I feel like writing tonight. It's a good feeling. One I haven't had in a while. So, please, indulge me.
I usually spend Monday night (and, often, the early hours of Tuesday morning) among the flourescent lights and steady chatter of a newsroom. Tonight I'm home. It's dark. And the only noise is the steady ticking of Mitchell's swing across the room.
He's not feeling well, and sleeping even less well. He likes it in his swing. And I like him being there.
Mitchell being sick is partially why I feel like writing tonight. Mondays had become somewhat routine, if not easy. Steph comes to help. My Monday day-time workload is lighter than other days. Zoe is at preschool for a couple hours in the morning. Mondays are, in general, a good day.
Today, Mitchell rarely slept ... and never did he sleep at the same time Alyse did, which is always a desired outcome. He cried. A lot. Steph couldn't get to our house as early as she normally does because of her own work obligations. And Zoe always gets emotional and stressed out when the babies cry a lot, partially because it means less attention for her. This Monday was not a good day.
But sitting here in the dark, listening to Mitchell's swing tick, the cloud of self-pity suddenly lifted.
Some back story:
People are leaving my places of work at an alarming rate. One, the day-time corporate gig, because my team was full of young up-and-comers looking for greener pastures. The other, the newspaper, because the industry is crumbling like Feta cheese.
Years ago, when I was managing a restaurant in a college town and considering making that a career, my friends and co-workers (mostly college students working part-time) started filing out of town one-by-one. Grad school. Cool jobs in big cities. Travelling the world. I got depressed, re-evaluated my life, went back to school and moved on.
Now it's happening again. One co-worker left for law school. Another took a year off to travel the world -- Greece, Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, Slovenia, Austria, Switzerland, France, Africa and the Middle East. Others are finding good jobs, making good money doing things I can do in my sleep. This time my way of joining the exodus has been to re-invent jobs for myself that allow me to stay home and change diapers all day.
There've been times -- before tonight, in the dark with the ticking swing -- that I've questioned the decision. Self-worth and future career options and financial ramifications aside, I also wonder if I'm, quite frankly, a good enough parent to pull it off. Is the risk worth the reward?
Tonight, I realized it is. There wasn't even a "gotcha" moment. Sorry if you were waiting for one.
I turned off the lights, turned off the TV, closed the three partially-written stories on my laptop and sat in the dark listening to Mitchell's ticking swing. In that rare moment of calmness, the metronome effect of that swing spelled it out: You. Are. Where. You. Want. To. Be.
Since I started this post, the quiet was interrupted by Mitchell's cries. He's lying on my chest now, his fever still apparent through my T-shirt. Steady breathing has replaced the ticking swing.
Tomorrow will be harder. No preschool for Zoe. No family members coming to town. A little more work on my plate. I should get some sleep to prepare, but I don't want to wake Mitchell.
He's not feeling well, and sleeping even less well. He likes it on my chest. And I like him being there.
Showing posts with label Tales. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tales. Show all posts
10.13.2008
7.18.2006
THE BEST (SMARTEST) KID EVER?
Zoe made a room full of women (OK... it was two women) gasp Monday.
Our exciting night on the town together consisted of sitting in a Chevy dealership waiting room as our car got what was supposed to be a quick fix. In said waiting room was a kid's table full of Legos and an easel with a magnetic board and a ledge full of magnetized letters.
A baby can only be expected to put the same letters on the same magnetic board so many times before it becomes redundant. So, eventually, Zoe decided to liven the game up... and proceeded to swing her arms wildly across the ledge, sending a red A and a yellow T and a green P flying around the room.
She looked up at me with a smirk we've grown to understand to mean "I know I wasn't supposed to do that, but damnit it was fun!" I raised my eyebrows back at her and asked -- rhetorically, I thought -- "And just who do you suppose is going to clean up that mess?"
