Putting things in perspective

I've been slacking on the blog, so my apologies.

I've noticed over the years from reading back through my journal that I tend to write only in times of stress or despair. So, obviously, things have been going okay since I haven't posted an update lately.

So in looking for inspiration, I popped on the site that inspired me to begin blogging, DadCentric. The link here will take you to possibly the most gut-wrenching, inspiring and heart-felt story I've ever heard from a dad.

I cannot imagine what that family has endured all those years.

But for five days, I had a taste.

Just over 10 months ago, Sean arrived into the world to meet his family. He seemed happy enough to be here. But then his enthusiasm started to wain.

And then things got scary.

It started simply enough. He was spitting up after nursing. Then he became very lethargic and had trouble waking him up to eat.

That night - not even a full day old - he was taken back into the nursery and we didn't see him all night. Eight long hours. Wondering what is going on with our baby.

And then the news we weren't prepared for:

Sean's blood sugar is dangerously low. Like in the 30s low. They have to put him on an I.V. -- except they're not equipped to handle babies who need intensive care.

So they're going to send Sean to Children's Hospital. By ambulance. In a couple hours.

Bond with your baby. Then we're taking him. Sign these forms so we can transport him.

OMG

I cannot accurately describe the feeling of leaving the hospital without your baby. It's a combination of shock, sorrow, fear, numbness, and exhaustion - and that doesn't even really begin to do it justice.

Of course, all this time I'm trying to be the rock for my poor wife - who had we not taken proactive steps before delivery to combat postpartum depression, would be an inconsolable wreck by this point.

I couldn't hold it forever, though.

Seeing my boy hooked up in the neonatal unit was brutal. After some time with him, I had to go downstairs to admitting to fill out paperwork.

Finally, alone, away from my wife, sitting and waiting for my name to be called, the floodgates opened.

I bawled. I sobbed. I snarfed. It was the kind of cry you get when your heart is broken. It surprises you just how hard of a cry it is - one that comes from deep in your soul.

I cried like that when my Pop Pop died several years prior. I'm pretty sure I did the same when my parents announced they were splitting when I was 9.

Of course, it is at this moment I get called to fill out the paperwork. God surely does have a sense of humor.

But it was at this point that the first of two very kind women opened their hearts and consoled me. She was the woman behind the counter, asking for all the pertinent information to get Sean registered into the hospital. Name. Insurance. Etc.

I walked in, face red and puffy but trying to Man-Up and keep it together. She offered me a tissue and the gates opened once more.

Then, having taken care of the business end of this surreal day, I head back upstairs to the NICU in the elevator. It was here that a guardian angel - I have no other words to describe her - asked if I was okay. I told her my tale of woe and she told me she was the chaplain and she would look in on Sean for me.

It took several days for Sean to start turning things around. First the blood sugar stabilized. But he still wasn't eating right, as they kept having to suction nasty, green gunk out of his belly through the NG tube. Slowly he started taking more and more milk and things began to look up.

It was during this time that you start looking around at the other children in the NICU and realize how lucky you are YOUR baby is improving. Some of those children around us very likely never left that room. You almost develop a kind of survivor guilt as your baby improves and they start talking about letting us take him home.

One poor family in the pediatric unit had been bouncing between hospitals with their daughter - who had brain tumors since she was born. They were camped out in the waiting room as none of them lived nearby. To this day I don't know what happened to that poor child.

Thankfully, mine did come home. The day we were preparing to leave, the chaplain was making rounds and introduced herself to us. I shook her hand and reminded her of our encounter in the elevator and thanked her for her kindness. She remembered, and told of how she would check on Sean at night while we were home tending to our daughter.

And now my son is thriving. As we approach my his first birthday and having read the posting on DadCentric, I'm reminded just how blessed we are that our children are healthy.

But for five days, I was living with the fear that my child might not make it. And some parents live with that every day.

But for the grace of God go I...

All Good Things...

I don't have a long elaborate story. No amusing anecdotes this time. Simply, an acknowledgment of a job well done.

Both my kids were good at Mass! Cue the Hallelujia Chorus!



No timeouts.

No threats.

Our church offers donuts, juice and coffee after Mass, and we've used that as incentive to behave. If she's extra good, we'll walk over to the swings and slides that are on the property for a few minutes.

Rarely have we achieved "S&S" status lately.

But Sunday... Sunday was different.

Sunday was good!

We get outside... and it starts raining.

Having learned my lesson from "The Meltdown," I decided that unless a Cat 5 hurricane starts blowing, CJ's getting her swings and slides.

Thankfully, the Good Lord held the heavy stuff off and we were able to play for a good 15 minutes.

