Unmellow yellow...ew.

The new definition of resourcefulness:

When baby runs out of dry spots to spit up into on her burp cloth AND her bib, 

offer her the hat swiped from her own head.

Problem/solution:

Milk that goes down as white makes its encore in a violent shade of yellow...

So now we are collecting a wardrobe of sunshine, buttercup, and bumblebee shades to match!

Mini Wrap!

During our day trip to Little Rock earlier this week, I felt secure enough to take Ava Leigh into Whole Foods to meet her Pawpaw for lunch and to do a little shopping for odd pantry items like Tikka Masala and anchovy paste.  Unlike Walmart, where who-knows-what contagion is smeared who-knows-where, I felt fairly confident in the company of vegans, hippies, and anyone else who could afford to buy their groceries there.  Other than smoking a little wacky tobaccy on the side, this group tends to keep their lungs and bowels fairly clear, which in turn makes me feel better about my newborn being in their company.

Another reason I chose this location for our outing was to try out our new Moby wrap in a place where pretty much any fashion hardly gets a second glance.  If you aren't familiar with the Moby, just imagine one of those women who wears their baby as they sell fruit in a market, as depicted in any issue of National Geographic.  While "baby wearing" seems infrequently practiced in Arkansas, it's embraced in many other parts of the world as a way to bond with your child while ridding you of an excuse to avoid housework.  I've grown to love it.  It puts Ava to sleep like a stone, and when I peel her off of me, I can still smell her babyness on my skin.

Well, after dad and I visited over indian food and Yerba Mate, I browsed around with my little samosa strapped to my chest....and for such a tolerant crowd, you would not believe how many strongly opinionated older women approached me to tell me what they thought of my cotton-bound baby!

"I just love the way that you protect your child!", one woman raved over the sweet potatoes.  "Did you know that a sneeze can travel six feet?!"

No, I did not know that.  But thank you.  And please remove your coffee breath from her personal space.  Babies are people too, nice informative hippie lady.

......

I've heard a lot of differing opinions on the frequency of holding or carrying babies, ranging from "you can't spoil them by holding them" (the hospital's view) to "let them cry it out sometimes" (the seemingly practical mom's view).  Since we got the Moby, she and I both seem very content to be glued to one another most of the day.  But then again, we're blessed to be the parents of a very easygoing child.  And wearing her feels right.  I wonder now if a lot of people who are emotionally disconnected later in life may have been missing this as a child - this feeling of complete security and care.  What do you think, Mini-fans?

Non-Olympic Hurling

The fountain of hurl has been uncorked.

On our way to church yesterday morning, Daddy and I heard a gagging sound coming from the baby carrier in the back seat.  I looked at him.  He looked at me.  And then I pitched my chocolate breakfast bar against the windshield and threw myself into the backseat in a spastic panic.  That's not easy to do as an adult in an Avenger.  It's amazing what adrenaline can accomplish.

Why do they even bother to make newborn dress clothes in white? I wondered to myself as I fruitlessly blotted the neon yellow spot on her new sweater with a baby wipe.  My poor little pickpuss had given up about a quarter of her last bottle from her stomach onto her adorable Sunday outfit.  

(By the way, I DO realize that this is why some moms choose not to dress their infant elaborately.... But I'm too much of a shameless fashion slave to be one of those. And besides, I want my little girl to be used to wearing clothes from the very beginning so she won't be one of those kids who you see running around nearly naked at Wal-Mart because they never learned it feels right to wear clothing in public.)

Mixing contrasting patterns is SO this season!

Ava Leigh goin' cashz back at the homestead.

This spewing forth has been a little bit of a problem lately.  While I'm aware that it's perfectly normal for a baby to spit up on a daily basis, our Ava's little episodes have ranged from the typical Exorcist ejections to some terrifying gag/choke events which send Mommy and Daddy sprinting across the room to snatch her from her swing or bassinet.  It's heart-stopping to hear your child make such a sound.  Especially when they're strapped into a car seat hurtling 60 miles per hour down the interstate. 

So now we find ourselves at the starting line of yet another series of hurdles with our little squirrel -- figuring out if such moments are a product of simple reflux so common in babies, or rather a swallowing issue unique to children with Down Syndrome.  We'll begin with calling in the professionals, of course.  Early next month, we'll be returning to Arkansas Children's Hospital for Ava to undergo a swallow study.  

