Little–Yet Mighty–Steps

I am on vacation. I know, right? I never take vacation. The last time I had any real time off of work was when I was on bedrest. But I did it. The plan was for me to spend the next couple of weeks crack-a-lackin’ on the GMAT prep, then take the exam.

Until the GMAT prep made me feel mentally incompetent to even tie my own shoes.

Or my new classes left me with less time than I thought.

And I have had appointments every single day, including some meetings for work. So in truth, I have gotten Jack Crap finished by way of GMAT. And guess what! Jack left town. So we aren’t going to talk about Jack, or GMAT, or anything else that makes me want to scratch my eyes out and beg for Ativan. We’re going to talk aboout what Zach did last night.

He slept without a swaddller. Yeah. Uh-huh. John was at his evening class, and I told myself that now is the time, damnit. It took a gazillion trips to his room to remind him that I was right here. Maybe a couple of pats on the back. And the binky. Yeah, we aren’t even touching the bedtime pacifier yet, in the name of picking one’s battles. But he did it. He slept in his Spongebob pj’s, covered by his favorite blankie, with his little butt in the air. My big boy. Turns out that we aren’t going to have to send him to college with one after all.

What else is Zachy doing? Well, first of all, we cannot go out in public without cracking people up. Really. He gets so excited when he sees something he recognizes. And when he gets excited, it’s the funniest thing ever. As in “Oh! Oh! Oh! OH! Oh YEAH????” Only in that adorable baby voice. Yesterday, I took him to the pharmacy to fill a prescription. Our pharmacy is small, so I usually don’t do this. Well the first thing he saw was a container of baby wipes on the shelf. So here he goes. “OH????? Oh YEAH!”, as he darts to the shelf. Then he saw the body wash I use on him. “Oh-Oh-Oh Yeah?” And so it went, back and forth across the pharmacy,, which is essentally a little room with shelves. And quite the audience assembled to watch him in amazement, because through all of this, he didnt take one thing off of the shelves. He was just excited to see the products we use at home. You really should see him at the grocery store!

He still isn’t really talking, but it is obvious, even to the therapist who came to the house, that he understands everything being said to him. He just won’t speak. Except he said “book” the other day, which can be added to the short list of random words he says. By the way, did you know that the sippy cups with the straws are better for language development because drinking from them requires different muscles and actually strengthens the muscles needed for speech. Well, now I know it and we are in the process of replacing all of Zach’s sippy cups as a result. And though I hate the commercialism of characters on children’s products, I will do anything to get this child talking. So basically, whatever floats his boat…Spongebob pj’s. Elmo sippy (with straw, of course!). Thomas toy. Not a lot of characters, but some.

So that’s it. Little steps. I’m not afraid of little steps. Just like I will be taking little steps to get the GMAT prep finished. All it does is slow me down a little bit. But then again, maybe I needed to slow down.

A Million and One Different Directions

Yep, that’s my life. I’ve been pulled in a million and one directions this past week.

First of all, there’s work. Work has been crazy. Exhausting. Busy. Every night that I’ve worked, we’ve been cut down to 4 therapists at night instead of 5, which means we all run our asses off. And so I come home cranky and tired and ready to just sleep and chill, in that order. But I don’t get to do either.

Because then there is school. I’m still in my Operations Management and Corporate Finance courses. I’m not sure what’s up, but never before have 2 classes thrown me for a loop like these two. Each course has the standard 3 papers per week, plus 2 hours of either live or recorded lecture, plus about 150 to 300 pages of reading, But the corporate finance papers are hard. Don’t get me wrong: I have 2 papers left in each class and I still have A’s in both courses, but those A’s have taken work. I usually work Thursday through Sunday which leaves me Monday through Wednesday to complete all of my school work. But there’s a catch.

Because John started classes. Which means on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I may be off of work and have all of the time in the world, but on those days, Zachary roams the house with abandon. We started by me trying to do both: school work and  be Mom Extraordinaire. It didn’t work. What really happened? I would type a sentence and get up and intervene in impending disaster. And feel horribly guilty that my time with Zach should be with Zach, not doing school work. And watch him destroy something with the mindset that, so long as it isn’t harmful to him, its okay. He tore an entire pack of flourescent pink index cards to bits and was working on the orange ones when I finally gave this up. So the new pla n is to not bank on getting anything done while John is class, which means my school work is now arranged around 2 schedules. And then came the NICU…

There was one day last week where I got 3 calls, and each one was regarding something else I have to do to get ready for the opening of our new Level III NICU at work. A ventilator inservice here. A mandatory class there. Licensing requirements. Drug screen, immunizations. It’s a liitle bit crazy. Because I have no time, this cuts into time I have alotted for other stuff. And then there’s Evan.

