15w5d punch in

Baby is a 4.5-inch avocado now. (Why do they always compare to food?) Very soon baby could be able to hear me, and bones and facial features are all straightening out and firming up. A big growth spurt is on the way.

I heard baby's heartbeat yesterday, but I'm at the point in the pregnancy now where these appointments are rushed through. No ultrasound, no conversation, just "yup, that's the heartbeat, see you next month." The clinic becomes a pregnant woman's assembly line. Punch in, punch out.

I know I've read that things are different with the second pregnancy as far as how much you think or focus on the baby-to-come because you're already focused on the kid that's here. I haven't really found that. I guess my brain has the Cullen-clan capacity to multitask because most of the time at least part of my concentration is centered on this little person. It will probably be more so when kicks become a regular thing rather than a quiet-time-only surprise.

check up

He's 33 inches and 24 pounds -- the biggest swing upward in a while! Now into the 25th percentile for weight. Well done, chunky monkey! Two shots later, he got his revenge by hiding half of the doctor things he could get his hands on. Good luck finding your crap, medical personnel. Maybe you should lock those drawers?

CD3 strike

October 7, 2011

I keep going back to the puppy dog face the doctor gave me, the way she said, "Mawww, I'm sorrrry," and how I wanted to kick her energetic, fake-tanned head.

Going in to see the doctor wasn't my idea, but I was sure treated as if it was. Instead of having a real discussion, I got a pat on the head like a little girl whose only problem is lack of patience. I'm ignorant of some things, but fertility isn't one of them.


Pointless. It'll probably cost me a small fortune for a trip that served no purpose, a trip that I didn't ask for.

It gives me something outside of myself, my failed body, to be angry about, but more anger isn't helpful.

My favorite part is when I'm told that nothing can be holding me back, because I already have a beautiful healthy boy, and then I'm told not to try to conceive until next month. Guess what, if I took your advice? I wouldn't have my beautiful healthy boy.

I have to strike while the fertility iron is hot.

1 out of 3. My body has contained more death than life. Or so it feels as I walk this walk again.

On repeat. "Nocturne" by The Marquis. Instrumental.

lab work

Fletcher grows. He's taller than about 75 percent of kids his age, but still underweight in the ninth percentile. His face continues to age and his second molar is poking through the gums already.

The only other thing I learned at the doctor appointment was that when you ask them, "How do you draw blood from a toddler?" and they answer, "The same way as adults," they are NOT joking, but they totally should be.

"He's so strong!" both nurses had the nerve to say as needles were dug mercilessly into BOTH of his tiny arms. Despite the fact that these women were ADULTS and trained nurses, Fletch continued to move his arm under their supposed grasp and wail as I've never ever heard him wail before, except maybe the last time we put him in the hands of these nurses (a year ago) when they failed to take blood from his feet.

And the nurses took absolutely no blame for this recent abysmal failure, instead coming up with a few excuses about "fluids" and Fletcher's upset state, and completely ignoring the fact that he entered that room in absolutely perfect condition for lab work.

Come back?

Yeah no.

A letter arrived in the mail the next day with an ultimatum that he needs to have his blood drawn before the end of September.

Here's my ultimatum:

Get a damn nurse who can hold down an underweight 15-month-old on the first try because no way in hell am I putting him through that again.

Even now, it makes my eyes fill, because I know when the next attempt comes, I'm going to have to do it. I can't trust them. I'm going to have to bruise his soft arms just so he can get out of that room faster. I have to be a monster because once again it seems like you can't trust the hard stuff to anyone but yourself.

In which I fit three weeks into one post

It turns out that there's a certain combination of busy and tired that makes it difficult to sit down and write what you want to write into your blog.

Our week of vacation for Fletcher's birthday (and a visit from Uncle Jeremy) went quickly. We didn't take any big trips or "do" anything memorable. Still, it was a turning point for the little person and much has happened for him. Since his birthday...

