The past few weeks have been all about the kids. Zach turning 6 months old, getting Ev started with a therapist...
Zach had his 6-month well-child visit today, during which the entire fam got flu vaccines (yes, even Zach). Except for me: I had to either get mine or sign a waiver the first week of October. Aside from the flu vax, Zach got 3 other immunizations. Poor baby! But we also got the good news--there is not a single bit of evidence of his prematurity. He has surpassed his 4-month developmental milestones and his 6-month ones as well. They still evaluate him based on both gestational age and chronological age. For height and weight, he fell somewhere in between the 50th and 75th percentile, compared to the 25th at last check. I cannot believe this since the kiddo is huge to us: 18 pounds,12 ounces and 25 inches long! But we are comparing him to Evan, who was a very scrawny 15.5 pounds at one year old!
As a matter of fact, Zach is so caught up and doing so well that we are nixing the RSV vaccination. He met all of the criteria for it, and we were seriously considering it. On one hand, he doesn't go to daycare and thus is not exposed to other kids, is far from being the frail little preemie, and more. On the other hand, in my line of work, I could easily bring it home to him from work, he really is a preemie despite his size, and he has a big bro in school. Of less consequence to me was the cost ($1500 a shot, and a shot monthly during RSV season) of which I had no idea how much insurance would cover) because I really didn't care if he needed it. But the consensuss is that he doesn't!
So anyhow, I can quit the worrying/ guarding/ counting/ adjusting/ blaming myself that comes with being a mom of a preemie. My preemie has surpassed some of his full-term peers!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Yes, I Do
Want to have another baby, that is.
Not now. John and I have discussed this at length, and we figure in two years' time, all of my sick time and vacation time will have regenerated. My FMLA will be intact once again, and since we are paying $200 per month each to my doctors' bills, hospital bills, and home health bills, Zach's pegnancy will be paid off by then. I will be 35. Not too old yet. And I have time to plan and do some things differently like lose weight and adopt healthier habits. Because when you face a complicated pregnancy, you wonder if any little thing could be the cause of your troubles. What if I wasn't overweight? What if I took vitamins and supplement before I got pregnant? What if, what if, what if...????? Of course the ugky truth is that, with all of the state-of-the-art advanced medical care I received, if there was some factor causing the problems, they would have figured it out between both Evan's and Zach's pregnancies. It is more likely that nothing I can do will make a difference. Having another baby will be a gamble. And will probably result in another late-preterm baby. All I can do is make sure the risk is as calculated as possible.
So there it is. I've blogged about it before, but I had to do some soul searching to be sure that I wanted to do it again for the right reasons. The consensus is that women who have had my experiences often are motivated not by the desire to have another baby, but by the deep-seated desire to have another chance at normal. I had to be sure this wasn't the case with me.
Not now. John and I have discussed this at length, and we figure in two years' time, all of my sick time and vacation time will have regenerated. My FMLA will be intact once again, and since we are paying $200 per month each to my doctors' bills, hospital bills, and home health bills, Zach's pegnancy will be paid off by then. I will be 35. Not too old yet. And I have time to plan and do some things differently like lose weight and adopt healthier habits. Because when you face a complicated pregnancy, you wonder if any little thing could be the cause of your troubles. What if I wasn't overweight? What if I took vitamins and supplement before I got pregnant? What if, what if, what if...????? Of course the ugky truth is that, with all of the state-of-the-art advanced medical care I received, if there was some factor causing the problems, they would have figured it out between both Evan's and Zach's pregnancies. It is more likely that nothing I can do will make a difference. Having another baby will be a gamble. And will probably result in another late-preterm baby. All I can do is make sure the risk is as calculated as possible.
So there it is. I've blogged about it before, but I had to do some soul searching to be sure that I wanted to do it again for the right reasons. The consensus is that women who have had my experiences often are motivated not by the desire to have another baby, but by the deep-seated desire to have another chance at normal. I had to be sure this wasn't the case with me.
Halfway: Reflections on Zach's First Six Months
Yesterday, our little Zachy turned 6 months old and I was unable to blog about it because my home computer is acting so bizarre that within 5 minutes of turning it on, I am so exasperated that I could scream.
We are halfway to Zach's first birthday. I must have blinked.
