You can forget the "Terrible Twos." These people warning you about the second year are just messing with you. It's really three you have to run screaming from.
It could be that people are being very specific and literal about the age at which the cute, adorable little children become CHILDREN OF THE CORN. Because, really, it all begins around the late twos. Maybe 30 months or so. Yes, I just described my child in months even though he is in preschool. I'm THAT mom now.
And here's why. You really need to be on the dot about the months, and I understand why now. It's because every month in a toddler's life is like a dog year. They mature at an exponential rate in all areas of growth...brain development, behavior, awareness, speech...it's all crazy fast forwarding at an impossibly quick rate. So before I had kids, I was quick to make fun of the parents who said, "Oh, she's 27 months old." I would think, "WOW. What a douche. HA HA."
But now, AFTER kids? It's a badge of honor to say how many months you've had to tolerate the crazy of toddlerhood. When they were infants, the months were necessary until they hit one year. And then after that they weren't two, but they were so close to two, but calling them two years old seemed unimaginable since they were still your little baby. Totally understandable.
But after two? People start looking at you funny when you say, "Oh, he's 26 months old." They give you the stink face as if to say, "Yeah, you mean TWO, you pretentious douche." NO. I MEAN HE'S 26 MONTHS OLD.
But what I'm really saying is, hey, I've been dealing with this nutjob toddler for 26 months. Sure, 12 to 18 was a breeze and he was cute enough. But now?! He's an angelic doll one day, offering me hugs and kisses, giving me unconditional smiles, eating everything on his plate and then BLAM...it's all freak outs in public and ninety minutes of negotiating at night just to get this kid to close his freakin' eyes. Oh it was so great having a nice, pleasant 24 month old, but now it's One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest up in here. I'm barely keeping it together, people! Don't even talk to me about potty training!! EVERY DAY IS A FIGHT TO SURVIVE. Therefore, I count every month as a month of surviving this sh#t.
Imagine Alcoholics Anonymous, with the fabulous chips that indicate how many days you've been sober. Not to compare the two or underscore how impossibly difficult it is to overcome alcoholism...but have you ever had poop on your face after a diaper change or caught vomit IN YOUR HAND?! Talk to me after you've dragged a screaming toddler down six blocks because you dared to touch him on the arm or try to wipe his face. People stare at me like I'm Joan Crawford when I'm trying desperately to contain the crazy in public. So, yeah, I should get a friggin' chip too. Now add a gift card for a mani/pedi because I really don't think these things called "nails" need to look like Fritos corn chips.
But I always try to remind myself during those moments of fight or flight...this, too, shall pass. I hear year four is lovely. Yes, year four sounds nice. Until then, you can find me in my happy place...I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, unicorns pooping rainbows and all that good stuff...
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Adult vs. Toddler
Just to let the Internet world know, my baby will be one year old very soon. ONE. That's no longer negative one. That's a whole year gone by in a flash like Wally West just ran around the Earth in seconds flat in his superhero costume. Color me blown away.
Meanwhile, the baby, (as we like to still think of him,) is trying desperately to walk. He will pretty much do anything to grab onto a surface and pull himself up into the walking position. Then, he precariously balances with one hand, wobbling like a feather in air, for a good five seconds, until he lets go and inevitably falls on his butt in a WHOOMP. It's as if he forgets he has yet to master the art of putting one step in front of the other and just GOES FOR IT, MAN.
Cut to me, mom, freaked out and in the fetal position in the corner of the floor. This stuff is terrifying for me, considering this is my last baby. He is preparing to leave babyhood behind for toddler life, and I am decidedly against this proposition. As it stands right now, for the most part, I intensely fear and loathe toddler life.
The reason I fear and loathe it so is because I already have one. He's currently residing in his crib because he decided that a toddler bed was way too much fun to sleep in. Instead, he would feign sleep, then quietly slip out of his comfortable bed at some ungodly hour to silently creep over to me while I was dead asleep and put an unbelievably freezing cold tiny hand on my face while yelling, MOMMY!! It's funny to recall it now, after being peeled off the ceiling. After two weeks of that, we decided the crib would make a defeated return. The toddler bed can wait...until he's voting age.
The toddler life has destroyed our sanity on many a day and night, but only intermittently and in between the most amazing of moments. This kid is fast learning about life and all that is wonderful in it. When taking him anywhere new or fabulous, he runs face first into the wind screaming, "WHEEEEE!!!" It's truly a joy to behold.
However, there are those moments...those "face and full body on the pavement screaming in defiance" moments. And they are a bear to deal with. For instance, last night while getting over a decidedly nasty cold, he decided that he didn't like, oh, I don't know...being two. He just started crying at an ear-splitting tone for every reason under the sun. No pancakes for dinner? SCREEEEE!!! You CUT my burrito?! WAAAILLL!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE IS NO CHOCOLATE PIE ON MY PLATE AT THIS VERY SECOND I WANT TO POKE MY FORK INTO IT!!! AHHHHH!!!
And so on, and so on. The battle rages on. It's adult vs. toddler, and it's hardly a fair fight.
