The boys had their 20-month pediatrician appointments last week.
I'm happy to say that things look great.
Isaac, for the first time in his life, weighs more than Simon, and although they're still in the 15th-ish percentile for size, they're growing, which is all that matters at this point. After some pokes and prods and looks into various orafices, we got "all clear" and were instructed to return at 24 months for a check up.
This appointment, front to back, probably seems totally normal to you moms and dads out there. But for us, it was a Victory-With-A-Capital-V. Because for the first time ever, their development was (grossly) assessed to be "right on track," and for the first time in the history of their little lives, they were given a whole 4-month recess from the office.
In other words, for the first time since becoming a parent, I wasn't facing a frowining pediatrician who was telling me in so many words that there is something wrong with my kids.
You would not BELIEVE how long-lasting the effects of being a preemie are.
I swear to god, guys, I was working on a preemie ulcer this past year from all the stress of being responsible for two little guys who - horror of horrors - were/are behind in their mental and physical development.
Some days, I want to hunt down the people who developed the whole aggregate curve system for pediatric assessment and kick in their teeth.
It's not that I don't think curves are good, or that it's not important to be able to compare the development of a child against the average. But the alarmist nature of pediatricians these days (mostly in order to avoid a malpractice suit) causes them to think worst-case scenario as soon as a child changes momentum in their track. There is no forgiveness for being human, which we all are, and which I think pediatricians sometimes forget.
We are not statistics.
We are more than our points on a graph.
We all follow our own path and yanno what? That's okay too.
Since the boys were born, I've heard the following from various pediatricians:
"Well, we won't worry YET, but if they're not walking by the next appointment, we're going to have to get some tests done."
"They're not really growing as much as they should. It's a sign of malnutrition"
"He's still crawling? He might need to be assessed for hip problems"
And the doozie:
"Your son has what's called 'microcephaly.' I'm going to order an MRI and send you to a neurologist at du Pont."
Did I mention that that last statement was made as the result of an inaccurate head measurement?
Christ.
Nothing like accidentally diagnosing a child with mental retardation because the tape measure slipped.
Not surprisingly, my experience with pediatricians has been extraordinarily negative. In every appointment, it's been the same:
They're little.
They're behind.
They're not doing what other kids their age are doing, and therefore either A) I'm not feeding/stimulating/playing with them enough, or B) They're probably suffering from some kind of syndrome and are handicapped. Switching pediatricians has helped somewhat, but I find that no matter who I talk to, the negativity is there, even if it's sugar-coated.
And whats worse is that I haven't been able to hold this negativity at arm's reach. I, a person who knows FULL WELL the ability of doctors to make mistakes, and the importance of being your own (or your childrens') advocate...I was often sucked into this mind-set that my children different,w hich is bad. I started watching their every little movement. I started comparing them to kids at the playground. I revved up my interactions with them and turned every moment into a STIMULATION-SPREE (consequently taking ALL the fun of hanging out with my kids).
Hell, I even spent a tearful afternoon believing that Isaac had mental retardation after the pediatrician inaccurately measured his head size. Like, seriously? I believed that bullshit??
But on the bright side, it's been extremely eye-opening.
If you blindly trust the "expert" opinion and ignore your own gut instincts about your kids, you end up with a lot of heartache.
Lesson learned.
I know that my kids are fine, and I know that they'll eventually catch up with their peers. This last appointment was only a reinforcement of those facts.
But no joke, I hope this next kid of mine is completely and totally average in every way. I want 50th percentiles down the board. I want him/her to be a poster child for developmental milestones. Because it's taken a lot of energy and a lot of mindfulness to stand up to all the negativity surrounding the developmental pace of my boys, and I honestly never, ever want to be in that place again where I look at my kid and second-guess myself.
It's hard enough being a parent.
There's no need to make it any harder.
So for those of you with "average" children out there, count your blessings. You've been spared boatloads of worry, anxiety, and an ongoing sense of inadequacy.
And for those of you with children who fall outside the average, hang in there.
Trust yourself.
Love your kids.
Have FUN with them, and stop comparing them to everyone else.
