Some people have scars that cannot be hidden, ones that mark their bodies in a way that they cannot cover up. Others stare at the mismatched flesh on their faces, their heads, their arms, or their hands, and wonder what tragedy caused them to carry that reminder around forever.
For the rest of us, life deals us whatever set of circumstances that leaves us wounded inside, where no one can see. Every one of us is left scarred in our own way, each to our own extent.
It can be easy to conveniently forget about the pain that caused these injuries, or the fact that you need to deal with them, when they don't stare back at you in the mirror every day. But sometimes, they come screaming back to the surface when you least expect it.
It's not always a bad thing, though.
I'll explain.
Some friends of ours had their first baby on Thursday night. I used my lunch break on Friday to go visit them at the hospital and take them a gift. The new baby was adorable. He slept with a sweet little smirk on his face and just seemed so happy. I was really glad for my friends as the new mom talked about how the baby was barely fussing, was nursing like a champ, was perfectly healthy....
But....there are these other feelings. Like the fact that I wanted to cry in that room, because everything was so relaxed, without everyone worried about things like, "Oh, the baby won't eat, what's going on with this, she doesn't want to eat...." "Nursing just isn't working right now, we're going to have to go ahead and supplement...." "She isn't strong enough for this bottle, you're going to have to feed her from this syringe..." "She has a heart murmur, she's going to need an echo, we can't discharge her until it's been sent up to Dallas to be evaluated by the pediatric cardiologists there...."
It's hard to explain exactly how I was feeling, because I wasn't expecting it at all. Sad, because this baby was only 18 hours old, and their family was already having experiences we were somewhat cheated out of? Or does that make me jealous?
At any rate, it's simple to say that as wonderful and incredible as Brooklyn is, our life with her as a baby has not been what most people would consider normal, although it continues to improve all the time. It was not what I expected or pictured when I imagined having a newborn. I have a million and one beautiful memories. But I have a lot that have also, I guess, scarred me as well.
So, this sweet baby's mom asked me if I wanted to hold him. Of course I did. But I have not held a brand new little one since Brooklyn. I took him in my arms and sat down in the chair by the window and let the sun warm my face. The most peaceful feeling had overcome me, pushing away the stress that I usually cannot rid myself of. The baby boy smirked and smiled and made his tiny baby squeaks as I rocked him back and forth. I just let myself feel....relaxed and calm and happy.
And I started thinking.
Time doesn't heal all wounds. Maybe a better experience, a second chance, is what really does.
I feel like time isn't the answer. More than three years since I had delivered my daughter, I was standing there in that recovery room ready to bawl. I felt like I needed to cover my scars like the man who is ashamed of his old wounds that stay exposed for the world to see.
So, for the very first time since having my daughter, I thought that I might be ready to try to have another child. The thought has not so much as crossed my mind in three years; when other people ask me about it, it completely overwhelms me. I can't handle it, I think. But the reason is, my brain has always automatically thought that everything would be just the same as it was the first time for us. We don't know parenthood any other way.
My worries are many.
But I have hope. I have faith that it could be different this time.
And I want to heal these scars.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Leaving my mark
She is a nearly-blank slate, this beautiful little girl.
She is starting to make a few marks of her own.
She is starting to make a few marks of her own.
But...
someone has to show her how.
So,
by the words I speak,
by the way I say them,
by the way I touch her,
by the way I treat others,
by telling her how proud of her I am,
by telling her what a great job she is doing,
what a beautiful, wonderful, smart, lovely little girl she is,
and that I will love her more than anything, no matter what,
by giving her hugs,
kisses,
attention,and time,
I will draw on the slate that is my amazing daughter.
I want her to have the pieces that are missing from my own work of art.
I will tell her the things that I wanted to be told so badly.
I know how important these words are to a little girl...
And to a girl who is not so little anymore.
I have to be careful that my lines are drawn perfectly straight,
that my curves are perfectly rounded.
I hold my breath and pray
that I don't make any mistakes.
Because I can't erase any marks I make on this canvas.
There is no room for error with a responsibility of this magnitude.
I want her to love everything about the beautiful painting that she becomes,
and know that every mark I ever made
was with complete and utter love
for everything that she is
and will become.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
These moments
I like
the weekend mornings
when it is just she and I.
I wake up to get her from her from her crib and she smiles at me,
offers me her bink and says in her high-pitched little singsongy voice,
"hap-py, hap-py, hap-py, hap-py!"
She stands up, reaches out for me, and I pick her up.
"Good morning, Baby Bear!," I say, "Did you sleep good?"
She answers by giving me sweet baby hugs and kisses.
There could not be a better start to a day.
I cradle her warm, soft body in my arms.
Then, all too soon,
the weekend mornings
when it is just she and I.
I wake up to get her from her from her crib and she smiles at me,
offers me her bink and says in her high-pitched little singsongy voice,
"hap-py, hap-py, hap-py, hap-py!"
She stands up, reaches out for me, and I pick her up.
"Good morning, Baby Bear!," I say, "Did you sleep good?"
She answers by giving me sweet baby hugs and kisses.
There could not be a better start to a day.
We head to the kitchen, where I make her a morning bottle.
The two of us go to the couch so that she can have her breakfast.
She still lets me hold her like a newborn baby when she takes her bottle.
We snuggle,
just she and I,
in our pajamas.
She lays her head against my chest,
I rest my cheek on her head,
and we curl up under a blanket together.
I notice that she drinks her bottle slower than she does at other times.
If I move my head the slightest bit,
she snuggles her body closer against mine,
she snuggles her body closer against mine,
pushing her head underneath the curve of my neck.
She is showing me that she wants to be close to me, too.
She likes our morning cuddle times as much as I do.
I am glad, because these moments seem so few and far between these days.
My baby girl is growing so quickly,
she is so busy,
she has so much to learn,
so much to explore.
She rarely has time to let her mommy hold her close,
no matter how much I crave it.
I cradle her warm, soft body in my arms.
We gaze into each other's eyes.
I stroke her silky soft hair,
I kiss her smooth forehead
and her plush, chubby cheek.
A dozen times,
a hundred times.
I tell her how much I love her
a thousand ways,
a million ways.
That she is my everything,
as if that could describe it fully.
The truth is, I can never find the perfect words
to tell her just how much of a miracle she is.
Then, all too soon,
breakfast is done,
and she reaches up to give me a kiss
before she toddles away
to find her next adventure.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Doing it on my own: EPIC FAIL.
I have been an extremely bad blogger and reader lately. But I've been bad at a lot of things in my life, and I'm finally going to attempt to explain.
About four months ago, I finished breastfeeding Brooklyn and was able to switch antidepressants. I wanted to get off Lexapro because my doctor had told me that after a year, it caused weight gain. I had suspected that it was already responsible for the weight that had been creeping on and would not go away, no matter what I did. So my doctor had said to call when Brooklyn was weaned, and they would switch me to Wellbutrin, which is better for the weight issue. But when I called, they said I couldn't just switch, I had to wean myself off the Lexapro slowly. I had been taking 20 mg a day. I had to drop back to 10 mg a day for a 2 weeks, then one every other day for 2 weeks, then one every third day for a week. I was supposed to call them for the Wellbutrin prescription when I got down to every third day.
But by the time I got down to that one pill every third day, I decided that I was doing all right. And here's the thing: I was prescribed that medicine for post-partum depression. Can you really say you have post-partum depression anymore when you have a toddler? Hardly. I was a bit more emotional, I cried at more things, both happy and sad. I figured it was just the fact that I didn't have the pills acting as a numbing barrier between me and my life anymore. I decided that I was ready to feel everything again. I stopped taking the Lexapro, and I did not call for the Wellbutrin. I was done.
Unfortunately, it didn't take long for feeling like I was all right to turn into feeling miserable. I was sad and unhappy and overly sensitive and angry at everything, I didn't want to go anywhere, I wanted to sleep all of the time, I fought with my husband about ridiculous things that normally wouldn't upset me. I cried countless times every day, again, often about things that weren't even that big of a deal.
Dave didn't get the carseat out of my car before I went to work, so he couldn't go get Brooklyn's prescription like I had asked him to. She was going to miss a dose. It was his off day. Why did he have to be so damn lazy? I was so, so angry. Why should she have to suffer because he doesn't listen to me? Meltdown.
Brooklyn had diarrhea on her Tucker sling an hour before bedtime. I didn't know how I was going to get it clean before she had to go to sleep. Dave was leaving for work. Brooklyn was pulling on my leg screaming and fussing. I stood there bawling.
I don't know. There are probably dozens of these scenarios I'd rather not think about because they just aren't me. Normally. But I let it go on for months. Stubbornness.
I sat at my friend's house and cried and told her about what was going on. "You know what you have to do," she said. "You already told me you're not okay. That's what these medicines are for. You told me that before."
"But how are you ever supposed to know when you can stop? Am I just supposed to be on these pills forever or something? I don't want that. That's ridiculous."
"You tried it without them, it didn't work. You're not ready. You have a lot of stress. You have too much going on. Maybe you can try again in a year or something."
I still did nothing.
On a day when I was at work and had treated my husband particularly badly, I had been ignoring his calls for some time. I finally picked up the phone to talk to him. He told me how frustrated he was with me, but that he knew how bad I had been feeling. "I really think you weren't ready to stop taking your medicine," he said. "You need to call your doctor."
"I'm not same damn psych patient that needs to be monitored on their meds," I snapped back.
"I'm not saying that! You're the only person who thinks that! You're so hypocritical! You work in this job where you tell people they need to get help, where you tell people it's okay to be on these medicines, that they help them, and then you think you're the only person who's above taking them. You won't even tell your own mom about it because you're so damn ashamed of it! I don't get you!"
Here come the tears. "That's easy for you to say. You don't have to take them."
"But I would. If something happened at work or something, and it affected the way things were at home between me and you and Brooklyn, I would do it, and I know you wouldn't judge me for it, right?"
"Hold on." I had to get up and close my office door before the serious waterworks started.
"Okay," I said, "I just don't get it. How can Brooklyn be 18 months old and I still have post-partum depression?"
"Baby. You don't. You just have depression now."
Now I was bawling like a baby. "W-w-w-whyyyyyyy???"
"I don't know why, baby. We just have to deal with it."
"That's not fair. I wasn't like this before."
"I know."
"I hate me. I hate this."
"I know. But Brooklyn loves you, and I love you. And we need you to be happy."
It still took me two weeks to make myself go to the doctor. I did it though. I'm taking Cymbalta now. It's been three weeks, and I'm having a hard time on it. I am starting to feel less depressed, but I'm very, very sick to my stomach and exhausted all of the time. I'm also taking a new medication for my migraines along with it, so I'm not sure if they're working together to make me feel awful. The 14 pounds I've lost is not too shabby though. I'm working through it. This too shall pass, right? Just bear with me, bloggy friends.
So much for doing it all by myself.
About four months ago, I finished breastfeeding Brooklyn and was able to switch antidepressants. I wanted to get off Lexapro because my doctor had told me that after a year, it caused weight gain. I had suspected that it was already responsible for the weight that had been creeping on and would not go away, no matter what I did. So my doctor had said to call when Brooklyn was weaned, and they would switch me to Wellbutrin, which is better for the weight issue. But when I called, they said I couldn't just switch, I had to wean myself off the Lexapro slowly. I had been taking 20 mg a day. I had to drop back to 10 mg a day for a 2 weeks, then one every other day for 2 weeks, then one every third day for a week. I was supposed to call them for the Wellbutrin prescription when I got down to every third day.
