Catching up in pictures

Well. 

My goodness, it's been a while.

Do you remember me? (Do I remember me?)

So, it was Christmas. We like Christmas.

Now it's winter, and there is much snow and cold. A week or so ago, it was -18 degree when I woke up. Yes siree, it makes getting up to teach 6:30 am violin lessons extra inviting.

 So what do you do when there's 2 feet of snow and ice all over the place and your 4 year old is bouncing off the walls? Bring his bike inside. Then curse yourself repeatedly for thinking that a bike in the kitchen was a good idea.

Then, in the approximately 2.5 minutes when there isn't snow on the roads, you take your kids out for a walk. Greet the animals and splash in the puddles, quick, because you won't see the sidewalk again for months!

So what else have we been doing?

 Sleeping through Sunday School,

 Preparing for our new lives as famous recording artists, 

 Ruining Mom's high scores on iPhone games,

 Beating each other up with swords,

Learning to ice skate,

 Baking pies, (mmmm, pies!)

 Making gigantic messes,

 Getting by with a little help from our trusty friends, 

 Making more giant messes, this time of the artistic variety,

And looking ridiculously cute in our pjs and matching curls.

Don't forget the fact that winter and spring mean lots of practicing, performing, and Abby's first big violin competition. (Gulp!)

 So Ashlynn is practicing for the piano festival,

 I'm working on perfect bow hands with my students,

 Abby's performing everywhere,

And even Max feels the need to practice. (Will someone get that boy a cello already?)

Other important happenings: 

 The boys are developing their talent in photography. 

 They're both going through a rather experimental self-portrait phase.

Max has another impossible to cure ear infection. I didn't think you wanted to see pictures of that. (You're welcome.) We're heading into February, the dreaded month of illness, and I'm crossing my fingers that this is as bad as it gets.

I even took all the kiddos to get new pictures taken, and we all still liked each other when it was over. Check out the sidebar. Pretty impressive, right?

So there you have it. 2 months, two dozen pictures, and you're up to speed.

We're busy. We're happy, we're grateful.

A pox on your house!

Chicken pox, that is.

You want an example of how things work in our lives?

Last Wednesday, I was sitting in the backyard with a friend, and we started chatting about vaccines. For many reasons I won't go into here, the girls have been partially vaccinated, and the boys haven't had any. So we were chatting about various vaccines and I told her that we had basically made up our minds that if the girls hadn't had the chicken pox by the time they were twelve, I'd probably just vaccinate them so that they weren't completely miserable when they got it.

The next morning, Abby came into my room. "Mom, I think I have the chicken pox."

Bleary-eyed, I answered, "You don't have the chicken pox, Abby. You didn't have a fever. Chicken pox always starts with a fever." (In my defense, it was first thing in the morning. I could hardly remember my own name, let alone diagnose an illness.) "You have some red bumps, You're probably allergic to something. Here's some benadryl."

Later that day, after rounds of claritin and benadryl didn't help, the spots kept spreading, and I was forced to turn to Dr. Google.

Sure enough, those spots looked suspiciously like chicken pox.

I started laughing. Because what else was I going to do?

Then I called Morgan, to tell her that my children had exposed her children to chicken pox, and beg her to still be my friend even though if her kids contracted chicken pox it would be when she was approximately 38 weeks pregnant. (So far, she's still talking to me. But we haven't passed the 2-week incubation period yet.)

Then I emailed photos to Abby's pediatrician after speaking to them and having them tell me, in no uncertain terms, that they were NOT interested in seeing her in the office.

Sure enough, my family somehow, somewhere managed to contract chicken pox.

Ashlynn started with the spots that night. As far as two cases of chicken pox go, they were both very mild. They took a few baths, itched for a while, and complained about being cooped up in the house without friends.

Now the girls have recovered, and there's no sign of spots on the boys. Which is super weird, because if there's a virus, a bug, a sniffle, they're going to catch it, love it, make it their own. So we're waiting for another set of itchy, red spots on another set of kidlets. 


Figures that since we haven't seen the pediatrician since February that it would be something big, rare and obnoxious.

Things I'm learning this week

It's not all about long division, geometry, and past participles around here, folks. Nope, I'm doing lots of learning, myself.

For example, I've learned that a toddler and a bottle of red salad dressing can make a very, very large mess on our already ugly beige carpet. Likewise, a seemingly small amount of toothpaste goes a long, long way when Ian's involved.

I've also learned that buying a violin for my own kid when I'm a violin teacher turns me into one of those indecisive pain-in-the-rear end Suzuki moms that used to drive me crazy during the10 years I worked at the music store. The good news? We are now the proud owners of a very nice 3/4 violin, which at the rate Abby is growing will last us around 8 months. Then we get to start the whole process over again.

