That Ain't Workin'

Emerson has brought an amazing balance to our family - well, as much balance as one could have with sleepless nights. But still, we have balance.

He's very Zen, our little Buddhist master. Watching everything. Soaking it all in. Somehow managing to calm us down (which is completely weird compared to his colicky, screaming brothers).

Unless, of course, he's puking.

Now, I know spit up. I know it well. Griffin perfected the fine art of spittle. Darwin followed Griff's example and even taught us a thing a two. But Emerson? Emerson causes me to have daily unplanned showers, change my clothes at least three times a day and has had me scrubbing our couch more times than I can keep track of.

Our doctor offered acid reflux medicine at his one-month appointment, but we turned it down. The "projectile spit up" wasn't making him upset. At his two-month appointment I was ready and he was starting to get upset. Aaron was still very we-are-not-medicating-that-zen-baby-hells-to-tha-no.

A few night later we were all miserable. Just miserable. Emerson was crying and vomiting (I mean, let's call a spade a spade, shall we?) and nothing we did would make him feel better. It went on for hours.

His standard vomiting continued but escalated into unexpected ways - throwing up while eating, throwing up while sleeping (holy fucking scary balls, man), throwing up on a boat, throwing up with a goat, YOU GET THE PICTURE.

So on Wednesday I had officially had it. He ate. He threw up. He threw up again. And again. And then we went to the boys' school Halloween parties (yes, on Wednesday, because our school had Parent-Teacher conferences yesterday and today and even Emerson's zen-ness does not combat two older boys at home all day MY HELL) and he threw up. And threw up. And threw up. He threw up on Darwin. He threw up on Griffin. He soaked his costume in projectile-spittle. He got it all over his stroller. The baby just Could Not Stop Vomiting.

When we got home I called the doctor and begged for mercy. A short talk with the doctor and a nurse later, a prescription was called in for Prevacid.

Now, I'm not happy to be medicating him - not at all. But if this will help him feel better (have I mentioned his miserableness?) then I'm willing to give it a try. Hours of explaining all this to Aaron, he was willing to give it a try too.

He's only had two doses (one yesterday morning, one this morning) and I have hopes of at least some relief for him.

But damn if he didn't projectile spit up all over himself (after he had a bath to boot), the vibrating chair and about four feet of carpet this morning.

Sigh.


Good thing kids are damn cute.

Cicus Life Under the Big Top World

"Mama! Look at my worksheet!"


"Isn't it nice? And did you see the dog?"


"He's POOPING!"

The Only Nasty Thing I Like is a Nasty Groove

It's kinda amazing how quickly a parent gets re-acclimated with being covered in another person's body fluids.

With the first kid, we were grossed out for months. But by the third? You just don't give a shit.

(Ba-dum-bum-bum.)

Pee? As long as it's below my elbows, we're cool. Easily washable. Thankfully.

The closest I've gotten to being grossed-out this time around was when Emerson angrily pooped on me a few weeks back (when I was still on antibiotics for my mastitis, and boy howdy did those drugs make him an angry pooper) and it was everywhere: my shirt, my pants, my arms, the floor. I think I even got some on my shoulder and in my hair.

Ick.

But I calmly changed him. Stripped down. Strapped him into his vibrating chair and took a shower.

Given how overdue I am for a shower, this situation is sounding rather lovely right now.


And spit up? Last week I dreamed I was on Dancing with the Stars and Mark Ballas was my dancing partner. He didn't like me much, probably because I kept interrupting the dancing to nurse Emery (and because I bitter that I didn't get to dance with Maks). Right before it was stage-time, he got really pissed because I was just covered in spit up. So the makeup artist decided to glitterize me. Because that was the only way to disguise the amount of dried spit up I was sporting.

That would have come in handy this morning, while at the grocery store I realized my left arm looked like a white, powder-y mess. The big, dried wet marks across the shoulders just highlighted my awesomeness.

