NICU Playlists

I feel like my version of nesting is clearing out all of the things that are rattling around in my brain.  Hence all the posts.

21 weeks, which means that if history is to be repeated, I have eleven weeks before this kid gets yanked out of my gigantic, this-close-to-having-a-stroke body.  I haven't bought anything because I have learned the hard way that a preemie is ridiculous to prepare for--nothing fits, they don't come home for a while, and all you really need is a camera.  (Although I DID just see this on Pinterest and I feel like it will be 9000% appropriate for this sure-to-be-neglected fourth child.)

So how do I prepare for a preemie and a NICU stay?  I practice songs.  Studies have shown that crying releases hormones, and NOTHING makes me shoot hormones out of my eyes more than singing sappy/maudlin/borderline child abusive songs to a tiny, wired-up little ball of Galan.  There are certain ones that are standards for all of the kids, but each kid also gets their own anthem.  (Well, not Jooj.  Because she got ALL of the songs.)

Songs All of My Babies Hear

• Old Shep--Everything you love will die.  Heads up.
• Poor Babes in the Woods--learn about dying because you ran away from home early, kid.
• Little Boy Bubble--A family favorite.  I have not met anyone else who sings it, but I learned it from my grandpa.
• My Pigeon House--I recently learned that MY grandpa learned it from HIS grandma.  I thought that he just sort of made it up, or something.  No one dies in this one.  
• Johnny Verbeck--A cautionary tale about lunch meats.  This one is good to sing while they are burping.  It has a nice patting rhythm.
• There is a Reason.  This is more for my heart than theirs, to be honest.  The NICU is tough, y'all.

Buster's Special Songs

• Loving You--from Passion.  Super maudlin.  
• I Will--The Beatles.  Fun Fact--I originally learned this from The Chipmunks.  Keeping it Classy, y'all

Jody's Special Songs

• All About Your Heart--Mindy Gledhill.  
• Anchor--Mindy Gledhill (I was kind of on a kick.  Who am I kidding?  I'm always on a kick.)
•  Mary's Lullaby--It was Christmas, you know.

I don't know what I will sing to this one, yet.  Probably Go Back Home, a la Audra McDonald will be in the rotation because I sing it every day anyway. Maybe Eidelweiss because I love me some Christopher Plummer.  And Germans.  Any suggestions?  I have eleven weeks to learn...

After the baby came home

The past four months have been rough at my home. In my home. In my skin. In my soul.

Let me preface this by saying that I don't want to over share, but I also feel compelled to be honest. To make sure I am not making too little out of my experience, because I want a record of how I have survived. And it is no hyperbole to use the term "survive."

Honest: Once Jojo came home I shut down. I stopped getting out of bed, going downstairs, talking, thinking, eating. Buster was my reason for functioning at all, the only light in my life.

Honest: I didn't feel anything at all for my new baby, once the adrenaline wore off and he was safe at home. I seriously debated giving him up for adoption, because it was not fair to him to grow up in a home with a mother who did not feel anything for her son. I had the conversation with my husband in all seriousness. I felt relief at the idea.

Honest: I made a list of things that would need to happen in order for me to feel comfortable with killing myself. I made a tentative plan.

Honest: I knew that these thoughts were not right, but I could not escape them, not even in sleep--which I did a lot. A LOT.

Honest: I didn't tell anyone about this. Not anyone. Not even W, not the bad stuff. Not until I started to feel a little braver and better. Because you know what is worse than the fear of being crazy? Knowing that you are crazy. And truly believing that no one will be able to help. There is a difference between "baby blues" and postpartum depression. Every time the doctors asked me about how I was doing, I didn't just gloss over what was going on, I flat-out lied.

I have been writing this post in my head for three months. Off and on. Every time I would get a minute of peace, I would start composing this mentally.

I never expected to actually be in a place where I would send the words to my fingertips to my keyboard. I never expected to get here. I honestly don't expect to stay here, I feel a jinxy nervousness admitting it. I still don't have all the words I need, but I will keep typing until I have to stop. Pretty sure that the stopping will hit me hard.