To get Evan treated and to make a full diagnosis, we have to do a million things. Tests, evaluations. Therapy appointments. Waiting on psychiatry referrals so the specialists can manage meds instead of our family doctor. Children’s is a one-stop shop, but there are a gajillion people there that all do something different. The Division of Developmental Disorders and Behavioral Psychology handles all Asperger’s evals, diagnoses, and treatment plans. And then the therapist handles his bi-weekly therapy. Now we are waiting for a referral to go through for psychiatry so we can get some medication management. This in and of itself is turning into a full-time job. A job, I might add, that is not well-managed by someone as disorganized as John. Which leaves me. I’ll do it. I won’t complain because I am grateful that Children’s is a stone’s throw away. If anyone is ever going to have something go wrong with their child, this would be where they want to be. In fact, there are people who fly in from other countries to have their child’s life-saving surgery done here. Yeah, I am that lucky, and I know it. But there is more to this, and it is another post altogether.

Zach? Well, Zach is the most laid-back, non-demanding person in this family right now. Yeah, how sad is that? That a toddler is the lowest maintenance? Pfft. But I keep trucking away. I somehow get it all done. I have no idea how. I used to be one of this smug people who would tell you that it is all in time management. But time management is only as good as the amount of time you have. I manage 150 hours worth of crap in 100 hours of time—not an exact figure, just an example. And it sucks. I know where my priorities are at: work–because I have to provide for the family and Evan needs my health coverage now more than ever, Evan’s treatment–well, just because, and my family. If I have to drop classes, I can. If I have to tell my boss I cannot do the NICU, I can. If John has to drop his classes, he won’t handle it well, but he can. I’m just trying not to have to do any of those things.

One day, I swear, I will be able to relax. I just hope it sin’t when I’m dead.

The Sound of Laughter

The sound of laughter and carefree days,

of treasures found as children play.

What joy, what fun, in a simple way,

the wonderful sight of a childhood day.

Author: Connie Brockman

Here lately, I’ve noticed one of the lingering effects of bedrest that I never stop to think about. How much I really miss my family. When life started up again for me, the combination of work and classes, it never occurred to me how much I would miss just doing absolutely nothing with my boys. This past week of time off has been just that for me. Time with my babies. Time with my husband. Like this day, for example. I had completed my last paper for the week while we were still in Madisonville at John’s mom’s house, and I had nothing else that needed to be completed that couldn’t wait. And so I loaded Zach into his stroller and made Evan put some decent walking shoes on, and off we went to the neighborhood park. Just the three of us. Except that park has a huge sandbox smack-dab in the middle of it that was roped off with caution tape. Turns out bees took up residence there, and they were swarming. Queen Allergy is highly allergic. And just as we were turning around to leave, Zachy squeals “DaDAAAAA!”, pointing with his little chubby baby finger. I look up to see John walking toward us. He had gotten out of his shower and, instead of chillin’ in front of the tv without a wife and kids to worry about, he came to find us. Because if I am not working, we are always together. I’m not saying this in a bad way. That’s just how we roll. So we loaded up in the car and drove to another area park, where the boys played. Climbing, swinging, crawling. Being boys. And me there in the midst doing absolutely nothing. And it was wonderful. And I was once again reminded of what really matters in my life. And for once, instead of feeling guilty that I was wasting time by not accomplishing some task or other, doing nothing felt like it was exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

Yep, We’re THAT Table

We totally are. If you have ever been a server at any type of dining establishment, you know the type I’m talking about.

The type who focus more on keeping a small child calm more than anything, so yes, please bring more bread/ milk/crackers/ napkins, Thank you.

