Solo Skater

Last week, Will had his first solo skating lesson-- no more "Parent & Me" classes!

Getting dressed in the lobby went as usual-- with Will jumping around and unable to sit still while Bill tried his best to get the equipment on without losing his mind.  (Thankfully, my job is to supervise Liam during this time.)

As we walked into the rink (about 2 minutes after the above pics were taken), Will began complaining that he was 'too tired' and that 'his belly hurt' (which is slightly hilarious considering the above photos).  Bill helped him onto the ice and about 5 seconds later he had his first wipe-out... taking down an innocent 6 year-old on the way.  As the instructors helped Will to his feet, I could see that anxiety was getting the better of him.

However, unlike the 'socially retarded ass wipe' we met earlier in the week, his skating instructor was kind, patient and encouraging.  Within 10 minutes time, he was skating faster and more skillfully than he had ever skated with Bill or me.  

There are only two students in the class.  

Fortunately, Will has always done well with older women.

At the end of the lesson, Bill and I were waiting to congratulate him on a great job.  Will, however, was more concerned with our usual Sunday morning post-skating ritual...

... french fries and hot chocolate.

Incidentally, the best french fries are almost always found in ice rinks and bowling alleys.  We're teaching this kid the important things in life, for sure.

Thank You General Mills!

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Liam sprouted not one, but FOUR teeth last week.  

At his well-visit, I remarked to the pediatrician how odd it was that his side teeth were growing in before his front teeth.  She replied, "Those ARE his front teeth.  He'll have a gap for sure."

While this news was a bit concerning, I was too overcome with excitement to worry.  Excited because we could now embark on some General Mills whole grain goodness known as Cheerios.

Good-bye to five AM fumbling with plastic bottle liners and measuring cups in one hand, while trying to quiet a hungry baby in the other-- eyes half-open and desperately needing to pee, but unable to delay the feeding for even a few moments at the risk of a screamfest.  

Now, I can simply flip open a canister and drop a handful of cereal onto Liam's tray.  He eagerly stretches himself towards the high chair, begging to be set down.  It's amazing how much better your morning gets when you can open your eyes, empty your bladder and fill your coffee maker first thing.  Not to mention the ease of preparing a bottle with not one, but two hands.  

Swimming (continued) or How to Make My Shit List

We returned to swim lessons on Tuesday.  I thought we should give it one more try.  I should have known better.

For the last week, while we were sitting together over breakfast or as I was pulling his shirt over his head, Will would ask, "Are we going swimming today?"  I would say no and tell him just how many days there were until the next class.  Then I would praise him and try to build his confidence.  

On Tuesday morning, Will knew we were headed back to class.  

At breakfast, Will complained that he was too tired.  As I helped him get dressed, he whined that he didn't want to go.  As I buckled him into the car, his eyes were filled with tears.  As we turned into the parking lot, he was sobbing.  The more upset he became, the more horrible I felt.  But at the same time, I felt that not going could send some message about quitting or facing up to fears.  So we went.

It was pouring out.  I fumbled with a stroller, an infant, a diaper bag, and an inconsolable 3-year-old.  He kept saying that he didn't want to go and as we entered the pool area he was crying.  I kept telling him that everything would be okay... he would be fine.  I think I was trying to convince the both of us.

I spoke to the teacher before class, explaining that Will had always loved the water and been a strong swimmer for his age/ability group.  I explained that his confidence had been shaken and that he could use some encouragement and extra attention this week.  I suggested that we speak at the end of the class, and if Will continued to struggle, we could switch him to a more appropriate class.  She looked at Will, who had regained his composure-- but still appeared visibly upset, and asked me, "So, he's swimming today?"  When I told her that he would swim, she took his hand and lead him to the pool-- without so much as a word or smile to him.

In the pool, he looked scared and shaken.  He was trying to keep up, but he was just too upset.  I watched as the instructor strapped a bubble to him.  He looked at me and began sobbing.  A few minutes later, she sat him on the edge of the pool to calm down.  At this point, I was motioning to him to come to me, but he was still.  I think he was afraid to move.  He rejoined the class and she would intermittently sit him off to the side when he wasn't keeping up.  At the end of the class, the students moved to a more shallow part of the pool where they dove for rings-- this is always Will's favorite part of class.  He eagerly dove below the water to retrieve a ring and he carried it to her.  She slid it up her arm, adding it to her collection without saying a word or even nodding.  I watched as this happened three more times-- Will eagerly finding a ring and seeking out her approval-- she ignoring him.  

