“Underweight,” “Off the chart,” “Failure to thrive” - all of these I have heard in the past year regarding Sam’s size. For months I have been trying to get him to gain weight because he is not high enough on “the chart.” Oh, the chart, the all important chart. Last summer, when this all began, our pediatrician wanted me to put Sam on a high calorie diet in order to get his weight back up. I was pregnant at the time, emotional. The whole thing really took me by surprise. I was particularly confused about the manner in which she wanted me to get him to gain. It involved a lot of sugar and a lot of products like Instant Breakfast. I ended up doing a modified version of it, focusing more on increasing his fat intake, and in six weeks he gained a whole pound. I was told to continue with this diet in hopes that he would creep up even higher.

Fast forward to January. At this particular doctor appointment I found out that Sam had not gained what she would have liked him to. I explained that at his last visit he had been weighed on the big scale and was fully dressed, whereas this time around he was on the sitting scale and in a diaper. Still not good enough. I asked if he appeared unhealthy in any way. No, but too low on the chart. She started talking about having him tested for reflux, also known as a milk scan. As she explained it, this was just a precautionary measure to be certain there was not a physical problem that was stopping him from gaining weight. She assured me it was a simple, safe test, and that there was no harm in having it done to be sure everything was ok. He probably wouldn’t have reflux, but we should do it just to be sure. If the reflux test was negative we should move on to a special feeding clinic where he would have behavioral evaluations and put on some sort of program to get him to eat more. I went home overwhelmed and upset. I’d already been trying so hard to balance what she wanted me to do with what I felt was right for him, and this felt like I’d failed after being given an ultimatum.

After I had some time to regroup and get over how shamed I felt (she also tried to make me feel stupid about Robby’s alternative vaccine schedule, which she had originally said she supported, but that’s another post), I just had the feeling that something was off. You know, when you just don’t feel right and are unsure as to why?

I started writing down everything that Sam ate each day. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it, but I had a feeling I might need it at some point if I was going to deviate at all from our doctor’s plan for him. I also started doing a little bit of research on reflux. When I compared what I was finding out to what he was eating in a day, there was just no way that it was the problem. He was eating quite a bit and taking in a wide range of foods. More importantly, I called the hospital to find out exactly what the test entailed, and that’s when I discovered why I felt so odd at the appointment with her.

Remember, our doctor told us the test was not a big deal. She said it was simple and safe. She said I’d just need to bring a cup of milk for him to drink. What she failed to mention was that first a radioactive material would be put in his milk. I was assured by the woman on the phone that this was “perfectly safe,” that the amount of radioactive material was so little that they “just dumped it down the sink.” I don’t even know what that is supposed to mean. And it doesn’t matter because of what would happen next. After drinking his radioactive milk Sam was going to then be strapped down onto a table . . . for an HOUR . . . while they x-rayed him to watch what the glow in the dark milk did inside his system. Can you imagine? He’s two and a half. He was going to have belts going across his chest holding him onto a table tight enough that he would not be able to move insane asylum style. I was told that I could bring some books to read to help sooth him. Yeah, that’ll work. I spoke to a friend of mine later and found out that her son had this test done.  She said it was completely traumatizing for both of them.  She had to leave the room several times and begged her husband to unbuckle her son so she could take him and run away.  She also said there was no way the test would not have come up positive because her son was so upset that he made himself vomit.  Did my doctor think I wouldn’t find out what the test really entailed? I just can’t believe that this woman could stand there and tell me it was not a big deal. We’ll not be seeing her again.

I called the doctor. She wasn’t in. I spoke to her colleague. I read my food log to her and she agreed that he most likely did not have reflux and agreed there would be no reason to undergo “that test” when he was not demonstrating any symptoms for that problem. She recommended I take him to a nutritionist in order to make sure that what she thought sounded like a great diet really was one and to discuss other reasons he might not be gaining.