I've learned that even my littlest of boys belongs outside as much as possible. Hallelujah for the return of sunshine, blue skies, afternoons outside with dozens of neighborhood kids, and Max wearing "fip fops" every time he heads outside to play. And while Ian still has to learn that running, walking, or riding his cute little toddler bike in the street is not ok, I am so grateful for these wonderful afternoons where I've been able to send my kids outside to wear themselves out.

I've learned that chalk art on the driveway is another sure sign of spring. And it makes me smile every time I look outside.

I've re-learned that having piano festival and violin federation on the same Saturday is more than a little nutty. Add my husband flying to Turkey the morning of both and I have a recipe for Crazy Town.

I've learned that when I committed in September to homeschooling for an entire year and said "No matter what, I won't make any permanent decisions about my childrens' education in February in March," it was very nearly prophetic. Because in the midst of fever-y babies, spelling tests, and fighting children, a public school right down the street, Sesame Street for the boys and a nap for me seem pretty darn appealing.

I've learned that a 20 minute nap on the way home from violin lessons will power my baby for three hours past his bedtime.

I've figured out that applying for health insurance plans has taken years off my life. (How I love me some irony....) And there's nothing like detailing all medical procedures, surgeries and hospitalizations for the past two years to make me feel like a train wreck. Also, for us, there's not a worse time of year to have our group insurance terminated (stupid job) than February.

And, I've learned that even two years post-op, writing the words "Cranial Vault Reconstruction with a Frontal Orbital Advancement" still has the power to make me shudder a bit.

And today I've learned that even though the crazy at my house sometimes makes me feel like I'm about to go over the edge, after witnessing what many other people are facing, I've decided I'll keep my crazy. At least it's comfortable, thank you very much.

The seven circles of hell, or, why you should never, ever say "Bring it on!"

Let's recap.

Ian had croup.

Then I got mastitis.

Then Ian and Max got RSV.

Then I got a UTI, which required an incredibly humiliating visit to the ob/gyn with all four of my children on Valentine's Day. (There will be a post coming about this visit later. Wait for it. It will be good.)

Monday and Tuesday of last week, Ian got the stomach flu. We narrowly escaped a visit to the ER for rehydration, but I did not escape being barfed on over and over again. Neither did our poor bedsheets. Monday afternoon, I bummed some Zofran off a friend for my poor sick baby and burst into tears when she brought it over.

"Thank you," I cried, "I can't handle another doctor visit this week, I just can't."

Enter Thursday morning. I had just gotten Max dressed and walked into my room when I heard an ominous crash followed by a scream. Both my boys have an unfortuate penchant towards climbing. Well, it's not the climbing that's unfortunate. It's the falling.

There was much blood, and many tears, and a definite realization that stitches were needed. Awesome.

Luckily, my pediatrician can do stitches in office, so I met Tom at the office, where we experienced Max's continued fear of all things medical, and learned that it would take four full grown adults to hold him down so he could get three stitches in his forehead. It was truly miserable for all involved. Luckily, a quick stop for ice cream managed to win his affection back, and by the time we got home, he was acting as if nothing had ever happened.

I congratulated myself. On Monday, I didn't think I was going to be able to cope with another doctor visit, and on Thursday morning we survived stitches. I was pretty proud of myself. "Bring it on, Universe," I jokingly bragged to a friend, "What else do you have? I can take it!"

Yup, I was feeling pretty smug. That was until midway through my first violin lesson of the afternoon, when my girls thundered down the stairs to announce that Max had thrown up everywhere. They weren't exaggerating. To spare you the grossness, let's just say that by the time I was done teaching, the carpets on two floors needed to be cleaned, seven towels, one blanket and three outfits of Max's needed to be washed, and two older siblings were incredibly grossed out.

The best part was when the pediatrician's office called to check on us, and upon hearing that he was throwing up, directed us to go directly to Primary Children's for a CT. You see, protocol for vomiting following a head injury is immediate examination at the ER. It took a while for me to convince them that yes, I was certain he just had the stomach flu, and no he wasn't slurring his words or falling down for no reason, and no, I didn't need to drive to Salt Lake, spend hours in the ER and thousands of dollars to be told he had the stomach flu.

So I begged my husband to bring home a carpet cleaner, we got some pizza and donuts and went to work. Two hours later, the carpets were clean, Max was asleep, and Abby was barfing.

Ian, however, was wide awake and thrilled to be able to participate in the carpet cleaning.

I went to sleep with my stomach turning, willing myself not to be sick until Friday night, after my students' masterclass. It didn't work. 3am found me in the shower, and my dear sweet husband scrubbing the floor, cleaning up after me. At 7 am, it was his turn. We spent the next few hours laying in bed, sipping Sprite, moaning, cancelling my masterclass, and begging the girls to fetch this or that. The kids spent the whole day watching cartoons, a wonderful dear neighbor brought us soup for dinner, and we spent Saturday digging ourselves out from under approximately 67 loads of laundry and the wreckage that inevitably results from leaving four kids to fend for themselves all day.

