I think I've touched upon Little O's recent developmental spurt but I haven't gone into too much detail. Well, it's all tremendously exciting and I think it's to do with him not wearing a cast for his scoliosis at the moment. Basically, I think he's been determined to try out some new tricks since Christmas but the cast he was wearing has prevented any new mobility. We took off the cast Friday 11th Feb, with the intention of letting his skin take a breather over the weekend and a new cast applied on Monday 14th Feb. Well that all went out the window when Little O got sick right after the cast was removed, and he started a round of hospitalisations and so on. The new cast was never put on.
It's so nice to see him catch up a bit. In the last three weeks he's learnt how to sit up by himself from being in a lying-down position on the floor, how to kneel, how to walk using a walker the physiotherapist lent us, and, most excitingly of all, how to pull himself to stand up using a large object such as a couch! Today he spent most of the day rolling around, sitting up, getting over to me, then using me or the couch to pull himself upright. I am absolutely thrilled to bits! Children figure out this upright thing before they're a year old, so my theory that Little O is developing at half the pace of other children is right on. I think he'll walk at about 27-30 months too. Right now it's about determination and figuring out what will motivate him best. He likes things he's not supposed to have, which usually means prying an XBOX controller out of his sticky little hands, so we bribe him with one to get him to walk, or crawl, or pull himself upright. Anything, really, to try and encourage him.
The cast will have to go back on in the next few weeks, which is very sad. But we are taking him to the Wisconsin Dells for his second birthday in May as they have the greatest water parks in the country and my son LOVES the water! He will have to be cast-free to go though, so at least we know we have that time to look forward to. I can't believe my baby will be two!
Tina.
Showing posts with label Baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baby. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
3. C is for Complaint
Day three! Things are going well.
When we brought Little O home, some of his... ahem... presents... were left behind so the lab could run some tests. In the event we had further problems at home and would need to bring Little O back for more IV fluids, the lab would already be one step ahead and we would have a clearer picture of what we were dealing with. Well, it turned out that my son actually DID have something else wrong with him: C. Difficile. AGAIN. Jeysus. C. Difficile lives in your gut normally, but is a superbug that is resistant to most antibiotics. If, like Little O, you have been on antibiotics for some other reason (he'd had bronchitis in January), then that can kill a lot of the good bacteria in your system as well as the bad. Because C. Difficile is resistant, however, and the good bacteria is being removed, it has the opportunity to grow quite rapidly and essentially take over the entire gut south of the stomach. This means the good bacteria cannot get back in once the antibiotic treatment has finished, and you get stomach cramps, diarrhea, a fever, etc. If left untreated you can potentially get very, very ill, and it can even kill you.
So, we had to go back to Little O's regular doc and get ANOTHER presciption... which has been successful and we have seen no further signs of illness or diarrhea. At that appointment he also checked Little O's arm and told me how disgusted he was at how it happened. I told him I had very strong feelings about it, but that I was going to be polite and keep my language clean. He suggested I complain to CHOW's Patient Care line, and I told him I already had... :) In fact, after I brought Little O home from the hospital and made sure all of us got a good night's sleep, it was the first thing I did on Thursday morning. I spoke to a very nice chap who listened carefully to my concerns, and then started apologising and apologising, over and over again. I told him that I needed to know that the staff who had treated my son were going to be spoken to, and that this would not happen to another child, and he promised me that all the staff concerned would indeed be "interviewed". Because this might take a while I might not hear back for several weeks, but I have already had a letter at home telling me the investigation is ongoing and that I will be contacted when it is resolved.
Result! Malpractice lawsuit not withstanding, that's basically the best outcome I could hope for. I wanted someone to take my concern seriously, and for the staff at CHOW to know that their neglect (for that is what it was, essentially) did have consequences. It's not as though I could get my money back, or coupons off my next visit (although that would be SWEET, given the cost of healthcare in this country), so making everyone aware that they need to do a better job listening to parents and paying attention to the cries of tiny children in pain is all that matters. Job done.
Little O's arm is now almost healed, two weeks after the incident. We kept applying that magic stuff, Vaseline, to the sore to create a barrier without using cotton wool or gauze (the threads could have gotten stuck to the wound and caused an infection), and it seems to have worked. The swelling took about three days to go down completely, but the scabs fell off earlier this week and we now only have some pinkish scars in the crook of his arm to remind us of that awful day. We also haven't seen any more diarrhea or signs of other gut problems... but we have been giving him more water than usual to help things heal faster anyway. The only problem we have now is that his ear has been draining what looks like green snot... and that isn't a great surprise, seeing as he has a minor cold and ear tubes helping his ear canals keep clear of infection. But it's still REALLY DISGUSTING, and I do gag when it's my turn to clean things up. I can't help it! Blood, poo, wee and vomit I'm fine with. Bogies from the nose, eyes and ears are HORRIBLE and they make me retch. Gah! I'm turning green just thinking about it.
I need to lie down.
Tina.
When we brought Little O home, some of his... ahem... presents... were left behind so the lab could run some tests. In the event we had further problems at home and would need to bring Little O back for more IV fluids, the lab would already be one step ahead and we would have a clearer picture of what we were dealing with. Well, it turned out that my son actually DID have something else wrong with him: C. Difficile. AGAIN. Jeysus. C. Difficile lives in your gut normally, but is a superbug that is resistant to most antibiotics. If, like Little O, you have been on antibiotics for some other reason (he'd had bronchitis in January), then that can kill a lot of the good bacteria in your system as well as the bad. Because C. Difficile is resistant, however, and the good bacteria is being removed, it has the opportunity to grow quite rapidly and essentially take over the entire gut south of the stomach. This means the good bacteria cannot get back in once the antibiotic treatment has finished, and you get stomach cramps, diarrhea, a fever, etc. If left untreated you can potentially get very, very ill, and it can even kill you.
So, we had to go back to Little O's regular doc and get ANOTHER presciption... which has been successful and we have seen no further signs of illness or diarrhea. At that appointment he also checked Little O's arm and told me how disgusted he was at how it happened. I told him I had very strong feelings about it, but that I was going to be polite and keep my language clean. He suggested I complain to CHOW's Patient Care line, and I told him I already had... :) In fact, after I brought Little O home from the hospital and made sure all of us got a good night's sleep, it was the first thing I did on Thursday morning. I spoke to a very nice chap who listened carefully to my concerns, and then started apologising and apologising, over and over again. I told him that I needed to know that the staff who had treated my son were going to be spoken to, and that this would not happen to another child, and he promised me that all the staff concerned would indeed be "interviewed". Because this might take a while I might not hear back for several weeks, but I have already had a letter at home telling me the investigation is ongoing and that I will be contacted when it is resolved.
Result! Malpractice lawsuit not withstanding, that's basically the best outcome I could hope for. I wanted someone to take my concern seriously, and for the staff at CHOW to know that their neglect (for that is what it was, essentially) did have consequences. It's not as though I could get my money back, or coupons off my next visit (although that would be SWEET, given the cost of healthcare in this country), so making everyone aware that they need to do a better job listening to parents and paying attention to the cries of tiny children in pain is all that matters. Job done.
Little O's arm is now almost healed, two weeks after the incident. We kept applying that magic stuff, Vaseline, to the sore to create a barrier without using cotton wool or gauze (the threads could have gotten stuck to the wound and caused an infection), and it seems to have worked. The swelling took about three days to go down completely, but the scabs fell off earlier this week and we now only have some pinkish scars in the crook of his arm to remind us of that awful day. We also haven't seen any more diarrhea or signs of other gut problems... but we have been giving him more water than usual to help things heal faster anyway. The only problem we have now is that his ear has been draining what looks like green snot... and that isn't a great surprise, seeing as he has a minor cold and ear tubes helping his ear canals keep clear of infection. But it's still REALLY DISGUSTING, and I do gag when it's my turn to clean things up. I can't help it! Blood, poo, wee and vomit I'm fine with. Bogies from the nose, eyes and ears are HORRIBLE and they make me retch. Gah! I'm turning green just thinking about it.
I need to lie down.
Tina.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
2. B is for Baby Steps
Okay... day two!
So, we left off with Little O being admitted to CHOW for dehydration following a Rotavirus diagnosis at a different hospital. Well, we finally got settled in our room at about 8pm, which is usually Little O's bedtime, but, as anyone who's ever been admitted to hospital knows, getting through the barrage of tests, questions, medical history and other assorted interruptions, means that it's another several hours before you're left in peace. Finally at around midnight we were left alone for a while, and I managed to get the pull-out couch set up so I could also sleep. However, during the night we were constantly being woken up by nurses and other medical professionals who needed more blood drawn, or vitals taken, or even just medical students 'taking a look' at 4am. It was absolutely absurd, and by 5am I'd given up and got up for the day. I'd had about three hours of sleep, and Little O had had about five.
Because he was so tired and ill, my son was also GRUMPY! I therefore made an executive decision to instruct all medical staff and other busy-bodies to leave us the hell alone after 12pm so we could both nap. Little O was getting sleepy around 12.30pm, but he was finding it hard to drop off and just wanted to roll around and tug on the number of tubes and devices attached to his body. At 1pm he finally succeeded in ripping off the splint that was keeping his arm straight so the IV would stay put, and before I could run over to his bed and stop him, he'd already begun playing with the IV itself. Convinced he'd done some more damage than I could see (with my medically-untrained eyes), I pushed the call button for the nurse and held Little O's hands still until we could fix the bandages, splint and IV. After about 20 mins a different nurse came in from our usual one, took a cursory look at the IV, and announced that she saw nothing wrong with it. I protested, and explained that Little O had definitely been playing with it, but she flushed it a few times and stuck to her guns. Then she wrapped the splint back on his arm so tightly I couldn't see any skin from armpit to fingertip.
Feeling unsure but relieved, I tried to get Little O to sleep again, but he started cycling through patterns of sleeping for about 15 mins, then waking up screaming and being restless. Then he'd tire himself out from screaming so hard he'd fall asleep, and 15 mins later the pattern would start all over again. I was really upset. I was so, so tired, and getting frustrated and worried. I called a nurse in (our usual one, this time) to look at him and she said she'd get a doctor, who never came. Then twice I called for a doctor myself, even going out into the hallway to physically bring one back with me. Doctors are not gods, and no matter how much respect I have for their knowledge, profession, or time, I felt as though I needed to start making a fuss so someone would help me with my son.
At about 2pm I called my husband away from his work and he arrived just after 3pm. The first thing he said when he entered the room was: "Little O is in pain". At around 4.30pm we managed to get some more doctors and med students in to take another look, and both my husband and I told them explicitly that we felt Little O's IV was bothering him, and that he was in pain. Finally one of them agreed to give him Tylenol (paracetamol) and a nurse was sent off to complete the order. At 5pm she came back in to administer the meds, and while she was in the room she checked his IV, for the first time since 1pm. Immediately she said, "This has to come out" and pulled off the gauze, tape and splint to reveal a very swollen little arm. She ripped out the IV and ran out of the room to get some help.
I approached the bed to see what the problem was, and to my horror Little O's arm was so swollen that he could not physically move his fingers. His arm was about three times the size it normally is, and he was SCREAMING in agony. His whole arm, from fingertip to shoulderblade, was absolutely massive. It looked like someone had inflated it with a bicycle pump. When the nurse had taken off the adhesive, the skin underneath had been stretched so thin that the tape had taken several layers off with it and left a gaping, weeping wound in the crook of his arm. There were also blisters and burns, and the whole thing was very painful to touch. The IV must have infiltrated about four hours prior, when he'd been playing with it, and the fluid meant to rehydrate him had instead been slowly pooling under the skin, swelling the arm and causing a lot of pain.
Well, I just lost it. I scooped Little O up and started sobbing and sobbing. I disconnected his feeding pump and took him over to the couch for cuddles and kisses, while both us got drenched in tears. My husband began the practical stuff, by getting us pillows and blankets, and applying the warm compresses the nurse had brought in to soothe the pain and start to relieve the swelling. I was able to calm down enough to tell my husband I wanted to take Little O home, because I felt he was being harmed more than healed under CHOW's care, and he immediately agreed with me. We told the nurse our intentions and she got a doctor in to try and talk us out of it. We didn't listen, and prepared to go home.
Before we left, Little O's regular GI doctor stopped by to see us, and recommended getting some stool samples to test on while we were heading home. As it was non-invasive (Little O kindly prepared a "sample" during the discussion), we said it was okay and then left at about 7.30pm.
More on the results of those tests tomorrow... But just one last thought for today: I called this post "Baby Steps" for a reason. One, because Little O is finally learning to walk, and two, because learning how to be an advocate for your child can take you to places you never thought you'd go. Having a nurse ignore your pleas for four hours, and for medical professionals to cause harm by thinking they know your child's patterns of behaviour better than you do, well, it really made me take a few baby steps in a new direction. I have been forced to face up to the fact that I may be seen (or unseen) to be invisible, and for my instincts to be ignored. This has never happened to me before, because most doctors my son sees defer to me on how to take care of him in the best way. However, I am certain, more than ever, that I am the best advocate for my son, and I am certain that I will not take no for an answer next time. I will do better and will be stronger, so that there is never, ever, a "next time" anyway.
Baby steps, baby steps.
Tina.
So, we left off with Little O being admitted to CHOW for dehydration following a Rotavirus diagnosis at a different hospital. Well, we finally got settled in our room at about 8pm, which is usually Little O's bedtime, but, as anyone who's ever been admitted to hospital knows, getting through the barrage of tests, questions, medical history and other assorted interruptions, means that it's another several hours before you're left in peace. Finally at around midnight we were left alone for a while, and I managed to get the pull-out couch set up so I could also sleep. However, during the night we were constantly being woken up by nurses and other medical professionals who needed more blood drawn, or vitals taken, or even just medical students 'taking a look' at 4am. It was absolutely absurd, and by 5am I'd given up and got up for the day. I'd had about three hours of sleep, and Little O had had about five.
Because he was so tired and ill, my son was also GRUMPY! I therefore made an executive decision to instruct all medical staff and other busy-bodies to leave us the hell alone after 12pm so we could both nap. Little O was getting sleepy around 12.30pm, but he was finding it hard to drop off and just wanted to roll around and tug on the number of tubes and devices attached to his body. At 1pm he finally succeeded in ripping off the splint that was keeping his arm straight so the IV would stay put, and before I could run over to his bed and stop him, he'd already begun playing with the IV itself. Convinced he'd done some more damage than I could see (with my medically-untrained eyes), I pushed the call button for the nurse and held Little O's hands still until we could fix the bandages, splint and IV. After about 20 mins a different nurse came in from our usual one, took a cursory look at the IV, and announced that she saw nothing wrong with it. I protested, and explained that Little O had definitely been playing with it, but she flushed it a few times and stuck to her guns. Then she wrapped the splint back on his arm so tightly I couldn't see any skin from armpit to fingertip.
Feeling unsure but relieved, I tried to get Little O to sleep again, but he started cycling through patterns of sleeping for about 15 mins, then waking up screaming and being restless. Then he'd tire himself out from screaming so hard he'd fall asleep, and 15 mins later the pattern would start all over again. I was really upset. I was so, so tired, and getting frustrated and worried. I called a nurse in (our usual one, this time) to look at him and she said she'd get a doctor, who never came. Then twice I called for a doctor myself, even going out into the hallway to physically bring one back with me. Doctors are not gods, and no matter how much respect I have for their knowledge, profession, or time, I felt as though I needed to start making a fuss so someone would help me with my son.
