Time... luxury... loss

Right now, as I sit watching the clock during my stint as a test proctor, there's a song playing on repeat in my head. I've forgotten the real lyrics and I hear it wrong, but the sentiment is there (don't ever drop my name for Don't Forget the Lyrics, okay?).

For the sake of accuracy (and to reduce embarrassment for my ad lib), I looked up the lyrics. Would you believe that even typing in my mistaken line, it produced the correct Steve Miller Fly Like An Eagle lyrics?

"Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future"

I think the funk I'm in has become ubiquitous - spreading through the internet like a dastardly virus with no cure and no way of containing it. Blame it on the weather - late sunrises, rain storms, gloom. Heck, blame it on the a - ah- ah- alcohol (or lack of it, in my case).

Did I mention my thoughts are surging like a BING search commercial that I can't escape.? I think 'funk,' and next I'm thinking Michael Jackson's Thriller (insert creepy narrator voice).

Anyway, now that I seem totally bonkers, I should find a point and stick to it. Or stick myself with it? Hmmm.
I'm thinking that time is a luxury that I'd really like to possess. I miss the lazy, carefree days of summer. We're a month into my work year, and I'm exhausted. And yes, I know that as a teacher I'm blessed to have that "extended vacation" with my kids.

I also know, firsthand, that there's a lot of sacrifice during the year that my children make - when I'm stressed with the operation of my classroom, with the feelings of failure I often am plagued with, or with the burden of being an inadvertant counselor (and praying that I do the "and other duties as assigned" role justice). I come home often feeling both terribly guilty and blessed. I'm sometimes so emotionally drained that I feel I fail as a parent, and I'm the only 24-7 parent my kids have.

There's also a monetary sacrifice being made. With my education and abilities, could I be pulling in some six-seven figures? I choose not to explore other options because I enjoy teaching. I also greatly value my precious, uninhibited time on breaks. I can't help but wonder, however, if the coexisting, constant struggle with finances is a good trade. And to do my job well, there are hours outide of my seemingly lovely "contract hours" spent planning, studying, training, reading and editing. With an average of 150 students on my roster, I read a book of essays every time I have a writing assignment - and we're not talking pretty, polished prose or carefully crafted and meticulously researched nonfiction.

My funky mood must be projecting, because I'm at war with my child's daycare. They've a seemingly personal vendetta against me concerning allergies and EpiPens that is both unnecessary and unnerving. When all is done, I suspect I'll be paying significantly more for care where my child is not being forced to acquire prescriptions for an allergy that has never been confirmed by medical officals. If someone had ever mentioned that playing precautionary mom and requesting that a child not be exposed to allergens known to cause issues to a good number of children would mean forever supplying medications I would never use at home for treatment, I'd have avoided this current ridiculous endeavor of Catch-22 type absurdities. I should've known not to Cliff Notes my way through that blasted novel in high school AP English. It might've warned me...

Alas, I find a little peace in venting in poetry and prose. Poor, poor unfortunate readers herein must now understand why I ramble on and on (redundancy purposeful) about topics no one but I truly care to know about.

And, once freed from the confines of the testing classroom, I shall seek further to loose this foul demeanor's hold by returning to those uber cool mushrooms growing in prosperity and abundance along the morning commute route. I hope they're still standing in little defiant bursts on that lawn. My camera and I need a little time to reconnect.

Signed,
Melancholy Mooded, Morose Mother.

How exactly does one teach a child?

How exactly does one teach a child
About death
When the body can handle
No more
Of the pains of the world
The sadness
The turbulence of living
How exactly does one teach a child
That Grandpa is in heaven
And no
He cannot be fixed
Except by God
Who has chosen to keep him
In paradise
The place he’s earned with his Father
A place we cannot visit
(and this means he can’t be with your father – who is terribly said)
And yes, we may cry because Grandpa is gone
But we are happy for him
How exactly does one teach a child
That life is exciting
And fun
That we cherish every moment spent
With family,
With Friends,
Even with strangers who pause to say “hello”
But sometimes
We get sick
And our bodies need to rest
(we don’t wake up from death)
How exactly does one teach a child
That memories keep men alive
That love keeps their spirits strong
That even those who have gone home - -
Not to Grandpa’s house, baby, to God’s - -
Are with us still
Always
How exactly does one teach a child?

