Thursday, October 3, 2013

Our Pet Human (at 10 weeks) ...


The worst thing I've ever seen, to date: a nurse spending 5 minutes trying to tap one of the PBG's veins with an IV.

I didn't know there would be an IV. And I especially didn't know about the catheter. It's mention of the latter that sends me shivering and snotting to the Kleenix box. I've had a catheter. I've stood on a table in the basement of a hospital, catheterized, and been asked to urinate into something that looks like a Brita Water Pitcher in front of an audience. It's awful.

But it's watching them insert the IV, helplessly listening to the pained cries of the baby, that hurts worse than getting stuck myself. 

We were in Minneapolis meeting with a specialist about the PBG's single kidney. To recap: There is no left; righty is super sized. They wanted to make sure the one is doing its job and isn't an infection waiting to happen. As we all know, the common urinary tract infection is the precious family heirloom. If an infection had an easy way to crawl back into the kidney, we'd have a problem. So there were all these tests and pokes and prods.

The PGB was in perhaps the best mood of her life, even during the ultrasound. She was all smiles and fake words, arms and legs doing cheerleading choreography.

"Well, I hope I don't ruin that," a woman in radiology said right before the IV-catheter combo meal.

Chuck and I had to stand idly by while the PBG was photographed eliminating fluids for 50 torturous minutes. She was strapped down at her mid section, her big blue eyes pooling with tears (helped along by the additional fluids in her body), her mouth a giant red O as she wailed the entire time. A clock ticked off the minutes, time that was seemingly wading through peanut butter. I leaned over her and hoped she didn't forever associate my face with this cold fluid running through her body or the jabs to her hand and peeper.

It. Was. Awful.

"Well," I said to Chuck. "At least now we know we know that we would be able to kill anyone who hurts her."

After that she was scanned by a radiologist, which she seemed to think was fun, and all was right with the world again.

The verdict: She should be fine, according to the doctor, though we have his permission to use the kidney as an excuse to not let her play football. Now I can stop being sad when I see girls playing soccer. She just might be the best midfielder ever after all. Of course, this verdict could change, but he seemed to think she would be okay. She'll continue to meet with him every few months until she's potty trained.


THE FINAL COUNTDOWN
This week marks the end of my life without a Daily Obligation. Starting next week, the Norwegian Wonder will be watching the PBG three days a week.

I'm probably going to barf about it.

This is technically a good thing. The Norwegian Wonder is wonderful, everyone should know her, and we're lucky that the PBG will get one-on-one time with her. Also: She's coming to our house, which is super convenient and means that other dirty children won't get their flu in the baby's hair. Bonus that the PBG might pick up some Norwegian along the way and someday be able to say "I hate you, you ruined my life" in a less hostile sounding language.

Still the whole thing is causing conflicting emotions: a) sad to leave my baby; b) happy to get out into the world and resume some semblance of my own life; c) sad that I'm kind of happy to get back into the world and resume some semblance of my own life.

The kicker is that this comes at a time when we've developed a routine. She's learning all these new tricks. And every day she's becoming more aware that I'm a VIP. This is crucial. I've been unable to trick anyone else into thinking this about me.

I practiced leaving her earlier this week. I took a late lunch with a great view and a Charles Manson bio and when my mind wandered back to her little face, everything started to taste like glue. (Although the rest of the time it was delish).

Even if I was the president of the Sheltering Homeless Company and on the board of directors for the Feed the Hungry Organization I still think that I would spend eight hours a day thinking: This is bullshit compared to watching my baby do a gummy grin at some Of Montreal song she heard on Yo Gabba Gabba YouTube. I'm worried about that.

Chrissie! said it's good for the baby to see me with a daily obligation. I believe that's true and plan to repeat it to myself when I return to my daily Subway sandwich lunches, now with a bonus breast pump.

I just really don't want to wake up one day and suddenly realize that the PBG's got a full head of hair instead of this male pattern baldness thing she's rocking. That she can do a cartwheel and has begun experimenting with Loves Baby Soft, pilfered from Walgreens.

So there you have it: me repeating the shit mommy bloggers having been mommy blogging about for the ages.

2 comments:

Guacaholic said...

Oh dear lord, you're a strong gal. I would've been fully flipping out during that exam.

Does super sized kidney = super awesome kidney? Extra super renal function?

I can't comment on starting child care as an infant because M started at 20 months. But I have a friend who has a master's in family therapy and she focused her research on how children who have multiple positive adult caregivers have better attachments and better self esteem. So there's a little something to keep in your pocket for the extra crappy days.

I do understand the mixed feelings on resuming your old self, though I had built up some resentment about being a SAHM that made the transition easier. It still sucks, but you're setting an example for her. That matters.

Anonymous said...

At least she will learn proper Scandinavian stoicism and not some watered-down version so many kids learn on the streets these days.