Jammin' until the break of dawn.

Back in high school, the ability to make up silly songs by writing new lyrics to old melodies earned me the nickname 'Ditty Queen'.  This skill was later fine-tuned by writing appropriately rude songs in honor of my friends' bachelorette parties.  But it's never been quite as handy as it is now that I'm a mother, although admittedly these days the lyrics are far more Mickey Mouse than they are Magic Mike.

Motherhood has made most of what comes out fit to the tune of Camptown Races, probably down to the huge giggle I get in reaction to each hearty 'DOO dah! DOO dah!'.  We have quite a repertoire too - gems such as 'Rukai's done a poo again', 'Is it time for you to eat' and the quintessential 'Why won't you just go to bed' are in constant rotation.  Chicago friends will appreciate the bedtime lullaby best, which for some strange reason has firmly affixed itself to the tune of a twenty-something year old TV car ad song 'the whole town's talkin about the Webb boys...'  I really have no clue how that happened, but alas this will be an early memory for our bubs.

Mornings are most fun of all, and mornings when Rukai decides he's going to be a crab ass all day take the cake.  Although I'm not entirely sure it's PC to sing anything to a baby based on the tune of 'What do you do with a drunken sailor', my latest creation just fell out: 'What do you do with a cranky baby'.

'Put him in the bin till it blows over' sung with a smile gets a gummy grin in return as if he's well in on the joke.  But what the hell, I suppose it really is best to laugh when you're being deafened by a scream.

We've also got a song for the days of the week, which comes out to that twee singsongy ad lovely 'little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky...'

Which goes something like: 'Hello Monday, how you doin', haven't seen you since last week, thanks for sunshine, where'd ya hide it cos the weather's been so bad...' Note how the end's got that very important lesson about how crap the weather is here in England.  Better we prepare him for it early.

I remember back a few months ago when I was ever so pleased with the bouncy chair bing bong song.  Today I realize it only takes 14,832 plays of the similar music living in the crib mobile before you want to chuck it under the nearest express train and smash it to shrapnel.  I am so tired of this music I was almost grateful to have partially deafened myself with a q-tip last week but that's an entirely different story.

Anyway and thanksbetogod Rukai is much more keen on the up-tempo: dance music, Mauritian Sega and reggae rule the roost in our house.  And I've learned with great joy in the past month or so that Ziggy Marley's Conscious Party looping off the iPod is a far better lullaby than anything coming out of that magic yellow box.  I am ever so glad we can mute old Mozzie and run the mobile on its own because aside from the bandanna whizzing around on the ceiling fan that mobile is his favorite thing.

Music has a far more important role to play for us, though, as I secretly hoped and secretly knew it would since I first found out I was pregnant.  Since the days le bump was growing, since the days I spurned Mozart for a tinny Stevie Wonder 'Master Blaster' played through a headphone into my navel.  I need Rukai to love music.  I need music to light him up and lift him.  And oh man, it does.  It so does.

In the same section of kitchen where I used to bop around with my bump, I park the ditties up in my head and pop on some real tunes.  I hoik him on my shoulder, grab his left hand with my right and we dance like no one is watching.  And he could stay up there for weeks, rocking and swaying, chin on my shoulder or bobbling in the air, steadier each day he grows stronger.  His huge brown eyes scan his surroundings, mouth in an excited 'O', taking it all in.

As for the music, I know he loves it but more importantly I know he remembers it.  I know I have been doing something amazing for him since he was on the other side of the belly.

'When you're moving in the positive, your destination is the brightest star,' says Stevie.

Rukai bops along.

We'll be jammin until the break of dawn.

That is my sunshine. That is my summer.

The gloomy weather during this summer-that-never-was has ensured us plenty of face to face house time.  Rukai is a learning machine - like a giant Chia Baby sprouting a new crop of skills just by adding milk and a play mat.  His progress would amaze the skeptics and I'd be lying to say it did not amaze me.  But this last bit also pisses me off.  Severely.  Because I should not be amazed at my son growing up like all babies do.  I need to learn to expect it.  I am severely pissed off that the bods planted those seeds of doubt that I've accidentally watered somewhere along the way.  Like the bad gremlins, multiplying and raising hell.  I need to smother those seeds in slug pellets, kill the weeds, plant a butterfly garden.  I need to do these things but the sun won't bloody come out and it is not helping my mood.

