A Little Update.

Quick update: We moved! We left Hawaii on July 5th, spent a few weeks back and forth between the grandparents', and landed in New York (the state, not the city… damn.) mid-August. New York was kind of a surprise… we found out 2 1/2 weeks before the movers came that our things wouldn't be going to the house we had already rented in Alexandria, VA. I'm thinking of writing another post about that whole mess entitled, "That's Why They're Called 'Orders.'"

(Aloha and Mahalo, #3601 -- It's been real.)

Anyway, surprise number 2… a few days later we found out that I'm "in the family way," as no one says anymore. I'm a bit into the second trimester now and already have noticed quite a few differences between pregnancy #1 and pregnancy #2. And so, without further ado:

1) The Doctor. With J, I went to see the doctor to confirm I was pregnant about 4 minutes after the clinic opened the morning after I saw those two lines on the EPT, and was panicked when they told me that they didn't need to see me until 9-12 weeks. (What?!?! Don't you people know how important consistent pre-natal care is for the health of the baby?!?! How am I supposed to know what I can and can't drink/eat/breathe/watch/wear?!?! You can't tell me that polyester blends don't harm the baby!!) With this little one, the nausea hit, the fatigue hit, the bloating hit (oh, Lord, did the bloating hit), and having a medical professional assess my hCG levels seemed superfluous. I called our insurance company to see where I should go, and found out that since I wasn't in our service area, they wouldn't really cover an appointment, so I thought, "Meh -- I'm sure things are fine. $300 for a doc to tell me what I already know isn't super necessary. I don't need to be seen until the end of the first trimester anyway…"

("Yep! You're knocked up!")

2) The Belly Part I. With J, I was about 20 weeks before my baby-belly could be distinguished from "ugh - I should not have had that third burrito at Taco Bell. Pass the gas-x." This time…. a plumber asked me at the ripe ol' gestational age of 14 weeks how far along I was. Seriously?! Fix the leaky pipe and leave, crazy person. It's comparable to blowing up a balloon for the second time. Basically, it went from conception to, "where are my maternity pants?" Not to mention the belly button. Think of that little plastic guy in the turkey that pops up when it's cooked. And, yes - it is visible through my clothes. Cheers.

3) The Belly II. Along the same lines… the belly thing last time was exhilarating (after the distended bowel look passed, obviously). I was so proud the first time I realized that I couldn't see my toes without bending over, and when I got big enough that strangers knew I was pregnant, it was like Christmas. This time, I feel like a house. I sent a pic to my mom of my belly from my perspective, noting that toes were definitely not visible, and she sent back a very enthusiastic "YAY!!!" and I was like, "ugh. Do you know how difficult it is to be this big?? And I already know I'm going to get bigger!"

(See?? No toes. At 16 weeks.)

4) The Deets. Funny story: I met a gal recently who is pregnant with her first. I asked her how far along she is, and she replied, without the slightest hesitation, "22 weeks on Thursday." A few minutes later, she asked me the same thing, and I couldn't remember. "Uh… 16? Maybe 17? Definitely second trimester... Let me check my app…." People that know me well might say, "yeah - but she can't keep track of anything anyway." But, with J, I absolutely did. I knew exactly how many days/weeks I was - for the whole 39 weeks. I knew which things were developing which week, was giddy when I found out he was growing that fuzzy stuff (which I definitely knew the name of -- lunago? Spell check seems to think that's incorrect), and almost cried when he started blinking his eyes. This time, I'm lost. I know I'm pregnant. I know when I'm due. I know that the nausea and fatigue are making way for the hippo-like appetite and fatigue. Beyond that…. did you know that The Bump has an app that tracks it??

