I'll Never Clean Again: A Ma'am Hood Story

It’s 2pm and Mommy is having her first beer. (Baad Mommy.) Our party does not start until 5pm and I’m hoping to survive until then. It is the 4th of July and my children are at war with me I figure the beer may help me regroup so I don’t end up a blubbering ball of stress by the time my guests arrive.

I spent all day July 3rd cleaning my house for our 4th of July party. Grandpa came over and handled the children while I swept, mopped, and scrubbed floors on my hands and knees. The house was spotless, it was beautiful. It had not been this clean since we moved in. But for some reason, maybe willfulness, maybe a sense of feeling the house was not right if it wasn’t destroyed, or maybe by some genetic instinct my children decided a clean house was bad.

Currently, I am staring at a small pile of kitty poop on my bathroom carpet. I’m also sipping my beer and trying valiantly not to scream. Someone closed the bathroom door so kitty could not get to the litter box, so she went to the closest place, the rug and did her business. I’m thinking she’d make a nice pair of mittens. But this was the last straw, the thing that finally did Mommy in. Let me take you back to the beginning of the morning and show you step by step how to drive a mom to drink.

The night before, at dinner, Stephan and Aidan both spilled their dinners, including corn bits onto the newly cleaned kitchen floor. Corn is not an easy thing to clean up. You try to sweep it, it mashes into the tile, mop it and it just slides around on the floor mocking you. So I spent some time on hands and knees with paper towels cleaning up the bits of corn. But hey, it was only a dinner mess, what else could go wrong? I should have known to not say that let alone even think it, because the powers that be always love a challenge. Saying “what else could happen” is the best way to make sure something else will happen. And it did.

When I awoke the morning of the 4th to get Aidan out of his crib, he stood proudly amongst his diaper and clothes butt naked. But he wasn’t just naked; he was also covered in poo. (And we aint talking about the cheerful yellow bear either.) Aidan has recently decided that diapers are uncivilized and must be removed at the first chance he gets. I’d solved the problem by putting on pants over his diaper because the little man had not figured out how to get those off. But now, staring at him and the poop strewn crib, it is obvious he might be ready for MENSA. The pants are crumpled in the corner and Aidan is proudly showing me his poopy hands. So off to the shower we go.

We have a stall shower in our master bedroom which is often used for spraying off the little scat artist. I always put a towel down on the floor of the shower because the sticky fish we put in there have spaces in between where little feet can slip. So with the towel down, Aidan begins his shower.


Mark is awake now and watches Aidan while I strip and clean the crib. After getting the sheets off and taking them down to the laundry I go back into the bedroom where Mark and I simultaneously notice the wet bathroom floor. Evidently Aidan had plunked his butt down right over the drain. Towel and toddler butt on top of drain makes for a great plug. The shower stall has overflowed into the bathroom and over the tile by the sink and on to the bedroom carpet. I rush to get more towels to deal with the mess while Mark removes a now clean Aidan from the shower.

We begin wrangling the kids into clothes because we need to go to Sam’s to get the rest of the party supplies. But dressing is not an easy feat with Aidan who wants to help by waving his legs in the air. I once read that the way to prep for dressing children was to try putting an octopus into a baby outfit. Remember all tentacles must go in the holes.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been kicked in the chin while trying to dress him and often wonder if that twinkle in his eye isn’t a bit of joy at thwacking Mommy. I’ve decided now, as I sip my beer and drag the bathroom rug down to the laundry, that Aidan has one goal in life, terrorize Mommy. And he somehow has recruited our new kitten into helping him.

The store run was not bad. Sam’s has carts where two children can sit side by side, and we had enjoyable moments with Aidan and Abby sitting in the cart. Aidan, probably trying to redeem himself, would bend over and kiss his sisters head while Mark and I both went “awww.” Abby was fascinated with being able to sit up and loved watching everything in the store. I felt relaxed, I could do this. So the bathroom flooded, things would be okay.

When we get home I notice that the downstairs guest bathroom is flooded. I cheerily tell myself I had to re-mop it anyhow but I’m wondering what went wrong. As I towel up the spill, I get water on my head and realize that the overflow from upstairs has slipped through the floor into the ceiling fan and now onto my head. I mutter a few bad words and use more towels to sop up the water. Keep in my mind most of these towels were washed and ready for the party because we have a pool, now most of them are on bathroom floors soaking up water.

After tackling the water spill I make the mistake of yet again saying famous last words. I didn’t relay them out loud but I thought them loud enough to be heard. Dragging wet towels into the laundry room to be washed I think “Now all I need is someone to vomit on something.” Never say things like this aloud and try to not think them. Because they fall into that category of famous last words. And I’m sure that baby radar can pick up these thoughts.

Aidan, now down in the living room which we also call “the baby pit” because it is sunken and filled with the toys, suddenly decides to find a small piece of paper. I’m thinking he must have materialized it from thin air because I cleaned down there yesterday!! While re-scrubbing the kitchen table I hear gagging noises and look down into the pit. Aidan looks at me, gags again and vomits on the floor. I’m astonished. How in the world did that happen? Where did he get the paper? Why did I think only moments before that I needed vomit? So down I go to clean it up. My nerves are beginning to frazzle; I’m feeling as if disaster is going to strike every room in the house before 5pm.

After taking yet another load of clothes, including the vomit towels and Aidan’s outfit, into the laundry, I make my way upstairs to re-vacuum because someone had the bright idea of giving a certain child a cracker in the bedroom. We won’t mention names; we’ll just stare pointedly at my husband.

As I mount the stairs I think “yeah all I need is the cat to crap on something.” My inner voice has gone full red-neck and I’m feeling as if a trailer would be a heck of lot easier to clean. When I get into the bedroom, I turn the corner and see it. The kitty poop right on the rug. I begin to tremble. I pace back and forth a few times and then launch myself onto the bed and scream into the pillows. Then I go looking for one of the beers we have iced for the party. If I don’t kill a beer I’m going to kill someone else.

So here I am, drinking at 2pm with my neck muscles tense and my jaw clenched. “It’s just a party, everyone will love the house. It looks great and so do you. Just relax. They’re coming to see us not the house.” Mark says while he gets ready for a shower. I look over at him, ready to smile because of his calming words and get hit in the face with a dirty sock. They’re all in on it.

I go hunting for the hiding place of a clove cigarette and sit on my front porch. This is how you drive a mother insane. This is how you get her to snap and have a beer before 5pm. My revenge? I now swear to never, ever, clean again.

Goddess of the Shoes: A Ma'am-Hood Story

In my house I am the Goddess of shoes. Bearer of canvas, Provider of lace, Locator of socks. (I also have a minor specialty in locating all lost items if I've been properly worshipped. Or if we're late.) Each morning I hear the cry, "Moooom where are my shoes?"

How often does it seem that when I find the poor child, he is circling not ten feet from one of his shoes, staring at the wall? And why is he wearing his father's socks? You'd think I am less pressured in the morning not having to get ready for work myself, but I race over to the shoe and toss them onto the couch saying "If it was a snake-arrggggg!"

I sound like my mother. No wait. My mother never said that, it would be my father I'm channeling this morning. I'd rather be channeling Martha Stewart because she probably never finds herself saying "Darling why is our son wearing your socks?" And all her family's shoes are in that cozy shelf you made per her instructions on TV. Because all good moms build shelves with painstakingly painted scrollwork for their children's shoes. (Whose bottoms are usually covered in something that makes rats afraid.)

"I couldn't find any of his so I gave him mine." Mark shrugs and heads to the kitchen to make Stephan's breakfast. I follow right on his heels. Okay I stop and search Stephan's room for socks. And proof of my female superiority. I find one and then dash to the clean laundry basket in search of another. The basket being in the garage, I pass by Mark on my way.

"But they don't fit him." Our morning conversations are like this, sporadic bursts in-between getting Stephan ready. As I lunge for the garage door I hear,

"They fit fine." Visions of Stephan circling the living room with his socks dragging behind him pop before my eyes. Maybe if he pulled them up to his knees?

"Mom do you know where my shoes are?" Stephan's head pops into the garage. I am tossing clothes out of a basket in search of a matching sock to the one clutched in my right hand. I find myself following the usual morning routine and asking the stupid question.

"Well where did you leave them?" Now that was my mother speaking. I am not digging fast enough so the clean sock goes in-between my teeth while my head lowers further into the wicker basket.

"I don't know. I checked my room and the living room." Precious minutes are passing by. The bus will be here, honking its horn any moment.

"Did you check under the couch?"

"What?"

Note to self, don't talk with socks in your teeth. I pull the sock out of my mouth and repeat my question while triumphantly pulling a matching sock from the bottom of the clean laundry basket. Martha would never have 3 baskets of clean laundry piled in the garage/laundry room. Or puddles of dirty ones by the machines. Why didn't I listen and build a shelving system for that?

Stephan wanders back in to check under the couch, I follow him announcing loudly, "Here is your socks sweetie." Mark barely looks up from pouring cereal. Stephan successfully finds one shoe and I ask him to sit down and put on the clean socks.

“But Mooom I have to find my shoe!”

“He’ll waste more time changing his socks.” Mark mutters. I ignore him and demand that Stephan change his socks. I may not have shelving units covered in dead flowers, but I was at least sending my son to school wearing his socks! Never mind that a few days before, when I had slept in, he got past me wearing the same outfit.

“I’ll find your shoe." I grumble, heading up the stairs to start with his room. Why one shoe would be in one room and the other someplace else is a phenomenon I have yet to figure out. Mark has this habit too and I often wonder if they do it for sport. Liven up the day by watching Mom hunt for shoes.

After a precursory glance over the room and a lift of his comforter, I am satisfied that the shoe is not in the bedroom. I check our room where the cable TV is. I hear Mark asking me to hurry as the bus could arrive any moment. Moving faster I look under our bed, in the two bathrooms upstairs and even peek in the nursery where Aidan and Abigail are sleeping. I thank God that they have not woken up with our shouting (Because in all two story homes you find yourself yelling downstairs whether you like it or not.)

