And the Mother of the Year Award goes to....

It's taken me a little while to try to articulate this most recent milestone of motherhood. In fact, I'm still not sure I'll be able to fully capture the vomit-swirl-freak-train (hey, that would be a good band name) of emotion that went along with my son's first trip the ER but I'll give it a go.

The events leading up to the "incident" were as follows; Tuesday night, wait, Tuesday night? Yes, Tuesday, American Idol was on. So Tuesday night he started coughing a weird cough, like a sea lion. I thought it was kind of cute and was going to get it on video when grandma showed up and threw out the word "croup". What? Croup? I'm not ready for croup. My only reference to croup was the movie "Terms of Endearment" and we all know how that movie ended! So I got out my "What to Expect the First Year" book, something I refer to often in these panicky, no-idea-what-to-do situations. In the book, it didn't sound so scary. Just take him outside for a breath of cold night air and follow up with a humidifier, which I did. Well, he woke up every half hour from 8pm on. It was a long and grueling night. Just when I would fall back to sleep, he would wake up and I'd have to go in and pick him up so the snot could drain a little and then put him back down. This went on and on and when he woke at 5am I decided to let him cry for a minute or two to see if he would fall back to sleep on his own. I was delirious and I think I remember uttering the words, "Please God..." and then I heard it, a loud, dull thud, like someone had just thrown a sack of potatoes down a chimney (I have no idea why anyone would do that, it's not the point). I knew exactly what it was and not because I have such amazing instincts as a mother but because I had been expecting this to happen for months now but did nothing to prevent it (please refer to the section entitled, "I wasn't always a dumbshit, honest."). I leaped from my bed and ran into his room, my heart pounding out of my chest and there he was, in his little organic cotton sleep sack, sprawled out on the hardwood floor. I scooped him up in my arms and squeezed him as hard as I could without inflicting further trauma. He was crying and disoriented and so helpless I just wanted to lick him like a momma lion. I held him and shhh'd him until he started to calm down. I laid him down in bed with me and nursed him. Hey, just shove a boob in a man's face and the world is once again a happy place, am I right?!? He nursed for a bit and then fell asleep next to me. I, in turn was up, I mean really, really up. I laid next to him and watched him fall into a deep sound sleep. And then it hit me, falling out of a crib...deep sleep. Something about this didn't seem right. I must have learned something in my three and a half month stint as an extra on ER because terms like "pupils equal and reactive" and "concussion induced coma" started coming to mind. Thank goodness the "What to Expect" book was already bedside and ready to dole out some reassuring advice. I couldn't find "concussion" in the index and in that moment I couldn't for the life of me figure out what else you would call it. Bump on head, no, Falls from great heights, no, My mother is a fucking idiot, no (thankfully), oh, Head injury yes there it was. It did say that the pupils should react to light. Aha, I do know something! So I woke up a sleeping baby (what do we say about that?) and stared directly into his eyeballs. Can you imagine how freaky that was for him? To wake up with his frantic mother two inches from his face trying to determine the size of his pupils? As if he hadn't already been through enough. All I was really able to determine was that he did in fact have pupils. I kept flicking the light on and off to see if they reacted but I don't think that's how it's done because nothing happened. He started giggling like I was playing some new crack of dawn, strobe light game. If only I could find the humor in this too. After several pointless minutes of pretending I knew what I was looking for, I decided to defer to an expert. I called the advice nurse at our pediatrician's office. He asked all sorts of questions about the fall. How high, what surface did he land on, what was his behavior like since. I answered him with overly precise responses as if the solution to this problem was in some minute detail like, his room was exactly 70 degrees at the time of his fall. At the end of this telephone triage the nurse gave his assessment, "Based on the age of the child, the distance he fell, his response after the fall and his mother's complete and utter lack of ability to care for him, we recommend that you take him to the hospital emergency room." I had to let this information sink in for a minute, not only what is not what I wanted to hear but it was also not at all what I wanted to hear. I really thought he'd say something like, "Oh Ms. D, don't worry about it. This happens to every parent at some point even the really really good ones like you. Just get in bed and get some sleep. Sweet dreams. Oh and by the way, I am handsome, single and I love kids. Would you like to go out sometime?" Okay maybe not exactly like that but something to that effect. Finally, it sunk in and I realized what I had to do. I called grandma to let her know what was going on (and because I needed my mommy) and started getting dressed. I woke up the little man, threw on his parka right over his cozy blue lion, footed pajamas and off we drove to the ER. This particular hospital had a separate pediatric ER so it wasn't the chaotic, television ER scene I had running through my head. We were seen right away and they were all very comforting and kind to us. The doctor did his assessment and based on the situation he ordered a full head CT. Of course the idea of radiating my 13 month old made me very uncomfortable. I don't even let him eat fruit that isn't organic. The doctor explained that the only evidence of risk is the increased possibility of breast cancer 50 years from now as evidenced by the victims of Hiroshima. What I really hearing that or had a dozed off for minute while he was talking? The thing that got me was when he said if it was his kid, he'd do the scan. That is what I needed, someone who has kids and has been through this stuff before to tell me what to do or at least what they would do so I can model their behavior. I wasn't prepared for the ordeal of the scan at all. They laid him on a huge table which made him look even tinier and helplessier and of course he was crying. Then they rolled up his arms in the sheet so he couldn't move them and...are you ready for this...they taped his head down so he couldn't move at all. I started FREAKING OUT!!!! But only on the inside because on the outside I was singing. Singing like I had never sung before. "The wheels on the bus go round and round..." oh shit, what am I doing? He can't move his arms to make the round and round gesture, that's his favorite part "um...uh...say say oh playmate come out a play with me..." and I just kept singing, over his crying, over the mechanical noise of the giant donut machine making calculated circles around my son's little head, over the tears welling up in my eyes. It was one of those moments as a parent that you just know it is more important to be there for your kid that to indulge the tsunami of fear that is washing over you. Maybe I do have a few instincts after all. Any way, the whole scan took four minutes which in trauma time is actually four and a half days. The very nice woman came out and released my son from the straight jacket and I scooped him up and held him which made us both feel better. We waited back in the room for the results which came back clear. No fractured skull, no brain swelling just a slight ear infection which showed up as fluid on the scan. The doctor prescribed us some antibiotics and we were on our way home. The giant sense of relief washed over me on the drive home. We did it, we had survived our first emergency relatively unscathed. When we got home we both crawled into bed and slept for hours. I woke up feeling a slight shift in myself as a mother. I had submerged a little deeper into the murky waters of parenthood that morning and realized that I'm not such a bad swimmer after all. (Don't worry, I won't let it go to my head)