5) The Fatigue. This time, I have a toddler to chase. Last time, I curled up on the couch in K's sweats and watched NCIS for 9 months. I basically "cooked" from the freezer and pre-made sections at Costco. This time, I have to make sure my toddler isn't doing things like grabbing a dirty mixing spoon off the counter and using it to stir the tupperware full of flour (true story).  I have to actually cook decent meals. I can't watch crime shows all day, due to the paralyzing fear that my child would grow up to be a psychopath. He needs things during the day: new diapers, food, milk, attention, etc. Tack on the mommy guilt from a fatigue-fueled lack of patience and the number of times I just fork over the popsicles (they're fruit based!!), and I basically spend all day thinking about how soon is too soon to change out of my maternity yoga pants, and back into those heavenly Navy PT sweats.

(Yes. Those are brand new bottles of acrylic paint… And, yes, we did have to replace the carpet.)

The biggest difference, though, is the huge difference in the intensity of emotion. With J, sure, I was excited to meet the little and nervous that I'd never sleep again. With this one… I almost know what I'm getting into -- which is at the same time even more terrifying (ugh - nursing pads. 3 am feedings. baby brain. blowouts. eau d'spit up.), and makes me even giddier (first giggles! baby smell! watching a personality develop!).

(We get to do this all over?? Yay!)

(tl;dr: Mostly, I'm a huge slacker and, if the pregnancy so far is indicative of the way that we parent this little, [s]he's basically screwed. Oh, and required mushy "thankfulness" crap.)

(edit to clarify: I'm partway into the second trimester, not semester. At least I didn't go all Legally Blonde, winter "ovester," amirite??)

Is That a Black Eye?

I woke up this morning, rubbed my eyes, and immediately noticed that my left eye must have experienced a blow strong enough to create a massive contusion. I fell out of bed, found a mirror, and started going down the "is that a black eye" checklist.

I know what you're thinking: if I have to ask if it's a black eye, I suck -- or at least my "black eye" is wimpy and not even worth mentioning. Anyway... back to the checklist:

1) Is my eye red/bruised? Unfortunately, this one is a no-go. Since I had not piled on the under-eye concealer that normally hides the day-to-day exhaustion of chasing a toddler, both eyes could have been legit shiners and no one would know.

2) Is my eye puffy? Again, a no-starter... for the same reasons, except that concealer does nothing to hide the puffiness. Damn.

At this point, I would like to officially apologize to the string of guests we have coming over the holidays (who I am *thrilled* to see and spend time with!). If on a normal morning, I look like I may or may not have been beaten about the face, I would imagine that you might be a little alarmed. For those who might say, "what about your husband? Why are you apologizing to guests and not the most important person in your life who 'gets' to see you every morning pre-makeup?" My answer: Shut your face. He saw me pre-makeup before we got married, which means he knew what he was getting himself into. Also, he's smart enough to know that this could only be amplified by chasing around the fruit of his loins 24/7. In conclusion, shut your face. Anyway... back to the checklist:

3) Does it remind me of times previous that I got a black eye? Well. I think the last time I even got a black eye was when I was little (4-ish?) and didn't understand that when you pitch a ball to another kid who happens to be holding a bat, you need to stand back because that bat swings toward you at a decent speed and it hurts really bleeping bad to get hit in the eye socket with the business end of a bat. Basically, I don't remember what it feels like to have a black eye... other than the pity. I kind of remember the pity. (Although, now all I get for my pain and suffering on that day is mockery. Many thanks to my father, who says he loves me.)

4) Did I get punched/assaulted? The sad answer is, probably. Unfortunately, my child really likes to be held, really likes to hold toys, and really likes to shake those toys as hard as possible. Those three things are the perfect storm of "Damn! My (eye/jaw/ear/nose/etc.)!" Also, my husband occasionally elbows me in my (and his, just to be clear) sleep, but I sleep hard enough that I don't always remember. So, this one is a toss-up.

5) Would a waitress at a crappy diner come up to me and say, "Oh, God - what happened to your face??" I don't know. I haven't dined at a crappy diner (see what I did there?) for awhile - probably the last time I was reeeeeally hung over. However, the pain is localized enough for me to say, "not here, or here so much, but right about here," a la Tommy Boy.