9.8.2011

All in stitches

Casualty of War?

I wish I could say we got to see one amazing sparring match and that Chi was the victor... but this injury wasn't the result of a match. Nope, class hadn't even started when Chi collided with another student. He has a golf-ball sized bump on his forehead, and Chi? Well, she cut her eye just below the brow.

I was outside the building when it happened (again, class had not started). I walked in to see my baby covered - yes, covered - in blood. Her eye was swollen, she was crying, and her whole body quivered in shock. It took forever for someone to get ice. The bleeding would not stop. It took everything in my being to avoid freaking out. I admit that I might have freaked out in my head and subsequently gone into a state of shock. Master was convinced we'd be okay without stitches, but I sought advice from Oma who insisted we go to emergency.

We ended up, instead, at Urgent Care (a subsidiary of the hospital system), and the very nice doctor insisted we consider the cosmetic damage to my daughter's face should we let nature heal her without assistance. Dr. J determined sutures were the optimum fix, but Chi determined no needle would touch her face. He obliged her fears by trying to close up the gaping slit with medical tape. It didn't look at all effective. I determined (on his almost adamant suggestion) that stitches were the only viable option to restore my baby's face to pre-accident conditions. Chi protested.

I think my mind is blocking out the ensuing battle. Chi was told to lay on the hospital bed. She did, but then proceeded to loose grip with sanity. Her body writhed on the table, her head thrashed from side to side, and she began to shake as tears streamed from her eyes. I think she might have screamed... more than once. She began a verbal tirade that was painful to hear. She was in absolute panic.

Dr. J proceeded to administer the numbing shot around Chi's eye calmly countering her shouts with his soothing voice. "I won't lie," he said. "This will sting. There's no way to get around it. But, you wont feel anything after it." Despite the anesthetic completely eliminating all feeling for Chi, she still insisted that she was in searing pain. The soft towelette used to absorb the ooze (that made me queasy enough to need to lean on the gurney for support) caused Chi to thrust her torso up as she tried in vain to flee. "No needles. No! I've changed my mind. Just let me have the scar. No needles!" she screamed.

At this point, my mom tried to escape from the lobby. She heard Chi through the thin walls. Feeling helpless, she could not bear to be in the vicinity. Unfortunately, the hour was drawing late as Chi struggled against the doctor, and the receptionist had locked Oma inside.

Dr. J was patient long after I, too, had decided to forgo the stitches. Clearly Chi was not going to allow him to touch her and I could not bear him trying to get a needle anywhere near her delicate eye while she was convulsing and thrashing uncontrollably. He persevered, however, and the nurse held her kicking legs while I stroked her face and leaned against her arms. I demanded she close her eyes and chanted "Close your eyes. Relax. Calm down, Chi." Over and over.

Chi began her own chant. "Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts." And just as I thought she'd calmed enough for a safe process, she thrashed one last time and hollered, "I have no happy thoughts!"

At this point, I can only assume mental exhaustion set in. She settled her body then and mumbled at random: "I'm going to college... I'm getting a scholarship... All A's... A red car... I'm going to be an artist..."

I inquired, "What kind of car, Chi?" The nurse added, "I have a red car."

She continued to rattle off her life list and anything else that popped into her head as she tried to self-soothe her fears away.

Despite my churning stomach, I forced myself to watch as he threaded the curved needle, punctured her skin and weaved the three black stitches near her brow. The scissor like tool he used to knot each suture clicked as he worked. The minutes ticked away slowly. Then, finally, he inspected his handy work as he wiped her brow. He nodded his head. "You were smart to get the sutures," he said to Chi and she opened her eyes.

"Did he start yet?" she asked nonchalantly as though we'd simply been standing around staring at her. "I didn't feel anything. All I hear is clicking."

