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The Battery Saga Continues

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After all was fine and he was waking up from the anesthesia

When my son was nine months old, he swallowed a disc battery. I had seen it the day before, sitting menacingly towards the back of the cabinet under the bathroom sink and thought to myself, “I must remember to get that”. Of course, we had child locks on the cabinet, but my son was some sort of super baby and could open them (He could also open the baby gate that was guaranteed until two years old…). That morning, having completely forgotten about the battery, I was washing my face and turned for about two seconds to dry my face on the towel hanging on the back of the door. I turned around and slow motion ensued: I could hear myself shouting “no” for far too long and it felt like it took a year to take the two steps necessary to get to where he sat, happily staring me straight in the eye as the battery slipped into his mouth.

For a split second, I was relieved. “Phew,” I thought, “He didn’t choke. He swallowed it”. Then, realization. He swallowed a battery. That can’t be good. Then I did the worst thing a mother can do in any situation ever: I Googled it. If you are reading this and you are a new mother, please, take this advice: Never. Google. Anything. Ever. Seriously, get someone else to do it. I’ve since had my mom look things up for me, or my husband even. It’s not worth the stress. Within two entries, I was sobbing on the floor and holding him, imagining the battery turning on and electrocuting him from the inside (which, apparently is a real thing) or it having gotten stuck on its way down and burning a hole in his esophagus (also, real).

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Baby boy drugged after procedure

In the end, neither of those things happened. But we did have to go to the hospital, where they drugged him, gave him an endoscopy and we had to stay the night. Looking back on it, it was the best possible way to end that scenario. The top endoscopist in the country even happened to be at the hospital that day, so he was able to perform the procedure. At the time, however, it seemed the scariest thing in the entire world. My husband and I clung to each other sobbing the entire day. I will never in my life forget the X-ray that showed us just how pressing of a procedure it was: the battery took up most of his stomach and looked monstrous in there.

So we obviously have gotten completely overly-protective and paranoid about batteries, right?

Ha.

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As he starts to get loopy from drugs

Fast forward two and a half years (more or less) to yesterday. I decide that it’s okay to go to the bathroom and leave my eight month old and three year old (the battery survivor) in their room just up the hall. I leave the door open and instruct the boy to come get me if she was bothering him, etc, thinking the worst thing that could happen would be the little one would grab his trains, he would scream and cry, possibly push her and they would both be crying upon my return. I was half right. He was playing trains and she did try to grab them.

The boy comes running into the bathroom saying, “Look! Thomas is broken!” and sure enough, his motorized Thomas the Tank Engine was broken. Not surprising, as the day before he had a few friends over and they discovered this lovely game of running up and down the hall shrieking as loudly as possible and throwing his trains. Then I noticed the battery was missing. “Oh no! Thomas IS broken,” I say, calmly, “But where is the battery?”. “Izzy’s eating it!” he exclaims, obviously finding it funny.

Panic. “Go get it from her!” I scream, “Go get the battery!”. The little genius runs to the kitchen and attempts to open the cupboard where we keep the new batteries (one of the last cupboards with a working child lock, thankfully). So I jump up (pants around my ankles, of course, because everything has to happen while mom is in the bathroom, right?!) and run to her. She’s happily crawling around at the end of the hall with no battery in sight. I search all around: nothing.

“Impossible”, I think to myself. After all, this isn’t a disc battery. This is a AA battery. She can’t have swallowed it. Especially without making any noise or gagging and throwing up. “Impossible”, I think again.

After repeatedly quizzing my son about what actually happened (who had lost all interest and was not even answering my questions in any coherent way), I promptly forget all about it until my husband comes home and I double check with him. “Impossible”, he says. I text my mom. “Impossible”, she says.

I relax on the sofa and forget about it. Until about 10:00 PM when she suddenly wakes up screaming, obviously uncomfortable. She is straightening her legs, kicking them out, screaming in pain and not nursing. All I can hear, besides her screams, is my little boy’s voice: “Izzy’s eating it!”.

And of course, I lose it. My husband is asking me what we should do and what I think, still declaring it impossible, and all I can think of is never seeing this little girl again. So I find out exactly how I handle a worst-case-scenario: horribly.

