sueeeus

We had the 3-month follow up today and the x-ray shows improvement, but it’s not all healed.  The doctor is very happy with the progress and advised us to continue with what we’re doing, not allowing the boy wonder to sit.  We’ll check again in 4 months, and it sounds like we’ll keep on with this until at some point, if there’s not enough improvement, the MRI and surgery (to fuse the vertebrae) will be something to consider.  For now, we’re staying with the non-invasive course.

Anyhow, we’re happy that there’s improvement.  I was hoping for a fully developed bone, but at least things are going in the right direction.

I’d love to post new pictures, but I’m so full up with work that I can barely spare a minute.  Maybe in September.

Children’s Hospital is a fantastic place.  It’s really quite incredible.  It’s like an art gallery with sculptures, murals, paintings, and mosaics.  It’s light and bright and cheerful and friendly.

sculpture garden entrance

They are very serious about security.  Everyone must wear a photo ID that is issued at the door.  There are several layers of reception and check-in/admitting.  While waiting for the actual appointment, one is given a pager.

The lighting is stunning.  Art glass everywhere.

aquatic art glass ceiling fixtures

art glass wall sconce

The floors are terrazzo with aquatic themed inlays.  There are fish and turtles and all manner of sea creatures everywhere you look.

walking with the turtles

Giant wall murals morph into etched glass walls.  Simply stunning.

All this beauty to behold.  But it still doesn’t detract from the real beauty within those walls.  Children of all kinds.  Children with reasons to be there.  It’s almost too hard to think about, these children, and why they are here.

Why we are here.

probably the best baby in the universe

He has a congenital spinal defect.

notched vertebrae

The vertebrae in the middle of the picture has a notch in it.  It’s underdeveloped.  If it doesn’t get a chance to fill out properly, the spinal cord could be damaged.  If it doesn’t grow properly, there may need to be surgery.  But it could resolve on its own.  That is my deepest hope.  He’s too small for a back brace to keep him rigid.  We’re told to discourage sitting.  He can be on his knees or his tummy or he can stand, but he has to avoid sitting.  He can only sit reclined, to keep the spine elongated.

less of this

We go back in three months for more x-rays.  The good news is the ultrasound showed his kidneys and bladder are all normal.  We will hope that the notch becomes less pronounced with time.  I want to avoid the MRI if at all possible.  The thought of general anesthesia for my infant makes me very sad.  So if his progress is good, we may be able to forego the MRI.  And surgery.

giant whale swimming through space

And we will spend very little time with the giant whales and sea creatures.

sea creatures everywhere

It’s a beautiful place to visit.  It’s a more beautiful place to leave.

The gorgeous boy is seven months old today.  Seven months!  He sits unassisted.  Such a superstar.

Oh, he’s the best baby.  Such a mellow temperament.  His brother, on the other hand, is Mister Wild Child.  There’s nothing mellow about that one!

I don’t know if seven months marks any particular milestone in the realm of post partum experience, but I am feeling like my hormones are completely and absolutely whacked.  I’ve broken out with pimples all over my head, for crying out loud.  My head.  Blech!  I can hardly remember how many years it’s been since I’ve had any acne to speak of, and now I have a festering scalp.

The skin around my fingernails is cracked with deep dry grooves that split and bleed and become tender, as in they hurt.  The skin itself is hard and callous.  Not a bit soft.  Ouch.  It’s a bit annoying.

I, myself, am somewhat exhausted.  I suppose that’s understandable, with the sleep deficit increasing with no end in sight.  The seasonal allergies don’t help.  This season feels more extreme than others previous.  My eyes are burning, red and scratchy, my nose is runny and I keep sneezing.

And then there’s the matter of the milk.  I wonder if breastfeeding is painful for women who actually make it past the initial break in phase.  Because pumping?  Is not pleasant.  There’s no warm fuzzy endorphin rush for or from my sleek blue milking machine.  That ah-whoosh-click ah-whoosh-click ah-whoosh-click isn’t particularly soothing.  My nipples being yanked through the unforgiving plastic cones is certainly no picnic either.  And when it’s all done, those nipples look like aliens have landed and set up base camp.  Should anybody brush against me, or God forbid, embrace me, I shrink away in pain.  DON’T TOUCH ME!