I get myself back down stairs as fast as my body will let me, and begin searching the living room where shoe #1 was found. Kneeling on the floor I notice that it was not only a shoe being stored under the couch. Three of Aidan’s plastic toy balls, a rubber duck, and Mark’s socks. I try not to scream. I yank Mark’s socks out from under the couch and race to the garage door. Just as I toss the socks into the dirty pile I simultaneously see Stephan's second shoe and hear the bus.

Grabbing the shoe, I slide back across the garage, fling myself through the door and, stop Mark from putting Stephan in his own shoes. The last thing i need is him clomping about in huge shoes.

“Here it is!” I toss it up the stairs from our living room to the kitchen where Mark catches it and hands it to Stephan. “Why was one shoe in the garage and the other under the couch?” The two giggle. I’ve asked the “why” question. Mark teases me mercilessly about my habit of wandering about the house saying things like “why are there dirty dishes down here?” or“why was the door left open?” You get the picture. It's a mom curse.

Stephan shoves his shoes on, without untying the laces and heads off for the bus. I look at Mark. He heads off to take a shower. I go back up to our bedroom to rest a bit before one of the babies wakes up. I’m may not be Martha but I can find a pair of socks and shoes with a time limit! I’m not that bad of a mother after all. At least this time Stephan's clothes matched.

My eyes are closing; I’m curled under the sheets, and just as I begin to drift off to the sound of the shower, I hear :

“Hun, where is my towel?”

A Night in the Emergency Room: Finale

So now Aidan was feeling better. The Tylenol had kicked in and he was beginning to want out of the stroller. Now I was panicked. I couldn't let him roam about the tiny waiting room! What should I do? I hefted the diaper bag out form underneath the stroller and began to fish for something amusing. Diapers? No he only likes those when he's taking them off. Wipes? Don't want anyone to see his penchant for sucking on them. Bottle? He was barely taking fluids. Ah ha! The Binky pocket!

Aidan has an addiction to binkies, one we are trying to break him of. If his sister has a binky and he doesn't, guess who gets her binky stolen? Our diaper bag had a detachable pocket made to carry one binky. I had also attached a rubber duck keychain to the pocket so I could distinguish my bag from anyone else's. (As if I were going to be in a room full of mothers who had the same diaper bag as me. We all know every Mom has her own style of diaper bag. Mine is navy blue and doesn't look like much but Mark will carry it. Plus it's washable but that's another story.) I grabbed Aidan's attention and let him watch me put a binky in the pocket and close the Velcro top. Now he was fascinated. I then handed him the pocket and let him go to town. First he had to figure out how to open it and remove the binky. It is amazing how much like little scientists all children are, testing items and their parents at every turn.

Next, he learned to put the binky back in. This was accomplished first by shoving and then by handing it to me to finish. Eventually, he had it down and was happily repeating the process, committing it to memory no doubt, so he could sneak binkies from the diaper bag in the future.


At this time, I moved us to a seat closer to the door to the real ER. Where the rooms are. Now I was sitting next to the teenage cowboy and ranch owner. They were on the "fast track" because he had broken his ankle. He had ridden a bull and did fine, until his dismount. He landed wrong and he'd been in the ER from the time I came in. That was around 6pm it was now pushing 11pm. The male nurse with a Scottish accent came back out and both the rancher and I went for it. We beckoned him over and asked about cases. Told me I had two people ahead of me, I slumped back into the chair. There was no sense in yelling at him, and besides I loved Scotland. My mom was there at the moment in a house she rents and I found myself wondering what their emergency room service was like.

The next thing I knew, Aidan was called back. I looked over at the cowboy in shock. He frowned and said “so much for fast track.” I happily wheeled our mammoth stroller after the nurse as fast as I could go. I felt that if I didn’t keep up I would somehow lose my chance. It was silly, but the feeling was there. I wheeled Aidan past people moaning on gurneys in the hallways and was led into an enclosed room with a bed. The nurse assured me the doctor would be in soon. I instantly put Aidan on the bed and he, now losing the little energy he regained from the Tylenol, lay back and let his eyelids droop. I covered him with his blanket only to have a nurse come in a tell me to take it off.

“But he’s shivering” I grumbled.

“I know it seems cruel but you need to keep him cool.” And off she went

Next the Scottish nurse came back in. I told him I was baptized in Scotland and then asked where he was from.
“Ayr.” He replied. The way he said it sounded like he said “air” so, not having ever heard of Air Scotland, unless we’re talking planes, I heard “here”.

“No from Scotland. Where are you from?”

“Ayr”. I looked baffled.

“You’re from here?”

“No Scotland.”

“But where in Scotland?” About now he was giving me the look I always hate getting when I am traveling. The “you stupid American” look. He sighed.

“Ayr it’s near Glasgow.” I felt like we were Abott and Costello doing who's on first and giggled. Then I quickly explained that my mother was in the highlands, while I kept my hand on Aidan’s back. He nodded, checked Aidan over, noticed that his fever seemed to have come back and told me the doctor would be right in.

I heard that the doctor would be right in about 3 more times before he showed up. At this point Aidan was asleep, and I crept the blanket up to his knees because looking at him lying in a diaper shivering was too hard to handle. When the Dr. finally arrived, I was sitting on a chair by the bed resting my head, with my hand on Aidan so if I drifted off and he moved, I’d awaken. It was midnight.

“You have a sick little guy.” At this point I almost screamed “CUT TO THE CHASE give us our antibiotics and for goodness sake LET US GO HOME!” But I’m only that flamboyant in my mind and it was midnight, so I nodded. I didn’t take the time to point out that it didn’t take a medical degree to see that Aidan was very sick. How many toddlers do you know that lay still when awake?

“Well I looked over his chest x-ray and he has pneumonia in his right lung. You’ll need to push fluids, give him the antibiotics I prescribe and switch back and froth between Tylenol and Motrin.” I was still at pneumonia. That was a big word for such a little boy. I had heard the horror stories of people losing their child to pneumonia. (So the stories were based in the 1800’s, it was still scary.) “His fever has come back and he’s panting a little so I’m going to watch him for a little while and then you can go.”

A little while was another hour. I sang, held and rocked, petted and cooed Aidan until I felt like I was going to crash. I had not stayed up past midnight since Abby was born. When New Year’s came Mark and I were in bed at 9pm. The only time I saw midnight was if someone needed feeding. I was beginning to feel the exhaustion and knew I still had a long drive back across town to get home. I called Grandpa Ralph and told him we were almost done. I called Mark and gave him the news. He, too, had been staying awake at the show he was working to hear the verdict.

At 1:30 am we left the ER and began our trek in the now windy and cold night to the car. The ER was at the bottom of the hill and the car was around the building at the top. (Because I had parked where their old ER had been.) I bundled Aidan and quickly walked back the way I had came earlier that evening. I found the door locked. CRAP! I kept going around the back of the building thinking there must be a pathway up the hill. It was very dark at the back of the hospital and a bit creepy. Aidan was thrilled by the street lamps and kept saying “star star.”

I saw a woman as I walked past and she informed me to not come back to the area alone. I found it odd that they would think anyone would mug someone near a hospital, told her thank you, and pressed on. I found a cement pathway through some ivy and pushed Aidan up it to the top of the hill. By now I was puffing some from being out of shape. To my dismay at the crest of the hill was not my car, nor a way to it, but another building. Cursing softly I turned Aidan around and began the journey down the hill hoping to not lose grip on the stroller. The light part of this adventure was Aidan chanting “star star” each time we passed a lamppost. Down we went back around the building back to the ER entrance and then up another hill and around the other side of the hospital back to the car. (And I’d parked in the handicap spot because my legs were fatigued that day.)

Finally we were in the car. Next a security truck drove up and sat idling near my car. What was odd about the truck was that I didn’t feel he was watching because he was protecting me, I felt he was watching me because I had been acting suspicious around the back of the hospital. I could just hear them on the walkie-talkie “weird lady in the back climbing through the ivy with stroller, follow her.”

I watched him watch me as I put Aidan in his seat, collapsed the stroller and hopped into the driver’s seat. I looked at the truck which had not moved and then longingly at my pizza which was sitting next to me. I had planned to eat a few bites before heading out but it was clear the security guard was waiting for me to leave. I turned on the car and the headlights and the truck left. I snuck a bite of pizza and drove us home on empty streets.

In the next week Aidan’s fever broke and he went back to running us ragged. Everyone was proud of me for driving, in rush hour traffic, when they all knew I was nervous of it. I was proud of myself for being capable to do exactly what I needed to do which was: a mom.

A Night in the ER with Aidan Continued

At around 6:45pm Aidan was triaged and they gave him Tylenol and me some apple juice to. They told me to encourage him to drink. A male nurse came in and asked me to take Aidan's shirt off. He had a rash on his chest. Now I was running the diagnoses through my head: scarlet fever? Measles? Mumps? He was behind on his shots, due to our moving and the subsequent premature birth of his sister. I handed over his shot record and tried again to get him to drink. He turned his head into my chest.

His oxygen level looked fine. But they were still going to do a chest x-ray and draw blood. After supplying me with not only the juice but also a bottle of Pedialyte and a towel for his drool and snot, I was escorted back out to the waiting room. I sat next to a busty woman whom I swore I had met before.

"You look familiar to me." I said with Aidan still in my arms. "Do you do renaissance faires?" I was sure I had seen her there that we would strike up a conversation about them. She shook her head.

"I have gone to the one in Fair Oaks." We briefly talked about Mark's business of selling medieval weaponry and then fell silent. She asked if I went to her church. I shook my head. I asked if she attended New Age festivals, no. When I said "well maybe I recognize you because I'm supposed to be here", she looked a bit nervous. I felt as if I sounded like a weirdo. Weirdo mom in the chair to the far left.