What's Got You So Jumpy?

Three words: lack of sleep

Goody gravy. I'm tired. But my stupid Mommy Genes have kicked so do you think I can sleep during daylight? The answer to that would be a great big No, I Cannot.

I shouldn't complain, Emerson is a great baby even tho from three to six a.m I think he's the devil incarnate. But hey! I bet everyone feels (or felt) that way about their babies.

Right? Right!

Truth is, we're alive. And at this point, that's all I expect out of us. Keeping everyone alive. Anything above and beyond that is just gravy.

Like, taking pictures.


I know I need to be taking more pictures (he's already gained two pounds! in just five weeks!) but half the time I don't even know what day it is. I gauge it by whether Aaron goes to work and the boys go to school.

Don't worry. I realize how pathetic that is.


I don't think I ever took one picture of Griffin or Darwin throwing a hissy fit. And goddamn, do I wish I had those blown up and framed in my house. As blackmail material.


And sadly, no - this isn't a real smile and how I captured it is beyond me. But wow, does that big grin ever give me something to look forward too.

Smiles and sleep. That's all I'm asking for.

So Come Dance This Silence Down Through the Morning

I knew having a newborn would be tough, I remember the days of bringing Griffin home and having him scream around the clock. No feel-good memory loss for me, I remember clearly.

And I knew what to expect, breastfeeding exclusively with boobs that just don't like to produce milk. And I had resigned to the fact that the next year of my life was going to be spent nursing, nursing, nursing, not sleeping and (hopefully) working. You know that working part, so important because you need to buy food so you can make milk and nurse.

But the preparing myself and actual realization are two different things, of course, and last Thursday I really thought the lack of sleep was going to kill me. Not so much the nursing, even though, damn kid could you stay off for a full hour? Please? But the lack of sleep.

I like my sleep.

As I was breastfeeding Emery I was thinking of ways I could kill Aaron, that bastard. That bastard who did this to me and doesn't have to breastfeed. What kind of biological bullshit is that? And what's the best way to revenge those who Sleep Peacefully for More than an Hour at a Time? Because this was heavy on my mind.

But The Gods have a way of putting you in your place. As for my place, that is called Mastitis.

Last Friday I felt weird, but blamed it on lack of sleep. Saturday, though, the shooting pain in my breast began along with a fever of 103 that brought with it chills (complete with unintentional moaning) and sweats. A midwife was nice enough to call me in a prescription over the holiday weekend (after I cried and begged to not send me and a newborn babe to the ER).

And one would tend to think that would help, but no. Four days later and everything was the same, except I had wised-up enough to keep myself filled of Tylenol and Advil to try to keep my fever (and chills and sweats) under control.

Tuesday morning I dragged my ass (and the baby in tow) (Aaron went to work) (that bastard) (while I was still sick!) to the doctor's office and got a new prescription. So we stopped at the pharmacy to pick it up and...

Yeah. No.

The new prescription wasn't gluten-free.

I had to fight with the pharmacy for a few hours to Figure Shit Out and it turned out oh hey, THEY CAN ORDER MEDICATION. Which meant that by the time everything was said and done I started the proper prescription Wednesday night.

Which means, of course, that the story isn't over yet.

Because The Gods? They have a sense of humor. And decided it would SUPER FUNNY if Darwin woke up with the croup Thursday morning.

And seriously, we contemplated if he needed to go to the ER or was his oxygen high enough to make it to the doctor in a few hours. No blue lips, thankfully. So we waited. And Aaron took Dar to the doctor, while I stayed home with Emerson in hopes of me and Emery not catching the croup because THAT'S JUST WHAT WE NEED RIGHT NOW, for a three-week old baby to have breathing problems.

So Darwin's been home for two days, but is suppose to be avoiding me and the baby so we don't get the croup. But Aaron's at work and guess who has to care for the poor sick boy? And I mean besides his DSi.

