Mommy Proof #18: How do you do it all? I don't.
Recently, a mommy asked me how did I do it all with four children under the age of nine. I fold laundry while they unfold. I dust while it piles up. I do the dishes while someone reads at my feet or holds on to my legs. I start dinner while a child plays with the toy kitchen set and another skips through the room. I cook dinner while the baby plays at my feet. I assign chores that they can easily accomplish. I mop the floor...when they spill something! I could have told her those things, but, instead, I laughed.
I laughed, because I don't do it all. I do enough to get us through the day. I do enough to make sure the kids are fed a well balanced meal. I do enough to make sure they have clean clothes....I didn't say they would be folded and put away. I do enough to make sure they have help on their homework. I do enough to make sure I have hugged them all that day. I do enough to make sure they have all received an extra cuddle. I do enough to make sure the baby could nurse when he needed it, be it for nutrition, to drift off for a nap, or for comfort. I do enough to make sure they could tell me about their day. I do enough to make sure that they saw that I cared, that I noticed, that I heard them. I do enough to make sure they felt loved.
As I grew up, I don't remember how well my parents did the dishes. I don't remember how efficiently my mother folded the laundry. My fondest moments of my childhood were the hugs they gave. I remember the guidance I received. I remember how I was comforted when I was afraid. I remember the love I felt. So for that mommy that asked me how do I do it? I just do my best. I'm sure you will do the same.
Because it cannot be ignored and will never be forgotten, my heartfelt condolences to the parents, students, family, faculty, first responders, safety officials, and Newtown, Connecticut community.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Disinfect your screen now...
Mommy Proof #17: Tis the season for ye old sick kids....Cough-a, cough-a, cough, and sneeze, sneeze, sneeze!
Since the beginning of October, we have had these illnesses: Sinus infections (3 to be exact), colds, (3 that turned into sinus infections), stomach virus (1! It didn't turn into three more, SCORE!), flu like symptoms (2), bronchitis (1), ear infections (1...2, if you count that it was a double), and fevers (2 104 degree temperatures, 3 low grade temperatures). If you did a math equation, it would not be pretty. If I don't see another snotty nose or cough-interrupted sleep, I wouldn't mind. I am tired. Someone or every one was sick for every week in the last two months. Someone was teething. Someone else was coughing. Someone else was irritable.
However, we made it through the worst of the ordeal with the help of immunizations, vitamins, antibacterial gel, and disinfectant. We ended November intact and healthy, until the worst possible thing happened.....I got sick. I'm not talking about the sniffles or a little cough. I am talking about every single virus, disease, and germ that I affectionately nursed the children through. The only problem is there is no one there to nurse me. I have to get my own tissues and administer my own medicine. I warm my own tea and heating pads.
I am sick. Does anyone hear my cries? Does anyone care about my needs? Who is going to make my soup? Where is my mommy? As I lay in my bed wallowing in self-pity, my three oldest children came to cuddle with me and ask me repeatedly if I was still sick, still tried, or feeling better. (The baby came in with them, but it ended less of a cuddle session and more of a nursing extravaganza.) They brought me bottles of water and argued with each other which I have had decided was for my entertainment. I raised my head from my pillow to be presented with breakfast in bed. My husband also brought me lunch and dinner. He went grocery shopping. He rubbed my back and asked me what I needed. They took care of me, because they love me as I love them.
I still want my mommy.
Since the beginning of October, we have had these illnesses: Sinus infections (3 to be exact), colds, (3 that turned into sinus infections), stomach virus (1! It didn't turn into three more, SCORE!), flu like symptoms (2), bronchitis (1), ear infections (1...2, if you count that it was a double), and fevers (2 104 degree temperatures, 3 low grade temperatures). If you did a math equation, it would not be pretty. If I don't see another snotty nose or cough-interrupted sleep, I wouldn't mind. I am tired. Someone or every one was sick for every week in the last two months. Someone was teething. Someone else was coughing. Someone else was irritable.
However, we made it through the worst of the ordeal with the help of immunizations, vitamins, antibacterial gel, and disinfectant. We ended November intact and healthy, until the worst possible thing happened.....I got sick. I'm not talking about the sniffles or a little cough. I am talking about every single virus, disease, and germ that I affectionately nursed the children through. The only problem is there is no one there to nurse me. I have to get my own tissues and administer my own medicine. I warm my own tea and heating pads.
I am sick. Does anyone hear my cries? Does anyone care about my needs? Who is going to make my soup? Where is my mommy? As I lay in my bed wallowing in self-pity, my three oldest children came to cuddle with me and ask me repeatedly if I was still sick, still tried, or feeling better. (The baby came in with them, but it ended less of a cuddle session and more of a nursing extravaganza.) They brought me bottles of water and argued with each other which I have had decided was for my entertainment. I raised my head from my pillow to be presented with breakfast in bed. My husband also brought me lunch and dinner. He went grocery shopping. He rubbed my back and asked me what I needed. They took care of me, because they love me as I love them.
I still want my mommy.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Tag! You're It!
Mommy Proof #16: Live every day like your child is a VIP.
Work. Working out. Appointments. Schedules. Deadlines. Projects. Homework. Work from home. School. Classes. Extracurricular activities. Shopping. Girl's Night. Running errands. Phone calls. Smart phones. Computers. Technology. Social Networking. Text messaging. Facebook. Guilty as charged. We are busy. We have things to do. We have places to go.
I took note as my children played in the yard one day. I watched them run and play with each other as they forgot everything else. Their chores could wait. Dinner would still be warm later. I smiled as my oldest daughter scooped my youngest child up and jogged across the lawn so he could at least pretend to maintain the speed of his older siblings. They ran. They played. They laughed. They pouted when I called them in to wash up for dinner. They had fun. Pure, unadulterated fun.
I, then, made their plates...while talking on the phone with my husband who was five minutes from home. I served their plates...while I laughed at a text I had just received. I sat down at the table as I thought about ideas for my next blog. I looked up from my phone and realized I had missed the first 10 minutes of dinner. I don't know what they were chatting about. I have no idea what was making them giggle. I missed out on a possible memory. I thought back to a half an hour ago as I stood on the porch and watched them play tag. One of them was it and they ran from person to person with joy. They were focused...on fun....on each other...on the moment. I smiled at them as I came back from putting my phone in the other room. For the next 10 or more years, I reminded myself that these moments will soon be gone. Tag! They are IT!
During dinner, I missed two phone calls all from a good friend who called to ask what I was doing...
Work. Working out. Appointments. Schedules. Deadlines. Projects. Homework. Work from home. School. Classes. Extracurricular activities. Shopping. Girl's Night. Running errands. Phone calls. Smart phones. Computers. Technology. Social Networking. Text messaging. Facebook. Guilty as charged. We are busy. We have things to do. We have places to go.
I took note as my children played in the yard one day. I watched them run and play with each other as they forgot everything else. Their chores could wait. Dinner would still be warm later. I smiled as my oldest daughter scooped my youngest child up and jogged across the lawn so he could at least pretend to maintain the speed of his older siblings. They ran. They played. They laughed. They pouted when I called them in to wash up for dinner. They had fun. Pure, unadulterated fun.
I, then, made their plates...while talking on the phone with my husband who was five minutes from home. I served their plates...while I laughed at a text I had just received. I sat down at the table as I thought about ideas for my next blog. I looked up from my phone and realized I had missed the first 10 minutes of dinner. I don't know what they were chatting about. I have no idea what was making them giggle. I missed out on a possible memory. I thought back to a half an hour ago as I stood on the porch and watched them play tag. One of them was it and they ran from person to person with joy. They were focused...on fun....on each other...on the moment. I smiled at them as I came back from putting my phone in the other room. For the next 10 or more years, I reminded myself that these moments will soon be gone. Tag! They are IT!
 |
| If I had been preoccupied with something else, I would have missed this memory. |
During dinner, I missed two phone calls all from a good friend who called to ask what I was doing...
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
He's too big for that!
Mommy Proof # 15: Nursing a toddler on demand (in public) is offensive!
Have you ever received that look of nostalgia when you settle in to nurse in public? I am sure you have received it at least once. The look that says, "Oh, I have been there." The mother that lovingly rubs her school age child's head as memories take over. The grandmother who smiles knowingly when she sees you discreetly covering up. The woman in the outlet mall who embarrasses her children by catching your eye, smiling brightly while giving a thumbs up, and mouthing "WAY TO GO!" Yes, I have received them all. But the best look of all is the one that goes from nostalgia to sheer disgust once your enormous baby peeps from under the cover. The look of utter repulsion once the giant child jerks the cover off and slides down your lap while milk squirts across the room.
Yes, I am one of those mothers. I nurse a toddler. He is 15 months to be exact. Three months older than a one year old. He could drink cow's milk and no one would take offense, but if I offer him my milk it draw stares, gasps, admonitions. Here are a few of my favorite arguments about nursing a toddler AND nursing in public:
1. "He is going to be a mama's boy." Here is the thing about that. Aren't most sons "mama's boys?" Without a "mama" there would be NO boys.
2. "Is he getting anything?" Keep talking so that he will
keep pulling off my breast to see who I am talking to. When milk is
squirted in your eye, you will have the answer.
3. "He is old enough to drink 'regular' milk." Uhhhh, my milk is made especially for him. My baby is getting specialized nutrition. I am that awesome.
4. "Where is his cup?" On the floor. Where he threw it. After I offered it to him. When he signed for milk.
5. "You must enjoy that." That usually comes from someone who hasn't nursed or didn't nurse long. Nursing isn't always enjoyable. Nursing a toddler usually comes with some form of acrobatics to get comfortable and fulfill a toddler's constant desire to move.
But my favorite thing that has ever been said is, "When are you going to stop?" My answer, "Ask him."