So what have we learned from this whole experience? It will be a long time before we order pizza again, it's wonderful when your kids are old enough to understand the concept of a barf bucket, and that I should never, ever challenge the universe to bring it on.

February Funk

It happens every year.

I should just count on it.

Even though we've had much less snow that usual this year, it still feels like it's been a long, long winter. I'm tired of the wet and the cold, sick to death of boots, coats and mittens, and at the end of my rope with illnesses of every variety.

The baby caught a brutal stomach bug two days ago, and I've been barfed on more times in the past 48 hours than I would care to count. I am slowly digging myself out of the mountain of laundry that the stomach flu inevitably produces, and crossing my fingers and hoping against hope that this isn't one of those contagious stomach bugs that will spread through every member of the family. (Yeah, right!)

I'm ready for spring. I'm ready for walks outside, afternoons at the park basking in the sun while my kids run wild. My poor little boys are so incredibly sick of being trapped inside, and I'm not sure how much more of Max jumping off the couch while yelling "To Infinity and Beyond!" I can handle.

So here's to tulips, seventy degrees, and sunshine. And to chocolate, caffeine, clean sheets, episodes of "Sesame Street" in the afternoon, and only one week left in February.

It's like we've won the lottery

RSV.

Breathing treatments.

The pediatrician predicted Ian would fever for 2 more days, cough his face off for 4-5 days, and continue to hack away like a smoker for 2-3 weeks after that.

Yee haw.

I should have gone to med school.

Max was thrilled to make another doctor visit this week.

And obviously, he was just as thrilled about the unavoidable trip to the music store this afternoon. (Did I mention that he's had a fever for two days straight too, and it seems to have caught up with him this ? It did, however, make it oh so much easier to audition violins!)

And this is some random coworker of Tom's who gets to be included on my blog because this picture of him falling asleep at work showed up in my photo stream. The end.

A week of firsts

We've had our share of stupid medical issues. Some trivial, some not so trivial, and everything in between.
But when my baby started barking like a seal on Sunday night, I knew we were in for something different. Monday morning at the doctor brought a diagnosis of croup and a dose of steroids for Ian. Before Ian came along, we had never really done respiratory illnesses. So I figured one case of croup after 10 1/2 years of parenting wasn't too bad.

Then Tuesday night hit. Tom had taken the girls to a 6:00 basketball game. By 6:15, I realized I wasn't feeling very good. By 6:45, I was under a layer of blankets with my teeth chattering. By 7:10, when my husband came home, I was shaking and bawling, begging him to bring me more blankets. I laid there under four huge blankets and a heating pad, still freezing, thinking for sure that it was a vicious flu bug.

Turns out mastitis can mimic the flu quite well. And after 6 1/2 cumulative years of breastfeeding, it's another first I could do without. I haven't been this sick in a long time, and it's extra sucky to have the sick baby wanting to nurse from a breast that's hard as a rock and fiery red.

As for Ian, he's been running a fever constantly since Monday, cranky as can be, and was coughing so hard last night that we took turns puking. I was kind enough not to puke on him, he did not extend me the same courtesy. And just because Max is feeling left out, he's barking like a dog tonight too. I expect all three of us will be seeing our good friends the pediatricians tomorrow morning.

You know it's an extra special week when your budget for copays is larger than your budget for groceries.

Learn Something New Everyday

We've been doing lots of learning round these parts. And I'm not talking just long division type learning either, although there's been plenty of that too.

For example, I've learned that an 11 month old can run a 103 degree fever for five days before the doctors get worried. 

I've also learned that one of Max's brand new ear tubes is likely making it's way out of position, causing a pediatrician to once again say, "I've never seen this before."  I have not yet learned whether there is a warranty on ear tubes. Doubtful.

I've relearned that mouth injuries bleed. A lot. 

I'm also relearning long division and double digit multiplication. My poor girls. I don't like it anymore now than when I learned it in elementary school.

I've learned multiple injections of lidocaine and massive amounts of laughing gas aren't enough to keep me from feeling the dentist's drill. Ouch. I'm going to learn about oral sedatives when I go back on Monday to get the rest of my dental work finished. 

I've learned that allowing my 6:30 am violin students to switch lessons is a very bad idea. Inevitably, someone is going to forget about the switch, leaving me awake for no reason on the one day the sick baby actually sleeps in.

I've learned that cancelling my daughter's violin lesson when your baby has a fever of 103 and your toddler is screaming that his ear hurts might be the best possible decision. 

I've also learned that chocolate chip pumpkin bread, some good friends to vent to, and a Saturday afternoon nap will go a long way towards making me feel better after a long week.