She dropped to her butt, reached for the nearby purple W, and put it back on the ledge. She looked up at me with a sense of accomplishment. "Thank you," I said. And she reached for a pink V. That's when I actually heard one of the women gasp.
One after another, she picked up the letters and put them back on the ledge. After each, she'd look at me. I'd say "thank you" and she'd move on to the next.
Somewhere between the fifth and seventh trip -- once it became clear that Zoe did, indeed, intend to pick up every one of those dozen or so letters -- I could hear the women whispering to each other. I don't know for sure what they were saying, but I've convinced myself it was something very, very flattering.
Our exciting night on the town together consisted of sitting in a Chevy dealership waiting room as our car got what was supposed to be a quick fix. In said waiting room was a kid's table full of Legos and an easel with a magnetic board and a ledge full of magnetized letters.
A baby can only be expected to put the same letters on the same magnetic board so many times before it becomes redundant. So, eventually, Zoe decided to liven the game up... and proceeded to swing her arms wildly across the ledge, sending a red A and a yellow T and a green P flying around the room.
She looked up at me with a smirk we've grown to understand to mean "I know I wasn't supposed to do that, but damnit it was fun!" I raised my eyebrows back at her and asked -- rhetorically, I thought -- "And just who do you suppose is going to clean up that mess?"
She dropped to her butt, reached for the nearby purple W, and put it back on the ledge. She looked up at me with a sense of accomplishment. "Thank you," I said. And she reached for a pink V. That's when I actually heard one of the women gasp.
One after another, she picked up the letters and put them back on the ledge. After each, she'd look at me. I'd say "thank you" and she'd move on to the next.
Somewhere between the fifth and seventh trip -- once it became clear that Zoe did, indeed, intend to pick up every one of those dozen or so letters -- I could hear the women whispering to each other. I don't know for sure what they were saying, but I've convinced myself it was something very, very flattering.
2.07.2006
IT'S A LONG ONE, BUT YOU MAY HAVE BEEN WAITING
Some of the collections that have inadvertently popped up in Zoe's room are downright fun. Shelves lined with plush stuffed bunnies and dozens of books, for example. Another collection that's started in a small bin above her changing table isn't so fun: Hospital wristbands. We have the ones from her birth, another from a visit after a bout with vomitting and diarrhea, another after breathing problems caused by her first run-in with pneumonia, and now her latest set... from U-M's Mott Children's Hospital.
It was a crazy weekend around here. And it was experienced drastically differently by Sonja and myself. So differently, in fact, that I thought it was necessary to tell the tale in two voices:
RICH: I left home at 7 p.m. Saturday evening, destination Rochester, Minn., to visit my friend Jerome at The Gift of Life House next to the Mayo Clinic. Earlier that morning, a visit to our pediatrician seemed to indicate (in my mind, at least) that Zoe was recovering well from what was diagnosed as another round of pneumonia. So I headed to Minnesota to see Jerome, my lifelong friend, who had days earlier donated a kidney to his mother. After driving through most of the night, inadvertently going nearly two hours out of my way on the wrong highway and three different unsuccessful stints trying to sleep at highway rest areas, I was an hour from Rochester when I got a disturbing call from Sonja.
SONJA: My friend Dani arrived at 6 p.m. Saturday to spend the night. Since her husband was also out of town, we figured it was a rare chance for some girl time. We ordered food and rented movies. Unfortunately girl time was postponed by a rough night (and well into early morning) with Zoe. Party over. By morning, she was back to being lethargic and launched into a coughing fit (along with the accompanying phlegm-filled vomitting). After a previously-prescribed breathing treatment didn't help, Dani (who happens to be three months pregnant) convinced me that our pediatrician is paid well enough to be bothered with an early Sunday morning phone call. He agreed a visit to the emergency room was in order, called ahead for us and we headed for Mott. At about 11 a.m., the hospital staff told us Zoe should be admitted. That's when I called Rich.