Meanwhile, the baby, (as we like to still think of him,) is trying desperately to walk. He will pretty much do anything to grab onto a surface and pull himself up into the walking position. Then, he precariously balances with one hand, wobbling like a feather in air, for a good five seconds, until he lets go and inevitably falls on his butt in a WHOOMP. It's as if he forgets he has yet to master the art of putting one step in front of the other and just GOES FOR IT, MAN.
Cut to me, mom, freaked out and in the fetal position in the corner of the floor. This stuff is terrifying for me, considering this is my last baby. He is preparing to leave babyhood behind for toddler life, and I am decidedly against this proposition. As it stands right now, for the most part, I intensely fear and loathe toddler life.
The reason I fear and loathe it so is because I already have one. He's currently residing in his crib because he decided that a toddler bed was way too much fun to sleep in. Instead, he would feign sleep, then quietly slip out of his comfortable bed at some ungodly hour to silently creep over to me while I was dead asleep and put an unbelievably freezing cold tiny hand on my face while yelling, MOMMY!! It's funny to recall it now, after being peeled off the ceiling. After two weeks of that, we decided the crib would make a defeated return. The toddler bed can wait...until he's voting age.
The toddler life has destroyed our sanity on many a day and night, but only intermittently and in between the most amazing of moments. This kid is fast learning about life and all that is wonderful in it. When taking him anywhere new or fabulous, he runs face first into the wind screaming, "WHEEEEE!!!" It's truly a joy to behold.
However, there are those moments...those "face and full body on the pavement screaming in defiance" moments. And they are a bear to deal with. For instance, last night while getting over a decidedly nasty cold, he decided that he didn't like, oh, I don't know...being two. He just started crying at an ear-splitting tone for every reason under the sun. No pancakes for dinner? SCREEEEE!!! You CUT my burrito?! WAAAILLL!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE IS NO CHOCOLATE PIE ON MY PLATE AT THIS VERY SECOND I WANT TO POKE MY FORK INTO IT!!! AHHHHH!!!
And so on, and so on. The battle rages on. It's adult vs. toddler, and it's hardly a fair fight.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
The Poop on Potty Training Boys
Even before we began to think about potty training our first born, people would volunteer their thoughts on the subject. The only thing people said over and over again was, "Boys are harder to train than girls."
We are now going on a year trying to train this kid to poop in his potty. There is no rhyme or reason to his refusal to go. Like fecal-obsessed maniacs, we ask him repeatedly throughout the day, "Poop? POOP?! DO YOU NEED TO POOP!?" The only answer we get is, "No poop."
LIES. He DOES poop. He actually hides while he poops in his diaper. He stealthily crawls to the corner of the room, peers around the leg of the dining room table to see if I'm taking notice. How can I not, little man? The smell. Oh GOD, the smell. It eats the paint off the walls.
But the potty remains spotless. Once in a while, we'll get some pee, and then he'll get an M&M. Yes, we bribe our child with chocolate candy. It's called desperation, people.
Actually, desperation will be when we let the kid loose in the house without a stitch of clothes on. That's the method some of the books are suggesting. Apparently, when the child is naked, he will realize he has to go to the bathroom and run to the potty. Then, there is a happy dance performed and everyone eats chocolate candy and ice cream. Yay!
Yeah, no. Knowing this kid? We'll be bleaching the %$#@ out of our carpeted living room while eating buckets of Tums. Wait, do they offer chocolate-flavored Tums?
We are now going on a year trying to train this kid to poop in his potty. There is no rhyme or reason to his refusal to go. Like fecal-obsessed maniacs, we ask him repeatedly throughout the day, "Poop? POOP?! DO YOU NEED TO POOP!?" The only answer we get is, "No poop."
LIES. He DOES poop. He actually hides while he poops in his diaper. He stealthily crawls to the corner of the room, peers around the leg of the dining room table to see if I'm taking notice. How can I not, little man? The smell. Oh GOD, the smell. It eats the paint off the walls.
But the potty remains spotless. Once in a while, we'll get some pee, and then he'll get an M&M. Yes, we bribe our child with chocolate candy. It's called desperation, people.
Actually, desperation will be when we let the kid loose in the house without a stitch of clothes on. That's the method some of the books are suggesting. Apparently, when the child is naked, he will realize he has to go to the bathroom and run to the potty. Then, there is a happy dance performed and everyone eats chocolate candy and ice cream. Yay!
Yeah, no. Knowing this kid? We'll be bleaching the %$#@ out of our carpeted living room while eating buckets of Tums. Wait, do they offer chocolate-flavored Tums?
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Post-Partum Prolonged
Depression after giving birth to the most wonderful thing to ever enter your life is a cruel twist of fate that seems unnatural and poorly timed. How can one be so unhappy after seeing those ten tiny toes, ten impossibly small fingers, button nose to die for? It makes no sense.
After my second was born, I felt the urge to brag about the fact I had just given birth to another adorable addition to our perfectly appointed family. Big brother was a fabulously chubby tot with a deep, infectious laugh and a personality that drew people in like the sun. Little brother was roundly shaped in every way, chubby and handsome, c-section perfect. He cooed on command, smiled when he had gas, ate like a lumberjack. Aside from the no-sleep-ever-for-the-rest-of-eternity thing, we were pleased with our accomplishments as parents so far...just having these two around were our bragging rights, and we hadn't even done any real parenting yet.