Diversity is natural, and the less you worry, the more you can see your children for the beautiful creatures that they are.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
20 Weeks and Already Keeping Score
I had my 20 week ultrasound yesterday. Everything looks good, and based on the distinctive profile + excessive amount of kicking and general squirmyness of meatloaf #3, I'd say we have another Ike on our hands.
Whoo boy.
For those of you who don't know, my two boys, Isaac (Ike) and Simon, have very different personalities: Simon is like a sloth. A whiny, drooly sloth who likes to be carried and generally fussed over. Ike, on the other hand, is Godzilla driving a wrecking ball drinking a Red Bull. He's a spastic, wild, beast with lightning-fast reflexes and a complete disregard for the safety of himself or others.
I tend to hold Ike at arms length.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Because chances are his fists are swinging and his legs are kicking and he's holding a toy like a mace, waiting to give you a death-blow to the nose.
Not that he's not a sweet kid. He's actually more affectionate than his brother. But where Simon will give you a hug, Ike gives you what we've come to refer to as love maulings. Any interaction between you and him, good or bad, will usually end up hurting you.
It's kind of his thing.
But other than a cold sensation of dread that this child may be the reincarnation of his fearless, fist-throwing brother, everything is fine, and the baby is healthy.
We're not finding out the sex this time.
I wanted to wait to find out with the twins but...yanno... twins. They tend to require a bit of planning. Fortunately, this singleton not only requires less planning, but I barely have time to BE pregnant, let alone agonize over what the sex is. So we're going old school and waiting for the big day to find out.
In the meantime, of course, there's the nursery. I went a little overboard with the Boys' room. Like, spent months painting an intricate mural of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak on all four walls. Apparently I have this inner Martha Steward who is DYING to come out at first chance. But you know what? If painting a life-sized room mural to show your kids you love them is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
Of course, we now have a dilemma:
The NEW nursery.
I'm convinced that child #3 will inevitably weigh my love for him or her against his/her brothers based entirely on the quality of his/her mural. I can hear the screaming accusations of my future 7-year-old now and it ain't pretty. This would normally be no problem...like I said, my inner Martha Stewart has her mom jeans pulled up, her lavendar-scented rubber gloves on, and is ready to get to work. Except I'm lacking the one resource I had in abundance when I was painting the first nursery:
Time
I am baffled about how I'm going to find the 37+ hours (yes I counted) it took me to create the first nursery.
Hell, most days I can barely find the time to pee.
I'm starting to develop a plan. I won't divulge too much now lest I spoil the nursery reveal post which will happen sometime in the far, FAR future. But I'm pretty sure I've found a way to steep this new nursery in child literary excellence WITHOUT having to hire a nanny with the money we don't have. I think it'll be awesome. And EASY, which is pretty clutch right now.
So that's our 20 week status.
We have a healthy kid thus far who may or may not be composed entirely of my husband's "deamon energizer bunny" genes, AND I've found a way to stave off one of the MANY future arguments we're destined to have with him/her.
If I was keeping score (which I already am), I'd say I just scored a point for team Mom.
Now, somebody please come clean out my office/future nursery so I can get started, because I already used up my allotted pee break this morning and I just don't have the time.
Whoo boy.
For those of you who don't know, my two boys, Isaac (Ike) and Simon, have very different personalities: Simon is like a sloth. A whiny, drooly sloth who likes to be carried and generally fussed over. Ike, on the other hand, is Godzilla driving a wrecking ball drinking a Red Bull. He's a spastic, wild, beast with lightning-fast reflexes and a complete disregard for the safety of himself or others.
I tend to hold Ike at arms length.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Because chances are his fists are swinging and his legs are kicking and he's holding a toy like a mace, waiting to give you a death-blow to the nose.
Not that he's not a sweet kid. He's actually more affectionate than his brother. But where Simon will give you a hug, Ike gives you what we've come to refer to as love maulings. Any interaction between you and him, good or bad, will usually end up hurting you.
It's kind of his thing.
But other than a cold sensation of dread that this child may be the reincarnation of his fearless, fist-throwing brother, everything is fine, and the baby is healthy.
We're not finding out the sex this time.
I wanted to wait to find out with the twins but...yanno... twins. They tend to require a bit of planning. Fortunately, this singleton not only requires less planning, but I barely have time to BE pregnant, let alone agonize over what the sex is. So we're going old school and waiting for the big day to find out.