And then, just for shits and giggles, between the time I sat down and started this post and now, a water main broke right in front of my house, flooding the driveway and garage with muddy water and now there's a nice big hole in my driveway that could easily dispose of a dead body.

Any body have a dead body to dispose of?

If this week had a body I would have already called dibs.

[gratuitous photo of three-week old Emerson, because I know why you all are really visiting]

Welcome to Your Life (There's No Turning Back)

Emerson Julius Suever (pronounced "see-ver") was born on August 18th.

Seven pounds, four ounces. Eighteen inches long.


Two hours after being born, he was taken to the nursery due to not self-regulating his temperature and having difficulties breathing. He spent four days (FOUR DAYS!!!) in the Progressive Care Nursery (which is ran by, but not as serious as, the NICU) and spent a night and day under the billie lights due to jaundice.

Obviously, he's as ornery as his brothers.


Aaron and I took a full week off from everything and have been camped in the living room. I swear we're getting sleep, but sleep at one-hour-or-less increments doesn't feel like real sleep.


He's a deliciously blond-haired fuzzy little monkey who's a champ at full-filling all his obligations: eating, dirtying diapers and sleeping.


And, occasionally, yawning.


We are so very lucky. And so very in love.

Would it be My Fault if I Could Turn You On?

I'm still pregnant.

But not for too much longer. My amniotic fluid is low, so I'm being induced Wednesday morning if he doesn't arrive before then.

I'm use to inductions. My other two had to be evicted as well.

And I got the quilt done this weekend - which is good, 'cause I'm having a baby on Wednesday holy crap.



I really-really-really-super-really love how it turned out. It's gorgeous and wrinkly and oh-so-soft (guess I should thank the thin cotton batting for that?) and they boys have given it two thumbs up.

Speaking of boys...


I'm officially a mama of a third-grader and first-grader. How the hell did that happen?

And we're adding another boy to the mix?

We have the crazy.

Hey, Hell, I Pay the Price

I'm still pregnant.

Today is my fourth? fifth? bazillion-and-twenty-seventh? Bio-Physical sonogram. Sonograms feel like a dime a dozen these days, and they aren't even offering pictures anymore. I need to say something about that today. Especially since we're getting a weight estimate.

My money is on at least seven pounds. We are seriously out of space in this belly of mine.

I had 22 weekly Progesterone shots to stop labor. I haven't had one in two weeks and now we may have to induce in the next week or two. My uterus cannot make up her damn mind.

And despite not having one for two weeks, I still have five golf-ball-sized welts all across my hips from the shots. They feel gross. And still tender.

I was putting my hair up in a pony tail in front of a mirror last week (that whole "in front of a mirror" being important, as I'm too lazy - and have too much gravity in my belly - to get up easily) and discovered that I?

I had grown some freaky neck-beard.

No, not kidding.

Five inches of baby-down fluff neck-beard. It was gross. Aaron laughed. And then I made him shave my neck.

And my face.

Because it was there too.

Gross.

I got my nursing bras in the mail yesterday. And it's becoming alarmingly real. And I'm gonna have to wear them for about a year.

Buying bras for me is super-difficult as-is. Let alone nursing bras. And one of the few companies that make them in my size is called HOT MILK and it's lacy and sparkly and Aaron's very concerned about me flashing such a bra in public.

But he gets to see it too, so what's his complaint?

HOT MILK. Hahahahahaha.

I've been meaning to, for days, to teach Griffin how to clean the bathroom floor. Because I just can't reach it. And yet, MommyGuilt has kicked in and I just can't bring myself to be all "Baby, let's wipe down the bathroom floor."

I should make Aaron wipe it down instead.

My pants and shirts no longer meet. Which means, unless I remember to put on a tank top (and the heat index around here has been over 100 degrees everyday) and tuck it into my pants, I'm walking around exposing my belly button and a three-inch band of belly skin to the world.

