Slaying the Sleepless Monster

That was nice of you all who knew better not to tell me so that the whole "she's teething" theory is pretty much bunk. No no, really, I can appreciate a learning curve when it rises before me, with my ignorance looming almost as tall.

To no surprise to you of course, the teething tablets did nothing for Quinn's restlessness. Before packing up my various baby books I flipped through to see what they said about the joys of teething. All four said it was blamed for more than is reasonable. In fact, early in the 20th Century, a new tooth used to be charged as the villain for a child's (otherwise unexplained) death. Instead, all that can be attributed to a baby's pearly whites is some minor pain lasting only a few days.

This revelation made me wonder if I had unwittingly been roped into the soothe-the-bebe game this whole time. So I tried not responding immediately when Quinn started to cry in the middle of the night. If it continued for more than ten minutes, I resolved to only give her the nukie (pacifier) back, instead of a fresh bottle of milk.

Just as the teething tablets had failed, this too bombed. The decibel of her cry negated the need for a monitor in my room, and the nukie didn't last more than a second after I plugged it in her mouth. Dazed, I concluded she really was hungry so I resumed the pattern of giving her a bottle, until she fell asleep and I could wander back to my slumber.

As of last night, my latest theory was that Quinn wasn't eating enough during the day, so if I worked harder at stuffing her gut she wouldn't wake up hungry. So, I made sure she ate and drank plenty. All went well... until she went to bed. Figuring I was being played by her inherent baby games, I resisted coddling her after I put her to bed; only returning to give her the nukie and to keep her from scratching off her ears and pulling out her hair (this has become another nightly ritual).

Over an hour, Quinn's cries seemed only to escalate. When I finally picked her up she stopped crying only long enough spew her dinner of avacado, rice cereal, and breastmilk all over herself, the floor, her bed, and me. Copious amounts of puke... Yum. (And thank you Dad for being the clean-up crew!)

Of course, at the sight of this I was pretty sure I won the "Crappiest Mother" award for a failed attempt to steal some sleep by engorging the little girl. Quinn got over it as soon as I plopped her in the tub, refilled her belly, and deposited her back into a clean bed. That was until she woke up multiple times throughout the night, again.

Today a stroke of sanity came my way.

One of the NICU nurses, Angelia, had talked Tiffany and me into getting a book on getting a baby to sleep. I hadn't read much of it since Quinn was a few months old, at which time the ongoing mantra is "You can never spoil a baby." So, I thought I was safe until she was a bit heftier and clearly getting spoiled.

Fat sleeves and all, it didn't seem like Quinn was bulky enough to ignore her cries for food in the middle of the night. And, considering she'd polish off a couple of bottles between 10pm and 5am, I thought it was safe to conclude she really needed those calories.

Apparently, I'd been had.

All I've been doing is perpetuating her and my on-going lack of sleep. By going into her room, giving her a nukie, or uttering utter nonsense to her is enough positive feedback to get her hooked.

Try it yourself sometime. It's hard not to want to soothe a baby and stop the madness of her cries. Evolution-wise, a baby's cries are supposed to remind us not to leave the helpless being outside the cave, at to feel like the sound alone could burst apart every fiber of our body.

Maybe the most evolved of all of us, my Dad has been the biggest pushover when it comes to any baby crying. Apparently, I was notorious for doing the same thing well into my toddler years (and all this time they have been blaming ME when it was really their reinforcement that kept it going so long!).

The few times I'd tried to let Quinn "cry it out," I'd click on the monitor's video only to see she had stopped crying because my Dad had scooped her up and was cooing her to more subtle sounds. Out of her bedroom she would come with a victorious smile, and I'd wonder if she started to prefer him over old-slow-to-respond Mom.

Not to mention -- back in the hospital, it was thrilling to imagine the normalcy of being sleep-deprived and having to feed and comfort her at home. Although I've complained now and then, it really hasn't been a big deal -- except I'm slightly less sane as the sleepless nights pile up.

