If only I had time to breathe, or I wasn't raised to be so square, or there was room for anything in the fridge other than frigging breastmilk, maybe then I would drink.
This week, I probably should be drinking, and not just because it's Mother's Day and Moms should get plastered and do every sinful thing they've had a hankering to do all year but abstained while try (or feigning) to be better than themselves as the next generation's role models.
No, I should drink because Quinn has done so little all week, and has filled her belly with cries instead of food. A theme we all are growing a little tired of. (Yes, I did just end a sentence with a preposition -- let the sinning begin!)
It started with a visit to her doctor for a weight check after all those digestive diagnostics, and a pneumonia vaccine. The vomiting was the issue up until that point; she would eat a mere two ounces at best and then hurl at least half of it back up. Having worked in a pediatric malnutrition clinic in Boston, I was terrified she was going to starve and fail to grow.
So I cheated. A lottabit.
To cram the calories into what food she was digesting, I made my own recipe of mother's milk and formula. What little she did digest, had to help her thrive. And thrive she did! In the three weeks since the doctor last seen her, Quinn's weight skyrocketed from 8.5lbs to over 9.5! That's phenomenal and, really, unnatural growth.
Without an explanation, it looked like she'd been hanging with Manny Ramirez and taking baby 'roids.
Once I confessed about my concoction, the doctor explained how unhealthy that would be over the long-term for her kidneys. Great, I just broke the kid again. He wasn't too worried -- yet -- but I promised not to continue fattening her up like veal.
Oddly enough, since that appointment, Quinn she hasn't vomited even once! Which, don't get me wrong, I am thrilled about. However, she replaced the vomiting with something akin to baby anorexia as she'll only take a few sips of milk (or formula) before hollering her head off for the next twenty minutes.
Mix in some constipation (who thought I'd miss her target practice with explosive diarrhea?!), and stepping in some dog vomit at crack of dark this morning and you have the makings of a perfect Mother's Day cocktail.
Cheers!
Mimosa Mama & the Butterball
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
A Panoramic View
My apologies for being so delinquent in keeping this blog current. Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking it takes more than a matter of minutes to give a glimpse of what is happening here.
Thankfully, Quinn's diagnostic tests came back without any indication that she has an abnormality, aortic block, or another obvious problem. Believe it or not, she is perfectly healthy! It didn't register what a stress the notion that she might need surgery or anything invasive was until I heard that good news. If the hospital had a bar, I would have ordered drinks for everyone... maybe a few!
Of course, the flip side of that delightful news is that neither I, nor the doctor, have any idea why she can eat a third of what she was when we left the NICU, and half of the time she vomits that mere amount back up. Until Quinn grows out of it I will be knocking myself out trying to discover the perfect formula of formula, mother's milk, amount and frequency to keep her growing like seaweed.
Today, her full-cheeks and chubby legs weigh in at 8.5lbs... Amazing growth over the three months since her birth-weight of 3lbs 14oz. People comment that she must be a newborn, but to my untrained eye she looks like a moose.
The ink black hair Quinn got from her Dad has turned a nutty reddish brown. Her eyes remain that indistinct grey that babies are said to have; at times I see streaks and shadows of brown, but at other times a rich blue looks back at me.
Every morning my parents kindly ask how much sleep I got during the night. More often than not, I am still in my robe, looking utterly discombobulated, without much recall from the night before. Sleep is a sweet memory, but I can't say I miss it all that much. Quinn gets all the rest she wants, and is quite peaceful -- at least when she isn't puking.
In all honesty, it doesn't matter in the least how much or little sleep I may be getting. The light of my day comes from Quinn's chirps and chortles, and the long gazes she bestows upon me as if I am worthy to be watched. And the gravity that keeps my feet planted to the floor is the call or email from Jack assuring me that he is alive and well.
Some insight into a "bad" day for Jack and other soldiers in combat zones brings my gripes to a quick halt and leaves my tongue lax. A "rough" day for them reverberates to the other side of the globe into a rippling wave of devastation for family and friends. This panorama of pain puts it all in perspective, and I chide myself for ever momentarily forgetting that.
Sending our love and my appreciation to those near and far,
Mama Murphy & Miss Q
Thankfully, Quinn's diagnostic tests came back without any indication that she has an abnormality, aortic block, or another obvious problem. Believe it or not, she is perfectly healthy! It didn't register what a stress the notion that she might need surgery or anything invasive was until I heard that good news. If the hospital had a bar, I would have ordered drinks for everyone... maybe a few!
Of course, the flip side of that delightful news is that neither I, nor the doctor, have any idea why she can eat a third of what she was when we left the NICU, and half of the time she vomits that mere amount back up. Until Quinn grows out of it I will be knocking myself out trying to discover the perfect formula of formula, mother's milk, amount and frequency to keep her growing like seaweed.
