Permissive

In an effort to emotionally de-funkify myself, I've been trying to unthink of myself as a breastfeeding mother. Since I first became pregnant in January 2008, I have adjusted my body to accommodate Snippet. For nearly two-and-a-half years I have monitored the general intake of ten million little things---food, booze, caffeine, medications, etc, admitting some, denying many, or imprisoning them to a clock or strict portion control. I have restricted my activities to suit his nursing schedule, and limited my wardrobe for his sake (e.g. the hideous nursing bras I wore in the early days when my chest was a double-D, the many blouses that I couldn't wear because they flashed too much boob while nursing in public, etc.)

That's not to say that I was ever resentful about foregoing these things. Occasionally I longed for that second glass of Pinot Noir, or the cute little bra that actually had an underwire, but I never felt gyped. I was trading all the fun and convenience for moments with Snippet that will forever warm my heart and memory. I would do it a thousand times over for him, and would happily be doing it still, if he showed any interest. But, he doesn't. We're at 17 days weaned, and he hasn't shifted his resolve one bit. My body is still holding out hope, leaking little milk droplets when I rock him to sleep at night, but I'm not in any pain. The pumping that I did during those first 10 days helped wind things down so that stopping altogether was met without angry engorgement. My body seems to be making the transition so much more quickly than my mind.

To help re-create myself, I thought it worthwhile to draft a list of the many small ways that my life will be different.....er, similar, to something from several years ago. My pregnant/breastfeeding rules and guidelines became so strictly lodged that I'm still making decisions based on that protective instinct that I nailed into place. Getting past that wall means making a list of permissions:

1. I can drink coffee any time, any place, and in ridiculous quantities. No more limiting myself, or restraining the gag reflex while sipping a decaff latte.

2. I can drink alcohol, and a get a little irresponsible about it. No more slowly sipping a few precious ounces of red wine, or (as I did when pregnant) licking the inside of Jake's empty Patron shot glass.

3. I can indulge in the heavenly headache relief of Excedrin. No more lying to myself while I swallow the sugar pill known as Tylenol.

4. I can (and did, today!) renew my birth control pill prescription. VCF wasn't bad, but the effective percentage always made me a little nervous. I've been living six years hormone-free, and while I haven't missed the chemicals, I'm just not taking any chances.

5. I have packed away the nursing bras with the maternity clothes, and resurrected my old favorite simple bra with the pink trim. (Though, imagine my surprise to find it's too big......there has definitely been some shrinkage from all the suckage.) I predict some kind of dainties shopping spree later in the year.

6. I can go places at night. At around 15 months, Snippet finally started sleeping through the night about 50% of the time. However, my Ped's (irritating) prediction came true: Snippet has slept completely through the night, every night, since he stopped nursing. So, I can do things without worrying that my services will be summoned and I will not be there to answer the call.

This is the most I can un-think at the moment, but if you know of others, please remind me!

No Parley

Yesterday, on Day 10, I decided the nursing strike was over.

Over, because it no longer fit the definition of some temporary, sluggish but shifting, obstacle for clearing. Instead, it had become solid, immense, permanent. Without any discussion of terms, Snippet has resolutely declared our nursing relationship terminated. He is immovable in this.

I finally decided to stop offering and stop pumping after he injured his hand on Sunday. He was playing with his favorite toy---a rather heavy, miniature metal shopping cart. He loves to zoom all over our undersized-house-for-zooming, and frequently trips with it while in mid-dash. On Sunday, he got going pretty fast, and tipped it as he fell, causing the cart to fall on his hand. He screamed and clutched his bleeding hand, already swollen with its nearly instant flood of purple bruises on the non-bleeding fingers. I carried him to the sofa and offered to nurse, as I always do when he hurts himself. It is the instant comfort, the non-verbal reassurance that he is okay and I love him and will help him. It is his favorite coping mechanism. Yet, when I offered, even in his pain, with tears sitting on his cheek, he had the clarity of mind to recall his new aversion to nursing. He would not be comforted. At least, not in that way.

