LOST A SOCK

And what I propose for this time next year includes October, November, December, Januaryyyy...May.

 

Oh!

Haii.

It was almost like I took a little blog vacation there, leaving you to read about my Terribly Attractive Moustache Issues for a week solid.  Which, I suppose, is almost as bad as writing another blog entry  about how impossible it is to function after almost six damn months on no sleep.  (She is cute, I'll give her that.)

So okay, I won't do that.

And I promise I'll get all happy and fun again right after I explain to you at which unthinkable level my brains have melted to mush and my ass is permanantly imprinted in our rocking chair because I decided to keep my baby home...a lot...to recover properly from her surgery, and because it's too cold and she and her mountain of blankets are too doggone heavy to lug around in her infant seat anymore.  (Waaaah waaah waaah, yes, I know.)

So after not leaving our hospital room for four days, we came home and there we stayed for another six solid. 

So by last Saturday I was nuts I tell you, and the kids were too.  Kevin and I decided we should load everyone up and head out to the mall and the Olive Garden almost an hour away even though we have those very same places four minutes away from home for a distinct change of scenery.  And because who doesn't mind expressway driving when it's sleeting and snowing?  At night?  On a long bridge over a deep quarry with their kids in the car?  Sounded perfectly responsible to me.

Dinner was great, being out was great.  We closed the mall cause we're crazay like that and as Carson Pirie Scott is making frantic announcements for the damn family of five to just LEAVE ALREADY OR THEY'RE LOCKING US IN, I decided I better change Marin's diaper before we hit the road.   

And it was during that diaper change that I discovered that one of my daughter's previously glued incisions had popped open, and there was a deep, very not healed opening in my baby.  Fantastic. 

Of course it happened this way.  Because I'd spent ten days without a single exodus for her best interest.  Because baby incisions always pop open at 10pm on a Saturday night when there is no way to reach the surgeon, in a mall an hour from home when it's snowing.  And if you've never been through a surgery with your baby, as if that isn't awful enough, try being sure that her insides are going to come spewing out at any moment in the middle of the Juniors Department of a store who really wants you to just goooo hoooome already.

I covered the wound as best I could and dialed the pediatrician on-call as soon as we were in the car.  She was so kind, asking about the depth and the width (if you're cringing I was too) and if it was oozing or bleeding.  No blood or anything, thankfully, so she instructed me on the butterflying technique and then was even nice enough to ask how I was coping with all of this.  By the time we made it home I had almost unclenched both my fists and my teeth from fear, thinking maybe we would be fine after all.

But as I de-layered Marin's clothing once home, I began seeing blood.  I was quite panick-y and butterlflied as best I could, but after I noticed the inside corner of the damn strip poking into her wound, I gave up and re-butterflied with a larger, bright blue SpongeBob bandaid.

I went back and forth for what seemed like forever, now at midnight, wondering whether I should take her to the ER.  But, ughhhh, germs and gross live there too, so I had no idea what we might actually bring home with us.  Instead I decided I should stay up all night checking her side every four minutes to make sure the SpongeBob Dam didn't break.

It didn't, thankfully, and now almost another week later her side is looking infinitely better. 

 

And she is obviously feeling better too, even twisting and turning and re-learning her escape strategy roll.

I suppose now is a good time to say, after the rough weeks and months we've had recently, and as a We Win reward for the ungodly work hours and double house balancing act and the long winter and the general hectic that is raising three young children, Kevin and I are going on vacation in a couple weeks.  Just the two of us, for the first time since our honeymoon.  Ohhhh baby I can't wait! 

...If for no other reason than to sleep?  All the way through the night?  WAHOO!

So whaddya know about San Fransisco/Marin County, California?

Electric Youth (or however you choose to get it)

I have been noticing something. 

I am noticing that my hair is beginning to break, right above my forehead, just as it did in the months following Jack's birth.  That's no fun. 

Except, the last time my hair broke I was postpartum and twenty-seven.  So my naturally brown hair had little stand-up fly-aways everywhere and so it goes.  They minorly annoyed me and I sprayed them down every day until they grew out.