It has been almost four months. And I still feel the waves of depression. But I started to love the baby last month. And I got out of bed full-time about six weeks ago. And I have a new mantra:

"Depression is a liar. Nothing depression says is true. Never believe what it tells you."

New Birth Plan: DO NOT WIN A MILLION DOLLARS

So, posting the birth plan was a horrible temptation for the Gods of Severe Preclampsia.

I give you the latest thing I made. Born 33 weeks and two days--almost a full week of gestation more than Buster got.

Still in the hospital, still recovering. We are hoping he will be home by Christmas.

I am trapped in a glass box of emotion. (Milk was a terrible idea.)

Best things about border hospitals?
Nurses are all VERY concerned with my barchina and if I did pipis.

Taking a Break From Christmas: The Birth Plan

Well, I didn't get my entire list done before Thanksgiving. Technically I have three more days until the day Buster came early, but I doubt I will get it together. At the very least, the super-top-secret advent calendar I am making will get mailed a few days after December. SORRY. LIFE IS PAIN.

(I did, however, make a bacon-topped apple pie that was THE GREATEST THING EVER PUT INTO ANY MOUTH. So that should count for half-finished quilts, right?)

Anyway, the whole point of this post is to tell you that I am feeling more confident in my baby-hatching skills. Confident enough that I am coming up with a birth plan. Which means that I am optimistic that I will have a say in the birth. THIS IS HUGE.

Here you go:

1. Have baby in hospital, assisted by doctors, possibly--nay, probably--medicated. (Me and doctors. I don't care.)
2. Eat copious amounts of sugar after baby is out and I am no longer a ticking time bomb of eminent insulin coma.
3. Bring home baby from hospital at same time I go home from hospital.
4. El fin.

"But La Yen! What about midwives? And homebirths? And the eating of your own placenta? WHAT ABOUT THE BRUJAS?"

No.

"But La Yen! What about your experience? What on earth will you blog from this?"

My experience? My experience is about one million spots down on the list of things that are important to me about this baby. Last time I was all ready for the hypno-birthing, all ready to see if I could survive squatting over an open flame of triumph and feminism and suck-it-pioneers-your-sacrifice-means-nothing-to-me-I-need-no-drugs-on-the-trail and then? Plans changed. And I had no say in anything. Not any tiny thing.

And the only thing I could do was make milk, until I couldn't even do that right.

And I realized something:
This baby making and creating and extruding? Not about me. Not about me one little bit.

Because if I can physically walk out of a hospital and leave my three-pound son behind for thirty days, if I can physically survive that? I can do anything. And I have nothing that I need to prove. There is no pain that I cannot handle. There is no wall I cannot break through. And so I don't need to prove to myself that I can do it. I don't need to prove to anyone that I can do it.

And so I don't need to do anything other than bring this kid home, preferably at the same time I am discharged.

However he gets here is just fine. I would rather not go through laboring and then have to have a C section, if it is at all possible, but whatevs. And I would really like to have a TV that works in my room, but again, whatevs. And I would LOVE it if this one has no tongue tie and can latch and eats a lot and doesn't fail to thrive, but whatevs.

And here is what I plan on blogging:

Baby is here! He looks just like Buster! Buster has only attempted to set him on fire thrice! Jooj has decided to move in with her kindergarten teacher because she hates us all! My boobs hurt!

And that should be enough, shouldn't it?

Six Months: a Turning Point

I have been waiting for that burst of energy and relief from sickness they say happens in the second trimester. I think I can confidently say that, at six months, I am experiencing it!

Sadly, I also have gotten the surge of hormones that makes me:

• Hate everything and everyone. With alarming specificity.
• No longer have connectivity in the bones in my pelvis.
  
• Not fit my shoes.
• Hate everything and everyone. This should be mentioned multiple times.
• Be obsessively anxious and worried about every possible thing in the entire world. All the time.
• Require the entire house to be nice and cool. Unfortunately for my family, this means that they are shivering every night while I am sacrificing my comfort and only using the swamp cooler on low, plus the window unit and a fan. I AM A GIVER.
  

But, I am no longer yakking every day. Only if I don't eat every two hours. Or if I laugh at anything. Or if I sneeze or cough. THIS IS AN IMPROVEMENT.