As of today, no more soothing. Not by me, grandpa, or even the animals who after enough crying will flock to see what is amiss.

My parents read the parts of the book that seem to speak right to us and little Miss Quinn. Considering it is Thanksgiving week, it seems appropriate we go cold-turkey.

So Quinn's sticky fist doesn't rule all hours of the day any more. Her hours of operation have been cutback to the day-shift only, excluding naps.

From now on, she will be sleeping through the night, and so will I. I can hardly wait!

Goodnight to all,
The Hoodwinked Mommy & Bamboozling Baby

Gnawed Off Shotgun

This kid is ready for center stage. She is not only a handful, she is a handful of ham (as Jack put it).

The other day, she showed off to him by climbing up the entire staircase while he watched online. Today, she bounced around and squealed while stuffing fist-fulls of rice krispies in her beak.

I try to help by dressing her as a girly girl with a barrette one day, and then a punk rocker the next. That way, she can experience the gamut and be good at all of it. And then I will introduce her to my wig collection, and all will be holy and complete!

Tonight though, I'm hoping she takes an intermission from practicing for her Broadway solo by belting out the lyrics to her incessant teething pains.

Some sentient being creating chamomile tablets made for such a situation. After dissolving and then rubbing some on her gums I am told it should work to allow her to sleep without pain. Or maybe it just transfers the pain directly to my fingers since she nearly gnawed them off... Ouch! We shall see soon enough.

In case you were wondering, the gas tank boobytrap is still set... Once I do catch the siphoning simpleton, I will definitely let him/her get gummed to a pulp by the every chewing Miss Q!



Off to dreams of chamomile sans tea,
Not-a-Morning-Mama J & Broadway Que'd

Siphoning Sleep

For the past couple of months, I've been convinced somone is siphoning gas from my parents' cars.

At first they thought I was imagining things, then they started "imagining" them too when they noticed the needle on their tank drop suddenly after being out of town for a week. Sure, if I were back in high school I'd be the likely culprit of having burned off their fuel. But these days, my car is way more fun to drive, so they know it isn't me.

Similarly, as Quinn's teeth continue to make their debut, they are siphoning all the energy and sleep from my life.

I've again been reduced to someone who attaches only one of the bottles to collect milk while I pump, only to -- again -- have milk running all down my front and all over my parents' floors. (It's no wonder then why the neighbor's cat has been breaking into the house lately.) The other day I did something so inane I promised to forget it for fear of losing respect for myself... Fortunately, my memory is a little shaky too now.

The last several nights we are up at 45 minute intervals beginning around midnight... I imagine this is a bit what waterboarding feels like as we the sound of Quinn's screams feels like a deluge of noise that is going to drown out any hope of mine for a pleasurable night's sleep.

Good thing is that (so far) her distress over her incoming pearly-whites is limited to the night, so we spend our days bouncing about merrily merrily merrily merrily -- as if life is but a dream (since we don't know what dreaming is any more).

One of these nights I should get some entertainment for the night, if not sleep, and instead stay up to watch the jerk siphoning gas stumble into the pranks and Rube Goldberg trap I've set up to scare him. That would be a video worth posting!

Ahhh, but always the optimist, I'm heading off to bed in hopes of catching some zzz's instead of some thieves...

May you have a most restful slumber,
One Pooped Parent and the Soon-to-be Fanged MQ

Rants With Few Raves

Eleven months down, one to go. There is so much yet to do (so much still to sew!). And even as the timeline of Jack's deployment dwindles, I'm not ready to count my blessings.

It should be really interesting to see how Quinn reacts to him in 3-D; a bit hard to imagine really considering how she fawns over the many forms his 2-Dimensional Self takes online and around the house. Equally as interesting will be how he takes to her toothy grin, as well as the torture her new tusks cost her…

In many ways it feels as if time has done laps around me and it can’t possibly have been an entire year that we’ve been apart. And yet, I can’t remember a time where I wasn’t a Mom; it's as if that was a lifetime ago. Not to be Vanna Vanity girl, but of course there are moments where I worry about how much more real estate Jack will find in my back pocket since my body gave forth to another life. Or how many more wrinkles I’ve accrued due to the sleepless schedule of parenthood.

