tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91199150142540009482024-03-12T17:50:12.270-07:00Rooster Club MomDo you belong to the Rooster Club? It's the self-imposed title of my life currently. My son, who has never slept through the night, wakes up every day before the rooster crows, and it is gangbusters all day long. It's my life. Is it yours too?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-56213475206865867372012-11-19T14:21:00.002-08:002012-11-19T14:22:30.454-08:00World Prematurity Day: Notes to Self<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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November 17 was World Prematurity Day. It was an apt time to reflect on our amazing
journey so far, so I took the time to look at some photos from our NICU days. He was so tiny and I looked so…ill. It has taken me literally years to feel like
a somewhat normal person. Or maybe I am
just a completely different person now. I
am so very grateful that we are past that.
I can hardly believe it has been nearly two and a half years since I
delivered Jax prematurely after an agonizing 32-hour induction that I can’t
seem to forget. Yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS8TwfJ6n1-0R3j7oAsq32vnTia1QgSTA_HupPgc17USV3pw1nJ4yec2Ccd_31ap0sK7XDtKAHYbdLXtPDsYwV-mC92lOIlkuUzob67leOzcLPS9olJi8ELMgmkU8ClJHI0cw-1DPbo0/s1600/IMG_0204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS8TwfJ6n1-0R3j7oAsq32vnTia1QgSTA_HupPgc17USV3pw1nJ4yec2Ccd_31ap0sK7XDtKAHYbdLXtPDsYwV-mC92lOIlkuUzob67leOzcLPS9olJi8ELMgmkU8ClJHI0cw-1DPbo0/s320/IMG_0204.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Parenting a preemie has been a journey into my deepest
personal fears, an experience that highlights my own fatal flaws, and an
unpredictable ride that has tested the very limits of every relationship I have
ever had. If I knew some of the things I
have learned along the way back then, perhaps the rollercoaster ride would have
been slightly less harrowing. Well,
probably not. But still, it may help
others to hear some of these suggestions.
If I could have given them to myself, I surely would not have
listened. And that is Lesson Number
1. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Survival Tip 1:
Listen to Yourself.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of us have learned to ignore or argue with that essence
that speaks to us. We cover it up with
fears, what-ifs, and other mental dysfunction.
Learn to listen to what your very basic needs are during this time. If you need sleep, don’t let feelings of
guilt that you are not at the NICU or meeting your pumping demands overwhelm
you. For God’s sake, lie down for a few
minutes. Watch stupid TV. Take a few minutes to feed your own
needs. Learn to listen to that gut of
yours-it rarely steers you wrong. If you
can’t hear yourself, feel inside for that ball of tension you are probably
holding in your belly. Take a deep
breath and release it. Clear your
mind. Ask yourself what you need and
listen to the answer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Survival Tip 2: Stay Present </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Expectations were the bane of my existence, primarily
because I didn’t realize I was operating under a set of false ideals that I
thought my preemie would follow. He still
doesn’t sleep through the night but he has the academic and verbal skills of a
five-year old. Stay present. Be that drop of water that floats along with
the tide, letting obstacles wash through your life and then back out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Survival Tip 3: Be
Grateful</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you witness the afterlife firsthand, then get
catapulted into a bizarre world where you are a weak, barely functional
collection of hormones, resentment, anxiety, and guilt, it is hard to remember to be grateful. It is far too easy to focus on the negatives
of our situations, but beware! Our
perceptions are our realities.
Somewhere, some mother is thinking, “You think YOU have it bad?!” Things could be worse. Appreciate every moment you are able to turn
your face to the sun. Smile through the
tears. Everything you do is a lesson to
that little person you have brought into the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Survival Tip 4: Enjoy
the Ride</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Preemie Parent Roller Coaster can be filled with
nausea-inducing drops, sickening lunges, and unexpected derailments. Still, sometimes you coast, marveling at the
scenery with a nearly hysterical bubble of laughter in your soul. Every down has an up somewhere. Look for the ups. Enjoy them.
The one thing we can’t stop is the passage of time. It would be foolhardy to risk my life and
sanity to have another child, and when I look at Jax I still have melancholy associated
with the birth and newborn experience we never had, and will most likely never
have. So, I must remember to enjoy the
ride-this rollercoaster was designed especially for me, to test my own design
flaws and challenge me to address them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, I had it all figured out before Jax came along. Now, I am like a child re-discovering who I
am, what I enjoy, and what I need to feel secure in this unpredictable world of
preemie parenting. My old life is gone
but not completely forgotten; it just seems like it all happened to someone else. Now, I’m Jackson’s mom. It’s who I was meant to be.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-41409991865872592752012-09-13T12:00:00.008-07:002012-09-13T14:56:49.726-07:00The People Placed in our Paths<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>810</o:Words> <o:Characters>4393</o:Characters> <o:Company>REECH Consulting Services</o:Company> <o:Lines>125</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>28</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>5175</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>14.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">The People Placed in Our Paths<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I have grown older, (and debatably, wiser?), I have become aware of an underlying mental construct that has failed to serve me: the belief that happiness is a place, or a destination. For example, thoughts like “Once I have this degree, I’ll feel content,” or “Once I own my own home, I’ll be able to relax and enjoy my life,” serve only to cause anxiety and an uncomfortable restlessness; the feeling that you are not where you are supposed to be. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Being aware of this faulty worldview leads me to consider an alternative: that happiness and contentment rely not on the achievement of a certain thing, status, salary, education level, etc., but instead we find our ultimate groove as we continue along a path that has no destination. Yes, we may have goals, dreams, and intentions, and reaching these certainly lends momentary joys. However, deep contentment may lie in the appreciation of mundane, everyday things and experiences. If we look for the richness that exists in every experience, true gratitude grows. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have also come to believe that the people placed in our paths serve as bringers or messages, peace, lessons, reminders to be grateful, and offer us the chance to do the same. We can act or not act, we can speak or not speak, we can choose to interweave the fabrics of our beings with others each day. Take yesterday for example. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday started off pretty rough. I had an awful night of interrupted sleep, and woke up feeling extremely run down. I spritzed myself with rescue remedy and decided to listen to my gut for once, instead of forcing myself to participate in our usual morning activities. So, we stayed home. We watched too much television. We played garbage trucks. After a short nap, I felt a little better and with renewed vigor, I determined that we needed some fresh air. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt a rush of energy the moment we arrived at the Royal Palms playground. It’s a real gem of a place, nestled on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Salty sea air and pelicans have a way of invigorating any tired spirit. A few moments later, a woman and her five-year old son arrived. I said hello to her, but she seemed guarded, pensive even. I chalked her reticence up to being shy or unsocial. Her son Paul, on the other hand, was a bundle of joyful energy. He engaged us in conversation. After about twenty minutes, his mother, Carla approached me. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Is he your only one?” She said softly, watching Jackson as he chased her son. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes,” I replied. For some reason, I knew not to ask the same question of her. Instead, she volunteered the information. She told me everything.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Carla’s daughter had been born with Trisomy 18. They detected it a three months gestation, but she continued her pregnancy. The family lived in the hospital for two months after the little girl was born. Carla learned to do things she never thought she would have to do for her child: use a g-tube to feed her, use an oxygen machine to help her breathe…and then, quite suddenly, her daughter passed away. Her child became an angel baby a mere two weeks ago. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How this woman was not an incoherent mass of grief was beyond me. I was in shock. I gave her a hug. I told her some of my story, but it felt lame in comparison. So much to be grateful for, I thought for the umpteenth time. Her next words were surprising. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I never regretted having her. We loved her so much. My son loved having a sister. We took her places, we enjoyed her. We enjoyed every second.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was stunned. She didn't mention feeling cheated or depressed. She didn't talk about how hard it was to watch her daughter succumb to her condition. No, she spoke of her time with her daughter with a smile on her face. Talk about only taking the sunny hours. This unassuming young woman had been through so much and still, she spoke about her tragedy without a tear. She related what had happened with a hint of wistfulness for what might have been, but without the intense grief I could only imagine she felt.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was then that I noticed her son was shivering. The fog was rolling in and it was getting cold. Carla had goose bumps. I asked where they lived and discovered that they were stranded here, at this playground, waiting for their ride. Luckily, I had some spare jackets in the car for them to wear. The little boy told me he was hungry, and I was pleased to find a bag of goldfish crackers in the backseat. Being able to help these people find a bit of physical comfort instilled a euphoria inside my heart that I cannot describe. Carla’s phone had no reception, so I loaned her mine. I offered to give them a ride to a coffee shop, but her ride came at last. We exchanged hugs but not numbers. All I know is that a woman named Carla lost her six-month old daughter last week, and that she is a hairdresser. And she is one of the strongest mothers I have ever met.<br />
<br />
I know that this person was placed in my path for a reason. I could have stayed to myself, I could have been closed to what she had to teach me. But, I allowed the connection to occur, and it was beautiful. Happiness is a path, not a place. The endless looking ahead makes us forget that all we ever need is right here. Looking for richness in everyday experiences can be difficult at first. Yesterday, I chose to listen to a stranger's story and help relieve their discomfort in whatever small way that I could. A bag of goldfish and a few jackets thrown in the back of my car were the last things I expected to bring me inner peace. But they did.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Who has been placed in your path? How has your life been enriched by random encounters with strangers, animals, or something else? I want to know. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For more on Trisomy 18, check out the link below:<o:p></o:p><br />
