Succumbing to Peer Pressure

a year ago this month

2007-09-04T05:26:00.000-07:00

a year ago September my toddler got his port put in. He started IVIG infusions to treat his faulty immune system.
Oh port, how I love thee. Oh IVIG how I love thee too.
In the last year he has only been septic once. Only had 2 serious skin infections. Only 6 or 7 ear infections (yes, he already has tubes). Only had 2 lung infections worth noting. Only a couple sinus infections. I suppose that sounds terrible to some of you, now that I wrote it out. But his first year and a half was spent swinging from one catastrophic illness to the next. So this is So Good. The other thing is- most of those were in the first half of the year. This summer was just amazing for us. Amazing. He hasn't been admitted to the hospital in 9 months!! He has spent weeks on end being healthy.
Today is another infusion. His 16th. I am stressed, I am always stressed about them, but I am so thankful for them. My boy-in-a-bubble has been to the zoo! The science center! the library! The park! What scary germ infested places! We used caution, and boatloads of sanitizer, but we WENT. Like real people.

IVIG doesn't "build up". You are super healthy after an infusion, and average a week or so later, and at risk again after a couple of weeks as your body uses up the antibodies you recieved. He was still sick in the early months because your body is more than just antibodies. His organs were taxed, his central nervous system was fried, his vitamin and mineral stores were depleted. He was still recovering. Every cell in his body was so abused in the first year and a half that each one needed to heal. The IVIG did its best to keep infections at bay while he healed up. Every month he got stronger. Every month he got healthier. Every season our lives got closer to normal.

My boy is 2 and a half years old. He is robust, rosy cheeked, delightful. His energy, humor, and charm will melt your heart. He is not just alive, he is LIVELY.

IVIG how I love thee.

10 years ago

2007-09-04T05:24:00.000-07:00

I'm late on this, I meant to post this last month.
10 years ago in August I got pregnant with my first child.
I have spent EVERY SINGLE DAY since then pregnant or nursing or both. Happy Decade to me!

The thing about the water

2007-09-04T04:34:00.000-07:00

so, you know, we all have quirks right? Its not *just* the in laws. Even *I* have quirks. I'm not afraid to admit it. So I have this *thing* about water. I grew up in a house where "water is for washing" and we just didn't drink it. I was a koolaid kid. I grew up. I discovered the pleasures of icy cold water in a condensation covered glass. I love me some icy cold water now.
But I'm a freak about it. I like tap water (oh the horror) but only from our city. I come home from vacations dehydrated. I drink just enough to sustain life until I get back to my beloved water. I used to drink Diet Coke. But slip me a can made in New York and I'd practically spit it out- made with the wrong water you know. I drink water all day- and all night. I have to pour out the water instead of adding to it every couple of hours. Especially before bed. Because otherwise its going to stale by breakfast time.
Yes, I said my water would go stale. It tastes dusty to me. And old. And its just nasty. Once my sweet husband put a glass of water in the cupboard. And I left mine right there in the fridge door, which is where I like it to be unless I am sitting right beside it (I'll get to that). When at LAST I had been busy long enough for MY water to be room temperature he gleefully brought me a glass of water. They looked the same. But I took a sip and made That Face, you know the one, the one all 4 year olds make when eating liver and brussel sprouts (except me since I LIKED those things even as a 4 year old). I declared it stale. He accused me of seeing the dust-collected cupboard water. He sputters there is NO WAY it tastes different. Whatever- it does to ME, Freak-at-your-service.

Now the other thing is this. If you have small children you may have listened to a few Raffi songs. Perhaps you know "the sharing song"? I tend to alter the words when it comes to my beverages. My version is "Its mine and you can't have some, with you I'll never share it, cause if I share some with you, you'll have it all" I'm not afraid they'll drink it all. I just don't want it back. I will lick my husbands tongue, but I don't want to share water with him. I wipe my childrens butts, but I don't want to drink after them. I took a shower with 3 extra people this morning- so I'll share my soap but not my cup.

When I travel, anywhere, I bring my precious water. Ten minute run to the store? Have water will travel. Sometimes I spend a day with my mom. I start with my glass of water and all is well.... until she reaches over and drinks some. I see her lipstick smudge on my glass and feel the bile rise into my throat. Of course it would be rude to say "you evil wench! you ruined my water!" so instead I say "gee I'm in the mood for a juice" and I buy me a juice, and her a pop. And all is well... until- Ohhh Myyyy Goooood she's drinking my juice! WHY? Why? WWWHHHHYYYYY? and she says "mmm you choose the most interesting flavors" And so then I must say "gosh I think I want a pop. She offers me her coke. I say "ohh I'm in the mood for a sprite" and she says "that sounds delightful! we'll split one!" So I say thats a great idea. And I buy a sprite- and ANYTHING else. Some red pop or omething. I get back in the car and say "oh I saw this and it looked too good to leave behind, but heres your sprite"
And you know damn well she just HAS to try it.

So if this is how I feel about people, relatives, imagine what happens when my cat walks by and sticks his paw in my water and licks it and sticks it back in over and over. The Horror! Soooo unless I am Right There to gaurd my water it must live in the fridge door where it is safe from harm. But other people, instead of sliding it to the ice side while they get their water put it on the counter! And leave it there!! And then............... cat paws.

Night after night I woke up to Exposed Water. So I had a brilliant idea. I am a GENIUS! I solved the problem! I.... boobytrapped my glass!!! I lay my eyeglasses over my water glass and head to bed. If the cat tries to drink my water the glasses will be knocked off and I'll know! YES! I'm saved!

Some times my water tasted funny. I decided it was stale and refilled. No trauma. No drama. UNTIL.

Until yesterday. My baby got me out of bed at 10 to 5 and we wandered into the livingroom, headed for my water. There on the table stood my cat. Right beside my glass! And WHERE do you think his paw was? Thats right. IN MY WATER! And he deftly pulled it up, NOT knocking off my glasses and licked it. And then? He looked me in the eye and dipped that paw again. I swear to you he smiled at me with great smugness while he did it.

Meanwhile I considered amputating my tongue. My cat-germ infested tongue.

summerin'

2007-06-30T04:58:00.000-07:00

The kids caught tiny baby toads last week, they are smaller than crickets! We have a really cute tank set up, and soon we’ll release them in my sister’s yard by her pond. The children will make little toad houses to place in the shady spots between the trees where the ferns and things grow.
It’s such a busy summer here. Connor is 9 and his body begs him to keep moving. He rushes from pool to scooter, to rope swing to bike, he races and climbs. Skye turns 8 this month. She has always been “old” preferring to chat with adults while her toys collected dust. Its her nature to be helpful though and she’s very nurturing, so this summer she plays more simply because the little boys want her too. Trew is 4, he thinks he can do everything Connor can. He wants all the attention and babying the littler kids get. He’s caught between little kid and big kid, he’s dramatic about everything. He’s testing his limits- and ours as well, how high can he climb in that tree? How high will we let him go? If he scrapes his knee how loudly can he wail before we nag at him to calm down instead of scoop him up and kiss him? I love to watch him test himself though, at that age the kids kind of find out who they are. Lochlan charges around like a tank. He’s full of purpose and built so, sturdy ;) that you expect that “bull in a china shop” experience, he is surprisingly sure-footed and graceful though. He is testing out the swing we hang from our tree, seeing which swings he can manage and how. He makes tea in the little kitchen, and since the tea pot is real I will brew a little and cool it and put it in his pot and let him pour a little cup of tea. I always think he’ll spill it, but he doesn’t. He loves the pool. He loves the park. He’s always busy doing something. Twenty times a day he cries out “Weed Me! Weed at me!” needing someone to read to him, or “sit dare sit dare cats” for sit there, sit there, catch because he wants to roll a truck or ball to you and have you roll it back. Sweet Nola is changing and growing too. Still the warm, soft, snuggled in of new babies. Still the smell of milk-fed innocence. But wide eyed, grabbing, mouthing everything, drenched in drool. On the floor she rolls to her target and grabs hold. In the bouncy she curls her monkey toes around the hanging toys and talks to them. We laugh at her when she sings us songs. She has grown fat and ticklish, the kids adore her. She laughs at peek-a-boo games, loves the tub (the pool is often to cold for her), and has a habit of holding eye contact for a LONG unblinking time, prompting Connor to say “look Deep into my eyes” in a funny voice.
I love mothering. It makes me feel lucky, every day.

Ellie and the phone

2007-05-06T05:36:00.000-07:00

This is what happened several years ago. When my MIL was a drunk, but (supposedly) not senile or demented (not demented, oh thats RICH). When she still had a car, and a JOB as well. When she had a membership to her beloved yacht club (reminder dear reader, she has never owned so much as a dinghy). This was even before her boyfriend drove into the lake! She had a social life.
So she had had a cell phone, but lost it. Again. And now her wall phone was cracked. My husband, sweet optomistic soul that he is, thought a cordless phone was the *perfect* Christmas gift. This was the first in a STRING of gifts-that-make-me-shudder. I want you to listen to the cordless phone tale and then you tell me if it was Good Idea or a Bad Idea to follow it with these gifts at subsequent holidays: a dvd player, a computer, a stereo, a new tv, another phone, a laptop, a cell phone. I'm just saying, if *I* were buying gifts for her I'd stick with fuzzy slippers. But not my Chris, oh no, he IS optimism.
Alrighty then. We (Chris) bought Ellie a cordless phone. A good one, with the built in digital answering machine base. With remote access! Just go to any other phone, call your house, enter the NASA approved 17 digit code, and voila! hear your messages. Easy Peasy right? Chris showed her how. He wrote out instructions. He made 6 copies. He taped them to the table the base rests on, the fridge, put them in her purse, her coat pocket and wherever else.
And he returned to his life. MY life is lived, well, in my living room. Which means all the crazy people know *just* where to find me.
So my phone rang, and my caller ID registered "pay phone" as the caller. I answered it- hey, we all make mistakes. It was Ellie. Calling from outside her work. And the conversation went like this:
me: hello
E: oh uh yes uh hello is my son at home?
me: no, he's at work. are you ok?
E: oh oh I'm fine yes but uh my phone is n. o. t. w. o. r. king
(I interrupt this to remind you Ellie has a hand-held voice box and randomly switches from speaking words to spelling them, sometimes only half of the word)
me: ok, I'll tell Chris when he gets home and he can come over and check it out
E: well I'm not at home. I'm at work.
me: right, but your phone is at home so he'll come over after work-
E: no. it is not at h.o.m.e.i.t.i.s. right here
me: oh um are you returning it then?
E. NO. I'm trying to USE it. I brought it to work but I can't call you. There's no dial tone. I can't get my messa g.e.s. either
me: um, right, well, its not a cell phone you know, so uh, it won't work 20 miles from home. but you can get your messages from there
E: I know. Its a CORDLESS phone, theres no cord. I don't need a cord. But I want to get my messages and I can't get a dial tone.
me: right well, um try calling from the payphone to get your messages and I'll send Chris over later...
E: (sighs like I am dumber than a box of rocks) I need to c.a.l.l.m.y.p.h.o.n.e.
me: (decides if she thinks I'm dumb I might as well ACT like it) oh gosh your phone must be broken. Gee I wonder whats wrong with it. I hope Chris can figure it out for you. That sounds so frustrating. I wonder if its broken.

and we wind up and she hangs up and that should be that.