At about 2pm I called my husband away from his work and he arrived just after 3pm. The first thing he said when he entered the room was: "Little O is in pain". At around 4.30pm we managed to get some more doctors and med students in to take another look, and both my husband and I told them explicitly that we felt Little O's IV was bothering him, and that he was in pain. Finally one of them agreed to give him Tylenol (paracetamol) and a nurse was sent off to complete the order. At 5pm she came back in to administer the meds, and while she was in the room she checked his IV, for the first time since 1pm. Immediately she said, "This has to come out" and pulled off the gauze, tape and splint to reveal a very swollen little arm. She ripped out the IV and ran out of the room to get some help.
I approached the bed to see what the problem was, and to my horror Little O's arm was so swollen that he could not physically move his fingers. His arm was about three times the size it normally is, and he was SCREAMING in agony. His whole arm, from fingertip to shoulderblade, was absolutely massive. It looked like someone had inflated it with a bicycle pump. When the nurse had taken off the adhesive, the skin underneath had been stretched so thin that the tape had taken several layers off with it and left a gaping, weeping wound in the crook of his arm. There were also blisters and burns, and the whole thing was very painful to touch. The IV must have infiltrated about four hours prior, when he'd been playing with it, and the fluid meant to rehydrate him had instead been slowly pooling under the skin, swelling the arm and causing a lot of pain.
Well, I just lost it. I scooped Little O up and started sobbing and sobbing. I disconnected his feeding pump and took him over to the couch for cuddles and kisses, while both us got drenched in tears. My husband began the practical stuff, by getting us pillows and blankets, and applying the warm compresses the nurse had brought in to soothe the pain and start to relieve the swelling. I was able to calm down enough to tell my husband I wanted to take Little O home, because I felt he was being harmed more than healed under CHOW's care, and he immediately agreed with me. We told the nurse our intentions and she got a doctor in to try and talk us out of it. We didn't listen, and prepared to go home.
Before we left, Little O's regular GI doctor stopped by to see us, and recommended getting some stool samples to test on while we were heading home. As it was non-invasive (Little O kindly prepared a "sample" during the discussion), we said it was okay and then left at about 7.30pm.
More on the results of those tests tomorrow... But just one last thought for today: I called this post "Baby Steps" for a reason. One, because Little O is finally learning to walk, and two, because learning how to be an advocate for your child can take you to places you never thought you'd go. Having a nurse ignore your pleas for four hours, and for medical professionals to cause harm by thinking they know your child's patterns of behaviour better than you do, well, it really made me take a few baby steps in a new direction. I have been forced to face up to the fact that I may be seen (or unseen) to be invisible, and for my instincts to be ignored. This has never happened to me before, because most doctors my son sees defer to me on how to take care of him in the best way. However, I am certain, more than ever, that I am the best advocate for my son, and I am certain that I will not take no for an answer next time. I will do better and will be stronger, so that there is never, ever, a "next time" anyway.
Baby steps, baby steps.
Tina.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
1. A is for Announcement
Well! This marks the 100th post on this blog, and with it comes an announcement: for the entire month of March I will attempt to post every single day, so that I get back into the habit of regular updates.
I'm hoping to use each letter of the English alphabet, with perhaps a few Welsh characters thrown in at the end to take me to 31 days. Welsh, or French, or anything else that takes my fancy on the way... I haven't decided yet.
So let's get started.
Since I was last on here, I have had (and now stopped) a full-time job. Little O was in full-time daycare as a result, and in addition to the never-ending guilt I felt about that, it also meant he was exposed to far more germs and beastly beasties than he ever was at home. He got sick so often, and so severely, that by Friday, February 11th, I'd had enough. As I was taking him in to the local ER, and he was being admitted overnight again, I reassessed my priorities and decided I would not be going back to work on Monday. I went in to clear my desk on Sunday and wrote a formal e-mail (gosh, how modern of me) to my boss explaining my decision. She was absolutely wonderful about it and said I'd get a glowing reference if and when I needed one. However, it was a real turning point, and the culmination of five weeks of illness for my little boy. He had been ill with a cough before Christmas which turned into bad asthma... and that then turned into bronchitis in January... which then went back to being bad asthma again... then he got double ear infections... twice... and then in mid-Feb he came down with similar symptoms he'd had last October (remember that?). Not willing to risk more hospital treatments, I took him in to the ER to be proactive and nip whatever it was in the bud, and he was admitted anyway. Sigh.
They ran all manner of tests on him overnight and the results came back Saturday afternoon saying he had Rotavirus. It's something they vaccinate for here in the USA, although my folks back home have never even heard of it. And yes, Little O WAS vaccinated. But his immune system has a hard time making antibodies and keeping him healthy, so his defences against this rather unpleasant virus weren't exactly solid. Anyway, armed with this knowledge we came home on a different feeding schedule with extra fluids, and did our best to keep him hydrated at home. It worked, until I felt he was looking and acting a bit peaky ("peaky" is not an American expression, apparently. Trying to describe your child's status as "a bit peaky" to an American doctor gives you both an education...), and I took him in to CHOW's ER for some more IV fluids. And, of course, they admitted him again. When will I learn? Sigh.
...and because I need something to post about tomorrow, I will leave it on that tantilising note for now. See you tomorrow!
Tina.
I'm hoping to use each letter of the English alphabet, with perhaps a few Welsh characters thrown in at the end to take me to 31 days. Welsh, or French, or anything else that takes my fancy on the way... I haven't decided yet.
So let's get started.
Since I was last on here, I have had (and now stopped) a full-time job. Little O was in full-time daycare as a result, and in addition to the never-ending guilt I felt about that, it also meant he was exposed to far more germs and beastly beasties than he ever was at home. He got sick so often, and so severely, that by Friday, February 11th, I'd had enough. As I was taking him in to the local ER, and he was being admitted overnight again, I reassessed my priorities and decided I would not be going back to work on Monday. I went in to clear my desk on Sunday and wrote a formal e-mail (gosh, how modern of me) to my boss explaining my decision. She was absolutely wonderful about it and said I'd get a glowing reference if and when I needed one. However, it was a real turning point, and the culmination of five weeks of illness for my little boy. He had been ill with a cough before Christmas which turned into bad asthma... and that then turned into bronchitis in January... which then went back to being bad asthma again... then he got double ear infections... twice... and then in mid-Feb he came down with similar symptoms he'd had last October (remember that?). Not willing to risk more hospital treatments, I took him in to the ER to be proactive and nip whatever it was in the bud, and he was admitted anyway. Sigh.
They ran all manner of tests on him overnight and the results came back Saturday afternoon saying he had Rotavirus. It's something they vaccinate for here in the USA, although my folks back home have never even heard of it. And yes, Little O WAS vaccinated. But his immune system has a hard time making antibodies and keeping him healthy, so his defences against this rather unpleasant virus weren't exactly solid. Anyway, armed with this knowledge we came home on a different feeding schedule with extra fluids, and did our best to keep him hydrated at home. It worked, until I felt he was looking and acting a bit peaky ("peaky" is not an American expression, apparently. Trying to describe your child's status as "a bit peaky" to an American doctor gives you both an education...), and I took him in to CHOW's ER for some more IV fluids. And, of course, they admitted him again. When will I learn? Sigh.
...and because I need something to post about tomorrow, I will leave it on that tantilising note for now. See you tomorrow!
Tina.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Let's catch up, shall we?
Ha! The last post I wrote on here was called My newly insane life, and how apt that turned out to be. My apologies for not having updated recently, but... well... it's been a bit insane.
When I last wrote, my son was still in the hospital, recieving IV fluids for dehydration and the stomach flu. It was a Thursday, if I recall correctly. Well, my own father flew in from the UK to spend time with us that Saturday, and it was the same day Little O was discharged. He came home to see his Grandad, and we were thrilled his doctor thought he was well enough to come home back on a regular feeding schedule. We were all looking forward to getting some sleep, some food, and spending time with my dad.
That night, Little O took a turn for the worse, and we ended up being rushed to CHOW on Sunday afternoon by ambulance so he could be re-admitted up there. It was scary to be told your child was in a worse state than ever, just 24 hours after being discharged. His stomach flu and dehydration had led to a critical inbalance of electrolytes, and everyone was very concerned. It wasn't until later that I finally had time to sit and think about everything, but it scares me now to consider the possibilities of what could have happened if we hadn't taken him in again. It's possible we could have lost him.
The doctors on-call up at CHOW told us they would not be releasing him until they were 100% sure he had fully recovered, which implied they felt the staff at All Saints hadn't done their jobs properly and had fixed the symptoms, not the cause. Little O had blood drawn every hour until he screamed because his veins were so bruised and sore, and his diapers were weighed constantly to see how much fluid he was putting out. The most frightening score I saw was his weight. Before he was ill, Little O had worked hard to get to 25lb; when he was admitted to All Saints, he had dropped to 22lb, and when they took an initial set of measurements at CHOW only a few days later, he was between 18 and 19lb. For a little boy like that, losing 6lb is a scary, scary amount. Most of it was fluid, which he put on again fairly quickly with the IV rehydration, but it's still a significant part of this whole ordeal.
When he started getting better properly, the doctors told me what they thought was going on. Initially they suspected C. Difficile, which Little O had a few months ago, and we all had to wear protective gowns, masks, and gloves when he touched him. (I didn't, because I'm his mother and I thought it was ridiculous to wear protection after changing dirty diapers for over a week with bare hands.) Then those tests came back negative after 48 hours, which meant they settled on a diagnosis of several components:
1. Borderline compromised immune system
2. Catches stomach flu, like anyone else
3. Body can't fight off the flu easily because of the compromised immune system
4. Parents continue to feed liquid nutrition and fluids as instructed by healthcare staff
5. Body tries to absorb fluids but is also fighting off flu still
6. Fluids cannot be absorbed, so get 'washed out' of gut
7. As fluids pass through, they also wash out all the 'good' bacteria and enzymes, which cannot get a good grip because they body is still fighting the flu
8. No enzymes or bactera = no absorbtion = dehydration
9. Dehydration makes the diarrhea worse
10. Diarrhea makes the dehydration worse, which makes the diarrhea worse, which makes the dehydration worse... etc...
So, once Little O was discharged from All Saints and came home on a normal feeding routine again, his body actually couldn't cope and the dehydration got worse. In order to break the cycle, all food and fluids had to be stopped, and Little O had to be maintained on IV fluids only. It worked after 72 hours and we managed to get his body to accept small amounts of Pedialyte and formula again by Wednesday afternoon. He was discharged late on Thursday, after being in the hospital for five days (eight, if you include All Saints). He now has a different feeding plan altogether, and different liquid nutrition. It seems to be working, although it's a shame the new formula is made by Nestle, because Nestle is evil. I'm choosing my battles though, and have accepted this minor inconvenience because it's literally keeping my son alive. Hopefully it's not forever and he can move onto something less annoying as he continues to recover.
So, I went back to work and things pottered along for a bit until Little O got his cast. Remember that? He's wearing a cast for 3-6 months to help improve his scoliosis, and then a brace for another 3-6 months to keep his spine in place as he grows. The cast is incredibly heavy, and bright green. It's also a bitch to keep clean, as it comes down very low on the back - almost to Little O's tailbone. Because Little O has very loose poops anyway (which are further exacerbated by an overgrowth of bacteria in the small intestine, for which he is now on Flagyl for), the diapers cannot contain everything they need to. We've had to actually change diaper brands from Target (cheap, and we've never had a problem with them) to Pampers (horrifically expensive) because they're smaller, lighter, and use a different system of keeping the contents of diapers in its place. It's all very disgusting and technical, and it's such a colossal pain in the neck to deal with. Changing diapers isn't particularly enjoyable at the best of times, but trying to change one that cannot be secured in the usual manner because there's a giant fucking plaster cast in the way just gets ridiculous. Thankfully most of Little O's blowouts happen in the middle of the day, so the daycare staff have to deal with it more than we do. Small mercies, right?
There's more to say but I'm all typed-out for now. I shall endevour to provide another update shortly on the highs and lows of being back at work while juggling more freelance projects than I've ever had at any one time, and sinking further back into a grey depressive state (mmm... meds...), but for now I shall leave it here. Little O is home, and healthy(-ish), and it's nearly Christmas. I am thankful.
Tina.
When I last wrote, my son was still in the hospital, recieving IV fluids for dehydration and the stomach flu. It was a Thursday, if I recall correctly. Well, my own father flew in from the UK to spend time with us that Saturday, and it was the same day Little O was discharged. He came home to see his Grandad, and we were thrilled his doctor thought he was well enough to come home back on a regular feeding schedule. We were all looking forward to getting some sleep, some food, and spending time with my dad.
That night, Little O took a turn for the worse, and we ended up being rushed to CHOW on Sunday afternoon by ambulance so he could be re-admitted up there. It was scary to be told your child was in a worse state than ever, just 24 hours after being discharged. His stomach flu and dehydration had led to a critical inbalance of electrolytes, and everyone was very concerned. It wasn't until later that I finally had time to sit and think about everything, but it scares me now to consider the possibilities of what could have happened if we hadn't taken him in again. It's possible we could have lost him.
The doctors on-call up at CHOW told us they would not be releasing him until they were 100% sure he had fully recovered, which implied they felt the staff at All Saints hadn't done their jobs properly and had fixed the symptoms, not the cause. Little O had blood drawn every hour until he screamed because his veins were so bruised and sore, and his diapers were weighed constantly to see how much fluid he was putting out. The most frightening score I saw was his weight. Before he was ill, Little O had worked hard to get to 25lb; when he was admitted to All Saints, he had dropped to 22lb, and when they took an initial set of measurements at CHOW only a few days later, he was between 18 and 19lb. For a little boy like that, losing 6lb is a scary, scary amount. Most of it was fluid, which he put on again fairly quickly with the IV rehydration, but it's still a significant part of this whole ordeal.
When he started getting better properly, the doctors told me what they thought was going on. Initially they suspected C. Difficile, which Little O had a few months ago, and we all had to wear protective gowns, masks, and gloves when he touched him. (I didn't, because I'm his mother and I thought it was ridiculous to wear protection after changing dirty diapers for over a week with bare hands.) Then those tests came back negative after 48 hours, which meant they settled on a diagnosis of several components:
1. Borderline compromised immune system
2. Catches stomach flu, like anyone else
3. Body can't fight off the flu easily because of the compromised immune system
4. Parents continue to feed liquid nutrition and fluids as instructed by healthcare staff
5. Body tries to absorb fluids but is also fighting off flu still
6. Fluids cannot be absorbed, so get 'washed out' of gut
7. As fluids pass through, they also wash out all the 'good' bacteria and enzymes, which cannot get a good grip because they body is still fighting the flu
8. No enzymes or bactera = no absorbtion = dehydration
9. Dehydration makes the diarrhea worse
10. Diarrhea makes the dehydration worse, which makes the diarrhea worse, which makes the dehydration worse... etc...
So, once Little O was discharged from All Saints and came home on a normal feeding routine again, his body actually couldn't cope and the dehydration got worse. In order to break the cycle, all food and fluids had to be stopped, and Little O had to be maintained on IV fluids only. It worked after 72 hours and we managed to get his body to accept small amounts of Pedialyte and formula again by Wednesday afternoon. He was discharged late on Thursday, after being in the hospital for five days (eight, if you include All Saints). He now has a different feeding plan altogether, and different liquid nutrition. It seems to be working, although it's a shame the new formula is made by Nestle, because Nestle is evil. I'm choosing my battles though, and have accepted this minor inconvenience because it's literally keeping my son alive. Hopefully it's not forever and he can move onto something less annoying as he continues to recover.