She seriously made my shit list.  Big time.  For life.

It figures that she didn't say a word to us at the end of class.

I ended up switching Will to a different time, day and teacher.  I also lowered him back to his previous level, just to build his confidence.  I told him that we were switching to a class that's more fun and he asked me if he was moving 'backwards'.  Then, my once confident, bubble-free, little swimmer told me that he couldn't go into the water... without his bubble.

This was a mistake.  Big one.  I am an ass.  Big one.

Family Photos from March & April 2009

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Liam's Eight Month Well Visit

This was Liam at his 8-week well visit...

And this was Liam today, at his 8-month well visit...

21 pounds 2 ounces, 28.5 inches

Liam's First Tooth!

This isn't the best picture, because it's barely broken through. 

(You'd never see it without an extreme, drooly close-up.)

Enough Already

As I've already mentioned, Will had the stomach virus last week.  Five days of vomiting and diarrhea.  Then, on the first day that Will started to hold down some food, Liam got sick.  Today is Liam's fifth day and thankfully, he just (about a half-hour ago) kept down his first bottle since Friday evening of last week.  If you do the math, that's 10 consecutive days of blaaah.  The last few, especially, have been rough because Liam is not sleeping well at night.  Instead, he cat naps on-and-off, all day and all night.  Sleep, whine, cry, whine, sleep, whine, cry, whine, eat, vomit, whine, sleep, cry... 

This morning, I came downstairs with Liam at around 5 am.  He was fussy and couldn't sleep, so I made him a bottle of Pedialyte.  He calmed down a bit, but didn't fall back to sleep until around 6 am-- just in time for Will to come bounding down the stairs.  Will asked for fruit snacks and then television-- and I would've nodded my head 'yes' to just about anything to keep things quiet.  I kept motioning to Will to be quiet, pointing at Liam, who was lightly snoozing next to me.  "Mommy", Will whispered, "I want to sit there.  That's my spot."  (Of course, 'there' was where Liam lay sleeping.)  I tried to reason quietly with Will and felt my patience slipping away as he got louder and louder.  Finally, he jumped off the couch and flipped the television off as he loudly protested.  Liam's eyes bolted open as he gazed around the room.  I was so frustrated that, without saying a word, I tossed threw the remote to the floor.  The back of the remote flew off and the batteries scattered across the hardwood floor.  Liam started crying immediately and Will, watching from across the room, was the first to speak...

"GREAT!  Now look what you did-- you woke up Liam... and you're not supposed to throw things when you're angry."

You know you've had it when you look like the three-year-old and your three-year-old sounds like the adult.  I'm so ready for everyone to be healthy again and for a few good nights of sleep.  Hopefully, we're on the road to recovery.

Thanks to everyone for the comments and e-mails from the last few posts.  You guys are the best!

When the Going Gets Tough...

Will has been taking swimming lessons since he was 9 months old.  I had wanted to take a Mommy & Me class when he was a baby and we continued each season afterwards.  Last session, he was a 'Blue Fish' and the class focused on practicing basic skills like kicking, paddling, going underwater, etc.  The kids dove for rings, kicked across half the pool and swam through hula hoops.  At the end of the last session, his instructor recommended that I move him up to the next level-- 'Sea Lion'.

Today was our first Sea Lion class.  We arrived at the pool and I accompanied Will to the steps to introduce him to his teacher.  Without smiling, she instructed him to get in the pool and told me that the parents were to stand behind the gate.  There were two other kids in his class-- both of them were about five years old-- and they seemed to tower over Will.  I watched as he swam (with flotation devices) the length of the pool, back and forth, over and over again.  She had them doing various exercises-- putting their heads in the water, swimming on their backs, paddling their arms, etc.  I was amazed at how well Will was doing, but I could tell he was struggling and half-way through, I could tell he was exhausted.  His teacher wasn't mean, but not exactly nice either.  She was down-to-business, working these kids like they were future olympians.  

