sueeeus

I remember being four.  Summer.  West Orion Drive.  A dark cool basement.  Daddy longlegs on the screen door at night.  Walking barefoot, carefully, through the thistles in the grass.  The sound of my mother whistling from behind a door — peekaboo.  My dad, reading a newspaper, sitting in a brown recliner.  Being asked if I want to go to school.  Preschool.  A blue plastic sleeping mat.  I don’t want to take a nap.  I’m not tired and I don’t understand why everybody has to take a nap.  I lie there and don’t sleep.  Small stools painted like ladybugs.  I’m wearing red tights and I wet myself.  Crying.  Ashamed.  Scolded by the teacher.  A metal bathroom stall.  Sobbing.  Trying to take care of things.  I only remember that one day of preschool.  I wonder if I kept going?  Or do I only remember the first traumatic day?

I wonder what my son will remember about being four.  Will he only remember an exasperated mother, yelling at him every day?  Don’t hit your brother.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Why did you hit your brother?  “Because I like to.” Why did you do that?  “Because.” Why did you do this?  “Because.” Be careful.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Pay attention.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Try not to spill.  [Deer in the headlights gaze; invariably spills.] Hurry, get a towel.  [Covers ears with hands and cowers.]  Why didn’t you hold on to it?  [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Eat your dinner.  “I done wike it.” Go to the bathroom.  “I don’t want to.” Wash your hands.  “I don’t want to.” Don’t throw things.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Why are you whining?    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Please stop whining.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Stop whining NOW.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Close the gate.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Pick that up.  “It’s too hard for me.” I TOLD YOU NOT TO HIT YOUR BROTHER.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Time out.  “I done wanna go to time out.” Time for bed.  “I done wanna go to bed.” Do you want a spanking?  “I pwomise I won’t do it never never again.” Time to get up.  “I’m ti-wed.  I done wanna get up.” Get dressed.  “I done wanna get up.” Hurry up.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Where are your shoes?  “I unno.” That’s not a toy.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  What did you just do?  “Nuffing”

I long to be laughing and giggling and hugging him, showering him with love and kindness, but I find myself frazzled and frayed, cross and at the end of my rope.  I give him options.  I tell him the reward — do this and you’ll get that.   The power of now is too much for him, though.  He almost always forgoes the reward, so that he can continue in the now.  How I want to give him the reward.  How I want him to learn to make good choices.  But it’s too much for him.  I can see him struggle and give in to the power of now.

In his eyes, he must wonder why I am so nice to the baby and why I am so mean to him.  And that breaks my heart.  I want  him to grow up happy and secure, knowing that he is wanted and treasured.  Only after a long, trying day, does he finally yield, rest his head on my shoulder, and fall asleep in my arms.

And sometimes, I hold him close, and let the tears roll down.

One singular sensation

Every little step he takes.

One thrilling combination

Every move that he makes.

One smile and suddenly nobody else will do;

You know you’ll never be lonely with you know who.
One moment in his presence

And you can forget the rest.

For the guy is second best

To none,

Son.

Happy Birthday, my Magical Wonder Boy

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.

Guess who is ten months old today?

Yep.  My little guy.

Just this week he figured out how to pull himself to a stand.  Then he got so excited about it, because it was, you know, way cool, so he waved his arms in excitement, as he does…   …and went timber, straight back like a falling tree.  My, that was scary, for both of us.  It’s a good thing babies are so resilient and also so close to the ground.   Gravity might otherwise not be so kind.

He is stunningly gorgeous, too.  And I’m not just saying that because I’m his mother.  Well, yes, actually I am.  But look at him!

Today we spent the day together, just the two of us.  Gadget and BB went to show off the boat, the boat that I want very little or nothing to do with, even though I paid for the blessed thing for goodness sake, but Gadget in his manipulative wonder managed to get me to go for it, and I really need to develop a backbone or something when it comes to dealing with marital strife see Gadget’s family up north, and my back was hurting and I was exhausted from a crazy work week, so I stayed home.  I just didn’t want to go.  We went last weekend, and that’s about all I can take for a month or two. So LB and I had a nice day together doing laundry and buying milk.  That little boy is very good at helping fold clothes.

