Balls Are Funny I Guess - and Birthday Parties Rock

Hello blog.  Hi.  Have you missed me?  What?  You don't remember who I am?  That's okay.  I don't really remember you either apparently because it took me THREE tries to type my password in correctly.  I'm getting stupider (stupider, stupider, more stupider, why do neither of those seem right?).  Anyway, you should know that nothing very exciting has gone on lately.  I mean, there was that time a few months back that Tootsie's friend whacked her in the head with his plastic sword which landed us in the ER where it took 4 full-sized adults to hold her down while so she could be stitched up by an extremely pregnant doctor who, judging from the scar on Tootsie's face, was also suffering from the stupids.  And, AND, there was that day a few weeks ago when Eliot (the younger shpanky brother) got miffed that his plastic football helmet was all bobbly on his head.  And because shrinking the helmet was obviously not an option, his only choice was to increase the circumference of his head.  By wearing seven beanies.  On his way out the door to school.  Oh, and there was that one day that Peanut Baby did this...

And now we have all turned into little marionettes that dance and shimmy according to her demands.  She has a hard life that one.


And then the Penn State fiasco.  Oh my, that just sucked away like two whole weeks of my life.  Two whole weeks where I did nothing but watch the news in complete and utter disbelief.  After which I sat my boys down and explained things that no parent ever wants to have to explain to their little boys but thank you Jerry Sandusky now we have no choice.


But then I would just roll a ball to Peanut Baby and all was suddenly right in the world again.  Ahh, baby giggles.  


So really, nothing very big to report.  Well, until today I guess.


Walk with me.  Talk with me.  Just for a minute.


One time in Junior High, My mom I thought it would be a rewarding experience to try out for the school play, The Wizard of Oz.  My audition went well.  I was pretty sure I would probably be cast as a munchkin, or an Oz person, or at least a tree or something.  Something or someone who made an actual appearance on the stage.  So you can imagine my surprise when I found out that I would be playing "Toto's bark".  No, I wasn't Toto (although that definitely would have been an upgrade).  I was his bark.  They actually wanted me to stay after school every day, month after month so I could sit off stage and make barking sounds on command.  I probably don't need to mention that I declined the offer.  But just in case...I declined the offer.  


I tell you this story to make the point that I suck at lots of things.  Actually, I suck at most things I attempt.  But there's one thing.  One thing I kind of kick some serious ass at.  Birthday parties. 


Today was Tootsie's birthday party.  Not her actual birthday.  Her actual birthday is on December 26th, and anyone born the day after Christmas is destined to be ignored on their birthdays for the rest of their life.  Which will inevitably lead to the crushing of their tender inside parts and drive them to seek counseling in their latter years.  So far, we've master the art of pretending our daughter's birthday doesn't exist and have started a savings account titled Tootsie's Therapy Fund.  It has worked out wonderfully until these past few months over which she has been invited to several birthday parties.  Parties.  To celebrate ones birthday.  Where people come and participate in games and activities and all sorts of splendidness.  Tootsie.  Discovered.  Birthday parties.  Which meant that I couldn't be all, tra la la no birthday here continue on your merry way, come the 25th. (what is it with birthday parties these days.  I feel like putting up a billboard that says, "dude, I get it, you were born.  As were the rest of us."). - (oh wow, that's just WAY too many punctuation marks right there).  At any rate, it was time to throw the girl a party.  And if you know me at all, you know that I don't throw parties.  Like, ever.  But on those extremely rare occasions that I have a lapse in judgement and recklessly abandon my party philosophy, I don't just throw a party.  I go balls to the wall, bat crap crazy, ocd for weeks before the actual date planning the most perfect of all perfect parties.  I can't tell you why I do it.  It just happens.  Which essentially is why I developed the whole "no throwing parties" rule for myself.  That and the fact that I don't like being served with divorce papers.  Poor Ryan.  Send him flowers.


A few weeks back Tootsie told me that she wanted to have a party where her friends could come and decorate their own cakes.  Nine 4 and 5 year olds?  Armed with cake and frosting?  In my house?  No.  Haeeeeell no.  I tried to persuade her to consider other birthday theme possibilities but it was not to be.  A cake decorating birthday party became her reason for eating and drinking and breathing in and out every day.  And so it began.  And because I'm me, that over-doer that I usually keep locked way deep down inside of myself somehow broke loose (notice how I use the word doer, not achiever - as I really have never actually achieved anything worth mentioning) (wait, I think I was nominated "most likely to become one of Santa's elves" in 7th grade) (or maybe it was "most likely to land the part of Toto's bark" - one can't be certain).  But you guys. This party.  Was so rad.  I have to show you how rad.  Because if you happen to have a little girl who happens to have a birthday and you happen to be scouring the internet for party ideas?  This is one you might want to consider.


We started off with a tea party.  Because hello?  Tea parties are awesome.  

Tootsie was rather enchanted with the whole ordeal.

We then moved to the kitchen table where the guests were each outfitted with their very own apron hand crafted by myself and the birthday girl.  Mostly by myself.  Well, until I grew tired of sewing and drove to the nearest Kid2Kid to purchase the final two.  Which incedently were only $4.00.  Would have been helpful to have known that before I spent an entire week MAKING aprons.  Spent rest of the evening sitting in corner sucking thumb and rocking back and forth.

