Primary Children's is sending a fixed-wing airplane to pick up Liam. One parent, they tell us, is allowed to accompany the patient. The other one will have to drive. Abe goes home to gather up a few more things and start the drive to Salt Lake. He insists that he can drive alone. As he leaves, I ask, "Are you sure you don't want me to call Marty? Or Nick? They could ride with you and keep you awake." "No, no, I'll be fine," insists Abraham. As soon as he is out of the room, the slightly neurotic alpaca-loving RT looks up from torturing my infant with her deep nasal suctioning and says, "Call Nick. Or Marty. Also, maybe they'll let you breastfeed on the airplane."
The next few hours I spend puttering around, gathering up our belongings, eating, pumping, making phone calls, sending text messages. I call my sister, awakening her out of a deep sleep, and ask if she could spare her husband for a ride up to Salt Lake. "Um, um," she says, and I can almost see her shaking her head and trying to pull off the cobwebs. "Um. I'm so tired. Hold on. Um, I think Marty has to go to work in the morning." I feel like a louse for waking her up and making such a hearty demand. Tears fill the back of my eyes. "Right," I say. "Duh. Sorry. Love you." I hang up.
My text message awakens Loriann, who immediately calls to tell me that she loves us and is praying for us.
Abe calls later to tell me that Marty is riding with him to Salt Lake.
I keep dipping the pacifier in sugar water and plugging it into the baby's mouth.
1:00 AM
Three people comprise the Life Flight team: Lisa, an efficient young woman with kind brown eyes and black buns on the sides of her head, Dave the pilot, and a sleepy-looking blond woman whose name I immediately forget. Two members of the Idaho Falls Fire Department are there to man the ambulance that will take us to the airport. The younger one tells me that his little girl spent some time at Primary Children's Hospital last year. "They are very good there," he says.
Dr. Hatch is still watching over the process. He looks exhausted. I shake his hand as the the team loads Liam into an incubator and start rolling him in a gurney toward the exit. I say, "Thank you so much for everything." What I want to say is, "You are a good egg."
1:15 AM
The fireman who drives the ambulance is in his forties. "Those kids," he says, "They're nothing if not a source of worry." He tells me he has two daughters, ages sixteen and nineteen. The older one just recently moved out, got a job, her own place. We talk about the weather. Isn't it crazy, how it can be snowy one minute and sunny the next? "If you don't like the weather in Idaho," he says, "Just wait a minute and it'll change." I laugh like I've never heard that one before. We drive along in silence and I imagine that he drinks coffee out of a thermos and votes a straight Republican ticket. I wish I were five and could sit in his lap.
1:30 AM
The airport is windy and Dave lets me wear his Life Flight jacket. He gives me the mandatory pre-flight emergency exit/under-seat flotation device/oxygen mask/safety belt lecture. Liam's gurney is loaded onto the plane.
1:45 AM
Take-off. I am surprised at how many lights are on in Idaho Falls at this hour. It is beautiful. I try to enjoy the flight, as I imagine it is costing me one thousand dollars a minute.
2:00 AM
Liam is screaming and I can't even touch him. I see him in his incubator, attached to tubes and hoses, flailing his little arms around and screaming so hard his face has gotten splotchy. I pray. "Dear God, he is so little. He doesn't understand any of this. I can't comfort him right now. I can't do anything for him right now. Will you please send someone to comfort him for me? Please, Father, you know I don't ask anything for myself. All I want is for you to spare an angel, perhaps, someone you don't really need, for just a few moments to come comfort him. Please, Father, please. He is so little. He is so innocent. Please." I beg and plead for several more minutes. Then I wait. Nothing changes. Liam continues to scream, continues to flail. This is the first time I've prayed since Liam got sick. It is also the last.
2:30 AM
Lisa looks up at me and shouts over the noise of the plane, "It must be so hard for you to see him so hungry and not be able to do anything!" I nod. "I'm sorry!" she says. The blond lady has fallen asleep.
3:00 AM
Salt Lake. The ambulance driver who takes us from the airport to the hospital is a darling man whose accent reminds me of Brad Pitt's in Seven Years in Tibet. From this I conclude that he is Austrian. "What is up with the little pumpkin?" he asks, jerking his head toward the back of the truck, and I love him instantly. I love him even more when he says, "Do not be alarmed if I run some red lights. At this time of night, I'm not going to sit at a light where there isn't any traffic." He, like the first ambulance driver, also has two daughters, though his are little: four and six months. He tells me that they taught their older daughter ASL to help assuage the terribleness of her twos. We drive down an empty street lined with trees and old Victorian houses.
3:20 AM
I don't remember how we got to the PICU. I remember getting out of the ambulance and handing over the Life Flight jacket; next I remember standing next to my baby while a team of medical personnel hover over him, giving him a new IV, poking his heel yet again, trading his little nasal cannula for the bulkier CPAP, which is attached to hoses instead of tubes. A girl in a brown ponytail shakes my hand. "I'm Dr. So-and-So," she says. "I'll be taking care of William tonight." I wonder if she's over twenty. The crib next to ours is occupied by a nine-month-old who is also attached to oxygen and IVs. His Mom, who looks like she's about my age, is bowed over in a rocking chair next to him, fast asleep. I am sorry we are making such a ruckus.
3:30 AM
It's all I can do to keep from ripping the head off the next person who comes in to draw yet another blood sample from my six-week-old's heel. I want to scream at her: "There is NO BLOOD LEFT! He only weights twelve pounds! Leave him the hell alone!"
3:40 AM
Abe arrives. I am grateful he is there to hold me.
4:00 AM
Liam's respiratory rate has dropped from 80-90 to 60-70. His chest retractions have been reduced considerably. His blood glucose levels are up. Abe falls asleep on the chair/bed next to his crib.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Liam's Medical Saga, Part II
11:00 AM
Abe returns from dropping Soren off at Grandma’s house. Someone brings us boxed lunches. I nurse Liam for what ends up being the last time in five days. The nurse says his oxygen saturation level will probably go down while I feed him. Instead, it goes up.
11:30 AM
Liam and I take a ride on a gurney. I try to enjoy the fact that I’m being wheeled down the hall of a hospital while fully conscious, but I mostly feel self-conscious, as everyone who passes tries not to stare.
11:35 AM
We are given a room in the pediatrics unit and I answer the same questions I answered first at the doctor’s office, then multiple times in the ER. Liam trades in his oxygen mask for a nasal cannula. We are assigned a nurse, Micky, and a respiratory therapist, Heidi. Everyone keeps commenting on how hard Liam is working to breathe.
For the rest of the day, Micky comes in at least every hour to check Liam’s breathing and oxygen saturation levels. People come in periodically to draw blood from his heel. Every two hours, Heidi pounds on Liam’s back with a little stick called a percussor for several minutes, which he loves, then does a “deep suctioning” of his nasal cavity, which he hates.
NOON
Dr. Baker, our family practitioner, shows up. I am relieved to see him. Not only do I have a mild crush on the man, I trust his opinion and know from past experience that he won’t recommend any unnecessary interventions for my baby. He looks at Liam, listens to his lungs, then says: “He’s doing okay right now, but I’m wondering how long he’ll be able to sustain this sort of effort. If he gives out, this is not the place to do it. I’m thinking he’ll need to be transferred to Primary Children’s.”
We are then introduced to the pediatrician on call, Dr. Hatch, who stays at the hospital with us, keeping a close eye on Liam, for the rest of the time we’re at EIRMC. He puts Liam on three different antibiotics, “just in case” the infection causing all this is bacterial. Dr. Hatch wants to put the baby on CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) but is told that at EIRMC only preemies can be put on CPAP.
The rest of the day is spent holding Liam’s hand (and stroking the tiny patch of head not covered by a bandage) while he is poked, prodded, pounded, listened to, observed, suctioned, and given albuterol treatments. Abe and I learn about respiratory rates and pass the time counting his breaths per minute. When this gets boring we try to remember all the states and their capitals.
4:00 PM
I am so full of milk I can’t bend over. I beg for, and am given, a breast pump kit. The medical staff says I am not allowed to nurse the baby because he’s working hard enough just to breathe; eating would just be too hard for him right now. They are also afraid he might aspirate, which would exacerbate his pneumonia. I think this might be a bunch of hogwash, remembering our experience in the emergency room, but it might not. I don’t want to risk it. I wish I had a medical degree.
