Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Bring the Noise

One of these years I'm going to learn how to stop being so damned smug. Either that or the universe is just going to keep smacking me in the head every once in a while, especially when I'm so obviously asking for it.

I just couldn't stop talking about what a pleasant baby Bo is. How happy he is all the time. How even with the reflux, he's still bubbly and giggly and how he'll projectile vomit and then laugh. My baby is the best baby in whole wide world. So there.

Right. Except for the screaming.

We took Bo to the doctor yesterday for his 2 month checkup* - he'll be 11 weeks old on Thursday - and during our conversation I asked for tips on how to make bath time easier. I think my exact words were how to make it not a living nightmare. Because, seriously**. The doctor suggested switching bath time to the mornings if we find that Bo is in a better mood. I said that might be a good idea since Bo is a miserable, screaming disaster from about 6 - 9pm every night and he said yeah, that's colic.

Colic. When I'd been mouthing off all over the place about how my boy is so great and do babies even get colic anymore? What the hell is colic anyway? Bam. Here's some colic. Shut up smug lady.

It's so sad, the screaming, and there's nothing I can do about it. He just screams and screams, his little tongue curled back in his mouth and his face all red. He screams so hard he stops making any sound and then coughs and hacks and screams some more. He screams so hard he makes his skin all blotchy for hours afterward. I walk him and talk to him in low tones and sing to him and do that obnoxious shushing noise but there's really nothing to do but wait until he feels better. Sometimes he'll rip a few killer farts and that helps. Yesterday and today we had scream fests in the morning too. Today he did not take one nap that lasted more than an hour.

And then I get scared. Today he wore himself out screaming but he wasn't sleeping. He was just sitting in his swing and sort of staring into space, without really blinking, which was totally freaking me out. Then he fell asleep and I couldn't leave him sleep in the swing because he just looked so strange; the look on his face was not one I'd ever seen before and it was unsettling and I get scared when I see things like that because the specter is always there. The specter of SIDS that never fully leaves my consciousness. So instead of leaving him nap in his swing I picked him up and stretched him out on my chest to nap. I wasn't going to get any laundry done that way but I would be able to feel every breath he took and thereby keep breathing myself.

I know it's upsetting for him too because he just wants to be held. He will not be put down when he's awake on a day when he's feeling especially screamy. Interestingly, today he was fine as long as he could see me. He was cool in his swing while I puttered around and fought the never ending war against animal hair (tumbleweeds of pet hair blow across your path around here) , but as soon as I was out of sight, the bottom lip would poke out and the whimpering would start. He cat napped in his bassinet this afternoon while I fought the Ikea dresser from hell one more time but again, as soon as I was out of his line of sight, instant whining. He'll tolerate the sling but he has to be in the mood for it, and that hasn't been recently.

It's exhausting and there are moments when I think I may actually go insane if the screaming doesn't stop Right. This. Minute. It's not the noise. I'm impervious to the noise. It's the fact that there's nothing I can do and he's so upset and I can't fix it for him and he can't tell me what's wrong. There are days when I want to hand Bo off to Frank as soon as he gets home from work because I just need a damn minute to maybe walk around the block and regroup. But it's not like Frank just came home from a day at the beach and it's not fair to thrust a screaming, writhing boy into his arms when he's just getting home from a long day of his own.

It's not the worst case in the world. He doesn't cry for consecutive hours. He takes breaks and short naps - because he wears himself the hell out - and he's still cheerful and happy and smiley. He still smiles and gurgles at me when he wakes, even if he screamed himself to sleep twenty minutes earlier. And he's still the best baby in the whole world, colic and reflux be damned.


* For those of you keeping score, Bo came in at 15lbs 7oz and 25 inches long. He's a frickin' moose. All of his development is right on track and he's even a little ahead of the game in that he's already recognized himself in the mirror and cracks himself up making faces and talking to himself. Because he's a genius.

** I may never bathe this child again. Today I decided to take advantage of his very cheerful mood to give him his first bath since last Wednesday. Frank was all ready with the video camera and as soon as Bo's foot touched the water, it was over. The screaming and the writhing began. If Bo had better motor skills he would launch himself right out of his whale of a tub, I'm sure. This screaming really gets me because I'm doing it to him and I'm causing him to be that way. It's so not worth it.

How dirty could he possibly be getting anyway?