Today, her full-cheeks and chubby legs weigh in at 8.5lbs... Amazing growth over the three months since her birth-weight of 3lbs 14oz. People comment that she must be a newborn, but to my untrained eye she looks like a moose.
The ink black hair Quinn got from her Dad has turned a nutty reddish brown. Her eyes remain that indistinct grey that babies are said to have; at times I see streaks and shadows of brown, but at other times a rich blue looks back at me.
Every morning my parents kindly ask how much sleep I got during the night. More often than not, I am still in my robe, looking utterly discombobulated, without much recall from the night before. Sleep is a sweet memory, but I can't say I miss it all that much. Quinn gets all the rest she wants, and is quite peaceful -- at least when she isn't puking.
In all honesty, it doesn't matter in the least how much or little sleep I may be getting. The light of my day comes from Quinn's chirps and chortles, and the long gazes she bestows upon me as if I am worthy to be watched. And the gravity that keeps my feet planted to the floor is the call or email from Jack assuring me that he is alive and well.
Some insight into a "bad" day for Jack and other soldiers in combat zones brings my gripes to a quick halt and leaves my tongue lax. A "rough" day for them reverberates to the other side of the globe into a rippling wave of devastation for family and friends. This panorama of pain puts it all in perspective, and I chide myself for ever momentarily forgetting that.
Sending our love and my appreciation to those near and far,
Mama Murphy & Miss Q
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Make that +1
Apparently there isn't a true consensus on the number of organs in the human body. The balance teeters on what defines each piece and parcel.
Whatever the number is, I've discovered it's +1 once you become a parental-figure to a single petite edition of our species.
Back in Salt Lake City, five days after Quinn surprised us with her choice to be a Utah native, I caught myself clinching my chest as I galloped down the stairs to get to the hospital in time to just maybe touch her for an extra moment while changing her diaper. Even though I packed on the pudge during pregnancy, I had stayed relatively fit, yet the pain in my chest felt like something serious.
On the drive up to the hospital, a game of delayed rationalization consumed my thoughts: "If I still feel the pain by the time I reach that third set of lights, then I'll think about mentioning it to someone else.... Ok, it still hurts, maybe worse. Um, alright... Maybe I'm still acclimating to the altitude, so if I hold my breathe maybe my lungs will relax..." None of my tricks worked; all pointed to something potentially grim. So I folded my cards and went down two floors to the ER to get checked out.
At the time, the concern was that I might be having a pulmonary embolism, which is something akin to having death on call-waiting.
The doctors hammered this home when I suddenly reneged having an MRI after learning I'd have to toss out what milk I produced for several days afterward because of the radiation involved. Since I was still producing the liquid gold "colostrum," and not much at that, there wasn't a chance I'd throw it out rather than feed my little girl, since that is all she was being fed. (You knew it had to come back to that darn breastmilk, didn't you!?! Surely a new postulate in algebra can be boiled down to: Breastmilk = Root of all evil for J).
Long story short -- the doctors made me sign a stack of forms, including one that was handwritten, all of which stated that if I croaked the moment I left the ER it was all my own doing having been so thoroughly warned.
Admittedly, it was monumentally dumb to risk my life in exchange for some breastmilk. I realized that then, and now, with all the troubles it's given Quinn, I feel of notable stupidity.
Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that the pain that radiated throughout my chest wasn't caused by anything physical so much as by the yanking of the strings and threads on my heart pulled like a puppet by the well-being of our little girl.
That's when I became attuned to this new organ.
Whether a kid finds shelter behind your own cage of ribs, or if that kid comes to you by a means other than birth, that organ hatches before that baby ever touches your arms. Tentacles from this new organ replace the severed umbilical cord, and trump it in reach and strength.
They reach back into past moments of anguish, as well as into future pangs over the child's first skinned knee, her first undeserved affront, or her heart's first break... And they extend through generations, as grandparents feel old pains all anew.
That gripping chest pain returned to me moments after we thought Quinn might have NEC. The lingering guilt for my foolish disregard of the doctors' concerns finally vindicated and assuaged, was quickly replaced with trepidation that this pain might have fostered permanent roots in my heart.
Today, a tinge of that pain resurfaces as Quinn will undergo an ultrasound, and possibly a Barium swallow, to see if her digestive problems are more than an intolerance for mother's milk. She doesn't get much, but some breastmilk every day to infuse her with those properties no man or manufacturing can ever replicate. Still, she is not able to stomach much of anything in terms of volume -- without promptly returning it -- and continues to writhe and thrash from deep discomfort with what her stomach keeps.
We are hopeful that the outcome quickly puts both her belly, and our hearts to rest.
All the belly and the best from,
the Murphy Tribe
Whatever the number is, I've discovered it's +1 once you become a parental-figure to a single petite edition of our species.
Back in Salt Lake City, five days after Quinn surprised us with her choice to be a Utah native, I caught myself clinching my chest as I galloped down the stairs to get to the hospital in time to just maybe touch her for an extra moment while changing her diaper. Even though I packed on the pudge during pregnancy, I had stayed relatively fit, yet the pain in my chest felt like something serious.
