Summer Fun

We took Owen to the Blue Hills state park in Canton on Sunday. It's actually a really nice place to spend the day, because they have hiking trails, a huge playground, and a sandy beach with a swimming area. We didn't get too many photos, but some of the ones we did get are cute. You may notice that I am in none of them; this is intentional and will remain the case until roughly next February because I have a personal rule disallowing photographic evidence of me pregnant. (since approximately 5 people read this blog regularly and all already know I'm pregnant, I figure we can dispense with the big announcement.) Some women are all into documenting the growing belly; I personally like to maintain the illusion that I fit into my favorite pair of jeans at all times. Without evidence, you can prove nothing.

All right, well, I'm not sure what's going on, but blogger is for some reason giving me a very hard time about uploading photos tonight. So, while this post was largely going to just be photos from our day at the state park, that will have to wait. So I'll tell you a funny story instead. Today, I had to work all day (which is unusual for a wednesday). So Owen stayed at his school until 5 instead of noon, which is when I usually pick him up on Wednesdays. When we got home, the second we walked in the door Owen was in a state I'd never seen him before. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, hitting me, throwing himself on the floor, banging his head on the floor, running full on into walls, and I was freaking out. I seriously considered bringing him to the ER because I thought the circuits were misfiring in his brain. I kept trying to soothe him by picking him up, hugging him, speaking to him softly, but all I got was more screaming, flailing, and a bright red bite mark on my left arm that is still there as I type this. I had NO IDEA what the problem was. While I was looking for my phone to call Andy at work to tell him we were going to the hospital, Owen ran over to the fridge and started throwing himself against it. I thought - could he be hungry? He doesn't usually eat dinner until quarter to 6 or so, and it was only 5:10, and supposedly he gets a snack at school at 3:30....but I decided that before I showed up at Faulkner ED with a raging case of "crazy toddler" I'd try food first. Well, clearly, food was the problem. Or not the problem, the answer. Owen ate: Almost a full cup of cottage cheese, two doctor praegers spinach pancakes, an adult sized serving of cheerios with milk, 5 saltine crackers and (when andy got home) a full slice of pizza. I've never seen the kid eat so much. He was so hungry that he was using both hands to get cottage cheese and spinach pancake into his mouth at the same time. I have no idea what happened at school today. Every time we pick him up, we get a little report and Owen ALWAYS gets "ate all his lunch". He had a solid lunch today: A cheese sandwich, a banana, and a pack of Annie's bunny grahams. Plus, they give them the snack I mentioned earlier. So, maybe he hit a growth spurt? Maybe he didn't get his snack? Maybe he hid most of his lunch in his diaper? Who knows. All I know is that the kid had a full on low blood sugar episode. Note to self: In the future, keep a snack on you at all times. I shudder to think what would have happened if we had gone to run errands straight from school instead of going straight home!

Uh, thanks.

Sigh. While straightening up some papers, I just came across an (unopened) package of "first birthday" thank you notes.

Since Owen's first birthday was 4 months ago, and I currently have no other child who is either imminently celebrating or just celebrated a first birthday, you can do the math. I assure you I had the best of intentions, and I think that I may have even convinced myself that I actually sent and wrote them. Which I clearly did not. And quite honestly, the chances of me at this point ever doing so diminish by the second.

I'm not ruling out the possibility. If you attended Owen's first birthday you may at some point in the future receive a kicky, sports themed thank you note. But it probably won't be soon. Or before Owen can sign his name himself. So, I apologize profusely for my rudeness - don't hold Owen accountable, he's just slightly too young to commit major social faux pas. And thank you very, very much for coming out and celebrating with us and bringing Owen a gift, if you did. We all enjoyed seeing you and are as always, touched by your generosity.

Mother of the Year

When I was still a few weeks away from having Owen, we put him on a waiting list at a daycare center that was extremely conveniently located to where I was (at the time) working. They cheerfully took our $100 deposit and informed us that there would VERY likely be a spot for him "sometime in the spring or at LATEST early summer of 2009." This sounded great, since Owen was due in March. Until I thought about it driving home and realized he was due in March of 2008. bummer. It was just as well though, because once I found out how much full-time care there was (an astronomical amount that I'm pretty sure only neurosurgeons and celebrity dermatologists could afford) I wrote them off. But, the fortuitous intersection of him FINALLY getting to the top of the waiting list and me reducing my hours to a point where I really only needed a small amount of childcare meant that I could actually start sending him there this summer. He goes for a half day on Wednesdays and a full day on Fridays - and it would not be any kind of exaggeration to say that Owen LOVES IT THERE. In fact, it would be pretty safe to say that he loves it there way more than he loves me.