During the second half of the class, she had the kids jumping into the water, surfacing and then swimming the width of the pool.  Will was following her instructions and keeping up okay, but he started looking more and more uncomfortable.  He swallowed water a few times, was coughing, and I thought he might give up and come over to me.  But ultimately, he made it through.

When the lesson was over, the teacher gave each student a high-five a sent them to find their parents.  Will came over and I greeted him with a big hug and a warm towel and I told him how proud I was of him.  He began bawling immediately.  I kept praising him and telling him how great he did.  Normally 'sailing though' swim class, he wasn't used to putting forth such an effort.  He also wasn't used to such a cranky-ass no-nonsense teacher.  All of his former teachers have been smiley, happy and encouraging and his previous lessons were more like playing and less like work.  

Driving home, I was reflecting on the lesson and my options.  I could leave Will in this class, return next week (after building him up and encouraging him for the next six days) and finish out the session OR I could transfer him into another class with a different instructor.  While I think he might have more fun in a different class, I honestly believe that his skills will improve so much more quickly in his current class.  I also think an experience like this could help 'toughen him up' a little.  But then again, we signed him up for swimming so that he could become competent in the water and have fun.  His competency would increase with any instructor, is it necessary to push him so hard?

I'm thinking it over.  What do you think?

Ew, I know.

Yesterday morning, around 6 am, Liam was cooing and gargling in his crib.  As usual, he was giving me my 1-minute warning before screaming to be picked up.  As I entered the room, I instantly detected a gross yet familiar smell.  I looked into the crib to find him lying on his back and smiling as if nothing were wrong.  The sheet beneath him had a large, dry circular stain and when I picked him up, I found that his back and head were similarly covered.  He must have thrown up during the night and then fell back to sleep.  Ew, I know.

Strangely though, it was a happy sight for me.

If you've been reading, you know that Will had a stomach virus less than 2 months ago.  Last week, he got sick again-- same thing-- except the duration.  He wasn't able to keep anything (besides some dry Cheerios and Gatorade) down for five days and he was so lethargic.  Each day, he spent the entire morning on the couch, dozing on and off, and then at around 1 pm he would announce that he was ready for his nap.  His toys hadn't moved in a week and he barely had any interest in what was on television.  He was visibly losing weight and had absolutely no energy.  Although the pediatrician told me that this could happen, five days of this had me worried...

I can't even begin to put my deepest fears in writing... What if it wasn't a stomach virus?  What could it be?  He washes his hands at least 30 times a day, how could he have this again!?  Google, WebMd, Google, WebMd.... Aaaahhhhh....

And then came that beautiful sight on Saturday morning.  Liam was sick-- not usually a good thing-- but in this case, it meant that Will probably did have a virus and he had passed it on.  Yesterday Will ate some toast and banana for breakfast, played Legos on the couch all morning, then had a plain cheese quesadilla for lunch and ran an errand with Bill.  He took a nap around 4 pm and woke up the next morning at 7:30 am.  This was a significant improvement and today has been even better.  

Hopefully, Liam's recovery will happen a little faster.  Unlike his brother, he seems to really love that Pedialyte.  I took a swig and can't say that I agree-- yuck.

Back to Normal

Okay.  I'm back.  From where, you ask?  Here goes...

From the beginning, March was busy, but good.  Our undesired house guest (stomach virus) had been sent packing.  Jillian was kicking my butt on a regular basis and I was eating and sleeping better.  Tutoring was going well.  The kids were doing great.  The weather was improving.  Things were good.

Around the middle of the month, I started feeling exhausted-- got a cold and then couldn't shake a fever for a few days.  My parents came over to watch the kids so I could go to the local clinic.  On the drive over, I was doing the math.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7... Seven days late.  Could I be pregnant?  It took us months to get pregnant with Will and Liam.  I hadn't gone back on the pill, but we had been careful... kind of.  I pondered whether to ask for a test at the clinic or to buy one at the drugstore on the way home.  By the time I reached the clinic, I convinced myself there was no way I could be pregnant.  It was the change in my lifestyle- new diet and exercise routine... or maybe the fever/virus that I had been fighting lately.  Definitely no baby.