4:30 PM
My mom leaves Soren with Grandpa and drops by for a quick check-in.
6:00 PM
Collette and Marty stop in for a visit.
7:00 PM
Liam’s blood gas reading shows surprisingly healthy levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide. The doctor thinks we might not have to transfer him after all.
8:00 PM
I send Abe home to get some toiletries and pajamas so that I can spend the night with Liam in the hospital.
8:15 PM
I don’t want to be alone while Abe is gone, so Nicholas comes over to sit with us for a while. He brings a deck of cards, a DVD, and a pile of reading. He holds up books: Mother Theresa: Come Be My Light, “or, if you want something lighter,” The National Geographic “or, if you want something even lighter,” Elle Décor. We talk politics and giggle.
9:00 PM
Liam is ravenous. He tries to vigorously suckle anything that comes near his mouth. The nurse brings in a magical substance called “Sweet-Ease” (basically: sugar water). I dip his pacifier in the sugar water and give it to him. He sucks it off quickly, spits out the pacifier, and screams for more. I spend much of the rest of the evening making sure he has enough sweets.
9:30 PM
Abe comes back.
10:00 PM
We are assigned a new respiratory therapist. She has wild hair and even wilder eyes. She slaps the percussor haphazardly around Liam’s back. Every time we are alone in the room, she looks around conspiratorially and says things like, “I’m not supposed to say anything, but I think you should nurse him.” “The doctor won’t let you breastfeed because he’s a man and doesn’t understand anything.” “I think you should just close the door and nurse the baby.” She tells me about her Alpaca cooperative. We talk knitting.
11:00 PM
A blood gas reading shows that Liam’s CO2 levels are increasing. This is a bad sign, according to Dr. Hatch, who says that it indicates that his respirations aren’t doing their job as efficiently as they should. “He may go into respiratory failure and need to be intubated,” he told us. “And if he does, it would be better for that to happen at Primary Children’s so we wouldn’t have to transfer him while intubated. I’ll call in the emergency response team. They should be here in about two hours.”
Abe returns from dropping Soren off at Grandma’s house. Someone brings us boxed lunches. I nurse Liam for what ends up being the last time in five days. The nurse says his oxygen saturation level will probably go down while I feed him. Instead, it goes up.
11:30 AM
Liam and I take a ride on a gurney. I try to enjoy the fact that I’m being wheeled down the hall of a hospital while fully conscious, but I mostly feel self-conscious, as everyone who passes tries not to stare.
11:35 AM
We are given a room in the pediatrics unit and I answer the same questions I answered first at the doctor’s office, then multiple times in the ER. Liam trades in his oxygen mask for a nasal cannula. We are assigned a nurse, Micky, and a respiratory therapist, Heidi. Everyone keeps commenting on how hard Liam is working to breathe.
For the rest of the day, Micky comes in at least every hour to check Liam’s breathing and oxygen saturation levels. People come in periodically to draw blood from his heel. Every two hours, Heidi pounds on Liam’s back with a little stick called a percussor for several minutes, which he loves, then does a “deep suctioning” of his nasal cavity, which he hates.
NOON
Dr. Baker, our family practitioner, shows up. I am relieved to see him. Not only do I have a mild crush on the man, I trust his opinion and know from past experience that he won’t recommend any unnecessary interventions for my baby. He looks at Liam, listens to his lungs, then says: “He’s doing okay right now, but I’m wondering how long he’ll be able to sustain this sort of effort. If he gives out, this is not the place to do it. I’m thinking he’ll need to be transferred to Primary Children’s.”
We are then introduced to the pediatrician on call, Dr. Hatch, who stays at the hospital with us, keeping a close eye on Liam, for the rest of the time we’re at EIRMC. He puts Liam on three different antibiotics, “just in case” the infection causing all this is bacterial. Dr. Hatch wants to put the baby on CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) but is told that at EIRMC only preemies can be put on CPAP.
The rest of the day is spent holding Liam’s hand (and stroking the tiny patch of head not covered by a bandage) while he is poked, prodded, pounded, listened to, observed, suctioned, and given albuterol treatments. Abe and I learn about respiratory rates and pass the time counting his breaths per minute. When this gets boring we try to remember all the states and their capitals.
4:00 PM
I am so full of milk I can’t bend over. I beg for, and am given, a breast pump kit. The medical staff says I am not allowed to nurse the baby because he’s working hard enough just to breathe; eating would just be too hard for him right now. They are also afraid he might aspirate, which would exacerbate his pneumonia. I think this might be a bunch of hogwash, remembering our experience in the emergency room, but it might not. I don’t want to risk it. I wish I had a medical degree.
4:30 PM
My mom leaves Soren with Grandpa and drops by for a quick check-in.
6:00 PM
Collette and Marty stop in for a visit.
7:00 PM
Liam’s blood gas reading shows surprisingly healthy levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide. The doctor thinks we might not have to transfer him after all.
8:00 PM
I send Abe home to get some toiletries and pajamas so that I can spend the night with Liam in the hospital.
8:15 PM
I don’t want to be alone while Abe is gone, so Nicholas comes over to sit with us for a while. He brings a deck of cards, a DVD, and a pile of reading. He holds up books: Mother Theresa: Come Be My Light, “or, if you want something lighter,” The National Geographic “or, if you want something even lighter,” Elle Décor. We talk politics and giggle.
9:00 PM
Liam is ravenous. He tries to vigorously suckle anything that comes near his mouth. The nurse brings in a magical substance called “Sweet-Ease” (basically: sugar water). I dip his pacifier in the sugar water and give it to him. He sucks it off quickly, spits out the pacifier, and screams for more. I spend much of the rest of the evening making sure he has enough sweets.
9:30 PM
Abe comes back.
10:00 PM
We are assigned a new respiratory therapist. She has wild hair and even wilder eyes. She slaps the percussor haphazardly around Liam’s back. Every time we are alone in the room, she looks around conspiratorially and says things like, “I’m not supposed to say anything, but I think you should nurse him.” “The doctor won’t let you breastfeed because he’s a man and doesn’t understand anything.” “I think you should just close the door and nurse the baby.” She tells me about her Alpaca cooperative. We talk knitting.
11:00 PM
A blood gas reading shows that Liam’s CO2 levels are increasing. This is a bad sign, according to Dr. Hatch, who says that it indicates that his respirations aren’t doing their job as efficiently as they should. “He may go into respiratory failure and need to be intubated,” he told us. “And if he does, it would be better for that to happen at Primary Children’s so we wouldn’t have to transfer him while intubated. I’ll call in the emergency response team. They should be here in about two hours.”
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Liam's Medical Saga, Part I
There's so much to say about this little medical adventure we've been having that I think I'm going to start posting about it in themed installments. I'll start out by describing how we got here and what they've been doing to our boy. Then, over the next several posts, I'll fill in the details as I see fit.
April 12 - April 13 . Liam starts coughing. It's just a little cough, though, and everything else seems fine, so I don't worry about it.
Night time. Liam's starting breathing a little faster and seems uncomfortable. During the night, after his feedings, Abe cuddles the baby and keeps an eye on his breathing. We decide something might be wrong. I have to get a physical done in the morning for my job, so I decide to bring Liam along with me and have the doctor take a look at him. My appointment is scheduled with Dr. James Brook, a rogue doctor who has decided that healthcare these days is going in the wrong direction. He has taken a step back, working to offer "modern medical care with old-time service." He's not our family's usual doc, but Harbor House (my place of employment) likes to work with him.
April 15
8:00 AM. Liam seems considerably better in the morning, and I almost feel silly bringing him to the appointment with me. I decide to do it anyway. Dr. Brook completes my physical, declares me whole, and then looks at the baby. After some assessing, he says, "It looks like he's got bronchialitis. Let me prescribe him a steroid (prednisolone) to help open his airways. Keep an eye on his breathing and give me a call--even in the middle of the night-- if it seems bad." I am proud to note that he weighs 12 pounds, 15 ounces—a weight gain of almost 6 pounds since birth.
