Helpful Hint

Here is a helpful hint that I had to learn the hard way:

When, after you are so cosmically fortunate enough to, as a parent of four young children, not only get a babysitter, but obtain tickets and get out of the house two nights in one week to experience an amazing part of rock and roll history including the likes of not only Billy Joel, but also Tony Bennett, John Mayer, Don Henley, John Mellancamp, Garth Brooks, Steven freaking Tyler, Roger Daltrey AND Sir Paul McCartney, do not kid yourself into thinking that a night of "Kellogg's Pop Tarts Presents: American Idols Live" could ever come close. Even if you bring your amazingly too cute for words, totally starstruck, I wanna be a rock star six year old with you. Just don't do it. Stay home and clean your bathroom with baking soda and a toothbrush.

I bet Heloise has nothing to say about that.

Our House

I love our house. I really do. Sure, I complain about the ugly downstairs bathroom; the too-small deck; the too-big backyard; the old, ugly, "neighbors are starting a petition to have it replaced" fence; and of course, the bone sucking oil heat bills; but the house, the house I love. I fell in love with it the first day I walked through it when the previous owners held an open house and I proclaimed to Hubby that I "had to have it". It is not a mansion, it is not going to be appearing in the pages of Better Homes and Gardens, or even, Cottage Living; but it is ours and as such, I love it. That said, I really do not like my neighborhood. I have a great town, fabulous schools,etc. It's just my immediate neighborhood. It is so..un-neighborly.

Today we went to a friend's block party. An old fashioned, wash down the hot dog with a cold beer, block party. There were no bells or whistles anywhere, no DJ, no "bounce house", no balloon animals. And yet, it was so warm and friendly, kids running from house to house, so many baby strollers there could have been a bonny baby parade, it was a great party. I find myself being slightly...envious. (for the record, I believe envy is ugly, and I try very hard to avoid it)

I yearn for a block with lots of kids my kid's ages. I would love to know my neighbors by name, and not just them, but their in-laws and out-laws too. I want to have tons of kids converging on my house on a summer afternoon, muddying my kitchen floor in their quest for cold lemonade. I want to be able to let my kids ride their bikes down the block to see if their friend is home to play. I really, really want to have a block where every family celebrates Halloween, and I don't have to bribe anyone to come to my house by giving out full size candy bars and blasting the "Monster Mash" (although I probably still would).

Where I live everyone minds their business (which isn't necessarily a bad thing, I know). The people in the house right next door have not even said two words of congratulations for the birth of Paddy boy, much less Dexter, in spite of my sending them a birth announcement and waving "hello" every time we happen to be out front at the same time. There are neighbors three doors down who could be standing next to me in line at the grocery store and I wouldn't even know it. Four doors down I am not sure if they are black or white, because I have only ever seen them speed by in their car. How ridiculous is that? It makes me feel sad because so many of my childhood memories involve neighbors, going "across the street", or "down the block". I knew all of their names. Not only would I have recognized them in the grocery store, I probably would have been given a list of what they needed and brought it home to them. I guess times were different, but I miss it and I miss that my kids won't experience it.

The first year we lived here we hosted a neighborhood party, not a block party really, but a backyard pot-luck. It was nice, but it didn't inspire the type of camaraderie I had hoped. Where I live, every house is an island unto itself.

Oh well, you can't control everything. I love my house. I love my privacy. My husband is on the parkway in 2 minutes or less, my in-laws are right down the block (which has never, ever been a bad thing)and, the bus stop is right outside my door. We won't be having a block party any time soon, I will forever be driving to play dates, and borrowing another neighborhood for trick-or-treat, but there are good things about where I live. Envy is ugly mostly because it is blind and sees only what it wants to see. I need to take some time to look closer at the good things about the old homestead. For instance, I really love the color of the walls in my living room...

Welcome Baby Banana

Somewhat akin to my pal Jerry Seinfeld's diatribe about taking and then keeping reservations, I would like to point out that if you are going to take a message you must then give the message.

My very good friend Chiquita had been expecting her second child, a girl, to arrive via scheduled c-section on the 23rd of this month. Chiquita and I go way back, almost 20 years. We have shared every one of life's most magical and most tragic moments together since then. We have rejoiced together about prom dates, college graduations, engagements, pregnancies, and new jobs. We created and adhered to our own life motto of "no regrets", which went hand in hand with "summer rule". We were each other's bridesmaids. We also helped each other through breakups, college disasters, marriage troubles and the way too early deaths of our parents. Although we each have blood sisters, we are, in the truest sense, soul sisters making our way through this life together.

Just over two years ago I sat in a hospital room with my very frightened friend as she prepared to face the outcome of breaking her water - 6 weeks before her due date. I arrived at the hospital to offer support, humor, and love; and hoping to hide the absolute fear that had all but paralyzed me. Maybe it was because she had sat with me just 8 weeks earlier on the floor of my bedroom and cried with me as I mourned the child who had died in my womb at just 12 weeks gestation, but I think that it would have been important to me to be there with her even if she hadn't. I listened intently as the doctor explained the medical reasons that a c-section delivery the next morning offered the best prognosis. Then I talked with my friend and tried to prepare her as best I could for a surgical birth (having experienced it twice myself), and for the very real possibility of leaving the hospital without a baby in her arms. We talked for a long time.

A few days later I stood by her as she kissed her new baby "goodbye for now" in the NICU and then , when she was done wiping away her tears, I drove her to her baby shower where she got to do the surprising instead of being the surprised. Praise God, just a week after that I stayed with her mother in law and prepared the house for the homecoming of a perfectly healthy, if somewhat tiny, baby boy. I was so honored when she let me hold him and change him, and I will never forget (or let him forget) how teeny tiny was his heiney.

This past Friday I drove over to Chiquita's house to sit and enjoy a cup of tea, watch our sons play together (it was the day I drove Chiquita to her baby shower that I learned about Paddy boy's impending arrival! Our 2 boys are just less than 9 months apart), and once again sit and talk about what it was going to be like. This time she would be bringing home a full term baby, and a girl at that (kind of a major thing for us members of the motherless daughters club, becoming mothers of daughters...). I brought her some magazines and lip balm for the hospital. Basically I was just trying to let her know without saying so that she is important to me, and that I am here for her, my soul sister.

So..imagine how I felt when, come Monday morning my sister, Aunt Mean called from work asking why I hadn't been in touch with Chiquita. Aunt Mean is an RN in the NICU at the hospital where Chiquita delivers, in fact she took care of Chiquita's son when he was born. Immediately I knew- she had the baby! (She wasn't scheduled for another 10 days, but as I have mentioned before, God doesn't use a calendar) Apparently, Chiquita and Mr. Chiquita had been trying desperately to get in touch with me. I had left my cell phone in the back of my beach chair, so I didn't even check for missed calls. I was at work all day Sunday, Hubby was home. I immediately hung up with Aunt Mean and dialed my voicemail, but no message. Strange, I thought. I called my dear Hubby and asked if he had gotten any calls the day before, or had he listened to any messages. He said "umm...", so I asked specifically about messages from Chiquita. More "umm..." then finally "I think so". What do you mean you think so??? For crying out loud, if you take a message you need to then give the message!!

