One little monkey jumping on the bed ...

He fell off and bumped his head. Mama called the doctor and the doctor said, "Get that monkey to the ER for a CT scan!"

Man, I've got myself one mobile little monkey. I was changing Bigga's diaper on my bed early this morning, when Kiddle asked me to put Diego on for him. I made sure Bigga was smack dab in the middle and positioned so he'd roll either toward the headboard or the footboard, then went to help Kiddle. I was on my way back to the bed less than a minute later ... and heard a big THUD, followed by a piercing shriek. Damn kid had rolled DIAGONALLY down the bed and right off the corner by the footboard. And, boy, he was PISSED.

It took a bit to get him settled down, but he eventually got over it and took his morning nap on schedule. And even slept over an hour — despite the fact I was hovering over him, checking his breathing every two minutes. But when I was nursing him after his nap, I noticed some swelling on the side of his head. Uh oh.

To say I'm an underreactor when it comes to falls and runny noses and head bonks is an understatement. But even though he was alert and generally happy and not showing any typical signs of a concussion, I didn't feel good about this one. We dashed over to the pediatrician's office and she sent us on to the ER for a CT scan, just to rule out a skull fracture. Or, as it turns out, rule one IN. Yep, he's got a small fracture on the right side. But, thank goodness, no bleeding or swelling in his brain. We're at the hospital overnight for observation, with another CT scan in morning. If all goes well, we'll be out of here by lunchtime.

And, lord, my freedom from this place can't come quick enough. I've been here for 12 hours now and have pretty much decided that holding us for observation is my personal punishment for leaving him unattended on the bed. ("I swear I won't do it ever, ever again! Can we go home now? Pretty please!?") With the added torture that a hospital is the LAST place you want your five-month-old hanging out. I can practically see the H1N1 and staph germs wafting down the hall. Ugh.

I do remember not to whine too much, however, when I think of friends who have spent a truly unfair amount of time in hospitals with their little ones, battling heart issues and other things I can't bear to think about. Our (hopefully) brief stay here is really just a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. His pediatrician commented that skull fractures from that type of fall are rare and we were just "unlucky" this time. But considering how little damage occurred, as Mr. P said, "We'll just hope this is as unlucky as he gets!"

I've been so impressed with his spirit through all this. Everyone keeps asking me if he's "doing better" but I don't know how to answer that. I can't say he's doing BETTER, because he wasn't ever doing badly in the first place. He's been his usual sunny self, charming everyone he comes in contact with and taking everything in stride (except blood work and IV attempts ... that was traumatic). If we were doing this whole scene with Kiddle? Shudder. I can't go there.

***

One thing I'm grateful for during these extended hours in the ER and PICU: Kiddle doesn't get home from school until 3:00 and I knew I could count on two different neighbors to lend a hand with his after-school hours. Although two wacky coincidences threatened those positives. First, as I was leaving the pediatrician's office, on my way to the ER, my phone rings. It's Kiddle's teacher. Fuck. I answered with sinking feeling in my stomach. I just knew he'd gotten hurt or had a fever and she was calling me to come get him. But, no, he was fine. She just wanted to talk to me about the upcoming Halloween party. Whew!

Then, once we realized Bigga was going to be admitted, I left a message for LK's mom to see if she could meet Kiddle's bus at 3:00. But, a few minutes later, I see Mr. P outside our ER bay talking to someone like he knows them. I pop my head out the door and see LK's parents. And LK ON A STRETCHER. Fuck. It turns out she'd had a really scary respiratory episode — couldn't catch her breath, gasping, lips turning blue — so she was whisked away from the pediatrician's office by ambulance. Terrifying. Last I heard, her flu, RSV, etc. tests had come back negative, so they aren't entirely sure what happened and she's doing ok now. But that was sure the saddest, most forlorn little face I've ever seen on her. Poor thing.