9:00 AM. I take Liam to work with me, but he's so fussy I can't get anything done. We leave after an hour. My mom watches the boys for me while I take a nap.
6:00 PM. Documentary night! I make Chicken Tortilla soup. It's delicious.
7:00 PM. Liam seems worse. He’s very pale. I wonder if his lips are looking a little purple. Abe and I are unsure whether we should call the doctor or if we're just being Nervous Nelly parents. Nick mentions— not to freak us out or anything—that a baby in Idaho Falls recently died of Whooping Cough. I google Bertessis to see if Liam's symptoms match. They don't. We call our home teacher, Brady Cook, who comes over and assists Abe in giving Liam a priesthood blessing. Abe cries. We both feel better and go to bed shortly thereafter.
9:00 PM. Liam sleeps in the crook of Abe’s arm so that he can keep an eye on him. It’s a rough night. Liam’s breathing hard and blowing bubbles. Abe tells me that at one point in the night, Liam looked up at him with big sad eyes as if to say, “What’s happening, Daddy?” He’s still nursing, though, which we take to be a good sign.
April 16
7:00 AM. My baby looks like a corpse. He is very pale, his lips and fingernails are purple, and his eyes are dark and unresponsive. I feed Soren breakfast and call the doctor. He rearranges his schedule to see us immediately. I load up both the children and drive to Idaho Falls. My mind is hazy and I get lost on the way to the doctor’s office. I have to call to get directions even though I was there just yesterday.
8:30 AM. Dr. Brook listens to Liam’s breathing, takes his blood oxygen saturation levels (they’re at 80%-- they should be well over 90%), gives him a dose of Albuterol, and tells me my baby needs to be in the hospital on oxygen. “Take him to the emergency room,” he instructs. Soren has taken out every single toy in the office and scattered pieces everywhere. I frantically try to pick everything up, encouraging him to help (he doesn’t). A lady in the waiting room watches without expression. The doctor asks if I’m new in the area: do I need directions to the hospital? I tell him I’m not and that I should be able to find it. “Just turn right on Holmes,” he says, “Then left on 17th. That will take you to Channing Way. It’s a big brown building. You can't miss it.”
9:00 AM. I call Abe and tell him we’re going to the Emergency Room. He knows immediately (but does not say) that we will end up at Primary Children’s Medical Center. I think we’ll just be in the ER for a few hours, fueling up on oxygen, and then will be on our merry way.
9:15 AM. Liam is surrounded by people in the Emergency Room. He is lying on an adult-sized hospital bed. They hook him up to monitors, hold an oxygen mask over his face for oxygen, take a blood sample from his heel. Someone comes in and takes x-rays. A respiratory therapist shoves a suctioning tube up each nostril and deep into his nasal cavity. A crowd of women poke him in multiple places and finally get an IV inserted in his head, which they wrap with gauze, making him look like he’s got a serious head injury. I quickly learn how to read the monitor that measures his oxygen levels and heart rate. Soren keeps screaming that he wants to play with toys. I dig through my purse and find a little bag of conversation hearts, which I give to him on the condition that he sit on a chair in the corner while he’s eating them. He sits on the chair and eats his candy. He looks very small. Daddy shows up, squeezes Liam’s little hand, and takes Soren into the waiting room.
9:30 AM. Soren pulls his penis out of his diaper and pees all over Abraham.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Home Again
On April 28, after 13 days in the hospital, we were finally able to come home. Liam spent two more days on oxygen and is now back to his happy self. I'm working on the saga and will post it in installments soon.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Liam
Just wanted those who haven't heard yet that we're in Primary Children's Hospital intensive care unit with Liam right now. I'll post details later-- I just found a computer while wandering around looking for a place to pump and thought I'd do a quick post. He's got HMPV (human meta-pneumo virus) that developed into a serious case of pneumonia. He's been fighting really hard and it looks like he'll recover, but we could definitely use all of your prayers. (I know many of you are already praying for him.) We flew in early Thursday morning and it looks like we'll be in the ICU for a few more days.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Sleep Deprivation
I thought it was funny that we were scheduling our new baby's arrival and so wrote it on the calendar. Abraham, seeing this, added the above commentary about life after a new baby comes home.
And wow, has it ever been true. Until a few days ago, I hadn't had anything longer than a 2 1/2 hour stretch of sleep since Liam was born.
When I'm extremely sleep-deprived, a weird thing happens to my brain: it starts counting. Sometimes by ones, sometimes by fives, but also by weird things like eights, eighteens, and twenty eights. When Soren was a newborn I counted by elevens a lot. I think this is my brain's last-ditch attempt at staying awake when I need to function, which is good, I suppose, except that it makes it difficult for me to fall asleep when I do get the chance.
I finally purchased "On Becoming Baby Wise" in a fit of desperation, read the entire thing in one evening, and began implementing its principles Thursday night. And you know what? We've been sleeping better. I kind of want to find the authors and give them medals. For the past three nights, Liam has slept for three-four hour long stretches, affording me the chance to participate in a full sleep cycle. It's been nothing short of miraculous.
P.S. If you are one of those people whose newborn slept through the night at two weeks old, I don't like you and don't think we should be friends anymore.
P.P.S. If you are a Dr. Searsian, don't judge me. Dr. Sears is a horrible misogynist pig and I wish he had never been born.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Soren: 27 Months
Dear Soren,
Oy.
This has been quite a month for us. Quite a month. The introduction of a new baby into the family acted as a catalyst for your sudden burst into what some might term "The Terrible Twos," others might more optimistically call "The Terrific Twos," and which I think I will simply refer to as "Hell." Our family expansion has been a rough transition for the both of us: in bringing home a new baby I lost my first one, only to have him be replaced by a jumbo-sized two-year-old with a bad attitude and a lusty appetite for attention. I had always thought you were a gifted tantrum thrower, but during the first week or two that we had Liam at home you were able to aptly demonstrate that I had hithertofore known very little about tantrums. After you stopped throwing tantrums you became clingy, finding yourself incapable of playing independently and begging for "help" every time you got out your blocks. I cried every night for a week, heartbroken because this change in our lives had affected you so much and so negatively.
My little boy.
What has been amusing for me to watch, however, is your reaction to the baby. Shortly after we brought him home you launched a campaign to convince us that we didn't really want to keep him. You would point out various body parts on Liam and remark, "Ewww." "Ewww," look at this little hand. "Ewww," look at this tiny foot. "Ewwwwwwww," look-- it made poop. When Operation Yucky Baby proved ineffectual, you gave it up and moved on to Plan B, which has primarily consisted of crawling all over me while I try to nurse your new little brother.
You put on my white tank top one morning like it was a dress. I thought you looked smashing. It was difficult to take a picture, though, because you kept grabbing at the camera, asking to see pictures of "Soneen."
I think you really do love the little guy, though. When he cries, you become concerned and say, "Baby sad. Baby sad." You often help me change Liam's "boppers." And you give him lots of hugs and kisses. You also periodically give him hurts, but I suspect that has less to do with your feelings towards him and more to do with you desire to incite a lively reaction from Mom or Dad.
You went through a brief tie phase earlier this month. You wanted to wear a tie with everything. I love the way your hair looks in these pictures. So characteristically disheveled.
You have also learned two of the three major toddler words/phrases this month: "no" and "I do it." (The third is "mine," which I suspect you will begin to feverishly grasp when Liam gets old enough to get into your toys.) The answer to every question is "no" and you are allergic to the word "yes." We frequently have conversations that go like this:
Mom: Soren, would you like a banana?
Soren: No.
Mom: Okay.
Soren: Nana! Nana! Nana!
Mom: Oh. Did you want a banana?
Soren: No.
Mom: Okay.
Soren: (Crying and getting upset.) Nana! Nana! Nana!
or
Stranger: Do you like your new little brother?
Soren: No.
Stranger: Are you your mommy's big helper?
Soren: No.
Mom: Soren, are you the sweetest little boy in all the world?
Soren: No.
You will occasionally empty your dresser drawers and attempt to don as many of your clothing at once as is possible. I view this as good self-dressing practice.
One Sunday afternoon your father spent a considerable amount of time attempting to get you to use the word "yes."
