25 Random Bits of Useless Trivia.

I know, I know. I’m late to the party, as usual.

1. I have a very strange fear of parking lots. If I have to park more than 7 spots from the front door, I’ll drive around and around and around, until I can park within my comfort zone. And it’s NOT because I’m too lazy to walk those extra steps. I need to know that I can either run to the door or get attention from someone inside the store, if need be. I’m sure it’s some weird post-traumatic stress thing, and it can make shopping with me a genuine nightmare.

2. I hate long fingernails on women. I get enough dirt and gunk stuck under my short nails. I can only imagine what kind of bacteria and fungus live under long nails. Blech.

3. Before I got pregnant, I would only wear underwire bras. I tried one of my old ones on the other day, and can’t understand how I wore one of those torture devices for longer than an hour; much less every day. I’m going to pretend I’m a 1960’s housewife and burn every last one of them in the kitchen sink.

4. I really wanted to name my son Carson.

5. I love cherry Pop Tarts. Eaten straight out of the box. No warming, no toasting, no muss, no fuss. Can you say “carb junkie”???

6. I hate pork products. Blame it on 5th grade health class, when they warned us about the dangers of undercooking bacon and trichinosis. Scarred me for life.

7. I carry a small bottle of apple scented air freshener in my purse, in case I have to poop in a public bathroom. I do a courtesy flush, too; because I can’t stand the thought of another woman knowing what I’m doing in my stall.

8. I’ve never had a bikini wax. Or eyebrow wax. Or a professional manicure. Or pedicure (I have hair on my toes, and don’t know if this is normal. Is it???).

9. I love the smell of those giant Sanford king size permanent markers.

10. I really want to go to Florida and swim with the manatees. I feel some weird kinship with them. And cows, too. A large mammal thing, perhaps?

11. I don’t like Oprah. I’ll never forget how self-righteous she was, dragging that wagon full of animal fat onto her stage all those years ago. And then declaring Obama as “the one”. Ugh. Get over yourself already, woman.

12. Every time someone refers to Bill Clinton as “President Clinton”, I want to throw a brick at them. For the love of carbohydrates, he’s a FORMER president, who got IMPEACHED. I would prefer it if he were heretofore introduced as “He who Cannot keep his Pecker in his Pants”, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.

13. In high school, my Spanish teacher once grabbed me so hard after class that he left a hand-shaped bruise on my upper arm. Less than two years later, he was arrested for sexually assaulting a student at a different high school. To this day, I’m sorry I didn’t report him to the principal. I don’t know if it would have changed anything; but I’m sorry he was able to physically hurt another student.

14. I hate Nascar. It’s not a sport. Where’s the entertainment in watching deranged drivers go around and around and around in circles???

15. I think Madonna is a washed up old fag hag who can’t accept that she’s 50. You’re an old woman, Madge. Put on your granny panties and deal with it.

16. I think pedophiles should be given the death penalty.

17. I wouldn’t say I’m a religious person, but I believe miracles can happen.

18. I still make wishes on stars and on pennies in fountains. And when I blow out a candle, birthday or otherwise.

19. I kinda want to know what a deep fried Snickers tastes like. And a deep fried Twinkie. Not that I’ll ever buy either one – I just wonder if they’re any good, or if they’re tasteless and weird.

20. I like raw brownie batter way more than cooked brownies. Salmonella be damned! (:

21. I seriously could eat pizza every, single day for the rest of my life.

22. I have to choke back vomit when I hear the sound of someone else brushing their teeth. That thick, foamy toothpaste noise activates my gag reflex every, single time.

23. I love summer mornings, when it’s cool outside and the sun is coming up and the grass is still heavy with dew. Summer mornings bring me peace.

24. I’m about halfway through reading Marley & Me, but I can’t bring myself to pick it up again. I know the end is coming, and I can’t bring myself to read through it. There will be so many tears.