Another reason we'll be paying off medical bills for the rest of our lives

It's been a long time since my I've answered the phone and heard this on the other end:

"Hello? Is this Maxwell's mom? This is so-and-so from Primary Children's Hospital and I'm just calling to get some information about Maxwell for his surgery tomorrow."

What? You didn't know we were having surgery this week? Neither did we.

Usually, it takes 4-6 weeks to get in to see the ENTs at Primary's. When I called about the world's worst ear infection last week, they got me in in less than a week.

When I schlepped all 4 kids to the hospital for the appointment, the doctor told us that his previously placed ear tube was causing the infection, and it needed to be removed and replaced with a new, non-infected tube as soon as possible. He also suggested removing Max's adenoids because they often are inflamed and contribute to ear infections.

So I was thinking we would book a surgery date in a few weeks. Nope. Try two days. He really did mean as soon as possible.

I really hate taking my little boy in for surgery, no matter how minor. Not fun. Not even remotely. If we never, ever have to hand him over the an anesthesiologist again it will be perfectly fine with me.

Poor Max started screaming the minute they put the hospital bracelet on him, and didn't stop until way after the dose of versed kicked in. Although I have to admit that Tom and I got a chuckle out of the fact that they didn't even ask us if we wanted it, they just ordered it. I supposed him kicking at and running away from the staff probably gave them their first clue.

 The worst part? We know that he remembers. Somewhere, deep in his psyche, he remembers at least parts of the experiences he's had before. The sight of the blue hospital band triggered a fear and rage so deep that there was nothing we could do to console him. 

Luckily, ear tubes and adenoids make for an easy, relatively quick surgery. He woke up from the anesthesia yelling "No Doctors! No Doctors!" but a dose of pain meds took care of everything relatively quickly. We hung out in the hospital until we could get him to drink something, and were more than happy to be headed home.

The afternoon was up and down. Once we finally got him to eat something he started acting a little bit more normal, and was even able to charm one of my violin students into asking "Didn't he have surgery today?" And while things got really ugly when the pain meds wore off, we dosed him up quickly, and got another good laugh out of our drugged up little boy falling asleep in his bowl of cereal.

I'm glad it's done and over with. Glad not to have to wait for weeks, dreading another surgery. Thankful that we're entering cold and flu season with a fresh set of tubes and less chances of ear infections for Max. But seriously. My poor little boy. I wish he could catch a break somewhere.

Oh, and that goes for our medical bills too.

 Dear IHC: Just put this one one our tab, m'kay?

It's quiet at my house.

All four children are sleeping. (For now. Knock on wood.)

I'm at a computer.

These are three very big, very rare events at my house.

I'd celebrate, but I don't want to wake anyone up.

So we're homeschooling. It's overwhelming, and joyful, and maddening, and exciting, and lots of other -ings all at once. I haven't yet figured out how to school the girls, help them both practice their instruments, take care of the babies, teach the lessons and make sure the house keeps functioning. It's a lot. There's always at least one someone who needs me. Whether it's Ashlynn who needs help with spelling words, or Abby who can't quite put together the passage in Fiocco Allegro, or Max who wants to play/get thrown in the air/needs a snack five minutes after breakfast ended or Ian who just NEEDS everything, I'm spread pretty thin.

My friend Morgan wrote this post today, and already said everything I was feeling. So you know, just head over there and pretend that I wrote that. It reminded me again that I chose this. I can make it what we need it to be. And we're only three weeks in. We'll be fine. There are bright spots.

For instance, I folded a million loads of laundry today, and was so obscenely proud of myself, (and impressed with my laundry stacking abilities) that I took a picture!

And, Ashlynn sat at the kitchen table completely unprompted today to work on a story she's been writing. She's taken her little composition book everywhere with her the past few days, and has written at least six pages of a story. Today she wrote uninterrupted for more than an hour. She was thrilled. So was I.

In other news, since my husband has been home for a record six days in a row, we bought a car. It's been in the works for a while, but now was the time. Not only because we're both in the same state, or because we got a screaming "Labor Day SALE SALE SALE!!!" deal, but because Tom's boss told him straight up that it wasn't acceptable for him to be one of the faces of his company driving the beat up gray Granny car he's been driving for the past three years. I don't understand what her problem was. After all, the bashes in the side of the car just added character, and the worn out muffler just made it so that we knew exactly when he was arriving home.

Just for the record, this picture shows only one of two huge dents placed in Tom's car by our oh-so-nice-neighbors, who not only find it incredibly difficult not to back into our car when they're pulling out of their driveway, but that much more sdifficult to actually REPORT it. I can't say that we'll miss our Gray Dodge. Especially not when there's a brand new, less than 100 miles on it, silver-blue Nissan sitting in the driveway.