The only thing I should be amazed at is the mere fact that we actually created this boy.  Our precious squidge.  I look at him sometimes and just cannot believe that we made him.  I can't even make instant oatmeal without it boiling over half the time and here we created a person.  This magnificent person, full of promise, gunning to shatter the status quo.  And he will.

But I tell you what, this bloody SYNDROME is a pig.  I hate it and it just keeps grunting and rolling in the mud.  I am constantly obsessing about milestones, consulting Dr Google after Rukai's in bed to see if things are fairly common amongst other babies.  You know, the 'normal' ones.  And sure enough, they pretty much are.  I know clearly what I see and what he is capable of.  I know he is getting on just fine but still that negativity festers thanks to those aloof medical bastards.  Blue day, I'm afraid.  Tired of frowning.

Deep breath, work it out.  One day at a time.  Baby steps.  Any other motivational cliché to pull my head out of my ass.

I'm kicking myself furiously for not giving him more tummy time earlier, since his neck is still pretty weak for five months.  But maybe I'm just being neurotic - of course Doc Google came into play on this one but it sure seems this too is pretty normal for many his age.  Nevertheless, he now owns a bubba sized chair and he is probably more determined to be able to sit upright in it than we are for him.  Our daily sessions of 'roly poly' followed by those glorious press ups that make me grin ear to ear when I see the elated expression on his face in discovering this new amazing view of the world.  The important thing is that he's clearly cognitive of what he is learning and equally curious about the world around him.  I doubt very much that any syndrome is going to bring this to a halt.  Ever.  Nothing has a snowball's chance in hell of bringing this to a halt.  Take your stats and shove them up your collective ass.

The latest skills also include recognition that his left arm is attached and his efforts to control it.  So stretching his arm out and shouting at his clenched fist has become de rigeur.  Maybe he's practicing for the podium.  For Wimbledon.  For St. Andrews.

He's also figured out that he can fit his thumb in his mouth alongside the bottle, which has me in fits of laughter every time he does it.  What the hell, two for the price of one.  He loves his Mr Bumbles, his billy goat and his tiger rattle, having gummed them all to within an inch of their fabric lives.  He gets bored easily and is very particular about which activity he is interested in undertaking at a particular time:  want to look outside, want a cuddle, want to lie on the sofa, want to eat, want a clean nappy, want a cuddle, want to lie on my play mat, want my chair, want a cuddle.

Note how 'want to nap' is not in that list.  Doesn't come up unless we get him in the pram and go walking.  Damn.  The only way I can get him to sleep is to exercise.  Where have they put the hidden camera because this is surely some kind of practical joke?

He laughs and converses with the ceiling fan every evening before going up to bed.  We have tied a red bandanna around one of the blades which he thinks is hilarious.  I wish I was so easily amused.  He is getting used to the breeze outside and - now that he can bear to keep his eyes open outdoors - is becoming more interested in looking around.

He is five months old and doing just fine.  Now to convince my subconscious.

And other things are growing with him.  I'm not sure I can survive watching his father with him any longer, because my heart is going to explode.  The way they look at each other.  Rukai's expression says 'my hero, my teacher, my comfort'.  More.  The quiet cuddles, the conversation-free strolls in the back garden.  So much to say and so often not requiring a sound.

Dear lord, I could not love someone any more.  Some two any more.

That is my sunshine.  That is my summer.

Three cheers for the red, white and poo.

Rukai hosted his first Fourth of July barbecue last week.  Unfortunately his hosting skills consisted of a couple good gurgles and, natch, the requirement to be fed just as the grill was fully lit and ready to rock and roll.  So as he slurped away, his friends' mums magnificently jumped to action and got the food cooked for the lot of us.  While I used the spoken word to convey gratitude for their help, he let off a scream and a fart which I'm sure meant 'thank you so much, oh mummies of my friends, you are all so awesome and saved the day!'  Then too, maybe it was just 'hey, are you gonna eat all those s'mores?!  I may not have teeth but those marshmallows sure look gummable!'

The weather held, the nappies held, his temper held, he didn't need to be held.  I'd rate that a huge success.  Plus I got 13-1/2 hours of sleep out of him that night.  If that's the result of a big dose of fresh air, I vote we follow up with a Bastille Day picnic.

Also.

I think the Wimbledon final was on TV yesterday.  I say I think because I could only manage to watch 30 second spurts of it while engaging with Rukai in a rowdy conversation consisting of uhh-AAAHH!-mmnnngggg-AAAH-OOOO!!! and other such infant gems.  I'm not sure who he was rooting for but he passed out at the end of the match so he must've found it exciting.