<a href="http://www.trisomy18.org/site/PageServer?pagename=whatisT18_whatis" target="_blank">Trisomy 18</a></div><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-14211495726019092562012-08-07T20:33:00.000-07:002012-08-07T20:33:08.303-07:00Living the Vision<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Last month, I learned to hold a vision that I wasn’t sure was a reality. To my surprise, the images I inserted into my brain every time I panicked about Jax’s astronomically high ALP levels BECAME our reality. Doctors can’t explain what happened, but I know what happened. Yes, it might sound new age or hokey, but I am a true believer that thoughts become things now. Group visualization is a powerful tool and it is one that I wish I had internalized years ago. Thank you to everyone who helped holds our vision when we were weak or tired. </div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last weekend, we lived our vision! We went camping in Carpinteria with 19 other children and their families. Our acceptance into the Wolf Pack, as they choose to be called, delivered us onto a sandy beach that bordered a large, grassy field. The rear of the field boasted a unique, semi-enclosed playground. Across the street, a line formed in front of a popular burger shack. In short, it was paradise. The weather was perfect, there were children (or cubs, if you will) running around everywhere, and the beach was a five-minute walk over a nearby sand dune. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jackson went in the ocean for the first time (on his own terms of course, there is no persuading a Gemini!), squealing with joy until he turned blue with cold. He also got to see his very first movie, projected on a huge screen in the field behind our campsite. He sat for a few minutes, and then said excitedly, “There’s a fireplace over there!” We learned some great new words like "campfire" and "s'mores" while cuddled in my pink camping chair. He fell asleep that first night wrapped in my arms in front of the roaring fire, stuffing himself with marshmallows. I think he outlasted all of the other children, and he had been up since 5:00am with only a 15-minute nap in the car. (The benefits of being a Rooster Club member and head Party Animal, I presume!)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I loved the communal, tribal feeling of being with such a large group. Everywhere Jax went, at least two little girls followed, holding his hand, tickling him, and feeding him snacks. So many chairs surrounded the campfire at night that I couldn’t count them all. We had a seemingly endless supply of drinks, snacks, and good company. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Waking up super early was no chore at all when we had an ocean and a playground to walk to, friends to visit with, and best of all, the mint green garbage truck to watch as it dumped cans and dumpsters. Jackson was overjoyed, to say the least. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Several times during our paradise weekend, I had to stop and say, “Happy, thank you, more please!” (This phrase is also the title of a movie I have been meaning to watch). The euphoria I felt continued when we arrived back home, chock full of happy memories, stronger bonds, and inspiration. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We can’t wait for next year! <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Jv3tSl7mZYZHPEzeGilgLYgfa9H3DZZ5OTNaUNV8KBvAt1WlwNAO89o521zw4b6tu-ioMfmKVkO0RgmgfbCWQCxBmj-qyVD2YQkRjT6mnli3grq2jcyo6GosZN8UWyPXv1eViJZ-xto/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Jv3tSl7mZYZHPEzeGilgLYgfa9H3DZZ5OTNaUNV8KBvAt1WlwNAO89o521zw4b6tu-ioMfmKVkO0RgmgfbCWQCxBmj-qyVD2YQkRjT6mnli3grq2jcyo6GosZN8UWyPXv1eViJZ-xto/s1600/photo+1.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHyMwgAKEyFAWIgscmjvd2rlH-6JxO5P4lONA9Lwy9ui__i7m6UVfDP4-wAqaXGXiObu0zgUU_KbcdEnXZ-LCOwekqkpT_5O4522dlV90kHfxuKciNLB75iSMs_kw1KPkUP_ku5AiRVf4/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHyMwgAKEyFAWIgscmjvd2rlH-6JxO5P4lONA9Lwy9ui__i7m6UVfDP4-wAqaXGXiObu0zgUU_KbcdEnXZ-LCOwekqkpT_5O4522dlV90kHfxuKciNLB75iSMs_kw1KPkUP_ku5AiRVf4/s320/photo+2.JPG" width="239" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8GedEv_BGc2eS-2LN7KHZyeRiRFwWMBCzkJbobkoJ9NLcYveGRexHSlxg1cX5QpK7uiRtYC_wKQVD26Rz3fP25jrgNweG3HVjQ7NEA6V0NCs7HAqoGjHbBe_knujZe7v9gRknWcs7QHY/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8GedEv_BGc2eS-2LN7KHZyeRiRFwWMBCzkJbobkoJ9NLcYveGRexHSlxg1cX5QpK7uiRtYC_wKQVD26Rz3fP25jrgNweG3HVjQ7NEA6V0NCs7HAqoGjHbBe_knujZe7v9gRknWcs7QHY/s320/photo+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-73917625470159435312012-07-20T12:53:00.003-07:002012-07-20T13:58:47.118-07:00Happy Dance in my Soul!<div class="MsoNormal">Last Wednesday, my soul did a happy dance. In fact, Jax and I both ran around the house yelling, “happy dance, happy dance,” as we jumped up and down. I thought I knew what happiness and joy were before, but now I understand the true meaning of those words. It was as though a waterfall of elation cascaded from somewhere in my being and overflowed, bringing with it a surge of energy and light. We were going to be okay. Jackson is going to be okay. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Rewind to last Tuesday. Worst. Day. Ever. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This was the day we headed to the UCLA bone clinic to meet with a specialist. He ended up wanting more blood. He told us he needed to rule out some things I have a problem even typing out let alone thinking about. He told us to expect Jax’s alp level to remain high, if not go higher. I ended the day feeling attacked by something. I literally felt poisoned. I spent six hours writhing on the bathroom floor in agony. I was shaking, nauseous, had chills, and the worst migraine I have had in 25 years. My parents (they are my angels) came over to watch Jax because I was incapacitated. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next day, I woke up and went to a therapist who did massage, sage clearing and Reiki, which helped me immensely. I decided that I could be strong, and I would be strong. Then, I got the news that changed our life, again. Now, I have added a lot of depth to my worldview. I believe in magic, I really do. We can all do magic, create our own miracles, and design better lives for our loved ones and us. Magic is possible, people!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here is Tuesday in review. I woke up before the baby, which is rare since he wakes up at the crack of dawn. I was a bundle of nervous jitters, and my mine really wanted to go somewhere scary. Instead, I applied a technique that a fellow preemie mom had recently shared with me: each time I felt that gnawing pinch of anxiety, I stopped and focused on the image in my head and the words in my mind. If they were negative (and they usually were), I turned ‘em right around. I have always had trouble doing this, but this time, I finally internalized the adage, “thoughts become things.” If there were a remote chance that this was true, then my anxiety-ridden thoughts would harm my son. So, I created a new image, and I asked our prayer and visualization circle of amazing friends to do the same.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I imagined our family on our beach camping trip at the end of the month, watching Jackson as he ran and played and laughed. My husband and I would clasp hands and smile at one another, the relief of surviving another hurdle our secret joke. I imagined taking Jackson to pick out his Halloween pumpkin. I imagined a joyful family Christmas. I sent out emails updating our close friends and family members, and asked them to share the visualizations. They did. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some went beyond the visualization and told me some helpful stories. As they sat down each day to picture a healthy Jax, to hold the vision for me during my times of weakness, some of my friends had some interesting images pop into their heads. One friend said she saw Jax as a gawky, teenaged surfer boy, holding hands with a thin brunette. Another said she saw Jax in her mind’s eye, at his college graduation. His gown was burgundy. (Maybe he’ll go to USC too!).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if my friends are psychic, but we’ll see if their visions come true. Mine will, I am certain of it. We will be continuing our happy dance on the beach next weekend. And we will continue to do our happy dance through the rest of this crazy journey we call life. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Someone sent me this a while back: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pwe-pA6TaZk">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pwe-pA6TaZk</a><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a guy doing his own happy dance across the whole world. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do it now, I dare you. Stand up and do your own happy dance! No matter what you are going through right now, it will make you smile<span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thoughts become things, so keep your thoughts trained on your positive outcomes. I am happy to help you hold your visions too. Contact me if you need me to send you any energy. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-18430218572851474702012-07-08T09:58:00.005-07:002012-07-08T15:23:48.683-07:00Holding the Vision<div class="MsoNormal">Just when you think it’s safe to go back in the water…<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our life over the last few years might best be characterized as a rollercoaster that has too many ups and downs, goes to fast, and has no operator to stop the ride. From near-fatal complications during labor, to a NICU stay that disrupted the sacred process of family bonding, to a year of colic, reflux, medication, failure to thrive designations, and repeat hospitalizations, any mother would develop a little adrenal exhaustion, right? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Following our recent hospitalization in March and April for a case of RSV that caused my son to go into respiratory distress in my arms in the middle of the night, I fell into a mild depression. We were on house arrest for a month to avoid germs, since the virus had compromised Jax’s immune system. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every time I “let go,” something terrible happens, I thought to myself. I tried to implement my strict regime of therapy, vitamins, nutrition and even some exercise. The days grew longer as summer approached and before long, I was feeling pretty good. We spent our mornings on play dates, and our evenings cooking and hanging out. Jackson was sleeping better, eating better, and talking up a storm. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I let go. I really did. I was content for the first time in a long time, secure in the knowledge that we were over the last sickening drop on our roller coaster. In fact, it seemed that we had managed to get off the ride. We went to Jax’s two-year appointment without a care in the world until the doctor mentioned that it was now standard to pull a little blood at this time. I was about to refuse, but something nagged at me. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once Jax had recovered from RSV, we were supposed to do a blood draw to ensure that his white count had gone back up. I ran from the office, loath to allow any additional procedures to be done to my poor little guy who had ripped his own IV out in the hospital a few weeks before. So, this time I figured we should probably submit. The blood test was awful. I felt awful for making him do it. I took Jax for chocolate frozen yogurt, his favorite, to assuage my guilt. Then, we forgot about it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Getting the phone call from our doctor at night a few days later was a shock. Hearing that he had to repeat the test, because Jax’s alkaline phosphate level was off the chart, was a shock. What was alkaline phosphate? Of course, I googled it. Thus began the biggest, sickest drop of the roller coaster yet. We didn’t even realize we were still on the ride. If I had any adrenal function left, it is surely gone now. As we wait for the results of a specialist’s review and recommendations, I have to remember to hold the vision. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What does this mean? To me, it means believing in a very strange, fey thing that occurred during my descent into subspace during labor. Once I delivered, everyone left. They went to celebrate while I had this annoying little feeling that the experience wasn’t done with me yet. It wasn’t. As alarms blared on machines and nurses whizzed by, I went somewhere else. I saw things I can’t explain. I felt my grandmother’s presence. I felt intense love. I was supposed to join them but I couldn’t without asking about my son. Would he be okay?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The response was a vision. I saw my son grow up to be a man right before my eyes. As though I was viewing time-lapse photography, I watched a tiny infant transform into a tall, blond man with a killer grin. I knew I couldn’t leave. When I snapped back into my body, in shock and ravaged by hormones and medications, the vision stayed with me. The vision of Jax as a happy, healthy young man completely contradicts what doctors are trying to confirm or disprove now. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A fellow preemie momma friend, Kasey Mathews, reports that a similar thing happened to her when she delivered her daughter, Andie, at just 25 weeks gestation. She saw two roads. One road led to a funeral. The other led to a happy, healthy five-year old girl. When Andie developed RSV around age 2 (again, strangely similar to our experience), Kasey wondered why this was happening. When I contacted her recently she said she believed that this was her chance to do things differently. She held her vision. Her daughter Andie has defied all doctor predictions regarding growth and development. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So has Jax. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I will hold the vision, and I ask that you take a moment to share it with me. Picture us all together, happy, healthy, years from now, celebrating our lives together with the gratitude each precious moment deserves. Perhaps my previous lessons in gratitude did not go deep enough before, but I have been cut to the core and I am now re-building my worldview around gratitude. I literally cried tears of joy the other night as I folded my husband’s socks. I was so grateful to be at home, doing the most mundane of chores. It is so much better than being in a hospital. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All we ever have is this moment. Cherish it, protect it, and be present with it. Hold your vision, as I hold ours. <o:p></o:p></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-83724815354760456592012-06-07T15:01:00.004-07:002012-06-08T13:05:54.480-07:00Our Trashy PartyWhere have I been? Following a truly exhausting marathon camping experience in Yosemite, 23 loads of laundry, and three sleepless weeks of enduring another round of teething, I am proud to say that I single-handedly threw Jax the bestest Garbage Truck Party ever! <br />