But dang, they looked cute.

And here's where it gets fun.  Or scary.  Depending on how you look at freaks like me.  Okay scary. 

I found pastry boxes to put their finished products in and baker's twine to finish it off.  Oh, and notice the stickers that say, "thank you for coming, love Tootsie" (my favoritest part for sure).  They also got to keep their aprons (gun, head, trigger) and their spatulas (dollar tree - two for a buck - no brainer) (because they were cheap - not because I just put a gun to my head) (i've developed a parenthesis fetish) (are you annoyed yet).

And here's where you can feel free to tell me that I need counseling.  This is Tootsie's birthday cake.  And because I wasn't quite kookie enough, I made giant cupcakes to serve instead of cake.  Purely because I didn't want to cut into the cake.  I wish I were kidding.

Really though, sometimes crazy pays off.  Look at that kid.

I hate cheesy sentiment.  I don't usually do cheesy sentiment.  But today, I have to.  Sorry in advance.

I remember rubbing my hand over my enormous belly imagining what you would be like.  I pictured you as a precious, soft, sleepy, infant.  I pictured you as a wide-eyed, sweet, easy going toddler.  I pictured you as a passive, un-demanding little girl.  Because sugar and spice and everything nice, I had been told.  Or maybe because that's what I thought I wanted you to be.  

I never pictured you this way.

I never imagined you would be the strong willed, independent, stubborn to the bone child that you are.  And for a long time, I didn't understand you.  But that was my mistake.  I didn't want to have to re-mold myself to make room for your complex personality.  I thought you would just fall in line and march to the beat like everybody else.  I was so wrong.  I was so wrong to think that it was your duty to become my vision for you.  I was so wrong to have a vision of what I wanted you to be.  Because what you are is so much better.  You are a combination of sweet and tough that I have never seen before.  You have a strength to your spirit that Genghis Kahn would be envious of.  You are smart but not self-rightous. You can read people like a book, and you somehow make room for everyone in that tiny heart of yours.  I never see you judge.  Ever.    

Every day is an opportunity for me to watch you, and learn from you, and be thankful that I was chosen to be your mom.

Every night is seemingly the end of a chapter.  As I take your angelic face in my hands and kiss you on the head, I think to myself that I can't imagine my life without you, and that I can't wait to meet you new in the morning.

When I look at you, somehow I know that I've known you longer than just 5 years.  Maybe much longer.  But I also know that this life is yours to live.  It's yours to make with it what you will.  And believe me my girl, there is nothing tying you down.  

You are everything I wish I could be.

Happy 5th Birthday.

  

Blog Trumps Family

Get this.  Last week in church my dad took a moment to stand up and "thank" someone (we'll call her Miss Shniderman).  Apparently at that very moment, something happened to the nerves that connect his mouth to his brain and he said, "I'd really like to SPANK Miss Shniderman".  At first I was all, habbada whobadda wha???  But then I remembered this picture from our trip to Lake Powell in July and realized that the pieces totally fit.  

And then I realized that I hadn't yet taken the time to complete my annual Lake Powell post that often times provides a golden opportunity for me to embarrass the pants off the people in my family.  

My motto?  Opportunities shall not be squandered.  And so I will proceed with caution.  

HA!  You believed that last sentence?  

Suckaaaa!

 This was sort of just the theme this year.  You know.  Act like a total douche whenever possible.

Par for the course.

There was also however, copious amounts of cute.

COPIOUS.  AMOUNTS.

And of course more douchi-ness.

I don't know why we can't just use the water tramp like normal people.  And for the record, no small children were hurt in this attempt to land inside the overturned trampoline.  Just the ego of the guy who totally missed. 

I have no explanation for this one.

The little dudes managed to save their grandma from certain death atop the treacherous sandstone.  

See?  Am cute.  Iz fun to wear teeny weenie bikiniz.

Operation scrub pits was a nightly ritual.  I suspect that operation kill sister in law will be in full swing very soon.  Bwaaaahaaahaha!

My dad's dance moves are seemingly genetic.

My future grandchildren...I pity them.

The captain and the first mate.  I rather adore these two.

There are people in my family who aren't going to speak to me for a REALLY REALLY long time after they read this.  I sacrificed my level of like-ability to provide my internetz with an accurate depiction of our annual Powell extravaganza.  Because, Blog.

Peanut Baybee is growing old.  Every night when I put her to bed I get that panicky feeling that reminds me just how quickly she will change.  Already I can hardly remember that floppy little heap of sleep she used to be.  Now she weighs 12 pounds and even sort of has chubby thighs.  Let me say that again, CHUBBY THIGHS!  I pinch them and squish them and nibble on them occasionally.  And today?  She shocked the hell out of herself by rolling over for the first time.  I've never thought much of that milestone before but for some reason this time I was all, biggest smartest most genius baybee alive!  Even though she's 6 months and should have most definitely perfected that trick by now.  Whatevs.  She's brilliant.

Oh hai.  My mom thinks I haz big smartz.  

She stupid.

