The Night I Got Thrown Up On

My kid is sick. Not like hospital sick, thank God, but feeling really crummy nonetheless. He's got a barking cough and a green 11 streaming out of his nose. He's been up for nights with a fever and my typically active boy just wants to be held. He's also incredibly, uncouragably irritable.

We went to the ped's office on Wednesday. I called first thing and they asked if we could be there in 15 minutes. I told them we'd love to if they didn't mind us showing up in superman pjs. So we did, cape and all.

Our doc said it was a croupey virus and gave us a prescription for a steroid. We filled it and set in for the 'roid rage, just hoping it would make him feel better. We waited. And waited. And still he felt gross. And even more irritable. Saturday night The Boy was feeling particularly bad. He cried. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be held with his head on my shoulder. He said his shirt hurt, so we took it off. He said his pants hurt, so we took them off. He was burning up so we dosed him up with Tylenol.  I stayed home with him while The Husband went to go watch basketball with some friends. "Are you sure it's okay if I go?" He asked. "Of course," I said. "We'll just lay around and watch some tv before bed. He'll be easy."

The Boy with Puppy, his lovie

Husband: buddy, do you want some dinner before I go?
Boy: No!
Husband: how about some grapes?
Boy: No!
Husband: pasta?
Boy: No!
Husband: crackers?
Boy: NO!
Husband: banana?
Boy: NOOO!
Me: ice cream?
Boy: NOOO!
Husband: cookies?
Boy: NOOO!
Husband: biscuit?
Boy: uh huh.
Husband: yeah? I'll fix you a biscuit. ( starts to fix a biscuit)
Boy: biscuit! (Crying) BISCUIIIIIIT......

So his daddy put some biscuits in the oven on his way out but when the timer went off the poor guy didn't want me to put him down to eat it. It was just the two of us and I let him curl up in my lap on the couch to eat. I put his favorite show on and we settled in for the night. He laid on me and ate his little biscuit while he watched tv.

When we'd been couching for awhile he sat up, looked at me and began to cry. Poor guy felt really  bad. I stroked his hair and asked him what was wrong. And he threw up all over me. I saw it happening and there was nothing I could do. All down my shirt and all in my lap. I was covered in vomit and he was crying demanding "wipe!" He wanted me to clean him, and now. What to do first?

I picked him up of my vomit lap and stood him on the ground. He cried. I peeled off my vomit shirt and my vomit jeans and left them in a pile on the floor. He cried. I grabbed some wipes and wiped him down. "Mama, hug" he cried. I scooped him up and held him close, still in my skivvies. He curled up to watch tv again, and even wanted more biscuit. I was hopeful he felt a little better.

After a few minutes he said "biscuit stuck!" and opened his mouth. There was a wad of biscuit stuck on the roof of his mouth and he didn't know how to get it out. I stuck my finger in his vomit mouth and scraped out the biscuit, which made him throw up again. All over me. This time I didn't have clothes to peel off. Warm biscuit vomit on my skin. I wiped him off. I wiped me off. He cried "mama wipe!" and pointed to my sports bra. He didn't want to touch me when there was vomit on my bra. Let that sink in for a minute. He didn't want to touch me because his vomit was grossing up what little of my clothes there were left. I felt too bad for him to care.

The next day we took him to urgent care where we were told he had a "boatload of green, puss-ie, mucus drainage" that was causing him to throw up. Um, thanks? Poor kid is still sick with a temperature but I'm hoping for no more vomiting. Ever. At least til he's in college.

Why It's Okay That You Couldn't Breastfeed

I have friends right now who are either very pregnant, just-finished-being-pregnant-and-have-a-new-babe-at-home, or just barely pregnant and excited by the news. It's made me reflect a lot on our early days after The Boy was born. That, in combination with a lot of recent social media posts, and urging by one of my mysteriously and suddenly shy friends, has lead me to write another breastfeeding post. Feel free to stop reading now if this ain't your thing. Folks, we're going there.

I wasn't able to breastfeed. It's not that I chose not to. I wasn't able to. For me that means that physically my body refused. Ten years ago I had a breast reduction (I told you we were going there) and was told that there'd be a 95% chance I could breastfeed. At the time the benefits outweighed the risks, but apparently many of my milk ducts were damaged in the process.

Maybe you have a similar story. Maybe you had a medical condition, or a physical ailment, or you didn't have any support and you were doing it all on your own, maybe you had supply problems or your baby refused to go back to the breast when you needed to supplement. Maybe you had a jackass boss who wouldn't let you pump at work and you weren't willing to lose your house for your milk. Maybe you had a breast reduction or implants or breast cancer or some thing that got in the way of you breastfeeding your baby. Sometimes it's not a choice.