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For those of you who have kids that love the garbage truck, you are well aware that there are no "Garbage Truck" themed party supplies. I discovered this upon return from the Camping Trip from Hell (hereafter designated as CTH), and promptly went nuts searching blogs and easy for ideas. Luckily, I found some!<br />
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I ordered the cutest invites from a gal on Etsy. It was a single download that I had copied and cut at Office Depot. They ended up being cheaper than purchasing store-bought invites, and of course as you know, there are no gaga tuck invitations. Here is a link to the Etsy store I used for the invites:<br />
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<a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/93067847/garbage-truck-party-trash-truck?ref=sr_gallery_6&ga_includes%5B%5D=materials&ga_search_query=garbage+truck+invitation&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery" target="_blank">Garbage Truck Party Invitation</a><br />
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I did a few things for decorations. I collected clean trash for a few weeks before the party, and then we used a drill and some twine to make it into a Trash Garland:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0xparTkeAlGoS9qOE-Ifwz1gYl8x4ofQtPN5wz0lh-GtvIAgbtMkyE2yzpHWXBIC1b7ApHKuPRx9lfbAKyRU8klxitgkDn5Sss8ggUoZ7wSuWdf3Y0OHtIZly0GZSw4Tv1UYTmdz9bM/s1600/IMG_0727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0xparTkeAlGoS9qOE-Ifwz1gYl8x4ofQtPN5wz0lh-GtvIAgbtMkyE2yzpHWXBIC1b7ApHKuPRx9lfbAKyRU8klxitgkDn5Sss8ggUoZ7wSuWdf3Y0OHtIZly0GZSw4Tv1UYTmdz9bM/s320/IMG_0727.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I also made some cardboard signs: The Junk Yard was our food table which had lots of Junk Food, of course!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigx8H0pMOqFM0yPZlaOY6bg6AI1VLNffjtsDhnC8SjgT9BuEpJIqwB2ZyNNakRHLQ042XzIs4E1qcJmNI3VtGccI-hSCu1Dr2w0m8Ycp9lPpsAImEn9aTJXYgmQyqs0Jm-MceagyugSVE/s1600/IMG_0742.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigx8H0pMOqFM0yPZlaOY6bg6AI1VLNffjtsDhnC8SjgT9BuEpJIqwB2ZyNNakRHLQ042XzIs4E1qcJmNI3VtGccI-hSCu1Dr2w0m8Ycp9lPpsAImEn9aTJXYgmQyqs0Jm-MceagyugSVE/s320/IMG_0742.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> Yum, Waste Water!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG7zie9sVIj62vknkl2H5KgTu39mZlltXROJ9l6NYHaoE9dO1F9XOkZAKTkmSBXcIC5u6iSD45rVJDnSaG8dSoQZ0X_iG2j-Stp3PkE869ISMQ0YQuc7fglRoiG7_Un0mQwSAeuz6ggw/s1600/IMG_0743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG7zie9sVIj62vknkl2H5KgTu39mZlltXROJ9l6NYHaoE9dO1F9XOkZAKTkmSBXcIC5u6iSD45rVJDnSaG8dSoQZ0X_iG2j-Stp3PkE869ISMQ0YQuc7fglRoiG7_Un0mQwSAeuz6ggw/s320/IMG_0743.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> Jackson's "Dump" was the present table:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIWeuT5PmNlmdSO_BW_1Th_xvH2Qk3n0dTZOekEKBEhohpBItzP1BGgfIGGgoSZicMty_cerUBslbBKNCNOA2LoXe1AlSWl6ZNsRHIyCo4JCpZM3Z8_amZFsJ21AhX9qQJmv1UrGFlQg/s1600/IMG_0736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIWeuT5PmNlmdSO_BW_1Th_xvH2Qk3n0dTZOekEKBEhohpBItzP1BGgfIGGgoSZicMty_cerUBslbBKNCNOA2LoXe1AlSWl6ZNsRHIyCo4JCpZM3Z8_amZFsJ21AhX9qQJmv1UrGFlQg/s320/IMG_0736.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had one activity other than the party-adjacent playground: SMASH THE TRASH! I must have called upon my inner preschool teacher for this one. We had some leftover bubble wrap from my brother's move so I taped some clean, flat trash underneath and let the kiddos smash away. Kids love bubble wrap. (We should have wrapped my husband in it, but that is a story for another day). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4dYJRX72OzOlMm8GpNJly0iBPvdDZsO6NGT-TzOk4mC4OcZ-Ie8iA__V66608u4K2iNUZfyxs9TqLtCi173osy0jRT4IH_jU8ZpGIVB2xAnH3q3Y5RJriI8NCA6MgaL3kHctjQpnAps/s1600/IMG_0731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4dYJRX72OzOlMm8GpNJly0iBPvdDZsO6NGT-TzOk4mC4OcZ-Ie8iA__V66608u4K2iNUZfyxs9TqLtCi173osy0jRT4IH_jU8ZpGIVB2xAnH3q3Y5RJriI8NCA6MgaL3kHctjQpnAps/s320/IMG_0731.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_1313880985"></span><span id="goog_1313880986"></span></div>For favors, I ordered some of those mini trash grabbers from Amazon and little mini trash cans from Oriental Trading Company. I stuck a gummy "bug" inside each trash can toy. Then, I wrapped the favors in black dog poop bags so they would look like real trash, and topped them off by tying with a twist tie. Then, I housed them in a "Recycling Center!"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjifNifIIkT77rqs5vYUFBAbKGJ7CmfYkqm3oqlPFrVrYs9gGDyTgVVIpR7OuQjyUoGhZEQZhEGjBRPfMABJ_wDEfci_87Ifin7qfhNrSoWKF7fLORM-Xzl60XN2QK39cGD9JUfyUeehLg/s1600/IMG_0739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjifNifIIkT77rqs5vYUFBAbKGJ7CmfYkqm3oqlPFrVrYs9gGDyTgVVIpR7OuQjyUoGhZEQZhEGjBRPfMABJ_wDEfci_87Ifin7qfhNrSoWKF7fLORM-Xzl60XN2QK39cGD9JUfyUeehLg/s320/IMG_0739.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_1013880027"></span><span id="goog_1013880028"></span></div> I ordered these super cute cake toppers from Toadally Cute, a seller on Etsy. They turned out fabulous! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7OXOZxcb6YOppU0aBuVn-PPXm7WxTunHSv_k4dXaAIHHyqPX3tfgYWl0bjte-42T4gXz0fx7PE54kRY826ybaZg2Z_4IslQxHVKufvnc1gVBV2SeTk_UuJcJOq32TD8AyrP8QJp4D-ao/s1600/IMG_0758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7OXOZxcb6YOppU0aBuVn-PPXm7WxTunHSv_k4dXaAIHHyqPX3tfgYWl0bjte-42T4gXz0fx7PE54kRY826ybaZg2Z_4IslQxHVKufvnc1gVBV2SeTk_UuJcJOq32TD8AyrP8QJp4D-ao/s320/IMG_0758.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/85918998/new-garbage-truck-party-tags" target="_blank">Toadally Cute Garbage Truck Toppers </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I colored some garbage truck pictures to stick on our tables and then we let the fun begin! The kids all had a great time, until about 12:30pm, when everyone under the age of 5 either pooped or pooped out. I managed to get Jax down for his nap by 1:30pm. All in all, it was a stupendouly trashy time!<br />
<br />
Thanks to our amazing friends and family, we are the proud owners of a FLEET of gaga tucks. I think we own 11 now. That is my life. (We also run out of the house screaming with joy three times very Tuesday morning when the Gaga Tucks come. I think the Garbage Man in our town worries that I am a weird Trash Stalker. The Gaga Tuck drivers have been looking a little concerned lately). Again, stories for another day! <br />
<br />
Happy Birthday to my wonderful, amazing, gaga tuck loving son, Jackson!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXKDE17BQEb1egZ-Et6kjtt6aLjY7g89St3Z48hsVju4P0Sq0F9UIsDHDeH4liE4H8HZBav3Aa2m6yiDCcf6Pier5abz_J0rzFzLArpKnbcdkL86a8Hb4e6cdVuS-e9lp-BxHgtZmq-A/s1600/IMG_0735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXKDE17BQEb1egZ-Et6kjtt6aLjY7g89St3Z48hsVju4P0Sq0F9UIsDHDeH4liE4H8HZBav3Aa2m6yiDCcf6Pier5abz_J0rzFzLArpKnbcdkL86a8Hb4e6cdVuS-e9lp-BxHgtZmq-A/s320/IMG_0735.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.cafepress.com/mf/27915477/i-love-garbage-trucks_tshirt" target="_blank">I Love Garbage Trucks T-Shirt</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-41189032568302359812012-04-26T14:20:00.000-07:002012-04-26T14:20:00.723-07:00Gack Gack Goo! (What Does it Mean?!)I think I have a Party Animal on my hands here. How do I know this? Well, there is the obvious genetic pre-disposition. (I have been know to swing around a pole here or there and my husband has partied himself straight into the hospital before). The thing about Party Animals is that they just don't want to miss out. On anything. Ever. So, the Party Animal resists sleeping, eating, bathing, pretty much anything so long as the party continues. The Party Animal just wants to be a part of the ongoing party.<br />
<br />
I sure don't look like I am hosting a party lately (see Silver Fox post from a few weeks back). But, you will be happy to know that I have moved beyond the homeless crack addict stage to the halfway house loony tunes phase of parenthood. Even with this positive change, I am certainly in no shape to party! Jax, however, seems to think everything is a party. To him, a party is appropriate any time, any place. <br />
<br />
Take a few nights ago for example. I was exhausted as usual. (My recent diagnosis of adrenal exhaustion explains some of the bone-crushing fatigue I seem to feel most days). I was elated when Jax ate something for dinner (rare) and had taken an early nap. By 8pm, it looked like the party was dwindling. So, I put him to bed. By 8:30pm, I was also in bed, my swollen, bloodshot eyes grating like they were full of sand as I squeezed them closed and begged the sandman to take me.<br />
<br />
9:30pm: Bloodcurdling screams ensue from the baby's room. I shoot up, confused and disoriented. (On occasion, I forget that the last two years has occurred. Sometimes, I wonder where I am and why there is a screaming blond child down the hall. Sometimes, I think my brain has truly been damaged by my experiences, but I digress). I race down the hall. I am his savior, his female knight in shiny armor. Here I come to save the day, I think exuberantly. He will reach his little arms around my neck and I will soothe him back to never never land....<br />
<br />
Jax sees me and I am unprepared for the angry verbal assault that issues from his cherubic little mouth.<br />
<br />
"Gack Gack Goo!" <br />
<br />
He shouts this several times, reaching for me. I try desperately to figure out what he wants. Milk? No, he screams again, indignantly, "Gack Gack Goo!" Wet? No again. Something pinching him? Pajamas in a wad? Nope and nope. Hmm. My fried brain is not able to decode what he is saying. Bad dream? This gives him pause. Now, I am pretty sure he doesn't know what a bad dream is. (I also didn't realize he knew the word "shit" until he screamed it when I dropped his Blankie on the stairs). <br />
<br />
Ok. I'll go with bad dream. I pull him into my arms and cuddle him until he drops off. Then, I attempt to put him back in bed and he wakes up as soon as his little blond head touches the pillow. <br />
<br />
"Gack Gack Goo!" <br />
<br />
Deliriously, I haul him back into my arms and settle him in my bed. I figure if we can sleep together, maybe we will both get more sleep. (Unlikely, but it will be safer if I am horizontal at this point, since I am starting to see three of Jax). <br />
<br />
10:30pm: Loud snoring and kicking has prevented me from sleeping at all. This ain't working. The Dr. said I needed to get some consistent sleep. (Ha! Why doesn't he come over here at night and see what I am dealing with?!). Gingerly, I pick up Jax and carefully place him back in his bed. He sighs and starts to move around. I freeze, then silently drop down out of sight onto the floor like a stealth Mom Ninja. Maybe if he doesn't see me, I'll get away with this transgression. Thankfully, he remains asleep. Elated, I practically dance back to bed. Even if he wakes up at 5am, I could still get about 6 hours of sleep into my taxed body. <br />
<br />
1:00am: "Gack Gack Goo! GACK GACK GOO!" <br />
<br />
WTF. WTF. Where is my WTF stamp when I need it?! Fine, we'll stay in my bed. At least he will get some sleep and I can lay there while he kicks me and snores into my neck. Well, this time, Jax decides that going to sleep is for the birds. Well, a Rooster is a bird, so maybe he thinks going to sleep is for the bears. At any rate, the Party Animal is in full on party mode now. He says something that sounds suspiciously like, "Gaga Tuck," and I shudder, anticipating his tirade when I fail to turn on the tv in the middle of the night. Luckily, he moves on to another topic of conversation. <br />
<br />
Every few minutes, Jax yells, "Gack Gack Goo!" He sounds more and more urgent about this undetermined thing. He is getting more and more frustrated with me. I am a complete moron, who can't decode this toddler speaking in tongues and he is very clear that I am at fault here for not being able to understand what he is saying.<br />
<br />
4:00am: I am stumbling back from the baby's room for the umpteenth time, because he has just informed me that he wants "Jack Bed." My husband has come home from work, and I register that he is there out of the corner of my eye. I mumble something to him, (and I am later told that I said something like: "Gack Gack Goo, it's French."), and I lie down, only to hear the indignant shouting begin again. <br />
<br />
5:00am: I am a zombie-like disaster of a wreck. Jax is completely awake now, and appears to have no recollection of Hell Night. He's smiling and giggling and does not seem to notice that Mommy is slumped over the breakfast table, semiconscious. <br />
<br />