I am so sorry, my dear Chiquita. I married a wonderful man who is a terrible secretary.

Last night I got to hold the new little Miss "MES", even if I was a day late. She is perfect. I held her in my arms, hiding out in the hospital room for a good 1/2 hour past the end of visiting time. I cuddled her and whispered sweet nothings into her tiny little ears. She is my little banana now, and I will forever be her melon.

It ain't easy...

As parents, we all believe that our children are absolute angels, as was Satan himself. My children are no different. They are wonderful people, fun to be around, amazingly smart, funny and sweet. Also, every one of them, (save for little Dexter whose only saving grace is his 8wk age) are fresh, obnoxious, annoying little monsters. Depends on the day, depends on the company. Lately First Son has really been feeling his oats (what does that mean?). He has been so incredibly obnoxious and just so fresh, that each day I manage to not throttle him I believe I deserve a ticker tape parade in my honor. He is really, really difficult.

This has been so hard, I think in part because he is just such a good kid. First Son is known to be a bona fide good kid. To see and hear him acting the way he has been is keeping me up at night. I don't know what to do. Sure, there is a lot going on. A new baby, for one. Okay, a new baby who got extra attention by checking himself into the hospital twice before he was six weeks old, but still, we've had new babies before, twice. Also, he is reading now and I know that that can be a big scary change. He's home from school for the summer which means his schedule is all off, and he also has a bit of a hypoglycemia issue. I am trying to be understanding. I am trying to heap tons of positive attention on him, which does work for a while. Still, he hits his sister, talks back to his mother and disobeys his grandmother. (yes, his grandmother, a.k.a. the nicest sweetest woman on the planet)

I don't actually think that what I am going through is that remarkable. I talk to lots of other Moms and they have very similar tales. Still, it pains me. I love him so darned much that it kills me to have to admit that sometimes I just don't like him very much. Please, somebody tell me that it is going to get better.

SmartMama LOVES McNeil

I think my Hubby, who loves to play the stocks as of late, should consider pharmaceutical companies. Why? Because our family is more well known by our local pharmacist than our parish priest! Really. (in my defense, the priest is new)

Since First Son started kindergarten we are sick all the time. We used to never be sick. First Son had one ear infection in his life...before kindergarten. Now, when I leave the pediatrician's office I just schedule myself another appointment like I do when I leave the hairdresser. I know I'll be back with someone...for something, so you might as well pencil me in. I can't buy enough children's Motrin and Tylenol. I can't keep it in the house. My grocery list is: Milk, Eggs, Bread, Drugs.

Three weeks ago I brought Paddy Boy to the doctor for a follow-up from when he was there two weeks prior with Bronchitis and an ear infection (oh, that was fun too - taking an 18 mos. old for a chest x-ray that carried with it a threat of hospitalization, and me just two weeks post -partum). While I was there I asked the doctor to take a look at Dexter's belly button. In my opinion it just wasn't healing right, in spite of her having cauterized it previously. She looked, determined that indeed it wasn't healing as nicely as she liked and so she once again brought out the silver nitrate. A quick swab and we were on our way, Dexter didn't even flinch. Paddy boy was proclaimed healthy (for now) and so we set off on our day...which was really busy. Mickey D and the Sunshine girl were scheduled to tie the knot two days later and with First Son and Curly playing the important roles of flower girl and ring bearer, and myself being the wedding lady that I am, I had a lot to do.

Aunt Mean had taken Curly for the day, so as to help free me up get some things done (because really, when you've got an 18 month old, a 4 week old and a full to-do list, the addition of a 4 year old could trip you up). Unfortunately, while in Aunt Mean's care Curly announced that she was sick and needed to go home, right now! Crap. She had been complaining of a stomachache lately, but wasn't showing any symptoms. I had figured that with the new baby and all she was just trying to get some attention, but now I was convinced she had another ear infection. I called the Dr's office, but they had already left for the day. The covering Dr. was the pediatrician I fired. I resolved to take Curly to the Dr. first thing in the morning and get her the necessary antibiotic, in just enough time for her to be back to her chipper self before she would have to walk down the aisle.

Later that night Mrs. V and I had transformed my kitchen into a wedding wonderland and we were working feverishly to complete 150 wedding programs which required printing, cutting, gluing and bow-tying. I am Martha and Mrs. V is my apprentice. We had a nice operation going and we had completed at least 10 pieces (that's right, 10 of 150) when I went to change Dexter's diaper and found...mayhem. Well, I didn't know for sure at the time that it was mayhem, I just thought it was irritation and maybe a little infection around his belly button from the day's earlier cauterization. It was decided that a quick trip to the emergency room would probably be the best course of action, what with the impending nuptials and all. I told Mrs. V to keep working, do as much as she could, but that I would help her as soon as I got back...three days later!

The ER doc took one look and told me that they would have to admit him for IV antibiotics. Okay. I remained calm. Here I was, alone in the ER (poor Hubby was already exhausted from life -working and taking care of 3 plus a newborn, that I had sent him to bed) and they are telling me that they are admitting my 4 week old. Okay. I can handle this. I asked the doctor if this would be a "24 hour" thing? 24 hours would leave me roughly 18 hours before the wedding. She said it was more likely a 48 hour course, but that our regular pediatrician would make that decision. Ok. I can handle this. It's just an IV. In those tiny hands...breathe.

I spent the night in a chair next to Dexter's crib, while nurses and residents came in and out, poking him and asking me all kinds of questions. In the morning they sent him for a sonogram of his belly. This looked pretty painful, as the wand kept digging into his already very sore tummy. Then we met with the pediatrician and I explained my predicament with the wedding. Dexter would be spending another night in the hospital, but it was likely that he could go home the next day, the wedding day. Well, since the wedding wasn't scheduled until 6pm, this would probably work. I don't know why I was so naive, but I just thought that if they could get the antibiotic into his little veins that would be that. It didn't dawn on me that the infection (which turned out to be staph, by the way) was only part of the problem, they wanted to find the cause of the infection, and therefore the sonogram.

I left Hubby at the hospital with Dexter and left to bring Curly to the pediatrician, yes, the same one I just saw in the hospital. After waiting for a long time in the waiting room (don't they realize I have a newborn in the hospital?) we were finally seen. The doctor kept asking about her belly, her eating and pooping habits, while I insisted she just look in her ears already. Finally the ear check and...ding, ding, ding, a raging ear infection. Okay, give me the prescription, and I am off to the pharmacy.