Still thinking it impossible, we call an ambulance (which seemed a bit much, but as we don’t have a car and taking the train seemed a bit too relaxed, it was our only option). At this point, of course, she stops screaming. And from the moment we call, through the entire ambulance ride, the check-up, the X-ray, and the taxi back home, she is happy as a clam, chatting away with the “hunky” EMTs (my husband’s word, though they truly were) and “dadada”ing her way around the hospital, waving to all and sundry. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was mental.

But I could still hear my son’s voice and so I just had to know for sure.

In the end, of course, it was nothing. We still cannot find this battery, but it isn’t inside her. At one point, though, when I told the doctor that my son had swallowed a battery before, I immediately regretted it, thinking he would instantly initiate an investigation with the German CPS and they would take my children from me because I was inept, incompetent – who has TWO children swallow batteries?

Well, thankfully, not me.

Like she just don't care...

Like she just don’t care…

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Postpartum

I really didn’t think postpartum depression would be an issue for me – mainly because I’m already depressed. How could you have two forms of depression? Well, it turns out, you can. Postpartum, it seems, is much more physical. Or perhaps that’s just because it’s anxiety? Really, I don’t even know how to write about this because I don’t even know how to feel about it. Frankly, I don’t understand how to even feel it, let alone analyze or describe it. It’s new, and different. And with my history of depression and anxiety, I wasn’t expecting that. I was completely sidelined.

People keep saying to me that I’m just being too hard on myself and expecting perfection and having two kids is supposed to be hard. I know that it is. But, even though the boy is in Kita, I still can’t seem to function. Even though the girl sleeps pretty well at night, I still don’t seem rested and up to the task of caring for them. My nerves are on edge. Just a little whine or cry sets me off and I am horrified to find myself thinking about shaking her or throwing her or punching him or just leaving them on the train platform and walking away. Now, scary as that may sound (and believe me, it scares me), I know that I’m still “together” enough not to actually do those things. But it is still pretty scary. And horrible. I look at their little faces and my heart breaks because I love them so much that I just can’t.

I wake up and try to prepare myself to have a good day. After all, I’m pretty lucky. My husband takes the wild child to school every morning so that I can sleep in with the baby. I have a cleaner that comes once a week. My husband will also pick up the slack in the evenings: he makes dinner, he cleans the kitchen, and takes over caring for the boy. Literally ALL I have to do is get out of the house around midday to pick up the boy, get home, put him down for a nap and put on a movie when he wakes up (or better yet, actually play with him, but that’s another level entirely). That’s it. I should be able to handle that. And some days I can. Occasionally I can even do it without breaking down and crying.

But most days, she doesn’t cooperate. Or he doesn’t. She would usually fall asleep on the way to pick him up – Great! Then, there is something about his school that wakes her up. Always. So I try to put his coat on and get him out the door as quickly as possible so that the movement of the stroller/carrier (I’m willing to try anything) will lull her back to sleep quickly so that I can give some attention to poor little boy who I love so much I start crying just thinking about it. However, said beautiful little boy rarely cooperated. He would lag. He would stop to look at sticks. He would try and run in puddles. It would be raining and of course he won’t carry his umbrella or keep his hood up. It would end in her screaming and then him screaming as well, seemingly trying to match her in volume, all to get my attention.

I bought a double stroller. That solved the problem with him, yet she still wakes up and cries and then he cries. And then I cry. On the train. In public. In the rain.

Often, she falls asleep again before we get home and I put him to bed fine and honestly, the rest of the day could proceed well. But it doesn’t. Because that in and of itself is enough to completely destroy me. I’m shattered for the rest of the day. So that when, during our movie (AKA my minimal parenting time), she wakes up and I have to feed her, I sob when he looks at her and moves slightly away. Then of course, he starts crying and saying, “Stop, mommy. Stop. It’s OK. Stop, mommy.”, which just makes me cry all the more.

Those are good days. When she sleeps. When it isn’t raining or snowing so much that taking her out isn’t just ridiculous.