At some point, I am reminded of a time when I had tons of energy and so much excitement about what was going on in the world, that I didn't want to sleep either. (I am so getting it back ten fold for all those times I worried my parents sneaking out to go to rock concerts and the like. Karma, what a Bitch). <br />
<br />
The day that follows is like shuffling through cement for me, but Jax seems no worse for wear. In fact, he seems to have gained some skills overnight. He walks around, naming colors, shapes, letters, and numbers. He counts to three, surprising me. I hear several 4-5 word phrases that are PERFECTLY articulated! He sings part of a song. <br />
<br />
Something happened last night, inside his brain. Maybe he was trying to tell me about it. I chalk the night up to a weird developmental burst or something. But I still want to know. <br />
<br />
"Gack Gack Goo!" <br />
<br />
What does it mean? Someone decode please! <br />
<br />
Hours of sleep logged that night: 2.5 (and not in a row). <br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-68498792591941305112012-04-10T08:48:00.002-07:002012-04-11T08:32:33.045-07:00Still Got It...?First, a short update on Jax. He is doing awesome. Better than awesome. I am not sure if there is a word awesome enough to describe the resilient little fighter I have been blessed with. Sometimes I look at him and think that he is a divine being, an angel. He certainly looks like one!<br />
<br />
If you don't know me personally, I can tell you that my son and I could not look more different. I have long dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin that tans a deep brown during the summer. My son is a blue-eyed towhead with a peaches and cream complexion. If I didn't know any better, I would question if he was truly mine! Usually though, I look at him in amazement and wonder if there is a God, and if he/she sent me an angel to make sure I learned whatever lessons I was supposed to learn in this lifetime. <br />
<br />
Last week I learned about gratitude. I am so grateful that Jax seems to have survived last week unscathed. We are off of the breathing treatments and steroids. He is breathing easier, eating better, and seems to be well on the road to recovery from the RSV/bronchiolitis challenge a few weeks ago. He lost a lot of weight, but we are hoping he will get back on that growth scale soon. <br />
<br />
I received many comments from folks who follow this blog, and most said they cried when they read about Jax's ordeal. So, this week I will attempt to elicit tears of laughter from you, instead of making you sad or fearful for us. Please, do not feel bad about laughing at my expense! I had to laugh, remembering what happened as we headed to (yet another) doctor appointment. <br />
<br />
Last week, we were driving to a follow up appointment with Jax's pediatrician. The sun was shining, and he was doing so much better, I could hardly believe he had been in the hospital a mere 24 hours beforehand. I, on the other hand, felt truly haggard. I hadn't slept in days, (what's new), and I was fighting my version of RSV, which had manifested as a nasty cold. In short, I felt like the floor of a taxicab, and I am sure I resembled a homeless crack addict. But, I digress. <br />
<br />
Thanks to the hospital visits, sleepless nights, and overall feelings of ill health, I hadn't seen the sun in a while. I wanted some fresh air, so I had all the windows rolled down, and found myself grinning because there was no labored breathing coming from the back seat. So, with the loopy grin still settled on my face, I stopped at a red light, and then a brand spanking new red porche pulled up next to me. In it sat a Silver Fox. You know, one of those hot, older, rich men with hair that is starting to gray at the temples? Hot. Older. Rich. What more could a girl want? (Well, MH is pretty hot himself, being a muscle-bound longshoreman and all, but a girl can have fantasies too, right?!). <br />
<br />
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Silver Fox is looking directly at me. He is smiling. Well! I feel myself sit up a little straighter in my seat. I must still have it! I think to myself. Even after 22 months of sleepless nights, several recent panic attacks over my son's health, currently being violently sick myself, AND being unshowered and in sweats, I STILL GOT IT! I am elated! Nothing can take away my obvious allure, I think excitedly. I sneak a peek back, and now Silver Fox is wearing a broad grin. He is definitely staring right at me. I smile back. And then I realize...<br />
<br />
As I mentioned, I had all the windows down. But I forgot to mention one minor detail. I am blasting Charlotte Diamond's "I am a Pizza" song. Very. Loudly. If you have ever heard this song, you know that it is inane at best, and definitely ridiculous. (See link below to hear it). Thanks to my former life as an early childhood education specialist, I have been unconsciously singing along (loudly) AND engaging in the hand movements for Jax's benefit in the back seat. I start to sweat as I realize it looks like I am alone in the car. Singing and performing hand motions. Acting like a full blown lunatic. <br />
<br />
Just as I start to turn redder than the stoplight, it thankfully turns green and Silver Fox speeds off with a little wink at me. I roll up all of the windows to avoid any future embarrassment. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and oh God, do I ever look destroyed. Besides the red nose, dark under-eye circles, and sallow-looking skin, I have ambiguous stains on my tattered sweatshirt, and some telltale bleach stains on my sleeve. My toenails look like talons, and my hair looks it hasn't been brushed all day. Oh that's right, it hasn't. I sigh, and vow to start getting dressed before leaving the house. Oh yes, and I definitely need one of those Baby on Board signs, just in case Silver Fox drives by again... <br />
<br />
Hope my misfortune made you chuckle. Feel free to leave me a comment. I am dying to know if this has happened to anyone else! <br />
<br />
Here is the link to the song: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2Zwvyhms8c" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2Zwvyhms8c</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-63623668708484973462012-04-03T15:15:00.006-07:002012-04-03T16:21:19.485-07:00Take a Breather...Last week I learned something really important about gratitude. I thought I was learning to practice gratitude, but as it turns out, I wasn't really connected to just how grateful that I, (and all of us), should be for things we take for granted every single day. Take breathing, for example. Each day and each night, we breathe. As we dream, wake, grumble through our early mornings, go to work, come home, exercise, party, fight, make up, eat, sleep, and do it all again, we breathe. <br />
<br />
This simple act became so salient, so complicated, and so important, when my 21 month old went into respiratory distress on Monday night. He could not breathe. HE COULD NOT BREATHE. As a mother, watching your helpless, frightened, and confused toddler struggling to take a breath, you realize that everything you thought you wanted, everything you thought you were grateful for, pales in comparison to that simple, life-sustaining act we do without even thinking about. I'll start at the beginning of this experience.<br />
<br />
Thursday: Jax and I had such a fun time at the Lomita Train Museum with my Dad. The small, gated place was perfect for Jax to run around without me being paranoid that he could escape or get hurt. The weather was gorgeous and sunny. Jax ran all around, saying cute things like, "Twain! Bwack Twain!" He got to climb the ladder and explore the locomotive and caboose. We had a great time. That night, he slept so well that I thought my days as a Rooster Club Mom were numbered. <br />
<br />
Friday: Jax woke up after a 10-hour stretch of sleep. He felt a little warm, and I heard a sneeze or two. Oh well, I thought. The sniffles. No worries. All kids get the sniffles. I had even begun to subscribe to a termie momma mantra that I had been hearing a lot lately: "All kids get sick. I don't keep my kids from germs, what's the point?" Basically, I had started to convince myself that a few germs were a good thing. We were over that preemie mom fear of germs, hospitals, RSV, and other scary things. Jax was nearly two years old, after all. (Boy, was I ever wrong!) <br />
<br />
Friday afternoon: I had given Jax two doses of Tylenol before I finally took his temperature. To MH's dismay, I had to do this rectally. It was 102. I felt my heart rate spike, but I stayed relatively calm. This was the highest fever Jax had ever had, and I had already dosed him with meds twice. Time to call the pedi, and cancel our playdate with a good friend. We ended up at the pedi by 4pm, and we were diagnosed with a double ear infection. <br />
<br />
By the time I got out of that office, and to my drive-thru pharmacy in town, it was nearly 6:30pm. The pharmacy f-ed up, and I was desperately trying to maintain my zen as I drove around the block repeatedly, waiting for them to fill my Rx. Jax was cranky, sick, and feverish in the car, and I didn't want to expose him to CVS. Isn't that the point of a drive-thru pharmacy?! They claimed my pedi never faxed them our Rx (which was a blatant lie; I stood there as she did it). I realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and that I was starving. <br />
<br />
I treated myself to a Coke and some Jack in the Crack tacos as we circled the pharmacy. I knew the drill. Whenever Jax got sick, he woke several times a night and needed me to hold him. I knew it would be a long, long night, and that Coke would be necessary. (Reminder: MH works nights and is gone from 4pm-3am nightly, so there is really no reprieve. Plus, as all Mamas know, when your sick baby wakes up in the middle of the night crying, he wants YOU!). <br />
<br />
By the time we got home with our handy dandy amoxicillin, it was almost 7:30pm. I rushed the baby through dinner and attempted to administer the meds. Apparently, that med tastes like crap. Jax fought, cried, and began coughing and spluttering every time I came near him with the syringe. I tried everything I could think of, and ended up forcing the meds down my poor son's throat, only to have him spit half of it back in my face. Exhausted, I prayed he had ingested enough of it to work, and he went down to sleep. That night, he was up 4 or 5 times, and I was in and out of his room. I finally put him in my own bed (where he has NEVER slept), only to have the coughing and congested snoring keep me awake until he sat up asking for milk around 5:30am. <br />
<br />
Saturday: I feel pretty good considering I only got about 2 hours of sleep. Jackson seems a little cranky. I try to administer the meds, and now, thanks to the handy dandy syringe, he now refuses Motrin, Tylenol, and his antibiotics. He runs away screaming at the sight of the plastic dropper. I force a dose, and he chokes, splutters, coughs and stares at me like, "Why mommy?" My heart starts to break. I have this nagging little feeling that something is seriously wrong, but I tell myself it is just that old anxiety stemming from the circumstances of his birth and first year that I need to let go of. I tell myself it's just a cold. All kids get sick. Not everything is a medical emergency. The voice persists and I shove it down into my guts, ignoring it. <br />
<br />
By Monday, I insist to myself, everything will be back to normal. Saturday passes slowly. I try to rest during Jax's nap, but the intermittent coughing from the baby's room disturbs my nap...and his. He wakes up cranky, and refuses to eat. At this point, we are almost exclusively back on bottles. This night is a little worse than the last one, with more waking up and more running back and forth trying to settle Jax to sleep. I force a dose of Motrin while he is hardly awake around 1:00am, and amazingly I get it down him. <br />
<br />
Sunday: Thanks to the Motrin I think, Jax has slept for a few hours, but wakes up at 5:00am crying. I have heard him rustling around and moaning all night. I worry his ears hurt and curse myself for being incompetent and being unable to administer meds to my toddler son. (How is he stronger than me?!) I send my husband out to get every type of juice, pudding, ice cream and popsicle to mix the meds in, to no avail. The day passes in a frustrating haze of exhaustion and mounting worry. Jax goes down to bed easily, but within 30 minutes, he is coughing and sitting up crying. He proceeds to do this every 30-45 minutes until 6:00am. I am a wreck, running back and forth to his room, and I finally prop him up next to me. His breathing sounds labored, and he is coughing intermittently, but I am convinced it is just a cold. What else could it be? All kids get sick. I toy with taking him to urgent care, but I am so so tired.<br />
<br />
Monday: At 5:00am, Jax coughs himself awake. He coughs so hard I can see that he can't even take a breath. He panics, and starts crying, which makes the coughing worse. I grab my keys and race to his doctor, where they give him a breathing treatment. He hates it, and the loud noise of the nebulizer ain't helping. He struggles, and coughs even more. He is still running a temperature, but amazingly, his ear infection seems to be gone. Thank god, the pedi pulls the antibiotic, which is good because apparently, even though I am a highly trained early childhood specialist and behaviorist, I am unable to administer meds to my toddler son. We are sent home on breathing treatments. Jax seems ok until I put him down for bed that night. That's when all hell breaks loose. <br />
