Jack's second hospital visit in two weeks. Just breath

Traveling will a baby is certainly different than traveling without a baby. The last time that Greg and I were in Europe together, it was 2007, and we were getting married in Rome. We had three weeks to disappear into blissful relaxation. It was otherworldly. This trip to Barcelona -- while enjoyable in an entirely new way -- has emphasized how totally and completely different our lives are now. There are certain responsibilities and stresses that we simply can't escape.

First, let me finish up the story about the forgotten breast pump charger, and to tell you that story, I've got to tell you something about Beata. Beata is my co-worker. We were pregnant together, due one week apart. At the time, she was my only pregnant friend, and her little boy, Julian, was born just 10 days after Jack. Beata and her husband have always been wonderful: a more generous couple, I could hardly describe.

Anyway, back to the pump charger story. Everything worked out, and I cannot express my gratitude to the *many* people who helped. After my last frantic post on Jack Attack, I sent an email to my female coworkers, asking if anyone had not yet left for Spain. Luck was with me, and someone replied: if I could get the charger to her in the next few hours, she could cram it in her suitcase and hand it off to me at the conference. One of our tenants was able to enter our floor (thankfully the key was in the common door -- it usually isn't!), dig through my bags and find the charger to put it in our mailbox. Then Beata took an hour out of her day, walked to our house and then to a second location to drop it off with the courier... but not before her husband dug through his own stash of electronics chargers at their house (to find one he thought might work) and drove that one by, too.

I cannot get over how amazing people are. Folks, I am embarrassed to have caused so much trouble, and especially to have caused so much trouble over the charger to a device that's designed to suck milk out of my boobs. Awkward. Let me send a giant, public Thank You to everyone who went so far out of their way to help with the pump charger.

Thank You!

On to other topics.

We've been in the hospital with Jack.

Again.

Here's how events proceeded. On Monday morning, Jack threw up. Then came the 104 fever, diarrhea*, listlessness and general malaise. He nursed well the first day, but he quickly stopped nursing and refused all liquids and food. He screamed and cried from the intense stomach pain. Fever of 101-104 despite alternating advil and tylenol. The wet diapers started slowing down. He. Was. Miserable.

*I can finally spell that word correctly the first time. Does this mean I am officially a Mom?

We were miserable.

We were sick with worry. We were frustrated and helpless and so sad for Jack being in such pain. Admittedly, we were also frustrated and sad that our Great Family Vacation was spinning rapidly down the drain.

But mostly we were worried. Because if there's anything worse than being in pain, it's watching your baby be in pain. It's feeling desperate. It's wanting to do anything to make the pain go away, but knowing that you can't do a damn thing.

I'll skip over the freaking out parts (and there was much, much freaking out), to say that just when we thought he was getting better... just when his fever cleared and he started nursing again... just then, the bright red blood showed up in his diaper.

Seriously. Fresh blood.

Hospital Del Mar, there we went.

We checked into the emergency room. We saw some very nice Spanish doctors who spoke a bit of english. They said he looked good: he wasn't dehydrated. They took a stool sample. They explained that babies bleed easily from tummy bugs. And eventually they sent us on our way with instructions to hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.

And within 5 hours, Jack was totally fine.

Really. Completely fine. No fever. No diarrhea* (well, less of it anyway). No blood. Happy Camper. Smiles and laughing and pointing and much "duh! duh! duh!" (and a few "Uh-Oh!"s, more on that later).

*I'm 2 for 2.

So Greg and I are now hyperventilating at even the slightest hint of potential injury (you would not have wanted to be a fly on the wall when Jack slipped and bumped his head on the wood floor in our rental apartment...). But our baby is fine and apparently that is the theme of parenthood: freak out, baby OK. Get a moment to breath. Freak out, baby OK. Etc.

Having a sick baby in a foreign country -- albeit one that speaks quite a bit of english -- was terrifying.

The first few days in Spain were consumed by nursing Jack back to health. Then I had my conference for a few days. We played all day Saturday, all day today, and we have all day tomorrow to chill out before our flight back on Tuesday.

More on the rest of the trip soon.

About the babysitter

Mother's Day, 2011. Jack is enjoying some world-famous New Haven Pizza! (After suffering a major concussion the night before!)

We are so lucky: Jack is doing great. He was a little strange on Sunday* and a little sleepy on Monday, but he was perfectly Jack-like today. He is laughing and smiling and giggling and running as fast as he can behind the wheels of his walker-wagon. He is pointing and exclaiming "Duh! Duh duh duh!" at everything he sees. He can still find the doggie in the book. And for that degree of normality, for those constant indications of his good health and great cognitive function, we are very thankful.

*As best as I can tell, Jack had one killer of a headache. He kept reaching behind to the back of his skull. And he was confused. While snuggling against my arm on Sunday, he opened his mouth and bit me so hard that I can still count the toothmarks.

