The sun's in overdrive. Blazing, blasting, relentless. I water my vegetables in our little plot at the new community garden, but my front yard plants are suffering with only their mulch to save them. There only seems to be time to water one thing, and I choose the veggies, dreaming of tomatoes and eggplants and squash that are only now beginning to form, slowly and reluctantly under this oppressive heat.
My summer's in overdrive too. Somehow, Gracie's second round of swimming lessons arrived today-- the "end of summer" session that I've been thinking of as the end of our season. Our Arkansas Virtual Academy supplies are en route via UPS to us, and I still don't have a schoolroom area cleared to put them in. My son's still not pottytrained, and he returns to preschool in just a month. (I really wanted to accomplish this, but we've been running hither and yon all summer. How, exactly, do you provide consistent and leisurely trips to the potty when you're always flying about from one place and activity to another? I'm stumped, and failing on this point.)
Life blazes along. "You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away." I struggle along attempting to provide food, clothing, shelter for my kids and husband... not that well, I might add. But do I provide love? Spiritual growth, depth, honesty? Do they know how much I love them? Do we read enough books, pray enough, laugh enough, look into each other's eyes enough?
How can I possibly be 37, married 13 years, nearly 20 years out of high school? How can Gracie be nearly 33% through her time at home with us?
Amazing. Exhilarating. Also, terrifying.
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Thirteen months.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
You are over one year old now, sweet fella. I can hardly believe that. It seems like just a few weeks ago that I was nursing you in our chair, the copper leaves glowing on the oaks outside, as I ached for your struggling kidney and learned your face and the feel of your dear sweet body in my arms. You still lay in my arms for a while each night before bedtime, but now your arms and legs splay out from my body; you're so very big, but still we settle in for some nursing and a bottle, rocking in the dark. You are still my baby, just an evergrowing and everchanging one.
You're crawling now, at last, a sweet grabby little belly-slither that isn't quite perfected but nonetheless gets you where you'd like to go. Where do you most like to go? To our feet, to be picked up and snuggled in our arms. Your contentedness with our arms (and your bouncer, and exersaucer) is doubtless some of the reason that movement's coming late to you. And that's fine. All in due time, buddy. At your own pace.
We x-rayed your head at your checkup this week, just to make sure you did have teeth. They're in there, taking their time just as your movement is, hanging out, slow to appear. In the meantime, you're managing to eat an amazing array of food without teeth. Prunes; crackers; chopped chicken; cooked veggies. No problem for my fella! Gums of Steel!
Your laugh has two sounds to it: a lovely gravelly huh-huh-huh, and when you're seriously tickled at something, a lovely inbreath of a squeak. The squeak developed first, and the huh-huh followed a few months later, and both of them can make me breathless with love for you. You smile often, your eyes dancing with what looks like mischief.
Twenty pounds, six ounces. Three months ago, you were thirteen pounds. Apparently you needed some extra calories; we added some formula to your diet, and you've grown like a weed ever since. I'm so proud of your chubby little legs and your round little face now. It feels like we've conquered this together (along with your surgery, along with that nasty scalp infection last spring). You've been through a lot, little guy, and you just keep marching on, overcoming your hurdles and impressing the heck out of me. Out of all of us, actually.
Your hair was black when you were born, and you were almost bald for a little while, but now you're growing in a spiky, cowlicked head of dark blonde or light brown hair. Your once-blue eyes are turning brown, the same lovely deep brown that your daddy has. Your feet are still a little small (or is it that your sister's are huge and I'm unaccustomed to normal feet?). Your head seems big, since hats for your age group generally are too small for you.
The past month has been chaotic at our house; your mom and dad decided to remove some ugly paneling and add some drywall to parts of the house, and our world's been covered in drywall dust and mud splatters and primer and paint and (tomorrow, thank God) new carpet and re-installed moldings. You've hardly noticed; you soldier on, hanging out with us in the safe areas of the house, walking through the chaos just to get to bed. I sure hope that we're in this house for many many years, and that you'll ask someday to see pictures of how funky and dated this house was when we bought it, and be amazed.
Things you love: Your grammy and aunt Leigh. Your sister, always, even when she's bossing you around. Our sweet Clairedog. Being outside whenever possible. Toys. (No particular favorite, but you can sit with a basketful of toys for quite a while, playing with one and then another.) You love Cheerios, but seem to love pureed food and cereal a bit more, flapping and cooing with enthusiasm when we sit down with a bowl to feed you. Oh, and television, most especially the Fraggles DVDs at Grammy's house. Your binky (just like your sister at your age, one is absolutely required for bedtime). And always, always, you love to be held, love your milk (both kinds), and love your momma most of all.
And I eat that up. You are such a blessing, Quinton. The next year will bring your first steps, your first sentences, the beginnings of a relationship with you that's more verbal and less tactile. I'm looking forward to all that, but I must admit: I also love this gentle time of cuddles and bottles and watching you learn to crawl. Thanks for stretching your babyhood out a little longer; it is a treasure to me--
As are you. Happy Birthday, buddy.
You're crawling now, at last, a sweet grabby little belly-slither that isn't quite perfected but nonetheless gets you where you'd like to go. Where do you most like to go? To our feet, to be picked up and snuggled in our arms. Your contentedness with our arms (and your bouncer, and exersaucer) is doubtless some of the reason that movement's coming late to you. And that's fine. All in due time, buddy. At your own pace.
We x-rayed your head at your checkup this week, just to make sure you did have teeth. They're in there, taking their time just as your movement is, hanging out, slow to appear. In the meantime, you're managing to eat an amazing array of food without teeth. Prunes; crackers; chopped chicken; cooked veggies. No problem for my fella! Gums of Steel!
Your laugh has two sounds to it: a lovely gravelly huh-huh-huh, and when you're seriously tickled at something, a lovely inbreath of a squeak. The squeak developed first, and the huh-huh followed a few months later, and both of them can make me breathless with love for you. You smile often, your eyes dancing with what looks like mischief.
Twenty pounds, six ounces. Three months ago, you were thirteen pounds. Apparently you needed some extra calories; we added some formula to your diet, and you've grown like a weed ever since. I'm so proud of your chubby little legs and your round little face now. It feels like we've conquered this together (along with your surgery, along with that nasty scalp infection last spring). You've been through a lot, little guy, and you just keep marching on, overcoming your hurdles and impressing the heck out of me. Out of all of us, actually.
Your hair was black when you were born, and you were almost bald for a little while, but now you're growing in a spiky, cowlicked head of dark blonde or light brown hair. Your once-blue eyes are turning brown, the same lovely deep brown that your daddy has. Your feet are still a little small (or is it that your sister's are huge and I'm unaccustomed to normal feet?). Your head seems big, since hats for your age group generally are too small for you.
The past month has been chaotic at our house; your mom and dad decided to remove some ugly paneling and add some drywall to parts of the house, and our world's been covered in drywall dust and mud splatters and primer and paint and (tomorrow, thank God) new carpet and re-installed moldings. You've hardly noticed; you soldier on, hanging out with us in the safe areas of the house, walking through the chaos just to get to bed. I sure hope that we're in this house for many many years, and that you'll ask someday to see pictures of how funky and dated this house was when we bought it, and be amazed.
Things you love: Your grammy and aunt Leigh. Your sister, always, even when she's bossing you around. Our sweet Clairedog. Being outside whenever possible. Toys. (No particular favorite, but you can sit with a basketful of toys for quite a while, playing with one and then another.) You love Cheerios, but seem to love pureed food and cereal a bit more, flapping and cooing with enthusiasm when we sit down with a bowl to feed you. Oh, and television, most especially the Fraggles DVDs at Grammy's house. Your binky (just like your sister at your age, one is absolutely required for bedtime). And always, always, you love to be held, love your milk (both kinds), and love your momma most of all.
And I eat that up. You are such a blessing, Quinton. The next year will bring your first steps, your first sentences, the beginnings of a relationship with you that's more verbal and less tactile. I'm looking forward to all that, but I must admit: I also love this gentle time of cuddles and bottles and watching you learn to crawl. Thanks for stretching your babyhood out a little longer; it is a treasure to me--
As are you. Happy Birthday, buddy.
Value your personal time. I mean it.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
May those of you without toddlers please take a moment and be thankful for the following things:
1) You can poop alone, without a play-by-play commentary being given by your bathroommate
2) You can bathe whenever you want for as long as you want-- and again, alone and without commentary.
3) If you put something down, it usually stays where you put it.
