Gumdrops & doo.

Put down your Reuben with extra Swiss.  We're about to talk about poo again.

(Thought it better to be blunt than to be stuck with your Brew Heaven tab because I ruined your scrumptious lunch.)

Learning the rhythm of a first child's excretory functions is a comedy of errors -- a comedy smeared and trickled up and down countless onesies, with the errors accomplished by the overwhelmed newbie parents for the sake of entertaining the public at large.

I know this because...I am that parent.  I've recently learned that there's nothing more useful than a Ziploc bag for containing the misjudgements of exactly how much doodle is in her newborn-size diaper.  By the dim beams of the Avenger's dome light, sometimes it's hard to tell.  And when the damage is done and the writing is on the wall ( and the backseat, and the seat belt, and her left sock), the best thing you can do is seal up the polluted garment, make a panicked attempt to mop up the mess with 1001 Wet Ones, and deploy the emergency onesie.

Sometimes unpleasant occasions like public full diaper blowouts can be reframed with humor -- moments to throw my head back and laugh at such jokes Mother Nature plays upon parents.  Just like my Grandma Bennett used to advise me when she'd offer to feed me something I didn't like: "Just close your eyes and pretend you're eating gumdrops."  Please don't misunderstand my metaphors; I'm not passing off poo as candy. In clearer terms: pretend that the hand you're dealt is the hand you anticipated anyway.  Crap happens.  I expect it to.  Sometimes, when I'm lucky, it doesn't affect anything in a long-term way, and if I'm mature enough to see that, sometimes the hand of crap I'm dealt is downright hilarious.

Grandma's trick has seen me through some difficult times.  

Ramen noodles can be a great dinner if you serve them in a fancy bowl from an estate sale.

Shopping for clothes at a thrift shop can be so much more interesting than dropping a wad of bills at the mall.  What I'm making up for with resourcefulness and creativity, I'm saving as peace of mind during the lean months.

When I wake up in the morning and the sky is sunless for the third day in a row, I slip into my riding boots and pretend I live in the James Bond's Scottish moor house from Skyfall.  (I have seriously considered tracking down some stag statuary to mount on stone pillars in the driveway since I've seen that movie.  That image was so imposing, it gave me chills!)

And when I'm carrying Ava to the cash register to pay the bill for my lunch and my remarkably observant five-year-old niece draws every eye in the joint by exclaiming, "SHE'S PEEING!!!", I'll take that moment to capture a mental snapshot of my horrified face as I realize that the contents of my daughter's saturated diaper are running down her pants as well as mine.  Because it's going to make a darn hilarious story to tell the kids in ten years when we're all huddled in the storm cellar awaiting a tornado to blow us to kingdom come and have nothing better to do than laugh at ourselves.

Squish.  Yay!!!

Dreamy.

Anyone who knows me well can tell you that being considered "normal" has never been a concern of mine.  (This, from the gal who still enjoys doing cartwheels in her backyard at 30 when no one is looking.  Hey, if you don't use it, ya lose it.)

When it comes to being a mom, I've come to think of this tendency to buck the trend as a virtue, for her sake as well as mine.  If I'm held hostage to the idea that our daughter has to have a such-and-such whizbang educational gadget to develop mentally, do this-and-that activity in order to be well-adjusted, or eat in a way that agrees with someone else's self-righteous opinion of early childhood nutrition, then I might as well hang up my Moby right now.  

It's a good thing that I'm an obstinate jerk.  Otherwise I might've believed that our daughter would be as physically incapable as we were originally told she'd be.

From the beginning of our odyssey to become parents, Jason and I admittedly approached the idea of raising children from similar, and maybe sometimes unusual, points of view.  We believed that no matter what our children's abilities were, we would strive to raise them in a home where a balance of joy and structure would reign.  No matter who they are, we were both convicted that children need both a functional home that provided a safe and comforting place to be nurtured, and a set of boundaries that would communicate that WE as parents were in charge.  I'm a firm believer that you can raise a disciplined child without squelching their individuality or sacrificing the intimacy of a parent/child relationship.

As we learn more about our Ava Leigh each day -- her behavioral tendencies, her personality, the way her physical capabilities affect the way she relates to us -- I have a difficult time seeing her as much different than the daughter I'd originally pictured when I was pregnant.  I'll come right out and selfishly admit that when I learned that we were going to have a girl, I dreamed about all of the Mommy/daughter things we might do: do a few local baby pageants, share a pillow with her as i help her make up wild bedtime stories, start gymnastics so she could improve her school recess tumbling abilities, lay the foundation for a music education as soon as she could climb onto the piano bench..... 