*Blank stare*
Have you ever received that look of nostalgia when you settle in to nurse in public? I am sure you have received it at least once. The look that says, "Oh, I have been there." The mother that lovingly rubs her school age child's head as memories take over. The grandmother who smiles knowingly when she sees you discreetly covering up. The woman in the outlet mall who embarrasses her children by catching your eye, smiling brightly while giving a thumbs up, and mouthing "WAY TO GO!" Yes, I have received them all. But the best look of all is the one that goes from nostalgia to sheer disgust once your enormous baby peeps from under the cover. The look of utter repulsion once the giant child jerks the cover off and slides down your lap while milk squirts across the room.
Yes, I am one of those mothers. I nurse a toddler. He is 15 months to be exact. Three months older than a one year old. He could drink cow's milk and no one would take offense, but if I offer him my milk it draw stares, gasps, admonitions. Here are a few of my favorite arguments about nursing a toddler AND nursing in public:
1. "He is going to be a mama's boy." Here is the thing about that. Aren't most sons "mama's boys?" Without a "mama" there would be NO boys.
2. "Is he getting anything?" Keep talking so that he will
keep pulling off my breast to see who I am talking to. When milk is
squirted in your eye, you will have the answer. 3. "He is old enough to drink 'regular' milk." Uhhhh, my milk is made especially for him. My baby is getting specialized nutrition. I am that awesome.
4. "Where is his cup?" On the floor. Where he threw it. After I offered it to him. When he signed for milk.
5. "You must enjoy that." That usually comes from someone who hasn't nursed or didn't nurse long. Nursing isn't always enjoyable. Nursing a toddler usually comes with some form of acrobatics to get comfortable and fulfill a toddler's constant desire to move.
But my favorite thing that has ever been said is, "When are you going to stop?" My answer, "Ask him."
*Blank stare*
Friday, November 9, 2012
The Joy of Independence!
Mommy Proof #14: Independence is bittersweet!
I remember the first time I slept in on a Saturday morning. It was the summer of 2011. I was around one million months pregnant and in the stage of endless slumber. I could literally sleep for 20 out of 24 hours during the day. I still would wake drowsy, heavy, and unrefreshed. The sun was out and bright which was unusual for our home. A typical morning is started with the roosters and break of dawn. As I blinked hard against the rays pouring through my curtains, I realized that the kids had not roused me from my slumber with demands of "Milk, chocolate milk", "Poptarts and grapes" (my son has had one each morning for the past two years :-/ ), or "Just toast for now."
I jumped out of bed...well more like rolled slowly onto my right side, then shimmied my body until I felt the edge of my bed on my back, slid down until my swollen feet hit the ground, stood there with uneasiness and my hands held out for balance....whatever. I waddled into the kitchen and was met with three empty bowls, three empty cups, and a couple of banana peels on the table. There was a small puddle of milk under one of the cups. The spill had obviously been worse than that judging by the fifteen or so soggy paper towels that had taken up residence nearby. The mess didn't strike me as much as the eerie silence that rarely existed in our home. I, then, heard a group of quiet giggles followed by shushing. A whispered voice reminded her younger siblings, "Mommy's sleeping, shhhhhhh!" I was awarded a few moments of sleep by my third-in-command oldest child.
All three of them turned as I came into the room and announced what they had done that morning. "...Breakfast!" "I helped!" "Milk!" In true Three Stooges mode, they started pushing and shushing each other, because someone interrupted them. They were still talking and blah, blah, blah. Independence is an awesome concept. The problem is that the oldest child inevitably comes into the independence stage first. In the beginning, it is met with excitement and awe by the younger siblings. Fast forward to the summer of 2012, the baby and I were both awakened by the squeals of protest and mutiny. The younger two had discovered their new found independence. Instead of starting the day with breakfast requests, I started the day with referee duties. Yay?
I remember the first time I slept in on a Saturday morning. It was the summer of 2011. I was around one million months pregnant and in the stage of endless slumber. I could literally sleep for 20 out of 24 hours during the day. I still would wake drowsy, heavy, and unrefreshed. The sun was out and bright which was unusual for our home. A typical morning is started with the roosters and break of dawn. As I blinked hard against the rays pouring through my curtains, I realized that the kids had not roused me from my slumber with demands of "Milk, chocolate milk", "Poptarts and grapes" (my son has had one each morning for the past two years :-/ ), or "Just toast for now."
I jumped out of bed...well more like rolled slowly onto my right side, then shimmied my body until I felt the edge of my bed on my back, slid down until my swollen feet hit the ground, stood there with uneasiness and my hands held out for balance....whatever. I waddled into the kitchen and was met with three empty bowls, three empty cups, and a couple of banana peels on the table. There was a small puddle of milk under one of the cups. The spill had obviously been worse than that judging by the fifteen or so soggy paper towels that had taken up residence nearby. The mess didn't strike me as much as the eerie silence that rarely existed in our home. I, then, heard a group of quiet giggles followed by shushing. A whispered voice reminded her younger siblings, "Mommy's sleeping, shhhhhhh!" I was awarded a few moments of sleep by my third-in-command oldest child.
All three of them turned as I came into the room and announced what they had done that morning. "...Breakfast!" "I helped!" "Milk!" In true Three Stooges mode, they started pushing and shushing each other, because someone interrupted them. They were still talking and blah, blah, blah. Independence is an awesome concept. The problem is that the oldest child inevitably comes into the independence stage first. In the beginning, it is met with excitement and awe by the younger siblings. Fast forward to the summer of 2012, the baby and I were both awakened by the squeals of protest and mutiny. The younger two had discovered their new found independence. Instead of starting the day with breakfast requests, I started the day with referee duties. Yay?
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Jenn of All Trades, Master of None
Mommy Proof # 13: You can do anything you put your mind to, unless you aren't any good at it....
At this point, I have a daughter that wants to be an OB and a surgeon. My youngest daughter wants to be a nurse, teacher, and "fashion girl." My son dreams about walking on the moon. As soon as he gets any money, he buys a toy telescope or a novelty microscope. I'm not sure what my youngest wants to do, but right now it is a cross between a boxer, dancer, or anything to do with a woman's breast. (The right one is his favorite.) I encourage them every step of the way. I rain down praises with every drawing of a new dress that she shows me. I have decorated my son's room with the moon and stars. I patiently taught my then two year old daughter the names of every word she pointed out in my old medical books. If I had their ambition, I may be in a totally different position today.
Every few years, I choose to pursue a different secular goal. My first year at college, I wanted to be a radiologist. Later that year, I decided to major in the recreation and leisure department. I am good at recreation. I am awesome at leisure. Another year, I took three classes for biotechnology. A year later, I was dead set on getting my real estate license. Six months after that, I decided to take a certification course in medical coding and billing. (That is where my two year old got the medical books.) I always excel in the classes, except for that dreaded anatomy class in college. I eventually dropped that class....and obviously any real goals.
I have played around with owning a daycare, but after I had children I realized how messy they can be. I thought about being a nurse, but I hate sickness and suffering in general. (Sickness may also be the reason I decided against being a childcare provider.) I tried to teach myself how to dance, but I dislocated my shoulder due to my lack of rhythm and grace. Don't ask me how. I also have thought about being a doula or midwife, then I experienced natural childbirth in all of its horrific glory. Add lactation consultant, personal trainer, occupational therapist, hair stylist, teacher, substitute teacher, teaching assistant, Avon lady, and census taker to my list. Well, you get the point. I have realized that I am extremely successful at being an underachiever. I take a lackluster approach to school, working out, anything that requires me to put forth effort. I am mediocre on my best day. The truth is that I couldn't think of anything I am really good at doing. So I decided to make a list of ten things:
1. I am a genius at procrastinating and quitting.
2. I am great at producing milk.
3. I potty train like a rock star.
4. I can find a sale anywhere.
5. I can plan a healthy, child-friendly meals that won't make me gag in a matter of minutes.
6. I can grab 4 sleeping kids and find shelter in the tub during a tornado warning in 46.8 seconds...
So, for now, being a mom will have to be good enough. I know I said of list of ten things....GET OVER IT!
At this point, I have a daughter that wants to be an OB and a surgeon. My youngest daughter wants to be a nurse, teacher, and "fashion girl." My son dreams about walking on the moon. As soon as he gets any money, he buys a toy telescope or a novelty microscope. I'm not sure what my youngest wants to do, but right now it is a cross between a boxer, dancer, or anything to do with a woman's breast. (The right one is his favorite.) I encourage them every step of the way. I rain down praises with every drawing of a new dress that she shows me. I have decorated my son's room with the moon and stars. I patiently taught my then two year old daughter the names of every word she pointed out in my old medical books. If I had their ambition, I may be in a totally different position today.
Every few years, I choose to pursue a different secular goal. My first year at college, I wanted to be a radiologist. Later that year, I decided to major in the recreation and leisure department. I am good at recreation. I am awesome at leisure. Another year, I took three classes for biotechnology. A year later, I was dead set on getting my real estate license. Six months after that, I decided to take a certification course in medical coding and billing. (That is where my two year old got the medical books.) I always excel in the classes, except for that dreaded anatomy class in college. I eventually dropped that class....and obviously any real goals.
I have played around with owning a daycare, but after I had children I realized how messy they can be. I thought about being a nurse, but I hate sickness and suffering in general. (Sickness may also be the reason I decided against being a childcare provider.) I tried to teach myself how to dance, but I dislocated my shoulder due to my lack of rhythm and grace. Don't ask me how. I also have thought about being a doula or midwife, then I experienced natural childbirth in all of its horrific glory. Add lactation consultant, personal trainer, occupational therapist, hair stylist, teacher, substitute teacher, teaching assistant, Avon lady, and census taker to my list. Well, you get the point. I have realized that I am extremely successful at being an underachiever. I take a lackluster approach to school, working out, anything that requires me to put forth effort. I am mediocre on my best day. The truth is that I couldn't think of anything I am really good at doing. So I decided to make a list of ten things:
1. I am a genius at procrastinating and quitting.
2. I am great at producing milk.
3. I potty train like a rock star.
4. I can find a sale anywhere.
5. I can plan a healthy, child-friendly meals that won't make me gag in a matter of minutes.
6. I can grab 4 sleeping kids and find shelter in the tub during a tornado warning in 46.8 seconds...
So, for now, being a mom will have to be good enough. I know I said of list of ten things....GET OVER IT!