The nurse chuckled (silently, so as not to make fun of Chi, but her shoulders shook and the bright smile told of her amusement.

And as Chi climbed down from the bed, Dr. J said in an aside, "You'll want to come back in five to seven days to have them removed, Mom."

It felt like a terrible phone call from the "Ring:"

SEVEN DAYS... dial tone....

He heard me

It was past 10 p.m. when it started. 
I had put little man to sleep some time before. He, as always, was tucked in right next to me in the bed.
His little purring soothed me as I finished up my pointless play on CafeWorld (as though I have time to spare!).
Computer off, TV off, lights out, and then I joined him in slumber.
And then he coughed.
And then, he heaved.
And then, he vomited.
It was not pretty.
It made me a little queasy, myself.
It took a bit of planning to figure out what to clean first - - I opted for the child.
Then, I striped the bed.
I replaced the sheets.
Tossed the unwashable comforter aside.
And redressed the wee one in a clean tee and "di-dee".
He lay down quick and succumbed to his dreams.
I tried to find sleep, and almost reached it.
And then he coughed.
And then, he heaved.
And then, he vomited.
It was not pretty.

No plan was needed this time.
The discarded soiled bedding pile grew a bit larger.
I opted to toss pillows aside, lay down towels just in case.
I found a bucket amongst the bath toys.
Little one sipped water, his bleary eyes tried to focus.
The bucket was placed against the wall - within arms reach.
I turned on the TV (but not the cable) for a soft light.
And then he coughed.
And then, he heaved.
I got the bucket to him just in time...
And then, he vomited.
It was not pretty.

I rubbed his back as we sat, exhausted and unsure what exactly was going on.
In my heart, an unspoken prayer. My lips never formed it.
But, He heard me and answered with a snow day for a soft dusting of winter white.
I'm thankful.

Muddy Sins: a continuing saga

It's no real shocker that Ya has a sincere and powerful dislike of medicine. 

So he had to be feeling pretty darn bad when he woke up from his sleep on Tuesday screaming,

"Oww, my ear hurts me! Let's get muddy sins!"

I mean, as many times as I've said medicine can make you feel better, he's fought to the extreme to keep the medicine out of his mouth.

"That's nasty. Don't like muddy sins. No. Don't want it."

So to wake up demanding the yuck-stuff?  He was really hurting.

It follows a long weekend of the flu-like plague that infected our house (I blame PopPop, you can say Mommy should've invested in flu shots... but you'd be wrong).

A visit to Dr. G (who, no doubt got her flu shot, but insisted on wearing a mask because she was just getting over a flu), was quick.  She asked what the trouble was.  I replied he has an ear infection.  She asks what symptoms he displayed.  I said,

"Well, he said his ear hurts. Screamed it, actually. Multiple times. Then he stuck his finger in his right ear and demanded medicine."

Let's face it, my kid is clear. 

One glance in Ya's ear immediately confirmed that yes, Mommy, the right ear is infected.  His first ear infection.

So now?  Ten days of muddy sins - two doses a day of the loosely disguised bubble gum yuck antibiotic.  TWO TIMES A DAY FOR TEN DAYS.  

He's not complaining about the ear by day three... but the medicine?  Well... 

No sick day for mama

I've never felt so blechk.

Or maybe I've just erased such debilitating illnesses from my memory.

Every strand of hair aches.

My musles are all in agony.

My eyes hate the light - they hate opening for sight even more.

My throat is raw, as though it dirty danced with sandpaper a bit too long.

And my sinuses have issued a mutiny against my head that they intend to carry out.

I've sent several texts in pleas of help and the reply has not been what I hoped for.  No, I didn't get, "Sorry you feel so terrible, why don't I come watch the kids for a few hours so you can recharge."  Nothing like that at all.

Perhaps that's okay.  The illness took over this house like a plague.  There are no sick days for Mama... 

But thank God for snow days, which have at least kept me out of work since Wednesday...

In other news, SHE DID IT!