My boy doesn't actually have freaky colorless eyes without pupils. It was either this or red, demon eyes. This is the best I could do with the red eye reduction tool. His eyes are still the dark, crystal blue they were at birth.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Boaz's Birth Story

You know why it's taken so long to write Bo's birth story? Because it's boring. And a little anticlimactic. It's not boring to me, but out of the pool of interesting birth stories, this one is definitely wearing swimmies in the shallow end.

I did manage to piss off my roommate on the night Bo was born with this story but in my defense she asked and I was high on the adrenaline of the whole experience and she asked and how was I supposed to know her own experience may not have been so smooth and she was a raving lunatic*?

Anyway, I'm telling the story because I never get sick of it. I don't think it's boring and it's within my rights as a mom to regale any and all with it's awesome unremarkableness.

We went to the doctor for my regular 38 week appointment on April 16 fully anticipating that he would decide to just send me across the street to Labor and Delivery for an induction. Even though we were totally expecting it - my hospital bag had been in the car for weeks - I tried to downplay our excitement. I kept saying that the doctor may decide that I'm not ready and send us home for another week. Frank said either I would be admitted to the hospital that day or the doctor would. After weeks and weeks of contractions and bed rest and false alarms, we were ready to get the show on the road.

Thankfully, after checking me the doctor declared that I was 100% effaced and even though I was only about 1 1/2cm dilated he thought it was best to get me admitted and induced because he wasn't going to be on call over the weekend when I would most certainly go into labor on my own - to which we said woohoo! He stripped my membranes a little - which wasn't as bad as I thought it would be - and sent us across the street. He called ahead to Labor and Delivery with specific instructions to admit me directly (without an exam) and that the midwives were not to come near me until he got onto the floor in the afternoon. He didn't want them waving sticks over my head and reading their tea leaves and neither did I.

We got to the hospital and got settled into the delivery room which freaked me out a little because there was the scale and the warmer and all the tiny hats and blankets. Like a baby would be in this room soon. It was just suddenly so real. We had been waiting for him for months and months, getting more and more impatient every week and then it seemed like it would be so soon. The feeling of excitement and anticipation (and not a little panic) was overwhelming.

They hooked me up to the pitocin drip and we tried to get comfortable. It was about 12:30 and we weren't expecting to see the doctor again until around 3pm. Frank had been up since 4am for work and I hadn't really slept in weeks so we tried to nap but it was all too exciting so we emailed and texted and made phone calls and updated our Facebooks to let people know it was for real this time.

Right around 3:30 the doctor came in to see how I was doing and I didn't have much to report. I was having contractions but they weren't any worse than the ones I had been having for months and I wasn't uncomfortable so I hadn't asked for the epidural. The doctor broke my water - such a weird sensation, like a fountain is all of a sudden coming out of your business, a fountain you have no control over - and then suggested that I get the epidural. Unless I wanted to know what active labor felt like. I was not interested in that experience and agreed to just get it. It had been my plan all along to get it as soon as possible. Getting the epidural and avoiding pain was pretty much the extent of my "birth plan". The doctor left to order the epidural and the little anesthesiologist came in right away. Getting an epidural is a strange and not terribly comfortable experience as you sit there with your back exposed all the way down to your ass and you receive injections and a catheter into your spine but it wasn't really that bad, especially when your anesthesiologist is a little Italian man right out of central casting who talks to you about Pedro Almodovar and Spain the whole time.

The epidural had an almost tranquilizing effect on me. I was finally able to really relax and sort of sleep. Frank was starving but didn't want to leave my side in case he missed something. I promised him I was only going to sleep for a while and that no babies would be born while he was inhaling a cheeseburger. He eventually left to get some lunch in the hospital cafeteria. I just kind of drifted in semi-consciousness for a while, not really sleeping and watched TV. The moms showed up around 5 or 6 and we chatted and waited. We listened to the Phillies game on Frank's Iphone because it wasn't on the hospital television. The nurses kept jacking up the pitocin a little at a time and I felt nothing. Frank kept watching the contraction monitor and asking, "you really can't feel that?". I felt nothing. Not even pressure.

What I did feel was effing hungry because even though I knew I was most likely having a baby that day, I didn't bother to eat any breakfast before leaving for the doctor's office. Because I'm a genius.

Eventually, maybe around 8pm, Bo's head came all the way down and I could really feel it. There was about an hour of skull on pelvis, bone on bone, pain. I tried breathing and staring at a fixed spot (the polka dots on my boppy), but that was some intense pain. There were tears and some serious squeezing of Frank's hand. The nurse came in and saw my face and called the doctor. He came in ordered some kind of epidural booster shot. He said he'd give it 10 minutes to work after which it would be time to push, and either the booster would work or I would just have to push through the pain. Thankfully, the booster worked like a charm and I was back to blissful numbness. So much so that the doctor had to put my legs in the stirrups for me because I couldn't feel them to move them. It was like they were asleep. It was awesome.