I can feel the dude kick pretty frequently. This is a difference from Buster--he was not nearly this strong or consistent. I am hoping that this means Foetus will be bigger and closer to full-term.

I am not sure if I am going to do another CS or try for a VBAC, yet. Still praying about it. It really just depends on Foetus and his positioning, I suppose. And if I make it to the class Army requires me to attend. And if people start to get all well-meaning on me and try to convince me one way or another: See bullet point one. And four. And if I do have a VBAC, I don't know if I will go natural or medicated. Mostly my goal is to just come home with a baby. That is my entire birth plan.

One thing I am sure of, I am not going to save my placenta in the freezer and eat it. You can take that to the bank.

Fishing for Compliments

You Guys. I think that month six is going to be the month of liking pregnancy. Granted, I am only on day two, but I haven't been sick at all. Also, I have been eating Sausage McMuffins. Possibly a correlation. Not sure.

Anyhoo, I need to posit a question to y'all.

Fat or Pregnant*?

I ask, because this week I have been shocking and stunning strangers and acquaintances right and left when I mention The Foetus. They are all "I had no idea you were pregnant? I would have never guessed?"

Seriously? Because I lost all of the weight from Buster and then some. And I have gained, a lot, but it is all rack and belly. My Buster maternity pants still don't fit. They fall off when I walk. Do I need to get some "Baby"-down-pointing-arrow shirts?


*There is absolutely a right answer to this.

Yeah.

I have come to the realization that nothing is possible when I am pregnant, other than growing a baby.

This is my daily schedule:

• Wake up and decide that however Jooj's hair is is just fine for school.
• Scrounge money for her to buy lunch because I cannot possibly be held accountable for the creating of a PB&J.
• Change Buster's diaper. Leave it in his room because I cannot possibly take both him AND a diaper downstairs.
• Put a load of laundry in the washer/rewash the same load from yesterday*.
• Get a bottle of root beer from the pantry upstairs.
• Vomit from the smell of Buster's dirty diaper in his room.
• Drink two liters of root beer.
• Listen attentively for signs that Buster is still alive somewhere in the house.
• Cry.
• Look at Pinterest**.
• Feed Buster one chicken nugget.
• Make executive decision as to just how wet Buster's clothes need to be*** before I change his outfit.
• Drink two liters of root beer.
• Vomit from the smell of Buster's dirty diaper in his room.
• Put Buster down for nap.
• Put self down for nap. Bring Oreos.
• Hit snooze.
• Grab Buster, unchanged, from his nap and pick Jooj up from First Grade.
• Cry.
• Drink two liters of root beer.
• Cry.
• Drink two liters of root beer.
• Listen attentively for signs that both children are alive somewhere in the house.
• Take Jooj to karate.
• Cry.
• Compose increasingly desperate text messages to W.
• Cry.
• Cry.
• Rewash the laundry from the morning.
• Cry.
• Decide on which kind of cold cereal we will feature for dinner.
• Cry.
• Cry on W when he walks in the door.
• Go upstairs to rest "for just a minute." Take Oreos.
  
• Vomit from smell of Buster's dirty diapers.
• Wake up at 10 pm.
• Cry.
• Pee.
• Go back to sleep.
• Wake up at midnight and vomit.

Now do you see why there is not so much blogging? I mean, I am practically JAM PACKED over here.

Also, things that are not on this list:

• bathe self or others
• clean
• form sentences
• read scriptures
• pay bills
• think about things
• fill up gas tank
• decorate for holidays
• write more than 140 characters in a row
• be nice to husband
• enforce chores
• answer phone
  

Only one-to-three more months of this! Then a whole NEW level of rootbeer and crying. Yay.

*The latter
**Follow me on Pinterest. If you need an invite, leave me a note in the comments.
***Because he was in the dog's water bowl. Duh.

It's a Hell of a Day at Sea, Sir.

March has not been kind to La Yen.

Not kind at all.

Let me start at the beginning.

So, I gots me the gestational diabetes. 90% of it is hereditary, and about 10% is because I am chunky. 100% of me feels incredibly guilty for having it. Things that do not help the guilt:

Nurse saying "We had two mothers deliver stillborn babies because they didn't try to take care of their gestational diabetes last year. Hopefully we won't have any this year..." and then looking at me meaningfully.