On the way to the pharmacy Hubby calls to tell me that they are going to repeat the baby's sonogram at 2:00, it's 1:30. Shoot. I don't like the idea of him having a painful procedure without me being there, so I say that I will try to make it, but I gotta go because call waiting is beeping. Hello? It's MIL who is at home with Paddy boy - he was just deemed healthy the day before, surely he can't be sick? NO, better than that..the school just called. First Son has pink eye, I need to go pick him up. Seriously, I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to. Back to the Dr. and then finally, to the pharmacy.

So then I dressed the cherubs up, and headed off to the rehearsal dinner. As I said, First Son and Curly were scheduled to tote flowers and rings, and also I had promised the Sunshine Girl that I would do a quick rehearsal with the wedding party. I needed to be there. We stayed long enough to eat, the kids got gifts, and we said hello to some out of town relatives, then I headed back to the hospital for "the changing of the guard". Hubby came down from the second floor "peds" unit and got behind the wheel of Rosie, and I headed up and took my place in the cold, hard recliner chair.

The next day the Doctor arrived nice and early to tell me that the sonogram was inconclusive. It looks as though there may be a problem requiring surgical intervention, but she wants to be sure. They were going to be doing a cat-scan with contrast. "With contrast" means that Dexter can't eat for a number of hours. He of course, just finished a bottle. So the procedure is scheduled for 1:30. Dexter gets another night in the hospital. Somehow, I don't have a nervous breakdown. My Aunt stayed with me while Hubby went home to try and get First Son and Curly to take naps before their big night. He also showered and came back to the hospital with his suit in tow. Then we all took Dexter for his procedure. He was a champ. He slept through the whole thing. The radiologist finally came in to tell us that yes, indeed there is a problem, and that we would need to consult with a surgeon next. Okay. We knew that might happen. It's not emergency surgery though. The doctors all assure us that we should go and enjoy the wedding. Yeah Right.

Well, we tried. I raced home to get First Son and Curly dressed and off in their limo. Then I was faced with the task of getting myself ready. (How does one cover up the bags under one's eyes from NOT sleeping in a chair in your child's hospital room?) Meanwhile MIL went and fed herself and her dog and then headed up to the hospital so that Hubby and I could both be at the wedding for the walk down the aisle. Amazingly, they all made it down the aisle with smiles, which the bookmakers said wouldn't happen. Hubby stayed through the toasts and then he headed back to the hospital.

The wedding was beautiful. Mickey D and the Sunshine Girl looked gorgeous, the day was balmy, the food was amazing and First Son and Curly danced the night away. To be honest I even had a little bit of fun.

The next day Dexter was released. We followed up with a top pediatric surgeon the next week, had a quickie Baptism, and the week after that the surgery was performed. Now all that remains is an ugly scar under his belly button and a patch of gray hair on my head.

This week things should be settling down, but let's get real. I have no less than three children with fevers topping out in the 102 range, and a case of conjuctivitis. I'd tell you all about it but... I have to go to the pharmacy.

Blue Horseshoe Loves Anacot Steel? HA!

I heart my messy, noisy life!

This is a picture of my backyard as it looked at 7:15 this morning. I am crazy, I know, but I felt overwhelmed by the urge to capture this moment. It is a peek at my life. My life right now. It's a mess, toys everywhere, sand everywhere except the sandbox, and if you look at the left edge of the picture, a fire chief cruiser up against a tree with the door ajar (I wonder what happened to the Fire Chief?...oh, he's drooling in his crib!). Take one look at this yard and you know that it is attached to a home that is run by kids!

I felt the need to take this picture because I was looking out the window when I became a little sentimental. This time in my life isn't going to last forever, in fact it is going to fly by way too fast. Before long it will be just Hubby and me sitting in those two chairs saying "remember when...", and I want to remember every detail! My life right now is insane and I love it! I have four children under 6! My life is busy, noisy and messy! Sometimes I pine for a perfectly neat house, empty laundry baskets and a cupboard full of clean dishes instead of a sink full of dirty ones, but then I stop and remind myself that one day I will have all of those things, and it will be very, very quiet, and I will be a little sad, missing my noisy messy life. So, instead I try to enjoy the noise, and enjoy the mess while I still can. It's my life and I love it.

Sweet Summer

This week officially started summer! Okay, so the solstice or the equinox, or whatever planetary science determined date marking the true start of summer occurred last week, this week we celebrated ...the last day of school, and therefore the first day of summer vacation! Wow. A date that has meant absolutely nothing to me for the past 15 years (yikes) now means more than ever! First of all, I can't believe how fast the year went, First Son is now moving on to first grade! He, and more amazingly, I, survived kindergarten! Now we have our first "school summer".

I remember that as an idealistic kid I thought the ten weeks between grades would last forever! Now as a more realistic adult I know that they will fly by way too fast. For just these ten short weeks I have my sweet First Son all to myself! Of course I have to share him with his three siblings (and he has to share me); and he is going to VBS for two weeks, but other than that, he is all mine! Just like before that evil (wonderful) thing called kindergarten came along! I am determined to squeeze every ounce of wonderfulness (is that a word?) out of this time. Come September I will not only be sending First Son off to first grade, but Curly Girl will be leaving me three mornings a week to attend preschool....it all happens so fast!

I have been thinking lately about my "goals" for the summer. You see, I am all too likely to spend the greater part of my day cleaning my endlessly messy kitchen unless I force myself to plan otherwise. I want my summer to feel like one of those old Country Time Lemonade commercials...sweet and slow and relaxed. Since they say that you are much more likely to accomplish your goals if you write them down, that is what I am about to do! Here goes:

Tricia's Summer Goals 2008

(in no particular order)

1. Shnuggle First Son at least 3 mornings each week
2. Have a family picnic dinner at the beach 1x a week
3. Use our pool membership at least 3x a week
4. Host/attend a play date for each child at least 1x a week
5. Eat as many outdoor meals as possible
6. Limit TV to one hour a day with the exception of a rainy day DVD
7. Use our blow up backyard pools, swings and sandbox every sunny day
8. Ice pops EVERYDAY
9. Cook with the kids at least 1x a week (use lots of fresh veggies)
10. Read at least 2 novels of my own choosing (in addition to book club picks)
11. Have one hour of formal learning time for First Son and Curly each morning
12. Do a fun craft at least 1x a week (even if it's just playdoh, but better if its painting rocks!)
13. Take at least one trip to Fire Island with the kids
14. Take at least one trip to Fire Island without the kids
15. Eat NO Fast Food lunches (this is a tough one)
16. Plan a "special Big Kid day" for First Son (maybe Splish Splash waterpark)
17. Walk the Jones Beach Boardwalk & eat Ice Cream at least 1x
18. Redecorate the playroom! (this is necessary in order to survive the other 3 seasons)
19. Go to the movies for Wall E and American Girl (now that Curly is old enough for popcorn, she's definitely old enough for American Girl, hooray!)
20. Catch Lightening bugs with the kids
21. Take at least one road trip (Philly or Phoenicia? I'd do both if I didn't already have a mortgage)
22. Lay a blanket out in the yard and stare at the stars at least 1x/month
23. Take and share lots and lots of pictures!
24. Help the kids run a lemonade stand
25. Say "Yes" as much as possible
26. Start First Son & Curly working on helpful, age appropriate chores - with just my love as reward (ok, and room & board)
27. Spend quality time with Hubby every day
28. Smile, laugh and have fun EVERY DAY!!

