Sleep: Am I a 'cuddler' or a 'tamer'?

Raising a baby seems to come with a minefield of contradictions one has to navigate everyday and there is no topic of discussion more fraught with disagreement than that of sleep.

We've been lucky because Hugo has slept relatively well right from the start, slowly increasing his night-time shifts and taking some long naps in the afternoons (sometimes). The topic of sleep hadn't really been on my mind that much but as a coincidence, I have come across two oposing ideas in the space of a couple of days.

On one hand, I came across Pinky McKay, a gentle baby-lead approach advocate. She defines the two 'camps' as 'cuddlers' and 'tamers'. Cuddlers follow the baby's lead and respond to its needs promptly, patiently and with lots of cuddles. Tamers create a set of routines and processes which format the baby into sleeping, eating and playing at specific times, thus making the carer's life more manageable. Pinky argues that babies are simply expressing their needs and that society needs to lower their expectations of what a 'good' baby or a 'bad' baby is, and how it should 'behave'. She puts the emphasis back on the baby itself rather than the obsession with creating a 'convenient' baby. This goes along with the concept that a baby who is responded to promptly will feel more secure and become more curious and independent later on.

On the other hand, I went to the first session of a 4 week mothers and babies group program where each week a specialist in a particular field explains the basics of it, gives tips and answers our (many) questions. This week, the topic was 'sleep' and the guest was a midwife/baby whisperer. Her specialty is helping parents settle their babies and create sleep routines. She showed us a number of techniques, taught us the signs of a content, tired and (the dreaded) over-tired baby and the basics of teaching a baby to self-settle.

I walked out feeling a little confused and after the afternoon to think about it, I think I have decided that I would mix and match what makes sense to me. As I said, Hugo has been a good sleeper and I feel quite rested and calm. I don't feel the need to start imposing all sorts of rules which might just stress us both out. However, I did try a couple of the techniques today and they did show some potential. I feel more able to recognize when Hugo needs to be put to bed but the way I do that might be more along Pinky's lines. Hugo is our first baby and without having to look after a toddler at the same time, I am still happy to be a 'cuddler' simply because I can. My approach and desires might change when I want to start working again (soon-ish) but until then, Hugo can take the lead.

As the midwife said, 'you only need to change things if you aren't happy,' and for now, I'm happy.

2 months: You're not a newborn anymore Hugo.

2 months family portrait

2 Beautiful months is what it took for Hugo to go from being a tiny sleepy newborn enveloped in the soft haze of the beginning of life to an alert, curious and reactive baby with dimples in his arms and a big round adorable tummy. 2 wonderful months is what it took for me to begin to realise the enormity of it all, the iceberg atop of which I stand.

This is what went down...

On the exact day Hugo turned 1 month old, his other grandmother came to visit from Albury for one week. We did very much the same things as with my mum, mostly having coffee by the beach, going for walks and hanging out at home although this visit did also involve the knitting of booties. 

Hugo and his GrandMa from Albury.

The booties in question (already too small...)

At 6 weeks, Hugo had a check-up and his first immunization shots. I am not sure whether the shots were more painful to receive or to watch. I can safely say that following birth, this was the biggest shock of his life. At least, he will forget it eventhough I won't... In any case, his check up confirned what I suspected: this boy is growing fast with an extra 1.5kgs and 9cm making him 4.9kgs and 56cm. 2 weeks later, I have no doubt these figures are old news.

On the night of the shots, we got in the car and went off on our first family adventure to spend the Anzac Day long week-end in Albury where he met his grandfather and cousins, Harry and Jinty. Although Harry didn't seem terribly interested (he was probably worried about the prospect of another baby sticking around, Jinty on the other hand sensed that Hugo had the potential to be a fairly interesting new doll.

On the way, we stopped by Mick & Jess' in Camden where Jess had made this gorgeous playmat for the little man. 

Vintage wheels in Albury.

Hugo meets Jinty.

A dance?

While in Albury, we caught up with good friends Carolina & Simon who were spending the W-E in a nearby town.

3 generations of van Lint men.

Poor little Hugo travelled remarkably well. The journey home took about 10 hours and he slept through most of it with a couple feeding stops (us and him). About 40 minutes from home, he did decide that he had had enough and just screamed his little angry head the rest of the way. I tried to sit in the back and Shhhh-ed so hard that I made myself dizzy. Nothing worked but we eventually got home and life slowly went back to normal.

All packed in.

Quick stop in Goulburn.