  

Parenting Dilemma Part1

One fine morning a few months ago, Ryan and I woke up, gazed directly into each others crustie-encircled eyes, and realized that in only a matter of weeks our romantic morning ritual would be replaced with "Mawwwwm, Daaaaad, Tootsie just took the spoon out of my cereal and licked iiiiiit".  At which point a screaming thrashing brawl would ensue.  The way we saw it, we had two options.  Find someone to smuggle in a 3 month supply of Valium to keep us from chucking our children out a very high window, or sign our them up for any and every summer camp available.  We went with option #2.  For the past 4 weeks they have been adhering to a rigorous schedule that was planned out in excruciating detail by your truly.  And as a result they are still living.  By the way, if you have children and you actually look forward to summer?  You are not human.  Either that or you're a really crappy liar.  

Our 10 year old just finished a week long guitar camp.  Originally I signed him up purely to buy he and his brother some time apart from each other.  But when I picked him up after the first day and he was all, "MOM.  GUITAR.  DRUMS.  SWEEEEEEET!"  That was all I could understand really, what with the flailing arms and girlie squeals.  My immediate reaction was that of excitement on his behalf.  After all, this is my kid who has learned the painful way that so far, he's just not cut out for sports.  5 days later, however, I realized what all the hoopla was about.  Enter mini mosh-pit, black skinny jeans, and inappropriate song that included the words fire and desire...  ACK!  He's TEN!!!!          

Don't get me wrong here.  It was very cool to see my kid up there rockin' the crap out of that guitar.  But you guys, again with the age appropriate concept, HE'S ONLY TEN!  I had no idea this was what we had signed up for when we decided on guitar camp.  And now?  Now he want's to actually take lessons at this particular guitar school.  I'm losing sleep over this.  What would you do?  While I feel compelled to allow my kids to be themselves and develop their talents, I can't help but worry that this is just too much too soon.  But on the flip side, I've always told them that I will trust them until they give me a reason not to.  Am I invoking a punishment before a crime has even been committed by saying no to this?  I'm starting to think that we really had something good going with the throwing them out the window plan.  Why do things seem so much more complicated and intense than when I was 10.  Life was so much easier when we could just peg our pants, throw in a banana clip and head to Hardee's for a hamburger.  Yes you did!!!

Momma Drama

Several years ago, roughly the second Sunday in May, I called my Mom.  I think my intention was to wish her a happy Mother's Day but somehow I ended up crying to her on the phone about how much I hated Mother's Day (which is bad news in an of itself because I'm a really ugly crier.  I mean REALLY ugly).  I told her how depressing it was to have to listen to stories of one supermom after another in church.  I told her that I wished my kids could go this one day without fighting.  Just this ONE.  I went on an on about how whoever came up with Mother's Day couldn't have been a mother herself because it is without a doubt the most exasperating day of the year.  To my everlasting shame I said all of this.  To my mom.  On Mother's Day.  Because apparently everything is always about me.  I dub myself the valedictorian of selfish pricks.  But my mom listened and even acted like she felt my imaginary pain.  And then she said something that has stuck with me ever since.  She told me that one time on Mother's Day when she was a young mother herself, she called her mom complaining about the very same thing.  Her mom listened patiently and then replied, "I guess I've always thought of Mother's Day as an opportunity to honor my own mother".  If I could have simply erased myself from existence at that moment I probably would have.  I still can't believe that I went so many years thinking that somehow Mother's Day was a time for my kids and my husband to walk around like creepy little mc-creepersons patching up my insecurities.  I vowed that from then on I would take my sweet grandmother's advice.  Mother's day would be about honoring my mother.  And maybe about getting some pretty flowers or a necklace or a new dust buster.  But... whatever.  Hello?  Honey?  Are you reading this???

Best grandma?  Peanut Baby votes yes.

My mom isn't only my mom.  She's my friend.  Even when my life has the balance of an egg on a countertop, she doesn't judge.  She listens.  She advises only when warranted  but reminds me that I'm the one who has to navigate my way through this life.  And when that previously mentioned egg ends up on the floor in a giant goopy mess, she helps me think of all the reasons why it's not the end of the world.  Then she stays up all night worrying about me.  Because that weird thing that causes mothers to feel their children's pain never really goes away.

I get a knot in my chest when I watch her with her grandchildren.  She simply has a way with them.  No song and dance necessary.  She sees qualities in them that sometimes we as their parents seem to overlook.  I love how much she loves them and embraces their uniqueness.  She's always been able to see beauty in thing that other people don't take the time to notice. She's totally that person that would go to an animal shelter and take home the dog that was missing a leg, an ear, and 1/2 it's tongue.  Or the dog who sleeps  in a buzzy chair and wants to procreate with a stuffed lama.  Oh wait...she already has that dog.  See?  Unique. It's her thing.

My mom is strong and she's wise.  She values her role as a mother.  And she knows how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop (not really, but that sentence just flowed well).  She accepts me for who I am and encourages me to become the person I want to be (she's hoping the person I want to become doesn't have a blog).  She tells me frequently that she thinks I'm a good mother.  And even though I beg to differ, there's no greater compliment I could receive from her.

Happy Mother's Day to the woman who has dealt with me for 32 long years.  Hang in there,  I'll grow up eventually.  Maybe.  Probably not.

I love you.

  

A Nail File Would Have Been a Worthy Investment

Right when we start feeling all sunshiney about peanut baby's progress she goes totally a-wall on us.

