Yeastie Boy & His Mama

I made the mistake of letting Ben wear Huggies for one full day. We were fluttering between cloth and Pampers most of the time but he was this close to growing out of the Huggies, so I figured we’d use them up. By the end of the day, the poor child had the reddest bottom I’d ever seen. It was my own fault. I saw it after the first couple of changes but just lathered on the diaper rash cream and figured it was, as usual, just a side effect of the disposibles - they tend to turn him a little red whenever I use them.

The next day he was back in cloth and he still continued getting redder. I kept lathering on the cream but it was only getting worse. By the end of that week, it had spread from his bottom to his crotch to his belly to his thighs. He had his 2 month appointment with the pediatrician that Friday so we waited until then, hoping it’d go away on it’s own. We were doing everything right, letting him dry after wiping him, slathering him in diaper cream, making sure he was changed immediately. It should have gone away.

So at his appointment, the doctor took one look and said, “That’s a yeast infection.” There’s no real reason other than that he had a diaper rash and the yeast in his poo decided to take up residence in it. The excess of yeast in his poo could have come from us feeding him the formula he wasn’t tolerating so it threw off his entire gatro-intestinal tract.

We started him in on Nystatin. 5 days later, it had disappeared from his bottom but was slowly moving up his belly, up his back and down his legs, past his knees. By this time I’d started getting a raging case of thrush only on my left side. This single side thing was incredibly strange but even stranger was that I had this raging case of thrush and he didn’t. We took him back to his pediatrician and she said it was probably he and I passing it back and forth. I was to get on diflucan, she refilled his Nystatin because we were almost out from slathering it all over his body. My midwife put me on 2 doses of diflucan (normally a single dose thing, but since we kept transferring it back and forth she decided to double dose me).

It’s been almost another 2 weeks and his is barely disappearing. Mine is a raging mess. The ped told us to try Monistat on him before we try anything oral, and God knows what I’m supposed to do. I still itch like mad, it’s horribly painful to nurse and I’m actually beginnging to get scabs all over. It’s really annoying. I’m hoping that once his is cleared up, mine will be, too.

Just in case, though, I’ll be calling my midwife on Monday to see what she suggests for me and his pediatrician to see what she suggests for him. I love our ped. “I’d rather try topical treatments before we mess with his system.” I love that. I really hope it doesn’t come down to him needing anything oral but a month with yeast? Poor kid. I’m sure he’d be thankful for anything that’d make it go away.

Bill Maher is a Fucktard

As much as I tend to agree with his point of view, he’s a complete retard when it comes to breastfeeding in public. He talks about how women in other countries don’t feel entitled to do such things as complain about being unable to breastfeed in public…because they CAN breastfeed in public without it being a big deal. Some friends of ours discussed how, when travelling Europe, no one gave them a second look when the mom breastfed. While here, you’re subject to either oogling or foul faces from everyone around you.

I don’t understand how anyone who is not a parent and doesn’t understand that sometimes you can’t “plan ahead” any more than you already do (i.e. Shocker! The kid hits another growth spurt and his normal 20 minute nap after eating turns into a 3 minute nap and a 40 minute screamfest unless you put him on the boob) can blabber on about a subject he knows diddly squat about. So what do you do? Forego going anywhere until Americans decide seeing a woman’s boob isn’t SUCH a big deal (…never…leave…your…house…ever…again…) or let your baby scream and piss the entire restaurant off?

Bill Maher is a fucktard!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aa696L6M6Sw Forward to 7:13

Since when was eating intimate, btw???

Just Sad

The drive-in I’ve gone to since I was a child is being closed in order to build condos. CONDOS! We have one of the highest forclosure rates in the country and we’re shutting down an institution for CONDOS! So, Eric, the child and I are going to watch movies we could care less about seeing for a price we really can’t afford because this is the end of an era. How depressing is that?

