10 months down

I’ve started reading some blog posts this morning and it’s nice to know that sun has made an appearance elsewhere on the globe, but not here.  Aside from a few hours on Saturday, we’ve been staring at gray, lumpy clouds and continually putting on the rain gear.  It’s so tiring.  And I’ve looked at my calendar several times to make sure that this week is really, seriously, the week of the 4th, as I am convinced we are stuck in April’s shower cycle.

Today is Ian’s 10-month birthday! Lately, I’ve been a bit annoyed with myself because I’m not snapping as many photos of the little cutepants as I’d like.  I did, however, take a couple on Saturday at a bbq we were at, but every time I went to take Ian’s photo, he’d look/crawl/turn away.  So, I have two not so great photos.  I wish I got off my ass and went over to take pictures when Bub brought Ian over to meet a dog and he licked his face (and then licked Bub’s, too!).

In other Ian news, we still haven’t seen blood.  I have one more occult blood test card to do at home and another GI appointment in a few weeks.  I’d love for all the tests we did to come out negative.  Otherwise, it’s more testing…and discomfort for Ian to endure.  But for now, we pray and hope and forget as we enjoy little Ian. 

While still avoiding soy and dairy, we have managed to expand his repertoire of eating to include lime popsicles, spaghetti (complete with tomato sauce), crackers, and blueberries.  Also, this kid eats more fruit than I think I have in my lifetime.  On a nutritionist’s recommendation, we found freeze-dried apple and pear chips that are great for mixing with Cheerios or on their own.   

We are so looking forward to some beach time at the end of the week if the weather cooperates.  We have my parents’ place to visit, the lake in our town (and the season beach pass I was so happy I purchased which has gone unused…again, because of the rain), and the new baby pool.

Someday…we will get out there and see sun!

***Update*** So I can count on my friend Melissa, the one who had the bbq over the weekend, to supply me with pictures of Mr. Cutepants.  Thank goodness for a fancy camera to catch the quick-moving Ian! Thank you, Melissa!

a few feelings exposed

We are still battling with the blood in the stool issue (finding a little bit of blood in Ian’s poop that is likely attributed to/a sign of a milk and/or soy allergy) that I wrote about earlier and will not link to because it’s so frigging annoying that we can’t say with certainty what it’s from.  But we’re getting there.

I am not someone who is usually positive, unfortunately, and I’ve become very superstitious.  So, if I say something and it’s a good thing in which I should feel good about, this doesn’t mean that I feel the warm and fuzzy something that is usually attributed to all things good.  Does that even make sense?

For over a month now I haven’t seen blood which is a welcome change and is the longest time frame we’ve had this result since we first started seeing the red stuff, since Ian was two months old.  And for about seven months, we’ve been told this is an allergy, and for me to cut out the world from my diet as I nurse, and to keep nursing.  Next I was told to pump out my brains (milk) five times a day times four weeks while Ian consumes a wet French fry stinking drink that will cause him to lose weight because he fucking hates it.  And then I was told to go back to nursing and see if you can do so with the same intensity (nope) as before.  Next we’re told to try the cake batter smelling vanilla drink that costs eleven billion dollars of which insurance is telling us it’s not medically necessary for Ian to be on… But oh my God, Ian likes the stuff.  And finally, no blood sightings as of late.

But then we go see the GI doctor last week (where I came across as cheerful with the report of no blood sightings) and Ian had to endure yet another rectal exam for which he now gives venomous stares to the doctor as if to say how would you enjoy someone putting a finger up your behind to get poop samples? Just checking.

And yes, so there is blood we cannot see in such a sample.  And so yes, we were solid in our affirmation of doing something further, doing another test.  If Ian has what this test is looking for then surgery will have to correct it. 

How does one stay calm during this? Well, one stays calm because we have sat by for MONTHS as the doctor says he’s 95% sure it’s an allergy.  And I’m all for being positive (but see above to understand how that worked out for me), but if we have Ian on such a controlled diet and for many of those months he was only consuming the very expensive vanilla liquid, then how is it an allergic reaction?

So, my friends, today we found out that the test result is normal.  Ian doesn’t have this structural thing they tested for.  I am ECSTATIC! But we continue to do some head-banging (against the wall, not while rocking out) as to what is causing this red stuff to appear when Ian is happy, gaining weight, and looking like a toddler, not a baby whose bum is a little grouchy. 

Love always,

itsy bitsy mama

9 months, 4 days

You go through your pregnancy with the 40-week milestone wavering around in your mind as you anticipate what the birth will bring and who it is that you’ll be taking care of for the rest of your life.