Eventually Mr. P headed home to meet Kiddle and pick up the things I'd need for our overnight stay in the hospital. Kiddle went over to our other neighbor's house for a playdate with Jack and dinner — where he ate MEATLOAF, MASHED POTATOES AND APPLE PIE without question (although he did turn down the carrots). I think I'll send him over there for dinner every night. After getting us settled in for the night, Mr. P went back home to handle the bedtime duties. And you know what? The damn kid NEVER EVEN ASKED ABOUT ME. Hmmpph.

Update: And then he got up in the morning, got ready for school, got on the bus and still NEVER EVEN ASKED ABOUT ME. Where's the love, little man?

***

So here I sit, on my really uncomfortable chair that will turn into my even more uncomfortable fold-out bed, listening to the surprisingly noisy sounds of the Pediatric ICU. I'm so grateful that Bigga is relatively undamaged and handling the situation with ease, but so mad at myself for letting this happen in the first place. And thankful that, rather making me feel bad, almost everyone I've come across has countered with their own story: a friend's nephew with a skull fracture from a misguided game of throwing rocks, a pediatrician's son who rolled off a super-high pillow-top bed, a nurse's daugher who fell down thirteen steps onto a concrete floor. Accidents happen, I know. And I'm sure this won't be the last time we're in the ER. But it's simply the worst when your child bears the brunt of a quick decision you made.

Big sigh. Of relief and regret.

Staph, Blood and Hives, Oh my.

All sorts of medical drama in my extended family this week. My sister has an MRSA infection in her leg. Naturally the pain and swelling reached its peak while she was away on a girls' weekend. Nothing like a small-town emergency room on a Friday night. And Mr. P's two-year-old nephew had to have a rather urgent blood transfusion last night when it was discovered that his red blood cell count was dangerously low. It turns out he has an uncommon form of anemia that will correct itself eventually, but will require close monitoring and possibly more transfusions over the next few months. Very scary stuff, but we're grateful it isn't leukemia or lymphoma. And that we don't have to start referring to my sister as "Auntie Hop" anytime soon.

On a much smaller, less scary scale, I had my first call from the school nurse today. Kiddle has a runny nose, so I was expecting to hear that he had a raging fever. But instead she said, "Do you know he has a rash on his legs?" Er, well, yes I do. But it's not really a rash-rash ... he had hives on Sunday night and still had a couple of slightly red, slightly bumpy areas this morning. No big deal. Unfortunately she seemed to think it might be a big deal, and was concerned it was either ringworm (what?!), or Fifth Disease because his cheeks were so red. I can certainly understand how she might leap to that conclusion, so I had to reassure her that not only does Kiddle the Rosy Cheeked Boy always look like that, but also that we think he had Fifth last year. Fortunately this call was only about half an hour before the end of the day so I didn't have to pack up Bigga and go drag Kiddle out of school early.

Then he got home. And when I took off his pants, this is what I found. ALL OVER his legs and butt.

Um, that's disgusting. And definitely not what he looked like when I sent him off on the bus this morning. Dear School Nurse, I'm sorry for poo-pooing your earlier concern about my son today. Yes, now that I see him, I also think he looks like Patient Zero for a new strain of the plague. My sincere apologies. We're headed to the doctor RIGHT NOW.

But the doctor confirmed what I thought: no ringworm, no Fifth Disease. It really is a form of hives, simply a reaction to the minor snuffly-nose virus he has right now. The only bad thing is we have to push his flu shot off for another week.

Somebody put some pants on that kid! Gross.

Happy Birthday, my love!

It's Mr. P's 40th birthday today ... and I have to admit I haven't done much about it. But I have sooo many reasons why. Ready?

One. Anything he wants, he buys. So it makes it nearly impossible to come up with a good birthday or Christmas gift for him. Especially one he doesn't know about, because 99% of what he wants is very tech-oriented, making his participation in the selection process mandatory. In the past I've gotten him tickets to various events, but this year nothing stood out as something he would enjoy.

Two. We come from two different schools of thought on birthdays. That's not to say that I need outrageous gifts or a big party on my birthday, but I do like some acknowledgement and thought-through planning. He's not into the whole birthday-celebration-thing in general, and is really not into the details (i.e., one of my first birthdays with him ... an unwrapped season of Buffy and NO CARD), which has slowly dampened my enthusiasm over the years. Otherwise known as If-He-Doesn't-Care-Why-Should-I Syndrome.

