Where Do Babies Come From?

Question of the day from Jesse: "Did we come out of your bellybutton?"

Now that Seth and Jesse are seven years old and in second grade, I can't dissemble anymore when it comes to the topic of babies and their origins, right?

So, here's how skillfully (not) I handled it.

My reply: "Um, no."

Jesse: "Where, then?"

Seth (whispering to Jesse): "I think it's her privates."

Jesse: "Did we come out of your privates?"

Me: "Um, yes."

Jesse: "Did you have to pull your pants down?"

Me: "Um, yes."

Jesse: "Now I'm going to faint." Falls on floor in a heap.

Conversation over.

I'm off to Barnes and Noble to get the right books. Then my hub can take over.

My Night in the ER, Part II

When the night-shift pediatric ER doc recognizes you, it's time to take stock of your life. Well, now Doc Eileen, who used to lived in New York City and misses it, but also enjoys a quieter life near the beach now (and I know these things because we've met previously), has met two of my boys in the middle of the night. While we've been on vacation at the shore.

You know, relaxing.

Kyle had been coughing and complaining for a few days. The first is not so usual, the latter an everyday occurrence.

But this was a sort of barky cough, which I've not heard from him before.

I tried to wait it out, treating the cough with a humidifier and lots of water, and giving him kiddie ibuprofen for a mild fever.

Then, two nights ago, while we were watching Food Network (Kyle's favorite these days), Mick and I both noticed that he was breathing rapidly and shallowly. With a sigh, I dialed our pediatrician in New York. We were in New Jersey, far from familiar doctors.

Dr. S. gave me the bad news: "You've got to take him in to the hospital. He's never had a breathing episode before and I'm just not comfortable waiting until tomorrow."

Which is how I found myself and my oldest son, at 10 pm, doing the ER tango.

By 1:00, he was in one of the little ER rooms, getting treated for constricted airways. Four of these treatments and a chest X-ray later, they decided to admit him for the night. "Just to watch him," the attending doc (not Doctor Eileen, who was apparently off eating dinner at the improbable hour of 3 am) said. "He's still breathing too fast."

"Sleeeepy," Kyle moaned. "Must sleep."

I felt a migraine coming on.

Then, Doctor Eileen returned from dinner and we reconnected: "You're the mom with the son who hit his head on the rocks last week! Wow, you brought in another one. Quite a summer you're having."

My head throbbed so that I could barely crack a semblance of a smile.

By 4 am, we were in a room, but not, to both our dismay, sleeping. Instead, the nurses had to repeat the same vitals tests they'd already done downstairs in the ER and chart Kyle--which essentially meant answering the same 20 questions we'd already answered five times that night.

Among these queries were:

"How much did Kyle weigh at birth?"

"Was he full-term?"

"What is your office address?"

Nothing urgent, to say the least.

We slept--if you consider reclining in a lumpy chair listening to your son alternately snore and cough sleeping--from about 4:30 to 7:30 am.

That's when the morning tests began: blood pressure, temperature, etc. And more treatments to open up Kyle's overly-tight airways, poor baby.

Then one of the five or six doctors who paraded through that morning put her hand on Kyle's back and frowned. "I hear some crackling in his lungs," she said.

Umm, pneumonia?

"Could be," she replied. "We have to do some more tests."

One excruciatingly painful blood test later, for which I bribed Kyle $8, and we were back in the room with the looming possibility that my child had somehow contracted a peculiar bacterial infection that causes walking pneumonia. The kind of pneumonia that doesn't respond to typically-used antibiotics.

I'm beginning to bore myself, so I'll wrap up this wretched little tale.

We were discharged at about 4 in the afternoon, with our very own portable nebulizer (which I'm hoping insurance will cover, since it's $265), and a handful of prescriptions--including one for a lesser-used antibiotic that should kill off the mycoplasma bacteria, in case my boy should be harboring it. We wouldn't know until the following day, but unlike most doctors, those at the K. Hovnanian Children's Hospital are perfectly willing to administer antibiotics without clear evidence of bacterial infection.