In the meantime, of course, there's the nursery. I went a little overboard with the Boys' room. Like, spent months painting an intricate mural of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak on all four walls. Apparently I have this inner Martha Steward who is DYING to come out at first chance. But you know what? If painting a life-sized room mural to show your kids you love them is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
Of course, we now have a dilemma:
The NEW nursery.
I'm convinced that child #3 will inevitably weigh my love for him or her against his/her brothers based entirely on the quality of his/her mural. I can hear the screaming accusations of my future 7-year-old now and it ain't pretty. This would normally be no problem...like I said, my inner Martha Stewart has her mom jeans pulled up, her lavendar-scented rubber gloves on, and is ready to get to work. Except I'm lacking the one resource I had in abundance when I was painting the first nursery:
Time
I am baffled about how I'm going to find the 37+ hours (yes I counted) it took me to create the first nursery.
Hell, most days I can barely find the time to pee.
I'm starting to develop a plan. I won't divulge too much now lest I spoil the nursery reveal post which will happen sometime in the far, FAR future. But I'm pretty sure I've found a way to steep this new nursery in child literary excellence WITHOUT having to hire a nanny with the money we don't have. I think it'll be awesome. And EASY, which is pretty clutch right now.
So that's our 20 week status.
We have a healthy kid thus far who may or may not be composed entirely of my husband's "deamon energizer bunny" genes, AND I've found a way to stave off one of the MANY future arguments we're destined to have with him/her.
If I was keeping score (which I already am), I'd say I just scored a point for team Mom.
Now, somebody please come clean out my office/future nursery so I can get started, because I already used up my allotted pee break this morning and I just don't have the time.
Friday, June 7, 2013
I'm Back. Or Not. Is That A Corn Chip In My Hair? Oh Yeah, I'm Pregnant
So I've been getting the itch to blog again.
Maybe its because the boys, who are all of 20 months old now, are pretty hysterical these days, which minimizes my need for finding funny blog material.
Maybe its because I'm not working quite as much, so I'm not all zombied out from staring at a computer screen every evening.
Or maybe it's because, being pregnant again, all my active hobbies have been violently ripped from my life and I have NOTHING ELSE TO DO to retain my sanity, other than water my petunias and bake banana bread.
Did I mention that I was pregnant again? No? You look surprised. And confused. And a little wild-eyed. Never mind. Have some banana bread and we'll get back to that in a second.
So, I guess I'm blogging again.
Or maybe I'm writing A blog (singular), and will dissappear into the parenting ether for another 6 months.
The future is hard to predict when you have multiple parasites sucking the life-force out of you on a daily basis, so we'll leave this one in the "who knows?" category.
But, yeah, I'm pregnant again.
Au naturale, this time, meaning no embryologist was involved in the making of this kid, which is refreshing and a little odd for us, considering our last pregnancy was the result of a massive effort from a team of health care professionals and involved much poking, prodding, and stripping of dignity.
When your last pregnancy required about 294365348923012 trips to the doctor, it's hard to imagine just "waking up" pregnant. It's like just "waking up" with a boob job. A pleasant finding, but a baffling one, nonetheless.
But that's what happened.
I woke up pregnant one day and it seems to have stuck.
And then people inevitably ask if it was planned, because many cannot imagine that we would willingly add another child to the mix. Plus, the inability of people to mind their own business and NOT ask extremely personal questions regarding your reproductive processes truly boggles the mind.
The answer is that it was planned and it wasn't planned.
Did we want another child? Yes.
Did we think it would actually happen on our own? Hellz to the no.
So this baby may be a surprise, but it certainly isn't an accident. More like a miracle, which is okay with me.
I think we could all use a few more miracles in our lives.
So we're at 20 weeks and counting. If the birth of twins was the equivalent of the baby apocalypse, then the birth of a third one can only be interpreted as the coming of Jesus.
Or Satan.
Not sure, I guess I should brush up on my Old Testament.
But what I'm finding to be true, is that a life of apocalyptic chaos is FAR more rewarding than a life of quite control. My house is dirty and my hair is a mess, but I've smiled and laughed more in the past year and a half than I probably have in the past 10 years.