I’m tempted to survey my freezer stash this weekend and think about weaning sooner than later.

There is a very selfish part of me that doesn’t want to stop, though.  The pump time is MY time in which I get an hour to myself, reading, blogging, perusing Facebook, playing brain and word games, or otherwise amusing myself.  It’s a reprieve that I might not have under different circumstances.

I find myself feeling a bit melancholy as well.  I think it may be, in large part, empathy for friends and family over things they are feeling and experiencing lately.  That, compounded with exhaustion, stress at work, and whacked hormones adds up to one big unsettled woman.

I watched a video yesterday that really shook me up.  It had to do with Salma Hayek visiting Sierra Leone, where “one in five children die before reaching their fifth birthday and tetanus is a big contributor.”  A baby happened to take its last breath, just as Salma was stroking her beautiful little face.

I don’t have words to express the depths of how this makes me feel.  To see life just disappear like that.  It’s not like all the flashy mayhem we see on TV.  All that Hollywood stuff.  It’s serious.  It’s real.   It’s heart wrenching.  It’s heart numbing.

There is bloodshed the world over.  People fighting wars.  People caught up in wars, whether they want it or not.  Again, serious, real, heart wrenching, heart numbing.

But children dying.  Children.  I didn’t want to see a child die.

I don’t know how to think or what to think.  I hold my own children close and breathe deeply their warm, living scent.  My comfortable home seems criminal in comparison to the standards in which those struggling people live.

It’s all relative, though, isn’t it?  A rich man might shake his head and think, poor miserable soul, to see the conditions in which I live.  Even so.  It makes me think about what can be done for the greater good.  Obviously there’s too much for any one person to tackle.  I could donate all the money I have, and it would hardly be a drop in the bucket.  I could donate some of the money I have, and it will still be only a drop.  How much can I do?  How much should I do?  What difference can I make?  Since our immediate needs are met, should we then turn any excess over to those more in need?  Or use some to work toward our own hopes and dreams, and set some aside in case of our own rainy days?  I don’t have a complete answer to this, but prudence tells me that I should have a safety net, because that will prevent me and mine from becoming a burden to the public system, especially in these trying times.  That much I should do.  And what of the rest, of those less fortunate than me?

I like the pay it forward concept.  If everyone did something, any thing, to help someone, any one, then good happens.  We can all change lives for the better, one thing at a time.

I’ve been thinking of sponsoring some children in an under-developed nation.  There are always infomercials on about that sort of opportunity.  I would like for my children to give of their bounty to others less fortunate.  I think it will be good for them to learn to share and help others in need.  Now, to find an agency that’s legit.

I wish it were easier to get started when it comes to exercise.  The combination of all things down makes even the prospect of exercise almost insurmountable.  If by some miraculous force of will I can push myself over that edge, and make my grudging self sweat a little, oh, the results!

I managed to spend a little time playing DDR again today.  I try to stick to the fast songs, and I try to do the difficult level.  The antics can be quite comical, and the result is a sweating, heart-pumping, chuckling me.  All good things.  The boost lasts quite some time, too.  Instead of a nap after work, I tidied BB’s room.  It wouldn’t be honest to say that I cleaned it, but where the floor was not visible prior to entry, it is now bravely exposed.  I gave up sorting the toys into their various bins.  It seems pointless, when they all end up on the floor together.  I think I’m the only one who appreciates the order of like things sorted with like things.  He’s nearly four.  He likes chaos.

I feel generally happier, and with that, hopeful.  Hope is a powerful thing.  Depression, on the other hand, is a life sapping force, and I wish it weren’t so easy for it to catch me in its suffocating grasp.