But by the time I got down to that one pill every third day, I decided that I was doing all right. And here's the thing: I was prescribed that medicine for post-partum depression. Can you really say you have post-partum depression anymore when you have a toddler? Hardly. I was a bit more emotional, I cried at more things, both happy and sad. I figured it was just the fact that I didn't have the pills acting as a numbing barrier between me and my life anymore. I decided that I was ready to feel everything again. I stopped taking the Lexapro, and I did not call for the Wellbutrin. I was done.
Unfortunately, it didn't take long for feeling like I was all right to turn into feeling miserable. I was sad and unhappy and overly sensitive and angry at everything, I didn't want to go anywhere, I wanted to sleep all of the time, I fought with my husband about ridiculous things that normally wouldn't upset me. I cried countless times every day, again, often about things that weren't even that big of a deal.
Dave didn't get the carseat out of my car before I went to work, so he couldn't go get Brooklyn's prescription like I had asked him to. She was going to miss a dose. It was his off day. Why did he have to be so damn lazy? I was so, so angry. Why should she have to suffer because he doesn't listen to me? Meltdown.
Brooklyn had diarrhea on her Tucker sling an hour before bedtime. I didn't know how I was going to get it clean before she had to go to sleep. Dave was leaving for work. Brooklyn was pulling on my leg screaming and fussing. I stood there bawling.
I don't know. There are probably dozens of these scenarios I'd rather not think about because they just aren't me. Normally. But I let it go on for months. Stubbornness.
I sat at my friend's house and cried and told her about what was going on. "You know what you have to do," she said. "You already told me you're not okay. That's what these medicines are for. You told me that before."
"But how are you ever supposed to know when you can stop? Am I just supposed to be on these pills forever or something? I don't want that. That's ridiculous."
"You tried it without them, it didn't work. You're not ready. You have a lot of stress. You have too much going on. Maybe you can try again in a year or something."
I still did nothing.
On a day when I was at work and had treated my husband particularly badly, I had been ignoring his calls for some time. I finally picked up the phone to talk to him. He told me how frustrated he was with me, but that he knew how bad I had been feeling. "I really think you weren't ready to stop taking your medicine," he said. "You need to call your doctor."
"I'm not same damn psych patient that needs to be monitored on their meds," I snapped back.
"I'm not saying that! You're the only person who thinks that! You're so hypocritical! You work in this job where you tell people they need to get help, where you tell people it's okay to be on these medicines, that they help them, and then you think you're the only person who's above taking them. You won't even tell your own mom about it because you're so damn ashamed of it! I don't get you!"
Here come the tears. "That's easy for you to say. You don't have to take them."
"But I would. If something happened at work or something, and it affected the way things were at home between me and you and Brooklyn, I would do it, and I know you wouldn't judge me for it, right?"
"Hold on." I had to get up and close my office door before the serious waterworks started.
"Okay," I said, "I just don't get it. How can Brooklyn be 18 months old and I still have post-partum depression?"
"Baby. You don't. You just have depression now."
Now I was bawling like a baby. "W-w-w-whyyyyyyy???"
"I don't know why, baby. We just have to deal with it."
"That's not fair. I wasn't like this before."
"I know."
"I hate me. I hate this."
"I know. But Brooklyn loves you, and I love you. And we need you to be happy."
It still took me two weeks to make myself go to the doctor. I did it though. I'm taking Cymbalta now. It's been three weeks, and I'm having a hard time on it. I am starting to feel less depressed, but I'm very, very sick to my stomach and exhausted all of the time. I'm also taking a new medication for my migraines along with it, so I'm not sure if they're working together to make me feel awful. The 14 pounds I've lost is not too shabby though. I'm working through it. This too shall pass, right? Just bear with me, bloggy friends.
So much for doing it all by myself.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
28
I am 28 years old today.
The Blogger logo has a piece of birthday cake with a candle on it today. Do we share a birthday?
09/09/09.
That sounds pretty lucky.
I hope it is.
I am having one of those days where it is hard to even force a fake smile.
I have got to do something to get myself happy. I guess first I have to figure out what that is. I need to find me. I used to know who I was. I used to have an identity.
Brooklyn is the only thing in my life that makes me happy anymore. She is the only wonderful, beautiful, bright, sunny spot in a world of gray. And that means that when she is unhappy, even when it is just grumpy/whiny/sleepy/frustrated typical toddler unhappiness, I am miserable. I feel like a horrible mother, a horrible person when she is not blissfully happy. I feel like curling into a little ball and disappearing. Really, I just want to go to sleep when it's like that (when Dave's home, obviously), but I already feel so guilty about missing out on spending time with my Baby Bear.
There is so much more to this, but it doesn't belong in this post. Most of this really didn't either, but oh well.
I hate being like this.
28 has to get better.
I want a happy birthday. I want a happy 28.
And I close my eyes and wish.
The Blogger logo has a piece of birthday cake with a candle on it today. Do we share a birthday?
09/09/09.
That sounds pretty lucky.
I hope it is.
I am having one of those days where it is hard to even force a fake smile.
I have got to do something to get myself happy. I guess first I have to figure out what that is. I need to find me. I used to know who I was. I used to have an identity.
Brooklyn is the only thing in my life that makes me happy anymore. She is the only wonderful, beautiful, bright, sunny spot in a world of gray. And that means that when she is unhappy, even when it is just grumpy/whiny/sleepy/frustrated typical toddler unhappiness, I am miserable. I feel like a horrible mother, a horrible person when she is not blissfully happy. I feel like curling into a little ball and disappearing. Really, I just want to go to sleep when it's like that (when Dave's home, obviously), but I already feel so guilty about missing out on spending time with my Baby Bear.
There is so much more to this, but it doesn't belong in this post. Most of this really didn't either, but oh well.
I hate being like this.
28 has to get better.
I want a happy birthday. I want a happy 28.
And I close my eyes and wish.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Night watch
My husband moves to night shift tonight. Full-on, 6 pm til 6 am overnights. And I am full of anxiety and fear over it.
I do not want to be at home alone. I am scared. No, make that terrified.
Let me explain why.
I didn't blog about it, but there was a night back in May of this year when a man tried to break into our house at three in the morning.
We were home, asleep. Our dogs woke suddenly and ran to the foot of our bed, barking wildly. We quieted them, then there was another sound. We weren't sure what it was. The dogs went crazy again. We got them calmed down again. Then there was another noise that sounded like someone walking on the wood laminate floor in our living room. "Okay," I whispered, "That sounds like footsteps."
Dave got out of bed and let the dogs down. They charged out of the room, growling and barking. But it was as if there was an invisible perimeter on the living room rug that they would not pass. They absolutely would NOT go any further. Dave picked up his flashlight and shone it around the living room. He would later tell me that someone else flashed a different colored flashlight on our dogs. He hurriedly came back in the bedroom. I was still sitting on our bed. "Call 911," my husband hissed. "Someone's here. I don't know if they're inside or outside, but someone's here."
"What?", I whimpered. "Brooklyn...Brooklyn...." Her bedroom is on the opposite side of the house. "Call 911. Now," Dave growled.
Dave grabbed his shotgun and went to the edge of the living room. He cocked it and roared, "GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!!!"
My trembling fingers fumbled with the cell phone. First I dialed 811. Then 911. The dispatcher answered and asked what my emergency was. I told him my full address and that someone was either trying to break into our house or was already in our house. I was practically hyperventilating as I told him, "My baby...I can't get to her...she's on the other side of the house...my husband's a cop....he's trying to clear the house....I can't get to my baby....my baby...."
Then the dispatcher asked me if I was calling from within the city limits of the major city about 10 miles away from us. UM, NO. I GAVE YOU MY FULL ADDRESS, INCLUDING TOWN, WHEN I CALLED!!!! "Then you need their police department, ma'am. Let me transfer you." AND HE PUT ME ON HOLD!!!
So by then I was definitely hyperventilating and shaking harder than I probably ever have and I had to relay the whole situation to the dispatcher in my actual town. And I could no longer hear Dave....I could occasionally hear a door or see flashing lights and I had no idea what was going on, I just needed to get to my Baby Bear so, so bad.
I think once I was on the phone with the proper dispatcher for all of three minutes before the police arrived at our house. But....oh my God, you want to talk about time creeping by. I slumped against our closet door. "Oh my God...please make them hurry...please, please, my baby, my little baby girl, please, I can't get to her, please, I have to get to her, please, please make them hurry, oh my God, I'm so scared...."
As it turned out, no one had gotten inside of our house. They had been in our backyard, they had come through our back gate. There were footprints in the mud leading up to the window where Dave had seen the flashlight shining in.
And that was that. The police couldn't find him. A man was arrested breaking into houses in a neighboring town with a similar M.O. a few days later. Maybe it was him. Maybe not.
Brooklyn never woke up once through the whole ordeal. Not even after the police left, when I collapsed next to her crib, crying.
And THAT is why I do not want to be home alone at night. I can't do this. What am I supposed to do if something like this happens again and my husband isn't home? I am absolutely terrified of not being able to protect my baby girl.
So. Do I take a sleeping bag into her room and sleep on her floor? My alarm will wake her up when I have to get up for work. Dave won't let me move her crib into our room. I have thought about putting her Tucker sling/wedge that she sleeps on onto our bed next to me so that she can sleep there, but Dave would have to move her and the whole apparatus when he gets home at 6 or 6:30 a.m., and I'm sure it would wake Brooklyn. I hate to shake up her sleep routine in any way whatsoever when she has just started sleeping so well the past few months, but I am just so afraid that I don't know what to do. The worry and fear are absolutely suffocating me this week. I am petrified of tonight. Ideas??????
I do not want to be at home alone. I am scared. No, make that terrified.
Let me explain why.
I didn't blog about it, but there was a night back in May of this year when a man tried to break into our house at three in the morning.
We were home, asleep. Our dogs woke suddenly and ran to the foot of our bed, barking wildly. We quieted them, then there was another sound. We weren't sure what it was. The dogs went crazy again. We got them calmed down again. Then there was another noise that sounded like someone walking on the wood laminate floor in our living room. "Okay," I whispered, "That sounds like footsteps."
Dave got out of bed and let the dogs down. They charged out of the room, growling and barking. But it was as if there was an invisible perimeter on the living room rug that they would not pass. They absolutely would NOT go any further. Dave picked up his flashlight and shone it around the living room. He would later tell me that someone else flashed a different colored flashlight on our dogs. He hurriedly came back in the bedroom. I was still sitting on our bed. "Call 911," my husband hissed. "Someone's here. I don't know if they're inside or outside, but someone's here."
"What?", I whimpered. "Brooklyn...Brooklyn...." Her bedroom is on the opposite side of the house. "Call 911. Now," Dave growled.
Dave grabbed his shotgun and went to the edge of the living room. He cocked it and roared, "GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!!!"
My trembling fingers fumbled with the cell phone. First I dialed 811. Then 911. The dispatcher answered and asked what my emergency was. I told him my full address and that someone was either trying to break into our house or was already in our house. I was practically hyperventilating as I told him, "My baby...I can't get to her...she's on the other side of the house...my husband's a cop....he's trying to clear the house....I can't get to my baby....my baby...."