Chi earned her yellow tip Thursday despite feeling yucky, fighting a sore throat, and suffering from fatigue.



Where's the remote?

I'd like, just for a few days to live my own version of "Click." Rewind. Rewrite. Record.

 

Dec. 20:

The day had already been filled with leaky tear ducts and red eyes.  Yes, I was an emotional cliff hanger, dangling by one hand from a branch barely supporting its own weight against gravity.  I'd foolishly looked through the many entries surrounding my own for the SOAR scholarship.  And then I began the unfortunate process of berating myself for not doing enough - for not pleading for my worthiness and my desire, not presenting Rachelle to my best ability - and the regret I suffered kicked into over drive.

Around the time that I was completely losing my carefully crafted façade of cool and confident - albeit a sheer veil over a wicked jumble of modesty, fear, and self-doubt - I clicked over to Me Ra's blog and saw the most hideous screen shot ever.  Me.  Oh my. There I was featured on the blog as one of the entrants in the barrage of final weekend video submissions.  Really, God?  Was this your way of letting me know something about having and keeping faith? 

I dried my tears, ventured out to the copy center at work and dropped off the abundance of worksheets my students so abhor.  A unit designed for poetic inspiration? Nope, it never works. They'll dread it all.

Just when I'd thought I'd regained hold of my emotions, I get called into my administrator's office.  No sweat, I'm on top of it. Or not.  Turns out that my Dec.16 1:15 p.m. venture to scrape snow from my windshield and start a treacherous trip to pick up my life-lines was premature.  Never mind that I left in the heaviest of snowfall, while streets were essentially slip'n'slides for car wheels, visibility was terrible, and accidents were abundant.  Never mind that the forecast indicated there would be no quick end to the storm and that road conditions would steadily deteriorate as the day wore on.  And don't even consider the hike from the corner of a street where cars were swinging and swaying so much that it looks like The letter now in my file says I should've risked my own safety (and that of my kids) while waiting until all of the school's students traveled to their homes.

The waterworks put on a fabulous show then, and the administrator was a bit taken aback by my reaction.  I assured her it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with my feelings of inadequacy in self promotion.  I don't think she believed me.

I returned to my classroom moments before fifth period. I set the students to task and then my cell phone chimed to indicate a text message. It was around eleven in the morning, then. Yadon's grandfather - my father-in-law, though I've never been married - was in a Fayetteville hospital on life support...

Oweee

"It hurts me."

Yes, he's suffering from a busted lip.  He was trying to pop one of those clear plastic air pouches used as box filler by jumping on it.  And he successfully jumped three times before the thing slide under his movement.  Though I reached for him and caught his arm, it was not soon enough to stop his mouth from colliding with the edge of Chi's skate. 

I suppose it could have been worse.  He could have hit the hard tile floor.  He's a tough guy, letting out one quick whimper before proclaiming sadly "It hurts me," as a slow trickle of blood escaped his mouth and tears cascaded down his cheeks.

Chi blamed herself [the skate was hers] and disappeared to sulk in her room. 

It happens... he's okay... and soon enough the busted lip will be nothing more than a photographic memory.

Feeling Better

For more than a week, he's looked like this: sad, suffering from a continuously running nose, a sore face from tissue swips, eyes glassy, and throat aching from coughing.

Yes.  It's been miserable for Ya.  And try as I might to find something to end the congestion, there aren't a lot of over the counter relief medicines to be found for a 25-month-old.  I ended up with a homeopathic 100% natural medicine called Cold'n Cough 4 Kids.  It's clear, which is great because Ya spits the offending medicinal taste right back out.  He retained less than half of the teaspoon dose he was to have consumed and then when I insisted he finish it off, I got this:
"No want muddy-sins. No more muddy-sins. That's nas-eeee." 
And then he refuses to listen to Mommy's insistance.

Oh how I love being at the age when it's no trouble at all the get a point across. 