Dad: Soren, do you want a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Uh huh. Do you want it?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Do you want to eat a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Is that a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!
(The closest we can ever get from you for an affirmative reply is "Uhkay.")
"Do it" is a result of your transition into Erikson's "Autonomy vs Self-doubt" phase of development. You've been making a wild grab at power, which means that we have daily battles about diaper changes, getting dressed, getting undressed, going places, leaving places, taking baths, going to bed, etc, etc. I've found that a good conflict-free way to get you to do things is to ask, "Do you want to pick out your outfit for today/throw away your diaper/get in your carseat/brush your teeth or do you want Mommy to do it?" You'll then pipe up with "Do it!" and (often) run off to perform the task. Earlier this month I was reorganizing the pantry in such a way that would allow me to allow you unsupervised access to it. You saw what I was doing and pitched right in: picking up gallon-sized containers of water and walking several feet with them to put them where they belonged, on the floor in a corner. You then proceeded to put away every single canned item on the bottom shelf. You enjoyed this so much I had to take some cans out so you could put them away again. You're even into punishing yourself: one day you bit Grandma, ran away to your bedroom, and came out in a few minutes, saying, "Don't bite!"
You're very gifted with the legos. This creation was made with a few blocks from a very very old lego-imitation set that I played with as a kid. We keep meaning to buy you a nice set of duplos. Maybe for your half-birthday this summer.
Another new development in your world has been your introduction to a toddler bed. This was a shockingly smooth transition. I took you to WalMart one afternoon-- just Mommy and Soren--and let you pick out your own bedding for your new bed. It came down to a choice between a Sponge Bob Square Pants comforter set and an Elmo comforter set. You would hold the Sponge Bob package in your hand and contemplate out loud: "Bob? Bob? Bob?," then hand it to me and pick up the other one, pondering: "Elmo? Elmo? Elmo?" You ultimately decided on Elmo and held it close to you all the way home. You spent that night in your Elmo bed and haven't spent a night away since. (The baby still sleeps in his Moses Basket in Mom and Dad's room, but we wanted to get you accustomed to sleeping in a Big Boy Bed before he took over the crib.)
We came in to wake you up after a nap one afternoon and here you were, sound asleep with your eyes wide open.
One of your life's greatest joys is spending time with your older cousins, the Smith kids. Nothing makes you happier than waking up in the morning and hearing, "Guess what Soren? We get to go to Tessa's house today!" You run around getting ready, repeating, "Tessa's? Tessa's? Tessa's?" It's fun to watch you play with the big kids, who treat you like a little prince. Right now, for example, I'm sitting on the Smith's computer while you play outside. Little Marty (whom you call "Mommer"), 8, and Calysta ("Kista"), 10, helped you put on your coat, shoes, hat, and mittens. They're pushing you in the swing and you're laughing and laughing. When we arrived here this morning, Tessa, 6, was ready and waiting for you. The two of you immediately started racing around the front room, spinning circles and giggling. When we see other older children in public places you approach them as though you expect the same adulation you're used to receiving from your cousins. I'm very gratfeul for their kindness and generosity with you. They're good kids.
Pondering what sort of creation might be made next with your wooden blocks.
You and I also spend a goodly amount of time on YouTube every day, watching children's music videos. I limit this activity to five or so songs a day (for my own sanity's sake, in all honesty) but you spend a lot of time begging for more. The children's music section on YouTube seems to have been colonized by Great Britain, so I spend a lot of time afterwards singing things like, "If yo' 'appy and you know it, clap yo-'ands!", "'ead, shouldas, knees an' toes-- knees an' toes!", and "The baby on th' bus goes 'Wah wah wah'...awwl day looong."
Roughhousing with Uncle Sue.
On the language development front, you've taken to using multiple word-phrases and even sentences recently, your favorite being "I want mommy!" One day you picked up the phone and said "Hi. Daddy? This is Soneen. Bye!" Sometimes when Liam coos you'll smile and say, "A coot sound."
But anyway, I feel like I should apologize for the way things have been this month. Before this big transition in our lives, I took pride in the fact that I had never yelled at you. Let's just say that I have been shorn of this pride. This month-- especially at the beginning-- I haven't been as kind and as patient as I should have and I'm sorry. I've spent some time kneeling by your bedside while you sleep at night, looking at your smooth sweet face and hoping that I can be the mom that you deserve, praying that God will compensate for my weaknesses.
I love you, sweetie. You are still my little sunshine.
Mommy
Oy.
This has been quite a month for us. Quite a month. The introduction of a new baby into the family acted as a catalyst for your sudden burst into what some might term "The Terrible Twos," others might more optimistically call "The Terrific Twos," and which I think I will simply refer to as "Hell." Our family expansion has been a rough transition for the both of us: in bringing home a new baby I lost my first one, only to have him be replaced by a jumbo-sized two-year-old with a bad attitude and a lusty appetite for attention. I had always thought you were a gifted tantrum thrower, but during the first week or two that we had Liam at home you were able to aptly demonstrate that I had hithertofore known very little about tantrums. After you stopped throwing tantrums you became clingy, finding yourself incapable of playing independently and begging for "help" every time you got out your blocks. I cried every night for a week, heartbroken because this change in our lives had affected you so much and so negatively.
My little boy.
You put on my white tank top one morning like it was a dress. I thought you looked smashing. It was difficult to take a picture, though, because you kept grabbing at the camera, asking to see pictures of "Soneen." I think you really do love the little guy, though. When he cries, you become concerned and say, "Baby sad. Baby sad." You often help me change Liam's "boppers." And you give him lots of hugs and kisses. You also periodically give him hurts, but I suspect that has less to do with your feelings towards him and more to do with you desire to incite a lively reaction from Mom or Dad.
You went through a brief tie phase earlier this month. You wanted to wear a tie with everything. I love the way your hair looks in these pictures. So characteristically disheveled. You have also learned two of the three major toddler words/phrases this month: "no" and "I do it." (The third is "mine," which I suspect you will begin to feverishly grasp when Liam gets old enough to get into your toys.) The answer to every question is "no" and you are allergic to the word "yes." We frequently have conversations that go like this:
Mom: Soren, would you like a banana?
Soren: No.
Mom: Okay.
Soren: Nana! Nana! Nana!
Mom: Oh. Did you want a banana?
Soren: No.
Mom: Okay.
Soren: (Crying and getting upset.) Nana! Nana! Nana!
or
Stranger: Do you like your new little brother?
Soren: No.
Stranger: Are you your mommy's big helper?
Soren: No.
Mom: Soren, are you the sweetest little boy in all the world?
Soren: No.
You will occasionally empty your dresser drawers and attempt to don as many of your clothing at once as is possible. I view this as good self-dressing practice. One Sunday afternoon your father spent a considerable amount of time attempting to get you to use the word "yes."
Dad: Soren, do you want a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Uh huh. Do you want it?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Do you want to eat a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!
Dad: Is that a cookie?
Soren: Cookie!
(The closest we can ever get from you for an affirmative reply is "Uhkay.")
"Do it" is a result of your transition into Erikson's "Autonomy vs Self-doubt" phase of development. You've been making a wild grab at power, which means that we have daily battles about diaper changes, getting dressed, getting undressed, going places, leaving places, taking baths, going to bed, etc, etc. I've found that a good conflict-free way to get you to do things is to ask, "Do you want to pick out your outfit for today/throw away your diaper/get in your carseat/brush your teeth or do you want Mommy to do it?" You'll then pipe up with "Do it!" and (often) run off to perform the task. Earlier this month I was reorganizing the pantry in such a way that would allow me to allow you unsupervised access to it. You saw what I was doing and pitched right in: picking up gallon-sized containers of water and walking several feet with them to put them where they belonged, on the floor in a corner. You then proceeded to put away every single canned item on the bottom shelf. You enjoyed this so much I had to take some cans out so you could put them away again. You're even into punishing yourself: one day you bit Grandma, ran away to your bedroom, and came out in a few minutes, saying, "Don't bite!"