So, I went back to work and things pottered along for a bit until Little O got his cast. Remember that? He's wearing a cast for 3-6 months to help improve his scoliosis, and then a brace for another 3-6 months to keep his spine in place as he grows. The cast is incredibly heavy, and bright green. It's also a bitch to keep clean, as it comes down very low on the back - almost to Little O's tailbone. Because Little O has very loose poops anyway (which are further exacerbated by an overgrowth of bacteria in the small intestine, for which he is now on Flagyl for), the diapers cannot contain everything they need to. We've had to actually change diaper brands from Target (cheap, and we've never had a problem with them) to Pampers (horrifically expensive) because they're smaller, lighter, and use a different system of keeping the contents of diapers in its place. It's all very disgusting and technical, and it's such a colossal pain in the neck to deal with. Changing diapers isn't particularly enjoyable at the best of times, but trying to change one that cannot be secured in the usual manner because there's a giant fucking plaster cast in the way just gets ridiculous. Thankfully most of Little O's blowouts happen in the middle of the day, so the daycare staff have to deal with it more than we do. Small mercies, right?
There's more to say but I'm all typed-out for now. I shall endevour to provide another update shortly on the highs and lows of being back at work while juggling more freelance projects than I've ever had at any one time, and sinking further back into a grey depressive state (mmm... meds...), but for now I shall leave it here. Little O is home, and healthy(-ish), and it's nearly Christmas. I am thankful.
Tina.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
My newly insane life
Wow. My life in the last few weeks has taken such a dramatic turnabout that I'm exhausted just sitting here typing it out. And I'm not complaining, either... it's just... different.
So, I got the job I wanted, and I organised my life around a brand new routine. I organised it. Me. Not my husband; not my friends or family. Me. I, and I alone, set up Little O's new daycare arrangements; I called my mother-in-law to come out for two weeks to help us transition everything; I got the job and bought new work clothes; I researched the best route for avoiding traffic; and I typed up the daily instruction sheets for Little O's carers to follow. It has been a bit of a marathon, to be honest, but I felt as though life was slowly coming together this weekend when my mother-in-law returned home and my husband and I were facing our first week of full-time employment and daycare simultaneously.
Then Little O got sick.
Saturday morning he came down with the most unpleasant stomach flu I've ever seen, and by Sunday he had a raging fever and kindly donated his germs to his parents. My husband and I therefore came down with the same stomach flu, which crippled us entirely and made the entire house stink of illness, poo, vomit, and stale laundry. We both took Monday off, which would normally have been something to celebrate, but instead we just rolled around the living room carpet in a state of helpless misery. It was like being pregnant again, but this time my husband felt just as bad and was no help whatsoever. Incidentally... my husband is NOT good at being ill. Our cat developed a limp over the weekend, to add further insult to injury, so seeing as we had taken the day off, I sucked up my stale, sickly breath, and took him to the vet. I also ran to get some groceries and made soup for lunch... all before 12pm and while having stomach cramps from the flu bug. I returned home to find my husband laying pathetically on the couch, a quivering hand extended in my direction to pass him a sip of water for his parched throat. He hadn't done a single thing in my absence.
That man got no sympathy. He also got no sympathy when I got a phone call telling me Little O's glasses had arrived and we needed to take him down to the opticians the same day to get them fitted correctly. My husband did not want to come, but there was no way in hell I was doing ALL the chores by myself so he grumpily accompanied me.
So, bearing all this unpleasantness in mind, Monday evening came around with a significant improvement in mine and my husband's health, but none in Little O's. In fact, he seemed worse than on Saturday. We gave him a nice warm bath and attempted to put him into bed for an early night, but he seemed so fitful and restless that I decided to take him into Prompt Care. My husband was extremely reluctant, but I had a niggling feeling that all wasn't right, so I got my way and off we set. When we arrived we were seen by a nurse and then a doctor, who both agreed Little O needed some blood tests and possibly IV fluids to get him feeling better. We don't like the ER attached to our local Prompt Care (been there before and they look at Little O like he's a fuckin' unicorn), so we told the nice doctor we'd take him up to CHOW to their children's ER instead.
WELL!! On the way home, my husband said he didn't want to go all the way to Milwaukee (a good 40 min drive away) only to sit in an ER all night and be told nothing was wrong, so he turned the car into our house. I understood. He felt unwell. I felt unwell. Little O needed fluids, which we could give him at home via his feeding pump. After all, one of the advantages to having to feed a child with a pump is that you can keep them hydrated even when they're refusing to eat or drink. I understood. I strongly disagreed, but I understood. I pointed out that I've never once been wrong about taking Little O in to be seen, and I've never created an emergency where there hasn't been one. I've always trusted my instincts, and they've always been right.
But I understood. And I let it slide. I agreed, against my better judgement, against my Mama-instincts, against everything my heart and head were telling me, to keep Little O at home in his own bed and to allow my husband's body time to fully recover. (Never mind the fact I was also still feeling shit - I'd sorta forgotten about that in all the fuss over my baby's health.) We spent the night at home and I took Tuesday off work to give Little O some extra care and love. By this point, I must have changed over 100 diapers in about 72 hours, and they were still coming strong. My baby's bottom was red and raw and he was so fussy and irritable that he was almost inconsolable non-stop.
By Wednesday morning I decided to take him into daycare and go back to work myself. I felt miserable having to choose work over him, but I've just started a new job! What else was I supposed to do? It also isn't helped my the fact my husband leaves for work at 5.30am, two whole hours before I do. If Little O is sick, he won't know about it until he's already been at work for several hours... so I have to make the decision. Anyway, I told the daycare to call my husband with any concerns as he was 'on duty', and drove in.
Around 3pm I got a call saying Little O had a fever. The daycare called my husband but he wasn't answering either his cell phone or his work number, and they really felt Little O needed to be seen by a doctor immediately. I was SO angry! I'd been fretting and worrying all day about my baby; why hadn't my husband?! Why wasn't his cell phone glued to his head? Why wasn't he chewing his nails to the quick every time his work phone rang? I was so mad I had him paged. The last time I did that I was in premature labor, so he knew something was up when I finally got him on the phone. And he left work. Immediately. Because he had no other choice.
Little O was admitted to hospital Wednesday night for severe dehydration and dangerously high sodium levels. I'm typing this out on my laptop in a hospital room while he naps peacefully, comfortable for the first time in nearly a week. It's Thursday afternoon and he's hopefully coming home tomorrow. I feel three things: 1) Anger towards my husband for not taking Little O to CHOW on Monday night; 2) Guilt at my own decision to keep him at home, despite my instincts telling me otherwise; and 3) Happiness that Little O is finally getting the help and comfort that he needs to feel better. But mainly anger and guilt.
I spent the night here; my husband went home. I took today and tomorrow off; my husband plans on working a full shift both days. I am proactive in seeking out support and assistance; my husband won't even speak to his HR team about FMLA law. It's deeply, deeply upsetting that I am still expected to carry the burden of Little O's care while also holding down (or not) a full-time job. Right now I'm seriously considering quitting work. I don't want to, but I also don't want to be 'that' employee who always has to take time off for her child. I don't want to get fired. I don't want that on my record. I don't want to let my new employers down, who have been wonderful and kind and generous, but whose patience will not last forever.
I was so invigorated starting a new job. Today I feel utterly exhausted again, and back in the same place I was a month ago.
Tina.
(I wish this were a happier post, but it isn't. So I'll round it off with a happy ending instead: Happy Anniversary, Anthea and Husband! Four years of marriage, and ten years together. Well done you.)
So, I got the job I wanted, and I organised my life around a brand new routine. I organised it. Me. Not my husband; not my friends or family. Me. I, and I alone, set up Little O's new daycare arrangements; I called my mother-in-law to come out for two weeks to help us transition everything; I got the job and bought new work clothes; I researched the best route for avoiding traffic; and I typed up the daily instruction sheets for Little O's carers to follow. It has been a bit of a marathon, to be honest, but I felt as though life was slowly coming together this weekend when my mother-in-law returned home and my husband and I were facing our first week of full-time employment and daycare simultaneously.
Then Little O got sick.
Saturday morning he came down with the most unpleasant stomach flu I've ever seen, and by Sunday he had a raging fever and kindly donated his germs to his parents. My husband and I therefore came down with the same stomach flu, which crippled us entirely and made the entire house stink of illness, poo, vomit, and stale laundry. We both took Monday off, which would normally have been something to celebrate, but instead we just rolled around the living room carpet in a state of helpless misery. It was like being pregnant again, but this time my husband felt just as bad and was no help whatsoever. Incidentally... my husband is NOT good at being ill. Our cat developed a limp over the weekend, to add further insult to injury, so seeing as we had taken the day off, I sucked up my stale, sickly breath, and took him to the vet. I also ran to get some groceries and made soup for lunch... all before 12pm and while having stomach cramps from the flu bug. I returned home to find my husband laying pathetically on the couch, a quivering hand extended in my direction to pass him a sip of water for his parched throat. He hadn't done a single thing in my absence.
That man got no sympathy. He also got no sympathy when I got a phone call telling me Little O's glasses had arrived and we needed to take him down to the opticians the same day to get them fitted correctly. My husband did not want to come, but there was no way in hell I was doing ALL the chores by myself so he grumpily accompanied me.
So, bearing all this unpleasantness in mind, Monday evening came around with a significant improvement in mine and my husband's health, but none in Little O's. In fact, he seemed worse than on Saturday. We gave him a nice warm bath and attempted to put him into bed for an early night, but he seemed so fitful and restless that I decided to take him into Prompt Care. My husband was extremely reluctant, but I had a niggling feeling that all wasn't right, so I got my way and off we set. When we arrived we were seen by a nurse and then a doctor, who both agreed Little O needed some blood tests and possibly IV fluids to get him feeling better. We don't like the ER attached to our local Prompt Care (been there before and they look at Little O like he's a fuckin' unicorn), so we told the nice doctor we'd take him up to CHOW to their children's ER instead.
WELL!! On the way home, my husband said he didn't want to go all the way to Milwaukee (a good 40 min drive away) only to sit in an ER all night and be told nothing was wrong, so he turned the car into our house. I understood. He felt unwell. I felt unwell. Little O needed fluids, which we could give him at home via his feeding pump. After all, one of the advantages to having to feed a child with a pump is that you can keep them hydrated even when they're refusing to eat or drink. I understood. I strongly disagreed, but I understood. I pointed out that I've never once been wrong about taking Little O in to be seen, and I've never created an emergency where there hasn't been one. I've always trusted my instincts, and they've always been right.
But I understood. And I let it slide. I agreed, against my better judgement, against my Mama-instincts, against everything my heart and head were telling me, to keep Little O at home in his own bed and to allow my husband's body time to fully recover. (Never mind the fact I was also still feeling shit - I'd sorta forgotten about that in all the fuss over my baby's health.) We spent the night at home and I took Tuesday off work to give Little O some extra care and love. By this point, I must have changed over 100 diapers in about 72 hours, and they were still coming strong. My baby's bottom was red and raw and he was so fussy and irritable that he was almost inconsolable non-stop.
By Wednesday morning I decided to take him into daycare and go back to work myself. I felt miserable having to choose work over him, but I've just started a new job! What else was I supposed to do? It also isn't helped my the fact my husband leaves for work at 5.30am, two whole hours before I do. If Little O is sick, he won't know about it until he's already been at work for several hours... so I have to make the decision. Anyway, I told the daycare to call my husband with any concerns as he was 'on duty', and drove in.
Around 3pm I got a call saying Little O had a fever. The daycare called my husband but he wasn't answering either his cell phone or his work number, and they really felt Little O needed to be seen by a doctor immediately. I was SO angry! I'd been fretting and worrying all day about my baby; why hadn't my husband?! Why wasn't his cell phone glued to his head? Why wasn't he chewing his nails to the quick every time his work phone rang? I was so mad I had him paged. The last time I did that I was in premature labor, so he knew something was up when I finally got him on the phone. And he left work. Immediately. Because he had no other choice.
Little O was admitted to hospital Wednesday night for severe dehydration and dangerously high sodium levels. I'm typing this out on my laptop in a hospital room while he naps peacefully, comfortable for the first time in nearly a week. It's Thursday afternoon and he's hopefully coming home tomorrow. I feel three things: 1) Anger towards my husband for not taking Little O to CHOW on Monday night; 2) Guilt at my own decision to keep him at home, despite my instincts telling me otherwise; and 3) Happiness that Little O is finally getting the help and comfort that he needs to feel better. But mainly anger and guilt.
I spent the night here; my husband went home. I took today and tomorrow off; my husband plans on working a full shift both days. I am proactive in seeking out support and assistance; my husband won't even speak to his HR team about FMLA law. It's deeply, deeply upsetting that I am still expected to carry the burden of Little O's care while also holding down (or not) a full-time job. Right now I'm seriously considering quitting work. I don't want to, but I also don't want to be 'that' employee who always has to take time off for her child. I don't want to get fired. I don't want that on my record. I don't want to let my new employers down, who have been wonderful and kind and generous, but whose patience will not last forever.
I was so invigorated starting a new job. Today I feel utterly exhausted again, and back in the same place I was a month ago.
Tina.
(I wish this were a happier post, but it isn't. So I'll round it off with a happy ending instead: Happy Anniversary, Anthea and Husband! Four years of marriage, and ten years together. Well done you.)
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Why do I even care what you think, anyway?
As we know, I am telling quite a lot of people about my current pregnancy, and when I do so, I have developed the need to follow the news up with the information that I don't intend to have any more.
This is because I want to pre-empt them thinking that I'm some kind of manic breeder, who either has no idea how to use contraceptives, or who is some martyr who just wants to devote herself to discomfort and the needs of others, I dunno. Well, what's wrong with either of those? It's not a sin to have children. It's not a sin to have 12 children! But I still don't want to be perceived as either of them, for some reason.
Yes, the pregnancies have followed in somewhat quick succession, but they're not really that close compared to, say, me and my sister, or my husband and his brother. These babies will be 23 months apart, perfectly respectable. There were many reasons why I chose to have a baby at this time, to do with my age, my career at this point, my finances and the desire for S to have a sibling he could have fun with. These were my reasons, dammit! Nothing to do with what anyone else thinks! Yes, there have been gasps of, "Oh! You didn't give yourself much breathing space did you?!" and, "Congratulations, you mad thing!" but who gives a crap what they think?
Apparently I do. And I was unable to stop myself from frowning and muttering, "Well, it's a lot to put your body through..." when judgy friend from a few posts back mentioned that she had stopped using contraception. (She has two children under the age of 2). I'm telling myself I was just getting my own back for her calling me silly the other week.
But really, have I too absorbed society's message that procreation and women's pregnant bodies and childbirth are obscene and that they should be controlled and constrained? Probably.
Anthea
This is because I want to pre-empt them thinking that I'm some kind of manic breeder, who either has no idea how to use contraceptives, or who is some martyr who just wants to devote herself to discomfort and the needs of others, I dunno. Well, what's wrong with either of those? It's not a sin to have children. It's not a sin to have 12 children! But I still don't want to be perceived as either of them, for some reason.