We've been so fortunate that Ava's proven to be such an apt eater from the get-go.  She's enthusiastic about it, as are we -  after all, this was the baby to whom the surgeons were thisclose to giving a stomach tube two days after her birth because most babies with Down's just aren't expected to eat well.  The way we see it, Ava's fought so hard for the privilege of eating and eating well, and for that, she deserves to keep her food securely in her little stomach!  

So until then, we'll continue giving her syringes of some prescribed reflux medicine which smells like dead peppermint-stuffed armadillo and hold our collective breath until we have her study done and figure out just what the heck is going on. 

Don't make me come down there, Emfamil!!!

The A.M.

A morning in the life of a MiniMom

5:30 a.m.  Wake to the sound of baby's sweet coos mixed with the demented feeding alarm song.  Fling myself out of bed before my balance has caught up with my consciousness.  Sit on the floor where I land.  Regroup from there.  

5:45 a.m.  Feed half-asleep baby in between sips of robust coffee.  Coffee too strong, but baby is feeding too well in her sleep to interrupt her.  Squeeze a few drops of Enfamil Newborn Premium Formula from baby's bottle into aforementioned coffee.  Not bad.  Not bad a'tall.

6:00 a.m.  Mop up baby spit-up and give the baby a good talking to about taking her bottles too quickly.  Administer a serious snuggling so she knows I mean business.

6:30 a.m.  Change post-feeding diapers.  Diaper (singular) becomes diaperS (plural).  Just keep wiping until the job is done.  Line up full diapers like shot glasses on a cruise.  Wipe down baby.  Wipe down changing pad from collateral damage.  Pick out first of baby's five cute outfits for the day.

6:45 a.m.  Make another pot of coffee for sweet husband.  I've guzzled the first one already.  Drag bassinet containing baby into the bathroom because the result of this has begun to take effect.

7:00 a.m.  Wake husband with a kiss on his forehead.  Offer coffee.

7:00 a.m.  Apply concealer to dark undereye circles.  Apply lipstick.

7:15 a.m.  Wake husband.  Ask if he slept well last night.  Offer coffee.

7:20 a.m.  Kiss baby on the forehead. Spend five minutes attempting to remove red lipstick from her face with a baby wipe.

7:30 a.m.  Wake husband.  Threaten to drink his pot of coffee.  Relent and kiss him again when he sticks one leg out from under the quilt and makes contact with the floor.

7:45 a.m.  Iron husband's clothes after wheeling baby's bassinet to the opposite  side of the room due to an irrational fear of the hot iron flying from my hand and landing on her.

8:00 a.m.  Change baby's diaper.  Wonder again how milk becomes mustard.

8:15 a.m.  Turn the radio to the classical music station.  Assist baby with morning calisthenics.

8:30 a.m.  Remember that I should probably eat actual food before starting another pot of coffee.  Assemble oatmeal and mix a bottle simultaneously with one hand, as baby occupies the other.

 

8:45 a.m.  Feed baby while stealing bites of oatmeal between burpings.

9:00 a.m.  Wipe off remainder of lipstick on the back of my hand before kissing husband goodbye for the day.  Reapply.  Baby likes watching my big red smile.  Say a quick prayer that it won't mean she'll like clowns.

Footprints

Taking your new baby out into the world for the first time is like opening a soda can that's been rolling around in the trunk of your car for a week: equal parts unnerving and exciting.

Ava Leigh and I began venturing out last week, beginning with a little mommy/ daughter lunch date one wet afternoon at Brew Heaven.  While I warmed myself with some decaf coffee, she charmed the pepper outta the waitstaff.  Near closing time, she calmly took her bottle and drifted to sleep against my chest as I watched the rain fall and enjoyed a rare moment of thinking about nothing in particular.  When you've existed in a constant state of panic for months, such moments found in the absence of adrenaline can be almost bewildering when you discover yourself in the midst of them.

Since then, we've had a few brief family outings - Wal-Mart, the bank, Lowe's, even the mall (which was bustling with tax refund millionaires, as Ava's Uncle Bud aptly put it when we went to see him there at work).  While I've had the typical Mommy apprehension about bringing her around a large group of people, I know that it will do our hearts some good to see that she's fussed over by perfect strangers and accepted into society as any baby would be.

I wonder if most parents of children with special needs share these concerns with me... Will people see her as the pretty girl with large blue eyes and warm porcelain skin whose wide-eyed gaze can melt your defenses, or will they look at her and see that she's a little different than most?  My first response to the possibility of rejection is to be instantly defensive. 