I maneuvered the subject to other things. Like why she was there and why I was in the ER. She was there with a friend. It was her 4th time in the ER that week. Once for her and 3 times for other people. I wondered at what that must be like as I ran my fingers through Aidan's hair. Having so many friends and so many ER trips.

Soon we were called to register and while I was filling out more paperwork a tech called Aidan for the x-ray. When she saw I was busy she said "I'll come back to get you." She never came back. After registering, we sat back down with the lady and her friend. The ranch owner across the way began talking to us about how the boy had been injured, riding a bull, and how long they had sat there without even painkillers! Some people were getting rude with Mr. Coke Bottle security guard about the wait time. Their emergency was important they would complain.

I watched with sad eyes. Not because I felt sorry for them but because I understood triage. I had been to the emergency room with my MS more than once and left to sit for hours wondering if the next relapse, the next wave of feeling close to unconsciousness, might be my last, yet treated by hospital staff as if I were a hypochondriac. It would have been easy at that moment to pick and chose who looked sick and who looked in need of emergency care. I could point out if asked who had healthcare and who most likely did not. But now was not the time for judgment or opinions. I knew that screaming at the security guard or accosting the nurses when they came out to call for other people was not going to get Aidan help any faster. I also knew that if he did pass out, they would be on him immediately. Until then we had to sit and wait.

I rocked him as the Kings played a play off game on the nearby TV. I swayed side to side and even chanced a run to the restroom with the nice woman next to me watching Aidan, hoping they did not call him in those few w moments. Each time I used the rest room Aidan would erupt into whines and cries but he seemed unable to produce tears.

After his blood draw, where the tears finally spilled over, we again rejoined the boy with the broken ankle and the woman whose friend had been accosted. I am not sure exactly what had happened, it involved a sheriff taking a report and pictures, so I could only surmise and I felt it would be rude to ask.

I began to wonder at how much information we were all getting about one another. Why we were there, how it had happened, and then each of us venting frustration about the long wait and gossiping about who was on the "fast track" and who wasn't. After the chest x-ray Aidan began to perk up. He drank his apple juice and worked on the Pedialyte. He got out of my lap and into the stroller where he began playing with the removable binky pocket from the diaper bag. It had a tiny rubber duck on it which he often tried to teeth off. He practiced taking the binky in and out of the pouch over and over as toddlers will, and I began to have another worry. What if his fever broke and he began climbing everything? My god, what if he turned into the normal Aidan? He would be a handful, he would climb, throw fits, and be utterly bored! What would I do then??

A Cast of Characters: One Night in the ER

It was 4pm and Aidan wasn't looking good. He was being treated for an ear infection with antibiotics which had been switched because he seemed to have no response and just got sicker. Yet now he was lying on the floor and poking his forehead with his chubby little fingers. You know something is not right when your 19 month old is lying still on the floor.

Mark has left for his weekend job and I was alone with the kids. I had a choice to make. I have a rather unreasonable dislike of driving and avoid it as much as possible. I had the choice of asking Mark's father to come and drive me to the ER while Mark's daughter watched Stephan, age 10, and Abigail, age 5 months. However, something empowering swept over me. When Ralph got to our house at around 4:45pm he asked "well who's driving you?" I said "I'm driving."

He arrived at the same time as the pizza I'd ordered thinking to spend a night binging with the kids. Instead I shoved two pieces on a plate grabbed a water bottle, loaded the stroller and began my trek with Aidan in Friday evening traffic to the emergency room. I had no time to wait for the pediatrician's office to call me back. He was burning up and the Motrin I had given only 2 hours earlier was not breaking the fever.

He moaned as I drove and while I crooned soft reassurances to him and maneuvered the beast of a minivan in heavy traffic. Suddenly I noticed I was not afraid about the trip. Sure I was griping the steering wheel and tense about having to hit the brakes constantly due to people tailgating on a high density road, but I was not freaking out. I was afraid for my son.

As we drove, I kept trying to recount how many ounces of formula he had and whether or not he'd eaten anything during the day. Had Mark given him a morning bottle? Did I remember him eating anything at all? I hated my multiple sclerosis at that moment because in the past five years my short term memory has gotten worse. Had he had anything to drink? I didn't think so. I wondered if it was my MS or if it were a normal thing for a stressed out mother to not recall if her child had eaten anything. Swerving the car around a truck which had no brake lights, I got myself back into the correct lane and peeked at Aidan in the rearview mirror.

He was so listless, and he kept poking at his eyes which were red rimmed. There was no cough. Just immense amounts of snot and drool running down his face. Then he'd wipe his had across it and get upset as it smeared on his cheeks. When we got to the hospital I parked in the handicap spot feeling that although my legs were working this was one time I didn't need to add a hike to my evening. Inevitably I parked on the wrong side of the hospital next to what was now the "old emergency room". With Aidan in a stroller and the over stuffed diaper bag, a woman directed me down the elevator, back outside and around the back of the hospital to the new ER.

I was lost the moment I walked in the room. It was not packed, but there were at least 12 other people already there. I felt them all pause to look at me. I reminded myself that when I was done registering and sat down, that I too would look up at every person to walk in and it was nothing more than normal curiosity. But I still felt like I had a flashing neon sign over my head reading: "Beware! Mother who doesn't know what she's doing."

I went to the table laden with little fill-in sheets and tiny pencils that looked as if they had been lifted from the nearby golf course. Quickly I filed out a slip and then was presented with needing to "time stamp" the sheet. There sat a box with a clock on it. I'd seen these in movies but never in real life. I slid the paper in the slot. Nothing. I did it again. Nada. Now I really felt the neon sign above my head with a pointing hand added and a voice saying "See? She's totally clueless!" I looked around me and muttered "What am I doing wrong?" I actually gave the machine a bash with my hand while the other slid the paper back in. It stamped, I jumped and turned beet red. (Or at least it felt like I was.)

Next it was time to place this little white paper, the only thing letting the ER know about my child's bad state, into a clear plastic folder on a closed door. I did what the sign told me to do and sat down. At this point, Aidan made it clear he needed to be held. I tried to pull him from the stroller but the front wheels would not lock so the stroller rolled forward with him and his feet caught. He groaned and I jabbed my foot against one wheel to hold the stroller steady. Again I heaved and out he came. We both flopped back into the chair and I looked about me wondering if anyone was noticing that I had absolutely no experience with this type of situation. Sure Stephan my 10 yr old had been to the ER before, but always I had Mark with me. The one time previously when I had taken Aidan to the ER after he fell off the bed (bad mommy points); my father had driven because I was in hysterics, overridden with mom-guilt.

As I sat with Aidan draped over my chest, his head on my shoulder, his legs wrapped about my waist like a chimpanzee, it was my turn to look around the room. There was an area with benches in between the outside and the room I was in. Most of the parents seemed to be there with babies. I wondered if I was supposed to be out there, but was content to be as close to the door with the form folder as possible. I wanted to make sure someone knew my son was ill but I also was not about to go banging on windows yet.

Next to me was a girl. Possibly 20, who told me she had already been there for 4 hours. Across from me a boy in a cowboy hat with his swollen ankle propped on a chair. Next to him and the ranch owner, a very nice woman whom I later became acquainted with, was and old couple. The older lady was feeding her husband bits of apple and she smiled at me. "It's hard when they're so sick." I nodded and turned my face into Aidan's. He nuzzled against me while I peeked at a man with coke bottle glasses and a security badge. He was informing a very irate woman that the wait for each person would be an average of 4 hours. I looked at the evil time stamp machine for the time. My eyesight has increasingly become worse since my many bouts of optic neuritis. (My MS' favorite way of telling me it's time for a flare-up!) I could not make out the numbers but it looked to be 6pm now. I'd left my watch at home. In fact I was in lounge pants and an old white maternity tee shirt because I felt baggy was better for covering my mommy belly. (Instead it only draws more attention to your belly.) My hair was held back by a purple bandana that matched my pants. That was my only nod to an attempt at fashion as I'd not thought I'd be leaving the house that evening. I immediately berated myself for even thinking about my looks and clothing because it was the friggin hospital not a London fashion show!

I had dressed Aidan in his pjs that were shorts and thin material because I knew he needed to stay cool. One person asked why he was wearing tennis shoes and I relayed to them a story of when Stephan went to the ER and I was criticized by a nurse that "all children needed to have footwear". Later I was to find this hospital didn't care and I switched him from his shoes to his fuzzy slippers. (Thankful I'd remembered to pack those shoes.) I went back to worrying about Ralph, my father in-law being with Stephan and Abby for 4 hours. Abby had been asleep when I left, but I knew she would wake up and need changing and feeding. Stephan would be fine and I had already asked him to help grandpa with Abby.
(I truly had nothing to worry about in that arena as grandpa and Stephan found a video game they liked and played it in the master bedroom while Abby watched enraptured until she went to bed for the night.)

Four hours average. I prayed that Aidan would be seen quickly. Sure enough in about 30 minutes he was called for triage. This is where they decide how important your emergency is and when it will be treated. The nurse looked him over and then had me lay him across my lap for a rectal temp. Although he was a limp noodle, Aidan still had the ability to look at me as if to say "you're putting that where?", when the nurse inserted the thermometer. His temperature was 104.5 and he was refusing to drink. I was now frantic.

To be continued…

All Sick at Once

I have discovered one of the little downsides about being a family of 1 school aged child, 1 toddler, and 1 baby. They all get sick at the same time. Stephan brings home the bug, he plays with Aidan who gets the bug really bad, and then because we take care of Aidan we almost surely pass it on to Abby.

This time it began with Aidan. The doc said it was pinkeye. It was a bad call. I was not at the doctor's appointment to argue with him because I was home with Abby. (BTW my doc had me going with no medications so he could start over with a blank slate so I was miserable.)