Then it was time to push. It was really more of a conversation interrupted by occasional pushing. We talked about how we love Disney World and drinking a beer in every country at Epcot. Push. How Frank puked on the grass in Epcot during Illuminations last summer. Push. The doctor told funny stories about women pooping on his shoes during delivery. Push. This went on for about 45 minutes and then Bo was out.

There were some small issues after he was out but I can't really remember. He didn't breathe right away and the cord was around his neck one time. but then he cried and screamed and everything was wonderful and perfect. They put him on my chest and I cried and kissed Frank and stared at my son. And holy shit I had a son.

The rest is kind of a blur as the pediatrician came in and they cleaned Bo up and weighed him and gave him his Apgar tests (8 and 9). Frank hovered around the edges, taking pictures and listening closely to the language the doctors and nurses were using. Meanwhile, I was getting sewn up from the medium episiotomy the doctor performed to get Bo's giant head out.

After we were all fixed up and presentable, they let the moms back in. They could have stayed for the delivery. Hospital policy allows three support people in the room but I didn't want anyone there but Frank. My doctor, in his awesomeness, kicked them out for me. I didn't even have a chance to ask the nurse to get them, they were practically beating down the door to be let back in.

After about a half hour of phone calls and pictures and tears, they took Bo to the nursery to get cleaned up for real and they wheeled me to the postpartum recovery floor, which is the only part of the story that sucks.

It's a very busy hospital all the time because it has a high standard of care and a good reputation, especially for maternity. It's also one of only two hospitals in the Philadelphia metropolitan area with maternity wards so it also draws moms without health insurance who use the emergency room for prenatal and primary care. On this particular day it was super busy for having babies. They had women in labor in the hallways because they were so short on beds. So of course having a recovery room to myself was not going to happen. Added to the indignity of having to share a room in the first place, the bullshit is that when you have a roommate, your partner/support person can't stay the night and has to leave by 10pm. "Hi, brand new mom and dad! Congratulations! Get out." Since it was almost midnight by the time I got to postpartum, they let Frank stay for a half hour. Bo wasn't even back from the nursery in that time.

A little while after Frank left they brought Bo in and gave him to me. They also gave me a turkey sandwich and some graham crackers which may have been the greatest food I ever ate in my life. I ate it with one hand, holding and staring at the boy the whole time. That night, I couldn't sleep. I was too exhilarated by the whole experience. I just held Bo and stared at him and cried off and on and watched the sun come up. The first of many sunrises we would see together.

*The roommate gets her own story because DAMN.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Not the End of the World

So Tuesday came and went and everything was...fine. Actually, better than fine. It was pretty good. There was no meltdown (for me). I didn't cry in the car on the way to work or hide in the bathroom with my grief once I got there.

Getting there was a spectacular exercise in stupid though, and I thought I was in for just the type of day I was expecting.

Monday night I went to sleep still so anxious about the day ahead and worried about leaving enough milk for Bo that after I fed him on Tuesday morning, I pumped some more. Which put me behind in my timing to get ready. So rushing out the door with my giant messenger bag/pump carrier and my purse and without the completed portions of my big at home project, which I left sitting by the door where I had put them so as not to forget them. Awesome.

When I got to the garage where I needed to park, the other person had parked way too far over into my spot so I had to really squeeze in which left me no room to get out of the car. I had to climb over the console to the passenger side to get out. At which point I saw that I hadn't pulled up far enough to shut the garage door. Do you see where this is going? That's right, had to climb back over console, shut the passenger door from the drivers side - because of course my car will not start with an open door, pull up, and then climb back over and out again.

Walking down the street with my bags, two sets of keys, and my phone in hand, can you guess what got dropped? That's right folks, the phone. In front of two painter/construction worker guys having their morning coffee and waiting for their day to start. Only after picking up the phone and walking around the corner do I realize that the tracball had popped out and there was a gaping hole in the middle of my phone. Does the piece of crap Blackberry at all without that particular little piece of plastic? No. So I had to go back around the corner and search the ground for it. In front of the same guys who say, "aww did it break?" To which I wanted to answer, "Do you find this funny? Because I will cut you." instead of just smiling and saying something generic like, "yeah, I do it all the time".

