Monday, December 22, 2014

Christmasy Things & Etc.

What? Christmas is this week? How did that happen?! The one problem with doing all your Christmas shopping online during the week of Thanksgiving is that removing yourself from the constant commercialization and stresses of holiday shopping kinda makes Christmas seem a little less imminent. That plus the regular chaos of having a new baby (and two other kids), has kind of let time slip away from me. I guess this is an appropriate time to also admit that my heart has been a little TOO busy preparing for the clinching of a Seahawks playoff spot and slightly less focused on preparing for the birth of Jesus. Ooops. My bad.

Jon in his football Sunday best...right down to the shoes!


But we have our Christmas tree and our decorations up. For the record, when you don't have a mantle, the TV is an appropriate place to hang your stocking. My Someday Dream Home will have a real mantle, with a real fireplace. Also a gigantic jetted tub. And a dishwasher. And a shower that rains liquid chocolate and an indoor swimming pool filled with chocolate bars. I really don't think I'm asking too much.

Stockings were hung by the TV with care:


Last week I made Jonathan's Christmas stocking. This might sound kind of lame, but once I found out we would be having another baby, one of my biggest worries was whether I would be able to make his stocking in time. You see, I'm a teeny bit lazy. I've been known to leave dry clothes in the drier for an entire week. Or turn my underwear inside out when I run out of clean ones (seriously, true story). Or use my socks to wipe up spilled milk instead of getting a towel. Also, up until last week and for the first two Christmases of his life, Ryan's stocking had been incorrectly labeled with the letter "M" - we were going to name him Marcus. And to top off examples of my laziness, I even tried to convince my husband to name Jonathan "Marcus" so that I wouldn't have to fix the stocking.


My babies. Pictures of the three of them together still take my breath away. I have three kids? That's crazy! Heart-splosion.


This little stinker reminds me so much of Jacob. Or at least how I remember Jacob looking when he was a baby. I stare at him sometimes and have to convince myself that I haven't been transported back into time or given birth to the same baby twice. But lately, Jonathan has been developing his own look. I can't wait to find out whether his eyes stay dark, dark blue or if they change brown. I (the super Aryan who is 3/4 German with blue eyes and dark blonde hair) have always wanted a brown-eyed baby).



On Wednesday, I accompanied my husband to an work event in Seattle for local nonprofits. We were kid-free for about five hours. I had two full glasses of wine. I wore something other than yoga pants. And no one talked about poop or baby farts. It was AMAZING. 

The event was held at the Seattle Art Museum. And for several hours, my husband and I wandered slightly tipsy throughout the museum chatting with real adults, sipping on alcoholic beverages, scratching our heads at the weird modern art (I could just frame Jacob's drawings and hang them on the wall and no one would be any wiser), nibbled on heavy appetizers, and enjoyed each other's company. 


Nine months of pregnancy plus two months of nursing has clearly made me out-of-shape for the modern sport of drinking. Two glasses of Pinot Gris and this is what happened on the ferry ride home (photo credit to my lovely husband, who is always there to capture my best moments):

Sexy, no?


Because Christmas came early for us exhausted, kid-overdosed adults, my husband and I got to go on another date on Saturday. We met up with two couples in Seattle for dinner and it was almost the best night of my life. No joke. Again, I had two glasses of Pinot Gris, which I've decided is my new favorite drink. The night was amazing for several reasons. For one, this happened:

Tipsy pose with ice snowman:


I may have taken a NSFW photo with the snowman's large carrot nose. But I think I'll spare you all (Merry Christmas). It was also amazing for the fun conversation and non-stop laughter and our attempts to turn all the menu items into something dirty. For example, there was a tuna poke, a cocktail called the Chimney Slip (when you slip and go in the wrong entrance and leave presents under someone's tree, wink, wink), and something called a beef cheek?

I love hanging out with this guy. And *sometimes* (when I'm not trying to make out with ice snowmen) he even likes hanging out with me too.