Yes, the pregnancies have followed in somewhat quick succession, but they're not really that close compared to, say, me and my sister, or my husband and his brother. These babies will be 23 months apart, perfectly respectable. There were many reasons why I chose to have a baby at this time, to do with my age, my career at this point, my finances and the desire for S to have a sibling he could have fun with. These were my reasons, dammit! Nothing to do with what anyone else thinks! Yes, there have been gasps of, "Oh! You didn't give yourself much breathing space did you?!" and, "Congratulations, you mad thing!" but who gives a crap what they think?
Apparently I do. And I was unable to stop myself from frowning and muttering, "Well, it's a lot to put your body through..." when judgy friend from a few posts back mentioned that she had stopped using contraception. (She has two children under the age of 2). I'm telling myself I was just getting my own back for her calling me silly the other week.
But really, have I too absorbed society's message that procreation and women's pregnant bodies and childbirth are obscene and that they should be controlled and constrained? Probably.
Anthea
Monday, September 27, 2010
The greatest good luck charm EVER
This evening Little O said "Mama" for the very first time. I have my interview this week and it's the greatest good luck charm I've ever had. He's so cute when he says his Ms; he approaches them cautiously, as though he's warming up: "Aaaaa hhhhmmm mmmmaaaa". He likes to practice them in the car while we listen to music, and sometimes he even hums along and dances to the beat.
Tonight was the first time he really responded to me saying "Mama" to him though, because after copying me a few times and getting out a couple of "Mmmmaaa" sounds, he suddenly went "Mama", completely out of the blue. What a wonderful feeling, to hear your child say your name.
I was so happy I cried.
Tina.
Tonight was the first time he really responded to me saying "Mama" to him though, because after copying me a few times and getting out a couple of "Mmmmaaa" sounds, he suddenly went "Mama", completely out of the blue. What a wonderful feeling, to hear your child say your name.
I was so happy I cried.
Tina.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The big secret
I'm about 6 weeks pregnant, I think, and have told a lot of people. I told my family immediately. I found out on a Saturday, and told everyone at work on the Monday. I haven't told many friends, just a close few. Any others I'm going to tell as and when I see them. I'll do the big Facebook broadcast once I've had my first scan.
Last time I was pregnant, I was horribly sick - puking most mornings, the works. I came in late, left early and was a fetching shade of green. As a primary school teacher, the majority of my colleagues are women and as such many of them are mothers. Most people suspected I was pregnant and grilled my closest work friends about it (who denied all knowledge, bless 'em). But no-one actually came and spoke to me! Everyone was talking about me, but no-one was talking to me! The stupid thing is, if anybody had approached me and said, "are you pregnant?" I would have answered, "yes, but please keep it to yourself".
I posted here:
http://thegoodbodies.blogspot.com/2008/10/and-puking-began-here.html
about how unfair it is that during the first trimester, the time when you feel the worst and need the most support, you are not supposed to tell anyone. The reasons for this are that something like 95% of miscarriages happen some time in the first 12 weeks. So presumably, you wouldn't want to follow up the exciting announcement of a pregnancy with the sad one of a miscarriage.
Or would you? In a workplace full of women, mothers, children and family problems, my colleagues are a fabulous support network. We see each other through private and professional dramas, and rally round when somone is having a crisis, however large or small. In fact, I think that if I were to suffer a miscarriage - which is not that likely anyway, I'm not in any of the high-risk categories and have already had one straightforward pregnancy - my colleagues would provide me with tremendous support. If I suffered any other sort of loss or bereavement, I would want the support of the people around me. I wouldn't really want to soldier on as if nothing had happened. I wouldn't want it to be a secret. And therefore I can't see any good reason for me keeping early pregnancy a secret.
I'm lucky in that my employer is fully supportive (to the point of over-enthusiastic!) of staff having children. In other workplaces, it might be a good idea to keep it quiet until your maternity arrangments are fully in place, I don't know. But I've told everyone at work so that they know there's a good reason why I might not be keeping up properly, or be rather absent-minded, or be green. I want their support through this, because it's a big upheaval, even second time around. (Mind you, I seem to be getting evening sickness rather than morning sickness this time so maybe it would have been easy to conceal, I don't know!)
I play in a brass band and told one of my friends there, who herself has two children under the age of two, at the same time as another friend. She asked me how far along I was and I told her only a few weeks. "Well that's a bit silly, announcing it this early, isn't it?" she said, all judgemental. "Why?" I asked. "Well, you'd better hope nothing happens," she replied, implying a miscarriage. "But then I'd want people to know that as well," I said.
OK, so this particular friend is a bit like that, a bit judgy and speaks without thinking, but I reckon her comments only demonstrate the prevailing attitude in society. Where does this come from? Why should miscarriage be such a shameful secret? Why should early pregnancy be so embarrassing? Does this date back to a time when reproduction - and naturally, women's bodies in general - was just so shameful that it wasn't mentioned in public until the physical evidence was unavoidable: i.e. the bump began to show, at the start of the second trimester? Probably.
Ugh, in other news, a friend has just found out she is expecting twins! Please God no! I haven't got room for two more, just one please! It hadn't even occured to me until she told me that of course, she hadn't known either until the scan. And mine is about 6 weeks away! Fingers crossed, just the one baby please!
Anthea
Last time I was pregnant, I was horribly sick - puking most mornings, the works. I came in late, left early and was a fetching shade of green. As a primary school teacher, the majority of my colleagues are women and as such many of them are mothers. Most people suspected I was pregnant and grilled my closest work friends about it (who denied all knowledge, bless 'em). But no-one actually came and spoke to me! Everyone was talking about me, but no-one was talking to me! The stupid thing is, if anybody had approached me and said, "are you pregnant?" I would have answered, "yes, but please keep it to yourself".
I posted here:
http://thegoodbodies.blogspot.com/2008/10/and-puking-began-here.html
about how unfair it is that during the first trimester, the time when you feel the worst and need the most support, you are not supposed to tell anyone. The reasons for this are that something like 95% of miscarriages happen some time in the first 12 weeks. So presumably, you wouldn't want to follow up the exciting announcement of a pregnancy with the sad one of a miscarriage.
Or would you? In a workplace full of women, mothers, children and family problems, my colleagues are a fabulous support network. We see each other through private and professional dramas, and rally round when somone is having a crisis, however large or small. In fact, I think that if I were to suffer a miscarriage - which is not that likely anyway, I'm not in any of the high-risk categories and have already had one straightforward pregnancy - my colleagues would provide me with tremendous support. If I suffered any other sort of loss or bereavement, I would want the support of the people around me. I wouldn't really want to soldier on as if nothing had happened. I wouldn't want it to be a secret. And therefore I can't see any good reason for me keeping early pregnancy a secret.
I'm lucky in that my employer is fully supportive (to the point of over-enthusiastic!) of staff having children. In other workplaces, it might be a good idea to keep it quiet until your maternity arrangments are fully in place, I don't know. But I've told everyone at work so that they know there's a good reason why I might not be keeping up properly, or be rather absent-minded, or be green. I want their support through this, because it's a big upheaval, even second time around. (Mind you, I seem to be getting evening sickness rather than morning sickness this time so maybe it would have been easy to conceal, I don't know!)
I play in a brass band and told one of my friends there, who herself has two children under the age of two, at the same time as another friend. She asked me how far along I was and I told her only a few weeks. "Well that's a bit silly, announcing it this early, isn't it?" she said, all judgemental. "Why?" I asked. "Well, you'd better hope nothing happens," she replied, implying a miscarriage. "But then I'd want people to know that as well," I said.
OK, so this particular friend is a bit like that, a bit judgy and speaks without thinking, but I reckon her comments only demonstrate the prevailing attitude in society. Where does this come from? Why should miscarriage be such a shameful secret? Why should early pregnancy be so embarrassing? Does this date back to a time when reproduction - and naturally, women's bodies in general - was just so shameful that it wasn't mentioned in public until the physical evidence was unavoidable: i.e. the bump began to show, at the start of the second trimester? Probably.
Ugh, in other news, a friend has just found out she is expecting twins! Please God no! I haven't got room for two more, just one please! It hadn't even occured to me until she told me that of course, she hadn't known either until the scan. And mine is about 6 weeks away! Fingers crossed, just the one baby please!
Anthea
Friday, September 17, 2010
The eternal question
I'm facing that eternal question; the one that plagues mothers everywhere:
"Should I go back to work?"
Yesterday I was sent an invitation to apply for a proofreading position at a pharmaceutical company 30 miles away, based in the same business park my husband used to work in (although for a different company). We know the company and we know how far away it is (40 min commute), and we know that I am absolutely desperate to find meaning in my life beyond that of a-mother-with-a-special-needs-kid-who-does-some-freelancing-stuff-when-she-has-time. So when this opportunity came up I was really interested, but I delayed in answering the e-mail because any decision I make involves the whole family. It really does.
I spoke to my husband about it when he called home at lunchtime and he was very positive, saying I should definitely apply and totalling up how much extra income we would have if I got the job. But something still stopped me, and it took me a while to figure it out.
Daycare isn't really an issue long-term. I'm visiting a nursery on Monday that caters for children like Little O, and they seem very keen to have him on board, but they can't offer him a week-long placement until mid-October, which is awkward. I'd be able to get him in all day Monday and Friday for a few weeks, but that would still leave Tues-Thurs with no care. Then my Dad comes out to visit at the end of October and it would be a shame to have Little O in daycare the whole time, and me at a new job. But come November, and daycare and family issues will be resolved, and I'll have plenty of time for a full-time position.
The commute also doesn't bother me, although the hours are a little sticky. It would be 50 hrs a week, plus occasional Saturdays, depending on deadlines. Thankfully I'm a very fast worker when I know what I'm doing, so I anticipate meeting their expectations and then surpassing them, and not actually having to work many Saturdays at all. I'm also not afraid to commit a large portion of my time to a new job if I really enjoy it. I actually love working in offices, but I've never found a JOB that I like. Perhaps that would change.
No, the thing that bothered me and took a while to surface, was my husband's attitude to Little O's care. My husband is almost as much of a feminist as I am, but on this particular topic it's as though he's thrown all notion of equal parenting out of the window. When we were discussing specifics last night in bed, I reminded him that if I were to work full-time, it would mean I couldn't take Little O to all the appointments and therapy sessions that I do now. Actually, at least initially, I wouldn't be able to do ANY of them because I'd be in a new job and trying to make a good impression. So I requested that he look into his employer's flexi-time policy, and find out whether he can start shifting his hours a little to accomodate Little O's care.
His response was quite astounding. He said, "No, they won't go for that", and turned over in bed. End of discussion. I was gobsmacked, so I pulled him back over to face me and asked him why. He said they're really busy, and besides, WE need the money. It struck me that he sees his job and my (potential) job differently. As far as he's concerned, it's ME who needs to ask for flexi-time because HIS job is already stable, and because it's MY responsibility to take care of Little O. I was lost for words. I had always assumed that if I worked full-time again, that parenting our son would be shared equally - indeed, before we knew about Little O's problems, I'd intended to go back to work much sooner than this. So what the hell is going on?
I feel like I'm meeting everyone else's needs and schedules... what about mine? I've given up my career to this point to be an advocate and parent to my son, but I feel like it's my time again. I WANT to go back to work, but I CAN'T do it if my husband won't meet me halfway. I just can't roll up to a new employer and tell them I need three days off a month to take my son to appointments because my husband won't help me. It isn't fair to ask that of me, or my (potential) company. I don't know what's going on. Maybe my husband's afraid of losing his job, or taking on extra responsibility at home; I don't know. But I do know that I can't have a full-time job AND be the primary caregiver. Not with Little O.
In the end, I did apply for the job, via an agency. I explained my situation to them and they seemed accomodating, but they recommended I don't tell the company until I'm offered a position. If and when that happens I'm going to feel really guilty, because it will feel like I've misled them. I'm already panicking about finding childcare for Little O for when I have to go to an interview - how the hell do I pick up those extra three days a week too? Frankly, I feel confident that I'll get the job if I get an interview, because unlike other jobs I've gone for where I just need the money, in this instance I'm really invested in the position itself. And I'm fucking good at what I do and I'm confident in my abilities, so selling myself to an employer should be okay. It's just post-interview that I'm worried about.
I need a grandparent around for about a month, I think. Someone to take care of Little O while I get a job organised; someone who can take him to his appointments and act on my behalf. But I also need a husband who supports my decision to go back to work properly, on MY terms. It's all very difficult. Exciting, but difficult.
Tina.
"Should I go back to work?"
Yesterday I was sent an invitation to apply for a proofreading position at a pharmaceutical company 30 miles away, based in the same business park my husband used to work in (although for a different company). We know the company and we know how far away it is (40 min commute), and we know that I am absolutely desperate to find meaning in my life beyond that of a-mother-with-a-special-needs-kid-who-does-some-freelancing-stuff-when-she-has-time. So when this opportunity came up I was really interested, but I delayed in answering the e-mail because any decision I make involves the whole family. It really does.
I spoke to my husband about it when he called home at lunchtime and he was very positive, saying I should definitely apply and totalling up how much extra income we would have if I got the job. But something still stopped me, and it took me a while to figure it out.
Daycare isn't really an issue long-term. I'm visiting a nursery on Monday that caters for children like Little O, and they seem very keen to have him on board, but they can't offer him a week-long placement until mid-October, which is awkward. I'd be able to get him in all day Monday and Friday for a few weeks, but that would still leave Tues-Thurs with no care. Then my Dad comes out to visit at the end of October and it would be a shame to have Little O in daycare the whole time, and me at a new job. But come November, and daycare and family issues will be resolved, and I'll have plenty of time for a full-time position.
The commute also doesn't bother me, although the hours are a little sticky. It would be 50 hrs a week, plus occasional Saturdays, depending on deadlines. Thankfully I'm a very fast worker when I know what I'm doing, so I anticipate meeting their expectations and then surpassing them, and not actually having to work many Saturdays at all. I'm also not afraid to commit a large portion of my time to a new job if I really enjoy it. I actually love working in offices, but I've never found a JOB that I like. Perhaps that would change.
No, the thing that bothered me and took a while to surface, was my husband's attitude to Little O's care. My husband is almost as much of a feminist as I am, but on this particular topic it's as though he's thrown all notion of equal parenting out of the window. When we were discussing specifics last night in bed, I reminded him that if I were to work full-time, it would mean I couldn't take Little O to all the appointments and therapy sessions that I do now. Actually, at least initially, I wouldn't be able to do ANY of them because I'd be in a new job and trying to make a good impression. So I requested that he look into his employer's flexi-time policy, and find out whether he can start shifting his hours a little to accomodate Little O's care.
His response was quite astounding. He said, "No, they won't go for that", and turned over in bed. End of discussion. I was gobsmacked, so I pulled him back over to face me and asked him why. He said they're really busy, and besides, WE need the money. It struck me that he sees his job and my (potential) job differently. As far as he's concerned, it's ME who needs to ask for flexi-time because HIS job is already stable, and because it's MY responsibility to take care of Little O. I was lost for words. I had always assumed that if I worked full-time again, that parenting our son would be shared equally - indeed, before we knew about Little O's problems, I'd intended to go back to work much sooner than this. So what the hell is going on?