Just to further complicate things, the baby took two steps Tuesday. And more yesterday. He's nine months old. It's not even funny. He's thrilled, and has proceeded to empty grabage cans, play in the toilet, pull books off the bookshelf like it's his mission in life, and whack his poor little head on everything in sight. He's obviously ignored my instructions to stay little for as long as possible. He's naughty that way. And if the kid would just sleep for more than an hour at a shot, I could probably conquer the world. Seriously, we suspect he's paying us back for all those easy naps we got when he was tiny.

Not to be outdone, Max has managed to cultivate what may be the world's worst ear infection. Did you know that ears stink when they get infected? Neither did I. But it's true. And it might just be the worst smell in the world. Because it's Max, we've been through a round of antibiotic drops, and have almost finished a course of oral antibiotics without much change. We got his ear cultured yesterday so we could get a better picture of what we're dealing with. The pediatrician thinks it might be staff or MRSA, but then said it would be "really rare" for that to show up in a child. Yup. She obviously isn't our regular pediatrician or she would know better than to say "really rare." She told us that it may be time to look at getting Max's adenoids and tonsils removed along with putting in a new set of tubes. We have an appointment back at Primary Children's Tuesday morning for an ENT consult. Sigh. I haven't missed the medical roller coaster AT ALL.

Maybe I should have the girls interview one of Max's doctors and call it a homeschooling project. Hmmm.

I could probably find the kitchen sink if I looked hard enough

So I lost my wallet.

Not my purse, just my wallet.  And I turned my house upside down looking for it.  Here's the funny thing- my house was actually clean from top to bottom, so it wasn't hiding under piles of shoes, backpacks, dirty clothes or anything else that piles up at my house.

And unlike the other day when my nine year old thought it would be funny to hide the car keys, throwing me into a tearful panic, and leaving me no option except to call the school in desperation, hoping against hope that she had seen the keys when she cleaned the basement, (Do you have any idea what an inept mom I felt like calling the elementary school to talk to my third grader to ask if she'd seen my keys?  Yeah, it was a special motherhood moment.  Except then she had seen them, and had HID THEM, and I felt all kinds of vindicated!) neither one of my girls had seen my wallet.

And then I found it.  Want to hear the bad part?  It was in my purse.  Right where it belongs. 

Want to know why I couldn't find it?

Because it was buried amongst:

~Approximately 40 coupons.  (Someday, I'm determined I'm going to save real, live money using coupons.  It would probably help if I actually removed them from of my purse...)

~3 diapers.  (Yes, they were clean.)

~Two grocery store receipts.

~One brand new pair of toddler socks.  (I don't think I even remember buying those, let alone stashing them in my purse...)

~One small, plastic, inflatable ball.  (Don't knock it.  It was given to Max once when we had Ian in the clinic to be suctioned.  That little ball has entertained all of us at many a doctor visit.)

~Three McDonald's Happy Meal toys.  (I have no idea how those got in there.  Honest.)

~An unactivated Gymboree frequent customer card.

~One matchbox car

~4 Jolly Ranchers.  (How long have those been in there?)

~One of Max's t-shirts.  (If I looked long enough, I probably could have found the rest of his wardrobe!)

and here's the kicker:

~A cord and sensor to a pulse-ox machine. 

There's actually a story behind that one.  Last time we were at the hospital with Max, the very nice Respiratory Therapist, (who I now know by name and who recognized us when we saw her around town last weekend,) offered to let us keep the pulse-ox cord and the attatched sensor.  I looked at her strangely until she mentioned that they would just have to throw it away if we didn't take it with us, and if we brought it with us the next time we were in the hospital, it would save us about $60 or so. 

That's right, folks, all of our hospitalizations from now on will be BYOPOE: Bring Your Own Pulse Ox  Equpment  They might get away with charging us obscene amounts of money just for breathing air in the ER, they might bill our insurance $5 for every pediatric dose of Advil, but we're one step ahead of them.  We're bring our own disposable medical supplies! That's us.  Beating the system every way we can. 

(And how ridiculous is it that I'm actually saving it, because knowing us, it will probably end up saving us money in the not-too-distant future! I can't wait to see the look on the Doctor's face when he or she starts to hook up whichever child is in crisis, and I make them wait while I rummage through my magic purse and produce my own cord.  It will be very funny.  Or at least it is in my head.)

I bet you're jealous that you don't have any major medical equipment in your purse.

And I bet you're thinking I should clean out my purse.  You're probably right.

And for more fun...

Guess who else has strep? 

The five month old baby.

Again.

I think I'm going to go crawl under a rock and hide for the next few weeks.

That, and start a savings account for when Ian needs his tonsils out.

There must be opposition in all things

Remember how Sunday was my birthday?  And it was wonderful and peaceful and relaxing and everything I needed it to be?

