The Baby Juggler

The Eve of Reawakening

I really wanted to write a title with the word Ides in it, as in "the Ides of March," but I'm afraid using a word in a title just because it sounds lovely but is really meaningless, or unrelated, to the content of the post is beyond even me.

I really wish I had the IQ and literary knowledge of one Julia from Here Be Hippogriffs, and could scatter obscure literary allusions throughout the text for my own amusement.  The problem is I don't even catch Julia's scatterings.  I only know she does this because she very quietly mentions it occasionally.  Damn and drat (Jr. is now very ably spewing "damns" from his mouth, but only after mommy says it).  Alas, I am just me, and must write to my own potential.  At 35 years old (and beginning to look it, confound it!) I am learning to be content with my limitations.

Wow.  All of that boring self-examination to explain my word choices.  No wonder my blog is worth $0.00.

So.

We are moving across country in less than one month.  I am finding little bursts of anxiety occur with thoughts of scheduling movers, cleaning-out the car for transport, paying for rental cars, and planning our cats' relocation.  I am not experiencing anxiety about beginning life in a new place.  Yet.

I chose this place I currently live.  I moved 750 miles from home direct out of college to start a fresh life, in which no one knew me, in which I could blaze my own path.  In some ways, I accomplished what I set out to do and in other ways I failed miserably.  But, the fact is that this was the place I chose.  I chose to live here, out of a whole world of options.  And I had some pretty good reasons and some pretty stupid reasons for choosing here.  There are many many many good things about this place I am leaving.  I am going to miss the beautiful blooming seasons, the ability to occasionally wear capris in December, the scent of jasmine, honeysuckle, and gardenia wafting through a soft spring evening during an evening jog.  When I think of this, I feel a primal yearning, before I've even left.  I will miss my youth, which was spent here, at times frivolously, at times too seriously, but here it was spent, in all its folly.  I will leave and my youth will remain; when I look back on my life playing the record over, reliving my moments, it will be here I will think of.  I leave my youth here and it will stay forever. 

Of course, there are the people I leave behind.  Those few, very few good friends I will keep in my life, somewhere, forever.  But I am taking my family with me, so I don't think I will be homesick for people.

I hope the new path I blaze, or at least kindle, will include less folly, more wisdom.  I stuggle with learning wisdom.  I also hope it will include special people I learn to know and love, people harder to leave, people who will become my family.  I struggle with relationships too.

I leave you with a story of lost youth.

We went through a Brew-Thru on our last and very recent vacation.  The Ukranian boy serving us our non-alcoholic beverages (we did have the kidlings in the car) gave me a sweet smile in response to my every question.  I JOKINGLY said, as we drove away, that he was flirting with me.  My LIFE PARTNER laughed and said, "you're old enough to be his mother!"

Fragile Babies

Yesterday I had a 40 day-old patient just released from the NICU, hooked to an apnea monitor and oxygen.  He was born with situs inversus and a congenital heart defect of the arteries of the heart being reversed as well.  He has chronic congestion and respiratory difficulty.  To top it all off, he was diagnosed with acid reflux.  And hmmm..., look at this. 

The night before his appointment with me, his mom had taken him to the emergency room for difficulty breathing, where a respiratory therapist suctioned him to clear his breathing pathway.   

I realize my son was in no way fragile in the sense that this child is, or at least "feels" to be fragile by his mother, but something about the mother's countenance brought me back to my first year with my newborn digestive disaster.  I felt so powerless and so, so ignorant and stupid.  I felt silly and alarmist whenever discussing feeding issues with the pediatrician, because his weight gain was average (with vigilant re-feeds after vomit episodes).  As Jr. got older and his swallowing problems delayed solid foods, I felt even more powerless and STUPID when a pediatrician brazenly stated they should be eating all sorts of foods, and even starting meat (at 7 months!).  I felt like a failure that I couldn't help my son, couldn't solve the feeding issue. 

I felt like I had a fragile baby.  I know, I didn't really, but it felt that way to me at the time.

Yesterday I could almost feel the waves of powerlessness and fear emanate from this baby's mother.  To see your baby have difficulty breathing and not know WHY and what to do to help him must be terribly traumatic. 

I still feel sad, that I felt that way and couldn't just relax and enjoy my newborns.  I spent the first year terrified they would break.

Dead Dog Night

Last night I loaded an eighty pound dead dog into my friend's car.

It was supposed to be an evening out, one last dinner with a friend of 12 years, to say good-bye, a taste of freedom from motherhood for an hour, maybe two.  I drove to my friend's house, let's call her J, shall we (not my J, and not Liza's J.  This J shall remain nameless), and she came directly out to the car.  I didn't go inside to visit with the dogs like I usually do.