It was about 7:15 and I was already thinking FAIL. But it wasn't so bad.

It was actually kind of nice. *gasp*

It was nice to get myself ready to go somewhere alone. It was great to get out of the house by myself. I enjoyed driving my windy road blasting the radio without worrying about someone crashing into us or the music being too loud for tiny ear drums. It was, I'll admit, awesome to walk down the street without looking like a mom. Getting checked out by creepy painter guys notwithstanding.

My kids were so happy to see me and we had a wonderful ride to their camp chatting and laughing, just like our rides to school before I left. The rest of the day flew by. It was the same nonsense it always has been. I wouldn't say I got any work done but then, I rarely did before. I picked the kids up from camp, did some more fake ass office work, went with one of the kids to the bakery, drank coffee and ate a cupcake, and then went home.

What I did not manage to do was pump at work. I could not get it together to tell my boss I needed to do it, which is so lame. Could I be a bigger sissy? I know! But it never seemed like a good time and to be honest, between the bullcrap work I was doing and the driving around, there really wasn't a good time to take a break and do it. I wasn't too uncomfortable by the time I left. I did manage to sneak it in on Wednesday while the boss was in physical therapy. The whole thing is so weird. More on that in my upcoming post, "breastfeeding can suck it".

I didn't get the pun there till I just read what I typed. Am a literary genius.

Anyway, I went to work and the world didn't end. My boy was sleeping when I got home and happy to see me when he woke up. Or I was happy to see him and projected the rest. Either way I'll take it.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Separation Anxiety

Bo and I spent a lot of snuggly time on the couch yesterday morning. He was unhappy every time I put him in his cradle but slept peacefully (and long!) on my chest. As I held him and listened to his little contented puppy noises (when he's not really sleeping, just dozing, he makes this whimpering puppy sound of pure contentment), I cried.

I cried because I knew I was leaving him to go back to work today. I feel like an ass because it's not really going back to work. It's like fake going back to work. So many of you out there have gone back to work for real already and here I am crying in my boy's hair over a few hours away from him.

Work and I have made arrangements for me to come in physically to the office 2 times a week and otherwise sort of telecommute; handling phone calls and emails and such from home. I'm also working on a large project at home that was supposedly started while I was on bed rest except...notsomuch. This arrangement wasn't going to officially start until September once the kids get back in school. Unofficially, I'm simply going for a few hours today and tomorrow to spell the girl who has taken my place, to spare her from working 100 hours this week. Which meanwhile, nobody gave me a break when I was working 100 hours every damn week of my life. It's little wonder I ended up on bed rest.

This is no big deal. I agreed to do it because I knew it was no big deal. I'm really only going to be gone for a few hours and Frank is home the next two days. It's not the first time I've left Bo home with Frank. I've gone to the doctor and the grocery store and even a morning at one of the kid's schools already. I'm not even dropping the boy off at some hellish day care*. Frank knows what he's doing. Sometimes I think he knows more than I do. The tears, they make no sense.

But I was so anxious yesterday and I'm still anxious today. Like, sit on the couch, hug my son and cry anxious. I was worried about being able to pump and leave enough milk for him. I was anxious all day today that what I did pump was enough. Because of course I don't have any storage bags yet and therefore don't have milk stockpiled in my freezer. Because of course I don't. I'm super anxious about pumping at work. It's not exactly the most friendly environment for disappearing from my desk for 15 minutes and it's really not a conversation I want to have with my psycho boss - with whom I share an office. I know it's the law that he has to let me pump and whatever. Even so, I'd rather avoid pointing out the fact that I have breasts at all, although that's probably moot, let alone tell him I have to go hook myself up to a milking machine for a little while. I brought my pump with me today but I don't know if I'll have the guts to actually do it. Also anxious about how the pumping will disrupt the whole supply and demand, sleep cycle, balance thing which I already did on our trip to the beach last week that I'm still trying to fix.

I'm really just anxious because I don't want to leave my boy. Going back today, even for a few hours, just means I'm one step closer to the time I have leave on a regular basis and that makes me saaaaad.

I like being home with him all day. He's changing so much every single day. It's joy to watch him discover is own face in the mirror above his swing. It's freaking magical to hear his developing giggles and laughter. It's fun to play with him, singing silly songs and making eye contact, seeing in his eyes that he recognizes me now. I'm even liking the housework, although I admit I still suck at it. I hate leaving all of that to go sit in an office. An office where my presence is so essential I spent an hour creating a Facebook quiz about myself this morning.