Monday, November 5, 2012
I am who you say I am
Rushed and hungry. Tired and irritable. Relaxed and jovial. Let's be honest. It depends on the time of month or day or week. If you catch me doing errands in the beginning of the week, I am calm. I laugh at every little thing the kids do. I make these witty jokes when one of them knocks something down. I giggle if they tell one of their lame "Knock, Knock" jokes. You may hear me loudly say, "You pick out the cereal." "You get to carry the bread." "You get to push the cart!" I am SuperMom! I grocery shop/clothes shop/eat out/insert errand here with four small children. I make it a learning experience. I make it fun. I allow them to skip while quietly urging them to respect the other customers/patrons/random errand people. I am awesome. You say it to yourselves. You may even whisper it to others. I leave the place in a parade of compliments....in my head.
If you see me at the store late during the day and midweek, you will see an exhausted mom trying to herd four small children through a sea of shoppers. That scowl you see on my face is from a combination of battling a small freakishly strong toddler that has fought a nap all day and low blood sugar. The latter is probably the result of fully cooked meal that is sitting in ruins on the stove. Those horribly behaved children are just acting out from hunger and exhaustion. See picture below.
Now, last but not least, is the dreaded monthly visitor that visits that vast majority of mommies every 28 days. (Or whatever is normal for your cycle. Who am I to judge?) It may be a few days before. It may be the day she chooses to show. I don't really care what day it is. Because if you see me on that day, you will think I am the most evil person you have ever seen. You may think that I have never cracked a smile...That my children have never ended their nights in pillow fights that were urged on by their mother...Or that they have never met the Tickle monster who ends the night with a bedtime story, cuddle, and a kiss...Those poor babies of mine.
The truth is: I don't really care what day it is. Every day, I try to get by the best way I can. It is not always easy. Mommies get tired. Mommies have PMS. Mommies have low blood sugar. Mommies have marital issues. Mommies deal with death. Mommies get sick. Mommies fight cancer. Mommies get depressed. Mommies have good days. Mommies have bad days.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Mommy Proof # 11: "Waste not, want not" is a myth.
Whoever came up with the saying, "Waste not, want not" lied. I am writing this as I come up for air amongst the sea of last fall/winter's kids clothing. Sure, I am going through the clothing with the hopes of finding that last year's jeans do fit. I am testing to see if the shirts that were slightly too big last season still cover at least their little wrists. I am wondering how many sweaters and sweatshirts I will need to get through this winter and hopefully fall of next year. With four children, we can not afford to waste a thing, but my wants are another subject.
I can prove that the "want not" part of that quote is an unequivocal lie. I do not want to do this. I want to just go online and order all new winter wardrobes. I have no desire what so ever to beg three young children to please try on clothing after clothing after clothing. "Please try on this shirt." "Put your arms over your head." "Reach down and touch your toes." "Sit down." "Walk over there." "Let me check your waist." These are all sentences that I do not WANT to repeat. I do not WANT to beg, plead, reason, and convince my three children that I need them to try on umpteen shirts. I don't want to do any of that.
I am sighing as I continue to do things I do not want to do, so I do not waste what I do not have. I still have this annoyingly, nagging feeling that the gem of a quote I stated earlier should not read that way. It could not have been written by a SAHM of four. As I go to put the fall/winter clothes away, I realize I have to put the spring/summer clothes away. Stupid quote.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Death SUCKS!
Mommy Proof #10: One day, you will have to teach your child about death and grief.
Last week, a close family member died. She was such an awesome person. Just a few months ago, she called me and asked me to take the kids to the movies. For six awesome hours, she took care of my children in settings I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. After the movie, she took them to get pizza, play games, and get tokens. They were entertained at a place with a giant rat on the sign. (The rat smiles, but it still doesn't look funny.) She brought them home, laughing, tired, and happy as can be. We made plans to go the aquarium later in the year, but later never came. A month after we last saw her, I received a phone call that she had lost her battle with cancer. She was gone. No more hugs. No more hellos. No more goodbyes. How do you explain to children that someone they loved and cherished is gone? It is a concept that doesn't seem concrete to them. As the adults around them spoke about viewing the body and funeral arrangements, my children, too, were having a meeting of the minds. They had decided that they would NOT go to the funeral. They didn't want to see any sad people. They wanted to go see her. One last time. Please. So, I obliged.
I drove them to the funeral home. I parked. I helped them out of the car. I gave them a talk about what they would see. I told them she would look like she was sleeping, but she wouldn't wake up. It was okay to cry. It was okay to change their minds. It was okay to upset. It was okay to be sad. Finally, my oldest saw that I was stalling and she walked past my ramblings and into the funeral home. I had been defeated by her need to say goodbye. I sat them in the adjoining room, so I could go in first. I whispered the words that would be needed to prepare them. Family and friends patiently waited until they mustered up the courage to go in. They entered from the back of the room. My youngest stayed there nervously opening and closing his hands. My older two children went forward with tissues in their hands. We all cried. The realization hit them and they left the room with their heads heavily hanging, breathing labored, sobbing silently.
I hugged everyone as they piled into the van. As a mommy, we just want to see them feel better. I showed them pictures of their beloved cousin, healthy and vibrant. Pictures of her with them. Then, my oldest had a better way of saying goodbye. In memory of their last outing, they asked to watch the movie she last took them to see. So with ice cream sundaes, fresh baked cookies, and freshly bathed bodies, we all sat down an hour later to watch that movie. They laughed at the parts she loved. They told me what she said "when this happened" and "when that happened." They made her mother a card with beautiful pictures. They went to sleep. Two hours later, my youngest big boy climbed into my bed haunted by what he saw. I whispered every reassuring word I could into his ears until we both fell asleep. When we awakened the next morning, everyone was....fine. Somber, but okay. They knew what death was, but they had to learn about grief. That night, they taught me everything they knew.
A week later, we adopted their first pet:: a fish named Max. He died 34 hours later. I sent my husband out to get a replacement fish. I can't do this again. :'-(
Last week, a close family member died. She was such an awesome person. Just a few months ago, she called me and asked me to take the kids to the movies. For six awesome hours, she took care of my children in settings I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. After the movie, she took them to get pizza, play games, and get tokens. They were entertained at a place with a giant rat on the sign. (The rat smiles, but it still doesn't look funny.) She brought them home, laughing, tired, and happy as can be. We made plans to go the aquarium later in the year, but later never came. A month after we last saw her, I received a phone call that she had lost her battle with cancer. She was gone. No more hugs. No more hellos. No more goodbyes. How do you explain to children that someone they loved and cherished is gone? It is a concept that doesn't seem concrete to them. As the adults around them spoke about viewing the body and funeral arrangements, my children, too, were having a meeting of the minds. They had decided that they would NOT go to the funeral. They didn't want to see any sad people. They wanted to go see her. One last time. Please. So, I obliged.
I drove them to the funeral home. I parked. I helped them out of the car. I gave them a talk about what they would see. I told them she would look like she was sleeping, but she wouldn't wake up. It was okay to cry. It was okay to change their minds. It was okay to upset. It was okay to be sad. Finally, my oldest saw that I was stalling and she walked past my ramblings and into the funeral home. I had been defeated by her need to say goodbye. I sat them in the adjoining room, so I could go in first. I whispered the words that would be needed to prepare them. Family and friends patiently waited until they mustered up the courage to go in. They entered from the back of the room. My youngest stayed there nervously opening and closing his hands. My older two children went forward with tissues in their hands. We all cried. The realization hit them and they left the room with their heads heavily hanging, breathing labored, sobbing silently.
I hugged everyone as they piled into the van. As a mommy, we just want to see them feel better. I showed them pictures of their beloved cousin, healthy and vibrant. Pictures of her with them. Then, my oldest had a better way of saying goodbye. In memory of their last outing, they asked to watch the movie she last took them to see. So with ice cream sundaes, fresh baked cookies, and freshly bathed bodies, we all sat down an hour later to watch that movie. They laughed at the parts she loved. They told me what she said "when this happened" and "when that happened." They made her mother a card with beautiful pictures. They went to sleep. Two hours later, my youngest big boy climbed into my bed haunted by what he saw. I whispered every reassuring word I could into his ears until we both fell asleep. When we awakened the next morning, everyone was....fine. Somber, but okay. They knew what death was, but they had to learn about grief. That night, they taught me everything they knew.
A week later, we adopted their first pet:: a fish named Max. He died 34 hours later. I sent my husband out to get a replacement fish. I can't do this again. :'-(
 |
| Gone too soon! Max the first |
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
My Baby is Broken
Mommy Proof #9: If all babies have a universal language, then my baby is broken.
I once saw a story about a woman who had deciphered the reasons why babies cry. I mean she has it down to a science. While I was holding my sobbing newborn, she was on a daytime talk show. Like the godsend that she is, she told the mommies that filled the audience exactly why their babies were crying. She was on OPRAH, so that means that she is a certified genius. As she sat smugly amidst the adoring mommies with their quiet babies, I gazed down at my own newborn. I would try this experiment! This will make all the difference in my family's life. This screaming little meanie will suddenly become a cooing little cherub. Yes, he will.
I quickly ran and found a crayon and spare sheet of paper and scribbled down the code:
baby cry:
pre cry: neh=hungry
owh=sleepy
heh=discomfort
eair=lower gas
eh=burp
I sat strangely satisfied that I had changed my life by jotting down this invaluable information. NO more nights filled with screams, wails, and sobs. I had the holy grail of newborn language. NO more changing diapers, offering breasts, swaddling the baby, burping the baby, smelling his diapered bottom, coaxing with the pacifier, only to be met with more screams. NO MORE! I mimicked the sounds in my own baby cry. "Naaaa-eehhhh." Yup, sounds just like the Italian baby's cries. "HEH." I had learned how to speak baby Mandarin in ten minutes. I couldn't wait for my own little case study to wake up.