Three. That said, I did throw him a surprise party (well, ALMOST a surprise ... thanks for busting it, Mr. Weeden. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Dan.) a couple of years ago. And I did it then partially because I suspected that, by the time his 40th rolled around, we'd have two small children and I might not get my act together. Self-fulfilling prophecy, I suppose.

Four. I thought we would have moved by now. And originally I had grand ideas of flying out a couple of his best friends to wherever we might be to celebrate, or at least sending him back home for a fun boys' weekend. But we're still here. And it doesn't seem quite as exciting to send him to Long Island from New Jersey for the weekend.

Five. I'm a cheapskate. Well, not really. But I am in regards to the fact that we're still looking at an out-of-state move in the (hopefully) relatively near future. All I can think of is the stuff we'll need when we have a bigger house, and I'd much rather get him a giant TV or create him a cave/office when the time is right, instead of spending money now on something he doesn't really need.

Six. And this is the biggest reason ... I suck. I hate that I'm so disorganized and scattered and uninventive right now that I didn't get it together to do something lovely and special for his 40th birthday. Particularly because he did such a nice job of planning dinner out with my friends and taking me to a play for my birthday. Hopefully I can make it up to him before his next birthday. After all, he's 40 all year, right?

Are we talking the same language?

Here's what happens when my regular English runs into Queens English (as in Da Queens, not The Queen's).

Me: Sweetie pie, will you rub my shoulders tonight?
Mr. P: Ok. When I'm ready.
Me: Will you be ready in two minutes?
Mr. P: No, I'll do it in a couple of minutes.
Me: Like I said ... two minutes.
Mr. P: No, in a few minutes.
Me: So ... three minutes.

Mr. P: Argh! Several minutes, ok?
Me: Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place?

Over the years we've encountered our fair share of regional differences in our speech. I say tennis shoes, he says sneakers. I say have my picture made, he says have my picture taken. He thinks I sound like a dumb hick, I think he sounds like an obnoxious Yankee.

But this concept of "a couple" continues to be a roadblock for us. It took me several years of "I'll be home in a couple of hours" turning into three or four — or, "I need to go to the office for a couple of hours on Saturday" really meaning five or six — to finally realize that a couple does not mean TWO. It means way more than two, in fact. Sigh. Why can't he just use English the right way? And, of course, that would be MY way. Sigh.

"I love trains!"

Note to self: Do not give the three-year-old a new train set at 5:30 in the evening, unless you want to have the following conversation an hour and a half after he's gone to bed, already clutching three new train cars.

Kiddle (sobbing hysterically in his room): Mommy! Mommy!
Me: What's wrong, Kiddle?
Hysterical sobbing continues.
Me: Kiddle, what's the matter?
Hysterical, yet suspicously fake, sobbing continues.
Me: I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.
More sobbing.
Me: If you don't stop crying right now, I'm going back downstairs.
Silence, at last.
Me: Thank you. Do you need me to help you with something?
Kiddle: Yes.
Me: What do you need?
Long, quiet pause.
Kiddle: I need train tracks.

Needless to say, no train tracks were forthcoming. And he finally went to sleep about 10:00.

Perhaps it does grow on trees.

How exactly does a three-year-old know what money is? I kind of get that he understands that bills are money. But coins? Hmmm. I've certainly never made a point of talking about what money is. And, the reality is, he doesn't see actual currency that often since I put everything on my AmEx. Now, if he called a credit card "monies," I'd totally understand. A few recent financial transactions we've had:

A couple of weeks ago, he pulled out a change purse of random foreign coins from my desk drawer, opened it and started passing out "monies" to me. Um, thanks. That's MY money and I'm not headed to Europe anytime soon.

At the zoo last week he wanted to go on this little carousel ride (it had an elephant ... need I say more?) that cost 75 cents. He first said to me, "I need monies," so I, of course, directed him to his father. "Daddy, Daddy, I need monies!" he cried and POINTED TO MR. P'S POCKET. "I need monies in dere, Daddy." Yep, he's definitely got the concept down.