 I wish that I had a window into others' minds so I could be forewarned of who might unfairly judge her.  I'm afraid of her being written off with labels: Challenged.  Diagnosed.  Special.  While I know that there is truly no shame in these descriptives, to know Ava Leigh in her completeness is to see her as the sweet spirit she is -- the baby who smiles in her sleep and makes unflinching eye contact with whomever holds her.  The infant who was expected to have little muscle tone, who now turns her head or kicks wildly when she hears her Daddy's voice.  The child whose broken heart can be mended easily with just a snuggle.  To me, some of the characteristics that clued the doctors into her extra chromosome aren't something that lump her into a diagnostic category.  The splice between her first and second toes, her funny little raspberry tongue that sometimes peeps out at me... These things and many more all contribute to who she is to me, and I treasure them.

I remember when they showed me her footprints in the hospital, and I thought that it was an adorable thing that one of her inked big toes had been spread so far away from its mates.  While the doctor who was on hand was quick to point out that it was a characteristic common to children with Down Syndrome, I couldn't conceive of it being anything other than HER distinctive trait.  I decided at that moment that if I were to get another tattoo, it would be of that footprint. (Yes, I already do have a tattoo, and NO, you'll never see it.  Unless you're my husband. Or a surgeon. Or I've lost an unwise bet.)

Wearing that symbol of her uniqueness forever would be a tremendous source of pride, and a good opportunity to reiterate how important it is to value the individuality in each child, whether they are typical or have special needs.  It would be a badge or an armor of sorts for those days when I'm afraid of the world on my child's behalf. Not everyone WILL see her as the beautiful girl that I do.  But if they can't, I know that it's due to their blindness, and not mine.

Our Happy Heart Day

I'm happy to report that Ava had a nearly fuss-free Valentine's Day!  She enjoyed a one-eyes peek at Mommy and Daddy's dinner from her baby swing while she drowsily digested her own....which you could celebrate as a miracle in itself.  It's our Happy Heart Day... or maybe more like We're So Grateful Your Heart's Ok Day.  Did you know that approximately fifty percent of children born with Down Syndrome have heart issues?  That's one statistic we praise God that we can count her out of!

I know that eating at your own humble table isn't necessarily what many gals would call a terribly romantic occasion, but I'm not one of those gals.  I've waited so long for our family to be complete, being together in our own space was worth much more than being rushed in and out of an overcrowded establishment by harried waitstaff.

 My handsome husband brought home dinner and roses and the new James Bond movie, looking very much like 007 himself in his dapper black suit.  I slapped on a coat of red lipstick and wore some modest heels.  Ava flaunted her pinkest fluffy onesie.    And then we all went to bed with full tummies and satisfied souls.  How could I ask for more in this life?

Mood Swings, Courtesy of Mommy!

This is the face of  dog who just ate two chocolate cupcake wrappers.

It would be fair to say that our household eating habits have left something to be desired, as of late.  That is, except for the wholesome homemade dinners our church family and friends have so graciously provided for our benefit.  Without them, we would ALL very likely be on a steady diet of cupcake wrappers.

This would be no one's fault but my own.  It's not for a lack of good food that our diet lately resembles that of a raccoon.  When I was on dietary lockdown during the majority of my pregnancy, our grocery choices were primarily dictated by what would prevent Ava from mainlining too much sugar and resembling a bowling ball made of biscuit dough at birth.  We were thrilled that all of our vigilance paid off - at seven pounds even, our little Clenney was just mini enough.  But now that my exile from Sugarland (that's an imaginary destination, not the ear-grating band) has been rescinded, I find myself giving into cellophane-wrapped temptation with alarming regularity.  When I have a midday exhaustion headache, my temporal artery throbs to the rhythm of chocolate, chocolate, CHOCOLATE.

So that is how my caffeine bender began.  With little nibbles of chocolate.  Which led to how I jacked up my poor three week old child yesterday -  through breast milk that probably had the caffeine concentration of a five hour energy shot.  

How could a cognizant, food savvy mother do this?! 

One bite at a time.  

Eventually those chocolate nibbles turned into coffee sips which led to kissing the mouth of a Coke bottle....not to mention numerous cups of incredible Oolong tea that Jason sweetly gifted to me during Ava's NICU days.  Each cup muted my exhaustion more and more, which led me back to the tea tin again and again, until all the breast milk in the nursery mini-fridge was vibrating with a high saturation of caffeine.

And I wondered why Ava Leigh was wide awake for hours and hollering her diaper off.  She was imbibing caffeine and junk via mom at the rate of a college freshman.  DERP.

It finally hit me like a face slap with a soggy gym sock: my diet stinks, and while it's pleasurable for ME to fall off the wagon and let it roll right over my resolutions, it's harming my baby.

