Mom instinct (or something)

Hello again. It's another beautiful morning in Northern Colorado, chilly after last night's rain, and now's the time we should be walking to the park or something before the heat gets us later. But the biggest little is eating breakfast for the first time in a long time. Because his mom got smart and started giving him zantac a half hour before. Which his doctor suggested I try for his nausea two weeks ago, and I forgot about. Again with the parent of the year award. It makes sense that it is an acid issue, made worse by anticipation of eating when his stomach prepares for food by increasing acid, because he always seemed to be all excited about eating until he got in his chair with a plate of food in front of him and got the first bite to his lips. Then he'd gag a bit, throw his fork back in his plate, and be done. Or he'd get brave enough to try a bite, then spit it back out. Or throw it up, if he actually got it swallowed. I've started setting his place at the table with an extra tupperware container to catch whatever might come back out of his mouth. In the hospital last week, the disposable, covered, divided plates his meals came in were actually great for this. The compartments, uneaten food. The lid, chewed and sometimes swallowed food. I feel it is a testament to how second nature this all is becoming to me that I had a thoroughly enjoyable meal of Daniel's leftover baked salmon and sweet potato meal from his plate, the lid of which was filled with recently vomited salmon and sweet potato. I was just relieved we had managed to catch it in the lid and hadn't spewed it all over the uneaten food a few inches away. That would have been a sad waste of perfectly good, if cold, food. Girl's got standards. Since me being the solo adult during hospital stays means escapes to the cafeteria are rare and I am unwilling to spend $8 on another tray of the same questionable food bub gets, my hospital diet consists of ordering for the patient the max allowable amount, then eating his leftovers. It's a good thing this particular toddler has an advanced palate so I'm not stuck with mac'n'cheese every day. Regardless, the menu isn't terribly extensive. After even a few days, the cafeteria starts to seem like a glorious, glowing beacon of noms, just waiting to be devoured. 

Poor kiddo is getting a complex relationship with food, I fear. He is barf trained in the same way he potty trained himself. We ask him in an oh-so-matter-of-fact voice if he needs to barf when he starts getting "that look", and he immediately picks up his tupperware container, holds it up to his face, and obediently gives us an experimental retch. Then tells us, oh-so-matter-of-factly, "nnno!", and sets his container back down. Just like he tries to potty when he doesnt really need to. 

Speaking of, he took himself poop the other day. Yes, I know. Body function bragging, so not the reason you are here. But this is a big deal. It is only the second time. The first time, this happened...

Granted, he did try to do it in the potty the other day while running around pantsless. But his obsession with closing doors bit him in the...well, the metaphor actually works this time. He came hobbling as fast as he could outside where I was, yelling, in his best "Timmy in the well" voice, "BOOP! BOOP! BOO-ooo-OOOOP!!", grabbing my hand and urgently pulling me to the closed bathroom door, although it was no surprise what I found there, considering the evidence that was on his legs as well. He stood there shifting from foot to foot, nearly hyperventilating as I wiped him down, anxiously watching as I got out the foam cleaner and scrubbed the carpet. And then, sighing with a pleased grin, happily pronounced, "There!" And, all better, hobbled off, his whole world set aright again. I know the feeling. When the metaphorical boop is back out of the carpet, everyone can relax so much more easily. 

After all of the dire warnings when we left the clinic after our Friday chemo about using my mom instinct and bringing him in for bloodwork if something didn't "feel right", my mom instinct kicked in on Tuesday and prompted me to take him in a day before his scheduled bloodwork, which we had to get to make sure he "passed" with high enough counts to continue his chemo regimen on schedule. Well. Maybe my obviously infallible instinct (the same instinct that missed the fact that he was living on the verge of passing out from lack of blood for two whole months before his diagnosis) was clued in by the fact that he was being a complete pain, either sitting and staring or melting down, when it should have been happy excited time since grandpa and grandma were here. Reminded me of how he acted before he was diagnosed. Fool me once. So grandpa, Bobby and I loaded up the two babies and took a little outing to Denver, where they drew his blood and determined his red cells were only slightly lower than they had been on Friday, but his white cells had dropped drastically, which would explain why the skin breakdown on his butt is back with a vengeance, refusing to even attempt to heal, and his ANC is 190. A normal ANC level is 1,500-5,000, and he had to be up to at least 750 twenty-four hours later to pass for chemo, which was highly unlikely, so they cancelled our appointments for the next two days and rescheduled another blood draw and chemo attempt for next Tuesday and Wednesday. We were happy to see that it had decided to resume it's downward trend after psyching us out with it's three day upward bump, so maybe I hadn't entirely sabotaged it with breastfeeding after mercaptopurine, it just hadn't bottomed out yet when we were discharged. We had been told they wouldnt let us be discharged if ANC was under 200 while on antibiotics, so I was a bit concerned they might decide to readmit him, but my fears were unfounded and we left Denver in the thick of rush hour, fighting our way up I25 for 60 miles, and got home to find big Bub had a package waiting for him. Not a small one. The next hour was a mess as the entire family, including Daniel and Andy, very helpfully assisted the assembly of one bright red ride-in firetruck from honorary Aunties Nicole and Carla. Which only got built enough to be functional, still missing bumpers, ladders, eyes, etc, before it had to be taken outside and driven up and down the sidewalk with many giggles and squeals. And attempts at running over unsuspecting feet. Who taught him that violence is so hilarious?