He is also a master at scooting backwards.  He’s as fast as lightning and it makes me laugh, the way he scoots so fast.  It’s sort of like a frog hopping backwards.  I laugh and laugh, and I swear he knows it tickles me so he does it more, to put on a show.  His forward crawl is sort of like a sidestroke.  The ‘commando’ crawl, like GI Joe.  He gets up on his hands and knees to scope the scene, then plops into commando position to make his advance.  He gets to his feet from the kneeling position.  He sort of rolls back on his toes and straightens his legs, like a dancer.  Then he bounces and flails because he thinks it’s so cool to be standing, but of course he forgets and then falls.  Hopefully he’ll figure that out soon.  Dinglefuzz.

The other thing he does with amazing accuracy is turn on the DVD player.  No kidding.   He goes directly for the power button or the open/close button, and he’ll take the DVD out of the tray.  Little stinker!  We have a barricade of pillows in front of the TV stand, but he literally dives onto them, and then starts hurling pillows away with all his might, to get at those electronics.

And how are things on the feeding front?  He has five teeth, and several more on the verge of breaking through.  I still have him on stage two foods because he chokes and gags with the tiniest of fragments in his mouth.  I’m looking forward to him actually attempting to chew, but he’s not ready yet.  He’s not too thrilled with the frozen breast milk, either.  He takes it fine during the night when he’s mostly asleep, but in the day he fights it, so I mix it with rice cereal and feed it to him that way.  And as for weaning, I am nearly there.  I am down to one pump in two days, so the end is in sight.  My mood and emotions are all over the map, though, but that is probably to be expected.  It IS good to be getting my boobs back, I have to say.  There is much less pain, all around.  My belly pain is finally subsiding too.

Still hoping for a full night’s sleep, but it looks as though that is a pipe dream at best.

Still smitten beyond words with this little bundle of wonder, though.  He’s the bestest.

Dolls have never been my thing.  My mother, aunt and grandmother are all gaga over dolls, and have all sorts of collectibles.  My MIL,  Gadget’s daughter and her mother are likewise all gaga over dolls. Their homes are bursting with dolls.

My son, BB, is freaked out over dolls.  I have one doll, and her home is atop a small bookcase in my bedroom.  BB doesn’t want to be in the room alone with her.  And he’s never even seen Chucky.  Lord have mercy on us all if ever he does.

I have this doll because she is a namesake.  When my mother was a child, she had two dolls.  One was named Susan, and the other a lovely musical S-name.   Her first two daughters were named for these dolls, and eventually, she gave the Susan doll to me.

Yesterday we visited Gadget’s family for the day.  His aunt and uncle were visiting from Mississippi or thereabouts, and it was a rare opportunity to see them, as they are advanced in years and their health is declining.  At one point, Gadget’s brother disappeared for a few moments to the back room, and returned with a tiny newborn baby cradled in his arms.  My heart skipped a beat, trying to process the information.  Where in the heck did that baby come from, why was it left alone until now, who was taking care of it, and so on.  A million questions spun through my mind.  And then, I realized it was a doll.

Which freaked me out a bit more, because it looked so real.  It looked like a dead baby.  Seriously.

As the story unfolds, an acquaintance of the aunt makes these dolls for a living, and they go for around $800.  They are commissioned, usually, and made to look like people’s existing (or dearly departed) babies.  I missed the tale of why she gave one to the aunt, but I did hear the tale of how the doll-maker left one of these dolls in the back seat of her car while running errands one day.  The doll was in a bassinett, dressed in baby clothes, and the car windows were rolled up on a hot summer day.  People noticed and started tapping the glass to wake the baby.  The lady didn’t return, the baby didn’t respond, more people showed up, and finally the police were called, and they broke the car window to retrieve the baby.  At which time they discovered it was a doll.  Thank God.  When the maker finally returned, the police apologized for breaking her window, but said, “for GOD’s sake, cover that thing up if you’re going to leave it anywhere.”

Anyhow, dolls creep me out.  They always have.  I don’t know why.  And this doll, especially, was enough to stir me.  The details are incredible, down to the wrinkles in the hands and feet.  But it’s just too much.  I can picture one of these dolls sending some poor barren woman with unhealthy baby obsessions over the deep edge.  And that woman could have been me (prior to my miracle boys).