I feel like I'm meeting everyone else's needs and schedules... what about mine? I've given up my career to this point to be an advocate and parent to my son, but I feel like it's my time again. I WANT to go back to work, but I CAN'T do it if my husband won't meet me halfway. I just can't roll up to a new employer and tell them I need three days off a month to take my son to appointments because my husband won't help me. It isn't fair to ask that of me, or my (potential) company. I don't know what's going on. Maybe my husband's afraid of losing his job, or taking on extra responsibility at home; I don't know. But I do know that I can't have a full-time job AND be the primary caregiver. Not with Little O.
In the end, I did apply for the job, via an agency. I explained my situation to them and they seemed accomodating, but they recommended I don't tell the company until I'm offered a position. If and when that happens I'm going to feel really guilty, because it will feel like I've misled them. I'm already panicking about finding childcare for Little O for when I have to go to an interview - how the hell do I pick up those extra three days a week too? Frankly, I feel confident that I'll get the job if I get an interview, because unlike other jobs I've gone for where I just need the money, in this instance I'm really invested in the position itself. And I'm fucking good at what I do and I'm confident in my abilities, so selling myself to an employer should be okay. It's just post-interview that I'm worried about.
I need a grandparent around for about a month, I think. Someone to take care of Little O while I get a job organised; someone who can take him to his appointments and act on my behalf. But I also need a husband who supports my decision to go back to work properly, on MY terms. It's all very difficult. Exciting, but difficult.
Tina.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tantrums!
My sweet sweet baby has discovered he has an opinion. Wait, let me rephrase that: he has an OPINION!!
For a child who cannot talk, sign, or generally communicate to me what his needs and wants are, he sure is getting good at telling me anyway. He has entered a rather amusing phase in his life where tantrums are starting to play a significant role in his communication skills. We're not sure he'll ever be able to speak in the same way you and I do (well, not my little sister V - she and Little O may have a lot in common), but he's certainly finding his voice.
I was brushing my teeth this morning and put Little O on the bathroom counter so he could watch. He likes to play with the lotions and potions up there and it keeps him from scooting around on his backside outta the door and down the stairs. I gave him a packet of flossups to play with while I was occupied with a toothbrush, and he was very happy watching me and chewing on the plastic wrapping while he waited. Well, then I wanted to USE a flossup to floss my teeth with, which required me to extricate said item from small child. This did not go down well. He SCREAMED, went red in the face, burst into tears, and started whacking his thighs with tiny, bunched-up fists of infant fury. I found the whole thing terribly funny, especially as, as soon as I'd got out a flossup and given them back to him, he stopped his tantrum instantly and resumed chewing the corner of the packet.
Ah, I love Little O. The more 'normal' stuff he does, the prouder I am of him. It's just such a joy to see him achieve a goal he's really struggled with, as well as the other 'norrmal' development milestones like throwing temper tantrums. At this point I love everything he does, from the back-scooting to the tantrums. Ask me again in a month though and I may have changed my mind...
Tina.
For a child who cannot talk, sign, or generally communicate to me what his needs and wants are, he sure is getting good at telling me anyway. He has entered a rather amusing phase in his life where tantrums are starting to play a significant role in his communication skills. We're not sure he'll ever be able to speak in the same way you and I do (well, not my little sister V - she and Little O may have a lot in common), but he's certainly finding his voice.
I was brushing my teeth this morning and put Little O on the bathroom counter so he could watch. He likes to play with the lotions and potions up there and it keeps him from scooting around on his backside outta the door and down the stairs. I gave him a packet of flossups to play with while I was occupied with a toothbrush, and he was very happy watching me and chewing on the plastic wrapping while he waited. Well, then I wanted to USE a flossup to floss my teeth with, which required me to extricate said item from small child. This did not go down well. He SCREAMED, went red in the face, burst into tears, and started whacking his thighs with tiny, bunched-up fists of infant fury. I found the whole thing terribly funny, especially as, as soon as I'd got out a flossup and given them back to him, he stopped his tantrum instantly and resumed chewing the corner of the packet.
Ah, I love Little O. The more 'normal' stuff he does, the prouder I am of him. It's just such a joy to see him achieve a goal he's really struggled with, as well as the other 'norrmal' development milestones like throwing temper tantrums. At this point I love everything he does, from the back-scooting to the tantrums. Ask me again in a month though and I may have changed my mind...
Tina.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
News
I am a useless person.
Well, to be more accurate, I am a person who has worked full-time since her son was less than 10 weeks old, who devotes a minimum of two evenings a week to playing in and managing a band, and who has spent the last year or so buying and moving into a property. (A key worker property. Do you know how complicated that is??) What I actually am is a busy person.
And as such I have, since S's birth, written but two posts. Both about said birth. Surely I cannot really claim to be a contributor to this blog at all.
However, I feel I must at least post this: I found out yesterday that I am pregnant with our second baby. Congratulations to me, I feel.
(Do not confuse me with Tina at this point! She might be, whereas I definitely am!)
Anthea
Well, to be more accurate, I am a person who has worked full-time since her son was less than 10 weeks old, who devotes a minimum of two evenings a week to playing in and managing a band, and who has spent the last year or so buying and moving into a property. (A key worker property. Do you know how complicated that is??) What I actually am is a busy person.
And as such I have, since S's birth, written but two posts. Both about said birth. Surely I cannot really claim to be a contributor to this blog at all.
However, I feel I must at least post this: I found out yesterday that I am pregnant with our second baby. Congratulations to me, I feel.
(Do not confuse me with Tina at this point! She might be, whereas I definitely am!)
Anthea
Thursday, September 2, 2010
We'll call him Sam
I had a dream last night.
In it, I was nine months pregnant and in the throws of advanced labour. I was alone in a bright, clean hospital room, and I could hear nurses and activity beyond my closed door. I was wearing a hospital gown and I could feel my baby moving inside me when I put my hand on my stomach.
I moved off the bed because I was laying in a horizontal position, and I felt that my labour would last too long for me to bear if I didn't give it some help with gravity. So I began to walk around the bed to the door, when I felt an enormous gush between my legs and my waters broke. I launched myself forward and grabbed the nurses' buzzer to let them know what had happened, when my husband walked in and saw me squatting in a pool of pale yellow, almost clear, liquid. A nurse finally arrived and sought the help of an orderly to clean up the mess, and I was moved back to the other side of the bed.
My husband and I were left alone, and I squatted down to see what he was up to on the floor (looked like he was making a shopping list on a cell phone), when I put a hand between my legs and felt the baby crowning. Suddenly, my body took over and I pushed, once. A small, slimy baby emerged from me and I pulled him up to my now naked chest to keep him warm. I told my husband to help me hold him, and then I pushed the nurses' buzzer again three times. Then I looked at my baby. He was very small, like Little O was, but he had masses of dark hair and the biggest, bluest eyes. He was very alert and kept looking around the room at all the bright lights.
The umbilical cord was still attached, but when the nurse came in she suggested we allow it to finish pulsing before clamping it, to allow all that precious oxygenated blood to flow into my new son's bloodstream. He didn't cry, but was breathing and very happy. Eventually someone took the baby from me and laid him on the bed, at which point I stood up and promptly delivered a very slimy placenta. And lots of other goo and blood.
The next thing I knew we were at home, and I was introducing our new child to Little O. Little O was the age he is now, even though I had been 'pregnant' for nine months. I spent some time barking at my husband to get Little O's old newborn clothes out of storage, and then we dressed the baby in a blue sleepsuit with a hood attached. We had to decide on a name, so I looked at our bookshelf for inspiration and finally settled on Sam. Sam - from Samuel.
*********************************************************************************
A friend from childhood sent me a Facebook message the other day telling me she'd had her own dream where I was pregnant. Five months pregnant, apparently, and showing her my ultrasound video.
Is the universe trying to tell me something?
Tina.
In it, I was nine months pregnant and in the throws of advanced labour. I was alone in a bright, clean hospital room, and I could hear nurses and activity beyond my closed door. I was wearing a hospital gown and I could feel my baby moving inside me when I put my hand on my stomach.
I moved off the bed because I was laying in a horizontal position, and I felt that my labour would last too long for me to bear if I didn't give it some help with gravity. So I began to walk around the bed to the door, when I felt an enormous gush between my legs and my waters broke. I launched myself forward and grabbed the nurses' buzzer to let them know what had happened, when my husband walked in and saw me squatting in a pool of pale yellow, almost clear, liquid. A nurse finally arrived and sought the help of an orderly to clean up the mess, and I was moved back to the other side of the bed.
My husband and I were left alone, and I squatted down to see what he was up to on the floor (looked like he was making a shopping list on a cell phone), when I put a hand between my legs and felt the baby crowning. Suddenly, my body took over and I pushed, once. A small, slimy baby emerged from me and I pulled him up to my now naked chest to keep him warm. I told my husband to help me hold him, and then I pushed the nurses' buzzer again three times. Then I looked at my baby. He was very small, like Little O was, but he had masses of dark hair and the biggest, bluest eyes. He was very alert and kept looking around the room at all the bright lights.
The umbilical cord was still attached, but when the nurse came in she suggested we allow it to finish pulsing before clamping it, to allow all that precious oxygenated blood to flow into my new son's bloodstream. He didn't cry, but was breathing and very happy. Eventually someone took the baby from me and laid him on the bed, at which point I stood up and promptly delivered a very slimy placenta. And lots of other goo and blood.
The next thing I knew we were at home, and I was introducing our new child to Little O. Little O was the age he is now, even though I had been 'pregnant' for nine months. I spent some time barking at my husband to get Little O's old newborn clothes out of storage, and then we dressed the baby in a blue sleepsuit with a hood attached. We had to decide on a name, so I looked at our bookshelf for inspiration and finally settled on Sam. Sam - from Samuel.
*********************************************************************************
A friend from childhood sent me a Facebook message the other day telling me she'd had her own dream where I was pregnant. Five months pregnant, apparently, and showing her my ultrasound video.
Is the universe trying to tell me something?
Tina.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Radio Ga Ga, Radio Goo Goo
Over the weekend things felt a lot better for me. We met up with some friends on Saturday morning to visit the Milwaukee Zoo (seeing the orangutans is VERY important for Little O, you see), and the weather was just gorgeous. Because these friends also have a little one, they completely understood when we needed to stop and change a diaper, or set up Little O's feeding pump, or whatever. The difference between going on a day trip with these friends and going on day trips when my Mum was out here was astonishing. Just so much more relaxed, and we had plenty to discuss. I really, really like L. She's so 'with it' in terms of her career and her relationship with her husband, but sometimes asks for my advice regarding her baby. It makes me feel fantastic to reassure her about a minor detail, or to suggest she asks her doctor about this or that. And by the same token, I call on her to reassure ME that I'm not going crazy when I fuck things up at home or with my own husband. She's just a really cool lady.
After the zoo we went home and took a family nap. It. Was. Awesome.
Saturday night I stayed up late preparing for my radio interviews. Butterfly Charlie, who reads this blog, told me afterwards that she'd listened in and thought I was an excellent guest. :) This is good to hear: partly because she works in the media, and partly because I was shitting bricks when I did them. The first was in Leeds and I thought I sounded really stupid and nervous, but after Manchester, Sheffield, Derby, and West Midlands, I think I had the routine down pat and did a good job. I felt incredibly energised afterwards, and even though I slunk into bed at 3.30am I was wide awake for another hour or so, just running things through my head again. I listened to the shows the next day to reassure myself I hadn't made a complete arse of myself, and they weren't too bad. You can actually still listen to them for another few days, but as they give out my full name I'm not going to link to the sites on this blog. If I'm friends with you on another site, ask me for the links and I shall oblige.
Oh, and one last thing. My husband and I had unprotected sex for the first time. (Well, not the FIRST time... obviously... Little O is proof enough of that.) Watch this space, and keep your fingers crossed I'm not up the duff YET. Christmas would be just fine.
Tina.
After the zoo we went home and took a family nap. It. Was. Awesome.
Saturday night I stayed up late preparing for my radio interviews. Butterfly Charlie, who reads this blog, told me afterwards that she'd listened in and thought I was an excellent guest. :) This is good to hear: partly because she works in the media, and partly because I was shitting bricks when I did them. The first was in Leeds and I thought I sounded really stupid and nervous, but after Manchester, Sheffield, Derby, and West Midlands, I think I had the routine down pat and did a good job. I felt incredibly energised afterwards, and even though I slunk into bed at 3.30am I was wide awake for another hour or so, just running things through my head again. I listened to the shows the next day to reassure myself I hadn't made a complete arse of myself, and they weren't too bad. You can actually still listen to them for another few days, but as they give out my full name I'm not going to link to the sites on this blog. If I'm friends with you on another site, ask me for the links and I shall oblige.
Oh, and one last thing. My husband and I had unprotected sex for the first time. (Well, not the FIRST time... obviously... Little O is proof enough of that.) Watch this space, and keep your fingers crossed I'm not up the duff YET. Christmas would be just fine.
Tina.
Friday, August 27, 2010
I'm so tired I could...
thump.
That's the sound of my head hitting the pillow this afternoon for a well-deserved nap... or rather, it would have been if Little O hadn't been such a godawful ratbag and woken up time and time again to scream the house down or throw up.
I bloody hate Fridays. Traditionally Tuesdays were my least favourite day of the week because while you can get a good nights sleep over the weekend and charge your batteries for Monday, there's no such opportunity for Tuesdays. You've still got to get up and have a day of misery at work, but you're running on less sleep and more angst than the day before. It's traditionally been a bit shit.
But now Fridays are a bit shit. I'm just so tired and fed up with being forced to be stay-at-home-mom that I spend the whole day watching the clock and waiting for my husband to get home. I had to get my sorry arse out of bed early this morning to take Bob to the vet for some vaccinations, so I prayed Little O would do the decent thing and let me sleep as long as possible... no such luck. He woke up AS SOON as my husband left for work at 5.45am (a common theme, and I feel the two aren't entirely unrelated) and threw up, did a poo, then yelled at me to come and clean both messes up. And of course I couldn't get back to sleep after that, so I was all kinds of moody at the vet and have continued to simmer and seethe ever since.
Little O is just driving me mental. He's my favourite person in the whole wide world, which is why when he acts up I get a bit demented. I feel like he's deliberately pushing my buttons( which of course he isn't), and sometimes when he cries or coughs or poos and MAKES himself throw up it feels really personal. It feels as though I'm failing him somehow, and he knows it. We have a procedure next week to try Botox injections into Little O's stomach. And an endoscopy. And a contrast study. And anaesthesia. And all kinds of other bollocks that I'm too tired and miserable to discuss. I just want something to change. I want the doctor to point at a screen, go, "Oh look! That's the problem!", and fucking fix it. Little O and I have been dealing with this for 15 months now. It isn't fair. MAKE THIS REFLUX GO AWAY.
I was at the gym yesterday doing a Zumba class, and right slap bang in the middle of some kind of ridiculous twisty move, two things happened. One, I felt a rib go 'pop'; and two, it struck me how pointless everything else in my life is until this reflux gets sorted. Why the hell am I investing my time and energy into an extremely camp exercise class, when my child is at home throwing his guts up every two hours? My mother wants me to go and visit the UK in February with Little O. By myself. For 'a break', as she put it. Yeah, right. Because travelling for nine hours on a plane with a baby who won't stop throwing up will of course be 'a break'. That's it's very definition. Don't get me wrong: I don't mind going to the UK and taking a small child with me, but I don't want to do it alone. It took all the strength in both of us to keep calm and carry on when my husband and I flew over at Christmas, and it took even MORE strength in me to do the same in Seattle. It's just different when you're by yourself, and it's hugely different when you're dealing with a baby with special needs.