But this time my hair is breaking post-childbirth at the age of thirty. 

And For The Love Of Pete, all of the broken brown hairs have invited their white pals to the party.  Tens and hundreds of snow white hairs that didn't bother me so much when they blended nicely into a tight long-ish ponytail, but now they stand at attention each morning and greet the day with their little white broken ends held high as if begging the sun, "Bleach us more! Make us shine!" 

Fabulous.

So I was pretty okay with The Old previous to this discovery because I am long married with three children and somehow Old fits somewhere in that equation, yes?  Except then I pointed my poor broken hairs out to the fool that did this to me my unconditionally loving husband, and?  He snickered.

(Entire readership of unavoidably aging women light torches, draw weapons.)

Which totally did notthrow me into a mental fit of Whooooo's offspring I carried nine months times three stretch marks c-section scar for miles don't you dare snicker buddy do you realize all that I have done for you by the way?  Did you think you were marrying Age Twenty-Two forever? 

Nope, there was none of that business.

So when I hopped out of the shower the next day, I trimmed a couple inches from the length of my hair, encouraging myself to wear it down...to hide The Old around my face...until my dear friend Di Bottle could come for a visit.

And next I applied moisturizer to my skin because hot damn, I'm sure the wrinkles are on their way too.  And I opened my new bottle of foundation- the one that actually matches my winter skin tone, and I put that on, too.  Just after I plucked and reshaped my eyebrows.

Then I noticed the final piece of this here puzzle.

The little broken hairs at the top of my head invited fine young friends to the scene.  Except they were obviously given the wrong damn address because they arrived at none other than my chin.

(Crowd sighs something pitiful.)

This called for action. 

Immediate, inhospitable, unpleasant, down right awful action.

 

So the next morning, just before my shower, I got to work. 

Quick and easy, no doubt.

Yep, just going to gently warm the strip in the palm of my ultra-gorgeous model-like hands, freshly filed and manicured pointy finger nails, and then I'm going to TEAR THOSE SUCKAHS RIGHT OUTTA THERE.

Nah, I don't know what that says either.

So I got to work with the warming and the brave talk and I carefully puuuuulled the strips apart just like in the picture, and I planted those babies on the underside of my face and held my breath and..

...hooooooooooooooly shitthathurt.

But they were gone, just like that. 

Successsss.

So I thought to my brilliant self, I might as well get those little puppies right above my upper lip while I'm at it, yes?

No warming this time because most assuredly those sticky strips from hell were primed and ready for action.  Writing off the zit beneath my nose, I stuck 'em on there just above my lip.  Brave talk, Ready Ready Ready, PULLLLLLLLL!

Oh damn, that was worse than the first time.

Oh no?

Nothing came out.  Pain, no gain?

Try again. 

Press Press Press, tighten stomach muscles, brave face, hesitate, hesitate, PULLLLLLLL.

Nothing. 

Nothing but little hairs NOW COVERED IN STICKY BEADS OF WAX. 

Crap.

Reapply wax strips, Press Press Press until underlying teeth are bruised, Brave Face, Tense Up, PULLLLLLLL!

Nothing.  Again.

By now, of course my infant daugher has woken from her four minute nap and is protest crying for why she must wait in this miserable entertainment-filled wooden-slatted baby container for more than the usual twelve second shower, and my face is red and brow is furled and I'm muttering CURSE WORDS AT MY GIRL-STACHE and telling my daughter to juuuust wait, cause she'll get hers.  All the while priming another set of strips because there's no turning back now- I'm already tarred with the leftover wax and the sticky stache - all that waits are feathers.  Or random airborne dog hairs and white pollen poofies.  Then it's all over, for sure.

Warm Warm Warm, Press Press Press, Stomach Muscles, Brave Face, PULLLLLLLLLL!

Oh my God relief.

Only a thin layer of wax left.  No hairs, no skin.

I poke my head out the bathroom door and attempt to speak soothing words to my impatient baby, but my lip and my chin are completely numb and all I can mutter is MMMM MMM MOWB.  And that's no help.

I crank the shower water as hot as it can go, because of course in this Quick & Easy To Use Beauty Regime, I must now melt the leftover wax off my face. 