It's funny how someone can deflate those dreams in a split second with a word like "diagnosis".  I've been told many times since Ava's birth to allow myself to mourn those dreams that I have for her.  And maybe some day, I WILL mourn some of them.  But the part of me that rejected the label of "normal" thrust upon myself rejects the label "disabled" that's been attached to her.  

When I heard her responding to her Daddy's voice in a repetitive way this morning, and later again this afternoon as she babbled to our friend Leann, it shocked me to realize that what she was doing was trying to responsively communicate.  During this past week since she's had her hernia surgery, she's answered our smiles with her own as she fixes her gaze intently on us.  She KNOWS what she's doing.  She's holding her head up and wobbling it around like Stevie Wonder as she catches quick glimpses of the world around her before her muscles fatigue and she's face-first in boob again.  She's strong.  She's determined.  And she's aware.

She's telling me that it's safe to have expectations again.  Expectations of her victories in life over difficulty.  Expectations of her ability to fit in with those around her and interact with them in a meaningful way.

I've recently made up my mind to move ahead with some of the previous dreams I had for her, even if it means we might have to take them a little more slowly and cautiously than previously planned.  So I'm gonna find her the floofiest, most cupcakey dress in town and carry my gorgeous girl like a sparkling sack o' taters in the Timberfest pageant this October.  And I'm going to keep showing her books and making up much wackier stories to go with the pictures until the day comes when she can make up her own.  And I'm going to continue playing the classical music station to her every morning and Paul Simon in the car until she doesn't know why she understands music...she just will.

She can still enjoy these experiences.  I can tell that she already does, even this early in her life.  It's a talent in itself to be able to enjoy such simple pleasures in life as music or beauty or one-on-one interaction.  I've known a lot of very "intelligent" individuals who seemed completely incapable of such enjoyment.  Sometimes that individual was me.  

But I get the feeling that enjoyment of life is just where Ava Leigh's talents will begin.

Hurricane Ava!

Back To Our Normal!

Dear Ava Leigh,

You're a funny little goober pea.

Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve the blessing of being Mommy to the most agreeable baby in the world.  I love taking you out in public, because once I get our rolling circus of baby gear in the car and on the road, your exotic-looking eyes light up at the sight of each new person or place you encounter.

(That is, after you're strapped securely in your carseat and are sufficiently calm enough to roll.  Is there any child who doesn't tear the place down after that final bottom buckle snaps across their tummy?)

I love that even if you have a NASCAR-style blowout in your diaper, you don't wail or  holler.  You'll just scrunch up your face and pooch out your lower lip to demonstrate your discomfort, or simply look at me with smug self-satisfaction as pee runs down your leg (and then mine!).  Such untidy little public events make me cackle now, whereas they might have frustrated me if your arrival had been easy.  My mantra now, as it will ever be: perspective, perspective, perspective.

Looking back over the burp rag over my shoulder at the past week, it's bewildering to think that a week ago today, you were recovering from surgery this very hour.  Since that day, you've had a grand total of ZERO barfing events.  Heck, you haven't even spit up, and you've only had a couple of wet burps, and the only reason I knew you'd had those was because I would brush across sticky little threads of milk on my sweater as I brushed my hair.  Having your hernia repaired did you a world of good.  Now you only fuss if I interrupt your nap, or if you absolutely refuse to fart.  Thank goodness both of those issues have simple fixes: Daddy or I just lift you onto our chest, and as you draw your legs under you like a scruff-carried kitten, we pat-pat-pat your little behind until the rhythm lulls you back to sleep.

I know that caring for you won't always be as simple as it this very moment.  Eventually, you'll become more mobile.  Our methods of soothing you will become more complex, and sometimes we won't discover the keys to your contentment, o matter how hard we try..... But right now I get the feeling that you're easier to care for than most babies, and for that, I'm overwhelmingly grateful that God would see fit to give our family such precious moments of peace.  He knows that you've certainly earned them, little cabbage rose!

Backyard Adventurlings!

Leaving a hospital and reacclimatizing one's self to the outside world can prove to be a disorienting endeavor.  Shifting from an existence within a well-tended box into the wide-openness of spring's exuberance induces almost more happiness than my heart can bear.