As for hope.  It prompts us to try things we might not otherwise try.  Breastfeeding, for example.  After a shower (bliss!) I noticed that milk was dripping from me.  Unprecedented!  So what do I do?  I take my beautifully content little boy and put him to the breast.  It’s the football hold, the milk is freely flowing, there is NO WORK INVOLVED.  What does he do?  Screws up his face and screams like there’s no tomorrow.  Gadget just laughs and shakes his head.  She’ll never learn, he says to LB.  The Gadget boys don’t like boobs.  It’s just the way it is.

My exercise endorphines are still hanging in there, so I don’t let this lapse of sanity crush my otherwise fragile feelings.  Pumping is more efficient, anyway.  I get both sides drained at the same time, and I get to use the time to read, surf, blog, or otherwise entertain myself on the computer.  It’s me-time!

There are two main trains of thought milling about my head right now.  One is that I need to go back to the office.  Need to.  Need some adult interaction, a change of environment, and a better defined routine.  Need it.

The other is that I have a new goal that I need to explore and fully define, but it’s a goal, nonetheless, and it’s important.  I’m sure it’s a repeat goal that I’ve attempted before, and abandoned, but it’s time for a resurrection.

There.  About the office.  I don’t recall feeling this caged the last time I was telecommuting full time.  Maybe it has something to do with the time of year.  BB was born in January, so spring was springing when I was returning to work.  There was more sunshine, there were flowers blooming, there were afternoon walks.  LB was born at the end of August, and we’re fast forwarding past autumn and into winter.  There is rain, and more rain, and wind and more rain.  The sky is darkening by 4 p.m.  Did I mention the rain?  There are no lovely afternoon walks, unless mad dashes through Costco and Fred Meyer count.  I’m only working three days a week, taking Tuesdays and Thursdays as vacation days so I can catch up on the sleep I missed while working Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.  Having over 20 years under my belt has its advantages.  I get 4 weeks of paid vacation a year, and I can roll a full year over, so I’ve banked 8 weeks that I’m using now, and I can spread it out for quite some time.  I think I can work 3 days a week until April, in fact, and still get paid for full time.  Woot!

But something is different and I’m feeling house-bound.  Stir crazy.  I don’t necessarily get more work done at the office, but it sure is nice to see people, and, dare I say it, social anxiety or not, be seen.  I miss my peeps.  Over twenty years with some of these people make them family.  We’ve spent the better part of our lives together.  I miss that.  I miss them.  I actually brought up the mother’s room calendar today, to see how many people were using it, and if I could fit my pumping schedule in.  A couple of the women have dropped out, and there’s a new one, but it looks like there is room for me.  Do I want to drag my pumping gear around with me?

And then there’s the pang, big time, I feel when considering sending LB off to daycare earlier than later.  He’s only a baby for such a short short time, and what kind of a person am I to send him off when I actually could keep him with me for a little while longer.  As long as he’s not interfering with my work, it’s reasonable to allow him to stay, and since he’s still sleeping through most of my working hours, it’s okay.  So if he’s sleeping, does it matter that he sleeps at my house or at the daycare?  I think I’ll consider starting him at daycare in January, after the bustle of the holidays is over.  He’ll be a little over 4 months old.

Sigh.

Did I mention that I Googled child care rates across the country and found that I’m fortunate enough to live in one of the more expensive states?  I wonder if that means our per capita earnings are accordingly higher?  Right.  I doubt it.  Anyhow, I’ll be getting a blazing steal of a bargain at $300/week for the two kids.  It’s way under the average, so I shouldn’t complain.

And now for the other item.  My goal.  I need to get to know myself better, get over myself, and fall in love with myself, if any of that makes sense.  Get over myself, because I get wrapped up in the same patterns and thoughts and depressions and cycles, over and over and over again.  It’s getting old.  I’m getting old.  And fall in love with myself, so that I can honor myself and accept myself and be comfortable with myself, and just cut myself some slack.  Walk the talk, so to speak.  Not have ridiculous expectations that can’t be met.  Relax a little, alright, already.  No conditions.  That’s the goal.  Unconditional love.  For my self.  I have no idea how to get there, but there it is.  That’s my goal.