FIRST:

• Birthday party
• Trip to the zoo
• Seriously walking, even if he looks like a smiling zombie 
• Whole milk and several new foods
• Climbed onto a coffee table
• Played in the McDonald's play area
• Pushed open the screen door and climbed down the concrete steps to get outside
• Went to the pool with Daddy
• Waited until we weren't looking to climb over the barrier to the stairs, which he then climbed and ran around the upstairs hallway by himself with the cats' water dish

 
I'm sure I'm forgetting things; it has all been a blur. I also had a first -- first time I spent all morning making (pureeing) fresh food for Fletcher, which he then refused to eat, and I could swear my mother was out there somewhere smiling as this justice was delivered.

At his doctor appointment he was still underweight at less than 20 pounds, and average for height. In the past week, however, he has shot up like a beanpole.

Since his birthday, he has only nursed once a day. Yesterday, June 10, was my last time breastfeeding. This ending is like cutting off a limb. Also? HORMONES SUCK.

Here comes a crap ton of photos.

BIRTHDAY PARTY:

Checking out Uncle Jeremy

ZOO:

Family photo with elephant ass

RANDOM:

Scrambled eggs make excellent confetti

Wiped out

Climbing onto the diaper box

Climbing the table, finally capturing the iPod

Tuning up the lawn mower

First trip to the pool

21w 3d stress

[To preview the photos from last weekend's photo shoot, visit Songbird Photography]

I remember a time when leaving work early meant getting some shopping done, a leisurely dinner, and sitting down with a book or a good TV show. It might be 20 plus years before I experience that again.

Trying to cram my work in before 2:00 p.m. today was a feat. The mad dash out of the office was followed by an idiot who had the nerve to drive the actual speed limit (preposterous!), followed by a half-assed attempt at five-minute-nursing (its effectiveness is in the same league as speed-dating, I think), followed by hopping into the car with baby for a drive to New Berlin.

Then came the appointment with the dermatologist, which was so full of long medical terminology that my brain went, "La, la, la, la, la, can't hear you," just like the immature wheel of cheese in the Cheez-It commercial. (Side note: Why do so many brands spell words in the product name incorrectly? Soooo annoying to me.)

The result of the appointment was that Fletcher is fine, er, maybe, because they want to see him again in two months after using yet another prescription.

Since becoming a mother, I've developed a nervous tic for whenever I'm handed a prescription. Gah! Prescription! Pharmacy! Wal-Mart! Gah! Not easy, not anymore.

So we went to Wal-Mart. A billion hours later, we came home. Baby flat-out refused to sleep, so... bath time! Time to be super duper careful cleaning him up, then use all these crazy creams we have for his skin! Yea, er, fun!

Finally, he's clean and he's freshly coated and I'm unfolding the diaper and... and... and... yes, you mothers of boys, you know what came next. Pee everywhere. On his chest, in his mouth, up his nose, in his eyes, all over his hair. Pee pee pee pee pee. Back in the bathtub. Only this time, Mommy thinks, "Hey! I'll rinse his face with water!"

It turns out babies aren't so good when it comes to water in their mouth and nose. Fletcher tried to breathe the water and, not knowing what to do, FREAKED OUT BECAUSE HE'S DROWNING. This was followed by me, FREAKING OUT BECAUSE HE'S DROWNING.

I pick up a soaking wet baby and try to get him to breathe-please-oh-please-cough-up-that-drop-of-water-oh-god. I'm soaked. He's screaming. And the screaming continued for a nice half hour before finally he gave up and fell asleep.

Um. I'm stressed out.

In lighter news, I got to experience the parental joy that is dressing your baby up as a cute little animal for Halloween.

I always did love tiny cows!

Moo!

This cow stands on two legs! A blue ribbon at the fair, for sure!

This is what the boys do at 5:00 in the morning when Mommy steals some sleep.

The five months present!

P.S. Thank you, Dieball, for nicknaming the baby "Fletch-a-Sketch." Just. Awesome.