In case you wondered what was outside the frame of the other picture. Does that expression look familiar? Let me caption this emotion: immense, terrible fear

Several of you have asked about the babysitter. We've only actually left the house without Jack several times and have never had a stranger sit for us. Twice, Greg's parents watched him. Three times, our neighbor watched him. She is our babysitter; she is in her 50s, is a responsible landlord in the neighborhood, and has a grown child of her own. Once, she forgot to show up when she was supposed to. She missed the appointed time on a vitally important night, when I was throwing an engagement party for my best friend. I don't think the two issues -- forgetting to show up and tripping on our back porch steps -- are related, but the point of that is... things have been awkward with this woman for a variety of reasons and I have felt continued pressure to assure her that everything is just fine and that I'm not upset with her.

When Jack's accident first happened, I was not the slightest bit angry toward her. I felt sorry for her, because I knew how terrible she must feel inside. I knew she meant well.

Still, I doubted her judgement. She chose to take an infant out of the house for a walk at 8:30pm in near pitch black darkness. She utterly failed to communicate the seriousness of Jack's injury. Once I learned the height of his fall, before I knew that he was nearly unconscious, I had a sudden urge to rush him to the hospital: she did not. She let my baby pass out in her lap and misinterpreted it as "happily falling asleep". And then there was this email...

The day after the incident, she sent us this email telling us that in our "essential care of Jack", we ought to do something about the back steps. She described several reasons why the fall was not her fault. Those were not her words, and I am certain that transferring blame to us was not her conscious intent... but the subconscious motivation behind the email was obvious. She felt guilty. And she decided our back porch, with its 4 concrete steps, is a safety hazard that we are responsible for.

Truth is, she's right. We ARE responsible for the structure of the house, for what goes on in our own backyard, in the same way that I feel terribly, horribly responsible for Zane's death when he was hit by the car. This is why I didn't feel angry with her: accidents happen and her stumble happened on my property. Still, I was not the person speeding down Dwight and I was not the person to drop Jack on concrete and I think it show terrible, horrible judgement on her part to play the blame game just one day after Jack was in the hospital.

Now I'm pissed.

I have an inclination to send her an equally "helpful" email suggesting that in her "essential role as a responsible citizen" she might not want to ever lift or carry an infant again, given the possibility that she might trip and fall because the lighting is dim.

By the way, we've lived in this house for 7 years and none of our guests have ever had an issue with the four concrete steps, including drunk people.

Don't worry, I won't tell her that.

Truly, I don't ever want to see this woman again.

But she lives across the street from us and I've already seen her twice in two days.

My instinct says that I should simply ignore the email and not make any additional overtures. But, as Greg pointed out, this would leave the relationship sour and that's simply never a good idea.

So what do we do? What would you do? At the moment, I'm sitting on my hands. If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that no good can come of "schooling" a person in appropriate behavior. I had and have no interest in laying blame about this incident, and I am upset that her remarks have made me think of what happened in terms of blame. I wish I could tell her that, but I can't.

Back to Jack. Thank god he's OK. He could have been killed by that kind of fall. I've learned a few lessons from this experience. If my child should ever hurt himself while I am away from home, I will know these things:

1. Don't listen to the babysitter. Don't let her say anything about "normal" or "OK" or "seems fine". You know your baby. You know your baby better than anyone else in the world and you can never, ever rely on someone else's judgement to say whether he is healthy or not.
2. Don't delay coming home if you have the inclination to come home. I shouldn't have waited the few minutes. I should have gone immediately.
3. Don't feel any pressure to assume it will be OK. It might not be OK. Mama Bear is a phrase for a reason: my job is to protect this child and if that means making a babysitter feel bad by reacting externally in the same manner that I am reacting internally (*read, frantic with worry), I will do so without shame.

Let me reiterate. Jack's doing great. He reached two major milestones the day of the accident -- walking behind his walker wagon and pointing at objects in books -- and he's still doing both of those things. He is smart and happy and more bubbly than I ever imagined a baby could be. He's just fine.

I love Jack so much. I would do anything to protect him, and I try to take every precaution I can, but I know that's not enough. Accidents do happen. There will be more scary moments in the future. I just hope this was the worst*

*What if it isn't?

I don't ever want to see the babysitter again

When I think of my first Mother's Day, a variety of strange, incongruous topics will come to mind. Whoopie pies, concrete, and radiation.

When think of my first Mother's Day, I will think first of Greg's 35th birthday. He turned 35 on Saturday. A good friend of ours was organizing a charity evening of music to support pitbull rescue. We had tickets. Greg was playing at the show. I made peanut butter chocolate whoopie pies and accidentally purchased candles that wished Greg a Happy Retirement instead of Birthday. We mingled with friends and ate hors d'oeuvre off of toothpicks and cocktail napkins. Greg tapped a keg of his own home brew. Everything was great for just a little while.

The very minute that Greg got on stage, I received a call from our babysitter. It was 8:30pm. Jack had been fussy, so she decided to take him out for a stroll around the block. While she was stepping down our back porch steps, she tripped. They both fell. He hit his head. He definitely hit his head.

He cried, she said, for a minute or two. He cried and then he seemed fine and happy. He pointed at things. He exclaimed and giggled. About 30 minutes later, he settled down and she put him to bed.

Was there any change in his behavior?, I asked. Was he cut or did he have any major wounds? No, she said, after he stopped crying he seemed totally normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Did she think he was OK? Yes, he seemed just fine.