<br />
Monday night: Jax is coughing so hard, and so often, I can't even count to three between the heavy, deep convulsions that wrack his body. I try another breathing treatment and quickly determine it isn't doing jack. I feel the anxiety bubble up and paint my neck red. I call my MIL who lives a few minutes away and she agrees to meet me at the ER. I tell Jax that it's ok, and mommy will help him. I throw on my shoes, grab my bag, and turn the 7 minute drive to the hospital into a 4 minute race. I hear Jax struggling to breathe the whole way. Oh God. <br />
<br />
I fly into a parking space, grab the baby and force myself to stay calm for his sake. It's ok honey, I tell him. I know you are having trouble breathing and the people here will help you. I try to smile at him and I notice he is blue around his mouth. I can hear my own heartbeat and a roaring in my ears as I dash into the ER. The waiting room is full of people. I beeline it to the window and the person there immediately takes notice. He's turning blue, he can't breathe, I yell. <br />
<br />
It's like no one else is there but us. The other people are just fuzzy shadows in the background as the admitting clerk yells for a triage nurse, stat. We are rushed back into the triage room and a very calm male nurse begins taking Jax's vitals. This pisses the baby off more, which makes his breathing even more labored. I feel the panic start to overcome me and my voice breaks as I try to explain what has been happening. We try to get an oxygen read on Jax and it stops at 68, which can't possibly be accurate. Then, it bumps to 86, which is low enough to make me start having palpitations. The nurse unzips Jax's car jammies and I can see his chest and abdomen literally sucking in as he struggles for air. <br />
<br />
We are taken to a bed separated from another bed by a hanging sheet and they start us on oxygen. A doctor comes and orders a bunch of tests and an IV. I am oddly calm, it is as though I am not really there as I question the doctor. Scary words float around my head, like "Reactive Airway Disease," "Pneumonia," and "Respiratory Distress." <br />
<br />
I am sitting on the gurney holding my son as we are wheeled to the x-ray room. I find the mental space to worry about radiation damage. Then, I see the contraption they want to use to get the x-ray. Has anyone ever x-rayed a toddler's chest? The device they use is barbaric. It looks like a plastic mold of a child, with a front and back. Below this is a wooden rack with holes for the child's legs. I am told to stand Jax up in this thing, and they close him into it with his little arms pinned painfully above his head. WTF?! He says, Mama! He starts wailing piteously. I tell the guys they have approximately 3 seconds to get their picture before I rip my son out of that thing. They know I mean business and they literally trip over each other rushing to the press the button. <br />
<br />
Jax is now hysterical, and coughing like crazy. I try to calm him and fight tears myself as someone else comes to take his blood. We count to ten several times and he stops struggling. When they are finally done, he gasps, "yay.." in a heartbreaking little voice. Yay. I did a good job, mommy, he seems to say. I cuddle him fiercely, wipe away my own tears, and vow to buy him every damn gaga tuck toy in existence once we are home. <br />
<br />
It is now midnight. Someone comes to insert an IV and I kick them out. Give the kid a break dammit. The doctor is summoned to chastise me for refusing treatment. I listen again as to why an IV is necessary. I check Jax's diaper, and realize he hasn't peed in 8 hours. He is getting dehydrated. I agree to allow the IV, knowing my husband is going to flip out when he sees it. My husband is at work, and since we are on one income right now, he can't just walk off the job. MH would have freaked big time and probably would have taken out the x-ray tech, so I tell him to come by on his break, not to worry, and that we should be home before he gets off at 3:00am. In the midst of this, my parents and MIL have arrived, and just their presence helps. <br />
<br />
My husband visits on his break and Jax is doing better after the steroid and breathing treatment. I am certain we will be home soon. I send MH back to work, and my parents (man, can they ever party), stay to keep us company. We watch some Thomas and Jax starts to fall asleep in my lap. <br />
<br />
A respiratory therapist shows up next, and he is nice, with kind eyes. Jax is given an oral steroid, which thankfully he swallows, probably because he is so exhausted he doesn't have the strength to resist. Now, the RT blows a bunch of stuff in his face, which seems to worsen the coughing and desats on the monitor. For any non-preemie parents, desats are when one's oxygen plummets, and it is scary as all hell to see verification of this occurring as the monitor flashes red and begins to sound an alarm. I hold Jax through this procedure and it is the longest ten minutes of my life. Until the nasal swab. Jax needs an RSV test. I question this too. I am aware that RSV can be deadly to young, early-term preemies and even term babies. But, Jax is almost 2! How could RSV be causing this? <br />
<br />
I had pictured a nice soft q-tip gently scraping Jax's nose without even waking him, so I am horrified when I see the giant red tube and collection container. The RT explains that a squirt of saline must be administered high into Jax's nose to get the sample. We hold him down and it takes 3 adults to get a tiny bit of mucous. At this point, I am DONE. I tell the RT that he better have enough to test, because no one is doing anything else to my son tonight. He swirls the material in the container and comments that he has a little and it looks cloudy. This sounds ominous. <br />
<br />
The doctor returns to tell me the chest x-ray is clear but that because Jax requires oxygen and breathing treatments, he needs to be admitted overnight. Of course the hospital we are at does not have a children's unit. An ambulance is called to transfer us to Miller's Children's Hospital, in the next town. I groan. This is all starting to sound quite serious. All kids get sick, I think, stifling a maniacal laugh. I text MH and then we wait for the ambulance to arrive. The IV is placed, and it takes two grown men and me to restrain the baby and get in in. <br />
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3:30am: Two EMTs show up with a gurney and we strap Jax's car seat to it. He wakes up during these proceedings and I force a bright smile onto my face. <br />
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"Wow! Jackson we get to ride in an ambulance!" We wheel the baby outside and he perks up when he sees the ambulance.<br />
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"Ambal-ence!" He says excitedly. "Fire Tuck!" <br />
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The EMT assures me that all kids fall asleep immediately when riding in the ambulance. I should have bet him ten bucks to the contrary, because he's shaking his head in disbelief when we roll up to the hospital and Jax says, "Yay! Ambal-lence!" <br />
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"Can't believe it, he's the first one to ever stay awake," he says partly to himself. Ha! Hasn't he heard of the Rooster Club?! <br />
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We are admitted and we make up the chair-beds. The crib looks like a jail cell with its metal sliding sides. I worry for a moment thinking that Jax will never want to lie in this unfamiliar contraption. But, I force myself to smile again and ask him if he is ready for night night. I had the sense to grab his blanky on the way out of the house and he cuddles it to him and says in a tiny, exhausted voice, "Night night? Yay." Amazingly, he falls asleep immediately. Even the head Rooster can't stay up for 24 hours! (At this point I am breaking my Rooster Club record, and when it is all said and done, my longest stretch of being awake will exceed 33 hours). <br />
<br />
Now, we settle in to wait for the doctor. He tells me is it rare for a child this age to be hospitalized with RSV, but that in Jax's case he has developed bronchiolitis. Treatment is breathing treatments every four hours, and steroids every 12. Vitals will be taken every 4 hours. Blah, blah, blah. I think I talked to him but things started to glaze over. I send my party animal parents home. MH arrives and he is pissed as he stares at poor Jax, clad in his hospital gown and diaper, in his baby jail cell. <br />
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MH has some old, gnarly memories of this hospital. He used to come here as a child to see his sister, and it clearly traumatized him. Now, he gets to see his son in the same place. Jax begins coughing and he desats. I am delirious but adrenaline I did not know I still had courses through me and I put Jax over my shoulder, trying to find a position that will ease his suffering. He is exhausted, from the nonstop coughing and struggling to breathe. His little ribs contract hard as he gasps for air. <br />
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I am a machine, a patting, soothing, machine whose mind has thankfully turned off. Every 30 minutes, I pull Jax up into my arms to help him through the coughing fits and the wheezing, the gasping, the fear. A sob escapes me. Then, MH asks me if Jax is going to die. <br />
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"No!" I hiss fiercely. "Don't you ever say that again! Pull yourself together!" <br />
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Then, I pull the thin hospital blanket over my head and cry silent tears as Jax labors next to me. How long can he endure this? How long can I?<br />
<br />
Tuesday: It is a haze of coughing, desats, breathing treatments, and trying to rest in between. It is a nonstop revolving door or staff coming in and out. Family visits and brings food that I can't seem to stomach. We had two or three severe spells where Jax coughed so hard and so long, that I started crying for someone to help him as his little body convulsed. Then, he would say, "yay" in a barely audible voice as he fell back on my shoulder, too exhausted to move, waiting for the next bronchospasm to hit. There was nothing we could do, but try to force more steroids down his throat, and watch, and hold him, and wait. At some point, Jax pulls his IV out and I don't even notice until the nurse points out the blood dripping all over him, and me. <br />
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Blood dripping is an interesting omen. I realize at this point that I am 5 days late. I agonize over the possibility of having to go through all of this with another child and I know I just can't do this again. I lose it, and MH gets me a test, which thankfully is negative. I spend the night wide awake anyway, thinking about the wine I drank two weeks ago, and trying to recall where I stored the baby swing. Every few hours, someone comes in, turns on the floodlights, and disrupts my poor son's sleep with breathing treatments, medication, and taking his vitals until MH is ready to beat someone to a pulp. <br />
<br />
Wednesday: Jax's oxygen has remained stable. He is eating a little. A nurse comes in and tells me he must be pretty strong because most kids admitted in his shape are there for a week. Our doctor has told her Jax will be going home this afternoon. My husband is overjoyed. We wait for hours until the doctor shows up. Release, sweet release!<br />
<br />
On the way home, we grab huge frappucinos and put Jax to bed. Then, I sterilize EVERYTHING. All the toys. All the clothes. Everything that has touched the hospital. I shower for the first time in days. I try to rest but I am so amped up, listening to the rattle in Jax's chest as he breathes. He sleeps in my bed because I am too scared to have him away from me. He seems to need to be in contact with me too. he sleeps cuddled against me for the first time, and I picture our souls and auras entwining, mine feeding his love and strength, and health. Air goes in, I think. Air goes in. <br />
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We head to the pedi the next day, and she expresses great sympathy about our ordeal. I even see tears in her eyes. She tells us to continue the steroids and breathing treatments until the following Monday. Then comes the kicker: We are on house arrest for a month. Jax's immune system is compromised and getting sick again would be big trouble. I feel like I have regressed back to our early preemie days, when no one could visit. I realize I had been trying to convince myself that we were just like everyone else. I was trying so hard to ignore that little voice that never steers me wrong. Don't worry about the germs, not everything is a medical emergency, I told myself. Now, I feel like the wind has been taken out of my sails. <br />
<br />
Jax is back to being skin and bones. He won't eat, and I feel the familiar anxiety about his weight and his failure to thrive designation return full force. I had just started to let these worries go. Will we ever be "normal"? I fall into a little depression. I lie awake blowing my nose and sneezing, because I now have RSV. I cry a little. Then, I realize that Jax is sleeping peacefully for the first time in a week. He can breathe. Oh, thank God, he can breathe. <br />