A few weeks after the birth, I began to feel the familiar stirrings of what life used to be like when my first was a tiny baby. Those stirring were sharp reminders of how I should have been concerned about my predisposition to depression, and that post-partum depression was guaranteed in my case. My doctors both said, be warned. If you have had post-partum with the first, you will definitely have it with the second, and more than likely it will be worse and more intense because of your history of depression. Apparently, doctors get those medical license thingies for a reason, because they were annoyingly right.
A month after giving birth, I found myself staring off into nothing. A wall, a bookshelf, reading the letters on the side of a building, the dashboard of the car while my husband was driving us to fun activities in the city. I was distracted, but thought it must be the exhaustion. Yes, the exhaustion must be it. I am SO TIRED. Being a mommy is so much work. Whew.
Being distracted is harmless, benign behavior that happens to the best mommies. My distraction wasn't just mindless nothing, however. It was coupled with thoughts that were so awful, it seems wrong to write them down. Writing them down gives them reality, power, life. It makes my stomach churn to think about it for too long.
I will say the thoughts were more daydreams. Images, not ideas. And they mostly involved me being evicted from life, giving my family the freedom to be happy without being burdened with me and my debilitating sadness. My guilt over not being "normal" was destroying any chance for happiness. I couldn't breathe or move or think without having these horrible thoughts of death, dying, terrible things happening to my loved ones that I couldn't prevent. Basically, things that were out of my control were my biggest fear. The "what-ifs?" They're terrifying.
The guilt. The tremendous GUILT. It weighed heaviest during the day when I was alone with the baby, trying to smile for him, keep him happy, oblivious to the fact that I was falling to pieces right before him. I performed motherly duties. I fed him from my body, gave him sustenance, peace of mind that I would always be there to comfort him when he cried. In the back of my mind, all I could think of was the possibility that his life might be improved by my absence. I felt worthless as a person, a mother, a wife, a daughter (as I was reminded on a regular basis by my own mother.)
Months have passed. Nine.
The depression has not left me. It remains, firmly rooted in my gut. If anything, it has gotten worse...splintered and spread. When I try to exorcise it from my body, it pulls on me like tentacles grasping and tightening their grip. I can't take a breath without thinking of how to make it all stop and go away. I can't hold my child without stifling sobs of defeat. He looks at me and smiles as a reflex, because I'm there, his mother. I'm always there. But I feel as if I am a million miles away.
Motherhood, although amazing and beautiful in so many ways, is also the most life-changing event I will ever experience. It erases you as the person you once were without kids and creates an entirely new person, one that struggles to be something other than a mother. If you surrender to it, you will lose the person you were entirely and be swallowed whole by motherhood, as if that is all you are and that is all you will ever be. Some embrace it willingly, without a second thought. I hear, "I was born to do this." and I am full of jealousy. Why can't I be that perfect mother?
Calls to my doctor go unanswered. I get no relief from pills due to the breastfeeding. I won't take anti-depressants until I'm done. I feel like my fingertips are whitened on the edge of a cliff as I hang precariously off the end of the world.
As it stands, I await a call from my doctor. Monday, I keep thinking. Monday, I will get a break from this suffocation. I pray this is true. I pray for some light in this dark place I have landed. There must be a window I can open. I crave that fresh air so much.
After my second was born, I felt the urge to brag about the fact I had just given birth to another adorable addition to our perfectly appointed family. Big brother was a fabulously chubby tot with a deep, infectious laugh and a personality that drew people in like the sun. Little brother was roundly shaped in every way, chubby and handsome, c-section perfect. He cooed on command, smiled when he had gas, ate like a lumberjack. Aside from the no-sleep-ever-for-the-rest-of-eternity thing, we were pleased with our accomplishments as parents so far...just having these two around were our bragging rights, and we hadn't even done any real parenting yet.
A few weeks after the birth, I began to feel the familiar stirrings of what life used to be like when my first was a tiny baby. Those stirring were sharp reminders of how I should have been concerned about my predisposition to depression, and that post-partum depression was guaranteed in my case. My doctors both said, be warned. If you have had post-partum with the first, you will definitely have it with the second, and more than likely it will be worse and more intense because of your history of depression. Apparently, doctors get those medical license thingies for a reason, because they were annoyingly right.
A month after giving birth, I found myself staring off into nothing. A wall, a bookshelf, reading the letters on the side of a building, the dashboard of the car while my husband was driving us to fun activities in the city. I was distracted, but thought it must be the exhaustion. Yes, the exhaustion must be it. I am SO TIRED. Being a mommy is so much work. Whew.
Being distracted is harmless, benign behavior that happens to the best mommies. My distraction wasn't just mindless nothing, however. It was coupled with thoughts that were so awful, it seems wrong to write them down. Writing them down gives them reality, power, life. It makes my stomach churn to think about it for too long.