In conclusion: Apparently my life is a little rough and I'm going to have to suspend the verdict until it becomes a little more obvious. My new action plan: find some overpriced beauty product to make me look less like a mugging victim; quit letting my child hold hard plastic toys while I hold him; go get some greasy food at a diner; and, my favorite of all, watch Tommy Boy, while texting my brother all the funny quotes (which means the whole bloody movie). Join me, blogosphere in making our lives a little happier and less cringe-inducing.

Oh, This Navy Life.

It seems like a girl cannot turn around without seeing another Navy wife blog entry. They're often wonderful - I have such love for my ladies in the "trenches" - and so many of them are well-written, poignant, hilarious, and, often times, way too accurate. They're encouraging, relatable, and written by people I know and love, even if I've never actually met them.

Some of them are just funny: can I whip up a meal for 15 hungry single sailors with 12 minutes notice? Uh, no, but I can find a take-out menu with lightening speed. Do I know the correct order of my husbands medals/ribbons? Uh, no - I can't even iron his uniforms without marring them with the dreaded "railroad tracks." Can I name every admiral in the history of the Silent Service? Not so much. I can never decide if they're meant to be tongue in cheek, or if I am woefully inadequate compared to the (hopefully mythical) Navy Superwives.

Oh, geez....

Sometimes, though, they're just whiney. Maybe I'm getting all "salty" after a whole 6 1/2 years of Navy life. Maybe it's the job that the husband currently has. Maybe I'm cold, jaded, and heartless. But, nevertheless, I get tired of the entries that scream "woe is me." It's a hard life, sure, with sacrifices that stretch your marriage, your resolve, your independence, your faith in yourself/humanity. But, you know what? It's a good life.

I could make a huge list of things that I love about my/our life in the Navy - job security, health benefits, camaraderie, spouse support groups, etc., etc., etc. - but it's so much bigger than the little things.

The other day, we went to a presentation by a group of detailers [Navy-speak for the people who tell us where we're going next]. There was some good information - some of it I already knew, but it was a mixed crowd rank-wise, and it's always good to think back on the chaos that we've gone through so far and gloat encourage some of the junior families. My favorite part, though, is coming home, opening my calendar, flipping past our "Prospective Rotation Date," and looking at all the blank days. I don't know where we'll be living next summer. I have no clue who we'll celebrate the Fourth of July with - or if we even know those people now. I don't know what our house will look like, who our neighbors will be, if we'll have a dog, or which coast (or even continent) we'll be on. I don't know if our stuff will fit, or if the husband will have to disassemble our box spring to get it up the stairs and into the master bedroom... again (true story).

These are things I love. I love the thrill, the unknown, the adventure, the chaos, "The Itch," the picking-up-and-packing-out. It's a crazy life, and it's shaped so much of who I am and how our marriage is, that I get a little panicky whenever I think about "getting out." It's hard - there are days I struggle with longing after a life that seems simpler from the outside - but we've made each new house a home, met people that we love, found the grocery stores, and figured out how to thrive. The sacrifices seem rather inconsequential at the end of the day, in the face of the love, new beginnings, laughter, and each little triumph... and aren't those things the important things? the things we should be focusing on?

Home(s)

Yoga, Groupons, and a Lack of Expertise.

A couple of months ago, the husband returned from a 7 1/2 month deployment. Finally. Someday, maybe I'll blog about the emotional roller coaster that is pre-, during-, and post-deployment. I love him, it's amazing to have him home, and - holy mother of pearl - I sometimes want to punchisize his face.

After he got home and we took some leave to visit family,  there were still a couple of weeks before he had to go back to work full time. Supposedly, "stand down" consists of days off, with one of every few days stuck on the boat. I envisioned stay-cations during those in-between days, and sipping mimosas while working on our sunburns at the pool. Alas, not so much. Before I was smacked in the ass** by the reality of 6-8 hour workdays everyday he was "off," I purchased a Groupon for 5 yoga classes at a studio a few blocks away from our house. "Husband will hang out with the baby," I thought. "I'll get Starbucks on the way home," I thought. "I'll fall in love with yoga and be all super-fit," I thought.

One class. I was able to attend one class in 2 weeks.