Similarly, I’ve found the 40-week old mark for Ian to be notable since instead of growing in my tummy, he’s growing in the world and environment Bub and I have created for him.

We were in NY this past weekend and it was our longest trip away and our longest car ride to date.  Since I had to work I was exhausted times two, but the thoughts I had of Bub spending time with Ian walking around and having fun made the smiles appear as I paraded around to booths of a convention center.

I love you, Mr. Cutepants–

Love,

itsy bitsy mama

pity or not

I sit in the pew as I usually do, hoping Ian keeps himself entertained with one of the quieter toys I’ve brought.  As usual, I miss the point of the hour long ceremony I’ve been accustomed to subjecting myself to ever since I was a baby.  Not that I actually made the decision at birth to become a Catholic, but it runs deep into who I am given that my parents engraved this routine into my life each Sunday.

It’s something I try not to do, but I’m constantly distracted by the others who attend mass.  I am immediately drawn to an older man who I haven’t seen at the church we go to since we moved here two years ago.  I guess that he’s in his seventies and wonder if he’s new since the church is small, or if he’s like us, and makes it to church when he can.

I decide he takes pretty good care of himself well with seasonal and tasteful clothes, and has a good head of hair for an elderly man of this age.

I don’t notice him again until I realize that after communion he has made a mistake; he has returned to a seat in front of us, instead of two rows ahead where he was sitting for the majority of the time.

I immediately forget about him after the mass ends and we depart to the parking lot.  It’s when we are getting Ian into the car that I see the man again, wandering.  He is clearly unsure of where he’s parked, something I’m already confused about at twenty-nine years old, especially when I’m at the grocery store.

It’s not a fast process, getting Ian fastened into his seat when I realize this man is clearly not even sure he’s parked in either lot on both sides of the church.  I feel an immediate connection that this man could very well be my father in the years ahead, or even Bub.  Or, as I tell Bub, it could be me.

I know I must help him so I tell Bub to drive me closer to where he’s wandering off to.

The man has a quick pace and when I’ve started, like a stalker, to follow him on foot, I keep turning around to the slowly moving car behind me that Bub is driving.  I feel like my actions are that of a kidnapper even though I’m far from doing any such thing.

I finally reach him and he’s near another woman who is fumbling with something in her trunk.  The shy part of me is a little afraid to say something aloud to the man for fear she’ll hear and judge me.  But I know I have nothing to feel embarrassed about.

My instincts are right and the man does not know where his car is.  I tell him to hop in with us so we can bring him to it after he points out that the color of it is similar to a vehicle parked nearby.

He is grateful for our help and I feel a pang of sadness when Bub tells me he left his bulletin in our car.  I notice he has no wedding band on and I wonder if he’s returning to a home that is empty and without love.

I wish that he wasn’t alone and that someone is living with him who can make sure he doesn’t have to wander around often wondering who might help him. 

I tell Bub it was so easy to have him get in the car with us that I hope no one takes advantage of his confusion. 

I am not proud by my kindness but happy that I’ve brought back this stranger to something familiar, even if it is just a car.

guilt

Sometimes I wonder if I have this whole parenting thing down correctly.  I’m not sure how I feel as a mom.  I work from home while watching my son play on a mat with toys and I see in his eyes, as the minutes go by, a glimmer of “Why won’t you come play with me already?” and I feel guilty.

My alarm goes off in the morning and I press snooze and go back under the sheets for a few more seconds of rest.  I finally get up and rush through my shower before it’s time to push the bottle once more, dress and comb Ian’s hair, but my timing isn’t quite perfect and instead he watches me blow-dry my hair, a task that used to be entertaining to him.  Now, the hairdryer going is just something he stares at instead of looking off into space wondering when he can break free from the chains of the bouncer I have grown so accustomed to placing him in while I shower and apply moisturizer.

I feel guilty.

I’m exhausted from entertaining mandatory guests in our home.  After running around cleaning as my son sits in his highchair in the background clicking toys against one another and squealing at the maniac I’ve become to tidy it all up, the guests arrive, some late.  We feed them, sitting on the sidelines as Ian naps, and I watch everyone socialize.  This is my Sunday.  They finally leave, and I count the moments down as to when I can sit in peace, well after Ian has laughed his last chuckle for the day and drifts off to sleep.

I feel guilty.

I stand with an almost tremble as I twist my hands in one another in front of the daycare owner listing off the things I want them to do differently, what I want for them not to do at all.  I feel that I come across as bossy, anal.  I try to hide my concern, my irritation in my voice, but I am no good at it.

I feel guilty.