Twenty eight items. Not bad. Doable I think, although I am sure I am missing something. That big yellow bus will be here again in the blink of an eye, and I don't want to have any regrets. When I look back on the summer of '08, I will see that I was super busy no matter what I do, so why not spend my time chasing fireflies instead of scrubbing floors? I am sure my kids will agree.

Size doesn't matter after all!!

So this morning when I checked my inbox I found a very thought provoking e-mail from my friend JacksMom. She is talking about the quote I have had listed on the side of my blog:

" When you have only one child you're really just playing house"

- A Grandma at Curly's Banarina School

Here is what JacksMom had to say:

"I have read this quote on your blog several times and each time i read it i tend to get heated up and my blood boils.
This grandma at banarina school.....make sure you tell her that i have ONE child and i work very hard to make sure im raising him proper, hopefully he will grow up and know how to love someone, show them respect, be kind and caring.
I have a "Family"..it might just be the 3 of us but i do not consider this to be a game or something that i take lightly....."PLAYING HOUSE"...
You dont have to have a BIG family in order to be taken seriously.
I love my son to death and i will push you down if need to...but honestly, just because some one has one child doesnt mean that she doesnt work just as hard as the person with 2,3 or 4.

So tell Grammy, back in her day, im sure she didnt work and had the luxury of staying home and playing house to be a little bit more careful how she phrases things...

thats all...thanks for listening."

So Wow. I didn't see this one coming, but I should have. I see now that while that quote is amusing to me, a mother of four who is deep in the trenches (and having previously been a mother of one), I also see that it is disrespectful to those with "only one child". I am sorry. I would never mean to insult anyone, and certainly not another mother. I don't for a minute believe that the size of your family should at all be related to whether or not you're taken seriously as a mother, and I apologize to the masses if I perpetuated that myth. I also remember when I had "just one" and sometimes I think that was harder than 2, 3 and 4!

Something that I have spoken about before on this blog is how rude I consider people who make comments about the size of my BIG family, and it's no different for those who choose to have small families. It's nobody's business!! Every family makes their decisions about children for different reasons, and I totally respect that. I also know that their are Moms of "just one" who didn't actually make that "decision" - they yearn with their whole being for another child, but for whatever reason, they aren't able to have one.

As parents, we need to band together, respect one another and support each other. There is no way I could get through a single day, literally, if I didn't have so many other great Moms to help me out. So, I have removed the offensive comment from my blog. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.

To JacksMom: your kid is Awesome! Your family is great! I think you are a wonderful Mom, and I am so glad that we get to share our very different and very similar experiences together!

What I am

Authentic. Real, true. Lately I have been giving this word a lot of thought.What does it mean to be authentic? I am not talking about some rare coin or antique, but something that may be even more obscure, true self. I guess it is all tied into self-confidence, and whether or not you have any is going to play a big role in whether you know your true self. I mean, let's face it we all have moments of self-doubt, we all have times when we are certain that the grass is greener just over that elusive fence, but what happens when we are so jaded that we don't really know what we want or who we are? I will admit that I don't always know who I am, but I do know who I am not, and that may be just as important, especially as a parent. I must never forget that as a Mom I am first and foremost a role model. If I obsess constantly about my body image, what am I teaching my children about their own bodies? If I am not a good friend, how can I teach my kids to be good friends? If I am a materialistic consumerist, how do I teach my children to be grateful for what they have and to be good stewards of our earth? Everything that I do sends a message to my children, be it good or bad and I need to be ever aware of that fact.
What I am is what I am. Are you what you are or what? Think about it.

Crying Over Spilt Milk

I do this to myself every time. Every time. I torture myself. Of course, each and every time I have a new plan of action and I swear that I will not torture myself. Yet here I am, once again, engorged, weepy and miserable. I convince myself that I will breastfeed this baby, I have to. I have a plan and swear that I will not allow myself to give in to the anguish and self doubt, and let’s not forget extreme physical pain; apparently I am easily duped.

With First Son it was the worst. Well, he was my first and so I was quite the idealist. I had done all of my reading, of course. I knew that breast milk was the best choice for him, and since I was going to be the Best Mom, it really was never a question. I went to the seminars, I bought the La Leche League book, even a few nursing bras and tops, I was all set. Just like the book advised, I told the nurses and doctors in the hospital that he was NOT to be given a bottle or a pacifier, lest we have the dear boy come down with a bad case of nipple confusion. Then, the darndest thing happened. I had an emergency c-section, and felt like I was hit by a train. I was majorly doped up. First son was a big baby, and extremely active at birth. The nurses asked me if they could give him a bottle, and I of course said NO! Then, a few hours later they came to tell me that he was going to be in the “Special Care Nursery” because they were starting an IV, he had low blood sugar. Enter GUILT, cue TEARS. (his low blood sugar issue had nothing to do with my nursing decision, but as I said, I was doped up and slightly hormonal having just given birth) It was over 24 hours before I had First Son back in my arms, in my room, where I could even try to breastfeed him. I tried. I tried for days. My recovery from surgery was rough. Hard. I was in pain from the surgery, and then my milk came in. In addition to feeling like my stomach had been ripped open from inside by aliens, I now had these two rock hard, extremely sore, leaky extremities hanging from my chest. Add to that the fact that I was supposed to have the baby set his Vulcan death grip lips around them and suck? Can you say ow? I did. I said it and I cried it and I probably even shouted it once or twice. Why didn’t any of the books show the real picture? The mom sitting with the cute little baby attached to her breast, tears running down her sleep deprived face as she stares longingly at a bottle of whiskey? Within a few days both First Son and I developed a thrush infection because of an antibiotic I had been on before I delivered and that put an end to my breast feeding fantasies with First Son. I was sad, I felt guilty, I did not give up easily. Finally my wise OB advised me to stop torturing myself. She asked if I had been breastfed as a child, I replied that I didn’t think so. She went on to say that she hadn’t either, and yet miraculously she had grown up to become a doctor! She was fine and well, so was I, chances were good that my baby would be as well. So, out came the baby formula and bottles, and I started formulating a plan for my second child right then and there. I was certain that I would be given another chance at this breastfeeding thing, and I would prove myself to be a good Mom yet!

