At the Beach

I have to go back to work tomorrow. Boo. So we made sure we went to the beach today. The sun was shining and the sky was a bright blue bowl. For a while anyway. We drove north, through Port Chalmers (more on Port later -- we just bought a house there), to Aramoana: Maori for pathway to the sea.

I did a spot of fishing, buying a squid from the fishmonger on the drive there. I didn't catch a fish. I was put off by seals swimming and rolling through the green thick drifts of seaweed in front of me. And the occasional blue penguin bobbing past on its belly. And the seagulls diving into the water from high up in the sky to catch fish, with their wings folded back, making a sound like a stone entering the water.

Too much nature!

These are things I can't complain about, I suppose, even if they stop me from catching my dinner. I had a couple of great bites, though, which I missed (no excuse). My hands still smell of squid now.

Not good.

All Smiles

Good Hair Days

We're both quite hairy people in our own ways, and so we fully anticipated that Max would be a hairy person too. When he entered the world, we were so relieved he was healthy that we were willing to overlook the hairy back, shoulders and forehead. We have a little outfit for him that is made of a kind of string vest material and, when he wears it, he looks like a tiny little construction worker. Or a little swarthy Greek man, the tufts of hair sprouting from his shoulders.

I half expect him to start whistling at pretty women in the street.

But I thought it made him even more delicious -- like a little kitten. Now, though, Max is losing his baby hair. It's everywhere! It's in his bassinet. It's on his pacifier. I find little hairs in my mouth after I give him a kiss. It's in my food. On my pillow. On the table.

It's even right here on my laptop, sticking to my fingers as I type.

Tea Time

Max is officially 6 weeks old now. I can hardly believe it. Time has flown by so fast. In less than a week, it means that Chris will return to work and I will spend the remainder of my 6 month leave as a "single" mom. (Luckily, my family is coming to visit for the next few weeks!) It's been amazing having Chris at home with me and Max. Not only did he tirelessly and lovingly take care of me and Max during these tough first 6 weeks, but he was able to create a special and strong bond with his son. That's something that most dads don't get the chance to do.

We've been telling everyone here that dads in the States don't get much time off, if any, for the birth of their baby. New Zealand allows dads 2 weeks paternity leave. On top of that, Chris benefited from the Christmas holiday break and used some vacation time.

We're lucky here. The system is kind to new parents. And so are our employers (the University and bosses). Life here in Dunedin is kind to new parents. Things are laid-back. Slow.

We're able to BREATHE.

Take for instance: tea time. When Chris returns to work, he'll fool himself into thinking that he's working hard ... until it's tea time. At around 10:30am and 3pm, Chris and his co-workers will stop working and ritualistically gather to the tea room for a morning/afternoon tea break. Many even plan experiments ahead of time so that it doesn't clash with tea time. Or, like in my department, tea time is planned days in advance. And has a theme to it. (ETK)

(**Chris - Max and I will miss having you at home. We're the luckiest. Thanks.)

44th

Yesterday, for some strange reason (a little boy called Max), we were up at 5:30am to watch Barack Hussein Obama become the 44th President of the United States. Regardless of our background, beliefs and hopes, it was stirring to see history being made far, far, far, far away in a country that we love, full of people we love.

It was cold there and it's warm here. And it was Tuesday there and already Wednesday here. But what was remarkable there was still wonderful and exciting and remarkable here too.

La lucha continua!

Heavy Surf on Rocky Point and Along a Sand Spit

To our considerable disappointment, Max has forgotten how to sleep. For a while there, he knew how to sleep. And now he's forgotten. You can see him thinking about it, trying to remember how he did it. But he's definitely forgotten.

A good friend of ours, Jackie, sent us the book The Happiest Baby on the Block, by a doctor called Harvey Karp. People talk about this book with quiet reverence like it's a book of secret spells, so we were excited to get it.

Karp has some really interesting theories. The most unusual one, to me, is that our ancestors gave birth to babies with smaller heads and carried them for longer than we do; but that evolution gave us larger brains and bigger heads, requiring women to give birth earlier in their pregnancy, before a baby is really ready for the outside world. So they come out at the start of what he calls the fourth trimester, completely unprepared for life. And they're not happy about it.