Then the dispatcher asked me if I was calling from within the city limits of the major city about 10 miles away from us. UM, NO. I GAVE YOU MY FULL ADDRESS, INCLUDING TOWN, WHEN I CALLED!!!! "Then you need their police department, ma'am. Let me transfer you." AND HE PUT ME ON HOLD!!!
So by then I was definitely hyperventilating and shaking harder than I probably ever have and I had to relay the whole situation to the dispatcher in my actual town. And I could no longer hear Dave....I could occasionally hear a door or see flashing lights and I had no idea what was going on, I just needed to get to my Baby Bear so, so bad.
I think once I was on the phone with the proper dispatcher for all of three minutes before the police arrived at our house. But....oh my God, you want to talk about time creeping by. I slumped against our closet door. "Oh my God...please make them hurry...please, please, my baby, my little baby girl, please, I can't get to her, please, I have to get to her, please, please make them hurry, oh my God, I'm so scared...."
As it turned out, no one had gotten inside of our house. They had been in our backyard, they had come through our back gate. There were footprints in the mud leading up to the window where Dave had seen the flashlight shining in.
And that was that. The police couldn't find him. A man was arrested breaking into houses in a neighboring town with a similar M.O. a few days later. Maybe it was him. Maybe not.
Brooklyn never woke up once through the whole ordeal. Not even after the police left, when I collapsed next to her crib, crying.
And THAT is why I do not want to be home alone at night. I can't do this. What am I supposed to do if something like this happens again and my husband isn't home? I am absolutely terrified of not being able to protect my baby girl.
So. Do I take a sleeping bag into her room and sleep on her floor? My alarm will wake her up when I have to get up for work. Dave won't let me move her crib into our room. I have thought about putting her Tucker sling/wedge that she sleeps on onto our bed next to me so that she can sleep there, but Dave would have to move her and the whole apparatus when he gets home at 6 or 6:30 a.m., and I'm sure it would wake Brooklyn. I hate to shake up her sleep routine in any way whatsoever when she has just started sleeping so well the past few months, but I am just so afraid that I don't know what to do. The worry and fear are absolutely suffocating me this week. I am petrified of tonight. Ideas??????
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Can I vent for a minute, please?
Dear Father-in-law,
How dare you. When your son calls to tell you how afraid he is that his baby could be autistic, how dare you belittle him and make him feel so small. He called you because this is the same diagnosis that his brother, your other son, has. So he thought you might be understanding for once. Instead of listening, you first had to argue with him and tell him that everything about Brooklyn's development is normal and that everything is fine. Then, when your son tells you, no, her doctors say it's not normal, you get mad and say that it's normal for a baby who has had the medical problems she has had. That you would expect it so why can't we? We just need to deal with it. That we don't know what real problems are. That everything that Brooklyn has had to struggle with her entire little life has never been "anything major."
Then you turn downright ugly and say that if there is something developmentally wrong with our daughter, that it's our fault because we "just strapped her in her carseat or swing and left her all the time" when she was an infant. I'm sorry, but when the hell did this happen?? I seem to remember nearly losing my mind because for months, I would not even put her down so that I could use the bathroom or change my clothes or get something to eat because I could not bear to hear her cry. I recall not sleeping many nights because she would not sleep unless she was being held, and my intense fear of SIDS wouldn't allow me to fall asleep while holding her, and I couldn't even dream of letting her sleep in my bed. Yes, she eventually began sleeping in her carseat, but that's because her doctors told us that was where she needed to sleep because she needed to be elevated.
So please tell me, when the fuck did we EVER just leave her in her carseat or swing and walk away? I still cannot leave her unattended for five seconds. Even when she was asleep in the carseat (on doctor's orders, remember???), she was right beside our bed at night, or right next to wherever we were sitting at the time. We have always talked to her, read to her, sang to her, played music for her, bought all of these developmental toys to play with her, everything we could think of to try to optimize her cognitive growth. We have held and rocked and cuddled and hugged and loved on our daughter more than I ever thought possible. Countless hours.
But you wouldn't know that, would you? You wouldn't know because you are a selfish asshole, and you could count the number of times you have been around your first and only grandchild on your digits. You could count the number of times you've held her on one hand. You lost interest in my pregnancy when we found out that our unborn baby was a little girl. At the hospital when she was born, you wouldn't call her by her name, and repeatedly referred to her as "Brittany" and "Brooke." Instead of an appropriate baby gift, you brought your hours-old granddaughter a hideous dog chew toy in the shape of a pig that was bigger than she was. When your son asked you to hold his pride and joy, you waved him away and said, "Nah. I don't want to." When she was terribly ill and was hospitalized when she was four months old, you came to her hospital room and mocked the IV line in her head, even after hearing how traumatic the experience was for both she and I. She was horribly ill and we were afraid, no one knew what was wrong, and you sat there and laughed at her.
You think that you know so much. You've disregarded our baby's doctors' orders because you believe that you are so much smarter than her specialists. When she was having so many problems with her digestive tract, you fed her meat juice, when all she had ever ingested prior to that point was breastmilk, formula, and baby cereal. You asked Dave if our daughter could have it. He said no. We looked over and not a minute later, you were doing what you wanted anyway. You've run your mouth off many a time, telling us what we need to be doing to "make" her sit, crawl, walk, breathe better, sleep better, gain weight, whatever you thought her problem was on each occasion. Do you think that your son has forgotten that you were scarcely around when he was growing up, and that when you were, you didn't make an effort to be a parent? Do you honestly think that we would believe that you're an expert on any of these matters?
You're the most ignorant, pompous, immature, inconsiderate, heartless asshole I have ever known. How dare you. How dare you crush your own son with your words when he needed you to just shut up and listen, or God forbid, reassure him a little bit. He is scared. He is beside himself with stress and worry. And you respond with talking out of your ass and mindless, unfounded accusations. HOW DARE YOU accuse us of poor parenting and blame us when you are never even around to know that we devote every last drop of our love and energy into making everything right for our precious baby girl. How dare you make us question ourselves. How dare you try to make things worse than they already are with your idiotic lies. How dare you treat our family this way.
How dare you. When your son calls to tell you how afraid he is that his baby could be autistic, how dare you belittle him and make him feel so small. He called you because this is the same diagnosis that his brother, your other son, has. So he thought you might be understanding for once. Instead of listening, you first had to argue with him and tell him that everything about Brooklyn's development is normal and that everything is fine. Then, when your son tells you, no, her doctors say it's not normal, you get mad and say that it's normal for a baby who has had the medical problems she has had. That you would expect it so why can't we? We just need to deal with it. That we don't know what real problems are. That everything that Brooklyn has had to struggle with her entire little life has never been "anything major."
Then you turn downright ugly and say that if there is something developmentally wrong with our daughter, that it's our fault because we "just strapped her in her carseat or swing and left her all the time" when she was an infant. I'm sorry, but when the hell did this happen?? I seem to remember nearly losing my mind because for months, I would not even put her down so that I could use the bathroom or change my clothes or get something to eat because I could not bear to hear her cry. I recall not sleeping many nights because she would not sleep unless she was being held, and my intense fear of SIDS wouldn't allow me to fall asleep while holding her, and I couldn't even dream of letting her sleep in my bed. Yes, she eventually began sleeping in her carseat, but that's because her doctors told us that was where she needed to sleep because she needed to be elevated.
So please tell me, when the fuck did we EVER just leave her in her carseat or swing and walk away? I still cannot leave her unattended for five seconds. Even when she was asleep in the carseat (on doctor's orders, remember???), she was right beside our bed at night, or right next to wherever we were sitting at the time. We have always talked to her, read to her, sang to her, played music for her, bought all of these developmental toys to play with her, everything we could think of to try to optimize her cognitive growth. We have held and rocked and cuddled and hugged and loved on our daughter more than I ever thought possible. Countless hours.
But you wouldn't know that, would you? You wouldn't know because you are a selfish asshole, and you could count the number of times you have been around your first and only grandchild on your digits. You could count the number of times you've held her on one hand. You lost interest in my pregnancy when we found out that our unborn baby was a little girl. At the hospital when she was born, you wouldn't call her by her name, and repeatedly referred to her as "Brittany" and "Brooke." Instead of an appropriate baby gift, you brought your hours-old granddaughter a hideous dog chew toy in the shape of a pig that was bigger than she was. When your son asked you to hold his pride and joy, you waved him away and said, "Nah. I don't want to." When she was terribly ill and was hospitalized when she was four months old, you came to her hospital room and mocked the IV line in her head, even after hearing how traumatic the experience was for both she and I. She was horribly ill and we were afraid, no one knew what was wrong, and you sat there and laughed at her.
You think that you know so much. You've disregarded our baby's doctors' orders because you believe that you are so much smarter than her specialists. When she was having so many problems with her digestive tract, you fed her meat juice, when all she had ever ingested prior to that point was breastmilk, formula, and baby cereal. You asked Dave if our daughter could have it. He said no. We looked over and not a minute later, you were doing what you wanted anyway. You've run your mouth off many a time, telling us what we need to be doing to "make" her sit, crawl, walk, breathe better, sleep better, gain weight, whatever you thought her problem was on each occasion. Do you think that your son has forgotten that you were scarcely around when he was growing up, and that when you were, you didn't make an effort to be a parent? Do you honestly think that we would believe that you're an expert on any of these matters?
You're the most ignorant, pompous, immature, inconsiderate, heartless asshole I have ever known. How dare you. How dare you crush your own son with your words when he needed you to just shut up and listen, or God forbid, reassure him a little bit. He is scared. He is beside himself with stress and worry. And you respond with talking out of your ass and mindless, unfounded accusations. HOW DARE YOU accuse us of poor parenting and blame us when you are never even around to know that we devote every last drop of our love and energy into making everything right for our precious baby girl. How dare you make us question ourselves. How dare you try to make things worse than they already are with your idiotic lies. How dare you treat our family this way.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Just a little love note
Dear Brooklyn,
You amaze me. It seems that with each passing day, there are new pieces of your personality that emerge and new things you do that are so incredibly sweet. And I fall deeper and deeper in love with you. I never thought love this deep was possible. I am in awe of the fact that God gave you to me. How in the world could I have been a part of making such a beautiful being as yourself?
Yesterday, you and I were in the car and we were listening to Death Cab for Cutie and Radiohead. I looked in the rearview mirror and I saw your head turned towards the sky, a smile on your face, and your arms in the air, waving to the beat of the music. You love music. You feel it in your bones and down in your soul; I love that about you. You are much like me in that way, I can see it. You feel totally free to express yourself, and I wish that I could be that way too. Most of us lose that freedom as the years pass by. I hope you never do, because it is such a beautiful part of you.
You gave me a kiss for the first time yesterday. You woke up from your afternoon nap and hugged me over and over, like you always do. Then you looked me straight in the eye, leaned forward, and gently pressed your little lips against mine. And again. And again. No puckering, no smooching noises. Just a soft touch and more sincerity than I have ever seen. Later, as I carried you around the park, you put your hand on my cheek and turned my head toward you so that you could give me more kisses. I choked back my tears. You are finally able to return the love I have been showing you for all these days, weeks, and months. It fills my heart with more adoration than I can contain. Loving you is incredible, but knowing that you love me too? It's the best feeling in the world. It amazes me that you love me back. I don't deserve anything that pure, that lovely, that sweet. But you choose to love me anyway. I don't deserve you, but yet you are mine.