4) If you have something to eat, you don't necessarily have to share it.
5) No one ever spits mouthfuls of your food that they DON'T like into your hand.
6) Generally, no one begins shrieking at the top of their lungs (or sobbing uncontrollably) at you before you understand what you've done to piss them off.
Just be appreciative of these things, is all I'm sayin'.
1) You can poop alone, without a play-by-play commentary being given by your bathroommate
2) You can bathe whenever you want for as long as you want-- and again, alone and without commentary.
3) If you put something down, it usually stays where you put it.
4) If you have something to eat, you don't necessarily have to share it.
5) No one ever spits mouthfuls of your food that they DON'T like into your hand.
6) Generally, no one begins shrieking at the top of their lungs (or sobbing uncontrollably) at you before you understand what you've done to piss them off.
Just be appreciative of these things, is all I'm sayin'.
Six months.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Baby Q. Six months old already! (Okay. Technically, seven. You clever thing, you counted months. Sorry I'm late.)
Four months ago, you were recovering from your surgery at Arkansas Children's Hospital, and I was still in a bit of shock, that my little baby had such a birth defect that we'd needed to operate at three months old. You were still tiny then, and I handled your little body gingerly, with fear-- even though the doctors and nurses had told me that I could handle you normally.
You were just starting to get what we (and your pediatrician) thought was some seriously crusty cradle cap to go along with your excema on your legs and back. That crustiness would proceed quickly to oozy crustiness, and sometimes bloodiness, and patches broke out on your face and neck as I applied every cream and salve the doctor had recommended, desperately trying to make you feel and look better. You'd scrape your fingernails across your head until you bled, over and over. (That's when the socks went onto your hands on a constant basis.) I knew you were itching terribly.
None too soon, I gave up on that doctor and took you to a new one, Dr. Jackson. He took one look-- one tiny little half-second look-- at your scalp and gave me a different diagnosis, different medicine, and different things to do for you. A week later, you were all but cured.
We have a new doctor now, obviously. And I've learned something about trusting my momma instincts.
Today, you are all eyes and smiles, reaching for our faces, taking off my glasses, trying to grab at our water glasses to steal a sip. You're still not rolling over, although you do know how-- you just seem happy to lay on your back and hang out. On your stomach, you can raise your head up and look around while resting on your elbows, but within a few minutes your head lolls over and you flip yourself over onto your back again. That's about the extent of the "tummy time" I'm supposed to be giving you daily.
You've started eating a little bit of pureed food now-- avocados, oatmeal cereal, bananas-- and every item is met with grins of approval and eager swats at the spoon with your hands. (Sadly, we've still got to keep your "nubbin cover" socks on your hands most of the time, as your habit of scraping your head hasn't quite abated.)
You're a champion napper, sleeping an amazing amount of the day in two or three naps. You still love to cuddle, sitting happily in our laps while we watch movies (or Gracie's Sesame Street, which you stare at avidly). You love being outside and have quit screaming in the car almost entirely.
You're a skinny, long little fella these days, weighing 13.5 pounds at your six-month checkup. I'm hoping that eating some food will help bring your weight up a bit, and I worry a bit too much that I don't have enough (or rich enough) milk for you. Your sister was tiny until her first birthday, and she's big for her age now, so I guess that even if my milk isn't very rich, you'll end up just fine in the end.
Can't wait to know you better, little Q. We love what little we know about your personality so far; I'm sure you're going to be a fabulous little son and brother.
Four months ago, you were recovering from your surgery at Arkansas Children's Hospital, and I was still in a bit of shock, that my little baby had such a birth defect that we'd needed to operate at three months old. You were still tiny then, and I handled your little body gingerly, with fear-- even though the doctors and nurses had told me that I could handle you normally.
You were just starting to get what we (and your pediatrician) thought was some seriously crusty cradle cap to go along with your excema on your legs and back. That crustiness would proceed quickly to oozy crustiness, and sometimes bloodiness, and patches broke out on your face and neck as I applied every cream and salve the doctor had recommended, desperately trying to make you feel and look better. You'd scrape your fingernails across your head until you bled, over and over. (That's when the socks went onto your hands on a constant basis.) I knew you were itching terribly.
None too soon, I gave up on that doctor and took you to a new one, Dr. Jackson. He took one look-- one tiny little half-second look-- at your scalp and gave me a different diagnosis, different medicine, and different things to do for you. A week later, you were all but cured.
We have a new doctor now, obviously. And I've learned something about trusting my momma instincts.
Today, you are all eyes and smiles, reaching for our faces, taking off my glasses, trying to grab at our water glasses to steal a sip. You're still not rolling over, although you do know how-- you just seem happy to lay on your back and hang out. On your stomach, you can raise your head up and look around while resting on your elbows, but within a few minutes your head lolls over and you flip yourself over onto your back again. That's about the extent of the "tummy time" I'm supposed to be giving you daily.
You've started eating a little bit of pureed food now-- avocados, oatmeal cereal, bananas-- and every item is met with grins of approval and eager swats at the spoon with your hands. (Sadly, we've still got to keep your "nubbin cover" socks on your hands most of the time, as your habit of scraping your head hasn't quite abated.)
You're a champion napper, sleeping an amazing amount of the day in two or three naps. You still love to cuddle, sitting happily in our laps while we watch movies (or Gracie's Sesame Street, which you stare at avidly). You love being outside and have quit screaming in the car almost entirely.
You're a skinny, long little fella these days, weighing 13.5 pounds at your six-month checkup. I'm hoping that eating some food will help bring your weight up a bit, and I worry a bit too much that I don't have enough (or rich enough) milk for you. Your sister was tiny until her first birthday, and she's big for her age now, so I guess that even if my milk isn't very rich, you'll end up just fine in the end.
Can't wait to know you better, little Q. We love what little we know about your personality so far; I'm sure you're going to be a fabulous little son and brother.
Getting it wrong.
Friday, April 18, 2008
I had a "first" this week: getting a second opinion on a pediatrician's diagnosis and treatment of my child.
Since about Month 3, Q's head has been itchy, scaly, scabby, and oozy. Whenever he was agitated or hungry, he'd claw at his scalp, often until it bled. His head left stains on his crib sheet overnight; I would obsessively try to pull the scales out of his hair while he ate. His hair has mostly fallen out at the sides except for a spectacular mohawk in the middle (where he can't reach to scrape); he's been wearing socks on his hands for months to help prevent the scraping and bleeding. It's been awful.
Almost two months ago, his pediatrician gave me a diagnosis of (basically) severe dandruff and possible allergies, and had me start using heavy-duty Head and Shoulders on his head, and told me to be patient, that it would take a couple of months to improve. That his head would look dry and icky. That I should persevere.
(What I hear in this, and what I've heard in his previous advice about my kids' illnesses, is basically, "don't come here bothering me unnecessarily about this." I'm not sure why, but something in his demeanor makes me feel like a paranoid mom any time I have a question or bring my kids in sick. So I committed myself to being patient, following his directions, waiting for the healing to begin.)
I made it about six weeks, bathing him daily, trying to ease his discomfort, waiting for the improvement. It wasn't really getting better, although it obviously looked and felt better for a few hours after a bath. But the mess would return overnight. I've hardly taken any pictures of my beautiful guy, because I don't feel like I want him to see how sad he's looked. When I do, the red patches and uneven hair stand out like beacons to me in the photos, and I sadly download them onto the computer and don't look at them again.
Finally, this weeek, we sought out another doctor; a family doctor, since there are only two pediatricians in town (and I've never known anyone to speak positively about the other one). This man was sweet with both kids, gentle with Quinton, and took one look at his sad scalp and made a different diagnosis: Impetigo.
I am so relieved to have some medication he can take and a new regimen to try. He says it should be mostly gone within a week. However, I'm more than a little embarassed to have such a icky, contagious infection on the baby I'm supposed to be lovingly caring for-- much like I've seen families feel about discovering lice on their kids' heads. I'm also feeling more than a little guilty that I waited so long to seek out another diagnosis.
This uncertain, aching, am-I-doing-the-right-thing-oh-crap-I-guess-I-wasn't feeling is so unique to motherhood for me. Making a mistake in my own care or life seems perfectly normal and forgivable; making a mistake (real or perceived) in my kids' care is agonizing, guilt-inducing, regret-filled.
However, the prospect of erasing the contagion, of restoring Q's sweet head to its healthy state, is so exciting that I feel almost slavishly grateful toward this doctor. If his diagnosis is correct, I think we'll be switching to his care for a while, to see if I'll feel a bit less intimidated by him.
