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..

Mental Health

Recently someone took offense at my use of the term "bipolar" in reference to living with two children under the age of 2. They felt that I was making light of a serious diagnosis without any understanding of the disorder. This is not true. My eldest son, has a developmental disability. It is similar to autism, it is also similar to mild retardation. He is 10 yrs old and attends a special school. He gets special services. His diagnosis took 7 years during which we were told he was bipolar as well as ADHD, OCD, Aspergers, and possibly Fragile X. Seven years of various doctors, various medications, and various theories. Only as he got older and his diagnosis clearer were we able to finally discover exactly what made Stephan, Stephan and how to best go about parenting him.

I, myself , have been through the mental health ringer while getting my diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis. I was once told that I was bipolar. So I do have an understanding of how serious and also how difficult it can be. I also believe that if you cannot find humor in difficult situations that you are setting yourself up for some very dark times. The ability to laugh at myself, and the adversity in my life, has often been the only thing between me and a very dark, very deep hole.

So be assured when I use these mental health terms I am all too aware of the full meaning of them. (Heck I own a copy of the DSM for goodness sake!) But I chose to make light of the dark and that is just who I am.

Welcome to Ma'am Hood

The other day as I was buying groceries, I happened to strike up a cordial conversation with the bag boy. I wasn't flirting, he was practically a kid, but I was being witty. And charming. At least I thought so. It was one of those good days when you feel good and look good. And then it happened. "Would you like help out ma'am?"

Ma'am?! I about choked on my triple shot mocha. When did I become a ma'am? For that matter, what gave it away? I did not have any of my children with me and I'd even done my face and hair before this trip! Was it the comfortable footwear? My husband calls them "duck shoes", these leather clog-like things that easily slip on the foot. Was it the fact that while my jeans did have a flare to the bottom, they weren't hanging off my hips? Was it the fact that I wasn't advertising my panty choice by having a thong hanging out the back?

As I pushed my cart to the car, I caught my reflection in the large window of an SUV. My red hair was glinting in the sunlight, my cheeks were rosy, and I looked damn good. For 30. To a bag boy of 19 I was definitely ma'am. I was someone's mother. I was *gasp* old. But damn it, I didn't FEEL old. Well, except right at that very moment but that was all the bag boys fault! Sure I had kids, which qualified me as someone's mother, but it didn't mean I was a ma'am did it? Ma'am was someone who was old, well older than I was at least. Someone who had many years under her belt along with kids and who may or may not need some pharmaceutical help to keep her body running smoothly.

When I got home, and had a few moments to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, the realization hit me. Somewhere between 20 and 30 I had become "ma'am." Make-up was no longer "acne fighting" it was "wrinkle reducing." Hair color was no longer chosen for shock value but for coverage of stubborn grays. Those, by the way, didn't show up until right before my 30th birthday as if to say, "Welcome to ma'am-hood here are your complimentary gray hairs." Undergarment choices were no longer based on how thin or how transparent but does it lift and separate or can it hide cellulite?

I had to admit to myself that it wasn't as if I became older overnight and it wasn't as if being 30 was a curse. I thankfully was not one of those people who felt they had to be younger. Most of my life had been spent trying to catch up to my siblings who range from 8 to 10 years older, so when I hit 20 I felt like I was already 30. Until I was really 30. (And they're 40 and suddenly I don't want to catch up to them.)

At 30 years of age, I am appropriate with my role-models. I don't model my clothing choices after Lindsay Lohan. I would rather be seen as a Rene Russo or Julianne Moore as opposed to Hillary Duff or, um, well Lindsay Lohan. I think Pierce Brosnan and Aidan Quinn are hot and Ashton Kutcher is a kid. Even if he is only 5 years younger than I.I do have my perspectives in order.

I just don't recall when it happened. When did I go from someone a 20 yr old would date to someone a 20 yr old would ask permission from? And why don't I have all the answers by now? Because as I grew up I was reassured by the fact that when I was a grown-up I would know everything! I would never be undecided and I would never, ever be afraid. Because adults didn't have fears. At least not unreasonable ones that involved not knowing everything, because they had it all figured out!

Maybe that comes when you're 40…

The world is right again, babies are asleep

I've discovered that simply having children, especially young ones, makes a person feel bipolar. If they're crying, the world is ending and I'm never going to make it, if they're asleep, the world is right again and I know everything will be all right. If they're not crying or asleep I'm either changing a butt or feeding someone. When they nap, do I nap? Hell no. This is the time for laundry, paying bills, or staring at my closet and wondering what I should wear now that I'm no longer pregnant. If I try to nap, I lay there and wonder about what I should wear now that I"m no longer pregnant.

Or I think about what I'm going to do now. With my life. With 3 kids. And then I get scared. I knew what I was doing with 1 kid. I knew what I was doing with 2. If I didn't know, I figured it out, quickly. Last summer I knew how to be pregnant with an 11 month old. This fall I knew how to be BIG pregnant, with a big new house to manage, and 2 kids. I got it all worked into a rhythm. But I'm out of my depth now. Seriously.

If I'm feeding Abby, then suddenly Aidan is trying get on my lap. If I'm playing with Aidan, Abby wakes up and needs to be fed again. I think if I hadn't been forced, by nature and my multiple sclerosis, to quit breast-feeding I would have given up by now. Or I'd be running around trying to discipline Aidan with Abby hanging off my bare breast. It's bad enough that I never get out of my pj's and that most of my "pj's" consist of maternity clothes.

And now they're awake...