People tend to be pretty negative when it comes to children. Oh sure, they coo and beam at the miracle of life that is growing inside you...."but," they warn you, "enjoy yourselves now, because your life is OVER when he/she is born."
Your life is over.
Again and again, I hear that phrase in regards to children.
Ridiculous.
I'm here to tell you that if you're in a solid relationship with a loving partner and your shit is mostly together (mostly...because NOBODY has their shit completely together), and you're ready to throw yourself into a pretty intense and time-consuming hobby, then having children is the START of your life.
Not the end of it.
So we're adding another little person to our family.
Sure, it'll be hard. My house will be dirtier and my hair will be messier (if that's humanly possible).
And sure, I'll complain because it's WONDERFULLY CATHARTIC to complain about your children.
But at the end of the day, another child means a hundred times more smiles and laughs are ahead of us.
And there ain't NOTHIN' wrong with that, folks.
Maybe its because the boys, who are all of 20 months old now, are pretty hysterical these days, which minimizes my need for finding funny blog material.
Maybe its because I'm not working quite as much, so I'm not all zombied out from staring at a computer screen every evening.
Or maybe it's because, being pregnant again, all my active hobbies have been violently ripped from my life and I have NOTHING ELSE TO DO to retain my sanity, other than water my petunias and bake banana bread.
Did I mention that I was pregnant again? No? You look surprised. And confused. And a little wild-eyed. Never mind. Have some banana bread and we'll get back to that in a second.
So, I guess I'm blogging again.
Or maybe I'm writing A blog (singular), and will dissappear into the parenting ether for another 6 months.
The future is hard to predict when you have multiple parasites sucking the life-force out of you on a daily basis, so we'll leave this one in the "who knows?" category.
But, yeah, I'm pregnant again.
Au naturale, this time, meaning no embryologist was involved in the making of this kid, which is refreshing and a little odd for us, considering our last pregnancy was the result of a massive effort from a team of health care professionals and involved much poking, prodding, and stripping of dignity.
When your last pregnancy required about 294365348923012 trips to the doctor, it's hard to imagine just "waking up" pregnant. It's like just "waking up" with a boob job. A pleasant finding, but a baffling one, nonetheless.
But that's what happened.
I woke up pregnant one day and it seems to have stuck.
And then people inevitably ask if it was planned, because many cannot imagine that we would willingly add another child to the mix. Plus, the inability of people to mind their own business and NOT ask extremely personal questions regarding your reproductive processes truly boggles the mind.
The answer is that it was planned and it wasn't planned.
Did we want another child? Yes.
Did we think it would actually happen on our own? Hellz to the no.
So this baby may be a surprise, but it certainly isn't an accident. More like a miracle, which is okay with me.
I think we could all use a few more miracles in our lives.
So we're at 20 weeks and counting. If the birth of twins was the equivalent of the baby apocalypse, then the birth of a third one can only be interpreted as the coming of Jesus.
Or Satan.
Not sure, I guess I should brush up on my Old Testament.
But what I'm finding to be true, is that a life of apocalyptic chaos is FAR more rewarding than a life of quite control. My house is dirty and my hair is a mess, but I've smiled and laughed more in the past year and a half than I probably have in the past 10 years.
People tend to be pretty negative when it comes to children. Oh sure, they coo and beam at the miracle of life that is growing inside you...."but," they warn you, "enjoy yourselves now, because your life is OVER when he/she is born."
Your life is over.
Again and again, I hear that phrase in regards to children.
Ridiculous.
I'm here to tell you that if you're in a solid relationship with a loving partner and your shit is mostly together (mostly...because NOBODY has their shit completely together), and you're ready to throw yourself into a pretty intense and time-consuming hobby, then having children is the START of your life.
Not the end of it.
So we're adding another little person to our family.
Sure, it'll be hard. My house will be dirtier and my hair will be messier (if that's humanly possible).
And sure, I'll complain because it's WONDERFULLY CATHARTIC to complain about your children.
But at the end of the day, another child means a hundred times more smiles and laughs are ahead of us.
And there ain't NOTHIN' wrong with that, folks.
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