Just shy of two years later Curly Girl arrived, again by c-section, (though without the trauma of the first, as she was scheduled) and out came the boob. Still, I was in pain from the surgery, my breasts had swollen to two times their normal size, which was at least twice the size of her head, and I was not having an easy time. I couldn’t fathom that every time my sweet baby girl would latch on I would see stars, and seep tears. I called a lactation consultant and paid almost $200 that we really couldn't afford, for some “advice” and a private lesson. A day later I gave up. I pulled a muscle in my abdomen trying to get out of bed, and for the next week, in between myriad doctor appointments to try and figure out what the heck was wrong with me, I could barely get myself up out of bed to give her a bottle, much less hold her to my sore breasts for 20 minutes. I summoned all of my courage and told the lactation consultant through tears that I just couldn’t do it, and that I didn’t have to. I am sure I was trying to convince myself more than anyone else, because she didn’t put any pressure on me, but told me to call anytime. I then had to have someone drive me to the baby mega store to buy some bottles, as part of my “plan” had been to not even keep any in the house, because to do so would be sabotaging myself. I got over it a little bit quicker this time, though I was still sad and weepy.

When Paddy boy arrived I had a plan that I was going to nurse him for night feedings only. The rest of the time he would have formula. I decided that this was a good plan, because it would leave me free during the day to tend to my other children and a hectic schedule, yet give me and my baby some special bonding time at night. I didn’t even consider the fact that I would require some sleep during this time. Nursing takes double the time that a bottle feeding takes. I knew I had to call it quits when I became afraid that I would drop him in the middle of the night when I fell asleep holding him. Now, because I had witnessed first hand through First Son and Curly Girl that my original OB was indeed correct, my formula fed babies would be just fine, I made peace with my decision to stop the boob and move on to the bottle.

I think that part of the reason I was able to make peace with my decision not to nurse was because I knew I would have another chance. Each time I was coping with the hope of a “do-over”. That is what is so different this time. I am not as convinced that I will get another chance. I have four children! Four small children! I am stretched. We are stretched. Our home is stretched, our wallet is stretched, our cesspool is certainly stretched! I am not convinced that I am finished having children, I concede that there may be one more in there, but, for the first time, I am not convinced that there is definitely another one to come. The best I can say is maybe and mean it. So what that translates to is that this may very well be my last chance to get this whole breastfeeding thing right.

I have been crying about it all night. I am searching my soul to find out what exactly it is I really want. My plan this time around has been to pump for the first month and give my body a chance to recover from major surgery, before I even begin to torture myself with the baby and his Vulcan death grip lips (apparently they all have them). The problem is that I am in such a rush to get myself and my body back in form. This pregnancy was really tough for me, emotionally and physically. It is hard to have two babies, because let’s face it, at just 17 months that is what Paddy boy is, a baby. I want desperately to feel good again, to be able to pick my big baby up from his crib, and chase him off of the stairs, and give him a bath. I want to be able to be his Mommy again, instead of the lady who spends all day sitting on the couch or on her bed holding the “new baby”. Paddy boy is my baby too and it is killing me that I am not much more than a casual observer these days. Add to that the extreme fullness and soreness of my breasts, the fact that they are what is preventing me from being able to get up from bed at night to comfort Paddy Boy and his night terrors (they just hurt so much!), and the idea that I will be solely responsible for the health and nutrition of Baby Boy while others are able to help out with the rest of the cherubs and I am a bubbling, babbling mess of tears.

I am way too smart to think that the measure of a good Mom is the form of nutrition she offers her infant. On an intellectual level I can argue this point for hours. Still, there is a part of me that wants so much to be one of those Moms who can casually lift their shirt and let their babies latch on, all the while continuing their conversations and sipping their cups of chamomile. I don’t know why, even after 3 kids, 3 failed attempts, I can’t seem to let go of this ideal. Why do I do this to myself? I feel so selfish if I decide to abandon the nursing "project". I guess in truth though, either decision is a selfish one. The truth is that even my desire to keep nursing is driven not so much by my feeling that it is the best choice for Baby Boy, but that it will make me feel like a good Mom. How selfish is that?

I guess I need to face my reality. I am a good Mom. A really good Mom and I know it. I just have to accept it. I can take some pride in the fact that every one of my kids was nursed for the first few days of life, receiving what is known as "liquid gold", or colostrum, the rich substance that comes before the actual milk. It is full of antibodies, and wonderful, healthy goodness. At least they got that from me. Also, when I stopped nursing, I started to become myself again, a happy well adjusted Mom, who feels happy every time my baby cries from his bassinet in the middle of the night, because I anticipate the holding, snuggling, bonding act to come while I hold his bottle and stare into his eyes, rather than dreading the minutes that go by before he cries out again and I have to wince in pain as I do the "right" thing and offer my breast to the little alien.

And so, my decision is made. I am putting the boob away, again. Maybe for always, but definitely for good.

He's Here!

This will be a quick post to update the masses. I am no longer pregnant! Hooray!
Baby Boy was delivered on Thursday 5/15, as scheduled. He did, of course, have his umbilical cord around his neck, twice!
He is healthy and happy (well, he hasn't complained about the noise level in our house yet anyway) and is settling in just fine. I am recovering from major surgery, and the realization that I have two babies in the house. Holy Crap.
I have much to blog about, and will try my best as soon as I can.
In the meantime your well wishes and cash donations are greatly appreciated!

The final countdown

Okay, so it's not the greatest picture, but do you see the freaking size of me? I am tremendous! Have you looked at the little happy prego lady on the right hand margin - how many days does it say? Thirteen as I write this. Holy crap. I am freaking pregnant. Look at my ankles! 13 days! Less than that really. Any minute now and I could be leaving to go to the hospital to have another baby. Umm...yeah. I think the denial may be clearing up.

I am miserable these days. I can't move well at all. I try my best not to bend down for any reason whatsoever. The cherubs are pretty helpful, thank goodness, because I also tend to drop a lot of things, and the two don't really go well together. When Paddy boy hugs my legs, as 17 month olds are likely to do, I can't see him! I was in an ice cream shop last night for Curly's Birthday, and I couldn't fit into the booth. I am winded just climbing the stairs. I grunt when I get into my car, and I actually have to get on my knees to be able to turn over in bed. My ankles and feet are 3 times their normal size. To quote (ok, paraphrase) my friend "Petit Fleur", " slap a door on me and call me a house!"

The heartburn is nearly constant, and I won't even discuss my other digestive issues. I am so tired, and extremely irritable, and I am tired of this pregnancy!

But wait...it can't really be almost over, can it? I am a little sad. I mean granted, I am miserable and miserable to be around, but really over? Argh. This whole pregnancy thing has been so out of my control, and I don't deal well when I am not in control. What if this is the last time? Have I been too busy moaning and groaning to enjoy it? I may never feel the little kicks and hiccups again. I may never have another excuse for people to be nice to me and let me cut in front of them on a long, long line for the ladies room at Yankee stadium while waiting for the Pope! I may never hear another little heartbeat and know that it is coming from inside me, at 150 beats per minute!

Oh! Parting with this pregnancy will be such sweet sorrow.

Now then, let's get this show on the road, I'd like my body back.

You say it's your Birthday!!!