RICH: Because I was so close to Rochester, I proceeded to the Gift of Life House and visited with Jerome for about an hour (the original plan was to watch the Super Bowl with him, but I instead listened to it on the radio on my return home). For those keeping score at home, that means I was basically sitting in the front seat of my truck from 7 p.m. Saturday until I arrived at Mott at approximately 12:45 a.m. Monday morning. But don't feel sorry for me... that was probably easier than where Sonja was sitting.
SONJA: A recent switch in medical insurance meant we switched to the University of Michigan system. While we certainly feel fortunate to live in a community near such fine medical options (Mott Children's Hospital is rated one of the top 10 children's hospitals in the world), it can also be a bit frustrating. Let's just say that our generation's best doctors aren't being taught a whole lot of bedside manner. And it never helps that no matter how sick Zoe is, she can always muster a smile for every doctor and nurse that walks in the room. If we had a dollar for every time we heard "babies don't act like that when they're sick," we'd have a nice start on that college fund. Basically, we're often left feeling like we have to lobby to get practitioners to believe she is sick. And even we're struck by how odd phrases like "she's not smiling as often as she usually does," or "her color isn't as nice as it usually is," can sound. Then came a most unpleasant x-ray that left me asking why, with modern technology, they can't come up with a better process. They strapped Zoe into an electric chair-looking contraption, legs dangling, bottom balanced on a peg, and strapped in with velcro straps around each arm, her head, her torso and a plastic strap pulling up her chin. With a look of terror and tears streaming down her face (and mine), they got the x-rays that confirmed she had fluid in her lungs. The doctor described it as "fluffy." Later, with Zoe re-hooked to a pulse-ox machine (measuring the amount of oxygen in her bloodstream), nurses still wouldn't believe the low reading was correct because -- once again -- "babies don't act like that" when they're having trouble breathing. Finally, Dani piped up with (and I thank her for this paraphrased question): "Why is it that when the reading is low, the machine isn't working but when it says what you want it to say, it's working fine?" Posed with that question, the attending doctor asked us to keep Zoe still and he'd monitor her. While she slept and I nursed her, the pulse-ox reading fell to 85 (below 92 is too low). Finally, they were convinced.
Friends and family kicked in from there. In Michigan, Busia headed for U-M to take over Dani's role as Sonja's support system. (Sonja can't thank either enough for their much-needed help.) Honey desparately wanted to be there, too, but thanks to an earlier visit with Zoe she was experiencing her own respiratory issues.... and the doctors suggested she keep her distance. As Rich high-tailed it back home, he was kept awake by a steady stream of phone calls from Dziadzia and Uncle Norman, intended to serve mainly as one of those alarms truckers wear that beep when your head slumps.
The night was spent with Zoe receiving oxygen and being awoken frequently by nurses and doctors coming in to listen to her chest. Finally, early Monday morning, after Sonja and Rich each curled up on a tremendously uncomfortable (and half-sized) couch for short stretches of sleep -- and after Busia pulled an amazing (and greatly appreciated) all-nighter on an even-more-uncomfortable rocking chair -- nurses and doctors started showing up again.
This is a good time to get this thought out of the way. Walking down the U-M hospital hallway, you're struck with the magnitude of their work. One bulletin board included thumb tacks scattered across a map of the world, showing where patients had travelled from for their expert care. We heard tales of a 15-year-old girl a couple rooms down who was recovering from a heart transplant. I don't know what the tiny infant in the room next to Zoe was suffering from, but judging from the constant care and somber family vigil... it was serious. So maybe our dilemma paled in comparison. But when Zoe launched into a coughing fit so severe and constant that it caused Busia to yell into the hallway for help, you'd think we'd get a more compassionate response. OK... that point is made. I guess faced with the alternative of having to visit some inadequately staffed facility, we'll take the poor bedside manner.
The procedure that eventually helped things along was the suctioning of phlegm from her chest. Again, thanks to Busia for being there because faced with the prospect of sitting through the process (which is as barbaric as it sounds... think ShopVac), Sonja high-tailed it into the hallway and Rich pretended to remain sleeping on the awkwardly-sized couch.