But then, 30 minutes later, she's AT MY HOUSE. With her phone. Her not-a-cell cordless phone. She's SO mad.
"See? SEE? no dial tone! Nothing!" she shouts at me (um well she doesn't really shout you know. Her little voice box thingy doesn't have a "shout" setting. So it all sounds the same- but she quakes with rage so you can imagine the volume increase)
She proceeds to explain to me, and show me, over and over and over again how her (cordless) phone won't work (from a mile away from its base) to call her answering machine (the same phone she is TRYING TO USE) to get her messages

I don't know where to start. Do I start with the difference between "cordless" and "cell"? With the logistics of using your own phone to call your own phone and how you'll just get a busy signal?

I spend 20 minutes on cordless vs cell and the end result is that is TOTALLY freaked out that her brilliant and perfect son could marry such a dullard.

Chris explained and explained. But every week or 2 we had to start over. After a few months Chris told her the phone was broken and he was going to get her a new one. He said that model was out of stock. And all they had was this one. This answering machine with a "play" button and no remote access. This wall-mounted phone seperate from the answering machine.

A brain almost on drugs

2007-04-17T04:29:00.000-07:00

we all know the hazards of brains on drugs. A few of them get together and you atart looking for toast and orange toast. In high school it was common knowledge that both acid and shrooms worked better if you downed mass quantities of orange juice during your trip. Seeing a friend with pupils the size of a dinner plate and a gallon oj OJ in one hand always brought the fried-egg brain-on-drugs image to mind. Add in the fact that people on drugs will often say "dude I'm toasted" and you get "drugs: breakfast of champions"
But that has nothing to do with this post. At all. Sorry to waste your time there. This post is about MY family, not the inlaws.
My mother is crazy in her own twisted way. I like that about my family- they never rinse and repeat an old crazy, each person does Crazy in her own way. Keeps it interesting. Makes you think. My little sister is crazy in many ways. She is 29 years old and has never lived alone. She cannot speak to a man without flirting. She's been married twice. She has 3 daughters, but only one lives with her. The first was taken away at 2 years (well a few times before that too but her parental rights were terminated then) and the second one she abandoned at age 3 and then the father was given full custody and she was denied even visiting privileges. Takes a special kind of parenting to get those 2 rulings eh?
My little sister Val is also crazy in the way that made the government find her permanently and totally disabled and eligible for SSI. She is bipolar, and has Borderline Personality Disordr, she is ADHD and has a range of mood disorders and attachment issues. She has trouble with "fact vs. fiction" and tends to believe her own lies.
She likes Bad Boys and every single one of her boyfriends has been in jail or prison (well the first few were in juvenile hall) most repeatedly. In fact when one boyfriend was being released and would need to come "home" she called and got the current boyfriend arrested on a parole violation. She has done this several times. It keeps her from getting bored I guess.
Is it any wonder then that she might wander into circles where they use drugs? I don't mean happy drugs, like a little bit of pot. I don't mean hippy drugs like shrooms. I mean crack, I mean heroin, I mean real drugs, skid-row drugs.
So. Last summer Val pawned her window a/c units and said they were stolen. My mom bought her new ones. A few weeks later they were, um, stolen again. So Val, and her current parolee, and her baby, and her dog started "crashing" at my moms "pad" One day my mom found pieces of her grill upstairs and other things she didn't understand. When confronted Val CONFESSED they had been freebasing in my moms bedroom. But she promised it would never happen again.
A month later my mom found grill parts in her backseat. Val said they were going to take the parts to the store and get new ones so there wouldn't be any drug residue on my moms hamburgers. My mom believed her, and thought that was "sweet"
Time went on and my mom got fired from her teaching job (at Detroit Public Schools) for "endagering her students" (can you imagine????)and so she sold her house and moved into the trailer she had bought for Val.
She bought more a/c units and nice new grill. We don't know what's wrong with Weber but their grill and parts are CRAP. We know this because the poor parolees keep having to take the grill apart to "fix it"
My mom believes them. Don't you? And she's not even ON drugs... just almost.

'ello (greetings from Britain)

2007-04-16T10:49:00.000-07:00

Everyone needs an Ellie. Or an Elly.
My Mother In Law is named Ellie. Or she was. Until a few years ago when she up and changed her name to Elly. For no good reason. But my InLaws are prone to such absurdities.
Speaking of absurdities, lets talk about Elly and her speech absurdities a moment.
I already told you she talks through a 25 year old external voice box. Its gold, and looks like my first walk-man. I WANTED one that played tapes, but got the lousy AM/FM one instead.Its cord is hopelessly tangled and mangled. It has a "straw" yellowed with age and permanently stained with lipstick that she talks into. It doesn't work very well. So she often whacks the straw onto nearby objects. Spittle flies out of the end of it and she tries again. It can take her several minutes to say "hello. I love you dear"
She can be hard to understand, with her mechanical voice. She knows this, so she helps out her listeners by randomly switching from normal speech to SPELLING. So it goes something like this: "hell(buzz buzz whack buzz) hell (buzz) hello dea (buzz buzz whackity buzz) dear I (buzz) L (buzz) O (whack whack whack buzz) O V E you"
Last year her cancer came back, landing in her tongue. So they took half of her tongue. I really DO have a snake-tongued mother in law! Really though she has a wispy tongue now making it even harder to understand her.
I have also hinted at Ellie's favorite beverage. As you might imagine, adding a drunken slur to this might make it even MORE difficult to comprehend.
And just for shits and giggles, when Elly drinks she becomes.... British. We don't know how, or why. She's never left North America. But halfway through a box-o-wine she's all "ello guvner" like that guy in the Kellogs commercial.
Just TRY to talk to her. I dare you. Try to converse with a senile drunk with half a tongue who is using a slurred british accent through a dysfunctional voice box who spells half her words. I don't answer the phone. At least the answering machine can be played over and over while we try to decipher the message (something like "I collected 6 doggie bags from strangers at the bar today and left them baking in the sun on your porch for you")
I'm having a dinner party folks, you're all invited!

Lochlans Port

2007-04-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

the port is completely under the skin. See it in his chest?

Here it is accessed. The black thing is the "grip" on his Huber needle which pokes through the skin into the port

the tube comes from the bottom of the port and is threaded up the chest (inside) to the neck where it goes into the jugular and down into his heart

It stays until it gets clogged or infected or is no longer needed. It must be surgically removed. They sewed a "pocket" in his chest that holds it, made of skin and muscle.

Leftovers from a Woman Who Cannot Chew

2007-04-16T05:21:00.000-07:00

I said I'd share more about my Mother In Law, and here I am, at last, doing just that.
This is the Food Issues post. I think every family has its own food issue posts, its own MIL posts as well. Here's mine.
My MIL had throat cancer a billion years ago (she's 9 billion years old give-or-take)and so she has no voice box and a hole in her throat. She has an external voice box with a little "straw" she talks into and the box is her "speaker". She coughs and the nastiness comes out of the hole in her neck. I cannot explain how disgusting this is. She will reach up to her neck grab a glob of bloody sputum and puuuuuuuuuuuuull it out in stringy gloppiness through the neck-hole and then flick it casually to the ground (and then want to touch you!).
In recent years her throat has been closing up and she has to have it dilated every 4-6 weeks. She needed to have a feeding tube placed in her gut since she can barely swallow. She can't eat. She undergoes the dilations because "at least being able to drink tea with friends makes life seem normal" You should know she doesn't drink tea. At all. You should know her bar tab was over $800 one month. I'll let you decide what she wants to drink with her friends ok? You should also know that its less socially acceptable to pour your box-o-wine straight into your belly tube. It is POSSIBLE though.
Ok got the idea?
Back in the days when she had a car and a license to drive my MIL was a member of the yacht club (not that she EVER owned a boat- just that she ENJOYS the company of the pretentious drunken boat people). Her monthly bar tab was higher than her apartment rent. But she was happy.
Sadly, her precious son married a lazy, no-good woman who doesn't cook (that'd be me). Now, for the record, her son has gained weight consistently each year of his marriage, and he wasn't stick-thin to begin with. No matter. MIL fears her dear son will wither away. It pains her to see him suffer. So she hung out at her club, and when her friends had their plates cleared (remember MIL subsists on a liquid diet) she had their food bagged. She would come by, drunk, bearing gifts. Bringing the leftovers from 6-10 drunken STRANGERS to my home. A gift to her poor neglected, abused, starving son and her poor grandchildren.
see the starving grandchild?

and her poor starving son?

yes, clearly what we need here is food. We are in fact so desperate that we want half eaten bar food.

There is a bar within walking distance of her new apartment. To get there she must walk past my house (but she usually goes around the block so we don't see her). This new bar of hers is a DIVE.

I had somehow forgotten the years of nasty leftovers. Leftovers which often sat in her car for DAYS before she brought them to us. What could be better than that?
But last week she walked over with a stack of leftovers from the bar.
Oh I am SO lucky to have a MIL who cares.

A pretty good reason to sleep with your kids

2007-04-06T08:32:00.000-07:00

I explained nursing, how it brought me into my own as a mother. Now I’ll explain co-sleeping.

With Connor I had the crib, the expensive bedding, 2 mobiles, the works. I had the crib in my room at least. My sweet boy however had a rotten latch, so he nursed every 90 minutes for 45 minutes at a time. All I DID was nurse him! I’d set him in the crib and he would wake up right away. I was having trouble recovering from my c-section, so every time Connor needed me Chris had to get him. So we used the crib for a couple hours, but I didn’t want to wake Chris to put the baby back or get him out again. I managed to struggle into a position to nurse him on my own. When he finished I just slid him onto the mattress and went back to sleep. So began our co-sleeping adventure. It was nice, easy, convenient. But not a major *impact* on us. Just a thing we did. Skye came along and we added her to our bed. It was nice, but again I think it helped us to be closer etc but I don’t think it changed our family in any tangible way.
Then we had Trew. We had sold the crib by then, and knew exactly how he would fit into our family. He had his own ideas and spent his first 5 days in Special Care just to prove he wouldn’t be told what to do. I was able to nurse him though (he was on IV’s initially but they let me nurse), and he did come home with me, though I had to stay the maximum c/section allowance to swing it. He had some breathing issues in the Special Care and was on O2. When we got him home he was often stuffy/wheezy. He snored from day 1. He didn’t grow as well as my other kids. He had pneumonia FOUR times his first year. They tested him for cystic fibrosis, but he was fine.
Meanwhile Chris had surgery to relieve his sleep apnea. I swore Trew had sleep apnea, but nobody would listen. At one of Chris’s ENT appts I scheduled a consult for Trew. I described the snoring/stopping/etc Trew had and the ENT agreed it sounded like apnea. Still, Trew was SO young (1.5) and so LITTLE (still not 20lbs), and *I* was terrified of surgery to fix it. So we did a sleep study. I drove him 45 minutes away to spend the night hooked to wires in a strange bed. I was pregnant with Lochlan. I told the Dr Trew slept with me and he kind of hinted I couldn’t. But the technician was SO sweet and said of COURSE I could. They watch with video cameras and there are a gazillion little wires. He hated the wires. It was hard to get him to sleep only because he wanted to rip off the wires. But finally I laid down and nursed him to sleep.
Fifteen minutes in he had an apnea episode. During the night he had hundreds of apneas. His oxygen levels consistently dipped into the 60’s (in special care at NINETY-SIX they would start freaking out… 60 is BAD news). Sometimes the O2 dropped and his heart rate would freak out too. When I was sort of awake I would WANT to reach over and touch him when he stopped breathing- as I had done every single night of his life. But I didn’t want to mess up their study. But I was pg, exhausted in that bone-deep tired pregnant women know so well. So sometimes I was too damn tired to think first and instinctively I’d pull him closer, tuck him in against me.
The technician in the morning spoke with me. “That was beautiful, that was the most amazing sleep study I’ve ever done” she said, eyes brimming with tears “it was like a ballet” she continued “a dance, a beautiful dance” I could tell she was moved… but all we did was sleep. I was baffled. “Your son has apnea” she told me “its severe, I’m not supposed to say this to you, but the Dr’s report will confirm it all. Your son is in danger. But when his vitals were terrible and I was ready to come in and save him, you would pull him to you and he would stabilize” She was crying now. When ever he was in danger you disrupted the apnea. When he slept against you his rhythms would stabilize, but to an ADULT rhythm, not a pediatric one. You weren’t wired, but I know that if you were we’d find that his breathing and heart had matched yours. I could zoom in and see you synchronized. Thank you so much for letting me see this. Don’t let that little boy out of your bed until his surgery. His life depends on you”

So co-sleeping, yeah, co-sleeping has had an impact. A dramatic impact on my family. Without it, we could have lost Trew.

