I should have gone to med school

Since last March, I've spent an awful lot of time in doctors offices.  I went at least once a month while I was pregnant.  Then there was the pricey delivery and hospital stay.  Then the Drew started visiting his pediatrician with alarming frequency thanks to reflux.  I worry we may one day bankrupt Blue Cross Blue Shield.

Enter another doctor.

At Drew's 4 month appointment, after telling us that he really could go through the night without eating at this point and chatting with us about reflux and solids and other things, our fabulous pediatrician says "Now, let's talk about his head."

His head.

Remember when I mentioned that the last doctor who saw him (not his normal doctor) told me he needed more tummy time and we started tummy time bootcamp?  Well, his head was looking a touch.... flat.

So we spent the last month doing lots of tummy time and other activities that kept him off his head and it's still flat. :(  I'm doing my absolute best not to feel like it's somehow my fault.

So we have now been referred to a craniofacial surgeon at Dell Children's Hospital to take a look at his head and growth plates and see why this is happening.  Our doctor was quick to tell us that she had seen much worse cases that she referred out and everything was FINE, but that this was our window to correct anything that was wrong and she really felt we should be sure everything was ok.

But still.  CRANIOFACIAL SURGEON. 

We go to the doctor on the 8th.  I would appreciate thoughts and prayers and any advice you have on creating a beautiful round head between now and then.

Circle of Life?

When Drew was about 3 weeks old, we had an "incident" that never seemed to make it to the blog.  (I blame complete exhaustion).  It was about 9:00 at night.  The baby was asleep, and Rob and I were about to shut down shop and go collapse in bed.  Rob let our dear puppy out for one last time, and we were standing in the kitchen discussing something earth-shattering like formula or spit up or poop.  When we both smelled it-- and ran for the door.

Too late- sweet Sophie had been skunked.  She was standing at the back door looking like she wanted to curl up and disappear.  Some quick googling and reaching out to friends on Facebook left us with a great recipe for dog wash that included baking soda, peroxide and dish soap.

Seeing as I used peroxide about twice per year, we only had 1/2 a cup and it expired in 2008.  We agree that the best course of action is that I should pack up the baby and head to HEB while Rob takes the dog upstairs and begins to wash her with whatever we can find.

Anyway, long story short, we get the skunk out of the dog while at the same time realizing the skunk has made itself at home under the deck in our backyard.

We aren't strangers to wildlife in this neighborhood.  Deer, coyotes, armadillos, possums, skunks.... we got 'em all.  But I don't need one living in such close proximity.  I have to admit we have yet to do anything about evicting the skunk.  It's amazingly expensive since you have to have the company come back every day to see if you caught anything, and you could catch a squirrel or the neighbors cat as easily as you could catch the skunk.

So today, in the middle of the day, I  look out onto my deck and see what look to be mice scurrying around.  I get closer and peer out the window, only to be looking at two mice sticking their heads out of one hole in the deck, and one poking his head out of another.  I tell you what, it looked like a Disney movie only with less cuteness.  I expected them to break out in song at any moment.

Here's my question- skunks eat mice.  How do BOTH live under my deck?  Shouldn't one of these problems take care of the other?  I'd rather have neither, but surely I shouldn't have both.

Rob has agreed that our first order of business this spring is removing the deck and putting in a nice, flat, concrete patio....

How I Almost Died on My 28th Birthday*

*Title of post could be an exaggeration-- I didn't stick around long enough to find out.

This post has nothing to do with the fact that I woke up at 6:30 today to find a power outage and my thermometer telling me it was 18.4 degrees.  (Thank you, Austin Energy).  I was lucky and the power came back on just as I was considering the pros and cons of cuddling with a bottle in bed to warm it up before the baby woke up.

I am totally and completely afraid of all elevators manufactured after approximately 1988. I could get on an elevator and ride up 78 stories as long as it was a new elevator.  But the old ones all seem to have a mind of their own, and I always seem to be in them when they malfunction.

A history, if you will-

1. I once arrived at law school at 6:50am, preparing to go to the library when it opened at 7.  I got on the elevator (alone) and rode up to the second floor.  When the doors opened, I was eye level with the third floor.  The doors closed again, and when they re-opened, the elevator was about 1 foot higher than the floor itself.  I pushed my way through the doors as they tried to close again, not sure that the third time would really be the charm here.

2. The elevators at the AG's office were so frequently in disrepair that they actually kept an "out of service" sign inside each of the elevators.  The elevator would often just stop, wide open, on a floor and choose not to work for a couple of days.  At least twice I would get in, press the floor I needed, and was dropped of on another floor for no apparent reason.  All of this was punctuated by the fact that no one replaced any of the 9 20-watt light bulbs in the elevators until only one remained lit, so most of these adventures took place in almost pitch blackness.  The elevators were so bad that I actually instituted a personal rule that I never got into the elevator having to go to the bathroom or hungry.