And today was the best. He dashed into the kitchen and said, "I found a penny!" Seriously, how the hell does he know what a PENNY is? Someone explain this to me, please. I'll have to test him tomorrow to see if he knows the difference between nickels and quarters. Perhaps I can train him to scavenge for quarters in the fountain at the zoo and actually contribute a little to the family coffers. He's extra cute. He can get away with it, right?

The boy from Queens ...

Five years, man! FIVE! Five years. Five YEARS! Five years!!

Who'd have thought when I met you for the very first time, way back in 2001, on St. Patrick's Day Eve, that you were the future Mr. P? I certainly didn't. And I know YOU didn't since you don't even remember meeting me. (Let me add a hair flip and a "hmmphh" in response to that very first display of forgetfulness. It should have been my first clue that you truly are the absent-minded professor.)

Fast forward a few months to that random night when Molloy said, "Hey, Mr. P's in town and we're all going out. You coming?" (Oh goodness, wouldn't that be funny if he actually called you "Mr. P" too?) I still didn't see it coming.

And then ... you did it. You said you'd call me when you got back to Cali — AND YOU DID. You actually called me. Incredible.

But I still didn't know you were the one.

Not until that fateful visit to California, when we both thought, "Hey. I really think we've got something here." And, boy, then it was ON. The next six weeks were a happy blur. I went from yeah-there's-this-guy-in-LA-I-kind-of-like to oh-my-god-I-have-an-all-caps-BOYFRIEND-and-he's-moving-back-to-the-East-Coast-and-wants-to-marry-me all in the short span from Memorial Day to the Fourth of July. I don't know if you realize how momentous that was for me. I don't open my heart easily, and hadn't even peeked through a crack in the door in the five years I'd been in New York. Thank you for keeping your heart on your sleeve, so mine could catch up.

Five years ago today, we celebrated our commitment to each other on a gorgeous Indian summer day in Oklahoma. All the wedding-planning stress was absolutely worth it, as our friends and family gathered around us, supporting us. But as fun and busy and enjoyable as the entire weekend was (and damn, it was a great weekend, wasn't it?), do you know what still stands out the most to me? Our vows. The emotion was almost visceral as we pledged to join our lives. So many little choices, big decisions and happenstance, since the day each of us was born, culminated in that moment. It was intense and electrifying.

And here we are five years, one house, quite a few cars and, most importantly, two fabulous kids later. Thank you for supporting my desire to stay home with those kids. Thank you for continuing to pursue your dreams in a way that still makes me feel safe. Thank you for liking the same TV shows as me — and for agreeably watching the ones that you don't. Thank you for getting along with my family. Thank you for making me laugh and being the funniest guy you know. Thank you for wanting to know, and even listening to, my opinions on your work. That goes a long way toward making me feel like a contributor, although an unpaid one, to our family's fortunes. Thank you for hearing the oh-so-slight difference between my normal voice and my sarcastic voice. Thank you for being my best friend.

I'm still amazed that we found each other — the boy from Queens and the girl from Oklahoma — and that you are so utterly perfect for me. I honestly can't imagine anyone could be better suited to be my husband. I thank my lucky stars every day that you are mine. I can't wait for the next five years, and beyond.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

It ain't easy bein' cheesy.

Dear Bigga Bit,

I'm sorry. I know you're not into dairy products, but that slice of leftover pizza was calling my name this afternoon. I simply had to eat it. I know I said I'd cut out cheese for a few days to see if you napped better, and I really, really tried. But it's HARD. Cheese is so tasty and apparently a more common ingredient in my diet than I ever imagined.

A piece of string cheese for a mid-morning snack. Sprinkled on my favourite salad. A slice of provolone on my turkey sandwich. Melted and gooey in a black bean burrito or a chicken quesadilla. And pizza. Yummy, yummy pizza.

But not yummy for you, it seems. Unless all that wiggling, crying and man-sized tooting this evening was just part of you and your brother's master plan to torture me. Good job, by the way. Tell your brother the plan worked.