Case in point: today. We get there at drop-off time. All the other toddlers are busy clinging to their mother's power-suited pantlegs, wailing and gnashing their teeth. Owen, however, as he has done since the moment he laid eyes on it, made a beeline for the sand table. (He loves that sand table so much that I briefly considered getting him one for Christmas this year. Then I realized, SAND TABLE in my house? AM I HIGH?) The daycare teachers chirped "say bye to mama! have a good day mama!" Owen barely looks up as he pours a container of sand mixed with glitter onto another little girl's head. Yep, that might be my cue to go. I return at noon, because Owen only gets to go a half day on Wednesdays. He was happily seated at the table with all his little turtle-room buddies, eating his lunch and swiping food from slower eaters when he thinks he can get away with it. When he saw me come in, he was initially excited. He stopped feeding himself his yogurt (which he is more than capable of doing) and demanded I let him sit in my lap and feed him the rest. Aw, sweet. makes me feel appreciated. We finish his lunch, and I start to gather his things up. Owen spies me holding his bag and freezes. I can see him doing the math in his head: "Why's she holding my bag? Why's she putting my lunch bag in there? Wait a minute. Why is she HERE, anyway?" He immediately broke eye contact and ran over to the shelf of plastic dinosaurs and started to play with them very pointedly. "Oh, that lady? Yeah, I know her, but I really don't have the time to be bothered right now because as you can see I'm VERY busy." Unfortunately (actually, very fortunately), 15 month old mind tricks usually don't work, so I went over to pick him up. When he realized my intentions, he started to throw the mother of all tantrums. I was pretty embarrassed. the preschool teachers were all "don't worry, Owen! You can come back Friday! we'll see you friday and you can play all day!". Meanwhile, I slunk out of there with my screaming toddler, trying to telepathically communicate that my house is not actually a dungeon of spikes and lashes.

The whole point of me working less was so that Owen would benefit from being home with me. Turns out all he wants to do is go to daycare. Figures.

The great pediatrician debate.

When Owen was born, we were living in Watertown, a couple miles from Newton Wellesley hospital. At the time, my primary care doctor and my obstetrician both had offices in the green building at the hospital, so it only made sense (since I was delivering there) to pick a pediatrician for Owen that had an office in the hospital as well. This is how we ended up with Dr. Y. He fit the geographical criteria, as well as had the added benefit of having a PhD in pediatric gastroenterology in addition to his MD, which was attractive to me because of the strong family history of GI disease. He was also, to be honest, the last pediatrician anywhere at Newton Wellesley who was accepting new patients. At first, Andy and I thought there was probably a good reason for that. As much as I have come to adore Dr. Y over the past 15 months, there is no denying that he is one of the goofiest looking human beings on the planet. Combined with his odd mannerisms, a tendency laugh at his own (unfunny) jokes awkwardly hard, and an extremely strong chinese accent, Dr. Y is an experience. He's an excellent doctor. But he is definitely an experience.

Since we've moved, it no longer makes much geographical sense to have doctors at Newton Wellesey. In fact, of the realtor-advertised benefits of our location now is that there is a huge Harvard Vanguard Medical Centre 3/4 of a mile from our house. Andy and I have already switched into PCP practices there, and I have a new OB there as well. It's within walking distance, has a lab and pharmacy contained right inside it, and every sort of doctor from pediatrician to geriatrician, all within walking distance. Every week I think "it would make so much more sense to switch Owen to one of the pediatricians at the HV." But something always stops me. I just can't bring myself to do it, because I am so attached to Dr. Y.