Look at those eyes and the redness therein.  And that was before the spinal tap.  SPINAL.  TAP.  There was also a cat scan, a catheter, an IV, an EKG, leg x-rays, and blood tests.  10 hours at Primary Children's Hospital, and you wanna know what they found?  Get ready, because I'm not sure you're gonna be able to handle the horror of what I'm about to tell you.  They found...a scratch on her cornea.  I wish I were kidding.  I'm going to be paying off medical bills for the rest of my life because peanut baby went all Freddy Krueger on herself with her hangnail.  The only redeeming aspect of the day was that every time the doctor came in to examine her he'd go (in the most ridiculous voice imaginable), "who's a wittoe baby bug" like 17 times fast.  The "baby bug" wasn't amused.  


And to balance out my belly aching I am now going to R.A.V.E about peanut baby's blessing day.  Actually mostly just about  her dress

the dress

peanut baby in the dress

darling husband holding peanut baby in the dress

darling husband holding peanut baby in the dress while sitting next to irritated wife who still has post-pregnancy chipmunk cheeks and an apparent vacuum growing out of the top of her head

the cake pops

The day was great.  The dress was my favorite part.  The cake pops were a close second.  That is all.

*My 9 year old son just walked into my room and said, "hey mom, I got laid".  It was either Trojan or Hawaiian day at school today.  

Tootsie-isms

Tootsie:  Mom, I wanna go outside
Me:  Okay great.  Put on a coat.
Tootsie:  I don't need a coat.
Me:  Yes you do.
Tootsie:  No I don't.
Me:  Toots, you'll freeze your butt off if you don't wear a coat.
Tootsie:  (as she saunters out the door with no coat and no shoes) No I won't.  My butt never falls off.


I can't win my way out of a paper bag with this kid.

I Sit, Therefore I Am

That's mah baybee?  Sometimes I smooch those cheeks so hard it leaves a mark.  I mean really, how can there be war and sadness and civil unrest when you have one of these?  HOW???


4 weeks have passed since I birthed this little peanut baby*.  And while 4 weeks doesn't sound like a long time, I assure you it's more than enough time for your couch to be molded into the EXACT shape of your ass.  Permanently.  I'm not saying that as a lactating mother I shouldn't have a custom designed couch cushion that only I can fully appreciate.  I'm just starting to think that it might be time to give the ol' boy a break and start working on this bagel loaf that has become my abdomen.

Think doughier.  With stretch marks. 

So I ordered P90X.  

Have you ever done these DVD's?  And lived to tell about it?  

LIAR!

These workouts are pure evil.  Today?  I made it exactly 1/3 of the way through the plyometrics DVD before I collapsed into a crying sweaty heap of HALP MEEEE!  HAAAAAALP!  

Look at me!  Am speshul and awesum and way too small to scrape my momz off the floor.

Tomorrow is the "chest, arms, and back" DVD.  Good thing peanut baby only weighs 5-ish lbs.

And in completely unrelated news, Ryan* took Tootsie* to her brother's* scouting banquet last night while I stayed home to (surprise surprise) watch trash TV and snuggle with Tess (how long can I use that as a reason to stay home?).  In an effort to seem like an interested parent, I sent this text message to Ryan:

Me:  Hiya.  How goes it?  Guess what?  Our baby is so totally nom-a-licious I can't even stand it!

Ry:  Speaking of nom, Tootsie and I are SO going to get something to eat after this thing is over.  This food is the nast.

Me: Really?  What is it?

Ry:  Sloppy joes, jello with...stuff in it, and weird ass potatoes.  No rolls.  No fruit.  Nuthin.

Me:  Mmmm.  I love ass potatoes.

silence -------------------------------------------

Me:  Hey, did you get my joke?

Ry:  Dude, I'm sitting by the Bishop.  Do you mind?

Me:  Sorry.  Am dumb ass.

--------------no response

Maybe it's better if I keep finding reasons to stay home.  

*I shall continue to refer to Tootsie as "Tootsie" on this blog until further notice.  Because I do indeed call her Tootsie.  No really.  I do.

*Peanut baby = Tessa    She's too cute for one of my ridiculous nicknames and therefore shall be known as Tessa, Tess, or Peanut baby.  Until she weighs 8-ish lbs.  So like, next year sometime.

*My husband's name is Ryan.  I call him...Ryan.  

*The Shpanky Brothers?  I'm torn.  I only call them by their nicknames when they've irked the crap out of me.  Which is more often than not.

Babies Rock but 2nd Graders...Not So Much

Wow.  Thanks so much for all your positive uplifting comments.  Honestly I didn't think anyone even looked at my blog anymore (thank you godaddy.com - you suck).  I didn't mean to sound like such a Debbie downer in my last post.  I'm not like, hovering over a high ledge or anything.  I promise.  I just needed a place to tell my sad story that had a ridiculously happy ending.  And in case you want an update, Tess is all kinds of awesome!  She is eating and sleeping and pretty much just kicking butt at being a tiny human.  And, AND!  She has dimples!