The type who leaves an enormous mess. This one is the problem for me. Despite the fact that I realize I am most definitely on the restaurant’s payroll, I insist on cleaning up after the baby. Or dividing our debris into trash, silverware, and plates, all neatly stacked in a way they can easily be separated without the server having to schlep through half-eaten food. I know how it is. I’ve been there. I will also be found bent over and using a napkin to try to pick up all of the mess we now leave on the floor since Zachy started eating with us. This may seem conscientious and polite of me, but it never comes without some bickering from my hubster, who is embarrassed that his wife is trying to clean the floor.
Last week, I tried to let it go. We were at Texas Roadhouse, home of the peanut shells on the floor. We had a great server who helped us to appease Zach so we could get through our meal. And Zach…..ohmigod. Zach would take a bite and throw the rest. Over and over until we decided we were finished and it was time to go. And John talked me into just leaving the mess. I hurried out of the restaurant like I had committed a crime. And I felt so badly that I felt compelled, once in the car, to fake leaving my phone on the table so I could go back in and leave an extra $20 along with the 20% John had already left. This is why we don’t eat out that often: I can’t afford to compensate for my kids.
So….
I am hereby proposing that restaurants give dropcloths for babes in highchairs. Or we could invent a highchair with a huge saucer around it to catch food. That way moms like me could not die of embarrassment. Nor would John from his wife cleaning the floor.

It Just Goes To Show Ya

Kids!

If there is one thing I should have learned by now, it’s that kids will prove you wrong. That they are all different from the next one of their breed. That what works for one will most definitely not  work for another.

Everyday since Zachary has been about 8 months old, we have done this little dance. The Please-Drink-From-This-Damned-Sippy-Cup dance. I was starting to wonder if I will need to pack him some bottles when he leaves for college one day. And picturing him carrying a lunchbox to school with a bottle in place of the little thermos inside. Or him toasting at his wedding with a friggin’ bottle instead of a champagne flute.

One of the reasons I used the expensive brand of bottles that I did was that they make these silicone drinking spouts to replace the nipples when the time comes. And little handles. And all I should have had to do was switch them out when the time came. But Zach isn’t Evan. And he isn’t any kid out there, and thus my plan was foiled. And so I started buying every sippy cup they make. Playtex, Avent, Baby Bjorn. Different Tommee Tippee ones than the ones we tried. The cheap Nuby ones. Gerber. Just about every bright color and pattern they make. All to try to get this kid to drink from a farkin’ cup already. And then I saw this coupon for a cheap brand and I thought to myself: “Self, why the hell not???” And so I bought yet another cup. And it worked. Holy crap, it worked!And so now I am on a mad search to find more of these. Our Tarjay only had one that wasn’t hot pink, and I bought it up. It’s the Nuk trainer cup. Dude, if you see it online somewhere, let me know.

Toddlerhood. Or: I Totally Forgot This Part.

Okay. Yeah. I feel like a moron. I mean, I’m not a novice here. I’ve totally done this shit before, right.

Zach is no longer an infant. Not sure if he officially counts as a toddler yet or not, since he refuses to exercise his thunder thighs. Put him outside and he will do this weird walk/crawl that resembles a primate. Give him a walking toy or something to hold onto and he is good to go. Other than that, he crawls with lightning speed.

But the rest of toddlerhood? We’re there, man. Boy, are we ever.

Exhibit A:

I needed to get a prescription filled yesterday. I took the kids with me. We were in the pharmacy at the hospital, where we sat in the provided chairs, waiting for the script to be ready. I sat in one. Zach sat in the one next to me, and Evan sat on the opposite side of Zach. Everyone was fine until Zach pulled himself up and reached over and whacked Evan. Yeah. Of course it wasn’t hard enough to hurt Evan, and I told him no. And then he did it again. And I had to hide my giggles.

Exhibit B:

Zach throws tantrums. And it is so cute  not tolerable. Really, he just rolls around on the floor a bit and kicks his legs, all the while fussing just a tiny bit. And it cracks me up.

Exhibit C:

Do we really have to revisit the day he bit me?

Exhibit D:

He plays games with us. Yeah. Not Pat-a-Cake. I mean looking us right in the eye and throwing something on the ground to watch us retrieve it for him. And again. And again. And he gets mad when he sees Evan with one of his toys. God have mercy.

Exhibit E:

He is into every-friggin’-thing. Electrical outlets, doors, you name it. He is finally tall enough to not only reach doorknobs, but to realize that they are his ticket to whatever is behind said door. And so all of this prompted us to create a totally safe place for him to play that is blocked off by a metal-barred baby gate with a door. And he hates it. So he goes to the door, grabs the bars and jerks back and forth like our house is Alcatraz and he is trying to beat the odds.