18w 5d blogging

I just added my blog to the waiting list for BlogHer, and I find myself wondering how serious I am about this blog.

I'm a marketer. The fact that I didn't start this blog with the aim of marketing it, and so I see its marketing flaws, bothers me out of habit. The title isn't catchy and it didn't translate to my Twitter account. Half the posts are photo albums, not insightful or designed to illicit response. Most of the time, I don't even write as if I have an audience because... well, there are only five people on the planet willing to admit that they "follow" these posts.

If I were very serious, I would have to start making changes. First, I'd need a short and catchy title. Then, I'd need to do some networking, delve into all aspects of social media, do some small advertising through AdWords, and once I find some visitors I'd need to fill my posts with links to my other posts to keep them clicking. I'd have to stop lurking at the other parenting blogs and start commenting with links to my blog. Actively try to be funny, throw in some controversial topics, dwell on tragedy now and then, and I'm set.

I'm not going to do that, because I'm not serious. Not in the make-a-living-with-my-blog kind of way. (And I'm not judging people who do make a living with their blog – just the opposite.)

I don't want to have to study my posts before they're published to optimize them for maximum pageviews. I don't want to edit out the long and boring posts that I write, because I may want to go back someday and remember what a day in the life of baby Fletcher was like, even if no one else cares to read it.

That's the crux, I think. Do I care if no one else cares to read it?

I'll always think wistfully about what life would be like if people – strangers – actively cared about the writing I do. Anyone who ever dreamed of being a novelist has wondered. But this blog isn't my ticket to fame and fortune, and I don't want it to be.

* * *

This week, Fletcher had his four-month checkup. His weight is average for his age, whereas his height is off the charts. Why do parents get excited when they find out their kid is special in some way like this? As if we didn't already know how incredibly special he is?

He was a trooper as he was given more shots and oral medication. The nurse was shocked by Fletcher's strong gag reflex, and I have a love-hate feeling for the hilarious face he made every time she put that medicine in his mouth.

The doctor wants us to take Fletch to the children's hospital to see a skin specialist about his cradle cap and eczema and some funny bumps under his scalp. She also wanted us to apply another special cream, but at a cost of over $100 for one tube I raised my eyebrows at the pharmacist and wheeled my squeaky cart elsewhere. I wonder what kind of bill we'll get for the children's hospital.

Fletcher's next doctor appointment is the day after Thanksgiving. I can't believe the holidays are coming. I can't believe I'm going to blink and Fletcher will be six months old.

11w 4d vesiculation

So my baby has an acute or chronic inflammation of his skin, characterized by redness, itching, and the outbreak of oozing vesicular lesions which become encrusted and scaly. Sexy, no? He was already bright red and dry before the delightful "oozing" began.

Eczema can be allergic or non-allergic. Let's hope for non, seeing as there's only one thing in his diet, so... yeah.

On the plus side, even if his sole food source is turning him bright red and scaly, at least we can be certain he's getting nourishment. Our little peanut now weighs a whopping 13 pounds, 11.5 ounces.

There really aren't words specific enough to describe what it's like when something is wrong with your baby. Let's just say, once you reach that moment, all your trepidation about sticking a thermometer up your baby's butt vanishes. You need to know his temperature. You need to obsessively analyze his temperature ala Google. You need to stare at his dry, scaly, legion-filled face and bite your nails. You need to consult every acquaintance you have on Facebook. You need to call the nurse hotline, just to hang up twenty minutes later and realize you're no farther ahead than you were twenty minutes ago.

You need to send him to his doctor, and please please get a trustworthy answer. Suddenly all the tiny "symptoms" he's had the last week start adding up into calamity. The drooling. The cough. The one slightly swollen eyelid.

Even when you get an answer, you can't settle. What if it's not the answer?

