Puzzles, Puddles, and Dinner with the Animals

I'm pretty sure that if Ben had any concept of time he would long for Fridays. It has got to be his favorite day. Because of a little glitch in childcare, Matt goes into work late and watches B Friday mornings, my mom takes him for the afternoons, and I get him in the evenings. All three of us get a few hours of quality alone time with our favorite little man, and he gets a few hours of quality alone time with us. And we all take him on dates. So basically he gets to go out to breakfast with Daddy, out to lunch with Nana, and out to dinner with Mommy. Except that lately I think that the first 2/3 of Friday is his favorite. He spends that last third having peanut butter toast for dinner and playing by himself while Mommy alternately lies half dead on the couch and barfs in his bathroom. Well, today I was feeling good, so we had our Friday date night. Nana got him a couple of new puzzles today, so he worked on those for a while. Eventually I finally convinced him to abandon the puzzle that was frustrating him to pieces so we could go to dinner. He asked for "Dinner with the Animals" (Rain Forest Cafe). Let's be clear, here: I do not like Rain Forest Cafe. The food is overpriced and not very good, it's super loud and annoying, the service is marginal at best, and Ben loves it. So occasionally (like the very rarely kind of occasionally) I take one for the team and we have Dinner with the Animals. Since I haven't really been Mother of the Year lately, I figured this was my chance to get in good with the Little. So he put on his boots (it was sprinkling) and coat and we set off. He really wanted to stomp in the puddles, so I let him have at it. Man, does this kid love puddles.

So eventually it started pouring and I was getting hungry. But he really really did not want to be done. I had to carry him to the car like the whiny little baby he was being. Oy. Two. So I loaded him into the car soaking wet and set off for the mall. If I had any sense at all I would have just quit while I was ahead, gone inside, made some toast and hot chocolate, and done puzzles in comfy pants. But I'm an idiot, so I forged on ahead with the Dinner with the Animals plan. I got to the light, realized I was an adult and could easily turn around if I so chose, and then I did it. I made a u-turn and went back home. When we pulled up to the house, he started crying and begging for Dinner with the Animals. I'm such a sucker. So we made another u-turn and went to the mall. Dinner sucked, obviously, but we had fun with each other. Then we played in the mall for a bit and went home. After dinner he shook my hand and said, "thank you for coming with me." (?!?!?!?! Where does he get this stuff?!?!?!)

The End.

Smartypants and the Stool

I like to think I am a pretty intelligent person. I mean, Mensa probably won't be calling anytime soon, but my school transcripts indicate a moderate level of smarts. There was a reasonably good chance I would have reasonably intelligent children, which I always considered a benefit. Clearly I was forgetting that intelligence can often also mean clever mischief.

A certain shorty has clearly gotten my intelligence, sass, and trouble-making genes. This is a deadly combination. As a teacher, I'm discovering that I would probably have had a love/hate relationship with myself as a student. And now I have a love/hate relationship with myself as a child, because this little prodigy shows the same propensity towards crafty deviance. He's done it before, but now it's becoming a habit, this bit with the stool. Last evening it went like this.

On Tuesday my friend made Ben some heart-shaped rice crispy treats, which we have been giving to Ben as a treat after dinner if he eats (I never thought I'd be the mom that bribed her child to eat, but here we are). Yesterday afternoon they were sitting on the counter, far enough back that he couldn't reach them, but within view so he could keep his eye on the prize. After playing for a bit, he said he wanted some, to which I replied that I was making dinner, and as soon as he finished eating his dinner he could have one. We went back and forth for a couple of minutes, then he seemingly gave up and sauntered off. And I do mean sauntered. He walked away, head down, shoulders hunched, slowly making his way out of the kitchen. But oh, he wasn't giving up. He went straight to the bathroom, turned on the light, picked up the little stool at the sink for hand-washing, turned the light off, went into the kitchen, set the stool next to the counter, stood on it, and grabbed the bag of treats. I actually seriously considered giving him one just for ingenuity. But that would set a bad precident, right? Sigh. So I told him I was impressed with his cleverness, but he still had to wait until after dinner. I handed Matt the bag, which he set on the back of the computer desk where he was sitting. Ben calmly walked into the kitchen, picked up the stool, brought it to the desk, stood on it, and reached for the bag of treats. Clearly he could do this for days.

