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!
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