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We have so many things to be grateful for, but sometimes we forget about the most important ones. We can breathe. We can see. We can hear, and feel, and taste. We can talk, and laugh, and decide what happens to us. I am grateful, so so grateful, for so many things... <br />
<br />
I am grateful that my son can breathe.<br />
I am grateful for our medical insurance.<br />
I am grateful for my parents, in-laws, and MH.<br />
I am grateful for my friends, and everyone who sent positive vibes during this experience.<br />
I am grateful that I am not at work, because truly, I am needed more at home.<br />
I am grateful to be alive, healthy, and supported by so many.<br />
I am grateful that my son can breathe....Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-17144643983222650692012-03-21T08:47:00.001-07:002012-03-21T11:59:59.357-07:00It's Gaga Tuck Time!A question to all you moms out there: What if you found something that entertained your early-waking, extremely active toddler for hours on end? Suddenly, you could shower, eat, talk on the phone, visit with friends, and even get some writing done? Sounds awesome right? But, what if that something consisted of endless Youtube videos of garbage trucks? Orange garbage trucks. Green garbage trucks. Blue garbage trucks. What would you do?<br />
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Every morning, at the crack of dawn, I hear: "Mama!" Delighted that my son wants my divine presence immediately, (but not so delighted that it is 4:55am), I head into his room. He says, "Hi!" Oh, the tone of that greeting. I am his whole world! Then, "Mow? Mow Gaga Tuck?" <br />
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Oh, right. I'm his whole world all right! I am the person who allows him access to his very favorite thing in the whole world right now, the almighty garbage truck.<br />
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After a few weeks of watching garbage trucks on Youtube with my son, I learned that there are many types of garbage trucks. There are Heil Automated Side Loaders (Jax's favorite), and Automated Front Loaders. There are orange garbage trucks, green ones, blue ones, and even pink ones that are painted as such to support breast cancer. Jax clearly had some preferences, and I began to dream of garbage trucks. (Who the hell spends their time creating endless youtube videos of garbage trucks anyway?! Oh yes, these folks are likely other crazed parents desperate for a shower or a warm meal). <br />
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Jax's obsession grew, and I started to HATE the garbage truck. Watching endless videos of the elusive "ohwange gaga tuck" and the highly preferred "boo gaga tuck" started to make me insane. So, I did a little research and discovered that Toys R Us makes a fabulous motorized garbage truck that actually dumps trash! This might be the very thing to steer Jax away from videos and towards a more appropriate play activity! Score! We happened to have a gift card to the most stressful place on earth (e.g., Toys R Us), so off we went to secure a garbage truck of our very own. Through this experience, I learned some important lessons:<br />
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1. NEVER tell your child you are going to a store to buy a particular item or toy. This will inevitably result in the toy being out of stock. I had repeatedly, and excitedly, discussed that we would be buying a garbage truck. We sang the garbage truck song (that I made up, it sucks, don't ask), the WHOLE way to Toys R Us. When we got there, we did a lap around the store, bypassing a multitude of snotty kids, crying kids, and grim-faced parents. We searched every shelf, and every section. No garbage truck. <br />
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By now, Jax was saying "Gaga Tuck?" He said this in a plaintive little voice that made my heart ache, coupled with his adorable sign for the word "where." There is just no way to explain to a toddler that the store didn't have it. I didn't even attempt to go there. We just kept looking, frantically, until I started sweating and praying a gaga tuck would magically appear. We could not leave the store without something that resembled a gaga tuck. <br />
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Thankfully, a kind store employee noticed my distress and helpfully informed us that she would order the fabulous motorized gaga tuck. She even waived the shipping charge, perhaps detecting the hint of desperation and panic in my demeanor. Then, we found a a small, dinky garbage truck to hold Jax over until it arrived. <br />
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I discovered that if I reacted with a ridiculous level of excitement, Jax would think that this crappy, small, non-motorized garbage truck was just as awesome as the one we were looking for. "THERE IT IS!" I yelled, spying a small gaga tuck that I think is from Toy Story 3. (I now realize I could have introduced the same level of enthusiasm towards a paper bag, and I could have saved myself a lot of trouble here!) Off we went, and Jax seemed somewhat nonplussed. A few days later, the fabulous gaga tuck arrived, and I learned something else: <br />
<br />
2. NEVER introduce a new toy just before naptime, bedtime, or any other time that involves your child doing anything that does not involve the new toy! Unfortunately, I was just opening the garbage truck toy when MH brought Jax back from the park. They were late, and MH had failed to feed Jax any lunch (MH is on my sh*tlist for that misstep). Jax ran in, saw the giant motorized gaga tuck, and froze.<br />
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Then, his eyes became as big as saucers, and he whispered, "gaga tuck" with the same degree of reverence one would show the Mona Lisa. He raised his little arms, and of course, I handed it to him immediately. He was so excited, but quickly became frustrated with the dumpster, thanks to the lack of food and sleep. But, try as we might, we could not get Jax to let go of the gaga tuck, even to eat. This brings me to my third point.<br />
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3. NEVER give your toddler a fabulous, motorized, amazing anything without first inspecting it, and Macgyvering any difficult to attach non-toddler friendly pieces. I am certain the folks who design these toys have never seen a toddler, let alone had a child themselves. The dumpster attachment caused 3 tantrums before I wrestled the damn thing away from Jax and taped it to the gaga tuck with an industrial-sized piece of gorilla tape.<br />
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All in all, the gaga tuck caused five meltdowns within the first 24 hours. It ate dinner with us on Jax's high chair tray, because he refused to sit and eat without it. But, by the next day, we had faded it to the dining room table for mealtime. By the second night, Jax blew his gaga tuck a kiss and walked to his room all by himself. He even said, "Nite, gaga tuck!"<br />
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The next thing on my list is a set of toy garbage cans....Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-36636502398203410782012-03-02T07:41:00.000-08:002012-03-02T07:41:48.770-08:00Oh that Leap Day Magic...For those of you who are wondering, yes it was a fluke. Yes, I am still the involuntary president of The Rooster Club! We were up 3 times at up for good at 5:00am on March 1, and last night was no different except that my husband was off and spent the night snoring like a chainsaw right in my ear all night. So, I am back to looking like a raccoon, wondering how I will get through the day, and much like a crack addict, I am sitting here watching the coffee pot drip its addictive fuel into the pot so I can guzzle it all day. <br />
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Luckily, it is a gorgeous day here in sunny southern Cali. Don;t get me wrong, I am grateful, SO grateful to have the life I have. But...it would be nice to sleep in again. I almost feel like the Leap Year fluke screwed me over by giving me the expectation that if I did everything exactly the same as I did that night, Jax would sleep again the following night. <br />
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I am burned by my expectations ALL the time, and I think we all are. Especially when it comes to kids, marriage, careers...you name it. We all carry unrealistic expectations about things. In fact, expectations themselves are quite possibly unrealistic: symptoms of mental dysfunction, monkey mind, whatever you want to call it. Things are what they are and I can still choose to enjoy this day. Until the coffee runs out....Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-74498483342033518612012-02-29T20:01:00.001-08:002012-02-29T20:05:05.987-08:00Leap Year Luck?So today something occurred that has never happened before, and I am afraid to develop any expectations about it. Jax slept until AFTER sunrise. I woke up at 5:45am and shot out of bed like a bat out of hell, wondering if he had somehow escaped his crib or if he was deathly ill. Frantically, I checked the monitor for signs of life, and then I realized that nothing was wrong at all! Jax was simply asleep-like most of us are at this ungodly hour. <br />
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It was an entirely different kind of day. I did not have to resort to multiple cups of tea and coffee to survive until nap time. I actually had the energy to get dressed, AND put on a necklace. For those who know me, you know that I have not been able to put on a different pair of pants for the last 21 months, let alone accessorize! I hummed a tune in the shower, and found myself smiling as I looked truly forward to the day ahead. <br />
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The sun was out, and it was crisp and cool as we walked the dogs. Later that morning, we toured the airplane museum. I even went to lunch with a friend and enjoyed myself, rather than being so tired I felt like falling over, or feeling rushed to get home because I knew I should be resting instead of socializing. In the afternoon, we went to a park with some friends, and I rejoiced in chasing my son all over the place, rather than slogging along making half-hearted attempts to engage with him, and our playdate. <br />
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We cooked dinner in a lazy kind of way, and bedtime became a "whenever" rather than a "seven-o'clock sharp," because I was not so wrecked I could hardly wait for Jax to go down so I could pass out. Nope. This evening, we played puzzles, read books, and watched some videos before bed, and then a well-rested Jax went down so easily I almost wondered whose life I had accidentally switched with! <br />
<br />
In short, it was a glorious, wonderful day. But one thought kept marring my exuberance. I mean, it is February 29th. Leap Day. My poor, hopeful brain went into overdrive trying to determine what, if anything, had contributed to this amazing stretch of sleep that allowed us to have a schedule that permits joyful interaction with others. But alas, I could come up with nothing. Everything we did yesterday was exactly the same as we had done countless times before. Yet, for some reason, last night, Jax slept. <br />
<br />
The only difference between today and other days is that today is a special, strange day, when time and space do not coincide. Yes, a mystical, magical day when fairies and leprechauns scamper about, and a pixie sprinkles dust on my son. Or something. I am grateful, so grateful for feeling like a halfway-normal person today! But I can't help but fear that this amazing experience will not happen again for another four years! Because, trust me, I have often had the expectation that "this was it!" Jax will sleep tonight! He has had no nap, eaten tons of food, pooped, run around maniacally all day, and went to bed at 10pm....wait, nope he's up again. And again. And again...<br />
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So you see, I have been burned by my expectations so many times, and yet I can't help having them. Expectations SUCK. They are the bane of my existence. This is why I must resort to a nice delicious glass of malbec to rid myself of these insane, mentally dysfunctional thoughts. Well, cest la vie, right? What does that even mean? I suppose that I can look forward to sleeping in again in four years! And by sleeping in, I mean getting up after the sunrise. You know, in a strange way, I kind of missed our Sunrise Walk. An After-Sunrise Walk just isn't the same.<br />
<br />
Hours of sleep logged this week: 18!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-84538357683772269372012-02-17T15:36:00.001-08:002012-02-23T20:34:29.994-08:00Sicky Sick Sick...AgainSo everyone is sick again. I am sick, Jax is sick, and Mighty Hubby is also sick. As anyone with two children knows (and yes, I am counting my husband as the second child in our house!), when your kids are sick, mommy's needs come dead last. Or not at all.<br />