I did the unthinkable. I roused him out of a rare moment where he actually napped. I nudged his little leg until he started to toss. I nuzzled his little neck and breathed in his baby goodness until he began to stretch. I stomped around the room when I usually tiptoed around the sleeping baby. I realized I had made a mistake when he frantically opened his eyes and glared across the room. He caught my eye.
When you look danger in the eye, they tell you to show no fear. But the moment our eyes locked, I realized that I had made a choice that would result in dire consequences. My eyes flickered a faint distrust in what I had learned on that daytime talk show. Then, I remembered. I am in control. I have the code on that spare sheet of paper. Now, where did I put it?
I looked on the table. It was no where to be found. I checked the counter. I found the crayon. Where was the stupid paper???? Where was that freaking code??? What was "Neh" again?? Why isn't he making any of those sounds? This baby language is universal. That certified baby genius said it on OPRAH! My baby didn't make any of those baby pre-cries. Not one of them. He proceeded to scream with fervor the rest of the night. He continued to do so for the last thirteen months....
I found that paper months later. It was under the couch. I threw it away like the trash it was...
Disclaimer: Pricilla Dunstan is actually a genius. www.dunstanbaby.com
I once saw a story about a woman who had deciphered the reasons why babies cry. I mean she has it down to a science. While I was holding my sobbing newborn, she was on a daytime talk show. Like the godsend that she is, she told the mommies that filled the audience exactly why their babies were crying. She was on OPRAH, so that means that she is a certified genius. As she sat smugly amidst the adoring mommies with their quiet babies, I gazed down at my own newborn. I would try this experiment! This will make all the difference in my family's life. This screaming little meanie will suddenly become a cooing little cherub. Yes, he will.
I quickly ran and found a crayon and spare sheet of paper and scribbled down the code:
baby cry:
pre cry: neh=hungry
owh=sleepy
heh=discomfort
eair=lower gas
eh=burp
I sat strangely satisfied that I had changed my life by jotting down this invaluable information. NO more nights filled with screams, wails, and sobs. I had the holy grail of newborn language. NO more changing diapers, offering breasts, swaddling the baby, burping the baby, smelling his diapered bottom, coaxing with the pacifier, only to be met with more screams. NO MORE! I mimicked the sounds in my own baby cry. "Naaaa-eehhhh." Yup, sounds just like the Italian baby's cries. "HEH." I had learned how to speak baby Mandarin in ten minutes. I couldn't wait for my own little case study to wake up.
 |
| I made the mistake of taking a picture with flash. |
I did the unthinkable. I roused him out of a rare moment where he actually napped. I nudged his little leg until he started to toss. I nuzzled his little neck and breathed in his baby goodness until he began to stretch. I stomped around the room when I usually tiptoed around the sleeping baby. I realized I had made a mistake when he frantically opened his eyes and glared across the room. He caught my eye.
When you look danger in the eye, they tell you to show no fear. But the moment our eyes locked, I realized that I had made a choice that would result in dire consequences. My eyes flickered a faint distrust in what I had learned on that daytime talk show. Then, I remembered. I am in control. I have the code on that spare sheet of paper. Now, where did I put it?
 |
| Caption on shirt=Irony |
I found that paper months later. It was under the couch. I threw it away like the trash it was...
 |
| When people would ask me why he was crying, I would jokingly tell them, "My baby is broken....but extremely cute!" |
Monday, October 15, 2012
I may not always like them...
Mommy Proof # 8: You are not always going to like your children. It is okay to say. Ricki Lake told me so!
I have a spitting image. She says we are like Siamese twins. Instead of Abby and Brittany, who are awesome if I might add, we are Ivy and Jenni. The only difference is that while Abby and Brittany get along and work together, Ivy and I have a totally different attraction towards each other. We are drawn to each other like the action scene of a speeding car driven by a blindfolded driver and that brick wall filled with explosives. We have a disagreement at least once a week, usually about her choice of clothing for the next day. (Why can't I wear a tunic sweater in 90 degree weather? or But I don't want to learn a different way to do the math problem I did wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!!) Who is right? Who is wrong? Is the real problem that Ivy didn't do her homework right? Or is there an underlying issue?
The truth is: We may never know. I have been arguing with Ivy since she was three days old. She is the only newborn I saw that would toss her head back on that weak neck to scream in my face. It was usually about whatever grievance she may have endured that day. I have known that we would clash since the first time she clenched her teeth and held her breath in defiance when I told her "No." I know this child inside and out. I can sense the calm before the storm when her anger rises as she quietly broods about the lot she was cast in life. Then when I say something that hits home, be it, "Read the instructions over again until you understand them" in my calmest manner, she erupts in the most melodramatic manner possible. I hang my head and admit that I return the same melodrama or "Melodrama mama." We throw the accusations of "You always..." and "You never..." like missiles until we are both hit, wounded, and staring at each other in disbelief. Later, we both apologize and tell each other five things we love about each other.
After that, I quietly lock myself into my room and make a much needed phone call. I whisper sweet nothings and heartfelt apologies to my mother for having to endure what she did as I grew up. I laugh for hours as my twin sister and I reminisce about my own bratty behavior. I sit and quietly reflect on what I could have, should have, and will do better with my own child. I hate looking into the mirror, but I love seeing her reflection.
I have a spitting image. She says we are like Siamese twins. Instead of Abby and Brittany, who are awesome if I might add, we are Ivy and Jenni. The only difference is that while Abby and Brittany get along and work together, Ivy and I have a totally different attraction towards each other. We are drawn to each other like the action scene of a speeding car driven by a blindfolded driver and that brick wall filled with explosives. We have a disagreement at least once a week, usually about her choice of clothing for the next day. (Why can't I wear a tunic sweater in 90 degree weather? or But I don't want to learn a different way to do the math problem I did wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!!) Who is right? Who is wrong? Is the real problem that Ivy didn't do her homework right? Or is there an underlying issue?
The truth is: We may never know. I have been arguing with Ivy since she was three days old. She is the only newborn I saw that would toss her head back on that weak neck to scream in my face. It was usually about whatever grievance she may have endured that day. I have known that we would clash since the first time she clenched her teeth and held her breath in defiance when I told her "No." I know this child inside and out. I can sense the calm before the storm when her anger rises as she quietly broods about the lot she was cast in life. Then when I say something that hits home, be it, "Read the instructions over again until you understand them" in my calmest manner, she erupts in the most melodramatic manner possible. I hang my head and admit that I return the same melodrama or "Melodrama mama." We throw the accusations of "You always..." and "You never..." like missiles until we are both hit, wounded, and staring at each other in disbelief. Later, we both apologize and tell each other five things we love about each other.
After that, I quietly lock myself into my room and make a much needed phone call. I whisper sweet nothings and heartfelt apologies to my mother for having to endure what she did as I grew up. I laugh for hours as my twin sister and I reminisce about my own bratty behavior. I sit and quietly reflect on what I could have, should have, and will do better with my own child. I hate looking into the mirror, but I love seeing her reflection.
 |
| Ivy's description of herself for her MY FAMILY CLASS PROJECT: I am spunky and sassy. I love shopping and playing UNO. (My favorite part!) My mom is my BFF. When I cry, she is always there to comfort me. I love me! |
 |
| I love my mom the most. She cooks great dinners. She helps me and loves me, too. She cares for me and believes in me. Before I go to school, she kisses me goodbye. She yells when my siblings and I don't listen, I don't like that! (<---I could have done without that last part! 0_o) |
Friday, October 5, 2012
The Legend of the Doomsday Birther
Mommy Proof #7: For every beautiful birth story you hear, there is always that one woman who will plague you with every detail of her horrific labor experience. My name is Jenn. Natural childbirth is STUPID! The ring of fire is real. Your vagina will implode and it will NEVER be the same.
Ever so often in the dead of the night, I wake up in a cold sweat. The echo of Tarzan's screams could be mistaken as the howl of the wind, but I instantly recognize it. It fills my soul with the most horrific memories. Memories that even the coldest heart will fight to dispel. It is my recollections of my NUCB, also known as Natural Unmedicated Child Birth.
I have seen a lot of birth stories. Heard of countless births where the mothers describe themselves as feeling empowered and strong. How they didn't need medical interventions. How they were prepared through Bradley methods, childbirth classes, Lamaze instructions, hypnobirthing. Well, all of these women are better than me. This post will be referred to as "The Legend of the Doomsday Birther." I will NEVER speak of this experience again...unless asked with little prodding. This is not going to be an uplifting birth story. You are not going to cry, because of its sugary sweetness. You are not going to feel empowered. You are going to be scared out of your mind. You may want to click the close tab right now.
Childbirth can be described as beautiful and miraculous. I choose to refer to Kai's day of reckoning as horrific and fear invoking. When you first find out you are expecting, you imagine that joyous occasion when your baby is placed into your arms. Very few people think about the pain that a woman goes through as she brings that child into the world. You only think about the happiness one sees as a family grows in number and love. Before you go into the hospital, most women prepare a Birth Plan. A birth plan is exactly what it sounds like. The plan you want followed while you are in labor. You can state the type of labor you would like, who you would like in the room with you, whether or not you want to wear your own clothes or not, the type of pain management you would utilize.....When I wrote my birth plan, it was simply put:
Drug me! Drugs! Give me anything and everything. (Okay, well not ANYTHING!) Drugs, DrUgS, DRUGS! I wanted drugs. (I wanted to "try" to labor naturally mainly to pacify the masses that believe in NUCB. But my end resolve was if I tried and could not succeed, have the anesthesiologist on stand by. The dude needing back surgery would have to wait. I wanted an epidural.)