The Early Days of Motherhood... my breastfeeding beginnings

2007-04-06T08:29:00.000-07:00

Nursing. I started the whole adventure after a screwed up childhood. I took childcare classes in high school and worked at a childcare. I babysat. I was a nanny. Not to be smug but I did totally ROCK at those jobs. I loved them too. Then I got pregnant (on purpose) and started to read everything I could get my hands on. Which is all the stuff from the OBGYN office. As mainstream career oriented as possible. I *needed* to be a “good mom” and all the books said I “had” to nurse for 3 months. So that was that. I didn’t know ANYONE who breastfed. ANYONE. But damn I was going to do this RIGHT! I even got a $50 pump so I could go back to work at exactly 6 weeks post-partum. Connor had a lousy latch. I was clueless. It was HARD. I had cracked, bleeding, blistered nipples. I CRIED every single feeding. And all he did was feed! He was 3 days old and we met our ped (assigned by the health ins. Co) and in the office Connor pooped and there was blood in it. The Dr said I couldn’t breastfeed because my nipples were bleeding and drinking blood is very dangerous for babies. He took my naked, screaming, new baby down the hall and came back with a bottle propped in his mouth. I could barely walk, I was post c/section. I was overwhelmed. I looked at my new baby (still naked and sad) drooling out formula and wanted to throw up. I was failing ALREADY! The abuse-survivor stats were RIGHT, I was going to SUCK as a mom! I was doomed. Connor was doomed. I should never have had kids. But I asked Chris to PLEASE take me back to the hospital to talk to the lactation consultant. The lactation consultant sat me down and helped me latch him on *right* (it still took 4 months for Connor and I to get it right) and said I did NOT need to wean and gave me a list of Peds who took my insurance.
So nursing was my first real act of motherhood. Then at 5 weeks and 6 days PP I bawled my eyes out and Chris laughed at me and said “I never expected you to go back to work while my son still needed you” and so I became a SAHM. Then we reached 3 months and I was *just* past crying in pain every feeding- I was NOT going to wean the minute it got easier! So I kept nursing. Another real act of motherhood, something from *me* not the *book* Nursing Connor taught me everything about him. I held him all the time. I knew every single thing about him. He was my world.
We had a crib, a really really nice bedding set for it. Monitors. All the gear. Connor wanted *me* and I LIKED it that way. So he stayed in my bed and we were happy. My books didn’t say anything about that either.
I think what I like about the AP things I do is that they FEEL right. When I am “being AP” I feel settled. I feel like *me* I feel good about me. Nursing and cosleeping allowed me to grow into MY version of motherhood, not the “book mom” I originally aspired to be. The mom I really am. I’m not perfect. I don’t mother the way I nanny’d either. I do ok though. And I LOVE motherhood. I love milk smiles. I love warm baby bellies to rub in bed. I love little brains lighting up in my home (I am SO glad to homeschool… SO glad *I* get to see the lights come on as they learn new things). I love soft cute cloth diapers. I love slings and mei tais. I love little people laughing and loving here with me.

A tale of four surgeries

2007-04-02T05:23:00.000-07:00

when I thought I had no choice, that I needed a fifth section. I said I wanted to be knocked out then (granted I was depressed and overwhelmed). A good friend asked why, and here is the story of my first 4 Birth Days:

Ø Why do you want to be completely under for your section?

For this we need to back up and run through my birth histories. Please keep in mind that my family and coworkers and EVERY single person I knew was very very mainstream. I lived in a world split between nanny-raised kids and day-care babies. The parents I knew looked hard for daycares that took babies younger than 6 weeks, most were back to work at 2 weeks. NOBODY I knew ever tried to breastfeed. So I started my journey into motherhood differently from most on this list. I had NO idea there were still midwives- maybe in California but it was probably illegal even there. I DID read everything I could get my hands on- but that was OB waiting room magazines, What to Expect, and other similar items. If only I’d known then. But maybe it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

I was 23 and over the moon to be starting my family. I was socked with hyperemesis and tossed in the hospital twice in the first trimester. I had some bleeding. I was on bedrest most of the pregnancy. Still, I was pregnant and having a son and couldn’t be happier. I took the hospital birth class like a good patient, and so did Chris. I set up my crib in the 7th month. I began to dilate at 30 weeks. I was given steroid shots and preemie handouts to read. But the boy hung in there. 2 weeks before his due date I suspected I was leaking fluid. They tested w/ litmus and said I wasn’t. Several days later I complained again. I stole their litmus paper. They said I was fine. I had read on Stork Site that for a slow leak you should be tested by laying down for an hour then placing the paper and sitting up. I did that at home and it showed I was in fact leaking. I called the OB and was brought in AGAIN and tested wrong AGAIN and sent home AGAIN. 2 days later was my due date. My OB decided to do a quick ultrasound to prove that I wasn’t leaking fluid. What he found was only one SMALL pocket of fluid left. He immediately ruptured my (already leaking) amniotic sack. He had me call my husband. He folded up a big white tissue sheet- the one you wrap up in- and said to put it in my underwear and drive to the hospital and they’d induce NOW. I looked down to a pool of blood. I didn’t know you bled when they ruptured your sack? I have never gotten an answer for that. I went to St Joes. They started pitocin. He was posterior and I had back labor. They started an epidural. I made it to pushing, and I tried- but I had NO feeling and I doubt I was a good pusher. His heartrate dipped and they put a wire in his head L His heartrate still dipped and the rushed us for a c/s. He was born 6 minutes after we entered the OR. The OB sliced his head with the scalpel. He was 7lbs 14oz and perfect though. After 2 sad hours in recovery wanting my baby DESPERATELY we were both taken to a room and he stayed with me. I had severe tearing because the Dr tried to spin him and stuck both arms in me up to his elbows. I remember the nurses were FURIOUS that I didn’t get stitched up from the tears. I had those ice packs etc. The OB gave me only Tylenol for pain. The nurses forgot to check my incision sometimes because the perenium looked so bad. The next days OB may not have read my chart at all? He discharged me w/o any exam. I was home when my son was 26 hours old. It was almost 2 months before I could walk normally or climb stairs.
16 weeks after that ordeal I was pregnant again. It was absolutely intentional. And its amazing it happened. Connor nursed nearly nonstop including 8 or 80 times a night. I never got a period, just got pregnant.
I knew these things: labor HURRRRRRRRRRRRRRTS. Surgery is scary. Recovery HURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTS. I was afraid of a VBAC. I was afraid of another c/s. I read that VBAC was best, and I like to do whats best, so VBAC it would be. I suffered hyperemesis again, but wouldn’t leave Connor to go to the hospital. I slept in the bathroom so I could lift my head and vomit easily.I had some bleeding, as I always do. Other than that it was a typical pregnancy. I said I was due 7/4, they said 7/29. Skye came 7/16 weighing 8lbs 9oz and was deemed a 42 weeker. Labor started. I went to St Joes. I had had false labor for weeks and this was my third trip to L&D. I didn’t really think I was having a baby. The OB ordered pit- but the nurse didn’t start it (YAY). I dilated to 10 in 2-3 hours. She was also posterior. There was slight meconium staining in the fluids. They started a saline flush. I was pushing. I had good visualization. I felt strong and capable. Then they took away my isolette! I was SO MAD. I needed that. The nurse said I was going to the OR. For the meconium, and for failure to progress- but in 3-4 hours? How can that BE? (note: it was Friday and the OB had tickets to the hockey game) But that’s what happened. The epidural didn’t work. They clamped my belly to check and I yelped. They ignored it and began to cut. I screamed and screamed. I was in agony. My guts, hot, wet, sticky piled onto my chest. Screaming. I heard the screaming but was sort of unaware that it was me. Later I would find bruises on my wrists from the restraints- I was trying to leap off the table. I wanted to DIE. Chris had to watch and NOT PUNCH ANYBODY poor guy. When they cut the cord they finally gassed me. My baby was born and I didn’t even CARE. I just wanted it to end. I needed it to stop. They gassed me as they cut the cord. I didn’t have a single thought to spare for my new baby and I still have acute guilt for that. In recovery I remember asking over and over and over if she was ok, her weight, Apgars, etc. But I couldn’t remember their answers so I asked again and again. Four hours later Skye and I were brought together in our room. We had just bought our house and needed to go sign the papers. So she was 23 hours old when I took her home. 5 days later I had an OB appt. I had been feeling AWFUL. On the way down the hall at the office I fainted. I had a severe uterine infection. I was put in the hospital on several IV abx. They kept talking about a hysterectomy it was just so bad. I recovered though and came home, with all my parts.