I’m so tired. My body feels slack, like there is nothing holding my shoulders up above my back and head up on my neck. I have actually body aches like flu symptoms and searing headaches.The instant the baby cries, I start having a panic attack. Yet I try my best to smile at my boy and tell him it’ll be fine and that his baby sister just cries sometimes and that that is OK. And it is in that trying that I lose it. It is somehow that trying that is too much for my heart.

Apparently my husband, who doesn’t understand at all and who is getting more and more frustrated with me and with whom I have resorted to communicating with in either passive aggressive or defensive snaps and snarls, was worried enough to call my mom. So she flew out. Which helps, in that I now have time to sit here and drink tea and write this while someone else tries to put my two beautiful children to sleep. And I’m eating much better. But I’m still crying. And I the baby crying or fussing still makes me so anxious, my stomach hurts. And my little boy’s face still breaks my heart.

I have called my midwife and emailed a therapist. I am going to call my doctor tomorrow, but I don’t have a lot of hope that this will be cleared up. And I really worry about what it’s doing to my marriage.

But then, I worry about everything.

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Little Boy Blue

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My little boy is now 26 1/2 months, though I usually do just say he’s “just turned 2” (Mostly because I can’t do math or figure out what month it is that quickly in my head, not because I’m not that annoying mom, because I am…). He’s of course growing so quickly and learning so much every day that I’m astounded. Literally. I find I don’t know what to do with him half the time. He’s somehow right at that point between baby and little boy where he can talk and understand what I’m saying, but not enough. 

His favorite toys right now are cars and trains, which are slightly annoying only because that means setting up and dismantling tracks and car routes approximately a thousand times a day. He also likes to talk about cars on our walks, which means for ten minutes all I hear or think is: “blue car, red car, black car, big blue car, red car go, big black car…” as he points ecstatically from his stroller. 

His favorite words are “big”, “muddy puddle”, “Dankeschöne”, “oops-a-nanny”, “poop” (usually in conjunction with big), “train”, “jump” and his own name.

His favorite film is A Bug’s Life, which he calls “The Anties” and his favorite scene is where they build the “big bird”. He acts out a good portion of the film, especially the part where the children put on a play for the warrior bugs, which ends with the last grasshopper dying: the ant falls over saying “die, die, die”. He acted this scene out on the train the other day, which left me praying that no one around us understood English. 

He is also quite fond of Peppa Pig, which is part of where his love for “jumping big muddy puddles” comes from. 

His favorite color is, of course, blue. While he’s gotten much better recently, for a while there, any time we asked the color of any object (regardless of its actual color), he would happily respond “blue”.

My favorite recent moment? Oddly enough, it involves a poop explosion. We were at our mommy & me meeting, which was held at a Kindercafé, and one of the other moms sort of grabbed him and yelled to me because he had poop coming up out of his pants. I, of course, ran right over, pausing only to grab a clean diaper and wipes out of my bag. The changing table at this particular establishment is out in the open right by the play area so he was standing on this, while I took off his pants and shirt and cleaned off his back and what not (Ah, the joys of children, right?). The other children (all more or less his age) were LOVING IT: pointing at him and saying poop over and over; everyone was totally enthralled. He was standing so very proudly, smiling down at them all and puffing out his chest, pointing to himself repeatedly saying, “Lucas big poop. Lucas big, stinky poop.” Boys. 

Current struggles include: getting him to do anything he doesn’t want to do (most particularly getting dressed or taking off his pajamas, especially if they are his Thomas the Tank pjs), getting him to brush his teeth (which he used to love), getting him to stop when we say stop, finding something for him to do that doesn’t involve jumping off of EVERYTHING and perhaps most importantly, though not his fault at all, finding a new school for him. His school is closing in October (just before the baby comes – perfect) and all of the schools around us are full. It is one of those horrible constantly-at-the-back-of-your-mind stresses. 

Current loves include: his eagerness to give kisses when saying goodbye, his desire to do things for himself and to help, his enthusiasm, his growing fondness for (or acceptance of) cuddles, when he wakes up in the middle of the night and comes into our room to sleep with us and cuddles right up next to my face on the pillow, stares intently into my eyes, smiles and then goes to sleep, his love of counting (which sometimes is very accurate and impressive and others is more just saying all the numbers in any order up to twelve and pointing at random things), his mischievous face (which his father says resembles mine) and his newfound delight in singing and dancing. 

