I’m already getting sick of beginning my posts with sorry I’ve been gone, so I’m sure you might also be irked. And, really, WHERE HAVE I BEEN?! I’m certainly not getting invited to The White House or anything.
No, the truth is that I’ve just been plagued by incessant whining and arms raised endlessly toward my face accompanied by what seems to be a PICK ME UP! THE SKY IS FALLING! kind of gaze.
You see, T9 is a slow teether.
And, before him, I didn’t even know there was a difference. I’d read on some blog one time about a woman shaking her jealous fist at those “mothers with kids who cut teeth in a day! GRRR!” or something.
I didn’t know I was enviable. I mean, a teething kid is a teething kid, right?
Well…
Like I said, T9 is a s-l-o-w t-e-e-t-h-e-r.
For example, with his first two…the little front ones on the bottom…I remember seeing that tell-tale white patch one day. Sweet, I thought. They’re right below the surface. He’ll have ‘em out by morning.
Um. Try ONE WEEK later. Dude cut one tooth (out of the pair) for A WEEK.
So far, this has happened eight times. With his eight teeth. And do you know what comes after those first eight?
MOLARS. (!!!)
We’re going on our second month, people. Our second month of CUTTING A TOOTH.
Which, all of this is to say that T9 is pitifully sad as of late. In fact, there are exactly two things that will cheer the boy up:
1. Mama.
2. Dada. (Specifically, Dada’s head-butting.)
Ahem.
You see, my son also appears to be a head-banger.
(But, ah, I think this may be a post for another time.)
Until then, here are the items that seem to have helped with the teething pain:
3. Teething tablets. (Try them yourself! I think they feel numbing.)
4. For the parents, I’d recommend hypno-therapy. Or heavy drinking. Or getting a tattoo. Or, you know, start a blog. BANGING THE KEYS can be therapeutic.
When I was still pregnant with my first child, I remember chatting with my friend, Lisa, about her 7 year-old daughter. They’d gone out for some school clothes shopping in the midst of the back-to-school rush. She got quiet suddenly and smirked as she told me about an embarrassing moment during their outing:
Lisa: So, we were standing on line waiting to check out and I CALLED HER BY HER BABY NICKNAME IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.
Me: Umm? That’s embarrassing? Wimp.
Lisa: Oh, COME ON! The nicknames you come up with for your kids are beyond logic or self-control; they’re ridiculous and not to be shared with the public.
Me: Riight.
*****
[Fast forward about 6 months.]
[Setting:My newborn son's room. I am just finishing nursing him, which means I've been in there for at least an hour. Dude liked to EAT.]
The Hub: [Walks past the doorway, stops, and then grabs the door frame to pull himself back to my line of view.] Wait, what was that? What’d you just say?
Me: [Snapping my bra back into place and shifting the Boppy.] Nothing. I was just mumbling to the baby.
The Hub: Right…that’s what I mean. What did you call him?
Me: [Suddenly, blushblushblush.] Uhhh…I think I said, um…
The Hub: Lady, did you call him BOOBER?!
Me: Uhmm, yep! [Nervous laughter.] I do believe I called him BOOBER.
[What?! He was ALWAYS on the boob! It just came out!]
The other day, my mother was over to spend some time with the kids while I booked a one-way ticket out of crazy town got some things done around the house. After lunch, we sat around chit-chatting when my 11 month-old suddenly got very chatty.
Baby: Bah Bah Bah…BAH! BAH BAH!
Me: You talking to Momma, little baby?
Baby: BAH! Bahbahbahbahgahbahdah…dahgahdabuhbah.
Grandma: Did you hear that, Kristine?!
Me: What, mother?
Grandma: He said bye-bye!
Me: Um…I didn’t hear that, exactly, no.
Grandma: Come on, baby! Say, BYE BYE Grandma! BYE BYE!
Baby: BahbahBUHBAH!
Grandma: SEE?! Right there! He SAID IT!
Me: Right. I’ll go mark the calendar, Mom.
I can’t be certain, but I would’ve sworn I saw her Googling “Harvard Admissions” later that evening.
It’s like the Holy Grail of early motherhood. The shiny toy at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. The Pharaoh’s treasure.
Yes, ladies. I’m talking about the burp. Of all my motherly neurosis, I think the burp has a firm grip in the Top Five spot. Because, really? It’s kind of ridiculous. Having said that, it was not uncommon for my evenings to go something like this:
And let’s not forget about the directives I’d leave for the babysitter. Which were followed up by texts. And, ultimately, a phone call:
Babysitter: [Surprised.] Oh, hi Mrs. C…just got your text here.