25. I once backed into a co-worker’s car in the parking lot at work. He went to a ridiculously overpriced body shop for an estimate, submitted it to my insurance for a high payout, then had his brother do the repair work. My insurance skyrocketed, and he made enough money to put in an above-ground swimming pool. A few years later, some kids started their house on fire & the insurance settlement didn’t cover their repairs. I fervently believe in karma.

Care to play along (if you haven’t already)? Leave a link in the comments.

Tummy Troubles.

Oh my chai, it’s been a rotten week!

Last Saturday, Mason started projectile vomiting after his first morning bottle. The Husband quieted him down and cleaned him up, and wrote it off as an acid reflux attack. Three hours later, he again erupted with a volcano of vomit, coating the sofa, his pillow, and most of his toys in a layer of stink sauce.

He was running a slight fever, so I called the doctor’s office to try & make an appointment. After a 45-minute wait (!!!), I spoke with one of the nurses who suggested small doses of Pedialyte until he could keep something down. I quickly showered & got dressed, and ran to the nearest drugstore for a few bottles to keep on hand.

20 minutes later, a fountain of Pedialyte flew out of my son’s mouth and again soaked both of our clothes, the couch, and as an added bonus, the back of the dog. By 2:00, I was starting to get relatively concerned. He hadn’t kept anything down in over 15 hours, and hadn’t had a wet diaper since 6:00 in the morning. At 3:00, we tried more Pedialyte and again watched in horror as it all came back up. At 4:00 his tongue seemed swollen and he was crying without tears, so I put in a frantic call to the doctor’s office. She suggested heading to the emergency room, where he would more than likely be hooked up to IV fluids for a few hours.

When we got to the ER, the triage nurse didn’t seem overly concerned. She took his vitals & brought us to the pediatric center, complete with a school bus for an exam table. About 10 minutes later, the doctor came in and took a peek in the baby’s mouth, nose, and ears (no ear infection), and poked around his belly. When he undid Mason’s diaper, the doctor noticed he had peed a little and told us he couldn’t possibly be dehydrated since his diaper was wet. Come on, doc. I may not have a medical degree, but I know that a teaspoon of urine does NOT make a “wet diaper”.

He decided to try Pedialyte again in the exam room (even though we told him about our earlier attempts). A nurse came in & told us to give him 2ml of fluid with a syringe every 5 minutes for half an hour, and to page her if it came back up. Wouldn’t you know it, he kept it all down?!? Before we left, the doctor came in again and said to watch for further signs of dehydration because Mason hadn’t started with diarrhea “yet”. He also said he was glad we brought him in, though, because they’re seeing an enormous amount of little ones with this particular stomach flu and it’s spreading like crazy.

So, several hours and an undoubtedly $2,000+ ER bill later, we were back at home with only a syringe and a 4-pack of Pedialyte bottles to show for it. We gave Mason another drink with the syringe, but switched over to a small bottle before we put him down for the night.

Sunday morning, we tried a little formula & it came right back up. “No big deal”, we thought. “We’ll just keep giving him the Pedialyte until he stops”. Except. About 10:00, The Husband started complaining of a headache & a belly ache. About 10:30, he made his first foray into the bathroom and revisited his entire breakfast. By 11:00, he was flat on his back in bed, moaning quietly about death and taxes and a puke bucket. And about noon, Mason started the first of an unimaginable number of diaper blowouts.

I made it through the day Sunday, playing nursemaid to my 2 sick boys. By nightfall, Mason was able to take a small amount of formula and I foolishly thought we had turned a corner. After watching the 10:00 news, I started to have an extremely sharp pain in my abdomen. I got the baby up for one last bottle, and crawled in bed with a searing pain just above my belly button.

At 1:00 in the morning, I jolted awake to find my mouth filled with hot bile. “Oh, shit”, I remember thinking to myself. “I’ve got it now, too.” Over the next hour or so, I think I threw up about six times. And then, the pooping started. All accompanied by agonizing stomach pain. I finally had to fetch the puke bucket and keep it right next to the toilet, because the waves of nausea were just so unpredictable.

