The Hospital Part 2

After four rounds of IV antibiotics and three and a half days in the pediatric ward in the hospital, Owen came home Sunday.  He is on an oral antibiotic at home.  The swelling in his face has gone down significantly and we have follow up appointments with the family doctor and dentist.  We are not 100% sure but we (doctor included) think the infection was caused by a tooth root abscess.

Michael spent the entire time with him in the hospital, except when we traded so he could come home, spend time with the other two kids and shower.  He’s a great dad.

Hopefully Owen continues to improve, because he is getting cabin fever and I’m sure he would love to go to school.  We keep teasing him that he sure picked a funny way to extend his March (Spring) break which is next week.

I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled posting soon.

The Hospital Part 1

Our oldest son woke up Thursday morning, walked into the kitchen and promptly vomited on the floor.  We thought he had another stomach bug – they’re going around like wildfire – and as the day went on he seemed to feel better.  A couple of days prior he’d complained that his newly growing in tooth was hurting him.  We looked at it, it looked fine, and said “we’ll see how it is,” … It was growing in crooked and the kids had before complained about tooth discomfort when a new tooth was coming in.

He ate dinner around 5:30pm with his siblings.  I’m awesome.  I made them pancakes.

Around 7:00pm I called to him to come start getting ready for an early bedtime.  I figured he’d need the extra sleep and he was willing.  He walked into the kitchen and HOLY CRAP, the left side of his face was swollen.  I called to Michael who was upstairs and he came down and saw.  We knew what had to be done.  I grabbed a book for Owen, gave Michael his OHIP card from my wallet and off they went …

Yup, you got it.  An ER visit.

He was seen almost immediately at the ER.  Shortly after he was given an IV for antibiotics.  Shortly after that he was admitted to the pediatric ward.  They’re working on getting the infection under control.  He did have a fever and that has gone away (hopefully it stays away).  And they’re checking him for any tooth issues as well as a multitude of other things that could cause his face to swell with an infection.  I have to trust they know what they’re doing.

Michael is staying with him … which makes it easier to trust the doctors and nurses (no offence to doctors and nurses out there, I’m sure you know your jobs well, but he is MY child and I don’t care who you are, you’ve gotta earn my trust when it comes to my kids).

Last night our very good friend Bryan took some comfort items for Owen, and a phone charger for Michael.  After we found out he’d be staying tonight my parents came to watch the other two kids (Mom did) so I could take some stuff to the hospital and visit Owen (my Dad visited too).  He’s had other visitors … my sister, our friend Bryan and his best friend (Bryan’s son) took him some comic books to read.  He’s getting a 2nd round of antibiotics tonight.

Owen just called his siblings.  They miss him.  Each of them talked to him for a few minutes.  Each of them told Owen how the other one is bugging them.  Owen, the mediator, the BIG brother … sick in the hospital and still helping them resolve issues.  I told you, he’s the responsible one.  Calm, cool and collected that boy is.  Other than a swollen face and boredom looming he is his normal self. Witty (like me) and constantly playing with the buttons on the hospital bed (like his Dad).

Fingers and toes crossed he gets well quickly and that he gets to come home soon.

PS. If I’m forgetting any details it’s because I’m lacking in the sleep department, thus lacking in the memory department.

A Big Mess

I remember it rather clearly. My son, Owen, was about two years old. Full fledged toddlerhood. The way our old house was laid out was on the 2nd floor we had a (very) small hallway with a closet right at the top of the stairs and a bedroom on either side. We had a baby gate at the top of the stairs to keep everyone safely up stairs, in a toddler proof area. The kitchen was directly at the bottom of the stairs.

Toddler proof? That’s what I thought anyway!!

I was in the kitchen making formula for Lily, who was asleep, probably in her swing, and probably with Finding Nemo playing in the background. I could hear Owen playing with his toys upstairs, happy, excited, enjoying being a kid. Behaving. I was a happy camper.