What a miracle you are.
I love you, Brooklyn.
♥,
Mommy
Mommy
Thursday, August 13, 2009
She fills me with such hope with a single word....
Tonight, Brooklyn and I sat on the couch, reading her books. We read a Sesame Street book, and then an Arthur book. Then she brought me "Corduroy." I began reading the story to her. On each page, I would ask, "Where's the bear? Where's the bunny? Show Mommy the baby doll. Can you please show Mommy where the giraffe is?" My questions were met with blank stares at the pages, just the way it has been for more than a month now. My baby girl had started recognizing animals and items on the pages of her books, then one day she just suddenly stopped. I have felt my heart sink a little further each day that she doesn't talk, doesn't want to hear the names of everything she sees, doesn't seem to care about words anymore.
I sighed and let Brooklyn turn the page.
I am nothing if not persistent, though. Next page. "Where's the bear, Brooklyn?"
"Behhhh??", said a tiny voice.
I swear I had to catch my breath. Surely it was just a coincidental noise she was making. Maybe it was wishful thinking on my part.
"Bear?"
"Behhhhh?"
"Bear?"
"Behhhhhhhhhhhh?"
"Oh my God! David! Is she saying bear?!"
Dave tested out the waters. "Hey Brooklyn....bear?"
"Behhhhhhhhh?"
My husband nodded excitedly. "Yeah! Yeah, she is!"
"Bear?????", I squealed.
"Behhhhhhhhhhhh???", said Brooklyn, bouncing on my lap with a big, proud smile.
"Oh, Baby Bear. Oh my gosh. You said bear! You talked! Oh, my smart little girl!!! Oh, thank you!!!" I drowned her in hugs and kisses.
And we said "bear" back and forth about 20 more times. My heart beat so fast in my chest with the excitement of it all. A flood of relief washed over me. I think I smiled for two hours straight. Oh. My. God. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
My little girl got tired of the "bear" game after a while, but she did humor us and say it a few more times throughout the evening.
As Dave was changing Brooklyn into her pajamas before bedtime, he was tickling her and saying, "Ohhhh....Baby Bear!" And then we heard, "Behhhhhh? Bee." Dave said, "I think she's trying to say Baby Bear!" So we repeated "Baby Bear!" over and over to Brooklyn, and over and over she said in her sweet little voice, "Behhhhh? Bee."
Before I laid my sweet girl down in her crib tonight, we cuddled together, listening to Iron & Wine. Brooklyn laid against my chest and snuggled her little body into mine. I laid my head against hers and cried softly, dampening her soft little curls with my tears. "Thank you, God," I whispered. "Thank you for letting my Baby Bear talk. Thank you. Please let her keep talking. Please let her other words come back. Please, please let her be okay. Thank you so much for her, God. Please let her be okay. Thank you, thank you for letting her talk again."
I could have held on to her forever tonight. And she seemed to feel the same. We stayed awake together later than usual, I held her and rocked her and talked to her. We were both so calm and peaceful. I told her how much I loved her and how proud I was of her. Every time I paused, she answered me with a little baby noise. "Mmmmm." To me, her sounds said, "I love you too."
I am filled with such love, such gratitude, such relief. It's as if the sound of her sweet little baby voice healed something inside of me that has been falling apart. I will not forget tonight. As I write this, I am still crying, yet I haven't felt this good in a while.
I know everything that has been going on with Brooklyn isn't suddenly fixed tonight. I know we still don't have all of the answers we need. But she took such a step in the right direction. It gives me hope and lets me believe that my little girl will be all right. Tonight, the feeling of fear that has been hanging all over me and weighing me down has been replaced with peace.
I think I will sleep soundly, for the first time in weeks.
I sighed and let Brooklyn turn the page.
I am nothing if not persistent, though. Next page. "Where's the bear, Brooklyn?"
"Behhhh??", said a tiny voice.
I swear I had to catch my breath. Surely it was just a coincidental noise she was making. Maybe it was wishful thinking on my part.
"Bear?"
"Behhhhh?"
"Bear?"
"Behhhhhhhhhhhh?"
"Oh my God! David! Is she saying bear?!"
Dave tested out the waters. "Hey Brooklyn....bear?"
"Behhhhhhhhh?"
My husband nodded excitedly. "Yeah! Yeah, she is!"
"Bear?????", I squealed.
"Behhhhhhhhhhhh???", said Brooklyn, bouncing on my lap with a big, proud smile.
"Oh, Baby Bear. Oh my gosh. You said bear! You talked! Oh, my smart little girl!!! Oh, thank you!!!" I drowned her in hugs and kisses.
And we said "bear" back and forth about 20 more times. My heart beat so fast in my chest with the excitement of it all. A flood of relief washed over me. I think I smiled for two hours straight. Oh. My. God. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
My little girl got tired of the "bear" game after a while, but she did humor us and say it a few more times throughout the evening.
As Dave was changing Brooklyn into her pajamas before bedtime, he was tickling her and saying, "Ohhhh....Baby Bear!" And then we heard, "Behhhhhh? Bee." Dave said, "I think she's trying to say Baby Bear!" So we repeated "Baby Bear!" over and over to Brooklyn, and over and over she said in her sweet little voice, "Behhhhh? Bee."
Before I laid my sweet girl down in her crib tonight, we cuddled together, listening to Iron & Wine. Brooklyn laid against my chest and snuggled her little body into mine. I laid my head against hers and cried softly, dampening her soft little curls with my tears. "Thank you, God," I whispered. "Thank you for letting my Baby Bear talk. Thank you. Please let her keep talking. Please let her other words come back. Please, please let her be okay. Thank you so much for her, God. Please let her be okay. Thank you, thank you for letting her talk again."
I could have held on to her forever tonight. And she seemed to feel the same. We stayed awake together later than usual, I held her and rocked her and talked to her. We were both so calm and peaceful. I told her how much I loved her and how proud I was of her. Every time I paused, she answered me with a little baby noise. "Mmmmm." To me, her sounds said, "I love you too."
I am filled with such love, such gratitude, such relief. It's as if the sound of her sweet little baby voice healed something inside of me that has been falling apart. I will not forget tonight. As I write this, I am still crying, yet I haven't felt this good in a while.
I know everything that has been going on with Brooklyn isn't suddenly fixed tonight. I know we still don't have all of the answers we need. But she took such a step in the right direction. It gives me hope and lets me believe that my little girl will be all right. Tonight, the feeling of fear that has been hanging all over me and weighing me down has been replaced with peace.
I think I will sleep soundly, for the first time in weeks.
Monday, August 10, 2009
A little reassurance, but a lot of "wait and see."
Brooklyn saw Dr. A, her pediatrician, on Friday afternoon. This visit was of course due to the fact that she has stopped saying all of her words except for "Dada," and we are worried about the possibility that she could be autistic.
Dr. A said that we did the right thing by bringing her in to see him. But he said that Brooklyn is too young to be diagnosed with autism or any other type of pervasive developmental disorder. He is concerned that she is no longer talking. He told us that it is not normal and it is not what you want. However, it "just happens" to babies sometimes, and it is possible that any day her words could return and everything would be back to normal. But the longer she goes without speaking, the more worried he will be.
Dr. A told us that his gut feeling is that Brooklyn is NOT autistic. This is mainly because she is continuing to socialize in ways other than speaking. During the appointment, Brooklyn got my keys out of my bag and kept bringing them to Dr. A. He said that this was the most positive thing he saw during our appointment, because autistic children will not do this because they don't care about involving others in their play. That was really encouraging. Brooklyn brings us her toys and books and things all the time. She always has.
Dr. A said that he will not tell us that some type of autism spectrum disorder not a possibility. He said if you took 100 babies who were going through what Brooklyn is going through right now, 90 of them would turn out fine, and about 10 of them would probably fall somewhere on the autism spectrum. I'm sorry, I know that was supposed to make us feel better, but I just really don't like those "10 out of 100" odds. There is not any kind of test that they can do at this point to give us an answer. Dr. A said that a lot of behaviors that are normal for a 16 or 17 month old would be considered autistic behavior in a child who was closer to two years old. He said that many times, when parents come in with similar concerns, he just tells them to relax and not to worry about it. But he said that he wasn't going to tell us that because of everything we have already been through with Brooklyn, the amount of medical problems she has had already that are not "the norm," and because of Dave's family history of autism. He called the genetic component of autism "huge."
He doesn't think that it is a neurological problem because Brooklyn hasn't regressed in any other areas of her development. But he will order a head MRI and refer her to a developmental specialist in a month or two if she still isn't talking.
So I asked, where did her words go...why would this just happen? Dr. A didn't have an explanation. Sometimes it happens after a severe infection, like encephalitis. But Brooklyn hasn't been sick. There is controversy over whether this can occur after immunizations, and he said that unfortunately Brooklyn falls into the post-MMR immunization window, when some people believe autistic behavior can begin. But then he talked about the research that showed that autism is not linked to the MMR vaccine. So I was confused...he brought up the immunization issue as a possible cause, then said that the vaccine and autism aren't related. I need to read more about this, and I will probably freak myself out more in doing so.
I guess the bottom line is that Dr. A doesn't know why this is happening.
He said that there wasn't much we could do right now besides wait. We are to verbalize everything we are doing all the time to her, talk to her constantly. We have already been doing that. I asked about the evaluation with Early Childhood Intervention, and Dr. A said that we could move forward with it if we wanted to, but that it wouldn't do much. He said that they would come and evaluate her and tell us that she is on the level of about a 10 or 11 month old, which sounds really bad, and put her in speech therapy. He told us that there is not much evidence that speech therapy is effective in babies Brooklyn's age. I think that I am going to go ahead and do it. I sent in the referral 2 weeks ago, and I haven't heard anything back yet. Hopefully they will call us soon. I need to feel like I am doing something for my baby besides just waiting and watching.
We go back to Dr. A in a month. So that's pretty much it for now. Wait and see. Or, in my case, wait and fret and worry and stress and overanalyze.....
Dr. A said that we did the right thing by bringing her in to see him. But he said that Brooklyn is too young to be diagnosed with autism or any other type of pervasive developmental disorder. He is concerned that she is no longer talking. He told us that it is not normal and it is not what you want. However, it "just happens" to babies sometimes, and it is possible that any day her words could return and everything would be back to normal. But the longer she goes without speaking, the more worried he will be.
Dr. A told us that his gut feeling is that Brooklyn is NOT autistic. This is mainly because she is continuing to socialize in ways other than speaking. During the appointment, Brooklyn got my keys out of my bag and kept bringing them to Dr. A. He said that this was the most positive thing he saw during our appointment, because autistic children will not do this because they don't care about involving others in their play. That was really encouraging. Brooklyn brings us her toys and books and things all the time. She always has.