Breastfeeding Monsters

My darling, wonderful baby boy came out rooting. He wanted to eat and he wanted to eat now. Somewhere between the hypothyroidism and the c-section, my milk was no where near coming in. He latched perfectly right out of the gate but was met with near nothing. I wasn’t worried at first. I was dead set on beastfeeding, period the end…then, he kept getting crankier and crankier

I broke down. I used a pacifier at first but, duh, it didn’t help. He was hungry, not wanting to suck on some plastic nipple. So, as you read, I was guilted into formula. I was convinced that my milk would never come in or, if it ever did, it would come in after he was already dying from starvation. I’m still a little peeved…okay, exceptionally pissed off at the nurse who said I was starving him. His pediatrician said his weight loss was fine, they’re expected to lose up to a pound in the first few days. He’d lost 9oz. It’s true. He cried, a lot. The starvation nurse said, “You’re just being a human pacifier now.” Thanks, lady. Way to make me feel even shittier.

I cried an awful lot that day. I felt like a complete failure. Not only was my body incapable of giving birth on it’s own, but I couldn’t even feed my baby. I felt entirely worthless and Eric was scared to death that this was the onset of PPD.

Then, in flew Paulina. The hospital’s lactation consultant. A 50ish woman with more energy than any human should have. “Okay, sweetie,” she’d say, “no crying. You’re baby will be fine. You’ll be fine. Do you have a pump?” I whined that I had a manual at home, “Oh, no, sweetie. A manual won’t do. You need an electric,” and off she ran. 10 seconds later, she flew back in with an electric pump in hand, “Here. This is yours. Pump every 2 hours. Give what you have to Ben and then follow up with formula. You’ll be fine.” She was amazing.

For the first 6 weeks my daytime routine was to nurse him 20 mins on each side (because he was a sleepy baby, this entailed nursing 5 minutes on the left, burping, nursing 5 on the right, burping, nursing 5 on the left, burping, etc), bottle feed him, burp him, and pump for 20 mins every 2 hours. This usually meant I had 30-45 minutes between each feeding session that didn’t involve feeding. This time, unfortunately, usually ended up being me trying to make Ben stop crying because the formula made his belly hurt, but we’ll get to that in a second. My night-time routine wasn’t much different except that I got to skip every other nursing/bottling session because he refused to wake up. I still had to get up every 2 hours to pump so that I could build my supply for the next day because I hated giving him formula.

At the hospital, he was on the Enfamil Lipil premade bottles. He did fine. But the moment we switched him to the powdered kind, he started getting horrible belly bubbles and gas. He’d scream and cry something awful. At his 2 week visit, I asked his Dr. about it. I thought maybe since I was lactose intolerant, he might be, too. She said it was probably just normal system growing up stuff but did want us to bring in a sample of his poo, just in case. Since it was green, it could mean blood in his stool, and therefore possibly a dairy allergy.We wenot home prepared to collect a poo-ey diaper.

Now, at this point he hadn’t pooed in about a day. This wasn’t abnormal for him. I’d gotten so worried the first time he hadn’t pooed for a day and a half that I called the ped. “Oh no, that’s normal. We don’t worry until they go more than 3 days…” Well, alrighty then. He didn’t poo for 3 days because he knew we were waiting on it. Since I’d built a nice supply of breastmilk in the fridge, his poo was no longer green. No test. No way of knowing what the issue was. It was never dark green again.

He would cry every single night for at least an hour or two. He’d either sleep or cry during the day. He was officially colicky. So, we switched to slightly kinder formula and the gas slowed down a tiny bit, though the colic did not. At the insistance of my parents, we tried soy…and he cried all.night.long. It was horrifying. I switched back to Good Start immediately. Then the doc suggested Mylicon, we tried that after every feeding. It cut down on some of the gas but not all of it. We tried changing to Avent bottles. The fight to get him to take that nipple was ridiculous. It didn’t help that I tried it for the first time at my parents house and they kept chanting, “He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t like it.” He took it 5 minutes later and was fine with it after that. I also tried Gripe Water for the first time there. My mom was convinced he’d have an allergic reaction so she didn’t let me use more than 1/8th of a teaspoon…he was supposed to have a full teaspoon. It didn’t work for obvious reasons. (We now use it regularly when he takes a bottle because it calms down the bubblies in his belly. We use it at full dosage.)