(3 months later, and I still have only gone to one class. I'm sure that this is half of Groupon's pitch to businesses: "People don't even use their vouchers! They end up paying more per service than a normal customer!")

It was my first time doing yoga. I went to the early morning beginners' course -- really, they should have normal beginners, and then pre-beginners. Let's just say that I won't get any phone calls asking me to be an instructor. Ever. I frequently wish that I would've counted the number of times the instructor said things like, "Left foot. Left foot. Left foot. Your other left foot. Theeeere you go." Thankfully, though, she was pretty patient and provided helpful guidance during the times that I was pretty sure that they were going to kick me out for destroying a millennia-old practice.

After I left, I felt enlightened. I probably had one of those "Touched by an Angel" halos of light around my head as I walked home. It was a little surprising that no one at Starbucks commented on my amazing aura - it must have taken so much self-control on their part. I know that they must've been dying to know my secret to spiritual peace. Also, aside from my newfound wisdom, my birthing hips felt better than they had since before I was pregnant. None of that weird joint popping when I stood up, and my ligaments felt like they were actually doing whatever it is that ligaments are supposed to do. I even had these great thoughts of fitting into pre-pregnancy jeans. (When I tried them on, it was like watching one of those horror movies, except instead of the audience fervently whispering, "don't turn on the light; don't turn on the light!" my imaginary audience said, "don't try on the pants; don't try on the pants!")

For a few days afterward, this whole yoga thing became part of my persona. I wanted to drop obscene amounts of money at Lululemon, even though I had never set foot in the store. I saw people in yoga pants at Target, and would think, "those idiots - they probably don't even do yoga." (Keep in mind that I have several pairs of yoga pants and had only done yoga once. Since there were no costume changes mid-pose, only one of those pairs had been worn as something other than "classy" sweats.) I "set intentions" for my day prior to getting out of bed. It was great. For those few short days, I was no longer I-eat-oreos-instead-of-working-out Jessica, I was one of those people that do yoga. In retrospect, I was much more like Jim Carrey's character in Ace Venture: When Nature Calls - he thinks that spending all that time with the Tibetan monks has enabled him to transcend and leave his earthly concerns behind, but really he's just an asshat with delusions of grandeur.

After I eventually realized the hard truth that it was naive to think that the husband would be around to hang out with the boy while I skipped down the street to yoga class again, I decided that I should get some yoga DVDs so that I could continue down my journey of enlightenment. Before I got locked into one, though, I rented a couple from Amazon to find one that I enjoyed. Let me just say: there are a lot of hippies that do yoga. (Forgive me if you're one of them.) I don't really want to close my eyes and imagine myself floating serenely throughout the galaxy - I want to stretch out my birthing hips and feel pleasantly Gumby-esque. Finally I found one that had both a morning and evening session (routine? sequence? I dunno.)

I waited until naptime, pushed all the furniture out of the living room, and flipped on the TV. I got through the morning section without any notable difficulties and decided that it would be a great idea to tack on the evening section as well. Except, it was a horrible idea. First, there were these poses that reminded me of being in P.E. in elementary school and doing "the bridge." The woman on the video kept saying, "feel the strength in your body. Thank your body for its strength." Meanwhile, my shoulders and knees are shuddering, and I'm cursing at the screen: "WTF?! There isn't any strength in my body! That's why I'm dragging myself through this bloody exercise video! Quit mocking my pain!" But that peppy bitch just kept smiling.

Then, about 4 minutes later, I did something wrong. I still have no clue what it was, but there was none of the "with each breath, feel your body lengthen" crap that this sadistic woman was saying. Instead, it was, "this shouldn't cause compressed vertebrae, should it?!" It was like this scene from The Other Guys.... without the explosion, of course.

I spent the remainder of the video mocking this unnaturally happy woman, crying for the neighbors to bring me an ice pack, and experiencing deep shame over my failure at a beginners' yoga video.

The next few days were less than happy: I lived off of ibuprofen and contemplated purchasing a neck brace. I also rolled up my yoga mat and shoved it to the back of the closet. Oh, and those yoga pants? They're back to being classy sweats.