I could bore you with all of the milestones reached, but do you really care? Instead I will just say that my youngest son is growing in leaps and bounds. I'm sitting here right now replaying his first six months like a montage in my head. My miracle child. Because not only did I survive the pregnancy, but he did as well. And if I haven't said it before, I will say it now: every single contraction, needle stick, hospitalization was such a small price to pay to be given the gift that is my Zachary. It still amazes me how he fit into our lives so seamlessly. When we are high-strung and nervous, he is content and relaxed. When we are down, he giggles and smiles at precisely the correct moment. When I was overwhelming myself with career and education and goals, he came along to put things into proper perspective for me.
After six months, SIDS becomes much less of a risk. I can now admit that the fear that something would happen to him all but paralyzed me over the past six months. He is just too perfect for this world, and on more than one occasion, I have held him in my arms as the tears flowed because I was just so convinced that he was too good to be true, and surely something was going to happen. I feel like I can breathe now while I revel in the gift I have been given.
I look into his wide baby blues and my sense of wonder at the world around me is renewed. Once again I can appreciate the vivid colors around me, the sights, the smells, the new experiences. And for the third time in my life, I get to know love that is so deep it is almost soul-crushing. As he moves into this next stage of development, I get to show him more of the world. I get to be the one to tell him what snow is or how to rip open the wrapping on his Christmas presents, what a peach tastes like, and more. I cannot wait for any of it. This is parenthood at its finest. We, as parents, get the heartbreak and the tears of child-rearing as payment for the joys we receive when we get to teach our children about the world around them. I firmly believe this.
I am writing this from work right now while my family is at home, sleeping away the night. And in the morning, I will go home to them. To John's Sunday pancake breakfast, complete with Evan's sticky maple-scented kisses and Zach's coos and smiles he reserves only for me--his mommy. And for what has to be the thousandth time in one single morning, I will marvel at how I came to be so blessed. And I credit Zach for the reminder to take it all in, for showing me the gifts that were there all along.
Here's to the next 6 months....
We are halfway to Zach's first birthday. I must have blinked.
I could bore you with all of the milestones reached, but do you really care? Instead I will just say that my youngest son is growing in leaps and bounds. I'm sitting here right now replaying his first six months like a montage in my head. My miracle child. Because not only did I survive the pregnancy, but he did as well. And if I haven't said it before, I will say it now: every single contraction, needle stick, hospitalization was such a small price to pay to be given the gift that is my Zachary. It still amazes me how he fit into our lives so seamlessly. When we are high-strung and nervous, he is content and relaxed. When we are down, he giggles and smiles at precisely the correct moment. When I was overwhelming myself with career and education and goals, he came along to put things into proper perspective for me.
After six months, SIDS becomes much less of a risk. I can now admit that the fear that something would happen to him all but paralyzed me over the past six months. He is just too perfect for this world, and on more than one occasion, I have held him in my arms as the tears flowed because I was just so convinced that he was too good to be true, and surely something was going to happen. I feel like I can breathe now while I revel in the gift I have been given.
I look into his wide baby blues and my sense of wonder at the world around me is renewed. Once again I can appreciate the vivid colors around me, the sights, the smells, the new experiences. And for the third time in my life, I get to know love that is so deep it is almost soul-crushing. As he moves into this next stage of development, I get to show him more of the world. I get to be the one to tell him what snow is or how to rip open the wrapping on his Christmas presents, what a peach tastes like, and more. I cannot wait for any of it. This is parenthood at its finest. We, as parents, get the heartbreak and the tears of child-rearing as payment for the joys we receive when we get to teach our children about the world around them. I firmly believe this.
I am writing this from work right now while my family is at home, sleeping away the night. And in the morning, I will go home to them. To John's Sunday pancake breakfast, complete with Evan's sticky maple-scented kisses and Zach's coos and smiles he reserves only for me--his mommy. And for what has to be the thousandth time in one single morning, I will marvel at how I came to be so blessed. And I credit Zach for the reminder to take it all in, for showing me the gifts that were there all along.
Here's to the next 6 months....
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Don't Tell Him
We have this running joke in my little family. That John got off too easy. My birthday is New Year's Day. And our anniversary is Christmas Eve. He will never, ever be able to forget one or the other, thus saving him from the Doghouse forever. John, you're welcome.
So a coworker was making me rather sad because she is a single mother and for one reason or another, she has just had rotten luck with scheduled holidays this year and has missed out on that time with her kid. So after looking at the schedule and confirming our tentative holiday plans with John, I told her I would help cover her Christmas Eve assaignment. John's mom has 20 days off in a row in December, and so long as I am off for Christmas Day so I can spend time with my family, 4 or 8 hours of work on the eve are not going to wreck anything.
Then two of my coworkers piped up: "Andrea, isn't that your anniversary?????"
Oh. Shit.