I didn't complain (too) much when I had to stop drinking milk and eating ice cream. It was tough to give up ice cream — after all, it was summer and I had already suffered through an ice-cream-free pregnancy thanks to gestational diabetes.

But cheese? You're asking too much, baby. Too much. But a necessary sacrifice, I suppose, to keep you sweet, happy and SLEEPING.

And just so we're clear ... don't get any ideas about chocolate. Capiche?

Love,

Muenster-free Mama

Of course, THIS is where he naps ...

A little background: Bigga has been DRIVING ME CRAZY with his no-more-than-30-minutes-at-a-time naps this week. Three two-hour naps? Great. Five half-hour naps? Not so great.

So when he fell asleep on my lap after nursing this morning, I just sat there. And sat. And sat. Eventually my need for coffee won out and I gently transferred him onto the couch. And he stayed asleep. Miracle of miracles.

Even more miraculous? He's been that way for almost two hours now. Wonderful. Except that you KNOW as soon as I leave him for any amount of time longer than a coffee refill or a trip to the bathroom, he'll splat right off the couch. So I'm trapped in the living room with him.

Great for watching reruns of "Angel." Not so great for my mile-long to-do list.

First Day of School 2009

What I should have done with my first six hours of Kiddle-free time:

• Exercise
• Laundry
• Sort through the horrifying amount of old mail lying around
• Clean up the kitchen
• Weed my flower beds

What I did:

• Go to Target
• Talk on the phone
• Obsessively check Facebook
• Play peek-a-boo with Bigga
• Watch reruns of "Criminal Minds" and "Without a Trace"

There's always tomorrow, right? Fifteen more years of school days, in fact. Plenty of time to get it all done.

Gloom and Doom

WHAT I NEED:

• Exercise.
• A drink.
• Kiddle to eat his dinner.
• A clean house.
• A break.

WHAT I'VE GOT:

• An elliptical so buried (and dusty) in the garage that it will cause more frustration than I'm already feeling just to get to it (and clean it).
• Not a drop of wine or beer.
• A three-year-old who doesn't want to turn off the TV long enough to eat. (NOOO!!!! I NOT HUNGRY!!! NOT YET!!! NO DINNER!!!)
• A mess so out of control I'm simply paralyzed.
• A husband who has disappeared to the basement to work on his soon-to-be work-from-home office.

It's just one of those days and it's made me realize I've had perhaps six hours totally to myself since Bigga was born. And there's no glimpse of any me-time on the horizon because Mr. P really does need to get his office space renovated AND he's going to be out of town the next two weeks. Kiddle starts school on Thursday and I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it — on a personal level anyway. Hopefully Bigga will cooperate and I can get closer to regaining a sense of control around here.

Beach Babies

A good example of our crazy cold wet summer ... yesterday was our FIRST beach outing. And also a good example of the weirdness of three-year-olds. They always do the exact opposite of what you expect. So I guess I should expect it by now, huh?

Last time we were at the beach was a random day in April or so. The Atlantic Ocean in New Jersey that time of year is FREEZING. Yet Kiddle eventually made his way down to the water and would not come out. Seriously. He was blue and shivering, but he kept getting further and further in. Eventually we had to drag him away from the beach, with him screaming, "I GO WATER! I GO WATER! I GO WATER!" all the way to the car and all the way home.

So I was thrilled to finally make it to the beach yesterday, thinking that Kiddle would absolutely LOVE it this year. Silly me. He had a great time running around and digging in the sand. But he wanted NOTHING to do with the water. And if I went in just to rinse my feet off, he stood on the beach screaming, "NO MOMMY! GET OUT OF THE WATER!" Weird, weird, weird. The only thing I can attribute his fear to was how rough the surf was. The waves were pretty intense, and — as a child of the bathtub-water Gulf Coast — I can certainly understand how intimidating it can be.

This, of course, marked Bigga's very first beach trip. He was a trooper as usual, napping in the stroller and hanging out under the umbrella tent.