So now that we have all that good, clean adult fun out of the way, I am excited about facing this next week with a refreshed mindset. I can't wait to relive all the Christmas magic through my kids' eyes.  I have to admit that for as much as I despise the damn Elf on the Shelf trend, I really truly love how excited my kids are each morning to find their elf. I brought the elf out of the Christmas storage box only reluctantly this year. But the kids' excitement and wonder started to rub off on me and *shame face* I actually look forward to thinking up new elf ideas.

If they are this excited about a silly elf, I can't wait to see how excited they will be the morning after Santa arrives. Speaking of which, we have a teeny, little problem:


Hell no! No baby cats (aka: kittens) in this house for Christmas. I very rationally explained to Jacob that he didn't ask Santa for a baby cat when he sat on his lap the week before. I thought I was in the clear, until Jacob equally rationally responded: "Well, if Santa knows if I've been naughty or nice, he will know I want a baby cat." Um...... Maybe I can find a stuffed animal kitten and tell Jacob that he never specified that he wanted an ALIVE baby cat. Sorry dude, Santa's not a mind reader.

And now I will end this post with a Christmas miracle. Yesterday Ryan asked to hold Jonathan (Jacob and Ryan often fight over who gets to hold Jon). I set Jonathan on his lap and Ryan asked me to take a picture. I refused at first because 2 year olds and 2 month olds are not the best subjects even on the best of days. But Ryan was insistent that I take a picture and some battles you just don't need to fight. So I set up my phone, told Ryan to smile, and half-heartedly snapped the shot. It wasn't until I looked at the final product that I realized the miracle that I had captured. Not did Ryan actually smile, but JON smiled too! 

And now this is my new absolute favorite picture (thanks Ryan for being so stubborn).



Saturday, December 20, 2014

Mom To The Rescue

Yay! It's the weekend and I'm still alive. I survived another full week. And, guess what? My kids did too. Yup, ALL of them. I think that is a reason to celebrate around here.

So, Jonathan. Big deep sigh. I don't think his acid reflux medication is working. It's been two weeks and he's still hit or miss. And by "hit or miss," I mean that some days he will cry and scream every non-feeding waking moment and other times he will scream and cry only for half of the non-feeding waking moments. It wouldn't be so bad if I only had him. But extremely fussy baby + two other kids (especially in a tiny house without a playroom) is just A LOT to handle. When I tell people he is fussy, they are all like "oh yeah, I had a fussy baby too" or "yeah, all my babies went through a fussy stage" or "you say that about all your babies" and I'm like "no, I'm sorry, but this is beyond fussy. You DON'T EVEN!" And they all just look at me like I'm a crazy first-time mom. And I want to punch someone in the face.

Warning sign of impending eruption
 
 
Typical scene in our house:
 
 
I have absolutely no desire to ever leave my house. Not only will Jon scream the entire car ride and back to any destination, but once we arrive at our destination (usually the grocery store to buy booze, I mean tea), he will scream incredibly loudly up and down every single aisle. And on top of this, people STARE at us everywhere we go. Everyone wants to catch a glimpse of the source of the non-stop screaming (and perhaps judge me for having a screaming baby in public). Most people also like to comment. I can't leave a grocery store without hearing "Oh, someone is unhappy" from at least fifteen different people as they glance curiously into Jon's car seat. I just reply, "yeah, me! I'm unhappy!" Then everyone likes to give their opinion about why my baby is crying and offer their advise on how to make him stop. "Is he hungry?" "Maybe you should just hold him." "Does he need his pacifier?" "There are chairs over there if you need to feed him." And then I move down the next aisle and it all starts over again.