Me: [Anxious.] Hi! Yeah, well just wanted to follow up in case…you know. So, did he drink his bottle? You warmed it up like I asked, right? And he had his blanket? After jammie time? And with a clean diaper?
Babysitter: [Stifled sigh.] Yeah, I did all that. And he drank 6 ounces.
Me: [Alarmed.] ONLY SIX?! Well, did he have to burp? You burped him, didn’t you?! PLEASE TELL ME YOU BURPED HIM.
Babysitter: [Audible sigh.] Yes, Mrs. C. He burped. And I offered it again, but he wasn’t interested.
Me: [Dramatic sigh.] Well, I guess he’ll be fine. One ounce [yes, really] shouldn’t make too much of a difference. But he did burp, right? Because sometimes he even has to burp tw—
Babysitter: [Sternly.] He. burped. twice. Mrs. C.
Me: [Resigned, embarrassed, ordering wine.] Alright then! Well, just wanted to check in! We’ll let you know when we’re on our way ba—
Babysitter: OKAY! BYE! *click*
(Next week, I’ll offer my tips on how to hire and keep a babysitter.)
Ah, milestones. Those little achievements that mark the maturation of baby into boy (or girl), and for some mothers, even grounds for some in-your-face my-baby-is-better-than-yours bragging rights.
*LOVE* those moms.
But while there are the standard milestones that our pediatricians and books tell us to look out for, there are some that I find to be much more noteworthy. For example, both T9 (aged 11 months) and Plus One (aged, 2 and 5/6 years) have recently come upon some really amazing accomplishments. Please excuse the dramatic introduction…they’re really just THAT exciting to me:
T9’s FONTANEL is shrinking! Oh, that’s right, this boy has had a crater in his head…a crater that THROBS…for AGES. And it has grossed. me. out. Also? Induced anxiety. Because, really…is it SUPPOSED to throb that much? Is he dehydrated? DOESN’T THAT HURT?! But as he ages, the hole is getting much less noticeable. Also, he has a bit of a patch of hair up there now, so that helps, too.
And Plus One?! Plus One has reached the “Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?” age! (!!)
Yeah, okay, this one is not exactly exciting. Acutally it’s devastating. But he still says things like “pampake” (pancake) and “perrrr-sick!” (perfect!) so that totally (mostly) makes up for the incessant talking.
And, as much as I absolutely HATED when people would tell me to “ENJOY IT!” when I first announced my kids’ births (ENJOY IT?! I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN 10 MONTHS!), I totally get it now. My babies have up and left and these two little boys have come and taken their places! If they weren’t so cute and agreeable (well…), I might have to call the authorities. But we’ll give it a month…see how it goes.
(And *this* is totally how you get tricked into having MORE BABIES.)
When T9 was about four months old, there was one miraculous evening when he slept for 9 hours straight. NINE. It was amazing. It was my first opportunity in, say, at least 6 months to sleep for a long chunk of time while the rest of the world snored away like the privileged bastards they are. And I say 6 because for the last few months of my second pregnancy, I was like a 75 year-old Jewish woman from Brooklyn.
3 AM, any given night, October 2008:
Me: [Dramatic sigh.] F*@k, my friggin’ back! The baby’s using my sciatic nerve as a damn teething ring.
James: [Resisting the urge to tell me to shut the hell-o up] You sound like a 75 year-old Jewish woman from Brooklyn. Oh, and I’M TRYING TO SLEEP.
Of course, once the baby came, my sleep continued to be interrupted because he was up eating lots. Since I’m nursing, this meant I was up feeding him lots. It’s fairly simple logic. And it’s just how it works, right?
So maybe you can imagine my elation when my eyelids creaked open to eyeball the clock that night I was gifted with uninterrupted sleep.
It was 3am, and the baby was still sleeping. Halle-freaking-lujah.
Kind of.
Because, as I soon realized, there was a reason why I was creaking open my eyelids at 3am without a baby’s cries to awaken me. There was a rather dull but intense pain in my chest. The throbbing kind of pain that triggers those parts of the brain that shout “doctor,” “Web MD,” or “more liquor.”
Turned out it was my boobs. My boobs were about to explode. Without the baby waking every few hours to empty them, the milk just accumulated. I know how this works, but was not quite prepared for the obscene amount PRESSURE.
I took my finger and poked my left breast. Rock solid. Which, aside from that pain thing, really was kind of nice. I took a moment in that 3am fog to imagine what my boobs would look like in the mirror at that moment: twice their normal size, perky, magnificent. If I could have such firm, full breasts next time I wear that nice dress with the low neck-line, I’d be queen of the damn mountain! (Whatever that means.)