This whole time I’m pumping like a mad woman. My boobs feel like they’re going to fall off. They hurt like hell and I blamed it on Ben’s psycho suction - he could suck the hide off a cow from 40 feet away. As it turns out, it was the pump. It ws making me horribly sore. No matter how low I’d put the suction, I’d end up with slightly swollen, very painful boobs afterwards. I decided to give up pumping.

It was about week 6 when I figured out the pump was killing me. I couldn’t get up every two hours to pump 1/2 oz total. It was depressing. I decided that if my milk dried up, it dried up. I couldn’t do it anymore. I was sick of the pump. I’d nurse him whenever he was hungry and supplement with formula afterwards. Period.

The rest of that week sucked. He would nurse and down 4oz of formula afterwards as if he was starving. I felt like I was less and less full everyday. I wanted to cry but I kept trying. I was going to nurse him until my last drop was out of me. Period the damn end.

Then came week 8…and he decided he didn’t want the bottle anymore. It was a fight to get him to take it. He was nursing so much that week that he’d decided the bottle just wasn’t for him. This would normally not have bothered me but for the fact that I was *not* making enough milk for him. So we spent two or three days with him crying a lot and me sneakily sticking bottles into his mouth when he thought he was on the boob when something amazing happened…he didn’t drink anything from the bottle anymore. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the bottle, it was that he was actually full from nursing. It was the most wonderful thing in the world.

By his 2 month appointment, he was 80% boob, 20% bottle. His ped gave us samples of Nutramigen because she thinks he’s both lactose and soy intolerant. He only takes about 2-4 oz of that a day (without gas!), the rest is all me. It’s flippin’ awesome.

I still worry that he’s not getting enough. I make Eric weigh him every couple of days to be sure he’s still gaining weight. I’m worried when I think he’s hitting a growth spurt because I just don’t think I can keep up. He cries because he’s hungry and my first thought is, “mommy’s starving you, isn’t she?” I’m trying to get over it but it’s really hard. I keep wondering, if that nurse hadn’t have talked me into formula, would my supply be fine now? Would we be happily nursing without any supply issues?

Either way, I’m thankful for where we are. Even if we don’t make it the entire time I’d like to, everyday that we do I’m grateful.

Horrifying

This is the most disturbing thing I’ve seen in a long time. The girls in this car should be slaughtered. Who the hell does this to a 3 year old? Apparently, it happened somewhere in the Houston area and they’re looking for the mother. I hope they catch her and violently vivisect her and every single one of the girls in that car. Disgusting.

According to this article the FBI is involved. Thank God.

I still think someone should off these people.

Of Pineapple and Castor Oil

Day 2 of “The Little Brat is Past Due” and I have officially broken down and purchased castor oil - not to be confused with Castrol oil, which apparently happens so often it is the first warning on one of the “castor oil inducement” pages.

Before I’m yelled at:
Yes, I do realize this increases the chance of meconium. However, they also think the fact that, since most women who use castor oil are overdue, them being overdue is what increases the chance of meconium.
Yes, I do know it can cause dehydration. I plan to drink water and lots of it. Even while having explosive diarrhea.
Yes, I do understand that you must be effaced and dilated at least a little bit for it to work. I, honestly, have no idea if anything is happening down there since none of my midwives want to look at my vagina (it has me feeling quite dejected).
No, I don’t plan on using it until after the midwives do an internal and tell me if I’m progressing. I plan to beg them to do so at my next appointment on Friday or threaten to cry until they do.
No, I don’t plan on doing it without my midwife’s knowledge.
Yes, I have tried basil, to no avail.
Yes, I have tried pumping, to no avail.
Yes, I have tried sex, to no avail.
Yes, I have tried pineapple and it gave me a burn inside my lip and on my tongue. It also gave me an allergic reaction. Fresh pineapple is evil.