This is one thing I don't recall any warning about pre-pregnancy: you will never be able to watch a live sporting event in its entirety ever - EVER - again.  Following that challenging attempt, I am now convinced that the inventor of Sky plus and the rest of those digital TV record-and-playback mechanisms was surely in possession of one very feisty infant.  So I have resigned myself to investing in an appropriate digital TV receiver and will hereafter completely avoid the news if I ever want to be surprised by sport again.

Until yesterday I was really excited about the prospect of watching as much of the Olympics as I want during my maternity leave but I am now entirely conviced Rukai will save his biggest exploding-up-the-back-shit to occur just as the last two pixie-like powerhouses are flinging themselves hither and yon in the battle to take home the coveted gymnastics floor exercise gold medal.

And speaking yet again of shit, since you just cannot help it while being in charge of an infant...

(If you tire of the subject, look away now and by all means, be sure not to procreate.)

I've heard of throwing a ball, throwing a fit and throwing your voice, but throwing your shit?  Yes, he managed to do a gargantuan poop the other day that completely missed the back side of the nappy but appeared up the front.  This is a new and very surreal trick that makes me want to call up Ringling Brothers and ask if they have any openings, because this life with young son is now officially well and truly a circus.  I'm ready for our intro:

'Now introducing Rukai the Amazing Crapshooter and his mother, the Bearded Lady!'

Unfortunately, they'll have to hand out ponchos and goggles to the front three rows which will significantly undercut our profit.

And.

As those tooth nubs continue to do the 'coming-to-the-surface-jig' I have officially shoved aside 'Crusty BooBoo' in favor of his latest nickname, Mr. Dribbles.  I honestly do not know where all the saliva comes from.  It's like a bad day at the dentist and I'm probably going to have to buy one of those suction jobbers and affix it to him with duct tape if this keeps up.  Either that or dangle him from a jungle gym over a stack of muslins to catch the runoff.

Finally.

Today is officially random cranky ass day.  After a half day of general malaise and whining (and Rukai's downright miserable too) I've decided to petition the government for an extra bank holiday, not to celebrate but to recover.  Thank god for my left arm and shoulder which seem, for now, a very effective sleeping potion.

Guess I best I go watch some sports while I can.

Sod's law for babies.

Following weeks of Rukai sleeping through a full twelve hours at night, the one night I go to bed über late he awakens after eight.  I arise after my own scant four hours and lo and behold he is a non-stop action man, like GI Joe on Red Bull and Laffy Taffy.  Like Bear Grylls at the top of a cliff with a buffalo carcass draped over his shoulder and ready to rappel.  The usual nap times fade into no more than fantasy, like the shat-in sleepsuits I've washed fourteen thousand times.  I am on the run all day. 

Where did I put that wine?

Also.

'Oh you are SO lucky!  February is the perfect time to have a baby.  You will be able to go out and about all summer.' 

This is what they said.  What they could not predict is that we'd have the worst June since records began and once we did get out, I'd have one of those kids who cannot handle big wind just yet and squirms around like a greased eel when I take him outside.  Then he lines up the 'air raid siren' shriek and fires away, clearing a path for 200 feet in every direction, felling trees, de-feathering pigeons.  I turn around and race back inside, lest the neighbors think I am torturing him.  I can only hope he grows out of it before it gets cold again.

Oh wait, that may be tomorrow.  It IS England after all.

And to hell with curry, it is WIND that surely is Britain's favorite food.  I say food because you really cannot help swallowing the debris that is constantly flying around in it.  So while lucky bubba gets packed up in his 'baby Ferrari' with the swizzy rain cover and enjoys a debris-free, mellow ride, I end up covered in small bits of bark, takeaway menus and week old copies of Metro.

But as you do, we have to go out sometimes.  Not really because we need to be anywhere but mostly because going out is the only way to get him to nap.  I tell you, that big spend on a swish pram was the best thing we did.  In fact, I may see if we can special order an adult sized one.  I'll hop in that sucker and get T to take me around this weekend cos I could sure use a nap of my own.

And.

The magic formula has turned 'le shit' the most remarkable shade of green.  Time to upgrade the wardrobe again since that will be disastrous if scattered across all those yellow clothes.  But then too, maybe it would turn into camoflauge.  Wait, not a good idea, particularly in THIS house.  I haven't bought the Lo-jack yet.

Finally.