Still, Sunday beckons, and with it the enticing invitation to appear on BBC Radio. I'm naturally a night owl so I'm actually really, really looking forward to drinking loads of Diet Coke and staying awake until the wee small hours. And I'll have a fantastic, legitimate reason for poking my husband to get out of bed in the morning to deal with Little O's vomit/poo/screaming, because I'll have been working until 3am.
It's amazing that I consider that 'a break'.
Tina.
That's the sound of my head hitting the pillow this afternoon for a well-deserved nap... or rather, it would have been if Little O hadn't been such a godawful ratbag and woken up time and time again to scream the house down or throw up.
I bloody hate Fridays. Traditionally Tuesdays were my least favourite day of the week because while you can get a good nights sleep over the weekend and charge your batteries for Monday, there's no such opportunity for Tuesdays. You've still got to get up and have a day of misery at work, but you're running on less sleep and more angst than the day before. It's traditionally been a bit shit.
But now Fridays are a bit shit. I'm just so tired and fed up with being forced to be stay-at-home-mom that I spend the whole day watching the clock and waiting for my husband to get home. I had to get my sorry arse out of bed early this morning to take Bob to the vet for some vaccinations, so I prayed Little O would do the decent thing and let me sleep as long as possible... no such luck. He woke up AS SOON as my husband left for work at 5.45am (a common theme, and I feel the two aren't entirely unrelated) and threw up, did a poo, then yelled at me to come and clean both messes up. And of course I couldn't get back to sleep after that, so I was all kinds of moody at the vet and have continued to simmer and seethe ever since.
Little O is just driving me mental. He's my favourite person in the whole wide world, which is why when he acts up I get a bit demented. I feel like he's deliberately pushing my buttons( which of course he isn't), and sometimes when he cries or coughs or poos and MAKES himself throw up it feels really personal. It feels as though I'm failing him somehow, and he knows it. We have a procedure next week to try Botox injections into Little O's stomach. And an endoscopy. And a contrast study. And anaesthesia. And all kinds of other bollocks that I'm too tired and miserable to discuss. I just want something to change. I want the doctor to point at a screen, go, "Oh look! That's the problem!", and fucking fix it. Little O and I have been dealing with this for 15 months now. It isn't fair. MAKE THIS REFLUX GO AWAY.
I was at the gym yesterday doing a Zumba class, and right slap bang in the middle of some kind of ridiculous twisty move, two things happened. One, I felt a rib go 'pop'; and two, it struck me how pointless everything else in my life is until this reflux gets sorted. Why the hell am I investing my time and energy into an extremely camp exercise class, when my child is at home throwing his guts up every two hours? My mother wants me to go and visit the UK in February with Little O. By myself. For 'a break', as she put it. Yeah, right. Because travelling for nine hours on a plane with a baby who won't stop throwing up will of course be 'a break'. That's it's very definition. Don't get me wrong: I don't mind going to the UK and taking a small child with me, but I don't want to do it alone. It took all the strength in both of us to keep calm and carry on when my husband and I flew over at Christmas, and it took even MORE strength in me to do the same in Seattle. It's just different when you're by yourself, and it's hugely different when you're dealing with a baby with special needs.
Still, Sunday beckons, and with it the enticing invitation to appear on BBC Radio. I'm naturally a night owl so I'm actually really, really looking forward to drinking loads of Diet Coke and staying awake until the wee small hours. And I'll have a fantastic, legitimate reason for poking my husband to get out of bed in the morning to deal with Little O's vomit/poo/screaming, because I'll have been working until 3am.
It's amazing that I consider that 'a break'.
Tina.
Monday, August 23, 2010
My Pookie Bear II
(First section is here)
So, Little O was born on Sunday, 17th May 2010. After we got settled in that night and I'd been escorted to my post-partum room (no wheelchair for ME! I am a big brave warrior and wobbled my way there on my own two feet), I allowed my brother-in-law and his girlfriend to come in to my room and discuss in some detail how the birth had gone and what we were expecting to happen next. After they left I learnt how to express milk for my new baby (WHAT a palaver) and spent the night visiting him in his special care nursery, using the breast pump, and trying to get some sleep - which wasn't easy, given I was incredibly hyper, overtired, and sleeping on the hardest bed known to mankind.
Anyway, the next day I got up and toddled down to the nursery again, only to find there was a middle-aged woman with grey hair peering at my son over spectacles. She introduced herself as Dr. B, a geneticist, and talked my husband and I through her 'findings'. Seeing as I'd never even heard of a geneticist, much less asked for one to analyse my beautiful baby, I was a little surprised and offended by her assumptions that Little O had a genetic condition. She discussed the fact he kept his fists closed, had an ear tag, inguinal hernias, a grade-II intraventricular haemorrhage, funny little feet, very small eye openings (and didn't open his eyes until he was a week old, although we didn't know that yet), a small mouth, cleft palate, wasn't coping very well with feedings on his own, and the fact he was five weeks premature. Slowly my husband and I took all this in, but the more she talked and the more I thought about my own family's history, the more I came to understand that she might be right. We agreed to have our own blood tested to compare to Little O's once I was discharged, and returned to a flurry of excited visitors and concerned phone calls from far-flung family members. I also got to hold him that evening for the first time since the birth.
The next day I went down to the special care nursery to drop off that morning's expressed milk, and found a number of doctors and nurses surrounding Little O's incubator. Someone pointed out that I was the mother, and someone else (a doctor, I think, although I can't remember who) told me to sit down. They told me something about Little O having seizures, and all I can remember is looking at this tiny creature I was no longer allowed to touch (that nurse bitch Debbie - I'll never, ever forgive her for denying me this basic human right when I was so distressed) and praying to God that I wouldn't lose him. I went back to my room when they ordered some tests for Little O and I called my husband, bawling down the phone. He legged it up there, and we spent the rest of the day talking to specialists, nurses, and the hospital chaplain about our son's condition. I will forever be indebted to the kindness of that chaplain. Her name was Beth and she was the most wonderful creature to the two distraught parents in her care; patient, kind, not pushy with her faith, and she spent time every morning for the next week visiting Little O and praying at his bedside.
I was discharged on that Tuesday as I was healing very well. I'd only had one really wobbly moment: the day before. I was showing some friends our new baby in the special care nursery, and had been standing up for far too long and trying to do too much. I had to call out for a chair before I fainted, which was rather dramatic at the time, but I lost very little blood overall and felt well enough to walk out when I was released from hospital. After kissing my baby's hand over and over again before we left, I think a nurse took pity on us and arranged for a separate room to be available opposite the nursery that we could use as a 'base' while we waited for developments. We could sleep overnight there if we wanted to (which we did, only once) and it was a private and peaceful place for us to eat, recuperate, and for me to express milk and put my now-hugely-swollen ankles up.
The next week was a complete and utter blur. We went to the geneticist's office to have blood samples taken and were told the results would take a little time; and we spent many, many hours meeting with new doctors and talking to family about Little O's condition. My husband had to go back to work on Thursday, so I spent the rest of the time expressing milk (an arduous process, and one it pains me to remember), demanding to hold my baby, putting my ankles up, and watching Nancy Grace on daytime-TV (eugh). By Sunday morning things were looking up, and people were telling me Little O could probably go home by Wednesday or Thursday; however, that evening his seizures got worse. He would spend over an hour just shaking and jumping at a time, and for a tiny premature body that's incredibly wearing. The doctors looked very serious and ordered more tests, and the nurse in charge suggested we stay the night in case things got worse.
You can imagine the effect a statement like that had on us. We COMPLETELY freaked out, thinking we were about to lose this perfect-looking person we'd only known for a week, and we spent the whole night either in tears or waiting for news. At 3am a nurse knocked on our room door and told us Little O's oxygen levels had dropped dramatically, and that they'd had to put him on a nasal canular. By 8am they'd given him so much phenobarbital (an anti-seizure medication) that he was woozy and not very responsive, and by 10am it was decided that he should be transferred to another, more capable, hospital.
They sent for a specialist paediatric ambulance to transfer a week-old-baby to the new unit, and while we waited for it to arrive I just sat there by his tiny bed, rocking him and singing to him and crying my fucking eyes out. I was absolutely terrified. The nurses were incredibly supportive (except Debbie, bitch) and allowed me to spend as much time with him as I needed to, but when the ambulance crew arrived with their horrific-looking portable incubator I just lost it. I cried like you'd never heard a woman cry before, and I refused to let my baby go. He was so tiny, and so beautiful, and giving him away to strangers felt absolutely barbaric. I'm normally very capable and very calm under pressure, but they say you don't know love until you look your first child in the eye, and they're right. My heart just broke. The new hospital, St Joseph's, had sent over a senior nurse to accompany Little O, and she must have seen how distressed I was because she began to mother me herself. She became very calm and comforting, and yet she also took charge enough of the situation to allow me to feel secure in putting Little O into that yellow machine. (Later on, when my husband and I arrived at St Joe's, the same nurse told me she thought I hated her for taking my baby away. She wasn't far off the truth...)
I hate the fact that my child's first experience of being in the outside world was being driven to another hospital in an ambulance. I hate it, but there wasn't a lot that could be done. He needed more intensive care, and the only way to achieve that was to trust strangers to drive carefully while they moved him. I still shudder and give myself nightmares thinking about if there'd been an accident on the way; I would never, ever have forgiven myself.
Regardless of the how, why, or when, Little O's new home was at the St Joseph's Hopital NICU. He transferred there on Monday, 24th May 2010, and would stay there for the next two and a half weeks.
More to come...
Tina.
So, Little O was born on Sunday, 17th May 2010. After we got settled in that night and I'd been escorted to my post-partum room (no wheelchair for ME! I am a big brave warrior and wobbled my way there on my own two feet), I allowed my brother-in-law and his girlfriend to come in to my room and discuss in some detail how the birth had gone and what we were expecting to happen next. After they left I learnt how to express milk for my new baby (WHAT a palaver) and spent the night visiting him in his special care nursery, using the breast pump, and trying to get some sleep - which wasn't easy, given I was incredibly hyper, overtired, and sleeping on the hardest bed known to mankind.
Anyway, the next day I got up and toddled down to the nursery again, only to find there was a middle-aged woman with grey hair peering at my son over spectacles. She introduced herself as Dr. B, a geneticist, and talked my husband and I through her 'findings'. Seeing as I'd never even heard of a geneticist, much less asked for one to analyse my beautiful baby, I was a little surprised and offended by her assumptions that Little O had a genetic condition. She discussed the fact he kept his fists closed, had an ear tag, inguinal hernias, a grade-II intraventricular haemorrhage, funny little feet, very small eye openings (and didn't open his eyes until he was a week old, although we didn't know that yet), a small mouth, cleft palate, wasn't coping very well with feedings on his own, and the fact he was five weeks premature. Slowly my husband and I took all this in, but the more she talked and the more I thought about my own family's history, the more I came to understand that she might be right. We agreed to have our own blood tested to compare to Little O's once I was discharged, and returned to a flurry of excited visitors and concerned phone calls from far-flung family members. I also got to hold him that evening for the first time since the birth.
The next day I went down to the special care nursery to drop off that morning's expressed milk, and found a number of doctors and nurses surrounding Little O's incubator. Someone pointed out that I was the mother, and someone else (a doctor, I think, although I can't remember who) told me to sit down. They told me something about Little O having seizures, and all I can remember is looking at this tiny creature I was no longer allowed to touch (that nurse bitch Debbie - I'll never, ever forgive her for denying me this basic human right when I was so distressed) and praying to God that I wouldn't lose him. I went back to my room when they ordered some tests for Little O and I called my husband, bawling down the phone. He legged it up there, and we spent the rest of the day talking to specialists, nurses, and the hospital chaplain about our son's condition. I will forever be indebted to the kindness of that chaplain. Her name was Beth and she was the most wonderful creature to the two distraught parents in her care; patient, kind, not pushy with her faith, and she spent time every morning for the next week visiting Little O and praying at his bedside.
I was discharged on that Tuesday as I was healing very well. I'd only had one really wobbly moment: the day before. I was showing some friends our new baby in the special care nursery, and had been standing up for far too long and trying to do too much. I had to call out for a chair before I fainted, which was rather dramatic at the time, but I lost very little blood overall and felt well enough to walk out when I was released from hospital. After kissing my baby's hand over and over again before we left, I think a nurse took pity on us and arranged for a separate room to be available opposite the nursery that we could use as a 'base' while we waited for developments. We could sleep overnight there if we wanted to (which we did, only once) and it was a private and peaceful place for us to eat, recuperate, and for me to express milk and put my now-hugely-swollen ankles up.
The next week was a complete and utter blur. We went to the geneticist's office to have blood samples taken and were told the results would take a little time; and we spent many, many hours meeting with new doctors and talking to family about Little O's condition. My husband had to go back to work on Thursday, so I spent the rest of the time expressing milk (an arduous process, and one it pains me to remember), demanding to hold my baby, putting my ankles up, and watching Nancy Grace on daytime-TV (eugh). By Sunday morning things were looking up, and people were telling me Little O could probably go home by Wednesday or Thursday; however, that evening his seizures got worse. He would spend over an hour just shaking and jumping at a time, and for a tiny premature body that's incredibly wearing. The doctors looked very serious and ordered more tests, and the nurse in charge suggested we stay the night in case things got worse.
You can imagine the effect a statement like that had on us. We COMPLETELY freaked out, thinking we were about to lose this perfect-looking person we'd only known for a week, and we spent the whole night either in tears or waiting for news. At 3am a nurse knocked on our room door and told us Little O's oxygen levels had dropped dramatically, and that they'd had to put him on a nasal canular. By 8am they'd given him so much phenobarbital (an anti-seizure medication) that he was woozy and not very responsive, and by 10am it was decided that he should be transferred to another, more capable, hospital.
They sent for a specialist paediatric ambulance to transfer a week-old-baby to the new unit, and while we waited for it to arrive I just sat there by his tiny bed, rocking him and singing to him and crying my fucking eyes out. I was absolutely terrified. The nurses were incredibly supportive (except Debbie, bitch) and allowed me to spend as much time with him as I needed to, but when the ambulance crew arrived with their horrific-looking portable incubator I just lost it. I cried like you'd never heard a woman cry before, and I refused to let my baby go. He was so tiny, and so beautiful, and giving him away to strangers felt absolutely barbaric. I'm normally very capable and very calm under pressure, but they say you don't know love until you look your first child in the eye, and they're right. My heart just broke. The new hospital, St Joseph's, had sent over a senior nurse to accompany Little O, and she must have seen how distressed I was because she began to mother me herself. She became very calm and comforting, and yet she also took charge enough of the situation to allow me to feel secure in putting Little O into that yellow machine. (Later on, when my husband and I arrived at St Joe's, the same nurse told me she thought I hated her for taking my baby away. She wasn't far off the truth...)
I hate the fact that my child's first experience of being in the outside world was being driven to another hospital in an ambulance. I hate it, but there wasn't a lot that could be done. He needed more intensive care, and the only way to achieve that was to trust strangers to drive carefully while they moved him. I still shudder and give myself nightmares thinking about if there'd been an accident on the way; I would never, ever have forgiven myself.