Lots of babies are fussy and cry a lot during their first three months -- the fourth trimester -- and, once you've fed and changed them, the only way to really calm them is to mimic the womb, because that's where they came from and that's where they really want to be again. This involves lots of swaddling, and rocking, and lots of white noise to calm them.

And so, at 4am this morning, while Emeline swaddled and cooed and rocked and patted a restless Max, I downloaded an album of sounds of the sea, with song titles like Heavy Surf on Rocky Point and Along a Sand Spit, and Ocean Surf in a Hidden Cove. And then, Sounds of a Tropical Rain Forest: with The Dry Season; and, predictably enough, The Rainy Season.

The rain forest tracks were a bit scary: lots of strange birds with screeching calls, against a backdrop of insect noises and water dripping from the wet canopy above.

So I made a playlist on my iTunes instead -- 5 continuous hours of Heavy Surf on Rocky Point and Along a Sand Spit. Then we slept, lying in our floating bed, adrift, almost submerged by the sounds of breakers collapsing on the shore, gulls in the distance, which filled our room. And -- last night at least -- Maxwell Ezra Kemp, a little boy who already has the sound of the sea in his soul, slept.

Tonight, it's back to our briny room, with its kelp-colored curtains, for another voyage into uncharted waters.

Max

Four-Weeks-Old!

Deal or no Deal

Okay, so every weekday, at 9am, Deal or no Deal is on the TV. It's a sad aspect of parenting, but something I once groaned at is now a high point of the morning. I'm probably on my second or third cup of coffee by the time it comes on, and maybe that contributes to my excitement. Also, a few hours of infomercials end with Deal or no Deal, so that helps too. If I ever see the guy with the ladders or the man who puts gravel in his frying pans I'm not responsible for my actions.

Anyway.

Neither Emeline or I were huge TV watchers before we left the States. Moving to New Zealand increased our viewing hours, simply because lots of things close early here and Dunedin is a small and simple town.

But when Max came our viewing exploded!

Booooom.

We're captive in our own house really for the first 6-weeks. Max feeds every 4-hours, and spends the time between feeds pooping and crying and looking at things, which is fine because we seem to be biologically programmed to find this a wondrous joy. It is. He pooped this afternoon just after I'd taken the previous diaper off -- and I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Anyway.

So, we've never really watched Deal or no Deal before. This is either the Australian or New Zealand edition. We're not sure. But the contestants seem really really bad. Someone who watches the American edition will have to let us know, but do people often stubbornly refuse deal after deal until they have only two really bad cases to choose from? Do they do that there? Do they? They do it here.

In the past couple of weeks, I've seen people win $2, or $1, or 10c several times. They refuse all offers from the banker until they're left with the one case they selected in the first place. Emeline, Max and I are all shouting, "Take the deal." It's almost like no one's explained the rules to them. Just the other day, this woman had two cases left: the one she'd chosen and the last other one out there.

Two cases: $1 or 10c.

Banker's offer: 75c

She won: 10c.

I laughed as much as when Max pooped on me today.

And then I made another cup of coffee.

Having a Bath

Things have been going pretty well in the past few days. Max is feeding well, and growing like a houseplant. Sometimes he even treats us to five hours of continuous sleep in the middle of the night. We've adapted. Five hours is more than enough sleep to get through a busy day. With coffee.

We watch the sun come up; we watch the sun go down. Things happen in between.

Here in our house, late at night, evening TV becomes BBC news through the night, which becomes brainless infomercials just before 6am, which become amusing reality shows an hour later, like Animal Extractors, where animal removal specialists trap raccoons and bats and bears and snakes from California back country and release them somewhere else, then Deal or No Deal, Rachael Ray, Tyra Banks and the juggernaut of daytime TV, the lunchtime news, then kids shows, current affairs, Survivor, Gordon Ramsay, CSI, the weather and sports round-up, and it starts all over again. And I watch my amazing wife and my beautiful baby, and I try to grab every second on the way.