Aidan's bad eye, the one that never quite got over the clogged tear-duct, was getting gunky because he was getting ill. The fact that he was drooling should have sent up a red flag to the doc, but the doc was ill so he was having an off day. Anyhow, Aidan then gets the runny nose; you know where he runs about the house sliming everyone and everything. The "where is the shut off valve for this thing?" kind of toddler runny nose. How anyone is supposed to NOT catch the bug with him sliming everything I have no idea.

Sure enough Stephan starts coughing, and then I get to feeling as if I have a sore throat, and next Abby quits eating as much. so Saturday , on my mom instinct I took her in betting she was getting this chest cold as well and that she wouldn't make it through the weekend. This bug come son fast and hard. Y

Yep. RSV. The one respiratory virus you don't want you preemie to get. The fact that she has been getting monthly shots of Synergis, the RSV vaccine, is what I think helped her not get too bad. Anyhow we still had to get a chest x-ray at the hospital, and then take home a nebulizer for breathing treatments every 4 hours. Today she was seen and sounds better. She can get breathing treatments further spaced out no less than 3 a day.

So to sum up: Stephan is out of school with a nasty cough. Aidan is on steroids and antibiotics for what became croup with ear infections. Abby is on breathing treatments, and today I see my PCP to get my own breathing treatments and maybe a chest x-ray. I have a shallow cough, my throat feels swollen, and I have no voice. Let's also add in being dizzy, short of breath, and generally icky!! :P

Oh yes, Mark, my DH, who has been taking care of us all is now getting sick. I don't know who will take care of us next. We feel like our house has become the plague ship!

AND, last week when I went in for a regular check-up, we discovered I have a heart murmur! The doc did an echocardiogram and said it looks like nothing to worry about, but it's damn annoying. Like I needed anything else! But I've read that pregnancy is very hard on the heart and two pregnancies back to back might have been a bit too much. (I just say Aidan gave me my first gray hairs and Abby broke my heart. But I wouldn't trade them for the world.)

Can things get any weirder or more complicated?
Hopefully I'll be back up by next week or this weekend. At least I'm not bored. (God I'd love to be bored!!!)

Best Wishes form the plague ship
Lorna aka msmoms

Toilets, Toddlers, and Poor Elmo

What is the obsession with toilets? Today is the third time we have had to rescue various toys and books from the toilet in the last month. Yeah, I know bad Mommy, I should have instructed Dad to put locks on the toilets ages ago, but we never thought that Aidan, 17 months today, would have such an obsession with drowning Elmo. Or his blocks. Or the parenting books. But what is the fascination? Is it the water? He doesn't flush, thank God, so it can't be the sick joy of watching Elmo being sucked into a swirling vortex of doom. Not that I wouldn't mind seeing that after a marathon of Sesame Street. But it's not as if I let him watch too much TV. Because I'm a good Mommy. With no locks on her toilets.

Maybe it has to do with soaking objects in water. They say that toddlers are little scientists. Is he doing an experiment on Elmo? Like a Sesame Street version of the Titanic? How many parts of Elmo can take on water before he goes down? Which end will sink first? I wish I had a camera mounted in the bathroom, so I could see what he's babbling and the expression on his face as he does this. Not that I'm going to give him the chance to get to the toilet again, mind you.

Could the experiment be: How many objects you can jam into the small bowl of water before Mommy notices? Because it's not like the child has hours of play time with the bowl. I'll admit to a bit of chaos in our house now that I have 3 month old Abby to contend with, but I'm not THAT distracted! I mean come on!! Wasn't he just crawling? When did he suddenly become Flash Toddler? One moment he's playing with the blocks and Elmo, the next they're in the toilet!

While Aidan may have toddler super-speed, he has the one weakness all children have. He gets quiet when he's getting into trouble. This is a "silent" alarm for parents. This is also rule number one in parenting any child who has become mobile: If they go quiet and they're not asleep, they're up to something. Sometimes the "something" Aidan is up to can be darling, like reading a book to Elmo. So my alarm system also allows me to catch a precious moment I might have otherwise missed while doing laundry.

To solve the toilet issue, and better protect Elmo from anymore mishaps, I am going to ban Aidan from all the bathrooms instead of just locking the toilets. This way I don't have to try to teach Stephan some complex unlocking scenario while he does the male "I have to pee now" dance. Stephan could probably figure out how to work the lock, he's 10, but since he has the penchant for running to the bathroom at the last second , I don't know if he could do it in under 5 seconds. And I don't want to clean up if he can't. Although that in itself is like something from Fear Factor. Can he pop the toilet lock before he looses bladder control?

We're not going to put locks on, but rather change the doorknobs. You see, we have those lever type door knobs. They look nice but they're easy for a child to figure out. Round knobs are harder to grasp and rotate. (Plus the childproofing items for round doorknobs are cheaper than those created for lever handled doors.) Aidan will be in for a surprise the next time he decides to give Elmo a dunk. It will be my own experiment: "we've switched the old door knobs for these slippery smooth round ones. Let's see what Aidan does next."

Colic, Chaos, MS, and Binky Loss: An Evening at My House

This is the typical evening at my house. 5pm, colic, and toddler melt-downs.

"What is going on?" My husband, Mark sticks his head out at the top of the stairs. From my view on our bed consoling a screaming Abigail, 3 months, his head looks like one of those things you whack in a kids game. And honestly, if I was within reach of a big rubber mallet, and his head, I just might smack it. While he watches, our toddler, Aidan, 16 months old, is drug past him by our ten yr old Stephan. You see, Aidan isn't supposed to be in Stephan's room.

"All Hell has broken loose." I comment while Aidan turns red with protests as Stephan lugs him away from his bedroom door.

"What?" Mark's head turns from watching Aidan to me. We have a gate at the top of our stairs so all Mark can do is lean over. Unless he's willing to enter the fray that is. But at this point he does what any sane Dad would do. "Dinner's almost ready."

He retreats.

I long for something to throw.

Only moments before Abby had been happily batting at the toys on her baby gym. While the boys were downstairs doing what we fondly call "laps". This is where Aidan is set free in the mid-level of our house and Stephan chases him around as Aidan gets into the un-childproofed home office area. Mark and I both have our offices in the large area meant to be a dining room at this level of our house. I had been upstairs with the baby gym spread out on our queen size bed, enjoying the few glorious moments of Abby cooing and smiling. Because "Happy Abby" moments are few these days. She has colic and a fussy nature.

But then, the boys came. You see their father sent them out of the mid-level because not only do our offices reside on that level, so does the kitchen. While the kitchen cabinets are all child-proofed, trying to cook anything while Aidan does "laps" is something only a goat herder could handle. Well no, even he'd be hard pressed to cook while herding the goats. Maybe a circus performer? You know the ones who do all the tricks with tiny little dogs running everywhere at once. Maybe he could cook and handle a toddler invading our home office. Because home offices are wonderful spots. For toddler wreckage. With the advance in modern technology have come items like the cordless mouse, which Aidan can hide as fast as you can say "Microsoft."

Back to Abby, who had only minutes before been fussing over a diaper change, finding joy in the dangly objects of her gym when her brothers came up. Now if only Stephan had come, things would have been fine. But Stephan combined with Aidan equals only two things. NOISE and CHAOS. Okay sometimes there is also a big JOY along with it, but that depends on the moment. However, when it comes to evening time, especially 5pm, this equals bedlam.

They decided to play "where is brother?" This where Stephan hides behind doors and Aidan finds him. This also involves lots of running, laughing and squealing, all lovable sounds in our house, but not for Abigail. For her, this was simply NOISE. It was not noise she was creating, it was not noise she could locate, and it was not noise she could process. So while the boys were laughing and romping, Abigail shorted out.

I know that this means Abby needs quiet and dark. I also know she needs these things because not only is she having a sensory overload but because it IS 5pm and this is usually when she goes down for a nap. (The better to save up for waking mommy and daddy at night.) And this is where the fun begins. I tell Stephan to let Aidan visit his room while I put Abby down in the Amby bed. This is now the only redeeming quality of this $251 hammock, Abby naps in it. Yet in order to get Abby down, I need to cuddle her on her side, dim the shades, and start her nature sounds CD. But I also need Aidan and Stephan to get out of my closet. I tell Stephan to let Aidan check out "big brothers" room while I put Abby down.

Stephan drags Aidan out of my bedroom, which, of course starts up another bout of red-faced protest. I kick the door closed and try to get Abby to settle down. Unfortunately, while Stephan is letting his brother explore the forbidden zone (a.k.a. big brother's room), I suddenly need to use the restroom. I recall Stephan.

"Bounce this while I go pee." I hand the light bouncing of Abby's Amby bed over to Stephan and make for the master bedroom facilities.

"But Mom, Aidan's in MY room!" Stephan takes ahold of the spring and begins lightly bouncing Abby.

"He'll be fine for the 30 seconds it'll take me to use the bathroom." Famous last words. Once I am seated, I notice that my darling husband has finished the roll and not supplied the bathroom with a fresh one. "Errmm Stephan?"

"What?" He wails from the side of the Amby bed, making me pray Abby doesn't begin screaming again.

"Stop jiggling the bed, go to the cabinet under the sink, and get me some toilet paper."


"What?" Stephan's voice draws closer and Abby is still quiet. Either she's asleep or her big brother has joggled her brains with extra hard Amby bed jiggling. I pray it's the first. Considering I have not yet heard Aidan pull any book shelves down on himself, things are still okay. Stephan has a developmental disorder, akin to high-functioning autism, so giving directions can be difficult.

"I need the toilet paper under the sink."

"Which sink?" I take a deep breath as he comes to the bathroom door. I try to give him exact, logical, linear directions.

"The toilet paper is under our bathroom sink. The cabinet has a child lock on it. Press the lock down and get the toilet paper."

"Why did you say think instead of sink?"

"What?" Now I'm sure that Aidan has had sufficient time to either climb a bookshelf or begin choking himself with the cords to Stephan's numerous game consoles.