Please heal, little Q. You don't deserve this nastiness.
Since about Month 3, Q's head has been itchy, scaly, scabby, and oozy. Whenever he was agitated or hungry, he'd claw at his scalp, often until it bled. His head left stains on his crib sheet overnight; I would obsessively try to pull the scales out of his hair while he ate. His hair has mostly fallen out at the sides except for a spectacular mohawk in the middle (where he can't reach to scrape); he's been wearing socks on his hands for months to help prevent the scraping and bleeding. It's been awful.
Almost two months ago, his pediatrician gave me a diagnosis of (basically) severe dandruff and possible allergies, and had me start using heavy-duty Head and Shoulders on his head, and told me to be patient, that it would take a couple of months to improve. That his head would look dry and icky. That I should persevere.
(What I hear in this, and what I've heard in his previous advice about my kids' illnesses, is basically, "don't come here bothering me unnecessarily about this." I'm not sure why, but something in his demeanor makes me feel like a paranoid mom any time I have a question or bring my kids in sick. So I committed myself to being patient, following his directions, waiting for the healing to begin.)
I made it about six weeks, bathing him daily, trying to ease his discomfort, waiting for the improvement. It wasn't really getting better, although it obviously looked and felt better for a few hours after a bath. But the mess would return overnight. I've hardly taken any pictures of my beautiful guy, because I don't feel like I want him to see how sad he's looked. When I do, the red patches and uneven hair stand out like beacons to me in the photos, and I sadly download them onto the computer and don't look at them again.
Finally, this weeek, we sought out another doctor; a family doctor, since there are only two pediatricians in town (and I've never known anyone to speak positively about the other one). This man was sweet with both kids, gentle with Quinton, and took one look at his sad scalp and made a different diagnosis: Impetigo.
I am so relieved to have some medication he can take and a new regimen to try. He says it should be mostly gone within a week. However, I'm more than a little embarassed to have such a icky, contagious infection on the baby I'm supposed to be lovingly caring for-- much like I've seen families feel about discovering lice on their kids' heads. I'm also feeling more than a little guilty that I waited so long to seek out another diagnosis.
This uncertain, aching, am-I-doing-the-right-thing-oh-crap-I-guess-I-wasn't feeling is so unique to motherhood for me. Making a mistake in my own care or life seems perfectly normal and forgivable; making a mistake (real or perceived) in my kids' care is agonizing, guilt-inducing, regret-filled.
However, the prospect of erasing the contagion, of restoring Q's sweet head to its healthy state, is so exciting that I feel almost slavishly grateful toward this doctor. If his diagnosis is correct, I think we'll be switching to his care for a while, to see if I'll feel a bit less intimidated by him.
Please heal, little Q. You don't deserve this nastiness.
Random is better than nuthin'.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Oh, my. So much time has gone by.
We are in bliss, but life is so busy. Yes, we have a new baby, one that is being breastfed and is not yet (quite) sleeping through the night. He is lovely, beyond lovely actually.
We also have a newly potty-trained toddler, one who loves to take off her clothes at random times (it's January, child! our upstairs is unheated and I sleep in my fuzzy robe! what are you THINKING?) and now sleeps in a twin bed.
She also leaves that bed at least once a night to request my presence ("Mama cuddle in Gracie's bed," I hear suddenly as I realize that there are two earnest eyes peering at my face from about four inches away in the dark.)
We also own one less house in Florida (PRAISE THE HOLY LORD WHO SOLD OUR HOUSE IN A WEEK, AMEN) and, as a result, one house in Arkansas. And, as of this week, our kitchen has entered the 21st century with the (very pricey) addition of plumbing, updated wiring, and a DISHWASHER. Again, cue the host of angels triumphant.
And there have been colds, and stomach viruses, and sinus infections, and coughing rattlelungs. Should we all survive this winter, we will definitely be rejoining the flu shot club next year. I'm not sure if it would've helped, but this is SO much worse than last year, when we'd had the shots...
And there was Christmas, a lovely special Christmas with our little girl, who marveled at Christmas lights, stockings, Santa, plastic holly, baby Jesus, and the Christmas aisle at Wal-Mart with total abandon.
May I never forget:
-Evidence of Husband's vocabulary slip as we drove past a glowing plastic nativity scene: "Holy CRAP, it's Baby Jeeus!" from our sweet toddler's lips.
-December 26, as we said grace before dinner, I was interrupted during my prayer: "Thanks Santa," she said earnestly, nodding at me. "And Thanks Stockings."
-The way she said, wistfully, any time we drove through the unlighted town square for weeks afterwards: "No mo Christmas. All gone. Happy New Year?"
And now, there is possibly a new career for Husband in the works, one that helps people and will help us and will help him enjoy his workweek. (There is risk involved, though. We're trying to figure that out.)
And Monday, we'll know if our sweet little baby needs surgery on February 5 to unblock that obstructed tube. I would so love to spare him that little 4-cm scar...
In short, we've been very busy, fairly sleep deprived, somewhat sick, a little frantic and terribly, terribly happy lately. I hope to write more soon, including a letter to my little son about what these first months with him have been like. (Oh, the curse of the second child... Bird has a letter every month during her first year. I'll be doing good to get Q one every three months, I think. Unfair and unjust, as my daughter would say.)
Don't haul me out to the wood cart-- This blog's not dead yet.
We are in bliss, but life is so busy. Yes, we have a new baby, one that is being breastfed and is not yet (quite) sleeping through the night. He is lovely, beyond lovely actually.
We also have a newly potty-trained toddler, one who loves to take off her clothes at random times (it's January, child! our upstairs is unheated and I sleep in my fuzzy robe! what are you THINKING?) and now sleeps in a twin bed.
She also leaves that bed at least once a night to request my presence ("Mama cuddle in Gracie's bed," I hear suddenly as I realize that there are two earnest eyes peering at my face from about four inches away in the dark.)
We also own one less house in Florida (PRAISE THE HOLY LORD WHO SOLD OUR HOUSE IN A WEEK, AMEN) and, as a result, one house in Arkansas. And, as of this week, our kitchen has entered the 21st century with the (very pricey) addition of plumbing, updated wiring, and a DISHWASHER. Again, cue the host of angels triumphant.
And there have been colds, and stomach viruses, and sinus infections, and coughing rattlelungs. Should we all survive this winter, we will definitely be rejoining the flu shot club next year. I'm not sure if it would've helped, but this is SO much worse than last year, when we'd had the shots...
And there was Christmas, a lovely special Christmas with our little girl, who marveled at Christmas lights, stockings, Santa, plastic holly, baby Jesus, and the Christmas aisle at Wal-Mart with total abandon.
May I never forget:
-Evidence of Husband's vocabulary slip as we drove past a glowing plastic nativity scene: "Holy CRAP, it's Baby Jeeus!" from our sweet toddler's lips.
-December 26, as we said grace before dinner, I was interrupted during my prayer: "Thanks Santa," she said earnestly, nodding at me. "And Thanks Stockings."
-The way she said, wistfully, any time we drove through the unlighted town square for weeks afterwards: "No mo Christmas. All gone. Happy New Year?"
And now, there is possibly a new career for Husband in the works, one that helps people and will help us and will help him enjoy his workweek. (There is risk involved, though. We're trying to figure that out.)
And Monday, we'll know if our sweet little baby needs surgery on February 5 to unblock that obstructed tube. I would so love to spare him that little 4-cm scar...
In short, we've been very busy, fairly sleep deprived, somewhat sick, a little frantic and terribly, terribly happy lately. I hope to write more soon, including a letter to my little son about what these first months with him have been like. (Oh, the curse of the second child... Bird has a letter every month during her first year. I'll be doing good to get Q one every three months, I think. Unfair and unjust, as my daughter would say.)
Don't haul me out to the wood cart-- This blog's not dead yet.
BIRTH TOMORROW.
Monday, November 05, 2007
I have no time to write.
I just want to record my astonishment that, holy cow, I AM ABOUT TO GIVE BIRTH IN A FEW HOURS.
Inducing is a weird thing. I'm not sure if it's good to know exactly when it's going to happen or not.
Ready or not, here we go. Welcome, baby Q!
I just want to record my astonishment that, holy cow, I AM ABOUT TO GIVE BIRTH IN A FEW HOURS.
Inducing is a weird thing. I'm not sure if it's good to know exactly when it's going to happen or not.
Ready or not, here we go. Welcome, baby Q!
Sigh of relief-- 34 weeks!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Hi!
