Still 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?!).  

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...

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.

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...

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!

Here is the link to the song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2Zwvyhms8c

Leap 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.

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.

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.

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!  

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.

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...

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.

Hours of sleep logged this week:  18!

A Typical Day in our Not So Typical Life...

It’s 4:00am…do you know where your toddler is?  I am pretty sure that the entire neighborhood knows where mine is.  I mean, what gives?!  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.  Yes, I am grateful that Jax now sleeps an average of 9 hours straight.  But now it has been 19 months, and I am pretty sure that what I am dealing with is a conditioned waking problem. 

Yes, as a trained behaviorist, I know what would “extinguish” this behavior.  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.  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.   As I have mentioned before, my hubby works nights and gets home at 3:00am.  Allowing Jackson to scream hysterically for several hours does not allow anyone to get any more sleep around here. 

So once again, I drag myself to his room.  I signal him to “calm down” before I open the door.  The screams die down and he waits.  I stand there for a few minutes before I go in, milk sippy in hand.  I slowly open the door to see Jax’s little cherub face peeking at me, smiling.  But Hark!  Is that urine I smell?  Drat.  I check Jackson’s diaper, but thankfully the diaper has held.  But now, my little dynamo is wide awake, saying hi to me, and signing “milk”. 

I offer the sippy, and it is rejected.  “Let’s go turn on Sesame Street,” a little voice whispers.  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. 

Another voice, more forcefully proclaims, “No!  We can’t teach the baby that whenever he wakes up, he gets to watch tv!  We will sit in this dark room, and try to get him to sleep, no matter how long it takes!”  Ugh, not that voice again. 

So, we sit in the rocking chair in the dark for 45 minutes.  We rock, we shush.  Jax yawns.  He rubs his eyes.  His eyes close, and for one blissful moment,  I think I have actually succeeded!  I picture myself lying back in bed…no such luck.  Jax starts poking me.  The dog next door barks, and it’s all over. 

The voice insists.  “Try putting him in bed with you…”  This has never ever worked.  I had planned on co-sleeping, but I hadn’t planned on a tiny preemie who resisted lying down.  But I am so so tired today.  We creep into my bed and the minute we lie down, Jax starts protesting.  I close my eyes, wondering how my husband is sleeping through all the noise.  (He was off last night, but clearly 13 hour of sleep is not enough for him). 

Annoyed, I tell Jax that it is still sleepy time.  I deposit him back in his crib with his milk, and stumble back to my room.  He stands there in startled dismay for approximately 10 seconds.  And then the screams begin. 

Amazingly, my husband wakes up.  He takes Jax for 10 whole minutes before I get up to point out that the baby is fussy because he wants to eat.  We make breakfast.  I eat, something that does not occur most mornings until the baby goes down for a nap.  The dog starts complaining.  He needs to poop.  Hell, so do I but I can only go at designated Jackson-free times!  It turns out that most of us need to poop, and some of us wear diapers.  (Mental image of myself wearing a diaper comes to mind.  I am actually liking the idea.  Then, when I finally get to rest, I can pee without getting up.). 

From his reclined position on the couch, my husband starts commenting loudly, “uh oh!  Someone pooped and it wasn’t me!  Gross!  It stinks in here!  If I try to change that, I’ll throw up!” 

I do not respond.  Seriously?!  A little poop brings the longshoreman low?  Whatever.  After three or four repetitions of these comments, I grab Jax, change him, and get him dressed.  (Really?  It wasn’t even a loose poop!  In fact, Jax ate like 6 tangerines yesterday.  It is probably mother’s love, but I think his poop smells like orange blossoms).  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”. 

Well, it’s 7:45am now.  We have walked the dogs.  I have now collected and disposed of the crap of two dogs, and my son.  We have eaten, emptied the dishawasher, and started a load of laundry.  I have made it as long as I can.  Yes, I am a drug addict and my drug of choice in the morning is caffeine.  I am now going to spike my blood sugar and adrenaline with some nice hot coffee.  Sweet dreams, dear hubby, sweet dreams…(Insert here:  Mental image of a pillow accidentally finding its way over his nose and mouth…. ).  

Over the Edge

1/13/12

It’s Friday the 13^th.  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. 

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.   

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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?).  

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. 

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! 

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.   

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.  

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.  


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!  


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.

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).  

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.  

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. 

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. 

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?). 

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.

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…

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!