And so, to try to kick the cough - if not the entire whatever it is he'd gotten - we resorted to good ol' Huf'n'puff treatments.  And since I let Ya take charge of [helping] put it together and turn it on, he was content to lay down for the treatment.  Well, not for the 10 minutes it takes for the entire measured dose, but long enough to open his sinus passages and lung cavity to make way for some night time breathing relief.

And because it's for him, I'm not going to fight about half a treatment.  He's feeling better.  He's active.  And the cough is nothing more than the sniffles messing around with his throat.  He's not had a fever.  After a hearty "A-men!" he's been more than willing to eat (and nurse, and eat some more).  So we're hopeful that this is the one and only back to school ailment we'll be dealt. 

It's no fun being sick. No fun at all.

{Sweet} Dreams

Not a lot of things to say today...

Ya used his Huff'n'Puff (nebulizer) to try to kick his everlasting cold bug to the curb...  he's told me every other cure I've presented was "nazzzeee."

And for once after several long, interrupted nights, we had a peaceful sleep.

Sick

When will the coughing, sneezing, stuffy head, soar throat, aching end so he can rest?

We've all had a cold for most of last week.  Chi was the front runner and caught hers first.  Ya pulled up in second place, and I was third.  And though mine is finally leaving me - after kicking my boohtay swifty for some of the longest workdays of my life - I'm wondering if something ickier than a common cold has attacked my li'l man... there's nothing common about his agonizing cough.

 His school mentioned one child is out with Strep.  Ugghh!  Please don't let Ya follow suite!

I mean we've finally had a day without tears at morning drop off.  Yes, big boy took the hand of his morning attendant and walked stoically away from Mommy without even a glance back.  He left outbreak monkey in the car, but insisted on wearing his backpack Monkey (which he also insisted on sleeping in last night).  Whatever works, right?

(that's the Monkey, but clearly not Ya's school uniform, photo taken while passing time during Chi's TKD class 9.13.2010)

When I came to pick him up,Ya was reading contently while sitting on a bench in his classroom (albeit the book was upside down in his hands).  We've made progress.

Oh, I really hope this whatever goes back where it came from, because sneaking in cough syrup as he sleeps is not working and he already knows not to trust me with little tiny (medicine) cups.

Good Friday?

My quiet Easter plans to go to Sunrise Service and spend the remainder of the day with family have been thwarted.

Today we woke to Ya's labored breathing and terrible wheezing. It got worse as he continued his usual Tigger bounce antics and we finally decided to venture to the pediatrician. Our seat was still reserved from the slew of February visits, so we were welcomed right in "as soon as possible." Turns out mommy's Dr. Mom instincts were right: Ya had avoided RSV in February (a case of bronchiolitis, asthma diagnosis, and negative for RSV) only to get it full blown in April from one of his classmates!

We are assured that he's a 15lb 15.5 oz trooper, so no hospitalization is needed. He was quite relaxed through a chest x-ray, and tomorrow we'll know if there is more to this breathing difficulty than a viral cold. Oxygen level is as it should be and other than being ultra clingy to mommy, Ya is the same as always.... except he sounds like a 90 year old chain smoker.

Oh and the breathing treatments with the huffenpuff are much smoother without the baby mask. Turns out that Ya likes to suck on the mouth insert and is content to breathe deep the albuterol vapors. But the shakes, spaced eyes and general antsiness afterward are hard to watch.

Spring break is officially over and sunrise service at the gazebo in the cold is a definate danger to our frail health.

Nearing that day...

Forgive me, for this is a rambling kind of post... and it is evolving of its own accord, not on some well -thought out plan.

---

I told my father in an e-mail that I was expecting his first grandson (though at the time we'd not had confirmation of gender, just a mama;s hunch). That was April 1, 2008 - - April Fool's Day.

Just a week later I received a phone message from Dr. H (who never calls a patient unless their is an issue). No details, no clarity, just a Friday phone message before two days of pregnant-and-emotionally-fickle worry about why I needed the personal attention.