On the drive up to the hospital, a game of delayed rationalization consumed my thoughts: "If I still feel the pain by the time I reach that third set of lights, then I'll think about mentioning it to someone else.... Ok, it still hurts, maybe worse. Um, alright... Maybe I'm still acclimating to the altitude, so if I hold my breathe maybe my lungs will relax..." None of my tricks worked; all pointed to something potentially grim. So I folded my cards and went down two floors to the ER to get checked out.
At the time, the concern was that I might be having a pulmonary embolism, which is something akin to having death on call-waiting.
The doctors hammered this home when I suddenly reneged having an MRI after learning I'd have to toss out what milk I produced for several days afterward because of the radiation involved. Since I was still producing the liquid gold "colostrum," and not much at that, there wasn't a chance I'd throw it out rather than feed my little girl, since that is all she was being fed. (You knew it had to come back to that darn breastmilk, didn't you!?! Surely a new postulate in algebra can be boiled down to: Breastmilk = Root of all evil for J).
Long story short -- the doctors made me sign a stack of forms, including one that was handwritten, all of which stated that if I croaked the moment I left the ER it was all my own doing having been so thoroughly warned.
Admittedly, it was monumentally dumb to risk my life in exchange for some breastmilk. I realized that then, and now, with all the troubles it's given Quinn, I feel of notable stupidity.
Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that the pain that radiated throughout my chest wasn't caused by anything physical so much as by the yanking of the strings and threads on my heart pulled like a puppet by the well-being of our little girl.
That's when I became attuned to this new organ.
Whether a kid finds shelter behind your own cage of ribs, or if that kid comes to you by a means other than birth, that organ hatches before that baby ever touches your arms. Tentacles from this new organ replace the severed umbilical cord, and trump it in reach and strength.
They reach back into past moments of anguish, as well as into future pangs over the child's first skinned knee, her first undeserved affront, or her heart's first break... And they extend through generations, as grandparents feel old pains all anew.
That gripping chest pain returned to me moments after we thought Quinn might have NEC. The lingering guilt for my foolish disregard of the doctors' concerns finally vindicated and assuaged, was quickly replaced with trepidation that this pain might have fostered permanent roots in my heart.
Today, a tinge of that pain resurfaces as Quinn will undergo an ultrasound, and possibly a Barium swallow, to see if her digestive problems are more than an intolerance for mother's milk. She doesn't get much, but some breastmilk every day to infuse her with those properties no man or manufacturing can ever replicate. Still, she is not able to stomach much of anything in terms of volume -- without promptly returning it -- and continues to writhe and thrash from deep discomfort with what her stomach keeps.
We are hopeful that the outcome quickly puts both her belly, and our hearts to rest.
All the belly and the best from,
the Murphy Tribe
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Hold the Milk, Please!
True to form, as a California girl, I gave the whole radical nuts-and-berries diet a try.
Not really to live up to our new state's reputation (if that's what I was after, I'd go the route of smoking dope and staring at the surf all day). No, actually, it was my latest attempt at pinpointing what was causing Quinn's continued digestive disruptions when fed mother's milk.
Thankfully, she hadn't had another bout of bloody stool, but clearly wasn't tolerating breastmilk like most babies could. (This puts her in Darwin's reject pile for the second, and hopefully, last time.)
After soliciting the advice of pediatricians near and far (particularly one I used to work for at a pediatric malnutrition clinic in Boston), it seemed worth a more aggressive approach. So I stopped eating all animal products (meat/dairy), wheat, soy, peanuts, and still -- no chocolate. Gulp!
The thought was that after a few weeks my body would clear all of those potential allergens and Quinn could drink my milk without an issue. At which point, I could slowly reintroduce each as an edible item for me, and see if it caused a reaction in her.
Of course, this is where Quinn played her lotto number proving to be the one-in-a-million kid who, at a certain threshold, is allergic to her own mother's milk. Her body didn't seem to notice a difference, and so the experiment ended shortly after it began.
Being that Jack is the super-sized version of our kid, I should have just tested my milk out on him to see if he got gassy or had explosive and bloody diarrhea.
Better still, would have been if he found it to be an undiscovered hallucinogen that we could market and prosper from seeing as I have purchased and filled a deep-freezer with the stupid stuff.
Maybe I would have taken it as a sign that it just isn't stellar stuff if -- hypothetically -- I were to put a bowl of it out for our dog and if he -- hypothetically -- turned his nose up at it, and instead hunted for a treat from the catbox that suspiciously looked like an almond roca.
Hmmm . . . If only the above scenario were true might I take advantage of my parents' absence and feed my mephitic milk to their dogs, both of whom could benefit from something mildly --or even better -- potently toxic.
Maybe the bottom line is , I will have to accept that no one should be forced to drink my breastmilk . . . regardless of how unappreciated and forsaken my milk ducts would feel.