Karen asked in the comments of my last post whether Snippet and I were working out new means of comfort. We are, though I am awkward with them, feeling clumsy and reluctant to try other methods. Instead of nursing for comfort that day, he wanted to lay his head on my left shoulder and soak my shirt with tears, snot and drool. He clutched at my shirt with his hands, wringing them on my sweater until the pain began to subside. It only took him a few minutes until he had reached a miracle recovery, and was off creating toddler chaos in some other new way.

I am much more at a loss when it comes to inducing sleep for him. We have always nursed to sleep, despite the chastising I have received about it from doctors, family and friends. He loved it, and so did I, so I was willing to forego my own uninterrupted nights to keep sleep peaceful for him. Now that he will not nurse to sleep, I sing softly to him while he drifts off. I sing in our nursing chair, in the nursing position, while he reclines on the old, reliable Boppy pillow, now stretched out of shape and lumpy from 18 months of heavy use. He seems to like the old routine, but without the comfort of warm milk. It feels strange to me to be doing these familiar things with something so essential missing. I find myself becoming sad in the dark sometimes, and my singing becomes choked. In those moments, it feels like he has broken my heart for the first time.

Toddler Nursing Strike, Day Six

Snippet has never been on an official nursing strike before, for which I have always felt so lucky. When he was around 8 months old, he skipped a few sessions during a bad teething spell, but he never went an entire day.....let alone six days.

The mayhem started last Friday, when the teething pain from his lower left canine was reaching full summit. He nearly stopped eating for several days, and abruptly stopped nursing. When he would try to latch on, he would suddenly jump away from me like I had poked him with a live wire. After a day of this, he started having really dramatic reactions to my offers, squirming and pushing at me with both hands, and once almost hitting the floor in his attempt to wrestle off my lap. I keep offering at our usual times, and he steadily refuses. The past few days, he has taken to quietly and resolutely pursing his lips together and just stares off over my arm. He won't even make eye contact.

I try to act nonchalant in response to his rejections, saying a happy, carefree, "Okay! Next time, then." La Leche League advises me to contain my feelings of sorrow and loss, to pretend as though his rejections mean nothing at all, as though he has politely declined, much as a customer would toward a waiter offering the evening's specials: "No, thank you, ma'am, I'm just not in the mood for filet, prepared in any sort of way."

I always took Snippet's hatred of whole milk in stride since he was still nursing regularly, but after a few days of the strike, I started to panic about the loss of all those good fats. In desperation, I bought a big container of Ovaltine and mixed it halfsies with pumped breastmilk and whole milk. Snippet's first sip brokered a grimace and a tossing of the sippy cup. Each day since, though, he has become a little more tolerant, drinking 3 ounces this morning. I am hopeful that even that little bit will help supplement him through this phase.

And, Yes, I hope with all my heart that this is just a phase---a terrible, brief phase. Just last week, I would call to him from the sofa, "Do you want milkies?" and he would happily come toddling over with a big smile, clutching his nursing blankie. He would continue to nurse, long after my dwindling milk supply had emptied out. I always, always had to unlatch him before he would detach himself. How could this same child, literally overnight, reject this activity that he once so loved?

I am pumping milk on our normal schedule, hoping to keep things just as they were, should he decide to return to nursing. It gives me some consolation to provide breast milk for him in a sippy, and makes the hideous routine of pumping feel practical and full of purpose (rather than a desperate bit of denial.) I have read online that strikes can last from a few days to 4-6 weeks. Each story I read detailing a 30-day strike ending in a happily reunited mother and child pair keeps me hopeful that our story will end just as sweetly. But, for each of those stories, I read ten that tell of abrupt endings, never repaired. I want him to return to nursing, even if he decides to self-wean just a few weeks later. I want him to leave nursing happily, not painfully. It's not that I want to nurse him forever---I just don't want it to end like this.