I will say the thoughts were more daydreams. Images, not ideas. And they mostly involved me being evicted from life, giving my family the freedom to be happy without being burdened with me and my debilitating sadness. My guilt over not being "normal" was destroying any chance for happiness. I couldn't breathe or move or think without having these horrible thoughts of death, dying, terrible things happening to my loved ones that I couldn't prevent. Basically, things that were out of my control were my biggest fear. The "what-ifs?" They're terrifying.
The guilt. The tremendous GUILT. It weighed heaviest during the day when I was alone with the baby, trying to smile for him, keep him happy, oblivious to the fact that I was falling to pieces right before him. I performed motherly duties. I fed him from my body, gave him sustenance, peace of mind that I would always be there to comfort him when he cried. In the back of my mind, all I could think of was the possibility that his life might be improved by my absence. I felt worthless as a person, a mother, a wife, a daughter (as I was reminded on a regular basis by my own mother.)
Months have passed. Nine.
The depression has not left me. It remains, firmly rooted in my gut. If anything, it has gotten worse...splintered and spread. When I try to exorcise it from my body, it pulls on me like tentacles grasping and tightening their grip. I can't take a breath without thinking of how to make it all stop and go away. I can't hold my child without stifling sobs of defeat. He looks at me and smiles as a reflex, because I'm there, his mother. I'm always there. But I feel as if I am a million miles away.
Motherhood, although amazing and beautiful in so many ways, is also the most life-changing event I will ever experience. It erases you as the person you once were without kids and creates an entirely new person, one that struggles to be something other than a mother. If you surrender to it, you will lose the person you were entirely and be swallowed whole by motherhood, as if that is all you are and that is all you will ever be. Some embrace it willingly, without a second thought. I hear, "I was born to do this." and I am full of jealousy. Why can't I be that perfect mother?
Calls to my doctor go unanswered. I get no relief from pills due to the breastfeeding. I won't take anti-depressants until I'm done. I feel like my fingertips are whitened on the edge of a cliff as I hang precariously off the end of the world.
As it stands, I await a call from my doctor. Monday, I keep thinking. Monday, I will get a break from this suffocation. I pray this is true. I pray for some light in this dark place I have landed. There must be a window I can open. I crave that fresh air so much.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Nine Month Old Baby with the Gigantic Head
We just had our well-baby visit with our pediatrician, and I can safely say our second is well on his way to being a big, fat baby. 21 pounds, 28 inches long, and off-the-charts head size. And I do mean off-the-charts. No, really. When I looked at the chart, his head was not on it.
Compared to our elder boy, who was 21 pounds, 29 inches at FIVE months, this one is a skinny Minnie. I can't imagine why, since it seems like I'm feeding him around the clock breastmilk. I'd better bulk this baby up soon or people will start talking. After all, I am well known around the neighborhood for having humongous children.
Compared to our elder boy, who was 21 pounds, 29 inches at FIVE months, this one is a skinny Minnie. I can't imagine why, since it seems like I'm feeding him around the clock breastmilk. I'd better bulk this baby up soon or people will start talking. After all, I am well known around the neighborhood for having humongous children.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease...the Meanest Sickness
Oh, what a month. Mastitis, followed by the ambiguous thrush, and now Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease. If you have no clue what that last one is, think of the flu and throw strep throat on top of the heap. It's the nastiest of all the kiddie ailments out there, imho.
It begins with what seems like a low-grade fever, then turns into a rash on the...what else? Hands, feet, and mouth. In my son's case, he got the rash on his bottom first, then we saw it on his wrists and feet. When we checked his mouth, we saw why had had been rubbing his throat and cheeks. The rash had very quickly turned into sores.
Having herpe-like sores on the inside of your mouth, all over your tongue and down your throat is pure Hell for adults. Imagine how difficult it is for a toddler, just beginning to be verbal but not quite there yet. He can't complain adequately enough with words, so he just screams and screams in pain, day and night. It was horrifyingly bad.
Also, the things that comfort him...eating, drinking...are unavailable to him. Not only that, those things now cause him a great deal of pain. It's awful for him, and awful for a parent to witness.
I tried to keep calm while thinking of the baby, but just the thought of him catching this evil thing from his brother made me break out in a cold sweat. We did as all the sites on HFMD recommended...washed everything down, cleaned like a psycho, washed hands until they cracked. The boys were separated, not allowed to touch for at least two weeks. Since HFMD is transmitted through saliva, and the kid was drooling like mad since he was in so much discomfort, we had to wash everything every night for two weeks. That's every toy, blanket, plushy...anything he touched with his hands or mouth. I must have done eight loads of laundry that first day we discovered the rash. After that, one to two loads a day. After dealing with thrush, which was basically the same cleaning regimine, I was beyond stressed, getting depressed, and feeling exhausted.
The poor little man was so miserable. It wasn't the same boy. He was cranky, unconsolably upset, and crying at the drop of a crayon. I could not imagine living this way indefinitely. Luckily for us, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
He did get better, but it took about five days until the rash turned into sores which then popped and dried up. Eventually, they disappeared, leaving no trace of the nastiest, meanest sickness I have ever seen. Apparently, once you get the disease, you are immune to that particular strain. Other strains? Not so much.