After more observation and a chat with the head of pediatrics at the hospital, we were home by 1 p.m. Monday. Zoe is still recovering from the flu-like symptoms that plaqued her previously but is considerably less congested and not working so hard to breathe. That translates to much better sleeping and eating, which was becoming a problem. The hospital diagnosis was bronchiolitis likely caused by RSV, basically a viral version of pneumonia... one not helped by the antibiotics our pediatrician prescribed when he assumed it was pneumonia.
We're moving forward with some tests U-M doctors called strictly precautionary, but are still a little intimidating by their nature. Our pediatrician doesn't agree with the theory she has any existing condition causing her frequent respiratory problems... rather just the typical string of bad luck any daycare child has in his/her first year exposed to so much bacteria and viruses. (Something he ultimately says will be a positive because it will help her build immunity as she gets older). He still agreed to grant us the recommendations necessary for insurance to cover a visit to a specialist, if only to ease our minds of the worst-case scenarios we're now carrying around thanks to those U-M doctors' comments.
Now it's 10:44 p.m. Tuesday night, Zoe is sleeping soundly and we're about to do something we haven't had the chance to do in nearly a week... cuddle on the couch and chill out in front of some bad TV. We'll likely be asleep by 11, so don't call!
Much love.
It was a crazy weekend around here. And it was experienced drastically differently by Sonja and myself. So differently, in fact, that I thought it was necessary to tell the tale in two voices:
RICH: I left home at 7 p.m. Saturday evening, destination Rochester, Minn., to visit my friend Jerome at The Gift of Life House next to the Mayo Clinic. Earlier that morning, a visit to our pediatrician seemed to indicate (in my mind, at least) that Zoe was recovering well from what was diagnosed as another round of pneumonia. So I headed to Minnesota to see Jerome, my lifelong friend, who had days earlier donated a kidney to his mother. After driving through most of the night, inadvertently going nearly two hours out of my way on the wrong highway and three different unsuccessful stints trying to sleep at highway rest areas, I was an hour from Rochester when I got a disturbing call from Sonja.
SONJA: My friend Dani arrived at 6 p.m. Saturday to spend the night. Since her husband was also out of town, we figured it was a rare chance for some girl time. We ordered food and rented movies. Unfortunately girl time was postponed by a rough night (and well into early morning) with Zoe. Party over. By morning, she was back to being lethargic and launched into a coughing fit (along with the accompanying phlegm-filled vomitting). After a previously-prescribed breathing treatment didn't help, Dani (who happens to be three months pregnant) convinced me that our pediatrician is paid well enough to be bothered with an early Sunday morning phone call. He agreed a visit to the emergency room was in order, called ahead for us and we headed for Mott. At about 11 a.m., the hospital staff told us Zoe should be admitted. That's when I called Rich.
RICH: Because I was so close to Rochester, I proceeded to the Gift of Life House and visited with Jerome for about an hour (the original plan was to watch the Super Bowl with him, but I instead listened to it on the radio on my return home). For those keeping score at home, that means I was basically sitting in the front seat of my truck from 7 p.m. Saturday until I arrived at Mott at approximately 12:45 a.m. Monday morning. But don't feel sorry for me... that was probably easier than where Sonja was sitting.
