Smile With Your Eyes

I planned to end this horrible, no-good, ignorant slut of a week with some photos of Ezra smiling -- and then I planned to send those photos off for an independent, third-party evaluation that I am confident will definitely prove that his smiles are very seriously the greatest smiles ever witnessed in a human being -- but of course he will only smile at ME, and not the CAMERA, and in fact the presence of the camera immediately makes him all SERIOUS BABY IS SERIOUS, and then I replace the lens cap and he's all HA HA smiling with his whole head again.

And now today he has a cold in his eyeball. Because of course he does. And now even the off-camera smiles are tinged with about five shades of pathetic and two kinds of eye goop. Which: yeah, he's cute as hell, but ew.

So instead, I present: SERIOUS BABY AND HIS THUMB.

I find his struggle to be both inspiring and oddly satisfying. He finally gets that thumb extricated from his fist and in his mouth and man, there's a metaphor for the human condition in there somewhere, but I think I'll just promise myself to get out of the house at some point over the weekend and leave it at that.

Sad. But Not, You Know, Saaaaad.

We're snowed in (well, more like ice-and-slushed in at this point), we're slowly on the illness mend, and the news from the hospital is neither particularly good nor particularly dire. (They're...shocking his heart? because it's still beating irregularly? and he's at high risk for a stroke and the pneumonia has taken a turn for the even worse? and while this sounds terribly awful they seem rather nonchalant about the whole thing?)

(Also: they! I shake my fist at you, they!).

It's always just a matter of time, I've found, if I post a few complain-y, overwhelm-y entries, before the suggestion is made that I am depressed and should call a doctor and consider some meds. Which always makes me toss up my hands and wonder when it suddenly became impossible for someone to just be SAD when things are not going especially spectacularly? Can't anyone just be SAD anymore? But that's not really fair, since I know people really do mean well, and when all you have to go on is that series of complain-y entries, you might assume I really AM doing nothing but wallowing in my nice bowl of sadness soup.

(Mmmm. Soup.)

I assure you that I am not, really.  I think I'm managing pretty well, all things considered. I am sure eating a lot of comfort foods (seriously, get me some soup! and make it cream-based!) and I think it may be time to watch a stupid sad movie and have a good cry. (I just need one that doesn't involve anyone DYING, so if anyone has a suggestion for something wussy that still packs a Steel Magnolias punch, please leave the title in the comments.) But still. I'm good. Tired, but good. Worried, but good. Coldish, but good.

My days are bigger than this blog, and yet very small, and I like them that way. Noah's on a Dr. Seuss kick, so we're all about Horton and the Grinch and Green Eggs and Ham. Ezra's about two minutes away from laughing and is actually starting to maybe take naps in his crib knock on wood oh my god right now. He is so round and fine and handsome and looks at me with an expression of pure glee because HI! IT'S YOU! MY FAVORITE!

And last night Noah ran out of the usual bedtime stalling excuses (potty, drink of water, one more song, etc.) and came out of his room to announce that "I NEED MY TOENAILS CLIPPED."

I'm still laughing about that one, because you just can't get any gooder than that.

(OH. Duh. A Little Princess! Done.)

Don't Steal My Sunshine

Dad Update:

His left lung, the one that collapsed, has been drained of fluid and...uh...reinflated? uncollapsed? You know. Whatever the proper technical term for WE DONE FIXED IT is. But! Now he has pneumonia in the right lung, and is hallucinating from a lack of oxygen to his brain. And not fun hallucinations that we can tease him about later. Scary dreary hallucinations about death that are making my mom cry and me stress-eat the hell out of a pan of brownies. AND THEN there are a couple heart-related things that I cannot spell but we are assured are at least somewhere in the realm of "normal" complications. So...yay for that?

Noah Update:

Despite waiting for almost two months for yesterday's evaluation appointment, I sincerely wished I could have rescheduled. Y'all know what the past few months have been like, health-wise, over here, with the colds and sinus infections and ear infections and ear infections LEAKING OUT OF OUR EYEBALLS. So you know that I know Sick. I am an expert at Sick. And yesterday I was indeed at the level of Sick where I shouldn't have been anywhere except my bed, researching the same damn breastfeeding websites, hoping for JUST ONE that would tell me some Nyquil would be okay, because I WANT NYQUIL. MULTI-INGREDIENT, ALCOHOL-RIDDEN NYQUIL.