We dutifully visited a local pediatrician the next day, who called the hospital and told us that Kyle did indeed have pneumonia and added a prescription for Pulmicort (a steroid) to help further relieve the barky cough.

It's been quite a vacation.

Jealous?

From the Mouths of Babes

Picked up one of Seth's friends the other day.

"So, does your Mom work?" I asked, trying to make conversation with a seven-year-old boy who appears to only be interested in Nerf Guns and plastic soldiers.

"No, she does Pilates," he replies.

No, Apparently, He Can't Wait Two Minutes

Kyle is hungry.

No, he's starving.

"I'mmm starving," he's moaning. "Need food. Must have it now."

The current object of his focus is a Vita Muffin--a sort of healthyish chocolate muffin top.

He can get a Vita Muffin for himself, but prefers it warmed up in the toaster oven, which in our cramped New York City apartment, is on a shelf too high for him to reach.

"Two minutes," I promise.

He waits at least ten seconds. "Now? Will you make it now?" he asks hopefully.

"No, in a minute and 50 seconds," I reply, feeling my shoulders begin to tense up.

You know how this goes, right?

Every ten to fifteen seconds, Kyle repeats his request for a warm chocolate Vita Muffin, as my shoulders continue to rise toward my ears.

Even my threat of, "Every time you ask about it, your waiting time gets longer!" fails to clamp down on the begging.

As he begs, I scurry around, making the bed, picking up towels from the bathroom floor and giving the sink a quick wipedown. Still, the broken-record that is my ten-year-old continues.

Finally, I snap. "Two minutes! That's all I ask for! Is that too long for you to wait?"

He looks at me wide-eyed. "No, Mom, that's fine," he says, suddenly speaking in a most reasonable tone. "Sheesh, you don't have to get so annoyed."

He glances at his little brother Seth. "Watch out, Mom's really cranky tonight," he said. "I don't know what that's about."

My Night in the ER

Our beach has some big, rocky jetties that attract kids like, well, the whole fly/honey thing. The jetties are prime real estate for crab-catching, funky pieces of oceanic detritus and occasionally a find such as a starfish. But they're also slippery, covered with scratchy barnacles and totally off-limits.

Except when they're not.

So last Saturday, while 15-foot high waves had the lifeguards momentarily distracted, the elementary school set took over the jetties. I was on duty with Seth and Jesse, who spent the day either squabbling with each other ("Mom! He's being annoying again!") or hunting for crabs.

Yup, on the darned jetties.

I let them for a while, then, as the storm-fueled tide was beginning to rush back in, decided that jetty-time was up. "Off the rocks, now!" I ordered Seth (Jesse was already back at the blanket, digging a new home for his crabs).

After a few minutes of negotiation, he complied. But making his way toward me, Seth slipped on one of the barnacle-covered boulders and went flipping over. Wham! He hit his head--hard--on a rock and began emitting a high-pitched, unearthly wail that I'm still hearing in my sleep.

I knew we were heading for the hospital, but figured I'd have 20 minutes to get ready. So I dragged Seth, wailing away, up to the lifeguard stand for an ice pack, eyeballing Jesse to make sure he was still digging near our blanket.

No ice pack, so I headed for the beach office, another 100 feet away. With Seth settled with an ice pack and a lifeguard/EMT soothing him, I ran back to the beach for Jesse.

Nowhere in sight.

With what I can only describe as the hot flush of fear cascading throughout my body, I ran back to the beach office. "My other child is gone," I blurted out, feeling terrified and foolish.

The beach patrol and police were duly summoned as I repeated the description for the various authorities: "Shaggy brown hair, yellow beach shirt and blue bathing suit."

Meanwhile, Seth slumped on the bench, moaning and vacant-eyed.

Within ten minutes, my little runaway was found, paraded down the boardwalk in tears. We hugged hard, cried together and had a brief but very stern discussion.

Then, back to my head-bump boy. I wrapped Seth in a towel, grabbed our overloaded beach cart and began walking the boys back to our house. I had my plan: I'd drop Jesse with my father-in-law, shower the sand off me and Seth, grab my handbag and head for the hospital.

