You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June, 2009.
We’re keeping him.
Elijah.
I like him.
He cleans like nobody’s business.
He’s nice.
He likes my sandwiches.
And Sparky’s coffee.
He likes babies.
He thinks both parents should be up in the night.
He speaks with a British accent.
He does windows.
He walks around barefoot.
He cleans like a freaking demon.
He has a great smile and is not afraid of smiling.
I like him.
We’re keeping him.
I have found our cleaning lady.
He’s a dude.
He rocks my cleaning needs world.
Be a dumb ass.
What a dope.
Hey, how about you tell people you need a break and leave it at that. Your wife ain’t gonna believe the Appalachian trail thing anyway and you’re separated. Try not to set up the situation to fail from the start, you moron.
I’m not a very good liar when it comes to well, lying, but I’m really good at coming up with believable lies. (I can’t stick the landing.) I think I’ll start a school for future politicians.
Seriously, I’m not even having that much fun anymore watching Pols self-destruct. It’s like visiting castles here in Krautland. The first 20 or so are fabulous, but after a while, eh, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. It’s not even fun anymore that these are the most virulent about ‘morality’. It’s just bor-ing.
Can someone come up with a good juicy scandal we haven’t lived through vicariously 100 times before? Please?
(Not you, Obama. You stay just how you are.)
For your viewing pleasure, Max says Hi.
Tell me this photo of Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter doesn’t look like Madonna. Article here.
Everything is fine in these parts. Looks like Scrunchy is going to make it. Two more days until we’re out of the woods, but he seems like his old self. Bullet dodged.
Max laughed for the first time on Mim’s Birthday. He laughed when I tickled his feet. A very special moment for me. I fell in love all over again. He’s so much more now. More what is hard to explain. Just more.
Max is regulating himself out and as long as I hold him in the day, sleeping a lot. At night, if he isn’t screaming in pain, see below, he only wakes twice and usually goes back to sleep immediately. This I can deal with.
We’re, Max and I, venturing out. Last weekend we went to Bauhaus and Media Markt. This week he’s been to the grocery store. He and I are working stuff out and he’s becoming fun. My little partner. It’s like when I had Ginger, the best dog IN THE WORLD, except harder to get in and out of the car and he has my toes. And Max is allowed in every store.
Even though things are looking good and I’ve even brushed both my hair and my teeth today, I need to rant.
Rant starts here.
Max has reflux. It’s painful for him. The bad attacks happen maybe twice a week. The other times, it’s there, but minor and I can do things to help him, like hold him upright for hours on end or feed him to help his hiccups or his throat. The bad times, he screams as if I’m pulling off his limbs one by one. He wakes up screaming this way. The screaming and crying add gas to his tummy which starts this cycle of gas crying. It’s awful.
I’ve done my research and I’ve tried all sort of different techniques to help him. None of them work consistently. Did I mention he’s in pain because he is. How do I know this? Oh, because I’m with him 24/7 and I’M HIS MOM. I know his pain cry. In fact a stranger would know his pain cry. It’s heartbreaking as opposed to just ear-drum shattering.
This acid reflux is not merely a sensation that surprises him. It’s not due to overfeeding. It’s not because I feed him sometimes every hour or for an hour at a time if he wants it. It’s because his little parts aren’t strong enough yet to work correctly – two doctors, a midwife and fourteen books have told me so. I get it. I understand how it works.
Off to the Dr. I go. I was warned by Alice that they don’t do anything for reflux here, but I was sure our Ped, who has been wonderful, would listen and prescribe an antacid.(I had this little fantasy that my doc would prescribe and I’d call Alice and she’d have a reason to come down here and we’d get her baby girl medicine and then Alice and I could go get decaf lattes and get our toes painted and talk while our husbands watched the babes for a few hours.) I wasn’t looking for the big guns. I just wanted something like Tums for babies to see if it worked and then we could either go forward or if it worked, just stick with that as needed.
Well, my regular Ped wasn’t there. I got a different Dr. in the practice. She listened to me for about 30 seconds, interrupted me to tell me:
- Stop feeding him so often – only feed him every 2-3 hours and only 5 minutes each breast
- If he cries, do something with him like go for a walk
- Change from BF to thickened formula to help keep things down
- The problem is that babies systems are immature, there is no medication to help with that
- He’s not in pain.