And the mother of the year award goes to....ME?!? What!!? Oh my God! This is so unexpected. I promised myself I would cry. Oh my God. Um there are so many people who helped me get here. Where do I start? Um, I'd like to thank my sperm donor and all the wonderful staff at the fertility clinic. Without them, none of this would even be possible. I'd also like to thank all of the people who shared their stories of horrible things they've done to their children that caused them to end up in the ER. Those were so comforting and helpful, thank you! I have to thank Heidi Murkoff, Arlene Eidenberg and Sandee Hathaway for writing "What to Expect the First Year" without which I would just be mothering in the bliss of my ignorance but most of all I'd like to thank my mom, for showing me the kind of mom I want to be (seriously,thanks mom for everything!).

Play that Funky Music White Mom

So I was rolling down the mean streets of Portland in my sweet ride, a 2000 Volvo wagon, just chillin' with my homeboy L-man, when I roll up on this tricked out black Sentra at a light. I look over and the driver is busting some kind of move to a heavy bass beat. Ha! This bad mamma-jamma's got nothin' on me. He looks over and I give him the head nod, eye wink combo. He knows what's comin' next. It is on! I lean down and crank up the knob on my volume dial (and move the speakers all the way to the front of course, so as not to permanently damage my child's hearing) and crack the window just enough for him to get a taste. I shout , "Give me a beat!" ala Janet Jackson in her monster jam "Nasty" (circa 1986, the last time I was anywhere near "cool") and let the sweet sounds of Marlo Thomas singing "Free to be you and Me" flow out of my factory installed speakers. The light turned green and we both drove away without incident but I'm pretty sure he felt me!

The Nap Stopwatch

I sit and listen carefully for the talking and squirming and tossing of toys out of his crib to stop and then POW! I start the clock. I have approx one to one and a half hours to get it all done, shower, get dressed, catch up on email, do the morning dishes (tick, tick, tick) throw in a load of laundry, write on my blog (tick, tick) sweep, vacuum, make the bed, organize the basement, get the mail ready for the post office (PT work at home job), make another pot of decaf (why? I don't know, it's a psychological addiction), add to the pile going to Goodwill (tick, tick, tick, tick) make an appointment with the vet, order shower presents for 16 different women (Whaaaaat it is in this water? HEY! I'm here all week, try the veal!), worry about paying my bills online then pay my bills online, try to figure out how I can make some extra money, peruse craigslist, realize that nobody get hired off of craigslist, peruse the "for sale" items on craigslist, remind myself to stay focused (tick, tick) fill the birdfeeder (birds need love too), take out the recycling, figure out what to make for lunch, pick up the dog crap in the back yard, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick....MAMMM, MAAAAMMMAAAA!! Times up, shit, all I really accomplished was watching last Friday's episode of Supernanny (thank goodness I am so superior to those people). Oh well, one more day without a shower won't kill me...oh my God, who AM I!?!