The nurse came in to take my vitals.  I gave her the info... cold, fever, new routine... oh and no period.  She handed me the cup.  I peed and waited. 

The doctor came in.  I gave him the same story as he checked my ears, eyes, throat and heart.  He leaned back on the counter, told me I had an upper respiratory infection and paused for what seemed like days.  Then he told me I was pregnant.  It was a little like the scene from Knocked Up-- except no Seth Rogen.  I started crying immediately-- the kind of crying where you don't want to cry, so you keep talking and ignoring the buckets of water pouring down your face.  We were discussing antibiotics and prescriptions when he asked me if I had any children.  I replied 'yes', telling him I had a 3 1/2 year-old and a 7-month old.  Then he made this sound: "Ooooohhhhhhh...."  In my head, the translation was: 'You are so screwed'.  And then I started bawling.  He must have thought more carefully about his initial response, thinking it would make me feel better by telling me that 'the test was only 99% accurate'.  

I drove around for a while, wallowing in self-pity and selfishness.  I would get huge again.  There would be heartburn, gas pain, back aches and swollen ankles.  There would be no roller coasters, water slides, trampolines or rollerblading-- all things I was looking forward to doing with Will this summer.  I wouldn't be able to go back to work in the Fall of 2010 as planned.  My non-pregnancy clothes would be packed away for another summer.  I would have two kids under the age of two next November. I stressed about Will adjusting to another baby and Liam getting so little 1-on-1 time next year. With Bill's coaching schedule, I would be home by myself most of the time. How would I ever get out of my house?  How would I survive? 

My funk continued for the next week or so.  I made a conscious decision not to blog, Facebook, email or even return friends' phone calls until I was feeling better-- mentally and physically.  

By April, things were turning around.  I was finding the positives in my situation.  The kids would be close in age, so they would be able to play together.  All the baby clothes and toys were set up and ready to go.  Will adjusted well to Liam, why not another baby?  Liam would be walking by November and probably using a cup-- he'd be much more independent.  Taking a few more years off from work would be okay-- I could still tutor.  I was making a mental checklist-- we'd pack up the things in the den to make way for a nursery, Will would move to a booster and that would free up a carseat, we'd need another crib.  I started to picture life at home with three little kids.  It would be difficult at times, but it was doable.  We would make it work.  I thought to myself, that a few years from now, I would feel so stupid about my initial reaction that day in the doctors office.

Fast forward to my 8-week sonogram.  I had the last appointment of the evening.  Bill had coaching, so I was by myself.  I watched as women in their first trimester left the office with their little black and white tadpole photos.  Then it was my turn and I was excited to get my first glimpse.  I laid on the table and the technician positioned the monitor so that we could both see.  As she swept the transducer over my belly and found my uterus, I could tell instantly that there was no baby.  She told me that my uterus was measuring almost seven weeks and she confirmed that there was nothing there.  She suggested that I had my dates wrong.  Maybe I was only 6-weeks and the baby was not yet detectable.  The last doctor had left for the evening, so the technician instructed me to call the office in the morning.  I knew that I had the dates right and something was wrong.

After some blood work, it was a confirmed miscarriage.  Medically, this is what happened. (You can click the link.)  There was no bleeding or cramping.  No indication of any problems. My OB told me that my body would complete the miscarriage naturally and on it's own-- or I could opt for surgery and get a D&C.  Who would opt for surgery, I wondered.  She said it would happen within two weeks, as my hormone levels decreased.   So I waited.

While I waited, I was feeling sad and disappointed... and a little relieved... and then massively guilty for feeling that way.  I thought about my initial reaction to the news of the pregnancy and really hated myself for all of it.  And I waited.

About a week and a half later, after watching some late night tv on the couch, I stood up to head upstairs to bed.  There was an incredible rush of blood and a surge of cramping.  After three hours of intense pain and a bathroom that could have doubled for a crime scene, we were headed to the ER.  Then, after some serious pain meds, three internal exams and two more ultrasounds, I was headed home the next day, exhausted and thinking I should have opted for the surgery.  Figures.

It's almost a week later and I'm slowly but surely getting back to normal.  

Looking forward and glad to be back.