Not that I'm complaining because again, totally aware that a lot of you are working 5 days a week, 8 hours a day and I realize I have a pretty sweet arrangement going. And if I have to be at work, putzing on Facebook beats the hell out of you know, having to actually work on stuff.

If you told me when I was pregnant that I was going to want to stay home, I would have called bullshit on you before you could finish your sentence. Not because I particularly like my job. I don't do anything IMPORTANT (see: Facebook). The world is not a BETTER PLACE because of my work. It's definitely not anything I BELIEVE IN. But I always liked working and having a job, even when work was at its absolute jerkiest and I was on my 85th hour. The thought of being Home. All. Day alone with a baby, even my baby, made me itch. Then I got pregnant and discovered that yes please, I'd love to stay home.

So isn't it a bitch that I find myself happy to stay home and can't do it? And really, we just can't do it.

I suppose this is the universe having some more fun with me. Or punishing me for my smug, judgey, insufferable knowitall, prepregnancy self.

I don't find the irony amusing.

We all know what happened last time I wrote about this. Could my magic work again? Perhaps without the medical issues and hospital stays this time?

*We have no arrangements for child care yet. Because you know, that's not the sort of thing you take care of before the baby gets here or anything. We do have a couple of options. My mom works as a nanny a few blocks over from my office and she thinks she might be able to take care of Bo while she's taking care of her two boys. This would of course be absolutely ideal but it depends on how that mom feels about it. Which I totally understand. Our other option is a lady in my mother in law's neighborhood who watches a couple of kids in her home. She's really flexible about our fluctuating schedule. We know people who have used her and she comes highly recommended. She'd be like Grandma Babysitter. What we're avoiding at all costs is Daycare Incorporated. Hellish might be a tad harsh. It just seems like baby jail to me.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

6 Weeks a week ago

Bo was 6 weeks old last week. He was still 6 weeks old when I started this entry. He is now 7 weeks old. Again, I know. Worst. Blog. Ever.

Anyway, Bo was 6 weeks old last week. We took him to Dr. Dan for his well baby checkup and the first round of evil, evil shots. We love our pediatrician. How can you not love a doctor that you call by his title + first name? He's younger than us by about 4 years and straight out of residency. He's joined his father's practice - with plans to eventually take it over I'm sure. We really like having such a young doctor, although it totally freaked me out at first (as perhaps evidenced by my use of the word young twice in the last two sentences). He's really dedicated and earnest and we can totally relate to him. You have to love a doctor who refers to his patient's testicles as "his boys".

Boaz is 13.25lbs and 23 inches long - or was when I started this post. The boy is a gorilla so I'm sure he's heavier by now. We learned that he has symptomatic reflux. Well, the internet already told me he had it but I shared the symptoms with the doctor for official confirmation. Dr. Dan gave us a prescription for itty bitty baby Zantac which Frank took to the pharmacy immediately after our appointment to get filled.

Before Bo, when I was one of those insufferable know it alls who liked to pass judgement and expert opinions on parenting out of my ass, I would totally have looked down on a mom who gave her tiny boy Zantac instead of just sucking it up and riding out the inconvenience of baby reflux. Because I am a jackass who would deem baby reflux an "inconvenience" while having no frame of reference to do so.

As a fully formed grown up, I have no problem sucking up a little baby reflux. Seriously, I'm impervious to crying. My son however, is only 7 weeks old and cannot suck up anything. He can't lay on his back at all. He writhes around and arches his back. If I do put him down on his back after he's fallen asleep, he wakes up shrieking as if he'd been burned. They aren't the cries of a baby waking up, they are the cries of a baby in serious pain. He vomits and chokes on it. Not instantaneous, greedy, "I swallowed more than my belly can hold" spit up. Oh no, I'm talking half digested, 30 minutes later vomit that he chokes on. He gags. You know, gagging where you can't breathe and you open your eyes and mouth really wide to take a breath but you're gagging? Right. Imagine a 7 week old making that face. Imagine your 7 week old making that face from his precious little lamb swing and straining to lift his head to get some relief. Now add the specter of SIDS that haunts your little family because it's been here before. Zantac is a damned godsend.

Speaking of swings and godsends, while struggling with what the hell is wrong with the baby syndrome, the only place Bo could sleep peacefully was his swing. Which is in our family room. Which is not where our bed is. For about a month we slept on the couch and love seat (Frank on the love seat, me on the couch) while Bo slept in his swing. So really only Bo got any sleep at all. But what else could we do? He couldn't sleep on his back. He would sleep on my chest but really, that wasn't practical because at some point I would fall asleep and weren't no way that boy was being put down on his tummy to sleep. So the swing it was.