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Yesterday, Jax fell asleep around 8:30am, after being up since 4. I tried to go with the flow, but instead of resting, I had to prepare for our tax appointment. I drank three cups of uber-strong coffee, and in a cracked out haze, I managed to get almost everything done. Just as I sat down to rest, Jax was up and raring to go. He slept almost 3 hours, which is a nice long nap for him. But, alas, since he went down so early, it was now only about noon. I put on my happy face and decided to push on through the day, and put him to bed early, take Nyquil, and pass out myself. I can do this! I only have to make it to 7:00pm...<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, as we headed home around 4pm, Jax knocked out in the car. I tried to quell the rising tide of anxiety that this triggered. Now what?! If he naps now, even for 15 minutes, he WILL NOT go down for at least 4 hours. I know this for certain, as I have tried literally everything other than drugging the kid to get him back down before his "window". <br />
<br />
I frantically calculated some times as I drove. Luckily, my fried, fevered brain had been sharpened by the hours I spent that morning adding up receipts. My pathetic thought spirals went something like this:<br />
<br />
"It's ok. If he naps in the car and wakes when we get home, he will still be back in bed by 8:15! Thats not too bad! I can make it another few hours...I can do it!"<br />
<br />
Then, we got home and the kid was so wrecked he didn't even wake up as I carried him up the stairs while two dogs barked and a fire truck went by. <br />
<br />
"It's ok. Even if he naps until 5:30pm, I can still get him back down by 9:30pm! That's not too bad. I can make it another few hours...I can do it!"<br />
<br />
Then we get up the stairs to find Mighty hubby passed out on the couch. <br />
<br />
"Ugh..." he groans. "I am SO sick..." <br />
<br />
MH has been in bed ALL DAY. And ALL NIGHT the night before. Tonight, he is taking the night off. Ok, in his defense he really does seem sick. But, so am I. And I have had the baby all day. I beg shamelessly for help, and MH agrees that he will help once Jax wakes up from this weird late afternoon nap. <br />
<br />
I rush around the house, which is a disaster, straightening and preparing dinner. Jax should be up any moment...right?<br />
<br />
Wrong. Jax takes a marathon nap and doesn't wake up until 6pm. I didn't have the heart to wake him, because he too, is sick. And unlike his parents who can resort to wonderful things like Nyquil and Sudafed, there is no Nyquil for Infants. <br />
<br />
"It's ok. MH is going to help.....wait, where is MH???" <br />
<br />
Where is he? He is asleep. Sound asleep in the guest bedroom. Arrgh. I poke my head in there, and he is an incoherent mess. Lucky for him, I decide to invoke my Inner Supermom power and handle everything myself. And do it well, dammit! <br />
<br />
A rush of adrenaline surges through my veins and I get the baby fed, bathed, and changed. I find myself wondering what the Dr. is going to tell me about my cortisol levels next month. It's amazing I have any adrenaline left to resort to, but I am grateful for the rush of energy.<br />
<br />
We play trucks, puzzles, and read some books. Around 9pm, my voice starts to go. We watch some alphabet videos on youtube. I am so done. I apologize to Jax and figure he is safer in the crib rather than running around the house while I am passed out. I am estimating I have about 15 minutes until I drop from sheer exhaustion. I get Jax tucked in bed, and thankfully he does not protest. <br />
<br />
I stumble around rounding up the dogs and getting ready to begin a Nyquil-induced stretch of sleep. First, Inner Supermom insists that I bring MH some water. Feeling myself practically beaming with my newfound inner strength and ability to take care of MH's thirst before I have had the chance to sit down today, I turn to leave the room. <br />
<br />
MH thanks me profusely, and then asks what's for dinner. Dinner? Ha! Doesn't he know that I subsist almost completely on the baby's leftover bits? If I ever chance to eat dinner, it is at the expense of some much-needed sleep, a shower, or a chance to use the toilet without an audience! Grr. <br />
<br />
I manage to whip up some leftovers into something healthy and make a plate for MH. After all, he will need his strength if he is going to help out tonight whilst I go to bed. My throat is starting to feel like sandpaper, my head aches, and I feel like I have a ton of bricks on my chest. I feel the delirium settling in. Perhaps that is why I actually believe I will be going to bed in the near future. <br />
<br />
I blink and the food has disappeared. MH has taken a massive dose of Nyquil, and he is GONE, leaving a trail of dirty dishes and used tissues in his wake. Back to never never land in the span of about 3 minutes. Dismayed, I realize I am starving. I eat some crackers, and then Jax starts crying. My mind whirls. Fever? Earache? I picture myself alone and disoriented in the emergency room with a screaming toddler. Not happening. I give the baby some Tylenol and spend the next hour rocking and shushing him. Finally, finally, he goes down. <br />
<br />
I get the house locked up, and oops, I forgot to give the dog her meds. I force some pills down the throat of a very pissed off chihuahua. A few moments later, my whole body vibrates as I lie down in bed, the warm buzz of cherry-flavored Nyquil settling into my tummy. It's nearly 11pm. By all rights this kid should sleep until at least 6:00am right? I am sick, and desperately need rest. My fried brain does some quick calculations. If I manage to pass out by 11:30, and he sleeps until 5:30 or 6:00, that would allow me to sleep for 6 HOURS or more! I am elated as I drift into a Nyquil-induced haze. <br />
<br />
At this point, I wonder why I am surprised at the loud screaming that yanks me from my warm bed into pitch black darkness and a perfect quiet. A few hours later, Jax and I are in my bed. I am lying there willing my cold to go away. He is poking me and saying "Hi, Mama!" <br />
<br />
The sunrise looks pretty today, I think ruefully. As does Anthony Wiggle...<br />
<br />
Hours of sleep logged this week: 24.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-67273078780167667452012-01-17T08:05:00.000-08:002012-01-17T08:05:03.219-08:00A Typical Day in our Not So Typical Life...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>696</o:Words> <o:Characters>3968</o:Characters> <o:Company>REECH Consulting Services</o:Company> <o:Lines>33</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>7</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4872</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>12.256</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">It’s 4:00am…do you know where your toddler is?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am pretty sure that the entire neighborhood knows where mine is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, what gives?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok, I recall the 13 months I spent getting up every 90 minutes, dealing with a colicky, refluxy little boy who was only comfortable sitting up over my shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I am grateful that Jax now sleeps an average of 9 hours straight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now it has been 19 months, and I am pretty sure that what I am dealing with is a conditioned waking problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, as a trained behaviorist, I know what would “extinguish” this behavior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem is, Jackson literally won’t go back to sleep for a minimum of 4 hours, usually 5, once he has awakened like this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, by “like this,” I am referring to the frantic hysterics that have been occurring in our house every day before 5:00am for the past month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I have mentioned before, my hubby works nights and gets home at 3:00am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allowing Jackson to scream hysterically for several hours does not allow anyone to get any more sleep around here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So once again, I drag myself to his room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I signal him to “calm down” before I open the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The screams die down and he waits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stand there for a few minutes before I go in, milk sippy in hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slowly open the door to see Jax’s little cherub face peeking at me, smiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Hark!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that urine I smell?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I check Jackson’s diaper, but thankfully the diaper has held.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now, my little dynamo is wide awake, saying hi to me, and signing “milk”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I offer the sippy, and it is rejected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Let’s go turn on Sesame Street,” a little voice whispers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not sure who this voice belongs too, I started hallucinating ages ago, so I truly have no idea who speaks to me during the dark disquiet of our Rooster Club mornings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another voice, more forcefully proclaims, “No!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can’t teach the baby that whenever he wakes up, he gets to watch tv!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will sit in this dark room, and try to get him to sleep, no matter how long it takes!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ugh, not that voice again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, we sit in the rocking chair in the dark for 45 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We rock, we shush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jax yawns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rubs his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes close, and for one blissful moment,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I have actually succeeded!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picture myself lying back in bed…no such luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jax starts poking me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog next door barks, and it’s all over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The voice insists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Try putting him in bed with you…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This has never ever worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had planned on co-sleeping, but I hadn’t planned on a tiny preemie who resisted lying down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am so so tired today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We creep into my bed and the minute we lie down, Jax starts protesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I close my eyes, wondering how my husband is sleeping through all the noise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(He was off last night, but clearly 13 hour of sleep is not enough for him).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Annoyed, I tell Jax that it is still sleepy time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I deposit him back in his crib with his milk, and stumble back to my room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stands there in startled dismay for approximately 10 seconds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then the screams begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Amazingly, my husband wakes up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He takes Jax for 10 whole minutes before I get up to point out that the baby is fussy because he wants to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We make breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I eat, something that does not occur most mornings until the baby goes down for a nap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog starts complaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He needs to poop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell, so do I but I can only go at designated Jackson-free times!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turns out that most of us need to poop, and some of us wear diapers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Mental image of myself wearing a diaper comes to mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am actually liking the idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, when I finally get to rest, I can pee without getting up.).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From his reclined position on the couch, my husband starts commenting loudly, “uh oh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone pooped and it wasn’t me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gross!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It stinks in here!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I try to change that, I’ll throw up!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I do not respond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little poop brings the longshoreman low?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After three or four repetitions of these comments, I grab Jax, change him, and get him dressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t even a loose poop!