What mother wouldn’t be? One child sleeping, the other one playing nicely by himself. It’s motherhood bliss!!

This was one of my first mother-to-a-toddler life lessons. When they sound like they’re having too much fun, they probably are. Owen had gotten into my cocoa butter cream and had spread it everywhere. On my bed, on his toys, on the carpet, on Lily’s crib. It was an absolute mess.

Globular masses of creamy beige dotted my entire upstairs.

Owen, was glowing. Proud. With a “look what I just did” expression on his face, like only a two year old can have.

It took about an hour to clean it all up.

And yes, like any good mother does, I took pictures first.

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The writing prompt was
2.) What did they get into now? Describe a time your toddler got into something they shouldn’t have.

Age and Snow Pants

This morning as my two older kids were piling on their winter gear for the trek to their school I had a flashback of myself as a child of around the same age and how much I loathed my snow pants. Oh how I loathed them. Especially on days when I had to wear a dress, though I don’t know which was worse, a dress in snow pants or the saggy crotch of the leotards that were just a little too short in the legs, but I digress …

It generally takes some prodding to get Owen and Lily to put their snow pants on. Yesterday Lily tried to sneak not putting them on and I made her take her backpack, coat and boots off and start from scratch. Today as Owen slowly put one leg in and then the other he complained about how long it takes to get them on, and then I said it like only a mother can …

Me: “If you don’t wear them you’ll freeze to death and then what will you do?”

Owen: “But it takes so long to put them on and eats up my recess time! Like half of it!”

Me: “Too bad. And you might want to try putting them over your boots properly so snow doesn’t get in,”

Owen: “I don’t care if snow gets in my boots, I’ll be fine.”

Me: “You won’t be fine if your feet fall off from the cold.”

What? Me? Prompting people to wear winter gear? Properly!?! This can’t be right. I’m the girl who only bought a pair of winter boots (the first in over a decade) about 3 years ago. I’m the girl who, in high school, figured wearing a leather jacket and a pair of earmuffs was enough coverage for -20°C weather. I’m the girl who bought a parka (for you non-Canadians, that’s a winter coat) just to set a good example for the kids – and then realised a good winter coat makes a difference. I’m the girl who loathed snow pants.

Loathed. Past tense.

I don’t know if it comes with age or because I’m a mother or because I have a massive driveway that needs to be shoveled frequently in the winter, or simply because when I go outside I don’t want to be a popsicle, but I have found myself looking at new snow pants.

Like to buy. For me.

My parents were right. Please don’t tell them.

Nine: Not Quite a Decade

Let me take you back to nine years ago, less a day … December 13th, 2001 …

I was 39 weeks pregnant with our first child as I waddled my way into my OB’s office, swollen and uncomfortable.  In good spirits, but feeling the same thing most women in their 39th week feel … done.  The baby (gender unknown) was due on December 21st and I went in expecting a normal weekly type appointment, including all the fun stuff like peeing in a cup, blood pressure, fetal monitoring, et cetera.

We got more than that.  My OB was concerned about my swelling, blood pressure and urine sample (so much so that I got to pee in a cup twice – lucky me!)  To make a long story short, and because the details have faded, after a lot of waiting around and getting poked at again and again, my OB told us I had pre-eclampsia and said “How do you feel about having this baby tomorrow?”

Um?  Okay.  What?

I mean, I was okay with it, because early on in the pregnancy the baby and I had struck a deal.  I promised the baby I’d never use Christmas wrapping paper for birthday gifts and there would never be a combined gift, and in exchange the baby agreed to be born on Friday December 14th … a week prior to the due date and a goodish amount of time before the 25th.  It was a fair deal.  We shook on it.  Sort of.

I had no idea about induction, but my OB was great.  He explained everything and told us to go to the delivery ward at 7am.  I’m not a morning person, so I wasn’t impressed.  I made phone calls to The Support crew … Mom, sister, best friend.  Michael made the call to his boss and said he wouldn’t be in the next day.  Everything was scheduled and in order (just how I like things to be).  Perfect!