I play with Ian on the mat last night at home.  He is covered in random activities which show on his clothes: sweet potato splotches, sandbox grit, and he has the scent of the outdoors mixed with his vanilla drink and baby drool.  He is dirty.  I yearn to give him a bath immediately, before his last round of solid food before bed.  I know better than to bathe him and then feed him food that will end up on clean PJ’s and skin that is freshly moisturized.  I do it anyway.

We wait for the tub to fill and I take the moment to admire him in all the joy and glory he brings me each moment I am with him.  He is in just a diaper in his crib.  We’ve shared some laughs.  I spot a favorite mini cow under his crib. I go to grab it and he watches with intensity as I move to the opposite side from where he perches on his belly.  I pretend to be a mooing cow.  (I do not feel guilty.)

He army crawls over to me and we share a laugh different from the others.  A laugh my heart won’t forget.  He attempts to pull himself up to stand firmly with two feet.  I think to myself: soon enough.

We retire to the tub for playtime.  Ian learns what it means to splash water with each hand.  I focus on his new found fun and let the guilty accumulation melt down like the dirty water that will soon wash away.

falling short?

I have begun weaning Ian and I have to say it feels weird.  When he was first born, I put him to my breast and the rest is history.  The pain came and went and so began the nursing relationship.  He was an avid eater and devoured his pumped bottles when I returned to work.  Sure, pumping was a pain but that mostly came with the stress over whether I was producing enough and then there was the washing the same pump parts over and over again.

Then came the allergy woes and so begun the restriciton diet.  A diet I never though I’d survive.  A diet that I hope to not have to experience again for some time.  A diet that I returned to twice, but with the second time I was able to enjoy eggs and nuts.

A slight weight loss and a steady weight for a couple of months proved the fact that our nursing relationship had suffered when Ian had to try a special formula for allergies while I pumped around the clock to keep the milk flowing.  And so Neocate was tasted and hated, with its expensive, smelly odor.  It ruined my let-down and interrupted the bond I was genuinely enjoying with Ian.  After a month trial, I was granted permission to return to nursing but after so many dumped bottles of milk based off of potential allergy contamination and whatnot, I was not going to pump any more in addition to the five times I was while he was on Neocate.  So when I returned to nursing, I was not returning to the exclusivity of it.  I joined the supplemental world. 

The confusion set in.  Why drink this crap if Ian can have my milk? And then came the dismissal of any milk altogether.  A strike.  Then we started solids and it seemed like all we did was pry Ian’s little lips apart with the edges of baby utensils.  The joke was on us.  The blood in his stool kept up.  What to do? Try a new formula in line with the old one, but flavor it vanilla.  And something worked because Ian gained over a pound in two weeks.  And I felt that we were on to something great.  Except more blood and more frustration.  And then a trip to dinner this past weekend put a thought into my head.  For a mere (if that), bottle of my milk and failed nursing attempts since Ian is too busy, too distracted, not satisfied at the first suckle, to feed, then what, exactly, was I doing keeping up with the pumping? I’m having a relationship with my fucking pump here.  And Ian’s pediatrician is right: I’m missing out.

So here’s to the weaning of my son from the very thing I had hoped to continue until Ian’s first birthday.  I made it through maternity leave which was my first goal.  I passed the test, I can go on to the next thing.  And for now we’ll continue to tackle the potential allergy issue and hope and pray it is just that.

fresh

I hear a whimper break through the dream I was just in and wonder if it is real or will you fall back asleep.

I hear it again and wonder if I should wait again or get up immediately, remembering that nursing will not do and a bottle must be made.

Instead Bub gets out of bed and asks what to do.

The options are changing Ian’s diaper or making the bottle which is almost completely put together, the good thing about planning ahead the night before.

He opts to make the bottle and I decide to nurse anyway.  Instead, as if food is suddenly boring, Ian erupts into squeals of delight and it’s like we’ve never gone to sleep the past several hours and we’ve picked up right where we left off with laughter and tickles.

Today as everyone prepares to watch the marathon and its traditions, I will go to work as I have been the last seven years and catch the pride and sweat on the news later. 

When I leave work I won’t go to school to pick up my bundle, but I’ll rush in the other direction instead.  At home, I’ll find my mom and son basking in one another’s delight and realize the job I don’t get paid for is the best one I’ll ever have.

happy birthday

to me.

It’s the last year of my twenties and I’m not sure how I feel about that yet.  So far, the day has begun like any other day off–except I got two cards this morning, instead of one.  One from Bub and one from Ian. 