Nurse saying "You want your baby's lungs to develop, don't you?"

Doctor saying "You will probably have this afterward, you know. You just need to eat healthier. Be a good example for your daughter." (I would like to point out that I was eating incredibly healthy. And that I requested a super early screening because I knew my family's history put me at risk. I don't sit around eating Cheetos and drinking beer.)

Anyway, through monitoring my blood sugar, we have established that the ONLY way to get it to a passable level is for me to almost completely eschew carbs. So I was eating a lot of cheese, meat, and salad (without carrots, dressing, tomatoes, or anything good in it.)

I was pooping hammers, people.

And I had this tremendous gas pain in the middle of the night. I have never felt anything like it. It traveled down my arms, into my chest, everywhere. GasX did nothing, and Tums were useless. The pain got so bad that I would vomit. And I would ask for a priesthood blessing, and within an hour or two be able to go to sleep. This happened a few times, and I attributed it to a combination of being pregnant and radically changing my diet.

Last Monday I ate a SUPER satisfying breakfast of cheese and then went grocery shopping for some disgusting sugar-free snacks. About an hour into my errands I started sweating and shaking, and the pain came back hard-core. I had never had the pain during the day--it always woke me up in the middle of the night, just when Junior had stopped kicking and I was finally asleep. I made it home, through the door, and started vomiting in earnest. I texted W at work and told him to come home because Something Was Wrong. We thought maybe I was needing insulin, or something.

He hurried back, called a babysitter, and took me to the ER, where they immediately ran the Chest Pain Workup. By about hour four, with no relief, it had been established that I was not having a heart attack, but the blood work hadn't come back. And you know how they love the blood work. By about 6 pm that night they sent me for an ultrasound--where they didn't even let me look at Junior HOW RUDE!--and found some gall stones. The doctor told me I would probably just need to drink a lot of Mylanta. I was not thrilled with this, mostly because I figured it would be filled with carbs that would Kill the Baby and His Lungs. He called for a surgical consult, and they pressed on my belly and immediately admitted me.

At this point, eleven PM, I had not eaten anything since breakfast. Remember the cheese?

They gave me a shot of painkiller. I told them I had an empty stomach and would not do well with any meds that way. They told me if I felt nauseated they would give me some meds for that. Within twelve seconds I was booting. The intern told me it was the quickest he had ever seen anyone yak. I told him I had six months of practice. Then he shot me full of something AWESOME. I don't know what it was, but if they gave it to me every day I would be incredibly pleasant and joyful.

Up in the room, bare-assed and super cheery, I got an IV because I was not allowed to have any food or water, in case I needed surgery. I was also given a Moon River. I remember it fondly, thanks to the above-mentioned shot. I sent W home, told him to give the sitter $100 and he called my amazing sister who got on a plane.

The next morning, after they pricked my finger and told me that my blood sugar was normal (HEY! Fasting for 24 hours makes it normal!) and that I could neither eat nor drink. I ignored that and had a sip of water every few hours. Because I am sneaky that way. The surgeon came up, told me that the antibiotics had done nothing, and that I was immediately going to surgery for the removal of my gall bladder.

Apparently there is a very small window during which they will remove things from a pregnant woman. I was right in that window. So that was good, I guess.

(FYI surgeons, I know you need to cover all bases, but the last thing you want to tell a pregnant woman before you put her under is a reminder that the baby might die because of the surgery. Also, before you put the mask on her nose, make sure the oxygen is turned on so she doesn't have a freak-out on the tiny, tiny table.)

I texted W, he came while I was in surgery, I woke up and said "OWEEEEE" and found out that they had intubated me and flushed gall stones down my throat or something, and had four incisions, and a goopy bulb attached to my side. And I could eat Jello.

That Jello was the greatest thing I have ever eaten in my life.

Of course, it threw my carbs off the charts.

The surgeon came in, told me "You had the gall bladder of a fifty year old!" and said it was remarkable that I hadn't noticed it before.