You tried to make breastfeeding work. You read, and listened, and tried everything you could imagine.  You were exhausted, and overwhelmed, and felt like a terrible mother. And sadly some of that guilt and terrible- mother-feeling was a result of other moms. When we need a community of supportive moms the most we hear other women say things like "well, so-and-so *said* she tried to breastfeed, but who knows?" Here are some well-intentioned things I heard along my journey that didn't help at all.

1.Breast milk is best for brain development. I knew that breast milk was best for my baby. I knew it would contribute to a healthier immune system and potentially higher IQ. What I didn't realize was that formula has come a long way, and while it might not be "best", it's still really good. Did you know that the IQ discrepancy between breastfed and non-breastfed babies is only 7 points? Before I struggled with breastfeeding I'd have thought my kid would ride the short bus if I couldn't get it right. Turns out it's a pretty small percentage. And, how do you take into account in the research how much of that is the actual breast milk, and how much of that is having the kind of parent who's willing to breastfeed, and thus more likely willing to do homework and read books and other brain stimulating activity?

2. You've just got to keep trying. Let me tell you how I tried. I tried by breastfeeding every hour and a half around the clock. Feedings would take an hour, and I had 30 minutes before I'd begin again. I tried by forcing my screaming baby to nurse again and again as we both sobbed. I tried by pumping six times a day to come up with one 3 oz bottle a day. I tried by taking herbal Fenugreek supplements, changing my diet, increasing my oatmeal intake, drinking Mother's Milk tea, and laying in a dark room to increase production. I tried by taking my new baby weekly to weigh naked on a cold scale so that we could ensure he was getting enough to eat. I tried by inquiring about a non-FDA approved drug from New Zealand that allegedly increases production. I tried by going to lactation specialists and hospital lactation groups. I tried by using a supplemental nursing system, a canteen I held above my breasts with tiny tubes that I taped to my nipples to provide formula along with breast milk to encourage him to continue. I tried until I promise you I teetered unstable on the narrow bridge between sanity and psychosis.

That might sound familiar to you. All the trying in the world can't make it happen if it's not set up to happen.  I could try all day to fly but it wouldn't ever happen no matter how hard I tried. That doesn't mean I'm a bad mama, it just means I'm not a bird.

3. You've got to be willing to ride out the discomfort. Maybe you had Raynaud's disorder, which is a painful circulation disorder. You took prescription medication and used warm compresses to ease the pain when your nipples would drain of color from the lack of circulation after nursing. Maybe you had mastitis and blisters on your nipples. Maybe you had blocked milk ducts that created stabbing pains deep in your breast tissue when the milk backed up from having nowhere to go. Sometimes it's more than "discomfort", sometimes it's intolerable, ongoing pain that interferes not just with nursing but with your entire life, including your ability to be a good mama.

4. If you love your baby, you'd breastfeed. Girl, please. If anybody wants to go there with me and compare her heart to mine I will be happy to reach down her throat and pull her heart out so that we can fully examine how it is capable of loving more than mine. Of course you love your baby. Think about this. You've got a free moment right now, and you're spending that time researching more about this stressful breastfeeding dilemma when you could be sleeping or washing your hair. That's love, ladies.

5. In countries where formula isn't available, almost all moms are able to breastfeed.  In countries where formula isn't available, infants and children also die every day of starvation. I shutter to think that the hard reality is my child would've been among them. I send prayers of thanksgiving to the gods of powdered, processed milk that my child had such life-saving luxuries as formula from a can. In countries where formula isn't available there are also fewer breast surgeries, fewer women working outside the home, and often large support systems to help care for new moms as well as their babes, factors that likely contribute to the success of breastfeeding.

6. Formula is poison. See #5. Also, how is this helpful at all? When women say this, I wonder who their intended audience is. I sure hope it isn't mamas who have already chosen relented to formula. That would be judgmental and incredibly hurtful for us. Let's assume that they're just well-intentioned but less-than-sensitive educators for moms who haven't gotten here yet. Let's give them the benefit of the doubt that they think it's a choice for all women, and let's not hold it against them. Plus, I'm too tired to waste that energy.....