I don't have time to write out the drama that has been the past few weeks, but here's the short version.
House: Tenants finally out. Empty but filthy house. Paint. Carpet. Housecleaners. A/C repairs. About to be listed on the market. (Whew.)
Additional Tests and Babymonitoring. Premature labor imminent within 15 days, supposedly. Strict bed rest. (No computer access, mostly.) Grammy to the rescue to watch the Bird, church to the rescue to provide meals. Deeply grateful. Butt on couch, mostly.
15 days past-- no baby yet! 34 weeks milestone reached! Almost hospitalized three times-- but not! Steroid shots to help baby's lungs administered! All very good. Still on bedrest for 10 days or so, til 36 weeks. Then, give me baby or give me freedom to roam!
Major database project at work completed! (Two years of work-- finally put into action!) Working well 99% of the time. Hoorah.
So, if you can decipher all that, you'll see that we're doing well, the baby hasn't arrived yet, and I'm living in a happy haze of thankfulness for friends and family who have stepped up to help us. Life is good, and when the fella gets here, it'll be even better.
Thanks for your prayers and wellwishin'. Much appreciated!!
I don't have time to write out the drama that has been the past few weeks, but here's the short version.
House: Tenants finally out. Empty but filthy house. Paint. Carpet. Housecleaners. A/C repairs. About to be listed on the market. (Whew.)
Additional Tests and Babymonitoring. Premature labor imminent within 15 days, supposedly. Strict bed rest. (No computer access, mostly.) Grammy to the rescue to watch the Bird, church to the rescue to provide meals. Deeply grateful. Butt on couch, mostly.
15 days past-- no baby yet! 34 weeks milestone reached! Almost hospitalized three times-- but not! Steroid shots to help baby's lungs administered! All very good. Still on bedrest for 10 days or so, til 36 weeks. Then, give me baby or give me freedom to roam!
Major database project at work completed! (Two years of work-- finally put into action!) Working well 99% of the time. Hoorah.
So, if you can decipher all that, you'll see that we're doing well, the baby hasn't arrived yet, and I'm living in a happy haze of thankfulness for friends and family who have stepped up to help us. Life is good, and when the fella gets here, it'll be even better.
Thanks for your prayers and wellwishin'. Much appreciated!!
Already but not yet.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Howdy, fella. May I introduce to you-- and me-- my little boy's face, courtesy of an unexpected ultrasound yesterday.
Is he not beautiful? Just look at those fat little cheeks.
Mysteriously, those healthy, fat little cheeks have a left kidney that's "dilated"-- meaning that it's-- in my opinion-- enormous, at least four times the size of the right one. Along with that (probably because of that), I'm swollen with lots of extra amniotic fluid-- not a good thing. So now we've been launched from "absolutely uneventful, perfectly normal pregnancy" into "let's get you an appointment with a perinatologist asap. How about Friday morning? And we'll probably be needing to do stress tests, and see you more often, and" et cetera et cetera. Including the fact that my primary care provider, a midwife nurse, may have to turn over my care to the ob/gyn, a perfectly competent man (I'm sure) who I inherently distrust because he makes part of his living doing boob jobs and other plastic surgery. (Sigh. I took this risk when I chose this clinic, I suppose.)
And I'm trying not to google too much, worry too much, or say too much until after Friday. But oh, I am so afraid.
Not so much that he may be born with a bad kidney-- I've never been one to use the phrase "as long as it's healthy" as if health were a prerequisite for a parent's love or approval or thankfulness for the gift of a child. If he has a problem, we will learn and love and deal with it.
But I have a sick spot in my gut that simmers all day long over this thought: I am deeply afraid of not ever getting to touch those little cheeks or hold these little hands and feet that are drumming away at my insides these days.
Please, God, let it be something that can be helped or fixed or healed or managed, by you or doctors or me or anyone or anything else. Just let there be something we can do.
***
I was holding my anxiety in check pretty well until about thirty minutes ago, when I discovered that my washer was on strike. My "new" 15-year-old bare basics washer, which was donated by my parents to replace my 5-year-old energy-efficient fancy washer that needs a $400 keypad repair and, according to reviews and Consumer Reports and etc, is likely to have further motor, drain, and other repair issues. We've decided that paying for the pricey repair would be akin to pouring money into a lemon of a vehicle, so the fancy washer is getting the boot. Dad came and hooked the freebie up for us last weekend because my husband's back is injured. (Dad entering our basement and seeing the state of our workbench/tools/etc is never a good thing, particularly for our husband, but it couldn't be avoided-- we needed the washer, needed the help, and weren't able to prepare the basement before he showed up.) I did one load of clothes successfully tonight before it decided not to drain the water out of the tub for load #2.
Now I have a load to wring out and haul to my mom's (to use her fancy new washer that finally replaced this one). That is a stupid thing to sit in the dining room and cry about, I admit. But it was really just a final straw on a long list of stresses this week.
I also have tenants-- ex-tenants-- who cannot seem to get all their belongings (or their butts) out of my house in Florida, six days after their move-out date. This is deeply difficult to manage from eight hundred miles away or so. Painters, carpeters, realtors are all standing at the ready to begin fixing it up and taking it off our financial back. But they can do nothing until the place is empty and clean. I had a smooth, quick transition to On The Market planned, and now it's all shot to hell.
I also have a nice mixer with a burnt-out motor. A bathroom window that's been covered with a paper tablecloth for the last eight months-- which a certain toddler just shredded in her enthusiasm to see "owside!" (So now anyone peeking in can see us, facing them, setting on the pot.) There's a beautiful dishwasher out in the garage that I'd love to be using, but we need to hire a plumber to install it into 90-year-old iron pipes, and the money's not there. And I'm enjoying (ha) a steadily shrinking wardrobe as my belly gets bigger and bigger. I'm at 31 weeks pregnancywise, and 38 weeks sizewise. How big can I get in the next nine weeks-- assuming that I have the immense privilege of having a full-term baby? Will I have any clothes at all, or will I be buying used Mumus from the thrift stores and refusing to leave the house in a month or so?
I have the vintage gas stove of my dreams-- some parts of it are in my house, having been given $250 worth of reporcelaining. The rest is in a guy's garage in Tulsa, waiting for him to have time and inclination to restore it for me. It's been there since April.
I have a house that I adore-- that badly needs a $3500 paint job that I can't give it. It has beautiful horizontal board wooden interior walls-- covered with wallpaper, paint, and ugly wallboard that I'm not yet allowed to remove. And in four months, my rent-to-own lease expires, and the grumpy half of the two sisters that own it is likely to demand that we purchase. And without the Orlando house sold, no bank will give us the loan to do so. (We have the option of appealing to my father-- but oh, how sick I am of appealing to my father for help, be it washer installation or financial loans.)
I feel like I'm a living example of one of my husband's favorite spiritual illustrations-- living "in the already, but not yet."
I already have:
A husband
A beautiful sweet mischevious brilliant toddler gal
...thank God those things are present, settled, and being enjoyed here and now. We also have:
A house I love that we have resources to buy
A fabulous stove
A kitchenaid mixer
A washer
A dishwasher
A tidy house/garage/workbench
... and most of all a beautiful, beautiful little baby boy about to enter our lives. And it's possible that all this will come to fruition in a relatively quick time span.
...But the full experience of so many of those things hinge on other (known or unknown) factors. It's such an occasion for uncertainty, doubt, fear, faith. I have them already, but I cannot relax and enjoy them just yet.
These are hard days for me, I think. Even without the addition of a high-risk pregnancy-- which makes everything else on that "not yet" list seem suddenly trivial.
Please, God, make him okay. Or okayable.
22 months old.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Bird, I love this new you.
You found your words this summer. About a month ago, language just exploded out of you. It amazed us. I just tried to think to some of the things you say, to record them, but there are now so many that I can't figure out where to begin or which are most remarkable. We know so much more of you now that you can talk.
Grammy discovered that your hair's long enough to put into pigtails now, and the new hairstyles have changed you from a baby to a full-fledged Little Girl overnight. You love your "dog ears", and rarely pull them out of your hair-- but a barrette never stays in long once you've realized it's there. Just too easy and tempting to remove, I guess. It's amazing how much older you look with your hair pulled away from your face.