Hello there, Mister Squishy Pants.  Or is it Mister Stinky Pants?  It’s safe to say that if you are Mister Squishy Pants, then you are most definitely Mister Stinky Pants.  And vice versa.  Not that anybody’s complaining.  We like to know that all systems are go, yes we do.  So we don’t mind.  We don’t mind one bit.  And we try hard not to take these things for granted any more.  Now that we know about that pesky little vertebrae that we hope is well on its way to behaving and filling in properly.

You are growing and learning by leaps and bounds now!  In the last few weeks you’ve sprouted more teeth.  I see three, and several more just lurking beneath the surface.  And you’re such a giggle box!  Some babies are miserable when teething, but not you!  You giggle and shriek and squirm and kick.  You are so full of life, my beautiful boy.

You especially love it when I hold you under your armpits and swing you like a pendulum.  Tick Tock!  You giggle and kick the air and squirm and shriek and your smile goes from forever to forever.  You are contagious, and you make me feel so good.

You are an expert at rolling over and spinning circles, and you’ve just figured out how to move forward, instead of only backwards.  Oh boy.  You go straight for the baskets of DVDs.  Because you know you’re not supposed to.  And you press the red button on the toy dinosaur to make him roar.  How can you be so smart?!  You’re a genius!

You love your turquoise blue blankie, too.  You know which one it is, and you grab it and pull it over your head when you want to go to sleep.  I always pull it back, because I don’t like you to cover your face.  But I have to check on you often, because you are a stubborn little guy, and pull it right back over your face.

Finally, you wake only once in the night for another bottle, and finally you take more than four ounces!  So it’s only 5 or 6, but it keeps you satisfied for longer, and that means I get to sleep a teensy bit more, and for that, I am so very happy!  No shaking your bottle and splashing your milk all over your head, though.  You’re not allowed to play with your milk.  Nope, not allowed.

I’m glad you like your binky.  I know it may not be the best thing, but I prefer to keep that in your mouth while you’re exploring, because I’d rather you NOT put other things in your mouth that you find during your adventures.  Your brother has a tendency to leave a trail, similar to the wake of a tornado, so for everyone’s safety, the binky is best.  What?  You think I want to spend every waking moment following your brother with a broom or a vacuum?  I thought I would have been able to teach him to clean up after himself by now, but he’s very head strong.  Like his dad.  And so are you.  I can only imagine what’s in store.

Soon you will learn to sit yourself from a stand or a crawl.  You are already trying.  You might not be happy when that happens, because I will keep putting you back on your tummy.  That’s what I’m going to do.   Just so you know.  We’re going to give that pesky little vertebrae every chance we can to fill out the way it should.  You might thank me when you’re 40.  Maybe.

You have the look of a deep thinker, too.  You are so different from your brother, the boisterous bull in a china shop boy.  You are boisterous, but in a different way.  There’s something about you, my LB.   Something about you.  And I, I am smitten, over and over again.  First with your brother — I didn’t think I could be any more smitten, and then you came along and I’m smitten all that much more.

Nine months!  Happy Nine Months, my beautiful boy!

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.

BB has been sick.  There seems to be a correlation with visits to the school playground.  I was feeling like such a good mom, taking my kids for a walk, letting BB play on the slides and monkey bars, spending some time together outdoors.  And then the sick.  Granted, it’s only happened twice in the past few weeks, but considering he hasn’t been sick for ages until then, it seems to be more than coincidence.  I can hardly shield him from playgrounds, though, and eventually he will be in school, amidst a veritable melting pot of germs.  He needs to build up his immune system.

Having a sick child stirs an entirely new range of emotions.

I was going to start the weaning process, but LB gets some of my antibodies, and so far, we’ve not been sick.  I’d like to keep it that way.   I feel helpless enough waiting for the sick to work its way through BB.  I don’t want to deal with vomiting and diarrhea with an infant.   It’s not so much the mess, but the helplessness and the concern and the heartache for my suffering child that I want to avoid.  I don’t want him to suffer.  I could do without the mess as well.

He did catch a cold, recently, concurrent with the emergence of his razor sharp lower front two teeth.  I’ve heard that’s not uncommon, for a child to get a runny stuffy nose and a mild fever when teething.  He is no fan of the nasal aspirator, and cries and thrashes while I use it, but like a light switch, he’s all giggles and smiles the instant it’s over.  I love that.