You're very gifted with the legos. This creation was made with a few blocks from a very very old lego-imitation set that I played with as a kid. We keep meaning to buy you a nice set of duplos. Maybe for your half-birthday this summer. Another new development in your world has been your introduction to a toddler bed. This was a shockingly smooth transition. I took you to WalMart one afternoon-- just Mommy and Soren--and let you pick out your own bedding for your new bed. It came down to a choice between a Sponge Bob Square Pants comforter set and an Elmo comforter set. You would hold the Sponge Bob package in your hand and contemplate out loud: "Bob? Bob? Bob?," then hand it to me and pick up the other one, pondering: "Elmo? Elmo? Elmo?" You ultimately decided on Elmo and held it close to you all the way home. You spent that night in your Elmo bed and haven't spent a night away since. (The baby still sleeps in his Moses Basket in Mom and Dad's room, but we wanted to get you accustomed to sleeping in a Big Boy Bed before he took over the crib.)
We came in to wake you up after a nap one afternoon and here you were, sound asleep with your eyes wide open. One of your life's greatest joys is spending time with your older cousins, the Smith kids. Nothing makes you happier than waking up in the morning and hearing, "Guess what Soren? We get to go to Tessa's house today!" You run around getting ready, repeating, "Tessa's? Tessa's? Tessa's?" It's fun to watch you play with the big kids, who treat you like a little prince. Right now, for example, I'm sitting on the Smith's computer while you play outside. Little Marty (whom you call "Mommer"), 8, and Calysta ("Kista"), 10, helped you put on your coat, shoes, hat, and mittens. They're pushing you in the swing and you're laughing and laughing. When we arrived here this morning, Tessa, 6, was ready and waiting for you. The two of you immediately started racing around the front room, spinning circles and giggling. When we see other older children in public places you approach them as though you expect the same adulation you're used to receiving from your cousins. I'm very gratfeul for their kindness and generosity with you. They're good kids.
Pondering what sort of creation might be made next with your wooden blocks.You and I also spend a goodly amount of time on YouTube every day, watching children's music videos. I limit this activity to five or so songs a day (for my own sanity's sake, in all honesty) but you spend a lot of time begging for more. The children's music section on YouTube seems to have been colonized by Great Britain, so I spend a lot of time afterwards singing things like, "If yo' 'appy and you know it, clap yo-'ands!", "'ead, shouldas, knees an' toes-- knees an' toes!", and "The baby on th' bus goes 'Wah wah wah'...awwl day looong."
Roughhousing with Uncle Sue.On the language development front, you've taken to using multiple word-phrases and even sentences recently, your favorite being "I want mommy!" One day you picked up the phone and said "Hi. Daddy? This is Soneen. Bye!" Sometimes when Liam coos you'll smile and say, "A coot sound."
But anyway, I feel like I should apologize for the way things have been this month. Before this big transition in our lives, I took pride in the fact that I had never yelled at you. Let's just say that I have been shorn of this pride. This month-- especially at the beginning-- I haven't been as kind and as patient as I should have and I'm sorry. I've spent some time kneeling by your bedside while you sleep at night, looking at your smooth sweet face and hoping that I can be the mom that you deserve, praying that God will compensate for my weaknesses.
I love you, sweetie. You are still my little sunshine.
Mommy
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Liam: 1 Month
Dear Liam,
Your father and I used to amuse ourselves at BYU by examining people and picking out the animals we thought they resembled. We were acquainted with a badger who had married a Siamese cat and a groundhog wedded to a basset hound. One of my good friends looked like a koala. Another resembled a gazelle. I think that your dad looks like an eagle. Not everyone lends themselves readily to an animal familiar, but I've decided that you are most certainly a cat-- perhaps more in deed than in looks, but the image of you as a kitten comes to my mind again and again. Like all cats, you are a lover of creature comforts. You'll curl up on a big person's chest like a kitty in a sunbeam and assume a pose of perfect relaxation. At night you fuss if I put you in your moses basket, so you spend a lot of time snuggled up next to Mommy or Daddy, a warm little ball of sweet milkiness. And you're always willing to eat. Soren was an infant who ate for business- every three hours he would set to the task of eating and gulp down his meal as quickly as possible; you, on the other hand, feel that you must eat every two hours and would eat more often if I provided the opportunity. You linger over your meals. And after you've nursed you'll burp largely and spit up a lot, then lean back a little, your eyes half-open, arms hanging limp, and look absolutely satiated.
Sweet Repose. Liam napping on Grandma Hanson.
You are remarkably smiley for such a young little ducky. When we took you to the doctor for your 2 week check-up, you sat with us in the exam room and smiled and smiled. At that particular checkup we found that you had beefed up considerably: when born you weighed 7 pounds, 5 ounces; at two weeks of age you weighed 8 pounds, 8 ounces. And you've continued to gain. You were so skinny when we first met you I thought you looked like a refugee; now you resemble the chubby Buddha and even your fingers are plump. You are also remarkably strong. You started rolling over (from your belly to your back) at 10 days old.
Fat and happy.
Fat and...glum?
I can't believe it's already been a whole month. When I talk about you and look at you, one word repeatedly comes to mind: sweet. You are so very sweet. I keep telling your daddy: "there's something very special about this kid."
Daddy is attempting to soothe Liam by gently bouncing him on the yellow massage ball. It wasn't as effective as it looks here.
Trying out the new tongue device.
I love you!
Mommy
Quiet alert.
I took this picture because it reminded me of Sam, a toddler in a delightful series of children's books that Grandma Skousen sent to Soren. Sam has very skinny legs and a round belly.
Your father and I used to amuse ourselves at BYU by examining people and picking out the animals we thought they resembled. We were acquainted with a badger who had married a Siamese cat and a groundhog wedded to a basset hound. One of my good friends looked like a koala. Another resembled a gazelle. I think that your dad looks like an eagle. Not everyone lends themselves readily to an animal familiar, but I've decided that you are most certainly a cat-- perhaps more in deed than in looks, but the image of you as a kitten comes to my mind again and again. Like all cats, you are a lover of creature comforts. You'll curl up on a big person's chest like a kitty in a sunbeam and assume a pose of perfect relaxation. At night you fuss if I put you in your moses basket, so you spend a lot of time snuggled up next to Mommy or Daddy, a warm little ball of sweet milkiness. And you're always willing to eat. Soren was an infant who ate for business- every three hours he would set to the task of eating and gulp down his meal as quickly as possible; you, on the other hand, feel that you must eat every two hours and would eat more often if I provided the opportunity. You linger over your meals. And after you've nursed you'll burp largely and spit up a lot, then lean back a little, your eyes half-open, arms hanging limp, and look absolutely satiated.
Sweet Repose. Liam napping on Grandma Hanson. You are remarkably smiley for such a young little ducky. When we took you to the doctor for your 2 week check-up, you sat with us in the exam room and smiled and smiled. At that particular checkup we found that you had beefed up considerably: when born you weighed 7 pounds, 5 ounces; at two weeks of age you weighed 8 pounds, 8 ounces. And you've continued to gain. You were so skinny when we first met you I thought you looked like a refugee; now you resemble the chubby Buddha and even your fingers are plump. You are also remarkably strong. You started rolling over (from your belly to your back) at 10 days old.
Fat and happy.
Fat and...glum? I can't believe it's already been a whole month. When I talk about you and look at you, one word repeatedly comes to mind: sweet. You are so very sweet. I keep telling your daddy: "there's something very special about this kid."
Daddy is attempting to soothe Liam by gently bouncing him on the yellow massage ball. It wasn't as effective as it looks here. 
Trying out the new tongue device. Mommy
Quiet alert.
I took this picture because it reminded me of Sam, a toddler in a delightful series of children's books that Grandma Skousen sent to Soren. Sam has very skinny legs and a round belly.The Rest of Loriann's Rant
This is the entirety of Loriann's breastfeeding-in-public rant, published with her permission. It makes me laugh, so I thought I'd share. She did want me to note here that her work environment at the time was a bit stressful and that she doesn't swear so very much any more. :)
Sacred Boobies
an angry e-mail by Loriann
Okay, the breastfeeding articles got me a little riled up early in this morning. I would not, let me repeat, NOT fared well at BYU. I think I would have constantly been tasering people and breaking the honor code by flipping people off and having swearing fits due to the horrendoes nature of their ignorance. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE IDIOTS.