You have an endless enthusiasm for dogs. Aunt Leigh's Lucy, a golden retriever mix, and Mel and Darla's Pete, a farm mutt, are your favorites. You chase them, laughing, petting their heads and backs and pulling on tails and generally crowing with delight. Being big, loving, good dogs, they put up with a great deal of your affection/absuse, wiggling their affection back to you. Our own silly dog likes you, but being so little, is a little more likely to accept a pat or two and then retreat to a safe distance before you get too excited. Someday your daddy wants you to have a bigger dog, I think.
You love playtime with your Daddy-- chasing each other through the house, tickling and swinging up into the air and laughing. He takes you out to your sandbox, and you both let sand dribble through your fingers while you intone in deep voices, "TIME..." (short for "the sands of time"- it's your private little joke). You love walks, either in the stroller, or holding steadily to Daddy's hand as you toddle down the street in the late afternoon heat. (Your pregnant momma has been standing at the window and watching you walk away, wishing she could come along without dissolving into a sweaty shaky pregnant mess. Maybe when it cools down a big more, I'll be able to go.)
We spent the weekend at a cabin with friends this weekend, less than an hour from here. You loved being outside, playing with toddler friends Ava and Jesse, and having so many adults around. At one point, when your daddy and I were preparing dinner for the crowd, I realized that you weren't in the living room with everyone else as I'd believed. A quick search through the bedrooms and bathrooms yielded no Bird; we found you on the front porch, holding a big ball that I think was last in the backyard, bare feet covered with grass and damp hands scrambling at the doorknob. Close observation yielded your secret: you've figured out how to unlock deadbolts. You'd ask first to "WALK," but if no one yielded to your request you'd set about trying to get a deadbolt undone to go by yourself.
Guess we'll be installing some safety latches soon, well above your reach. I'm so glad you learned this at a cabin in the middle of nowhere rather than at our house with a busy road running behind it.
You're still very sweet and generally accommodating, but you can be headstrong. Suddenly, you hate your high chair at Grammy's, which has been completely acceptable for the past year as it was, strapped to a kitchen stool. Now you want to eat in one of the grownup chairs, your highchair perching like a slightly unsteady booster seat atop the cushion. You often prefer a cup over your sippy cups, and fight putting your diaper back on after we've had a session on the potty. I'm getting the distinct impression that you want to be a big girl.
...And I guess that's good, because in ten weeks you'll be a Big Sister instead of the only Little Baby. You'll be fetching diapers and blankets and having to be patient while I tend to him before I can tend to you. It's going to be a big change, and while we're thrilled about this new baby coming, we're also kind of sad to leave the era of Little Bird Alone behind. You are a delightful, absorbing only child, sweetheart.
I am so proud to be your mommy.
You found your words this summer. About a month ago, language just exploded out of you. It amazed us. I just tried to think to some of the things you say, to record them, but there are now so many that I can't figure out where to begin or which are most remarkable. We know so much more of you now that you can talk.
Grammy discovered that your hair's long enough to put into pigtails now, and the new hairstyles have changed you from a baby to a full-fledged Little Girl overnight. You love your "dog ears", and rarely pull them out of your hair-- but a barrette never stays in long once you've realized it's there. Just too easy and tempting to remove, I guess. It's amazing how much older you look with your hair pulled away from your face.
You have an endless enthusiasm for dogs. Aunt Leigh's Lucy, a golden retriever mix, and Mel and Darla's Pete, a farm mutt, are your favorites. You chase them, laughing, petting their heads and backs and pulling on tails and generally crowing with delight. Being big, loving, good dogs, they put up with a great deal of your affection/absuse, wiggling their affection back to you. Our own silly dog likes you, but being so little, is a little more likely to accept a pat or two and then retreat to a safe distance before you get too excited. Someday your daddy wants you to have a bigger dog, I think.
You love playtime with your Daddy-- chasing each other through the house, tickling and swinging up into the air and laughing. He takes you out to your sandbox, and you both let sand dribble through your fingers while you intone in deep voices, "TIME..." (short for "the sands of time"- it's your private little joke). You love walks, either in the stroller, or holding steadily to Daddy's hand as you toddle down the street in the late afternoon heat. (Your pregnant momma has been standing at the window and watching you walk away, wishing she could come along without dissolving into a sweaty shaky pregnant mess. Maybe when it cools down a big more, I'll be able to go.)
We spent the weekend at a cabin with friends this weekend, less than an hour from here. You loved being outside, playing with toddler friends Ava and Jesse, and having so many adults around. At one point, when your daddy and I were preparing dinner for the crowd, I realized that you weren't in the living room with everyone else as I'd believed. A quick search through the bedrooms and bathrooms yielded no Bird; we found you on the front porch, holding a big ball that I think was last in the backyard, bare feet covered with grass and damp hands scrambling at the doorknob. Close observation yielded your secret: you've figured out how to unlock deadbolts. You'd ask first to "WALK," but if no one yielded to your request you'd set about trying to get a deadbolt undone to go by yourself.
Guess we'll be installing some safety latches soon, well above your reach. I'm so glad you learned this at a cabin in the middle of nowhere rather than at our house with a busy road running behind it.
You're still very sweet and generally accommodating, but you can be headstrong. Suddenly, you hate your high chair at Grammy's, which has been completely acceptable for the past year as it was, strapped to a kitchen stool. Now you want to eat in one of the grownup chairs, your highchair perching like a slightly unsteady booster seat atop the cushion. You often prefer a cup over your sippy cups, and fight putting your diaper back on after we've had a session on the potty. I'm getting the distinct impression that you want to be a big girl.
...And I guess that's good, because in ten weeks you'll be a Big Sister instead of the only Little Baby. You'll be fetching diapers and blankets and having to be patient while I tend to him before I can tend to you. It's going to be a big change, and while we're thrilled about this new baby coming, we're also kind of sad to leave the era of Little Bird Alone behind. You are a delightful, absorbing only child, sweetheart.
I am so proud to be your mommy.
It does happen.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Another doctor's visit today. Weight gain slight (that's good), blood pressure good, baby heartbeat strong and audible. Eighteen weeks along tomorrow.
And I breezed through the appointment, chatty, few questions, and not a single worry in my head about whether all those routine diagnostics would turn out fine or not.
It wasn't until later this afternoon that I remembered that these things are miracles, that something like 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and that not every birth turns out just fine. I've been struck repeatedly by that fact in the past couple of weeks because of those two women's stories-- one a new read, one a journal I've been reading for years and years. I find it very interesting that my empathetic soul, hurting along with these women, found it easy to not connect their agony to my own pregnancy. Is that a defense mechanism? Denial? Or perhaps a safe emotional distance?
Our first, our Bird, was just fine despite arriving a month early. The pregnancy was momentous to me but uneventful as far as pregnancies go. So far, this one has been uneventful as well-- I sometimes forget I'm pregnant, I feel so well these days.
Without becoming paranoid about the possibility of this changing at any moment, I want to remember and recognize what a tremendous (and tremulous) gift that is.
And I breezed through the appointment, chatty, few questions, and not a single worry in my head about whether all those routine diagnostics would turn out fine or not.
It wasn't until later this afternoon that I remembered that these things are miracles, that something like 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, and that not every birth turns out just fine. I've been struck repeatedly by that fact in the past couple of weeks because of those two women's stories-- one a new read, one a journal I've been reading for years and years. I find it very interesting that my empathetic soul, hurting along with these women, found it easy to not connect their agony to my own pregnancy. Is that a defense mechanism? Denial? Or perhaps a safe emotional distance?
Our first, our Bird, was just fine despite arriving a month early. The pregnancy was momentous to me but uneventful as far as pregnancies go. So far, this one has been uneventful as well-- I sometimes forget I'm pregnant, I feel so well these days.
Without becoming paranoid about the possibility of this changing at any moment, I want to remember and recognize what a tremendous (and tremulous) gift that is.
big news-- a little one.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Okay, here’s the deal. I’m just going to cut to the chase, and quit trying to find time to compose the perfect post to record the news. Weeks have passed while I’ve wistfully thought about having time to do some “real writing” on this subject. Weeks that I’ll not have back, and the weeks ahead don’t look to be any less busy. So out with it, already.
We’re expecting another babushka. Another wee little smidgen of a creature, due to arrive just a couple of weeks after the Bird turns two. A baby, to be clear about the matter. We were a little shocked (not a lot—we do understand how these things happen, after all), but mostly we’re just thrilled. I'm just past the twelve week mark, and feeling the nausea lift and some of the exhaustion fade away. It sure is good to be on this side of the first trimester.