Want some chips to go with that sand?

Don't you just love summer?

This kid just might be from Oklahoma after all

Business in the front ...

... and a party in the back.

Two-Month Checkup

We had Bigga's checkup at the pediatrician today and he's still truckin' along in the weight gain. But he remains longer than he is wide, as I say, so he's good and healthy. But, boy, what a noggin!

Weight: 13 lb 1 oz (63rd percentile)
Length: 25 1/4 inches (95th)
Head: 41.5 cm (greater than 97th!!)

Compared to Kiddle at two months:

Weight: 12 lb 9 oz (52nd percentile — or 60th? did I use fractions or ounces in my notes? argh!)
Height: 23 inches (31st percentile)

Great report from the doctor. He's doing everything he's supposed to do and then some. She pulled him by the arms toward sitting to check his head control and said, "Oh! He thinks he's a three-month old!" I'll tell you, there might have been some disadvantages to (kind of) popping out a nine-pound-plus baby, but right now there just aren't any. I love that he's strong and easy to handle. No delicate flowers around here, no sirree.

Aside from the fact that she's really involved with and knowledgeable about the kids, I'm loving our new pediatrician for another reason ... she automatically vaccinates on an alternate schedule. Such a relief because, while I'm not anti-vaccine, I do worry about how much their new little systems are stressed with so many vaccinations at once. It means more trips to the doctor for us, but that's ok. I'm much more comfortable with this schedule than the regular one we followed with Kiddle.

Sprinkler Time

It took him a while, but Kiddle finally crossed that line into realizing it's actually FUN to get sprayed with cold water. His very first friend Max is in town from Tokyo for a few weeks and they had a great time this afternoon getting as wet as they possibly could.

Bigga G is in da house!

Extra Little no more. He's now Bigga Bit. An homage to Kiddle's original (and sometimes current) nickname of Little Bit. One day, when he's an infamous white rapper, he's gonna be so embarrassed when it comes out he's been known as Bigga G since he was a WEE LITTLE BABY.

Not so gangsta now, are you Bigga?

Running with scissors

So I was on the phone with my sister early this evening and around the corner from the dining room comes Kiddle — WITH A PAIR OF SCISSORS IN HIS HAND. I jump up and gasp, "Where did you get those?!" as I dash past him to inspect for damage. This is what I found.

"Is that dog hair? (We don't have a dog.) What is that?! Oh. My. God. Tash, I gotta go ... KIDDLE'S JUST CUT HIS OWN HAIR!!"

Shockingly, thankfully you can barely tell what he did. Even in person it looks pretty good. Even more amazing considering how big that pile of hair is. And the irony of it all? I finally broke down and trimmed his bangs a few days ago. Now they're just layered, I suppose.

Please, sir, may I have some more?

I have a sneaking suspicion it might be time to move him into his 3-to-6 month wardrobe.

I can't imagine why I think that, though. Hmmm.

Two months old today

Lots of great progress in the last couple of weeks:

• His hair continues to fall out but is also starting to grow back in. No definitive colour direction yet, but I still think he'll be blond. Kiddle's blondness wasn't really apparent until after he hit six months.
• Eyebrows! So weird to notice one day that they were suddenly there.
• Great eye contact. He can hear my voice and then find my face. What a joy to see that big grin as he focuses in. Lots of cooing and chortling too.
• I finally dug out a couple of toys for him (curse of the second child ... oh, you want something to play with? hmmm ... ) and he's really gotten into batting at the duck chime on his playmat. I've been pretty impressed with his aim.
• Still eating and sleeping really well. He consistently does a seven-hour stretch and one night we even got 10 hours out of him.

Now, Kiddle was a good, good baby. Not the best sleeper (I think I was jiggling him to sleep already at this point), but didn't cry a lot, very smiley and happy, a good eater — once we got past our first two months of breastfeeding hell. But this kid? He's just so damn EASY, we're amazed. He's made our transition to a two-kid family really pretty stress-free. I'm almost holding my breath, waiting for something to change.

Keep your fingers crossed for me. I'm trying not to screw him up.