3. I was in Philadelphia on work and got into an elevator on the 56th floor, rode down, felt the belt pop, and it went back up several floors, stopped, and finally returned to the ground where it let us out.  There were about 6 other people in the elevator at the time, and I'm pretty sure I pushed them all aside to get out once we got to solid land.

So we agree I have a justified fear of elevators, yes?

Anyway, today I went to my birthday party YWA board meeting, and brought the baby with me in the stroller. Once the meeting was over at 8 I packed up and hustled out because the baby was supposed to eat at 7:30 and I knew I was pushing my luck.  I said my goodbyes and got on the elevator, briefly thinking "I wish at least one other person was in here with us."  Famous. Last. Words. Thoughts.

I got on at the second floor and pushed "1."  And then I felt that tell-tale "pop."  As you can see from my vast elevator incident repertoire listed above, I knew that wasn't good.  I tried to tell myself there was nothing to worry about.  The elevator started its descent.  We reached the bottom.  AND NOTHING HAPPENED.  I try to convince myself to relax- sometimes it just takes a second longer than I think it should for the doors to open.  BUT THEY DIDN'T OPEN. 

Suddenly I'm having 15 thoughts at once.  How do I protect Drew?  If the doors open, I'm going to push him out onto whatever floor the doors open to, but will I have time to get out, too?  What if the doors don't open level with a floor, how will I get him out then? 

Now the elevator jerks back to life.

I start hearing voices and realize that we are headed back towards where we came from.  I'm considering screaming to everyone that we have a situation on our hands.  As I consider that possibility the elevator stopped and the doors opened and I came FLYING out of that elevator with the baby, apparently with a look on my face that let everyone know something had gone horribly wrong. 

I stood outside that elevator for about 10 more minutes while I distributed my stuff among everyone so we could take the stroller down the stairs, and those doors never opened again, despite pushing the button to call the elevator.

So my 28th birthday started out with a little more drama (and likely grey hairs) that was expected.  Now if the "Blizzard of the Century" would just move along....

"Should"

Should. 

A word that strikes fear into a mother's heart.

Don't believe me? 

When I was pregnant, I signed up for several weekly update emails from various websites.  Every week they would send me the details of what was going on with my little jellybean.  We went through the entire produce section in terms of size- cherry, grape, apple, medium banana, cantaloupe.  I was told when he would be getting eyelashes, fingernails or hair.  It was great to know exactly what was going on in my body.

But did I know exactly what was going on in my body?  Nope.  On a weekly basis I wouldn't be able to tell if Drew increased in size from a small banana to a large banana.  I didn't know if he started getting fingernails in week 24 or 30.  But because the emails told me so, I figured that was going on and proudly told my husband he was the size of a red delicious apple because the emails said so.

Well, once you have the baby, those emails turn into weekly updates on the babe.  And the emails that used to say "Your baby is the size of a large banana" now say "Your baby should be smiling at you now."  And now you know if your baby is or is not smiling at you.  And if he isn't, well.... FEAR.

For instance, the one I got today says Drew should be giving me "belly laughs."

Y'all.

"Belly Laughs?"  He laughs, sure.  But is it a belly laugh?  They don't define belly laugh.  Should he sound like Santa Claus?  If he did sound like Santa Claus, would that be a problem?  How do I elicit a belly laugh?

The emails don't ask answer any of those questions.  They simply tell me what he "should" be doing. 

Is this how the next 18 years will be?  I may have to delete myself from those lists.... :)

So I've been M.I.A.

We are dealing with a bit of an... issue over here.  And no, it isn't the fact that my husband is proudly showing my son the Victoria's Secret fashion show.  And making him dance to Katy Perry.

It's reflux.  Or gas.  Or intolerance to the formula.  Or all three.  Or two of those three.  The problem is we don't know what it is.  All we know is when Drew gets hungry we need to put in ear plugs, settle down for an hour, and prepare to have formula spit all over the place.

The doctors initial diagnosis was reflux, which I think definitely has some part in this.  But that medicine only worked for about two days and now we are back to screaming in the middle of being fed.  So we go back tomorrow.  Hopefully we can track this down, because it is wearing on all of us.  I feel for Drew- it must suck to be hungry and need to eat, only to know that something is going to really hurt when you do.