I called my doctor anyway. She asked me a question after question and I answered as best as I could. "99 times out of 100, falls like the one you described turn out just fine. If it'll make you feel better, wake him up when you get home and be sure he's alert".

I waited for Greg to finish his show. I told him the news and I headed home.

I assured the babysitter that I wasn't upset, that I understood accidents happened. I asked for more details about the event, and what I learned began to horrify me. She had not fallen with Jack, her hands protecting him as she stumbled. She had been on the second to last step when she tripped. He flew out of her hands, landing at least a foot away from where she did, on concrete. I did the math in my head: he fell from six feet onto concrete? I bade her goodnight. I noticed that the lights were on, Jack's door was open, we had been loud... and he was sleeping.

So I went into my baby's room. I reached into the crib and picked him up and brought him into the light. He had an welt the size of a silver dollar above his right eyebrow, scrapes across his elbow and hand. And he didn't respond. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't move.

"Jack?"

"Jack?!"

"Jack!"

His eyelids barely parted. I could see one eye completely dilated and the other a small spec. He closed his eyes again. Oh my god.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

I don't even believe in god.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

All I could feel was his warm weight across my shoulder as I lunged for my cell phone and car keys.

Jack?

I think we flew to the emergency room. I cannot account for my speed. I only know that my son wouldn't respond to me and if that was that then my life was over.

I skidded into a parking spot at the pediatric ER and flung my keys at the valet attendant. I explained Jack's condition to the triage nurse. They took Jack from me and placed him on a stretcher. At least 8 people crowded around him, assessing him, testing him. A nurse came to help me, sat me in a chair and offered me some water, but there was nothing to do. I just waited in the corner and cried.

But then he started crying, too, and that was a good thing. He started yelling and he started moving and twisting. He was upset and that was a very good thing. They let me go to his side. We looked into each other's watery eyes and he instantly calmed down. My baby was very scared and very confused and he wanted his mama. Soon they let me lay down on the stretcher with him and hold him, and he began to be to be like a baby should be. He cuddled his head against me. This was very un-Jack-like behavior, but I appreciated it.

And then they informed me that he had to have a CT scan. He had to. He probably had a subdural hemorrhage. Based on the change in mood, decreased respiratory rate and unequal pupil sizes, there was a strong change of hemorrhage and a hemorrhage could kill him. They had to know.

But, my god, the radiation, the excessive radiation. A 9 month old should not be exposed to that kind of radiation. I asked them about dosing. They said it would be OK. I told them I was in diagnostic radiology at the school of medicine, a medical imaging researcher, and what would his dose be?

One in one thousand and five hundred. What? One in one thousand and five hundred, the doctor repeated. I'm sorry, what is that? That's the increased likelihood of a brain tumor from the scan that we will give him.

What?

But that's when he's old, the doctor said.

I actually laughed. Some of what I do involves brain tumor research. My husband studies occupational risk for a living. He's writing a review on the overuse of radiation in medical imaging. I explained this to the doctor. I am a conservative person: 1 in 1000 risk of brain tumor, and half of brain tumors being fatal within months? No. No no no. We could not let him be exposed to that kind of radiation.

What alternatives? MRI? Wait and see? What would they look for? How would they treat it? How would the CT scan change the course of treatment? Each question was carefully answered. I thought about my paranoia during pregnancy. I thought about how careful I was to avoid occupational radiation. How my film badge came back below detection each and every time. How we didn't even let him fly in an airplane until he was at least a few months old. I thought about our caution with his body, about the organic food and the non-ozone emitting air purifier, the no-VOC paint and the used furniture, about sunscreen and caution and every attempt we make to ensure his future health.

The nurses reiterated how bad it could be. I felt frantic. I explained to Greg on the phone. Greg was adamant: we could not let them expose him to that kind of radiation. Wasn't his improved mood an indication of anything? The doctor sympathized and said if it was his son, he would do the scan. Immediately. It was necessary. It was absolutely necessary.

Greg showed up. Greg showed up and Jack cheered up. He started to move more. He tried to sit up. He started crying again. He wanted to play.

It could happen quickly, they said. The pressure of an intracranial bleed is relieved through the baby's fontanelle, and often there are no symptoms until it is too late.

And so we put on aprons and wrapped our baby in led sheeting. We placed our hands in the scanner along with him. We sang Jack songs and jiggled a toy in his line of sight. And between the CT and the x-rays, we gave him 500mRem of gamma radiation in a span of 20 minutes.

And then we went back to the ER and waited. And Jack cheered up. And as his smile broadened, ours did too.

Then the doctor came back and said it was all OK. There was no bleed. His liver was fine. His kidneys were fine. His skull was not fractured. His blood vessels were not damaged. He had a concussion. He had a serious fall and his brain was swelling, but the swelling would go down. Jack would be just fine.

And I cried and we hugged and we held Jack tightly. I nursed him. Then we took him home and curled up in bed. I cuddled Jack and Greg cuddled me. We spent a worried night with a sleepy, confused and disoriented Jack. And then we woke and spent a beautiful morning with a happy, talkative, playful Jack. A Jack we recognize.