Well, what I didn't tell you is that Max had been brewing a fever since Friday afternoon. 

So Sunday night, when his fever spiked somewhere between Death Valley in August and African desert, I decided that it was time for a trip to our pediatrician.

He slept in until 9 am Monday morning.  That right there was enough to tell me how sick he really was, because never in my whole parenting career have any of my children slept until 9 am.  And then he woke up. 

And then the whole neighborhood could tell that he was awake because he started to s.c.r.e.a.m.  And scream.  And scream.  And he didn't stop screaming until about 5 minutes before we got to the doctor's office.

I have to confess to being more than a little worried.  I had wrapped him in a blanket and he was visibly shaking, his face was grayish, and then he started screaming again.  Turns out, there was a positive side to all the screaming.  Even if your doctor's office calls when you're on the way to tell you they're double booked, they tend to get you right in when your child is making enough noise to wake the dead.

So despite having ear tubes, the doctor discovered that Max has an ear infection.  The sweet pediatrician was ready to wrap her diagnosis into a neat and tidy bow when I asked her to swab Max's throat for strep.  "You know," she replied, "Kids this young don't usually get strep." 

That's when I told her that the baby had gotten strep when he was the ripe old age of two months.  And when she swabbed Max's throat, it was an unmistakable positive for strep.  Then I mentioned that he hadn't had a wet diaper in almost 12 hours, and that got us a do-not-pass-go pass to the Park City Hospital for IV hydration. 

It also forced me to make yet another series of my favorite phone calls ever.  First to my husband: "Hi honey, can you meet me in the ER so I don't have to hold two screaming babies at once?"  and then to a series of violin students: "Hi (insert name of violin student here), my son is headed to the ER, can we reschedule your lesson?"

I told Max we were headed to the hospital to help him feel better.  His response?  "No hopistal today."  If he hadn't been so sad, the mispronunciation would have been cute.

We got to the hospital, and I started  checking Max in, and he started begging Tom for water.  Tom got him a water bottle and he promptly guzzled half of it.  They got us back to a room, assesed his vitals, and watched him drink some more water and down a pedialyte popscicle like it was the best thing ever.  We raised our eyebrows at each other and asked the nurse if we could avoid turning the two year old into a human pincushion (last time we went down this road it took them 7 sticks with a needle to finally get the IV inserted.) as long as he kept drinking.  She agreed, gave us 20 minutes to have him produce a wet diaper, and turned on Elmo's world for Max.

Twenty minutes and one wet diaper later, we were very gratefully on our way home.

I thought we were done.  A few doses of antibiotics, a little bottle of ear drops and we'd be good as new, right?

Ha!  Did I forget who I was dealing with?

I went to give him his second dose of medicine tonight to find a rash all over his little body.  Of course it was 5 minutes after his pediatricians closed for the night, so I got to speak with the very nice pediatrician on call, who was neither our pediatrician nor the one we saw yesterday, (and what does it say about us that I have the on-call number for our pediatricians programmed into my phone?) and she told me that it was probably an allergic reaction to the antibiotics and that I should bring him in tomorrow to be checked and to get him a new prescription.  Joy.

Did I mention that my husband is out of town again today?  At least this time, Max had the courtesy to land himself in the ER while my husband was in the same state.

So tonight, Max got a dose of ibuprofen.  Ian, who cut his first tooth today, got a dose of tylenol.  I consumed massive amounts of chocolate.   Here's hoping we get at least a little bit of sleep.

My new get rich quick scheme

So I have an idea.

It's brilliant.

It's going to make me a fortune!

Here's how it goes: every time a doctor or and kind of medical professional utters the words "It's very rare" they have to pay me $5.  That's it.  Simple as that.

Because in my household, rare is what we do.

Take me for example:  I have a neurological condition that affects 1 in 100,000 women.  Pretty good odds, right?

Then I gave birth in the car.  I think the odds on that are around 1 in 300.

Max has craniosynostosis, a condition that affect approximately 1 in 4,000 babies.  After surgery #1, he had a very rare complication. Then he was one of the lucky 5% that has to have more than one operation. Then he had the same very rare complication again. I'll leave it up to you brilliant math people to figure out those odds.

Then there's all the other Max Medical Drama.  I shake my head at the craziness of it all, and all the times we were told "Well, this is really unexpected."  or "This complication is very rare." 

But we've been doing good for a few months.  I was the only one who managed to get myself hospitalized, and I got a baby out of it, so that was good.

Even Ashlynn getting strep throat last week didn't phase me much. 

What did worry me was when the baby spiked a fever Saturday night while my husband was in Vegas.  I'll give you a hint: never google "Fever in a 3 month old" at 3 o'clock in the morning when you're up with a crying baby and your husband is in another state.I waited until morning to call my pediatrician who told me we were safe to wait it out at home as long as nothing got worse. I thought we were out of the woods by Sunday night when my husband was home and Ian's fever started to go down.