Sam had his first appointment with the nutritionist a few weeks ago. She agreed that he seemed very healthy and had an excellent diet, but that he was small. She gave me some more tips on how to get him to take in more calories. We’re going to keep checking his weight in hopes of getting him higher on the chart. It feels slightly less like an ultimatum, but I certainly still feel very much under pressure here. And constant discussion about Sam’s eating certainly does not help things. As any of you with a child this age knows, the more you push the worse it gets. So I’m trying to settle down about the whole thing and trust myself to do what is best for him.

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And here’s the happy side of this post, also appropriate under the same title. Sam and I had a little Mommy/Sammy date today. I took him to see his first movie, Horton Hears a Who. I had no idea if he would enjoy the movie experience or not. I tried to prepare him as much as I could by explaining that the “TV” was going to be really big and it might be loud. We had been reading the book for a few weeks now in anticipation of doing this one day. I was prepared, though, for the possibility that we would not be staying for the whole thing.

And, well, I have no freakin’ clue how he liked it. He was mesmerized, I can tell you that. I tried to talk to him and ask him questions throughout the film - Did he like it? Was he scared? Did he want to stay? Did he want to sit on my lap? - and he just gave me one-word answers and assured me we should stay. I suppose it’s pretty overwhelming the first time you’re in a movie theater. And of course, my crazy emotional crap kicked in, and I was pretty much choking back tears at the end. Why is it that once you are pregnant and go through that crying phase it still lingers for things like this? Is that true for others too? It rears its head again for the endings of movies and bad TV. It’s ridiculous.

After the movie I asked Sam what his favorite part was. He said it was the part with the eagle. Um, the really scary, vampire-like eagle who attacks Horton and steals the clover, almost killing the people of Whoville? Yeah, that’s the one.

I hope Sam doesn’t wake up screaming in the middle of the night about monkeys trying to cage him. He did eat a great dinner though so he can’t be completely scarred.

Labels: Tales, The Big One

There’s a theme, a lovely theme for Sam’s best quotes of the week:

“It a big boogie; it have long arms!” and

“I have bigger boogies than Robby.” Leave it to an older brother to find competition in snot size.

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Now, I have a question for ya’ll. I was thinking about starting a book group here on my blog - “Total Mom Bookclub,” perhaps. It would be one of those things where we vote on a book, preferably one that is mom-related (I have a whole stack of possibilities - that’s what gave me the idea), we set some dates to discuss sections, then I post about the book, and we discuss it in the comments for the post on those dates. Others could also post about the book and we could link back and forth. Would anyone be interested in doing something like that? I don’t need a full blown commitment, I just want to know if anyone else might be intrigued by the idea. More details to follow.

Labels: Bodily functions, Brothers, Talking, The Big One

If there is a sudden decrease in cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop down from the compartment overhead. Place the mask over your nose and mouth and breathe regularly. If you are traveling with a small child, it is important to place your own mask over your face first, and then help the child.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that. I’ve often sat there and thought to myself, “I would never put it over my own face first, not if I was with my kid,” even as the flight attendant stood before me, instructing me to do just the opposite. And many times, I have actively sat there and thought it through, trying to tell myself why it would be important to put my own mask on first, forcing myself to visualize what could happen if I didn’t follow their instructions. Clearly, there is a reason parents are reminded of this before each and every flight: it goes against our nature to tend to ourselves first.

I can see this pattern emerge in my life just about every day. It’s hard to choose time for yourself when you feel like you’re choosing it over your family, like you’re putting yourself before the ones you love. For a few months now my husband and I have been trying to set aside a few hours for me to have to myself each weekend. It started out going strong but, as you can imagine, it dwindled after a few weeks, turning from an opportunity to do something I really wanted to do into me rushing around running necessary errands just without the kids. Don’t get me wrong, doing the trip to Target without two kids in tow is huge, but it hardly constitutes the time one needs to energize for the entire week. And here’s the thing: you need to take that time to energize. Seriously. It’s taken me nearly three years to figure out that all the stuff I was told or read about after Sam was born - the stuff about getting help and setting aside “me time” and all those things that basically flew in one ear and out the other because it just felt impossible at the time - all of that was true. Who knew? The useless parenting magazines were actually on to something (other than just trying to sell you a magazine based on fear, fear, FEAR - Is Your Child At Risk? I’m pretty sure that’s on the cover of every single issue of every single one, be it risk of the flu or risk of becoming a tattle tale. Hurry! Buy the magazine and save your child! But I digress . . .)

