sueeeus

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!

I always envisioned myself as a super mom.  Motherhood has been the focus of my aspirations, from very early in my life.  I would have all the patience in the world with my children.  I would explain matters, and they would cooperate.  I would never have to raise my voice, let alone yell.  I wouldn’t spoil them with treats and an overabundance of unearned rewards.  And I would never, ever spank.  Ever.

What fantasy land was I living in?  I am so not the mother I envisioned myself to be.  I try to have the patience of Job, but when I’ve given sound explanations and get unblinking, unfaltering whining in return, I begin to wear down.  I assumed that all children would want to please their mothers.  I remember being a child and wanting desperately to please my mother.  I remember having a keen interest in avoiding wrath of any kind.  So I assumed my children would be like me.  However.  My precious 4yo has no discernible interest in avoiding wrath.  He wants what he wants.  It’s as simple as that.  And it confounds me.

In an effort to dissipate the tension during one such moment recently, I stopped arguing for a bit, caught his attention, and said in a loving and teasing voice, “You are a stubborn child, my love.  Where do you think you get that from?”  He looked at me with his big bright grey eyes, and I could tell he was thinking about it.  Meanwhile, with all of us holding eye contact, his dad covertly pointed his finger at me, while I covertly pointed my finger at him.  We caught each other pointing through the corner of our eyes, then we all laughed.

And two minutes later (less, actually) the whining and arguing resumed.

I find myself feeling bad about not being the kind of mother I’d hoped I’d be.  I haven’t taught BB his numbers or letters.  There was a time when he was much younger that we worked on these things, but it’s been ages.  We don’t listen to music, or sing and dance along to silly songs.  I barely ever read to him.  We don’t play games together.  When we do work on things together, it lasts only a minute, as his attention span is very very short.  I haven’t taught him to ride his bike or play ball.  Part of me is racked with guilt over this.  He’ll be going to kindergarten in September 2010, and what will he know?

My sister helped me put things in perspective though.  She reminded me that nobody worked with us to teach us our numbers or letters.  Nobody sang silly songs with us, or played games (until we were older).  Nobody read us bedtime stories, or anytime stories.  We got very little parental or adult interaction, yet we did just fine when we went to school, and we didn’t even bother with kindergarten.  We caught on, caught up, and sped right on.  We were fine.  So BB will probably be fine.  I know he’s smart.  I can tell that he does learn things.  I hope that he discovers a love of reading.  I will encourage him.  At this point, though, it’s all I can do to teach him to respect books and not tear the pages, write on them, or poke holes in them (because it’s great fun to do all that).

This motherhood job is so much more difficult than I even imagined it would be.  And I am so not living up to my expectations, naive as they may be.

I have one of those minds, call it obsessive, that latches onto things and can’t seem to let go unless or until a plausible explanation is rendered.

The mystery of the missing bath salts.  Did someone throw them out?  Why would they?  Why would they not be in the same place they have been for the last 5 months?

The mystery of the missing brown blanket.  Did someone throw it out?  Give it away?  Take it?  Where on earth is it?  It’s not like a big fluffy blanket just walks away on its own.

Granted, I am one to be over zealous when it comes to giving things away.  I’m currently in the midst of a mass expunge in which I am relieving myself of the burden of ownership of much of my earthly possessions.    So of course it’s not a problem that even more things are not here, but it just bothers me that I don’t know what happened to these particular things.  It’s the lack of explanation that gets me stuck.

Stuck.  I do feel stuck, in many ways. Or perhaps the word is trapped.  Trapped in my mind, trapped in my body, trapped in my office, trapped in my life.  Where would I go and what would I do?  Obviously it’s mainly my mind that governs the overall trappedness of things.  My work day is over.  A bona fide 8 hours plus have been devoted to my employer.  Yet my computer is still online, and I glance at it every few minutes to see if more email or work items have come through.  I should just shut the thing off and not think of it again until the next day begins.  But I don’t.

There is time now, before the evening tasks commence, in which I could be doing things for myself like exercising, planning healthy meals, reading a book, going for a walk, doing errands.  Instead, I’m compelled to sit at this computer and write about how I can’t make myself do any of those things.

I think the word for it is probably depression, but all right already, it just seems like I should be able to rationalize things.  Figure things out.  So I can get on with things.

But I can’t.  Because I’m stuck.

Sometimes I feel this way all day, and then when evening falls I’m hit with a wave of relief, as though nightfall justifies the need to remain indoors.  It’s crazy, because I like the outdoors.

Part of me wants incentive.  I’d love it if Gadget were interested in fitness and health, but if activities don’t involve boats, motorcycles, RVs, ATVs, or other such motorized things, guns, or gear, then it’s not likely that he’ll be interested.  Look at me!  I’ve just skillfully blamed him for my predicament.  I’m good that way.

Seriously, though, it would be nice to enjoy simplicity together.  Walks, talks, healthy meals.  It would be nice if we shared more, and did more things together, including the mundane household chores and meal preparations.  He thinks I’m not romantic because I don’t want him to buy me flowers or bring me presents.  That’s not the case at all, though.  I just want him to know me well enough to bring me something I like.  He thinks that’s impossible, because I’m too particular.  I would like him to share more in our every day living.  That’s really what I want.  Not presents.  Presence.