7. Breastfeeding is a beautiful bond between baby and mom. I'm sure that it can be. My child refused to do it, and screamed because he was getting next to nothing. It's also incredibly hard, and frustrating, and really, really exhausting. Let's talk about that. When I only hear about the good parts I feel like I'm doing it wrong if I don't have the same experience as you. Like there's something inherently wrong with me that I can't enjoy this screaming 6-8 times a day. I'm lucky I had my sister-in-law who reached out to me, let me know her struggle, and told me I was crazy. That's why I promise you all my friends know about my experience, whether they want to or not. If you're going to have to go through hell you might as well know you aren't alone.

8. People who don't breastfeed don't care about their babies as much as people who do. I wanted this for my baby more than anything. I wouldn't have tried all that foolishness you just read about if I hadn't. When you read posts online or hear conversations at baby showers about the beautiful utopian bond that someone has as they provide everything they need for their child, and how we really should breastfeed, maybe there is part of you that is genuinely happy that they are able to do that. And maybe there's another part of you that is still grieving that you weren't. And maybe there's more of you that is sad or guilty when you feel judged because of it. Hold your head up high. You're doing everything you can to take care of your baby.

8. You'll be sorry if you quit. When we stopped all breastfeeding at 3 months my life changed for the better. I was able to spend time with my child instead of my pump or a canteen. I got to hold him for no reason, for more than a few minutes at a time,  and I didn't have to try to talk him into something that wasn't working for us. I gained two hours that I'd been pumping each day, and was able to sleep better and engage in more fun ways. The clouds opened up and I began to see the sun. Without the stress of breastfeeding, I was a better mother and a better wife. I was less irritable and had more time to see my family, and I didn't even have to be topless and pumping when my girlfriends came by to visit.

Whatever you do will be the right thing for your child. I know that breastfeeding comes easily to a lot of women. And I know that a lot of women struggle like I did for whatever reason. Some choose not to nurse, because it isn't for them. For others of us, it's not a choice. But either way, we are providing for our children. I'd like to think we could get behind each other and support any parenting decisions that we make in the best interest of our kids, even if they're different. I would like to think that in an age where women can vote and blacks and whites share lobbies and water fountains and families can come in all shapes and sizes (we're even letting gays get married!) that we could also respect differences in how we take care of those families. In the end no matter what happens you will give your child something he needs more than your breast milk: you.

The Nose Knows

I don't think I've told you, dear readers, that my arm has been in a sling for almost two weeks. I have a shoulder injury that isn't healing because I keep using it, so I'm in a sling to force it to rest and heal. Now certainly this in no way compares to people with lifelong disabilities. I'm grateful it's temporary as it has made my regular routines a little trickier. I have one regular arm, which The Boy is often in, and one arm pinned to my chest so I can only use the hand but not the arm. I can't complain, but I feel a little like a T-Rex on that side.

I hold The Boy on my hip and use my T-Rex arm to hold his diaper bag. That's fine as long as I don't need to do anything else, like laundry or cooking or cleaning or errands. Getting in and out of the car seat is particularly challenging, and God forbid I need to carry a purchase out of a store. It's made me quite thankful for my two arms that work normally the rest of the time.

On Friday we were getting ready for a busy wedding weekend. The Boy and I had to run some errands before I went to work, and I had to get all our stuff ready for the rehearsal dinner because his Pammie was going to bring him there to meet us. I needed about 5 minutes to make sure we had everything and load the car. I put The Boy, now 20 months, in his high chair with his color wonder paper and markers so that I could get all our stuff together. He was in my sight but I wasn't watching him closely.


I was packing snacks in his bag when I heard him crying. I went to him after I finished what I was doing immediately.
"Uh oh!" he cried, in a panic. "Draw!"
Me: Yep, you're drawing! Can you color the car? (Why was he crying about this?)
The Boy: Uh oh! Draw!
Me: What happened?
The Boy: (panic escalating) UH OH! DRAW! He was pointing to his nose. Did he draw on his nose?
I noticed he had bitten off the end of one of his markers. Awesome. I made a note not to leave him unsupervised with these anymore.
The Boy: UH OH! DRAW!! NOSE!! He cried.

That's when it hit me. Not only did he bite off the end of his marker, he shoved it up his nose. He was screaming. "UH OH! NOSE!!" I could see the marker up in his nose. I grabbed a wipe and tried to get him to blow his nose but nothing happened. He was in full on panic mode, screaming. I grabbed his nose and squished it like I was milking a cow (I have never milked a cow) but nothing happened.