"It sounded like you said think." Stephan laughs while he opens the cabinet.

"Stephan you know Mommy has multiple sclerosis and sometimes, especially in heavy stress, she slurs." I have been slurring an awful lot since Abigail came into our household. It's either her fault or the fault of Aidan who began walking and arguing in toddler fashion all at once. Whoever caused it, Mommy no longer has ahold of her tongue. Mommy slurs. Mommy forgets words and Mommy finds herself trapped in the bathroom. All before she's had her evening drink.

"What is heavy stress?"

"Oh I don't know", I sigh "how about sitting on the toilet needing toilet paper, while your little brother tears apart your room and your father is nowhere to help." But Stephan doesn't get sarcas. He responds to the literal. The toilet paper roll flies through the crack in the bathroom door.

"HE'S TEARING APART MY ROOM?!?!?!?" Stephan hollers and I wince as I hear his heavy footfalls down the hall to get his brother.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Abby is still silent. She's actually sleeping! I quickly finish turning on her nature sounds, adjusting the blinds, and getting the door shut. As I look down the hall, Stephan has decided Aidan is no longer welcome in his room and is tugging him out. By the feet. Stephan shuts his bedroom door and Aidan lets out a screech, then gets up and begins to head-bang the door. Stephan looks at me and says "I didn't hurt his head!" while I stand in awe that my toddler is actually slamming his head against the door in protest. I tell Aidan to come to Mommy. This is a bad decision because toddlers are single-minded and now he is focused on the master bedroom. He runs past me, shoves on my door and bursts into the bedroom.

I yell,"Stephan, grab him!" , as I run downstairs to recruit Mark. But, as I hit the bottom of the stairs, I hear a blood–curdling scream and run back up. "If your sister wakes up I swear I'll have someone's head!" (It never occurs to me that in moments like these MY yelling doesn't help things.)

Stephan hauls Aidan outof my room and holds the door knob. I push myself back through the gate at the top of the stairs and assess the situation. Abby is not screaming, but Aidan is able to push open the bedroom door witout using the handle. We've got two types of handles in the house. Aidan has figured out only one. Our bedroom has the handle he doesn't know, but the door is not closing properly. Therefore, Stephan is now holding the door closed and looking panicked.

"It won't stay closed." He wails. Stephan looks like HE needs a nap.

"It's okay honey, let me see." Stephan moves from the door and Aidan pushes it open. I mutter a few choice curse words and move the rest of the way down the hall to pull Aidan from the bedroom. He bellows at me while Stephan and I yank on the handle. We hear the door stick and we both smile. "There."

Now it's time to put Aidan down. Stephan, having experienced enough noise and orders, retreats to his room. I grab Aidan from underneath his arms and swing him into the air. At this time he is a mess. He's over-played and tantrumed to the extreme. His cheeks are red, his eyes teary, and his nose, well he has Toddler snot going. Rivers of it dripping down his face.

"Nigh nigh time sweetie." I say softly. I plunk Aidan into his crib, and realize there is no Binky in sight. "Damnit!" I've been systematically hiding Aidan's Binkies because we are trying to wean him from continual Binky usage. After all, we do want him to use language someday. However this intervention has led to Aidan's new talent for thieving Abby's Binkies to satisfy his addiction. I have forgotten to get a Binky from hiding for the times allotted for Aidan's binky fix, nap time and bedtime. Aidan looks at me, then the crib with no Binky , and is set off on another wailing session because he simply CANNOT sleep without a Binky! I race back into the master bedroom, praying his sobbing does not awaken Abigail.

With the grace of a panicked elephant I fling open the master bedroom door, gallop past the Amby bed and lunge for my underwear drawer, which is where I am now stashing the Binkies. However, Mark began installing cable in our bedroom this very day and the furniture is moved. My hip slams into the Amby bed and it begins to swing widlly from its hanger, twirling in the air.

"CRAP!" I gasp and cover my mouth and watch in horror as the hammock spins. Will the movement wake her? What about my cursing? I hold my breath. Aidan lets out another wail. I yank out the drawer, retrieve a Binky, and dash for the door. If Aidan's howling doesn't stop, Abby will surely be awake again. I dash back down the hall into the nursery where Aidan is standing in his crib, snot freely flowing, throwing his stuffed pooh-bear on to the floor in protest. I pop the Binky in his mouth and he pauses. He looks at me, blinks, and lowers himself down into fetal position, butt in air. I thank God and leave the room.

I pause in the hallway. Aidan is down, Abby is down, and Stephan is playing video games. Dinner should be in moments, but for now, I have everything solved. I jauntily waltz down the stairs and into the kitchen. I smile at Mark as he finishes cooking and look at the baby monitor. Silence. I am a hero. A domestic Goddess. I can do this! And then, as if a bell had signaled the beginning of round #2, the little red lights on the baby monitor shoot straight up and I hear "WAAAAAAA!" Mark turns and looks at me as if I haven't done job.

"I thought you had them napping?"

I look for a big rubber mallet.

Sleep Deprivation Finale: The Amby Bed Placebo (Or the Only Person Who Thinks it Sucks.)

I put Abby down for a nap in the Amby bed right away. It was in the corner of our sunken living room which had now become my bedroom. With pride and a bit of gloating I noted to my husband Mark how she slept in it through dinner and another few hours.

"I told you it would work."

"I'll agree to that when you wake me tomorrow morning at 8am because she slept through the night, like the website insinuates." I ignored his pessimistic comments and started my night shift with glee. Abby would sleep better I was positive.

Abby slept the same as she did in the cradle. In fact as the days wore on, Abby slept better in the cradle than the Amby bed. The first annoyance was that Abby liked to be swaddled. We also believed by now that Abby had reflux and needed the head of the hammock raised. So, according to the website directions (because the ones that came with the bed did not tell me how to adjust it) I raised one end of the hammock. Being swaddled with one end raised, Abby began to slide down toward the foot of the bed and into the swaddling. This was NOT a good thing.

So she had to sleep unswaddled, which meant that her arms were free to flail about. The premise of the Amby bed is that when the baby moves or thrashes, the bed moves and therefore it will lull the child back to sleep. This may work if a 15lb moosling were sleeping in the bed, but not Abby. So my nights began to follow a pattern of: feed Abby, burp Abby, and jiggle the Amby bed up and down until Abby drifts off. When Abby wakes again in 5 minutes, roll over and jiggle the bed. The cradle on the other hand, ran on batteries and jiggled itself.

I kept trying to get it to work. I blamed the new medications for her reflux, Zantac and Reglan. I blamed the formula until we put her on lactose free. I did everything I could to make the Amby bed live up to the glowing letters from parents around the world who spoke of their children sleeping the night away from day one. (Heck even from week one!) I didn't expect a baby of 5 weeks to sleep through the night. But I did expect at least a 4 hour stretch? Maybe 5 if I was really really good, and the Powers that Be decided to give me a break?

Mark on the other hand after a week, would come down every morning and promptly remove Abby from the hammock and put her in her cradle. When he took the night shift, he swaddled her and plunked her in the cradle. He refused to use the Amby bed. It was a fad, he told me. Parents deprived on sleep who had the cash would be willing to do ANYTHING to get some shut-eye, he remarked. I didn't give voice to my doubts, but I was beginning to believe him. I had been keeping notes since Abby came home from the hospital about her sleeping patterns and there was no difference.

So the next night I swaddled her and put her in the cradle. Then I spent nights switching her back and forth first in the Amby then in the cradle. Then we tried to bring the Amby bed upstairs alongside our bed. That lasted one night. (She makes too many grunting noises for her to be in the same room with us.) Next, we put her in the Amby in the nursery with her 15 month old brother. (Who slept in his crib.)

Then it happened. I awoke at 4am one morning confused that Mark had not jostled me for a 1am feeding. He brought Abby into the room and told me how he had put her in her crib. Her huge white crib that had sat empty since she came home. In her crib flat on her tummy, with a binky, and she slept for 3 hours straight. I conceded. The Amby bed was not a miracle. It was a glorified laundry bag on a banana hanger.

The laundry bag now sits in our bedroom off to the side for the occasional nap time when I cannot risk waking Aidan. Then Abby will be put down in the Amby bed where she sometimes naps for 3 hours. However she can nap for 3 hours in the car seat, in her bouncy seat, and in her crib. (The combination of which did not cost as much as the Amby bed.)

There is no doubt the Amby bed works for other people. Maybe they were lucky. Maybe it only works if you truly believe with all your heart and have no other choices (like an electronic cradle.) Maybe the miracle of the Amby bed is something akin to the placebo effect. However, for us it was a $250 placebo that never worked miracles.

Now that Abby spends her nights in her crib, sleeping sometimes in 5 hour stretches, I find myself faced with what I am sure other parents have dealt with. (But for some reason don't talk about it.) Admitting failure and selling on eBay. Because, as Mark mentioned, why are there so many Amby beds available on eBay?

I still hold on to it for one reason, okay maybe two. One, she does nap in it when I can't put her in the nursery and two, I would have to admit my husband was right.

Sleep Deprivation Part 5: The Amby Bed Arrives

On December 29th, the Amby bed arrived. We came home that evening to the long box on our front porch and rejoiced. At least I did. Mark, after receiving a few more hours of sleep, now thought it was a HUGE mistake. Being a salesman both by trade and by nature, he had begun to feel that we were suckers. (And the Amby bed, our lemon.) So he lugged the 25 lb box into the house and simply left it on the landing to sit.

I, on the other hand, was intent on using it that very evening and drug the box the rest of the way down into the baby pit, which was now my bedroom. One small corner of the pit (our sunken living room) held a twin bed, an electronic cradle, and a combination bassinet/playpen which acted as storage for diapers, wipes, etc. On this one side of our living room, blocked off from Aidan and the rest of the family by baby gates, I now spent my nights with the fussing Abby. She would sleep swaddled to her ears in the cradle and I would sleep bundled in the bed awaiting the feedings which inevitably came about every two hours.