I was all ‘Bah Humbug’ over the Easter basket thing this year, but caved at the last minute and whipped something together.  I’ve only just started attempting to introduce BB to the concept of God, and it’s confusing enough for a four year old, let alone anybody.  Add to that bunnies and eggs and a special basket full of surprises — I can’t even begin to imagine how he puts all those together.

It’s funny to eavesdrop on his play conversations with his toys.  He was explaining to one that another was God, and that he was red, and had special powers.  I don’t know where he got the red part, unless it was because he was playing with stuffed animals, and the one designated as God was the red bear. He also punctuates the end of self-dialog chatter with Amen, now.  La dee da dee da dee da, la dee da dee da, Amen.  Oh to be four.

I don’t really get the whole Easter basket thing, but my heart softens when I reminisce about how magical it was for me as a child to find that basket hidden somewhere in my room, filled with sugary goodness.  I think a lot of that has to do with being so poor and the only occasions in life to ever get candy (i.e., untold wealth) were Christmas, Easter, Halloween, and birthdays.  These days, so many kids seem to grow up getting goodies and things all the time, which dilutes the special occasion experience, so that magical joy is missing.

I’d like my children to experience that feeling of wondrous joy and delight, but am not so keen to load them up with gobs of candy.  I happened to be looking for clothes for BB at WalMart* when my heart softened, so I compromised and found some storage totes in a relatively spring color, and grabbed a couple of low dollar toys and a bag of Reese’s peanut butter eggs.  I filled the totes with the new clothes and toys, and tossed in a small handful of the candy.  I hid BB’s near his bed, and I ‘hid’ LB’s under his hammock.  I think BB will be delighted.

We’re also having an Easter egg hunt for the kiddos at my SIL’s this afternoon.  I bought two big bags of pre-decorated and pre-filled plastic eggs to scatter around, so the kids will have plenty of candy when it’s all said and done.  And then I’ll stealthily confiscate most of it, when the opportunity presents itself.

~*~*~*~

*I think it’s bordering on criminal that one can buy a complete ensemble of shorts, shirt and t-shirt for $7, but at the same time, am thankful.  Hyppocrite.  BB is growing like a weed, though.  The size 6 things I gave him for Christmas are too small, and if clothes will only fit for 3-4 months, I’m thankful that I can find new ones for so little.

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.

It occurred to me, while driving to work this morning, that I am happy.  I’ve been one to chase rainbows and look for greener grass, rather than stop for a moment to catch my breath and take in what’s all around me, so I tend to charge through life thinking it would or should somehow be better.  There’s a slow change taking place within me, though, that is letting go of burdens and looking for the joy of simply being.  It’s a good feeling.

Six years ago I stood at an altar in a little chapel in Vegas, and made a vow.  All the while thinking, good LORD, what am I doing?  I don’t do Vegas.  I don’t do vows.  I don’t do permanency.  I don’t do commitment.  At least not formal commitment.  I’ll be a friend for life, but make it an edict and I may flee.

In less than ten minutes, my life changed forever.  In the years since then, I’ve maintained a little reservation, thinking that we could scrap it all and walk away if things came to that.  I was more ready for things not to work, than for them to work.  Horrible, awful, me.   But there it is.

And here I am.  Six years later.  Certainly I have (many) moments of frustration and exasperation over my chosen’s lack of vested partnership when it comes to matters of the home front such as housework and child care, but to give him credit, he does shoulder the burden for the manly things (mostly involving motors, dirt and/or power tools) that I don’t like to bother with.  We have two beautiful children.  He sometimes comments that now that I have what I wanted (my kids), I don’t need him around any more.   Not sure if he’s looking for an out, or just thinking that I’m going to kick him to the curb. I think I’ll keep him around.

After six years and two children, I’m feeling settled and content.  It may be the magic number.  Six years was the longest relationship I’d had previously, and it ended badly.  There was no marriage, but I had sunken too much of myself into that abyss, only to learn in the end that it was riddled with lies and deceit all along, the depths of which I never unraveled (nor want to, as the mere recollection feels like swarms of maggots writhing in my guts).  Those six years consumed the better part of my thirties, and I ultimately felt robbed of the prime of my life.  Six years of marriage is therefore an important milestone for me.  Six years, plus another two or so years in relationship prior to the big I DO, join together to negate the folly of the previous six years.  I’m in the clear now.  Ahead of the game.  Not stuck in impossible quagmire or a nest of lies.

Six years of steady as she goes, comfortable companionship.  Certainly we have our differences.  We come from different worlds.  Different backgrounds.  Different cultures.  Different people.  We think differently, we speak differently, we like different foods, we enjoy different activities.  So many differences.  But somehow, we work.  I don’t know what it is.  Maybe it’s simply that.  Comfort.  Being comfortable with each other.  I can imagine growing old together.  And that’s something.

I like my life.  My marriage.  My children. My family.  It’s a very very very fine life.