Now made new with short hair and fresh eyebrows and Di Bottle waiting in the wings, and not a facial hair in sight as I scorch my brightly reddened face to melt the wax, I can't help but wonder if I am avoiding The Old or fleeing the country, in secret. 

And the more I thought about it as the hot water beat on my face, the more I realized that most definitely, Solo tiene que presionary tirar! means, Don't bother, Silly Stupid Lady! It's only going to grow back...you're in your thirrrrties now!  (That's the long meaning, of course.)

Ode to The New Baby

My new camera arrived last week, just before we left for the hospital.  I opened the box, kissed and hugged it and charged the battery, and then returned it to its temporary cardboard home while I was away for the week.  I finally got around to tinkering with it over the last couple days, and I love it.  I quickly learned, unfortunately, that ordering a better lens was an immediate foregone conclusion, so hi-ho hi-ho, it was back to Amazon I go went. 

So while I wait to receive more fun in the mail (three cheers for fun in the mail!) I played around with natural light and black & white. 

Little Miss, on the road to recovery.

 

Just one week post-op and already back to toe-grabbing.

I am incredibly happy to report that she finally finished up her antibiotic today, and is therefore (hopefully) nearing the end of constant baby explosions and diaper rash.  Unfortunately, I'm not sure whether to blame the teething or the hospital for throwing threw her already shoddy sleep schedule for a loop ten loops twenty-seven loops out the damn window, even ruining what we once had going with hours-long daytime swing naps.  (Goodbyyyyyye naps, come back soon!  Mama does loooove her some sanity!) 

And last, or is this simply adding to the sticky mess?  Marin's darling older brother gifted her with Baby's First Sinus Infection upon her arrival home.  Oh mucus.  Oh oh oh mucus.

The gifter himself.  I believe entire books have been written on how to photograph a six year old boy.  And should you stumble upon one of those helpful books, do send it my way.  Because the motion and the silly just doesn't end.

He's got the cold, too.  You can thank me for editing out the snot.

Peace.

(Which is code for, I've been trying to write this entry on and off throughout the entire day, and now at nearly 10pm a child is having a temper tantrum one floor above me while his baby sister fiiiiiinally sleeps.  And with my husband just now on his way home from work?  That's my cue.)

(Calgon whaaa?)

Home

That there's a creative title, eh? 

I sort of considered making it the whole entry.  Like, take a guess if we're home.  Oh yes, we are!  Take a guess if I feel like I've been taken down by three Mac trucks followed by one of those cool smushing road paver things.  Oh yes, I do! 

We arrived home at seven last night with a fever-free baby, armed with scripts for seventeen different medications.  It's pretty obvious that she's still in pain and readjusting to life in noisy kidville, and we nervously broke through the Sponge-Bath For Seven Days barrier today, on only day five, thanks to super baby poop explosion in the wounds.  Gotta love antibiotics.

  

Still smiling, though!  

It really is so nice to be home- great to be with the boys again, and have our family back together.  I swear KJ and Jack grew in five days' time.  

 

And now to continue with our at-home family Valentine's celebration and movie night...  Hope that you, too, are having a very sweet day.

Peeking my head in the door

Kevin arrived for a quick visit this evening, his laptop in tow, and as he began to snuggle our baby I yanked the technological goods just as fast as you might imagine.  I needed to know, Is There Still Life Out There? 

Turns out there is, lots of it, and you guys are the part that makes it good.  Thank you so much for all of the well-wishes, prayers and support.  I really, honestly love you for it.  (Take a moment to kiss yourself in the mirror and imagine it's from me.  Then ask why it smells like someone's doing laundry and know that it's because I packed an anti-static Downy dryer sheet next to my snacky bag of dry cereal, and then the two became one.  And I ate it, because I am possibly a goat.  Or bored.  Or both.)

Onward.