SONJA: A recent switch in medical insurance meant we switched to the University of Michigan system. While we certainly feel fortunate to live in a community near such fine medical options (Mott Children's Hospital is rated one of the top 10 children's hospitals in the world), it can also be a bit frustrating. Let's just say that our generation's best doctors aren't being taught a whole lot of bedside manner. And it never helps that no matter how sick Zoe is, she can always muster a smile for every doctor and nurse that walks in the room. If we had a dollar for every time we heard "babies don't act like that when they're sick," we'd have a nice start on that college fund. Basically, we're often left feeling like we have to lobby to get practitioners to believe she is sick. And even we're struck by how odd phrases like "she's not smiling as often as she usually does," or "her color isn't as nice as it usually is," can sound. Then came a most unpleasant x-ray that left me asking why, with modern technology, they can't come up with a better process. They strapped Zoe into an electric chair-looking contraption, legs dangling, bottom balanced on a peg, and strapped in with velcro straps around each arm, her head, her torso and a plastic strap pulling up her chin. With a look of terror and tears streaming down her face (and mine), they got the x-rays that confirmed she had fluid in her lungs. The doctor described it as "fluffy." Later, with Zoe re-hooked to a pulse-ox machine (measuring the amount of oxygen in her bloodstream), nurses still wouldn't believe the low reading was correct because -- once again -- "babies don't act like that" when they're having trouble breathing. Finally, Dani piped up with (and I thank her for this paraphrased question): "Why is it that when the reading is low, the machine isn't working but when it says what you want it to say, it's working fine?" Posed with that question, the attending doctor asked us to keep Zoe still and he'd monitor her. While she slept and I nursed her, the pulse-ox reading fell to 85 (below 92 is too low). Finally, they were convinced.
Friends and family kicked in from there. In Michigan, Busia headed for U-M to take over Dani's role as Sonja's support system. (Sonja can't thank either enough for their much-needed help.) Honey desparately wanted to be there, too, but thanks to an earlier visit with Zoe she was experiencing her own respiratory issues.... and the doctors suggested she keep her distance. As Rich high-tailed it back home, he was kept awake by a steady stream of phone calls from Dziadzia and Uncle Norman, intended to serve mainly as one of those alarms truckers wear that beep when your head slumps.
The night was spent with Zoe receiving oxygen and being awoken frequently by nurses and doctors coming in to listen to her chest. Finally, early Monday morning, after Sonja and Rich each curled up on a tremendously uncomfortable (and half-sized) couch for short stretches of sleep -- and after Busia pulled an amazing (and greatly appreciated) all-nighter on an even-more-uncomfortable rocking chair -- nurses and doctors started showing up again.
This is a good time to get this thought out of the way. Walking down the U-M hospital hallway, you're struck with the magnitude of their work. One bulletin board included thumb tacks scattered across a map of the world, showing where patients had travelled from for their expert care. We heard tales of a 15-year-old girl a couple rooms down who was recovering from a heart transplant. I don't know what the tiny infant in the room next to Zoe was suffering from, but judging from the constant care and somber family vigil... it was serious. So maybe our dilemma paled in comparison. But when Zoe launched into a coughing fit so severe and constant that it caused Busia to yell into the hallway for help, you'd think we'd get a more compassionate response. OK... that point is made. I guess faced with the alternative of having to visit some inadequately staffed facility, we'll take the poor bedside manner.
The procedure that eventually helped things along was the suctioning of phlegm from her chest. Again, thanks to Busia for being there because faced with the prospect of sitting through the process (which is as barbaric as it sounds... think ShopVac), Sonja high-tailed it into the hallway and Rich pretended to remain sleeping on the awkwardly-sized couch.
After more observation and a chat with the head of pediatrics at the hospital, we were home by 1 p.m. Monday. Zoe is still recovering from the flu-like symptoms that plaqued her previously but is considerably less congested and not working so hard to breathe. That translates to much better sleeping and eating, which was becoming a problem. The hospital diagnosis was bronchiolitis likely caused by RSV, basically a viral version of pneumonia... one not helped by the antibiotics our pediatrician prescribed when he assumed it was pneumonia.
We're moving forward with some tests U-M doctors called strictly precautionary, but are still a little intimidating by their nature. Our pediatrician doesn't agree with the theory she has any existing condition causing her frequent respiratory problems... rather just the typical string of bad luck any daycare child has in his/her first year exposed to so much bacteria and viruses. (Something he ultimately says will be a positive because it will help her build immunity as she gets older). He still agreed to grant us the recommendations necessary for insurance to cover a visit to a specialist, if only to ease our minds of the worst-case scenarios we're now carrying around thanks to those U-M doctors' comments.