When I awoke this morning and realized how much of a gift today's weather is (not to mention that we have a penned-up Pygmy doe in the early stages of labor!), I gobbled down some breakfast, wound the Moby around my awkward post-birth body, slid my little hushpuppy inside, and off we went back yard adventuring!

 The puglets 
couldn't bear to be left behind, so I allowed them to slip out behind me and wander the blossoming fields by my side.

Watch out, mush-heads!  Cactus is unkind to tender paws.

My husband, he the keeper of grandfatherly nature knowledge, told me that such seemingly random riots of the prickly plant often mark former garden sites.  The stuff is plowed up and broken, which only serves to redistribute it and further propagate its spread. 

(From what we've been told by some of the small-town sages around here, our property was once a cotton field conveniently planted two blocks away from the local cotton gin. You can still see partial
foundation of the gin building just a gum ball's throw down the way.  Gah! I love living in the South.)

Even our neighbors were caught up in the spirit of backyard wanderlust, giving us a peek at their athletic magnificence as they grazed the adjoining pasture.

This five acre sojourn makes me realize that I live in just the perfect place for me at this moment in
my life. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude toward my husband, who has broken his back over the past
four years in order to cultivate the beauty we enjoy right outside our door.  

I bless the family who raised the house on this property, and who had the foresight to make it so sturdy and enjoyable to live in.

And most of all, I give glory to my Heavenly Father, who planted our family's roots at Sassafras Farm and blessed our efforts to create a joyful mode of living here.  When I walk this property, I think of how my New Jersey friend Joe used to teasingly call me Scarlett O'Hara.  I feigned offense, but I was secretly pleased... And am even more so now, for maybe he saw something within me that I didn't: a deep love of my home, and a willingness to work tirelessly and sacrifice endlessly in order for our family to have a place that becomes an inextricable part of them.

First Smiles: I Think My Heart Just Popped.

Luck o' the Ginger!: Surgery Day

There's the happy lil mushroom head we know and love!  It's like they took her back to surgery and extracted all the sad-sad.  She's drinking and napping and squeaking like her sweet former self again! She's even free of her IV and that yicky replogle tube.  I can just tell by the timbre of her birdlike voice that she's a much, much happier child.  Now all we have left to do today is to lay around in snuggle knots and take advantage of the access to cable television! 

Even though I didn't initially display such a positive attitude while I was Mommy Fretful Sleepless Zombie (MY new Indian name?!), I'm thankful that everything happened just the way it did on friday in order to bring our Ava back full circle to a state of comfort and healthy digestion. 

Ok, Ginger Princess Mustard Britches, it's time to relax and celebrate the international holiday of our people!

Slainte, y'all!

  

Adventures on the Fourth Floor

By the time Ava's adorable booty hit the scale at the pediatrician's office yesterday, I've been a yarn-tangle of nerves. 

 The little doodlebug spent last night in a whimpering competition with her roommate, a little fella who was to be surgerized today from injuries he sustained in a car accident.  While his brave mother did her all to comfort him, I did my best to keep my nibble monster from losing her marbles and sucking down anything that comes within slurping distance of her hungry mouth.  This includes her IV cover, cell phones, and the tip of Daddy's nose.

We decided this morning to mend the hernia that's popping in and out of her abdominal wall like a whack-a-mole and strangling her digestion.  I didn't see the point in prolonging problem to be solved at a later date during a different hospitalization, running the risk of causing another baby plumbing problem.  Between the swallow study on the 6th and her admission to ACH yesterday on  the 15th, Ava has lost a whole pound.  That's one out of NINE.  No bueno.  I'd rather her be NPO for just these two days while she's having to be unclogged anyway than for her to have to go through the agony of being off feeds again in preparation for surgery at a later date.  It all boils down to simple math -- two days of sleepless hollering is better than these two days PLUS the possibility of additional time spent straining, screaming and spewing.  When it comes to pain and the possibility of complications on down the road, I'll err on the side of being proactive about fixing the problem immediately.  

Momma don't mess.  Daddy's completely behind this line of reasoning, too.

    

Returning to the subject of simple math, solve for why?: 

2 baby-yanked Replogle tubes x 2 days without caloric intake =  2 weary, worried parents + 1 two-month-old who's more frustrated than a tick on a leather jacket

Not all of today's misadventures began and ended with baby bowels, however.