Marin's surgery, though surely the most difficult thing we've been through, Kevin and I as parents and she as a Just Trying To Do Her Baby Thing baby, was a success to the end that the kidney is gone.  What we were met with in the recovery room was nothing short of a nightmare, something I was completely unprepared to find, which had me in shambles in three seconds flat, for most of the day.  My baby was swollen- unbelievably swollen, from head to toe.  Her eyes were closed and she was groaning the most pitiful, constant groans, because she was in a whole lot of pain.  She was able to have tiny doses of morphine every so often, which would quiet her for a few minutes only to return quickly to much pain again.  It took a good three hours for her to even open her eyes, and even then she was glazed over and not at all herself.  

It was a hard, hard, very hard day yesterday.  God help me, I hope to never experience anything like that with any of my children again.

During the night last night she began coming-to a bit more, and finally around 4am made eye contact with me and cracked a smile. (Who minds being up at 4am, I ask?  Not I, not one bit, to see my baby's spark return for a minute.)  

Today has been better as she had her catheter removed, passed gas, fed well and even pooped.  (Dare I admit to sending a text that read SHE POOPED?  Did.)  She's been a bit more smiley while in the midst of steady pain meds, though there's no need to see the clock to know when they're wearing off.  I've been able to hold her chest-to-chest a few times, only for a couple minutes to coax burps from her, as it's obviously painful to be up and moving with three one-inch wounds in her back and side. 

The big deal right now is the fever she's maintained since a couple hours out of the OR yesterday.  It began creeping up slowly, and even in spite of the every-four-hours Tylenol with Codeine, the fever remains and continues to creep higher.  When I asked our surgeon about it this morning he said that as he cut out the top half of her kidney, he found it to be infected again and pus and fluids oozed out of it, possibly infecting the remaining half of the kidney.  A urine culture was done, and we should have results from that tomorrow.  Until then, she's been put on an antibiotic and there will be No Going Home Or Anywhere Fun.  I wish I could say I'm not having slight-panic-invoking flashes of last October's awful experience with Sepsis, but it is what I am afraid of.  I really want to get this baby home and well.

I must run now, to cram in a blog entry and a shower before my husband makes his exodus to The Boy Children We Once Knew.  Thank you again, most sincerely, for your comments.  While I cannot post without the use of Spousal Laptop, I can tab through the Internet-On-Television in our room to read your comments.  (So tell me a funny joke, would ya?)

(What, do I amuse you?  Like a clown?  You think I'm effing funny?  Pow, pow, powpowpow.)

(Name that movie.)

XO

Surgery update

Hi, all, Bree here with a brief update from Molly regarding Marin's kidney surgery. She's in recovery now, and while Molly hadn't had a chance to talk with the surgeon before calling me, she was told things went well. She can't post to her blog while they're in the hospital, but she does have access to it, so feel free to offer your well wishes and remember to keep the Lost A Sock family in your prayers.

Surgery Time

Ok, so we're here. 

I'm not exactly sure what the protocol is for The Thing To Say the day before your baby daughter loses half of an organ, but let's consider it done, m'kay?

Surgery is scheduled for 7:30 tomorrow morning and should take about four hours.  After that Kevin and I will be with her in recovery for a couple hours, then to our room.  Marin and I will be in the hospital for anywhere from two to five days while Kevin spreads himself as thin as possible between work, home and hospital.

The baby is at the top of the world, conquering the ol' back to belly roll today, smiling and playing like a little champ.  I am daring myself to not eat everything in sight, just sort of wish it would be here and done so there was not so much time for so much damn thinking.  Thankfully KJ has karate this afternoon and Jack spent the morning running around with a Lego Duplo box on his head, serving as prime entertainment.  (Seriously, he ran into the same wall three times.)

Once Marin is out of surgery tomorrow, Bree will pop in to let you know that all is well.  I can read my site from our hospital room, but cannot post. 

See you on the other side.  Please do keep our baby in your prayers.

Could've been so beautiful, Could've been so right

My daughter, she slept through the night for three nights consecutive. 

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever experienced with a five month old child and I sang her praises from the rooftops for three days. 

And then she stayed up well past midnight last night.  Back up at three fifty, four thirty, five o'clock, five fifteen, seven ounces, six a.m., six thirty, seven a.m. greet the day.

Sassy little thing.