I went in for my medically necessary induction hopeful. I had a stress ball and an exercise ball. My husband knew the massage I desired during contractions. My mother had attended two of my previous births. They knew the drill. I wanted encouragement, but not too much talking. I didn't want to be touched unless I asked. I wanted to stop being touched when I asked. It was simple. My birth plan was ripped to shreds right in front of me. Well, not literally, but it felt that way.
A couple of hours after coming into the hospital, the anesthesiologist, doctor, and nurses came in to speak with me. One of them said something about "low platelets" and a "bleeding risk." I don't remember any of it. Everything was a daze after I heard that "you are not eligible for an epidural." No epidural. No pain medication of any kind. I had been thrown into the NUCB gauntlet with no weapons of defense. I was terrified. I kept on picturing the natural childbirth videos that I had viewed online two weeks before. (DO NOT DO THAT!!!!! GO IN EYES WIDE SHUT!) The woman's whimpering for them to remove her child replayed in my head. I was also dumb enough to view a c-section. So that was option was out. Then I told myself to, "Get it together, Jenn." My epidural wore off while I was in labor with my third child. I have had three babies. I can do this with my eyes closed. I was so happy I had brought my exercise ball. I had already asked my husband to use his strong hands to massage the kinks out of my back once labor really started rolling. We would be fine. I could do this.
I started to remember the classes I had taken while I was pregnant with my first child. I called my mother and sisters and listened to their pointers. A good friend of mine came to the hospital to talk to me and calm my nerves. The nurses were encouraging and telling me how I could do this. By the third dose of pitocin, I realized that I was surrounded by liars. Every last one of them. That stupid massage did nothing but annoy me. The exercise ball was a joke. I stupidly asked for NO catheter so I could get up and move about. You try to balance yourself over a bed pan during contractions. The contractions began to come relentlessly overlapping in duration and intensity. Why would they tell me I could do this? My body was literally being ripped apart. How are there 7 billion people on this earth? Who would do this 7 billion times? Why did I do this once? Why did I do this four times? What is wrong with me?
To get me through my pain, I developed in my mind a list of people that would pay. The nurse who came in to check my pitocin. She was the first person on my list. The nurse who told me that I couldn't have the epidural was tied for first. The anesthesiologist had no reason to even come into my room, but there she was. Big dummy. I had already secretly loathed my husband's strong hands. He kept putting them in the wrong spot. I didn't even try to listen to music. I also hated that exercise ball. I sat on that dumb exercise ball with my butt hanging out of my gown thinking it would bounce my pain away. I ended up in a ball on my bed, rolling from side to side after it failed me. The OB came into the room and I pleaded with her to check me. I was ready.
I felt the pressure I felt with my third child. In a few moments, I would meet my child. The OB stuck her hand in side of me to check my progress. The next thing I remember is her breathing fire and hissing, "There is just a little bit of cervix left. We are going to push through that." She then spooned me in a wrestling move, inserted her fist into my cervix and told me to push. (You may THINK that is impossible...) After a few pushes, she removed her fist and they started to prepare the room. Suddenly, I smelled something burning.
I remember stopping and looking around the room. No one seemed alarmed. That smell. We needed to evacuate the building. SOMETHING WAS ON FIRE! Why were the fire alarms not going off? I soon realized why no one seemed concerned. That burning smell was the singe of my flesh as my son's head was crowning. It was the dreaded "RING OF FIRE." People also don't realize that without an epidural, you really do feel everything. The baby kicked me in my spleen on the way out. It felt like I was giving birth to an octopus. I let out a long Tarzan inspired scream and he appeared on my chest. Finally relieved, I introduced myself to my baby, "You baby. Me Mommy." As the nurse took him to check him over, I am ashamed to say I rolled my eyes at the five second old newborn. Don't judge me.
Disclaimer: No one's vagina actually imploded during labor...so they say. BWAHAHAHAHAHA
-The Doomsday Birther
Ever so often in the dead of the night, I wake up in a cold sweat. The echo of Tarzan's screams could be mistaken as the howl of the wind, but I instantly recognize it. It fills my soul with the most horrific memories. Memories that even the coldest heart will fight to dispel. It is my recollections of my NUCB, also known as Natural Unmedicated Child Birth.
I have seen a lot of birth stories. Heard of countless births where the mothers describe themselves as feeling empowered and strong. How they didn't need medical interventions. How they were prepared through Bradley methods, childbirth classes, Lamaze instructions, hypnobirthing. Well, all of these women are better than me. This post will be referred to as "The Legend of the Doomsday Birther." I will NEVER speak of this experience again...unless asked with little prodding. This is not going to be an uplifting birth story. You are not going to cry, because of its sugary sweetness. You are not going to feel empowered. You are going to be scared out of your mind. You may want to click the close tab right now.
Childbirth can be described as beautiful and miraculous. I choose to refer to Kai's day of reckoning as horrific and fear invoking. When you first find out you are expecting, you imagine that joyous occasion when your baby is placed into your arms. Very few people think about the pain that a woman goes through as she brings that child into the world. You only think about the happiness one sees as a family grows in number and love. Before you go into the hospital, most women prepare a Birth Plan. A birth plan is exactly what it sounds like. The plan you want followed while you are in labor. You can state the type of labor you would like, who you would like in the room with you, whether or not you want to wear your own clothes or not, the type of pain management you would utilize.....When I wrote my birth plan, it was simply put:
Drug me! Drugs! Give me anything and everything. (Okay, well not ANYTHING!) Drugs, DrUgS, DRUGS! I wanted drugs. (I wanted to "try" to labor naturally mainly to pacify the masses that believe in NUCB. But my end resolve was if I tried and could not succeed, have the anesthesiologist on stand by. The dude needing back surgery would have to wait. I wanted an epidural.)
I went in for my medically necessary induction hopeful. I had a stress ball and an exercise ball. My husband knew the massage I desired during contractions. My mother had attended two of my previous births. They knew the drill. I wanted encouragement, but not too much talking. I didn't want to be touched unless I asked. I wanted to stop being touched when I asked. It was simple. My birth plan was ripped to shreds right in front of me. Well, not literally, but it felt that way.
A couple of hours after coming into the hospital, the anesthesiologist, doctor, and nurses came in to speak with me. One of them said something about "low platelets" and a "bleeding risk." I don't remember any of it. Everything was a daze after I heard that "you are not eligible for an epidural." No epidural. No pain medication of any kind. I had been thrown into the NUCB gauntlet with no weapons of defense. I was terrified. I kept on picturing the natural childbirth videos that I had viewed online two weeks before. (DO NOT DO THAT!!!!! GO IN EYES WIDE SHUT!) The woman's whimpering for them to remove her child replayed in my head. I was also dumb enough to view a c-section. So that was option was out. Then I told myself to, "Get it together, Jenn." My epidural wore off while I was in labor with my third child. I have had three babies. I can do this with my eyes closed. I was so happy I had brought my exercise ball. I had already asked my husband to use his strong hands to massage the kinks out of my back once labor really started rolling. We would be fine. I could do this.
I started to remember the classes I had taken while I was pregnant with my first child. I called my mother and sisters and listened to their pointers. A good friend of mine came to the hospital to talk to me and calm my nerves. The nurses were encouraging and telling me how I could do this. By the third dose of pitocin, I realized that I was surrounded by liars. Every last one of them. That stupid massage did nothing but annoy me. The exercise ball was a joke. I stupidly asked for NO catheter so I could get up and move about. You try to balance yourself over a bed pan during contractions. The contractions began to come relentlessly overlapping in duration and intensity. Why would they tell me I could do this? My body was literally being ripped apart. How are there 7 billion people on this earth? Who would do this 7 billion times? Why did I do this once? Why did I do this four times? What is wrong with me?
 |
| Notice the blood and gore?????? |
To get me through my pain, I developed in my mind a list of people that would pay. The nurse who came in to check my pitocin. She was the first person on my list. The nurse who told me that I couldn't have the epidural was tied for first. The anesthesiologist had no reason to even come into my room, but there she was. Big dummy. I had already secretly loathed my husband's strong hands. He kept putting them in the wrong spot. I didn't even try to listen to music. I also hated that exercise ball. I sat on that dumb exercise ball with my butt hanging out of my gown thinking it would bounce my pain away. I ended up in a ball on my bed, rolling from side to side after it failed me. The OB came into the room and I pleaded with her to check me. I was ready.
I felt the pressure I felt with my third child. In a few moments, I would meet my child. The OB stuck her hand in side of me to check my progress. The next thing I remember is her breathing fire and hissing, "There is just a little bit of cervix left. We are going to push through that." She then spooned me in a wrestling move, inserted her fist into my cervix and told me to push. (You may THINK that is impossible...) After a few pushes, she removed her fist and they started to prepare the room. Suddenly, I smelled something burning.
I remember stopping and looking around the room. No one seemed alarmed. That smell. We needed to evacuate the building. SOMETHING WAS ON FIRE! Why were the fire alarms not going off? I soon realized why no one seemed concerned. That burning smell was the singe of my flesh as my son's head was crowning. It was the dreaded "RING OF FIRE." People also don't realize that without an epidural, you really do feel everything. The baby kicked me in my spleen on the way out. It felt like I was giving birth to an octopus. I let out a long Tarzan inspired scream and he appeared on my chest. Finally relieved, I introduced myself to my baby, "You baby. Me Mommy." As the nurse took him to check him over, I am ashamed to say I rolled my eyes at the five second old newborn. Don't judge me.
 |
| Five hours later, I was reminded of why people do this. The truth is I would do it all over again. (Not really.) |
-The Doomsday Birther
Thursday, October 4, 2012
What do you know about babies?
Mommy Proof #6: Everything you thought you knew about babies is a lie.