Regardless of the how, why, or when, Little O's new home was at the St Joseph's Hopital NICU. He transferred there on Monday, 24th May 2010, and would stay there for the next two and a half weeks.
More to come...
Tina.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Stop being SO SMUG!
Money troubles are really starting to get to me. Although Mike's salary can handle the mortgage and bills, if we want to ever have any fun then we need something extra coming in: namely, ME working. My usual client isn't sending any projects my way at the moment, and no-one else is biting when I send out e-mails and make enquiries.
So, while we wait for other people to figure out how much of a fuckin' genius I am at making their work look brilliant, we have to figure out some ways to cut costs. We're not massive spenders, to be honest (I can't remember the last time I bought a new piece of clothing), and most of our 'fun' money goes on the odd meal at Subway or buying new clothes for Little O because he grows like a weed. Actually, he hasn't gained a single ounce in the last three months so we haven't needed any clothes recently, but the tales about his weight gains and losses are enough to fill an entirely new post, so I'll leave it there.
One of the things we've considered doing to save money is investing in cloth diapers. I KNOW they're called nappies in the UK, but if I'm going to start translating British and American English every time I mention them then things will get very boring, so please just accept that Little O knows his bum-coverings as diapers, and we'll all be happy. So yes, cloth diapers. I've read a lot about them recently, but until Little O turned a year old, we had no time to devote to extra piles of laundry and we've simply chosen the more convenient route. I think you'd find it hard to argue that we didn't deserve a little convenience in his first year....
So yesterday we started looking at purchasing some cloth diapers for real. I went on to the Fuzzi Bunz website and had a poke around, watching the helpful 'care for' and 'application' videos, and generally cooing over all the lovely little baby bottoms wearing fluffy, colourful diapers. However, nowhere on this website does it give prices, so you have to explore their sellers and distributors for a break down in costs. I went to the Fuzzi Bunz Store website and was excited to see they sell packages of cloth diapers to save customers money. "Whoo hoo!", I thought. "This will be A LOT cheaper than buying disposibles!"
Oh, how wrong I was. Numerous websites recommend buying four- to five-dozen cloth diapers so that you can do a completely separate load of laundry for them and not risk ruining your silk sheets with baby poop and extreme temperatures (one load hot, one load freezing cold). Have enough, and you can spend only one or two days a week washing diapers, while your little one wears the dry ones. So, when I was looking at costs, this figure of four- to five-dozen was firmly in my mind, and I went straight to the packages of 18 or 24 diapers to do some calculations.
18 One-size Fuzzi Bunz: $284.25
24 One-size Fuzzi Bunz : $442.80
(NOT including sales tax)
If you want to buy the recommended four- to five-dozen diapers, then you're looking at start-up costs for JUST DIAPERS of at least $1,000!! Then you have to consider how to store dirty diapers (handy diaper pails or some smart drawstring pouches for about $15 each), how to wash dirty diapers (two washes: one hot, one cold), how to dry diapers in the horrible winters we have (tumble drier), and then all the other incremental costs like wipes, spare pads, paper liners ($7 for 100) that you don't necessarily NEED, but they make the cloth diapering experience much less stressful.
So... to get us up and running, we'd be looking at around $1,000 to $1,200. The diapers are one-size, which is nice, and they'd last us until Little O potty-trains (if he's capable of it - we don't know yet), but we'd still have a larger water and electricity bill every month, as well as purchasing paper liners and wipes. So every month we'd probably be forking out an extra $20 anyway.
Generic, Target-brand diapers are $13.82 for 82 size four disposible diapers. We get through a box about every three weeks, so our monthly out-goings for diapers is about $20, and that's being generous. Wipes are bought in massive, commercial-size boxes containing nine packages for about $9. We go through one box about every six months, so our wipes cost us about $1.30 a month.
Let's run some numbers for the next two years, assuming it will take us that long to potty-train Little O.
Cloth diapers: Year One (12 months)
$1,000 start-up
$15.60 wipes
$12.00 spare pads (9)
$84.00 paper liners (100 liners for $7)
$30 - $50 extra water and electricity
= $1,161.60
Cloth diapers: Year Two (12 months)
$15.60 wipes
$84.00 paper liners
$30 - $50 extra water and electricity
= $149.60
TOTAL for two years: $1,311.20
Disposible diapers: Year One (12 months)
$240 diapers
$15.60 wipes
= $255.60
Disposible diapers: Year Two (12 months)
$240 diapers
$15.60 wipes
= $255.60
TOTAL for two years: $511.20
DID YOU READ THAT?! We would actually spend nearly THREE TIMES as much on cloth diapers if we made the switch! That's quite remarkable.
I have a theory on cloth diapers and the people who buy them. Parents can be a little... smug... sometimes. We hit upon a magic formula (and I'm as guilty as the rest of them - Little O sleeps like a fuckin' baby and everyone remarks on how well we must have taught him) and we like to feel that our parenting skills are infinitely superior to everyone else's. Parents who spend a large of money upfront on cloth diapers watch other parents throwing disposible diapers in the shopping cart every month and feel VERY, VERY smug. They forget, of course, that they spent a thousand dollars when their child was first born, and they forget how much extra water and electricity they use because it's absorbed in to their household costs.
Handily chosing to ignore the enviromental impact of disposible diapers (and this is actually a major concern for me, living half a mile from a landfill), I'd have to say that the myths about costs and convenience are just ludicrous. Even if you invested in one-size diapers and used them for two children (presumably buying a few more because you still need that four- to five-dozen per child), you're still looking at extraordinary costs. Yes, Fuzzi Bunz are in the premier league of cloth diapers and there are cheaper brands available, but if you're the type of parent who's going to invest in your baby's comfort, your own sense of smugness, and saving the environment, wouldn't you go for the brand that offers the most convenience, cuteness and brand-security? I would.
So, cloth diapering families, stop being SO SMUG! You are NOT saving any money! Perhaps if I believed in buying Pampers or Huggies the pricing would work out more in your favour, but I don't. My son craps in his diapers so we only buy generic brands, and I'm afraid that this equation just doesn't add up.
The next person who tells me they save $4,000 a year by cloth diapering will get an earful. And a small lapel pin that says: "I am a self-righteous cloth diapering prick".
Tina.
So, while we wait for other people to figure out how much of a fuckin' genius I am at making their work look brilliant, we have to figure out some ways to cut costs. We're not massive spenders, to be honest (I can't remember the last time I bought a new piece of clothing), and most of our 'fun' money goes on the odd meal at Subway or buying new clothes for Little O because he grows like a weed. Actually, he hasn't gained a single ounce in the last three months so we haven't needed any clothes recently, but the tales about his weight gains and losses are enough to fill an entirely new post, so I'll leave it there.
One of the things we've considered doing to save money is investing in cloth diapers. I KNOW they're called nappies in the UK, but if I'm going to start translating British and American English every time I mention them then things will get very boring, so please just accept that Little O knows his bum-coverings as diapers, and we'll all be happy. So yes, cloth diapers. I've read a lot about them recently, but until Little O turned a year old, we had no time to devote to extra piles of laundry and we've simply chosen the more convenient route. I think you'd find it hard to argue that we didn't deserve a little convenience in his first year....
So yesterday we started looking at purchasing some cloth diapers for real. I went on to the Fuzzi Bunz website and had a poke around, watching the helpful 'care for' and 'application' videos, and generally cooing over all the lovely little baby bottoms wearing fluffy, colourful diapers. However, nowhere on this website does it give prices, so you have to explore their sellers and distributors for a break down in costs. I went to the Fuzzi Bunz Store website and was excited to see they sell packages of cloth diapers to save customers money. "Whoo hoo!", I thought. "This will be A LOT cheaper than buying disposibles!"
Oh, how wrong I was. Numerous websites recommend buying four- to five-dozen cloth diapers so that you can do a completely separate load of laundry for them and not risk ruining your silk sheets with baby poop and extreme temperatures (one load hot, one load freezing cold). Have enough, and you can spend only one or two days a week washing diapers, while your little one wears the dry ones. So, when I was looking at costs, this figure of four- to five-dozen was firmly in my mind, and I went straight to the packages of 18 or 24 diapers to do some calculations.
18 One-size Fuzzi Bunz: $284.25
24 One-size Fuzzi Bunz : $442.80
(NOT including sales tax)
If you want to buy the recommended four- to five-dozen diapers, then you're looking at start-up costs for JUST DIAPERS of at least $1,000!! Then you have to consider how to store dirty diapers (handy diaper pails or some smart drawstring pouches for about $15 each), how to wash dirty diapers (two washes: one hot, one cold), how to dry diapers in the horrible winters we have (tumble drier), and then all the other incremental costs like wipes, spare pads, paper liners ($7 for 100) that you don't necessarily NEED, but they make the cloth diapering experience much less stressful.
So... to get us up and running, we'd be looking at around $1,000 to $1,200. The diapers are one-size, which is nice, and they'd last us until Little O potty-trains (if he's capable of it - we don't know yet), but we'd still have a larger water and electricity bill every month, as well as purchasing paper liners and wipes. So every month we'd probably be forking out an extra $20 anyway.
Generic, Target-brand diapers are $13.82 for 82 size four disposible diapers. We get through a box about every three weeks, so our monthly out-goings for diapers is about $20, and that's being generous. Wipes are bought in massive, commercial-size boxes containing nine packages for about $9. We go through one box about every six months, so our wipes cost us about $1.30 a month.
Let's run some numbers for the next two years, assuming it will take us that long to potty-train Little O.
Cloth diapers: Year One (12 months)
$1,000 start-up
$15.60 wipes
$12.00 spare pads (9)
$84.00 paper liners (100 liners for $7)
$30 - $50 extra water and electricity
= $1,161.60
Cloth diapers: Year Two (12 months)
$15.60 wipes
$84.00 paper liners
$30 - $50 extra water and electricity
= $149.60
TOTAL for two years: $1,311.20
Disposible diapers: Year One (12 months)
$240 diapers
$15.60 wipes
= $255.60
Disposible diapers: Year Two (12 months)
$240 diapers
$15.60 wipes
= $255.60
TOTAL for two years: $511.20
DID YOU READ THAT?! We would actually spend nearly THREE TIMES as much on cloth diapers if we made the switch! That's quite remarkable.
I have a theory on cloth diapers and the people who buy them. Parents can be a little... smug... sometimes. We hit upon a magic formula (and I'm as guilty as the rest of them - Little O sleeps like a fuckin' baby and everyone remarks on how well we must have taught him) and we like to feel that our parenting skills are infinitely superior to everyone else's. Parents who spend a large of money upfront on cloth diapers watch other parents throwing disposible diapers in the shopping cart every month and feel VERY, VERY smug. They forget, of course, that they spent a thousand dollars when their child was first born, and they forget how much extra water and electricity they use because it's absorbed in to their household costs.
Handily chosing to ignore the enviromental impact of disposible diapers (and this is actually a major concern for me, living half a mile from a landfill), I'd have to say that the myths about costs and convenience are just ludicrous. Even if you invested in one-size diapers and used them for two children (presumably buying a few more because you still need that four- to five-dozen per child), you're still looking at extraordinary costs. Yes, Fuzzi Bunz are in the premier league of cloth diapers and there are cheaper brands available, but if you're the type of parent who's going to invest in your baby's comfort, your own sense of smugness, and saving the environment, wouldn't you go for the brand that offers the most convenience, cuteness and brand-security? I would.
So, cloth diapering families, stop being SO SMUG! You are NOT saving any money! Perhaps if I believed in buying Pampers or Huggies the pricing would work out more in your favour, but I don't. My son craps in his diapers so we only buy generic brands, and I'm afraid that this equation just doesn't add up.
The next person who tells me they save $4,000 a year by cloth diapering will get an earful. And a small lapel pin that says: "I am a self-righteous cloth diapering prick".
Tina.
Friday, July 23, 2010
But you look ridiculous...
It has occurred to me this past week that people with tanned skin look utterly ridiculous. Not naturally-tanned or dark skin, like my husband (as he frequently reminds me of his 1/16th Native American blood from his mother's side), but people who are naturally fair-skinned like me.
I went to see my therapist yesterday evening for the first appointment in three weeks. I think that means I'm starting to get better, but it does seem that as soon as I get rid of one set of issues, another set leaps up to take their place. Last night for example, we explored money troubles and having a second child, and I came away feeling really exposed. I always look forward to my sessions for a chance to talk about ME for an hour (well, who wouldn't?), but I always come away feeling as though there were a hundred things I wanted to say and didn't. I'm now even MORE worried about money and LESS convinced having another baby is right for us psychologically at the moment. I think we're still going to put the plan in to action in September, but I will have to have had more work coming in if we're going to afford it.
ANYWAY, my therapist has clearly been in the sun recently. She's in her 50s with silver grey hair, and I'm afraid to say that her skin colour did not suit her at all. I'm used to seeing all the Wisconsin-ites have pale, flushed skin from the hard winters we have, so it's a bit weird seeing all these bronzed bodies come out this time of year. We live about ten minutes from a beach on Lake Michigan, and if you walk down there on a sunny day you'll find the entire town baking in the heat and turning various shades of lobster and bronze. Now that I spend most of my time outside keeping my me and my son OUT of the sun because of our matching ivory complexions (heh heh), it all just seems really odd. Why would you deliberately want to damage yourself like that? Why would you risk skin cancer, premature ageing, and even just a terrible sunburn, all for the sake of looking brown and shiny? I don't get it.
They're running a campaign on the Style Network at the moment to get people to cover up and wear sun protection outside. The most startling commercial is of a small child (could be a boy or a girl - it's wearing frilly blue underwear and no top) playing near the sea, and the words that run on the screen are something like: "One blistering sunburn in childhood doubles the risk of skin cancer as an adult." The child then hears its mother's voice telling it to come back inside and it runs off. I WAS that child. I had so many, many cases of sunburn and heatstroke as a child that I've forgotten them all. I know I have to be careful in the sun now, and I'm extra-cautious about Little O. I don't think I'm at a particularly high risk for skin cancer anymore as I deliberately take precautions (hellooooo, factor 50), but it does make me afraid for my babies. I want to be here for them as they grow old, and getting my skin to tan seems like it's a sure-fire way to prevent that from happening.
Don't get me wrong: I'm not the type of person to wear long sleeves and high necklines to avoid ANY sun exposure; I just make sure when we're out and about that we stay close to the shade and wear suncream. I love a moderate heat (nothing above 30C/90F) and will happily take Little O to the beach on sunny days, but I just think we all need to be a bit more sensible. That story in the UK about the tiny baby in Brighton blistering with second-degree burns while his mother sunbathed on the beach made my heart break. I don't blame the mother for anything other than stupidity, because it is hard to protect a child under six months from the sun as suncream is only suitable for children over that age. You don't want to stop a woman from having fun on the beach with her baby, but someone really should have pointed out the dangers to her child sooner. If she wasn't aware of how much damage could be done then she needed educating. But then, I think we all do.
Little O is currently laying here on the floor next to me, hitting himself in the head with a plastic drum lid. Oh yes, that's my child.
Tina.
I went to see my therapist yesterday evening for the first appointment in three weeks. I think that means I'm starting to get better, but it does seem that as soon as I get rid of one set of issues, another set leaps up to take their place. Last night for example, we explored money troubles and having a second child, and I came away feeling really exposed. I always look forward to my sessions for a chance to talk about ME for an hour (well, who wouldn't?), but I always come away feeling as though there were a hundred things I wanted to say and didn't. I'm now even MORE worried about money and LESS convinced having another baby is right for us psychologically at the moment. I think we're still going to put the plan in to action in September, but I will have to have had more work coming in if we're going to afford it.