Sometimes, though, Max still tests us. Last night, in desperation, after several hours of non-stop crying we put him in the bath with me. And, instantly, he stopped crying. Instantly. Mid-squeal. In fact, he fell asleep. The hours of screaming were worth it for this photo, which I think is one of my very favorites so far in his short but wonderful life.

A Dream

I had a dream last night, which is just coming back to me now. In it, Emeline and I were discussing who Max most closely resembles. In the dream, I went into the bathroom and shaved off my beard and, when I looked in the mirror I looked exactly the same as Max. This is weird because he's a baby and I'm not. In the dream, I decided that I should try to make my hair look like Max's too, so I got some hair clippers out and starting trimming my hair and discovered I had a huge bald spot that I hadn't known about. It was about the size of a saucer. I wasn't upset by it, but I was surprised to find it there. It was pink and smooth and completely hairless.

Paging Dr Freud.

Anyway, who do you think he looks most like?

The Babywearers

Wearing a baby in a sling takes a bit of getting used to, for sure. The first time we tried it, I eased Max in and he started screaming immediately. His neck looked funny. We were convinced we'd nearly killed him. It took us a lot longer to get him out again, too. I felt like I experienced my own version of birth. And the screaming! We hadn't killed him yet, but we were killing him now.

So we left it for a few days. And then we tried again. We waited until he was tired and fed and ambushed him, throwing him in the sling and letting him settle like a 5-pound sack of potatoes. He didn't budge, or scream, or fidget, or even wake up.

I attracted some stares and giggles from passers-by as I walked downtown around Dunedin with Max slung across my front in my stylish Argyle sling. But that's okay. If I'm weird, I'm weird. It was a complete success: no stroller, no backpack with a baby stuck in it, no screaming. He feels close to us this way, sleeping near our hearts, and we feel close to him.

Today, Emeline got her turn, walking along the windy beach at Aramoana, in front of a wall of surf, wearing Max like a piece of baggage. Not a peep for half an hour.

Decision: It's good to be a babywearer.

Kung Fu

This afternoon, a rather agitated Max practiced his king fu moves on the changing table. This move is called Loaded-Diaper-Time-To-Eat. It's scary. Have you ever tried to put a diaper on a cat. Well, then.

"You see these moves?" he asked us.

"You see this?"

We did see it. Normally we wouldn't be scared of a three-week-old baby, but each of his fingers is tipped with a deadly, razor-sharp fingernail. So when he flails around like that, there's a chance someone's going to lose an eye unless they pay very close attention. This guy has attitude. He calls himself The Cobra.

"You see this?" he asked us again.

Yes, Maxwell. We see it.

And we don't want any trouble.

Bath Time

Well, hello there friends. I just had a bath. How you doin'? Mom and dad gave me a bath because my diaper was so full there was really no other option. Bath time is my favorite. It's so good ... it's worth explosive bowel movements.

In the last 24-hours I screamed and turned red for approximately 12-hours, breastfed for about 9-hours, hung out and looked at things for 2-hours, and slept for about an hour. It's been a pretty busy day.

So I'm off to bed.

Later.

Kindness

The first time was saw our neighbor, we were both scared. She's an older lady, and I think that she suffered a stroke at some point. She's hunched over, and one of her hands is a useless bent claw that she hangs a walking stick from. There's a white plastic brace on her ankle. Her face is slack and looks old and young at the same time. She listens to the television so loud that sometimes, early in the morning when everything else is quiet, I can hear it from my bed. Her front door is always ajar. She's unsettling. Sometimes we see her standing in front of other houses on the street, looking into bushes.

We saw her for the first time after we'd been living here for a month or so. We drove up our driveway, and she was standing in it, hunched over, holding little containers of unfinished food in her good hand. She told us she was walking through our garden to her compost heap.

"Well, if you ever need anything," I said, and she turned around and walked off before I was finished.

And then maybe a month ago, she walked down the driveway again as we were standing by our car and asked us if her cats had been bothering us. In the next couple of minutes, as it started to rain on us, we managed to work out that she was profoundly deaf, a little weak, and very lonely. I talked steadily louder and louder until I was shouting in her face. She still answered every statement with, "What?"