When I was a kid I went to a birthday party at Burger King. It was a boy's party and mostly what I remember about it was that I was handed a cheeseburger, even though to this day I do not like fast food cheeseburgers, but prefer hamburgers; and that my father commented that these types of parties were for mothers who were too lazy to have a party the right way, at home. Of course, I don't think dear old Dad ever did much in the way of planning and executing a birthday party for me or any of the others, but nonetheless, his comment seems to have stuck in my craw.

I cannot bring myself to host my children's parties "out". I thought about it, and even did a bit of research for Curly's Birthday this year. I thought it might be a good idea, since the day of her fourth would also be the start of my 38th week. Despite my best intentions, I just could not do it. I had to have it at home. The thing is though, I am not a one trip to the party store, order some pizzas and bash the pinata kind of partier. No, sir, not me. Party planning is my hobby, and I can take a theme to the extreme. Seriously, I live for my children's birthdays, and begin planning months, not even weeks, in advance. I am already thinking about Paddy boy's 2nd, and it's 7 months away! When my kids look back upon past birthdays they don't think in terms of "my third, my fourth, my fifth, etc." but rather, "My dinosaur birthday, my bulldozer birthday, my princess birthday, etc. "

I figure that I spend probably about as much as I would if I was hosting the party at some "venue", so it isn't about saving money (although if I factor in leftovers as part of the equation I could convince hubby that we make out on the deal) Hosting a party at home gives me so many more options to be creative, to have my kid's input, and to be flexible with dates, timing , and boy/girl appropriateness! I like being able to host the parents just as comfortably as the kids (rather than having a bunch of grown-ups standing around the perimeter of the room holding coats, and hoping for an extra half-slice of cold pizza to come their way); and I especially like the fact that no matter what the theme is, my kid's party will be completely different from anything any of their friends have. I can't tell you how many parties we have been to at the local ice cream shop, they all begin to blur and run into each other.

It is a lot of work putting together a fun kid's party, but I love it. This past week I have been up to my elbows in butterflies every night. I decided finally to compromise, have the party for Curly at home, but keep it small. Usually I have two parties for my kids, one with their friends and one with the family. This year I decided to have just one, invite the family and just the four or five friends that she plays with regularly. My intention of course, was to keep it "simple". The only thing is that my "simple" is most people's "elaborate". Listen, it's not Curly's fault that we're getting a new baby so close to her birthday, she still deserves to have a memorable "butterfly birthday" right? That's what I thought too.

Anyway, there was no giant cardboard castle, and although I looked into it, there was no live butterfly release, thereby keeping it "simple" according to my definition. There were butterfly games, butterfly hot dogs, butterfly cookies, and of course, butterfly cupcakes. There was "nectar" served in adorable butterfly cups, and a butterfly pinata, oh yeah - and there was beer for the grown-ups. (come to think of it, that is probably what Dad's chief gripe was about the Burger King party! LOL.) Now that the date has come and gone and the phone calls of congratulations are rolling in, I can sit back and relax. Well, I would like to get the butterfly thank yous in the mail before I have to start sending birth announcements, but other than that it should be smooth sailing.

I have been told, repeatedly that I have a special talent for these parties, and that I should try to make it a lucrative endeavor, but I honestly don't know if I could put all the work into it if I wasn't doing it for one of my sweet cherubs. No matter how tired I have been, and let me tell you, I am freakin tired these days, I find that when they need me, I am able to rally up the energy. I mean after all, they are what it's all about right? Plus, the great big hugs I get at the end of the day make it all worth while.

Well, first Son's birthday is quickly approaching in August, so I had better put on my thinking cap (yeah right, as if I don't already have a plan....)

God Doesn't Use A Calendar

These days there is just so much technology surrounding us that it almost becomes easy to allow ourselves to think we are in control. This is dangerous, because it begins to take God out of the equation all together.

When it comes to pregnancy and childbirth, the technology is astounding. We know the sex of our children months before they arrive, we display pictures of our unborn, sometimes in 3-D, in cute little frames that we purchase at the baby mega-store. We carefully arrange the conception of these babies so that they arrive at a convenient time, and sometimes, take conception outside the bedroom all together and leave it to a test tube. With the soaring rates of birth via cesarean section, we often know the exact date and time that our children will arrive. All of this is at times wonderful, and scary too. Don't get me wrong, I have several sonogram pictures hanging on my refrigerator at this moment, tried my best to make sure that Paddy boy wouldn't be a Christmas baby, am madly in love with at least three toddlers who started life in a test tube, eagerly await the late fall arrival of one baby who was artificially inseminated into his/her lesbian mother, and am no stranger to the (dare I say?) convenience of cesearean section. Technology is not bad, it is often a catalyst for miracles. What is bad, is when we allow ourselves to forget the true source behind all of it. God. Without God, none of this would be possible, and we must never forget that. (incidentally, anyone who wants to burn me for implying that God is behind my lesbian friend conceiving a child can save their matches - I am prepared to argue this one to the death.)

I live my life in fear and awe of my One True God. Also, I am a very private person when it comes to some matters, especially medical. That said, I don't mind telling you that this next child, like the past three, will be delivered via cesarean section. I do not know whether it is a boy or a girl, and I can almost definitely assure you that he/she will be several hours old before an official moniker is in place. I do know the scheduled date and time that this child is supposed to arrive, but I am not giving out that information, to anyone except the babysitter. The reason, is that said schedule is completely of man, and not necessarily of God, and it is God who is in control here, not me, or the Dr or scheduling clerks. I am about to have major surgery where two lives will be at risk, and I am not about to mess with God.

First Son was delivered via emergency c-section two days before his due date. We had had a sonogram that day which showed the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck times two. The OB wanted to induce labor, but my maternal instincts told me otherwise, and we opted for surgery. Thank God we did too, because the cord was actually around his neck four times, and the mood in the O.R. when he came out was one of astonishment and gratitude. Several nurses came up to where my head was and said "Thank God, you made the right decision" and I also heard the assisting doctor say "Could you imagine what would have happened if she went into labor?" So, I credit my beautiful, sweet, smart and funny First Son being just that, beautiful, sweet, smart, funny, and alive, to God, of course, and to my and my husband's ability to listen to the voice of God on that fateful day and make the difficult, unpopular decision to go the surgical route.

With Curly girl I was given a choice to either schedule a c-section or attempt a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). Not surprisingly, I did a lot of research, a lot of reading, and a lot of praying on the subject. I decided that the medical risks of either choice were about equal. Knowing my own anxiety issues though, I thought that I could probably deal better with the risks of a scheduled c-section. However, I also felt that I was missing out somehow on this amazing experience of natural childbirth, and I felt a little sad about that. In the end the decision was made to schedule the surgery for a date very close to my due date, but, in the event that I went into labor before then, I would once again listen to the voice of God and attempt the VBAC. Well, no labor, no VBAC. Curly girl arrived on her scheduled date, with her umbilical cord wrapped around her own neck two times. The OB pronounced that my body simply produces really long cords.