Today, Owen had his 15 month appt. at Dr. Y's office. My plan was to ask the receptionist to fax his medical records over to the HV pediatrician's office. I had gone so far as to find out which of their doctors were accepting new patients, picked one, and decided to go ahead and do the deed. But once again, I was so charmed by Dr. Y's wackiness and obvious care for Owen that I couldn't do it. Dr. Y acts like he has exactly one patient, Owen. He remembers absolutely everything about him, as if he'd seen him yesterday instead of 3 1/2 months ago. He makes weird jokes that (amazingly, since Owen understands about 10 words total) make Owen laugh hysterically. He performs each part of his exam (each individual part: looking in his eyes, then his ears, then in his mouth, etc.) very seriously, and then each and every time looks at me, concerned, and says "hmmm....I think Owen is....Perfect!" and then bursts into laughter. His enthusiasm for being a pediatrician is at once confusing and infectious. You can't help having a good time when you go to his office. In addition to all the good times and hillarity, Dr. Y is almost suspiciously accessible. Sometimes I wonder if he actually DOES only have one patient. I have his pager number, which he carries at all times and encourages me to use at every visit (calling the office can take too much time for the message to get to him!). When Owen is sick or hurt, he calls himself to see how he is doing. When Owen was 3 months old, he called 4 days IN A ROW to see how he was responding to the zantac he prescribed. And he has never failed to spend as much time as I feel like sitting in his office on an appointment. We have twice had appointments run over 45 minutes.

But it's so inconvienient to get to his office! when Owen is sick or needs to see him at a non-regularly scheduled time, I always think how much easier it would be if we had a doctor at the HV. And when I think about the possibility of adding a sibling at some point (and start multiplying the enormous number of well-baby/well-child visits that kids seem to involve, plus all the times you have to go in for sickness) it seems silly to keep driving to Newton Wellesley. I should just switch practices and be done with it. But I probably won't. After all, what would Dr. Y do without his only patient?

Foolish

I think I read somewhere (probably on a refrigerator magnet in spencer gifts or something) that the definition of a fool was someone who does the same thing and expects a different outcome.

Turns out when I said "lesson learned" about the blueberries last week, I hadn't ACTUALLY learned my lesson.

Sorry for the infrequency of posts lately. I'll try and be better about getting some recent pictures up.

Parenting lesson #205

Unlimited access to blueberries has a significantly negative effect on a 14 month old digestive system. Lesson learned.

Things I don't love about parenting

Most of the time, I'm pretty surprised about the things that don't bother me about parenting. For instance, I thought I'd be really annoyed by whininess and clinginess, and surprisingly it doesn't annoy me all that much. I was a little worried about how I'd handle the ick factor - between diapers, vomit and adventures in feeding, everyone knows babies can be disgusting. But turns out, I have a really high tolerance for bodily effluvia and general disgusting mess. Tantrums don't really faze me, and moving at baby pace (ready to go! Ok, wait - where are your shoes, did you take them off? Where did you put them? Ah, I see, you hid them in your wagon. Here we go, back on....what's that smell? Ok, let's change the stinky pants and then we'll go! Ready? Let's see, diaper bag, check...well, we'll probably be gone long enough I should bring a snack. Just one minute, let me get a snack to put in your bag. All right, here we go! wait, where are your shoes?.....) is ok with me as well.

But there are a few things, I have to say, I really dislike about parenting. Overall, they're few in relation to the great parts, but still. The end of sleeping in, for example, no amount of cuteness makes that better. On Saturday mornings, when I take Owen to the playground at QUARTER TO SEVEN in the morning, I exchange sympathetic glances with the other dejected looking women with one eye on their toddlers and the other staring glumly into a giant coffee. your kid was tearing your house apart at 5:15 too, huh? I feel you sister.

Then there's the paying for babysitters. Not while I'm at work, that I can get behind. For some reason paying someone to watch Owen while we're working seems entirely reasonable and does not bother me, but paying someone to watch him so we can go out to dinner really bothers me. I'm not sure quite why this is such a sticking point with me, but most of the time I choose NOT to go out because I have having to pay a babysitter that much, even when we want to go somewhere and can afford the sitter. I suspect this has less to do with some essential elements of parenting and much more to do with my incureable tightwaddery.

And really, that was it, until this week. And then I discovered the doozy, the first thing I really, REALLY don't like about parenting.

First Andy was sick, then Owen was sick, and now I'm sick. Andy has recovered nicely, but Owen's and my sick has overlapped, which has never happened before and I've suddenly realized reeeeeallly sucks. A sick baby is terrible, but a sick baby plus a sick mom is REALLY terrible. Especially when baby has decided that he can only be comforted by mom. When your throat is sore and your sinuses are blocked and you have a headache that you think will probably kill you before it gets better, a sobbing, feverish baby at 2am is pretty much the worst thing ever. And turns out, you can't explain that you're not feeling well. Babies, they just don't understand. It's been two days now, and although Newton Wellesley Pediatrics assures me it's just a virus (not the swine flu, call me paranoid but I did check) I'm starting to wonder if we'll both survive.

If this blog never gets updated again, you'll know that not-swine-flu got the best of us.