Twenty-four hours after the panic first set in, I was better. Comfortable enough to finally do the thing I'd been dreading since the beginning of it all, since his first night sleeping there in our bedroom, tiny and needy and mine.

He slept in his crib. In his nursery. Where I couldn't see him or reach him. At least, not without opening two doors and crossing two feet of hallway.

I fiddled with the monitor for five minutes, volume down, volume up, nervous and unhappy, before finally embracing the new parent cliché. Full volume. I didn't care if it disrupted my sleep. I needed to hear my baby breathe. Hear his stomach rumble. Hear his legs kick.

And when he cried a little faster and a little louder than normal in the middle of the night, I let myself believe it was because he liked this new arrangement about as much as I.

9w 3d brewers

official two-month Fletcher photo

Time to stock up on size 2 diapers. This little man weighed in at 12 pounds, 10.5 ounces and almost 24 inches long at his checkup on Monday. That's just a little longer and a little heavier than the average two-month-old. He's healthy and normal, and was fairly stoic about the medicine shoved down his throat and the three shots stabbed into his thighs.

Still, Monday may have been the most fussy day he's had so far, starting long before his doctor's appointment. Hungry but won't eat. Tired but won't sleep. Dealing with this first real test, I got panicky... because that night was his very first Brewers game, and I'm not equipped yet to know how to handle a loud baby in a public place.

But I should've known Fletcher wouldn't disappoint. He slept through the tailgate party, ate like a champ during the first half of the game, and was happy to be passed around for the second half. It didn't hurt that the Brewers won, as well.

Fletcher knows how to party

His next doctor's appointment is when he's four months old in September. At that point, we're going to discuss introducing solid foods, something I thought was light years away!

Although I love each stage of Fletcher's babyhood, it isn't that I'm sad to see him reach new stages of development. Each day is one of change and excitement and joy. He slept more yesterday and last night than he ever has before -- maybe he was tired out by a growth spurt. I swear today he looks older than he did yesterday, with a look of boyhood starting in his baby face. The part of me that worries this is all going too fast is the part that makes sure I don't take for granted a single moment of this precious time.

6w 5d ghost

Yesterday, Andy was kind enough to pick up some drive-thru for lunch and bring Fletcher to my office. Then the three of us went to my doctor appointment, where I got a nod of approval, a prescription for progesterone-only birth control, and was sent on my merry way.

The physical normality makes me feel like I should be back to normal emotionally as well. Not the case.

The lost feeling is still here, no less intense. But about 50 percent of the time, it's quiet -- a little more hidden, a little less obvious that a huge part of me is gone... It's like I'm less substantial away from him. A ghost.

He's a bit like fuel. The longer I'm with him, the more full my tank. The longer I'm away, the closer I get to empty. By the time my lunch hour rolls around, I'm getting pretty desperate, and the time with him isn't long enough to take me back to full.

Fridays, when I can't hold him until 6:30 or so at night, I'm pretty well destroyed for most of the day.

What is it that makes it so impossible to be away? It's not like I don't trust Andy or the rest of our family. It's not like I don't realize how incredibly spoiled I am by this arrangement. But I still find myself spending the day obsessing... is he crying right now? Sleeping? Cooing? Thirsty? The root of the problem seems to be that if I were home right now there would be no wondering. So why is "wondering" so terrible, when I'm not actually worried about his care?

Why am I unsatisfied that anyone other than me is meeting his needs?

pooped family on independence day

Note the final novel in the Harry Potter series. I started the first one on the morning I went into labor. Finishing the series this week felt a little like closure. I'm not sure I like it. I kind of feel like picking up book one again. I'd read the Twilight Saga for the twentieth time if it weren't for the fact that Andy would kill me... or worse, burn the books...


From "Impossible" by Shontelle, a song that has been stuck in my head all week.

Tell them all I know now
Shout it from the roof tops
Write it on the sky line
All we had is gone now

Tell them I was happy
And my heart is broken
All my scars are open
Tell them what I hoped would be
Impossible