And so here I am, three years later, coming up on the end of a rough winter in which I have become the mother of two, ready to admit that yes, I need to have some freakin’ me time. And you know why I don’t have to feel guilty about that? Because things have gotten rough enough that I know now that if I don’t get just a little something for myself once in a while I’m just not a good mom. And isn’t my goal to be the best mother I can be?

I’m not talking about huge life altering changes here either. A little goes a loooong way. For example, one problem time that my husband and I noted when we began looking into this was the half hour right when he comes home. He walks in the door and we’ve all been waiting for him. I finally have some relief, Sam finally gets to play with Daddy, and Robby gets a change of scenery. It should be a happy time for all. But it’s not. Hubby and I try to talk to each other because we’ve been waiting to do so all day, and our talking to each other frustrates Sam. Then we get frustrated. Then Sam gets worse. Then Robby picks up on tension and starts to get cranky. And before you know it we’re having one of those dinners where people are screaming and miserable and no one is eating or happy.

Solution: When Hubby comes home Mommy checks out. I put in my earphones and listen to my Ipod and it becomes official that Mommy is not here. In this manner I cook dinner, unload the dishwasher and do any other tidying that is necessary to function the next day. I know that sounds lame, like, wow, you’re suggesting I do chores to energize? No, I’m suggesting you make it as fun as you can. For me, listening to music that makes me happy and being “on my own” in my kitchen is enough to make me feel sane again after a very long day with the kids. It makes me enjoy putting the dishes away. I crank it loud, baby. I dance and sing and get down. As soon as I put those earphones in and tune everything else out I feel my body change. My shoulders drop down again and I take in a huge, audible breath. It happens immediately.

Meanwhile, Hubby plays with the kids. They get his undivided attention when he first comes home so there is no competition. He gets to see them without distraction for the very brief time that he has with them each day. And we just wait to talk to each other because we are adults and we can wait. Do I feel guilty about checking out and letting my husband deal with all things kid related for 30 minutes while I make my family’s meal? Hell, no. Mommy is a whole lot nicer at dinner time now - more patient, more calm, perhaps even smiling. She can breathe again.

There is a reason we need to put our own mask on first. If we always tend to our children and ignore our own needs, we suffocate. And if we suffocate ourselves, then who is there to help our kids? I think I finally get it now.

Labels: Mommyhood

Pretty sure we can give credit to my husband for the little gem that Sam picked up this week:

“I NOT gonna change my mind, so DEAL wif it!” Excellent.

Although, he did tell me I was his best friend as he went to sleep last night, so I guess I can deal with it . . . sort of.

Of course, after he told me I was his best friend I snuggled up close to him and gave him big hugs and kisses, feeling all emotional and telling him he was mine too. He responded, “Mommy, move back over there.  That too close.”

Labels: Talking, The Big One

There are two things that I have heard constantly since having Robby. The first:

“Wow, looks like you have your hands full!”

Everywhere I go someone says this to me. Ev.Ry.Where. It started as soon as I began showing, only the verb tense was different - “Wow, looks like you’re gonna have your hands full.” - to which I would smile and nod. Mmmm, yes, thank you for pointing that out. I really appreciate that. Thanks. And it has continued into my daily life now that I am the mother of two, like when I am desperately trying to get the three of us up the stairs while Robby is screaming and hungry and Sam is refusing to walk and insisting that I carry him - “WOW! Looks like you REALLY have your hands full!” - Yes! Yes, I do! Now can you wipe that ridiculous smirk off your face and stop rubbernecking like my family climbing the stairs is some sort of fatal car crash that you’re passing by? Did you just shake your head at the situation? Did you just chuckle to yourself as you kept on walking? Thanks. I REALLY do appreciate that. Thanks A LOT. I sure do hope I made YOUR day a little brighter . . . Jackaaaaassssss . . .oh, I’m sorry, did I say that last part out loud?