We ate a very very yummy dinner at a fairly authentic taqueria (which, incidentally, does not provide high chairs, I mean WTF), I had a Maragarita treat (I wanted two, but as my friend was abstaining I didn't feel right about it, thankfully, as further evening details will reveal), we ordered a SECOND serving of cheese dip (it has heroin in it), and discussed life, her frustration with her partner always being out of town, her partner's dog suddenly falling ill yesterday.  Blah, blah, long story short we arrived to her house and something made me think that I should go in with her (she had been telling me about how she was worried about the dog's illness- yes, I know we shouldn't have gone to dinner, should have probably taken the dog to the emergency vet, but we didn't, we didn't, ok?, we don't know why.  We're a couple of dumb asses).  When we looked into the sidelight, we could see him lying (laying?) on the floor, legs stiffly stretched out.  It didn't look good, Internet.

He was dead.  Dead.  An eighty pound dead dog on my friend's floor, while her girlfriend, the dog's mom, is still out of town (sick after a blown ovarian cyst, that's another story), my usually practical, competent, and calm friend hysterical.  I was the calm one, the one who called emergency vets, spoke with the girlfriend to decide what next to do, determined how to carry an eighty pound dog in the throes of rigor mortis to the car and get him in the hatchback (luckily it was an SUV).  I drove the 60 miles to the clinic, we had to sit for over 2 hours to wait for the one ER doc on call so that she could take a history and take her money.  Ummm, I asked them TWICE if we could do it over the phone.  Finally, she came and took the history and a credit card number (to be billed this morning) and we COULD HAVE DONE IT OVER THE F-ING PHONE, it was so freaking simple, but not according to them.  So, I drove the 60 miles back home, got into bed at about 4 in the morning, then Mini woke me up at 6AM.  And here I am at work.  Blogging.

Highlights of the evening:

1) The dog letting out gas as we turned him over.  I had to stop uncontrollable urge to laugh hysterically and make inappropriate jokes at poor baby dog's expense.

2) Other dog owner in the emergency waiting room, again causing me to supress hysterical fit of giggles, very "southern" old lady urging hysterical daughter? neice? to take her Darvocet, it will help her to calm down, she really needed her Darvocet.  DARVOCET as tranquilizer, for goodness sake.  Reminded me of ex-girlfriend's tragic mother (another family tragedy for another day).

3) "Chuckles" the vet tech, named such by J for her (Chuckles') unsmiling demeanor and cool bedside manner.  Another fit of difficult to control hysterical laughing at the name (what is WRONG with me??!!).

J said this was the worst thing that could happen, and I held my tongue but thought, "No, this is not.  Something happening to my children, or anyone's children is the worst.  What happened to ex-girlfriend's tragic mother was the worst."  I have changed towards animals since the babies, which is why I think I held it together so well last night (this morning?).  I still love them, but now a cat is a cat, a dog is a dog, NOT my babies.  My babies are my babies.  Prior to having children of my own, I would have been in angst for that poor baby dog on the floor.  I still feel sad, but in its proper proportion FOR ME, in my head.  But of course, I didn't say that to my friend.  To her, it WAS/IS the worst thing that could have happened.  To her girlfriend, she DID suddenly and unexpectedly lose her baby.  She was in shock. 

Am working on meme (I was tagged for the first time ever!) and will finish probably tomorrow.  Am very excited about first tag.

Edited to add:  Lest the Internet think I am so good and kind and selfless that I did all of this to help a friend in need, I DID try to pawn the job off to my J first by calling her and telling her I couldn't possibly lift this dog into the SUV (no upper body strength here) and that what if Mini woke-up in the night and NEEDED me.  To my credit, I really DID have concerns about being able to lift the dog without (ew) breaking something.  Really.  Suffice it to say, my J didn't let me off the hook on this one.  Drat.

Edited AGAIN to add:  MY J informed me I did not inform the Internet why we drove a dead dog 60 miles to a university specialty clinic.  J's girlfriend wanted an autopsy on her dog, and on the slim chance their regular vet even does autopsies, we would have had to carry the dog upstairs to the bath tub, buy bags and bags of ice to keep his body cool, then wait till morning to call the vet to see if on the off chance they even DO autopsies.  With a dead dog.  In the bathtub.  All night.  On ice.

Today's events and chicken

Our big plan today was to meet Liza and her J and Noah at Barnes and Noble and watch the kiddies play on the Thomas Train table.  Noah, of course, couldn't play but he did watch.  And teethe.  And teethe some more.  Poor fella AND poor mommies. 

We had a great time, although I drank a gigantic milkshake I didn't need.  Suffice it to say, I won't be fitting in my new too much money spent at this time of life wardrobe much longer, at this rate.

So I was going to go running on the treadmill in our apartment complex, except it is Sunday night, all is quiet, and the place gives me the creeps.  Funny thing is, I truly WANT to run, but am too scared (I'm not running outside cause it's getting dark- I have to run after the babies go to sleep at 8-8:30).  YMCA is closed, so I'm stuck not running or being terrified the whole time I run.  I have been reading too many newspaper articles on murdered women lately, and NOT BY CHOICE.  People Magazine should NOT be about that stuff, it should be about FLUFF, ok?  I read it for the FLUFF!  I want more FLUFF.

So J thinks it is hilarious that I feel better about myself knowing I truly WOULD run (am not making-up excuses) and that I'm just chicken.  She would feel worse about herself for feeling chicken than for just deciding she didn't feel like running.