Oh my gosh! My baby is crying?! I had NO IDEA. Maybe I should try giving him the pacifier that is clipped to his shirt. Maybe I should stop starving him?! Maybe I should actually change his diaper once in a while. I'm such a weirdo. My baby is screaming and I didn't even THINK about trying any of these things to make him feel better. (That was sarcasm, by the way)

I think I need to carry around a sign that reads as follows:

DEAR PEOPLE. My baby is crabby. There is nothing the freak wrong with him. He is fed. He has a clean diaper. He is just crabby. No, I won't try feeding him rice milk. No, I won't buy another stupid swing or bouncing baby seat. He cries like this all the time. It's just his thing. There is nothing I can do to stop it right now so I just need to buy my effing groceries and go home. Please leave me alone. MY BABY IS  JUST AN EFFING JERK AND THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO TO STOP IT SO LEAVE ME ALONE!

Oh man. Sorry about that. I just REALLY had to get that off my chest.

On the rare occasion the two babies fall asleep in the car, I park somewhere, leave the car running, and rip into a bag of chocolate. This usually buys me two minutes of free time until someone wakes up crying again:


On Wednesday, I accompanied my husband to a work event in Seattle. We dropped off all three kids at my parents' house before catching the ferry. When we came back, my mom informed me that Jon had cried basically the whole night. I was like, "See! I told you! I'm NOT crazy. He really DOES cry all the time." Then my mom proceeded to lavish me with pity and sympathy and then more pity. And it felt really good. That's when I realized what it was that I had really been needing all week long. Instead of non-stop curious stares and unhelpful advice, I have really just been needing someone to understand how hard my days are and tell me they are sorry and try to empathize. To have someone walk four hours in my shoes, experience all the craziness first hand, tell me that they finally get why I'm always complaining, and then reassure me that they are in my corner, it's all I really need right now (well, that and four arms and five bottle of wine). I'll tell you, it was amazing to finally get that.

And how did my mom know that was all I needed? Because no matter how old you are, moms are always there for you (I say this as I rock a very unhappy 2 month old that no one else wants to hold).

Epilogue: I bought some baby probiotics today on the advice of several readers and FB friends (thank you!). I'm crossing my fingers that this helps a little.

Past out from exhaustion:

 
Thank goodness he's cute when he's not crying:
 
 

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

An Office Party Christmas Story

Tonight we attended my husband's office Christmas party. So of course, I woke up this morning to the sight of my two year old looking like this:

"Mommy, I color my face!"


Sidenote: Why is it NEVER the yellow marker? Also, it takes a lot of baby wipes to get washable marker off flesh.

Like last year, the party was held at a fancy country club. This required that I wear something other than yoga pants for the first time in two months. Let's just say it was painful. I almost forgot how to get dressed. There is nothing like wearing business clothes to tell you the honest truth about your post-pregnancy body. My yoga pants are so very kind to me and tell me that I'm already at my pre-pregnancy shape. My pencil skirts and blouses tell a completely DIFFERENT story (damn them all! So all this time, I really shouldn't have been indulging in my post-dinner bags of kettle popcorn. I liked it better when I didn't know this fact).

UNLIKE last year, my husband's work set up a disco ball and a karaoke machine in the corner of the large dining room. Disco ball + karaoke machine + Christmas cookies + a half dozen children. I think you guys already know where this post is going. Am I right? I'm pretty sure that my husband's work imagined that the karaoke machine would cater to the adults in the room who suddenly found themselves overcome with Christmas cheer (and several glasses of wine). I'm pretty sure they DIDN'T imagine that my two oldest children would use it to make unpleasant noises during a catered meal eaten on CLOTH TABLECLOTHS. Cloth tablecloths always set off a loud warning signal in my brain. My family shouldn't be allowed anywhere with cloth tablecloths. I generally draw the line at newspaper (preferably the comics) or plastic.

So as the CEO of my husband's work steps up to a podium (places with podiums are also generally off limits) to give a lengthy pre-dinner speech about the successes of the year, my two year old and six year old stretch out on the floor next to the disco ball like a bunch of high-as-a-kite hippies staring up at the pretty lights that are changing colors and twirling around the walls. We thought the kids were being pretty harmless but were eventually forced to intervene when Ryan got up off the floor and started running circles around the disco ball while Jacob stood over it to cast a shadow of his butt on the ceiling.