Perhaps she's growing up. Perhaps she's finally hearing us.

Or perhaps we just brought the right toys this week.

No matter the reason, we were thrilled to actually get through Mass without feeling we went 10 rounds.

And we made sure to let CJ know just how proud we were of her.

Here's hoping for two in a row!

China Syndrome: Complete Meltdown in progress

I guess I should have seen it coming.

She had been so good at church. It couldn't possibly last, could it?

We embarked on our Sunday-morning-after-Mass trip to Sam's Club for the usually staples: Diapers, Gatorade, breakfast bars, etc. How that evolves into a $250-plus order never ceases to amaze me.

"Ooh, I need a pair of shorts."
"Hey, there are those CFL's with the small socket we need."
"Sure, we can use three pounds of Cheese Its."

So, naturally, my 3-year-old has the same reaction.

"Daddy, I wish to have that [$1,000] swing set."
"Momma, can I have this princess dress?"

Of course, we respond with a "no" each time. After about five "no's," the frustration was growing - for both of us, and the whininess was kicking in.

We proceed to checkout, and being lunchtime, we head over to get a bite to eat. Now the three of us had been grazing on samples the whole time in the store, but we needed lunch.

"You can have a hotdog or a piece of pizza," I offer.

"I want a pretzel," she replies.

("Actually, I'd like a pretzel, too," my wife whispers.)

Fine.

I get the pretzel, a slice of pizza and a couple drinks. I offer CJ a bottled water. No. Okay, fine.

Then, it starts:

Her: "I don't want a salt pretzel. I want a sugar pretzel."
Me: "You're not getting a sugar pretzel, you're splitting a salt pretzel with mommy."
Her: "NO! I DON'T WANT A SALT PRETZEL."

By this time, I was fed up.

Me: "OK, FINE you're not getting anything.

At this point, she latches on to my leg to prevent me from leaving with the food, and proceeds to scream - and the top of her lungs - like she's caught in some kind of feedback loop.

"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"

I can't pry away from her grip, so I had the plates over to Amy and scoop her up over my shoulder.

"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"

Her voice, echoing throughout the warehouse.

"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"

As Super Nanny suggests in meltdowns like these, I make a beeline for the exit; but of course, the food is at the other end of the store. So I'm flying past all the checkout lanes, pushing the cart with the baby in the seat, with CJ flipped over my shoulder, continuing her rant.

"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"

I get to the exit, and the guy there is wanting to see my receipt.

Are you kidding me?

So I'm fumbling into my pocket for the receipt as she continues to wail.

"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"
"MOMMY! DADDY! HUNGRY!!"

He pulls out his little highlighter and marks my receipt -- like I'm going to try to steal something with a nuclear meltdown occurring in my arms. We get outside finally, and I am livid, mortified, befuddled and any other adjective you can think of.

And then the topper.

A concerned gentleman comes over to make sure everything's okay. It seems CJ's "Mommy Daddy" repetition made the guy think I was abducting the girl.

OMG!

I'm of two minds about this. It's nice to know that God forbid something happen like that there are concerned people out there who would take the initiative to help out my girl.

But then there's the, "Oh great, I'm gonna be on a frickin' Amber Alert b/c my daughter didn't get a GD pretzel."

After thanking the man for his concern, and assuring him that she's just mad that she didn't get her pretzel, I get the kids strapped in the car and try to load up as fast as I can to get the hell out of there. By this time, I'm sure there was steam emitting from my ears.

After we stopped for gas, I turned around and lectured her for five minutes.

I did not yell. But I used that stern, piercing, I-cannot-BELIEVE-what-you-just-did "Dad voice" that must be programmed into the y chromosome. I don't remember exactly what I said, other than communicate how I loved her very much, but that I had never been so angry, embarrassed and disappointed as I was.

And as I ticked off each point, the poor thing's quivering lip puffed out farther and farther and she sank lower and lower in her car seat. Amy added the fact that the nice man thought I was stealing her.

I told her I had better get an apology when I got back in after filling up, which I got actually when we got home. It seemed sincere enough.

I'm trying to figure out how it spiraled into such an episode.

She's starting to not nap, so could it just be exhaustion? Perhaps a blood sugar dip? (My mom has a touch of hypoglycemia, so I guess it's possible). Just general 3-year-old drama, pushing boundaries?

But the real question remains:

Should I have just bought her the GD sugar pretzel?

Attack of the Kamikaze Cardinal

Years ago, pitcher Randy Johnson uncorked a fastball that through some cosmic freak occurrence nailed a poor bird on the fly on its way to home plate.