I think that unconditional love will wash away a lot of stress and anxiety.  And guilt.

I’m about ten pounds less than my pre-pregnancy weight, which is nice, but still nowhere near any sort of ideal range.  And when I look in the mirror, I’d think I’d be happy that I’ve lost some weight, but what I see reflected back is so shockingly unattractive.  And then I stumbled across this site, the shape of a mother, and it helps me feel better.

I was thinking about the well-intended comments from the well-intended doctors about the need to lose weight, and how irksome I find it, as though it never occurred to me that I might be heavy and that it might have health ramifications at some point in life.  No, I didn’t notice that I was obese.  I missed that one.

At least my own ob/gyn isn’t making mention of it.  He’s been my doctor for fifteen years or so, through the whole fertility challenge, the pregnancies, the miscarriages, both cases of GD and both deliveries.  He probably said something at some point, but he doesn’t keep repeating things, and I appreciate that.

Part of me has been thinking that maybe this time will be the time — that my life is in a place where all the pieces are fitting together — I have my family, two beautiful boys!  I have a good job, good health insurance coverage, good retirement/pension prospects, a stable home, and I live in a mostly decent neighborhood (apart from one set of troublesome neighbors).

This may be the time when emotionally I’m ready to tackle my self.  And possibly it won’t be that hard.  That is my hope.

I’ve been wondering about what might be the best exercise choice for me.  I still don’t have all that much energy, at this point, three weeks post-partum.  My belly still hurts and has alot of numb and tingly spots that ache much much more if/when I get constipated.  Supposedly this new pain is due to the abdominal wall as things are shrinking their way back to normal. Apparently my uterus and all things female are okay, which is goodness.

I think I’ll start doing my wii Dance Dance Revolution again.  That was fun and got me sweating nicely, so surely it must have been a reasonable amount of exercise.  I can also walk, but why is it that the thought of getting dressed and going outside seems overwhelming?  It feels so nice to be outside, once there, but the getting there is the hurdle.  I can rejoin the gym, but not for at least a couple more months, and if I do, I will want to go enroute to or from the office, so I don’t have to wrangle the kids.  That will mean that I absolutely will have to count on Gadget to be there for daycare pickup.  And here I am, only three weeks into my LB’s life, and thinking about daycare.  I ought to just be thinking of the moment, which is sleep, pump, feed, wash bottles, sleep, pump, feed, wash bottles.

This baby time is so fleeting.  I absolutely must savor every moment.  And try not to think about body image for a while.

So far I don’t have any signs of post partum depression.  Last time I had a short-lived phase in which I didn’t want to see or speak to anybody, not even those closest to me.  While part of me wanted to call and share the good news, another part of me just couldn’t bear to pick up the phone.

This time, I’m emotional, but I think that goes with the territory, regardless.  And today, my beautiful boy was circumcised, and I’m a wreck because of it.  I couldn’t be in the room when they did it, and I could barely stand to look at the dressing when it was done, and when it was time for the first post-op diaper change and the removal of the dressing, I had to turn the job over to Gadget, while I sat across the room and sobbed.  Circumcision is a controversial subject, and I don’t really want to get into that.  We had decided to have it done with BB, so we followed suit with LB.  Only, I don’t remember it being so traumatic with BB.  His was done when he was only a day old, in hospital, and possibly it wasn’t traumatic because the nursing staff took care of the initial dressings and post-op care.  This time, with insurance and hospital policy changes, we were advised not to have it done while in hospital, but to do it at the ob/gyn’s office within the first two weeks of life.  Today was the first available appointment, and today LB was two weeks old.  I think I was also told that having it done in the first days of life could have a slight impact on the nursing scenario, and because I’ve been struggling with that, I didn’t push the issue to have it done in hospital.