This pre-school "catch everything every kid in the building has" thing will be giving us the gift of a powerfully strong immune system in the end, but until then, %#$!@ YOU, COMMUNICABLE DISEASES!
It begins with what seems like a low-grade fever, then turns into a rash on the...what else? Hands, feet, and mouth. In my son's case, he got the rash on his bottom first, then we saw it on his wrists and feet. When we checked his mouth, we saw why had had been rubbing his throat and cheeks. The rash had very quickly turned into sores.
Having herpe-like sores on the inside of your mouth, all over your tongue and down your throat is pure Hell for adults. Imagine how difficult it is for a toddler, just beginning to be verbal but not quite there yet. He can't complain adequately enough with words, so he just screams and screams in pain, day and night. It was horrifyingly bad.
Also, the things that comfort him...eating, drinking...are unavailable to him. Not only that, those things now cause him a great deal of pain. It's awful for him, and awful for a parent to witness.
I tried to keep calm while thinking of the baby, but just the thought of him catching this evil thing from his brother made me break out in a cold sweat. We did as all the sites on HFMD recommended...washed everything down, cleaned like a psycho, washed hands until they cracked. The boys were separated, not allowed to touch for at least two weeks. Since HFMD is transmitted through saliva, and the kid was drooling like mad since he was in so much discomfort, we had to wash everything every night for two weeks. That's every toy, blanket, plushy...anything he touched with his hands or mouth. I must have done eight loads of laundry that first day we discovered the rash. After that, one to two loads a day. After dealing with thrush, which was basically the same cleaning regimine, I was beyond stressed, getting depressed, and feeling exhausted.
The poor little man was so miserable. It wasn't the same boy. He was cranky, unconsolably upset, and crying at the drop of a crayon. I could not imagine living this way indefinitely. Luckily for us, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
He did get better, but it took about five days until the rash turned into sores which then popped and dried up. Eventually, they disappeared, leaving no trace of the nastiest, meanest sickness I have ever seen. Apparently, once you get the disease, you are immune to that particular strain. Other strains? Not so much.
This pre-school "catch everything every kid in the building has" thing will be giving us the gift of a powerfully strong immune system in the end, but until then, %#$!@ YOU, COMMUNICABLE DISEASES!
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
F@#$%# Thrush
After a course of antibiotics to kill off the hideous mastitis, I found myself wondering if I had a yeast infection in my nipples, better known as thrush or "candida." Yay me.
Here's the skinny on thrush. It's evil. It's the dumbest ailment known to nipples. I can't get over how much information is out there on the Internet, and how useless it all is. Symptoms of thrush are so vague and all over the map there's no way of determining if you or your baby have it, unless you have the classic "white spots," which is also an ambiguous descriptor because there are NO pictures of nipples with thrush on the internet that are helpful.
Every site I visited (foolishly, I know) had the same descriptions, with the disclaimer, "May or may not" before each one.
What good is that?! "May or may not" does not help me figure out what to do with this insipid yeast. I can't believe what a pain in the ass it has been trying to get rid of it...that is, IF I ACTUALLY HAVE IT.
The baby has no symptoms, but one of the symptoms of thrush is that the baby could have no symptoms. Did you get that? Confusing, ain't it?
The only symptom I had was shooting pain in my nipple. And when I say "shooting" I really mean it felt like someone was stabbing me with a knife over and over again. It was as if the milk had ground glass in it. This happened maybe 15 minutes after feeding the baby.
When I looked up "shooting pain," a hundred sites came up, all citing the dreaded THRUSH. I could not get over how hysterical people were about this thing. It was worse than mastitis, worse than plugged ducts...it was the invisible enemy, and one that multiplied at an exponential rate. After reading several dozen pages, I realized one thing...I was screwed.
I started cleaning everything with bleach (not vinegar.) I did six loads of laundry, with bleach. I used several remedies, including grapefruit seed extract (liquid) and extra virgin coconut oil (solid like butter) on my nipples (and the gse in his mouth.) I called the advice nurse several times, the lactation specialists, my obgyn's office, and my friends who had experienced this hell before. The doctors wouldn't see me, nor would the specialists. They all said the same thing. There is no definitive diagnosis for thrush. They could only go by my description, because all nipples look somewhat different. None are "obviously" thrush nipples. What?!
Everyone was saying something different, yet one thing remained: Do NOT reinfect yourself. Treat yourself and the baby at the same time. Strangely, the only person who did not agree with this assessment was the baby's pediatrician, who took one look in the baby's mouth, shrugged and said, "He doesn't have thrush." I had to strong arm a prescription for Nystatin out of him."
Eventually, I got in to see a nurse practitioner. She took one look at my nipples and said, "They're puffy and meaty." Translation: You have thrush. She sent in a prescription for Diflucan and sent me on my way.
The problem with thrush is that if you have vague symptoms that kinda sorta match the usual symptoms, there is no answer to the question, "Do I have it?" It's a horrible guessing game that always ends the same way. You treat it anyway, because your fear of the thing makes you paranoid.
This game of "thrush" or "not thrush" messed with my head in a terrible way. It stressed me out, gave me bouts of hysteria at any given moment, and really exhausted my patience. If you ever get it, I wish you luck and recommend you go to your happy place immediately. Otherwise, every tinge, tickle, or funny feeling you get in your breast will make you break into a cold sweat.