At that point in my pregnancy, Ya was already fluttering around and I could feel his acrobatic performances. They gave me secret comfort - - assurance of his impending birth. Aside from my immediate family, I'd told only one co-worker and though I was showing, tactful folk who knew me refrained from guessing in my presence. I'd share when the time was right for me.

What followed those 48 plus hours of restless worry was a drawn out episode of educate-deny-accept-pray-hope-resolve in a cyclical, sickening cycle. Dr. H said a screen showed Trisomy 18, bad chromosomes. Fatal. Painful, but mercifully brief life. Incurable. Statistically uncommon. Best to terminate ("You do not want a baby with Trisomy 18" and euphemistically the phrase of choice on support sites called his commentary "saying goodbye early.")

I sought comfort in my odds. I held firm to my mom's steady hand through an amniocentesis. I cried, hiding tears in public and letting go alone. My sweet Chi comforted, my Chi ceaselessly prayed. My cousins spread word, called in shifts, and no doubt did a fair share of praying, too. My colleague (more appropriately called friend - a term I rarely use) prayed, comforted, and calmed me between classes when I dwelled on the negative.

Around that same time, as I obsessed over celebrity-babies.com articles, I found a community of support in blogs. You see, that was the day "Bring the Rain" was mentioned - - the day little Audrey Caroline went home to God because she was too precious to stay on Earth. I read the eloquent, extremely personal, heartfelt, God-driven words of Angie Smith and found peace.

The outcome of my amnio confirmed what Ya's daddy had said all along, "I talked to God, he's fine." And ultimately, our little king was born.

And here I am a year later - still devouring blogs, though the celebs are a last resort and the "regular folk" have become my stars of choice. There's power in sharing pieces of one's life. There's understanding in these stories that stretches across cultures, communities, colors and economics (I tried to find a suitable "c" word, but it isn't working). I relish in shedding anonymity for the sake of sharing a good photo story, an anecdote - happy or sad, or even a blurb of reply from someone who's been there, felt that, or is praying for/about it.

Online, these parents can dish about health, wealth, and all that stuff we deal with in this life on earth. Many preach without being preachy, drawing spirituality from their respective faiths and proclaiming it in their reflections.

And as the day my simple outlook on parenting and pregnancy evolved into it's current uncertain and often cloudy state draws ever nearer, I put my faith in Him who has the plan.

Today I pray for you who read this, for those whose stories I read, and for these sweet little ones who need God's tender touch more than me right now:

Samuel J and Stellan M.

Oh So Sick...

I don't think I've ever had a stomach virus quite like this one. It came immediately following a very late banquet dinner at a Pastor Installation service and rendered me immobile for much of the next day (except of course to race to the restroom to hug the porcelain god). I tried desperately to will the body to let out whatever demon had entered it - and the direction it came was certainly not an issue so long as I was feeling better. But alas, the 7up went flat. The ginger ale went missing. The water was a last resort. And still, though my stomach complained audibly, nothing was moving along its course. I ate, reluctantly, two bowls of soup spread out over the course of the day. Bland, not what the brain said I wanted to eat. Now this morning I am preparing for work. I am hoping that I can run to the restroom and get the door unlocked quickly should the need arise... and I am praying that my rumblings within are not heard by way too curious students. I'm such a baby when it comes to being ill... and that's hard to handle when there are already two little'ns in the house needing my help.

Huffenpuff... to help Ya breath

I am a paparazzo. I always keep my camera loaded and ready. Sometimes I am certain that Marq thinks I am crazy and insensitive. It was painful to capture this image of Ya, clearly distraught, getting his nebulizer treatment. See the little tear falling from his eye?
But as any true historian (aka scrap book artist, family journalist, memory catcher), these are the images and stories that must be captured to share real life. It's not always going to be a pretty picture. The story isn't always going to be heartwarming and happy. Sometimes, we suffer. Sometimes we hurt. Sometimes we are tested. But at all times, we put our faith in God's plan for us. We accept that there will be trials. And we appreciate the good times all the more because we've survived the bad.

Big bad wolf...