More scheming (if not milk!) to come from,
the Milkless Murphys
Not really to live up to our new state's reputation (if that's what I was after, I'd go the route of smoking dope and staring at the surf all day). No, actually, it was my latest attempt at pinpointing what was causing Quinn's continued digestive disruptions when fed mother's milk.
Thankfully, she hadn't had another bout of bloody stool, but clearly wasn't tolerating breastmilk like most babies could. (This puts her in Darwin's reject pile for the second, and hopefully, last time.)
After soliciting the advice of pediatricians near and far (particularly one I used to work for at a pediatric malnutrition clinic in Boston), it seemed worth a more aggressive approach. So I stopped eating all animal products (meat/dairy), wheat, soy, peanuts, and still -- no chocolate. Gulp!
The thought was that after a few weeks my body would clear all of those potential allergens and Quinn could drink my milk without an issue. At which point, I could slowly reintroduce each as an edible item for me, and see if it caused a reaction in her.
Of course, this is where Quinn played her lotto number proving to be the one-in-a-million kid who, at a certain threshold, is allergic to her own mother's milk. Her body didn't seem to notice a difference, and so the experiment ended shortly after it began.
Being that Jack is the super-sized version of our kid, I should have just tested my milk out on him to see if he got gassy or had explosive and bloody diarrhea.
Better still, would have been if he found it to be an undiscovered hallucinogen that we could market and prosper from seeing as I have purchased and filled a deep-freezer with the stupid stuff.
Maybe I would have taken it as a sign that it just isn't stellar stuff if -- hypothetically -- I were to put a bowl of it out for our dog and if he -- hypothetically -- turned his nose up at it, and instead hunted for a treat from the catbox that suspiciously looked like an almond roca.
Hmmm . . . If only the above scenario were true might I take advantage of my parents' absence and feed my mephitic milk to their dogs, both of whom could benefit from something mildly --or even better -- potently toxic.
Maybe the bottom line is , I will have to accept that no one should be forced to drink my breastmilk . . . regardless of how unappreciated and forsaken my milk ducts would feel.
More scheming (if not milk!) to come from,
the Milkless Murphys
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Vacuity Apres Vacation
It's been two weeks since Jack returned from Afghanistan to meet our little creation. In so many ways it feels like he just arrived, and on the other side of that feeling, I could swear he never missed a moment with her.
But early yesterday, the Army reclaimed their possession and set Jack back on his way to war.
Watching his plane disappear into the sky was so surreal. Along with my husband, my heart hopped on board and left for the next eight months. Squinting into the sky, I watched the jet become so small I could swat it with my hand. The audacity that his hand had just been in mine, but was now whisked away between the clouds made me question for a moment if he had been here at all.
But early yesterday, the Army reclaimed their possession and set Jack back on his way to war.
Watching his plane disappear into the sky was so surreal. Along with my husband, my heart hopped on board and left for the next eight months. Squinting into the sky, I watched the jet become so small I could swat it with my hand. The audacity that his hand had just been in mine, but was now whisked away between the clouds made me question for a moment if he had been here at all.
Having adjusted to a long-distance existence, it took me several days to get used to having Jack under foot. Yet once I did, I knew it would be jarring to have him leave yet again.
Quinn on the other hand melted right into his arms. She wasn't afraid nor did she grown tired of him. Even today she spent long lulls in her eating/pooping/sleeping cycle to gaze at his picture.
Last night Quinn's serenity eluded her. She spent several hours fussing and crying, completely inconsolable despite my and my parents' efforts to soothe her. As unlikely as it may be, I can't help but wonder if Quinn sensed Jack's absence and vocalized her own protest to the Army's agenda... It seems possible because my experience for the first few days after he departs is that the void he leaves reverberates all around like a deafening echo, perhaps one that even she could sense.
But then I smile and chuckle, since Quinn is probably only befuddled as to where her Daddy went with her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her paddle feet, and stylish hairdo -- and when she'll be getting them back. "Yeah?!?"
Love and eventually more laughter from --
A Somber Mama & Her Contemplative Kid
Quinn on the other hand melted right into his arms. She wasn't afraid nor did she grown tired of him. Even today she spent long lulls in her eating/pooping/sleeping cycle to gaze at his picture.
Last night Quinn's serenity eluded her. She spent several hours fussing and crying, completely inconsolable despite my and my parents' efforts to soothe her. As unlikely as it may be, I can't help but wonder if Quinn sensed Jack's absence and vocalized her own protest to the Army's agenda... It seems possible because my experience for the first few days after he departs is that the void he leaves reverberates all around like a deafening echo, perhaps one that even she could sense.
But then I smile and chuckle, since Quinn is probably only befuddled as to where her Daddy went with her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her paddle feet, and stylish hairdo -- and when she'll be getting them back. "Yeah?!?"
Love and eventually more laughter from --
A Somber Mama & Her Contemplative Kid
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Mastery of Motherhood
Before Jack has even had a chance to see her, I nearly broke the baby.