After Gadget finished removing the dressing and applying the neosporin, I held my precious boy and sobbed, all the while thinking that my freak out sobbing is not helping anything whatsoever.  And it thoroughly distresses BB to see his mother cry.  LB seems to be weathering this well.  He was calm after the diaper change, and fed well, and is sleeping well.  My little love.  Now, to gather my courage and collect my wits so that I will be able to tend to the healing properly, by pulling the skin gently to expose the ridge, and applying the neosporin liberally.  Sigh.  Why is it so difficult for me this time?

Meanwhile, I told my doctor that my own healing process seems much more painful than last time, which he said was unusual, because repeat c-sections are generally weathered better than the original.  I was able to get a prescription renewal for some more percoset, which I will use sparingly, and hoard for future migraines, should they materialize.  When I’m hit, there’s no way I’ll drag myself to a doctor, so no chance of acquiring any medication to alleviate the pain.  This way, I have options.  The problem with percoset and pain is sort of a catch 22 in that I suspect a great deal of the pain I’m experiencing is intestinal in nature, and percoset has constipation as a side effect.  To take it or not to take it, that is the question.  The thing is, this constipation, if that is what it is, is far and beyond anything that I’ve heretofore experienced, and I’m no stranger to the condition.  I wonder if I’ve actually been impacted.  I watched my belly grow and harden over the course of a few days, and the pain increased until I could barely walk, and finally decided that if it was, indeed, intestinal, that the colace wasn’t cutting it and it was time for some senna.  Even so, it took quite some time for the senna to do anything, and when it did, it was incredibly painful.  But the swelling began to subside and the hardness of my belly diminished.  I continued taking the senna, and every two or three days something would happen, so to speak, and the hardness seemed to drop with each passing.  So it would seem that as things work their way out, the pain in my gut is working its way down.  However, the act of passing is dreadful and painful and nigh on impossible, at times, leaving me sweating, sobbing, and bleeding.  I resort to a pain killer to help work through the pain, but does this very same pain killer actually prolong the condition?  What to do, what to do.  I’ve been drinking loads of water.  Loads.  I’m pumping around the clock, and drink a full 20oz jug of water during each pumping session.  Surely I’m getting enough water.  Tomorrow’s strategy includes incorporating prunes and apricots, and maybe forgoing the pain killers.

I will be glad when this part of the healing process is complete.

BB is fascinated by the whole blood sugar testing and insulin administration process. Every time I stick my finger, he runs to see the drop of blood. Did you bleed? Satisfied with the size of the drop, he then proclaims, Ouchie! Every single time. Next, he likes to pick the injection site, and watches intently as I proceed. Sometimes it stings or pinches, and he says, “Did I not pick the right spot?” Sometimes it bleeds a bit, and he says, “Maybe you hit a bain (vein).”

Sometimes I’ll catch him playing make-believe with scraps of junk mail or whatnot, and he’ll be ‘testing his blood sugar.’ I hope he never actually needs to. Diabetes seems to be prevalent on my side of the family.

Less than two weeks left of insulin therapy, and I can put all the needle paraphernalia away. It’s not so bad, really, but I’ll be glad to be done with this part. It’s quite something, how the blood sugar can return to normal once the placenta is gone. I’m very curious whether my numbers will be stable or not, when it’s all said and done. I’m not planning on resuming the metformin for a little while, just so I can see.

I’m hoping to come out of this pregnancy with a net weight loss. I gained 7 lbs in the first 32 weeks, and 11 lbs between 32-36 weeks, 5 of which came on last week. So I assume that the recent 11 lbs is mostly water (as evidenced by the size of my ankles and the indentations left in my skin with the least amount of pressure), baby and placenta and amniotic fluid probably account for about 15-20, so I should be down a net 10 or so once LB arrives, and that 10 should help my blood sugar numbers. So. We shall see.