Now it's 10:44 p.m. Tuesday night, Zoe is sleeping soundly and we're about to do something we haven't had the chance to do in nearly a week... cuddle on the couch and chill out in front of some bad TV. We'll likely be asleep by 11, so don't call!
Much love.
1.23.2006
GIRLS DO CRY... SORT OF
We've received many inquiries as to whether Zoe ever cries. It doesn't happen often - and we've never captured the moment photographically - so when the tears started flowing one day while Sonja was feeding her (not sure why... didn't like the brown rice and turkey dinner, perhaps?), it seemed like the perfect time to snap a shot. Guess it's as close as we'll get.
1.21.2006
INCREASINGLY MOBILE
Zoe is going to be nine months in four days! She sure is growing up fast.
Still, being the content kid she is, she has yet to hit one of those milestones I expected by this time... crawling. She's been just fine watching the babies at her childcare conquer that phase (while laughing at their efforts). Even the countless hours watching Rich and I crawl around and moving her arms and legs to demonstrate the proper form have been merely met with a large grin and a look of What the heck are you doing and why?
Sure, she's been growing increasingly discontent with being plopped down somewhere with a few toys. In the picture below she's yelling MAMA at me and telling me her playpen is NOT all that fun.
I know, I know...all you veteran parents are laughing your ass off because you know in the near future I will be shaking my head and wishing for the days her butt was stationary.
Zoe's Mama
Still, being the content kid she is, she has yet to hit one of those milestones I expected by this time... crawling. She's been just fine watching the babies at her childcare conquer that phase (while laughing at their efforts). Even the countless hours watching Rich and I crawl around and moving her arms and legs to demonstrate the proper form have been merely met with a large grin and a look of What the heck are you doing and why?
Sure, she's been growing increasingly discontent with being plopped down somewhere with a few toys. In the picture below she's yelling MAMA at me and telling me her playpen is NOT all that fun.
Thinking it was just a fluke and figuring she had simply wriggled into this position on her butt, I moved her to the back of the crib, adjusted her toys and went back to my morning routine. A few minutes later I heard THUD, THUD, THUD. NO...it wasn't Zoe falling out of the crib. Instead, I went into the room and saw this...
She was up on her knees, pitching toys so far across the room they were hitting her nursery furniture (thanks to Dziadzia for showing her how to pitch)!
I know, I know...all you veteran parents are laughing your ass off because you know in the near future I will be shaking my head and wishing for the days her butt was stationary.
Zoe's Mama
10.10.2005
MILESTONE UPDATE
Sunday night was a big one for Zoe... her first taste of food from a spoon. Mom mixed up a little rice cereal and stripped baby girl down to her diaper in anticipation of some spills. She wasn't quite sure what to do with the goop once it hit her lips, but instinct eventually took over and she swallowed it.
The outcome was typical, I assume. More ended up on her chin and chest than in her belly. And each swallow was preceeded by a crinkled face strikingly similar to the face Sonja makes when she eats fish.
Of course, it was all captured on video. Twelve minutes that we'll forever find riveting and everyone we force to watch will find repetitive. The eighth spoonful is probably quite similar to the first spoonful.
Still, we'll rent copies for $5.99 a pop. Rice cereal ain't cheap.
The outcome was typical, I assume. More ended up on her chin and chest than in her belly. And each swallow was preceeded by a crinkled face strikingly similar to the face Sonja makes when she eats fish.
Of course, it was all captured on video. Twelve minutes that we'll forever find riveting and everyone we force to watch will find repetitive. The eighth spoonful is probably quite similar to the first spoonful.
Still, we'll rent copies for $5.99 a pop. Rice cereal ain't cheap.
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