Sharing our table with my husband's direct supervisor, we all enjoyed a lovely dinner of chicken parmesan, risotto, and broccolettes (which look exactly like the love child of an asparagus and a broccoli). As we were digging in, I heard a clanging sound and looked over at Ryan who had submerged a purple toothbrush into his fancy glass of ice water. Where did the toothbrush come from? Funny you should ask. Ryan's pockets are mini worm holes with the power to teleport his hands into the farthest reaches of any junk drawer in the continental United States. Ryan pulled his toothbrush out of the water glass, smiled maliciously, and then began vigorously scrubbing his teeth. I looked at my husband and we gave each other the universal parental look of "is there any way we can pretend he's not ours?" We shrugged it off and intended to go back to our dinners when Ryan began repeatedly dipping his toothbrush into the water glass, pulling it out, and loudly slurping all the water off the bristles. The sound made me cringe and took my back to the time I caught my grandma in the middle of the night slurping on chunks of leftover turkey through her denture-less gums. Ryan's toothbrush was taken hostage for the rest of the night.

After dinner, the floor was opened for karaoke and the microphone was turned on. And, just as you would imagine in a room full of sober coworkers, everyone steered clear. That is, until a toddler wandered over and began smacking the microphone against the floor. I chuckled softly as some other mom ran toward the stage. Then the "thwacking" sound morphed into high-pitched "heeee heee heee" sounds. I chuckled again at the thought of another sorry mom running for her kid. That's when my husband elbowed me and whispered, "um, I think that's Ryan." I looked over at Ryan's seat and, alas, saw that it was empty. My husband disappeared for a moment and brought back one kicking and screaming two year old.

But it's ok. This story has a happy ending. I gave Jacob permission to go up and sing a karaoke song. After cautiously circling the mic, he finally took it, ducked behind the speaker and belted out "Colin Kaepernick got run over by a Seahawk!" to the tune of Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer. Hopefully no one in the room was a 49'ers fan. I gave him the glare of death and then he started to sing the entire first verse and chorus of Jingle Bells. He ended to a loud round of applause from the room (he was the first person to actually use the mic to sing anything). I was so proud! He clearly did not get his gregariousness from me, nor his singing voice.

My pride lasted a full .25 seconds. His courage having been propelled by the loud applause from his new adoring fans, Jacob prepared for a majestic encore. And suddenly the room was filled with a symphony of horrendous fart noises. Yep. Now THAT he may have gotten from me.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

The Great Christmas Tree Hunt of 2014

This morning we left the house early to meet some friends for our annual breakfast + Christmas tree hunting tradition. We got out the door without too much fuss (we only had to turn around once for a forgotten item). As we piled into our Subaru for the second time, I considered it a small miracle that (1) Ryan had a complete pair of shoes on, even though they WERE crocs, (2) no one smelled like poop, (3) the baby wasn't screaming, or even crying!, and (4) I had successfully convinced Jacob not to bring the kitchen spatula (aka sword) that he wields to the horror and demise of entire populations of imaginary zombies. (Dear Zombies, you can thank me later.)

As we pulled out of the driveway (i,e. tiny patch of cement and grass in front of our house) I looked down at the time. 9:05. Perfect, we were right on time for our 9:00 breakfast reservation. No seriously. That's on time for us.

At the local pancake house, we met up with our good friends, two childless couples. It is quite possible that the only reason they still hang out with us is because we offer a hearty affirmation of their choice not to have children. Hey, always glad to be useful! We sat down and I promptly ordered the largest coffee available and then added a quarter cup of cream and five packets of sugar (because: four hours of interrupted sleep).

As Jacob was regaling our friends with the tales of his two missing front teeth and his visits from the tooth fairy (which involved a lot of Jacob pulling up his lip and shoving his toothless, gaping mouth inches from their faces), Ryan hurled himself at the booth next door and dove under the table giggling. One not-so-gentle reminder about restaurant etiquette later and I was downing my coffee while the kids sat in their seats sipping hot chocolate. Yeah, so whoever invented the idea of giving children scalding hot (breakable) mugs of liquid sugar topping with extra heapings of whip cream was a pure genius. NOT.