At some point in there KJ (and then the sun) also rose for the day, insisting that Legos MUST be played on the nearby kitchen floor (nearby to where I'd spent half the night rocking his sassy little sister, that is) because Lego Men fall over too easily on the tucked away family room carpet, you know.

At some point I had the thought to punch myself square in the forehead.  But unconsciousness doesn't solve anything, now does it? 

But they thought it too:

 

Good God, young man, it's six o'clock in the morning.  Have you no internal clock?!

 

Err, what we meant to say was, convince your mom to homeschool and we'll get up at six EVERY morning.  The little one, he dismembers us while you're gone!

(Oh my God I'm doing Lego-speak on the internet.)

(Baby-speak is sooo much more respectable.)

 

Don't listen to my mother.  I sleep just fine ...in my swing ...at 11am.  Woman should learn to conform to myyyyy schedule. 

Thankfully, mass sleep deprivation bonus points coupled with the release of IRS withholdings?  Scored me big this year.  Happy, happy, ohhh happy, Friday.  (Do hurry, Mr. UPS Man!)

Remember when I rattled on endlessly about paint colors and real estate? Boy howdy, those were the days.

Sooooo, we're close enough now.

I promised myself I wasn't going to talk about it much, blog about it too early, think too much, obsess over, weep over, freak out over - pardon me I'm getting away from the point. 

Yes.

We are down to a week away from Marin's surgery.

If you've not been reading me for long you may be in the dark, which means I've done a pretty good job of non-obsessing over the last several months.  Marin was discovered, while in utero, to have extreme hydronephrosis of one of her kidneys.  She went through a myriad of tests and a few doctors very early on, until she was finally diagnosed by a wonderful pediatric urologist during a hospital stay.  On Tuesday she will undergo surgery to have the upper half of her bad kidney removed, as well as the ureter connected to that portion of the kidney.  She has been on a daily antibiotic since birth, which has caused innumerable cases of thrush (though thankfully held us down to only one nasty infection) in order to keep her urinary tract and blood healthy, and crossing my fingers for All Things Complete Success on Tuesday, we will finally be finished with the antibiotic, the thrush, the worries, the bad kidney and the dark looming surgery date. 

Just. Have to. Get. Through. Tuesday.

I know that people, even babies, have surgery all the time.  I know that my daughter can live on one and a half kidneys.  I know that we have a world class doctor and a fabulous hospital and friends and family thinking good thoughts for us.  But the closer the day comes, the more my stomach does flip-flops.  I'm just afraid of the anesthesia, the operating room, the possibilities, the surgery.

My girl belongs in my arms, not in an operating room.

I think back to those days when I was so nervous about what it would be like to have a third child-  I worried about ever leaving the house again, and sleep, and ever leaving the house again.  And ever leaving the house again.  Ever.  And just like that, mission accomplished.  I leave the house at will with all three kids, even in mid-winter, and have infinitely bigger plans for once we are no longer getting pounded by twelvefreakinginchesofsnowdaily.  And I can almost be sane, and sometimes even reasonable, on Sleep Interrupted. 

Who knew?

At days shy of five months old I am head over heels, to the moon and back crazy about this baby.  Every thing she does is somehow brand new and amazing, even though I've witnessed it twice before.  She has an infectious smile and such soft, pretty skin.  She converses with her brothers and me all day long, giggles and even laughs her baby buns off, and she is the most patient little girl I could ask for. 

 

(I might ask that our local photography place not watermark her entire face, but whatever.)  (Also, hot damn, do I have a knack for producing children who look absolutely nothing like me, or what?)

I really, really love my baby.  And I want her to be completely well.

I've done my best to keep my mind in the right place about this for all these months, knowing that worries run rampant will not change her situation.  I am thankful that we have a solution instead of a long-term problem.  We have to get through this for whatever reason there is, and we have to learn something, and appreciate more.  I'm just nervous, is all, because we're getting close.

And I wish I could find that damn Parenting Manual that promises Everything Is Going To Be Just Fine.

Look who's here!

 

My baby godson Nathan was born yesterday!  Congratulations Bree and Luke!