I had begun to feel like a single woman in those lonely hours of the night with my infant daughter. Sitting downstairs while the rest of the family slept upstairs was peaceful but also lonely. Sure, I could sneak off and get some writing done at 11pm, but I was shot the next day. Sometimes I could make it until 6am, other nights I lasted only until 4, before crawling up to get Mark. It was like tag-teaming. I would nudge him in the abdomen and say "your turn" before slithering under the covers of bed and praying it would be better when I woke up.

But now the Amby bed was here and things were going to change! Whether it was colic or reflux, the Amby bed was promoted to change it. Dr. Sears site said "The Amby Baby Motion Bed is a perfect choice for fussy babies with colic or reflux who don’t sleep well in bed with mom and dad. It’s a natural way to get a good night sleep while giving baby the nighttime comfort and security that she needs." I didn't need a full good night's sleep, I needed at least 3 hours straight not interrupted by coughs and grunts. I needed to be back in my own bed.

I tore into the package possessed with frantic optimism. Things will now be fine, I told myself, maybe she won't rest peacefully the first night but she will within the first week. Funny how my inner voice sounded desperate and hollow. However, I had to keep other thoughts at bay. The ones that, when we were in the middle of a rough night, slinked into my mind whispering "It was a mistake. You can't handle this. What will you do when Mark has to go on a business trip for 3 days? You can't do this. You're going to crack." I drowned these thoughts with assembling the bed. (And a wee nip of rum.)

In minutes, after enlisting Mark's help with the bolts, eye hooks, and industrial strength spring, it was set up. We looked at it. Mark with skepticism and me with a bit of concern. Abby would be hanging in the Amby bed from a spring. One spring. That is all that would separate her free floating nest from the floor. I made Mark assure me, more than once, that this type of hardware would hold the baby up. He did. Then he made me assure him that if the bed didn't work immediately, as in one week, we'd re-sell it on eBay.

"After all, they seem to sell very well on eBay."

(Will it work? Stay tuned)

She Had Multiple Sclerosis

Tonight as I was folding laundry and attempting to think up a funny MS article my thoughts turned to Joyce. Technically we were not related. She was the daughter of my mom's first husband's sister and therefore cousin to my 3 half-brothers and sister. The only occasions during which I saw Joyce were those celebrations that centered around one of my siblings, baby showers, bridal showers, etc. Recently, she passed away from breast cancer, but before that she had MS.

The first time I truly remember noticing her was at the baby shower of my sister-in law. Of course we'd bumped into one another at other occasions but for some reason this day sticks in my mind. She had long dark curly hair, the wild kind I always wished I had, and a huge smile. I recall her wearing some truly hip outfit with a long skirt and watching her with appreciation. She was confident, vivacious, and always laughing. This was a woman who was comfortable with herself. Living in the Bay Area with a prestigious job, she was the type of person I admired and hoped someday to become. I didn't talk to her.

About 3 years later, right around the time my first book about multiple sclerosis came out, Joyce was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. More than one family member mentioned how fast she seemed to be deteriorating. More than one thought "maybe you should call her?" Why would I call her, I thought, who was I to suddenly pop out of the blue, a sort-of relative, and say "oh hey I heard we have the same neurological condition! Is there anything you'd like to share?" I rationalized that I was not a counselor or a doctor. I wasn't even her friend. How dare I call up and think she'd like to speak with me? So I never did.

The next time I recall running into her was at my sister's bridal shower in 2004. I was newly pregnant with Aidan and my MS was in remission. That day I was thrilled with myself for being able to risk wearing my black high-heeled suede boots. Those dang shoes had originally been purchased for my London trip in 1999 when I came crashing down with MS symptoms and now I was finally in them! I was proudly sashaying about in a long skirt with my knee-high boots and feeling damn good about myself, when Joyce arrived.

The first thing I noticed was that her beautiful long hair was cut short. Next I saw that she moved slowly, almost shuffling her feet encased in thick rubber soled shoes. The comfortable kind more often seen on nurses. The kind I had now shoved into the back of my closet. The rest of her clothing was all about comfort, yet she looked uncomfortable. I could not believe that this was the same woman I'd envied years before. Her sparkle seemed lost, her will almost crushed. I was shocked. I was shaken.

What was I supposed to do? Here I was, pregnant and doing great while she appeared devastated. This was unfair! I felt that I shouldn't be around her. That seeing me would be like rubbing it in her face. Why was I doing so well, while she slid further into disrepair? True, I had been through some rough relapses in the years since my diagnosis, but for Joyce it seemed it had been nothing but a downhill march. How could I even begin to tell her I understood while I walked about in high-heeled boots, looking as fit as anyone? Surely she understood how MS can change? But what if she didn't? What if she had never seen a better day? What if it had always been black? I spent the rest of the party being a big fat coward and avoiding her.

When it was over, we collided in the driveway. I was gabbing at my brother, when she came out, her arm hooked with her mother's for balance. Only years before I had leaned on my mother for support while walking, yet I couldn't think of a brilliant thing to say. Something t let her know that I did understand, that I did want to help if she only wanted me to.

"I read your book."

"You did? Yeah it had some printing problems." I felt like an idiot.

"It made me laugh." She said quietly. I smiled back.

"Thank you! That was my intention you know, to take this horrible condition and try to find some humor in it."

"Well it worked." Again she gave me a soft smile.

"Good." I honestly don’t remember for sure what was said after that. I think we talked about MS MOMS. I may have babbled about advocating to doctors and how to do research. I possibly told her to email or call me anytime. I can't say for sure. What I do know is that I left that day feeling low.

I was amazed at how fast MS could take someone apart. Until that point I had only my own experience and the postings of others to go by, but I had never truly seen it. I felt relief that I was not that bad off at the moment and then guilt for being relieved. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. What was the etiquette for this situation? Should I have said more? Should I have sat her down and made her talk about it? Why didn't I, the fonder of MS MOMS, the author of a book about MS, know what to do?!

That was the last time I saw Joyce. The next thing I heard was that she had breast cancer. And soon, she had passed away. I did not attend the funeral. I was, as it was put to me, "not expected to. She wasn't really your family." But she had been family. Part of a family that grows larger each year. She had MS. And I will always regret not telling her that.




About Lorna

Sleep Deprivation Part 4:, Christmas, and the Amby Bed

It's Christmas day. The Amby bed, and our salvation, will not arrive until Thursday December 29th. I know this because I have been tracking its progress via UPS in a rather obsessed fashion. They haven't moved the trucks in two days. I holler at the computer screen that they could at least pretend that the box has done something in 48 hours rather than sit. Our chance at a sleeping for at least 3 hours straight is biding time in a box somewhere in Wisconsin.

I drag, because dragging is the only way to move when you have slept for 2 hours in the last 24, down to the "baby pit". This is a sunken living room that also doubles as Aidan's play area, and now my bedroom. Mark quietly informs me that nothing moves around Christmas time. This includes not only our Amby bed, but us. We've spent the last hour staring at the unopened gifts discussing whether or not we should wake Aidan. Mark appears to have slept in his jeans and I'm wearing old maternity clothes that double for pj's. We look and feel like reheated meatloaf. We speak in hushed tones because Abby is swaddled to her chin in the electronic cradle at our feet.

Stephan, our 10 yr old, has been awake since 4am. I know this because I was awake with Abby and urging him to go BACK to sleep without using curse words. I failed and he asked if Santa was going to pass me over. I let Mark sleep until around 6am before I, with a tiniest bit of sadistic enjoyment, pulled him out from under his covers. They were used to be our covers until we moved a twin bed down into the pit so that Mommy could take night shifts with Abby. This way Mark could get 6 hours straight until I would crawl up the stairs and give him the morning report. He would be informed of how much she ate, how much she slept, whether or not she was swaddled, and what mood he could expect as he went on shift. I would write this all down on a tracking page provided by nestle.com. (Which Mark always ignored swearing he kept all the information in his head. This is why we now run around saying "how much did she just eat?")

But this morning is different. Mark is not sending Stephan to school and then pushing through the morning shift with two babies one 5 weeks and one 15 months, because he's "better at multi-tasking than you hon." It's Christmas. Abby grunts and stretches her neck in the cradle. Stephan asks if this means we can open gifts. We again tell him "no" and he looks ready to implode. He begins to bargain with Mark about "just one gift" while I pull Abby from the cradle. I absently remember that my father, sister, and her boyfriend are due to arrive in a few hours. I watch the ongoing battle of wills between Stephan and Mark while wondering how much coffee I'm going to need to maintain any measure of conversation. Oh screw conversation! They'd be lucky if anything I mutter is intelligible.

FINALLY, as Stephan tells us, Mark goes to wake Aidan at 7am. This trek upstairs is a momentous occasion, because it is the ONLY time that we would wake any sleeping child on purpose. (Unless it is for school. School mornings are revenge for the sleep dep each child has caused us in the past.) I look down at the little angel in my arms. After the last 12 sleepless nights, I know that when she starts middle school I will thoroughly enjoy flinging her door open with a loud and cheery "GOOD MORNING PRINCESS!"

While Mark is helping Aidan downstairs, whose dazed look says "you people usually want me to STAY asleep", I suddenly realize that this is why my own mother and father were so damn happy in the morning. It had nothing to do with love of work or being morning people. They were simply paying me back!

As Stephan tears into his gifts, I think my theory makes perfect sense. It falls right in with sharing photos to prospective boyfriends of me during that awkward phase when I was 9. Maybe it's sleep dep turning my brain to the dark side, but I am suddenly comforted by the thought that even if the Amby bed is a bust, I will survive long enough to give my darling a little payback.