We got up at a decent hour so I could shower and eat breakfast and still have time to freak out a little bit, and then the phone rang.  It was the hospital asking us to please not come in until 9 o’clock because it’d been a busy night and there wasn’t any room for us.  We called The Support and let them know it was postponed, yadda yadda yadda.  No sooner did we finish calling everyone and the phone rang again.  It was the hospital.  Again.  This time they told us “when we’re ready for you, we’ll call you, it’s still too busy.”

By 11am I was in the hospital.  The Support met us there.  I was having mild contractions.

I had wanted to go au natural for the birth.  It wasn’t going to happen.  I was being induced.  They had me on a schedule.  Within the hour I was put on IV (saline, pitocin) and had my water broken.  No pain medication though, I’m stubborn like that.  Have you ever had a contraction on pitocin?  They’re tough.  I mean labour isn’t a picnic anyway, but labour on pitocin is much worse (in my experience anyway).

It hurt.  I was growing less and less happy about the whole au natural bit.  Back labour sucks.

My audience – at this point I was not thinking of them as The Support – was irritating me with the “are you okay?” and looks of concern.  I told them to get out.  According to one victim witness I told them to “get the fuck out” and as Michael was following behind I growled and said “not you!!!”

Michael and the nurse talked with me, pleading gently (probably fearing for their lives) for me to have an epidural.  I agreed providing they’d keep it low so I could still feel everything.  Hey, I’m tough.  No way was I going through this without any pain.  They did as requested and I could still feel everything.

They say when it’s time to push you’ll know.  They don’t lie.  Unless you’ve had a baby it’s sort of indescribable.   It was time to push and The Support was ushered out of the room once again.  Michael and I had intended to have just the two of us in the room for the delivery (along with the nurses and OB) but somehow my Mom got stuck in the corner by my bed so she got to stay.

Somewhere during the pushing I explained calmly to my OB that “this hurts you know,” and he asked me if it burns and I responded with a yes and he broke out into tune.  ”I fell into a burning ring of fire, I went down down down and the flames went higher …”

It was one of those You-Had-To-Be-There funny moments.

After all that, at 5:14pm on the agreed upon date, after a mere six hours in labour our little boy, Owen, was born … during the first snowstorm of the season.

While everyone ooh’ed and ahh’ed over how cute Owen was and how much hair he had, I had to have stitches.  Remember how I felt everything? Yup.  I was not frozen for my stitches.  I swear to you it was the worst part of the whole childbirth experience.  Seriously.  I later found out my OB didn’t realise I wasn’t frozen completely from my epidural.  He just figured I was, like most other women who weren’t as stubborn as me who had common sense in their heads and didn’t want to feel the pain of contractions during an induced labour, so he stitched me up.

So that pretty much sums it up … how I spent my day 9 years ago … not quite a decade, but almost.  We’ll be into double digits next year, but lets not rush it.

Happy Birthday Owen.  xxxooo

The Book Fair

My daughter and son announced to me the book fair is at their school and could they please (pretty please with sugar on top) each buy a book.  Books, HELL yes.

Owen (my son, you know, the responsible almost nine year old) was put in charge of the money. He knew which book he wanted and that it was six bucks.  Lily (my middle child and only daughter who is lovely and seven, but not so responsible) knew which book she might want but didn’t have enough money. I sent them with fifteen dollars and instructions to buy the books they wanted and only the books they wanted. One book each. Nothing more. I wanted change.

Fifteen dollars isn’t a lot of money, but handing fifteen dollars over to a couple kids headed towards a school that is currently selling two dollar chocolate bars for fundraising feels a little dangerous to me.

But I trusted them.

I mean, they had clear instructions.

They arrived home from school around 3:30 just as they do every afternoon.  After they had stripped off their snowsuits and finished talking over each other about how their day went I asked them about the books and is there any change …

Owen spoke first, glancing at his sister: “There’s only a dollar, but that’s because she bought something for you.”