I thought I was a very efficient mother. When I found out I was having another child, I rationalized all of my fears with the realities of having a baby. Babies are pretty easy especially the fourth time around. I knew what to expect. Newborns sleep all day, eat quite often, but are easy to calm. Shush, swing, swaddle=A happy baby. I remember the moment I knew that I was in trouble. I don't know if it was the fact that he kicked me in my spleen on the way out or the fact that he was kicked out of the hospital nursery. What I do know is the joke was on us when my husband said, "Some one's baby is MAD!" As the wailing got closer, I said, "That is OUR baby." Lightning struck and the whole room went dark when they rolled his bed in the room. We both looked at this wailing baby less than 3 hours old with terror in our eyes. The nursery kicked him out and put a pad lock on our door. We were stuck...in there...with him.
High Needs infants can be described as intense ego maniacs who get pleasure from seeing the people around them melt into a self pitying puddle of inadequate nurturers. I jokingly (so they thought) told friends and family, "This baby is broken." I would laugh to hide my tears. What I learned about mothering a HN baby during the first year of life:
1. I am an idiot. I can't change a diaper right. I don't know how to feed him correctly. I have no idea how to get a baby to sleep.
2. All babies are not the same. I am an idiot for thinking they are.
3. Babies will sleep when they darn well please. Some babies barely need sleep at all. They are content to scream and scream and scream and scream. On the rare occasion their eyes do close, it is just to give them enough energy to scream for four more hours. On average, that nap is around 30 minutes if you are holding them. Fifteen tops if you put them down.
4. You can spend money on a crib, bassinet, pack n play, or swing. You should have put that money into your therapy sessions. HN babies do not sleep.
5. They are like mean drunks. Most milk drunk babies will knock right out, pushing away from your breast as they get full. HN drunks get vindictive, belligerent, and obnoxious. They don't want any more milk, but you better not put that nipple away. YOU. BETTER. NOT!
6. There is no such thing as a routine for an HN baby. What worked yesterday will not work today.
7. They bring out all the know-it-all parents in your inner circle who will take great delight in telling you what you are doing "wrong." These are the idiots that have never dealt with a High Needs infant.
8. Their cries invoke fear of the greatest multitude. In Gaelic folklore, banshees were female spirits who wails to warn of impending death. In reality, these were the mothers of HN infants in ancient times who were positive that impending death was foretold by sleepless nights with screaming infants. To warn of their impending sleep deprived deaths, they would wail in harmony with their screaming infants. It is true. I sang that symphony one late night in January. I was wrong. I didn't die. I just felt like a zombie the next day.
9. They will make you loathe every sweet quiet infant that doesn't pull his mother's earrings out or scream out in anguish because you took his favorite toy. Even if that toy happens to be your bottom eyelid.
10. HN infants may cry the loudest, but they also laugh the hardest, grin with the biggest smiles, and have the brightest eyes. You give them your best, because the demand it. You love them the most, because they need it. They are your future CEOs, entrepreneurs, inventors.....so you better be nice to them!
I thought I was a very efficient mother. When I found out I was having another child, I rationalized all of my fears with the realities of having a baby. Babies are pretty easy especially the fourth time around. I knew what to expect. Newborns sleep all day, eat quite often, but are easy to calm. Shush, swing, swaddle=A happy baby. I remember the moment I knew that I was in trouble. I don't know if it was the fact that he kicked me in my spleen on the way out or the fact that he was kicked out of the hospital nursery. What I do know is the joke was on us when my husband said, "Some one's baby is MAD!" As the wailing got closer, I said, "That is OUR baby." Lightning struck and the whole room went dark when they rolled his bed in the room. We both looked at this wailing baby less than 3 hours old with terror in our eyes. The nursery kicked him out and put a pad lock on our door. We were stuck...in there...with him.High Needs infants can be described as intense ego maniacs who get pleasure from seeing the people around them melt into a self pitying puddle of inadequate nurturers. I jokingly (so they thought) told friends and family, "This baby is broken." I would laugh to hide my tears. What I learned about mothering a HN baby during the first year of life:
1. I am an idiot. I can't change a diaper right. I don't know how to feed him correctly. I have no idea how to get a baby to sleep.
2. All babies are not the same. I am an idiot for thinking they are.
3. Babies will sleep when they darn well please. Some babies barely need sleep at all. They are content to scream and scream and scream and scream. On the rare occasion their eyes do close, it is just to give them enough energy to scream for four more hours. On average, that nap is around 30 minutes if you are holding them. Fifteen tops if you put them down.
4. You can spend money on a crib, bassinet, pack n play, or swing. You should have put that money into your therapy sessions. HN babies do not sleep.
5. They are like mean drunks. Most milk drunk babies will knock right out, pushing away from your breast as they get full. HN drunks get vindictive, belligerent, and obnoxious. They don't want any more milk, but you better not put that nipple away. YOU. BETTER. NOT!
6. There is no such thing as a routine for an HN baby. What worked yesterday will not work today.
7. They bring out all the know-it-all parents in your inner circle who will take great delight in telling you what you are doing "wrong." These are the idiots that have never dealt with a High Needs infant.
8. Their cries invoke fear of the greatest multitude. In Gaelic folklore, banshees were female spirits who wails to warn of impending death. In reality, these were the mothers of HN infants in ancient times who were positive that impending death was foretold by sleepless nights with screaming infants. To warn of their impending sleep deprived deaths, they would wail in harmony with their screaming infants. It is true. I sang that symphony one late night in January. I was wrong. I didn't die. I just felt like a zombie the next day.
9. They will make you loathe every sweet quiet infant that doesn't pull his mother's earrings out or scream out in anguish because you took his favorite toy. Even if that toy happens to be your bottom eyelid.10. HN infants may cry the loudest, but they also laugh the hardest, grin with the biggest smiles, and have the brightest eyes. You give them your best, because the demand it. You love them the most, because they need it. They are your future CEOs, entrepreneurs, inventors.....so you better be nice to them!
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Six R's to Potty Training
Mommy Proof #5: There are six R's to potty training: Reinforcements, Readiness, Reminders, Rewards, Responsibility, and RESULTS!
There are certain skills learned in childhood that last a lifetime. Learning to walk, using utensils to eat food, tying shoes, learning to read, riding a bike, but my favorite skill to help a child learn is POTTY TRAINING! Oh, the excitement that I feel when it is time to potty train. I did not always feel that way. My first child was not potty trained until after our second child was born. She was a way past 2 1/2 years old. My husband and I were wrist deep in changing both girls, passing wipes, diapers, and training diapers. One day, we had just finished changing the baby when our oldest child came up to us smelling like a raw sewage. Exaggeration, or not really: Size 4 diapers beside a newborn's diapers is like comparing a mountain to a molehill! A newborn's bottom compared to a 2 year old's is the scariest sight in the world. I felt like I was changing a giant's bottom. No more! She would have to be potty trained immediately. So that is what we did. It took almost three months before we used our last training diaper.
Two years later, we were blessed with another tiny little newborn bottom and cursed with a two year old's gigantic behind. This time, I was home alone with the kids for most of their waking hours. No more giggling over diaper changes. Goodbye to shared parenting doody, I mean duty. I was on my own for at least 12 out of 14 days as my husband traveled for work. I needed reinforcements. And that came in the form of a potty! My second child was trained in three weeks. My third child was trained in less than three days.
The six Rs to Potty Training:
1. Reinforcements: Uhhh, Potty, DUH! (I like the one that is all in one piece or very easy to clean!) It may be a good idea to have more than one. We also kept one in a bag in the car. Yes, we sure did! Training pants or white undies. Why white? When you are beginning to potty train your toddler, bleach is your friend. I have found that diapers designed to help "train" a child, hinder the progress rather than help. Clothes that are easy to pull up or down are a godsend. Stickers, colorful or character underwear, and any bite size snack that is not an appetite killer. We will get to why later!
2. Readiness signs: Can your child stay dry during naps? Bedtime? Does he or she follow simple requests? Is your child aware of the discomfort in being wet or soiled? Does your child "ask" to be changed? Does your child dislike being changed? Does your child have the physical dexterity to remove or change his/her clothes? If you answered, "Yes," to any of these questions, your child may be ready to train. Some may ask about speech being one of these signs. My third child was 23 months when I changed him. Throughout the training process, he never told me that he needed to go. He would just grab my hand and walk to the potty. You may see other signs in your child. Your child may show an interest in the potty. You may notice him acting like a Peeping Tom every time you go to the restroom. He or she may peek under the door as you try to go with an audience. Perk up at this invasion of privacy. Make it seem fun! Make a note to yourself to invade their privacy as teenagers. Set aside the unhealthy pleasure in that future memory and focus on the task at hand.
3. Reminders: Tell your child where pee (#1) and poop (#2) belong. Remind your little one to try and go to the bathroom. In the beginning, you will be urging them to sit on the potty very often. I start off with every 15 minutes while offering small beverages. "Let's go sit on the potty!" I would lead them to the potty and help them to sit on it. We would sing little songs or I would read a book or two. Children need verbal cues that help them visualize the act. There were many times when I would urge them on. I would have them look down and say, "PeePee come out!" There were many public bathroom audiences that chuckled at that.
4. Rewards: Plenty of praise is needed! We made up songs that involved everyone at the time. Hearing my excitement would bring the whole family to the room. We would dance and high five. (After hand washing, that is!) That is where the bite size snacks come into play! After a successful potty try that results in #1 or #2 in the potty, your child will get a sticker or a few pieces of bite size snacks as a reward. We used goldfish crackers, M&Ms, skittles, raisins, or halved grapes. For #1, they received two bite size snacks. For #2, they would receive four. If it was at night, they received a sticker on the hand. Colorful or character undies are the BIG PRIZE! If the child stayed dry for the week, they are officially a BIG GIRL or BIG BOY and their undies will prove that!
5. Responsibility: If there is an accident, do not get upset. Remind the child of where poop and pee belong with a stern face and a firm tone. Have them "help" clean it up. I had my children spray water onto the spot after I cleaned it with cleaner. Then, they would dry the spot. They do not receive a reward, just the reminders. If your child DOES use the potty, they help to dispose of their waste with supervision and plenty of praise. This teaches the child responsibility of their own actions. Then, of course, it is time for hand washing.