So we gaze in wonder and fear and acknowledge the greatness of good health. Our amazing, special boy. The terrible magnitude of love and worry that all parents have feel every day for their children. Jack is here and he is happy and there is simply no thing more important thing in life than that.

This one goes to 11

In case y'all weren't yet bored to death by the Sick-O-Meter, I thought I'd send a few more griping, irritated sentences into cybperspace. We've hit 11 illnesses since Jack started daycare 4 months ago. 10 was mild. 11 is not. I'm coughing so hard that I can't breath. Jack has a terrible cough, too, though thankfully no fever. Greg got sick, but he's feeling better. Luckily we've all had our pertussis vaccines, else I'd be freaking out about whooping cough. I am miserable. I just close my eyes and repeat the refrain: you can survive anything for XX... and sometimes XX is a few months, sometimes a few days.

Despite being ill, Jack is one happy little dude. He's crawling all over the place. We took off his onesie yesterday, to encourage him to lift his belly off the ground... and it worked! Jack popped up to hands and knees and rocked forward and back a few times, then took one hesitant inch forward before resting his belly back on the floor and returning to his default army crawl.

I love the little guy so much. His job is growing and he's just doing the best job ever.

Yesterday, when I went to pick him up at daycare, Jack was hanging out in the exer-saucer, playing with his friend Ellis. (Ellis was working the spinner thingy from the outside and Jack was working the spinner thingy from the inside). Jack wasn't standing up in the exer-saucer, just resting his cute butt against the fabric. Suddenly he saw me, and he popped up in excitement, legs locked and head as high as it could go, the hugest grin you could imagine spreading across Jack's face. He greeted with me with a loud, happy growl, so loud and so happy that everyone else in the room started laughing.

And with that short anecdote, I shall return to what occupies me today: passing out in bed, clutching blankets around me as I cope with the dual guilt of neither being capable of work nor being with my baby, and trying to make up for many sleepless nights so that my body can kick this damn cough.

Sweet Times

Have I mentioned how much I like data, especially plotting data?

I loved being pregnant. I can't describe how much I loved being pregnant. My hormones on a normal day might be totally out wack, but something glorious happened while Jack gestated: I felt good, like, really good. My skin cleared up, infertility treatments were over, my stress subsided, and I basked in the glow of my increasingly round belly. Leg cramps and round ligament pain? Who cares, when you feel the baby kick and stretch! Not all women feel so good during pregnancy -- I was really lucky.

Yet, I still had some trouble, and it had to do with my blood sugar. During pregnancy, it is normal to become increasingly insulin resistant as you near term. This is nature's way of ensuring that your baby gets a high dose of glucose and can put on lots of fat in the last trimester. Sometimes nature goes a little overboard, and your blood sugar gets to be so high that it puts your baby at risk.

A friend of mine was just diagnosed with gestational diabetes. She came over this morning and I loaned her my glucose meter, so that she can keep track of her blood sugar until she is able to see the high risk doctor. I feel so much for her, because I know how stressful gestational diabetes can be.

Gestational diabetes is just awful, just terrible. It's hard to describe the awfulness. You are 100% focused on growing a little being, doing every single thing you can to ensure its future health and happiness... but what you eat is potentially hurting your tiny co-pilot. If you're like me, you thought you knew what "healthy" was, you had careful, obsessive plans for your good nutrition during pregnancy, and you get thrown for one hell of a loop when you find out that your whole food philosophy needs to do a 180. There you are: forgoing whole wheat pasta with fruit salad, and instead sneaking a glug of olive oil onto your egg breakfast and asking for extra meat with your carefully portioned serving of bland rice. You have to stop eating fresh berries (in season, in Connecticut!), and instead find yourself peeling back the plastic on a pre-packaged mozzarella stick and pounding down the peanut butter. How can this possibly be healthy, you wonder? You are stressing out about every single morsel of food. Food becomes the enemy, and it is a necessary evil.

There are no hard and fast rules. Every doctor will tell you something different. Current research keeps bringing the glucose targets lower, and lower, and lower. And here's the real awful part: no matter what you do, it will get worse. No matter how good you are, your insulin resistance will increase and your blood sugar will keep going up. By the end of it, even with insulin injections before each meal, the most I could tolerate for breakfast was 3/4 cup boiled quinoa (30g carbs) with 1 tbsp heavy cream, 1 tsp agave nectar and a handful of nuts on top. Then one cheese stick an hour later, and one piece of fruit after that. Even a single slice of rye bread (unsweetened) sent my sugar soaring. Stressful. So stressful.

Sometimes I would explain that I had gestational diabetes, and a person would react with surprise: "But you're so thin!". I hated that. Gestational diabtees has nothing to do with being thin or not being thin, just like infertility has nothing to do with being stressed or not being stressed. Gestational diabetes is not the woman's fault and it cannot be prevented. So much about reproduction is assumed to be under the woman's control, and yet so little of it is.

So how do you know if you have gestational diabetes? First, you go to a lab, drink 75g of glucose, and have your blood drawn 1 hour later. If that result exceeds cutoff, you take the 3 hour test: 100g of glucose. Here are the cutoff values:

• Fasting: 95 mg/dl
• 1 hr: 180 mg/dl
• 2 hr: 155 mg/dl
• 3 hr: 140 mg/dl

If you exceed 2 values, you've got The Diabetes.