Eventually I wised up and put them on the top shelf of the pantry, which could not be reached with the stool (although he obviously tried), which prompted a face on the kitchen floor tantrum, etc.

If I wasn't so annoyed I'd be so proud. A for effort, kid.

Gratitude Addendum

--Zofran, an anti-nausea drug, generally given to chemo patients, that is saving my life and my sanity

I hit a new low on Monday. Sunday had actually been a relatively pleasant day. We were all feeling a little better, so in the morning we spent a leisurely couple of hours out to breakfast, the farm and the park. It totally wiped me out, but it was so wonderful to get out and get some exercise and fresh air. I threw up a few times during the course of the day, but no Big Ones. On Monday I was off work, and for my Valentine's present to Matt I was going to clean the house. The morning started out fine. I had a bit of energy, Ben slept in a little. Then I threw up breakfast. And it was a Big One. And as I could hear Ben outside the bathroom door softly saying, "Mommy are you okay?" I knew that was it over for me; I couldn't do it anymore. For the first time throughout this whole ordeal, I cried. Spent and angry, I dragged myself out of the bathroom and went to call Matt home. When I got to my phone there was a text from him saying he was on his way.

I cried off and on all day. I was rapidly sinking onto a quicksand of depression, and really not just because of the throwing up. Mostly because all of the puking leaves me feeling weak and exhausted, and I can't do anything. I can barely get off the couch much less play with my son, keep my house reasonably clean, cook, teach, and in any way enjoy my life or perform even the most basic functions of my roles of wife, mother, and teacher. And while Matt is amazing and is doing so much, despite the fact he's recovering from a cold, the thought of him having to do everything for the next 5 or 6 months kills me. And who knows--maybe that's what this is a little bit about--me letting go of needing to do and be everything. But like so many volunteers on infomercials say--"there's got to be a better way!"

I called Kaiser in the morning when Matt got home. I don't really want to dump my midwife yet, because I have a feeling the lack of help is not on her but on the convoluted and nonsensical Kaiser Chain of Communication. But something had to give. So I called Labor & Delivery to be traiged like the RN who'd been responding to my messages had told me. I thought it might be drastic, but if I had to go through that step before they'd give me meds then I'd do it. The nurse in L&D was baffled that no one had put me on meds yet. She said it didn't sound like I needed the IV quite yet, although I was certainly close, and that I should call my midwife and ask for the meds first. So I did. Except of course with Kaiser you can't just call your doctor, you have to weave your way through a call center, leave a message, and wait up to 24 hours for them to call you back. So I left my message: Give me the freaking meds. I got off the phone, and I prayed. I prayed that it wouldn't take 24 hours, that my midwife would get the message quickly, not bother to have a nurse call me back to ask more questions then call me back again later with a decision (which is often how this little system works). That she would simply get my message, soon, and order the meds. An hour later I got a call from a nurse at my midwife's office saying she would pass on my message and get those meds ordered. At 3:30 she called back and said the meds had been ordered and were ready for me to pick up.

I am a new person. I haven't thrown up since that "last time" Monday morning. I believe that God gave me that whole day off from vomiting while I waited for the meds. I have kept down every scrap of food, and I have even felt hungry, which has happened maybe three times in the last three and a half months. I am still battling whatever demon is attacking my respiratory system. I sound like Slingblade, I cough all day from deep in my chest, and I can only hear out of one ear at a time. I'm still on antibiotics, which are clearly doing nothing. BUT...all those times I cough I don't throw up afterward. V for Victory.

Wall of Gratitude

After I graduated college, I had a couple of odd and random years (as I think many do). Going to grad school right away ended up not happening, and I was really hurting about that. I did a teaching internship during my senior year and walked away from it rethinking the profession I had been working toward since I was five (that is not a joke or an exaggeration). I was working at Applebee's and really just feeling unsettled and lost. Which, for a lifelong overachiever, is equivalent to Purgatory. Anyway, I was struggling, and feeling very negative, and I didn't want to get stuck in that. So every time I thought of something I was grateful for, every time I thought of something good in my life, I wrote it on a scrap of paper and taped it to my wall. In no time, I had a wall covered in bits of paper that reminded me every day that while I was in a dark spot, I was blessed. Eventually I moved, and it didn't make sense to drag scraps of paper with me. So the Wall of Gratitude, as I'd come to call it, went away. But the image was in my head and heart, and that I carried with me.