As if to reassure me that I’m not the only human in the room, Jack has his moments too. Obsessing for a moment about something other than the armed men in the mountains, he tells me how “flabby” and “out of shape” he is… which is just as ridiculous of a concern to my ears as mine are to him. All I want is for him to come back alive, healthy, sane and happy. That’s reasonable isn’t it?

Honestly, it's been a tough time. As it is for all of those out of reach from the people they love… particularly when that loved one is in harm’s way. It’s no fun. When a bad phone calls come (the worst news doesn’t come in a call, but by car), it puts life in perspective.

Thoughts like “Is the expansion of my ass inversely connected to my memory’s constricting capacity?!?” don’t exist. The only thought that does is that someone’s life just changed in an instant, from one breath to the next, and how really painful that news is for them, and would be for me. Each of us can only hope to eke through this time without any serious wounds or damage, and every last day counts.

My friend Jill is in the same boat. It’s been entertaining to hear someone else put words to the feelings and frustrations of military life. We rant, and sometimes rave, but mostly rant. Having been in the high brow branch of military herself (the Air Force, of course), Jill isn't exactly a fan of the Army.

Recently though, her husband talked her down from "hating" it outright, but I think it’s safe to say she won’t be calling the Army her BFF (best friend forever) anytime soon. At least it is through the Army we have countless friends who can relate, and help buffer the headlines that can make for the most anxious of days...

Before I start counting days, I’m counting the many boxes I need to pack and miles Quinn and I need to travel to welcome Jack home… Once he is, I'll be counting all my blessings, that's for sure.

Still Suspended in Time,
J & Miss Quinn

A Quick Ascent

Quinn's metamorphosis if taking shape so fast, it's hard to keep up on what all has happened in a matter of days.

While I have been busy being domestic -- sewing all sorts of sundries including my first quilt, Quinn has been busy getting ready to rule the world. Seriously, she virtually already runs this house (albeit with a soft and often sticky fist).

In the past week she has sprouted a tooth, and as of today a second one is starting to pop through! It didn't seem like she'd have teeth anytime soon by reading her demeanor, but that too has taken shape in fits of fussiness as she expresses the discomforts of growing up.

Here I am impressed that I too could make a rather ugly quilt (which, technically isn't entirely complete, but nonetheless complete in its ugliness), and not only does she bring ivory to her gemlike face... Today, she had to show off just a bit more.

Watching her out of the corner of my eye while I read the paper and she scrambled about the living room, I couldn't believe it as I saw her lift her leg and (no, not pee like the dog, she doesn't copy them THAT much)... She climbed onto a stair. And then another. And then again! Like it was nothing. So amazing.

Just yesterday, she wasn't even trying to lift a leg, she was just heaving her torso onto the stair and trying to will her legs up as well. Today, she looked like she had done it a hundred times before.

So cool, and yet, so not cool. More barriers to come to the Bleiker House... Someday, not too long from now, my parents might have the freedom to roam their own house again sans swimming pool and other baby boobytraps. We shall see.


Love from the hurdling girls,
The So-Sew-ing Mom and Her Lil Mountain Goat

How to get a Screaming Headache

The canine police brought Millie back today.

Turns out ol' girl was having a romp on the highway. Kamikaze! Not sure what I did to push her to that, but lucky thing it wasn't the last of her dog days.

The puppy police officer was super nice, and was even more so when I explained the UPS guy must have let her out, since it was clear I didn't kick her to the curb myself, and there's no way a little glucosamine would make her able to do a high jump over the fence.

She was pretty spry though when she came back. Putting the other two knuckleheads in line, and then prancing through their water dish... Whatever that means in dog terms. (Think I'd be able to decipher for myself if she'd just peed in it.)