Morals of the story: 1) "Stand down" is a myth that encourages optimism in spouses who cling naively to the hope that there is some justice in Big Navy. 2) Classes/videos listed as "beginners'" courses are lying. 3) Attending one yoga class does not qualify you to tackle a yoga video unsupervised.

**Just a forewarning: there's some "language" in this post that might not be, um, entertaining for all audiences. I'm married to a sailor, and it's very easy/convenient to blame these rather "colorful" words on him. 

The Most Accurate Picture Ever.

My little man is a handful.

I was recently at the playground with a friend and her 5 week old, and almost started to complain about being tired all the time. You know, 5 minutes after she told me that her sweet girl had slept for a record 5 hours straight. I stopped myself just in time, laughed, and told her that I had no business complaining about being tired to a new mom. Her reply?

"I don't doubt that you're exhausted - He's so busy!"

It's true. We go to the playground and he spends half of the time racing toward the dog park/parking lot/door. There are 3 slides, two tunnels, 2 sets of stairs, sketchy lilly pad stair things (thanks, Big Kids, for the demonstration!), several steering wheels, etc, and I spend most of our time there trying to get him to play with that plethora of objects built just for him.

A few weeks ago, my husband came home from work and the house was a full-blown disaster: laundry in various states of completion spread around the living room (Please, Lord, grant me a legit laundry room in our next home!); groceries only half put away; dishes galore; the crumbs from what appeared to be an entire box of Ritz on the kitchen floor; annnnd the toys. Always the damn toys. Oh, let's not forget that I was completely frazzled and probably in sweats with a glass of wine in my hand. Parenthetically - usually, he calls before coming home, and I use those 20 minutes to make the house as pandemonium-free as I can; I know that walking through the door to a visual to-do list is draining, so I try to reel it in for him. That night, though, he didn't call first. There was no putting the zillions of ziplock baggies back in the drawer or changing into actual pants for the first time all day. Later on that evening, I apologized that he came home to the peak of chaos. His reply? Telling me that I shouldn't ever worry about it and:

"You do way more just chasing around our little guy - He's so busy!"

The verdict is in: he's busy.

(Not quite The Most Accurate picture, but close)

A few days ago, he woke up suddenly in the middle of his nap. Usually, there's some light fussing about an hour in - I'm not positive that he's even awake when this happens - and then he sleeps for another hour or so. This time, though, he was hysterical. I gave him a second to see if it was just a momentary thing, but he only got louder. I went in and picked him up, which usually calms him down immediately, but he was so distraught that it took me several minutes. He clutched onto me long after he stopped crying, occasionally making the post-sob whimper. The whole thing was heartbreaking.... especially because I was a little irked when I opened the door - he was cutting into my quiet time, after all; I hadn't even gotten around to showering yet.

I realized that day that I spend a lot of my days just surviving: trying to keep this busy boy occupied so that I can do luxury things, like wolf down toast without having to share, or pee without seeing little fingers stretching under the door (what does he think is going to happen? That he's going to melt into goo like one of the villains on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, ooze under the door, and then immediately regain his original shape on the other side??). Even trying to do the dishes without a small child shimmying up my leg - naturally, he does this most often when I'm hand-washing the knives - takes a minor miracle. I find myself impatient when he won't entertain himself, or when he continually pushes the buttons on the stereo even though he knows that it's a no-no.

Surviving is a good thing - I did a lot of surviving during the husband's deployment. I survive during colds and teething. There are times for surviving, but I'm not sure it's the way I want to parent. I want to be a place of comfort, a get-on-the-floor-and-wrestle momma, who celebrates little moments and milestones alike, notices silly things, and laughs easily. I'm not saying that I'll never hide on the other side of the kitchen island while I devour some Dove chocolates, or never get a babysitter, or never delay rushing in to scoop the boy up from a nap when he starts fussing after an insufficient 17 minutes; I need those things to be the momma I want to be. But what I am working on is embracing these days: these messy, chaotic, overwhelming, busy, busy days.