Okay, and a little scared. I’m scared about handling a newborn and my little delight of a toddler, who’s so much fun right now. About being able to raise her well while also raising an infant—about making sure that she learns to behave in public, eat with her own spoon, come when she’s called, sing the rest of the ABC song—while my hands and boobs are full of baby duty. Already I get twinges in my stomach when I pick her up and hold her in my arms for more than a minute or two. How can I explain to her that I won’t be able to do that much longer? I’m sure her neverending fascination with babies will transfer to her new sister or brother, and that she'll love the baby—but will she get what she needs from me (and her Dad) as well?
...Of course she will, the rational part of my brain says. People raise kids two years apart all the time. They grow up just great. It’ll all work out. And then my worrybrain overrides and frets anyway. (sigh)
...But a bit of rational thinking helps me restore some equilibrium, when I remember to apply it. I live in the same town with my mother—and now, my sister, who’s returned to her hometown to start a new life here, just like us. And that grandmother and that aunt will be all too eager to help us when we feel a little overwhelmed—or even when we don’t. (They already take Bird for sleepovers at least once a week, just for fun.) And that is a luxury that almost no family has—to have two women (and a grandpapa) on hand, itching to help. I know we’ll be fine.
And another baby. Night wakings, burpings, that amazing smell in the folds of a baby’s neck. A sweet weight snuggled against me in the sling... tiny little hands grasping my fingers. I cannot wait to meet this little one. Gal or guy, it is going to be wonderful. Having already experienced it once just makes me all the more anxious.
So that's my news, the revelation that's rocked my world for the last month and a half. Here we go again...
We’re expecting another babushka. Another wee little smidgen of a creature, due to arrive just a couple of weeks after the Bird turns two. A baby, to be clear about the matter. We were a little shocked (not a lot—we do understand how these things happen, after all), but mostly we’re just thrilled. I'm just past the twelve week mark, and feeling the nausea lift and some of the exhaustion fade away. It sure is good to be on this side of the first trimester.
Okay, and a little scared. I’m scared about handling a newborn and my little delight of a toddler, who’s so much fun right now. About being able to raise her well while also raising an infant—about making sure that she learns to behave in public, eat with her own spoon, come when she’s called, sing the rest of the ABC song—while my hands and boobs are full of baby duty. Already I get twinges in my stomach when I pick her up and hold her in my arms for more than a minute or two. How can I explain to her that I won’t be able to do that much longer? I’m sure her neverending fascination with babies will transfer to her new sister or brother, and that she'll love the baby—but will she get what she needs from me (and her Dad) as well?
...Of course she will, the rational part of my brain says. People raise kids two years apart all the time. They grow up just great. It’ll all work out. And then my worrybrain overrides and frets anyway. (sigh)
...But a bit of rational thinking helps me restore some equilibrium, when I remember to apply it. I live in the same town with my mother—and now, my sister, who’s returned to her hometown to start a new life here, just like us. And that grandmother and that aunt will be all too eager to help us when we feel a little overwhelmed—or even when we don’t. (They already take Bird for sleepovers at least once a week, just for fun.) And that is a luxury that almost no family has—to have two women (and a grandpapa) on hand, itching to help. I know we’ll be fine.
And another baby. Night wakings, burpings, that amazing smell in the folds of a baby’s neck. A sweet weight snuggled against me in the sling... tiny little hands grasping my fingers. I cannot wait to meet this little one. Gal or guy, it is going to be wonderful. Having already experienced it once just makes me all the more anxious.
So that's my news, the revelation that's rocked my world for the last month and a half. Here we go again...
First steps today.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
I am so proud. She's so excited, big grin on her face as she totters her few steps, soon falling.
She's brave. She gets up and tries again, not just when we prompt her. She wants to learn this, and it's working.
Life changes now. My tiny baby, she toddles. Goodness.
(We also took her this morning to get her picture taken with Santa-- a fundraiser for Children's Hospital. She didn't cry or even reach for me when I plopped her on the big man's lap. What a sweet, curious, brave girl I have.)
I'll figure out later what on earth I'm going to do now that she's completely mobile-- and beginning to shriek when she can't have her way. For tonight, I'm just proud of my little Bird.
She's brave. She gets up and tries again, not just when we prompt her. She wants to learn this, and it's working.
Life changes now. My tiny baby, she toddles. Goodness.
(We also took her this morning to get her picture taken with Santa-- a fundraiser for Children's Hospital. She didn't cry or even reach for me when I plopped her on the big man's lap. What a sweet, curious, brave girl I have.)
I'll figure out later what on earth I'm going to do now that she's completely mobile-- and beginning to shriek when she can't have her way. For tonight, I'm just proud of my little Bird.
It took him a while to hit the floor, but he got there.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Toddler tantrums are amazing things to me. As a mom about to enter this phase, I view them with a combination of curiosity, dread, fear, and horror-- not unlike the universal desire to peer at the carnage of a wreck as one drives by. Because in a very literal sense, THAT COULD BE ME. Soon.
But this particular little Halloween tantrum is so well-documented that it mostly just made me grin. Don't you feel just a little sorry for him? After all, he'd been told that there WERE no Stormtrooper costumes. And obviously, once they reached the party, he could see that his momma had told him lies. LIES. Oh, the injustice!
...and his momma snapped pictures the whole time. I love it.
But this particular little Halloween tantrum is so well-documented that it mostly just made me grin. Don't you feel just a little sorry for him? After all, he'd been told that there WERE no Stormtrooper costumes. And obviously, once they reached the party, he could see that his momma had told him lies. LIES. Oh, the injustice!
...and his momma snapped pictures the whole time. I love it.
Ah, life with a bambino.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Really, all you can do is shrug and laugh after a while.
But if Dante had it right, and hell has creative levels of agony as he described, one level certainly involves having to tend to a grumpy, phlegmy, hoarse one-year-old through an endless night where she cannot go to sleep because of the snot dripping down the back of her throat.
While the caretaker has a bad case of the same cold, no less.
Poor little gal. At least I understand that I have a cold, and know how to blow my nose and clear my throat, and am not terrified beyond all reason of the rubber nosesucker.
But if Dante had it right, and hell has creative levels of agony as he described, one level certainly involves having to tend to a grumpy, phlegmy, hoarse one-year-old through an endless night where she cannot go to sleep because of the snot dripping down the back of her throat.
While the caretaker has a bad case of the same cold, no less.
Poor little gal. At least I understand that I have a cold, and know how to blow my nose and clear my throat, and am not terrified beyond all reason of the rubber nosesucker.
Failing.
Friday, November 17, 2006
I'm sorry, this post-every-day thing has been a total flop. I'm trying, truly. It's not working, but I'm trying and guilting and now I'm posting even though it's past 1am and I really need to sleep.
~~~
I got a flu shot today, being a good little worker bee who Believes the Government that these things are good and helpful, particularly when Living in the Same House with a Small Child. My daughter is also being periodically shot full of vaccinations and such, because I in my heart am a good worker bee who wants to believe in doctors and science and the government and society and all that. Every time we go, I wonder if I'm wrong, and how on earth anyone knows who to believe about this and every other parenting decision.
I mean, really. How do you decide? Cribs are Good. Cribs are Bad. Breastfeed for Years. No, Stop At Twelve Months, You Freak. Time Outs. No, Spanks. Juice. No Juice, Ever. Soft Shoes Help Babies Learn to Walk. Soft Shoes Make Their Feet Misshapen.
It never ends. Guess it's good for my sense of control-- ie, I am never in control, I can't make all the best decisions, even though I want to.
So, we get the shots, and hope we're not giving her ADD or asthma or any other widespread childhood abnormality by doing so. She sleeps in a crib, and wears soft shoes, and doesn't drink juice, and is now being weaned, and I hope that all those things, if not the RIGHT decision, will at least not hurt her. I hope God makes allowances for good intentions in these things, and will catch her and sustain her where we let something slip.
~~~
My dog looks awesome in her sweater. Kinda lumpy and matronly and silly, but nonethless, awesome. And as expected, she loves it. I'll share a picture once the last cuff is sewn on. I bought floofy yarn for the Bird's first sweater last night. Onward!
~~~
Weaning is a sad thing. During the two times a day she's now allowed to suckle, she clings to me fiercely, intent and focused. No more giggles and games and squirming; she values her time there. It breaks my heart a little, because now I'm taking away something she obviously still enjoys. I wish she'd stayed flippant about it.
She has her first runny nose and a fever tonight. Part of me wants to go wake her up and hold her, just out of love and my desire to hear her breathing, but that would be stupid.
