Sunday, January 31, 2010

So Many Books, So Little Time

I wish I had time to read, read, read. I love books. I love new books, used books and borrowed books. I like fiction, religious, self-help and children's books. I have a stack of books I want to read NOW. I'm limiting myself to four books at a time though. One for pleasure. One with my hubby. One with my friend. And one for self-development.

I'm reading "The Shack" now and have promised my almost 11 year old that I would read "Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone" next. My sister gave me "My Sister's Keeper" for Christmas, which I started and am very intrigued by and really want to get back to. I have six more books piled up next to my reading chair ready for me to crack them open.

There is not enough time. Maybe I should stop lamenting about this and get back to "The Shack."
So long...

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Freaking Out - A Side Effect

I took my daughter to her one year pediatrician appointment this week. The doctor declared that all is well, other than the obvious cold she was dealing with. Then she checked her ears. One with some fluid build-up didn't look infected, but the other ear was not so fortunate. I thought, "Great, she's going to prescribe antibiotics and I don't want that to give to her!"

I am super conservative about medical intervention and our doctors work very well with us. The pediatrician admitted that the infection wasn't that bad yet. She resolved to write a prescription for antibiotics and let me watch and wait. Well, two days later, my baby girl was more cranky, sleeping worse and not getting better. My husband and I made the difficult (for us) choice and I headed to Walgreen's to get her drugs.

I sat in my car in the convenient pharmacy drive-thru (only in America) while the pharmacist talked to me through the bullet-proof glass. (Well, it might be bullet-proof. What if a psychotic drug-addict came through with a gun demanding Vicadin? It could happen.) She continued on with a list of obligatory disclaimers, which I calmly nodded to, until she mentioned a possible allergic reaction of difficulty breathing, including wheezing and blue lips. She must have seen my eyes bug out because she immediately tried to reassure me that this reaction was very rare. My eyes must have still been bulging, so she went on to say this would happen within the first 24 hours and again... it is extremely uncommon.

Still having not blinked, with a frozen smile on my face, I reached into the metal box, delivering the drugs through the brick wall under the bullet-proof glass for the gooey pink liquid that might send my daughter into cardiac arrest.

The pharmacist forgot to mention that freaking out is also a side effect, and it is not uncommon.

Somehow, regardless of my terror, I still gave the Amoxicillin to my daughter. She had been crying in the car and pulling at her ear. The pharmacist had assured me, as well as she could, that my baby probably wouldn't die, and I had to believe her.

After putting her to bed, I literally held the baby monitor up to my ear to listen to her breathing. I texted my sister for support and a rational perspective. I started to look up death statistics on the internet until I forced myself to be rational. Actually, it was when I heard her cough and cry a bit a couple of hours later. I could here her breathing and I had to relax.

I did manage to fall asleep around midnight but woke to wheezing sounds in the monitor around 3am. I immediately imagined ambulances and the bright florescent lights of hospital corridors. I went into the baby's room and hovered over her. I felt like a stalker, like she would be terrified if she woke up and saw my shadow towering over her. After five minutes of listening and jostling her a little, I deduced that it was her stuffing nose that was whistling, not her lungs.

It's morning now and she is alive, still pulling at her ear though. I did give her the second dose and her lips are nice an red. I can't say I won't freak out again tonight though, it comes with the job.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

To Hell and Back

I have seen hell. Today, I, and my precious family, went to a birthday party at a family fun party place (a bit like Chuck E. Cheese, minus the lame mechanical musical show), a.k.a. hell.

Let me explain. First of all, though I love my darling children to pieces, and even like them, I generally don't like children. But, you may not know that I also suffer from S.O.D.. It is a self-diagnosed and self-named condition. The acronym translates to: Sensory Overload Disorder. Need I say more?