A few days later they released me, but not before I was able to walk every hour and refill my own pebble ice.

FYI: You can go to Sonic and buy a bag of pebble ice, should you now have an addiction from the hospital.

That was my first two weeks of March.

It better go out like a freaking Lamb.

And THAT is why I didn't do anything snarky for Cjane's Birthday This Year.

There is no Self-Esteem When You Have a Four Year Old.

Jooj: Mami! Come stand by me and I will draw you!
Me: Okay.
Jooj: Eyes, nose, happy face, legs, BIG BIG BIG BIG belly, hands...and...Ta-Daaa!
Me: Wow.

In other news, it's a boy. A boy who has given me gestational diabetes.

It's Getting Better all the Time

We are SO righteous. Never mind I am taking a picture instead of listening to the scriptures.

Still have a few days a week of The Sickness, but it is steadily improving.

Nurse gave me a sexy maternity brace, because "At the rate your hips are spreading you won't be able to walk by the time the baby comes."

I may have gestational diabetes, but can't fast long enough (15 hours total) to take the test.

Jooj learned a tough lesson about listening to me: When I say "Don't go outside without shoes" it is not because I hate her, but because I don't want her to get seven burrs stuck on the bottom of each foot, resulting in blood, splinters, and hobbling for two days.

W passed his inspections, resulting in sleep for the first time in weeks.

Jooj loves the Glee version of "Dancing With Myself." She told me "Mami! This is the best song in ALL of Texas! Because it says "There's nothing to hoop and there's nothing to poop!"

In one month we will be in Florida. Anyone want to come?

In three weeks I will be in Vegas. Without the rest of the family.

My dear friend is making me read a book about horses and Finding Love. Because I won't read Twilight for her.

El Fin.

How was your week?

Callooh! Callay!

This picture no longer makes me ill!

I haven't posted my positives since Thursday. Know why? Because I have been too busy getting to work. Know why? Because the sickness has all but vanished. ALL BUT VANISHED!

And that was so positive I didn't have time to post about it; I was too busy praying prayers of thanksgiving/cleaning/talking to my husband/playing with my kid. All things I--seriously--haven't done in four months.

I don't know if this is a permanent condition, but I will take it for as long as it lasts. I feel like myself again. (And since I can't feel the baby kick or move yet, I keep forgetting I am even with child. Which is a surprisingly awesome feeling. I mean sure, My Sharona still hurts like I have been kicked by a mule, but that is not going to last forever.)

Yesterday at church, I was reflecting on how great it was to feel great. And I was wondering if it was just the complete absence of feeling great that made the presence so noticeable, or if it was something more. And then the words to this song popped into my head:

I am happy today for the sunshine
For the sky of gray and blue
For within my heart is the song I love:
I'll live; I'll work; I'll do!

(I don't know if those are the exact lyrics. But those are what I always sing. So that's what counts.)

And I got one of those pure inspiration moments--it is not enough to just feel well, I was so joyous because, for the first time in four months, I was able to live, work, and do. And I need that in my life. I used to always think that it would be great to just sit, like Gilbert Grape's mother, all day. But after living that way for so long, I realize that it is nice for a day, maybe, but not what I need in my life for thriving. I am still having to work out the kinks--I get really tired, and over-tired=nausea. But I will figure all that out soon, I am sure.

And so that is my focus this week--living, working, and doing. Want to join me?

Positively Happy Wednesday is Over.

Yesterday was hard to think about in a positive fashion. But here you go:

1. I talked to one of my favorite people in the world, our bishop's wife. She is rad. And she told me that when she was on Zofran for her chemo it made her really, really, high, just like me. This is positive on two fronts: I am on Zofran because of pregnancy, not cancer; I can now picture the bishop's wife stoned.

2. W got home really late, but just in time to clean up the dog vomit, which saved us from having to burn down the house or move. (Dog vomit is my mouse in the laundry room.)

3. I got to whine to ~J. She always lets me whine and interrupt and then her kids say something really funny or loud and I feel better.

4. Planner told me to clean the toilets, and I didn't. But this was okay, because I only had to see the filthy toilets up close in my face ONE time! (This is a major positive.)