So the cacophony of crazy dogs is back at full decibel this afternoon. As loud as these three can be -- hooting, yowling, and woofing at other passing dogs -- it wasn't anything compared to Quinn's deafening blare at the doctor's office this morning.



In for her 9 month check up (she's been on terra firma now longer than she was in the belly!). Seemed a bit less than I'd expected as she weighed in at 15lbs 4oz, and 26 inches long; but the doctor was pleased with her growing girth. He remembered that we would be moving soon, and appeared a little disappointed to be losing Miss Q as his patient.

Whatever regret he had she quickly cured as she hollered and screamed bloody murder before he even touched her toes. Uncharacteristic of past visits, she shrieked, screeched and wailed the whole time he was there; I'm quite sure it cured him of being sorry to see us go. He quipped that it was greetings like hers that made some people go into dermatology instead of pediatrics.

With the headache like I'd been at a rock concert, Quinn and I made it into a better day by running errands, hitting the fun found at my favorite farmers' market in downtown, and coming back home to chow down before she hit the hay, which she got an early start on while still in her carseat.



A full if not entirely fun day all in all...

Achy J & Screaming Quinn

Breaking Up

I'm such a hoot as a house-sitter, the dog ran away.

It's so awful to say, but at least it wasn't my dog. That might have finished off my ego for good.

One of my parents' dogs (the old broad, Millie) has been known to flee on occasion (although these days it's at an arthritic pace). What she finds more alluring is a curious question since other neighborhood dogs try to break into our yard.

Brings to mind others (than dogs) who have run right out of my life... Yeah, it's a sore spot that I can't seem to leave alone.

I'll go all the way back to kindergarten and chastise myself for not: being more sensitive to the kid "Tyler" in our class who would cry on a whim, more artistic with finger-painting, having a serious crush on anything sweet, being the tallest -- and later -- the shortest, continuing to excel in math, becoming an professional athlete (then for thinking I even have the right to dream that was a possibility), having oodles of hidden talents, being good at telling jokes, forgetting about boys and focusing on myself, having a clue about the ins and outs of baseball statistics, getting the most out of college, reading so much into it when a friendship shifted, catching that typo, running off to Canada more often, thinking I was cool or smart enough to work on bikes, becoming something other than what I really am...

...It's an endless list really. Not enough words in cyberspace to fill all the blanks.

And then Jack's Aunt Sooz's voice enters my mind. She recently took over my own voice of Doubt, not to amplify it but to kick it squarely in the arse. Last week she gave me a talking to about all my self-deprecation, which for good reason sounds a lot like defecation...

Nothing has been able to break up Me-n-Doubt so far; it's a love affair I just can't seem to end. Yet, she said the only words that might bring me to my senses: I'll screw up Quinn if I can't get over all my failings and fallibility, and simply forgive myself for being rather imperfect.

Well, not only does that sound like a fabulous reason to leave Doubt in the dust, it actually might work! And, it has the potential to be so liberating. That is, if only I weren't so...

Really though, I look at Quinn and she doesn't have that kind of thinking (yet, and hopefully not ever). She doesn't look around and say "I wish I were the kind of baby that only poos my pants three instead of four times a day? Ugh!" Or "Why can't I be like that kid?! He has such a big and bulky head... And mine? It's so puny and proportioned. Hmph!"

She just lives. With such intensity and focus, there's no energy left to look forward or backward.

No less ridiculous is all the self-hating self-doubting most of us engage in; what a grand waste of time, and of life. So, I'm breaking up with Self-Doubt.

Besides, a friend in college once criticized me for being too much like my homeland of Switzerland and never taking a position on anything... Whereas others have found me too vocal of my views. Apparently, people will find a reason not to like me, or you, or any of us (except Quinn of course!).

So, instead of screwing up my kid, I say "screw it!" I'm going to enjoy being imperfectly me. Sure I'll try to evolve and stave off entropy, but I'm kicking Doubt to the curb, and making room for Self-Worth to be my next sidekick.



Now all I need is a great breakup song... and the dog to come home.

Still Short but Smiling,
Mama Murphy & Super Q