The sites I found helpful were few and far between, but for what it's worth, here they are:
Jay Gordon - Information on Thrush and how to treat it with Grapefruit Seed Extract
How long does Candida live on surfaces?
Babycare Advice - Very detailed and informative
Pinstripes and Polkadots - How to disinfect laundry, and other interesting information on bleach vs. vinegar
Here's the skinny on thrush. It's evil. It's the dumbest ailment known to nipples. I can't get over how much information is out there on the Internet, and how useless it all is. Symptoms of thrush are so vague and all over the map there's no way of determining if you or your baby have it, unless you have the classic "white spots," which is also an ambiguous descriptor because there are NO pictures of nipples with thrush on the internet that are helpful.
Every site I visited (foolishly, I know) had the same descriptions, with the disclaimer, "May or may not" before each one.
Your nipples may or may not show signs of redness.
Your baby may or may not have white patches on the inside of his mouth.
Your breasts may or may not have shooting pain.
Your baby's saliva may or may not be shiny.
Your nipples could be red, pink, purple or white.
What good is that?! "May or may not" does not help me figure out what to do with this insipid yeast. I can't believe what a pain in the ass it has been trying to get rid of it...that is, IF I ACTUALLY HAVE IT.
The baby has no symptoms, but one of the symptoms of thrush is that the baby could have no symptoms. Did you get that? Confusing, ain't it?
The only symptom I had was shooting pain in my nipple. And when I say "shooting" I really mean it felt like someone was stabbing me with a knife over and over again. It was as if the milk had ground glass in it. This happened maybe 15 minutes after feeding the baby.
When I looked up "shooting pain," a hundred sites came up, all citing the dreaded THRUSH. I could not get over how hysterical people were about this thing. It was worse than mastitis, worse than plugged ducts...it was the invisible enemy, and one that multiplied at an exponential rate. After reading several dozen pages, I realized one thing...I was screwed.
I started cleaning everything with bleach (not vinegar.) I did six loads of laundry, with bleach. I used several remedies, including grapefruit seed extract (liquid) and extra virgin coconut oil (solid like butter) on my nipples (and the gse in his mouth.) I called the advice nurse several times, the lactation specialists, my obgyn's office, and my friends who had experienced this hell before. The doctors wouldn't see me, nor would the specialists. They all said the same thing. There is no definitive diagnosis for thrush. They could only go by my description, because all nipples look somewhat different. None are "obviously" thrush nipples. What?!
Everyone was saying something different, yet one thing remained: Do NOT reinfect yourself. Treat yourself and the baby at the same time. Strangely, the only person who did not agree with this assessment was the baby's pediatrician, who took one look in the baby's mouth, shrugged and said, "He doesn't have thrush." I had to strong arm a prescription for Nystatin out of him."
Eventually, I got in to see a nurse practitioner. She took one look at my nipples and said, "They're puffy and meaty." Translation: You have thrush. She sent in a prescription for Diflucan and sent me on my way.
The problem with thrush is that if you have vague symptoms that kinda sorta match the usual symptoms, there is no answer to the question, "Do I have it?" It's a horrible guessing game that always ends the same way. You treat it anyway, because your fear of the thing makes you paranoid.
This game of "thrush" or "not thrush" messed with my head in a terrible way. It stressed me out, gave me bouts of hysteria at any given moment, and really exhausted my patience. If you ever get it, I wish you luck and recommend you go to your happy place immediately. Otherwise, every tinge, tickle, or funny feeling you get in your breast will make you break into a cold sweat.
The sites I found helpful were few and far between, but for what it's worth, here they are:
Jay Gordon - Information on Thrush and how to treat it with Grapefruit Seed Extract
How long does Candida live on surfaces?
Babycare Advice - Very detailed and informative
Pinstripes and Polkadots - How to disinfect laundry, and other interesting information on bleach vs. vinegar
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Mastitis...
AGAIN. This is my third round with mastitis, and I can safely say that I am an expert in all things breast infected. Not exactly the silver lining I was looking for during my stint with breast feeding.
This time it was a little different, however. I felt the pain and knew right away...mastitis. It had to be. There was no mistaking it. It was an aching hot throb that made one side of my breast hurt so badly I winced when I fed the baby. Then, the pain got worse, but very quickly. Before the fever hit, I had already told my husband to call the advice nurse to get a prescription for antibiotics straight away. By the next hour I had a fever steadily rising. See? Expert.
As soon as I started feeling the pains and the lumps of clogged milk in my breast, I started hand expressing and warm compresses to get the infection out. I knew it was important to get all the milk out of the breast, so the infection wouldn't linger. For over an hour I groped myself. It was pretty (not) awesome reaching second base with myself.
The next day was my older son's birthday party, which I attended, feeling a little deathly. Two Tylenol and a playground full of kids pumped me up for the next three hours, which seemed ok compared to the hideous time I had with this beastly ailment before. But that night I collapsed in a heap with a 102 fever. It had come back with a vengeance and I was sick as a dog.