Less than two minutes after the hot chocolate arrived, I heard the loud swooshing of a mini waterfall and glanced over at Ryan to find that he had attempted to dump the entire contents of a full glass of ice water into his full mug of hot chocolate. That kid needs a lesson on spatial distribution. Watery hot chocolate flowed all over the table and trickled down into a puddle on the floor as chunks of whip cream formed into floating glaciers and slid past our plates. In Ryan's defense, he was just trying to cool down his hot chocolate. Mental note: add $2 to the tip.

Insert: random pictures of my children

Where did his double chin go?! No!!!


Oh, there it is, phew.


After things got cleaned up, the food arrived. As our childless friends dug heartily into their warm meals, my husband and I each grabbed a plate of bear-face shaped pancakes and began the meticulous task of cutting them into itty bitty, teeny pieces. You know, kids' food should really come pre-cut. Why isn't that a thing?! Also, if you cut a fake pancake bear's whip cream eyes in half, you will have to answer to a very upset six year old. Doesn't matter that the bear's eyes are just going to be chomped to death, forced down a tiny throat, and dissolved violently in stomach acid. Logic isn't part of the equation, afterall.

A million tiny pieces of pancake (except for four, mostly intact whip cream bear eyes) later, we finally sat down to our own plates. That's precisely when Jonathan began crying from his car seat (which had been perched haphazardly under our table-- third child, anyone?). But that's ok, because I'm actually training for the very likely possibility that someday I might lose an upper limb.... so I really need to practice buttering toast with one hand.

Like a carefully rehearsed routine, the kids ate ten miniature bites of pancake and then promptly engaged themselves in a game of restaurant-booth wrestling. This game was prematurely ended by my husband. Thereafter each child declared himself the winner, which initiated a verbal battle as to who is stronger. After trying unsuccessfully to explain rationally to the kids why we don't use phrases like "buttface" and "dumb jerk"(at least not in public), I gave up and bribed them with balloons. Works like a charm every time.

We finished breakfast without any casualties and then drove out to our favorite local tree farm. At the tree farm entrance, the employees offered us a saw to take with us. I grabbed it through the passenger window, laughed hysterically, and said "Hey kids, look, mommy has a saw!" The employees, who no doubt noticed the layers of bags under my eyes that would put an airport luggage carousel to shame and sensed the desperation in my weary mommy-soul, were not amused.

Ahhh, Christmas tree hunting! I had been looking forward to this day for weeks. I had imagined the activities of this day several times. We would frolic among the douglas firs and the nobles, Ryan and Jacob would be filled with wonder and delight as they agreed upon the Perfect Tree, the baby would gaze quietly with wide-eyes out at the expanse of greenery, and we would all get a frame-worthy photo before heading home with our prize and our sweet, sweet memories.

Surveying the land



Reality: Three feet from our car, Ryan stepped into a hole and cried hysterically. Jonathan was not happy about being woken up from his nap (or the blinding sun in his eyes) and screamed intermittently. Jacob ran in the opposite direction and got lost in a small cluster of trees. My husband circled the tree farm repeatedly without finding an acceptable tree. I made everyone pose for pictures, which required much screaming and threatening ("Jacob get your butt here RIGHT NOW. Ryan GET OFF THE GROUND. Both of you LOOK AT ME DAMMIT. Now, Smile!")


This would be a great picture, except for Jacob's zombie eyes.


Daddy's boy



After pictures were taken, I realized that my prescription sunglasses (which Ryan stepped on last week and which had been haphazardly taped together) had fallen out of my pocket. I offered $1 to the first child to find said sunglasses. In response to my offer, Ryan whined that he wanted to go home and asked my husband to hold him and Jacob grabbed a stick and started whacking random trees with it. Oh well. Who needs sunglasses in Seattle anyway?