After a sleepless night filled with the fun effects of baby acid reflux, I pulled Quinn out of her crib and onto my chest so she might sleep for an hour before I had to wake up.
When the phone rang just after dawn, I smiled knowing it was Jack calling with his latest coordinates as he journeys back for his two-week break from war. While trying not to stir Quinn, I slowly slid out of my bed and lumbered towards the phone.
The next few seconds play painfully slowly in my mind. . .
As bizarre as it sounds, it wasn't until I was standing that it became apparent that not just one, but both of my legs were completely asleep and not under my control.
This kind of freakish thing should only happen in a dream where I'm embodying various physical realities -- a winged creature that soars in and out of scenes, or an Olympic high-jumper who pivots about different planets defying the precepts of physics.
Just as my body gave way to gravity, it became clear my dreams had concluded and I was in a waking nightmare.
As if watching a frame by frame replay of the Twin Towers collapsing, I saw the room pass my eyes as my legs crumpled, and the weight of my body toppled to the floor. Arms wrapped around Quinn, I held her tightly until I hit the floor. The force with which I and the ground met propelled Quinn right out of my arms.
Her body a mere object of physics, Quinn was launched into the air and then -- to my absolute horror -- she bounced upon the wooden floor.
People joke that kids are made of rubber, but I can't form with words how ghastly a sight it was to see my little girl's body literally bounce on the floor.
Startled out of her slumber, Quinn awoke with a scream that lasted only a matter of seconds. I scrambled with my dysfunctional legs to scoop her up and see if I had indeed broken the baby.
With her head and limbs all in tact, I tearfully professed to Quinn that I'd never let something so stupid happen again.
When I brought Quinn to the doctor, my head was so fuzzy with fears of how I may have hurt her that I managed to back into my parents' car, just to put another (far more minor) dent in the day.
Thankfully, it was confirmed that all was fine with Quinn. In fact, the pediatrician quipped that her birth was far more traumatic than a few inch fall to the floor.
Nonetheless, I can't help but feel my competency and mastery of motherhood to be seriously lacking . . . and just hope she is in one piece by the time her Daddy gets here.
Better tales next time,
The (Literally) Bouncy Baby Girl and Her Moronic Mother
After a sleepless night filled with the fun effects of baby acid reflux, I pulled Quinn out of her crib and onto my chest so she might sleep for an hour before I had to wake up.
When the phone rang just after dawn, I smiled knowing it was Jack calling with his latest coordinates as he journeys back for his two-week break from war. While trying not to stir Quinn, I slowly slid out of my bed and lumbered towards the phone.
The next few seconds play painfully slowly in my mind. . .
As bizarre as it sounds, it wasn't until I was standing that it became apparent that not just one, but both of my legs were completely asleep and not under my control.
This kind of freakish thing should only happen in a dream where I'm embodying various physical realities -- a winged creature that soars in and out of scenes, or an Olympic high-jumper who pivots about different planets defying the precepts of physics.
Just as my body gave way to gravity, it became clear my dreams had concluded and I was in a waking nightmare.
As if watching a frame by frame replay of the Twin Towers collapsing, I saw the room pass my eyes as my legs crumpled, and the weight of my body toppled to the floor. Arms wrapped around Quinn, I held her tightly until I hit the floor. The force with which I and the ground met propelled Quinn right out of my arms.
Her body a mere object of physics, Quinn was launched into the air and then -- to my absolute horror -- she bounced upon the wooden floor.
People joke that kids are made of rubber, but I can't form with words how ghastly a sight it was to see my little girl's body literally bounce on the floor.
Startled out of her slumber, Quinn awoke with a scream that lasted only a matter of seconds. I scrambled with my dysfunctional legs to scoop her up and see if I had indeed broken the baby.
With her head and limbs all in tact, I tearfully professed to Quinn that I'd never let something so stupid happen again.
When I brought Quinn to the doctor, my head was so fuzzy with fears of how I may have hurt her that I managed to back into my parents' car, just to put another (far more minor) dent in the day.
Thankfully, it was confirmed that all was fine with Quinn. In fact, the pediatrician quipped that her birth was far more traumatic than a few inch fall to the floor.
Nonetheless, I can't help but feel my competency and mastery of motherhood to be seriously lacking . . . and just hope she is in one piece by the time her Daddy gets here.
Better tales next time,
The (Literally) Bouncy Baby Girl and Her Moronic Mother
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
My Next Excellent Blunder
Before I get too distracted and overcome by "Mommy-Brain," and pretend I can multitask, I should note the important stuff:
Quinn is doing fabulously, she has adjusted very well to her new home and is sleeping as soundly as anyone can when explosions are occurring in their pants.
Although still dependent upon that nasty penguin food (a story for another time), she is thriving just fine. At last weigh-in, she was a whopping 6lbs 4oz. Before too long, she'll have doubled in weight, and -- I like to think -- in cuteness.