I managed to break away this week to attend parent/teacher conferences for my boys.  I came home wishing I hadn't made the effort to go.  Well, sort of.  One is like super-stellar teacher's pet student, and the other one is the complete polar opposite.  Not in a menacing disruptive way mind you.  More like in an "I don't care about anything except who's versing who in basketball at recess" way.  But you wanna know something weird?  He reminds me of someone.  Me.  I was EXACTLY the same way.  I'm just now beginning to understand the enormity of my parent's patience because holy HELL I'm at my wits end with this kid.

But this kid?

She makes my heart skip a beat when she gives me that deer in the headlights look.   The drunk version of deer in the headlights though... GAH!  That has to be my fave.

   

Okay.  I'm done showing off now.  I'm off to strangle my 2nd grader.

A Tiny Girl's Big Story

Much of what has happened over the past 3 weeks has been lost in a fog of intense pain, heavy narcotics, and medical mumbo jumbo.  But for whatever reason, I feel like I need to put into words the emotions that are so firmly attached to the memories I do have of the events surrounding Tessa Jane's birth.  Maybe it's for me.  Maybe it's for her.  Maybe it's for someone else out there who's also dealing with the twisted element of guilt that comes with delivering a pre-term baby.  Yes, guilt.  I was supposed to protect her.  My body was supposed to keep her safe until everything was in perfect working order.  But it failed.  It failed miserably.  And I'm still trying to figure out why.


I guess it really started more like 6 or 7 weeks ago.  I got the flu.  We all got the flu.  Everyone else got over it relatively quickly but for me it dragged on and on for weeks.  The body aches.  The hacking cough.  About two weeks after the initial onset, I began having some seemingly unrelated symptoms that made no sense whatsoever.  The palms of my hands and the soles of my feet started itching uncontrollably at night.  To the point that I would tie ice packs to them just to get a moment of relief.  But it was only at night, which was weird.  Over the next few days the itching seemed to spread to my arms and legs but it was still only a night time thing.  Around that same time I noticed that my pee wasn't yellow, but orange.  Like PUMPKIN orange.  Alarm bells were going off in my head but I didn't know why or even if these things were reason for concern.  I mentioned all my symptoms to my OB at my pre-natal appointment on Wednesday, February 9th.  He didn't seem overly worried but decided to run a liver panel and test my bile salts.  He also wrote me a prescription for a steroid that's safe to take during pregnancy.  I never got the prescription filled.


Monday, February 14th.  Valentines day.  I love valentines day.  Also the day I was supposed to get my blood test results from the week before.  I had planned to spend the day making and delivering valentines with my kids.  But at 3:00 am I was jolted into consciousness by a dull nagging abdominal pain that was all too familiar.  I thought maybe I had slept weird.  Indigestion?  Maybe.  I re-adjusted and fell back asleep for awhile.  But by 5:00 am I knew for sure what was going on.  Pancreatitis (a disease I've had since childhood) was rearing it's stupid, ugly, head.  I remember bargaining with God.  "Please, I'll do ANYTHING.  Don't let this happen right now."  I'm guessing it didn't go over very well.  I woke Ryan up at 5:30 and told him the bad news.  Within the hour, he loaded me in the car and drove the 3 miles to the hospital.  He dropped me off at the emergency room and went back home to figure out what to do with the kids who were out of school that day.


I knew from past experience what would happen when I entered the ER.  I was right.  They took one look at me and whisked me back to an examining room.  They asked me a few questions but when I said " it's pancreatitis", they all seemed confused.  Most health professionals have never seen someone like me claiming to have pancreatitis.  It's usually an old alcoholics disease.  When they realized I was also 34 weeks pregnant they really stepped it up a notch.  They drew blood, tried and failed 3 different times to find a vein that would tolerate an IV, held my hair back while I threw up (it was nice of them, not everyone is willing to do that), and hooked me up to several different monitors (including a fetal monitor).  Then the nurse told me she was going to get me some morphine.  I had to laugh.  Morphine?  Morphine is the equivalent of baby tylenol in the face of this kind of pain.  Whatever.  She'd figure it out eventually.  My blood work came back and they realized that my self-diagnosis was right on (duh, I've been dealing with this for like, 25 years).  Then, because I was a good girl, they brought out the big guns.  Dilaudid (50 X the strength of morphine).  Now we were talking.  FINALLY!  Some relief.


I was immediately admitted to the hospital and placed on the labor and delivery floor.  For the next 4 days I was given dose after dose of my favorite hallucination inducing narcotic (dilaudid).  Naturally, the memories I have of that time are hazy at best, but I know that several doctors including my OB were consistently in and out of my room to push on my belly (complete agony), check my oxygen sats, send me up to radiology for ultrasounds (during which they also found gall stones - awesome), and then suggest treatment options that I wanted NO part in.  At one point, they wanted to take me immediately into surgery to remove my gall bladder.  I have to imagine they were shocked at my reaction.  Let's just say I don't let people rip organs out of my body all willy nilly.  And I had my parents there to back me up.  So that was out.  Then they wanted to transfer me to a bigger hospital where they could check me in long term and put in a feeding tube.  That triggered roughly the same response as the gall bladder surgery suggestion.  So no, we didn't do that either.  I ended up realizing that the GI docs didn't want to touch me with a ten foot pole because I was pregnant and my OB was squeamish about making any decisions because my condition was too far out of his specialty.  So basically, nobody wanted to get sued.  I can't say I wouldn't feel the same way had the tables been turned.  Tort reform anyone?