So the moral of the story is that, although I have reservations of making one’s house into a bubble of safety instead of teaching children what to do and not to do, John and I made an emergency trip. Outlet covers. Doorknob covers. Cabinet and drawer latches. Door Stoppers.

We are learning to do this all over again. Nine years after we did it the last time. We will. We will!

Now if someone could reveal the secret to get the kid to drink from a fuckin’ cup, I will be forever grateful.

PS: He finally has more than 2 teeth. The two front uppers are breaking in. And if the stories are correct, he is going to take off running any day now according to the disruption in his sleep schedule.

>Mama Bear

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If you look at the mothers of all sorts of species, you will have no trouble finding the stories that are out there of extraordinary measures a mother animal will go to in order to rescue her young. She will become ferocious, brave, unbelievably strong. It is biology. A Mama Bear is hard-wired to protect her cub.

We humans are no different. I am included.

I can be level-headed. Rational. Intelligent when needed. I can be wise. I can be weak. I can be any array of any aspect of what it is to be human. Until you mess with one of my cubs. Then? Well, then biology takes over. I can be viscious. Mean. Ferocious. I revisited this concept today in an experience that still has me reeling.

We have had an ongoing problem with Evan and our neighbors. No, not the children. The adults, if you can believe that. I have posted before of Evan’s behavioral difficulties. He has a temper. And he loses it. A lot. He will raise his voice and carry on like you would not believe. We have sought, and are undergoing, treatment for these issues. We, as parents, are trying everything we know to help him because we love him. He is still our baby, our firstborn together, the glue that held us together in the lean years. He’s our Evan. And we are working on this issue he has each and everyday not only for the sake of harmony in the house, but for the sake of Evan and his need to learn to effectively navigate the world in which he lives. What we do not need is advice to beat him from old ladies in grocery stores or negative comments from people who are uninvolved. I believe that it sometimes takes a village, and so I am open to suggestions from people who have dealt with the same. I’m not speaking on that. But anyhow…

Our neighbors (trashy, nasty, ghetto, uneducated, rotted-teeth-having, dirty, house-stinking-of-dirty-dog-everytime-they-open-the-door-having, skanks that they are—yeah, I said that here because I will never, ever say it in front of Ev because as an adult I woud not want him to torment their kids when they can’t help any of it. But I can say it here You won’t judge me.)….Anyhow, our neighbors decided a while back that because of Evan’s tendency to yell and be disrespectful to us, they do not want their (dirty, skanky, trashy) children to play with him. It really isn’t their business, so long as Evan does not act that way in front of them, which I assure you he does not. He doesn’t lose his temper or raise his voice to them. He isn’t aggressive toward them. But Lesson Number One in the world of getting along with your neighbors is that not eveyone is going to like you, no matter what you do or do not do. And so I let it slide. It is, after all, their prerogative. I just explained to Evan that they do not like the way he treats us and therefore he should just ignore them when he is outside playing. And John and I have continued to be civil to them. We share a duplex, for crying out loud. Evan does as he is told. For the most part, they spread their backwoods dysfunction across the backyard and we pretty much keep to the front lawn other than to park the vehicles, which is to the rear of the house. Until today.

Evan was riding his bike when I woke to eat a quick lunch. I had the full intention of going back to bed before work tonight. Until Evan came in with tears streaming down his little cheeks. He had gone to the back end of the driveway to turn around on his bike when their (dirty, toothless) children decided to talk to him. Evan said he ignored them like I told him to do since the parents didn’t want their kids to play with him. The (white trash, likely inbred) father was out back whittling yet another tacky lawn ornament to litter the backyard and heard the boys talk to Evan. And he shouted at them in a way that Evan was sure to hear (and yes, I verified with other adults who were outside and heard it), “Don’t talk to It. IT doesn’t know how to speak. IT is a monster. Stay away from IT.”

IT is my nine-year-old son. My oldest baby. The kid who almost didn’t make it into the world. The kid who is gifted and bright. The little boy who has given away his toys to neighbors in need without being asked. The kid who once witnessed a metally-disabled little boy on the playground as he was being tormented by other children, and subsequently took the little boy by the hand and played with him away from the mean kids. The kid who cries at the sight of a homeless man and insists we stop to offer help. The kid who is so gentle and loving to the little brother he never asked for but got anyway. The kid who smiled when his world turned upside down on him.

He is my cub. And he gets a little taller each year, but no amount of time or height can change that.