Time to go join the sleeping husband. There's a baby monitor down there by the bed; if she needs me, I'll hear her sooner down there than up here, fretting and surfing the internet.
adios.
~~~
I got a flu shot today, being a good little worker bee who Believes the Government that these things are good and helpful, particularly when Living in the Same House with a Small Child. My daughter is also being periodically shot full of vaccinations and such, because I in my heart am a good worker bee who wants to believe in doctors and science and the government and society and all that. Every time we go, I wonder if I'm wrong, and how on earth anyone knows who to believe about this and every other parenting decision.
I mean, really. How do you decide? Cribs are Good. Cribs are Bad. Breastfeed for Years. No, Stop At Twelve Months, You Freak. Time Outs. No, Spanks. Juice. No Juice, Ever. Soft Shoes Help Babies Learn to Walk. Soft Shoes Make Their Feet Misshapen.
It never ends. Guess it's good for my sense of control-- ie, I am never in control, I can't make all the best decisions, even though I want to.
So, we get the shots, and hope we're not giving her ADD or asthma or any other widespread childhood abnormality by doing so. She sleeps in a crib, and wears soft shoes, and doesn't drink juice, and is now being weaned, and I hope that all those things, if not the RIGHT decision, will at least not hurt her. I hope God makes allowances for good intentions in these things, and will catch her and sustain her where we let something slip.
~~~
My dog looks awesome in her sweater. Kinda lumpy and matronly and silly, but nonethless, awesome. And as expected, she loves it. I'll share a picture once the last cuff is sewn on. I bought floofy yarn for the Bird's first sweater last night. Onward!
~~~
Weaning is a sad thing. During the two times a day she's now allowed to suckle, she clings to me fiercely, intent and focused. No more giggles and games and squirming; she values her time there. It breaks my heart a little, because now I'm taking away something she obviously still enjoys. I wish she'd stayed flippant about it.
She has her first runny nose and a fever tonight. Part of me wants to go wake her up and hold her, just out of love and my desire to hear her breathing, but that would be stupid.
Time to go join the sleeping husband. There's a baby monitor down there by the bed; if she needs me, I'll hear her sooner down there than up here, fretting and surfing the internet.
adios.
One Year Old.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
A year ago, she was six hours old, and we thought she had breathing problems and an infection. She laid there, hooked up to all kinds of wires, and I nevertheless thought that she was the most perfect thing that had ever been.
A year later, she's giving me kisses and standing at the window waiting for her daddy to come home from work and dancing to music and loving the Price Is Right because it gives you lots of chances to Clap With All The People.
People told me it would go fast.
I had no idea what that meant.
I'm a little weepy today, thinking of all that this year has meant to me. I must ready the house for a little birthday celebration tonight. I'll try to share more in the next day or two.
What I'm doing online that keeps me from writing in my blog.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Only a few days into the month, and I'm having trouble getting my posts entered on time. I'm going to stick with this-- the point is to get back into the habit, and of course that will take a little work-- but I'll try to be creative with my brief obligatory posts. I'll also quit pointing out that they're obligatory after this paragraph.
There, I'm done metablogging for a while. Yay.
Here are a few of my current fascinations:
Awakened: nature-loving, hill-living mom with a baby boy just Bird's age. Love the simplicity of her life and writing.
Sundry Mourning: working mama of another baby boy just a little older than Bird. Very funny, recovering alcoholic, brutally honest about the frustrations and joys of motherhood.
Knitted Brow: Kim's an old friend (that I've never met) from my Diary-x journaling days. A teacher, a lover of good food and long walks and dogs and spirituality and many other things that I like too. Plus, now she lives in Hawaii, and her scenery fascinates me.
Sara's new preemie Isaac has me checking daily for updates on his progress. I've loved Sara's spunky, honest-yet-irreverent site for years-- anyone who would sell WTFWJD merchandise has my undying devotion-- but Isaac just makes me relive all the joy and terror and love of Bird's Intensive Care days that first month. Plus, she knitted that squee pumpkin hat that I must make.
Harris Chronicles: An old high school friend, now living as a military wife to her high school sweetheart, who's stationed in Iraq. Her posts of moose and snow (she's in Fairbanks, Alaska) entertain me, but I really stop in to watch her baby girl photos and check to make sure Alan's doing fine. He should be back next month, thank God.
Homesteading Bloggers: I've found a whole nest of them at homesteadblogger.com via my friend Beth. You need to be registered to read them, I think, but they speak to all my latent loves of gardening and composting and my desire to raise chickens and grow my own food and (possibly) teach Bird at home when she gets old enough. There's a huge range of philosophies that cause people to choose this lifestyle, and I find that fascinating too.
Mir's Want Not blog. She posts at least twice a day about various fabulous bargains she's found on the Web. She's funny. She makes me want to buy stuff. I have to watch this-- I currently have 16 servings of dehydrated soup that I bought for $2.99 from Canada, no shipping. Do I need dehydrated soup? No. But Mir blogged it, and so I wanted it. Arrgh. But regardless, I love her. So pretty. (I find it weird that I'm all attracted to The Compact and the Brown Dress and the Simple Way while also being a daily visitor at a shopping website. Guess I've yet to work through some of the changes I'm feeling called to make.)
Tabblo. This review describes its features in detail, so I won't do that. But be assured: It is addictive. It makes me feel like I'm part of this big worldwide community that celebrates the beauty of life via each other's photographs. That sounds completely cheesy, but it makes me happy that some young photographer in Italy thinks that I've taken a really wonderful photo of my daughter, and that I get a chance to see what he saw on his way to work last week. It's also a great way to share baby photos with family and friends-- I make a tabblo, and include the link in an email to them. Flickr is dull by comparison.
...and I could keep listing things. But I'll stop there to keep from revealing the embarassing extent of my online habits. It's something I need to curb, but also something that brings me a ton of joy and satisfaction and connection to the outside world.
Hopefully, as I get back into recording my life online, this will become a source of joy and satisfaction as well.
There, I'm done metablogging for a while. Yay.
Here are a few of my current fascinations:
Awakened: nature-loving, hill-living mom with a baby boy just Bird's age. Love the simplicity of her life and writing.
Sundry Mourning: working mama of another baby boy just a little older than Bird. Very funny, recovering alcoholic, brutally honest about the frustrations and joys of motherhood.
Knitted Brow: Kim's an old friend (that I've never met) from my Diary-x journaling days. A teacher, a lover of good food and long walks and dogs and spirituality and many other things that I like too. Plus, now she lives in Hawaii, and her scenery fascinates me.
Sara's new preemie Isaac has me checking daily for updates on his progress. I've loved Sara's spunky, honest-yet-irreverent site for years-- anyone who would sell WTFWJD merchandise has my undying devotion-- but Isaac just makes me relive all the joy and terror and love of Bird's Intensive Care days that first month. Plus, she knitted that squee pumpkin hat that I must make.
Harris Chronicles: An old high school friend, now living as a military wife to her high school sweetheart, who's stationed in Iraq. Her posts of moose and snow (she's in Fairbanks, Alaska) entertain me, but I really stop in to watch her baby girl photos and check to make sure Alan's doing fine. He should be back next month, thank God.
Homesteading Bloggers: I've found a whole nest of them at homesteadblogger.com via my friend Beth. You need to be registered to read them, I think, but they speak to all my latent loves of gardening and composting and my desire to raise chickens and grow my own food and (possibly) teach Bird at home when she gets old enough. There's a huge range of philosophies that cause people to choose this lifestyle, and I find that fascinating too.
Mir's Want Not blog. She posts at least twice a day about various fabulous bargains she's found on the Web. She's funny. She makes me want to buy stuff. I have to watch this-- I currently have 16 servings of dehydrated soup that I bought for $2.99 from Canada, no shipping. Do I need dehydrated soup? No. But Mir blogged it, and so I wanted it. Arrgh. But regardless, I love her. So pretty. (I find it weird that I'm all attracted to The Compact and the Brown Dress and the Simple Way while also being a daily visitor at a shopping website. Guess I've yet to work through some of the changes I'm feeling called to make.)
Tabblo. This review describes its features in detail, so I won't do that. But be assured: It is addictive. It makes me feel like I'm part of this big worldwide community that celebrates the beauty of life via each other's photographs. That sounds completely cheesy, but it makes me happy that some young photographer in Italy thinks that I've taken a really wonderful photo of my daughter, and that I get a chance to see what he saw on his way to work last week. It's also a great way to share baby photos with family and friends-- I make a tabblo, and include the link in an email to them. Flickr is dull by comparison.