Dr. A said that he will not tell us that some type of autism spectrum disorder not a possibility. He said if you took 100 babies who were going through what Brooklyn is going through right now, 90 of them would turn out fine, and about 10 of them would probably fall somewhere on the autism spectrum. I'm sorry, I know that was supposed to make us feel better, but I just really don't like those "10 out of 100" odds. There is not any kind of test that they can do at this point to give us an answer. Dr. A said that a lot of behaviors that are normal for a 16 or 17 month old would be considered autistic behavior in a child who was closer to two years old. He said that many times, when parents come in with similar concerns, he just tells them to relax and not to worry about it. But he said that he wasn't going to tell us that because of everything we have already been through with Brooklyn, the amount of medical problems she has had already that are not "the norm," and because of Dave's family history of autism. He called the genetic component of autism "huge."
He doesn't think that it is a neurological problem because Brooklyn hasn't regressed in any other areas of her development. But he will order a head MRI and refer her to a developmental specialist in a month or two if she still isn't talking.
So I asked, where did her words go...why would this just happen? Dr. A didn't have an explanation. Sometimes it happens after a severe infection, like encephalitis. But Brooklyn hasn't been sick. There is controversy over whether this can occur after immunizations, and he said that unfortunately Brooklyn falls into the post-MMR immunization window, when some people believe autistic behavior can begin. But then he talked about the research that showed that autism is not linked to the MMR vaccine. So I was confused...he brought up the immunization issue as a possible cause, then said that the vaccine and autism aren't related. I need to read more about this, and I will probably freak myself out more in doing so.
I guess the bottom line is that Dr. A doesn't know why this is happening.
He said that there wasn't much we could do right now besides wait. We are to verbalize everything we are doing all the time to her, talk to her constantly. We have already been doing that. I asked about the evaluation with Early Childhood Intervention, and Dr. A said that we could move forward with it if we wanted to, but that it wouldn't do much. He said that they would come and evaluate her and tell us that she is on the level of about a 10 or 11 month old, which sounds really bad, and put her in speech therapy. He told us that there is not much evidence that speech therapy is effective in babies Brooklyn's age. I think that I am going to go ahead and do it. I sent in the referral 2 weeks ago, and I haven't heard anything back yet. Hopefully they will call us soon. I need to feel like I am doing something for my baby besides just waiting and watching.
We go back to Dr. A in a month. So that's pretty much it for now. Wait and see. Or, in my case, wait and fret and worry and stress and overanalyze.....
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The Book of Love
As I was gathering my things to leave for work yesterday morning, my mother in law sat on our couch and chatted away about what she and Brooklyn were going to do that day. She wanted to know where her best walking shoes were. "I read online that she should be able to walk backwards by now," she said. "So I'm going to take her on a walk and we're going to try it."
"Oh, okay," I replied. "Just remember, she's been a little behind on her motor development, so she might not be ready yet, and that's okay."
"Yeah, I know. But she's ahead on some things too. And she only does some of the weird things that Jon did when he was a baby."
I swallowed hard. Jon is my husband's younger brother, who is autistic and mentally retarded. We have not told my mother in law that we are having Brooklyn evaluated by Early Childhood Intervention or that we are afraid something could be wrong with her. She doesn't seem to have noticed that Brooklyn is no longer speaking words. She doesn't know that we are taking her to the doctor this Friday because we are afraid of what this could mean.
I tried to find my words and pushed the lump in my throat back down. "Um. Uh. What does she do that Jon did when he was a baby?"
"Well, you know how she plays by herself, and she gets off in her own little world, and you can't distract her from it? And you say her name and she doesn't look at you or anything? Jon was the only one of my kids who was like that."
"Oh."
"There's a lot of other stuff he did that was off that she doesn't do. So I think she's going to be fine by the time she starts school."
"Yeah." Fake smile. Outside in my car, I make a panicky call to David, and he tries to reassure me and tell me just to wait until Friday. He says things like maybe his mom doesn't remember which child did what. He tells me that all kids "zone out" when they're playing, that it's normal.
Maybe. But maybe not.
I am distracted all day long at work. My fingers think for themselves as they type away at reports on criminals while my mind is racing, playing the "what if" game. At lunch, I look up the age-appropriate milestone checklists again. I read over the possible early signs of autism again. My baby doesn't have all of these warning signs by any means. She still makes eye contact with me, she smiles, she laughs, she talks to herself in her baby language. She doesn't flap her hands or arms or organize her toys into categories. But that big red flag keeps jumping out at me....loss of words. Where did her words go? Why? I try to look for other causes of this, but everything I read mentions that dreaded A-word.
That evening, I leave work and drive across town to pick up one of Brooklyn's prescriptions. I am blaring one of my mix cd's, and Peter Gabriel's "Book of Love" begins to play. The beautiful sounds of the strings fill my ears, and I feel my heart breaking.
Ever since we started trying to conceive, David has had dreams of a little girl, our little daughter, playing a violin. He wants so badly for Brooklyn to play the violin, because I love them so much, and he has dreamed it vividly so many times. It paints a beautiful picture in my head as well. We have been so excited to see that Brooklyn appears to be so musically inclined...she loves to listen to music, she dances to every type of music she hears with a big grin on her face, she seems to feel the notes and chords and rhythms deep down inside her little body. "I can't wait to get her a violin," David said the other night. "I can't wait to hear her play it."
Fear ran through my body as I listened to the song playing, the strings swelling.
What if she CAN'T.
What if she can't do all of these other things that I want for her, that I dream of her being able to do. Doing well in school, becoming whatever she wants to be, getting married, having a family of her own. What if she can't do anything.
What if she's like my brother in law and can't ever live independently? What if, like him, she has to live isolated, trapped as an angry child within a grown-up body, unable to relate to anyone else? What if. Oh. My. God. What if.
I lost it. I sobbed hard all the way to the pharmacy, tears blurring my vision of the traffic, my throat so tight that it was painful to breathe, my chest feeling like it was going to burst wide open. "Dear God," I whispered, "Please let my baby be okay. Please let her start talking again. Don't do this to her. I can't take this."
These fucking what if's, and this fucking waiting game. I am not trying to dwell on the worst possible outcome, and I'm not trying to be negative, especially when we know nothing at this point. I don't want to jump to conclusions or assume anything. But I am so afraid. My mind wanders off to dark places these days, and sometimes I can't bring it back.
"Oh, okay," I replied. "Just remember, she's been a little behind on her motor development, so she might not be ready yet, and that's okay."
"Yeah, I know. But she's ahead on some things too. And she only does some of the weird things that Jon did when he was a baby."
I swallowed hard. Jon is my husband's younger brother, who is autistic and mentally retarded. We have not told my mother in law that we are having Brooklyn evaluated by Early Childhood Intervention or that we are afraid something could be wrong with her. She doesn't seem to have noticed that Brooklyn is no longer speaking words. She doesn't know that we are taking her to the doctor this Friday because we are afraid of what this could mean.
I tried to find my words and pushed the lump in my throat back down. "Um. Uh. What does she do that Jon did when he was a baby?"
"Well, you know how she plays by herself, and she gets off in her own little world, and you can't distract her from it? And you say her name and she doesn't look at you or anything? Jon was the only one of my kids who was like that."
"Oh."
"There's a lot of other stuff he did that was off that she doesn't do. So I think she's going to be fine by the time she starts school."
"Yeah." Fake smile. Outside in my car, I make a panicky call to David, and he tries to reassure me and tell me just to wait until Friday. He says things like maybe his mom doesn't remember which child did what. He tells me that all kids "zone out" when they're playing, that it's normal.
Maybe. But maybe not.
I am distracted all day long at work. My fingers think for themselves as they type away at reports on criminals while my mind is racing, playing the "what if" game. At lunch, I look up the age-appropriate milestone checklists again. I read over the possible early signs of autism again. My baby doesn't have all of these warning signs by any means. She still makes eye contact with me, she smiles, she laughs, she talks to herself in her baby language. She doesn't flap her hands or arms or organize her toys into categories. But that big red flag keeps jumping out at me....loss of words. Where did her words go? Why? I try to look for other causes of this, but everything I read mentions that dreaded A-word.
That evening, I leave work and drive across town to pick up one of Brooklyn's prescriptions. I am blaring one of my mix cd's, and Peter Gabriel's "Book of Love" begins to play. The beautiful sounds of the strings fill my ears, and I feel my heart breaking.
Ever since we started trying to conceive, David has had dreams of a little girl, our little daughter, playing a violin. He wants so badly for Brooklyn to play the violin, because I love them so much, and he has dreamed it vividly so many times. It paints a beautiful picture in my head as well. We have been so excited to see that Brooklyn appears to be so musically inclined...she loves to listen to music, she dances to every type of music she hears with a big grin on her face, she seems to feel the notes and chords and rhythms deep down inside her little body. "I can't wait to get her a violin," David said the other night. "I can't wait to hear her play it."
Fear ran through my body as I listened to the song playing, the strings swelling.
What if she CAN'T.
What if she can't do all of these other things that I want for her, that I dream of her being able to do. Doing well in school, becoming whatever she wants to be, getting married, having a family of her own. What if she can't do anything.
What if she's like my brother in law and can't ever live independently? What if, like him, she has to live isolated, trapped as an angry child within a grown-up body, unable to relate to anyone else? What if. Oh. My. God. What if.
I lost it. I sobbed hard all the way to the pharmacy, tears blurring my vision of the traffic, my throat so tight that it was painful to breathe, my chest feeling like it was going to burst wide open. "Dear God," I whispered, "Please let my baby be okay. Please let her start talking again. Don't do this to her. I can't take this."
These fucking what if's, and this fucking waiting game. I am not trying to dwell on the worst possible outcome, and I'm not trying to be negative, especially when we know nothing at this point. I don't want to jump to conclusions or assume anything. But I am so afraid. My mind wanders off to dark places these days, and sometimes I can't bring it back.
Monday, August 3, 2009
This machine cannot communicate these thoughts and the strain I am under....
I knew I hadn't blogged in a while, but I was shocked to get on here and see that it had been just a couple of days short of a month since my last entry.
Allow me to attempt to explain myself.
No, I can't give you a single specific reason why I haven't been writing. I will tell you that I started this blog to be my personal, somewhat-anonymous space where I could say what I wanted, where I could vent and worry and talk about things that I am normally too afraid to talk about in real life. Well, either afraid to talk about or I just don't feel like anyone wants to hear about it. And now, apparently I am getting that way with my blog too.
I could write about how more often than not, my marriage seems to be crumbling. How my husband and I fight for hours at a time, days at a time, yell at each other, and how I want to hit him so badly for saying the hurtful things he says to me. How I have cried so hard that I cannot stop and end up having panic attacks in the middle of the night, because I never, ever thought that we would be like this, and I never would have dreamed that I would feel the way that I do about him so often now.
I could blog about how my brother was living in a Wal-Mart because he has been kicked out of overy homeless shelter in town because he refuses to stop using drugs. I could tell you about the call my parents got from one of my brother's friends, saying that my brother had a cyanide pill and planned to take it soon to end his life. How my parents asked me to help, and so I knew nothing else to do but to use my connections at work to have a probation violation warrant issued for his arrest. I went and told his probation officer's supervisor about every violation that I knew of. I found out where he was going to be dropped off and when on the day said warrant was released. I stayed on the phone with the officers as they found and followed him, and arrested him. How my brother said he would kill himself in jail and my guilt related to that. What kind of person orchestrates her own brother's arrest? Me, apparently, when I see no other way to try to save him from himself. But if something happens to him behind those bars, I will never be able to forgive myself. Because although I am not the REASON he is in jail, I put him there.