Passing It On

The Great Giveaway went pretty great. The guy showed up right on time, and was chattering the moment he stepped out of his car onto our driveway. He was overflowing with excitement and anxiety about his and his wife's expectant child, due via a birth mother in October. He said they were an infertile couple who were approached by a pregnant friend who could not parent her child, and requested that they adopt the baby. He was extremely happy about the idea of parenthood, but feeling overwhelmed by the preparations. He was obviously pleased with the baby gear I was giving away and babbled in monologue the entire time as he wondered aloud how each thing worked and how it would best function in their home. This unscripted behavior convinced me that he, his story and his need were legit, which alleviated my suspicions, and my sadness. It felt great to be helping this new family get themselves assembled, and I wished right along with him that the next six months would quickly pass. He decided against some of the larger items for bigger babies because he was concerned about limited space in their apartment, so I posted them back on Freecycle and quickly placed them with other takers. We only had one taker no-show out of the whole bunch. Overall, it was a great first Freecycle experience, and I'm already searching for other things we can no longer use, but would hate to throw away. (Hmm.....How about that well-intentioned, but currently very dusty, bread machine wedding gift?) Truthfully, there are also a few Snippet Reserve Items (JJ Cole BundleMe, for starters) that I just couldn't part with, for whatever ridiculous reason, so I have stashed them in inappropriate places throughout the house until I can summon the courage to let them go. Next up on our big spring purge will be Snippet's little-baby toys, since he only uses most of them now as grenades to be launched across the room when in mid-tantrum.

Giveaway

We live in a teeny tiny house. Tiny, as in Snippet's nursery will one day return to its true identity as a walk-in closet. We have no actual closets in our house, no attic and no basement. We have stuff crammed everywhere, and engage in very frequent purges to keep the stuff from eating us alive. You can imagine my dilemma as Snippet began to outgrow his baby gear, equipment, toys, etc. Even though we are undecided about what (if any) plans we have for future children, I had always assumed I would keep everything to frugally re-use it if ever needed. Once I actually had to find room for the bassinet, the jumperoo, the bouncy seat, the play mat, both swings, the infant car seat, etc, etc, etc, I realized I couldn't keep any of it. I stashed it wherever I could for awhile, but now that Snippet is nearly 18 months old, the outgrown stuff has become a mountain of blinky lights, colorful dangly toys, harnesses and velcro, and simply must go. Not only that, but I discovered that the carseat (which I had stored in the outdoor shed, thinking it was made of tougher fabric that could stand the heat and cold) was already showing signs of mildew on the straps. As difficult as it would be to give everything away, it would be so much worse to watch it all slowly rot in my selfish attempt to hold onto it.

The first batch of newborn clothing that I gave away to a friend left me in tears for several nights. I sorted through that bin over and over again, trying to decide which articles were absolutely non-negotiably staying. I justified the Keeps as items that were especially important to me---things that Snippet might one day pass along to his children, even. I tried to keep the Keeps pile small, though it was arger than it really should have been. I still ended up with a pretty big bin of Giveaways, and somehow pulled myself together when I gave it to my friend. I joyfully smiled as I loaded it into her car, though I was tearing up again as I turned away. If I could give away the clothes, I could give away all the rest of it, too, and I should.

Giving the toys and gear away piecemeal was my next attempt to whittle down the overflow. I gave away a pack n' play, a swing and the bassinet, all to the babies of good friends. It felt wonderful knowing Snippet's things were going to trusted sources who would care for them and cuddle their babies in them, but I was only able to give away a few things this way. I was still left with masses of blankets, toys and gear. I thought briefly about selling them on Ebay, or Craig's List, or even at a consignment shop, but I couldn't motivate myself to do it. I know it's completely normal to sell baby items, but something about felt so cold to me. These were my baby's things. Hocking them as though they were simply goods to be commercially traded seemed so contrary to their true natures. Since we had also received many of the items as gifts at baby showers from friends and family who cared for us and wished us the best, it seemed more fitting to find a way to give everything away to another family and let the good wishes keep flowing.