Unfortunately, his coughing and breathing kept getting worse, and yesterday morning, his fever was back, and so off to the pediatrician we went.

A fever in a barely 3 month old is usually cause for concern anyway, but a fever plus a rattling cough is bad news.  Honestly, I was prepared to be sent to the hospital overnight.  It didn't help my confidence any when the doctor heard Ian cough and said "I hope he doesn't have whooping cough."

She listened to him, checked his ears and eyes, and then looked at me and said "You know, I'm going to run a strep test just in case.  It would be extremely rare for a baby this age to have strep, but just to be on the safe side..."

Five minutes later, she cam back to tell me that my three month old did indeed have the first case of strep she'd ever seen in a baby this young.  Incidentally, this is twice we've given the pediatrician something she's never seen before.  And she's not a brand new doctor.  Yes, we're all about the education opportunities here. (Maybe I should be charging for those too...)

The doc also wrote us a prescription to have Ian's nose suctioned a few times this week so that he can breathe and so that we might all be able to sleep again.  Both times I've been to the hospital these past two days, everyone who find out Ian has strep has said "That's so rare!  I've never heard of that before!"

I'm telling you, I'm already planning the giant house, the tropical vacations, the hired help...

(And I'm already planning on the other two kids getting strep as well.  Because that's just how we roll...)

(And if you're wondering, I am actually feeling better.  Now that I know that my baby doesn't need to be hospitalized, I'm actually glad it was strep throat because it's so treatable!  A shot of penicillin later and my baby is back to his happy, smiling, snotty self.  Thank heavens.)

Pneumonia

pneu·mo·nia   /nʊˈmoʊnyə, -ˈmoʊniə, nyʊ-/


[noo-mohn-yuh, -moh-nee-uh, nyoo-]

–noun Pathology .

1. inflammation of the lungs with congestion.
2. an illness characterized by coughing until I see stars, spending a week throwing up despite the fact that I'm in my third trimester, and a trip to the instacare on an otherwise beautiful Sunday morning, resulting in one semi-panicked doctor, one breathing treatment, two inhalers and two different antibiotics. 
 
I have to tell you, though.  Breathing is a beautiful thing. 
 

I Hate Craniosynostosis

It's been a while since I've had to write a big vent about craniosynostosis.  That's because I've started losing track of how far post-op we are, have stopped visiting the CranioKids bulliten board so often, and just in general have tried to put the whole ugly ordeal behind us so we could get on with our lives.   For the most part, Max's head shape looks ok, and until this past week, we were pretty certain that all the worries were behind us.  We haven't even been to the ER, hospital or urgent care for Max in three months.  I think that's an all time record!

And before I go on, my apologies to all the other cranio moms that follow our journey, especially those that are facing a new diagnosis.  No, I don't know why we are facing so many complications on this crazy journey.  No, all of these problems are not routine.  In fact, no, I don't know anyone who has gone through such a bumpy ride.  But we don't really have a choice.  So, my cranio sisters, read on if you dare, and just thank your lucky stars that your journey will be smoother.

The other night, Max was feeling very cuddly, and spent a hour laying next to me while we both read stories.  I was playing with his hair and rubbling his head when I felt it.  A fluid pocket about the size of a quarter on his scalp.  I did as any mom whose son had had two major surgeries in the past year would and panicked.  I called my husband upstairs, and he could feel it too.  There is nothing that can be remotely good, or even neutral, about a pocket of fluid hanging out on my little boy's skull.  At best, it's fluid from the dissolving plates and screws; at worst, it's cerebral spinal fluid collecting from a leak in his brain!

The next morning, I called our surgeon's office, and the nurse didn't even consult with the surgeon- she told us we needed to come in the next day.  Now, we've been trying to talk with our surgeon via email about Max's protruding screws on his forehead and have had no luck for two weeks.  But apparently, all I need to say to get an emergency appointment is "fluid pocket" and I had an appointment the very next day.

So I called a friend to ask if she could help watch my girls, (since taking them to Dr appointments actually ranks even higher than grocery shopping on the "things I would rather scratch my eyes out than do with all three kids" scale,) and I got about two words out before I started sobbing.  Pregnancy hormones combined with a healthy dose of fear had me imagining emergency surgery before the weekend was out.

I probably pressed the panic button too soon, but I couldn't help it.  We've had what seems like every imaginable complication, including two major surgeries.  I forced myself to keep stuffing a bitter sense of dread down my throat while we waited for the appointment.