In my case, I failed the 1 hr test. I hit 187. If you hit 190, many doctors will skip the 3 hour test and diagnose you with GD right there. My doctors weren't concerned. I took the 3 hour test: 76, 140, 141, 139. Now, of course I didn't exceed cutoff... but... notice anything funny? My glucose didn't drop, at all. That's weird. That's really, really weird. I can't emphasize the weirdness enough. It is not normal for your body to be unable to clear glucose after 3 hours.

You're fine! My doctors at the group practice I went to told me over, and over, and over again. You're fine! You passed! Celebrate!

I celebrated by engaging in a google-freakout and buying a glucose meter. I tested at home: 130-160 after every meal, and we're talking 130-160 after things like a normal serving size of brown rice. My sugars were too high for a healthy pregnancy. I brought the values back to my doctor.

You're fine! You passed! You don't have gestational diabetes! Don't worry about the numbers! Cut back on the carbs a bit, and your numbers will be fine.

The scientist in me got a little obsessed. I read everything I could get my hands on. Normal pregnant women don't go above 120. I continued testing. 140. 150. 160. My weight gain slowed -- significantly. Back to the doctor.

Well, you're probably fine. Your baby will be fine. If you're stressing about this, go talk to the nutritionist, maybe she can help you cut out some more carbs. But hey, you passed your 3 hr test! Isn't that great?

The nutritionist spent a good deal of time frowning and rereading my food log. And you're sure they won't treat you with insulin?, she said. She helped me figure out a few more places where I could cut out carbs in my diet. 160. 170. 180. I slowly stopped gaining weight.

Next doctor's appointment: OH MY GOD YOU'RE NOT GAINING WEIGHT GO SEE THE NUTRITIONIST!!! *

*It's hard to put the absurdity of their priorities in context. The baby sees blood sugar. That's it. My blood sugar was high. The baby was gaining a ton of weight. End of story.

The second nutritionist was horrified by my doctors. I was eating 120g of carbs a day (normal would be about 240) and my sugars were still high. She didn't know what to do. She suggested I try to get transferred to a high risk doctor. She gave me the name of a nurse: Nancy. Talk to Nancy, she said, Nancy will help you even if you don't get transferred.

I called high risk. I talked to Nancy. That night, I started eating carbs again. Over the next week, I would lose 3 pounds. My blood sugar remained high. Far too high.

I received a phone call. My doctor was confused: why had I called Nancy? I explained the issue, again. OK, said the doctor, we'll put you on this experimental drug that pregnant women aren't actually supposed to take (it happens to be teratogenic in the first trimester)... that'll fix your sugar and it will be so easy for you.

Inside my head, I lost it: just give me the goddamn insulin. This isn't about easy! I know how to inject it. Insulin will enable me to eat. It will protect my baby. Insulin is extremely safe, when used properly. I firmly requested to be transferred.

So the high risk doctor put me on insulin. Insulin: the wonder drug. I can't tell you what a relief the insulin was. We had to crank my dose up pretty damn high, but eventually, the insulin did its job and my blood sugar normalized.

Let me give you the timeline of events:

26 weeks: failed the glucose tests

28 weeks: picked up a glucose meter, noticed the high values

34 weeks: FINALLY got to see the diabetes doctor

35 weeks: started taking insulin

Now the real kicker just happened recently. I went to see a diabetes doctor last week. I told her this story. She asked if I was officially diagnosed with gestational diabetes. I said that her guess was as good as mine. She asked what my pre-breakfast dose of insulin (humalog) was. I said 18. Her jaw dropped. She said "18. As in 1-8? That's a LOT of insulin". I said "I know. Tell that to the doctors at my group practice". She looked at my chart... no diagnose of gestational diabetes, anywhere!

My advice to pregnant women everywhere? If your glucose tolerance test results are elevated but still "normal", stop eating sugar and find yourself a blood glucose meter. The cutoff values set for glucose tolerance tests are a load of crap. They were designed, originally, to predict the likelihood that the mother would develop type II diabetes. They were not designed to protect the health of the child... that job appears to be up to the mom.

4 days before Jack was born. He would be a very healthy 8 pounds!

Travel. Hell.

Jack and I flew to Arizona on Thursday. Here's how I packed for a 5-day trip:

Rolling suitcase (carry-on): 1 pair jeans, 1 skirt, 5 tops, 2 pairs comfy socks, 2 nursing bras, 2 nursing tanks, 1 jacket, 8 baby onesies (4 long sleeve, 4 short sleeve), 2 baby shirts, 2 pairs pants, 3 pairs baby socks, 1 bib, 1 waterproof flannel pad

Diaper bag (carry-on): 8 disposable diapers, travel pack wipes, pacifier on chain that clips to clothing, colorful board book, blanket (with easily identifiable front/back, for placing on airport floor), nursing cover, 4 energy bars, empty bottle for water, Jacques (the Peacock), crinkly toy, toy keys, change of clothes for Jack, change of top for me

Liquids (quart size zip-top bag): tylenol, hand sanitizer, saline, vaseline, diaper rash prescription, a few makeup items for myself

I also brought two carriers: 1), the Bjorn, for easy in/out at security and for wandering around the airport, 2), a linen ring sling, for supporting Jack's weight while on the plane. The ring sling was awesome -- I could nestle him in there while I was seated and readjust as needed.