I could write about my worst fear in the world right now...that at sixteen months, my baby girl has stopped using all of her words. How every word with the exception of "Dada" has seemingly disappeared from her little mind. That it has been nearly a month since I have heard her sweet, tiny baby voice say "Mama", "baby", "apple", "hi", "hey", "bye", "puppy", "egg", or "fish". That she no longer points at pictures in books, asking to hear the words for everything by saying "This? This?" How I am completely terrified of that horrible, ugly A-word...autism. That my husband is sick with worry over it because it runs in his family. "If she has it," he says, "it would be all my fault." And that it is taking what seems like a million years to have her evaluated or seen by her pedi. That I truly don't know if I could handle that diagnosis. I am so afraid to even think of it as a possibility, to type or speak the word. As if doing so will curse her with that condition or make it suddenly real. It tears me into a million little pieces.
I could write about any of those things.
But I end up pushing it all back down inside, rolling my fear and anger and guilt and sadness and worry into a ball in the pit of my stomach, and not using this blog for what it was intended to be - my only outlet for all of these feelings and fears. I tell myself that no one wants to read whiny, negative entries. That if I write the things that I am thinking, that people will think I am some kind of self-pitying, bitchy, crybaby drama queen.
And then I can't think of anything else I have to say, because all of these horrible feelings seem to consume me completely these days.
And no one wants to hear about that, right?
Allow me to attempt to explain myself.
No, I can't give you a single specific reason why I haven't been writing. I will tell you that I started this blog to be my personal, somewhat-anonymous space where I could say what I wanted, where I could vent and worry and talk about things that I am normally too afraid to talk about in real life. Well, either afraid to talk about or I just don't feel like anyone wants to hear about it. And now, apparently I am getting that way with my blog too.
I could write about how more often than not, my marriage seems to be crumbling. How my husband and I fight for hours at a time, days at a time, yell at each other, and how I want to hit him so badly for saying the hurtful things he says to me. How I have cried so hard that I cannot stop and end up having panic attacks in the middle of the night, because I never, ever thought that we would be like this, and I never would have dreamed that I would feel the way that I do about him so often now.
I could blog about how my brother was living in a Wal-Mart because he has been kicked out of overy homeless shelter in town because he refuses to stop using drugs. I could tell you about the call my parents got from one of my brother's friends, saying that my brother had a cyanide pill and planned to take it soon to end his life. How my parents asked me to help, and so I knew nothing else to do but to use my connections at work to have a probation violation warrant issued for his arrest. I went and told his probation officer's supervisor about every violation that I knew of. I found out where he was going to be dropped off and when on the day said warrant was released. I stayed on the phone with the officers as they found and followed him, and arrested him. How my brother said he would kill himself in jail and my guilt related to that. What kind of person orchestrates her own brother's arrest? Me, apparently, when I see no other way to try to save him from himself. But if something happens to him behind those bars, I will never be able to forgive myself. Because although I am not the REASON he is in jail, I put him there.
I could write about my worst fear in the world right now...that at sixteen months, my baby girl has stopped using all of her words. How every word with the exception of "Dada" has seemingly disappeared from her little mind. That it has been nearly a month since I have heard her sweet, tiny baby voice say "Mama", "baby", "apple", "hi", "hey", "bye", "puppy", "egg", or "fish". That she no longer points at pictures in books, asking to hear the words for everything by saying "This? This?" How I am completely terrified of that horrible, ugly A-word...autism. That my husband is sick with worry over it because it runs in his family. "If she has it," he says, "it would be all my fault." And that it is taking what seems like a million years to have her evaluated or seen by her pedi. That I truly don't know if I could handle that diagnosis. I am so afraid to even think of it as a possibility, to type or speak the word. As if doing so will curse her with that condition or make it suddenly real. It tears me into a million little pieces.
I could write about any of those things.
But I end up pushing it all back down inside, rolling my fear and anger and guilt and sadness and worry into a ball in the pit of my stomach, and not using this blog for what it was intended to be - my only outlet for all of these feelings and fears. I tell myself that no one wants to read whiny, negative entries. That if I write the things that I am thinking, that people will think I am some kind of self-pitying, bitchy, crybaby drama queen.
And then I can't think of anything else I have to say, because all of these horrible feelings seem to consume me completely these days.
And no one wants to hear about that, right?
Monday, July 6, 2009
The ways Brooklyn melts my heart
♥ She gives me big hugs at random times, and always just when I need them. When she hugs me, she lays her little head on me and pats me with one hand.
♥ She hugs everything she loves. She hugs our dogs, her baby dolls, her Elmos, her stuffed animals. She leans forward and lays her head on the picture of the crying baby in her Counting Kisses book and gives her a hug. We were in Build-A-Bear forever this weekend because she wanted to hug all of the stuffed animals! She hugs them all the same sweet way she hugs me...laying her head against them and patting them gently.
♥ Some days, she wakes up so happy in the morning. Her smile overtakes her face when I walk into her bedroom. She talks to me in her own language while I get her out of her Tucker sling, and she can't wait for me to pick her up and hold her. I can't wait, either.
♥ She is super snuggly in the mornings. I hold her close while she drinks her morning bottle, but it's just not close enough for her. She will sit up and lean against my chest and hug me until she decides that it's too hard to drink her bottle that way. A couple of minutes later, she will try again.
♥ She dances and bounces and spins and twirls with complete abandon when she hears music. Any kind of music. She loves it so much.
♥ She shares her bink and her bottles with her baby dolls and Elmos. She loves to share her toys and books with anyone. She doesn't care if you do anything with them, she just wants you to have them and hold them for a little while.
♥ She laughs hysterically everytime she sees any type of animal, whether in person, on TV, or in pictures. I have no idea why. But it's hysterically cute and always makes me smile! She has the cutest little voice and laugh.
♥ She loves to help me take care of her now. She helps brush her hair, she takes a turn brushing her teeth, and she helps me rub lotion on her chest and tummy. And she is oh-so-proud of herself when she does these things. She gets excited and claps with us when we praise her for pointing to her belly, head, mouth, feet, and nose. I love that self-confident grin. I hope she is always able to feel proud of herself.
♥ She just is herself. Her adorable, sweet, beautiful little self. She grows and learns more every day and I am in awe of her. I still gaze at her for ages and wonder how I could possibly be so blessed. I love my darling Baby Bear!
So tell me, what is your favorite thing that your baby does that makes your heart melt every time?
♥ She hugs everything she loves. She hugs our dogs, her baby dolls, her Elmos, her stuffed animals. She leans forward and lays her head on the picture of the crying baby in her Counting Kisses book and gives her a hug. We were in Build-A-Bear forever this weekend because she wanted to hug all of the stuffed animals! She hugs them all the same sweet way she hugs me...laying her head against them and patting them gently.
♥ Some days, she wakes up so happy in the morning. Her smile overtakes her face when I walk into her bedroom. She talks to me in her own language while I get her out of her Tucker sling, and she can't wait for me to pick her up and hold her. I can't wait, either.
♥ She is super snuggly in the mornings. I hold her close while she drinks her morning bottle, but it's just not close enough for her. She will sit up and lean against my chest and hug me until she decides that it's too hard to drink her bottle that way. A couple of minutes later, she will try again.
♥ She dances and bounces and spins and twirls with complete abandon when she hears music. Any kind of music. She loves it so much.
♥ She shares her bink and her bottles with her baby dolls and Elmos. She loves to share her toys and books with anyone. She doesn't care if you do anything with them, she just wants you to have them and hold them for a little while.
♥ She laughs hysterically everytime she sees any type of animal, whether in person, on TV, or in pictures. I have no idea why. But it's hysterically cute and always makes me smile! She has the cutest little voice and laugh.
♥ She loves to help me take care of her now. She helps brush her hair, she takes a turn brushing her teeth, and she helps me rub lotion on her chest and tummy. And she is oh-so-proud of herself when she does these things. She gets excited and claps with us when we praise her for pointing to her belly, head, mouth, feet, and nose. I love that self-confident grin. I hope she is always able to feel proud of herself.
♥ She just is herself. Her adorable, sweet, beautiful little self. She grows and learns more every day and I am in awe of her. I still gaze at her for ages and wonder how I could possibly be so blessed. I love my darling Baby Bear!
So tell me, what is your favorite thing that your baby does that makes your heart melt every time?
Monday, May 11, 2009
My disappointing Mother's Day
Today it is dreary and drizzly outside, and it just seems appropriate. I am just having one of those days.
Mother's Day was really disappointing for me. My husband is usually so great about making me feel special and planning sweet little surprises on important days. But yesterday, he said nothing about Mother's Day. We had been up for a couple of hours when I finally asked him if he knew what day it was. "Yeah, it's Mama's Day," he replied. And that was that.
I didn't need him to make a big huge deal out of the day or anything. I didn't need him to buy me an expensive present or plan anything elaborate. I just needed him to acknowledge the day. To give me a card from my daughter or something like that, since she isn't old enough to do so herself. Just to tell me that he knows how hard I am working to be a great mommy to our sweet baby girl. Just....something.
Instead, I pretty much ended up feeling like I must be doing such a shitty job as a mom that I wasn't worthy of a Mother's Day sentiment. If it wasn't for my daily dose of the emotion-stifling Lexapro, I think I would have been doing a lot of crying yesterday. Last night, while my husband slept soundly beside me, I laid in bed staring at the ceiling fan and feeling increasingly worse about myself and my (lack of?) motherly abilities. Today, I feel like I have a hangover from the sadness and disappointment of yesterday. And the weather seems to understand.
Mother's Day was really disappointing for me. My husband is usually so great about making me feel special and planning sweet little surprises on important days. But yesterday, he said nothing about Mother's Day. We had been up for a couple of hours when I finally asked him if he knew what day it was. "Yeah, it's Mama's Day," he replied. And that was that.
I didn't need him to make a big huge deal out of the day or anything. I didn't need him to buy me an expensive present or plan anything elaborate. I just needed him to acknowledge the day. To give me a card from my daughter or something like that, since she isn't old enough to do so herself. Just to tell me that he knows how hard I am working to be a great mommy to our sweet baby girl. Just....something.
Instead, I pretty much ended up feeling like I must be doing such a shitty job as a mom that I wasn't worthy of a Mother's Day sentiment. If it wasn't for my daily dose of the emotion-stifling Lexapro, I think I would have been doing a lot of crying yesterday. Last night, while my husband slept soundly beside me, I laid in bed staring at the ceiling fan and feeling increasingly worse about myself and my (lack of?) motherly abilities. Today, I feel like I have a hangover from the sadness and disappointment of yesterday. And the weather seems to understand.
Friday, April 24, 2009
The ties that bind us
The Monday night dinner with my parents and little brother was....okay, I guess. Nothing big happened. Nothing terrible.
It's just discouraging, this path that he is headed down. Again.
