Buffalo Calf

Dear Mumologic patrons,

My husband, in a misplaced act of deletion, sent every single last one of my posts into oblivion. It's kind of the same thing as if he offered to help renovate the house in his spare time and then accidentally set off an a-bomb in the basement. I know he didn't mean to and it was so generous of him to offer in the first place. Plus it's usually me that finds the a-bomb and thinks it's a birthday cake so this evens the score.


Here is this week's post: Buffalo Calf

Sometimes I lift J and feel quite sure that it was a walrus calf I produced, rather than a human child. It seems he has reached the dimensions and mass of a kid entering grade four. I don't know how this happened. Neither of his parents...well, never mind. I recall a home video in which my mother's hands are fully engulfed by my six month old lipid deposits. I had armpit fat that won contests. But I highly doubt my mum and dad faced the same challenges as we do at the moment - I was the third child. Third children don't have the luxury of parental transport. If you're lucky, the dog or an older brother will happen by and you can hitch onto an ankle in order to cover a bit of ground.

But my genetics are not solely responsible. My mother-in-law has informed me that as an infant, the size of D's head raised eyebrows. So between my armpits and D's cranium, we had it coming. J definitely carries his pudge like a man, I have to say. From the back he looks quite svelte but a profile view reveals a gut that puts a lot of stress on his diaper shirt snaps.

Recently, I was carrying J and twelve bags of groceries into the house. (I'm one of those people that risk personal injury in exchange for efficiency) My back spasmed into a reef knot and when D came home he couldn't figure out why I was walking around like a duck with one leg shorter than the other. A number of consequences ensued. For one, I became the worst mother in the history of mothering. J would go about his typical pre-tot business trying to kill himself, and all I could do was watch and offer the occasional suggestion. "J, honey, I really wouldn't haul that toaster into the bathtub if I were you..." We were also unable to leave the house for well over a week which meant J's sole source of stimulation and social interaction was his crippled and humorless mother. When D would come home from work, J's head would nearly implode with excitement.

One advantage of the whole ordeal was that D took on the part of night duty that involves removing one's body from one's bed and fulfilling the pottying needs of one's infant. This is a procedure that I no longer begrudge. I learned very quickly that resentment between the hours of 11pm and 6am consumes my limited cognitive resources and thus increases the risk of brain damage. But my poor husband, unaware of the risks, toileted our son from dusk till dawn, cursing our natural infant-hygiene practices.

I saw a physiotherapist who treated me with a very professional yanking of arms and legs in opposite directions until something popped (could have been a joint, could have been an artery.) She then asked if I felt better. I responded in the affirmative, not wanting to hurt her feelings. She sent me away with stern instructions about how to more responsibly employ my back. Yesterday she spotted me in the grocery store parking lot hoisting J plus a week's worth of groceries into the back of my car all at once. She was horrified. "You're not going to carry those into the house by yourself are you?!" I hadn't really thought about it but truthfully, I probably would have found a way to do it in one trip - many mammals use their teeth to transport their offspring. "Of course not!" I replied, trying to act offended.

I have now recovered almost 100% (it just seems to act up right before bed. I tell D that I should avoid any undue stress throughout the night.) It is my hope that J learns to walk sometime before he enters grade four. We'll likely have several other children by then and they'll need a sturdy set of ankles at their disposal.