- Esophagi is never damaged by acid reflux.
- There isn’t such a thing as a baby antacid and if I intend on using adult antacid, I will poison him, did I want to poison my child?
She didn’t even wait to listen to my answers until I cut HER off mid-sentence with the phrase ALL Germans love “They have it in America.”
This was followed by my response, made in my head because I couldn’t get a word in, let alone my own diatribe:
- Yeah, lady, I’m looking to poison my kid. Stop with the bullshit, purposefully or not, meant to put me on the defense and shut me up. It doesn’t work on me.
- All my research says that when BF-ing, feed on demand. Babies stop when they’re full and if Max wants to hold on for a few more minutes, I have no problem with that. I’m here for him not the other way around. If it makes him feel better, wtf, why not? It’s not the cause of reflux – you just told me that.
- I tried the 2-3 hour thing – didn’t help with the reflux and made us all miserable and It’s not the cause of reflux – you just told me that.
- So if he cries at night, like when he wakes up screaming in pain, I should just tell him we’re going to walk it off because you know, 6 week olds are big boys now.
- I’m breastfeeding. We’ve worked everything out (thanks to Maria, Alice, Christina and everyone else who commented and e-mailed me much appreciated advice). I am pumping so as to have a bit stored up so I can leave the house once in a while and again, it’s working.
- There is medication to help with motility, btw, and there is medication to help with the symptoms of acid reflux which is what I was looking for, you dolt. Have you heard of Zantac – made by GlaxoSmithKline. Have you heard of that company?
- Esophagi can be damaged by acid reflux. Are you freaking kidding me? Really? Do you have any idea what you’re talking about? It’s called esophagitis – Max doesn’t have it, but perhaps you’d want to examine him?
- And last but not least, there is baby antacid – how about Mylanta – it’s made by Merck – ever heard of them? It’s a pharmaceutical company located here in Darmstadt.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I would rather not dose up Max at all, but when he screams in the night out of pain, I want to stop that pain. If she had said, there is medication but we don’t like to use it because it had adverse side effects or people over use it or anything other than “Medication like that does not exist.” I could have understood. If she had heard me out perhaps I wouldn’t have been so pissed.
But she didn’t. She cut me off, didn’t listen to me at all and gave me the old party line of feed him only every 2-3 hours. Then suggested propping him up to sleep (uh how?).
So towards the end of the interview, because she never once looked at Max it couldn’t be considered an exam, I told her I finally understood why Germans were so hip to homeopathic remedies – the medical community pushed them there. Even if homeopathic remedies don’t work, people are listened to and given something they are told will work even if it isn’t more than sugar or salt and scientifically disproven. At least they feel more in control.
In the end, she told me that she had discussed it with the other Dr and he agreed with her. “Of course, he did”, I said, “but you haven’t heard me or examined Max and you talked to the other Dr., not me, so why would either of us think he would say anything different?”
This and the homeopathic comment did not endear me to her and the interview ended with us both wishing each other a good afternoon.
You know, American doctors might over-prescribe, but there has to be a happy medium between that and the desert of medication here. There has to be a doctor in Germany who has a different opinion on this reflux. Max and I can deal with his. It isn’t that severe, but what about babies who really suffer and the reflux is severe. Do these babies just tough it out?
Looks like Max and I are going to have to make a drug run to America. Bummer. That makes me so sad.
Today is my sister’s 22nd birthday. I wish I had more time and two hands to write about how awesome she is and how proud I am to be her sister, but I don’t. I think she’s okay with it though because she’s kinda sweet on the whole MaxiMouse thing and understands.
Happy 22nd. I’m so happy we’re friends as well as sisters.
Have a good one.
One of our three cats ate part of a lily on Sunday morning. After an emergency visit to the vet, we’re hoping they’re okay, but I have a bad feeling. Scrunchy is not acting like his usual self.
Once the toxin has hit the kidneys, it’s over and one waits for the kidney failure to kick in – 3-5 days.
I had no idea lilies were poisonous. The flower itself was totally out of cat reach. The dead petals of one fell to the floor in the night.
If you have cats, check out this list: Plants Toxic to Cats
Remember when i was reading all those books about different parenting styles and everyone told me to forget the books because once he was here it all goes out the window? I scoffed. And that Dr. Sears book? I was all hardcore and boundaries. I really thought he was a kook.