I’ve been trying to get out of the house, but bottles, pumping, nursing, dishes, playing, bathing, diaper changing, …., have all gotten the better of my time.  But that’s okay.  The little bug is napping.  The sun is shining and in an hour we’ll pick up “Dada” from the train and be on our way to Ian’s GI appointment.  Then I’ll most likely nit pick over everything that happens at the appointment and have a glass of wine. 

So many people push aside the fact that birthdays are just another day.  And I get why people say that.  But it’s a time for me to reflect on what I’ve done, who I am, and who I hope to become.  Right now, all I want is for Ian to be healthy.  He certainly demonstrates that he’s happy.  

Although it is just any other day, it’s one more day on this Earth to be.

planner

I am a planner.  I hate Microsoft Outlook calendars unless I’m forced to use it for work and there’s no getting around it since my boss is in love with me sending her invites for a time to talk–simply talk–about what I’m working on.  I get that she’s busy but why must every moment be scheduled? We sit so close yet we have to treat our time to meet (not a meeting, just a conversation) like it’s a big conference.  I digress.

My husband uses his phone to schedule things.  Fine.  I use my old-school planner.  A little diary I buy based on looks and functionality that I use a pen (gasp!) or a pencil (whoa!) to write my plans down in.

One of my pet peeves is when I make plans that a wrench is thrown in to mess it all up.  Then I feel extremely guilty when things do not go according plan because I am then labeled as “inflexible” and that makes me even more aggravated.

This past weekend was a good example when Bub’s parents were in town.  They did not tell us ahead of time that they were going to make the 8-hour drive and see us this weekend and yes, I should give them a break.  We don’t see them as much as my family who pops by any old time, too, but really, why am I the one left to make plans with people who all of a sudden decided to make a trip here? If you’re going to come visit on a whim, then make a plan and ask if we want to be included.  And my husband, who I love very much, I am not going to make plans for you and your parents–that’s for you to do, really.  I hate to sound all 2nd grader but it’s how I feel.  I make plans most of the time and organizing my life is something I can feel good about.

OK, vent over.

Moving on.  I am in a work rut.  I have a list of many to-do’s, yet I find that blogging is more important at this very moment.  Then I beat myself up because what sort of example is this for my kid? Oh, just procrastinate and be unmotivated and it will all work out? I need a good kick in the butt–on many levels.  More on the not being motivated part…I’m off the hell diet and it’s been 2 weeks of me eating my way through all the items I missed out on during Thanksgiving and Christmas (READ: anything sweet and bad for you).  So now the guilt is piled on thick and the fact that aside from some walks here and there my body wouldn’t know the inside of a gym if it got lost nor would it understand what I was doing to it if I, say, ran…

OK, bitchfest over.

spring fever and other bits

I feel like I owe an update on my daycare situation.  It’s been a while since I first posted about my skepticism about the place where I’m supposed to leave my precious bug for a good number of hours three times a week, every week.

I feel better.  I feel good.

Is everything perfect? Probably not, but I decided that I needed to remind myself that I’m a really sensitive person–and I should be when it comes to my son.  But if Ian is going to refuse a bottle and pout, there is only so much trying and wishing one can do that he take his bottle.  This became obvious to me when I started offering bottles before switching back to nursing and he refused them.  I thought, gee, this is what they were talking about at daycare.  I’ve decided to relax and chill.  And for the most part it’s worked.

Ian is painting and rolling and doing some pretty cool things at school.  And I like calling daycare “school” because it seems less forced that Ian needs daycare so I can go to work and more about him needing socialization and activities and learning.  I’m kind of glad he has daycare to open up his mind–meet and see new people–and do new things.  After all, I haven’t painted with him yet.  I haven’t stuck his little fingers into Jello to see his reaction, either.

So am I a cheerleader, now, for daycare? No…do I think I’d be happier if I were a stay at home mom…no…I always feel guilty when I think or say that, but I feel like having some responsiblity while Ian is at school is healthy for both of us as long as it’s on a part-time basis.

In other news, we’re trying to plan our summer vacation.  We might go north to the big old country of Canada.  It was Bub’s idea and not a bad one, but I feel in this weird position of where to go and what to do with my family–especially a young babe, but at the same time, Ian’s so young that whether or not the trip is family- oriented probably won’t make a difference since he’d be too small/young to really understand what is going on.  All I know is that swimming needs to be involved.  We are very close to signing him up for swimming lessons at the Y in the coming weeks.  I cannot wait to take him to the beach in the summer!

So please, give a few ideas for a car ride destination (we are in Boston and do not want to fly again so soon–too much stuff to haul…) that we can stay a few nights at with plenty of fun with a little one.

Finally, I hope no one is too hung over from any St. Patty’s Day festivities!!