6. RESULTS: Well, that is self explanatory. If the starting line is a diapered toddler, then the end result is a potty trained BIG KID!
Remember the end of Mommy Proof #4!
Please rest assured that only the coolest parents have been forced to clean up, contain, or throw away something that was covered in fecal matter.
There are going to be accidents, but who doesn't have a mistake or two when learning a new skill? Practice makes perfect! Happy Potty Training, Moms and Dads! I really do need a theme song for my potty training excitement....
Monday, October 1, 2012
Mommy Proof #4
Mommy Proof #4: Your first child is the practice one...RIGHT???
*Flashback*
I was walking through my child's room wondering what was that stale smell. I picked up a stuffed animal and tossed it into the toy box. As it landed, I caught a whiff of something ungodly. Something truly fear invoking, it was a cross between a public men's bathroom and the subway entrance. URINE! The odor of stale urine had filled my nostrils, flaring them into the most unattractive face I have ever made. I carried the box out of her room and into the bathroom and placed it into the bathtub. As I was in the process of disinfecting, I called for my little child to come see me.
Child: Yes, Mama.
Me: What am I doing right now?
Child (with the cutest little smile): Cleaning the toy box.
Me: Why am I cleaning the toy box?
Child (eyes flicker with total recall): I.......don't.......know.....
Me: What was in the toy box that would make Mommy have to clean it? Did you spill something in there? There was urine in there. Where does urine belong?
Child: In the potty.
Me: NOT TOY BOXES!
Child: NOT TOY BOXES!
Me: Okay, help me dry it? Where does pee pee belong?
Child: In the potty, not my toy box!
The foundation had been laid. I reminded her where urine belonged. I had my daughter take accountability for the action by helping to dry the box and toys. (The stuffed animal had to be washed, then thrown away. The smell of fermented urine doesn't just go away. It may have been singed into my nose hairs, but that animal had to go.) The lesson had been learned.
Two days later, I found two little pellets of poop floating in a pool of urine in the bucket of an empty shape sorter. (For a brief moment, I thought an animal had made his way into the house. There was no way that my child could have done this...Again!)This act of defiance had continued way too long! I didn't just review the logistics of where poop and pee belong. Instead, I fussed as I had help cleaning the bucket. I ranted with a stern face. I raved with a firm tone. I brow beat that lesson into my 3 1/2 year old. About five hours later, I heard little feet scampering about across the hall. I stumbled out of my room and was met by a sobbing little person in the doorway.
Child: I have to pee.
Me, looking at the bathroom less than five feet away: Well, then go pee pee.
Child, wailing at this point: I am scared!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Scared. I chastised my child for being afraid to get up and walk into the bathroom even with a night light. I fussed and ranted, because the friendly shadows on the walls became all things evil in the dark of night. I punished defiance never thinking about what the real issue could be. As parents, we must realize that our way of coping and their way of dealing are going to be different. They do not have the words to say, "I'm angry." "I'm lonely." "I'm scared." "I want some attention." "I don't want/like change." So, they control the situation how they deem fit.
Someone mentioned that when her child got upset, he urinated on the floor right in front of her. You may ask yourself, "Did he really just do that?" The truth is that it doesn't sound that unusual to me. Children react in ways that makes you wonder what they are thinking. Sometimes, they aren't. Have you ever seen that glazed look that comes over their eyes when they are about to do something that is out of the norm? That is when you address it. Call out their name to grab their attention. Let them know you see that they are losing control (literally), but don't make the situation worse. Have them tell you what the problem is or give them the words. "I see you are upset that you...., but you can't behave that way." Get down to their level and speak to them. With a firm, but loving tone, you can regain control and teach them the right way to react when they are upset.
The truth is that you will not catch every learning moment BEFORE it happens, but a lesson can be taught after the incident. Use those same methods after all is calm. Have the child accept responsibility. Speak about what you do when you get upset. Give them the words that can be used to respectfully communicate their feelings. Four children later, I have stopped asking, "Did they really just do that?" I can tell by the puddle in the toy box that they just did. The question is, "WHY?
ATTENTION: Please rest assured that only the coolest parents have been forced to clean up, contain, or throw away something that was covered in fecal matter.
*Flashback*
I was walking through my child's room wondering what was that stale smell. I picked up a stuffed animal and tossed it into the toy box. As it landed, I caught a whiff of something ungodly. Something truly fear invoking, it was a cross between a public men's bathroom and the subway entrance. URINE! The odor of stale urine had filled my nostrils, flaring them into the most unattractive face I have ever made. I carried the box out of her room and into the bathroom and placed it into the bathtub. As I was in the process of disinfecting, I called for my little child to come see me.
Child: Yes, Mama.
Me: What am I doing right now?
Child (with the cutest little smile): Cleaning the toy box.
Me: Why am I cleaning the toy box?
Child (eyes flicker with total recall): I.......don't.......know.....
Me: What was in the toy box that would make Mommy have to clean it? Did you spill something in there? There was urine in there. Where does urine belong?
Child: In the potty.
Me: NOT TOY BOXES!
Child: NOT TOY BOXES!
Me: Okay, help me dry it? Where does pee pee belong?
Child: In the potty, not my toy box!
The foundation had been laid. I reminded her where urine belonged. I had my daughter take accountability for the action by helping to dry the box and toys. (The stuffed animal had to be washed, then thrown away. The smell of fermented urine doesn't just go away. It may have been singed into my nose hairs, but that animal had to go.) The lesson had been learned.
Two days later, I found two little pellets of poop floating in a pool of urine in the bucket of an empty shape sorter. (For a brief moment, I thought an animal had made his way into the house. There was no way that my child could have done this...Again!)This act of defiance had continued way too long! I didn't just review the logistics of where poop and pee belong. Instead, I fussed as I had help cleaning the bucket. I ranted with a stern face. I raved with a firm tone. I brow beat that lesson into my 3 1/2 year old. About five hours later, I heard little feet scampering about across the hall. I stumbled out of my room and was met by a sobbing little person in the doorway.
Child: I have to pee.
Me, looking at the bathroom less than five feet away: Well, then go pee pee.
Child, wailing at this point: I am scared!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Scared. I chastised my child for being afraid to get up and walk into the bathroom even with a night light. I fussed and ranted, because the friendly shadows on the walls became all things evil in the dark of night. I punished defiance never thinking about what the real issue could be. As parents, we must realize that our way of coping and their way of dealing are going to be different. They do not have the words to say, "I'm angry." "I'm lonely." "I'm scared." "I want some attention." "I don't want/like change." So, they control the situation how they deem fit.
Someone mentioned that when her child got upset, he urinated on the floor right in front of her. You may ask yourself, "Did he really just do that?" The truth is that it doesn't sound that unusual to me. Children react in ways that makes you wonder what they are thinking. Sometimes, they aren't. Have you ever seen that glazed look that comes over their eyes when they are about to do something that is out of the norm? That is when you address it. Call out their name to grab their attention. Let them know you see that they are losing control (literally), but don't make the situation worse. Have them tell you what the problem is or give them the words. "I see you are upset that you...., but you can't behave that way." Get down to their level and speak to them. With a firm, but loving tone, you can regain control and teach them the right way to react when they are upset.
The truth is that you will not catch every learning moment BEFORE it happens, but a lesson can be taught after the incident. Use those same methods after all is calm. Have the child accept responsibility. Speak about what you do when you get upset. Give them the words that can be used to respectfully communicate their feelings. Four children later, I have stopped asking, "Did they really just do that?" I can tell by the puddle in the toy box that they just did. The question is, "WHY?
ATTENTION: Please rest assured that only the coolest parents have been forced to clean up, contain, or throw away something that was covered in fecal matter.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Mommy Proof #3: My Best, My Breast, My Baby, My Business, Our Bond
Mommy Proof #3: Your parenting decisions are made for your family. No advice is needed.
A few weeks ago, I posted a picture of my son and I during a nursing session on a social network site. Nothing too controversial, most mammals produce milk for their babies. The picture did not have any nipple or areola sightings. My son was not standing up in the chair while I struck a "defiant" pose. Yet, there was a slight controversy surrounding the picture as it went viral, the caption under that sweet picture.
"My Best, My Breast, My Baby, My Business"
I did not post this picture on my own personal site, but on a pro-breastfeeding page. I had no idea that it would be received with anything but support. Most if not all of the negative comments were deleted, but here is the general consensus. (Paraphrased):"After one year of age, breastfeeding is not needed. What is she trying to prove?"
"I could NOT nurse my child, so I didn't do my best?"
And my personal favorite:
" 'MY best, MY breast, MY baby, MY business!' Who is she doing it for, the baby or herself?"
What my breastfeeding picture's caption meant was that, FOR MY FAMILY, it was my best. My last pregnancy was filled with dread of the unknown. I didn't think I would be able to breastfeed, because I can not pump. AT ALL. The doctors were pretty sure he would be born before 30 weeks due to complications. When I was six months along, the doctors told me that there was little chance of survival. Without an invasive procedure that would have to be repeated and came with its own risks, this bouncing, kicking baby boy would die. We found about a less invasive, experimental procedure that we could try. Almost three months later, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy.
After five months of being unsure if this baby would be an addition to our family, I was left at an emotional standstill. I was so focused on grieving that I never imagined what would happen if he survived. I forgot to bond with this child. I was so sure I wouldn't have the opportunity to ever nurse, I did not prepare to do it. My milk took a whole five days to come in while this baby screamed day in and day out. Who was this child that is suckling from my breast? Maybe I should offer him a bottle? Would he finally be quiet?
