Archive for June, 2009

i failed my son today.  he fell out of a playhouse outside on the playground, and i didn’t catch him.  i was looking the other direction, talking to a friend… and for the briefest of seconds, i looked away.  and he fell.

on his head.

he’s 14 months and climbing everything he can possibly attempt to climb whether it’s the couch or the gate we have up to keep him out of the kitchen.  he climbs it all.  and today, when i wasn’t looking, he climbed out of the foot-and-a-half-tall window of one of those stupid-ass plastic fisher-price playhouses and fell on his head and onto a concrete curb.

other moms were there…  other kids…  it was embarrassing to be “that mom” with the injured child who was screaming at the top of his lungs, to the point of not breathing.  but for me, being embarrassed, was the farthest thing from my mind.

my son was hurt.

my heart stopped.

i scooped him up, fighting back tears myself, and soothed my son.  after about a minute and a half, he calmed down.  he was quiet, a little more so than usual.  but ok…  i guess.  after consulting some terrific mom-friends who were outside with me, i brought jackson inside, cleaned the scrape that was on his head and called paul at work.

he was coming home for lunch anyways, but the urgency in my voice brought him home that much faster.

we took jackson to the ER… (for the umpteenth time).  i was on the phone with jackson’s pediatric nurse (and on hold) as we drove to the ER with the magoo.  they went through head-trauma protocol with me over the phone…

“is he unconscious?”

“no.”

“is he vomiting?”

“no.”

“did he cry for longer than 20 minutes after the fall?”

“no. more like 20 seconds.”

“is there an active bleed.”

“well yeah, but it’s more of a scrape than an open wound.”

“ok… bring him to the ER and have him looked at really just to make you feel better, and follow up with Dr. ____ next week.”

“ok.”

so we park.  paul and i are silent.  i’m holding jackson as close to my body as possible (like that will do anything).  we go through triage, get his umpteenth ankle band for his hospital ID and wait.  we don’t wait for long because with a little one who has a head injury, i guess that puts you up at the top of the list.

BONUS!

the nurse was sweet…  a little too sweet.  i didn’t want her cooing at my son, trying to get him to smile.  i wanted her to do her job, get the info she needed, and pass it on to the dr.  LIKE RIGHT NOW.  but whatever, she had a good bedside manner i suppose.

while we wait, jackson acts just like the pistol that he is…  he crawls all over the hospital bed… pulls the sheet off and on… “vroom vrooms” his trucks all over it and then throws them on the floor.  he acts “fine,” seems “fine,” but…  in the back of my mind…  i know that sometimes things that seem fine are not fine.

so i’m scared.  and i twitter about it as we wait…

the response is overwhelming, and it really is a testament to the awesome community that exists out in this techy-world of our’s that we live in.  strangers friends message me stories of their kids… acknowledging my fears but comforting me at the same time… the tweets got me through the ER.  so THANK YOU.  from the bottom of my heart.  you know who you are.

the doctor was great.  he was prompt, personable, acknowledged the fact that i was ready to vomit on his shoes… totally sweet.  he thoroughly examined jackson and diagnosed him with a “closed head injury” basically meaning there was no internal bleeding.

apparently it’s a good sign if your kid develops a goose-egg post head fall.  it means all the blood vessels are moving towards the outer direction (obviously causing a bruise) and not inward.  he checked his eyes, ears, etc…  no broken bones, no internal bleeding and told us that he really did not want to subject jackson to the radiation involved in a cat-scan because he didn’t find it necessary to do so.

((((sigh))))

this is where i waver back and forth… and i imagine any mother would.  there was part of me that said, “are you kidding me?!  did you not see natasha richardson die post brain bleed?!”  and then there was part of me that saw this doctor as a father, and listened to him as he said, “my daughter had this same exact closed head injury and it’s ok.  this hurts you more than it hurts jackson.”  (which is so true because i was seriously wanting to down a xanax with a glass of wine at that moment because it hurt me that bad).

we trusted the doctor.  came home.  jackson had a bottle and took (sort of) an afternoon nap… he’s been a little more fussy than usual, but shit, if i went face first into a slab of concrete, i’d be fussy too!

so here we are…  it’s 7:51 pm and jackson is asleep.  my fantastic husband came home with a bottle of my favorite wine (amongst many other bottles just for kicks) to calm me down… and we’ll hang.  supposedly the 24 hours post- head trauma are the more critical.

will i sleep tonight?  i dunno…  would you?

am i over-reacting?  probably…  i have a tendency to do that?

will i drink a lot of wine to “soothe my nerves”?

absolutely.  tonight, my bottle is definitely UP!

someone once told me that my child is more likely to develop autism if i let him watch tv…

hmm…

autism comment aside, jackson watches tv… obviously…  he watches two shows, “sid the science kid” and “super why” (his fave).  not only have paul and i memorized the songs that ROCK go along with these two shows, but we encourage an abundance of magoo dancing during show time.