I heard about FreeCycle from a few friends and neighbors, so I registered and started watching the boards. I lurked around for a few months, until I finally saw the message I had been looking for. A man posted that he and his wife were unexpectedly adopting their first child in October, and had no baby supplies to speak of. He was asking for any newborn items that anyone didn't want or need anymore. I contacted him, and arranged for him and his wife to come by tomorrow to decide which items they would like to take. I am choosing to believe that their story is legitimate, though I know they could potentially be underhanded flea market hawkers, using a sappy story to get free stuff that can then be sold at a sweet price. I want to believe their story is true, and I hope when I meet them tomorrow, I will be fully convinced.

I have spent the evening laundering, cleaning and scrubbing the dust and dog hair from everything, scrubbing away, too, the unnatural emotional connections I have created with these objects. I hope this couple will take it all. I hope their new baby will have the best time drooling all over the play mat, spitting up when the jumperoo fun gets too wild, smooshing mum-mums into the car seat and splashing in the baby bath tub. I hope I will not cry as they load it all into their car, and my memory flashes spastically as each piece is carried away. Snippet is so much more more Boy now than Baby. It's time to let these old reminders go, and leave the memory-keeping to the photo albums instead.

The Laundry Post

I have wanted to write about Snippet's laundry for a very, very, very long time. I never have drafted anything because I couldn't plot out in my mind the flow of the post. Well, tonight I decided to just start writing and see if the thing would write itself.

I love doing Snippet's laundry. I have loved it since I was pregnant and did the first load of it, right after my first baby shower. I had several teary moments over the dryer while I pulled each tiny piece of fabric from its warm metal home and struggled over how I should fold everything. It was all so tiny back then that folding it at all seemed silly. How do you fold a pair of pants that measures barely over 6 inches long? I was so amused by the absolute whiteness of the fluff that emerged from the lint catcher, from all those perfectly clean, perfectly pure little garments. It was the prettiest lint I have ever seen. I balled it up and rubbed it against my cheek, and it smelled like the cleanest air.

As Snippet grew, the lint took on a lightish grey and then the standard funky dark grey of clothes that have seen some unclean moments and then cleansed them into memory. His sizes grew, too, so the folding became more of an ordeal, and something I put a lot of thought into. Should I fold the pants in half and then fold again? No, that makes kind of a tall stack in the bureau. I'll just fold in half and lay straight, same as I did with his newborn pants. And, the shirts----fold in half longways or shortways? Which makes better use of the space? Which makes it easier to see the cute designs at a quick glance in the morning? Should the onesies have a special fold, since they're thinner? They should definitely have their own place in the drawer, for underthings---items that rank slightly less than the real shirts. But, what about the thicker onesies that can actually pass as shirts in their own right? They need to be separate from the real shirts and separate from the under-onesies. They deserve a middle rank status.

Then, came the question of special folds for the diaper bag, a thing shaped completely differently from the dresser drawers. My diaper bag is a long rectangle, instead of a nice big squarish rectangle. This required that shirts and onesies be re-folded before being placed in the bag. They went from squared-off folds (that made the designs easier to see in the dresser) to long-ways folds that made better use of the diaper bag space. Pants stayed folded the same. Bibs just get stacked without folds.

I never let Jake do Snippet's laundry. It's not that I've ever told him he's forbidden. I just do it before he ever has a chance to think about it which, granted, wouldn't be until Snippet had absolutely nothing clean left to wear except stuff that fit funny, but bygones. I'm very jealous of his laundry, and wouldn't want Jake to do it anyway. I pretreat the stains, which Jake would never do---if plain old laundry soap in cold water won't get the stain out, it was meant to stay in. I also make sure all the new stuff is washed before the first wear, to protect Snippet's skin from the hazards of formaldehyde and whatever other weird chemicals I've heard can be found in trace amounts on new clothing. I take great care to preserve his clothes as long as possible, so he can wear them as often as possible in the short time that they will actually fit.