We went to see the surgeon Friday afternoon, and he was remarkably unfazed.  The fluid pocket seemed to have decreased significantly, and the doctor told us is could very well have resulted from a bump to the head, and if it wasn't causing him any discomfort, there really wasn't anything to worry about.  He also reassured us about the screws protruding from his forehead, telling us that when they went in for the second surgery, they found that Max's bones were on the thin side, and that forced them to place screws where they don't usually.  He actually seemed a bit more worried when we told him that Max had resumed banging his head on things this week and had been unusually cranky.  (Well, unusually cranky is how we described it to the doctor.  "Possessed by the demons of Hell" is how we've been affectionately referring to it at home this week.)

So, when all was said and done, we left the office with the reassurance that things were most likely okay, but with an order for a 3D CT scan just to be on the safe side.  Max's persistent head banging stopped abruptly after his second surgery, and just reppeared this week, and that combined with his behavior this week can point to increased intercranial pressure.  So we're going to get things checked out just to be safe.  And I'm trying not to press the panic button.

Problem is, getting a 3D CT scan is an ordeal in and of itself.  But, we've had miracles in that department before, and I'm not doubting that we can receive help in that department again.  And if there's something that needs to be dealt with after the scan, we'll have to take that as it comes.

In the meantime, I'm wishing that I had never heard the word craniosynostosis.

Spotting

I am 21 weeks pregnant today, and holding my breath.  I started spotting yesterday.  Mild, pink spotting.  Two midwives telling me "It's most likely nothing to worry about" spotting.  But that doesn't stop me from worrying.  Because somehow in the midst of the "Are you kidding me?  Now!!??" reaction to the initial positive pregnancy tests, and the weeks of negativity that gradually led from ambivalence to acceptance to excitement, I've become very attached to this little person growing inside of me.  I can't wait to meet him or her (and find out if it's him or her!) and add their personality and prescence to our home.

I feel the baby move every day, several times a day.  I adore that feeling, and the secret communication between my baby and me always brings a smile to my face.  Ashlynn felt the baby move for the first time tonight, the first of the family to have that physical manifestation of his or her prescense. 

I've never spotted in any of my healthy pregnancies. 

It could be nothing.  It could be something.  There's nothing for me to do now but wait it out, and see what presents itself. 

We have had so many medical dramas, surgeries, trips to doctors offices and emergency rooms in the past two years that psychologically, it's hard for me to fathom that something could go smoothly, normally, or proceed without a hitch. 

I am clinging to my deeply-held belief that birth is normal, that my body isn't broken, that I know how to grow, nourish, and birth a healthy baby. 

I am 21 weeks.  I have 3-4 weeks left until the baby is considered viable, and a good 16 weeks before we're considered full term. 

I'm hanging on for the ride.  Prayerful, emotional.  Hopeful.

I'm not dead (It just feels like it)

If it's June, it means I have dropped off the face of the earth to schlep my family to Suzuki Violin camp, more specifically the Intermountain Suzuki String Institute.

To avoid massive drives everyday, and save a scrap of sanity, I packed up approximately 57 suitcases full of everything we own and moved into my parents' basement for the week.

I haven't even opened my computer in a week. All of the blogosphere could have imploded, and I'd never know, because me entire life this week has revolved around my eight year old and her violin. By the time I get back to my parents' house, practice with Abby, (yeah, six hours of class during the day and practice at night. Tons o' fun...) and get everyone fed, bathed and in bed, there's nothing I can do but fall into bed completely exhausted. I'm not sure I could form a complete sentence this week that doesn't include the words "violin," "perpetual motion" or "Bach Double."

In fact, I'm sitting in a fiddle class right now, typing this blog post on my iPhone, so you'll have to excuse me if my auto spell-correct changes a typo into something obscene.

And we're in the middle of yet another bizarre medical crisis, because it's been two whole weeks since someone has been in the hospital or urgent care. This time, it's me, with a knee swollen approximately to the size of a basketball, and the doc at the instacare casually tossing around words like "MRI" "orthopedic surgeon" and "knee surgery." Fun, right? More about this later, after I'm off the heavy-duty painkillers and feeling more like a person. Or at least have access to a real keyboard.

So there you have it. Violins, knee surgery, and narcotics. Aren't you glad you stopped by today?

Still Alive

I (cough cough cough!)  survived (sniffle) the (hack, snort!) swine (I didn't really need that lung....) flu!  Barely.  (Where is my inhaler?)  I don't (50 different herbal remedies later) recommend (20 hours of sleep a day wouldn't be enough) getting (how am I going to make up a week's worth of violin lessons?) it. Just (Cough!) sayin.

Fun at the Doctor's Office

Remember the cold I was talking about?  The horrible, awful one?  The one where I said I hadn't been this sick in a long time?

Yeah, its not a cold.

Its the swine flu. 

Did anyone get the number of the truck that ran over me?

Although I must say that if I'm going to be coughing up a lung, at least the Codeine makes everything seem a little fuzzier around the edges.