She was pretty darn cute at birth, and maybe it's just me not being terribly current with the younger generation's fads, but I just don't find translucent skin all that flattering.
Lucky for Quinn she isn't a teenager and doesn't realize I'm already doing a stellar job embarrassing her whenever presented the opportunity.
Like this morning when I went to bring in the recycling bins and I bumped into a neighbor who kind of looked at me funny but didn't say anything . . . about the hands-free breast pump I still had attached to my waist, like the most ridiculous iPod leftover from the '80s. (Thank goodness I had the sense to take the upper and more revealing part off before venturing outdoors!)
Just the other evening, I fooled myself into believing I was acclimating to the lack of sleep and serious consumption of mental energy that comes with constantly thinking about someone else eating, breathing, and pooping.
That's about the time I felt my leg getting wet and I looked down annoyingly expecting to see the dog drooling on me, when I realized I'd been prancing around my parents' house -- with freshly cleaned carpets -- all the while pumping breastmilk without a bottle attached to collect the damn stuff. Awesome.
I'm becoming that sad clash of cool technology meets pathetic. It's official; I have arrived at parenthood.
If she's paying any attention to what a blockhead I am, Quinn's first words will surely be "Mooom! Stop, you're so embarrassing me!" Poor kid.
Until my next excellent blunder...
Love,
the Bonehead & Her Teeny Tot
Quinn is doing fabulously, she has adjusted very well to her new home and is sleeping as soundly as anyone can when explosions are occurring in their pants.
Although still dependent upon that nasty penguin food (a story for another time), she is thriving just fine. At last weigh-in, she was a whopping 6lbs 4oz. Before too long, she'll have doubled in weight, and -- I like to think -- in cuteness.
She was pretty darn cute at birth, and maybe it's just me not being terribly current with the younger generation's fads, but I just don't find translucent skin all that flattering.
Lucky for Quinn she isn't a teenager and doesn't realize I'm already doing a stellar job embarrassing her whenever presented the opportunity.
Like this morning when I went to bring in the recycling bins and I bumped into a neighbor who kind of looked at me funny but didn't say anything . . . about the hands-free breast pump I still had attached to my waist, like the most ridiculous iPod leftover from the '80s. (Thank goodness I had the sense to take the upper and more revealing part off before venturing outdoors!)
Just the other evening, I fooled myself into believing I was acclimating to the lack of sleep and serious consumption of mental energy that comes with constantly thinking about someone else eating, breathing, and pooping.
That's about the time I felt my leg getting wet and I looked down annoyingly expecting to see the dog drooling on me, when I realized I'd been prancing around my parents' house -- with freshly cleaned carpets -- all the while pumping breastmilk without a bottle attached to collect the damn stuff. Awesome.
I'm becoming that sad clash of cool technology meets pathetic. It's official; I have arrived at parenthood.
If she's paying any attention to what a blockhead I am, Quinn's first words will surely be "Mooom! Stop, you're so embarrassing me!" Poor kid.
Until my next excellent blunder...
Love,
the Bonehead & Her Teeny Tot
Monday, March 16, 2009
Off the Plantation
So at last, I was able to deliver Quinn to Monterey... Although since we arrived, my activity level would leave some thinking I brought her not to the Golden State but to the State of Inertia.
Perhaps it was the whole build-up to our grand departure that has left me a bit listless and lazy. Even though I'd been well warned that a baby's discharge date tends to take parents a bit off guard, I shamefully had to ask the doctor to delay hers by a day because I was so unprepared. Taking her out of the hospital wasn't the big ordeal, but transporting her nearly a thousand miles was.
After a lot of hemming and hawing, the consensus was that flying would be the safest method of travel. The dangers of flying were decreased air pressure, and exposure to infection. Since Quinn doesn't have any lasting breathing issues, the decreased cabin pressure wasn't much of a concern, but the exposure to the Respiratory Syncytical Virus (RSV) -- what most of us would call a nasty cold -- made it a hard choice.
Sadly, I don't remember details from biology class like the Creb Cycle, but I am haunted by images from a video capturing a sneeze in slow motion. Having that horrifying video and scenes from the movie "Outbreak" running rampant through my mind, you can only image how paranoid I was about exposing Quinn to so many people on the trek back.
Surely the flight attendant thought I was nuts when a minute after boarding the plane I had my and Quinn's heads completely covered with a blanket. When she came by to ask what kind of beverage I'd want and I didn't even unveil my head to respond, she must have thought I was in need of something a heck of a lot stronger than apple juice.
I guess this is how early the lack of vanity sets in as a parent because I didn't care one iota if people thought I was molding the youngest member of the KKK, we were wanna-be vampires, or just simply someone who doesn't get off the plantation much.
Thankfully, we arrived without incident despite my jetliner jitters.
More pictures and video to come, along with a many thanks to all of you who helped us get home safely and sanely!