I was playing it cool for over an hour, staying clear of the lights, game noises and most of the kids. I was in the adjoining room where party goers eat and open gifts in a blurry fury. Then my baby girl got bored. All the other kids had gone into game room and she was left to play with straws or stare at the dazed parents. It was time. I felt the responsibility of acknowledging my husband who was keeping track of our energized boys.

My baby was mesmerized by the flashing lights and spinning games. I indulged her. It wasn't long though until she seemed hopped up on the sensory overload. Then I could no longer ignore my own condition. Even though I seemed calm and collected on the outside, I knew I was on the verge of losing it. "Ding, Ding! "Tick, click tick..." Running kids. Roving lights. "Mom, mom, look at this!" Tokens changing hands, sliding into hungry slots. Games on and off. Lights flashing. Tickets spewing out of consoles. Baby kicking, whining....

I was in hell. I'm certain, this is what my hell would look like (minus the loved ones).

I wish I can say I was able to leave immediately. Not. It took another 45 minutes for the kids to use the rest of their tokens, exchange them for cheap toys that would break during the car ride home, re-adorn coats and shoes. But finally, I escaped. As soon as I exited and the door closed behind me, the oppression lifted. I could breathe. I demanded a calm and quiet car ride home.

I survived my trip to hell, and it is good to be back.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Modern Marvel-Us

I have been witness to a medical miracle. Actually, it's become a fairly routine surgery, but I am still completely amazed.

My wonderful stepfather had open-heart surgery one week ago. His chest was cut open, his sternum broken, a valve replaced with a pig valve. He was put back together and went home only 6 days later. Perhaps we have become immune to the amazingness of events such as these. We have become desensitized to the marvel of medicine. It happens everyday and it is no longer a big deal in our society.

Well, it's a big deal to me! My stepfather is alive! His God-given valve had failed him. His heart was enlarging as it labored to compensate for the valve that was refusing to work. He was napping twice a day and was too tired to shovel, go for walks, anything that used to be a regular part of his active life-style.

He now has a second chance to finish his life with strength, energy and zest. He has been given countless more years with his daughters and grandchildren. Isn't this marvelous? Isn't this miraculous?

And that's not all. Only one and a half years ago, my father's life was spared by robotic arms (controlled by the surgeon) that, with unimaginable precision, removed his cancerous prostate. "You have cancer that will kill you. Not a problem. Lay down here, go to sleep and we'll delicately and intelligently remove it for you so that you will be healthy and live many years to come."

Only 100 years ago, even less, the world would have been buzzing at the news. These surgeries would have been on the front page of every newspaper across the globe.

Maybe it's just as common as a plane ride these days, but I for one am marvelling. Along with my amazement, I am grateful beyond expression that my dads are here. Doctors & scientists, I invite you to continue to marvel us.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

My House Was Clean Yesterday

"Yesterday" was just after my little sister visited. She cannot sit, unless she is reading, studying, computing. So while here for the holidays, she cleaned to keep busy. And... my house needed it. Of course she didn't get to everything, but she was a catalyst. My house actually did get clean, except for the boys bathroom. Much to my chagrin, a holiday visitor wandered in there. Thankfully she is gracious and tactful, and she dismissed my horror and excessive apologies. Anyway, I digress.

We actually tackled every room (save the boys bathroom) with success. So, my house was clean yesterday. Today it is, once again, screaming to the world that "Four children live here!"

The amount of papers the boys bring home from school is insane! I used to save them. The papers are evidence of their learning and maturing as well as creativity and uniqueness. It was so hard to part with them. "Was" is the key word. Desperation sank in once all three boys were in elementary school and the papers they brought home started flying into the recycle bin. It was a survival requirement.

Many times I've had to say to one of them, "I don't know where that paper is." This is not a lie, because usually by the time they ask, the recycle truck has come and carted them away. Who knows where that paper is now. I admit there are times where I've thrown out things they needed. They have learned to become patient with me as I write notes to their teachers explaining my errors. Still, despite all my effort, pieces of paper are seemingly everywhere.