But, it's the folding that I'm most concerned about. It's such perfect zen for me. At the end of a stressful day, when Snippet may have been more task and less joy, I reset my internal clocks by folding his laundry and reveling in my love for him. The lint trap traps more than the bits of pilled clothing and dog hair. It traps my frustrations from the day, my insecurities, my anxieties. It pulls all of that out, to be thrown in the trash, leaving only quiet moments in the laundry room as I hold the smallest little souvenirs of my sweetest boy. In those moments, all is forgiven, all is romanticized. He is never frustrating, and I am never uncertain. I have perfect control of his life, his safety, his happiness, and it is as easy to orchestrate as folding little pants in half.

Open Season

It's open season here now. I could hear the crack of guns all day, coming from the woods that hedge up to my river-side office. I started singing loudly each time they popped, hoping to keep Snippet from hearing them, too. He didn't seem to notice either way---wasn't bothered at all. He hears a lot of strange noises in my office: the beeping fax machine, chainsaws chiseling through limbs slated for pruning, ladders banging, leaf blowers zooming over the driveways. He was unphased by the sound of firearms engaged in deer hunting, but I hated knowing he could hear it, so I sang loudly, or else chastised the hunters by yelling at the windows.

During the day, mother deer and their babies are separated while the mothers graze. Our groundskeepers often find the babies curled tightly in the grass, waiting out the long day. Then, their mothers return to nurse them in the late afternoon and stay with them through the night. We see single babies nearly just as often as we see twins.....lots of twins this year. The deer population has galloped out of control, so my employers finally allowed hunting on their property. Though the deer are beautiful, with their long white bouncing tails, they will be starving by February. We are hopeful that the hunting will humanely control their numbers. I understand that this is necessary, but it turns my stomach and my heart, even so.

I was nervous leaving work, worried that I would see that gorgeous young buck from earlier in the week, but instead of darting across the field, he would be stumbling, gut-shot across the road. My eyes wavered back and forth from the woods to the fields, watching for a spooked doe or frightened fawn. No sign of anything. Kept driving. And, then about 10 minutes later, I saw the first deer: just a tiny baby, nervously grazing by the roadside. He was too small to be out there eating alone. Why was he alone? He looked terrified of the traffic, but was brave enough to remain, nibbling at the grass, all by himself. I surprised myself by crying, when I saw him there all alone in the world. I could only draw the morbid conclusion that his mother had become some hunter's prize, off deeper into the forest, and his fear drove him out to the road.

He seemed to akin to my Snippet in that moment. Snippet, who, for the very first time, refused to nurse today. There have been times throughout his life when he wasn't interested at some specific moment, but would come around a little later. This time it was different. Now that he is 12.5 months old, and only nurses a few times through the day, it was a big deal for him to skip his afternoon nursing session. The last time he nursed was at Noon, just before his nap. By skipping his 3pm session, this meant he wouldn't nurse again until bedtime at 7:30pm---a long 7.5 hour gap, the kind of daytime gap that only older babies eating solids can sustain.

I was briefly sad when he refused to nurse, but being at work, I didn't have time to dwell in my sadness. As I drove past that little deer, all alone at the road, I couldn't stop crying. I know that Snippet is growing up, but he seems yet a baby, too. I am happy to see him accepting solids more readily, and I do feel a sense of pride that I have escorted him through this transition, difficult as it has been. But, I am also sad to see this move away from a baby's dependency. When he refused to nurse, he smiled at me and looked wistfully away at his room full of toys. I tried to tug him back a few times, just to make sure he knew he had the option, but he smiled again, and tugged away. I eased him up from my lap, and he went waddling off across the room. He came seeking snacks a little later, and happily gobbled up his Puffs. He made it to dinner time with no sign of regret.