This is especially classy when going to the boys' elementary school to drop off Epi-Pens, Benadryl and Motrin for the new school year.

The new principal was rather awe-struck, if I do say so myself.

Griffin has been telling my belly that he's gonna be really! pissed! off! if the baby doesn't come by tonight, at the latest. "I'm tired of being patient. This is ridiculous, Momma."

I think he wants his brother to come before schools starts - on Monday - so his schedule isn't disrupted.

Kid after my own heart.

Don't fuck with our schedules.

Bags are packed, including clothes, blankets, clothes and allergen-free soap for the baby - yes. We can't use hospital soap. Can't chance an allergic reaction.

The baby is opted out of all eye goo, shots and anything that would go in or on him. And he has to be in a latex-free environment. After what happened to Darwin (nine days in the NICU, nearly died, no one knew what was going on - now we know he had anaphylactic shock to something, we just don't know what), we're doing our best to not take any chances with Baby M.

The hospital even ordered Neocate in case they feel he needs some supplementation before my milk comes in.

Which I really hope doesn't happen, but it's best to be prepared.

Cloth diapers are washed and dried (five! times!) and ready to go when he fits and he's healed from losing his umbilical cord.


Because, of course, his brothers were allergic to most disposable diapers. And we spent an arm and a leg, weekly, keeping them in clean britches.

The crib is put together :: cough, cough :: but not completely ready. ::ahem::

The van is cleaned and reorganized, the baby's car seat is aired-out, washed and ready to be installed.

The cord-blood kit is sitting next to the door. And my medical records are right on top.

I have just a wee bit more binding to sew on, then the baby's quilt is ready to be washed. (Sidenote: those binding corners are tricky. And I don't appreciate that.)

The house is stocked with food and even though I don't feel prepared, I can't imagine we'll be anymore prepared than we are right now.

If it Rains I Don't Care, Don't Make No Difference to Me

I'm still pregnant.

That's how I answer the phone. Even to Republicans who wanted me to vote for them in the primaries. Which is really a puzzle, considering I'm a registered Democrat.

But I digress. I'm still pregnant.

Not much going on here. Just getting weekly BioPhysical sonograms (and yet, they are not figuring his weight every week - that's such a massive pain in my ass - but he should weigh about six and half pounds right now), getting hooked up to machines and daily staring at my elevated ankles.

We won't talk about my puffy feet.

After being back in hospital last week (contractions three minutes apart and they strapped me to a bed and pumped me with fluids for a few hours which OF COURSE STOPPED IT) I've decided I'm not going back to the hospital until I have a baby. If that means if I go back and they discharge me, I don't care - I'll permanently sit in the hallway. I'm not collecting anymore damn hospital bracelets until I get me a baby.

So, let's see.... today I am 36 weeks and three days pregnant. Talked to my OB last night (who was out of town last week during the hospital fiasco) who was all yeah, you're not gonna be pregnant for much longer and I'm all DUH, BETTER NOT BE. Especially since they still have me on bedrest/restricted activity (due to edema and blood pressure) despite being over 36 weeks. The other two times, I was fully released from any restrictions at 36 weeks. This time? No. Which? Damn it. I'd really like to go float in a swimming pool. Or pretend I have the stamina to clean the house (which I totally don't, I have to take a break when trying to walk 10 feet to make a glass of ice water).

Aaron's being a super-trooper through the whole thing and not at all bitching about my inability to make dinner (or even the dinner plates). And yet, still no car seat in the car and no crib to lie a baby in. Deep breathes, Laura, it will be fine.

Yesterday, the toilet on the main floor broke ("crappy plastic chain!" was Aaron's battle cry) so I had to explain the whole yellow is mellow, brown goes down to the boys. Who looked at me with tears in their eyes. To which I then said OR GO UPSTAIRS. They went upstairs, whereas I manually flushed every time I, ahem, took care of business. Sinking my arm up to my elbow in the back of a 70-year old potty is not my idea of happy fun time.