Ya has continued to suffer from a lingering coughing and so our follow-up and well baby turned into a sick baby visit. We arrived on time and assumed our position on the "sick baby" side of the pediatricians office (even though he is just now 5 months old and young babies his age go to the well baby side as a precaution). Dr. L, who likes little Ya, saw us and thought he was coming for the well baby. He looks healthy enough, of course.
Instead, though, he read through the nurses comments then made me repeat my concerns and issues. I listed them:

he wakes up multiple times each night with coughing fits
he wheezes after eating and sometimes coughs up his meal
the inhaler creates more coughing
the coughing has lessened, but only if we never leave the house
the daycare says he coughed up his meal and - as a bonus - phlegm
though he is smiling and active, he's just not being the Ya that we'd gotten so fond of

We took a test for RSV, which thankfully returned negative. As Ya tore up the paper on the examination table, I was told that "He's active and alert that's a good sign."

Then came the family history questions... yes, we answer them as new patients, but the docs always seem to want you to verbalize every health issue you've been plagued with. With the yes response to "Asthma or allergies in the family," Dr. L prescribed an in house breathing treatment of something called Zopanex because "he is quite wheezy." The hope here was to lessen the distress he heard in Ya's lungs. For 10 minutes I fought with Ya trying to get a cup (the most sanitary method of masking a child) over his nose and mouth so that the misted meds could get into his system.
And now we've added a personal nebulizer to Ya's medical arsenal. It's called a "Huffenpuff" and it came with stickers so he can decorate it when he's older.

Poor Chi blames herself for the most recent series of doctor's visits. She said "I'm the worst big sister ever." I'm trying to alleviate her guilt. We are all dealing with colds and no one knows who got it first. Ya's just little, so it is worse for him. It's something I must've said that makes her fault herself.

Frequent Visitor

They're going to reserve a spot for Yadon and I at the pediatrician. I'm convinced of this, as we've been frequent visitors since his birth 5 months ago.

Most of the appointments were in the weeks following his birth. As our neonatal/amniocentesis tests predicted, he suffered from low birth weight. And within days of birth he was jaundice. But the other screening issues - Trisomy 18, oral clefting, and neural tube or spina bifida defects - were no where to be found.

He quickly gained weight, the jaundice gave way beautiful brown skin and bright white eyes, and his pediatrician pronounced him healthy.

Then constant discomfort (and crying) and vomiting after meals led to a panicked trip to the doctors at 7 weeks. Diagnosis: Acid Reflux.

Following a well baby check up at two months old was a bout with thrush which refused to go away.

Then we enjoyed watching Ya learn, disover, and explore himself and his world. But for three weeks straight now we're seeing the pediatrician.

Visit one: The rough skin and super dry patches? Diagnosis: Eczema. Okay, Chi grew out of that around two years old, so it's easily countered with extra care, skin creams, and hypoallergenic detergents and lotions.

Visit Two: The increasingly worse cough, weezing and sniffling, is not a cold. Relegated to the "Sick side" waiting area for the first time was the first blow. Then came the diagnosis: Asthma and a bronchial infection which could be RSV.

When Ya discovered the power of his smile a few weeks ago, he realized how endearing it was and he relished in the attention. He's not let one day (actually, one hour) go by without flashing those gums and showing his dimples. Until this past week. Do you know what it's like to not see a smile for several days?

And the cough. A long, torturous series of coughs and gasps followed by a mournful moan, and often tears. He fights for relief which seems not to come. He is miserable. And Mommy? Helpless.

We've kept him out of daycare for the last week battling fevers, the coughing, a runny nose, and watery eyes. Sometimes we think he's better - the smiles return, the playfulness. Then more coughs, tears, and obvious discomfort suggests he is still sick.

Visit Three: a scheduled well-baby with immunizations planned that will now include a sick baby follow-up.

No Room for Nursing

Those who have breast fed before know very well that though "breast is best" for baby, trying to maintain this after returning to work is difficult at best. But, as determined as I have been to take on this task, I am not prepared to give up on my efforts in favor of the easier, pricier and less healthy formula alternative.