He is 20 years old and has no plans and no goals for himself. Well, I take that back. He wants my parents to give him his college fund money (from our grandparents) while he is here. He is telling them he wants to go to a technical school in Georgia, but says he doesn't know what for. We know his track record. It is obvious he does not want the money for school. He has no job, no place to live, a girlfriend (yeah, they're back together now) with no job, and a drug and alcohol habit. He and the girlfriend have already had a pregnancy scare in their one month of being together. She has a 16-month-old child that is living with a relative in another state because she couldn't care for him. She is married. She says she's getting divorced, but who knows. My brother talked about fights they have been having - ridiculous, possessive, jealousy-fueled fights that people who have been in a relationship for a month should never have.
My brother told Dave that he couldn't pass a drug test to get a job test now (we knew that). But then he said that he has no interest in staying clean. That he doesn't see any reason to not use drugs. (Really? Are you serious? No reason at all? Not the fact that you have wrecked your life several times over with drug use? You've been to rehab. You've been arrested. Been on probation. Been kicked out multiple times. Totalled multiple cars. Discharged from the Army. Attempted suicide. Hurt your family so badly. Lost friends. You said you knew the drugs were the reason why. You said you were going to get your life straight this time.)
It's so hard to have hope for someone in this situation. I love him so much, I want all of these wonderful things for him, yet he wants nothing positive for himself.
Brooklyn remembers him. It had been four months since she'd seen him, and she reached for him the second she laid eyes on him.
Dave said he doesn't want my brother in and out of Brooklyn's life while he is living his life this way. "I don't want him coming around Brooklyn, around us, until he's clean. He's had chances. This is it," Dave said. He doesn't want our daughter exposed to the hurt that comes with loving someone who is an addict. I understand, but I don't want to take her from him. I know he loves her. No, I do not want him around us when he is high. But I also cannot bring myself to tell my husband that I will agree to this. I already have one brother who we have no contact with because he is a lying, manipulating, violent, hurtful drug addict. My baby brother is basically the only sibling I have now.
I don't want to lose him. But I'm afraid he may be lost no matter what I do. He is heading back down a dangerous road. If something were to happen, I couldn't deal with the guilt...(Could I have done more? I should have been there for him. Why didn't we let him come over? Why didn't we reach out? We shouldn't have bowed out of his life. He needed us and we weren't there....)
It's morbid, but these are the things I think about. The "what-ifs." Especially now that I know he has the capacity (and will?) to try to take his own life.
I don't want to be an only child.
It's just discouraging, this path that he is headed down. Again.
He is 20 years old and has no plans and no goals for himself. Well, I take that back. He wants my parents to give him his college fund money (from our grandparents) while he is here. He is telling them he wants to go to a technical school in Georgia, but says he doesn't know what for. We know his track record. It is obvious he does not want the money for school. He has no job, no place to live, a girlfriend (yeah, they're back together now) with no job, and a drug and alcohol habit. He and the girlfriend have already had a pregnancy scare in their one month of being together. She has a 16-month-old child that is living with a relative in another state because she couldn't care for him. She is married. She says she's getting divorced, but who knows. My brother talked about fights they have been having - ridiculous, possessive, jealousy-fueled fights that people who have been in a relationship for a month should never have.
My brother told Dave that he couldn't pass a drug test to get a job test now (we knew that). But then he said that he has no interest in staying clean. That he doesn't see any reason to not use drugs. (Really? Are you serious? No reason at all? Not the fact that you have wrecked your life several times over with drug use? You've been to rehab. You've been arrested. Been on probation. Been kicked out multiple times. Totalled multiple cars. Discharged from the Army. Attempted suicide. Hurt your family so badly. Lost friends. You said you knew the drugs were the reason why. You said you were going to get your life straight this time.)
It's so hard to have hope for someone in this situation. I love him so much, I want all of these wonderful things for him, yet he wants nothing positive for himself.
Brooklyn remembers him. It had been four months since she'd seen him, and she reached for him the second she laid eyes on him.
Dave said he doesn't want my brother in and out of Brooklyn's life while he is living his life this way. "I don't want him coming around Brooklyn, around us, until he's clean. He's had chances. This is it," Dave said. He doesn't want our daughter exposed to the hurt that comes with loving someone who is an addict. I understand, but I don't want to take her from him. I know he loves her. No, I do not want him around us when he is high. But I also cannot bring myself to tell my husband that I will agree to this. I already have one brother who we have no contact with because he is a lying, manipulating, violent, hurtful drug addict. My baby brother is basically the only sibling I have now.
I don't want to lose him. But I'm afraid he may be lost no matter what I do. He is heading back down a dangerous road. If something were to happen, I couldn't deal with the guilt...(Could I have done more? I should have been there for him. Why didn't we let him come over? Why didn't we reach out? We shouldn't have bowed out of his life. He needed us and we weren't there....)
It's morbid, but these are the things I think about. The "what-ifs." Especially now that I know he has the capacity (and will?) to try to take his own life.
I don't want to be an only child.
Monday, April 20, 2009
That uneasy feeling
My baby brother is back in town.
He was discharged from the Army at the end of March. Since then, he has been living with a girlfriend that he met when she and her mother were witnesses to the wreck he had when he was trying to kill himself (what a lovely story). He told my mother that he was not going to come back to Texas; he was going to stay in Georgia because the people here are bad influences on him and he needed to make positive changes in his life.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks. On Friday, the girlfriend broke up with him, so he could no longerfreeload live with her and her parents. On Saturday, he was back here. On Sunday, he was already hanging out with our other brother and their mutual drug buddies. My father overheard him talking on the phone telling friends that he couldn't wait to get high with them. He takes no responsibility for the things that have happened over the past few months. He has no plans for himself. He is obviously using again. And so the downward spiral continues.
Dave, Brooklyn, and I are supposed to go to my parent's house for dinner tonight. This will be the first time that I have seen or talked to my baby brother since the drug relapse, the suicide attempts and his subsequent Army discharge. We have texted a few times, but I haven't been able to actually pick up the phone and call him. I can't seem to summon up the courage or find the right words. So I just pray. And worry.
I don't feel ready to see him. I don't really know what to say to him anymore. I just have this sick, heavy feeling hanging over me, the kind that stays with you when you are watching someone you love self-destruct. I know that feeling well now.
He was discharged from the Army at the end of March. Since then, he has been living with a girlfriend that he met when she and her mother were witnesses to the wreck he had when he was trying to kill himself (what a lovely story). He told my mother that he was not going to come back to Texas; he was going to stay in Georgia because the people here are bad influences on him and he needed to make positive changes in his life.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks. On Friday, the girlfriend broke up with him, so he could no longer
Dave, Brooklyn, and I are supposed to go to my parent's house for dinner tonight. This will be the first time that I have seen or talked to my baby brother since the drug relapse, the suicide attempts and his subsequent Army discharge. We have texted a few times, but I haven't been able to actually pick up the phone and call him. I can't seem to summon up the courage or find the right words. So I just pray. And worry.
I don't feel ready to see him. I don't really know what to say to him anymore. I just have this sick, heavy feeling hanging over me, the kind that stays with you when you are watching someone you love self-destruct. I know that feeling well now.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Brooklyn's first birthday party!
Yes, this post is a month overdue! But I figured it was better late than never! We had a great time at Brooklyn's party. Everything went perfectly smoothly. We had 20 people there...a few that we invited weren't able to be there, but most of the people who were so important in our lives during Brooklyn's first year were there. Brooklyn was unbelievably adorable in her custom-made tutu and birthday onesie. She was in a fabulous mood and did not fuss or get grumpy at all. And the baby girl was completely spoiled with presents. I mean REALLY spoiled! The picture that shows her presents below was only about half of them. She got tons and tons of toys and darling clothes. We had a wonderful day celebrating the birth of our sweet Baby Bear with our friends and family! Enjoy the pics!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Little miracles in all shapes and sizes
The funny thing about this picture is that one-year-old Brooklyn is wearing a onesie that I picked out as a possible coming-home-from-the-hospital newborn outfit. It has little baby handprints on it and says "little miracle...tiny little hands." There is a hat with the same little graphic on it too. Anyway, I was shopping one day while big and pregnant and found this little outfit. I thought it was so cute...I love anything with baby handprints or footprints. I held the onesie over my belly and thought about how I couldn't wait to meet my little girl.
I thought that I was so organized and well-prepared; Brooklyn's closet and dresser drawers were filled with adorable weather-appropriate clothes for each season - springtime 0-3 month outfits, summery 3-6, fall time 6-9, warm wintery 9-12 month clothes. I added the freshly-washed "little miracle" onesie to the neatly folded stacks of clothes in her top dresser drawer.
All babies come out wearing size 0-3 months, right??? I mean, they ARE 0 months old! Come on, it makes perfect sense! The clothes tell you right there on the label how big your baby will be at each age! How smart of them!
I did not realize at that time that babies came in all sizes!
Silly me. I learned that you can't be prepared for everything! My baby girl came home from the hospital with practically nothing to wear! I had one package of Newborn size kimono-style shirts that she wore until we went shopping for Preemie clothes when she was 4 days old. She wore Preemie clothes for 2 months, then size Newborn for another 3 1/2 months. The nice part of this was I got to buy lots more baby clothes because she needed a wardrobe that would actually fit her!
Silly me. I learned that you can't be prepared for everything! My baby girl came home from the hospital with practically nothing to wear! I had one package of Newborn size kimono-style shirts that she wore until we went shopping for Preemie clothes when she was 4 days old. She wore Preemie clothes for 2 months, then size Newborn for another 3 1/2 months. The nice part of this was I got to buy lots more baby clothes because she needed a wardrobe that would actually fit her!
Another cool thing is that not all of her clothes have ended up being the wrong season, as evidenced by my one year old wearing the 0-3 month onesie in the picture up there. It is getting warm outside and Brooklyn can now wear most of her summery 3-6 month outfits. Same season, just a year later than I thought we would use them. :)
(Oh, and by the way, a friend later talked me into choosing a more "formal" coming-home outfit for Brooklyn, a beautiful pink flowered little dress, size Newborn. Which was actually a good thing, since the above outfit obviously would have completely swallowed my brand-new Tiny One.)
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Happy Birthday, Brooklyn!
Dear Brooklyn,
Happy first birthday, my sweet baby! You are one year old today! I write these words with disbelief because this year has passed by us so quickly. We have come so far, been through so much, and learned so many things together.
You are getting to be such a big girl! You can crawl so fast now, pull up to stand, and cruise along the furniture. You clap and wave and reach for what you want. If I leave a room, you follow me to the next room, and I love seeing the delight on your face when you find me!
You talk all of the time, you just don't say many words that we can understand yet. You make tons of different vowel and consonant sounds when you are babbling. Sometimes you and I have conversations that consist of saying "Mmmm!" back and forth to each other at different volumes and with varying inflections. Right now, your vocabulary consists of "Mama", "Dada", "Hi", "Hey", and "Bye". Yesterday, you said "Bye" for the first time and waved to your Daddy when he left for work.
During the past couple of weeks, you have really started to love story time. Sometimes you sit on the floor and look at all the pages in your books. You bring me your favorite books, sometimes two at a time! I pick you up and you lay back against me and we read your books. Tonight, you even turned the pages for me! When the story ends and I close the book, you take it and hand it back to me, and we read it again. The other day, we read one of your Baby Einstein books 15 times! You picked it out of a pile of other books each time, so I know it is special to you. Sometimes you "read" along with me, talking in your own language the entire time I'm reading to you. You are so smart, and I am so happy that you love your books now. It's yet another excuse for me to cuddle with you, and I will take all of those I can get!