So my plan is as follows (I should make a flow chart):
If the child doesn’t come between now and Friday’s appointment, I will beg the midwife to look into my vagina.
If my cervix is not doing a damn thing, I will then beg the midwife to schedule me for a Cervadil intervention that evening. I realize this is cheating. I realize this goes against my natural childbirth thing. I do not care.
If my cervix is ripe and ready, I will beg my midwife to schedule me to go in that evening and have my membranes ruptured. Again, I realize this is cheating, going against natural childbirth, yadda yadda yadda. Don’t care.
If my cervix is doing something but not enough, I will then beg my midwife to sweep my membranes as if she hated me with all the fiery passion in her soul. I will then drive through Wendy’s, get a couple of Frosties, and taint them with castor oil. I will come home, drink 1st of said Frosties and take a hot shower. I will pump while eating basil on pineapple ice cream with black & blue cohosh drops mixed into my red raspberry tea, all while having sex and keeping myself hydrated. I will try my best not have explosive diarrhea all over my husband. I will start all over with the second Frosty two hours later if none of the above works the first time.

And that, my dear friends, is my plan.

The Foot That Took Over the World Pt 2

My foot has never been a skinny minnie. She’s always been quite a chubberoo, but a cute chubberoo. I’m sad to say I no longer feel any love for my foot. It’s 12″ around today. My foot is a foot around. And that fold in the ankle? My foot’s stretched out. The fold is from the swelling. My toes feel like they’re on fire, the entire thing is throbbing and it’s not responding to any sort of nice treatment or kind words. I do believe I may be the first woman to give birth through her ankle. It definitely feels that way.

He’s Not a Timely One

It is currently 18 minutes past midnight. 18 minutes into his due date. If this were college, I’d have been allowed to get up and leave 3 minutes ago.

I realize that the 1st was his estimated due date. I realize that it’s really just a guess that comes from that magic spinny wheel of fortune the doctor’s use when you go into your first appointment. I also realize his father and I are late to every single commitment we ever make, albeit never more than 10 minutes. However, I was hoping this child would recognize that today is his day to arrive. He has an appointment. It is time. He’d pull up his nakey britches, pop that water and come sliding out like a grape from it’s skin.

He is not.

Instead he is currently playing with my bladder and lodging his toes between my ribs. He’s occasionally getting the “hiccups”, which I am now convinced are just bubbles from him laughing hysterically at making me wait.

We spent the day with my parents. They took us to dinner and a movie so it’d keep my mind off things. My mom kept saying, “It’ll be the last time we’re just us four.” Followed by, “I don’t think he’ll come until the 7th.” My dad, on the other hand, made me want to smack him much less by saying he’s sure he’ll come on the 2nd. Eric and I both think this will be much like the flip before the midwife appointment. He’ll wait until some other authority figure is paying attention and then do the right thing. He’ll probably initiate labor on the table at the midwives’ practice. We are apparently not authoritative enough for him.

So, place your bets, ladies. How late will he be? He’s obviously not the “just barely late enough to use the traffic excuse”, which his father and I tend to be. He’s either “fashionably late” (approaching very quickly), “late enough to still get a couple drinks, but the keg’s half tapped and everyone’s mostly drunk”, or “so late everyone’s either already gone home with their one night stand or is passed out on the couch next to the one person they told their friends not to let them go home with.” I’m betting he’ll be the latter…or the guy that shows up so late he’s stuck helping scrape the beer nuts off the floor.

The Foot That Took Over the World

Take a look at it folks. It huge, it’s grotesque, and it’s actually on it’s way down in that picture. My right foot has begun swelling to insane proportions in the past week or so. It’s so large, even my Crocs no longer fit. The day we went shopping, it had actually managed to swell through the holes in the top of my Crocs. How ridiculous is that? Had I stood any longer I am convinced my foot would’ve swallowed my shoe like The Blob did to so many teenagers. As adorable as this whole marshmallow foot is, I miss being able to tell I actually have an in-step. I certainly miss not having stretching pains in the skin on my foot. Most of all, however, I will miss having cute toes. Not these pathetic, wrinkley, “I’m suddenly 107 years old” toes thanks to the dramatic gain and loss of water in them, and definitely not the little Vienna sausages that have been ruling the roost as of late.