Over the course of the next 24 hours, I threw up at least 40 times. It got so bad I would just sit on the toilet and dry heave, with my stomach trying to force up some imaginary liquid. I tried fizzy coke and flat coke and water and cranberry juice and orange juice and milk and even some of Mason’s Pedialyte. But nothing would stay down. When I did finally manage to get off the toilet, the walk to the bed left me breathless and shaking. I would crawl under the covers and sleep, only to be awaken covered in sweat and choking back vomit. It was undoubtedly the sickest I’ve ever been.

And The Husband wasn’t faring much better. He had stopped puking, but was still “running” to the toilet several times an hour. And of course, the baby still needed to be given small, frequent rations of formula (in between the poop explosions and diaper disasters).

By Tuesday afternoon, we were all starting to feel a little better. We were still sore from all the heaving, but felt a glimmer of hope. Wednesday morning, The Husband returned to work and I attempted to get Mason back into a routine.

Until he projectile vomited his entire bottle all over the couch.

I called the doctor & scheduled an 11:00 appointment, thinking they could give Mason some sort of anti-nausea medication to help soothe his stomach. But the doctor ran a belly x-ray, told us that he didn’t see any kind of blockage, and sent us home. With directions to return to the emergency room if he vomited again over the next five hours.

Fortunately, he kept all his Pedialyte down; but he was just so cranky and whiny and sick of it all. Not that I blame him. This bug is just relentless.

Thursday, he actually had a pretty good day. I fed him some mashed bananas and watered down formula, and things seemed to stay down okay. He was still achingly crabby, but we yelled our way through the day.

Friday morning, The Husband got up and fed him a morning bottle. We talked about Mason’s good day, and congratulated ourselves for surviving our first ever case of Baby Flu. And then he threw up again.

I gave him more Pedialyte; and when that stayed down, I tried a little formula & mashed banana. Once again, everything came up with the force of a Category 5 hurricane. I gave him some infant tylenol, and was rewarded with the mother of all diaper blowouts. By the time I cleaned him up and threw the linens in the wash, I decided to weigh him and give him a bath.

His weight had dropped from 15 pounds, 13 ounces to 14 pounds, 10 ounces in less than a week. He lost 19 ounces in six days. My poor baby dropped almost 10% of his body weight in just six short days. But nothing would stay down.

Terrified, I again called the doctor and waited for 52 minutes to talk to a nurse. She checked with the doctor and called me back, and said we needed to take Mason back to the emergency room for an ultrasound and additional monitoring. The Husband came flying home (did I mention that he’s leaving for England for over 3 weeks on Monday?????), and we ran back to the ER.

Again, the triage nurse took his vitals and sent us to wait for the attending physician. Who told us that our kid wasn’t sick (because he was drooling and smiling when he sat on our laps). Um, excuse me? His freaking doctor just told us we needed to bring him immediately to the hospital because he’s been vomiting for SIX DAYS; and you have the audacity to suggest that nothing is wrong?????

He finally agreed to an ultrasound to check for pyloric stenosis, but refused to do any “unnecessary bloodwork”. Seriously? My kid can’t keep anything of caloric value in his system, and you consider checking his blood levels to be an optional test?

Dammit, I hate doctors. Mason’s doctor told us there was nothing he could do & to rush him to the emergency room. The ER doctor told us it should have been handled by his regular doctor. About that time, I wanted to scream “I don’t give a flying f*ck WHO you think should be handling his care. Just f*cking DO SOMETHING!!!!!”.

After all this, both he and the nurse suggested changing formulas again. And honestly, the thought had crossed my mind, too. Especially after the incident with the moldy cans of Nutramigen.

So, after two trips to the emergency room, one trip to the clinic, seven days of vomit and diarrhea, and thousands of dollars in medical bills, we’re changing formula again.

This time, we’re trying the Nestle Good Start in the purple can, without the added DHA & ARA. I’ve heard of some babies having trouble with the added nutrients, but always blamed his spitting up on acid reflux. Now I wonder.