With Paddy boy VBAC was no longer an option as my uterus had already endured two c-sections and the risk was now too high. The curve ball with that pregnancy however, was that my doctor scheduled himself a two week vacation in South America for weeks 38 and 39 of my pregnancy. Nice, right? So, I could either schedule a c-section with one of his associates, or take my chances and try to wait until my due date, which was the morning after his plane landed, and have him perform the surgery. The contingency plan with all of this was that in the event I went into labor while he was away one of his associates would deliver the baby. So, I could schedule surgery with a stranger, or I could take my chances, not schedule, and , worse case scenario wind up having a stranger deliver anyway. Seemed like six of one, or half a dozen of another to me. I decided to wait, and thankfully Paddy boy complied. He was born on his due date, via c-section, with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, times three.

This time, I told the OB at my first appointment soon after the stick turned blue, that under no circumstances whatsoever, was he to leave the country during the month of May. He complied, and instead went to Korea back in February. Fine by me. So here we are, 36 weeks. The Doctor is in the country, and the date is set.

When is it? I am not telling you. I am not telling anyone. If this child wasn't going to be delivered via scheduled c-section neither you nor I would know the date of his or her arrival. Even now, the baby could come at anytime, he or she isn't privy to the schedule. My husband & I know, the Dr knows, as does his staff; and the person whom I have asked to watch the cherubs that day knows. I don't see how anybody else needs to know. Me, Hubby, the Dr, and the babysitter.

Now, this annoys some people, but really, do they have any right? Just today someone asked me if I had a date yet, and I said " yes". It seemed that this person wanted to press on and ask when, so I said simply "I am not telling you, I am not telling anyone". Of course, as I said, this is my 3rd scheduled section, and I have never told this person when I was going into the hospital to have the others either, so I am not sure why there was any surprise that I didn't tell this time. I went on to explain that my decision was a personal one for me, I have some anxiety issues, and a c-section is major surgery. I just don't need the extra anxiety. I prefer to deal with these things quietly, privately, and personally. I am not a Holy Roller, and I didn't think it was really necessary for me to defend my decision by getting into a heated religious debate that would not change anyone's opinion.

My conversant went on to say "that's really strange". Now you're calling me strange? So what if umpteen years ago you knew the day that your labor would be induced and you didn't mind telling people? You weren't having major surgery! And...most importantly...you're not me! You don't live inside my mind (be glad), so I don't expect you to necessarily understand, but I do expect you to respect me. I found that remark rather insulting, but since I know that it wasn't meant to be I am letting it go! Yes, it would probably be more convenient for planning purposes if you knew the date, but, that just isn't the way this is going to happen, sorry. I can promise you the first phone call once the child makes his or her debut. That's the best I can do.

I am not telling you the date of my scheduled c-section unless you need to know, and chances are, you don't need to know. If you would like to wish me well, or keep me and my family in your prayers, don't let the calendar dictate that. A calendar is just one more technology that doesn't really include God, even if he is at the center of it all.

Perchance to dream...

Lately I am just so darned tired. It is sometimes hard for me to fall asleep at night because my joints hurt, and I have to wake up early each day to get First Son off to school and tend to Paddy boy (Curly would sleep till noon most days if I let her, and even if she does wake up she's a pro with the remote control!). So, I look forward to Saturday morning as if it were a giant ribbon wrapped box under the Christmas tree. Hubby is home, and I don't have to wake up!! I am entirely too optimistic about this premise though, because both my dear Hubby and my dear First Son were born without the ability to be quiet unless they are themselves asleep, and lately sleeping late for either of them means 6:30AM.

This past Saturday I was so frustrated with the level of noise that I actually rose out of bed at approx. 7:45 to tell the entire brood how ridiculously rude and unfair they were all being. It was not pretty. Hubby tried in vain to defend himself with some lame excuse that went "I keep telling them...." but, I shot him a look of death and then wondered aloud about exactly who thought it was a good idea to turn the washing machine on at 6AM, and then run it unbalanced so that it sounds as if a Mack Truck is barrelling through the house? Hmmmm?

I went back to bed and thought with pleasure about the days coming soon when I will be sedated in a hospital bed, having just undergone major surgery, when I will actually get a chance to sleep! I mean, is that sick or what? I am looking forward to the hospital as a place of peace and quiet?? Does anyone else think something is wrong with that idea?

Well, today came a state of bliss that I thought I would never see. Since I spent 14 hours away from home yesterday travelling to and from the Papal mass at Yankee Stadium, my dear Hubby and MIL worked it out for me to be able to sleep as long as I needed in total peace and quiet! I LOVE THEM! Hubby went into work a little bit late today, and brought the cherubs to MIL at about 7:30 this morning! Except for a random door bell ring at about 7:45 (someone looking for my tenant), which wasn't even that bad as I needed to get up to use the facilities and have a drink of water anyway, I slept uninterrupted until...11AM! Wow. It felt so good. I then brewed myself a nice cup of tea and baked up some fresh cinnamon rolls while watching The View! I can't remember the last time I have been so indulgent! (for that matter, I can't imagine the next time it might even be a possibility to be so indulgent) It really made such a huge difference in my life. Just to be able to rest my tired bones and body was so refreshing to my soul!

Saturday morning I woke up snarling and snorting, Sunday I spent a day with the Pope, and next thing you know today I am sleeping like a...really tired, 9 months pregnant mother of three ( ...well, we know how babies sleep, and I certainly slept better than that!). My 14 hour pilgrimage to the Bronx yields miracles in under 24 hours! Amazing.

Seriously, thank you SO MUCH to MIL - you were a Godsend today, and everyday!

Time on my side

Time. It is infinitely finite. The days on the calendar stretch on in perpetuity, but each one comes to it's fateful end, much too soon. 24 hours really isn't enough. Each day I awake full of hope and energy, yet each evening I inevitably lay my head on the pillow, exhausted, with only a portion of my to do list completed. Am I too ambitious? Maybe. Inefficient? Only sometimes. Nine months pregnant and therefore prone to bouts of exhaustion? Definitely.

I am a glutton. Everyone who knows me, knows that my plate is full. That's the way I like it. I run one book club, am a member of another, participate in a monthly Bunco circle, just recently stopped working one day a week, chair one or two PTA committees, conduct wedding rehearsals at my church, am planning Curly's birthday, teach a 2 hour religious ed class to ten 3, 4 and 5 year olds every Friday, and try in vain to maintain several friendships and familial responsibilities. Oh yeah - and I already have three kids, a house, and a husband. Once in a while, I write a blog, but that's not so much! It's life. My life. It's just that these past few weeks have been crazy. I actually had one friend call to see if I was ok, was I in the hospital maybe?, all because I haven't posted in my blog in such a long time.