there’s a lot of arm-flailing, bird-flapping-like movements… sometimes with squatting…

in the coming weeks, jackson will be spending a lot of time with both sets of grandparents in atlanta.  i will be doing a lot of traveling as i attend a baby shower for jackson’s godmother, a wedding for my college roommate, and a 4 day cruise with my brother to celebrate his college graduation (and all-around-awesomeness).

so, grandparents, be warned… set your DVRs now and start recording these shows that bring our magoo such contentment.

i woke up this morning to find my underwear on my pillow… and not on my body.  

no, i did not have sex last night (sorry family, i said “sex” and it may be TMI but hello, how do you think jackson got here?)

and no, i was not drunk last night.  

here’s what happened… jackson woke up a little before 6 this morning, screaming.  paul rocked him back to sleep, came back to bed and then i rolled over and semi-woke up.  

Nic: “I have no underwear on.”

Paul: “Why?  Where is your underwear?”

Nic: “I don’t know.  But it’s not on me.”

*********************************************

now i don’t know what you’re sleeping attire consists of, but after almost 5 years of marriage, my sleeping attire consists of a t-shirt and underwear.  once upon a time it consisted of cute, frilly, lacy shit but c’mon, let’s be honest… only on holidays folks.

and in terms of undergarments, i’m a low-rise boy-shorts underwear wearing individual.  i can remember being told by my obgyn, when i was pregnant with jackson, that i would need to pack “granny panties” for the hospital.  

“make sure they are the high-waisted ones so they don’t irritate your c-section scar,” she told me. 

are there granny panties that aren’t high-waisted?

i digress…  so last night, i go to bed in my duke university t-shirt (no i didn’t go there; i just like the basketball team) and underwear.  post-sleepy-morning-dialog mentioned above, i look under the sheets with one eye still closed.  no underwear.  

WTF?!

so i think to myself, screw it, because i really wanted to go back to sleep, and upon rolling over to do so, paul says, “there they are… on your pillow.”

at this point in time i am entirely awake, which just sucks because jackson slept til 7:30 this morning, determined to solve the mystery of how the hell my underwear went from covering my privates to lounging on my pillow.

paul falls back to sleep.

my leg starts to itch, and when i go to scratch my leg, it dawns on me.

THE BUG BITES!!!

i have 34 mosquito bites on my body right now, as a result of living in a beach bungalow for the last 7 days… and those 34 are only the ones that i can reach to scratch.  

i am a mosquito-buffet.  i don’t know why.  always have been.  i have bites on my toes, my legs, behind my knees, my inner thighs, my stomach, my bra-strap line, my arms, my back (the ones i cannot reach), my neck (at first i thought they were hickies… no no).  i even have a mosquito bite on my wrist bone.  LIKE THE ACTUAL BONE.  so when i scratch that one, it hurts, because it’s on. the. bone.  

over the last week that i have collected these itchy gifts of love from friendly insects, paul has told me not to itch them.

yeah, right.  like that’s goina happen.

“They’re goina get infected,” he tells me.

“Whatever! Then maybe they won’t itch so damn bad!” I retort.

i have itchfests in the middle of the night.  monday night i had one at 2:00 in the morning.  on the dot.  total body itchfest.  so i scratch.  i use my finger nail and mark an “X” on the raised bump (like mom taught me).  no dice.  still itching.  i put benedryl cream on the bites that i can reach (at 2 am…  ugh!) and still continue to itch.

bottom (no pun intended) line: that’s how my underwear came off last night.  i imagine i had an itchfest on my legs and in my sleep threw off my underwear.  

and no, there are no mosquito bites on my vagina, you sickos who are about to comment me with perverted crap to say.

I’ve recently received some hate mail from people who have accused me of being “too rigid and structured” with the schedule that I have for the magoo.  Apparently I am an “uptight” mother who is “unwilling to be flexible.”

I miss out on activities, gatherings, playgroups, etc. because I am a prisoner to the schedule I set for my son. 

Awesome.  Thanks.

Supposedly the pictures that I have of Jackson on my website are encouraging to people.  Seeing Jackson is encouraging to people.  He “looks good,” and “healthy.”  To that, I say “yes, he is.”  We’re in a very good place with his feedings right now.

But how the hell do you think we got there?  To this point we’re at now.  How?

How do you think we, Paul and I, figured out HOW to get our child healthy, nourished, and looking “good,”??? 

Answer: We found what works for him.   

Jackson needs schedule, order, routine, consistency in order to eat.  This means he needs scheduled naps with a sound machine on, in a darkened room so that he sleeps.  When he sleeps well, he eats well. 

Imagine that!

He is not one who can fall asleep anywhere, like my sweet stranger friend‘s precious Maddy can do…  I am waiting for the day when Matt and Maddy travel to DC and Maddy can teach Jackson how to fall asleep anywhere.  (hint, hint, nudge, nudge Matt).