So I'm begrudgingly climbing back into the driver's seat of the aforementioned wagon, perking the decaf, and relegating the cupcakes back into their rightful place -- dessert, not breakfast.  And lunch.  And dinner.

 

Mornings are the hardest...

Mornings are the hardest

And yet, the best

For the sunrise that wakes the dog

Who comes to peer into your bassinet

And then curl her impossible body

Into a fist of protection on our bed.

The music of your mornings

Is the winter wind chime

And the solemn recitation of world news, 

Coffeepot steam and natural light.

Morning is when I bask

In the rareness of you;

Morning is the victory of the sun 

Over the weariness of your first weeks.

Home.

Hush, little sugar beet.... We're on our way...

Dear Ava.

At 6:26 p.m. on Groundhog Day, we left the hospital with you swinging from Daddy's capable hand in a carrier.  We were still  bit dizzy from the sudden onset of freedom - freedom from wires and leads and tubes for you, and the freedom for your parents to feed and care you on our own sleepless schedule. 

It was all a bit surreal.  Of course every new parent dreams of the day they set out from the hospital with their slumbering bundle nestled securely in their car seat for the ride home.  When our moment came, though, it felt as if no mother who came before or will thereafter had dreamed about that moment more fervently than me.  

Although I never voiced this fear to anyone but Daddy, the most terrifying thought that crossed my mind before your birth was the possibility that we might come  home empty-handed to this beautiful nursery full of lovingly chosen decorations and gifts from so many people who already love you.... That mental image to me was so clear and so possible, according to some doctors.  I was so grateful for your every strong, defiant kick in my womb during those days of uncertainty.  Each movement was a declaration of your intention to stake your claim upon the life prepared for you.

Sometimes you put so much effort into preparing yourself for heartbreak, you hardly know how to absorb the happiness you're handed instead.  Even when you were born and my heart was exploding with happiness, I could hardly allow myself to cry. For at least a week when you were in the NICU and your surgery went flawlessly, I kept my emotions at arm's length.  

But now that we're at home, away from gawking crowds and concerned medical staff, I'm trying to figure out what to do with all those tears that I've saved up.  And there are so many different kinds - tears of grief for how much your little body has been through; tears of frustration for trying to keep my head above the flood of paperwork required to get you the care you need; tears of pure joy just for having a daughter. 

Then there's a whole other list of causes to which a mother might normally owe a deficit of tears which I've deemed unworthy of crying over.  For instance, I know that it's very normal to mourn the dreams a parent has for a typical child whenever a diagnosis like Down's Syndrome is thrown into play, but I haven't felt the need to yet.  I can't say that I never will, but the possibility of losing you put an extra chromosome into perspective REALLY quickly.  Add to that the modern attitude shift in favor the mainstreaming of developmentally challenged children within today's society and the benefits shown through early intervention therapies... I have no doubt that even beyond our home, there is a place for you in this world where you will be happy and fulfilled.  

There's so much more to life than putting you on the college track from birth, anyway.  When we're home and we're playing, when I'm watching you big blue eyes dance as they absorb everything within your sight, I look back on my previous hopes for you and I'm a little ashamed of myself.  Where as I once would've taught you for my own vanity's sake, to be able to say, Oh, look how quickly she catches on!  She must be the most brilliant baby ever born!, now I play with you just for the sheer fun of it.  There will be time to learn, my love.  I don't think I could prevent it, anyway.  For now, just be my little moon pie and we'll celebrate your freedom one bottle at a time.

....

Stretch

Guess who else Daddy's going to have to battle for bedspace. 

Besides the wifey.

And the Great Dane.

Puffy Muffy

I took an infant CPR class offered by the hospital yesterday.

My mom took it with me.

I'm so glad they offer such things.

I felt like the disruptive kid in class,

because I couldn't contain my giggles when I thought Mom was gonna blow her baby doll plum across the room.

Dear Children's Hopsital:

I apologize for smearing your baby doll dummy with red Rimmel lipstick.

It wipes off with cold cream, I swear.

And thank you immensely for the practice doll you provided me with after class.

However, I have a few questions regarding the packaging of said doll:

One: Is grinning like a goober while stimulating the heart a part of the CPR steps?

I searched my class notes.  I must've blanked out.

And two:  I tore the box APART.  I couldn't find the science ANYWHERE.

OH WELL.

Our new Puffy Muffy doll will make a nice addition to Ava Leigh's toy box one day.

Thank you, ACH, for equipping me with the tools I need to succeed as a mommy!