...and I could keep listing things. But I'll stop there to keep from revealing the embarassing extent of my online habits. It's something I need to curb, but also something that brings me a ton of joy and satisfaction and connection to the outside world.
Hopefully, as I get back into recording my life online, this will become a source of joy and satisfaction as well.
New hobby?
Saturday, November 04, 2006
I have about six books here that I want to read. I'm about six months behind on album-ing our post-Gracie photos (a task I swore I'd keep up with once she was born, as I want us to be able to look at the photos together rather than storing them on a hard drive unseen). I hardly communicate with friends or family (except via email, which not all of them use).
But do I want to work on any of these already-established projects? NO.
I want to create Sara's gaspingly squee newborn pumpkin hat for my friend's new baby boy, who could be born any day now.
No matter that I haven't knitted anything since 1995 or so, and that I've never knitted anything that wasn't rectangular (scarf, blanket).
Am I nuts?
I have this terrible itch to go get yarn and needles. NOW.
After all, if you don't keep learning new things, life gets dull, right? And dull is definitely something to avoid.
But do I want to work on any of these already-established projects? NO.
I want to create Sara's gaspingly squee newborn pumpkin hat for my friend's new baby boy, who could be born any day now.
No matter that I haven't knitted anything since 1995 or so, and that I've never knitted anything that wasn't rectangular (scarf, blanket).
Am I nuts?
I have this terrible itch to go get yarn and needles. NOW.
After all, if you don't keep learning new things, life gets dull, right? And dull is definitely something to avoid.
Little white pearls of misery.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Her teeth are adorable, and I hate them.
She grins now, and all four five six of them burst out of her smile like little happy marshmallows. She puts Cheerios into her mouth with gusto, happily busting each one into pieces with a loud crunch via her four front choppers. She chews seriously on an apple slice and actually makes progress, pulverizing it in record time.
I am so proud of those little teeth. (I need to start brushing those little teeth. Note: buy baby toothbrush. Do they stock those in Toothbrushes or in Baby Gear?) However, those teeth cause me grief, and not just in Toothbrush Momguilt.
Those Gerber "teething biscuits" only earn me a few minutes of kitchen work instead of half an hour like they did last month. She sometimes appears to be chewing studiously on the wooden end table with her top teeth, and I'm pretty sure that could be doing some kind of damage to my mom's furniture. (Don't look closely, and you don't know and don't have to confess.) She can now bite the snot out of my fingers when I'm feeling for new teeth or applying the blessed Walgreens-brand Orajel Knockoff to help her get back to sleep at night.
But more than my fingers, my conscience, or any other part of me, my nipples take issue with this sudden appearance of her pearly whites. Particularly those front four.
I decided long ago that I was going to breastfeed Bird past the one year minimum recommended by the Pediatrics Association. It's so good for her, I thought. So simple and pure and inexpensive and good for my body and hers. Who wouldn't do this if they could?
And besides, it was lovely. Bird snuggled up to my chest, fingers fluttering around my breasts and shoulders and jawline like little butterflies as she ate. The feel of her body relaxing as I gave her what she needed, straight from me (without bottles and sterilizing and heating and shaking and stirring). Watching her fall asleep in my arms, completely sated and at peace. Lovely, I tell you.
My doctor plowed along doggedly at her nine-month appointment, handing me papers about Weaning and generally implying that Everyone, Everyone Weans At One Year. I smiled thinly and mentally sniffed and plotted our rebellion. We'd go fourteen months AT LEAST, I thought.
But of late, nursing has become a pit stop in the great race of Bird's day. Let's get this over with, quick, because there are toys on the floor and power cords along the walls and Cheerios in the kitchen and a dog who needs to be harassed and books and windows to look out of and musical buttons to be pushed overandoverandoverandover again, and what exactly was it that I was supposed to be doing? Oh, yeah, drinking milk. Right.
And about then, after she's barely settled down for two minutes of suck-gulping, the teeth kick in. A micropause in her eating warns me and gives me just enough time to get my finger headed toward her mouth to break the chomp. Her tongue slides out of the way, and pow. Momma jumps through the roof every time. So far, Momma's still managing to insert finger, remove the maligned nipple, and not drop the child who has caused this unjust agony.
For a few days, I tried thumping her on the head to try and dissuade her. Her brow would wrinkle in confusion. Then she'd flinch as she bit, anticipating the thump. Then she started to laugh as the thumping followed, delighting in the cause-and-effect. Obviously, this wasn't working. I'm not willing to inflict anything more painful than the thump-- it was hard enough as it was for me to try just that.
So now, we have a two-bite rule. One bite, Bird gets a stern warning. Two bites,and the boob goes byebye. You bite each boob twice, and your meal is over.
It's not really helping. Either it doesn't compute, or she doesn't care enough about the milk anymore to give up the joys of Momchomping. I know she has no concept of how she's hurting me, but still-- it hurts me, both physically and (a bit irrationally) emotionally.
One month until she can safely drink cow's milk. My boobs are counting the hours, but I'm mourning the loss of my peaceful snuggle-feedings.
Damn teeth.
She grins now, and all four five six of them burst out of her smile like little happy marshmallows. She puts Cheerios into her mouth with gusto, happily busting each one into pieces with a loud crunch via her four front choppers. She chews seriously on an apple slice and actually makes progress, pulverizing it in record time.
I am so proud of those little teeth. (I need to start brushing those little teeth. Note: buy baby toothbrush. Do they stock those in Toothbrushes or in Baby Gear?) However, those teeth cause me grief, and not just in Toothbrush Momguilt.
Those Gerber "teething biscuits" only earn me a few minutes of kitchen work instead of half an hour like they did last month. She sometimes appears to be chewing studiously on the wooden end table with her top teeth, and I'm pretty sure that could be doing some kind of damage to my mom's furniture. (Don't look closely, and you don't know and don't have to confess.) She can now bite the snot out of my fingers when I'm feeling for new teeth or applying the blessed Walgreens-brand Orajel Knockoff to help her get back to sleep at night.
But more than my fingers, my conscience, or any other part of me, my nipples take issue with this sudden appearance of her pearly whites. Particularly those front four.
I decided long ago that I was going to breastfeed Bird past the one year minimum recommended by the Pediatrics Association. It's so good for her, I thought. So simple and pure and inexpensive and good for my body and hers. Who wouldn't do this if they could?
And besides, it was lovely. Bird snuggled up to my chest, fingers fluttering around my breasts and shoulders and jawline like little butterflies as she ate. The feel of her body relaxing as I gave her what she needed, straight from me (without bottles and sterilizing and heating and shaking and stirring). Watching her fall asleep in my arms, completely sated and at peace. Lovely, I tell you.
My doctor plowed along doggedly at her nine-month appointment, handing me papers about Weaning and generally implying that Everyone, Everyone Weans At One Year. I smiled thinly and mentally sniffed and plotted our rebellion. We'd go fourteen months AT LEAST, I thought.
But of late, nursing has become a pit stop in the great race of Bird's day. Let's get this over with, quick, because there are toys on the floor and power cords along the walls and Cheerios in the kitchen and a dog who needs to be harassed and books and windows to look out of and musical buttons to be pushed overandoverandoverandover again, and what exactly was it that I was supposed to be doing? Oh, yeah, drinking milk. Right.
And about then, after she's barely settled down for two minutes of suck-gulping, the teeth kick in. A micropause in her eating warns me and gives me just enough time to get my finger headed toward her mouth to break the chomp. Her tongue slides out of the way, and pow. Momma jumps through the roof every time. So far, Momma's still managing to insert finger, remove the maligned nipple, and not drop the child who has caused this unjust agony.
For a few days, I tried thumping her on the head to try and dissuade her. Her brow would wrinkle in confusion. Then she'd flinch as she bit, anticipating the thump. Then she started to laugh as the thumping followed, delighting in the cause-and-effect. Obviously, this wasn't working. I'm not willing to inflict anything more painful than the thump-- it was hard enough as it was for me to try just that.
So now, we have a two-bite rule. One bite, Bird gets a stern warning. Two bites,and the boob goes byebye. You bite each boob twice, and your meal is over.
It's not really helping. Either it doesn't compute, or she doesn't care enough about the milk anymore to give up the joys of Momchomping. I know she has no concept of how she's hurting me, but still-- it hurts me, both physically and (a bit irrationally) emotionally.
One month until she can safely drink cow's milk. My boobs are counting the hours, but I'm mourning the loss of my peaceful snuggle-feedings.
Damn teeth.
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