I snuggle Abby to my chest and watch Aidan learn how to remove wrapping paper. It's Christmas. Things will all work out. After all, Abby is our little miracle. Mind you that right now she is a miracle akin to getting the #1 in the DMV line only to find out you must move to another line, but she is a miracle. Born 6 weeks early on Thanksgiving Day, 20 days in the neonatal intensive care unit, and home for Christmas. At least that's the way my mood is swinging at the moment. Small miracles. Like the two hours she gave me on Christmas Eve. Like watching the Nutcracker with Aidan on my lap during those hours in the dark of the living room.

Mark sips his hot chocolate, Aidan makes off with one of Stephan's gifts, and chaos ensues. Abby wakes up with all the arguing and I smile. Whether or not I will feel optimism in the next hours, as my urge to slumber twists me from Snow White into her Stepmother, doesn't matter. These few moments are precious. Amby bed or not.



Lorna's Writing

Sleep Deprivation and Desperation Part 3

"You've heard about co-sleeping?" This from the NICU nurse the day we were sent home with Abby.

"Yes I have. But I'm not going to do it. It's not safe." The nurse smiled at me. Somehow I'd completely forgotten that 18 months previously I had Aidan sleeping in a make shift nest on our bed in an attempt to get him to sleep better.

"Well good. Do you know how many babies die every year from co-sleeping?"

A week after Abby's homecoming, we're in the used baby store buying whatever thing we think will help Abby sleep longer than one hour at a time. This includes a nest-like item to put in our bed. I won't roll over on her because it has sides. At least that is what I tell myself as Mark and I throw it, a travel swing, and some sleep sacks on the counter. My hands are quaking from the extra shot mocha I downed in an attempt to gain some energy and right now I'm willing to do ANYTHING to get her to sleep at night. (Even risk disapproval from nurses and my own inner-mother that shrieks 'you'll roll over and crush her'. At this point that inner-mother is being beaten by the more realistic mother who shouts 'Damn it just ONE more friggin hour! She's more likely to expire from us falling down the stairs while holding her in a sleep deprived haze than rolling on her!) Before I can ponder why I'm saying "us" in reference to myself, we're handing over a debit card.

Of course right now, as we fork over money for baby items, she's sleeping peacefully in her car seat. It isn't fair that she is asleep NOW while I'm dragging through the day and I squelch the urge to wake her up. I hypothesize that the reason she is asleep at the moment is the vibrating of the car ride. Motion. It works on all of them. But so does being close to Mom, hearing Mom breathe. At least that is what the books say and currently I am forgetting that "the books" don't tell the truth.

At least they don't tell you the whole truth. The truth is that all babies are different and the "expert ideas" only work some of the time. The books are full of maybes. The ideas may work. I am forgetting that these first few months with a newborn are a series of trials and errors as you learn about the new being in your life.

As I vibrate with caffeine at the check-out, I should be remembering that when it comes to my children anything that is considered "not safe" is a magic charm. Whether it's sleeping in a swing, being swaddled, or dozing on their belly, if the American Academy of Pediatrics is against it, my kids are all for it.

By December 22, 8 days after Abby came home nothing is working and I find myself slipping into the abyss. She is now on formula because I couldn't keep the breast milk coming. I have guilt. The nest didn't work, swaddling quit working, and the swing remains empty. So much for my ideas and my mothering instinct. Only one idea, using an electric cradle that we had for Aidan, and propping her upright in it with blankets, has worked. She slept for two hours.

But now Mark sleeps upstairs in our bed while I have moved into the living room with a twin bed. We've changed formula twice in a matter of days in a desperate attempt to find anything to help the sleep and the grunting. I'm spending a majority of the time not enjoying my daughter. I'm wishing I could take her back to the NICU and pronounce "I'm not taking her back home until you fix her!" It's only been EIGHT days! I'm a failure. I feel ready to check myself in for post-partum depression, when I remember.

The Amby bed. I tried to get Mark to purchase the contraption with Aidan because we thought he had reflux. (Turned out to be colic.) It costs $251 and Mark was damned if he was going to spend that kind of money on what looked like a glorified laundry bag on a hook. Yet this time is different. Maybe it's because we are overprotective since she was preemie. Maybe it's because her nights are worse than Aidan's were. He only cried hours before falling asleep for the night, as opposed to not sleeping. Maybe it is that we already spent 20 days with disturbed sleep before she came home, because I was getting up to pump. (Not to mention I flopped like a beached whale at the end of the pregnancy and often ruined our sleep.)

At 3am in the morning I am online building my case. Dr. Sears recommends it. Articles are posted on the web saying how hospitals use this bed for their preemies. All the parent letters say how wonderful it truly is. I look at the pictures on the website sent in by parents of their little darlings snuggled in for a long night's sleep. I present the pictures and articles to Mark. It moves when she moves. It snuggles her in. It will work. It has to work. We scrounge the credit.

I hit the "submit order" button and begin to count the days for the arrival of the miracle bed.

Baby Fresh

Standing inside Raley’s aisle 2 and in a rut
Agonizing which baby wipe will grace her toddler’s butt.

Her mind is racing madly, she’s afraid that is will crash
Praying by the time’s she done; her son won’t have a rash

Hypo-allergenic nonsense, her thoughts will entertain,
Powder soft, baby fresh, quilted or just plain

By the pack or in a stack, with a bear upon the box,
Whose addle-brained inventor she would love to give the pox

Lids that will not open do you pull or do you push?
All this aggravation over such a little tush!

Her son is standing in the cart, with his imposing voice,
Telling her EXACTLY which box would be his choice.

As a crowd is gathering she grabs one in blind fear,
and wheels away the red faced boy whose tantrum is quite near.

That woman with the screaming child could easily be me,
With one thing down,
A solid frown,
Heading to aisle three

Copyright Lorna Moorhead

Stress Incontinence or How to Sneeze Without Incident

It's happening again. I'm standing in the middle of the produce section at Raley's and I need to sneeze. For most people this would not be an emergency, but for me a mother and a woman with multiple sclerosis, this is a disaster. I know that when I sneeze, I'm going to leak urine. Maybe this wouldn't be a concern if I had given in to purchasing some of those incontinence pads they sell but I can't bring myself to do it. While I've learned to throw condoms, yeast infection cures, and even personal lubricant onto the conveyor belt without batting an eye or breaking a sweat, I still can't add incontinence pads.

So now the sneeze is coming and I'm looking for a way to lower myself to the ground or cross my legs without notice. I'm also cursing myself for not doing those damn Kegel exercises they tell you about during pregnancy. You know where you squeeze muscles you didn't even know you using something akin to The Force? How do you tighten a muscle you can't see or feel? They tell you to think about stopping urine which is exactly what I'm thinking about right now but I doubt it's going to help.

The sneeze hits me and I, without thought, bend my knees and hunker down in front of my shopping cart. Aidan, my toddler, looks over the edge of his seat at me and an elderly gentleman pauses in assessing the nearby melons to watch. I know he's watching because I'm neurotic enough to check who may have noticed my attempt to dive under the cart. I smile sheepishly and reach out to adjust the boxes of soda I normally stow under there. Remember this trick if you have similar problems with sneezing: Always stuff some items under the cart and then pretend to arrange them when people wonder why your legs have suddenly given out mid-aisle.

But this time, I haven't made it to the soda aisle and there is also no large bundle of toilet paper under there. I'm frantically grasping at air and the man, who may have only casually glanced over at the sudden movement, is now really watching. Slowly disentangling myself from the belly of the basket, I stand back up and attempt to look as if I meant to do that. Whatever "that" was. At least I didn't leak.

"WAHOO!" I grip the handle of the cart and knock my knees together. Aidan is starting to giggle because Mommy always says "sneeze" in an excited voice when she blows. This originally was because my sneezing used to startle him to tears when he was younger. The women of my family do not sneeze with dainty "achoo"s or little squeaks. Usually overwhelmed by our sneezes at the last possible moment, we let out what sounds more like a battle-cry than sneeze. Aidan looks at me expectantly and I mutter "mommy sneeze", while keeping my knees locked. Aidan giggles and I erupt with the third and final sneeze. "WAHOmph!" This time I saw it coming and attempted to bury my face in my shoulder and keep my legs folded over while doing a rather interesting bobbing technique. Surely with all this movement I'm tightening the right dang muscle!

At this point, while leaning over Aidan and the rest of the cart, I begin thinking that it would have been a good idea to wear a panty liner. Many of my girlfriends have suggested I do this, but yet again, my pride, and love of comfort, has caused me to ignore this advice. I mean, come on, the last thing I want to have annoying me throughout my day is a bunched up or roaming panty liner. Don't talk to me about anything "with wings" they always get twisted in some warped fashion about the underwear and then I've got it stuck to my leg while I'm simply trying to pull my panties down!

Besides what are the chances I'm going to sneeze every single day? And if I do sneeze that I'm not going to find a place to quickly sit down and cross my legs? Often Mark finds me on the stairs of our new house, "Oh just taking a rest." He of course knows better and, if he finds me cursing like a sailor and stomping off to the bedroom to change, like any typical man has to acknowledge my plight by quipping "Didn't make it hmm?"

I didn't make it today either and my chances of finding a place to sit down were nil. Unless I'd opted for planting butt in the veggie aisle while sneezing. This surely would have drawn more attention than that of the man who is now coming over to my cart.

"Are you all right?" He asks with a rather embarrassed and perplexed look. I nod and make a rather unladylike snarfing noise because by now my nose is running and it's either snuffle or wipe it on my sleeve which I don't want Aidan seeing. (Because we all know toddlers do exactly what they see and hear and I'd rather he didn't wipe his nose on his sleeve right after cursing like mommy did in the hallway the other day.) "Are you sure?"

Now I've got to wonder why this person has bothered to come over. Do I look ill or demented? Because asking me if I'm sure implies that I just might not be able to determine if I am okay. This leaves me with the option to snap back "what? Don't I look okay?" or do what I did, nod, blush vigorously, and push my cart out of the veggie section at warp speed heading for the restroom.