Clearly I'm hitting another dark and twisty phase and could use a Wall of Gratitude. But Matt's a minimalist, and considering the amount of "discussions" that take place about my books, I can't imagine he'd be okay with me taping scraps of paper to the wall. So I will make a Virtual Wall of Gratitude, right here for you. And today it will be focused on those things that I am grateful for that have helped me get through these last couple of weeks.

--God, for giving me life and everything else on this entire "wall"
--Matthew, for taking care of me and being so loving and patient and helpful
--Benjamin, for making me laugh and giving me cuddles
--Last night when I was singing with Ben before bed he farted, and we both cracked up so hard, which made him fart more, which made us laugh even harder...you get the picture. Moments like that
--My mom, for being my mom. For making us chicken noodle soup, taking care of Ben when I can't, praying, and encouraging me
--My Auntie Sue, for praying, encouraging, and constantly reminding me of the Peach at the end of the tunnel
--Brandi, for taking Ben off my hands so I could stay home alone and have a couple of "real" sick days
--My friends, for standing by me, praying, and encouraging me
--My job, which comes with insurance, so that I don't have to live with that fear anymore, and all the kind, encouraging, and helpful people that I work with
--My students, who have been so patient and understanding and who have been so good for me
--My Peach
--Tylenol and Benadryl

Once I get rolling this thing could go on forever. I'm very blessed, and I have a full heart and life. But I've been a terrible parent for quite some time now, and I should probably get off the computer and do something with my kid. Although he's pretty content putting puzzles together all day long, and is so dang good at them he does not require my assistance. But he's so dang cute I can't resist him.

February Fun with a capital F

A timeline...

--Last week, the vomiting starts anew (I'd been feeling better for a couple of weeks). By Saturday I'm down two pounds. By Monday I'm down two more.
--Last week, the post-nasal drip starts.
--Sunday, the drip becomes an I-can't-breath-hear-or-hold-my-head-straight cold. And the vomiting continues.
--Monday I stay home from work. I've stopped vomiting, but I'm too weak to move, my stomach is too small to take food, and the head cold stays strong.
--Tuesday, repeat Monday, but able to keep a little food down.
--Wednesday morning I'm feeling 10 percent better. I'm way behind at work now, so I decide to go in. Bad bad plan. My body wasn't ready. I was planning to take it easy, but the power goes out for the first half of the day. At lunch I have a fever of 102.2. I convince my principal to let me finish the day if I promise to sit at my desk. I go home, eat, throw up, and call in sick for Thursday. And make a doctor appointment.
--Thursday Ben's out of it. I get him to the babysitter an hour and a half late. I go to the doctor. I slip and fall in the parking lot on some grapes, banging up my knee and twisting my ankle. I'm diagnosed with a sinus infection and given some antibiotics. I'm diagnosed with hyperemesis, something I was expecting but praying against. I'm advised to talk to my midwife about my options, with the hopeful idea that I may be able to just take meds and that would take care of it. They clean and dress my knee. I sleep and watch stupid movies for the rest of the day. Matt comes home coughing and congested.
--Friday Ben wakes up coughing and crying at 5:45. We sleep on the couch for a little bit, then the Backyardigans marathon begins. I go to work, even though I don't feel great, because a colleague and I are just supposed to be doing work all day while subs teach our classes. Upon arrival, I discover I don't have a sub because my paperwork never went through. I frantically call sub services. There's no way I can teach. I get my class started while I wait. The sub comes. I find my sub request buried in my "to give the office" pile. Oops. I spend the rest of the day with my colleague getting work done. It's productive, we enjoy each other's company, and the day goes by shockingly quickly. I throw up in the car on the way home, get home a little early, my mom leaves, Ben wakes up an hour early from his nap crying and coughing. We climb into my bed together and he sleeps for another hour. We resume Backyardigans. He feels hot, but our thermometer doesn't really work anymore. We make a trip to Target for a new thermometer and some Tylenol. We get home. I take his temp. 104.4. The drill begins: I strip him, give him Tylenol and a popsicle, and wait. An hour and a half later, he's at 101.3. We send him to bed in his summer jammies. At 9:45 before we got to bed we take his temp again (101.1). I change his diaper, give him Tylenol, and put him back to bed.