I know I should be rational and go and speak to the neighbors. I also know I should do so with a level head and steady voice. But I am the type who cries when I get angry enough to go into a rage. And quite honestly, this rage will not stop. I have tried everything. I could handle it if the children said something to Evan. But this was a grown man. Older than either John or I. And if I start a confrontation right now, I swear I will go to jail today.

I cannot help it. I am a Mama Bear. I am hard-wired for it. And biology is a powerful thing.

>Dental Woes

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Evan. Evan Evan Evan.

So I am working the busy ER when my husband calls me to tell me that my beloved eldest child is complaining of a toothache and bracing the right side of his face in agony. I immediately feel horrible because I realize that in the blur of the year of pregnancy and bedrest and new Zach, we have neglected to take the big one to the dentist for his annual cleaning. In this busy house, the squeakiest wheel gets the oil. And so Evan’s teeth decided it was their turn to squeak. So I told John to give him some ibuprofen and send him to bed, that we would get him in with a dentist the following morning. John responded with a call back to the ER to tell me that in my shining example of motherhood, I managed to stock adult ibuprofen and infants’ ibuprofen, but nothing in between. In steps my trusty ER Nurse friends to save the day: Evan is old enough, give him 2 adult ones with a small meal to avoid stomach upset.

So it takes 2 days to get Ev in with a dentist. We chose one that does orthodontics as well, since we already know we are heading there. And John takes him while I sleep off 5 12′s in a row and a couple of marketing papers. And he comes home, frantically waking me to tell me the verdict: Evan has 8 cavities. Eight!

I immediately blame the pig stage we are in. I mean, I make the kid brush his teeth. He emerges from the bathroom with toothpaste breath. I assume he has brushed. And he may have been all along. But apparently not well. One tooth is so bad that it is all the way down to the nerve and needs a pulpotomy. Seriously, Evan?

So yesterday, we got our care plan for the dentist. Pulpotomy first. If he handles that well, they will do the rest of the work in the office. If not, it is off to Cincinnati Children’s, where they will do all of the remaining work under general anesthesia. And the ballpark figure of my expense for all of this after insurance? Only the bargain price of $1600. I mean, it isn’t like it matters, right? The kiddo needs it and the kiddo will get it. But this whole experience requires some research on my part.

As in how in the blue hell did my 9-year-old son come up with 8 cavities?

So I declare it a new day. No more sugar. No soft drinks (not like he drank a lot to begin with…). No more brushing twice a day. Nope, not for Evan. He brushes after he eats anything from now on. But still…8????

And then I find it out. That John has been giving in while I am at work and allowing Evan to take snacks to bed. Cookies. Ice cream. Candy. Ahhhh, we are such great parents. Turns out it was easier for John to do this than to deal with Ev’s meltdowns. So $1600 it is.

Hey John! Remember that backrest you wanted for the Harley? The backseat? The saddle bags? The stuff we were planning to do to the motorcycle this summer? I know exactly where you can find them. They’ll all be in Evan’s mouth.

>Unsupported

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Zachy finally did it, and of course I had a camera in his face to capture the moment. Then I looked and realized what a perfect example of parenthood this is, because you can see my hand hovering behind his back, ready to catch him if he should fall. One day I won’t be able to do that. And then I focused in on his face. That sweet Angel Face. My baby’s growing up.

>Flashback Friday

>I was clearing the computer of some old files and found some pics of the boys I absolutely love. My babies. So I thought I would share. The first is Zach at 7 weeks old, before his face had grown to match his big eyes.

This is the Rocker pose. That hair! Nothing we could docould tame it. And the little shirt he had on just added to it. He was about 4 months old here, I think.

And this one. I could have squeezed him to pieces, I think. This is when we learned that in order to sleep well, he must be swaddled. Incidentally, I recently made a run for big baby swaddlers when he suddenly outgrew these!

And my Evan. My rotten little boy. Here he was 5 and had just finished kindergarten. We were at Holiday World in Santa Claus, Indiana.

I think he got these glasses in a kids meal. But despite the classes and the face he is making, I am still drawn most to those chocolate eyes when I look at this pic. And I continue to do so each and everytime I look at him.

Gentle Boy. Evan at 6, the summer after first grade, right before we moved back to the Cincinnati area.
I had just received medical clearance from the diagnosis of a benign brain tumor, and Evan had had a rough year. This was a stray cat he took care of out there, and his soft heart leaps at me from the pic.