He’s pretty much the bestest. 

 

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The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly Cry

Well, today has been a day. Thankfully, one that is almost over. In fact, I should already be in bed, considering I’ve gotten five – six hours of sleep the past two nights, which in and of itself is scary for a thyroid-addled depressive mom of a wild child but is absolutely terrifying for a pregnant thyroid-addled depressive mom of a wild child.

We’ve had a terrible storm here the past two days, which kept the boy up the night before last. There were 21,735 lightning strikes between 9:11pm and 11:11pm, according to the Channel 4 Weather guy (via my husband) and the storm was so close, the lightning and thunder were simultaneous and louder than I’ve ever heard before. The wind and rain were so intense, we both ran around “battening down the hatches”, which really just meant putting bicycles inside the garage and making sure all of the sand toys were properly shut inside the sand pit. It still felt dramatic at the time, though.

Throughout those two hours, the boy kept waking up, piteously crying, “mummy, dad, mummy, dad” over and over again, making it difficult for me to fall asleep (I do like the kid, after all). Then, for no reason whatsoever, he decided to just be awake from around 11:30pm until God (and my poor husband) knows when because I finally fell asleep at 12:30 in the morning. I was not a happy lady, waking up at 6:00 the next day.

Although we planned for an early night, I was hosting our weekly Wednesday “Mommy & Me” group the next day (today), so I had lots of baking to do. Considering it was the boy’s birthday, I had promised these people cake. And I know what those tired mamas would do to me if said cake were not delivered. So, of course, I try completely new recipes. I make a quiche (and crust from scratch), chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, deviled eggs and all sorts of little goodies. Then, when everything is finally finished and it’s midnight and I lay my head on the pillow, I decide to watch Inside the Actors Studio: Cast of Arrested Development. Face palm.

Needless to say, I don’t even much remember this morning. I let the boy watch “the fishies” (The Little Mermaid) while I frosted the cupcakes and got everything set up (Oh, and made a ginormous pot of coffee… Sorry little baby…). 10:00 (When our group meets) came and went. 11:00 came and just when I started to fear the worst, three people showed up. Three. To celebrate my little boy’s second birthday. I organize the group. I travel all around this stupid city to go to everyone’s house, no matter how far on Wednesdays and Fridays and do all sorts of work for the group other days as well. And three people showed up. Granted, the boy couldn’t care less (one of those that came was his little girlfriend), but I will admit that I took it personally. Is it immature and ridiculous to do so? Yes. C’est la vie.

Add that to feeling generally overwhelmed, lonely and homesick and well, you can imagine my mood. On top of that, the boy turned into a monster. OK, not really. He’s been a monster for awhile. BUT WHY DOES HE NEED TO THROW EVERYTHING ON THE FLOOR? Water, food, toys, phones (Shall I share a photo of my ridiculously cracked [but still functioning] iPhone?!?!), chairs… Anything he can get his grubby little hands on. AND I CAN’T HANDLE IT ANYMORE.

But enough about that. It’s the bad. It’s what created the ugly cry – the all day, puffy faced, emotional hangover headache, exhausted, ugly cry. Frankly, I’ve thought about it enough. Once I look into what I’m going to do about it (both the need to get out of here issue and the can’t control my child issue), I’ll write more.

Because now, I need a little good. And the good is, we’re having another boy! I know, I know, I’ve been saying for ages (probably not here though, as I really only blog in my head [but if those were published, I’d be the most prolific, amazing blogger that ever was]) that I want a girl. And I do. Those little dresses and tutus and then the relationship between a mother and a daughter. However, two little boys! Brothers! Best friends (I’m assuming, though as my mother pointed out, her brothers aren’t speaking and were involved in a legal conflict recently – Thanks, mom!)! But really, I knew. I’ve always known I’d be a mother of little boys. And though my little monster has been an incorrigible little shit lately, I’d happily have two of him…

New Little Squishface (Eighteen Weeks)

New Little Squishface (Eighteen Weeks)