Skye was 2, Connor 3, and I was pregnant with my 3rd. I bled and bled. They scheduled a D&C- but his heart was beating. I should come back in 2 days. Over and over. I bled and bled and they were sorry…. But there he was, still alive. He’d never make it. But I couldn’t do a D&C as long as the heart flickered on the screen. They scheduled me 3 times- but he clung to life. My hyperemesis was worse than ever. Connor was in a lot of therapies for his autism. He was 3 and a handful. I COULDN’T leave him to go the hospital. Skye was still nursing. So I agreed to take Zofran. On Zofran I only puked 8 or 12 times a day. I puked EVERY DAY of that pregnancy. I was with a different OB group this time. The only one I could find with a midwife on staff. But they wouldn’t consider a VBAC for me. So I scheduled my c/s. 2 weeks before the c/s date I had contractions. Its quite possible it was my “usual false labor” but I was big and miserable, he was 37 weeks, he was going to be a section anyway. The OB on call said “I’m here now. I’ll just do it now so I don’t have to come back later”. And so came Trew. Now we had set things up for him. He was going to nurse right away, we’d delay eye goo for 45 min (as long as they’d allow) they “needed” to take him to nursery but would do that while I was stitched so I could hold him and nurse him in recovery. Chris would stay with him. It was going to be ok. My nurse was AWESOME. But Trew had breathing trouble. And heart rate issues. My nurse took me from the OR to the SCN (special care nursery) to see him. Not to recovery, to my son. I love that nurse. She always brought me morphine at his side. But when I spoke to him, and especially when I touched him, his heart rate would plummet as would his oxygen. They had to “come save him” every time I touched him. So I couldn’t touch him. Or talk to him. Just look. It was AWFUL. But 4 days later we were together, he nursed, and we were released.
Then came Lochlan. I was sick, but it went away! I bled- but not so much. It was a good pregnancy. Same OB, same plan, but this time I would hold him while they stitched me. I had ctx’s early again. He was 36w3d and they drugged me to stop the ctx. I slept then, but contracted all night. I did not dilate at all. But they came at 6AM to section me. The surgery was fine, as far as surgeries go I guess. He had a big lump on his neck. They were concerned. But the ob nurse heard my other c/s stories and gave me my child. I held him and loved him and wept. And he was grunting and grayish. I knew he was headed to the special care. I held him as long as I could though. Then I had to hand him over. He spent a day in special care, but was getting worse. They transferred him to the other hospital to the NICU. He was GONE and I was trapped at Bon Secours. I cried in my room and a nurse peeked in and said “hmm little bit of baby blues huh?” and I wanted to punch her. Those were hard days. I pumped and pumped. He was IV fed for 3 days and then tube fed. He didn’t suck. He had trouble breathing, and heart rate issues, and thermoregulation issues, and the cystic hygroma, and they just didn’t know what was wrong really. He had pneumonia, seemed to have sepsis, he was sick. He eventually came home, but it took us a long time to get settled and get him taking his milk “from the tap” but he nurses well now.

And then I started looking into things. Found a VBAC was possible. Got pg. Worked really hard to get a VBAC cleared etc. And now am headed back into surgery. To slicing, dicing butchering. I’ll be at St Johns this time, Chris prefers it for the NICU and I frankly no longer care. They will NOT give me the baby in the OR or recovery. So I’d rather just be gassed. Gassing works. Gassing helps you forget parts of the experience. IV sedation is fine as well. I don’t want any part of another operation. They are physically and emotionally painful to me. I haven’t had any great benefits from being awake.
I really just don’t want any part of it. At all.

The Ugly (more on c/sections and birth choices)

2007-04-02T05:10:00.000-07:00

I was pregnant with Nola and Chris and I had very different ideas about what this birth was going to look like. Because he loves me he was angry. When I am stressed I sometimes type. Typing without thought. Just pouring out the raw things. I'm going to share some of those middle-of the ramblings here. I need to preface this though. As awful as I felt I was never, not for a moment suicidal. I swear I wasn't, though I WAS at my own rock-bottom. I put these here because other women feel this way, but don't know how to say it. Or can't admit it and need to know they are not the only one. There are other women who didn't/don't/won't feel like this. I'm happy for them. This post is not for them, its here for those who need it.

here we go

First, everyone is fine.
I am the saddest I have ever been. I am falling apart in ways I didn’t know were possible. And nobody I know can BEGIN to comprehend so I have nowhere to take this pain. I have been crying for days and I’m not a crybaby kind of girl. In order to keep my family I am forced to have another c/s. It got so ugly. I cant express how badly the whole thing hurts. How deeply it cuts. How VERY afraid I am that I’ll die in the surgery and leave my children motherless. I truly feel like I have just signed my life away. I am tempted to put the kids in school now “just in case” I can’t do that emotionally though b/c I feel a deep need to be with them MORE also “just in case”
I want to be gassed for the c/s. I don’t want to “be there” for the operation. I don’t like epis and its not a “birth” Ive done this 4 times and its NOT a birth. Its an operation. They will take the baby away anyway- might as well sleep through it. I will get my tubes tied since I don’t have another c/s in me. I don’t have THIS c/s in me. Had I known I would have gotten them tied LAST c/s. I think I’d rather they take the whole thing. I’m finished with the womb- why keep bleeding?
Chris can name the baby. This one is his.
I am so irrationally sad. I am at the edge of sanity and have never stood right here before. It’s a scary ass place. I am SO raw. I really didn’t know it was possible to feel this lousy. This inside-out.

(and this from another night, a day or 2 later)

I’m so tired. I want to curl up in bed for a year. But I can’t. Because when I start to relax all I can do is cry. I try not to, but its all I can do not to walk around the house sobbing. I nurse my boy and cry fat tears. I cuddle a child and I cry, I ache. I find I can’t picture holding the new baby anymore. The image has gone up in a puff of smoke. How can this BE? How is possible to feel THIS badly about something so small. In the grand scheme of things this is so much nothing. I am, in my dark place, tempted to run away when the time comes, to just do this quietly and alone. I can’t though. I have it in me physically, but I can’t. Even if it resulted in a beautiful birth and perfect baby. Even if I came home with a wonderful infant and a glow of success. Even if Chris forgave me for doing it. Because it would still BE a betrayal. I trust Chris. Trust hasn’t always come easily to me. My first 2 decades were survived ONLY because I didn’t trust anyone. But I do trust Chris. And I will NEVER shatter that.
So there it is. He cannot cope with a home birth. I need him. And so I cry.
I hope I get to the part where I feel numb soon.

I don’t mean for him to sound like the bad guy. He’s not. He loves me and his kids and feels very strongly that the baby and I are in grave danger in a homebirth. I feel the exact opposite. But I say “I’d die for you Chris” and I guess that means I need to really offer that. I am more likely to die in a repeat c/s. But he doesn’t believe the statistics. He believes the lawyers. He is genuinely sorry that I find this painful.

I just feel like puking.

more about old dogs (and inlaws)

2007-03-19T07:48:00.000-07:00

so the previous post explained the perils of email lessons and demented elders. Now, lets talk about the word "laptop" a minute. It's a compound word. You can break it apart into "lap" and "top". This is no mere coincidence. The thing about a laptop is this: you can put it on TOP of your LAP. Try to remember this amazing fact. Keep in mind also that the REASON my MIL needed a laptop was to play card games on the lawn. So for at least one moment she understood the function and capabilities of a laptop.
It didn't last long.
The day after she got her laptop she made her daughter take her to Office Depot. Where she bought a desk. For her laptop. Since, you know, none of her tables would do. Thats fine, whatever floats her boat right? Yeah well, the story doesn't end there (but I bet you knew that).
My MIL has 4 children. Craig/Greg, the oldest lives up north (and his name is another long story for another day). Anne, the only girl and the martyr of the bunch. My husband Chris, and Andy- the baby.
We got Andy to build the desk (hey, he builds furniture for a LIVING). We had to call him- because he only has a cell phone and MIL is convinced you can only call a cell from a cell and SHE only has a land-line... so she hasn't called Andy in 3 years. Lucky Andy!
Four days after it was built MIL tells Anne she wants to play solitaire in bed. Anne spends an HOUR explaining to her how to unplug the laptop and carry it to the next room. Anne is confident she has made her point.
The next day Chris goes over to check on MIL and MIL needs her desk moved into her bedroom. You are NOT asking "why?" are you? You know why, you just don't believe it. Its true though. She needs the desk moved so she can play games in bed. So Chris spends an hour explaining to her that Laptop is a compound word meaining computer you can put on your LAP. Showing her how to unplug it and carry it away. Asking her did she think he was going to carry the desk outside this summer? How did she expect to play cards on the lawn? Wasn't that why she bought a laptop? She waves this off... she needs to know Can she plug it in, in the bedroom? Chris wants to know Can she plug in a radio? a hairdryer? Yes? then yes, she can plug in the laptop.
Later she will call me. She will say that Anne thinks she can UNPLUG her laptop and Still Use It! She will laugh, poor stupid Anne to believe such nonsense. She will ask me to take her to the store. She needs to buy a cell phone. So she can call Andy. So she can make him move the desk. Because she wants to play solitaire in bed.
Can we stop at the post office too? She needs to send an email.

you can't teach an old dog new tricks

2007-03-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

or an old mother-in-law either

several years ago my MIL got a computer. She needed the internet. After much frustration she was hooked up with AOL (which we view as the net with training wheels) and an internet keyboard. So she could push the button with the globe (world) to go to the World wide wibe. Easy right? and push the little button with the MAIL envelope to go to Mail. Still, my MIL had trouble. Eventually she had a heart attack and then needed 6 weeks of care out side of her home. During that time her son came down from Up North and took away her computer.

Its been 5 years. In that time my MIL's dementia has really set in. She's lost her license, and her car (I clarify that because while MOST people assume that no license MEANS no car my MIL did NOT assume that and either did some of her kids- go figure). So in January my MIL demanded that she be taken to buy a laptop. Why? Because she wants to play solitaire on the lawn in the summer and not drop her cards. OoooooKaaaaay. She copies ads, and does the math, and writes the total with tax in the margins of the sale papers. She staples credit card applications to the sale papers and calculates her weekly payments. She gets snippy when her kids tell her she won't be getting a credit card OR making payments, that she's going to buy it outright and get over it. She balks at this (I'll tell you the bank story some day).

So my husband takes his mother to buy a laptop. But the salesman tells him to wait, in 3 weeks Windows Vista will be out and they want that, yes indeed they do. Chris comes home and tells me about the really great laptop they'll get her next month. I ask him if HE knows how to use Vista? Does he think it *might* be helpful to have her on an operating system he's familiar with? and since she just wants to email and play solitaire MAYBE she just needs a basic model?
But he's a man and they crave the latest-greatest. But MIL was calling every day (some day I will also tell you about her voice box and the issues it creates with phone calls) and telling us about the great laptop deals. Every day Chris would tell her the release date for Vista. Every day she would ask "what's vista?" every day 30 minutes talking about it, making her understand, only to start over that night or the next day.
Finally Chris saw the wisdom in just getting the stupid laptop. Make it Vista-compatible- but why wait for Vista? Phew.
So they bought it. And a printer. And he hooked it all up. Taught her to play solitaire. Wrote down the instructions. Now you KNOW she called 10 times a day "how do I open it?" "how do I turn it on? turn it off? get to games?" Meanwhile she's complaining we haven't hooked her up to the net yet.
She had a hissy fit "you guys think I'm stupid dont you?" (ummm yes.) "you think I can't do this? If you can do it I can do it. I'm not dumb you know. I raised YOU didn't I?" (ohhhh so being passed out on the couch is raising people? thanks for clarifying). Chris said "well you couldn't figure it out before" and MIL swears she never HAD the net before. This is a sign don't you think? But, Chris got sick of hearing it and got her all set up with cable internet (because you need the fastest/best net to email). And he showed her twenty times how to "click on the 'e'" and how to "click on the envelope labeled 'mailbox'" and to "click 'compose'" to type an email. He made her do it. He wrote it out.
The next day my SIL did the same. Day after day after day she was tutored on this. My 8 year old wrote out helpful hints (like "double-click has to be 2 times FAST to work") My MIL still needs a babysitter to get into "that typing space"

No I must regress a moment. Pre-laptop MIL needed an email sent. She wrote out 2 versions: short, and shorter. She gave Chris the address to send it to ( a STREET address) and asked "do they charge by the letter? or the word?"
I'll pause while you let that sink in, or wipe up the coffee you spit on your keyboard.
All 4 of her kids then took turns over the next 2 weeks explaining to her what email is and how it works.