In any case, I bought a few cans last night; and as of this afternoon, it’s stayed down pretty well (even with the two massive poop explosions). He seemed happier today, and even managed some of his favorite yummy yummy pears. I need to fatten that kid back up. His clothes just hang on him now, and his shoulder blades stick out when he pulls his arms back. My poor little man.

I hope tomorrow is another good day, and we’re finally through this.

That little boy. He breaks my heart.

An open letter to my husband…

Dear Husband,

You know that old saying about the straw that broke the camel’s back? Well, after today, you are the straw and I am the camel and I’m as broken down as I can be.

When I entered into this marriage with you, I thought I had found my partner. But lately, you treat me as if I’m your lowly employee and it makes me want to hire Tonya Harding to break both of your kneecaps. I’m pretty sure she needs the money, and you could use the downtime in a nice, quiet rehabilitation center.

When I ask you for help with things, I’m not asking because I secretly want to do it myself. When I asked you to vacuum on Wednesday night, it was because I knew you were meeting an old friend for dinner on Thursday and wanted you to do something nice for me. Especially since you were meeting a different friend for breakfast and stuck me with the baby for the entire day. Stupid me; I thought running the vacuum would be a gesture of goodwill on your part for being such a selfish buckethead. But guess what? Waking up Thursday morning to a screaming baby AND an enormous pile of unvacuumed dog hair did little to warm the cockles of my bitter, angry heart.

I never complain when you go out with your friends for breakfast several times a month; even though I have to pick up the slack and take the baby’s early feeding. You know, the one that you promised to do so I could get an extra 20 minutes of sleep in the morning? Oh, and by the way, YOU are the one who decided he needs a routine which starts at 6:00 in the morning. Not only Monday through Friday, but Saturday and Sunday, as well. I’m sorry, Einstein, but our 5 month old son doesn’t understand the difference between Tuesday and Saturday. Don’t whine to me when you have to haul your sorry butt out of bed on Sunday morning and you’re still tired. You chose this routine. Not me.

I tried to get up with you in the morning, so I could take a shower & get dressed before you left for work. But oh, no, you weren’t happy with that arrangement, either; and I now have to wait until the baby’s 15 minute nap to brush my teeth and scrape my tongue and wash my hair and wash my face and condition my hair and lather up and rinse off and dry off and put my contacts in and throw some crap in my hair and clean my ears and moisturize my face and slap some lotion on my legs and dry and fix my hair and get dressed. Don’t whine to me if I haven’t shaved my legs in over a week. The last thing I give a crap about is whether or not my legs are stubbly. Deal with it.

Furthermore, when you call and tell me you’re going to pick something up for dinner, I expect you to actually do it. Don’t walk in the house at 5:30, throw on your sweatpants and a t-shirt, then ask me if I still want pizza for dinner. I f**king told you at 10:00 this morning that it would be nice if you picked up a pizza for dinner. Now it’s after 8:00, I’m starving, and I really want to rip off your sweatpants and strangle you with them. (Note – this is not a threat. I’m not actually going to strangle you. At least not with your sweatpants.)

And stop telling me that I shouldn’t swear in front of the baby. Especially when he’s just grabbed a brand new jar of pears out of my hand and splattered them all over his highchair, the counter, the washed bottles, his hair, and my clean shirt. I know that yelling EFF YOU SEE KAY at the top of my lungs isn’t productive or helpful; but goddammit, it makes me feel better. You spend 2 waking hours out of the day with him. While you’re surfing the internet & looking for a car tucked quietly away at your office, I’m stuck here like a caged animal at the zoo. You have NO idea what it’s like to have to do everything for him AND you AND the dogs AND my parents, and still hold on to the tiniest bit of my sanity. Pointing out my parenting flaws does very little to make me a better mother. Or wife, for that matter.

I know you work hard. But goddammit, I work hard, too. I do all the shopping and cook dinner every night, even when I’m tired and my feet hurt and the last thing I want to do is stand in front of the stove stirring some chicken and cream-of-soup concoction. If you can’t respect the amount of time and effort that I spend keeping this family together, I don’t know why I even bother.