But on day 3, something unexpected happened.  They were doing my morning fetal monitoring when they noticed some small but regular contractions on the screen.  I was pretty doped up so I didn't feel much, but they were there.  We watched and waited for a bit.  They got closer and closer together.  At that point, my nurse rushed into my room and told me to drop my drawers.  I did as I was told (who cares by the time your 7.5 months pregnant).  Good news. I was only 1.5 cm dilated and 50% effaced.  But the decision was made to try and stop my labor.  


Okay, as a side note here, you should know that at that very moment, my parents were boarding a plane headed to Hawaii.  I called them and calmly told them what was happening.  We decided that they would fly to LA and then call me back to make sure I wasn't headed into active labor.  You can imagine my surprise when 30 minutes later my mom came sauntering into my hospital room.  She had a million reasons why it was the best decision for them not to go but I just felt like a big fat poop.  


Several shots in the butt later though, all was well.  And here's where it get's mildly emotional for me.  My OB recommended that they give me two betamethasone shots to help the baby's lungs develop more quickly just in case she came early.  I tried to talk them out of giving me the shots.  After all, my kids DO NOT come early.  But in the end I caved.  And little did I know how crucial that decision would end up being.  So I received one shot on day 3 and one shot 24 hours later.  The needles?  Long.  And by then, my hiney looked like it had had a harsh run in with a baseball bat.  And my arms weren't far behind.  "Pin cushions" don't even begin to describe them.  But my feet.  My feet were a force to be reckoned with.  So swollen I couldn't walk.  The picture doesn't even do it justice.  They were EPIC.  And they only got worse from there.

By day 4 in the hospital, I was done.  I told my doctor I wanted out.  My kids needed me.  My husband needed me.  I had unintentionally ruined my parent's vacation.   Against his better judgement, he discharged me.  And I kid you not, the nurses at the nurses station all stood and applauded as I was wheeled out.  I have to guess that their thoughts consisted of phrases like, "GOOD FREAKING RIDDANCE"!   I wouldn't blame them.  I came home Thursday afternoon.  And later that evening, things started to quickly unravel. 

I was still in pain.  Not unbearable pain but pain none the less.  The weird thing was that I couldn't exactly pin point where it was all coming from.  My mom called me on Thursday afternoon and asked me exactly what hurt and I replied, "everything hurts".  Which I guess after being in the hospital for 4 days is an acceptable response.  I mean really, everything just hurt.  But in hind sight, I think I knew there was something besides pancreatitis going on.  I couldn't explain it at the time, but I knew.

By Friday, I was a little bit better.  Kind of.  Well, enough that I convinced my parents that they should definitely go to California for a quick getaway since I completely ruined their trip to Hawaii (oh, the shame).  So off they went.  And of course later on that night, I realized why I was hurting so much more than I cared to admit.  

Friday night was excruciating.  I couldn't sleep.  I knew I was having contractions but they didn't seem regular and they didn't seem like they were getting any worse.  False labor I thought.  After all, I was approaching 34 1/2 weeks pregnant.  It's normal, right?  You'd think after having 3 kids I'd know what labor feels like.  But noooo.  I of course had been induced with all my previous children and had opted for an epidural before I even felt a tinge of pain.  

My denial went on and on and on.  Saturday was more of the same except that I was often doubled over during my contractions.  Still though, they weren't getting any closer together.  12-15 minutes apart at the most (there were of course other "signs" of labor that I will respectfully leave out of the story.  *ahem*  Hindsight is 20/20 I guess).  What you have to understand here is that the pain of my contractions was in addition to severe pancreatic and gall bladder pain which incidentally was getting worse.  So really, it was hard to decipher what pain was coming from where at the time.  All I knew at that point was PAIN.  The kind of pain that makes you wonder if this is what it feels like to die.  For real.  That exact thought entered my mind.  And for reasons I can't explain, I was still HELL BENT on not going back to the hospital.  Clearly I was delusional but I had only been out of that chamber of doom for 48 hours!  Finally, Ryan convinced me to at least call and speak to the doctor who was on call that night to see what he suggested we do.  That I could handle.  We spoke to him at around 10:00 pm on Saturday.  And wouldn't you know it, he told us to just quickly run over to labor and delivery to "get things checked out".  It only took another 90 minutes for Ryan to talk me into actually going.  I even tried using my fat feet as an excuse.  Seriously though, even my crocs didn't fit.  My CROCS!!!

Walking into labor and delivery was exactly the experience I was so determined to avoid.  All the nurses that had taken care of me earlier that week were sitting behind the front desk.  And just like in my nightmare they all stood up and rushed over to me in a tizzy as I came through the door.  In their defense, I looked pretty horrific.  Immediately they put me in a delivery room (which should have been my first clue).  They hooked me up to monitors, blew a few veins trying to start an IV (hell, what's a few more?), drew blood, and checked to see if I was dilating (sorry to throw that in there but it's relevant to the story, I swear).  "Two and a half centimeters and 80% effaced."  My heart sank a little.  I knew that wasn't good considering just a few days earlier I was a whole centimeter less than that.  Still though, surely not labor.  Just a fluke.  I mean, I walked around at a 3 for 2 weeks with my last baby and she STILL had to be coaxed out.  They informed us that they needed to monitor me for at least 5-6 hours to get a good idea of what was going on.  So we settled in for the night but of course we didn't sleep at all.