Now, back to MIL-owns-a-laptop times. Chris put the email addresses into her email addy book. She needed them printed. He asked why. She just "needed" them. He explained how USELESS they are printed out. He gave up and printed them.

The next day she needed a ride to the post office. Please tell me you see it coming. Thats right. She had typed an email and printed it out. Put it in an envelope. written the email addy on the envelope. And wanted to go to the post office to put it in the special box or on the right machine so they could mail it instantly.

We have all explained it. But she continues to print out the emails. She's sorry WE are too stupid to print our emails. Since nobody will get them. So her children email her. And then they drive over and show her how to get to her mail and read them. SEE? There it is! Email! UNPRINTED! Untouched by the postoffice! She's amazed. But then her kids go home. And she calls me. "how do I get to the typing place?" and she calls me "my printer won't work again" and she puts emails into envelopes.

But why did you do it at HOME?

2007-03-11T06:25:00.000-07:00

The last OB, at Loch’s birth said I should never get pg again. But my regular OB begged me to see a perinatologist, and that Dr said it was totally safe to get pg again. He explained that the lower uterine segment completely regenerates so there isn’t an “internal scar”. The other perinatologist also explained that a woman might come in with her first baby, need an emergency c/s and have a “window” (thin uterus). Then she might have 2 babies by VBAC but #4 might need another c/s and they would NOT see a window that time, so if your uterus stretches paper thin once it doesn’t mean it always will.
As for a VBAC I started googling risks and found that even after multiple c/s the risk of a rupture was still REALLY low and the risk of a catastrophic rupture even lower. The risks of a repeat c/s were MUCH higher, both for baby and for me. But a c/s is more controlled so easier to defend in court, so lawyers prefer them. Even the ACOG now states that a VBAMC is not more dangerous than a VBAC (m for multiple) after just one section so they recommend women try for VBAC, but it takes Drs and hospitals an average of 8 years to adopt policies related to new research, so in 6 years it will be easy to find a VBAC Dr but right now its hard.
I entered the pregnancy EXPECTING a c/s (but dreading it). I did the research to prove to myself once and for all that I NEEDED c/s’s and to find some peace with that knowledge. Nobody was more surprised than me to find that the only sane choice was in fact to try for a VBAC. I lost nothing in the trial and a successful VBAC was WAY safer than a planned c/s for me (and *I* needed to survive the birth since 4 children call me “mom”) and also safer for my baby (and I love these babies before I meet them).
So I was pg with #5. And I needed to have a VBAC. Now what? Now I needed to find a Dr. With all the evidence on my side I never imagined this would be quite the struggle it was. I made 3 calls. Nope they don’t do VBAMC’s. I sent an email to a list I’m on asking if they knew anyone who would want to catch my baby? I asked Google for OB’s and midwives. I sent out emails to midwives, doulas, birth support people, OB’s, and to the nurses at the local labor & delivery wards. I sent letters to those I couldn’t access via email. I invited docs to attend the birth of my 5th child. I presented references to articles backing up my choices and stated my requirements in a birth partner and offered them the opportunity to be present at this birth.
First came the rejections. Then came days of deafening silence. And then, the thoughtful responses. Not knee-jerk NO’s. It took at least 5 days for the “lets talk” replies to start trickling in. I got “yay for you! I support your choice! I have extra research that says you are doing the right thing! But… good luck b/c MY malpractice insurance says I can’t go near you” I got “you can do this! You SHOULD do this! Let me know how it goes” I got “I can’t help you but here are some people who can” I got “send me your medical records and we’ll talk” and I got “thanks for the invitation, call me for an appt!” I even got “you must be an inspiration to the women around you, please call or come in”
And the appts and the calls started. I knew money was an issue, and I was hearing that the hospitals wouldn’t give me a chance. So I was looking for a birth center. Chris preferred a hospital, but was ok with a birth center connected to one. We thought we had this arranged but then that provider fell through. My remaining options were a birth center an hour away, another 90 minutes away, or a home birth. My house is closer to a major hospital than the other birth centers were. I am one mile from a hospital with a NICU.
Still, I hadn’t expected to be approved for a VBAMC so I certainly hadn’t expected the possibility of a home birth. Researching again. Is it safe? Really? It turns out that they bring everything to your home that they have in a birth center. I asked all my hard questions about safety and transport and experience. I narrowed down my choices to one midwife and one Dr. In the end I went with the Dr. The sheer number of deliveries was reassuring to me. Her last baby was a c/s, so she knew when they were REALLY needed. She worked in Africa so she had been forced to learn how to deal with many emergencies. Her personality was one that meshed well with my needs. And I thought Chris would feel better having a “real live Dr” at the birth. Plus being a Dr she says she gets a bit more respect and faster response times if she calls a hospital in a transfer situation. Also, she can legally, and does, bring prescription medications to the birth.
And so here we were, from a 5th c/s to a VBAMC at HOME. None of these choices were made lightly. Each step taken carefully. Hours and hours of research on each issue, followed by soul searching. I didn’t take any of it lightly. I felt each decision was a matter of life and death- for TWO people (me and the baby) and I weighed the future of my entire family in each choice. I needed to make the RIGHT choice for ALL of us. Chris wouldn’t do the research, so he never agreed with me. But I was confident in each decision once it was made. I read the scariest side of each choice. I looked at “worst case” and “tried it on for size” and sometimes it was all about picking “the lesser of 2 evils”. I did not enter any of this blindly following a dream.
Did I WANT to experience a vaginal birth? Yes. Deeply. Did I start this pregnancy thinking I would? No, absolutely not. I just wanted to KNOW really really really KNOW what I was doing this time. I explored my birth options and made choices, educated and informed choices. It was vital to me that I do the safest thing. Believe me, I was as surprised as anyone to discover that the SAFE choice would be to birth in my own home. I never ever expected my research to lead me there.
But the facts were there, they had been weighed and measured and my conclusions drawn.

Before the Birth

2007-03-10T05:19:00.000-08:00

Several days before my birth a woman on a VBAC email list was upset. She wanted to try for a home birth and her Dear Hubby said "no way" so I shared my journey with her, and now I share it with you.

After my 4th c/s I was thinking we were done having kids. Two perinatologists told me the OB was wrong, and the "window" didn't mean I would rupture next time. So it was safe to get pg again.
I was at a La Leche League conference and there were some tables sset up by midwives. On a whim I asked them about a vbac after 4 c/s and NO prior vaginal deliveries. I was shocked when they said there was no reason not to consider it. So when we were pg w/ our 5th the research began in earnest. I EXPECTED to find that I needed a c/s. I was sad, but knew that would be the only sane choice.
Only I found the opposite. I found mounds of research stating I "needed" to have a VBAC, in the name of safety and sanity. My DH flipped. Only a little at first. Then he found out I was going to see a midwife or a D.O. not an O.B. and thought that was really insane. When he found out that my chosen care provider only does home births he LOST IT. He loves me, he loves his children, he loves this family. How could I risk EVERYTHING he treasures? He believed I was conspiring to commit suicide, murder, or both.
We had some terrible moments. Some soul crushing times. Some "this may be the end of my marriage" minutes. My heart, and his, split open. I TRIED then to agree to "just reschedule" but it cut me to the core. I cried like I have never cried. I fell into a pit of despair the likes of which I hadn't know EXISTED. One night, sobbing, I typed out the raw emotion of it all. It took days to muster the courage to email it to him. To say "I'll do this for you, but ONLY if you help me through the emotional trauma of it". He was sad, angry, scared. He said I needed therapy. He didn't understand. He said I was crazy.
Days, maybe weeks, went by where we didn't speak of it.Finally I asked him to read my research and meet my Dr. In exchange I would see an O.B. and I would read his research. He agreed. He sent me ONE article, and I had already read it. I told him to keep emailing, printing, etc. I said it was important to ME that I read the SCARIEST articles out there. If I wasn't willing to LOOK at the worst-case then it was very irresposible of me to take these risks. He was relieved.
The next day I sent him 2 articles and he didn't read them. I said he needed to look at the RISKS of a repeat section if he wanted me to take those risks. That it was irresponsible for HIM to choose this option if he wasn't willing to look at all of its pros and cons. He stopped sending me things, he didn't read what I sent him. He said he knew I was going to "try" and that he wanted no part of it. At first I was upset.
Then he said a hospital OB birth (c/s) is free. We can't afford a home birth. He wouldn't even pay co-pays on my appts. I was devastated AGAIN! But I started emailing the midwives and the D.O. again. The few who would take on a VBA4C. Now I was asking them to do it for ONLY what the insurance covered plus whatever I could do to "work it off". To my surprise the D.O. said No Problem. She said "its more about the births than the dollars"
My poor DH. He must have been equally devastated to learn I didn'tneed his support, his presence, or even his MONEY LOL!! He says he won't be here. He'll meet me at the hospital when I transfer. He's taking the 2 littlest kids to his sisters house.
My friend is coming to be with the older 2 kids, to meet their needs, explain things etc. I trust her to respect MY needs whatever they may be (in case I decide I CAN'T have them in the room or whatever). Another friend will come be my support person. My doc is very calm and reassuring and will stay for a long labor and for several hours afterward. Its going to be great. I'm 40 weeks now. Soon I'll be holding my first vaginally born baby, nursing him or her in my own room. I can't wait!

She's having a Baby

2007-03-08T15:11:00.001-08:00

On Friday I had a baby. I had 2 EDDs… 2/20 and 2/28. My last 2 kids were born at 37 and 36 weeks and both had some early problems and needed support. So I REALLY wanted to make it to Valentines Day. Every day after that seemed like I was “overdue”. On Feb 27th I had ctx. They were regular and they hurt. I called my doc and she came over. She was a midwife for over 20 years and is now a D.O. with a family practice and does a few births still. After 4 hours of labor I had gone from “around 3” to “almost 4” so she went home to nap and I sent my kids to a friends so I could nap. Either I would wake up MORE in labor- or less. I woke up less L I continued to contract through the day, but overnight everything stopped.
Chris was really opposed to a home birth. He said he would take Trew and Loch to his sisters house and then meet us at the hospital when I transported there for my emergency section. I was fine with that plan. I didn’t need his negativity and honestly? He kind of sucks during labor. He has many skills and redeeming qualities, but labor support just isn’t his thing. I had a friend slotted to hang out with Connor and Skye, to meet their needs and keep them busy and answer questions. They were going to come in at crowning, see the birth (if they still wanted to when the time came) and Skye was planning to clamp the cord and Connor to cut it- IF they decided it was still a good idea when they saw it all. I had another friend slotted to come over and be my labor support person. I had a lot of women ready to come to a “pot luck birth”
Best Laid Plans and all.