Besos,
J & the Jetsetter
Perhaps it was the whole build-up to our grand departure that has left me a bit listless and lazy. Even though I'd been well warned that a baby's discharge date tends to take parents a bit off guard, I shamefully had to ask the doctor to delay hers by a day because I was so unprepared. Taking her out of the hospital wasn't the big ordeal, but transporting her nearly a thousand miles was.
After a lot of hemming and hawing, the consensus was that flying would be the safest method of travel. The dangers of flying were decreased air pressure, and exposure to infection. Since Quinn doesn't have any lasting breathing issues, the decreased cabin pressure wasn't much of a concern, but the exposure to the Respiratory Syncytical Virus (RSV) -- what most of us would call a nasty cold -- made it a hard choice.
Sadly, I don't remember details from biology class like the Creb Cycle, but I am haunted by images from a video capturing a sneeze in slow motion. Having that horrifying video and scenes from the movie "Outbreak" running rampant through my mind, you can only image how paranoid I was about exposing Quinn to so many people on the trek back.
Surely the flight attendant thought I was nuts when a minute after boarding the plane I had my and Quinn's heads completely covered with a blanket. When she came by to ask what kind of beverage I'd want and I didn't even unveil my head to respond, she must have thought I was in need of something a heck of a lot stronger than apple juice.
I guess this is how early the lack of vanity sets in as a parent because I didn't care one iota if people thought I was molding the youngest member of the KKK, we were wanna-be vampires, or just simply someone who doesn't get off the plantation much.
Thankfully, we arrived without incident despite my jetliner jitters.
More pictures and video to come, along with a many thanks to all of you who helped us get home safely and sanely!
Besos,
J & the Jetsetter
Monday, March 9, 2009
Will Work for Food
It looks like we are approaching the end of our sabbatical here in Salt Lake City.
Eager for more food (at least the kid had my appetite), Quinn is learning to drink bottles of milk (mixed with nasty smelling penguin food) and drink directly from me.
Since she has already mastered the ability to keep herself warm in a crib, and exhibits no need for supplemental oxygen, her capability to demand and work for her food is the last major hurdle she must clear to graduate from the NICU. And work it is.
Unlike most full-term babies, premies usually don't automatically have the simultaneous suck-swallow-breathe skill until they reach their due date, which Quinn is slowly approaching later this month.
Her feedings are as much an aerobic exercise as a caloric boost. Every time she intakes food by bottle or boob (rather than tube), she pants to catch her breath and then slips into a coma as if she'd just run the Boston Marathon (in really tiny and cute Nikes of course).
In the meantime, her body is plumping up nicely. Her hands and feet don't look so slender, and it feels less frightening that I might crush with each cuddle. Once the tubes and monitors become unhooked, I'm sure she'll take on the appearance of a miniature human rather than some alien-tot.
Sadly, I didn't help with her weight gain this past week. After the super sensitive scale went haywire, I was left to guesstimate how much breastmilk Quinn sucked down. As it turns out, I'm not so good at this as I underestimated her ability and paid for it while I watched her gag and spit up the supplemental food she was then given. Then, to make matters worse, I over corrected for the next several feedings thinking she digested more than she did, which eventually caused her to lose weight. So much for the science of breastmilk guesstimation.
My poor judgment in how much Quinn drinks didn't buy me much credibility with her doctor. When her weight loss was discussed, it appeared to the doctor it was because I had argued not to have fortification reintroduced, but eventually she came to realize I'm not(or not trying to be) a slouch of a mom.
...It's been a few days since I meant to post this blog, and since then things have gone into warp speed...
Through protocol, the hospital staff ensures that they don't continue the premature habits of a premie by prematurely discharging them. However, I misunderstood some of the hurdles Quinn had to leap before she would get discharged. Before I knew it, she was well through the process and as of this afternoon, she will officially be out of the NICU.
I'll post more (and pictures for sure!) soon, but wanted to let you know all is more than well, and my apologies for the delay in updating everyone. My Mom is flying out today, and we will return to California with the newest member of the family tomorrow!
Unfortunately for all of you, it probably won't seem like she is out of the NICU.
As mentioned before, the strict guidelines given by the doctors to keep her from infection, which can literally be deadly to her, equate to essentially keeping in quarantine. Obviously, flying tomorrow is going to be interesting as I keep her entirely covered without her thinking she's Michael Jackson!
So again, I apologize that she won't be allowed to have visitors, but I promise to keep the blog more current with so many pictures and ridiculous stories it'll feel like you're watching a time-lapse video of Quinn the seedling.
Lots of love to you all,
J & Miss Quinn
Eager for more food (at least the kid had my appetite), Quinn is learning to drink bottles of milk (mixed with nasty smelling penguin food) and drink directly from me.
Since she has already mastered the ability to keep herself warm in a crib, and exhibits no need for supplemental oxygen, her capability to demand and work for her food is the last major hurdle she must clear to graduate from the NICU. And work it is.