Yeah. Well, as Max is never farther than a cry and most of the time he’s in my arms, I guess the joke is on me. Seriously, I call his swing the Iron Mommy because I feel so guilty putting him down. I figure as long as he’s awake I’m supposed to hold him, kiss him and overall just love him up. (This might be a factor in the slow burnout.)
Being that I am literally attached to my baby, I always eat with him in my arms or on my lap. This has led to a list here in the house:
Things I’ve Spilled on My Son
Crumbs
Cookie, Toast, Bagel, Pizza, Pesto Ciabatta, Chips
Pasta
Angel Hair, Fusili, Overdone Tortellini
Vegatables
Potatoes, Peas, Carrots
Dessert
Ice Cream, various cakes
and toothpaste.
I don’t eat anything hot as I never actually get to it when it’s hot and hot drinks are out since there is no point if it doesn’t contain caffeine. He survives.
Oh and btw, he is offically out of 0-3 month clothes. He’s growing so fast I can’t even believe it.
See that picture in the previous post? That sweet, beautiful baby is crying right this minute. His dad is carrying him right now because I’ve been his slave all day and for some reason I just couldn’t handle one more of his little baby kicks as I hold him in my lap.
The louder he cries, the louder my music gets. I am a bad mommy.
I took a shower today when Sparky got home. It was so necessary. Last night I tore apart the bedroom looking for the origin of a scent I could only describe as burned sugar with a hint of halogen incinerated bug. It was me. Yet my shower had to wait until Sparks got home because SOMEONE cannot be left for a moment. In the shower I could hear him crying. Every time Sparky walked by the bathroom with that little guy, I turned up the temperature of the water. By the time I got out my skin was pink and squeaky clean and my muscles a little looser.
You know, the first week I was fooled, tricked even. Max was delightful. He’d eat and sleep in his cradle. I was able to get up early in the morning, get dressed, do 30 minutes of housework before he woke up. I was even able to put on mascara.
Then with the colic he was sleeping four to five hours solid. That lasted a week.
He liked the sling. I could wear him and do stuff. He hates it now. Screams the moment I try to put him in it. I’ve tried the three different positions this sling allows for infants. Nothing doing.
I’m in week five
now. My hair is brushed perhaps every other day. That’s okay though because it’s always in a ponytail. I might have a moment to brush my teeth, but only if I demand it. The dark circles under my eyes are not from leftover make-up, but rather the every two hour wake up call. I’ve developed a neurosis. I know the moment I close my eyes, Max will wake up. Sparky won’t, but Max will.
Sparky and I walk around trying to figure out the un-figure-out-able.
Is he hungry or too full? Is he too hot or too cold? Does he have gas? Does his bottom hurt with those massive sharts? Is he overly stimulated or are we ignoring his development? Is his swaddle too tight, too loose? Should we watch TV with him in the room? What if he’s asleep? Awake, but turned away from the TV? Is the light to bright? Is it too dark? Are we feeding him too much? Not enough? Do I force him to sleep by letting him cry? Is he just too tired to sleep properly? What about his REM sleep? Can he get enough with his 45 minute cat naps? Am I a bad mom for putting him in the swing and letting him fall asleep there if he seems to like it?
The midwife came over and started sleep training him. I kept looking at the clock wondering when she was going to leave so I could go rescue him. She’s done this with new moms before, I suppose, and knew I’d be in there in a NY minute if she left before he was asleep. He cried himself to sleep and slept for four hours. But he did that little huh-huh of left over tears in his sleep and I cried as quietly as I could as I sat next to his cradle watching him sleep. Four guilt filled hours. I’m not doing that again for at least two more decades.
She told me to feed him only every three hours. I tried it. That isn’t really working. He’s eating when every he wants to. He’s only a month old. I’m not setting him up for obesity. Right?
I’ve decided that I’m not listening to her anymore. And she wears too much perfume. Max smells like her until I bathe him.
I have to say, I’m holding out on the BFing for 6 weeks. We’ll see after that. The village feeders I used to call breasts are insane. Let’s just say that when they leak, and oh what a glorious thing that is, my thighs get wet. The constant child nibbling at them is driving me crazy.