The antibiotics finally kicked in, everything stopped looking like a big disgusting purple bruise, and I felt much better the next day. I kicked mastitis' ass and lived to talk about it...again.
The next day I had shooting pains so powerfully painful I thought to myself, "Holy God, I'd rather go through LABOR again than feel this." When I looked it up on the internet, the only thing that kept popping up repeatedly? THRUSH. Not possible. NOT OK.
After calling the advice nurse, she confirmed it was thrush. "Thrush happens when you take antibiotics for mastitis. Antibiotics kill the good bacteria that keeps your yeast in check. Now, there's an overgrowth of yeast." Ok, now what? "Apply Vagasil to your nipples." What? Gross. I'll do it, but gross.
Somehow, applying a vaginal yeast infection cream to my nipples didn't seem right, so I called the lovely ladies at the lactation center who promptly said, "Thrush? No. Damaged nerve ending? Yup!" They suggested a cocktail of B-6 (for the damaged nerve) and probiotics (to take while taking antibiotics.)
To triple check the possibility I had thrush and had given it to the baby, we also saw the pediatrician, who checked the baby's mouth for the tell-tale white spots, looked at me like I was a loon, and said in his thick accent, "No thrush. Usually, baby gives thrush to mama. Not mama give thrush to baby. No thrush." And then I was sent on my way with a prescription for Nystatin (just in case thrush popped up in the next day or two) and a pat on the head.
So what have we learned? Don't look on the internet. The internet is not a doctor. The internet will drive you mad with unnecessary worry. Also, NO GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCHING. It's for your own good.
Also, when websites tell you that thrush can be stealthy and that the symptoms can be hidden? Not true, sayeth the wise and sage lactation specialists I talked to. And the pediatrician confirmed it. There are always white spots in the baby's mouth, and always raw hamburger-looking nipples. Not comforting, but there it is.
This time it was a little different, however. I felt the pain and knew right away...mastitis. It had to be. There was no mistaking it. It was an aching hot throb that made one side of my breast hurt so badly I winced when I fed the baby. Then, the pain got worse, but very quickly. Before the fever hit, I had already told my husband to call the advice nurse to get a prescription for antibiotics straight away. By the next hour I had a fever steadily rising. See? Expert.
As soon as I started feeling the pains and the lumps of clogged milk in my breast, I started hand expressing and warm compresses to get the infection out. I knew it was important to get all the milk out of the breast, so the infection wouldn't linger. For over an hour I groped myself. It was pretty (not) awesome reaching second base with myself.
The next day was my older son's birthday party, which I attended, feeling a little deathly. Two Tylenol and a playground full of kids pumped me up for the next three hours, which seemed ok compared to the hideous time I had with this beastly ailment before. But that night I collapsed in a heap with a 102 fever. It had come back with a vengeance and I was sick as a dog.
The antibiotics finally kicked in, everything stopped looking like a big disgusting purple bruise, and I felt much better the next day. I kicked mastitis' ass and lived to talk about it...again.
The next day I had shooting pains so powerfully painful I thought to myself, "Holy God, I'd rather go through LABOR again than feel this." When I looked it up on the internet, the only thing that kept popping up repeatedly? THRUSH. Not possible. NOT OK.
After calling the advice nurse, she confirmed it was thrush. "Thrush happens when you take antibiotics for mastitis. Antibiotics kill the good bacteria that keeps your yeast in check. Now, there's an overgrowth of yeast." Ok, now what? "Apply Vagasil to your nipples." What? Gross. I'll do it, but gross.
Somehow, applying a vaginal yeast infection cream to my nipples didn't seem right, so I called the lovely ladies at the lactation center who promptly said, "Thrush? No. Damaged nerve ending? Yup!" They suggested a cocktail of B-6 (for the damaged nerve) and probiotics (to take while taking antibiotics.)
To triple check the possibility I had thrush and had given it to the baby, we also saw the pediatrician, who checked the baby's mouth for the tell-tale white spots, looked at me like I was a loon, and said in his thick accent, "No thrush. Usually, baby gives thrush to mama. Not mama give thrush to baby. No thrush." And then I was sent on my way with a prescription for Nystatin (just in case thrush popped up in the next day or two) and a pat on the head.
So what have we learned? Don't look on the internet. The internet is not a doctor. The internet will drive you mad with unnecessary worry. Also, NO GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCHING. It's for your own good.
Also, when websites tell you that thrush can be stealthy and that the symptoms can be hidden? Not true, sayeth the wise and sage lactation specialists I talked to. And the pediatrician confirmed it. There are always white spots in the baby's mouth, and always raw hamburger-looking nipples. Not comforting, but there it is.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Two
How is it possible? Two years have flown by already? My little man is two. I am at once amazed and disturbed. I thought we had a deal that he would stay cute and chubby forever. This kind of blows.
But seriously, the party was all kinds of awesome. I rocked the goodie bags, and believe me, it wasn't an easy feat. Whoever created the concept of this stress-inducing addition to children's birthday parties should be smacked. It was the most difficult part of the planning process for me, and I am not one to enjoy complications when planning anything.