Anyway. Noah went back with two very young speech pathologists -- I'm not old enough to be other adults' mother yet, but I was definitely old enough to buy them booze in junior high -- and I sat in the waiting room filing out scads of paperwork, balling a tissue up by my red nose to prevent dripping snot all over a detailed account of Noah's developement. How old was he when he sat up? Walked? Moved from single words to two-word phrases? How long did he toe-walk for? How many hours was I in labor with him? APGAR SCORES, LADY. WE CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DON'T HAVE ALL OF THIS WRITTEN DOWN IN YOUR WALLET.

(I DO have it written down, of course, but my iPhone's battery was dead so I couldn't access my blog. And without access to my blog I can only tell you that I have a son named Noah. He's over there. The skinny one with the dimple.)

I coughed and sneezed and crossed stuff out because I kept misspelling complicated words like months and speech and Noah. I detailed his diet (bread and other bread-like substances) and his likes and dislikes and fears and various obsessions, like it was a online dating profile for Very Quirky People. (Do you enjoy long walks on the beach with your socks on? Do you hate fingerpaints? If you could eat only one food for the rest of your life, would it be Goldfish Crackers?)

I was called back after the evaluation and tried my damnedest to seem alert and together and ADVOCATE, DAMMIT. ADVOCATE THROUGH THE SINUS PAIN! The head therapist felt that Noah's articulation actually IS very good -- he CAN say all the sounds that a child his age should be able to make. He just...doesn't, a lot of the time.

She noticed his lack of social/conversational speech and that the vast majority of what he says is simply him repeating what you've just said. ("Noah, do you want to play with the trains again?" "Yeah, I want to play with the trains again.") When he needs to build a sentence himself ("Noah, what do you want to do now?"), he struggles and comes up with something more basic and hard to understand ("Noah wan pay trains."). This might explain why he often defaults to stuff he's memorized -- canned answers and phrases, entire patches of TV dialogue -- and why he has difficulty answering complex questions about when and why and how.

When he eats, he only chews on the right side of his mouth -- something I'd never noticed, but hot damn if it isn't the truth. Put something in the left side and he'll immediately move it over before starting to chew. He still refuses to use utensils -- he'll lick stuff off them, maybe, but you'll rarely see a spoon actually enter his mouth -- and still has difficulty drinking from an open cup. And textures. Oh my hell, with the textures. His diet -- despite us doing and trying EVERYTHING that every book or expert recommends -- has never been worse or more restrictive. We essentially give him everything he needs to live mixed into liquid smoothies.

The therapist did not think that there is anything super serious or profound going on -- he's a quirky kid with a lot of little stuff going on all around the sensory spectrum who could really benefit from some extra help during a fairly critical age. You know, exactly the sort of kid who would graduate out of Early Intervention and then still struggle to really fit into a mainstream preschool classroom. Imagine that! Why I never! The more you know!

They're proposing speech therapy that will focus on his eating and oral motor skills -- getting him to use both sides of his mouth, accepting different textures and foods, and packing some pounds onto his skinny little self. (Like our ill-fated foray into EI Lunch Bunch, only not in a group setting and hopefully with a therapist with the tiniest modicum of PATIENCE for CHILDREN.) And then, a conversational/social skills session, where he'll be paired with another kid of similar needs/abilities and act out simple situations with appropriate conversation. They're also pretty sure they can work around our insurance's list of exclusions for speech therapy.

By the time I heard all of this, I was completely DONE and exhausted and achey, to the point where I hope the therapist doesn't think I approach breakthroughs in my child's developmental needs with all the excitement of a teeth cleaning. As we were driving away to pick up the baby from a friend's house, I belatedly started to process the New Plan v. 2009 and realized that wow, I think this is really going to be good. Great, even. Just what he needs.