Yesterday, I played the roll of Randy Johnson. The ball? The Man Van.

The Man Van was so dubbed by the women of the TLC Creative team. Discovery was having an off-site workshop, and I was carpooling some of the guys up in my black Mercury Villager. And thus, the "Man Van" was born. It would actually later become the inspiration for one of TLC's Life Lessons figurines.

Unfortunately, it became a key player in another life lesson yesterday.

About half-way through my 15 minute commute to work, I'm driving about 50 m.p.h. as I pass my daughter's school, oddly enough, I see a red streak out of the corner of my left eye.

THUNK - THUNK

A male cardinal had swooped directly in the path of the Man Van, hit the front bumper, flipped up, slamming into the windshield directly in my field of view, and then rolled up and over the van.

I felt sick.

Now, I don't know what the odds are of a bird getting nailed in flight in that 60 feet, 6 inches between batter and catcher, but it doesn't happen every day. And I have to admit that the time I first saw it the view of feathers exploding and the absurdity of the situation made me laugh.

But now I know how Randy Johnson felt that day.

I can still see clear-as-day the image of that poor bird's wings and tail making contact with the windshield right in front of my face. The poor thing never saw it coming.

I've run over things before - squirrels, primarily. I usually feel bad, although squirrels and I have a history.

A few years ago, shortly after we moved into our new house in Rockville, we had one get into the house. Our best guess was that it fell down the chimney flue. I woke one morning, hearing a scampering of claws on our hardwood floors.

At first I thought it was the cat. When I looked down and realized the cat was sleeping on top of me, I'll admit I was a bit freaked out. The cat ended up cornering the rodent behind a couch, so I closed all the doors to the bedrooms (we had a basement ranch), opened the front door, with the hopes of herding the damn thing out.



That didn't go so well.

What I forgot to do was close the door to the laundry room and storage area down in the basement, so once I moved the couch, the thing ran downstairs and climbed up into the rafters between the first floor and the basement.

Two days and a $400 call to a humane trapper later, the varmint was caged up and relocated to friendlier confines.

It was lucky, too.

After the trapper left, I discovered a huge 4-to-5-inch hole at the top of my knotted-pine paneling where the wall met the ceiling.

So, needless to say, squirrels and I are not on the best terms.

I try not to hold the rest of his species responsible for his act of vandalism. I do jam on the brakes when I see one dart out in front me.

But this time, I had no chance. And neither did the cardinal.

Dropping a Deuce at 30,000 feet (or Changing a Diaper on the Poop Deck)

Screaming kids on a plane is bad. For everyone.

If it's your child, you want to die.

If it's someone else's kids, you wanna kill them. Or yourself. Or hope to God you packed your noise-canceling headphones.

Thankfully, on our Easter trip to see my dad, my children were not the screaming kids. In fact, all the kids (and there were a bunch) were nice and quiet.

However, on the flight home, the change in pressure did help my five-month-old son overcome his little tummy pain. And by "overcome" I mean he "overwhelmed" and "over-filled" his stage 2 diaper.

Yes, he was the stinky kid.

I've had to change diapers at 30,000 feet before, so I think, "No big deal,"right? I whisk him back to the lavatory before the aroma envelops the entire cabin, and look for the fold-down changing table that I had on that previous flight.

Umm... where'd it go?

I run up to the flight attendant who's handing out drinks. "Is there a changing table in the first class bathroom?"

"No."

"Crap." (literally)

So it's back to my seat with the little stinker. And thus the operation commences.

We're on the two-seat side of the aircraft, so I send my daughter over to my wife across the aisle and lay Sean perpendicular to the seat, with me kneeling in my seat, my feet to the aisle, bending over to extricate the offending substances.

Upon opening up the onesie, the true horror of the situation is revealed.

It's friggin EVERYWHERE.

We're talking complete diaper failure. It's down the legs. It's up the back. The boy must have been saving up for days. Picture Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom with the goggles and tongs, only I had no such armament.

In order to pull the feat off, I'm going to have to prep the area. Two diapers go down on the seat under him as a make-shift pad. Two wipes go on top for coverage. This is just so I can fold the onesie's flap down and actually try to clean the boy off.

Now my wife and I have always rated nasty diapers by the number of wipes it takes to clean it up. One or two is relatively easy. Five is pretty gross.

This one hit a dozen.

All the while, I'm trying to keep everything on my makeshift pad so as not to funk up the seat.

That worked until it was time to get the nasty onesie up and over his head. Had I scissors, I would have just cut the thing off like they do in an emergency room, sacrificing the article of clothing for the greater good. The darn thing is likely never coming clean anyway.