First up is the poor stupid man who is obviously in love with sacred boobs:
men are not permitted to look at or touch that exceptionally sacred part of a woman's body until we are married to her in the temple. That is why a woman should not expose that part of her even if it is just to feed her child unless absolutely necessary, unless there truly is no other option - Secret Addiction to Porn
ALSO... his BRILLIANT idea for these women with sacred boobs to go nurse in the freaking toilets of places like... burger king, the mall or the chevron. I don't know if the men's bathrooms are different than the ladies, but they are disgusting. I'm not going to squat over a nasty filthy toilet with my beautiful baby and attempt to nurse in a shit stained stink hole while some crazy person bangs on the door yelling, 'are you done yet?" My sacred boobs can sit wherever they would like to and FEED my child. You nasty nasty perv.
You should NOT expose your boobs unless absolutley necessary. Are we living in Afganistan and we should start wearing veils over ourselves. What other parts of ourselves should NEVER be exposed. This guy is insane. But I can give him a little bit of slack, because he is a man, and therefore he is stupid.
The following person however is a woman, and should have some sort of insight into women's rights, and the need to feed a hungry child. But she is however a stupid bitch. Here are my favorite exerpts from her word vomit.
The first of these questions really should be why do women want to breast-feed in public in the first place? - Yes, women love breast feeding in public. They prefer it actually. Instead of the comfort and privacy of their own homes when little junior pipes up with a hungry cry, they hop into the old minivan and drive to the busiest place in town rip their shirts off and let him suck away at their sacred boobies. Its just something that happens to a woman's brain after she has given birth... they become mad with indecency. You silly twit! A woman still has a life to tend to, she has to go grocery shopping, and clothes shopping for her other children that she might have... especially if she's a mormon since we seem to be fond of having 10 kids. When you have 10 bloody children you are busy taking them places like soccer practice and piano recitals, and tae freaking kwon doe. So in between all that junior needs to eat EVERY TWO HOURS. Chances are Mom is gonna have to feed him IN PUBLIC at some point.
(most pediatricians will back me up here) - I'm so glad that the whole of the medical community is on your side. Good job. Glad to know that pediatricians, doctors... really everyone agrees that breastfeeding is good for your baby. Welcome to the 21st century. Now why are you still living in the 18th century where you seem to be afraid of a titty?
What about having children is convenient? If you want convenience, get a cat. Geary stated that she didn't want to nurse in the restaurant bathroom because it was just "plain gross." Others consider nursing in public "plain gross." That viewpoint deserves the same level of sensitivity that publicly breast-feeding mothers ask for. - I have a question for you. When you go to the bathroom in a Burger King do you SIT on the toilet, or do you hover? Cause I've encountered a lot of hoverers who are afraid of actually letting their bare butt cheeks touching the seat of a public resrooms because they are "plain gross". And you know what happens then. You pee on the freaking seat! And that is "plain gross". Also why is it that in public restrooms EVERYTHING is WET. EVERYTHING. It looks like a DAMN hurricane just blew threw there. And very often there are DOORS MISSING FROM THE STALLS. Was someone in such a hurry to take a piss that they had to kick the door in? So even THERE you can't find PRIVACY. Even in the dirty, disgusting, soaking wet, door missing, "plain gross" bathroom, I'm sure someone would have found a way to pick on Catherine Geary and make her feel like a whorish monster.
Some things that I find others do in public as plain gross... picking their nose.... picking their butt. Chewing with their mouths open. Letting their children behave like monsters. Coughing a lung up and not covering their mouths. Making out with toungue rings. Snorgling their own snot. Sniffing your armpits. Smoking. Shitting in your own pants and then leaving your diaper in MY restroom for me to clean up. However I have NEVER been offended by a breastfeeding mother... strange.
Public breast-feeding used to be considered ill-mannered, gauche and even vulgar. - We also found it to be ill mannered to leave the house without long skirts and bonnets. It used to vulgar for women to vote or speak in public. It once was gauche for women to own land. My goodness, we have come along way you brainless twit!
Your breasts are still breasts. - My yes, our breasts are still breasts. By breastfeeding we are using them for their FUNCTIONAL purpose. I don't know what you use your breasts for, but if you haven't fed a child with them, they really are just decoration, or like party favors. Maybe you need to travel outside of america to learn the real value of FOOD.
Women used to go out of their way to plan their schedules in order to avoid the indignity of baring themselves in public, which seems like a wise solution. - The indignity? Wise solution? I am confused by these terms. Women used to not leave the house because they were housewives. They stayed with the house and cleaned for it and cooked for it. And then they realized, a house doesn't need a wife any more than a house needs a husband. I think I'll leave the bloody house and do some other things like take my child to the park, or have a part time job, OR a full time job. Or I'll be an activist for something, or I'll do anything I damn well please because once the seventies got here we all decided to be indignant and take off our bras and BURN THEM. Then we bared ourselves in public and danced around a the bra fire with glee. And that was a wise solution.... THE END.
Dearest Rachel... how did you survive with these ninnies for so long. They are absolutley horrible. I hate them so. The whole thing has got me in an uproar this morning.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
A Clarification
I nursed Soren for thirteen months and there were occasions when, in public places, I'd have to bring out my boobs and my nursing blanket and and let him have a nip. And no one ever said anything unkind. And during my four long weeks of breastfeeding Liam, I have also yet to encounter any overt negativity about my breastfeeding him either.
I'm paranoid, however, because of a big public controversy from my BYU days that centered around breastfeeding in public. I think it was triggered by an incident that occurred at an Orem Burger King, where an employee approached a fully covered breastfeeding mom and asked her to take her business to the bathroom, because she was making people uncomfortable. The woman was understandably outraged and the story made it into all the local papers. There was then a flurry of activity in the Letters to the Editor section of The Daily Universe, BYU's campus newspaper. There were some individuals who wrote in defense of public breastfeeding, but many others who wrote in to express their discomfort with the idea. I tried to dig through the editorial archives to provide a link for you all to peruse at your leisure, but the archives apparently don't go back that far. It's a shame, really, because there were some real gems. Men and women alike wrote in to say things like, "men are not permitted to look at or touch that exceptionally sacred part of a woman's body until we are married to her in the temple. That is why a woman should not expose that part of her even if it is just to feed her child unless absolutely necessary, unless there truly is no other option"* and "why do women want to breastfeed in public in the first place?"**
And there was another similar controversy that occurred in the Woodville 1st Ward during my formative years. Some uptight (female) member of the congregation complained to the bishop about a woman who breastfed her baby during sacrament meeting, spurring a debate about the appropriateness of such behavior. Even though my mother fought bravely and vocally on the side of the breastfeeding mom, and I knew that she was right, as an adult I've never been able to shake the image of someone frowning at me for reminding the world that I have breasts and know how to use them. And so, even though I would occasionally like to stay and listen to my church meetings, I scuttle off to the mother's lounge to sit in seclusion and shamefully provide my child with the best possible nutrition available.
- - - - -
*"Secret addiction to porn," diagnosed my friend Loriann
**The answer to that question was delightfully provided again by Loriann, who later wrote me in an e-mail: "Yes, women love breast feeding in public. They prefer it actually. Instead of the comfort and privacy of their own homes, when little junior pipes up with a hungry cry, they hop into the old minivan and drive to the busiest place in town, rip their shirts off and let him suck away at their sacred boobies. Its just something that happens to a woman's brain after she has given birth... they become mad with indecency. You silly twit! A woman still has a life to tend to, she has to go grocery shopping, and clothes shopping for her other children that she might have... especially if she's a mormon since we seem to be fond of having 10 kids. When you have 10 bloody children you are busy taking them places like soccer practice and piano recitals, and tae freaking kwon doe. So in between all that junior needs to eat EVERY TWO HOURS. Chances are Mom is gonna have to feed him IN PUBLIC at some point."