Jackson is also not one who can eat anywhere or anything from just anyone.  If he doesn’t know you, he will not take his bottle from you.  If his sound machine is not on during his bottle feeds, he will not take his bottle from you.  If you don’t distract him with toys or some sort of entertainment while he eats in his highchair, he’ll scream to get out and refuse that meal.

My son has taught me this about him over the last 14 months. 

I know what works for my son. 

Do I miss out occasionally on things due to the fact that I don’t have the luxury of being flexible with my child?  Yes.  Does it bother me?  No.  I’d rather have my son look like this

and be healthy… than this

and not.

The saddest part about this, to me, is the fact that I’m even writing this stupid post… justifying myself to these people… as if I need to explain how or why I raise my son the way I do. 

But I’m pissed.  I’m angry… infuriated even.  I’m pissed that this hate is coming from mothers…

I’m pissed that mothers judge other mothers. 

And I’m pissed that people don’t just frickin ask me “how’s Jackson doing?” or “how are his feedings going now?” and just assume that our “issues are over.”

So here I am.  Addressing this issue of my own, and telling you that you have no right.  You have no right to judge me, or assume to know squat about what Paul and I have been through with our son… or the battle we have fought and continue to fight in order for him to eat. 

Don’t tell me I’m not flexible when I have twisted myself into the shape of a pretzel for my son.

How dare you.

my da… (yes, i say “da”… pronounced “dah” without the “d” at the end) don’t ask why.  i just do.  he’s my da.  and today is a day for me to honor him.  it’s a great day because i can put my gratefulness into words for all to see.  and i LOVE being able to put it into words how thankful i am for him, for all that he has done for our family, and for all that he has taught me in terms of being a parent myself.

 

i have a new appreciation for my da, that really hit home for me today.  paul and i (with the magoo) returned home to annapolis, maryland from our week’s vacation in florida.  the week was awesome (as many of you have already read).  but today, as paul and i stood and waited in baggage claim for our 4 suitcases (yes 4) plus a stroller, diaper bag, and camera bag, i had an entirely new appreciation not only for my parents, but for my da… because the da’s are the one’s who haul the shit.  

they wait for the friggin bags, hope to sweet jesus they’re not lost, and then haul them out to the car.  they do the heavy lifting.  but then they have the sweet heart that gives you the smooch and says “this was so fun.  i’m glad i had this time with you.”

 

 and that’s what my da has always done for my brother, brian, and i…  he’s shlepped suitcases, toys, barbies (for me, not for my brother), golf bags, and everything in between here there and everywhere, providing his family with all the comforts of home near or far.

my da is fun loving, hard working, proud, caring, determined…  a good soul.

 

i’m so unbelievably grateful for my da… and for all the wisdom that he has to pass on to my son.

happy father’s day da!  i love you endlessly!  i’m thinking of you always, but especially today.

my grandfather died almost 17 years ago (this coming september).  i was 11 years old… my brother was 7.  my parents were devastated.  our hearts were shattered.  poppy died of a massive heart attack while playing golf with my gramma in lake tahoe.  the med examiners said the heart attack hit so hard that he was gone before he even hit the ground.

what a way to go, right?

i mean, now i can look back with 17 years of perspective and say that…  what a way to go.  and honestly, of all the ways a person can die, that’s pretty remarkable.  while i think that, i also think about the strength and bravery my gramma was called to summon within herself to perform CPR on her husband (who was 60 years old) until EMS arrived, hoping, praying, wishing that this wasn’t it.

the magoo’s middle name, ray, comes from poppy.  our precious jackson ray…  his first name honors paul’s grandpa jack, still alive, though ailing and in need of much healing after a stroke… jackson’s middle name honors my poppy whose middle name was raymond.  

first beach experience. attire included pjs and crocs.

being at poppy’s beach (indian rocks beach, florida) always brings a smile to my face.  the smell…  the sand…  the ocean…  and it’s not just like any other florida beach.  indian rocks is where poppy taught me how to fish… how to drive a boat…  and how to wash my hair in an outdoor shower using a bar of soap instead of shampoo.  

the pizza shop we frequent when we’re here knows us all by name… nick shut down his shop on the day of poppy’s funeral.  never before had it been closed like that, not even for a holiday.  i’ll never forget seeing him sobbing for the loss of his friend.

and so being here, this week, is amazing for me…  because life has truly come full-circle.  my 3 cousins arrived, 1 of whom has a 17 month old little boy who is spectacular and will make great friends with jackson in the days ahead.  

 

there is joy here at poppy’s beach.  pure joy.  there are incredible memories…  hysterical stories… and monumental firsts…

 

i feel safe here.  i feel at home here.  i feel loved here.  and now i’m here with my own family…  and it is awesome.

no, much to your disappointment, this is not me.  this is a local laying on the picnic bench outside our beach bungalow…  keepin it classy.