Where I Am

I hate that I have no time to blog anymore. I don't have much of an internal life at all anymore, really. Thoughts scroll by at warp speed, as I struggle to balance.

I'm posting mostly on Facebook these days---the cluttered land of one-liner status updates and digital picture albums that are supposed to summarize entire lives. Feel free to send an email if you want to FB connect (and, yes, I'm using that word here loosely.)

I realize these hectic days with Snippet are temporary, and I will both love and lament the greater freedoms that come with his progressive growth.

I do miss you all, even still.

The Story in Full

Yes, surely, Snippet is well. The adventure is an adventure, rather than a tragedy, because, though we were scared, everything has resolved happily. So, lest anyone worry that my baby Snippet is limping around with half a leg, or three teeth now instead of four, etc., here are the answers.....

1. What happened that made us rush Snippet to the emergency room yesterday?
Jake was changing Snippet's diaper and called me upstairs, in that kind of freaked-out voice he gets when something weird is going on. What I found was a scary diaper full of blood. I'm not talking a drop or two, but lots, all across Snippet's diaper accompanying a hard rock-like expulsion from his nethers. Snippet's poo has been something quite foreign since he started solid foods two months ago, but we had never seen anything like this before. (Marie was the closest guesser on this question, when she hinted that the problem was food-related. Go, Marie!)

2. In our rush to get there, what critical baby item did we leave at home?
The night before our emergency room run, I had rounded up every pacifier from every location and sterilized them all. I had not yet had a chance to restock all our paci places, so we found ourselves stuck in a baby-stressing situation with no pacis. I dug around frantically in the bottom of the diaper bag and my purse, but found nothing. Jake even ran out to check in the car seat and on the floorboards, hoping we could find some crusty old paci to wash off in the sink, but we found nothing. We were able to ride it out for awhile, until it was time to draw Snippet's blood. At that point, we begged the hospital staff to see if they could find one for us, and they were able to get one from the Labor & Delivery ward. Sweet Snippet was so happy, even though the substitute paci wasn't his beloved Mams. He had such a hard time keeping it in his mouth since it was newborn-sized, but he struggled to hold it in anyway, and it brought him a small measure of comfort during his blood-draw ordeal. He was so brave, never actually crying at any point, but just fussing and sucking pathetically on the paci. Oddly enough, the nurse commented on Jake and I when it was finished saying, "You guys handled that a lot better than most parents do." This made me wonder what these other parents normally do---cuss the nurse, yell at her for being too brutal, run in circles hiding their eyes until it's over? We did what came naturally---holding Snippet gently while trying to look brave ourselves. I lightly sang to him the theme from Mister Rogers Neighborhood, one of his all-time favorite tunes, and he sailed easily through the trauma.

3. How many hours did we spend in the hospital?
5.5 hours. FRICK!

4. What did Jake and I have for lunch at the hospital?
We split a bag of vending machine pretzels, and each ate a bag of TGI Friday's Potato Skins Chips. The bags were a bargain at only 50 cents each, but they did sad little to pacify our stomachs. It didn't bode kindly with us to smell the delectable dinners of the nurses cooking up who-knows-what in the staff room. I'm sure they were only nuking Lean Cuisines, but it smelled like heaven. (I like Karen's answer on this......If Jake and I had been smarter, we would have sent one of us to the cafeteria for soggy sandwiches. Ah, hindsight.)

5. How many times did Jake whisper the phrase, "goddamn" under his breath while we waited?
(Sapphire was the closest on this one, but if you had guessed LOTS that would have been my best guess!) The swearing was at its worst when our assigned nurse came to update us on the long-awaited arrival of the blood-draw nurse and said, "She'll be here soon. She's almost finished with her lunch." Once the messenger left, Jake flew into a whispered rampage about lunch breaks, and I thought it best to keep to myself the obvious response that everyone has to eat, blood-draw people included. I guess when it's your child in pain, and your own stomach being denied food, it does seem downright insulting that other people get to eat.