The Baby Bjorn: easy-in, easy-out, totally hands-free and secure

The ring sling. Takes a little fiddling to get comfy, but nice because I can adjust the sling to make the pouch into whatever shape I'd like. Jack can face in or out, and it is perfect for sitting on a place -- the sling takes some of Jack's weight off of my arms, but it still enables him to move around a bit. And we can nurse in it.

My parents had toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo, conditioner, baby soap, diapers, wipes, some toys, a pack'n'play, and a stroller. My good friend Erin picked us up at the airport and loaned us her carseat

Of all of this stuff, there were only two things I could have done without... the nursing cover (because the sling works as a cover on the plane, and I'm not that modest when I'm around folks I know), and my jeans, because they took up tons of space and I can just as easily wear a skirt. I probably could have done with just the ring sling, but it was nice to have the Bjorn for the airport. I usually like to keep a hand on Jack when he's in the sling, but the Bjorn is totally hands-free.

Traveling itself was great. Security was a pain (they made me take him out of the Bjorn), but we managed. Jack loved all of the excitement and activity. He smiles so easily, and lots of people were grinning back at us as we wandered through the airport. He was the youngest baby I saw, and he was also the only one I saw not in a stroller. The people around us on each flight were excited to see such a young baby, and they were so unbelievably nice and helpful. He had a diaper blow-out the minute we got on the plane, but I had spare clothes packed for him. He didn't really want to nurse for take-off and landing, but I wiggled his ears for him and tried to get him into the pacifier.

Jack slept through the first flight, but he was wide awake for the second flight. It was challenging when he was awake -- I had to play with him almost constantly to keep him entertained, and we got up a few times to walk the aisles. We were very lucky to have a whole row of seats to ourselves, and that made everything easier. He let out a few yells when he got really antsy, but several people specifically commented to me that he was a well-behaved baby, so I think I was more worried about Jack bothering people than any of the people were actually bothered.

So, the flights themselves were tiring but OK. The tough part came when we landed.

Jack was...

1. Extremely (extremely) overstimulated and overtired
2. Teething, full force, with associated pain, fussiness, and constant gnawing
3. Sick! 101 fever, major congestion, and... our doctor back in CT thinks he had and got over an ear infection while we were in AZ.

Poor Jack couldn't breath through his nose at night. The air in Arizona is quite dry, and the house temperature is warmer than what he is used to. Getting Jack to sleep under normal circumstances is challenging, and getting him to sleep while he was so sick, so stimulated by all of the new people around him, and in such unfamiliar territory... was impossible. For the first several days, Jack simply didn't sleep for any sustained period of time.

I planned to co-sleep with him at night so I could nurse him and keep him content, but he didn't even want to do that. All night long, he would only sleep for 20-40 minutes. He spent the rest of the time thrashing around or crying. He didn't want to nurse. Nothing seemed to comfort him. The first night and the first day were kind of OK, but after that point, he just freaked out. He needed to be held and bounced and walked around for most of the day. He spent his nights trying to get comfortable. For some reason, face-planting seemed to make him happy (see photo above).

It was miserable. I think I got about 4-5 hours of "sleep" each night, and by "sleep", what I really mean is "kinda sorta napped for 20 minutes at a time".

I hoped to have a relaxing trip home. I hoped to hand off my baby to my family and enjoy all of the oohing and aahing. Instead, I was completely physically exhausted, stressed out, and very aware of how difficult my baby seemed to be to everybody around us. It was not a relaxing trip.

So parenthood goes.

Jack seemed so upset that I finally called his doctor. After describing the sleeping problems, they felt fairly certain he had a minor ear infection. Ear infections often go away on their own, but the problem is that they can cause quite a bit of pain during the elevation change on the airplane.

I got really stressed out. We had no doctor nearby and 12 hours before we were due to board a plane. What would we do?

Well, Continental solved the problem for us. They canceled my flight. And then we woke up and Jack was suddenly happy again. He slept. He smiled. He giggled. This morning, he was my normal, happy baby. This afternoon, he was only slightly challenging. It would have been a nice day if I hadn't been so exhausted.

We're flying out on a redeye tonight. I think one more sleepless night might just destroy me. It will probably be easier for Jack, though. There are no direct flights from Phoenix to CT, and so I specifically chose both legs of the journey so that the connecting flights were approximately equal in length (2-3 hours each) with short (1 hour) layovers. For the new flight, we'll be going direct to Newark (4.5 hours!), have a 2 hour layover, then a short flight to Hartford (1 hour).

Wish us luck.

I just committed myself to an international flight for work. The three of us will be flying to Barcelona in May, when Jack is 10 months old. This may have been the worst idea ever.

Fun photos and better stories from our AZ trip to follow in the next post!

I'm really grumpy. You might not want to read this.

Greg and I have been sick since Wednesday.