Meanwhile, Hugo continues to evolve a little bit each day. It is quite fascinating to watch. He has outgrown the majority of his first round of wardrobe on his attempt to catch up to his friend Jules (Jules is the son of my friend Melanie and is 4 days older than Hugo), is starting to enjoy spending time in his bouncer, is a very smily and vocal little boy and on the exact day of his second Month birthday, he discovered his thumb - the perfect organic pacifier.

Hugo and Jules.

Too cute for words.

With not much room left in his Moses basket, it's nearly time for him to move into his cot.

Looking a little dubious...

And on this note, the adventure continues...

Red.

Chris and his mini-me.

I gave birth to a ranga, a ginger, a carrot-head or as I like to see it, a perfect Venetian blond little boy and I'm perfectly fine with it!

Hugo's coloring came as a not completely unexpected surprise. Throughout the pregnancy, Chris maintained that the redhead gene being recessive, the odds were in favor of having a brunette like his mother. My response usually was that recessive genes are recessive until they're not.

The thing about Hugo's hair color is that it creates a very instant likeness with Chris. In addition to his beautiful head of hair, the shape of his eyes is also Chris' and so with this unmistakable combination, anyone who knows Chris always exclaims how much Hugo looks like him (and therefore, not like me...).

It seems that this could bother me. In the past and more recently, I have witnessed on separate occasions a sort of frustration from women with this phenomenon of the newborn child resembling his father. Afterall, we do all the hard work so couldn't they at least look like us?

Most recently, a nurse who had just given me an injection commented on the ginger tones in Hugo's hair. I replied that he got it from his father, to which she said, in gist, "Oh don't you hate it when that happens?!"I joked that it didn't bother me in the least since I had picked the father after all.

While I said it in good humor, it was in fact exactly how I felt. What could be better than to see the man I chose to spend the rest of my life and raise a family with through our beautiful child? While there is no doubt Hugo will become his own person, totally (mostly) independent of either of us, I love the idea of observing and admiring this genetic thread from father to son and I love the idea that Chris can recognize himself in Hugo.

After over 8 years together, Chris has become completely familiar to me, in the most comforting sense. I recognize him at a level which is far deeper than his appearance. As soon as Hugo was placed in my arms, I felt that I had always known him too, instantly familiar and maybe his features played a small part in this. He might not look instantly like me but he looks like my soulmate. That's good enough for me.

In any case, while he was blessed with his father's gingery locks, the lottery of life still had the good sense of giving him my olive skin. It's one thing to play with fire but you wouldn't want to get burned!

"But don't you miss them?"

"But don't you miss them?" is what a woman who didn't 'allow' her children to move to a different neighborhood asked my mother about her own children. I suppose that when generations of a family have literally never strayed from the nest, it might seem puzzling that a mother could let her children move to a different neighborhood, another city, country or in some (our) extreme cases, another continent (and hemisphere while we're at it).

My mother was an expatriate, living for more than half her lifetime in a country other than her birth one and in the process bringing three children into the world who between them, share 6 passports. So what was she going to do when one by one we all looked beyond the walls of our city and went in search of broader horizons?

Of course she misses us, every single day and unlike other things which time assuages, the longing only gets worse... in both directions, I might add. Some might say that if it was so bad, we could simply move back. Well, it's not that simple and life has a way of asserting its place in a way which forces one to redefine the very concept of "home" itself. "Home" is not always made of bricks and mortar.

For me, Nice is home because when I am there, I feel that I could walk around with my eyes closed but my Australian husband and 5 week old son have, as a matter of course, forever eliminated the possibility of a French exclusivity on where or what "home" is. Australia is their home and therefore, it is mine too. After 9 years here, I can safely say that I have followed my father's advice and adapted but it would be misguided to presume that my happiness here is incompatible with a deep longing for my family there.

Many moons ago, when I left home for the first time at the age of 17, I was asked if I missed my family.  Bold and brave as only the young can be, I replied that I thought of them often but did not miss them as such. I was busy living my life and making myself at home but rather than suggesting that this independence came from a shortage of love, I believe and I know that the opposite is far more accurate. It is precisely because of the abundance of love, affection and trust that my parents placed in me that I was able to fly with my own wings from a young age. As I heard once, "there is a time to hold your children close and a time to let them go."

As I watch Hugo as he lies sound asleep dreaming of what can only possibly be milk, I can not imagine ever letting him go. For the moment, it is the time to hold him close and tight but when the time comes for him to fly, I will not clip his wings but my, oh my, will I miss him.