6. What was Snippet's diagnosis?
He was diagnosed with Chronic Constipation. There turned out to be several sources for the bleeding, none of which are in comfortable locations. I suspected he might be having problems since his, ahem, waste evacuations are only averaging two per week. I'm stunned that he's having this much trouble with solid foods because he eats SO VERY LITTLE solids. With breakfast and dinner combined, he only eats a few tablespoons each day. He just isn't impressed by much of it. After just a few little spoonfuls, he clamps his lips tight as can be. He absolutely will not eat anymore after the first few curiosity bites. So, I add a new item to his menu each week, hoping to catch his attention. His doc is still not concerned about it, since he's healthy and gaining weight well. So, we're just being patient until he discovers the joy of food. Yet, I wonder---what kind of gastro issues will he have once he's fully on solids, if things are this bad now? Or, is it just the transition that's causing the problems?

7. What is the name of the medication he was prescribed?
It's called, "Lactulose." It's supposed to help increase water flow in the dietary tunnels. It's a sweet liquid that Snippet doesn't mind at all. In fact, now that he knows what to expect when I hold the syringe over his mouth, he happily opens wide. Unfortunately, he will have to be on this medication long-term, since the doc doesn't think this problem will resolve itself anytime soon. We have to monitor his diaper events so that we can get the dosage figured out at a natural level. So far, we've had one major diaper explosion, and then a minor one since his ER visit. For now, we're holding the dosage at twice per day, but may reduce to once per day if things even out soon.

8. How much does Snippet weigh?
He's up to 19 pounds 4 ounces. (Karen was the closest on this!)

9. BONUS: How many inches of hair did I donate to Locks of Love on Saturday?
Ten inches! I go through short and long phases with my hair every few years, and the summer heat and humidity that crept in a few weeks ago were the first ticking instigators of my cutting action. That, combined with Snippet's snatchy-grabby ways of late, convinced me to let the long locks go for awhile. I hadn't intended to cut quite as short as I did, but the hairdresser convinced me to go a few inches more so that I could qualify for the hair donation. I've always wanted to do it, so I jumped on in and took the greater cut. I like it a lot, and there's much less now for Snippet to lock his vice-grips on. The shorter hair also goes a long way toward concealing all the goofy short hairs that were the aftermath of my massive post-pardum hair loss.

In other food news, Snippet does seem intrigued by finger foods, and has finally warmed up to Baby Mum-Mums and Happy Baby Puffs. Check the private picture blog for some entertaining puffs pics.

Choose My Adventure

My lack of posting is due to my lack of full brain function. I swear, I can hardly combine sentences anymore. I hope parenting doesn't make me this distracted and frantic for the next 17 years. I'm really hoping this is just Baby Brain, and soon I will be able to think in a straight line, read books, enjoy a glass of wine and all that crazy grown-up stuff.

So, instead of telling you about yesterday's adventure (which would end badly with lots of typos, nonsense pronouns, runons, and probably a post stuck in the drafts box) I'll let you figure out. I loved Karen's post awhile back where she let readers guess details of Evie's doctor visit, so have a go at these questions below. There's a prize, of course, Not that I know what it is, but I'll send the winner something (dog fur fuzzballs.....our extra ice cream scoop....leftover photo cards from christmas '08....you know, high quality stuff.) The winner will be randomly chosen.

1. What happened that made us rush Snippet to the emergency room yesterday?

2. In our rush to get there, what critical baby item did we leave at home?

3. How many hours did we spend in the hospital?

4. What did Jake and I have for lunch at the hospital?

5. How many times did Jake whisper the phrase, "goddamn" under his breath while we waited?

6. What was Snippet's diagnosis?

7. What is the name of the medication he was prescribed?

8. How much does Snippet weigh?

9. BONUS: How many inches of hair did I donate to Locks of Love on Saturday?

On your way out, be sure to swing by the private picture blog.