We finally settled on a tree and the big boys took turns helping Daddy chop it down. How many boys does it take to chop a tree? At least three.


Our lovely tree made a quick journey into the back of our friend's pick-up truck (yay for friends with trucks). I love this picture :)


We paid for our tree without too much hassle, sampled some apple cider, and headed for home again.


Later in the day, our friends told us that they enjoyed following behind our station wagon during the drive back to the city. She said that we looked like a car full of cheer. Through the windows she could see all five us packed closely together, talking and laughing as balloons floated around our heads. One big happy family.

Little does she know that, in reality, my husband and I were yelling at the kids to stop punching their balloons into the front seat, begging and pleading for them to stop touching each other, and enduring Jacob's made up lyrics to the tune of "Jingle Bells." ("Jingle Bells, Santa smells, Batman pooped his pants." and "Jingle Bells, Superman wears diapers, Ryan is a dumb face.")

Oh Christmas. Bring it on!

Now if we could just figure out where to put the tree. Our dining room (and half of our living room) currently looks like this:


Thursday, December 11, 2014

Cough Drops For Breakfast

Thank you so much everyone who left a comment or word of encouragement on my last post. Sometimes I don't know why I keep blogging and then, like the other day, people jut come out of the woodwork when I really need it. So THANK YOU!

Most of the time I feel like I keep things pretty positive around here and I force myself to see the humor in every day. Because as long as I'm laughing, I can't be crying! Ha ha. Ha ha. Laugh. Laugh.

So, speaking of laughing (and not crying), the other morning, I was enjoying some sleep after being up most of the night with Jonathan. The two of us were slumped wearily in my bed, both exhausted from a night of Jon's fussing. At some point during a cycle of shallow sleep, I felt a short, humid breeze trickle across my face. The breeze smelled faintly of milk and hot dogs. A bit disoriented, I forced one of my eyes open and took in the view of two dark and foreboding nostrils looming a mere hairsbreadth from my face. Somewhere below the nostrils, a two-year old's voice bellowed loudly, "GOOD MORNING JOSE!"

Startled, my heart jolted as if I'd just been infused with five cups of coffee (wouldn't that have been nice) and I jumped halfway out of bed. Ryan laughed, leaned back into my face, and said, "Hi Jose. I want pancakes."

"Sorry, wrong Jose," I exclaimed and laid my head back down on my pillow. By the way, who the heck is Jose?

"Mom, I'm hungry for breakfast!" Ryan was not going to let me out that easily.

I lifted my arm to the side table and fumbled around until I felt a small oval object. Bingo! I unwrapped the object and tossed it at him. "Here, have a raspberry cough drop." Happy, Ryan ran out of the room and I sank back into a valiant attempt to regain some sleep.

That's when I felt the warmth of a mysterious liquid seeping quickly all over my torso. It didn't take me long to find the source. I looked down and glared at the 12 pound infant sharing my bed. He also happened to be separating me from approximately 90% of the surface area of my mattress. But he was sleeping soundly and I was exhausted. So, I relished my sliver of urine-soaked bed and closed my eyes.

Of course, that's when Jacob busted through my bedroom door. "Mom! Ryan has a cough drop!"

"Stop tattling. Go away. I'm sleeping."

"Can I have one?"

"No, it's medicine. It's not for eating."

"But Ryan has one!"

"Seriously?!" I grabbed another raspberry-flavored cough drop and tossed it at him.

"Oooh, Thanks!" He was just about to walk out when he turned around and asked, "Mom, can we have pancakes?"

I thought for a moment. Then, having made up my mind, I grabbed the half-full bag of cough drops and tossed them at Jacob. His eyes lit up like I'd just handed him a 1,000 piece Star Wars Lego set. "Share with your brother! And don't bother me again until they are gone!"

I had peace. Finally! I also pretty much guaranteed that one of the kids will develop a cough in the near future. Because....I'm plum out of cough drops.