The party was low-key and at our favorite playground, which made for an ideal situation for the adults: Let the kids go wild and play with one another while we mack on sandwiches and chocolate milk. We bought mini cupcakes to downplay the sugar. Presents were welcome but not required. Everything was simple. Easy. No-frills. Loved it.
I made 16 goodie bags, and they were a big hit with the parents and kiddies. I bought cutesy animal boxes off Amazon for cheap and filled them up with a CD of the kid's favorite music, a beanie baby, a chocolate horse/cow/pig, a party blower, a mini playdoh and a small bottle of robot bubbles. Tell me you wouldn't be stoked if you was two. Robot bubbles?! Fuggedaboudit.
And by the way? I made extra goodie bags, and thankfully so. Kids and their parents showed up without an RSVP, which was fine. More the merrier, I say. But if I hadn't had those extras, whoa. There might have been two-year old rioting.
Anyway, the kiddo loved it, until the end of the party when he was on the playground without his friends. It was a little heartbreaking, watching him play with the straw from his milk box, wandering aimlessly and poking things. It made me wish we had made an early exit to avoid that wistful scene. Seeing him that way made my heart ache. Ah, motherhood.
But seriously, the party was all kinds of awesome. I rocked the goodie bags, and believe me, it wasn't an easy feat. Whoever created the concept of this stress-inducing addition to children's birthday parties should be smacked. It was the most difficult part of the planning process for me, and I am not one to enjoy complications when planning anything.
The party was low-key and at our favorite playground, which made for an ideal situation for the adults: Let the kids go wild and play with one another while we mack on sandwiches and chocolate milk. We bought mini cupcakes to downplay the sugar. Presents were welcome but not required. Everything was simple. Easy. No-frills. Loved it.
I made 16 goodie bags, and they were a big hit with the parents and kiddies. I bought cutesy animal boxes off Amazon for cheap and filled them up with a CD of the kid's favorite music, a beanie baby, a chocolate horse/cow/pig, a party blower, a mini playdoh and a small bottle of robot bubbles. Tell me you wouldn't be stoked if you was two. Robot bubbles?! Fuggedaboudit.
And by the way? I made extra goodie bags, and thankfully so. Kids and their parents showed up without an RSVP, which was fine. More the merrier, I say. But if I hadn't had those extras, whoa. There might have been two-year old rioting.
Anyway, the kiddo loved it, until the end of the party when he was on the playground without his friends. It was a little heartbreaking, watching him play with the straw from his milk box, wandering aimlessly and poking things. It made me wish we had made an early exit to avoid that wistful scene. Seeing him that way made my heart ache. Ah, motherhood.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Potty Training
At 18 months of age, my husband broke out the brand new Bjorn potty we bought in anticipation of potty training our eldest. At first, the boy just looked at it with curiosity. But as soon as he found it had no wheels to spin or buttons to push to make lights turn on, he discarded it as trash.
For months, my husband tirelessly jumped up and down like a giddy cheerleader whenever my son has pooped in the potty. It has been a remarkable display of enthusiasm, considering the source. The poop, by the way, is absolutely vile. The smell is not unlike pure evil and will literally burn your face off like a chemical spill landed on you. I can't possibly describe it aptly without offending most or all of you, so I won't go further. Just know that solids make toddler diapers into deadly weapons. If we just lobbed them at our enemies, there would be no war.
We can count on one hand the amount of times our son has gone #1 or #2 in the potty, which I think is pretty good, considering he isn't even 2 yet. But the more impressive feat is the fact that now we can usually tell when he is about to go in his diaper just by looking at his face. He will be playing at the table, with his cars, trains, whatever. Then, quite suddenly, he will stop mid-step and just gaze off into the nothingness. Occasionally, he'll look in my direction as if to say, "HERE IT COMES."
The times we have actually acted fast enough to get him into the toilet, he has managed a little tiny nugget. Alas, it is not usually the case. The husband hides a horrified grimace while he cleans the kid's bottom and dumps the offending diaper in the trash.
Our diaper pail smells like several things died inside.
For months, my husband tirelessly jumped up and down like a giddy cheerleader whenever my son has pooped in the potty. It has been a remarkable display of enthusiasm, considering the source. The poop, by the way, is absolutely vile. The smell is not unlike pure evil and will literally burn your face off like a chemical spill landed on you. I can't possibly describe it aptly without offending most or all of you, so I won't go further. Just know that solids make toddler diapers into deadly weapons. If we just lobbed them at our enemies, there would be no war.
We can count on one hand the amount of times our son has gone #1 or #2 in the potty, which I think is pretty good, considering he isn't even 2 yet. But the more impressive feat is the fact that now we can usually tell when he is about to go in his diaper just by looking at his face. He will be playing at the table, with his cars, trains, whatever. Then, quite suddenly, he will stop mid-step and just gaze off into the nothingness. Occasionally, he'll look in my direction as if to say, "HERE IT COMES."
The times we have actually acted fast enough to get him into the toilet, he has managed a little tiny nugget. Alas, it is not usually the case. The husband hides a horrified grimace while he cleans the kid's bottom and dumps the offending diaper in the trash.
Our diaper pail smells like several things died inside.
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