But I wasn’t wearing a dress. And I was lacking the rest of the bangin’ body to accompany the bangin’ breasts.
And maybe most importantly, I was in bed, at 3am, and my boobs were about to freaking burst. This meant I had a few options:
Get up and pump that juice.
Wake up the baby and let him feed voraciously.
Go back to sleep and hope that when my boobs did in fact burst, the explosion doesn’t wake the neighbors.
Naturally, I selected #3, as #1 and #2 required me to get out of bed. Somehow, I made it through the night without any loud noises and with my mammaries still attached to my chest.
But the rest of the night, I dreamt I was Sheyla Hershey. And it was fantastic.
I’m talking about my sons’ pediatrician. We’ve known him now for almost three years. Ever since the morning after his birth, when he came into the hospital room and my husband and I proceeded to embarrass ourselves:
Me: I guess that’s got to be an unfortunate name for a doctor, huh?
The Hub: Yeah, we were laughing about that before you came in! [Realizing too late] But I’m guessing you’ve heard that one before.
Dr. Hurts: [Not really amused.] Yeah, yeah. I have.
Luckily, he forgave us, and now actually seems to have a man-crush on my husband. Every time he walks through the door and notices it’s just me present for the appointment, the look of disappointment is hard to ignore.
But this isn’t about my frail ego. It’s about our unfortunately-named doctor. A doctor that our whole family *loves.* Could have something to do with his gentle, amused tolerance for my neurosis. But also because we had a slight scare when our eldest—let’s call him Plus One—was younger. I’m lucky enough to have two children with relatively nonexistent medical histories. In fact, Plus One just had his first legitimate fever at 2 1/2. (While it nearly killed ME, he emerged unscathed.)
But around age 9 months, there was the Great Autism Worry…similar to the Great Depression, but with less stock market and more Momma Anxiety. You see, Plus One hadn’t started babbling. He did a lot of what we described as GROANING (oh, Lord, I still remember that unsettling noise). He was practically walking. He was even using a sippy cup! But the verbals were the prized trophy of normalcy. He was evaluated and tested and observed. We talked to family. Looked at websites. Read books. Nothing could help us know if our son was going to break his silence.
Then one day, he just started babbling. I nearly CRIED, I was so relieved. His speech was slightly delayed as well, but these days the kid can chatter more than I usually care to hear. Though, those quirky phrases are certainly one of my favorite parts of parenting so far (”Momma! Can I have some cookie? Here? In my mouth?! PUUUHHHLEEASEE!”).
And Dr. Hurts walked us through it all. The vaccination debate. His own experience with having an autistic child. The worry. The questions. And the celebration.
So, I guess that’s all I have to say about the whole thing. The dreaded AUTISM thing. I cannot say which is better or worse for YOUR child. No one really can for sure, is the thing. All I can say is that it’s scary. That it’s stressful. And that doctors know lots about it…probably lots more than bloggers or annoying neighbors or pesky relatives.
In the end, I’m glad we chose what was best for us, and with the guidance of a professional with intimate knowledge of the subject.
(Even if his name suggests and eerie comic book villain.)
__________
*…well, it’s spelled differently, but I don’t want the guy to get too curious with Google.
There are so many frustrating things about being a new Mom. But I’m almost certain that the absolute most irritating for me is when random people insist on familiarity just because an infant is involved.
I mean, REALLY. What IS it about strangers who insist on touching your baby?
For me, taking my kid out of the house–to a store or other breeding ground for germs–is stressful even before you introduce pesky old women into the equation. I would either keep him strapped in the safety of his stroller, or if I was feeling bold, bring along a shopping cart cover and a package of antibacterial wipes. On one such outing, when my first was still an infant, I even had him strapped to me in his Baby Bjorn. But not FIVE MINUTES into WalMart (should’ve known) some odd woman was trying to pinch his cheeks, even as I put my arms around him to suggest “UM, NO THANKS LADY.”
And just yesterday, I was back at WalMart (do I ever learn?) gathering some decorations for my front yard. My oldest, now nearly three, was trying to push a cart around with Grandma while I had my youngest in the cart with me, his blue cart-cover protecting him from possible contaminants. Out of nowhere, there was a WalMart employee, her grin suggesting something more sinister than friendly. My first intinct was to dive upon my son to shield him. But I’ve been told such measures are “rude” or “over the top.” Some people!
But ayway, at first she was within a reasonable distance. But something about those babies…it brings the crowds, I tell you. Within seconds, she was at the side of my cart, attempting to elicit a smile from my poor child.