With 6 full paragraphs as an intro, here, as promised, is The Most Accurate Picture Ever:

This picture absolutely reflects how our lives are: he moves so quickly that he's blurry in 80% of the pictures we take, the house is littered with toys (thankfully the pile of unfolded laundry on the couch didn't make it into the background), but in the center of it all is a precious moment with a happy boy.

.... And that's all the emotional energy I have for the week. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to eat chocolate and watch some TV before naptime ends. Ci vediamo!

Infants, Deployments, & Blogging.

A couple of months ago, I was back in my hometown and out to lunch with a bunch of family friends when the subject of my blog came up. I got some wonderful compliments from a few of them (the rest suddenly became interested with their cinnamon breadsticks and avoided eye contact, I'm not going to think about what that might mean... I didn't use the f-word, did I?!?), and then asked me why I had quit. Then, a few days ago, I was able to chat with my husband on the phone and he mentioned his (nonjudgmental) surprise that I hadn't posted anything else. Finally, I just logged in and Blogger told me that my last entry was 8 months and 4 days ago. Seriously??

So, I'm using these incidents as motivation - impetuses, if you will, to provide the world with my specific brand of snark/humor/narcissism.

Pre-deployment, my thoughts about blogging when something like this:

I've always had lots of free time when my husband is out to sea - I'll be able to post stuff regularly and it will be so nice to use my brain for things other than keeping track of when I last fed/diapered/bathed my infant!

Obviously, this was foolish. I should have known.


My other thought was that I assumed that deployments/patrols** would be infinitely more difficult with a baby. Taking care of a baby involves, you know, functioning. A mom can't just sit on the couch and watch Hope Floats on repeat, while surrounded by bags of popcorn and empty wine bottles. Pre-baby, I was amazed by the wives with kids, and frequently expressed my awe, saying, "I don't know how you do it! I struggle enough trying to make an emotionally healthy atmosphere for the cat when my husband is gone." Now, I'm not sure how I did it then. Not once in 7+ months have I sobbed in the car while listening to the latest Dierks Bentley cd. I actually make food with a pan fairly frequently. All of that time that I used to spend pouring jealously over my married friends' Facebook pictures of them smiling with their husbands as if mocking my misery is now spent reading and rereading Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you See and changing diapers (on a related note - can anyone tell me how many thousands of times I will have to say, "Don't touch - there's poop down there!" before my child stops trying to participate in the changing of the diaper ritual?).

Is there anything that hasn't changed about deployments/patrols?

Yes. Yes, there is.

Parenthetically, yes - there are obviously things that are more difficult about deployments with babies, not the least of which is trying to find a good babysitter. It's hard, too, to think about how much my husband has missed just this last year, and how much he could potentially miss in the future. Plus, being The Person for an infant is a gargantuan and endless task - enjoyable, of course, but exhausting.

All of that leads me back to blogging. The baby is an amazing sleeper. I can put him in his crib and not worry about him for 10-12 hours, which is absolutely lovely. But, these 10-12 hours go by quickly, and are mostly spent trying to emotionally recover from the day's chaos. Here's the bedtime routine: Bath, bottle, book/snuggles, crib, couch, zone out at the tv, realize that 5 hours of NCIS and solitaire have whizzed by, eat a few handfuls of trail mix, bed. (Oh, somewhere in there I should have listed, "spend large sums of money on Amazon.") It used to be that the time I would normally spend making dinner and hanging out with my husband while he was in port became "me" time and I could do productive things with it. This is the time I assumed I would spend blogging or taking classes. Instead, I zone. Aaaaand, that's why it's been 8 months and 4 days.

My current plan that I may/may not have the motivation to implement includes taking my child to the Childhood Development Center for a few hours, while taking myself and my laptop to a cute little beach bar I know that makes killer fries and has several beers on tap. Oh, and I'm going to volunteer, too, maybe. I'm more excited about the beer and blogging.

On a related note, we're almost done with this hellish deployment (assuming the Navy takes pity on us and doesn't extend it again.) It's good, 'cuz Lord knows I miss this man.