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

For A Loop

I can't tell you how many times I've sat down and attempted to write a blog post only to be interrupted by a baby's scream, an unintended nap, or my husband's invitation to watch a TV show (yes, adult time!). The past couple weeks have been rough ones but I am surviving thanks to quality time with a treadmill, late night naps in a hot tub while my husband watches the baby, and chocolate. Always chocolate.


Things were going well as we made our adjustments as a family of five. And then there was Black Thursday. Three Thursdays ago, out of the blue, Jonathan became a different baby. He was crying and fussing every waking hour, he fought off all onslaughts of sleep, and when he finally would fall sleep, he rarely slept more than 45 minutes to an hour (yes, even at night!).

Jonathan is my third baby. I feel like I kinda know what I'm doing on the baby front. I successfully have not killed two previous babies and saw them to toddlerhood. With over 12 years of babysitting experience prior to becoming a mom myself, I pretty much assumed I knew all the ins and outs of babies. But Jonathan. Jonathan is trying all my last nerves and exhausting all my special baby tricks. I have nothing left. I have no clue what to do other than to take everything a half hour at a time. This means not thinking about the hours and hours and days and days of fussing and crying ahead of me, or dwelling on the hours and hour and days and days of fussing and crying that are behind me. I'm exhausted.

After the first week and a half of this craziness, I fought back the baby-pro inside of me who scoffed at the idea of calling a doctor just because her baby was "fussy" and made a desperate phone call to our pediatrician. She saw us that same day. I assumed the doctor would say he was just "colicky" and give no real, tangible solution other than to send us on our way with nothing more than a sympathetic look. I remember staring at the doctor through desperate, sleep deprived eyes and regaling her with my horror stories of the week about non-stop crying and screaming, all the while trying so hard not to cry myself. To my surprise, however, our pediatrician offered us a real, actual diagnosis: acid reflux. This real, actual diagnosis came with a real, actual solution: a prescription for baby Zantac.

(By the way, if you ever want to bypass a lengthy pharmacy line, just show up with a screaming inconsolable baby. The other customers will let you cut right ahead. It's amazing how a screaming baby can induce anxiety into complete strangers of all ages.)

And for a short couple days, I was filled with hope. There could be a REASON for all the crying and screaming AFTERALL. And just maybe that little vial of peppermint smelling medication was the key. This hope kept me going for the past seven days. It kept me sane through hour-long screaming fits. It kept me from giving up as I rocked and patted and cradled and sang to and shushed my crying baby with no result.  But you guys. It's been a week. And the medicine appears to be a dud. Some days are still just as hard as that Black Thursday was. Some days are better. There is no pattern. Nothing has changed.

My diet has also been the same since we brought Jonathan home. I can't point to any food that I eat that may have triggered the upset and trauma that started that Black Thursday nearly three weeks ago. Most days, when Jonathan is not eating or sleeping, he is (at best) fussing or (at worst) screaming. He probably has twenty minutes of happy time COMBINED for each day. Those minutes are golden and precious. And in those minutes, he is the most wonderful, beautiful, charming, and smiley baby ever. Then he turns into Mr. Hyde.

The constant fussiness really hurts in more ways than one. It's hard to see your baby unhappy. The constant and mostly ineffective soothing and consoling is exhausting. But also, this is my last baby. My last maternity leave. And I feel like I'm being robbed. I'm not even getting the chance to enjoy things. I had so looked forward to my time at home with Jonathan. But now, I just count down the minutes until my husband comes home so I can have some help. This is not how things were supposed to be. And it all makes me very sad.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Story Time

Jon: "Please.....approach no further."
 
 
"Wait. What is going on here? Why are you touching me? Who gave you permission to touch me?"

 
"No. No I don't want a story. My brain isn't capable of comprehending complex story lines. Excuse me, your personal bubble is basically touching my personal bubble."


"I'm not sure how I feel about this. Why isn't mom saving me? I'm beginning to develop severe trust issues."

 
"Um......HELP!"


"Phew, I knew that old fart trick would work. Disaster averted. I think I shall take a nap now."