I called the pediatrician's office.
Office: Hello, Martin and Martin?
Me: Hey. It's Leigh Ellen. The Boy has stuck something up his nose, what do you suggest for that?
Office: Hold on, let me get the nurse.
Nurse Brandy: Hey, it's Brandy (Can you tell they know us there?) Is it hurting him?
The Boy: NOOOOOOSSSSSSE! UH OH!
Me: I'd say so. He's screaming.
Brandy: And what is it that's up there?
Me: The end of a marker that he bit off.
Brandy: You're going to need to go to the ER.
Me: No.
Brandy: Yes.
Me: Are you kidding me?  UH OH NOSE DRAW UH OH!
Brandy: Nope. If you try to get it out you're going to shove it further up there. It can damage his little nose, and they have a special tool to dig in there and get it out without damaging him. You can try urgent care, but I'm not sure they have it. I'd call ahead first. NOOOSSSSE!
Me: (Getting louder over the screaming) SIGH. OKAY. THANKS, BRANDY!
Brandy: Call us anytime.
Me: You know I do.

I hung up from Brandy and knelt back down to look up The Boy's snotty nose. He was pacing and crying. "NOSE!" I tried to comfort him. "It's okay, buddy. We're going to get it out of your nose." I talked him into putting his jacket on, and used my one good arm to help him. I picked up his diaper bag with my T-Rex arm and grabbed the keys. Though I dreaded the prospect of someone having to hold him down and fish up his nose, I was strangely calm. I gave him a hug and we headed out the door. As we got just onto the porch he stopped. I looked down at him just as he sneezed the best sneeze I've ever heard. The marker tip shot out like a Romanian from a circus cannon. Hooray!!

The Boy cried. NOSE! I'm sure it hurt, but I was rejoicing. "Oh Buddy!", I said "You just saved us half a day and $100 at the ER! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!" After that I gave him a lecture (yes, they're great and effective for one year olds) about not putting anything up his nose. "No no, nose" he said, as though his nose had done it.

I called The Husband and told him the saga, right up until the part Brandy said we needed to go to the ER. Then I waited for his response. When he asked me which ER we were headed to so he could meet us, I threw in the sneeze at the last minute. After all, if I had to experience all the trauma and drama, he could have just an ounce of it.

I didn't take a picture of the trauma, so instead I'm giving you one from when he ate crayon tonight. You think we'd start supervising his art projects, huh?

Showing Off, Again

I mostly focus on funny kid stories here. Oddly enough my one random blog post about showing off some of my DIY projects has been my most popular post and has gotten four times the average number of hits of my other posts (if you missed it see the original post here). It's now even surpassed the ever popular Tricks I Play On The Husband post. So, back by popular demand is more showing off!

I had been looking for something else to hang over the couch, and I couldn't find exactly what I had in mind. My mind wanted a simple shelf that was inspired by an old mantle, but not something that could be found at any corner Pottery Barn. I wanted something that looked worn and loved. Then there was the framed pictures I'd taken around town that spelled out our last name to contend with. I needed something that would fit the space and style of that too. One Sunday I'd had enough and headed out to the shed on a mission. I started with a few scraps of lumber and added a piece of trim and spray paint from Lowe's. The Husband's been a little paranoid since our BFF Drew cut off four of his fingers on a table saw, so he insisted on helping me with the power tools. This is what we came up with:

This picture makes it look like we live in a yellow submarine. We aren't so yellow, but you get the idea. 

Plus, I needed some way to display my kid's one year portraits that we paid a small fortune for (I keep telling myself I'll be so glad when he's 12 and a punk). We bought frames, but that didn't look good. I didn't like the foam board behind glass. So I pulled some old wainscoating from the shed, cut it, and painted it white, then distressed it and added the pictures on top.

I like the whole scheme.

And at work..........

I created a little puppet theatre for our play therapy room out of an old, cheap armoir from the thrift store. I turned it backwards, pulled off the back, added paint, curtains, and pegs, and voila!

I was moving offices at work and was eager to be able to have a space in which to nest. I got this desk at my local habitat reStore for $20. I think it was originally a vanity. The top two shelves were damaged, so I took them off along with the middle piece they were attached to. Then I spray painted it blue and put the original hardware back on. I did add new knobs for the drawers.

Looks completely different, doesn't it?

I picked up a vintage arm chair at Junk in the Trunk for $50, minus 10% for asking nicely.

I LOVE the combination of the blue desk with the funky chair with blue accents. I'll do another post of my office reveal once I find just the right piece to hang on the wall. The Husband has had enough of my projects for now.

Condo Lease-uh

When The Husband was in college The In-Laws bought a condo in town as an investment. The Husband lived there with roommates, and everyone studied very hard and never slacked off and never ever walked straight into parking meters even though they were completely sober. We have some great, carefree memories of that condo.