Lately I just can't seem to cross enough off of an ever growing list, and time is running out. This baby is coming, whether I am ready or not. This is the first time in four full term pregnancies that I do not yet have a hospital bag packed at 36 weeks. In the past, my bag has been at the ready, hospital earrings and all, by 30 or 32 weeks. I haven't even looked at, much less washed, a stitch of baby clothes. In fact, I haven't even bought the Dreft! The bassinet is still in the basement. In the past, I had by now, stocked my freezer with 20 homemade dinners, to insure a smooth transition after we brought the newbie home (because seriously, if dinner is on the table, then things at least seem normal). My freezer today? Well, I did recently clean it, but it's full of mostly bread and french fries (french fry sandwich, anyone?) . I recently ordered the Big Brother/Big Sister t-shirts, I just hope they arrive in time. I did also have hubby get the car seat down from the attic, so we can bring our new baby home, even if he/she is naked. At least it's spring, right? Who needs clothes, ...I bought diapers.

Today we are off for the official meeting of Baby "D" who arrived in grand style on the "day of fools", foiling his Daddy's plans to be at Yankee Stadium for the season opener; then First Son has a soccer game. After that our day is quiet. (quiet being a very subjective term). Tomorrow I am off to Yankee stadium with Aunt Tay, as we were honored to receive the golden tickets necessary for entrance to the Papal Mass, and next weekend I am escaping to a rented house on the North Fork of this Island to catch up and relax with six of my closest girlfriends. First Son is off from school this week, but he does have two dentist appointments. I also have been invited to lunch sans kiddies with my good friend SBW. I will fit it all in, I am sure. And whatever doesn't get done...well, there's always tomorrow.

It's My Blog-iversary!

That's right, hard to believe, but today marks one year since I have been a member of the blogosphere. Happy Blog-iversary to me!! As of this posting I have had almost 5700 hits - sounds like a lot right? It's just slightly more than 15 per day, but still, who would think that there are that many people out there who wanna read what I have to say? Amazing!

I am looking forward to year number two, and will be implementing some technological improvements, namely, a subscription service! Keep watching!

Thank you to my very loyal fans, you know who you are. Keep reading, and keep stroking my ego!

I am the Mom, I am the Mom, I am the Mom!

Dear Dr. Pediatrician,
I am the Mom. You are the Doctor. Sorry lady, but Mom trumps Doctor. Every time. Now I realize that you have gone through umpteen years of school and training, internships, residencies, etc. I respect that. I do. But here's the thing. While your area of expertise may be "children" my area of expertise is "my child". No one has put in more hours of research, intensive research, on this particular subject. I know this child inside and out. I know the meaning of every sniffle, cough and burp;the sound of every cry, the cause behind every bump and bruise and hive. As I said, I respect your level of training and expertise, now I demand that you respect mine. I will no longer put up with rushed appointments where you do not listen fully to my concerns, where you speak to me like I am an idiot. I am not an idiot, I am THE MOM. And you, ...are fired.
Sincerely,
The MOM

Seriously, I am so tired of my pediatrician's office. I have been saying this for months now, but it is definitely time for me to act on it and move on already. I am getting a new doctor. (Can't wait to see how my "lovely" insurance factors into this one)

I feel kind of sad, because these doctors have been with me from the very beginning. I mean, literally, Dr. S. was in the delivery room when First Son made his entrance into this world. Also, I really like the RN who works there (and yes, Aunt Mean, she is an RN), as well as the receptionist, who is the one who talked me off the ledge when the doctor I had first "hired" when I was expecting First Son turned out to be a major bone-head.
For most of the past 5 and 1/2 years I have been happy there, but lately, I just am not leaving there with a feeling of confidence. I think it is important for a pediatrician to inspire a parent's confidence, not only in the skills of the Dr, but in our own parenting skills. For the past few months I have been feeling frustration and disrespect. I feel like they are at times, pushing drugs unneccesarily, and at times witholding necessary prescriptions. (such as prophylactic antibiotiotics and nasal flu vaccines) They don't seem to want to take the time to discuss options or diagnoses. Dare I say they "blow me off"? Part of the problem, is that there are two doctors in the practice, but since they cover two offices they are never there at the same time. You never know which one you're going to get, and lately it hasn't been the good one. To be honest though, even the good one has, as of late, been a bit of a disappointment.
I am a smart Mom, thank God, and I do my research. I may have mentioned this before, but I don't take anyone's word without checking it out for myself. I walk into every appointment armed with knowledge. In 5 1/2 years I have never, not once missed an appointment. My children's immunization records read like a public health brochure. I am friendly, and polite at all times. I send Christmas cards and bring cookies. My children say please and thank you and clean up the toys they were playing with. I pay my co-pays! I am a model patient parent, but apparently not a good fit for this office. Well, some other doctor's office is going to be happy to have me and my brood, and our co-pay and cookies!

Just in case...

A few days ago a good friend of mine who has been facing some health issues, commented about the myriad of things that run through one's mind when facing your own mortality. She commented that should anything awful befall her (pthh, pthh, pthh) she would take comfort in knowing that her family would at the very least be well fed, this because of the delicious meals that showed up on her doorstep recently when she had undergone a procedure.

This has got me thinking. I have no doubt that my family would be well fed. That much I am sure they could manage on their own, as Hubby certainly knows his way around the supermarket, the kitchen, and the take-out menus. My concerns, should anything awful befall me, (pthh, pthh, pthh), have more to do with hygiene than nutrition. Will Curly Girl's hair ever be washed, conditioned and combed through properly, or will she live out the rest of her childhood with a ratty ponytail? Will Paddy boy be destined to walk around in "floods" with his belly hanging out because he has no undershirt on and his father doesn't seem to notice that it's time to move up to the next size clothes? Will First Son's nails be cut short, or will he become known as the dirty-fingernail kid? Will any of them be seen wearing shoes AND socks again? And what about Hubby? I picture lots of wrinkles and stains in his clothes, and really long, unruly eyebrows. I shudder to think what my family might become in my absence.

I have mentioned to Hubby, somewhat in jest, that I will need to make a provision in my will to make sure that these things are taken care of, but I don't actually have the means. So please, if you are my friend and you want to do something for me, promise me that in the event of tragedy (pthh, pthh, pthh) you will leave the casserole home and instead head on over with the hairbrush, the nail clippers and the iron! Oh yeah, you might want to bring a dust cloth too!

It could be a ...

If the last few days are any indication, then I must go on the record here as saying that maybe...it's a girl. And not just because I would love for Curly Girl to have a sister, although I would. I have a very scientific reason for my diagnosis (is the sex of a fetus considered a diagnosis?)...This baby is making me cranky!!
Seriously, I pity anybody who has to be around me, most especially the cherubs and Hubby. Everything irritates me lately. I irritate me. My clothes irritate me. Last night watching American Idol even the commercials were irritating me. Also, I just ate three mini chocolate bars and am considering whipping up a batch of Ghiradielli brownies -if only I can keep them a secret from the rest of the inhabitants of my domicile and eat them all myself!
I am not motivated to do anything at all that requires interaction with other people. I just want to hole up with my chocolate and surf the web for celebrity dirt.
I felt like this once before....Spring 2004. We all know what happened then. Another female Taurus? Oh boy!