Unlike most full-term babies, premies usually don't automatically have the simultaneous suck-swallow-breathe skill until they reach their due date, which Quinn is slowly approaching later this month.
Her feedings are as much an aerobic exercise as a caloric boost. Every time she intakes food by bottle or boob (rather than tube), she pants to catch her breath and then slips into a coma as if she'd just run the Boston Marathon (in really tiny and cute Nikes of course).
In the meantime, her body is plumping up nicely. Her hands and feet don't look so slender, and it feels less frightening that I might crush with each cuddle. Once the tubes and monitors become unhooked, I'm sure she'll take on the appearance of a miniature human rather than some alien-tot.
Sadly, I didn't help with her weight gain this past week. After the super sensitive scale went haywire, I was left to guesstimate how much breastmilk Quinn sucked down. As it turns out, I'm not so good at this as I underestimated her ability and paid for it while I watched her gag and spit up the supplemental food she was then given. Then, to make matters worse, I over corrected for the next several feedings thinking she digested more than she did, which eventually caused her to lose weight. So much for the science of breastmilk guesstimation.
My poor judgment in how much Quinn drinks didn't buy me much credibility with her doctor. When her weight loss was discussed, it appeared to the doctor it was because I had argued not to have fortification reintroduced, but eventually she came to realize I'm not(or not trying to be) a slouch of a mom.
...It's been a few days since I meant to post this blog, and since then things have gone into warp speed...
Through protocol, the hospital staff ensures that they don't continue the premature habits of a premie by prematurely discharging them. However, I misunderstood some of the hurdles Quinn had to leap before she would get discharged. Before I knew it, she was well through the process and as of this afternoon, she will officially be out of the NICU.
I'll post more (and pictures for sure!) soon, but wanted to let you know all is more than well, and my apologies for the delay in updating everyone. My Mom is flying out today, and we will return to California with the newest member of the family tomorrow!
Unfortunately for all of you, it probably won't seem like she is out of the NICU.
As mentioned before, the strict guidelines given by the doctors to keep her from infection, which can literally be deadly to her, equate to essentially keeping in quarantine. Obviously, flying tomorrow is going to be interesting as I keep her entirely covered without her thinking she's Michael Jackson!
So again, I apologize that she won't be allowed to have visitors, but I promise to keep the blog more current with so many pictures and ridiculous stories it'll feel like you're watching a time-lapse video of Quinn the seedling.
Lots of love to you all,
J & Miss Quinn
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A Mystery for Myth Busters
This is definitely becoming a case for Myth Busters, as the chocolate theory has been debunked!
As much as I miss my daily dose of chocolate, this is rather disappointing news. In part because the kick in the pants to that theory came last night in the form of yet another stinking (and stinky) bloody diaper. Ugh!
Fortunately, the doctor didn't lose her cool and yank Quinn from her crib and toss her back into an incubator, suck the pleasures of a full belly with a garden hose down her throat, or call for a barrage of x-rays -- as we'd gone through before.
Considering this doctor and I don't approach the world with much similarity, it was such a relief that when the poo hit the propeller we were in full agreement.
Why this pattern keeps repeating whenever Quinn's daily intake tips the balance to be over 50 percent of Mama's Milk -- is utterly perplexing. How the refrigeration process of milk could make it so unpalatable is totally illogical, and if we go with the theory that she is lactose intolerant then how she can consume any without irritation is equally as peculiar.
As a consequence, for 24hrs Quinn was restricted to the digestive experience of a penguin for a while until her bowels settled down. Tonight she had a go at boob juice yet again, and with fingers crossed, we will hopefully see some healthier looking baby byproducts.
Now, no Myth Busters episode would be complete without some (near) explosions and gushing liquids. So to comply, my boobs volunteered for that part of this premie production.
(I know it seems like this is more of a boob than a baby blog, but when a part of your anatomy starts doing tricks that you were told it could do -- and then despite your disbelief it does -- it's phenomenal, and freaky all at once. And then, when those tricks backfire -- almost literally, you can't help but mention it.)
Essentially, I didn't completely drain my mammary ducts which caused a nasty condition a lot of Moms get called "mastitis." Medically this translates into: no fun at all!
It didn't start with hurting hooters, more like symptoms of the worst flu ever. And let me just say, if I had gotten the flu – or a cold, or even the hiccups – that kissy elderly couple from Park City would have had one mad Mama on their case!
Thankfully, unlike the flu a case of bursting boobs is not contagious and won’t keep me out of the NICU, nor even from feeding the little penguin now and then.
So, if anyone out there feels like taking on this mystery and coming up with a viable theory as to what is the deal with Quinn's bellicose belly, I will ensure that the University of Utah gives you a honorary doctorate, or at least a cool set of scrubs along with the petrified diaper to preserve as proof of a successful solution! Yum.
Your consolation prize awaits you. . .
Mama Murphy and the Persistent Penguin
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