We shall see, I guess. I need to recharge my optimism circuits, a little bit, but I think this might be a good start.

Done But Not Over

The breaks. We cannot has them.

Since I posted on Friday, things went from Fine to Not Fine. "Kaflooey," is my mom's technical term for it. My dad's lung collapsed, his blood sugar went through the roof, he developed an arrhythmia and most likely pneumonia. He's had his lung drained of fluid and several panic attacks because he simply can't breathe. He's been on and off oxygen treatments for days, constantly dancing around the edge of ventilator territory -- improving a little but not quite enough, remaining solidly in the high-level cardiac care unit, which we keep telling him is actually a million-dollar spa getaway when the nurse comes to thump away on his back. I'm sure his insurance company would find us HYSTERICAL.

On the other end of the whining spectrum, I woke up on Sunday with another cold. Meaning I could do nothing more for my dad than miserably wave at him from the doorway while covering my mouth and nose, and could do nothing more for my mom than drape myself over the chairs in the waiting room and pretend that I was still awake. My body just plumb gave out, so I came home.

And yet I will be dragging my feverish ass out of bed this afternoon to take Noah to a speech evaluation -- a private one, which I suppose our insurance may also find rather amusing. Also, I think I will bet myself 10 bucks that I can get him to say "kaflooey" to the speech therapist. It's good to have goals, people.

Done

The surgery is over. It ended up being a triple bypass, and everything looks good and went fine and there are cheerful handsome doctors making all kinds of happy nodding faces.

I saw him for a minute post-op and kissed his head and held his hand, and that was nice but all the tubes and breathing machines and beeping things were maybe a little too *real* for my squeamish ass. Then I changed a poopy baby diaper that went all the way up to the neck, if you know what I mean. That, oddly enough, did not squick me out in the slightest. 

Then I ate a donut. That about brings y'all up to speed. 

PS. My mom says to tell you that she thinks you are all wonderful, lovely people. Don't worry, I won't tell her otherwise.

PPS. Ha! I was kidding, right there. 

PPPS. God, I'm tired.

Waiting

He's in surgery now. We're waiting. Ezra is here and being the best baby ever, as usual. Fish tank! Fish tank! Nurses! Whoo!

We're good. We're optimistic and okay. Except for the Rachel Ray Show on the TV here in the waiting room, which is making me want to punch something. I think I shall punch this gigantic blueberry muffin. Right after I eat it. 

The hospital's wifi flags both Facebook and Twitter as inappropriate. Too many doctors trying to liveblog brain surgeries? So...I guess I will update my BLOG, like in the OLDEN DAYS, oh my GOD. It'll be a few more hours before we know anything. 

(For those of you waiting to hear more about the blueberry muffin, well, I'm sorry. Important updates only. I KNOW. It's downright medieval.)

Holding Pattern

Out there.

In here.

 

Still here.

(His bypass surgery is scheduled for Friday, so I'll be here for awhile longer, fighting the good fight for stray wifi signals and drinking WAY! TOO! MUCH! COFFEE! while Ez charms the scrubs off the nurses. Thank you for keeping us in your thoughts this week.)

All That Your Heart Can Take

On Friday, we got the results of my father's heart catheterization, which mostly confirmed what we already knew: there's a very bad blockage in there, a blockage has likely been there for awhile and likely caused his fall last summer and is definitely causing all of his current bouts of dizziness and breathlessness that have essentially kept him housebound for months now. Angioplasty or a stent or medication will not help. Bypass surgery is absolutely not an option because of his age and health and just...no. Quality of life, enjoy what you have, and all that.

On Saturday, my mom called 911 after the third nitroglycerin failed to halt my dad's symptoms and he was admitted to the hospital.

Today, they're meeting with the heart surgeon about the bypass surgery. My dad is resisting, and I can't blame him for that. For two years, they've told us the surgery could kill him. In two days, we've simply run out of other options.

I'm loading up babies and pets and an indefinite number of days' worth of underwear. I never really know what I actually can DO when I rush up to visit at the first sign of a crisis, but it's...well, rushing up to visit is just what I always do. So I do that. I'm doing that. Okay.