Sometimes, when you’re a woman of advanced maternal age, and you are overweight (obese, technically), and you have type II diabetes (but you really think that you are more borderline and not actually over the edge) which has escalated to insulin dependent gestational diabetes, and you are 36 weeks along, and when your fundal measurement is 43, and you’ve gained five pounds in one week, and when your regular doctor is on vacation, you might find yourself face to face with some stranger who knows nothing about you, and asks you why you didn’t bring your blood sugar log in to this appointment (when you brought it to the last appointment and that substitute doctor didn’t even ask to see it until you told her that your usual doctor had wanted you to show it to her, and then she didn’t show any real interest in it, anyway, so you figured you’d not bother this time, especially because there are about three or four really bad entries in it, and why subject oneself to the tsk tsk bad girl you shouldn’t have eaten that rice or that muffin reprimand, especially when you’re on the teetering edge of tears with the least infliction of guilt, judgment, or criticism) so you tell him that your morning sugars have been in the 90s and your post-prandials around 140 or so (which is more or less true, except for the few odd points)…

…that substitute doctor with the charming bedside manner might say, “Someone hasn’t been watching what she eats very well,” and then insist that an appointment be scheduled sooner than later to go over the numbers to determine whether any additional adjustments to the insulin should be made.

…and that same doctor with the charming bedside manner might wrinkle up his face and remeasure you two or three times and scratch his head and say something to the effect of “do you realize how big you are measuring, and we ought to get you in for another ultrasound,” after which you assure him that yes, you know you are measuring big, your last child measured big, and your normal doctor is well aware of it, and you are scheduled for a c-section anyway, because you already know you’ve got a giant baby growing in there.

…after which that same substitute doctor with the charming bedside manner might ask whether you’re getting your tubes tied during the c-section, and when you say no, you are not planning on it, and he looks at you with shock and horror and asks why not, and you answer that you don’t want to do that, and possibly your husband might get the snip instead, to which he asks why on earth you would subject your husband to an unnecessary procedure when you will be open already and the procedure will take less than a minute to put the little tiny clamps on the tubes and there will be no hormonal ramifications because the ovaries are not affected in the least, and in fact, your chance of various female cancer(s) is actually reduced…

…if you’re anything like me, you have a very difficult time maintaining your composure until you’re safely tucked away inside your car-pod at which time you sob your eyes out all the way home, at the same time wondering vaguely what all the passersby are thinking of the overweight forty-something pregnant woman bawling her eyes out…

…and you try to be objective about it and wonder why you are really so upset, but you just can’t seem to get past the part about NOT BEING READY TO MAKE A DECISION TO COMPLETELY SHUT THE DOOR ON ANY FUTURE CHILDREN, even though you know you probably shouldn’t even consider the possibility, given all the factors, and you may actually not even want to have more, and most likely you wouldn’t even be able to have any more, based simply on how hard it was to get to here, but you just don’t one hundred percent know what you want, and what you should do, and you’re just NOT READY TO MAKE THAT KIND OF A DECISION NOW, or in the next two weeks, for that matter, and even though he claims there are no hormonal ramifications, you are oh, so very leery, because you’ve lived a lifetime with tweaked-out hormones and the last thing you want to do is rock that boat any more than it’s already rocked.

…and then, when your husband calls, because he’s working late and he needs you to do the daycare pickup, and he can hear in your voice that you’ve been crying, and you say it’s because you didn’t much like the doctor you saw today, and he demands to know WHO it was, so he could call him and bawl him out for being such a jerk, you completely skip the whole part about the tubal ligation, which is really what you’re most upset about (because of course it’s as perplexing to your husband as it is to the charming doctor as to why one wouldn’t want to get a tubal when one is already laid out open on the operating table, and how selfish it is to even suggest something as vile and emasculating as a vasectomy to a perfectly healthy and whole male, God forbid.)

…So I guess that’s what it’s mostly all about. I don’t want to make a decision. I thought I’d already made the decision, which is, let Gadget get snipped, and if he’s not amicable to that (which he isn’t much), take our chances or just be abstinent (which is basically the same thing, when it comes down to it).