When I figured out this morning that the only bra currently in my possession had fragrant green baby vomit not only on it, but in it as well, I hand-washed it and hung it to dry in the bathroom we shared with our previous roommate.  For the remainder of the day, I proceeded to strategically cross my arms a lot and just pretend that I was French.

When it came time to move Ava's circus to a private room, you could imagine my dismay when I discovered that my hand-washed, still-soggy boulder holder was MIA.  I had half the nurses on our floor searching for the thing...and wouldn't you know, it was mistaken as a belonging of our former roomie's mom and tossed in with his Spider-Man shirt and other all-American boy items.  Now, if you would've applied two seconds' worth of thought to the situation, the bra-tossing party would've realized that roommate's mother wasn't any larger than Granny Clampitt and, while I'm not completely ample, I'm blessed enough! 

So one recovered brassiere and two tiny doses of Benadryl later, we're all cozied up in our private room, awaiting the dawn of surgery day.  I can't wait to get our little family home soon thereafter, where we can all get the sleep, food and, um, support we all deserve!

Back To ACH

New parents, listen to your instincts.

When I learned that Ava would be drinking barium during her swallow study X-ray last week, I should've voiced my concerns: She's two months old and has had stomach surgery...Is it REALLY safe for her to be swallowing something containing solids?

As a result of me allowing her to be put through that USELESS test (the only treatment they recommended was to change her nipple flow speed) after being prescribed some USELESS reflux medication, my poor child now vomits after every feeding -- sometimes multiple times.  Her diapers are another story altogether, and in the past twenty-four hours, that's truly frightened me.  

So here we are at the pediatrician's office.  She's supposed to have her two month shots today, but we WILL reschedule them.  She's been through too much already.  She's so hungry, but so backed up she can't or won't feed well.  When she tries, she ends up painting the walls with it not long thereafter.

My plan today is this: feed her in the exam room, and show them what ensues.  Tell them I will not leave until they give her something to relieve the pressure in her swollen tummy.  If they won't, I'll take her straight to Children's -- do not pass GO, do not collect your copayment.  I feel no shame about being blunt or demanding at this point.  This office has already infuriated me once today, when I called from the roadside where I was mopping up Ava's stomach contents for the third time today.  

"Hello, I just wanted to let someone know that we might be a few minutes late for my daughter's appointment.  She's vomiting constantly, and I keep having to stop nd tend to her.  We'll be there as soon as we possibly can."

The party on the other end of the line huffed under her breath.  "Well, you know that we can only hold your appointment for fifteen minutes."

My daughter and I are both wearing her breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she's screaming in agony, and YOU'RE going to inform me how I'm not to inconenience YOU?!?

Uh-uh.

"I'm SORRY," I snapped, "as soon as I clear the vomit from my daughter's nose and mouth on the side of the road, we will be right there."

Nn

Twit.

That's about as PG as I can keep it right now.

.....

Later this morning...

After I filled her pediatrician in on her symptoms since the swallow study, he performed a physical exam on her and instructed me to very calmly WITHOUT SPEEDING take her to the ER at Children's.  If it hadn't been for his level head and placid demeanor, I probably would've done just the opposite.

We're here at the emergency room now, where she's hooked up to monitors and and IV fluids, looking very much like a wee baby octopus with all of these wiry tentacles floating around the room.  I'm awaiting word back from the surgeon who performed her duodenal atresia repair here.  I am completely sick about not possessing the foresight to have circumvented the idiotic test that led us down this frightening path in the first place.  I pray with all my heart that she will mend with minimal medical interference.  Children's is a place where miracles of healing happen every day, but please, God, don't let her be so messed up from all this that it will take a miracle to help her.

I'll try to update this space as I can.... Hearing the phone go off is making me a little more tense as it competes with her temperamental heart monitor.  I'm about to punt the blasted thing across the room.

Sorry if it was you who texted.

The Unbelievable Cuteness of Her

Dear Ava Leigh,

You know, kid, I've begun multiple blog entries this week that I've come just short of finishing because, frankly, they were nothing but self-indulgent rants and tirades.  Who wants to read that baloney?  Probably not your readers, and very likely Ava Of The Future won't give a rat's rip about such nonsense, either.  So let's talk about a subject that anyone and everyone can dig: how heartbreakingly, unbelievably adorable you are.  