Deodorant Wars III: The Party

(Previously: Part One and Part Two)

Since we last left this...um...completely inexplicable series that even I'm not really sure what I'm going for here either, there have been several notable life changes for our deodorant friends.

(Also, if you have to ask why I have so many different deodorants, you clearly underestimate how dedicated I get to completely insane gimmicks for my blog.)

Degree Clinical Protection has put his macho bachelor days behind him and settled down with Degree Ultraclear and little Travel Size.

Degree Clinical Protection would like you to know that it was a shotgun wedding, and that he still totally rocks the party. You know. When they can get a babysitter, and stuff.

Secret Flawless, inspired by Lindsay Lohan and that Katy Perry song, which are testing like, way high with her demographic, has been hanging out with Secret Clinical Strength. Her Facebook status is currently set to "It's Complicated."

Tom's of Maine is currently single.

But he's optimistic! 2009 is going to be his year! The year the research on aluminum content in deodorant will definitely swing his way! Plus! He recently met Dove Clinical Protection in the candle aisle of the grocery co-op? And she's really like, in touch with what's important, and stuff? Like positivity and acceptance -- she thinks it's okay that you're sweaty! Her prescription-strength aluminum content is TOTALLY JUST A SUGGESTION.

And her apartment has all these really arty black-and-white photographs of chubby girls in their underwear. That's kind of rad.

Anyway, Tom's invited her to a family get-together in honor of Old "Grandpa" Spice. Finally, it's his chance to prove that he's not a loser! People like him! Girls like him!

Plus last time he accidentally set the house on fire with his homemade candles. He's gotta play it real cool this time.

"grumble grumble goddamned baby-powder scented whippersnappers"

"So. You're here. I hope you didn't bring those fucking candles again."

"No, I'm selling handmade fair trade dreamcatchers now."

"Why aren't you eating anything?"

"God, you KNOW I'm a vegan. I tell you this every year."

"HA HA GOOD ONE GRANDPA. THAT'S AWESOME. FUCK YOU, HIPPIE."

"So...you're here with Tom?"

"Oh, we're just friends. I kind of felt sorry for him. He's really not a bad guy, but he's just not enough to meet a woman's underarm wetness needs."

"Wow, I love your simple, gender-neutral packaging."

"Yours too. Who did your focus groups?"

"Great. Now how will I get boys to pay attention to me in ba-a-ars?"

"Sorry, dude. Maybe get the design people to cinch in your waist a little more?"

"THAT'S HOT. AND SO GOING RIGHT ON YOUTUBE."

"Sigh."

"All right, everybody. Let's sing to Grandpa and get this over with already."

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO...OH MY GOD! NOOO!"

"TOM'S ON FIRE AGAIN!"

"Did somebody call for a doctor? Or a fireman? Or Tiger Woods?"

"Oh my God, I like, sooo totally use your razors? The ones with like, 17 blades or whatever? You're the BEST."

"Wait until you see the new 18-blade model, baby. It'll blow your mind."

"Dammit."

Contractually Obligated Shmushy Face

A NAP? TAKE A NAP YOU SAY? YOU SHOCK AND APPALL ME, MADAM.

(Two new posts over at the Luvs site: Save It For the Internet, Lady and Things I Did Instead Of Writing Helpful Time-Saving Tips For You This Week.)

(By the way, I really want to thank everybody who has clicked over and/or left a comment on my stuff over there. You've helped me earn a few more much-needed dollars. I'm also going to be doing some additional writing for Zero to Forty soon, which was by far the Most Fun Writing Gig Ever. And perhaps now it will be even more fun -- writing about pregnancy without, you know, having to actually be pregnant. WIN!)

(And yes, I totally appreciate the irony of me coming here to post about how I don't actually have time to post here but look! Here's stuff I wrote for money. Delicious leafy money. I would like to eat it with some croutons and shaved Parmesan cheese.)

(Here. Because I feel guilty now for being such a sell-out and all, I give you this unflattering photo of me, unshowered and completely free of makeup, sporting a big hickey on my cheek, courtesy of a REALLY REALLY HUNGRY INFANT.)