Lonliness and the Single Mom

Being a single, stay-at-home mom can be a little lonely even a little boring at times. Here are things I like to do to deal with those moments when they arise:

1. I check my email anywhere from 6 to 20 times per hour, just to see if any new mail has popped up. Usually it's spam and I erase it which keeps my mailbox nice and tidy.

2. Sometimes when someone does stop by and I know they can only stay for a minute like grandma or the mailman, I pretend I'm going to say something but I can't quite remember what it is. They don't want to be rude so they'll stand there waiting to hear what I was going to say. And I continue stammering, "Um, gosh, what was I going to tell you? What was it? It's right on the tip of my tongue..." even though there was never really anything in the first place. Finally they'll say something like, "Well, if you can't remember what it was it must not have been that important" or " I really do have a lot of mail still to deliver" But by then I'll have spent 5 minutes in the presence of another adult, which is almost like having company.

3. Watch DVR'd episodes of Jeopardy during naps. Guessing the correct answers inspires a sense of self-worth and capability as in, "If I had a job I'd be really good at it and probably get a raise or promotion."

4. Sweep. I have a love hate relationship with sweeping. I love it when my floors are free of dog hair so that when my son crawls around it doesn't look like he's wearing a hairsuit but I hate the act of sweeping. It's so archaic. You'd think in the thousands of years humans have been sweeping that we'd have come up with something less tedious than a broom. And don't try to argue that a Swiffer is the "new and improved" broom because that's just preposterous. A Swiffer will indeed swiff up a fraction of the hair but do nothing to the nuggets and bumpies except rearrange them. Now you have to Swiffer and sweep! Ridiculous.

5. Call people you haven't spoken with in years. It's fun to scroll through your phone and call people that you haven't talked to in a long time. It can be exhilarating wondering where they are now, what major changes have occurred in their life, I can't wait for them to ask about me! It can also be humiliating. One time I called an old friend from my younger, crazier days. When he answered I exclaimed joyfully, "Hey Maxwell, it's me Shelley. Long time no talk!" There was a long silent pause and finally he replied, "Are you in some kind of twelve step program where to have to apologize to everyone you wronged?" "Um, no" unable to think of the "wrong" I had done him, "but it sure was nice talking to you. Good-bye." And I hung up. I'm a little more selective now when I "boredom dial" people.

6. Drink a beer. (insert politically correct disclaimer) CAUTION: Just one and not every day. There is something incredibly satisfying about drinking a beer in the middle of the day. It implies a certain freedom, an edgy, Sheryl Crow quality that can really shake off that tired, snot-covered mom feeling. Don't judge me! I can feel it from here. Fine don't drink a beer, whatever.

These are just some of the things I do to fight the occasional lonlidom or borediness. I'm sure you can think of others. Let me know if you do. None of these really work anyway.

Ahhh the perfect day (almost)

Today is one of those days where the stars align, the clouds part, the sun shines, etc. etc. I am talking of course about the fact that the kitchen garbage can and the diaper pail are empty at the exact same time. Oh sure, there are times when the pail is empty but the kitchen can is full, that's nice but not ideal. And then the reverse, the kitchen can is empty but the pail is full, mildy satisfying but there's still this dark cloud looming. But today! Today is universal garbarge harmony!

Go ahead and scoff if you must but I am telling you, it's a beautiful thing. For anyone who has ever tried to fit one last poopie diaper in an already swollen sack of...well, you know, pushing it, shoving it in, trying not to touch the partially digested spinach leaking out of the side, all in hopes that you won't have to wrestle (the only word that describes it) the 30 lb. plastic bag out of the pail that sits on the back porch (kept there for obvious reasons) through the house, down the front steps and out to the can, you know what I'm talking about. And taking out the kitchen garbage? Well that's just annoying.

It's times like these when I really miss having a man around, not Valentines Day, not my birthday but take-out-the-trash day. This would definitely be his chore.

There is also a fair amount of guilt that goes along with this process. Hauling those bags out there it becomes all too clear that I am part of the problem not part of the solution. I picture my son's crappy, Seventh Generation diapers sitting in some landfill, not decomposing, not biodegrading, just sitting for generations far beyond his to deal with. I'm sorry, I'm really really sorry. Landfills; just one more item on my list of things to take full responsibility for.

But in this moment I bask. I do not have to think about this whole traumatic conundrum for at least another 5-6 days. Reminder to self: enjoy it while it lasts sister!