At 2:25 AM on Friday I was sleeping. Lochlan had had an infusion Thursday and was now snuggled into my bed smelling of baby wash and antiseptic. At 2:26 AM on Friday something happened. The baby rolled over HARD and maybe head-butted my pubic bone? It was an Internal Earthquake. I looked at the clock. 2 minutes later came a big contraction. Afterwards I got up. I wanted to set up the crock pot, and I needed to plug in the heating pad and wrap towels around it. I had things to do before labor really started.
I decided to pee first. On the way there was a slight trickle… hmmm did I wet myself? Or did my membranes leak? In the bathroom another contraction and bloody show. I brushed my teeth, another ctx and hmmm some bright red blood drops. I was afraid of the blood. There wasn’t a lot, but it was red and it had dripped and then a small clot and I was afraid something was wrong. Out to the livingroom, ctx. I MEANT to time things for an hour and then call my doc. But I grabbed the phone and called her. “hi! You wanted to do this in the middle of the night right? The ctx just started but they’re HARD and close together and there’s a lot of bloody show and I don’t know if my water broke?” and she says she’ll come see whats going on. I had a towel under me b/c of the blood. I could only crawl around. Standing up SUCKED. I circled the towel like a cat, squatted over it, contracted and GUSHED fluid. I had grabbed a light colored towel on purpose and was SO relieved that the fluid was clear! I sent out an email. A SHORT one. I just checked my “sent items” folder and this is literally my email “Water broke, clear fluid, ctx HURT” sent at 2:57AM
Later my Dr would say that she looked at her clock when she started her car and that was at 3:13 AM. It was an icy, windy, stormy night. It took her about 45 minutes to drive over. Chris was asleep on the couch and woke up. I asked him to set up my crock pot and towels and things before he left. He said he’d wait until the kids woke up to go anywhere. The ctx were so close and so hard. I was just hanging on. Just waiting for the Dr to come and tell me if the bleeding was ok. Which I quickly forgot about, instead waiting for her to come SAVE ME. I had planned these lovely visualizations, this nice water birth, these great coping techniques. I had candles to light! But instead I just kept looking for a way to get comfortable. Everything was “nope not it” I decided to go to the bathroom again. The ctx in the hallway dropped me to the floor. I made it to the toilet. Hated it there too. I heard Dr Kathy arrive. When that ctx released me I got up. I thought it was rude to make her come visit me in the loo! I got to the hall, dropped to my knees, rode out another ctx, got up, she was there. “My water broke. The fluids clear. Its ok” She wanted me to stand up for ctx, but I just couldn’t do it. She said I wanted the baby’s head to push on my cervix so I would dilate. Nice idea but the ctx just knocked me over. We struggled to the bedroom so she could check me. I was only at 5!! Impossible! But the blood was just my cervix, everything was fine, fetal heart tones were perfect. Great- now get me OFF this bed! She suggested I try a ctx or 2 laying on my side. But no WAY halfway through I rolled off the bed to my hands and knees. I stood for a few ctx, but I could NOT lie down. I was moaning now, and ok ok swearing too. I wanted to go pee. I fought my way to the bathroom. I sat. Dr Kathy squeezed my hands- pressure points, during ctx and only because of that relief did I survive the next few ctx. At some point she asked me to come to bed. I think she wated to check heart tones again? I made it to the bed but it was no small feat. At the end of that ctx I pushed a little bit. But we all ignored it as an impossibility. Next ctx I was PUSHING! I didn’t mean to. Dr Kathy said “oh honey I think you’re pushing” and I said “me too and I can’t stop” she checked and there was just a lip. So I started to PUSH. Eleven minutes later she was on my chest. Pink and warm and slippery and perfect. I had been at 5cm just 20 minutes earlier. It was 4:34 AM. 2 hours and 8 minutes of perfect primal laboring madness and a beautiful baby girl!! She was 8lbs 15.5 oz and had a 14.5” head! She was only 18.5” long…. My butterball baby J
It took us a few days to name her. But Nola Catherine is here, beautiful, perfect, healthy, delightful.

Lochlan Updates

2006-10-17T05:12:00.000-07:00

My sweet Lochlan got his port put in 2 weeks ago.It was traumatic for mommy and daddy, but he pulled throiugh with a minimum of fuss all things considered. They didn't start the surgery until after noon, so he was VERY hungry and crabby by then. He didn't want to wake up afterwards- or to breathe on his own so he was on a vent longer than we expected. But he DID wake up eventually. And we brought him home. He had some pain, so we had codeine for him. Which he resisted. And inhaled.

So 3 days after he got his port he spiked a fever. They put him in the hospital (FYI when they put HIM in the hospital they put ME in the hospital b/c I never leave his side, not even to chase down my own meals or coffee). They admitted him for line sepsis. They took a chest xray, drew labs, took a urine sample, started a peripheral IV (grrr)put him on hard core antibiotics and waited. A day or 2 in the IV blew and they restarted in his port which was SO much easier and better. We hung out for a few more days while he developed ear infections and they diagnosed his aspiration pnuemonia and UTI. But *not* line sepsis. So we got to keep the port.

After 5 days in the hospital we came home. That night the hospital called. His discharge labs were worse than his admitting labs. Maybe we should come back in? They'd call some other docs and take a vote. I called MY pediatrician who let us stay home. The next day we saw the ped in his office and he reviewed the labs and looked at Loch and called the immunologist. The next day we started IVIG
That also went REALLY well though the infusion took a little over 7 hours.

Its been over a week since starting IVIG. His ears and pneumonia are worse. He runs around with NO symptoms though. The immunologist says thats because his immune system is too screwed up right now to make symptoms. If germs get in your nose your body reacts. It makes extra snot to wash the germs out. If germs get in your lungs your body surrounds them and then makes you cough them out. If you got bacteria in a cut your body would send white blood cells and so on making up pus and swelling and redness and warmth from the increased blood supply to the area. His white count and other parts of the immune system are so weak that they aren't even trying. They just let the germs do what they will.

He's on new/more breathing treatments. New antibiotics.

I hope they work

Love Thursday

2006-10-12T08:08:00.000-07:00

Its love Thursday, so here's my entry

Love Is...

Starting an IV and drawing several tubes of blood in ONE painless poke

Love Is...
every day home from the hospital, even if we're still on antibiotics

Love is...

all 4 kids giggling together

Love is...

brothers, who love being brothers

Love is...
days and nights spent in the company of the ones I adore

revisiting the mouse topic

2006-09-23T02:36:00.000-07:00

Mice are small, tricky, gnawing creepy creatures. After the last mouse post, which I emailed to Mouse Hunter Hubby, came a trip to the hardware store. He came home this time bearing much better gifts. Steel wool. Great Stuff expanding foam sealant. And a bundle of fresh traps and poison bait. He filled the hole. I danced a jig. He baited and lay traps under the house. He also lay traps IN the house, to be safe.

Since the Great Sealing of the Hole (I really SHOULD post a picture, there is a great *poof* of foam now about 10" of foam cloud surrounding the hole its quite funny)our indoor traps have not snapped. Not once. Nothing has been chewed (except the coffee filters in the trash but thats my DOG she eats used coffee filters go figure).

This is good news, except, there HAVE been issues.

1:10 AM on a Tuesday Chris's alarm has gone off (he works a graveyard shift) and I opt to use the bathroom before he gets in the shower. I prefer to use *just* the light from the bathroom night light as I am going right back to bed- so why hurt my eyes? There, beside the toilet, is a dead (sleeping?) mouse. Chris is coming to get in the shower. "Chri-i-i-s lo-o-o-o-k! a mmmmouse" He looks, he grunts, he grabs paper towel and comes to clean it up. Flicks on the light -my cue to look away, I do not like to see the mice. I stood guard so it couldn't escape- the way dead mice are prone to doing. I turn away and Chris laughs. Taps me. Points. To the toy tow truck from Cars. Its towing arm thingy- not a tail. Its truck body- not a mouse body. Its plastic face- not dead. Chris says "thats your MOUSE?" laughing at me. Yeah? well who's wearing the paper-towel gloves huh?

5 AM on a Friday. Chris is at work, because the really GOOD stuff happens when its pitch black and the Big Strong Man is gone. I am bolt upright in my bed. Baby to the left, little boy to the right. Two precious sleeping (drooling, kicking) innocents in bed with me. I am listening to FRANTIC gnawing. Incessant for several minutes- and then... nothing. But 15 or 20 minutes later it starts again. Nuerotic, fast paced chewing. In. MY. BEDROOM. Not just anywhere either, oh no, Right Beside The Door! I have spent an hour trying to believe it is nothing. Trying to make it be leaves outside the window- on the other side of the room. Something. Anything. Just NOT an army of mice coming into my ROOM. They'll scurry on my bed. They may well gnaw on the tender lips of my babies while we sleep! Well, if we ever sleep again that is. I can't get away from the sound, from the mice. I know now that Mouse One is chewing as fast and hard as he can and then when he can't chew One More Bite he scurries away to find Mouse Two. This accounts for the pauses. But I can't do anything. The light switch is next to the door and THATS where they are chewing!
There is however one more thing over there, by the door, by the light switch. A vent. Eventually even *I* will run into a rational thought. It hit me, slowly, that this chewing happened ONLY when the vent blew. The pauses were always and only when the vent fell silent. I very bravely turned on the light on the other side of the bed. I bravely held up that lamp. I stoicly verified the existance of a fluttering scrap of paper on the vent. In a cold sweat I removed the paper. Which is a VERY effective way to kill imaginary mice.

A few days later though, the mice REALLY WERE chewing their way into my room. On the other side. Or wait. Maybe not. Maybe thats the tube from Chris' CPAP machine rubbing on the table edge.

Some nights I hear them in the livingroom. I startle. Then I realize it is Dust (the bunny) eating his plastic igloo house again.

At nearly daybreak as I poured my coffee my dog wanted out. But laying in the doorway between the kitchen and the laundry room (which leads to the back door) was The Biggest Dead Mouse I Ever Saw. Until it turned out to be a small black box and an electrical cord.

The traps under the house snapped daily at first. But after a few days they fell silent. The poison disappeared, but the replacement poison just sits there, next to the empty traps.

My son hides his stuffed rat under my pillow. My husband hides in the laundry room with cotton balls and a straw. He blows the balls across the kitchen floor while I try to do dishes. They think they are SO funny.