I'm paranoid, however, because of a big public controversy from my BYU days that centered around breastfeeding in public. I think it was triggered by an incident that occurred at an Orem Burger King, where an employee approached a fully covered breastfeeding mom and asked her to take her business to the bathroom, because she was making people uncomfortable. The woman was understandably outraged and the story made it into all the local papers. There was then a flurry of activity in the Letters to the Editor section of The Daily Universe, BYU's campus newspaper. There were some individuals who wrote in defense of public breastfeeding, but many others who wrote in to express their discomfort with the idea. I tried to dig through the editorial archives to provide a link for you all to peruse at your leisure, but the archives apparently don't go back that far. It's a shame, really, because there were some real gems. Men and women alike wrote in to say things like, "men are not permitted to look at or touch that exceptionally sacred part of a woman's body until we are married to her in the temple. That is why a woman should not expose that part of her even if it is just to feed her child unless absolutely necessary, unless there truly is no other option"* and "why do women want to breastfeed in public in the first place?"**
And there was another similar controversy that occurred in the Woodville 1st Ward during my formative years. Some uptight (female) member of the congregation complained to the bishop about a woman who breastfed her baby during sacrament meeting, spurring a debate about the appropriateness of such behavior. Even though my mother fought bravely and vocally on the side of the breastfeeding mom, and I knew that she was right, as an adult I've never been able to shake the image of someone frowning at me for reminding the world that I have breasts and know how to use them. And so, even though I would occasionally like to stay and listen to my church meetings, I scuttle off to the mother's lounge to sit in seclusion and shamefully provide my child with the best possible nutrition available.
- - - - -
*"Secret addiction to porn," diagnosed my friend Loriann
**The answer to that question was delightfully provided again by Loriann, who later wrote me in an e-mail: "Yes, women love breast feeding in public. They prefer it actually. Instead of the comfort and privacy of their own homes, when little junior pipes up with a hungry cry, they hop into the old minivan and drive to the busiest place in town, rip their shirts off and let him suck away at their sacred boobies. Its just something that happens to a woman's brain after she has given birth... they become mad with indecency. You silly twit! A woman still has a life to tend to, she has to go grocery shopping, and clothes shopping for her other children that she might have... especially if she's a mormon since we seem to be fond of having 10 kids. When you have 10 bloody children you are busy taking them places like soccer practice and piano recitals, and tae freaking kwon doe. So in between all that junior needs to eat EVERY TWO HOURS. Chances are Mom is gonna have to feed him IN PUBLIC at some point."
Saturday, March 28, 2009
You Know You're a Mother When...
You find yourself kneeling on the bathroom floor holding a wailing infant while your husband brushes your teeth in an attempt to demonstrate to your screaming toddler that there are worse things in life than oral hygiene.
Monday, March 23, 2009
A Call to Arms
It seems that something so simple should be...well, simple. But it seems that there's no right way to feed your baby in our culture. Bottle-feeding moms are criticized for bottle feeding because "breast is best"-- but breast-feeding moms are sent to hide themselves behind blankets in little closets to nourish their infants in shame.
Honestly, people, formula is a fine way to nourish a growing infant. I see plenty of healthy, intelligent, emotionally functional children skipping around after having been bottle-fed. And seriously, people, boobs exist. I'm sorry if mine make you uncomfortable. But I have them and they exist for the very purpose of feeding my young. I'm tired of being sequestered away as though I were a menstruating woman in a primitive culture.
Breastfeeding and Bottle-feeding Moms, unite! Let us cross the La Leche League chasm that has hithertofore separated us! Let us stand side by side and boldly whip out our bottles and our boobies, and do it without shame! It is time for all of us, everywhere, to feed our babies with pride!
Honestly, people, formula is a fine way to nourish a growing infant. I see plenty of healthy, intelligent, emotionally functional children skipping around after having been bottle-fed. And seriously, people, boobs exist. I'm sorry if mine make you uncomfortable. But I have them and they exist for the very purpose of feeding my young. I'm tired of being sequestered away as though I were a menstruating woman in a primitive culture.
Breastfeeding and Bottle-feeding Moms, unite! Let us cross the La Leche League chasm that has hithertofore separated us! Let us stand side by side and boldly whip out our bottles and our boobies, and do it without shame! It is time for all of us, everywhere, to feed our babies with pride!
It's time for some book reviews.
I have actually read some books (and started several others) during the past six months. Here's the rundown:
Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe
Fannie Flagg
This book contains a section of recipes in the back, so it is clearly a delight. That's a universal rule, right? Books containing actual recipes = delightful. I vaguely remember something about that from my Physical Science 100 days. BcAR=D. (Like Water for Chocolate is another example of this Delight Phenomenon.)
It's not the most fantastic book of all time, but it's a warm read and decently written. In addition to the recipes in the back, each chapter starts out with a newsletter written by the postmaster's wife in the town of Whistle Stop. The book is worth reading just for the newsletters.
My only recommendation would be to read the novel and watch the movie based on the novel. They fill in characterization and plot gaps for each other.
A Slipping Down Life
Anne Tyler
This wasn't my favorite Anne Tyler novel. Nothing really wrong with it, but nothing really right, either.
A Place Where the Sea Remembers
Sandra Benitez
Beautifully written. Poignant. Heart-breaking. And unremarkable. Sort of like it came out of the Beautifully Written and Poignant Novels factory.
The Practice of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy
Albert Ellis and Windy Dryden
My therapist at BYU, Lars Nielsen, was mentored by Albert Ellis, who founded this particular branch of Behavior Therapy. I really loved Lars' counseling style--it was practical, humorous, intelligent, and terminal--so when I saw this book in one of my co-workers offices, I decided to look at this therapeutic approach from the other side of the couch.
This was a good read, but pretty textbook-y. (I guess that's what one should expect from a textbook).
If you're interested in curing yourself of all your emotional ills using this excellent approach, I would recommend one of these self-help books.
Positive Discipline for Working Parents
Jane Nelson and Lisa Larsen
I love the Positive Discipline series. It offers a viable alternative to traditional punishment/reward methods of parenting, incorporating valuable research about child development into its theories and teaching parents how to respectfully set limits for their children and teach them how to make good decisions.
Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe
Fannie Flagg
This book contains a section of recipes in the back, so it is clearly a delight. That's a universal rule, right? Books containing actual recipes = delightful. I vaguely remember something about that from my Physical Science 100 days. BcAR=D. (Like Water for Chocolate is another example of this Delight Phenomenon.)It's not the most fantastic book of all time, but it's a warm read and decently written. In addition to the recipes in the back, each chapter starts out with a newsletter written by the postmaster's wife in the town of Whistle Stop. The book is worth reading just for the newsletters.
My only recommendation would be to read the novel and watch the movie based on the novel. They fill in characterization and plot gaps for each other.
A Slipping Down Life
Anne Tyler
This wasn't my favorite Anne Tyler novel. Nothing really wrong with it, but nothing really right, either. A Place Where the Sea Remembers
Sandra Benitez
Beautifully written. Poignant. Heart-breaking. And unremarkable. Sort of like it came out of the Beautifully Written and Poignant Novels factory.The Practice of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy
Albert Ellis and Windy Dryden
My therapist at BYU, Lars Nielsen, was mentored by Albert Ellis, who founded this particular branch of Behavior Therapy. I really loved Lars' counseling style--it was practical, humorous, intelligent, and terminal--so when I saw this book in one of my co-workers offices, I decided to look at this therapeutic approach from the other side of the couch.
This was a good read, but pretty textbook-y. (I guess that's what one should expect from a textbook).
If you're interested in curing yourself of all your emotional ills using this excellent approach, I would recommend one of these self-help books.
Positive Discipline for Working Parents
Jane Nelson and Lisa Larsen
I love the Positive Discipline series. It offers a viable alternative to traditional punishment/reward methods of parenting, incorporating valuable research about child development into its theories and teaching parents how to respectfully set limits for their children and teach them how to make good decisions.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
You know you're a mother when...
You wake up every forty five minutes in the middle of the night with a wee infant, all the while trying to stop the Sesame Street song, "Do De Rubber Duck", from playing incessantly in your head.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Friday, March 06, 2009
Brothers
Abraham has a knack for taking pictures of our newborns when they're pulling the most fabulous faces. I like these two shots because they truly illustrate how (phenotypically) similar our children are.
Soren, aged 15 days, January 2007.