We saw her again a week later and she waved. And then we saw her again as we walked Max down the street in his stroller and she stopped to admire him, stroke his cheek and say how lovely he is. A couple of days after that, she stopped me and told me she'd been ill the following day and wanted to make sure Max was okay. I shouted that I hoped she felt better and she shouted back, "What?" The next day, she brought us our recycling container and a package from the end of our driveway.

And then tonight, answering a muffled banging on the door, there she was, holding a bag she wanted to give us: chocolates, tissues, baby lotion, wipes, baby powder, and shampoo. "For the baby," she shouted. Kindness. Simple. Unexpected. Little Max has an admirer.

He isn't scared by her at all, so I suppose we shouldn't be either.

6:30am

This morning, after a feed, Emeline went back to bed and I stayed up bouncing a little monster. This was the view out the window, as the sun burned the mist from the valley.

Oh Dear!

Mom and Max

Zen

We all know that Emeline has plenty of Zen-like qualities, and that she's a calm and gentle spirit.

I am not. I'm catching up now.

I believe, after just 13-days, that this is why we have children: to help us attain Zen. Last night -- or rather early this morning, at about 3am -- Max had his wet diaper changed by Emeline after a feed. About 15-minutes later, as I was soothing him, burping, coaxing, patting, rocking, cooing and singing to him in the dark, he filled his second diaper with something satisfyingly solid. It was like holding a plastic bag while someone dropped apples into it. It's a not entirely pleasant sensation, but I was pleased for him. There aren't many things he's mastered yet, so it's nice to see him excel at something. And, to my credit, I laughed quickly at the prospect of a second diaper change. I changed Max's diaper. This is no small event: every time we change his diaper, he screams. Loudly. Like we're torturing him. He screams great, windy, steadily escalating, bloodcurdling, earsplitting wails of molten grief as we take his clothes off. Afterward, I calm him. And then 10-minutes later, patting his back, whispering in his ear, another hot load -- like catching a well-pitched fastball in a perfectly positioned catcher's mitt. He turns red. He strains. He grunts with the effort. His whole body clenches, like a little pink comma.

Back into the bedroom for a third fresh diaper in 30-minutes, I imagine gaping landfills quickly filling with Max's diapers. In a hundred years, Max's dirty diapers will still be around. I won't. I ask him not to do it again. For a human who weighs less than 8-pounds he has quite a carbon footprint.

But we have no control. We are living under a dictatorship now. It's a cult of personality in our house. It's like North Korea. We have our own little Kim Jong-Il, right here under our roof. He's a despot. It's a banana republic. Max staged a coup. It was a bloody takeover of our lives. He's sleeping right now, quietly sighing to himself. But when he's awake he is unforgiving. He is arbitrary. And his control is total, unyielding.

Fortunately, he's relentlessly and unremittingly lovely. And slowly, one heavy, warm diaper at a time, our little despot is helping me attain Zen.

Happy

You've just had a feed, you've pooped, it's 2pm and it's nice and warm inside, and raining outside: what more do you need?

5am

The only good thing about 5am feeds: the sun rising over the sea on the other side of the hills, and filtering through the clouds in thick syrupy layers of orange and red.

Fooooood

I'm quite proud of the fact that, despite our house being in complete disarray, and even though we're living through the long night of the soul that is baby rearing (which is sometimes dark and starry and sometimes bright and sunny, but still always feels like 3am) we have managed to eat well.

We haven't given in to the temptation of noodle bowls or takeout. Fresh ingredients and home cooked meals are a good antidote to fatigue and frustration -- although Max knows the precise moment we sit down in front of food, and his face crumples and turns red.

Last night, Emeline had some fresh salmon and I pan fried a locally-caught flounder in butter, fennel, lemon and herbs du Provence. It was delicious. At midnight a few hours later, when 2008 became 2009, Max was screaming and we were staring mindlessly at music videos on Channel 4 (dancefloor fillers: Michael Jackson, followed by The Village People, and The Pointer Sisters). A bottle of champagne sat in the refrigerator, unopened and forgotten.

I was glad I had a nice dinner.