Lily glared at him, “NO, I bought something for Billie, she’s my best friend and I can’t go to her birthday party.”

This is the first I’ve heard of any birthday party.

I’ll admit, I was a bit ticked.

What part of the clear instructions didn’t they understand?  Buy one book each and nothing more.  And I WANT CHANGE.

They looked at me and the fact I was ticked must have been seeping out of my pores, because they looked panicked.  I asked them if they had understood the clear instructions.  They said yes.  I asked them how much the supposed gift for Billie cost (and when the hell was this party Lily had missed … apparently it was months ago).  They said three dollars.  I said “okay, you owe me three bucks.”

Lily started bawling.

Now I’m feeling bad.

Owen said “I tried to stop her, but she sneaked it in!”   Um dude, who was in charge of the money?  Yup, it was you.

Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t about the money.  I don’t care about the money.  This is about the life lesson.  You don’t spend money that doesn’t belong to you even if you have permission to spend some of it.  You don’t buy three things when you were only supposed to buy two.

Anyway, so we had a chat which ended with Lily telling me she doesn’t deserve anything and that she should be grounded for life (yes, she’s dramatic, I know).  I told them I understood and that it was nice of Lily to think of Billie, but that they’d have to pay me back.  Owen headed downstairs to look for his half of the funds.

Then I had an idea.

A motherly idea.

I have been trying for two weeks to get Lily to clean her room.  (Did I mention she’s the messy one too?  Oh Lily, I love you, but neatness is not your strong suit.)  I told her I’d wipe the slate clean and we’d be even and they wouldn’t have to pay me …

We’re officially even.  Guess how long it took her to clean her room? ;)

Under Pressure

Recently it came to my realization that I sometimes put too much pressure on my oldest son.  When he was three years old and acting three years old I had absolutely no idea why.  I was young and naive and with no prior experience with a three year old (on a full time basis) I had no clue as to why he couldn’t just figure things out or why he couldn’t just “be mature” about a situation.

Why was he having a temper tantrum about not being able to have chocolate?

Why did he shove his little sister?

Why wasn’t he being reasonable?!?

I mean, com’on, he was three!   He should know better, right?

Holy shit.  What’s that?  I needed to teach him that stuff?!?!

I think, no, I know, I did teach him that stuff … well, my husband and I did.  I just wish I’d been more relaxed about the whole thing.  Now I’m working on my 3rd three year old and I am much more flexible with him and when he does things I know why.  I wish, for my oldest son’s sake, I had known then what I know now.  I never saw him as his age.  I always had these great expectations that he wouldn’t be the todder flipping out because he wasn’t getting his own way, and generally he wasn’t, but when it happened I was mortified.

The first time he got into trouble at school I couldn’t figure out why.  He was my child after all and he knew better.  He was four.

I wish other parents with experience had told me about three year olds, four year olds, five year olds, and so on and so forth, because it would have made my life much less stressful in those early years.  And perhaps it may have taken a whole lot of pressure off my son.

I didn’t mean to put all that pressure on him .  Honest.  It just sort of happened.  I don’t even know that he noticed or how much it has affected him.  I just know now, as we’re about to embark on his 9th birthday, that I did, and I’m finally realising in the most endearing way, he was my guinea pig.  My test subject.

When I describe him I generally start out with this: “He’s my responsible child,” and then carry on into something else.  There’s more to him than that.

He’s a good kid.  A smart kid.  A caring kid.  He likes Star Wars and Harry Potter, Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Hardy Boys, Lego and race cars, biking and running, Mythbusters and How Its Made, and he adores his subscription to National Geographic.  He can read a 250 page novel in about 3 hours and bike 35 kilometers at my side without complaining once.  He is sensitive, creative and a great conversationalist.

Scratch that, he’s not a good kid, he’s a great kid.

So far so good, but I’m going to ease off on the pressure a little and try to understand that sometimes he’s doing something weird just because he’s nine years old and accept it as it is.

Love you kiddo.