5. W has some soldiers that are making his life miserable. But that allowed me to make the following segue: "Speaking of soldiers screwing things (up), the President is going to ask Congress to repeal "Don't Ask, Don't Tell!" ZING! You can't buy that kind of set-up, folks.

*********************************************************************************
For Shar:
This is how I made yogurt:
I bought this yogurt maker.
I put milk and base in it.
I let it cook overnight.
I ate yogurt with jam and fruit and granola.

So, I Woke Up Pregnant

That DJ Scat Cat had it Right.

I am sorry for being such a Debbie Downer. I had a fabulous day yesterday, and it gave me hope for the future. The future not being TODAY, of course, but a distant future where I can function.

And I am turning over a new leaf. A positive, super-chirpy leaf.

Here are some great things about the pregnancy:

A baby will come out of it.

I can totally plot against the ladies who have irritated me for years because of their smugness. Guess who has two thumbs and will absolutely cloth diaper/nurse for years/only speak in Latin to the fetus simply out spite? La Yen does! Anything to be one up these ladies. The ones who tsk tsked me for not breast feeding my adopted child.

At some point, someone will bring me dinner.



And...I'm out. Maybe tomorrow will bring more leaves.

In Which You Can See My Inner Workings.

I can't do anything anymore. Seriously. All I do is sit/sleep/boot. In the morning I wake up and think that I am going to accomplish something. Maybe one load of laundry! Possibly I will vaccuum! And then I start. And then I am finished before the chore is. I have tried to do crafty things while I am sitting, and I just get dizzy. I haven't sewed in fifteen weeks. I haven't done anything in fifteen weeks. I estimate that I have cooked five meals since November. Including Christmas Eve. For the first time in our married lives, we are consistently out of clean clothing. I am hiring a cleaning lady with money I don't have, and I can't clean before she gets here. Do you feel my desperation?

I can't go on like this. I can't do this for another five months. People keep telling me it will pass, but I really don't believe them. I mean, my abs are getting nice and hard from the reverse crunches over the toilet, and I haven't gained a single pound, but those are not compelling enough reasons to LOVE this. And when these people tell me it will pass they also tell me "You are so blessed--LOVE every minute!" "Do you love every minute?" "LOVE IT!!" And then they touch my belly where there is NO baby, just fat. And I don't have the heart to tell them I hate it. I hate it and they are touching my hibernation pouch, not the fetus. The fetus is down where it is less polite to pat and rub. I know this because I saw the baby's spine the other day. It was amazing. And the LONG legs. I can't believe I am making those. But it explains all too well where my energy is going. I didn't see the bottle with the "XXX" label that I think it is pouring into my blood stream. And I didn't see a gender. Well, I think I saw a gender, but it might be the cord. They can't say for sure for another few weeks.

And when I saw the spine and the legs and the heart and the brain and the GIANT HEAD OF MY IN-LAWS I thought, for a tiny minute, "maybe this is all worth it!" And then I threw up and I changed my mind. And thought again of the GIANT HEAD OF MY IN-LAWS and wondered if I can schedule a pre-emptive C-Section. Because these people, the in-laws, have giant heads. Have you seen them?

In other news, coffee is not keeping things down. I am ready to move on to gin.

Updates.

There have been no posts. I know. You want to know why? The choking on the face. It is all-encompassing. I spend 90% of my day trying not to move, and then the remaining 10% over the toilet because I moved. But, since my stomach is entirely free of substance, I thought I would give you an update. I am a giver, you know. Cry for me, Argentina.

Update:
All I do is vomit.

Jooj has the following super powers: Running super fast, running super-duper fast, shaking her booty super fast, running slowly, and running REALLY REALLY super fast. She reminds me that she has super powers, and can't turn them off, every day.

W is a prince. All he does is cater to me and bring me food and drink, which I throw up.

If one more person tells me "It is good you are sick--it means the baby is healthy/happy/strong" I will punch them right in the throat.

I am officially a "mature pregnancy." I am six years too young for a "geriatric pregnancy."

Jooj is awesome. I have decided I am fine with just one.

W is awesome. He is never to bring his sperm near me again.

Off to work on my abs some more.

La Yen out.