But alas, we graduated mumble years ago, and it's time to let it go. The In-Laws have decided to sell the condo, so The Husband had to go clean out some of the junk that he'd been storing over there. You know, the stuff that didn't make the cut when we got married, bought a house, and merged our things as grown ups. Like old pots and pans we didn't need once we got fancy wedding presents. Or the 6 foot wide Lord of the Rings poster with custom frame. 

The condo is in an area of town that has gone downhill since we left. It's too bad, too, because the actual space is really pretty great. We'd even considered moving back over there temporarily if this house rents before we buy another (that's sort of not happening now anyway). So on Saturday we went to do inventory and see what needed to be purged. 

When we pulled up, the person on the floor above us stuck his head out of the split screen in his porch to look at us. He yelled "Are we getting new neighbors?!" The Husband replied that no, he was not getting new neighbors and we were just cleaning some stuff out. "Did somebody move out on you real quick?" his floating head asked. The Husband very kindly told him no, he was cleaning his own stuff out that he'd left behind. The floating head responded with "If you have stuff you're getting rid of or hauling off, I'll take it. I'll take it all." 

We thanked him and went inside. We started sorting, reminiscing, and tossing out stuff and The Boy starting getting into everything. One of his particular favorites was an Austin Powers Mini Me figurine. Did I mention The Boy had on too big pants with a too small shirt and his galoshes? 

The Husband's Mini Me, playing with The Husband's Mini Me

He also loved the Wild Rumpus of unsupervised kids running through the parking lot and screaming. He went to the sliding glass door and watched them with envy, saying "Bikkids! Bikkids!"(Big kids). They ran and played and teased and shot each other with nerf guns in elaborate, organized heists. 

We were clearing some stuff off the porch and I had The Boy in my arms when a dog appeared on the porch without hesitation. The dog was attached to a leash, which was attached to a gaggle of children that burst on the scene with an air of confidence and comfort about them. I'll assume the dog invited them. Since I did not know this dog, I spoke to him but held my toddler away from him. I'd hate to get all Grizzly on a stranger's dog for biting my child. All the children spoke at once. 

"Y'all moving in here? We gon get neighbors!"

"What's that baby's name?" 

"This our dog. His name Bolt." (I continued to hold The Boy on my hip away from Bolt). 

"Is that baby afraida dogs uhsumpthin?"

I barely had a chance to answer when said gaggle of children burst through the open glass doors into the condo. They continued talking without waiting for responses for their previous questions. They pointed at various things inside. 

"Who toys are those?"

"Ooooh! Who iphone?"

"Is that your iphone? Somebody callin you!!"

The Husband thanked them for their administrative service and told him we'd get the phone. They were gone as soon as they came in, Bolt leading them to more adventures with unsuspecting adults. As we continued to pack stuff up and started loading it in the car I watched the gaggle play in the parking lot. Two boys teased a girl, chasing her with something (or nothing) in their cupped hands. They chanted in a sing song voice reserved for playground yah yah "We got your eggie. We got your baby. We got your eggie." She stomped silently in front of her pursuers, evidently trying not to run or cry. The Boy, dirty and in ill fitting clothes, started yelling "Eggie. Eggie." I took him back inside before he attempted anymore of the "bikkid" antics. The remainder of the gaggle started a brigade in and out of the nearby ground floor condo, streaming out blankets, pillows, and anything that wasn't strapped down in a game called "we moving." They paraded these items like a line of ants into the middle of the parking lot where they set up their new house. The Boy shouted from the glass door "Bikkids! Bikkids!"

We soon packed up and got the heck out of dodge. With neighbors popping through screens to ask for trash and children and dogs arriving unannounced, we decided that living at the condo might've been better in theory. We went home, changed clothes, and went to the new Mexican restaurant in town (Athens folks, Los Coyotes was delish). Then we decided to stop at the new gas station to check out their self serve yogurt and fixins. 

I'm not convinced that lady had on anything under her trench coat.  Yes, that's a lady. 

 

When we were at the gas station there were some chaotic kids eating yogurt samples over and over without paying for any yogurt. They'd fill the tiny paper sample cups til they overflowed, suck that down with no spoon, throw the cup away and then go back for more. A woman I assumed to be their mom sat nearby, watching. When one of the girls turned around, guess who I recognized her to be? Yep, one of the Wild Rumpus kids from Bolt's Great Adventures! And I bet we haven't seen the last of these kids, either.