Yes it is. I forgot.
My 10-year anniversary, to be exact. A milestone that is a pretty big deal, considering the crap we have endured together. I didn't even think about it because our anniversary always gets lost in wrapping presents and making sure Santa has cookies, in last-minute shopping and stuffing stockings at 2 AM after Evan has finally lost the sleep battle. Somewhere in there, we tell each other "Happy Anniversary". That's it. And that is our fault because we are the ones who got married on a date that would never be about us anymore once we became parents. And so I forgot.
Don't tell John.
So a coworker was making me rather sad because she is a single mother and for one reason or another, she has just had rotten luck with scheduled holidays this year and has missed out on that time with her kid. So after looking at the schedule and confirming our tentative holiday plans with John, I told her I would help cover her Christmas Eve assaignment. John's mom has 20 days off in a row in December, and so long as I am off for Christmas Day so I can spend time with my family, 4 or 8 hours of work on the eve are not going to wreck anything.
Then two of my coworkers piped up: "Andrea, isn't that your anniversary?????"
Oh. Shit.
Yes it is. I forgot.
My 10-year anniversary, to be exact. A milestone that is a pretty big deal, considering the crap we have endured together. I didn't even think about it because our anniversary always gets lost in wrapping presents and making sure Santa has cookies, in last-minute shopping and stuffing stockings at 2 AM after Evan has finally lost the sleep battle. Somewhere in there, we tell each other "Happy Anniversary". That's it. And that is our fault because we are the ones who got married on a date that would never be about us anymore once we became parents. And so I forgot.
Don't tell John.
Chocolate Ugly Cake
Don't ask me why I thought of this story. I think it was this post I ran across while catching up on my blog reading for the week that made me think about baking.
I do not bake. I can make a lasagna that makes my husband's toes curl, which was genetically shared with me from my Italian mama. (Genetically shared, not taught. She wouldn't let any of us girls in the kitchen because she was afraid we would ruin her kitchen or burn the house down. I left for college in a very confused state over how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Seriously.) But I really, really do not bake.
John's mom, in her Perfect-Suzie-Homemaker fashion, bakes with the best of them. And she was always making these beautiful concoctions of confectionary architecture that belonged in Better Homes and Gardens. And for the time when John and I stayed with her after Ev's pregnancy ruined us, she would do so for every meal. And while it was delicious, I was so stinkin' jealous.
One day I decided I was going to make dessert for once. I'm a smart person. I figured I could figure it out. There was, however, no way in Hades that I would attempt the "from scratch" part. I enlisted the help of Betty Crocker, but I wanted to make a chocolate layer cake. And so I baked the two round layers. The problem is that nobody told me that you only have to use one box of mix and divide it among the two layers. So I used two full boxes of cake mix. In other words, I made the huge cake. Enormous. Paul-Bunyon-sized. So big that the massive cake server/ saver thingy didn't fit very well over it. But oh, well. Too late to turn back.
So I had to ice this damned thing. And I got the chocolate icing and spackled the layers together (or whatever you call that step). Now it was time to get started on the outside. Usually, my icing jobs look atrocious, so I was pretty pleased with myself when it started turning out nice and smooth. But then something started to happen...
Why in the hell was the top layer sliding off like that, creating this massive chocolate-cake avalanche???? Oh my God, make it stop, make it stooooooooooppppppp! And before I knew what was happening, there was chocolate icing/goo/ sludge all over everything. On my hands and arms up to my elbow. All over the counter. All over the front of my shirt. And my smooth icing job on the outside was having strange things happening to it: huge chunks of cake were breaking off onto my spatula so it was more like I was caking the icing instead of icing the cake.
Turns out you do not try to ice a warm cake. Especially one that large and out-of-balance.
Nothing I could have done would have saved the monstrosity. Nothing. The huge layers slid all over, so that it was hard to slide the lid of the cake saver over it. So it had big hunks of cake clinging to it. It was horrible.
No one would eat the cake.
Except for John. (Thank you, John.)
And Evan was just a newborn, so I was fresh into New Mommyhood. And I started to have visions of Evan trying to take cupcakes to school, and all of the other moms telling their kids, "Don't eat that. That Andrea-person made it!" And I cried. And cried.
And the harder I cried, the more John gushed about how delicious and moist the cake was. And went back for seconds of it. And if I recall correctly, even thirds. And he named it. "Andrea's Chocolate Ugly Cake".
Then and there, one year into our marriage, I knew he was a keeper.
This is why, when a situation calls for it, Evan takes the largest, most pimped-out cupcakes to school.