I spend the next minutes of the shopping trip ensconced in the bathroom, where Aidan tries to peek under every stall, wadding toilet paper into a pad-like formation and shoving it into my pants. I would have made it if it had been a simple sneeze, but nooo I had to have a sneezing attack, and what must have looked like a seizure, in the middle of the leafy greens! To make everything worse, someone actually came over to ask if I was feeling okay! I want to abandon my basket and run home. Instead I return home with a box of panty-liners and consider it insurance against grocery store mishaps.

This entire experience was brought on by what is called stress incontinence. Just saying "stress incontinence" either sounds like you have a problem holding your stress or your stress lacks intelligence. However, stress incontinence has nothing to do with withholding stress and everything to do with the incompetence of the urethral sphincter. Symptoms of this upsetting syndrome are, as described on Medline Plus as "an involuntary loss of urine that occurs during physical activity such as coughing, sneezing, laughing, or exercise." Oh, you mean during life! Stress incontinence is caused by a weakening of the pelvic floor muscles. This condition is often seen in women, who have had multiple pregnancies and vaginal childbirths, and neurologic injury. In my case, having multiple children and multiple sclerosis, a neurological condition in which the nerves do not always send the right message a.k.a. "hold urine", is a double whammy.

How is this condition treated? Well thankfully we all do not have to run around with toilet paper shoved down our pants. There are many options to treating stress incontinence and other bladder dysfunctions that no grocery store clerk need know about. For many Kegel, or pelvic floor, exercises are too little too late. While it is fun to sit on the couch and tell my husband "I'm exercising", they are not always comfortable or feasible for some with MS. (Not all of us have the best level of sensation in those regions, and I'll be the first to admit I'm one of these people.) The options for treating this condition include behavioral changes, and surgery, as well as pelvic floor therapy and medication. Medication is not always the top choice for people looking to treat urinary problems and it does not have to be the final resort.

However in my case treatment was through medication. You've seen those commercials with the woman at the park in the rowboat who suddenly has that urge. You've also seen the commercials of women, well, sneezing in public places. Of course none of them drop to the ground while sneezing, but they all make rather interesting faces. Each of these commercials offers a medication to treat urinary urgency and incontinence. Anticholinergics (eg, oxybutynin, propiverine, solifenacin, tolterodine, trospium) and antispasmodics (eg, flavoxate) may be used to treat urinary frequency, urgency, and incontinence. Often they work wonders as they did for me. Except for the odd side effect of making me extremely thirsty. This meant I drank more water and therefore was going to the bathroom more which seemed a bit redundant. However, there were no accidents! (And no pads, because hey, there are still good days when I prance about in skimpy underwear and pads just ruin the effect!)

Links:
A more in-depth look into urologic health and MS at HealingWell.com

Sleep Deprivation and Desperation Part 2

We'd had Abby home for less than 4 days and a few things very plain. One, I was not making enough breast milk. At best I was pumping 60ml, two ounces, each feeding. This would have been fine, because 60 ml was what Abby had been taking every 3 hours at the NICU, neonatal intensive care unit. But yet again those sly NICU nurses omitted a fact that we discovered our first night Abigail was home. She had been receiving fortified breast milk. Breast milk plus! So when was given just plain 'ol breast milk she went from eating every 3 hours to being hungry every 1 1/2 hours! (Think about drinking Guinness and then drinking a Bud-Light. Try not to think about the fact that the Guinness comparison was the first one Lorna thought up.).

Because Abby and I had not yet worked out how to breast feed without her getting exhausted, I had to pump. And now I was pumping like crazy to keep up with her. So nights went like this: Bottle-feed the baby her 70-80ml of breast milk , burp her, swaddle her, get her settled, then pump for another 40 minutes to make her next feeding. Repeat every 2 hours.

Oh yes, and during that first week, when visiting my doctor in tears with a breast infection from a clogged milk duct, I was told "to increase your milk you should encourage Abby to breastfeed by putting her to each breast for 10 minutes before you feed her the bottle." So now we had 20 minutes of breast fighting, because honestly trying to get a baby who is accustomed to a hard rubber nipple, to latch on to a floppy soft nipple is going to be an argument. Then 20 minutes of feeding, 20 minutes of burping and fussing, and 40 minutes pumping!

Next, oh hey the baby is awake again and ready for her next feeding! Let's not forget that we also have two other children. A school aged boy who needs to be up at 7am and a darling 15 month old who pretty much wakes up when his brother begins roaming the halls yelling "where's my backpack?" By the end of that week we were supplementing with Similac and returning the breast pump. (Not to mention having mild hallucinations brought on by sleep dep.)

The second thing we learned in that first week was that Abby had a problem with grunting. One of the nurses from the NICU had told me my baby grunted and I told her it was no problem. Aidan, our 15 month old, grunted. He was a baby who snored and made other snuffle noises, so I figured Abigail would be the same. Not a chance.


We're not talking run of the mill, snoring baby. Not Abby. That would be too easy. We're talking barking; gasping, grunting noises that jolt you awake and out of the bed because ohmygod the baby is choking! These noises mess with your Mom-sense. (This is like spider-sense, except for mothers.) These are noises that, in a normal scenario, mean bad things. You cannot sleep through them. Each time Abby had one of these grunting, gasping, barking spells Mark and I would fly from the bed, and rush to the bassinet ready to save our baby.

Abby was only bothered by her grunting 50% of the time which meant that half the time we'd have a baby to lull back to sleep and the other half of the time we were lying in bed with adrenaline surging through our veins and our pulses beating out our chests because our baby sounded like she was being strangled. (Oh, and then I'd have to pump.)

It was obvious that this grunting was not usual. At first we thought it may be due to some leftover irritation from all the tubes Abigail had in her nose and throat during her stay at the NICU. However, when we took her to the pediatrician, another angel among men, who in the weeks to come put up with many visits and late night calls, assured us her throat was fine. Maybe she was just getting used to life outside the NICU. Her grunting could be dreaming. Or pooping. Which made me wonder if they had baby Ex-lax.

So as the end of week one came, we had no sleep, it was clear that breast feeding was not going to happen, and it was also clear that Abby's grunting was so pronounced she could not sleep in our room. Either that or for the sake of sleep, and the well-being of our other children, someone would have to leave the room. Mark chose to go sleep with Aidan and I began looking for a better bassinet.

The desperation turns to spending…

Sleep Deprivation and Desperation Part 1

Sleep deprivation does wonders for the economy. Our daughter has a $251 bed. It's made of undyed cotton and is promoted by Dr. Sears. It is supposed to be a miracle cure for babies who won't sleep, preemies, and babies with reflux. So that would be Abby, Abby, and Abby. (Let's not mention that Abby is Amby with a letter changed, which is the name of the bed.)This is how Mark and I decided to join the ranks of parents desperate enough to shell out cash for what looks like a hammock on a banana hanger.

After getting Abby home from the NICU in December, we began nights of hell in which we swaddled, unswaddled, and even put her down on her stomach. Because regardless of all those warnings and instructions they give you about SIDS, when it's 3am and you haven't slept, you're going to do WHATEVER works and pray that God will forgive you.(And watch out for you.) By the way did it ever occur to people that more babies die in cars driven by sleep deprived parents than from SIDS?

By the end of the first night home I had broken the laws laid down to me by the NICU nurses and had Abby wrapped in swaddling clothes. Because you know what? That's what they had done to her for the 20 days she was in the NICU! But of course they told me that they were allowed to swaddle her because they had the machines monitoring her and the nurses watching her. So if she were in danger of overheating, or suffocating on the blankets they were there.

You want to know how they told me to put her down? Flat on her back with a blanket tucked under her arms and then tucked around and under the mattress. First you find me a blanket that is long enough to go from one end of the bassinet to the other so that it tucks in on all sides. Then tell me how to secure it so the child will not thrash it out from under the flimsy bassinet mattress. (And you can't use staples or pins that would be baaaad.)

Her arms were supposed to be free to flail about in case she was passing away from carbon dioxide poisoning. (Rebreathing. Although how she would be in danger of rebreathing when she wasn't swaddled I don't know.) Flapping is what Abigail did. She flailed the blanket away from her body and then she flailed her little arms in her face. You know that startle reflex most newborns have? The one where they flap their arms? Hmm. Let's leave her arms free so that every time she moves or twitches she can startle and really flap. The poor girl looked like she was going for lift off in the bassinet! Either that or doing the wave. "It's 2 am and I'm awake, do the wave! Woohoo!"

I had her butt swaddled in the Swaddle-Me blanket by the end of night one. That's about as far as my good mothering went. (But that's not as far as I'd like to THROW the nurses who told me not to swaddle her because she'd overheat and die, blah blah blah.)

So night one ended with a swaddled Abby sleeping for a grand total of 1 hour uninterrupted before waking to feed. (At the time I was pumping so she would get breast milk which is a WHOLE other blog entry to come.) This one hour was such a success that she proved she could do a 2 hour stretch as well. At 10 am. And then she did another 2 somewhere around 2pm. When both Mommy and Daddy were awake because it was Christmas vacation and we had a 10 yr old and a 15 month old to take care of who didn't believe "Let's All Nap" is a real game. But we did get to look in on her and say "ahh how sweet, someone is getting sleep."

This statement quickly became "ahh how sweet we gave birth to a vampire." Because Abby Jean loved to prove she could do long stretches of peaceful sleeping in daylight. Another benefit of having a baby spend 20 days in the NICU. No difference between day and night. They may have dimmed the lights some, but with fresh-faced nurses coming on shift at 8pm, who cared if a baby woke up and fussed throughout the night? And honestly with all the bells and whistles that would go off it's no wonder Abby came home a fitful sleeper.

At least that is what I thought was her problem during week 1. It was Post NICU stress. She was adjusting. She needed to be swaddled. Maybe we needed more lights on. Maybe we needed more bells and whistles. Maybe she needed more breast milk.

And so the fussing and desperation began..