We were too sick to drive Jack to daycare, so he stayed home with us (miraculously healthy! hurrah!). We shipped the dogs off to my in-laws on Friday night (thank you Jim and Nancy!). We survived on cereal (until the soy milk ran out), homemade chicken soup (from a friend, amazing), and orange creamsicles (oh what sweet relief).

We both have had horrendous sore throats, but it's really the fever that's done us in. It comes and goes in hourly cycles and spikes up decently beyond 103. I've never shaken so violently or sweat so much in my life. Oh, right, except for three weeks ago, when I was sick with the exact same thing the first time around! How is that even immunologically possible?

Can you tell it's been a miserable week? I'm not in the best of moods.

My in-laws very kindly offered to take Jack for us, however, that would not have worked out. I lost my freezer stash of milk several days before returning to work, and, since then, I've only been able to heat-treat and freeze about a day's worth of non-rancid milk for Jack. We're still sort of joined at the hip (uh, boob).

So what do you do when you have a very young child to take care of and can't do anything but lay in bed and fantasize about proper thermostasis? You watch an entire season of Hell's Kitchen, and then an entire season of Top Chef, then some Better Off Teds, 30 Rock, Dexter, and then an entire season of The Next Iron Chef. Then you complain that there's not enough TV. You play silent wars with your spouse, waiting to see which person will be the overly chilled sucker to admit they can hear the whining and walk the dogs. You pass Jack back and forth to whoever is emanating the least amount of heat at the moment. Occasionally you put him in his activity center until he starts shouting for attention. You let him roll around in the bedside co-sleeper while halfheartedly dangling some toys above him to swing at. You cry when he cries because you're just so tired and you desperately, desperately need someone to take care of you but instead you have to take care of someone else. You rue the day that adulthood arrived.

And then, between the predictable rise and fall of your fever, there's a moment of respite: you cuddle your little one close, make him giggle, kiss his nose, and realize that despite the fact that this baby has brought what surely must be The Black Plague home from daycare... he's the best pain relief that ever existed. Nature's truest irony.

Last time I had this, I got quite dehydrated, Jack was in daycare for a few days, and my milk supply dropped to less than half of normal output (I know from careful pumping logs). Jack got sick with a high fever several days after I did. This time, Jack nursed every two hours and my supply is doing better. He also has no signs of illness, yet (coincidence? perhaps not). We're flying to Arizona on Thursday (just Jack and I! On a plane! Two, actually...). Hopefully we'll both be healthy for our trip.

At least one of us is happy

I'm holding Jack in my arms, drinking in his peachy skin: his sandy blond hair, his tiny hand clutching my thumb with determined strength as he nurses, his miniature heart right above mine, beating away with a rhythm all its own. He looks up. "Hooway, grgle, arrrrgh ooooah", he says with a sleepy smile. "I love you too, Jack", says I.

I'm so scared for him: his gargantuan spirit contained within such a fragile shell. I have strep throat -- at least, I hope it's strep throat, because Dr. Google tells me that, unlike the flu, Jack can't catch strep. I've been sick since Monday, with a sore throat that prevents me from swallowing and a fever that spiked to 104 a few hours ago. I can't remember the last time I felt so ill. I've been completely incapacitated, rescued this evening by a massive dose of antibiotics and tylenol (which one did the trick, I'm not sure). Thank goodness for my amazing husband, who has been taking such good care of me. Poor Greg. His throat started closing up tonight. Looks like he's going to be sick, too. I've been sleeping through the last two days in 30 minute intervals, intervals that are punctuated by the sharp crack of my throat... the painful reminder that I better force more tea with honey. Greg is in for a tough weekend.

So far, Jack seems OK. Maybe a little quieter than usual, but as happy as ever, and no fever.

But I'm terrified. I've been so sick that I can hardly nurse him. It was only good timing that Greg caught this three days after I did... if we had both been at the peak of sickness at the same time, I have no idea how we could have taken care of our baby. And it's only the knowledge that I need to nurse my baby that has me (painfully) chugging ever ounce of fluid that I can handle. My milk supply has dropped by at least half (plus we only have several ounces in the freezer). What if he were to get sick? What would we do? If Jack's fever spiked to 104 and he couldn't swallow, either... well, I don't like thinking about it. Everything about this situation scares me.

I know there are worse things. Some babies are in the hospital. Some parents are dealing with much more difficult thoughts than I am now. I just know that I'm worried for my baby.

Still, he's cooing and gurgling and smiling from ear to ear; I swear, he must be the happiest, chattiest baby that ever existed. When I was pregnant with him, we got through regular flu, swine flu, and three colds, and he kicked his way through every bout of my own illness. Even if my immune system sucks, he seems to be one strong little man. I hope the antibodies in my breastmilk are immunizing him for the future. I hope I can protect him.

Stay well, Jack.

No Photos

I swear, Jack is conspiring to prevent Greg and I from ever going on a date again. We're rescheduling the babysitting trade with our friends -- wish us the best for next weekend!

Notice how there haven't been any photos lately? That's because Jack reached 2 months old, and my two software trials (30 days each) expired. I finally coughed up the $$ and ordered some photo editing software tonight; it'll be here on Wednesday, so photos will be returning soon.

