiet forest rang with another distinct sound. It had emanated from the opposite end of our baby, and subsequent smell did not allow for any doubts. Tom normally does not dwell on pooping, he does his thing once in three days, but thoroughly then. I really don't know why he chose just this very afternoon away from home. We unpacked our changing things in the back of the Wagon and got moving. I would like to mention at this place that those wet paper towelettes are made pathetically small and their number in a traveling pack is equally ridiculous. Tom, in addition to deeds already done, welcomed this new game and joined in, rolling and waving and kicking. We had to proceed methodically -- Sid held Tom's feet and I tried to decontaminate the rest of the baby, beginning from under his knees to mid-torso, hopefully without soiling any previously clean areas. As I advanced toward his head, Sid lifted Tom more and more, revealing additional needy spots, until we ended up with a baby held upside down in a "skinned rabbit" pose. There just was no time for sentiments or any learned disputes on "how to properly hold an infant". Even in California, it is rather chilly in mid-February, and Tom was, after all, completely naked. His sense of humor, it seems, had prevailed -- he stayed happy all the time. So far, we did not notice any adverse effects of our parental care..

	Crawling practice. Tommy is not quite ready yet, but he keeps trying every time.

	Tom is training his grandmother

Well every weekend comes to its end eventually, and so I have been home alone again, unchecked by somebody sane. Given the intensity of my "events" I was literally counting minutes to the arrival of our freshly inaugurated grandmother. Tommy must have also looked forward to it, and to show it, he became quite interactive. Finally, he started to smile, laugh, notice his toys, and watch his surroundings curiously.

Granny arrived at seven p.m. -- that is, in the time of day when Tom has been at his most difficult. Before she reached the door, I pulled down the carrier, with Tom at the ready for insertion. Poor granny -- she had no idea that Tom's "carry me!" is meant quite literally, and for the following hour she kept trying to sit down somehow, with every such attempt pointed out (as unacceptable) by Tom quite noisily. Other than that, their acquaintance was rather successful and so I hope I shall soon be awarded by luxury in the form of a restaurant dinner with my husband, including a whole silverware set (fork and knife), where I won't have to reserve one hand for rocking the car seat with our Squeaky. I simply hope that such sample of "normal life" may subdue the overall impact of my motherhood dementia, postponing the moment when I shall be deemed able and permitted to function only under the permanent scrutiny of trained watchers.

Copyright © 2004-2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.