My efforts, however, are increasingly becoming more futile. Before I returned to work, my complaints about pumping in privacy helped me secure a colleague's permission to pump in her private, windowless office whenever I have a few free minutes. Her office is in Siberia - clear across campus from me - but the door locks, and only she and security have the access key.

But here begins the series of problems:

Number One: finding free time.

Lunch for the high school teacher is a mere 30 minutes bell to bell, with 5 of those needed to usher kids out of the class and to greet them upon return. Subtract about 7 more minutes to get from my classroom to a potential pumping station and I am left with 18 minutes to put together my breast pump and eliminate my engorgement.

Number Two: finding a permanent pumping place.

Using the colleague's office has worked for the last four days. Though I have been rushed in my process, I've pumped a good 6 ounces for Ya's daycare bottles each time. Today, though, I carried my pump kit and munched on a slice of cold pizza (my lunch) toward Siberia and found the office door locked.

Sucking my teeth, I turned on my heels and walked to another colleague's classroom. She has a covered window on one door and a closet that blocks the view from another door's window. But in her classroom, she was not. Instead, I found a substitute sitting comfortably in a student desk in the middle of the room munching on a homemade PBJ sandwich. I assume he thought I was a student when I said, "Oh, she's not here," as he then asked, "Who are you looking for?" - a question that warranted a "duh" response. Of course I meant the usual teacher, but I politely answered him before venturing out in search of another pumping place.

I was told earlier in the week (during a mad dash toward the Siberia) that the nurse had a private restroom. I borrowed her key and after a fight with the lock (I turned it the wrong way), entered a dimly lit student restroom. I sought a handicap stall, but the plug was on the other side of the room. Great. Is this what I was reduced to? Though the bathroom was clean (due entirely to the fact that it is not in use), it is a bathroom. I stood in front of a mirror, pump in hand, trying to be as covert as possible with my process in the event that someone need to use the facility. I am in no way an exhibitionist. My pumping station was the sink, which conveniently allowed me to rinse the pump in the last minutes of my lunch period, but was otherwise a dismal and degrading location for such an important process.

Is it worth it? Surely I am not the first mother to return to teaching? In a career that draws more women than men, one might expect some accommodations. I mean, I'm not asking for free time, just a private space (preferably with a chair) that doesn't double as a human waste receptacle.

This is our story

The long awaited results of my amniocentesis came this morning in the form of an e-mail. My son has no traces of the fatal Trisomy 18, nor any other chromosonal disorder. He shows no signs of spina bifida or neurological disorders. He is, as far as his tests go, healthy.

It has been a long 11 days of waiting for a phone call. It has been 18 days since that initial conversation with my doctor. It has been a fortnight of choices, of doubt, of sadness. And it has been a prayer-filled period - - not of hope, persay, but that His will be done and I be able to accept whatever it was...

So it looks like I can finally celebrate this soon-to-arrive son of mine. I can cherish those sweet little kicks and picture how he'll look when I'm holding him in my arms. I can thank God for the miracle of his creation and the blessing he is to my little family.

I am blessed.

No more tormented thoughts about a stolen future... granted nothing is promised, but thank God He has a plan for this little one that goes beyond this pregnancy.

Does prayer work? Yes. Just yesterday my cousin texted me reassurance that this little boy was gonna be okay. There's a little angel in Heaven who said he's not ready to welcome a playmate into paradise with him... And Marq said he spoke with God and things would be fine. Faith is a beautiful thing and I am grateful to have so many people who pray for me and with me on a regular basis. My friend (who's expecting her own little one) had her whole family praying for this news. Countless people I don't even know asking God to make things okay... that's a blessing.

And as I type this there are no eloquent words... it's hard to see the keyboard through my tears. These are happy tears, though... these are tears of a mommy who would like nothing better than to have the opportunity to cherish her son and experience with him all that life has to offer. Finally I can breathe again. And I can restart my countdown until our little prince celebrates his birthday.

I'm ready for September.