But no, it had to come up and over. And that just extended the mess up to his shoulders.

Son of a ...

So I get him cleaned up finally, scrub down the seat 'cause, well, there was no way it was escaping the carnage. I get him dressed into a clean footie. I looked around as I let my daughter back into her seat, and no one makes eye contact. That's probably a good thing.

I sit back down with the boy on my lap and within minutes...

He's out cold.

Apparently the ordeal took a lot out of him. (again, literally!) He slept the rest of the flight.

Air travel is hard enough with little kids. You think it wouldn't be too much to ask for a friggin changing table in the restroom?

Beware the Super Bug

It's bad enough when you're sick.

When baby is sick, all bets are off.

Last night was one of those nights.

This was completely preventable in my opinion. Now, truth be told, I am the offending party that got my boy sick. I'm coming off bronchitis, but it didn't have to escalate to that.

The sniffles started over a week ago on a Wednesday. By Saturday morning, I figured I should hit the walk-in clinic to nip this thing in the bud. It felt like a sinus infection - I've had more than my share in my day - and I figured a z-pak would knock it out and keep the kids from catching it.

But nooooooooooooooooo.

I see an N.P., which apparently stands for no prescription. She single-handedly decided to defeat the impending mythical super-bug that over-prescription of antibiotics may (and likely will) cause some day. You see, my symptoms were classic "viral." And if that was the case, antibiotics wouldn't help.

I understand this. However, I've had these symptoms before. I know what they lead to. And I don't want it going there.

It's seems simple enough: Gravity + boogers (this is a parenting blog after all) + asthma = nasty bronchitis if left untreated.

Add a 4-month-old baby to the mix at home, and I'd sure as hell prescribe some GD meds to keep everyone healthy.

But alas, I leave with only a refill for my Nasonex.

So along comes Tuesday and my voice has dropped two octives, I'm hacking up what looks like gray matter (more evidence that my brain has indeed melted and now resides in my bronchioles).

Back to the walk-in-clinic we go.

So now I'm back in the waiting room at 8 a.m. surrounded by what looks like the walking dead. In fact, some poor old woman standing up by the front counter ends up puking and passing out, which facilitates a call to 9-1-1.

At this point, I'm wishing for one of those biohazard suits from the end of the movie E.T.

Eventually, they bring me back, and as the physician assistant walks in (yes, again, no doctor), I launch into a coughing fit that leaves me doubled over, hacking up a lung and gasping for air.

Good times.

This time, they send me for a chest x-ray. Negative for pneumonia. At least something has gone right.

He puts the odds at 70% viral / 30% bacterial, but he'll give me the z-pack and a steroid dose pack to clear out the chest.

FINALLY!

What really burns me is, I've now had a second trip to the doctor and a chest x-ray - and a lost day of work. And of course, I have one of those lovely new high-deductible health plans with an HSA. So I'm out another $80-some dollars.

This could have been avoided had they treated the possible sinus infection in the first place.

Now it's Thursday, and my poor 4-month old is coughing, boogering and down-right miserable.

He woke up EVERY HOUR last night. It just took a little pacifier and some coddling to get him back, but as you can imagine neither of us is too happy today.

And oh yeah, the medicine is working. I'm feeling a lot better.

But rest assured, we're still safe from that Super Bug thanks to the courageous (in)action of one very special N.P.

Not It!

One of the great things about having moved for this new job is that I actually get to go home and eat lunch with my family just about every day. It breaks up the day nicely, and I get to spend a few minutes with my wife and kids.

Yesterday, I get no farther than two blocks away and the cell phone rings. It's my wife, whom I just left 30 seconds ago. The conversation goes as follows:

Me: Hey.
Her: You did that on purpose!
Me: Huh?
Her: The baby's stinky!
Me: LOL!

Now you have to understand that Amy has this tendency to hold off of changing a dirty diaper until I get home. She doesn't let him go all day, but if I'm en route, he's waiting. And if I'm physically present, you know he's coming my way.

She is home with the kids all day and changes the majority of the diapers, so it's fair. But she's sneaky about it. She'll walk over to me, hand me the baby, and say, "Here, take your son." It's only when the aroma hits me that I realize I've been had.

We actually have friends that do rock-paper-scissors when it comes to changing their son's diapers. I tried that once. Apparently, rock, paper and scissors all lose when the other person doesn't throw down.

Needless to say, I got quite the chuckle when I learned I managed to get out of dodge before the eruption occurred. Of course, she wasn't buying it. She accused me of ... well, pulling an Amy.

So when I get home, and Sean is happily lying on the blanket, I pick him up to give him a hug and...

Sniff, sniff.

AMY!!!!