I hope you understand this when I pack my suitcase tomorrow afternoon to head to a hotel for the night. I need to get away from you and from the constant constrains of our son. I need a few hours of quiet time, to read a book or take a nap or soak in a luxurious bubble bath. You get time to yourself every, single day; AND you’ve been in Texas for 2 weeks, and will soon be leaving for England for 3 weeks. I’ve never had more than a few hours away from our son, and you need to spend some time alone with him to give you a little perspective on what it’s like for me.

All you have to do is take care of the baby. I won’t make you tackle the enormous pile of laundry or cook me dinner or even get the mail. Maybe then you’ll understand and give me the respect I deserve.

If not, I’ll google Tonya Harding and offer her a job.

Worrywart.

My Dad had to have a last-minute MRI done on his head today.

His eyes have been giving him problems for about a year now. He has a persistent twitch in his left eye, and both of them tear up when he looks at bright lights. Or dim lights. Or really, any kind of light.

But my Dad is one of those guys. You know the ones. So stubborn that they won’t go to the doctor unless they’re seconds away from death. And even then, they go begrudgingly & complain the entire time about their sciatic nerves and their bunions, and OH MY GOD, their prostates.

In any case, he met with an ophthalmologist about a week ago who thought he might have blocked tear ducts. He was given a referral to a local plastic surgeon, thinking they were going to have to blast his ducts and lift & tighten the skin around his eyes.

Well, he met with the plastic surgeon yesterday; and the problem is not his tear ducts. One of them is 100% open and the other one is 95% open. They think his eyes aren’t closing properly, but they aren’t sure why the muscles and nerves are reacting in such a way.

So they scheduled him for an emergency MRI at 7:15 this morning, to check for a brain tumor. Apparently, a tumor could be pressing on the nerves behind his eyes, causing the twitch and the floating spots only he can see. He won’t have the results until next week; and I guess we’re just supposed to sit around and twiddle our thumbs until then.

I’m sure he’s going to be fine. Someday, we’ll look back at this and laugh at how it took over 90 minutes for the MRI technician to get a clear image of his brain.

Someday, we’ll look back at this and laugh. Just not today. Today, we’ll worry.

Puppy Love

Charlie loving up the little guy.

And Zoey getting her licks, too.

I’m thinking about starting to make the switch to cow’s milk for the wee one. His formula just took a price jump to over $70 a week (!!!!!), and he’s still spitting a fair amount of it back up. Even with the reflux meds.

He eats 6 ounces of formula with 1-1/2 teaspoons of rice mixed in when he wakes up. 3-4 hours later, he eats about 4 ounces of pears with another 4-6 ounces of formula/rice. 4 hours later, 2-1/2 ounces of veggies with another 4-6 ounces of formula/rice. 4 hours later, another 4 ounces of pears & another 4-6 ounces of formula/rice. And finally, at our bedtime (around 10:00 or 11:00), another 6 ounce bottle with rice. His bedtime is around 7:00, but we wake him up for one last feed to keep him sleeping through the night.

I’m sure it would be enough food if he kept it all down; but he actually lost a couple ounces from last Thursday to today. About 50% of the information I can find says to wait to start cow’s milk until he’s a year old. But the other 45% say you can start at 6 months, as long it’s whole milk & we use supplemental vitamin drops. The remaining 5% are organic hippie super moms who feed their kids goat’s milk and organically grown turnip juice. I am so NOT an organic hippie super mom. I am a lazy realistic McDonald’s mom who is thrilled to feed my kid pureed pears from a jar for $0.34.

Also? He’s rolling around like a psychotic baby seal. Lay him on the floor, and it’s FLIP! Roll. FLIP! Roll. Followed by loud angry screams because he can’t remember to lift his hiney up in the air before trying to crawl. Did I mention I’m on day #5 of a never-ending headache?

And I have to make a Bad Mommy confession. I gave him some Cool Whip over the weekend, and he really really really liked it.

Between the sweet tooth and the wicked temper and the heinous hair and the enormous feet, I’m starting to think he might really be my son. Heaven help us all.