(many thanks, again, to our photographer)

**Disclaimer: My husband is Navy. In submarines (literally *in* submarines). His deployments on this boat are typically 6-8 months, whereas our last boat did 3-4 month patrols. All that to say, the sacrifices that I make are different than the spouses of soldiers who are deployed to Iraq/Afghanistan for 12-18+ months, and I hope that none of those spouses will take offense at the use of the word "deployment." Also, since there are only a handful of women in subs, and I haven't met any of those women (or even know if they have spouses), I use the word "wives." My not-so-inner feminist requires me to make this clear.

The ER Visit that Wasn't.

This situation isn't the "spending multiple hours in the ER waiting room" kind of traumatic; it's more the "maybe my child is having a weird allergic reaction to vaccines** and his eye is going to melt out of his skull" kind of traumatic. There's a fair bit of (hopefully funny) background to this story, so hold on.

This happened the day of the boy's 4 month (!!) appointment. Shockingly enough, the husband was able to take an hour and a half off from work to attend this appointment. He never tells me in advance that he'll be able to make it, mostly because that always ends with a "Sorry - things came up and I can't be there. Oh, and it will probably be a late night" phone call. I'm not exactly bitter about this, as he's had this job for about a year and I've mostly gotten used to the insane hours, but I am sad that he can't be as involved as he wants to be.

Here's something that could probably take up an entire blog of its own: the husband and I are both pretty "assertive," opinionated, and like to be in charge. For the husband, this makes him really good at things that are important in his job, like delegating and yelling at people. For me, I think that just makes me overbearing and kind of annoying. But, let's pretend that it's endearing. So, as much as I appreciate when he's around for stuff and as happy as I am for him that he gets to be involved, sometimes it's kind of annoying. (Ugh. I sound so petty and ridiculous.) For instance, the husband has a tendency to take over and answer all the questions about the boy's development and current abilities. The problem with this is 1) as I've mentioned, I like to be in control; but mainly 2) that the husband doesn't spend as much time with the boy and - let's face it - isn't always aware that what he thinks are new skills are actually things he's been doing for 2 weeks. (Okay. This is the part where I'm a little bitter.) So then the appointment takes twice as long because the husband is providing inaccurate answers, which I have to correct clarify. To his credit, this has happened several times in the past year or so, but now I can squeeze his hand or glare at him, depending on the level of inaccuracy, and he smiles sheepishly and from then on defers to me.

So, this particular doctor appointment went the same way - he took over, I glared, he pretended to let me take charge. Don't worry - I'm not planning on bragging about how great the boy is doing, but here:

(Please ignore the spit-up and the messiness)

Then, the doctor talked to us all about starting him on "solids" (i.e. - icky pureed mess that will probably permanently damage the light-beige carpet in our, um, rented apartment) and prescribed the boy some children's tylenol because it was (dramatic pause) vaccine day.

The following is a description of the horror that is infant vaccination. First, after the 2nd month appointment and its correlating vaccines, the parent knows exactly how horrible this is going to be. The wait is agonizing: hearing other small children scream as they receive their shots, knowing that your child is going to be the one enduring pain-of-death (heh.), and trying to bestow the last bit of comfort you can while you await your child's gruesome fate. Then, they call the child's name. It's like some macabre version of "Come on down! You're the next contestant on The Price is Right!" except instead of winning a car or thousands of dollars, you're winning pain for your child. Congrats!! Finally, you're in the room. It's freezing cold, and you have to take the babe's pants off, which starts the discomfort and all you can think of is how this is nothing compared to what suffering he'll endure in just a couple of minutes. 

The husband had never seen the boy very upset until this point. He had seen the "Seriously, guys - I'm getting pretty hungry over here," but not the "Holy S***, woman!! You just dropped an entire soda on me while I was just innocently sitting in my stroller! You are a horrible person!" (True story.) 

Parenthetically, the husband still gets a little nervous from the hunger cry, and says things like "uh, baby-momma? The boy is starting to freak out." And then I say things like, "eh - He's fine. Just bounce him for a minute; I need to go to the bathroom/finish unloading the dishwasher/pour myself a glass of wine."