From the feedback that's whispered in my ears around town, this is a worthwhile subject.  Your colorful and sometimes turbulent adventures have become an online addiction for so many of our friends and neighbors, which pleases your mommy very much.  In my reasoning, that means you'll grow up amongst a community of people who see your beauty revealed in those precious moments that only parents are privileged to capture.  Maybe through these images and my words, they'll become acquainted with the incredible child you are instead of writing you off as the recipient of various labels you'll struggle against your whole life.

So I'm sorry that I keep this dadblasted iPad in your face.  The only way to make that go away is to cease doing cute things, so I'm afraid you're poo outta luck.  

For instance, as your Daddy feeds and rocks you in the Big Yellow Nursery tonight, watching you two interact with one another is like camera crack to me.  The faces you make, the way your porcelain paleness stands in stark contrast next to his dark handsomeness, your unflinching almond-eyed gaze...I love to capture these moments and display them so that others might know just a fraction of the joy you bring us.  

I'll give you this allowance: I don't believe I've released any completely naked baby pictures of you yet!  A girl's gotta grow up, and one day Big Ava might not appreciate such artistic renderings of her youth.  

Don't worry.  I'll find something just as effective to embarrass you with on Senior Night....

....like maybe a little baby burp face!

Mommy Knows Mini!

"Shut up, brain, or I'll stab you with a Q-tip!"

- Homer Simpson

Before I convince you that I'm a couple crackers short of a casserole, I want you to know that I didn't argue with myself much before I became a mom.  I think it's a common parental affliction caused jointly by a combination of a lack of sleep and the decay of all of my cool/hip brain cells, beginning at the precise moment of conception.  When your heart makes a place for someone you love so much more than yourself, you've just bought yourself a one-way ticket to Derptown.  I would even go as far as to say that statement proves true in cases of both new parenthood AND romance.

Since I've been plunged into both simultaneously for the first time, I often feel utterly drunk with love (I realize the complete unbaptistness of this statement, but an apt descriptive sometimes proves too true to waste!).  At the same time, I now find myself defending this happiness against a muttering hive of inner critics.  You would constantly whack yourself upside the head with a rubber mallet if you had to listen to these internal tiffs all day long.  

Within my addled brain, I'm defending my parenting against the imagined voices of well-intentioned individuals who believe they have written St. John's gospel on how to raise a thriving child.  Maybe if they were aware of how neurotic I truly am, they would simply pat me on the head and let me go on my merry way.  But instead, I'm left to argue with these know-it-alls as to why I don't crowd my newborn's crib with Baby Einstein toys or why I snatch her from her crib anytime I see the need for closeness in her tearful eyes.  

The more I get to know my daughter, the better I'm convinced that my way of parenting her is correct.  While I'm well aware that each child is an individual with his or her unique needs, I must also keep in mind the bonus of learning to navigate the care of a baby with Down Syndrome.  Sometimes I'm unsure of whether Ava Leigh does certain things because of an extra chromosome, or if she does them simply because she's a newborn.  I'm grateful that most of the time, I can't distinguish the difference.  Whatever her actions are -- unless they're a potential threat to her health -- I choose to view as a product of Ava Leigh just doin' her own thang.  

So while I DO want her to learn and grow and reach the milestones that will cue us into her functionality, reaching these milestones isn't a letter-graded contest.  I know that the by-the-book moms out there might not understand my intention to focus on nurturing more than checking skills off of a list, but my theory is this: as our daughter learns to trust that I will love her and meet her needs, I hypothesize her eagerness to learn will be rooted in her need for social interaction and artistic stimulation.  I know that most people view an infant as possessing the personality of a small round rock, but I believe my daughter genuinely love people.  She's an angel in public, especially when there's a crowd of faces above her, peering into her carrier.  Her favorite people (besides mommy, of course) are men with rich, resonant voices (which I understand is unusual -- most babies prefer female voices).  She loves being spoken and sung to, and is content in the company of shoppers and Great Danes alike.  

And you should really see her cut a rug to some Chopin!  I don't think it's my imagination when I notice that her kicks and flails adjust to the tempo of the music.  Incredible.  

Every child is a puzzle.  Or better yet, a Rubik's Cube -- ever-turning, with more than a single solution possible.  I can't wait to better understand the unique riddle of Ava's capabilities.  I have a feeling that she will continue to astound and inspire us.

Throw yo' hands up in the ay-irrr....

...and wave 'em like you just don't care!