Then we dragged our bleary eyed, sleep deprived selves to the doctor for the six week checkup. When we told Dr. Dan that Bo was sleeping in the swing, he told us it was very important to try to get him to sleep either in the crib in his room or in the bassinet in our room. Apparently a new study has been published that suggests a relationship between sleeping elsewhere and a higher risk for SIDS. Awesome. Other than that Bo passed his physical with flying colors. He's spectacularly normal and developmentally fantastic. He's in the 95th percentile for his weight which whatever, I pay very little attention to that stuff.

Then it was time for the shots.

I don't really have anything to say about the controversy over infant immunizations. Well, that's not true. It's more accurate to say I don't have a firm position. The autism spectrum is vast and growing; not to mention overwhelming and devastating to a parent who finds herself thrust onto its merry go round. This I've seen in person and it's not for me to say that it's over diagnosed or that the spectrum is too vast. We don't know why it happens or what causes autism. There's no describing the anguish of parents not able to reach or help their precious baby through that darkness nor the need to find a reason why it happened; to blame something or somebody for what really is in some way the loss of their child.

Do immunizations cause reactions in the brains of some children that result in autism? I really don't believe that they do. But I'm not going to dismiss anybody that does believe it. Although certain 90s MTV game show host, quasi-celebrity, former playboy models do their cause no favors by being so angry and screamy and dismissive of anyone who isn't as religiously convinced as she is. My Dad always said that nobody listens to the screamers on either side of an issue and he was right. It's too easy to tune them out because they make no allowance for informed dialogue or conversation. Nobody wants to listen to an attitude of my way or the highway. You marginalize yourself and make your message less effective. Also, those certain celebrities may want to examine the relationship between frequent and habitual coke snorting during those 1990's and her son's problems. I'm just saying.

All of this is to say that of course we got Bo immunized. I don't know about shots and autism but I do know about rotovirus and hepatitis and other creepy crawly things that I do no want infesting my boy and that these shots will most definitely thwart them. And that is what I kept telling myself and him, while apologizing profusely for the whole experience.

Everyone knows that watching your baby get shots is excruciating. Most people expect the parents to cry just as much as the baby. All of this I knew but I didn't know exactly why until I held my fat, wriggly son in my arms and offered his delicious thigh up to the nurse for the shots. Word of advice to parents who haven't had this experience yet: do not look at your baby's face while this act is being performed. Avoid his eyes especially. See, I thought parents cried because of the pain being inflicted on their precious baby. But that's not it. At least, that wasn't it for me.

Bo was in my lap, waving his arms and legs uncontrollably and looking around with his giant blue eyes, probably happily expecting to be fed soon since it was time and he could smell that he was in the right lap for it. Then the shots came. It's almost too hard to describe the looks of first surprise and then hurt and then pain on the boy's face. You know in the movies when a person gets stabbed or shot without warning and that look of confusion and betrayal that they always telegraph? That's the look that was on Bo's face. And before he can really process the pain, here comes another shot and another and another. Of course he starts screaming in pain but the confusion and surprise on his face is what really got to me. It was like I betrayed him. I couldn't explain to him what was happening or why. I could only hold him and rock him and pray that he didn't associate my smell with that awful feeling forever.

He was pretty out of it the rest of the day, sleeping a lot and waking up when the Tylenol wore off. Yes, Tyelnol too. Every time he woke up he was in pain. His cries were different and I could just tell it hurt. Projecting a little? Perhaps. But he was in pain and I was going to fix it if I could.

I was also going to use the opportunity to try and get the boy back to sleeping in his bassinet and thereby get myself back to sleeping in my bed. I suggested to Frank that while our son was groggy and kinda whacked out we should try putting him to bed properly and he agreed. Don't you know that boy slept in his bassinet that night and every night since? A full week of sleeping in a bed like people. It's been awesome and I don't think I've ever been more grateful for my bed.

The Zantac started working immediately, despite Dr. Dan's warning that it would take 5 or 6 days. There's far less vomit and writhing around. Bo is sleeping well for about 3 hours at a time at night and we're luxuriating in our fabulous Ikea queen size. Ok, maybe not so much luxuriating as passing out cold amongst the cat and the dog and each other. Even so, it's better than the couch.

Not that it matters because I'd sleep on the ground outside if it means never seeing my baby gag and choke again.

It was a very rough day.