Liam, aged 5 days, February 2009.Thursday, March 05, 2009
Interventionalizin' Those Babies
Most of you, dear Readers, seemed quite interested in my earlier post about Hypnobabies, so I thought I'd check in and let you know how the whole beaaautiful birthing experience went down.
The natural childbirth people talk about what they call "birth interventions"-- things like induction, continuous fetal monitoring, pain medication, and episiotomies-- as though they were one of the seven plagues of Egypt. Everyone from the Bradley people to Ricky Lake have put their index fingers in an "x" and hissed at an IV bag full of Pitocin. The idea is that medical intervention should be avoided at all costs, as interventions can often lead to complications. Generally I agree with this attitude, which is why God struck me with my transverse baby.
When I went to see both my midwife, Susan Binegar-Rider, and obstetrician, Margaret Huggins, almost a week after my due date and little Liam had still not permanently turned into a head-down position, it became clear that at least a little intervening was inevitable. The "wait-and-see" policy I had previously adopted was beginning to seem less safe-- if I waited to see if Liam turned head down until I went into labor, I would risk uterine rupture or an umbilical cord prolapse. It took me a little while to adjust my thinking, but we ultimately decided that it would be best to schedule a version and, if the version was successful, induce labor while he still had his head down-- and if it wasn't successful, go ahead with a C-Section.
So Wednesday morning started out with a "version," performed--since my own Obstetrician was away on an emergency call--by Dr. Barbara Nelson of the Rosemark Women's Center. The nurses all told me that she was the best baby turner they'd ever seen, so I felt that it was serendipity that she was the one who was available to do the procedure. She was accompanied by an adorable male ultrasound technician who looked like he was perhaps from Pakistan, smelled deliciously foreign, and referred to me as "my friend." Anyway, after a few minutes of discomfort, Liam was turned into a more appropriate birthing position. High fives were exchanged all around, a nurse stabbed me with an IV (which thing made Abraham quite faint), and I was trotted down to a birthing room in a stylish moon-and-stars hospital gown.
After Lisa, the attending nurse, got us all hooked up with the Pitocin (intervention) and strapped me to a continuous fetal monitor (intervention), and Dr. Nelson had broken my water (uncomfortable intervention), Abe got out his book of fairy tales and read to me for a while. Lisa would occasionally come in and ask, "How are you feeling?" and when I said, "Great!" She'd say, "OK. Let's crank up that Pitocin a little." She seemed a little bit like a torturer : "Still feeling comfortable, hmm? Well, let's see how you do when I turn up your contractions to a 7!" So I sat there through several hours of increasingly strong contractions, focusing on relaxing through each one, and visuallizing the sensation as a warm yellow light moving through my back and abdomen. This worked very well-- so well, in fact, that after we put on a Hypnobabies CD, Abe even fell asleep while I labored. Loriann came in to visit during her lunch break and we had a nice chat between contractions, which were then about a minute long and a minute apart.
Shortly after Loriann left, however, the contractions started feeling less like a warm glowing light and more like a sharp searing burn. I decided I didn't really feel like suffering, so we called in the anesthesiologist (intervention), who injected me with a lovely formula of liquid sunshine while humming a happy ditty to himself. At that point, I was only dilated to a five, but within an hour, I could feel Liam moving into the birth canal. Things progressed pretty quickly from there. Because Liam's heart rate was dropping, I was hooked up to an internal fetal monitor (intervention) and injected with fake amniotic fluid (intervention). And at 3:52 PM, after three minutes of pushing, Mr. William James was born. With all those interventions, I reduced my birthing time from 45 hours (with Soren) to 6 1/2 (with Liam). It was glorious. "Night and day," said Dr. Huggins, of my two births. "Night and day."
And I'm not at all sorry that I spent all the time and money that I did on Hypnobabies. Well, actually, now that I write that, I realize that maybe I am a little sorry. That was a lot of time invested. But I do feel that the techniques I learned helped me through the first several hours of my labor in comfort, so it wasn't a complete waste. And I also genuinely believe that, had I been able to move around freely (I couldn't because of my IVs and continuous monitoring), I would have made it all the way without an epidural. Also, the relaxation techniques have helped me since having the baby, allowing me to fall asleep quickly when I have the opportunity (I'm generally not very good at falling asleep). And I did have a positive birthing experience, though I imagine it's not anything the Hypnobabies people would want to post with their testimonials.
So, in conclusion: I interventionalized this birth. And it was a good birth. But maybe next time I can go back to hypnotizin' that birth process. We'll see.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Liam: Welcome Letter
Dear Liam,
You're lying on a blanket in your carseat and I'm sitting right next to you with the computer on my lap, watching you sleep and listening to the little creaks and squeaks you make as you dream. Soren and Daddy are at Grandma's house, which means that you and I have a few rare moments to be alone. You don't seem to notice or care, however. You just want to sleep.
The pajamas you wear drown your tiny little body and your face is tanned with jaundice. You hold your little arms in a praying mantis position and your long thin fingers hang down. You just woke up and stretched long enough to noisily fill your diaper, then drifted back into sleep. The nurses at the hospital were worried that your jaundice would make you too sleepy to remember to eat, but that hasn't been a problem at all. The moment your eyes open you're ready for food, a desire you aren't afraid to express loudly.
When Soren was a newborn I read a book called Chocolat, picked up and savored during the long hours I spent nursing and rocking him. The mother in the book referred to her child as "My Little Stranger." I remember thinking it was an apt description then for my little Soren, and I find myself using it now, for you, as I look into your dark almond-shaped eyes and sense that inside your tiny little body is a whole human being, unique, beautiful, already whole, just waiting to unfold. Thus far, you have been a very serene baby, content to sleep and eat and occasionally open your eyes and calmly look around. (Around here that makes you both strange and a stranger.)
Your Daddy fell in love with you the moment he laid eyes on you. You should see the way he lights up when you're in his arms, the gentle cheery voice he uses when you open your eyes. He has a hard time putting you down and can't look at you without making a remark like, "What a handsome little boy!" Soren is a little more dubious. He gives you hugs and kisses and watches with great concern whenever you cry, but he's also wondering where he fits in to this newly shaped family, and has begun fighting naps and bedtimes, afraid, perhaps that when he awakes you will have replaced him completely. But here we are, now, joyfully irrevocable, the four of us: Daddy, Mommy, Soren, and Liam. Your family.
Welcome Home, Little Stranger.
Love,
Mama
You're lying on a blanket in your carseat and I'm sitting right next to you with the computer on my lap, watching you sleep and listening to the little creaks and squeaks you make as you dream. Soren and Daddy are at Grandma's house, which means that you and I have a few rare moments to be alone. You don't seem to notice or care, however. You just want to sleep.
The pajamas you wear drown your tiny little body and your face is tanned with jaundice. You hold your little arms in a praying mantis position and your long thin fingers hang down. You just woke up and stretched long enough to noisily fill your diaper, then drifted back into sleep. The nurses at the hospital were worried that your jaundice would make you too sleepy to remember to eat, but that hasn't been a problem at all. The moment your eyes open you're ready for food, a desire you aren't afraid to express loudly.
When Soren was a newborn I read a book called Chocolat, picked up and savored during the long hours I spent nursing and rocking him. The mother in the book referred to her child as "My Little Stranger." I remember thinking it was an apt description then for my little Soren, and I find myself using it now, for you, as I look into your dark almond-shaped eyes and sense that inside your tiny little body is a whole human being, unique, beautiful, already whole, just waiting to unfold. Thus far, you have been a very serene baby, content to sleep and eat and occasionally open your eyes and calmly look around. (Around here that makes you both strange and a stranger.)
Your Daddy fell in love with you the moment he laid eyes on you. You should see the way he lights up when you're in his arms, the gentle cheery voice he uses when you open your eyes. He has a hard time putting you down and can't look at you without making a remark like, "What a handsome little boy!" Soren is a little more dubious. He gives you hugs and kisses and watches with great concern whenever you cry, but he's also wondering where he fits in to this newly shaped family, and has begun fighting naps and bedtimes, afraid, perhaps that when he awakes you will have replaced him completely. But here we are, now, joyfully irrevocable, the four of us: Daddy, Mommy, Soren, and Liam. Your family.Welcome Home, Little Stranger.
Love,
Mama
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