Bobby and my dad had just enough time time to buy chinese takeout and a birthday cake for dinner, but we had no time to eat them before Bobby's phone rang. A load had been located from Casper, WY to Cheyenne, WY. Right now, thankyverymuch. 

Sighing and rolling his eyes at the complete lack of ability to plan ahead even five minutes with this job, but thankful they had managed to throw him a bone in the form of work, he shoveled in a few bites of orange chicken and a slice of cake and left. Oh, right, I may not have mentioned it was my birthday...32 years I've managed to not fail at staying alive! I know 32 might seem a bit young for celebrating an accomplishment like being alive instead of bemoaning getting older, but bless their hearts, I have a few homies who weren't so lucky and didn't manage to emerge from their 20's. I feel so lucky with each reminder of the fragility of life. Like birthdays. 

My mom stayed here while dad left that evening yet to go home and work for the week, then return this weekend to pick her up. Her check-up was less thorough this time, hopefully because she is already four years past her own nightmare of chemo, double single mastectomies, radiation, reconstruction, and re-reconstruction. But she was given the all-clear for another six months of assuming she is cancer free. Cancer, you jerk. Haven't you had about enough fun with our family by now? Wasn't it enough to take Bobby's thirty two year old mom, not to mention a twenty nine year old pregnant woman, a forty eight year old mom, a sixty seven year old grandpa? You had to mess with grandma Sandi and little Daniel as well? Are you about done yet? 

I took full advantage of having an adultier adult around last night to go out for my first girls night out without a baby since...I believe early December of 2014, when Marci and I drove an hour to Garden City for a movie and left Daniel with his dad. Once I adjusted to the odd "something's missing" feeling that is the rare absence of children, I promptly forgot all about them and had a fine time. 

And now I sit here watching Alex sleeping in his swing while Daniel and his dad are outside driving firetrucks and lighting sparklers. Daniel had his first experience with fireworks the other night thanks to grandpa. We wouldnt let grandpa light any loud ones out of respect to the neighbors, but sparklers, ground blooms and smoke bombs were just Daniel's speed. He was fairly mesmerized, when he wasn't hurrying away squealing, "uh-ohhh! Uh-ohhh!". That's not the face of a budding pyromaniac at all...

Bobby keeps limping along job-wise. It sounds like he has the option to work, as long as he is willing to haul over the road. And now he is doing some temporary oilfield hauling up in Wyoming. We are still searching for work, but still hesitant to just jump into another stop-gap oilfield or trucking job. The irony is, all of the trucking companies in the area are still hiring. All have big "Now hiring!!" signs. Even Bobby's company is hiring, constantly needing to fill the seats left vacant by the guys who got tired of waiting for work and quit, lest butts in seats are suddenly needed. They hire drivers who sit until they quit, then they hire more who sit until they quit, and so on, just to have drivers ready to go at a moment's notice, hungry and willing to work. 

And when Daniel's cheer runs out, baby Alex is the cheer in our lives, his hundred-watt toothless smile lighting up the room, his coos and almost-giggles eliciting like responses from whoever is holding him. There was a time, not so long ago, when I was terrified I would not feel for him what I felt for my first baby. I have to say, it has been different. I am probably getting more sheer, unhindered delight out of my budding relationship with Alex than I did with Daniel, because my relationship with Daniel was part terror that something might happen to him, fear I wasn't being a good parent, the overwhelming responsibility of doing all the right things to carefully mold a secure, happy young human. Alex was thrown directly into the chaos that was our existing lives without the luxury of time to dwell on such things. Even his birth ended up being indicative of how things have gone since. I was so exhausted after several week of intvervals of non-progressing labor that by the time my induction was scheduled, I was ready and psyched to just get induced already. I was prepared for another drug-free labor.  I felt strong and ready and well-rested after an oddly quiet night, contraction-wise. Then my induction was rescheduled for the next day because the hospital got busy, and that whole day I was literally in labor again, and that whole night I sat awake on the living room floor, puffing and rocking through intense contractions. By my 7am appointment I was exhausted, nervous, and had zero tolerance for more pain and every other inconvenience. So I gave it a half-hearted shot, induction without drugs, and soon, hanging from the ceiling tiles with contractions unlike anything I had felt before, wickedly stabbing, diabolical daggers that did not let up before the next one hit, I managed to gasp that I was ready and willing for drugs. And then settled into my new normal, deciding right then and there I would never second guess myself or tell myself I could have done it differently, and enjoyed what I got in return- not being out of my mind when he emerged a mere fifteen minutes later from my sort-of numb body. And then, enjoying my new resolution to stop second guesng myself, did what came naturally instead of what was proper and expected- tandem nursed him and his brother a short while later, slept with him in my bed instead of the basinet, brought him home, threw him in the wrap on my chest, and carried on with my life. Somewhere in there, just bobbing along through a fairly overwhelming new situation, we must have bonded. I know it wasn't immediate. It might not have even been in his first two weeks. But then his cheeks began to fill out, his eyes became bright and intelligent, and I realized he was a real tiny human instead of just movement inside me, or a red, wrinkled, froglike creature who was completely dependant on me. Now I am in love. Literally head over heals. Maybe some mamas feel this way immediately, but maybe the most honest ones can say it actually did take awhile. Or that they thought they loved them as much as possible when they were born, but their love grew by leaps and bounds as their babies grew.