Since the husband knew that the 2 month vaccinations were so traumatic for me, he said that he would hold the boy when he got the shots. So, I stood myself in a corner like a 3rd grader who had just pulled a classmate's pigtail braids and tried to suppress the dread. 

Parenthetically (again), I try really hard not to "rescue" the boy from his dad when he's crying (the boy, not the dad - heh). Sometimes this takes all of the restraint I can muster (which, let's face it, isn't much), but I think it's really important that the boy turns to the husband for comfort and the husband develops his own skills to comfort the boy. 

However, the second the nurse/tech/corp(wo)man indicated that she was done, I swooped in and confiscated the boy. I didn't even ask the husband if I could have him - I probably would have fought him to the death if he had resisted. Thankfully, he did not resist and the only one who suffered physical pain was the small, helpless infant that had been entrusted to me by God him/herself. 

Next came the pharmacy and associated administering-of-the-tylenol. I will not go into the hot mess that was me trying to shove the massive syringe filled with viscous grape-flavored nastiness down my uncooperative child's throat. (To totally geek out, I felt like I was Harry Potter, forcing Dumbledore to drink all the potion in the stone basin, saying, "Just this last bit - this will help, Professor!") All I will say is that I had to wash both of our outfits more than once before the syrupy grape smell was completely removed and I kept finding spots of gooeyness on the boy for a couple of days - even though I bathe him every night before bed. Gross. 

All afternoon, he was a puddle of grape-scented mess. About 3 hours of fussiness later, I noticed that he had this spot on his eye that looked like someone had recently punched him. It was red and a little puffy. He hadn't been hurt by anything (on his face, at least), and it didn't really seem like an allergic reaction because it wasn't located in a "classic" reaction place and wasn't irritating him. 

It was 6 pm. I talked to my mom/family nurse, and drew a circle around the affected area with eyeliner (yes, eyeliner) to make sure it wasn't spreading. Then, I remembered the agony of the last two ER visits and the overreaction that led to the ER visit before those, and decided to maybe go through some other channels before I committed myself to an evening of tediousness. 

Here are some thoughts on the eyeliner situation. I thought that it would stay for the evening/night (which it did), but I absolutely forgot that it's waterproof. This unfortunately meant that in order to remove it, I had to scrub at it a little with some soap. Surprisingly enough, the boy was not a fan of the scrubbing, so he spent more than one day looking like Petey from Little Rascals:

Moving on. Here's a tip for anyone associated with the Navy who lives in the area, there are after-hours provider hotlines. I called the hotline, explained the entire situation to the gal that answered, and after 3 minutes of explanation she said, "Okay - I'll contact the doctor and tell him that your son is having some concerning symptoms." You know, because that totally summed all of that up. But, almost immediately, I got a call back from a doctor. I cautiously explained the situation in short 10-second bursts, hoping that he would stop me sooner rather than later if he wasn't the person I needed. (Why is it that I always do this backwards? Oh, right - my motto is "when in doubt, be verbose.")

Thankfully, though, he was the right person. He was great: informative without being condescending, assumed that I might just be a responsible parent who is proactive in the health of my child (shocking!), and basically just chatted it over with me. We decided (seriously, though - it was mutual) that it was probably that the boy came in contact with something that would not normally have irritated him, except his immune system was on high-alert from the vaccines. (My bet is his play "gym" that I washed in delicate soap, which - sin of all sins - isn't fragrance-free. There goes Mom-of-the-Year.)

In retrospect, the background was much more interesting than the non-ER portion. But, isn't having an uninteresting night the point of not going to the ER?

**Also, I know that vaccinations and the parenting choices around scheduling them and/or giving them at all is kind of a hot-button topic right now. I respect parents who are proactive and involved in their child's health, and understand that the choices the husband and I make for our family aren't always the same as others'. All that said - if you have a staunch opinion regarding this personal choice that we have made, please find a place to judge us that does not include the comment section of this blog. Gossiping behind our backs is completely encouraged.