Employee: [Hardly talking to me, but more to herself.] Aww, hey little guy! Wait…it’s a boy right? Boy those cheeks are something. [Reaches out and strokes his cheek.]
Me: [Thinking fast...how to be clear but not rude?!] Oh, yeah he’s not great with strangers, actually…[Starting to shift cart.]
Employee: [Following the cart.] Aww, but I’m no stranger…he can see my badge! That means I’m okay! [Grabs my son's fingers.]
Me: [Suddenly noticing THE COTTON IN HER EAR.] Okay, well let’s say bye-bye now! [Darting after my mother who is hiding with my older son.]
People, the woman HAD COTTON IN HER EAR. The last time I’ve seen that was when I was like five and it was MY ear. You know, because it was INFECTED.
I screeched around the corner of an aisle and whipped out my anti-bacterial wipes. That was pretty much all my neurosis could handle for one shopping trip.
Which, I should probably disclose: I’m as neurotic as they come. I mean, like when they were portioning out “nerves” to New Moms, someone slipped up and gave me seconds (okay, maybe thirds, fourths, and fifths). But really. I think I need to draw the line at cotton in the everloving ear. I mean, MY GOD.
So now I turn to you, the lovely readers. How would you Mommas handle this kind of situation? I suppose slapping is out of the question, and my tactics never seem quite firm (nor polite) enough. Any suggestions? Or maybe you have some insight that might help me be more, um, kind? compassionate?, to such strangers?
The word alone is enough to make a seasoned mother’s eyes roll or a novice, like myself, shiver.
I’m currently experiencing my second round of teething with baby #2 and, I’ll tell you, it does not seem to get much easier. It does however, seem to get less–eh–insufferable?
You see, with my first, who is now nearly three (!), he got ‘em fast and furious. At the time, I didn’t realize quite how lucky I was to be enduring only a few days of acute teeth-cutting rather than weeks. But can you blame me? All I knew was that he’d spike the occasional fever, get the occasional diaper blowout, and, well….stop eating.
Really. The kid went on hunger strikes that would rival Gandhi himself.
I still remember the worst of those days–sitting in his nursery, sobbing, pleading, as he rejected the bottle once again. He’d had maybe an ounce or two since he’d woken up, and it was now nearly noontime.
So I sat there in that nursery with my son on my lap and I pretty much lost it. My mind was shouting things like, HE’LL DIE! HE’S GOING TO BE MALNOURISHED! And lots of other things that equaled THIS IS THE END OF THE WORLD! and I’M A TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE MOTHER!
Just the other day, my neighbor texted me about her son who seems to be experiencing a similar bout of, let’s call it “feeding resistance.” My response to her was calm and reassuring–something that probably would have made me roll my eyes at myself about 2 years ago:
He’ll be okay…things will all even out and he’ll start eating again when he’s feeling a bit better.
Now, let me be clear I’M NOT A DOCTOR, people. But I am a mother of two, and if there’s anything a second child has taught me, it’s this:
It’s pretty much a guarantee that us mommas will worry, but it’s not really essential (or productive) to have utter meltdowns in the nursery, while your confused (okay, probably more like AMUSED) child mocks your pleas to end the hunger strike.
My second, now almost ten months old, has 6 teeth, and recently spent about two weeks reducing his solids by about 2/3. TWO THIRDS, people!
But guess what? He’s still alive. He didn’t fail frail. There were no doctors visits.
Just lots of patience. And DEEP breaths. (Okay FINE, there was still lots of that pesky ANXIETY.) But I’ve still got (most) of my hair. Sure, you can try a medicine dropper. Pedialyte pops. Mesh feeders. There’s lots of tricks. But there’s also the essential act of relaxing and letting (mischievous, perhaps sadistic?) Mother Nature take her (insufferable) course.
So what am I saying here? I think I’m getting the hang of this teething thing. And you will, too. (But maybe we’ll check in again when it’s molar time.)
All contents copyright (c) The Cradle, 2009. All rights reserved. This Internet site provides information of a general nature and is designed for informational purposes only. If you have any concerns about your own health or the health of your child, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional. The Cradle does not endorse or recommend any specific product, procedure, opinion or any other information contained on this site. The use of this site is subject to the Terms of Use and Privacy Policy. The Cradle, LLC does not provide adoption services, and is not affiliated with The Cradle Society of Evanston, Illinois.
(But, ah, I think this may be a post for another time.)
People, the woman HAD COTTON IN HER EAR. The last time I’ve seen that was when I was like five and it was MY ear. You know, because it was INFECTED.