One week to go and my main reason for wanting this kid out has become the insane swelling of my feet. You know, since the whole inability to lift my legs or sleep isn’t enough.

On a side note: The Girl rocks my socks. She’s terribly sweet, and don’t you dare let her tell you otherwise.

Cooking and Cleaning are Bad

A couple of Eric’s business partners came over yesterday for dinner. One of them brought one of his (exceptionally well behaved and adorable) 26 month old twins with him. It was our first time entertaining non-family AND a child in our home. Our house was a disaster zone and we had no food. I’m still recovering from yesterday’s activities.

We got up relatively early and got all our shopping done in about 4 hours. Three stores in four hours. I’m not sure I should be proud of that but for a 7 month, waddling pregnant lady, shopping on a Sunday is not the most fun - especially when your child is the king of non-violent, sit-in uterus protesting (I wish he’d just tell me what the hell he was protesting instead of randomly putting all his weight on 2 square inches of my uterus and going limp - Note to self: Teach Ben protesting is only useful when the cause is apparent to all parties involved). I had to fight the urge to attack a teenage boy with a cucumber after he knocked into me in a store and didn’t even say excuse me. (Note to self: I will teach Ben manners if it kills him.) It really is unbelievable how many rude people you’ll come across in stores on the weekend - especially Sunday. I remember working retail at a certain crap ass beauty supply store and the women coming in after church were ALWAYS the meanest. It was like they’d managed to have all their sins for the previous week forgiven, so it was time to start this week’s sin count with a bang. Anyway, we got enough groceries to choke a horse - still managed to forget bread - and got out without any homicides taking place.

We got home with two hours to spare. TWO HOURS! Let me give you a picture of what was going on in the BabyCubed household. I had an 8ft table in the middle of the living room covered in my sewing supplies. Both big chairs? Covered in my sewing supplies. Dining room table, covered in Eric’s paperwork and audio supplies. The kitchen? Let’s just say I hadn’t done dishes in almost 3 days and the floor hadn’t been swept in at least twice that. My underwear was still hanging from the line in the basement. Our bedroom had no door on the closet from last painting, our bed skirt was laying on top of the side tables and the entire bed’s dressings had (in my insane middle of the night rolling fits and sliding off the edge of the bed to pee) formed a small tumor on my side of the bed, while Eric’s side laid bare. The absolute worst of it was the baby’s room. It looked like legions of fabric, audio gear, dirty laundry, clean laundry and toys had a giant war and had left their dead behind in the aftermath. We had a small 10 inch by 3 foot path to walk through. This would not do.

We spent the next two hours furiously cleaning the entire house. I moved faster than any woman carrying a rock in her uterus should. We got nearly everything done but the beds, which I ended up finishing while Eric met, gret (greeted) and delayed the on-time, childless friend outside. From that point forward, I spent about 40 minutes of the whole night sitting down. 10 before I made dinner and 30 during dinner. The child taught us that the one “big boy” toy we had for Ben was not right for a 2 year old, and lost a few pieces in the process. Note to self: Toys fall apart WAY easier than I thought they could. The toy won’t be coming out until he’s at least 4 years old.

All in all, I enjoyed the night but have been seriously paying for it ever since. I haven’t moved much except to get between bed, couch and bathroom - all to the joyous sounds of “oh,” “ow ow ow,” “ouch,” and “ughhhhha.” So, with all of the above, I have learned that cooking and cleaning while pregnant is possibly the stupidest idea I could have ever had and plan to never do it again. It’s for my health, dammit.

On the “too awesome for words” news front, Kimmie has some huge news that I was anxiously awaiting for all weekend. GO KIMMIE!