This morning he woke up, fever free, at 6:00. Backyardigans. It's the weekend. All three of us are sick, but I want to get out of the house because I've been stuck in here for a week and I'm losing my mind. I'm secretly terrified of and dreading 25 weeks of continued vomiting, with a possible portable IV. Because I'm a pessimist when it comes to my health and I always go to the worst-case scenario. My midwife is honestly not being very helpful in allaying my fears and giving me options for this moment right now when I'm weak and tired of throwing up. I miss eating dinner. I miss food in general. I miss feeling like a functional human being. I miss being a reasonably good wife, mother, and teacher. And 25 weeks is a long time to feel this way, emotionally and physically. I love my husband and I desperately want to take care of him while he's sick like he's been doing for me this last week, but I'm still so weak and sick myself I want to cry at the thought of it. Because I always get sick first and he gets it from me, I'm nearly always still sick when he is. On top of it, Ben and Matt always seem to get sick at the same time. So after I get a couple of days being sick, I become the caretaker of two sick little boys, while I'm still struggling to function. And I get bitter. I feel like a failure as a wife and mother.

Well, this has certainly taken a dark turn, hasn't it. Sorry. I know that this is all temporary. I know that I have a home and family and food (even if I myself can't eat it). God loves me and is taking care of me, and there's no need for the dramatics. But let's maybe still pray for our family, just in case.

Burnt Toast

Turn me over, I'm done.

I spent several days vomiting every scrap of food I'd ever eaten. I blamed it on allergies. What a sucker. Sunday the "allergies" rapidly turned into a horrific cold. So on top of the puking, I can barely breathe and my head feels like it's strapped to the tracks of the 6 train. I've lost five pounds in as many days. Ordinarily I would be thrilled by the weight loss, but I'm pretty sure now's not the time. The throwing up has ended, which leads me to believe it is not my baby's fault, but that of the dozens of students at my school who've been spreading a nasty stomach flu. I took today and tomorrow off work, which was a good decision because I barely have the strength to move from the bed to the couch.

I know you're tired of the whining, so please pray that I get better soon.

Two Blue Lines

The journey to twosie has been vastly different than my firstborn in so many ways. In some aspects it is much the same--like the vomiting, losing weight, overwhelming fatigue, mental fog, etc. The physical symptoms are all present and accounted for. But the rest is night and day. With Ben we spent the three months after our wedding actively trying to not get pregnant. This time we tried for three months. And my oh my were those a different three months. It was a journey I couldn't share, but it was surprisingly trying and, at times, emotionally painful. The first half of the month was almost normal. But that second half...those two weeks seemed like a lifetime. Of just waiting. And at the end, disappointment. It only took us a few months and I was spent. I can't imagine the struggle of those who try without success for years. But one beautiful morning I knew. When that second blue line appeared, there was so much joy. Such a different response to last time, sitting on the bathroom floor with four positive tests littering the ground and sobbing my head off. When last time I heard that beautiful sound of a heartbeat at 11 weeks, I felt both fear and joy that it was real. This time I heard it at 7 weeks, and those familiar tears fell for such a different reason. I was in love. Last time I told people within a couple of weeks of finding out. This time I had an inordinate fear of miscarriage, so I didn't share. I spent the last two months petrified. So I sat in my self-made cocoon of misery, physically ill and emotionally torturing myself. I'm not saying it was my best decision--but I also can't say I would make a different one. I wasn't completely alone--I had Matt and a small circle of family and friends that knew. But I lived inside my head. Last time I was miserable because I was pregnant. This time I was miserable because I was afraid I wouldn't be anymore. Needless to say, after my second appointment and that beautiful second trimester mark, I emerged from the rubble and rejoiced.

Having Ben while I'm knocked up and sick as the dickens is a mixed bag. On the one hand, it's infinitely harder. Everything I do as a parent is so much more difficult and exhausting. On the other hand, it's really sweet to be sharing this with him. At first he just said "no thanks." But he warmed up to it quickly. He carries the ultrasound pictures around and calls it "my baby." When I'm lying on the couch half-conscious he takes breaks from his playing to curl up next to me, put his arms around me, and cuddle. Yesterday he woke up early from his nap, which he of course only does when I'm trying to nap at the same time. I stumbled into his room, looked down at him sitting in his bed, and said, "I'm not done with my nap yet." He reached up, took my hand, pulled me into his bed with him, wrapped his arms around me, and closed his eyes.

Soon I will have three sweet angels in my home with me. My personal heaven.