We are holding on for that miracle three month mark at which I had better get something pretty and sparkly.
Oh and Claire, I’ve gained weight since all I’m doing is eating crap that I can shove down my throat one-handed and I need those snickers at 3 am to keep me awake until Mr. Bright Eyes deigns to sleep again. So I guess I shouldn’t have been all happy about those pre-pregnancy jeans which, even though I technically weigh less, don’t seem so eager to zip up. And what’s with those stomach muscles not just jumping back into their place. Aren’t I working hard enough? Getting up at 6 am with Sparky to do stomach exercises seems like a cruel, cruel joke.
Rat Bastard.
Then there are the moments when Max looks up at me to say “Hey, what’s up? Aren’t I the most adorable big eyed buglet? How can you NOT love me?” Really, he’s probably just so happy that last diaper was changed or that during the last feeding he wasn’t suffocated by the massive milk machines. But it’s those little smiles that make me smile and keep sanity within the apartment if it’s not in the same room.
Coincidences are weird things. They happen all the time in real life, yet they don’t really work in fiction. The reason they don’t work in fiction is because the writer ultimately has the power to create said coincidences and are therefore not really coincidences, but rather a purposeful device to lead the character and thus the reader down a specific path.
In real life, coincidences are similar to gambling. A gambler sees only his wins and not his losses, no matter how glaring they might be. We see only the pattern we are pre-disposed to see while other patterns go unnoticed. Not only that, but these patterns can only be determined in hindsight. Interesting, but kind of useless.
In my life, one of these patterns is this German thing. I have never had a love of things German. Don’t really enjoy the country overly. Don’t find the people generally charming or kind or friendly. It’s pretty… when it’s not raining or overcast. The schnitzel is good. I like the beer, but none of those things would make me fall in love with all things German. The most interesting thing about Germany (before I met Sparky) was that my high school German teacher had always wanted to visit a leper colony. The class was awful, the language so unsexy, but my teacher had wanted to visit a leper colony and this is what I thought about every day. That and Germany seemed to be all seventies orange and brown.
I took German in high school because I thought Spanish was too low brow and French too high brow. My genius step-dad took German when he was in high school and it was thought that he could help me if I needed it. While he remembered (and still does) everything he learned, it turned out not to be such a good idea to have him tutor me. I held on for those two years because, well, I don’t know. I found it hellish and transferred to Spanish in my junior year having decided that Spanish was not too low brow, I was too low brow for German. I did much better in Spanish.
In college, after a series of majors (English, Biology, Political Science) I finally chose psychology. I know, I know. Psychology is the default major. I chose it after a course in Freudian theory. I loved it. It made sense to me. It followed my intrinsic logic. I won’t go into why this made so much sense to me. (An aside: there are two types of psych majors: those who are looking for self-discovery and therapy via lecture classes and those of us who love the theories. I liked the theories.)
This class lead me to another class in German thinkers. This is where I met Karl Marx and thus gave up my young republican lifestyle to become a Marxist.
I read Thomas Mann and Herman Hesse, Bertolt Brecht and Goethe, Freud and Jung and a whole lot of Nietzsche thrown in. I read countless short stories by German feminists which, like my therapy, changed my way of thinking. (Although, it did lead me to expect Germany to be more egalitarian than it is. I am continually shocked by how, if not outright misogynistic, then at least deeply patriarchal the German culture is.)
Max was named after a character in Herman Hesse’s Demian. In my narcissistic college years, that book spoke to me about me. I knew then that I’d eventually have a kid named Max. It was one of those odd bits of knowledge. I was just waiting for him to show up, really.
Fast forward to meeting and mating with the good old Sparks. When we talked about kids, Max was always there. It was always Max.
It became Maximus because Max is too common, as is Maxilian. I’m a Jennifer, I know the curse of the common name. Maximus allows him to be different if he wants to be different or not if he doesn’t. It gives him a choice. And it’s a really cool comic book name – Maximus von Roder. (It didn’t hurt that it is easily pronounced and spelled in both our languages or that it passed the backdoor test.)
I ended up in Germany with a Kraut husband and a half-breed kid named after a character in a book by a German author. Am I a unique snowflake following a plan laid out by the gods? Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s just a pattern I’m seeing.