Jack is doing better today, though he still has a fair amount of congestion that we can't seem to help him with (the bulb syringe isn't doing anything). He still wants to be held all the time, and I don't blame him (who doesn't want to be cuddled when they're feeling low?).

Upcoming posts (for my reference more than anything else):

- Baby Gear

- Halloween Costume

- Jack Carriers

- More On The Vocal Front

- A Good Book

OK, time for this mom to get to bed... while son snores loudly, just inches away :)

Point 4

It's been one heck of a week.

1. I got sick. I had a sore throat on Saturday, which progressed to a head cold that lasted until Friday.

Google assured me that by continuing to breastfeed, Jack would receive lots of good antibodies. Well, see point 4.

2. Jack got his two month immunizations on Tuesday. The actual shot was quite upsetting to all of us, but we survived. After nursing, he zonked out for a few hours. All seemed well. Then, at about 4pm, he started crying. And crying. And crying. And crying. He cried pretty much straight until 8pm (visions of encephalitis from the DTAP vaccine dancing through my head), at which point he was suddenly happy.

Then Wednesday came, and he had a few intervals of upsetness. Then Thursday came, and he had another rough day. This kind of behavior is very unusual for Jack -- he certainly cries, but it is usually short lived.

We thought he was having a bad reaction to the vaccine, until, well, see point 4.

3. Greg and I planned a babysitting trade-off with our friends. They would watch Jack on Saturday; we would watch Julian on Sunday.

This fell through. Uh, well, see point 4.

4. So here we are, at point 4, the news: Jack got his first cold! We didn't realize that his crying was due to the cold until his congestion kicked in late on Thursday. There was no denying it: poor fella had a very stuffy nose.

Thursday night was tough for him; I finally got up at 4am and kept him vertical to help the stuffiness. We used a bulb syringe on him with saline drops; he hated that (it left him screaming), and I'm not sure it improved his stuffiness that much. The best thing we did was to have Greg take him in the shower; the steam really cleared up his nose, and Jack loved being in the running water.

The worst of it was over Thursday night. Mostly, he's grumpy and wants to be held a lot. Assuming he caught what I had, he's had a heck of a scratchy throat. Now, personally, when I have a scratchy throat, the last thing I want to do is yell at regular intervals for hours and hours... but, y'know, we all deal with general malaise differently.

5. Speaking of which, Greg's sick, too.

In place of our much anticipated alone-date, we had a Jack-date. I made tomato and mozzarella panini and a nice big salad with avocado dressing. We put Jack in the stroller and walked the 2 miles to the St. Ronan Dog Park to have a picnic (this park is in fact Jack's namesake. It's where Greg and I met, so we decided to name him Jack Ronan). Jack slept and us two adults had a lovely time, scratchy throats and all.

Dazed and Confused

Jack's dazed and I'm confused. Or I'm dazed and Jack's confused. He doesn't want to nurse. Or, he does want to nurse but gets frustrated. Or he doesn't want to nurse and I get frustrated. Or something.

See what I mean about the whole dazed and confused bit? I think the sleep deprivation is getting to us.

Jack has been getting very upset in the middle of nursing sessions, and we can't figure out why. He throws his head around, yells, squeals, and arches his back. He gets really worked up and it takes a lot of calming down before he'll try again. It's been going on for 4-5 days now. He takes my milk just fine from a bottle. It doesn't happen every nursing session and it's usually the worst when he's the crankiest (tiredest). Some ideas:

1. Maybe the thrush (which we both still have) is giving him mouth pain
2. Maybe nursing is causing his GI tract to get going, and that hurts
3. Maybe he's upset because my milk comes too fast (which it does at various points)
4. Maybe he's upset because my milk comes too slow (which it does at various points, too)
5. Maybe he wants comfort, not milk
6. Maybe he's got a bit of reflux
7. Maybe he's cranky because he's hungry
8. Maybe he's cranky because he's tired (hungry-->tired = vicious cycle)
9. Maybe he likes the bottle better than me. :(

It was so bad last night (he wouldn't take any milk from me), that Greg gave him a bottle of milk I had pumped. It was so bad early this morning (he woke up at 1, 2, 3, 5 and 6am...), that I brought him into bed with us at 3am to calm him down.

I called a local La Leche League support person. She believes it is a combination of my overactive letdown / oversupply (milk = too fast, lactose = too much) and his growth spurt (6 weeks is often a tough time). She feels quite certain that he is wanting to control the flow of milk and getting frustrated when it doesn't come at the speed he wants. Basically, she thinks he's cranky. She also felt very sure that if we give it some time, we'll get our lovely, easy-as-pie baby back.

I'd like to believe her. I also feel like it's got to be more than that. I swear he already went through his growth spurt, right at 6 weeks, when he wanted to nurse all the time. Now, it's not exactly that he wants to nurse all the time... it's that he thinks he wants to nurse but doesn't like what he gets. I know that the overactive letdown is upsetting to him (imagine sipping away at a latte and then having someone dump a whole cup into your mouth at once), but we've had that issue from the beginning.

I hate that he doesn't want to nurse consistently, and it's so sad when he's hungry but can't get what he wants. I hope that this problem is temporary.