Aaron went to the hardware store and fixed it around Midnight. Bless him. I guess he does love me after all.

That or he's under the delusion that he'll get the crib put together before the baby comes.

Bed rest is rotting my brain, y'all. Or maybe it's the ice cream.


I've been begging Aaron to go get me Wendy's everyday (don't you judge me, it's on the gluten-free list) and last night I listed the ingredients so he could just get it stuff to make it at home instead. Because as much as love a frosty, you know there's crap in there that you can't pronounce. I'll take the real ice cream almost any other day.

And given he won't even get me the Wendy's everyday, this works out 'cause I can make 'em at home whenever I want. Till I run out of ingredients.

Seriously. I'm talking about ups and downs of trying to send my husband to Wendy's daily. This is what bed rest has done to my life.

It Ain’t No Fantasy

It started two weeks ago, when my OB jinxed me.

You betcha. I'm blaming her. Totally.

At my 32 week appointment my uterus measured 37 weeks. "Whew," she said. "You're body just really wants to have this baby."

There were other symptoms too - constant contracts (despite the "magical" progesterone shots), horrible backaches, nausea. Blah, blah, blah, I'm pregnant and it sucks. Blah. So I was sent to the hospital for an IV bag then sent home an hour later.

Last week Aaron was out of town, the damn dog wouldn't eat and kept vomiting, I kept carting her to the vet and my backaches and nausea were worse and blah, blah, blah, on Wednesday they had me come in for a checkup.

No one was happy with my my contractions, I had some protein in my urine and so off to the hospital I went for another IV bag and monitoring. And given instructions to capture my urine for 24 hours. "Follow-up on Friday," they said.

Have you ever had to capture your urine for 24 hours? Have you? If you haven't considered yourself lucky. 'Cause that's a whole lotta pee to deal with. Then you have to cart it back to the hospital with two kids in tow to drop it off at the Lab, who will then tell you that your user number has expired and it takes over an hour for the hospital to figure out that yes! Yes, indeed they will take your gallons of pee after all.

Friday I called and an hour later I was back at the doctor, right after the dog threw up AGAIN. After getting my blood pressure done, my doctor ordered a comprehensive Apgar sonogram (so see how well he would be if born) and monitoring.

Of course, me in my infinite wisdom totally left my baby notebook and CD at home. BECAUSE IT WOULD ALL BE FINE, I thought.



After two hours, they told me my blood pressure was crazy high (168/102, where I usually run 115/75), more protein was in urine and with all the other symptoms? Back to the hospital I go.

THIS TIME I was a little more prepared and had places for the boys to go, just in case. My OB gave me the go-ahead to run home, pack a bag, pass the boys off to my parents and the damn dog to a friend's house (which at this point she knew she wasn't sick, after HUNDREDS of dollars of vet bills later; we thought she was either reacting to me and the pregnancy or needed to eat another dog's poop, so it was win-win to ship her off).

SO. Back to the hospital on Friday early evening. And Aaron? He needed to stay another day on his business trip. Lucky, lucky boy.

After a couple of hours of observation I was fully admitted and my OB said I have pre-eclampsia. Which, you have to have two of three symptoms to be considered to have pre-eclampsia: edema, protein in the urine and high blood pressure.

My and my overachiever-ness succeeded in having all damn three.

Late Saturday night I was released on strict bedrest and OHMYHELL, I hate bedrest. Hate. HATE. Haaaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

I have my dad's blood pressure monitor (from when he had heart surgery a couple of years ago) and monitor my blood pressure every few hours (unless its high, then every hour). And I'm drinking lots of water. And I have two prison guards who yell at me if I get up and pee.

Monday I went in for a quick monitoring at the doctor's office, and back tomorrow I go.

As soon as I deliver a healthy baby, I'm scheduling Aaron a goddamn vasectomy. I will club him over the head and drag him there myself, if necessary.