Here's a snippet of a day in my life:

Minutes 1- Notice Drew is stirring.  Begin frantically putting together a bottle before he gets to hysterics.
Minutes 4- Put bottle in the bottle warmer.  Longest 3.5 minutes EVER.
Minutes 7.5- Run around house looking for the burp rag.  Like socks in a dryer, those things. They disappear into thin air.  Usually decide to just get a new one. 
Minutes 9-10: Make sure I have everything I need for the next hour at my finger tips. 
Minute 11- Bottle is IN!  Drew seems happy.
Minute 15- Bottle is out.  Drew is decidedly not happy.  Try to burp him and get a good burp.  Cross fingers that was the problem.
Minute 16- That was not the problem.  Still crying.  I'm wondering why I haven't cut his fingernails yet as he slices and dices my face and neck.  Try to burp him again.
Minute 18- No luck on the burping.  Put the paci in to try to calm him down.
Minute 21- He finally noticed the paci is there and settles down.
Minute 22- Contemplate how long I should let him suck on the paci before I remove it and try to replace it with the bottle.
Minute 25- Commence "Bait and switch" mission.
Minute 27- It WORKED! Hallelujah!!
Minute 28- Wait, no it didn't.
Minute 29- Back to the paci.
Minute 31- Still crying.  Put him upright over my shoulder.
Minute 36- He's asleep.  And yet mostly unfed.  But quiet.
Minute 40- Try to get him to eat again.  He takes the bottle, but doesn't seem happy about it.
Minute 45- Still eating.  Yay.
Minute 50- Done.  Amazing.  Seems happy to be burped.
Minute 55- Not happy to be removed from shoulder.  Leave him there.
Minute 65- Drew is asleep.  Try to move him to crib/swing/bouncy chair.  Wait- bad plan.  Not happy about that.  Let him go back to sleep on my shoulder.
Minute 80- Seems to be really asleep now.  Move him into swing.  It WORKED!  Run to kitchen to put away breakfast dishes/wash a bottle/put away toaster. 
Minute 85- Drew is crying.  Go to swing and quiet him.  Replace paci.  Try to reason with him that if he didn't spit it out he would be much happier.
Minute 90- Asleep again.  Run to bedroom to make bed and pick up 3 bottles from last night.
Minute 93- He's awake.  Replace paci.  Wonder how I ever thought I wouldn't give him a paci.
Minute 94-180- Turn on computer to send emails.  While it's booting up, start dishwasher and wash bottles.  That reminds me of the load of whites that have been in the washing machine wet for 2 days.  Go to put those in dryer.  Find a load of forgotten towels in the dryer.  Remove towels and fold.  Take them upstairs and trip over all the other stuff I've left on the stairs to take upstairs the next time I go up.  Spend some time taking things upstairs.  Locate missing burp rag on floor of office.  Take downstairs.  Let the dog out. Remember that I turned my computer on to send emails.  Actually send an email or two.

Repeat every 3 hours.  In the middle of the night replace minutes 95-180 with "attempt to go to sleep as quickly as possible."

So all of that to say is I haven't yet posted the "Hey Drew, You Are One Month Old" post yet, even though its written, because I haven't found time to download the pictures from my brothers SLR that I seem to have appropriated.

(Rob, I have the BEST idea for a Christmas gift for me.... and I know you read this).

My goal is to post it before I write the two month post.  And also to be better about writing.

Au Naturale?

One upon a time there was a girl (me) who peed (sorry mom, I know you hate when I write with the word "pee," but it is necessary here!) on a stick and saw two blue lines, which meant she was pregnant.  She called the doctor to make an appointment and came in 2 weeks later to figure out what the next 9 months of her life would look like.

(Sidenote- Phone staff at an OB/GYN's office should be trained to say "Congrats!" when you call to make an appointment because you are pregnant.  It was the first time I "told" anyone, and she reacted like she hears it all the time.  Which she probably does.  But I didn't get to tell people all the time.  A little enthusiasm would have gone a long way.)

After the appointment, they sent said girl to the lab to have all the bloodwork done.  Said girl, knowing her reaction to needles, brought her husband back with the phlebotomist (I just wanted to use that word).  Good thing, too, because after the blood was drawn said girl passed out cold and hit the floor in the hallway while wearing heels and a skirt.  Not her proudest moment, but not uncommon.

Fast forward 31 weeks.  Now it's time for that same girl to be taking childbirth classes.  They are going rather well until the nurse starts talking about IVs, epidurals, and C-Sections.  That girl is basically sitting curled up in her chair with her arms clinched across her growing belly, protecting her inner arms.  And seeing a few stars. And reading a magazine during the movies that depict these things.  And feeling bad for making fun of all the "granola" women in Austin who choose to have their baby in a blow up pool in their living room.  Because that idea is looking better and better.

So this long post is just to say I am SERIOUSLY considering having this baby au naturale.  I'm not anti-meds, just anti-cutting-open-my-body.  If I could get an epidural through wearing a gas mask like they used to give you at the dentist, I would totally do it.  No promises- if pain gets too bad I may decide to get over my fear of needles for a moment, but for now I'm considering writing a birth plan....