From the best bakery in Cincinnati, not from my kitchen.
(Image: http://www.last.fm/group/Chocolate+Cake!)
He Strikes Again
At least nothing in my home or near my children was ablaze this time.
Yeah, I'm talking about John. Again.
This time, it was with my money.
I could kill him. Really. (No, not really. Don't call the police or anything.)
It all started with me being assigned to my 12 here at the ER. No cafeteria, no gift shop. Roughing it again. And I forgot. So I call John relatively early to let him know a few things: A. I'm starving and can feel my fat cells being eaten. B. I have no cash. C. Even if I did have cash, what would I do with it? So I tell my dearest all of this and he assures me he is on his way to bring me dinner and singles for the vending machine. Beautiful. Just what I wanted.
15 minutes later, the secretary transfers a call to me. It's John. And it went like this:
John: "We have a problem."
Me: "What problem???? Where are you?"
John: "I have no money."
Me: "Well, I know that! Use the debit card. I left it in your wallet."
John: "Ummmmmm. About that...."
Me: "What is wrong?!?"
John: "I tried, but...."
Me: "What do you mean, 'you tried'?"
John: "Remember when they mailed you that new pin number?"
Me: "Yeah, it's in the lockbox with all of the other banking stuff..."
John: "Well, I forgot where it was...."
Me: "Well, now you know. When will you be here? I'm starving!"
John: "Ummmm. I can't. I went to get cash, but I entered the old pin too many times andtheATMkeptyourcard." (This last bit gushed out as all one word because he knew I was going to kill him!)
Seriously. No money because we are products of techno advancement and just use our magic plastic for every-fricken-thing. I pretty much told him that he made the mess and he had to fix it. How? Well, I made him call friends until he found someone willing to loan us $20 until the morning when the bank opens and I can withdraw enough cash that we can survive for the 2 weeks it takes to get a new debit card. He wanted to know what to tell whichever friend he got ahold of. And I told him to put on his Big Boy Britches and tell them what he did. 20 minutes later, he was here with food, a sheepish grin, and a very red face. But I ate. And Ev now has lunch money for the morning.
Only John.
Yeah, I'm talking about John. Again.
This time, it was with my money.
I could kill him. Really. (No, not really. Don't call the police or anything.)
It all started with me being assigned to my 12 here at the ER. No cafeteria, no gift shop. Roughing it again. And I forgot. So I call John relatively early to let him know a few things: A. I'm starving and can feel my fat cells being eaten. B. I have no cash. C. Even if I did have cash, what would I do with it? So I tell my dearest all of this and he assures me he is on his way to bring me dinner and singles for the vending machine. Beautiful. Just what I wanted.
15 minutes later, the secretary transfers a call to me. It's John. And it went like this:
John: "We have a problem."
Me: "What problem???? Where are you?"
John: "I have no money."
Me: "Well, I know that! Use the debit card. I left it in your wallet."
John: "Ummmmmm. About that...."
Me: "What is wrong?!?"
John: "I tried, but...."
Me: "What do you mean, 'you tried'?"
John: "Remember when they mailed you that new pin number?"
Me: "Yeah, it's in the lockbox with all of the other banking stuff..."
John: "Well, I forgot where it was...."
Me: "Well, now you know. When will you be here? I'm starving!"
John: "Ummmm. I can't. I went to get cash, but I entered the old pin too many times andtheATMkeptyourcard." (This last bit gushed out as all one word because he knew I was going to kill him!)
Seriously. No money because we are products of techno advancement and just use our magic plastic for every-fricken-thing. I pretty much told him that he made the mess and he had to fix it. How? Well, I made him call friends until he found someone willing to loan us $20 until the morning when the bank opens and I can withdraw enough cash that we can survive for the 2 weeks it takes to get a new debit card. He wanted to know what to tell whichever friend he got ahold of. And I told him to put on his Big Boy Britches and tell them what he did. 20 minutes later, he was here with food, a sheepish grin, and a very red face. But I ate. And Ev now has lunch money for the morning.
Only John.
Taking the Plunge in a Very Planned Fashion
That's it. I'm doing it. Tomorrow morning, when I escape the hell of working the boring ER (I can use that fateful B word without jinxing myself as tonight, I am in the free-standing, slow ER.) I am going to The Hippie Store. And I am going to buy my stash of cloth diapers. I'm still torn between the all-in-ones and the prefolds with covers, and estimate me making up my mind tomorrow when the diapers are right in front of me. Either way, I am going to put them on Zach and we are not looking back. Here we go.
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