LB has been such a dream baby in many respects.  He likes his routine.  He starts squirming and showing a little agitation around 6:30-7:30 p.m., indicating he’s tired.  I put him in his hammock with a bottle and he settles in almost immediately, and sleeps peacefully until 5-6 a.m.  He semi-wakes at regular 3 hour intervals for a feeding, and when he’s finished, I deftly swap the bottle for the pacifier and he nestles right back into his comfy position and continues to sleep.  However.  The other day, during his agitation phase, he was able to flop himself completely over while in the hammock, which is no small feat.  Once on his stomach, it’s almost impossible to right himself, so the hammock is no longer a safe place to sleep.  Enter the crib.  And the unhappy antics of a child whose routine has been altered.  It’s been three days now, and he’s doing better.

I do wish he’d take more than 4 ounces at a time.  If so, he might sleep longer than 3-4 hours at a stretch.  Which means I could too.  Selfish me!

Hayfever bites the big one.  When the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and daffodils are bursting with color, one might think such glory would be cause for jubilation.  And it would, if it weren’t for this wretched lack of tolerance for so many varieties of pollen.  Bah.

It’s going to be a very busy work week.  It was going to be busy anyway, with Athos out on vacation, but now Porthos is out for the week as well, with a family matter.  Which leaves me (Aramis*) to hold down the fort.  All of it. And I tend to have a full workload of my own anyway, and even more so this week due to an impending major deadline.  That’s the flip side to specialization.  With very few backups, occasionally one is left holding the bag.  I am glad to have a bag to hold, though.

Part of me is wrestling over the weaning decision.  How I look forward to life beyond the pump, yet, at the same time, I almost don’t want to stop.  Maybe because it marks the end of a path I’ll never walk down again.  I won’t be having another child.  I won’t be making milk again.  I will be wistful, when it’s time to close that door.  I’m wistful now, just thinking of it.

There is also a part of me that is trying not to be afraid.  I thought LB’s lower back looked a bit more hunched than I remember BB’s looking at that age, and inquired about it at his 6 month well-child checkup.  His doctor didn’t think it seemed too unusual, but ordered an x-ray as a precautionary measure.  The report came back with some frightening words and we were referred to a specialist.   When we got there, the diagnostic imaging service had put the wrong x-rays on the CD (it’s all digital these days), so the specialist couldn’t look at them.  He said that we could take more, or reschedule for a later date, since he wanted to order an ultrasound anyway, to look at the kidneys and thereabouts.  I chose to reschedule.  I don’t want to bombard my baby with any more radiation than absolutely necessary.  He also mentioned that an MRI might be needed, but I don’t want to make that decision until we have more information from the ultrasound results, and the evaluation of the x-rays.  With an infant, an MRI requires general anesthesia, and I don’t want to put him through that unless it’s necessary.  Anyhow, there are many hanging questions, and there may be nothing at all wrong, which is my deepest hope.  I’m doing my best not to allow myself to worry over the what ifs until or unless there is cause.  But it’s very hard for me.   I’m not so good at letting things roll.

I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve been feeling a bit melancholy of late.  Consequently, I’ve been overly indulgent with the food scene.

I’ve also been feeling more aware of my age, for some reason.  I don’t feel old, per se, but I clearly remember thinking how old my own mother was when she was 42, and here I am, 44.  When she was 42, I was in college, and had made the decision to give up the big V, being that I thought I was an adult and all.  She wasn’t very happy about that news, when I shared it with her.  That was the end of our mother-daughter-friend-friend relationship, which in retrospect was mostly a sham anyway, initiated by me under some self-imposed sense of what a mother-daughter relationship should be like.

Poof.

Anyway.  She was 42 and I was ‘grown up.’  I’m 44, and I have a baby.  Different worlds.  Different generations.  In my world, now, I’m going to try to be a real friend to my boys.  To listen.   To hear.

This means, of course, that I need to get over myself, so I can be there for them.  Not so easy.  At least, not for me.  Else I’d have managed it by now.  Getting over myself, being 44, and all.

~~*~~*~~*~~

*Okay, so I watched Slumdog Millionaire this weekend, and it’s fresh in my mind.  Excellent movie.

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.