The results from my blood work came back at about 4:00 am on Sunday.  My Lipase numbers had gone from 300 to 1600 (normal is roughly 50).  Not good.  It meant that my pancreas was becoming inflamed again.  My blood pressure was sky rocketing.  I was becoming more and more pale.  My whole body was swelling for unknown reasons.  I had dilated to a 3+.  Even still, the decision was made to attempt to stop my labor.  I was given a shot of trebutaline.  Then another a few hours later (fun little side note: trebutaline makes you feel like you're having a heart attack, so that was awesome).  But my contractions raged on.  As a last ditch effort to slow everything down I was given a morphine/phenergan shot which they say works 9 times out of 10.  Would you be surprised if I told you that I was the one?  The 1 person out of 10 who doesn't respond to the treatment.  And just because things weren't already complicated enough, the baby's heart rate was dropping way too far with every contraction.  I know my body very well, and at that moment I knew deep down inside that I was in trouble.  I could feel my body shutting down.  Then I made the mistake of looking in the mirror.  I was unrecognizable.  I cried my eyes out because of what I saw but also because of what I knew what was coming.

By 8:00 am, my doctor had spoken with several GI docs in addition to perinatology.  Their suggestions were to get the baby delivered.  He told me as gently as he could that my condition was worsening by the second and that if it were up to him, the baby would be delivered asap. But it had to be my decision.  At the time it wasn't a difficult decision to make but on a certain level I think I'll always wonder if it was the right thing.  At 34 1/2 weeks, I knew a lot could go wrong.

As soon as I gave them the okay, we were all systems go.  I was hooked up to several other monitors and drips.  I was given 3 bags of antibiotics because it was too early to know my beta strep status.  But the pain.  The pain was taking me over.  I felt like I was watching everything happen to somebody else.  I couldn't respond to people in words that made any sense.  My head throbbed.  I hadn't slept in at least 3 nights.  And my abdomen was so swollen with infection that I could feel the heat through my skin.  And believe it or not, it got worse from there.

They came in and broke my water.  My amniotic fluid was stained with meconium which meant that baby was not doing well at all.  They did an ultrasound to see if maybe she was wrapped in her cord but couldn't see anything conclusive.  So of course they started throwing around the idea of doing an emergency c-section.   And you know what?  I didn't even care.  I was so drained that I wouldn't have put up any kind of a fight whatsoever.  Luckily though, my doctor decided to let me try to have a regular delivery (as if this was anything CLOSE to regular).

They offered me an epidural.  I hedged for only a moment (I had spent the last 4 months preparing for a drug-free birth).  I knew deep down inside that after everything my body had gone through over the past 7 days, I couldn't and shouldn't attempt to birth this baby without some form of pain control.  So in went the epidural.  And lucky me, I got a catheter as a bonus.  I was hooked up to so many machines it was mind boggling.  I couldn't believe it.  This had turned into EVERYTHING I didn't want.  But I have to be honest.  I've never in my life been so thankful for modern medicine, because 50-100 years ago, I wouldn't have survived.  And after an entire WEEK of the most intense pain one might imagine, I was able to relax a tiny bit.  Not for long though.

The baby's heart rate continued to drop.  But because it wasn't happening with every contraction (about every 3), they hooked me up to a pitocin drip.  Yet another intervention I had hoped to avoid.  I distinctly remember saying to the nurse, "bring it on girlfriend".  Through my heavily medicated fog, I think I heard her laugh.  She assured me that they wouldn't "push the baby too far".  I think meaning that if baby's heart rate dropped any further, we'd jump ship and just do a c-section.  Eh, still didn't care.  Surprisingly though, things went relatively quickly from there.  Within 2 hours I was complete and ready to deliver.  But at that point I realized my epidural was as good as gone.  "Holy crap" was the only thing I was thinking (or saying for that matter).  My doctor wasn't back yet so I crossed my legs and prayed.  Never in my life have I felt anything like that.  I was working so hard to keep my baby in that I was sweating like I had just run a marathon.  My hair was drenched in sweat.  My bed sheets were soaked.  This went on for 30 minutes.   

Eventually he got there.  But by then I knew I was totally screwed.  And I was right.

The worst thing though, the thing that I will NEVER forget was what the doctor said right before I delivered.  He warned me that lot's of pre-term babies need immediate help and some have to be flown to Primary Children's Hospital following delivery.  Panic set in.  And if that weren't enough, several teams of doctors and nurses with all kinds of machines and devices suddenly flooded the room.  I've never felt fear like that.  Surreal doesn't even begin to describe the situation.  The pain combined with the fear I felt at that moment was more than I could take.  I was suddenly hysterical.

I'll leave out the unsettling details of her delivery but I should mention that the baby was posterior.  My doctor manually turned her.  And I screamed.  Loud.  A last she was out.  I was so scared of how she would look (not sure why) that I didn't want to open my eyes.  But when I finally did?  Well, anybody who's had a baby knows that there aren't words to describe that moment.  Unfortunately it was short lived.  She was whisked over to the examining table almost immediately.