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, Jax ate like 6 tangerines yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is probably mother’s love, but I think his poop smells like orange blossoms).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We head out to walk the dogs, while Mighty Hubby, who lasted about 40 minutes, heads back to bed citing that he “must have a fever or something”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, it’s 7:45am now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have walked the dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have now collected and disposed of the crap of two dogs, and my son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have eaten, emptied the dishawasher, and started a load of laundry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have made it as long as I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I am a drug addict and my drug of choice in the morning is caffeine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am now going to spike my blood sugar and adrenaline with some nice hot coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sweet dreams, dear hubby, sweet dreams…(Insert here:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mental image of a pillow accidentally finding its way over his nose and mouth…. ).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9119915014254000948.post-17371063029326868762012-01-15T12:27:00.001-08:002012-01-16T19:12:53.868-08:00Over the Edge<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">1/13/12</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"> </span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">It’s Friday the 13<sup>th</sup>. A regular day for most of us. But for me, today marks a milestone that lots of people surely thought I had already surpassed. You see, today is the day that pushed me over the edge. I am certifiable now, people, believe me. Let’s recap. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">4:40am on the dot: Jackson wakes up from a deep sleep and goes from his little boy dreams to full blown hysterical screaming. My husband, who has just come home from his night job, tries valiantly to console him. The earth-shattering shrieks get louder and louder. I am certain someone in the neighborhood is calling the cops. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">Where am I? Oh, I am stumbling around in the bathroom valiantly trying to fill up a test tube with my own spit. (This is due to a hormone test I am taking, and because it cost $250 big ones out of my pocket, I ain’t messing it up!). I am working spit into my cheek and spitting repeatedly, wondering why it is taking so long for me to produce enough saliva to fill up a test tube, when my husband bursts in. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">5:00am: “Sorry babe, I tried,”my husband says, shaking his head. He then proceeds to go back to sleep immediately. His ability to fall asleep within 3 seconds of his head hitting the pillow amid loud anguished screams makes me want to smother him...but I digress. I approach the baby’s door, from which tortured wails are coming. I know there is no way in hell I will be able to get this kid back to sleep, but I’ll be damned if I am up and making breakfast before the rooster crows. Again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">5:15am: I am making breakfast for Jackson before the rooster crows. Again. True to form, he is all adorable smiles and giggles as I manage to get him into his high chair and make him French toast and banana. He even says “Nana!” when he sees the banana, which makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Then, Jackson makes a high-pitched whine, and points to the tea pot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">The tea pot. My savior. It brews delicious and highly caffeinated black tea, which I lace liberally with honey. It wakes me up. It starts my engine. But today I can’t have it. In fact, I can’t have any caffeine, and I had to avoid it starting yesterday, because it will throw off the hormone test. Other things on the list of banned items: chapstick (of course my lips feel like they are cracked and bleeding right now) and dirty bedsheets (I used the last of my strength to change the sheets last night), and alcohol. Knowing that I can’t have my glass of wine at the end of what is already turning out to be a challenging day makes me wring my hands in despair. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">But wait, it’s ok! I can trick myself and my caffeine headache by making some nice herbal tea. Everyone likes herbal tea. I have tons of it left over from my pregnancy because I couldn’t seem to find one I liked. Nothing has changed. I still hate it all. As Jackson proceeds to swipe all of his breakfast onto the floor and then demand milk from a bottle, I struggle to choke down my non-caffeinated beverage. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">6:45am: How has the time passed? With Sesame Street of course! Yes, I am supermom, who resorts to tv because she is too tired to move. So, I drag myself up, migraine and all, and proceed to get the dogs ready for their morning walk. My friend told me morning exercise will make me feel better. Damn them for being someone I really admire, so here we go. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">7:00-7:30: I somehow get a reluctant chihuahua, a rambunctious weiner dog, and my toddler down the stairs, and we walk the dogs. Amazingly, I start to feel a little better! I pick up three loads of dog poop, and feel my chest swell with pride for being a responsible dog owner. I actually enjoy the sunrise and feel gratitude for living in such a beautiful place. Then, I manage to get all of us up three flights of stairs without killing any of us. I feel a major sense of self-efficacy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">7:45am: I determine that Jax might actually hang out in the living room for 5 minutes so I can take a shower alone. Commence shower. Enjoy every stinking minute of it! I run out, buck naked, because it is suspiciously quiet in the living room. Jax must be up to no good! I check, but nope. He is right there, watching the rest of Sesame Street. I take my time (e.g, 2 minutes) to get dressed and brush my hair. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">7:50am: Feeling somewhat relaxed despite my pounding head, and triumphant over my solo shower, I meander into the living room and stop cold. What is that horrible stench?! What are those brown smears all over my leather ottoman? Ohmygod. It appears the dog has made a nono. All over the fluffy area rug. And the baby has stepped in it. And it has been smashed into my rug. And somehow, it has also been smeared on the ottoman. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">7:51am: I erupt into a barrage of swearing. I hate these dogs! I hate everything! My head hurts! I want coffeeeeeeeeee! Arrgh! The things that come out of my mouth are horrible, violent, and nasty enough to make a longshoreman blush. (My husband is a longshoreman. At the very least I would expect that my tirade would wake him up so that he can help me out...but I ain't living on Fantasy Island here, am I?). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">7:52am: Fueled by a massive dose of adrenaline (and wondering how this stress-capade is going to impact my cortisol levels), I manage to secure the baby in his high chair, remove his shoes, scrape the poop out of all the little grooves and ridges (damn stride rites), sterilize the shoes with Lysol, and roll up a 10 x 10 area rug and drag it out to the balcony, swearing like a drunken sailor all the while. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">8:00am: I feel remorseful. I have just completely imploded in front of my son, who luckily does not seem to notice that mommy has just lost it. In fact, he looks sleepy. Nooo! He can’t fall asleep now! We have that uber-expensive Gymboree class to get to! We absolutely cannot miss yet another class because he fell asleep. He wants to wake up at 4:00am, fine! But we are NOT missing another class or event! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">8:45am: I have now managed to eat, get us both ready to go, and we are in the car blasting music and talking talking talking. Anything to keep him up until we get to class. He babbles happily until we are approximately two blocks away. Then, he passes out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">9:30am: I park the car in front of Gymboree feeling like the undead. As I try to stop thinking about coffee, tea, and coca cola, I witness all of the other perky-looking moms and their happy, well-rested kids parading into the facility. I gently remove Jax from the car and try to rouse him. No response. He is out like a light. I am determined. We enter the facility and everyone who works there expresses amazement. No one has ever seen Jackson asleep. Or even standing still for that matter. I rub his cheek and muss his hair a little so wake him up. Once he hears the music and sees his little friends, he will be just fine. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">9:31am: Loud screaming and headbutting ensues, much to the shock of the other parents in the group. Their children have obviously just woken up. They have no idea about the hell I have endured before 9:00am. Thankfully, Jax likes music class more than he likes to protest. He engages and seems to have fun. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">11:00am: We arrive back home. Jax proceeds to run around the house screaming for an hour in an overtired, overstimulated frenzy. The noise finally wakes up my husband. It's a miracle! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">I attempt to make Jax lunch. My husband asks what happened to the living room. I give him a look that should, by all rights, cause him to go up in flames. The baby throws most of his food on the floor. I clean it up mechanically, and my husband decides he is still quite tired, and heads back to bed. Mentally, I am tarring and feathering him, but he brings home the bacon, so I can't complain.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">1:00pm: Jax finally goes down for a nap and I collapse on the couch, unable to move, eat, or muster the energy to take a pee. A few hours pass. You might be wondering where my husband is at this point, (and so am I). He’s sleeping so soundly I can hear him snoring out here in the living room. Yes, he works nights, but last night he was off at midnight. He’s now been in bed for 13 hours. (Mental image of tarring and feathering morphs into image of burning at the stake). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">3:00pm: Jax is up, and we proceed with the rest of our day. Snack time, clean up, spit in a test tube for 30 minutes. Collecting one’s saliva sucks. I feel totally unglued. I need caffeine, or at least some wine! Instead, I force us to the park, hoping to tire out the baby. It doesn’t work, but we do have fun. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">5:30pm: I am dragging. I fix dinner: chicken nuggets, green peas, bread and butter. With one fell swoop, it all lands on the disgusting floor, while the baby calls, “Oscar! Oscar!” Our dog runs over happily, eats the nuggets, steps on the peas, and nearly trips me hovering around the high chair. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">6:00pm: Bathtime. Jax decides it is fun to repeatedly throw the sponge at me, soaking both me, and the bathroom. I bang my head on the heavy glass door peeling him off the floor of the shower, since he has now decided that lying there and screaming while squirming like a slippery eel is more fun than simply getting out of the shower by himself. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">7:00pm: I have manhandled the baby into his pajamas. He starts frantically signing “milk”. I offer a sippy cup. He throws it, and give me "the look." I know that look. He is gearing up to flip out big time. At this point, I concede defeat. He has won...again. I trudge to the kitchen, bleary-eyed and disoriented. I make a bottle and hand it over to my tiny tyrant. (Did I mention I’m a former early childhood specialist with 15 years of behavioral training?). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">8:00pm: We have watched an hour of Sesame Street and The Wiggles (who I am now starting to find physically attractive...especially Anthony Wiggle. Oh Yeah. Anthony Wiggle can make me a fruit salad any time). Jax yawns. Thank God! We read Good Night Moon, and I place him in bed with some books. Thankfully, 8 months of sleep training has at least afforded me an awesome bedtime routine. Jax quietly looks at some books and drops off to sleep.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">9:00pm: I have spent the last 30 minutes collecting my spit in a test tube. I stumble around, like a demented ballerina, and then I find myself in heaven…my bed. I close my eyes until…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;">4:00am on the dot: Jackson wakes up from a deep sleep and goes from his little boy dreams to full blown hysterical screaming….Oh well. At least today I can have coffee! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><br />
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</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12703895180395508715noreply@blogger.com0