The night before I was determined to quit nursing, I sat on the floor crying. Deflated, exhausted, and stressed, I told my mother how I could NOT do this. I felt no desire to nurse this child. I just didn't WANT to do it. The baby lay wailing in his bassinet, ready for another feeding. Instinctively, I reached for him. As I held him to my breast, I heard a gulp. Then another milk filled swallow and another and another and another, until I was finally holding a milk drunk baby with a satisfyingly full tummy.
I looked up in triumph. I did it, just as I had nursed my other three children. That night, I held him as he slept falling in love with every little breath. For me, nursing him made him real to me. It helped me bond with him. I couldn't take care of his needs while he was in my uterus, but I could now. I could offer him my best which, in this case, was a bond.
Mommy Proof #2
Mommy Proof #2: If your child suffers from any sort of injustice, you will feel it, breathe it, and consume it until justice is met.
My daughter comes home from school with a story about what evils the world bestowed upon her that day. It may be someone disliked her natural hair. It may be that someone hated her shoes. One day, someone didn't like her. Another day, her shirt wasn't the right color. Then, a girl told her that her mother was fat. (Don't worry. I didn't take it personal. After four kids, my self esteem will survive as long as I suck in my stomach while I walk past the fourth grade.)
Sometimes you wonder, what happened to empathy, compassion, acceptance, or tolerance? Sure there will be common childhood jinx, pranks, disagreements, or misunderstandings. But when my fourth grader came home and asked me if n-word meant black person, it made me think. Just what is school teaching our children? Another child that had some learning difficulties was dubbed as "dumb," "slow," or "stupid." The little girl, who wore pants that were too small due to economic issues that were out of her hands, was nicknamed "gay pants."
For a while, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to help. What do you say to a child that will toughen them up, but still leaves them to remain hopeful in the rest of humanity? I guess all we can do as parents is try to teach our children right from wrong. Help them to develop compassion in an cruel world. For now, I show her by example. As misguided as it may be, I pray that one day I do get my point across and she will find justice in an unjust world. Oh, yeah, and I tell her those other kids are just jealous.
My daughter comes home from school with a story about what evils the world bestowed upon her that day. It may be someone disliked her natural hair. It may be that someone hated her shoes. One day, someone didn't like her. Another day, her shirt wasn't the right color. Then, a girl told her that her mother was fat. (Don't worry. I didn't take it personal. After four kids, my self esteem will survive as long as I suck in my stomach while I walk past the fourth grade.)
Sometimes you wonder, what happened to empathy, compassion, acceptance, or tolerance? Sure there will be common childhood jinx, pranks, disagreements, or misunderstandings. But when my fourth grader came home and asked me if n-word meant black person, it made me think. Just what is school teaching our children? Another child that had some learning difficulties was dubbed as "dumb," "slow," or "stupid." The little girl, who wore pants that were too small due to economic issues that were out of her hands, was nicknamed "gay pants."
For a while, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to help. What do you say to a child that will toughen them up, but still leaves them to remain hopeful in the rest of humanity? I guess all we can do as parents is try to teach our children right from wrong. Help them to develop compassion in an cruel world. For now, I show her by example. As misguided as it may be, I pray that one day I do get my point across and she will find justice in an unjust world. Oh, yeah, and I tell her those other kids are just jealous.
Mommy Proof #1: When your child overcomes any setback, you begin to feel like you can succeed at anything....
A little more than five years ago, I was two days overdue and wondered if this child would ever evacuate my uterus. What could I expect? What is IUGR anyway? Google it. You will see the dreaded school yard word that makes you shudder to your very core. "RETARD." Well, intrauterine growth retardation to be exact. You have never heard of it? Neither did I.
Intrauterine growth retardation is a big, fancy way of saying that your baby is not growing properly in utero. The reason could be almost anything. Inadequate placenta? Maybe. I remember thinking even my placenta is inadequate. What is going to be the effect on the baby? Will he ever grow properly? If his body didn't grow properly, what about his lungs, organs, heart? What about his brain? What will he be able to do? What if he isn't able to do anything? How will I cope? Will my marriage survive? How will our family survive? What if?
Forty weeks. That's how long it takes to grow a human baby. Forty weeks and two days, that is two days extra. Forty weeks and two days is how long I was pregnant before I was induced. Forty weeks and two days is how long I waited to have my third child, my first son. Forty weeks and two days for an IUGR baby equaled four pounds, thirteen ounces and seventeen and a half inches long. He was so tiny and so fragile. It made me wonder. If his body didn't develop properly, what else didn't?
We saw differences between our older children and Jax early on. He didn't crawl as early as they did. He was content to just be, sitting for hours at a time. He was active, but not as active. I could cuddle him for hours without him ever fighting to pull away, to get down, to just be. The girls were the pictures of health compared to him. I spent countless hours in the pediatricians' office, specialists' waiting rooms, and emergency rooms. I waited for doctors, nurses, x-ray technicians to complete test after test. It was always the same thing. He would recover. He would be fine. Ten days later, there would be another round of antibiotics, steroids, and doctor visits. Eventually, they figured out that he was allergic to any and everything airborne. He was asthmatic. He had fluid around his ear drum that impaired his speech. After surgery to remove his enlarged tonsils and adenoids and put tubes into his ears, he was a different child.
My little boy could hear. He began to speak. He could run without stopping to cough and catch his breath, but something was not quite right. His speech was not on par with what I was used to with his sisters. He stopped progressing with using new words. By age three, I was convinced that something was not connecting. He didn't know his colors. He couldn't remember his shapes. He couldn't copy a straight line. He had great difficulty copying or tracing a shape. He had a hard time remembering what letter, color, number, or shape we went over incessantly that day. We had him in speech therapy. We mentioned it to his pediatrician and therapist. We saw the frustration in his face when he couldn't remember the name of the color, letter, shape, or number we went over ten minutes before. These were all things that his sisters knew by an earlier age.
It wasn't until he was almost four that I began to wonder how this would effect his life. Yes, he would learn to spell his name. He would learn to write it eventually, but how would this effect his self-esteem and confidence? How would his delay effect his ability to connect with his peers? I decorated his room with an Alphabet comforter, hoping that he would dream of the letters after we went over them. My nephew donated his collection of 300 cars. We would count them, group them by colors, make shapes with them. My other children were not eligible to attend pre-K classes. It wasn't needed. Jax was in the room for five seconds before I realized that not only would he be accepted, he would actually need it. Desperately. I worked with him to no avail during the summer with phonics, number and letter recognition, shapes and colors. The first time he said the color blue when he picked a blue block, I teared up. When he recognized his name on the Wii, I cried.
Five long years later, he wrote his name for the first time. Painstakingly exact with every stroke his marker made. Two years after his sisters first did it. One year after he learned to spell it. He did it. An hour later, I put my feelings of triumph into words. My name is Jenn and it's nice to meet you.
A little more than five years ago, I was two days overdue and wondered if this child would ever evacuate my uterus. What could I expect? What is IUGR anyway? Google it. You will see the dreaded school yard word that makes you shudder to your very core. "RETARD." Well, intrauterine growth retardation to be exact. You have never heard of it? Neither did I.
Intrauterine growth retardation is a big, fancy way of saying that your baby is not growing properly in utero. The reason could be almost anything. Inadequate placenta? Maybe. I remember thinking even my placenta is inadequate. What is going to be the effect on the baby? Will he ever grow properly? If his body didn't grow properly, what about his lungs, organs, heart? What about his brain? What will he be able to do? What if he isn't able to do anything? How will I cope? Will my marriage survive? How will our family survive? What if?
Forty weeks. That's how long it takes to grow a human baby. Forty weeks and two days, that is two days extra. Forty weeks and two days is how long I was pregnant before I was induced. Forty weeks and two days is how long I waited to have my third child, my first son. Forty weeks and two days for an IUGR baby equaled four pounds, thirteen ounces and seventeen and a half inches long. He was so tiny and so fragile. It made me wonder. If his body didn't develop properly, what else didn't?
We saw differences between our older children and Jax early on. He didn't crawl as early as they did. He was content to just be, sitting for hours at a time. He was active, but not as active. I could cuddle him for hours without him ever fighting to pull away, to get down, to just be. The girls were the pictures of health compared to him. I spent countless hours in the pediatricians' office, specialists' waiting rooms, and emergency rooms. I waited for doctors, nurses, x-ray technicians to complete test after test. It was always the same thing. He would recover. He would be fine. Ten days later, there would be another round of antibiotics, steroids, and doctor visits. Eventually, they figured out that he was allergic to any and everything airborne. He was asthmatic. He had fluid around his ear drum that impaired his speech. After surgery to remove his enlarged tonsils and adenoids and put tubes into his ears, he was a different child.
My little boy could hear. He began to speak. He could run without stopping to cough and catch his breath, but something was not quite right. His speech was not on par with what I was used to with his sisters. He stopped progressing with using new words. By age three, I was convinced that something was not connecting. He didn't know his colors. He couldn't remember his shapes. He couldn't copy a straight line. He had great difficulty copying or tracing a shape. He had a hard time remembering what letter, color, number, or shape we went over incessantly that day. We had him in speech therapy. We mentioned it to his pediatrician and therapist. We saw the frustration in his face when he couldn't remember the name of the color, letter, shape, or number we went over ten minutes before. These were all things that his sisters knew by an earlier age.
It wasn't until he was almost four that I began to wonder how this would effect his life. Yes, he would learn to spell his name. He would learn to write it eventually, but how would this effect his self-esteem and confidence? How would his delay effect his ability to connect with his peers? I decorated his room with an Alphabet comforter, hoping that he would dream of the letters after we went over them. My nephew donated his collection of 300 cars. We would count them, group them by colors, make shapes with them. My other children were not eligible to attend pre-K classes. It wasn't needed. Jax was in the room for five seconds before I realized that not only would he be accepted, he would actually need it. Desperately. I worked with him to no avail during the summer with phonics, number and letter recognition, shapes and colors. The first time he said the color blue when he picked a blue block, I teared up. When he recognized his name on the Wii, I cried.
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