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.

The Saturday of a Holiday Weekend.

First off, I really thought that I wouldn't be a nervous parent. My mom's a nurse so, instead of going to the doctor when we were sick, she would say things like, "eh - you're fine. Here's some tylenol." I just assumed that this "eh - I'm sure things are fine" attitude would translate to my own parenting as well. The problem is that 1) that was before I was the primary caretaker for a completely helpless being, 2) I never thought about the fact that I can't judge the seriousness of the situation by having him pinpoint his level of pain on a 1-10 scale, and 3) I have no medical training. Oh, and also, it was kind of a lot of work to get him here, and I don't really want to do that again for awhile.

Apparently, however, I was incorrect. For the first few weeks of his life I was absolutely paranoid that we were doing things horribly wrong, he would be emotionally scarred for life, and we would go broke from all the psychotherapy he needed starting at the ripe old age of 8.

Observe the panic in our faces when the boy fussed.

(also - all credit goes to our lovely photographer)

So, for the first few weeks, his eyes were a little weepy, but I had learned that apparently the weepiness in newborns isn't uncommon (probably the only piece of encouraging news I've ever gotten from webmd). His eyes would get just a little, er, crusty (sorry about that image) after sleeping, but it really wasn't anything substantial.

On the Saturday of a holiday weekend, the boy woke up and the eye thing was nasty. I'm not sure I'll go into any more detail than that because I don't want to alienate the audience (oh, and there are no words). I called every number I could think of - nurse hotlines, urgent care centers, on-call provider hotline, Navy-Marine Relief Society visiting nurse program, etc... I tried and tried to find somewhere other than the ER to take the boy. Did I mention it was the Saturday morning of a holiday weekend?

I've been trying to figure out what holiday weekend this was - searching for the picture I sent to my mom via text, and even looking for the status I'm positive I posted on Facebook - but I can't find it. I think it must have been Memorial Day weekend, so when the boy was all of 9 days old.

Also, at 9 days old, it was molto difficile to get the whole famn-damily out of the door.

(heh... funny story: The first time the 4 of us went out to dinner when my mom came to help with the boy when the husband went back to work, my mom and I spent about 2 hours trying to get out the door - there was the feeding, the packing up, the getting dressed, the feeding again, the re-dressing due to baby puke, more packing up, and then the spectacle of actually loading all of us and the gear into the car. 2 hours. When we finally got in the car, my mom and I started talking about how difficult it is to get out of the house with an infant, to which the husband replied, "what do you mean? It only took us 20 minutes..." Needless to say, he was swiftly corrected by a still-hormonal wife.)

So, when I finally called every number that I could get my hands on, I determined that the only clinic open was the ER on base. Next time, I will remember that the military medical facilities are not the only ones in existence and will save myself heartache and frustration by going to a quick-care, rather than an ER.

When we finally got to the ER, it was packed. I did everything I could think of to find a seat for my un-vaccinated child that was not immediately next to someone who probably had polio or whooping cough or the plague, but the only place that was away from "the infected" was directly under the TV which was tuned to Hawaiian cartoons, and I'm pretty sure the husband would rather contract whooping cough himself than spend hours listening to that mess (based on the previous ER visit).

I think that this particular ER was deceitful, and the administrators had taken psychology classes to learn about the "foot in the door" concept. (This psychobabble is different from the foot in the door situation that would be the impetus of a visit to the ER.) They suck you in by attending to you quickly at first. After 2 hours of waiting after that, one might be tempted to say, "yeah - this isn't worth it," but you can't leave, because you've already checked in. You've already invested. You're on the hook.

As soon as you check in, you are ushered through the magical doors, out of the waiting room, and into the actual unit. I don't know if I just forgot about the whole "triage" thing or if I thought that a nine-day old patient would get head of the line privileges, but I totally expected the doctor to come waltzing in any second to send us on our way less than 20 minutes after checking in. Yeah. That did not so much happen. After a quick triage, we were sent right back out to the waiting room with all of the people who were dying from horrible air-borne diseases.

And that is where we spent the next 4 hours (literally. 4.). The husband was just as infinitely patient during this waiting period as he had been the time before, which means not at all. This time was even more miserable because I didn't have any change in the diaper bag, so I couldn't even send him to go get snacks. Also, it was freezing there. The only ways for me to keep warm were to 1) steal the boy's blankets and 2) "nurse" him, which was less about feeding, and more about snuggling for warmth and keeping the nursing cover draped over us.

A couple of times, though, I was pretty glad that we were forced to wait. One guy came in wearing flip-flops, swim shorts, and had apparently taken his shirt off to wrap it around his hand, which was bleeding through numerous layers of t-shirt. (I'm assuming numerous layers because this guy was not exactly fit - definitely not someone I was hoping to see sans-shirt.) He went back to triage, returned wearing a bandage and a hospital gown over his shorts, and was promptly called back to the "real" ER. So, it was kind of reassuring that the guy who very well might have been bleeding out after holding a firework as it exploded, was a much bigger priority than my infant with the crusty eye.

Across the aisle from us, there was another gal that had an infant who was apparently born on the same day as the boy. In my hyper-hormonal state, I panicked for about 1/3 of a second thinking, "holy crap! maybe our babies were switched at birth like that horrible disney show that I keep hearing about when I'm watching disney movies on TV!" And then it dawned on me that she was hispanic, and it probably would have been noticeable if there had been some mistake.