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We left Thursday morning for our first official family vacation.  We did take the babies across country last year, but that was for a big examination, NOT a vacation. 

We went to a preservation, a place that involves human-made lakes, beautiful gardens, beautifully preserved wildlife areas, very very nice bicycle paths, and lots and lots of food.

There was a buffet, people.  I have made a discovery; I know why the older we get the buffet becomes more and more attractive.  The delicious food was well-balanced, lots of salad choices, fruit choices, protein, carbohydrates (not necessarily the healthy part), vegetables, and the DESERT buffet.  AND kids under 5 years old ate the buffet for free!  How much does that rock my world?!?!?  I HATE paying $5.00 for a plate of food that consists of macaroni and MAYBE a protein item, just to have to order another vegetable (hahaha, wishful thinking) or fruit side item for $1.95-$3.00 so I feel like I am feeding somewhat well-balanced meals to my children.  So, my kids got to pick over canteloupe, honeydew melon, watermelon (which they won't eat since barforama December 2005), green beans (insert laugh track here), beef brisket- mmmm..., macaroni, they LOVED the yeast rolls, which I decided for some reason to call "cake".  I think it's because they are not that "into" bread so they don't know the word for bread, but Jr. is familiar with cake because of THIS STUPID GAME I'M ADDICTED TO (when he wakes-up early from his naps, due to teething or other complaint, and Mini is still sleeping, I feel entitled to continue my "me" time with him on my lap, enjoying making STUPID F-ING CAKES.

Anywhoo, I want to bring the buffet home.  Already prepped and cooked and CUT food, someone to serve me as well as the kidlets, and best of all, not a dish in sight.  No sponge or vacuum to scour the sticky-icky table or clean crumbs off the rug.  I just leave the food vicinity and VOILA!  I come back at the next mealtime to a pristine and set table.  I cried all the way home from the resort.  Ask J.  I did.

So, I think the most fun but insane (because of the heat) thing was to rent bicycles with child carriers on the back.  The kids really enjoyed it and it was fun having one right behind one's seat, rather than have them in a trailer where you really have no contact.  Plus, I think it was easier on J, carrying one rather than both the babies.  It WAS hard going, with the heat and the hills.  Gosh the babies sure do add a significant amount of resistance to the ride.  I think when we move we will invest in a hitch, bicycle car carrier (car bicycle carrier?), and some child seats.

Cheating on my stylist and potty training tales

OWI have done it.  I have left my stylist.  She and I broke-up.  I just couldn't take it anymore.  I used to think, "you just don't listen to me.  I said I wanted to KEEP the length."  She always cut and styled the part on the opposite side of my head from the way it was when I came in the salon.  And let's not even talk about her color; when I said CHUNKY highlights of red and some blonde, it did not mean miniscule thin blonde highlights strewn subtly throughout my head of hair.

I inherited her from my ex-girlfriend's sister, let's call her L (the sister, not the ex).  She used to cut and blow-dry my hair, way back in the 1990s.  After some devastating life incidents for all of us, more so her and my ex, she moved away, to a slightly famous town with delicious southern meat and three, famous for its "Automatic for the People", birthplace of some music way back in my day.  Notice I don't mention the football.

L was my stylist and I gave her free reign with my hair.  She was the one who instituted the shortest hair in my life which is somehow the haircut on my driver's license photo, the one that will not EVER be re-taken (can someone explain that to me?  I look forever 26 years old with SHORT hair, which was short for only about a year).  She saw me through my flock of seagulls regression (which was VERY good hair for me, by the way), then left me.  So I stayed in the same salon, with the salon's owner to be specific.  And I even let her mother start waxing my virgin brows, my hairy lip (ummm... why is my upper lip skin dark?  I look like I have a moustache even after I've been waxed) and my chest.  Er. Yeah, ok, so I have a patch on my chest, alright? Aside, I swear her mother (the waxer)n is bipolar.  She is so happy she's fake one day, the next she's annoyingly evil.  She tried to withold the numbing cream from me once, saying "ohhh, do we use that on you?  We've never used that on you."  Only 97 times.

So my NEW stylist cut and texturized like I haven't been texturized since L left town.  It was soooo good.  you'd think, as I have essentially no hair and what I DO have is fine, fine, baby fine, that slicing hair off willy-nilly would cause me to look as if I had less hair, but nee, this causes enough sway and movement to give the illusion of thicker, fuller hair. 

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On potty training twins.  I think we are doing pretty well.  The initial fracas with one naked baby running from the bathroom with pants around ankles, careening around the house urinating freely while I was tied-up with roping the other baby, has subsided to the little ones wanting to sit.  and sit.  on the potty.  And each has chosen his/her own potty placement in the bathroom.  Mini sits in the potty closest to the bathtub, Jr. Sits in the one closest to the door.

Potty time is fascinating for all involved.   We caught Mini one day mid-poop and she agreed to complete the task on the potty.  Jr. came loping behind, nosing his way curiously behind Mini's tush to take a peek.  As he saw the fruits of her labor, he expressed a very impressed, "wowwwww."

So, no longer live in fear, my friends.  If we are not under control in the potty department, at least we are calm.