Why is it that just when you've taken him out of the bath, applied spackle...er...cream, lovingly dressed and prepped for a cuddle, that a full day's worth of baby constipation decides it's time to make an appearance?  Followed by the most beaming, delightful grin imaginable from up the other end.

I'm pretty convinced he's laughing at me, I'm sure of it.  I must locate the baby phone where he's receiving the texted 'play book' from his pals.  They're in it together.  It's a plot.  It's got to be.

Somebody call the SAS, I think I'm going to need commando training for this.

They're just boobs again.

They're just boobs again.

Now, despite how appropriate it would be to apply that statement to the English national football team, I'm afraid I really am talking about boobs.

After our failure to breast feed and my only solution to express a bit, I'd been cursing the pump since day dot.  I went through three different pumps trying to maintain or increase my supply.  I sat in different rooms, different chairs, trying different food / drink combinations, all the while feeling like a methane-filled farm animal named 'Bessie' whose sole vocabulary word is 'moo'.  Not pretty.

Even uglier was as the supply kept dropping anyway, I started dwelling on the anger I had for all the tunnel-visioned midwives and postnatal nurses who were so eager to push breastfeeding on me when they should have been promoting breast MILK - any way you can get it.  Had they bothered to tell me to start expressing every three hours from the beginning we would have had a much better go of it.  Not to say I didn't try - good lord did I try.  But they all need a swift foot in the ass and a nice round of re-educating to identify where they again went wrong.

Anyway, although the pumping came into play late, it worked for four and a half months so not too shabby at all.  Unfortunately the supply started to dwindle and after trying to increase pumping frequency which was near impossible, plus trying the Fenugreek 'eau de maple syrup' fiasco I decided to throw in the towel.  When you work an hour at something for so little reward it becomes almost a joke.  Kind of like a mathematically challenged person doing a Sudoku.  Or doing crunches without cardio.  Or trying to pluck your own eyebrows into a nice arch.

Digressing again.  How unusual.  Or not.  These days it's all I can do to remember my name, where I live and that my teeth need regular brushing, let alone follow a train of thought.

But back to boobs, because that's really why you're still reading, right?  Yes, it was taking me an hour of pumping to express some measly 20 ml, which needed about 4 or 5 friends in the fridge before it was even remotely close to enough.  Then the trouble started.  The small amounts were starting to mess with Rukai's belly so much that he'd start off a feed completely stopped up, before the laxative effect of the breast milk would get his innards churning and gas bubbling away.  But it wasn't enough to finish the job, which made him rip into a shriek so loud it quite probably shattered space junk, after which he'd pass out on my shoulder and fart for the next half hour in his sleep.  My poor chicken.

He'd be ok when he woke up, blinking and grinning and oblivious and hungry and wind free.  But we'd spend the next two hours trying to recover our hearing and feeling so shit that there didn't seem to be any clear way to help the situation.

I tell you, it's a wonder I have any wine glasses left.  I mean from the shattering caused by a high note, but then again the drinking of wine has also been in play here.

In all truth, I do count us seriously fortunate that he hasn't been an incessant screamer from birth - the screaming out of our wee bubba has actually been so infrequent that it startles us into a frenzy when it does happen.  Combine that surprise upset shriek with his 'joy scream' that comes out during play - every one is like an alarm that keeps our 'fight or flight' reaction on red alert 24/7.

So we are freaking exhausted.

But the good news is, we've tried a new formula that for the past 24 hours has been a small miracle.  Rukai is content and napping, and I am able to sit still and observe all the housework I have been putting off while trying to solve the gas-plosion problem.  I am not typing one-handed with my Spectra 3 churning away beside me.  And I'm able to think clearly.

I clearly deserve that glass of wine.  You know, while I still have a glass to put it in.

Baldylocks and the three pills.

The crusty boo boo scalp invasion was getting too extreme, so our little man has had his first buzz cut.  The good news is, this enables me to apply Oilatum to his head and not simply wax his hair down like the Pringles guy.  The bad news is, old bubs isn't keen on head massage so he's becoming expert at a scream we have lovingly named the 'air raid siren'.

I can't seem to clear the cradle cap living in his eyebrows so I mentioned it to the nurse when he got his jabs last week.  She recommended - of all things - a specific nappy rash cream.  If that's the case I think I'll try one we have to hand first and see how we go.  But it's seriously getting to the point I have to apply so much cream to this poor child I may as well slop it on with a trowel.  I can hear it now: 

'Gee, for a half Asian kid his skin's really pasty white.'
'That's not his complexion, that's spackle.'
'Aha.  Well, you do great work.  If you get some spare time, you can come over and patch up the walls in my living room.'