The baby probably won't go trick or treating, he gets sick too easily. Chris says the other 3 kids will go out as Three Blind Mice. Oh funny. Ha Ha Ha (says she with the carving knife).

an appointment with a neurologist

2006-09-04T04:52:00.000-07:00

my apologies, this post is late in coming and unexplained. Maybe I'll do a family intro post some day so this all makes sense. Maybe not. It's "late" because I was deciding what the blog should focus on. In the end I figured its my blog and it will be about whatever it is I'm thinking about. Doesn't matter really since I don't have readers LOL. Anywho- on with the post.
My Lochy is a round and jolly boy. He's loving and joyful, he manages to be both calm and energetic at once. He is 19 months old. He was born a month early, with respiratory distress sydrome, transient tachypnea of the newborn, transient tachycardia of the newborn, sepsis, torticollis, plagiocephaly, absent suck reflex, absent startle reflex, thermoregulation issues, a pneumothorax, and jaundice. And that my friends is JUST the beginning. After that we added seizures, oral motor issues, brisk reflexes, bilateral ankle clonus, delayed vision development, global developmental delays, eczema, keratosis pilaris (they think- he's too young and its too wide spread but thats their best guess), limb length discrepancy, a small malformed ear canal and one-sided hearing loss of unknown severity, language delay, toenails that grow funny and peel away and curl off the toe, birthmarks which will earn him an eventual visit to the geneticist for possible neurofibromatosis, a delayed fontanelle closure, and the infections. He's had bronchiolitis twice, croup, pneumonia 3 times, bronchitis, conjunctivitis, sinus infections, 13+ ear infections, 9+ rounds of strep throat, yeast infections (diaper area and thrush), scarlet fever, cellulitis, sepsis 3 times confirmed but the immunologist says 5 or 6 times really, meningitis (group a beta hemolytic streptococcal meningitis specifically- a rare and VERY deadly form which left him semicomatose for many days), urinary tract infections (including klebsiella oxytocca which is hospital-grade and creepy), kidney infection, pseudomonas pneumonia, 4 staph infections, and so on. He is ALWAYS sick. He is always seeing some specialist. And isn't that what we were talking about? The visit to the neuro? Ok so, lets get back to that.
Friday we went to the neurologists office. Lochlan has been seeing him every couple of months since he was 2 months old. On Friday the neuro watched him, played with him, tried to get him to do things (point to animals and body parts, make animal sounds, say things, repeat sounds, get a grain of rice out of a film canister, bang cubes together and so on). Lochlan was adorable, fully engaged, and playfully friendly. He was also unsuccessful in every attempt. My Lochlan does not speak. Just over a week ago he began at last to "mama" and my heart STILL breaks and my eyes fairly well up each time he says it... it's THAT sweet. He doesn't say anything else though. He doesn't even have jargoning- the nonsense speech of toddlers. And so the mean old neurologist wrote "general and global delays" in his permanent medical record. We agreed however to delay quantifying and recording the delays and doing all the developmental testing until he is at least 2. The way I see it, Lochlan will be the best Loch he can be regardless of the words we put in his chart. He is, truly, an amazingly fun kid to be around. Besides that I think his health has a lot to do with his delays. I also think that being delayed isn't the end of the world, he is deeply happy and THAT matters to me.
But we were there for the seizures. As a smaller baby he could seize 30 times a day. In June he had a seizure that lasted a few minutes, but generally they are a few seconds long. He now seizes every 10 days or so. He rubs his head a certain way, in a certain spot on the day he's going to "twitch out" so we know it's coming. He gets a certain look and then lays down for big seizures. He knows they are coming and he keeps himself safe.
The Dr managed to elicit a small seizure. So he talked about medication. Before medication we'd need liver function testing. The meds cause appetite changes, sleep disturbances, lethargy, personality changes (often severe/pronounced), drooling, upset stomach, growth disturbances, attention issues, and more. These are mighty unpleasant drugs. So I asked some questions. First: can the seizures cause brain damage? The answer is no, thats an old myth. Second: then why medicate?
There is a rare condition called S.E. (status epilepticus) that can happen to epileptics. It is a seizure that can't be stopped. There are warning signs that lead up to this. Seizures that come closer and closer together and increase in severity and duration. Multiple seizures that can't be stopped without medication. Lochlans seizures are getting smaller and farther apart. He has NEVER (in thousands of episodes) needed medication. They always stop. So I should put him on daily meds that change his sparkling personality and ravage his already preyed-upon body? To prevent a condition he's not really at risk for? I think not.
But Drs like drugs. So next came this persuasive argument: "if he's driving and has a seizure he's sure to crash" Hmmm yes, thats true. But ummmm if he's driving he's sure to crash without a seizure at this point. He's A YEAR OLD. "Well, if he's swimming and has a seizure and no-one notices he could drown" Oh yes, that IS scary. I promise not to sign him up for swim team this year. (I LOVE the water and Lochy is part fish himself, however I have a fear of children drowning and enforce strict anti-drowning guidelines anyway, lest you think I took that warning too lightly). And "it's embarassing to have a seizure in class. The kids could make fun of him" This is true and sad, but once more, my son is ONE YEAR OLD. He doesn't have a class. He also has an immune dysfunction that may keep him from EVER having a classroom. He also has a mommy who is already homeschooling some of his siblings. Thus the chances are good that his classmates will be his family- and we solemly swear not to make fun of him for twitching.
So I declined the medication. I agreed to call the office for seizures over 3 minutes. I agreed to call 911 or take him to the ER for seizures of 5 minutes with cyanosis or over 7 minutes without.
The Dr asked if I had any other questions. I did. A few minutes before I came to the appt I checked email and got a note from the immunologiy guru we'll see out-of-state later this week. It stated one of the appointment goals as discussing treatment options up to and including the administration of gammaglobulins. So we might start IVIG or SCIG as early as Wednesday (I'm SURE there will be a post explaining that soon, but for now, its a way of giving antibodies to people who can't make their own). So I asked if there were any additional risks of IG to individuals with seizure disorders. The Dr perked up. "IG? really? Why? Does he have a dysfunctional immune system?" (dude where have you BEEN???) "um yes. He does."
"ohhhh" says the doc "well first" he sounds excited "no, there are no risks, the IG won't make him seize or anything. But next in some cases IG cures seizure disorders" (say what? why hasn't anyone made this connection before?) he continues, more animated than I have ever seen him "SOMEtimes a persons immune system is faulty in such a way that as the germs die off they are left too long in the bloodstream. They release toxins and chemicals which affect the blood chemistry which in turns affects the brain. A susceptible brain coupled with a malfunctioning immune system can cause these seizures." And the punchline? Doc continues "SO, lets delay medication for a few months and see what happens with IG ok?" Delay meds? Now why didn't I think of that?
So, if we start IG my son may stay well AND stop twitching? Rock On! Anybody else think that if he's not always sick and not seizing so much he might get a chance to catch up on those pesky milestones too? I dare to dream.

Soccer has started

2006-08-27T03:49:00.000-07:00

It's time for fall soccer. The 3 oldest are playing this year. Connor, 8, learned to bounce the ball on his knee. He's enthusiastic and works hard on the field. He drips sweat. His adherence to rules makes him an excellent goalie (he thinks "stand behind this line and don't let the ball hit the net" is a rule). Nobody has EVER scored with him in net.
Skye, 7, puts her hair up, ties her cleats in a double-knot and walks on to the field with authority. She is a natural. All the coaches want her on their team. She enjoys soccer, a lot, but her passion is dance. Still, she is confident and energetic on the field with surprising skill. It's a good sport for her.
Trew is 3, and small for his age. His xxs shin gaurds cover his knees. His cleats are an adorable size 8.5. Aside from the unfortunate patch of hair he trimmed by himself he is the cutest thing EVER walking toward the field.
Note that I said "toward" the field, not "onto" it. At the entrace he melted into a puddle. I picked him up, but he went "limp noodle" on me. I had the baby strapped on my back in a Mei Tai baby carrier (yay for me because I was about to need both arms). I scooped up Trew-Puddle and walked onto the field with him. I introduced him to the coach. He closed his eyes and lay on the ground. I explained that Trew felt he couldn't come out and play soccer because....... he never played before so he doesn't know how. The coach was great. My son was not.
I left him playing dead on the field and went to the bleachers. The other mothers nodded and smiled, one was holding her sobbing soccer star. A girl on the field was shrieking for her mommy- but her mommy hadn't stayed to watch. He'll get up soon, he'll want to kick the ball I figured. But that's not exactly how it went.
He started to army crawl, on his belly, pulling with his elbows. Shuffle shuffle shuffle freeze. Look around carefully, no guards, shuffle shuffle shuffle freeze. All the way off the field. I hugged him and carried him back out there. They were lining up to kick into the net. I lined up. A baby on my back, a boy on my hip, and one in the oven. My- uh his- turn came up. "Kick the ball sweetie" he dropped into a puddle again. I hoist him up. "OK! my turn!" I give a little kick. "now its your turn" I move him marionette-style up to the ball. I put his foot right at the ball. I use my foot to kick his foot into the ball. Oh goodie. This is gonna be FUN don'tcha think? And so it goes, until I score a goal with my puppet.
Back in line. The second time he kicked it. And the 3rd too. But as soon as he scored he hit the dirt and had to be carried away. You know what? Thats not really actually my favorite way to spend a Saturday if you can believe it.
"ok get up Trew. Mommy has to go sit with the other mommies now." he didn't get up. "mommies don't belong on the field" I say.
"well" he says, uncovering one eye "daddies do. Daddies get to be on the field and be helpers" He's right. There are dads on every field. Its cheap soccer and they are ALWAYS understaffed so they run around dragging daddy-assistants onto the field. "so." he says "give me dad then"
Hey there's a REASON it takes 2 to make a baby. Yes indeedy I do believe it IS daddy's turn. I head over to Connor and Skye's field to collect the dad. What in the WORLD? They've got MY husband out on the field helping to coach! He doesn't even know how to PLAY soccer. Great, just great. I find a man and say "hey I need your help" his response isn't in English and thats the only language I speak, so I move on. I find another dad.
"hi! I really need you" (blank stare, mild fear) "yeah sorry, look, see the guy out there with the blue hat? yeah I need him. His son is on the 3yr olds field and won't stand up unless daddy comes to save him. So you have to go take his place for a few minutes" (confusion, more fear)
"umm I can't..." he starts
"oh I know, look they do this every year. They just grab men and drag them out there. My husband doesn't know ANYTHING about soccer. Seriously, I'm surprised his kids aren't playing catch out there. Just go out and tell him 'your 3yr old needs you' and then tell the kids 'kick the ball' a lot. You'll be fine" (his wife is GLARING at me, I have never felt such hatred from a stranger before)
So Sucker-Pop heads out and Chris comes off the field. We get to Trews field and he is MISSING. He army crawled off again. Mother of the sobber is detaining him for us. He's sitting on a parking curb in full pout. Chris stands him up and jogs onto the field with him. Chris had him kicking the ball (although barely) so I left to watch my other kids. Chris lasted 15 minutes. Then he and Trew came to watch the last 10 minutes with me.
"I was his friend, I was his dad, I made it sound exciting, I bribed, I threatened, he's just DONE for today"
Oh well, I'm sure he'll do better on Wednesday. RIGHT?

5 Weird Things

2006-08-26T04:16:00.000-07:00

Nicki from Bringing Home Baby tagged me with the challenge to write 5 weird things about me. So, here goes: in no particular order:

1. My dream car. Weird part one is that I have already owned it. Part 2 is that it was broken nearly as often as it ran. Part 3 it was my first car. Part 4 I bought it with my own money that I earned babysitting (no cushy allowances in MY childhood!)when I was 14 (and I bought it in Georgia, while we were visiting my grandpa and my dad had me drive it all the way back to Michigan myself). My husband Chris says only men have dream cars. Only men love their first car (or any car). Hmph. Clearly he never met my car. It was a 1972 SuperBeetle convertible, the last year they made the super beetle. My Bug was beautiful. It wasn't dented or rusted or anything. It was a lovely Periwinkle color. Not everyone adored their box of crayola 64's so the world at large called it "purple" or "light purply-blue" but it was exactly, perfectly, periwinkle.When I was 15-almost-16 and getting ready to be the *legal* driver of my car I added magenta (hot-pink to the crayon haters) polka dots the size of paper plates and magenta rims to the wheels. There was a hole in the floorboard, so I cut the bottom out of a trash can and duct taped the trash can in place over the hole. I added a sticker "thank you for not littering" Yeah. THAT was a CAR! When I am old and no longer driving so many people around I positively ACHE to own a periwinkle bug with magenta dots (oh! You can use poster paints and put little holiday touches on the dots! You can turn them into ornaments at Christmas, eggs at Easter, pink pumpkins for Halloween! cakes on your birthday! ask me how I know).