Anyway, total strangers say it to me, without fail, every time I leave the house. I grin and bear it because yes, my hands are fairly full right now, and if people want to sort of look at me and think to themselves about how great they’ve got it in comparison then they can go right ahead. Glad to be of service.

But the thing I cannot get used to is this one:

“So, are you done?”

Every time I get my haircut the woman asks me if I’m done having kids now. Now granted, I don’t get in there for a cut very often at all, but she asks me every single time. In fact, she started asking me this before Robby was even born. And she’s not the only one. I hear it a lot, next to the whole hands full thing.

My answer was always something like, “Well, I don’t really know. I figure at some point I’ll feel like my family is complete, or I’ll feel like someone is missing and we’ll go from there.”

And then, the other day, I felt it. Like we were complete. I really did . . .

I think I might be done.

But man, how do you really know, right? Especially when there are so many factors that can influence something like that, like, for example, already feeling like my hands are really, really full right now. But I have to say, I’m pretty confident about this.

According to my husband, I felt the same way when Sam was a baby. I don’t recall that. And I don’t recall feeling this way. I don’t remember having a sense of completeness when it came to our familial unit. I just remember being exhausted and having no time or energy to even entertain the idea of more. Perhaps I’m going through that again. Perhaps I won’t know for a long time. Perhaps I will know, and then I won’t know. Or perhaps I’ll be wrong.

But if I were to go get myself a haircut right now, and she asked me again, I’d probably say yes. Yes, I think I am done.

Does that mean that when we move in 6 weeks that we will be getting rid of all “the gear,” the toys, the clothes? That’s a toughy. I’m tempted to say we do. I’m tempted to let go of the infant car seat, the stroller that goes with it, the swing, the gym, the newborn clothes, the little linky toys. I’m tempted. But could I do it? Could I really pass on those little onesies? Wow, I don’t know.

How do you know?

Labels: Mommyhood

Yesterday Sam totally caught me sneaking M&Ms. I don’t know what I was thinking; I knew he was on my tail as I headed into the kitchen. But you know how it is - once you decide you want something there’s just no stopping yourself. I was tired and I have a cold and the day was dragging on. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered this tube of M&Ms I had hidden in the cookie jar from Christmas, and I made a break for it.

Sam was close on my heals as I raced around the bend to get to the cookie jar and retrieve some chocolatey goodness. I had my back to the door, but I knew he was in the kitchen with me and watching. As quietly as I could I poured myself a handful, but who am I kidding? I don’t think Sam has ever even had them before, but the kid knew it was a good sound, that satisfying tap tap tap of candy falling into a cupped hand.

He walked up to me as I tried to subtly hide them behind my back. He kept trying to peek around as I continued to turn in the same direction, obviously caught but not willing to admit it.

“I want some . . . what you got?” he said as he ran around me to see what I was hiding.

“Hmmm?” chew chew gulp “What do you mean?”

“What you got? I want that.”

And I knew I was busted, so I showed him the little circles of green and red (Christmas, remember?) and his eyes lit up.

“What that?!” and we shared some M&Ms. Actually, by the end he was saying he would NOT share with me, and it was more like both of us racing to eat them out of my hand as fast as we could before the other person could take them. I know, nice example I’m setting here. But hey, when you decide you want something there’s no stopping, right?

Labels: Mommyhood, Talking, The Big One

I didn’t have a favorite Sam quote from this week until we were going to bed last night, and then it was obvious.

“You happy, Mommy?”

“Yeah, I’m happy honey.  Are you happy?”

“Yeah, I lotta happy.  Let’s snuggle.”

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And for those of you waiting for an update on this, they’re pulling her blog off of their website, the whole thing.  So I’m a whole lotta happy.

Labels: Talking, The Big One