All I can remember saying is, "is she okay, is she okay?".  Over and over again.  I didn't get a whole lot of answers.  It was eerily quiet.  But after what seemed like an eternity, they let me see and hold her just for a minute.

I can't believe I'm putting this picture on here but I had to document that even my eyelids were swollen.  And notice the sweaty hair.  I was a train wreck!

And that was that.  They took the baby to the NICU and then proceeded to get my problems under control.  

There's nothing in the world like being taken to your recovery room without your baby.  My heart was broken.  I hated myself for making the decision to have her delivered early (not that it wouldn't have happened anyway).  I hated my body for giving out on me.  I cried like I've never cried before.  

It wasn't very long before they let Ryan wheel me down to the NICU to see her.  I'm not sure what I expected but for some reason I was shocked to see her like this.

I cried some more.  I told her I was sorry.  I wanted to hold her but I couldn't.  I felt so so guilty.  I felt like I didn't deserve to be her mom.

But then, some good news.  The NICU nurse told me that her breathing had totally stabilized within an hour of her birth.  Something that almost NEVER happens with babies born this early.  She told me that getting the steroid shots for her lungs earlier in the week had probably saved her from serious, life-threatening breathing problems.

Thank you Dr. Excellent OB.  Thank you.

I wasn't able to try nursing her until the next day.  Before I attempted, the NICU nurses rallied together to give me the "talk".  I shouldn't get my hopes up.  Pre-term babies usually take 2 steps forward and 1 step back until they reach all their milestones.  I shouldn't worry if she seems too tired.  So, I didn't worry.  I just gave it a try.  And of course, she nursed like a champ.  Still though, I didn't want to get too excited.  She still had to prove that she could maintain her body temperature, keep her blood sugars up, and keep her swallowing and breathing reflexes from getting mixed up.  I was told to expect her to be in the NICU for at least a week or two.

So for the next 24 hours I hunkered down and focused on what I could do to better the situation.  I went down to the NICU every 3 hours to nurse her.  I refused all pain medication so that she wouldn't be any more drowsy than she already was.  I started trying to walk around on my beyond jumbo-sized feet.  And I talked the NICU nurse into opening the door so that my kids could meet their new little sister without a pane of glass between them.     

In the meantime, my parents made their way back home from their SECOND vacation I so lovingly ruined.  Really though, I've never been so happy to see my mom.  Sometimes you just need your mom.  And nobody else will do.  Also, grandparents were allowed in the NICU so Baby Tessa was able to meet her grandma and grandpa.  

From that point on, Tessa exceeded everyones expectations.  They were able to take her off her IV fluids, she kept her temperature up with no help from the warmer, she nursed for 20 minutes at a time every 3 hours, and her oxygen sats NEVER dropped.  Not even once.  By my discharge day, there was talk of letting her come home.  At 4 lbs. 9 oz. it would be a little dicey to release her but there wasn't a reason to keep her in the hospital.  I was desperately trying not to get too excited.

At 2:00 am on the final night of my hospital stay, they brought my sweet little girl to my room.  Until that point we hadn't been alone together.  We hadn't had the opportunity to really get to know each other.  I don't know if it was coincidence or divine intervention but for the rest of the night, she was wide awake.  She stared up at me for hours and I began the process of touching her and snuggling her and counting her little fingers and toes over and over again.  I fell in love that night. 

In the morning, I called Ryan and told him to come to the hospital when the kids were off to school.  I didn't tell him why.  Of course out of concern he hurried over to meet me.  He walked into my room and saw our baby on my bed.  I told him that she would most likely be coming home with me that day.  I'll never forget his reaction.  It's one of the few memories that will always be sacred to me.  I don't know how but I managed to somehow snag the sweetest man on earth.  I'm one lucky lady. 

The doctor came in and told us that Tessa would indeed be discharged with me.  We would be going home together.  There were strict instructions regarding her care but she was coming home.  And she did.  She came home with us that night.

So here we are almost 2 weeks later.  She's had a bit of a hard time putting on weight but we're hopeful that she'll work it out on her own.  We spend every spare moment gushing over how sweet she is and taking in every ounce of her.  I can't get over the fact that she's here.  She shouldn't be but she is.  I still have moments when I'm flooded with feelings of guilt and sadness over how it all transpired but really, I know I did everything I could to grow a healthy baby.  In fact if you know me at all, you know that much of my time and energy is put into living the healthiest lifestyle possible.  Maybe that's exactly why this has been so incredibly difficult for me to deal with.  But whatever the reason, I know the feeling will pass.  

She is here and she is SO amazing!  And if there's one thing she has taught me so far it's that miracles really do happen. 

I have to mention quickly how grateful I am to have such awesome family and friends.  So many people have stepped in to help us during this uncertain time.  There's nothing in the world like having people literally just show up on your doorstep and demand that you let them help you out.  Or bring food even when you didn't ask them to.  It's been humbling and inspiring to see this outpouring of love.  Thanks to everyone for your support and your prayers.  And thank you to my sweet sister in law and my best friend who showed up at the hospital to hold my hand during Tessa's birth when they knew my mom couldn't. I'm so thankful to have people in my life who always seem to just know what I need.  Thank you thank you thank you!