On that same visit I mentioned to the nurse my C-section scar was a bit sore yet so she hunted down a couple antibiotics prescriptions for me.  Superb.  Just add those to the vitamins and supplements going in already and I can safely estimate a quarter of my daily caloric intake is in pill form.  And thanks to the Fenugreek I am starting to smell like waffles smothered in maple syrup.  I expect a pack of dogs to follow me down the road next time I go out.  Maybe I'll give Lady Gaga a call and ask for the meat dress just in case.

As for my own hair, well it's still falling out nicely (or not so nicely if you were to ask the drain how it feels about it).  The stuff that remains goes so quickly greasy you could quite probably wring it out and fry up some chips.  I haven't had greasy hair since puberty, so the mysteries of motherhood just keep on weaving their magic.  For my next trick, I'll grow a beard and four dozen skin tags.

Oh wait, I think that already happened.

This week's top challenge is sleep regulation.  Rukai loves to have a huge nap just before what we hope would be his last bottle of the day.  Of course this means he's wide awake when it's time to go to bed.

So I've tried twice today to put him in bed when he gets dozy mid day.  So far so good half hour ago - no sirens, just two servings of a half-hearted whine that faded when he jigged I wasn't coming back for a while.  Must be practicing for his first day of school already.  I swear he plots this stuff when hanging out with his little pals.

So while my squidge rests I'll keep one eye on the baby monitor and celebrate this quiet time just enjoying the silence.  Not much of that around here these days and it's a complete slice of heaven.

The proof, the whole proof and nothing but the proof.

We finally had our genetics appointment.  Four months waiting, expecting that all-important proof, expecting to see something on paper that leveled us out, stopped us spinning, gave us direction.

Instead we got more of the same shit, different day.

I really am beyond flabbergasted and haven't had the heart to report back.  My faith in human decency is officially in shreds.  I don't want to be hard but...well, it's getting too hard NOT to be.

So no proof, but what did we get?  A first question of 'how did you reach this point?'  Delivered with a false smile and a hefty dollop of full-fat pity.

Um, if you don't know I'd really like to have my morning and our four month wait back; we have better things to do than dilly dally with you when you clearly do not give enough of a toss about us to have done a little research.

She gave us much more nothing.

The offer to view a chromosome map but not that of our son.  The patronizing instruction to 'just keep loving  him and caring for him like any other child'.  The look down her nose when we expressed our optimism that Rukai would be breaking boundaries, exceeding expectations.  'You poor, deluded, sad bastards,' she was thinking.  We both felt it.  Felt it hard. 

I wanted to clump her.  I raised an eyebrow, smashed my lips together, crossed my legs and folded my hands in my lap instead.

I asked her how many of his cells they tested, wondering if they could have realistically ruled out Mosaic (no, in case you're wondering).  I asked where the proof was.  She handed me the single sheet of paper we'd seen before that contained little more than a line of text summarizing the actual evidentiary test result.  It was like being told you need a hip replacement and not being shown the MRI because 'you wouldn't understand what you're seeing anyway, you're just an ordinary person and we are doctors practicing medicine.'

Indeed you are.

One lousy line of text, shorter than the entirety of this post, to define the condition which will shape our son's life.  She told us they probably don't keep these records because 'the doctors wouldn't find much use for them.'

What part of 'it-isn't-about-the-fucking-doctors'-needs-it-is-about-the patient's' are they still not getting?  I can not believe she used this as an excuse for discarding a test result which - on any plane of existence - should be made available to the person on whom the test was done.  How is this unreasonable?  I despair.

'They may not have found any use for it, but we would have wanted to have it,' says I.

'Most parents don't ask for it,' says she.

I couldn't even say 'but we are not MOST parents.'  I couldn't say it because at that point I realized that the true path we are on now cannot be shown to us by someone who's read a lot of books and hung a certificate on the wall.  Rukai will show us the way.  There is no other.

So instead I chose to walk away.  In my head we'd already left but still we kept conversing with her.  Still we finished up the meeting.  Still we left with a cordial goodbye and that lousy line of text.

She promised to ask the lab if they happened to keep the records so we could get a copy.  I won't hold my breath.

She asked if we had any further questions and T summarized the situation so perfectly: 'the only questions we still have can't be answered.'  Time is the only thing with answers and for it, we must wait.  And chase.  And hope.  And live.

Tick tock.