You have a love for music. You dance, clap, and bounce when you hear music, even if it is just a song on a commercial. I can tell that you can feel rhythms and beats. You love all of your musical toys. Sometimes my CD's will calm you down if you get upset when we're riding in the car. You cheer and clap and raise your hands in the air with excitement when we watch American Idol. Lately, you have been "singing" along with your toys that play music. It's the cutest thing ever.
A few weeks ago, your doctors said that we could start slowly giving you some soft table foods. We have given you mashed potatoes, oatmeal, banana, yogurt, Gerber puffs, and little tiny bites of biscuit. You love it all. We put apples, oranges, tangelos, and peaches in your mesh feeder, and you devour all of the juice you can get out of the fruit. You are such a good eater so far! Once we can get you past the medical problems that make you choke so easily, and once you get more teeth, you will be able to eat so much more, and that will be so much fun. Since we started giving you food, there have only been two that you didn't like: peas and a chicken baby food mix. No picky babies here!
You are an extremely social baby! You love going anywhere that you can people-watch. Going anywhere with you is an adventure, whether it's to the grocery store or the zoo or dinner with friends. You smile and wave at everyone. Your gummy grin is the prettiest sight ever. I love watching you light up the faces of total strangers; they call you "charismatic", "friendly", "precious", "happy", and "sweet." If they only knew how true all of those words are! Not to mention all the people who stop us in public to say that you are "beautiful", "adorable", "pretty", and "gorgeous." Of course, your Daddy and I agree with those desciptions as well!
You look so different than you did when we first met you one year ago. Your hair has changed from downy baby fuzz to silky blonde big girl hair. It has grown long enough for me to give you a teeny little ponytail on top of your head. You are tiny and petite, but your arms and legs, which were so skinny at birth, now have an adorable layer of baby chubbiness covering them. You are so small for your age, but perfectly proportionate. You have the softest, squishiest, rosy-colored baby cheeks, which I could (and do!) kiss about a thousand times a day. Your blue eyes are the color of a clear, cloudless sky, with your daddy's lovely long lashes framing them. You have beautiful, milky white skin, and it is the smoothest texture my hands have ever touched. Your tiny lips are a perfect pink bow. You have two itty bitty white teeth that I can see when you laugh. When you were born, you were the most beautiful sight that I had ever beheld, and you have only become more beautiful with each passing day.
Brooklyn, you have not had the easiest first year. There have been many doctors, specialists, tests, procedures, a hospitalization, and a surgery. You have had to deal with lots of medications, that dreaded nebulizer, and plenty of shots. We have had feeding and weight gain problems all along, and we have had to feed you lots of different ways, adjust your caloric intake many times, and go for tons of weight checks. We have known about your reflux for a long time. It took many months to find out that laryngomalacia and your arytenoids were the cause of your breathing problems. We are still waiting to see whether you will have to have surgery to correct these problems. Through all of the worry and stress and fear we have endured as we have navigated this medical maze, you have been my little hero. You are so brave and strong and resilient. You amaze me, Baby Bear. You are so much tougher than anyone would ever imagine. Your bravery is greater than your delicate little body can contain. I want to be more like you...to be able to look at obstacles that are so big and scary and painful and just take them in stride. To adapt to hardships and gracefully move on like they are nothing. You are such an incredible little girl.
And there are so many things that words just can’t describe. Words never seem beautiful enough to say how my heart flutters when you smile at me. How my world becomes perfect when you lay your head on my shoulder, hold on to me and snuggle in to my chest. I can’t verbalize the beauty of your eyes or how wonderful it feels when those eyes find me and light up. There is not a word that can explain how delicious it was to hear you say "Mama" as your first word. Our language fails me when I try to describe the sweetness of your little voice when you babble and coo and laugh for me.
Brooklyn, you have changed me forever. In a way, this year has gone by so quickly. It is hard for me to comprehend that I have been your mommy for an entire year. Yet I can barely remember what my life was like before there was you. I know it wasn't this beautiful. It was never this meaningful. I have never loved this deeply or been so connected to another human being. I have never had to be so selfless. But now, it comes so naturally to put you before everything else. You are my heart, you are the air I breathe. You are everything.
Baby Bear, you are the greatest accomplishment I have could ever achieve on this earth. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are the most incredible, special gift. I have wanted you forever, and now you are here with me and it is almost too wonderful to believe. I cannot thank God enough times for gracing my life with you. You are the best parts of your Daddy and I, yet you are so much your own little person. Thank you for being who you are. I am so, so proud to call you my daughter. Please don't grow up too fast. Please always make time to snuggle with mommy. Please always love me as much as I love you. I promise to be the best mommy I can for you. You deserve the best of everything in this world. I want to give it all to you.
I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. You will always be my beautiful little Baby Bear. Happy birthday, my sweet one year old girl.
Love,
Mommy
Happy first birthday, my sweet baby! You are one year old today! I write these words with disbelief because this year has passed by us so quickly. We have come so far, been through so much, and learned so many things together.
You are getting to be such a big girl! You can crawl so fast now, pull up to stand, and cruise along the furniture. You clap and wave and reach for what you want. If I leave a room, you follow me to the next room, and I love seeing the delight on your face when you find me!
You talk all of the time, you just don't say many words that we can understand yet. You make tons of different vowel and consonant sounds when you are babbling. Sometimes you and I have conversations that consist of saying "Mmmm!" back and forth to each other at different volumes and with varying inflections. Right now, your vocabulary consists of "Mama", "Dada", "Hi", "Hey", and "Bye". Yesterday, you said "Bye" for the first time and waved to your Daddy when he left for work.
During the past couple of weeks, you have really started to love story time. Sometimes you sit on the floor and look at all the pages in your books. You bring me your favorite books, sometimes two at a time! I pick you up and you lay back against me and we read your books. Tonight, you even turned the pages for me! When the story ends and I close the book, you take it and hand it back to me, and we read it again. The other day, we read one of your Baby Einstein books 15 times! You picked it out of a pile of other books each time, so I know it is special to you. Sometimes you "read" along with me, talking in your own language the entire time I'm reading to you. You are so smart, and I am so happy that you love your books now. It's yet another excuse for me to cuddle with you, and I will take all of those I can get!
You have a love for music. You dance, clap, and bounce when you hear music, even if it is just a song on a commercial. I can tell that you can feel rhythms and beats. You love all of your musical toys. Sometimes my CD's will calm you down if you get upset when we're riding in the car. You cheer and clap and raise your hands in the air with excitement when we watch American Idol. Lately, you have been "singing" along with your toys that play music. It's the cutest thing ever.
A few weeks ago, your doctors said that we could start slowly giving you some soft table foods. We have given you mashed potatoes, oatmeal, banana, yogurt, Gerber puffs, and little tiny bites of biscuit. You love it all. We put apples, oranges, tangelos, and peaches in your mesh feeder, and you devour all of the juice you can get out of the fruit. You are such a good eater so far! Once we can get you past the medical problems that make you choke so easily, and once you get more teeth, you will be able to eat so much more, and that will be so much fun. Since we started giving you food, there have only been two that you didn't like: peas and a chicken baby food mix. No picky babies here!
You are an extremely social baby! You love going anywhere that you can people-watch. Going anywhere with you is an adventure, whether it's to the grocery store or the zoo or dinner with friends. You smile and wave at everyone. Your gummy grin is the prettiest sight ever. I love watching you light up the faces of total strangers; they call you "charismatic", "friendly", "precious", "happy", and "sweet." If they only knew how true all of those words are! Not to mention all the people who stop us in public to say that you are "beautiful", "adorable", "pretty", and "gorgeous." Of course, your Daddy and I agree with those desciptions as well!
You look so different than you did when we first met you one year ago. Your hair has changed from downy baby fuzz to silky blonde big girl hair. It has grown long enough for me to give you a teeny little ponytail on top of your head. You are tiny and petite, but your arms and legs, which were so skinny at birth, now have an adorable layer of baby chubbiness covering them. You are so small for your age, but perfectly proportionate. You have the softest, squishiest, rosy-colored baby cheeks, which I could (and do!) kiss about a thousand times a day. Your blue eyes are the color of a clear, cloudless sky, with your daddy's lovely long lashes framing them. You have beautiful, milky white skin, and it is the smoothest texture my hands have ever touched. Your tiny lips are a perfect pink bow. You have two itty bitty white teeth that I can see when you laugh. When you were born, you were the most beautiful sight that I had ever beheld, and you have only become more beautiful with each passing day.
Brooklyn, you have not had the easiest first year. There have been many doctors, specialists, tests, procedures, a hospitalization, and a surgery. You have had to deal with lots of medications, that dreaded nebulizer, and plenty of shots. We have had feeding and weight gain problems all along, and we have had to feed you lots of different ways, adjust your caloric intake many times, and go for tons of weight checks. We have known about your reflux for a long time. It took many months to find out that laryngomalacia and your arytenoids were the cause of your breathing problems. We are still waiting to see whether you will have to have surgery to correct these problems. Through all of the worry and stress and fear we have endured as we have navigated this medical maze, you have been my little hero. You are so brave and strong and resilient. You amaze me, Baby Bear. You are so much tougher than anyone would ever imagine. Your bravery is greater than your delicate little body can contain. I want to be more like you...to be able to look at obstacles that are so big and scary and painful and just take them in stride. To adapt to hardships and gracefully move on like they are nothing. You are such an incredible little girl.
And there are so many things that words just can’t describe. Words never seem beautiful enough to say how my heart flutters when you smile at me. How my world becomes perfect when you lay your head on my shoulder, hold on to me and snuggle in to my chest. I can’t verbalize the beauty of your eyes or how wonderful it feels when those eyes find me and light up. There is not a word that can explain how delicious it was to hear you say "Mama" as your first word. Our language fails me when I try to describe the sweetness of your little voice when you babble and coo and laugh for me.
Brooklyn, you have changed me forever. In a way, this year has gone by so quickly. It is hard for me to comprehend that I have been your mommy for an entire year. Yet I can barely remember what my life was like before there was you. I know it wasn't this beautiful. It was never this meaningful. I have never loved this deeply or been so connected to another human being. I have never had to be so selfless. But now, it comes so naturally to put you before everything else. You are my heart, you are the air I breathe. You are everything.
Baby Bear, you are the greatest accomplishment I have could ever achieve on this earth. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are the most incredible, special gift. I have wanted you forever, and now you are here with me and it is almost too wonderful to believe. I cannot thank God enough times for gracing my life with you. You are the best parts of your Daddy and I, yet you are so much your own little person. Thank you for being who you are. I am so, so proud to call you my daughter. Please don't grow up too fast. Please always make time to snuggle with mommy. Please always love me as much as I love you. I promise to be the best mommy I can for you. You deserve the best of everything in this world. I want to give it all to you.
I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. You will always be my beautiful little Baby Bear. Happy birthday, my sweet one year old girl.
Love,
Mommy
A year in 15 pictures....look how far we've come!
A few minutes old
Brand new baby girl
Just home from the hospital
1 month
2 months
3 months
4 months
5 months
6 months
7 months
8 months
9 months
10 months
11 months
And today.....ONE YEAR OLD!!!!!
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