#2. Peanutbutter sandwiches. Its not the peanutbutter part, its the OTHER slice of bread. Lovingly slathered in Hellman's Mayo. MMMMMMM. But I know this is weird. I know there ARE other pb-&-mayo eaters, but we are a rare breed. The rest of the world doesn't simply "not eat that" they are horrified by the thought. Tell a non-eater about it and they will feel sick for days. I know this. So when I married I gave them up. The non-eaters would never ever kiss someone who ate a pb-&-mayo sandwich. A year and a half into my marriage Chris was rummaging in the kitchen late at night. I was in bed, but barely. Hmmm, a snack, I wonder if it's anything good? I went to investigate. He looked SO guilty when I saw him. "what's that?" I asked. "Uhh peanutbutter?" he said. And then I saw it- pb and WHITE OOZE! No wonder I loved this man! He's an eater too! And we have bred MORE eaters :)

#3. my hair. I started greying in my teens. I covered it with dye in many interesting shades. If you dye your hair plum the greys stay a rosy pink. I'm going natural. 90% of my greys are concentrated in a cluster in the front, on the side on which I part my hair. I look like EVERY Evil Villianess Disney has penned. Just call me Cruella.

#4. The thing with pets. Oh sure LOTS of people have pets. I grew up, and still live, right outside Detroit. Not right outside meaning 20 minutes away, right outside meaning super-easy walking distance some years, literally within a stones-throw other years. Not remotely rural. But we had pets. My parents had a dog. They let us have a goldfish. A 5-cent feeder fish. Our fish NEVER died. They grew and grew until they looked like Koi and then the pet store wouldn't take them "uhh orange carp? no thanks" and we had to free them in the lake. But we liked animals. We rescued baby birds (one KMart- all he said was "cheap cheap"- kept flying back to us). We resued 4 baby squirrels when their mother became roadkill. Then we had pet ducks. Ritz and Keebler (they make good quackers dontcha know), Chitter, and then Dinner (everyone loves a duck Dinner). There were frogs, turtles, hampsters (beware: they eat their young and if they get full they just kill a few and stuff them under the newspaper where they turn green), the usual suspects. After my parents divorced my mom let us get a cat (we had one named Peeve, our own pet peeve he was so cute). But then I was on my own. I had a box turtle, I got him a 90 gallon tank. Then I thought, why not add a friend? Turtles stay on the ground so I added a gecko to the top half of the tank (adorable cartoonish lizards that stick to glass, walls, ceilings, etc). The gecko kept hitching rides on the turtles shell though and making the turtle neurotic. So we got another tank. And started adding more geckoes. And breeding them. It was fun and I was GOOD at it. I have had a hedgehog, toads, tadpoles, skinks, etc too. Currently we have a dog, cat, Dust the bunny, a couple hermit crabs, tadpoles (Sue NaFrog and Ben A. Tadpole), frogs, fish, bearded dragon, and a leopard gecko.

#5. My tattoo. You can't tell by my flashy car, but I was fairly quiet and shy in my youth. I wasn't a stand-out gal at all. So its a little weird that I have a tattoo at all. But I was 19, it was Good Friday, and I spent it at a trailer park tattoo party (of course!). I was persuaded to get a tatt (see blog title). But what to get? I decided on a gecko. MY gecko. I went home and got a picture of my little momma gecko, the one who laid an impossible number of healthy egg clutches. Inside my hip bone, in a space that could be covered even by many bikinis, I got my tatt. I was 90lbs then, so it was cute. Baby #1 added the fat that made it no longer fun to show off the tatt. Baby #2 added a stretch mark through the tail. Baby #3 added a c/section scar right through the head. So now I have a Frankengecko. Sigh.

I'm tagging Squid.

And now, about the blog

2006-08-25T14:43:00.000-07:00

You'll notice my blog addy is "she-made-me-do-it" and the title is "succumbing to peer pressure". I like to write. Its fun. I like to pretend I'm a funny girl. But most days what I am is busy, tired, or uninspired. Not really the qualities of a good blogger right? So I never started a blog. Until today. But it's not my fault. It's hers.
So if you like it, thank Nicki. If you hate it, blame Nicki.

More About the Mice

2006-08-25T14:15:00.000-07:00

it was suggested I borrow a good mouser. It was suggested I NOT since, well, mousers leave behind: dead mushy wet MICE. And I do not like mice.
Either way, let me clarify: I KNOW the perils of a mouser. Oh, do I know them.
We tend to get 1-2 mice every fall. My cat WAS a mouser. Before he got to be 13 and infinately cranky.
I know all about mice eaten and then coughed up like hairballs at the bathroom doorway. I was very very heavy with child (aren’t I always? It was Trew that time). I got up. To pee. Again. On my way into the bathroom I stepped in cat-yak. Nice. I lifted my foot, there stuck to my sock (oh thank the gods it was winter and I had on socks) was….. a mouse face. Oh yes, face-of-mouse on my foot. Protruding nose and all.
I don’t “do” dead and so from the age of 2 my eldest son (who at the time could not speak and barely fed himself) understood “throw it away” and cleaned up the kitty-deposits. He even flushed his own fish at the tender age of three. I am truly a bad mom no?
There were mice in the closet once... um I think... anyway I HEARD them (and that makes them real RIGHT?) So I heard them, just the tiniest squeaking. But I do not like mice. So I sat bolt upright. Heart racing. Sweating. I was pregnant (thats a shock eh? It was Lochlan that time) What should I do? RUN! But ohhh theres my almost 2 year old beside me in the bed. I shouldn't wake him. But I can't feed him to the mice can I? No no that won't do. Pondering the dilemma I peer over the side of the bed. At this point I am SURE I actually SAW a furball rush past and into the closet. The tiny squeaking stopped. As a nursing mom I concluded that the noise HAD to be a baby and the hairball HAD to be real and the mama mouse. She must have nursed her baby and that's what made it quiet.
Well, there went all my options. I mean I HAD to leave the room now right? Yes well, but not by walking on the FLOOR. No. Because MICE walk there dontcha know. Right so. clearly, thats out of the question. This leaves walking along the nightstand and jumping to safety. Yes, well, you see my nightstand is untouched by the likes of FlyLady. What I mean is, like all other flat surfaces in this house its piled high with books and papers and lego bits and a lost sock and... you get the picture. So I had to scoop up Trew and walk on the 2” of unused nightstand space, while carrying a sleeping baby and then LEAP as far as I could and RUN to the livingroom. Or waddle fast, which is what I tend to do in the latter half of my pregnancies. Then I snatched the cat and tossed him into my bedroom and slammed the door and wedged a towel under it.
Chris thought THAT was a tad extreme too. Really. Are there other ways to deal with a mouse in the house? I think not.
I think I am exponentially Unlucky in micey matters

Of Mice and Men

2006-08-25T14:06:00.000-07:00

I hate to confess this. But here it is. Like an estimated 95% of U.S. households, we have pests. Not the kids, we LIKE the kids.
I mean smaller pests. With fur. And a passion for cheese. Or so I’m told- ours prefer the dog and cat food. In fact, ours have developed a favorite pastime… the little daredevils. They scurry up to the cat food, it’s a divided rectangular dish. Our cat drops food in his water which is gross, so we only fill one side and make him share the dogs water. The mice sit in the empty side after they eat their fill and………. Defecate. Any normal cat worth its weight in hairballs would shrivel up and DIE of the humiliation. My old fat cat is supremely unaffected.
Evidence of small furry things not housed in cages gives me the willies. One year we were infested. There was mouse poo in my OVEN, right in my PANS. Can you imagine? I didn’t sleep for days. Turned out that drama and trauma was a HOAX. Oh yeah. My husband and some dropping-shaped thistle for the bird feeder had themselves a gigglefest. Thanks Chris. However, this year the joke’s on him. The mice got wind of his pranks and decided to see what he’d do with a REAL mouse dropping.
It turns out he is about as impressed as the cat. “hmm. Mice.”
I am pregnant. I pee a lot. I have to get out of bed to do this. AT NIGHT. When mice scurry. And it is dark. Every baby sock in my path? A toe biting mouse for sure. So I sleep with a flashlight. Still creeped out. Every sound? Baby-gnawing rodent teeth on their way to chew on my offspring.
After much whining Chris launched his great mouse-evicting plan: put away the pet food at night.
The result? A gnawed oatmeal box. Nice. Now they’re after MY food. I suggested leaving the cat food out. Its cheap and that freeloading hairball factory DESERVES the insult. He calls himself a CAT. Sheesh.
But no. Chris has another idea. We heard a sound one night. It woke Chris up (he was on the couch). The dog and cat were unperturbed. He ran to look and SAW the mouse run to its hole. So we have the hole. Common sense tells me to seal the hole and call it a day.
My husband and I have different brands of “common sense”. HIS common sense said “go spend $20 on traps and bait but DO NOT buy any sealant”. So that’s what he did. He baited them under the house. He laid traps in the laundry room/pet food room/pantry/ multi-purpose space where the mice merrily play.
We caught mouse number one in less than hour. During the DAY. Oh the screaming horror of this life. Mice that crap in cat bowls by day are one scary menace if you ask me! Chris says I am a bit dramatic and perhaps my pregnant hormones are getting the better of me. The heartless oaf.
Mouse number 2 came a few short hours later. Chris said “they come in 3’s. We’ll have the last one by morning” I have no clue from whence this wisdom comes, but it’s not in any google search *I’ve* ever conducted.
It was another 36 hours before we caught “the last one” and it was AFTER we caught that one that the ramen noodles became scurry-snacks.
“seal the hole, Chris, PLEASE” I begged. “oh NO I can’t do that, I’m still trapping them” he says. His primal urge to hunt reduced to baiting traps. His childish glee at their gory demise. "Oh PLEASE seal the hole. Seal them out and trap/bait to your hearts content under the house. But keep these beasts OUT of my home!"
But no. That’s not a satisfactory answer in his world. He must trap them until the trap stops springing. THEN he can seal the hole.
So I suggested a semicircle of traps around the entrance. The only way in to my house is over the traps. Its perfect. He scoffs “oh PLEASE! They’re not STUPID! They won’t come IN then!”
Well, yes.. isn’t that the point? To evict them? To give them a choice? Stay out or die? Aren’t we trying to FREE ourselves from their tyranny? Apparently not. Apparently that’s MY silly goal. The real plan is to lure them IN where can Chris can slaughter them. Lovely.
*I* can’t seal the hole, 2 feet away from it is a corpse. My brave son checks the trap for me, because if its occupied mama can’t do the laundry. Today I can’t do the laundry. Chris says this is utterly ridiculous.
I think I’m moving out.