ANYWAY, my therapist has clearly been in the sun recently. She's in her 50s with silver grey hair, and I'm afraid to say that her skin colour did not suit her at all. I'm used to seeing all the Wisconsin-ites have pale, flushed skin from the hard winters we have, so it's a bit weird seeing all these bronzed bodies come out this time of year. We live about ten minutes from a beach on Lake Michigan, and if you walk down there on a sunny day you'll find the entire town baking in the heat and turning various shades of lobster and bronze. Now that I spend most of my time outside keeping my me and my son OUT of the sun because of our matching ivory complexions (heh heh), it all just seems really odd. Why would you deliberately want to damage yourself like that? Why would you risk skin cancer, premature ageing, and even just a terrible sunburn, all for the sake of looking brown and shiny? I don't get it.
They're running a campaign on the Style Network at the moment to get people to cover up and wear sun protection outside. The most startling commercial is of a small child (could be a boy or a girl - it's wearing frilly blue underwear and no top) playing near the sea, and the words that run on the screen are something like: "One blistering sunburn in childhood doubles the risk of skin cancer as an adult." The child then hears its mother's voice telling it to come back inside and it runs off. I WAS that child. I had so many, many cases of sunburn and heatstroke as a child that I've forgotten them all. I know I have to be careful in the sun now, and I'm extra-cautious about Little O. I don't think I'm at a particularly high risk for skin cancer anymore as I deliberately take precautions (hellooooo, factor 50), but it does make me afraid for my babies. I want to be here for them as they grow old, and getting my skin to tan seems like it's a sure-fire way to prevent that from happening.
Don't get me wrong: I'm not the type of person to wear long sleeves and high necklines to avoid ANY sun exposure; I just make sure when we're out and about that we stay close to the shade and wear suncream. I love a moderate heat (nothing above 30C/90F) and will happily take Little O to the beach on sunny days, but I just think we all need to be a bit more sensible. That story in the UK about the tiny baby in Brighton blistering with second-degree burns while his mother sunbathed on the beach made my heart break. I don't blame the mother for anything other than stupidity, because it is hard to protect a child under six months from the sun as suncream is only suitable for children over that age. You don't want to stop a woman from having fun on the beach with her baby, but someone really should have pointed out the dangers to her child sooner. If she wasn't aware of how much damage could be done then she needed educating. But then, I think we all do.
Little O is currently laying here on the floor next to me, hitting himself in the head with a plastic drum lid. Oh yes, that's my child.
Tina.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Clingy... like cling film...
No idea where this has come from, but Little O has officially decided he's a Mama's Boy. Well... yes, actually I do know where it's come from because I spend almost 24 hours a day with the chap, but this latest desire to be-with-you-Mama-all-the-time-where-are-you-going-don't-leave-me-waaaaaaaaaaaaah! is somewhat unexpected nonetheless.
Little O has never shown any signs of being clingy towards either me or Mike until recently. I have always attributed this good fortune to several factors: a) he was in the NICU for three and a half weeks, so apart from the 10-12 hours a day I was up there by his bedside, he had to get used to not being around his parents pretty quickly; b) he spends a lot of time with therapists, doctors, nurses, and other 'important' people, so being handled by strangers seems very normal to him; and c) I'm always with him! He has never HAD to be clingy, because he's always been assured that even when I leave him to shower or make some lunch, I'll be back very quickly.
I've been a member of the local gym for two weeks now and I'm starting to get a bit fitter. One of the reasons I keep going back (been six times in ten days so far) is not that I'm immune to being lazy or sore, but that you have to book childcare 24 hours in advance. They organise their staffing ratios around how many kids will be there, so if you fail to show up they charge you anyway. It's only $1 a time, but it's MY $1 and I want to make use of it! So I've started scheduling gym sessions for 10am fairly often, and Owen has been attending childcare every time. Recently he's begun to cry... not when I leave him... but when I return. It's as though he's just figured out I've left him for a period of time and he wants to let me know he's annoyed at me. He's also started crying when I leave the room he's in at home, even if it's only for a few seconds. I think being separated from me at the gym is started to affect him, and he's getting concerned that I'll be leaving him for longer and longer.
While I think it's rather nice to be needed (and I do enjoy the fact that a kiss and a cuddle from me can calm him instantly), this has had a rather unpleasant side-effect. Little O has started to nap during his lunch, which means he's tube fed for a few hours while he sleeps. Now, putting him in to his bed at nighttime is never usually an issue, because he's tired and it's dark, and I sing to him and talk to him before closing the door and going downstairs. It's exactly the same routine, every night, and he's reassured and comforted enough to just lay his head down and send himself off to sleep. Naptimes, however, are sporadic and stressful, and he's awake enough to think, "She's not coming back. It's daylight and I don't want to be alone", so he's started a pattern of sleeping for ten minutes, then waking up and yelling, then being soothed back to sleep by me, then sleeping for ten minutes, then waking up and yelling, then... you get the picture.
I swear upon my bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk lurking in J's suitcase that this is all, ALL, to do with putting him in childcare. But the kid has to get used to me not being there at SOME point. It might as well be for a few hours a week while I'm getting healthier not 30 feet away. I do wish he'd start napping properly though. It's very hard to keep his lunch inside him at the moment, because he usually yells hard enough to make himself throw up, but I can't just stop the pump running and let him go without. I just hope the extra few mls we're adding to his overnight feed are enough to compensate for all this nonsense and he starts gaining weight again soon.
In fact, he can gain all the weight I'm losing! That would be awesome. Freaky, but awesome.
Tina.
Little O has never shown any signs of being clingy towards either me or Mike until recently. I have always attributed this good fortune to several factors: a) he was in the NICU for three and a half weeks, so apart from the 10-12 hours a day I was up there by his bedside, he had to get used to not being around his parents pretty quickly; b) he spends a lot of time with therapists, doctors, nurses, and other 'important' people, so being handled by strangers seems very normal to him; and c) I'm always with him! He has never HAD to be clingy, because he's always been assured that even when I leave him to shower or make some lunch, I'll be back very quickly.
I've been a member of the local gym for two weeks now and I'm starting to get a bit fitter. One of the reasons I keep going back (been six times in ten days so far) is not that I'm immune to being lazy or sore, but that you have to book childcare 24 hours in advance. They organise their staffing ratios around how many kids will be there, so if you fail to show up they charge you anyway. It's only $1 a time, but it's MY $1 and I want to make use of it! So I've started scheduling gym sessions for 10am fairly often, and Owen has been attending childcare every time. Recently he's begun to cry... not when I leave him... but when I return. It's as though he's just figured out I've left him for a period of time and he wants to let me know he's annoyed at me. He's also started crying when I leave the room he's in at home, even if it's only for a few seconds. I think being separated from me at the gym is started to affect him, and he's getting concerned that I'll be leaving him for longer and longer.
While I think it's rather nice to be needed (and I do enjoy the fact that a kiss and a cuddle from me can calm him instantly), this has had a rather unpleasant side-effect. Little O has started to nap during his lunch, which means he's tube fed for a few hours while he sleeps. Now, putting him in to his bed at nighttime is never usually an issue, because he's tired and it's dark, and I sing to him and talk to him before closing the door and going downstairs. It's exactly the same routine, every night, and he's reassured and comforted enough to just lay his head down and send himself off to sleep. Naptimes, however, are sporadic and stressful, and he's awake enough to think, "She's not coming back. It's daylight and I don't want to be alone", so he's started a pattern of sleeping for ten minutes, then waking up and yelling, then being soothed back to sleep by me, then sleeping for ten minutes, then waking up and yelling, then... you get the picture.
I swear upon my bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk lurking in J's suitcase that this is all, ALL, to do with putting him in childcare. But the kid has to get used to me not being there at SOME point. It might as well be for a few hours a week while I'm getting healthier not 30 feet away. I do wish he'd start napping properly though. It's very hard to keep his lunch inside him at the moment, because he usually yells hard enough to make himself throw up, but I can't just stop the pump running and let him go without. I just hope the extra few mls we're adding to his overnight feed are enough to compensate for all this nonsense and he starts gaining weight again soon.
In fact, he can gain all the weight I'm losing! That would be awesome. Freaky, but awesome.
Tina.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
And repeat!
This week has been rather lovely for me and Owen because all three of his therapists have gone dun a bunk and he hasn't had any Speech, PT or OT. Which means I haven't had to clean the house in preparation for their visits (because, let's face it: if I didn't HAVE to clean the house, I WOULDN'T clean the house), and we've had some more free time than usual.
However.
Because this is the sixth month of the year, and because I am a diligent, organised parent, a lot of Owen's routine appointments have cropped up and I have chosen to attend them instead of buggering off on holiday for a week or seven. This has meant that two appointments, genetics and Stepping Stones, have occurred back-to-back in the same week. And neither of them are up at CHOW or at my own house, so it's kind of a bitch to get to them and remember how long they're going to take. Anyway, genetics was yesterday and aside from it being a colossal waste of time, it was rather nice to present my son to them and go, "SEE? Isn't he MARVELLOUS?", and for them to go, "Oh yes! What a lovely little boy you have there, and what a REMARKABLE job you're doing with him!" in return. Which is what always happens at these types of appointments. Honestly, I think there must be some real douchebag parents out there, because whenever I see any of Little O's specialists I'm always commended on my parenting skills - particularly my ability to remember which medications he takes, which doctors he sees, dates, times, and past medical history, all without referring to something I've written down.
The trick to remembering it all is quite simple: repeat. Often. At least once a week. Tell every doctor, therapist, nurse, specialist, interested friend, and family members as often as possible, because chances are they won't have remembered a single sodding thing from the last time they saw Little O, and haven't bothered to look at his chart before they entered the room. Trust me, you can get a reputation as an outstanding parent very quickly if you are forced to repeat, repeat, and repeat again your son's medical history every time he sees someone.
The thing is, I'm usually a wreck. Emotionally and physically, I'm a wreck. Because attending appointments means adhering to someone else's schedule, I always arrive looking and feeling completely frazzled. I can't remember the last time I bothered to dry my hair instead of sticking it up in a mess, and as for make-up or checking to see if my clothes are baby-fluid-free ... well ... let's just say they're low on my list of priorities. I turn up at least five minutes early, because to me "on-time" is late, and I have always, always busted a gut to get out of the house with a semi-clean Little O and chewy toys, wipes, diapers, special butt cream, clean t-shirts, clean trousers/shorts, several burp cloths, wallet, diary (planner), phone, car keys, and feeding supplies if they're needed (milk, water, bottles, extension tubing, 60cc syringe, 10ml syringe, bib, sippy cup, semi-solid food, bowl, spoon, plastic baggies, freezer pack, insulated bag). And it always takes me an hour to get to most of our appointments, so I have to shift Little O's feeds around to make sure he's done puking by the time I sit him in his car seat. It isn't fun pulling over on to the hard shoulder to mop him up; oh no, it isn't. Today for example, I was up at 6am just to make sure we arrived at our 10.30am Stepping Stones (SS) clinic appointment on time.
That, quite frankly, is ridiculous.
It's also ridiculous to ask me to add a single sodding thing to my already scheduled-to-death life. The therapists we see at SS all make very helpful suggestions whenever we go, and I'm always pleased to see them, but they make it sound SO simple and they need to know it isn't. Asking me to prepare fresh baby food instead of shop-bought is just not an option right now. I don't have the time to dry my hair, let alone mash some vegetables up! It's completely maddening and today I was kind of at the end of my tether. I sobbed quite a lot this morning before I left the house and I just didn't have the patience to sit through another "helpful suggestion", so I told them quite honestly the things I was, and wasn't, prepared to do. And making fresh food for a child who will not eat anything at all, is so low on my list of priorities that it doesn't even register.
Wait one sec ... this post is nowhere near finished, but Little O has a stinky bottom and the phone's ringing.
To be continued ...
Tina.
However.
Because this is the sixth month of the year, and because I am a diligent, organised parent, a lot of Owen's routine appointments have cropped up and I have chosen to attend them instead of buggering off on holiday for a week or seven. This has meant that two appointments, genetics and Stepping Stones, have occurred back-to-back in the same week. And neither of them are up at CHOW or at my own house, so it's kind of a bitch to get to them and remember how long they're going to take. Anyway, genetics was yesterday and aside from it being a colossal waste of time, it was rather nice to present my son to them and go, "SEE? Isn't he MARVELLOUS?", and for them to go, "Oh yes! What a lovely little boy you have there, and what a REMARKABLE job you're doing with him!" in return. Which is what always happens at these types of appointments. Honestly, I think there must be some real douchebag parents out there, because whenever I see any of Little O's specialists I'm always commended on my parenting skills - particularly my ability to remember which medications he takes, which doctors he sees, dates, times, and past medical history, all without referring to something I've written down.
The trick to remembering it all is quite simple: repeat. Often. At least once a week. Tell every doctor, therapist, nurse, specialist, interested friend, and family members as often as possible, because chances are they won't have remembered a single sodding thing from the last time they saw Little O, and haven't bothered to look at his chart before they entered the room. Trust me, you can get a reputation as an outstanding parent very quickly if you are forced to repeat, repeat, and repeat again your son's medical history every time he sees someone.
The thing is, I'm usually a wreck. Emotionally and physically, I'm a wreck. Because attending appointments means adhering to someone else's schedule, I always arrive looking and feeling completely frazzled. I can't remember the last time I bothered to dry my hair instead of sticking it up in a mess, and as for make-up or checking to see if my clothes are baby-fluid-free ... well ... let's just say they're low on my list of priorities. I turn up at least five minutes early, because to me "on-time" is late, and I have always, always busted a gut to get out of the house with a semi-clean Little O and chewy toys, wipes, diapers, special butt cream, clean t-shirts, clean trousers/shorts, several burp cloths, wallet, diary (planner), phone, car keys, and feeding supplies if they're needed (milk, water, bottles, extension tubing, 60cc syringe, 10ml syringe, bib, sippy cup, semi-solid food, bowl, spoon, plastic baggies, freezer pack, insulated bag). And it always takes me an hour to get to most of our appointments, so I have to shift Little O's feeds around to make sure he's done puking by the time I sit him in his car seat. It isn't fun pulling over on to the hard shoulder to mop him up; oh no, it isn't. Today for example, I was up at 6am just to make sure we arrived at our 10.30am Stepping Stones (SS) clinic appointment on time.
That, quite frankly, is ridiculous.
It's also ridiculous to ask me to add a single sodding thing to my already scheduled-to-death life. The therapists we see at SS all make very helpful suggestions whenever we go, and I'm always pleased to see them, but they make it sound SO simple and they need to know it isn't. Asking me to prepare fresh baby food instead of shop-bought is just not an option right now. I don't have the time to dry my hair, let alone mash some vegetables up! It's completely maddening and today I was kind of at the end of my tether. I sobbed quite a lot this morning before I left the house and I just didn't have the patience to sit through another "helpful suggestion", so I told them quite honestly the things I was, and wasn't, prepared to do. And making fresh food for a child who will not eat anything at all, is so low on my list of priorities that it doesn't even register.
Wait one sec ... this post is nowhere near finished, but Little O has a stinky bottom and the phone's ringing.
To be continued ...
Tina.
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