Anyway. 4 hours later (literally - I know this because the husband kept updating me every 3 minutes about how long it had been), we were taken back past the triage area - yay!! - and into a partitioned room where the boy was examined and the doctor said he had a minor eye infection due to a blocked tear duct, prescribed an antibiotic cream, and finally sent us home after 8 minutes. 4 hours of waiting for 8 minutes of exam. That seems like an efficient ratio.

All-in-all, it was not my favorite way to spend a Saturday morning/afternoon. I have since realized, though, that this was probably not the last time that the boy will need to go to the ER at an incredibly inconvenient time, when the ER is the busiest it gets over the course of an entire year.

Hopefully, though, it will always be on the eye-gunk level, and not on the loosing-appendages level.

The Rash I Thought was Stretch Marks.

Sometime last October-ish, I was on the phone with my mom and noticed that I was scratching the same place on my back quite often. So, I got up off of my usual place on the couch (yes, the fabric does show signs of increased wear) to check it out in the mirror and saw very distinct line-y red spots. And there I stood: a woman in the early stages of pregnancy staring down the first bit of visible damage. I think I might have said a few cuss words to my mother. ("Holy S***!!! Are those stretch marks?? WTF??")

Except... I was only 2-3 months pregnant with the boy, and I had probably lost weight, if anything, since finding out he was on board... not because I was exercising (heh), but because I was no longer consuming what had apparently been a fair bit of calories in liquid form, ifyouknowwhatimean. The point I'm trying to get across here is that it would be extremely unlikely for my skin to show signs of stretching, because there wasn't anything extra for them to stretch over. (ew.) But, pregnancy-related paranoia does not yield to reason.

On a somewhat related note, I have what I consider to be a meaningful and not-regretable tattoo on my back. It's not in the lower back area (I hate the term "tramp stamp," so I will refrain from using it here), but off to the side... more kidney/hip area. Anyway, it's the outline of a praying guy and he sits/kneels right above my pant waistband. Some people have erroneously said that he looks like a frog.... If I were more flexible and/or motivated, I would take a picture and post it, because I obviously cannot describe it.

Anyway, the redness was right above the praying guy. Here's what it reminded me of:

Yes. This is absolutely sacrilegious, but it looked exactly like Pentecostal "tongues of flame" on top of my praying tattoo's head. 

So. Over the next few days, the reddish area just seemed to get bigger. It was also became more and more uncomfortable, pretty much every hour. I had a suspicion that it was an allergic reaction to a prescription that I take, but wasn't quite sure, so I hopped on webmd, since apparently I didn't learn from last time. Well, as if the webmd gods were just waiting for some soul like me in need of fuel for the fire of health-related terror, there is a slideshow with pictures and descriptions of the most common skin issues. I studied each of them, rejoiced that I didn't suffer from "morning" sickness, and eventually came to the conclusion that I had some crazy skin disorder which encompassed the most miserable symptoms of all skin disorders known to humankind. 

I don't really remember the timing of all of this, but we ended up at the ER on the Sunday of a holiday weekend. I have told the husband many times since this several-hour trip that I think that I would rather wait with a toddler in the ER than with him. I mean, yeah - it was pretty horrible that we were in a small room waiting room with about 20 other people (plus their ill children) and were forced to listen to Hawaiian cartoons blaring from the blown-out TV speakers. But, seriously, the last thing that "helps" the time go by is looking at your watch every three seconds and updating your itchy pregnant wife on the number of hours and minutes what you've been waiting there. Also, the 3rd or 4th time he "needed to take a walk" and wanted to know if I had any more change for him to get a snack from the vending machine, I heard my mother's exasperated voice come out of me: "No - I don't have any more change. I already gave you all the change I had." (Thankfully I/she stopped before the normal "go ask your dad" portion.)

Fast forward 3 hours: we were taken back to an area with curtained-off exam areas. The beauty of this setup versus actual rooms is that you can eavesdrop. The down side is that you have no choice but to eavesdrop. For instance, neither the husband nor myself wanted to hear a doctor explain to a grown woman and her father (!!) that she has a particularly feminine-related infection. I have nothing else to say about that situation. I tried to think of something snarky, but even a year later, I have no words. 

Anyway. Finally, the doctor came in, examined my mutant skin disease of death and told me that I actually had shingles. The husband's first response: "hahaha - You mean that disease that old people get??" Needless to say, that was not exactly helpful... especially when my first thought was, "Hey! I wonder if this virus that is currently attacking my body will do any damage to this tiny helpless zygote that I just found out that I'm carrying."

At this point, there was a rather emotionally traumatic scene (unlike the rest of the experience...?) wherein a furious and pregnant me told the husband to go call my mom (a nurse) and he said that he didn't know what I wanted him to tell her and I cried some.

The good part: they have an antiviral that is safe to use during pregnancy and it both stopped the rash from spreading and significantly cut down on recovery time.

The bad part: Seriously? All of it. Aside from postpartum recovery, it was the most miserable I have been for a sustained period. The virus attacks the nerves, not just an area of skin, so it often felt like someone was plucking guitar strings that ran from my hip all the way up my back. Oh, and ice packs and calamine lotion. Oh, and I couldn't hang out with my friends who had pre-chicken-pox-vaccine babies. All in all, a fairly unhappy experience.

Oh. And, two more things to make matters worse: Apparently, if you get shingles once, there's a higher chance that you'll get it again. Second, now Big Pharma is making a shingles vaccine - I've seen the commercials. It's all old people. Damn. The husband was right all along.