That's just the paper though. What about the floors? I think it's fair to say that my floors are sometimes clean. However, it only lasts as long as no living creature enters that room. Once the breach occurs, incredibly crumbs, hair and sand are everywhere. It is actually quite amazing how instantaneously this happens.

Did I mention my three boys? Do I need to tell you what the toilets and floors beneath look like and what odor accompanies? Thank goodness for the new cleaning wipes. I can only imagine how my life would smell without them.

Dishes.... toys... cloths... shoes... stuff... pillows... matchbox cars... books... this stuff is all over my floors! How are we supposed to sweep or vacuum?

It may sound like our house is filthy, but we DO clean, often. The problem is only 1-2 rooms can be clean at any given moment while the other 8 are being used. Then... rotate. It is a perpetual tale of soil and stuff.

If you ever have the resolve to enter our abode, I will apologize. I cannot help it. And, you'll probably hear me reminisce... "My house was clean yesterday. I'm sorry you missed it."

Monday, January 11, 2010

Somewhere Between Bliss and a Nervous Breakdown

It is very likely that I will start a blog where I can deposit all my thoughts about motherhood. It is also very likely I will use the title from this entry to name my blog. It describes my constant state to a tee.
__________
I've been breastfeeding my baby girl since the moment she was born. I love it, she loves it. It's cheap. It's good for her. It's good for me. It is good.

When she's been sick before, she's decreased her nursing, just like we eat less when we're sick. Okay. No problem there. But this weekend, sick with a nasty cold, she went on a full fledged strike. She didn't even want to look at my breast, let alone touch it with any part of her body.

My hubby and I got her to drink from a cup, so she was not dehydrated. In the middle of the night, she was awake two times for an hour each, and refused to nurse. I usually nurse her 6 times a day, so an immediate reduction to zero times per day led to... a surplus. The store was overstocked and the warehouse was full.

This morning, my sick little baby wanted me to hold her, constantly, while she rubbed her snotty nose all over me and coughed in my face. How was I supposed to do this with two throbbing coconuts between us that I couldn't stand to be touched or looked at? (Did I mention the broken breastpump in the cabinet?)

I was desperate, searching the web for answers. Everything I found said she wouldn't eat because she had a sore throat or a tummy ache. Can I just say... "Duh!" Engorged breasts, boys late for school, dirty dishes surrounding us, missing mittens, phone ringing, snot, tears... I was on the verge of a breakdown.

Then, the wisdom I needed from my 8-yr-old son... "Did you give her some medicine?" Yes, yes... medicine. I can do that. Okay, it's a start. Next, get the boys out the door to school. I can do that. (All the while my baby cries.) Put on a favorite video for her and hide out in a different room so she forgets about wanting me to hold her. Let the medicine start to work. Done.

What else can help? Think Dody, think... Moisture. A shower! I went to get the baby, stripped us down and into the warm steamy shower we went.

My baby has gorgeous, long eyelashes that she inherited from her father. They are even more stunning when wet. Also, when warm, her perfect little lips get flush with red. She loves the water, so all fussing stopped. Her coughing subsided. She looked at me with her big blue eyes, filled with gratitude and love. I held her close and washed her hair. She began to smile... Bliss...

Afterward, her in her towel, I tucked her in my robe and she nursed. A relief for us both. Quiet, for now.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

1 + 1 = 4

One love struck girl and one passionate boy = four gorgeous children.

This equation is partially the reason for my long gap in blogging. The boys were home for Christmas break and all routine was out the window. There were family games and special food and more games and friends and relatives and Godparents... then exhaustion.

When I was pregnant with my baby girl, I thought far too often about what other people would think of our large brood. In the history of life, four children is not absurd, but in America where 2.5 children is the accepted number, that forth child catapults you into a new category of "big." The truth is, I never think of that anymore. Our family is so perfect. It feels, so much, like this is what God had planned from the beginning of time.

1 + 1 = 4 might not make sense to anyone else, but it makes perfect sense to us.