Then Seth proceeded to puke...copiously.

Not good.

I ran for one of the summer cops who were relaxing nearby, who turned pale and said "I'll get first aid."

"You mean an ambulance?" I asked.

He nodded. "Calm, calm, calm," I whispered to myself.

My older son and father in law met us on the boardwalk with my handbag, everyone at this point either crying or near tears.

The EMTs placed my pale, skinny Seth on a stretcher, I hugged my two crying boys and climbed into the ambulance.

Then we sat, in a hallway of the ER, for the next six hours. "We've all climbed on the jetties as kids," said the doctor."It's a rite of passage. He'll be fine."

The plan was: an evaluation, a CAT scan and home.

But then Seth drank a glass of water.

And...yup...proceeded to vomit, in great arching arcs. All over himself and me.

"Hmmm," the nurse said, frowning. "You know he'll have to stay overnight now, right?"

And so, Seth and I shared a room, him on a hospital bed and me on a too-short cot within hand-holding range. And there we stayed for the next 20 hours, unchanged, unshowered and...thankful just to be safe and be together.

And the jetties?

Off-limits.

Mostly, anyway.

The Thing About Ants

So, we have a rule. If an ant gets inside the house, it's dead meat. Ants that are outside, bothering no one, get left alone. So, a recent invasion of ants had my kids trying to pinpoint exactly what in and out mean and what the rules of ant-killing are.

Jesse: "What about ants on the porch?"

Mom: "If it's only one or two, leave them alone. If there are tons, call me and I'll spray them with the vinegar bottle."

Jesse: "Can I spray them?"

Mom: "That's a grownup job."

Jesse:"Please. I really, really want to spray them."

Mom: "Why? It's not like it's a fun thing to do."

Jesse (jumping in the air): "It is! It is fun! They stop moving!"

Mom (wondering if she should call a therapist): "Just let it be."

Jesse: "Well, what about if I think an ant is on the porch but wants to go in the house?"

Mom: "If it's not in the house and there's only one or two ants, LEAVE THEM ALONE."

Jesse: "What if it's walking toward the door?"

Mom: "ALONE! ALONE! ALONE! What is so difficult to understand?"

Jesse: "What if I accidentally (on purpose is what he really means) bring one inside in my pocket?"

Mom: "Ants don't just accidentally get in your pocket. Do not bring ants inside!"

Jesse: "OK. But what if an ant is on the screen? It could squish itself through and get inside. Can I kill it?"

Mom: "Go upstairs. You're giving me a migraine."

Bye Bye Nana

Haven't posted in a while. My mother, who has been battling a slowly deteriorating heart/circulation condition for about a year and a half, was critically ill throughout June.
She passed away, at home in her bright, picture-filled bedroom, and reasonably peacefully, on Wednesday, July 1, with my sister Deb and I next to her.
Losing a parent provides enough emotional fodder to fill up the blogosphere.
But this one is really about my kids' reaction to the loss of their beloved Nana.
At my mom's aide's suggestion, we brought all three boys to see her the Saturday before she died. I wanted her to see them, in the hope that it would bring her some joy. And, frankly, though we'd talked about how sick Nana was, I wanted to the boys to get a visual picture.
Nana looked pretty good to me, but she was in a hospital bed, with oxygen tubes in her nose (Yes, I'd explained this all to the boys beforehand). She was alert but clearly weak.
Kyle, my 10-year-old, took matters in hand right away. He walked up to Nana, leaned over the hospital bed to hug her and said, "Hi Nana, It's Kyle." He stroked her arm gently and murmured, "I love you."
Jesse left the room quickly, choosing to sit on Mick's lap in the living room and think things through. I knew we'd hear from him later.
Seth pulled out some Legos and sprawled on the floor of the bedroom, allowing his grandmother to watch him play. She smiled as he created a complex Lego army and flew his Lego planes through the air.
On our way back to Manhattan, Jesse leaned into me and whispered, "Mommy, I have a secret to tell you: Nana looks like she's going to die!"
"I think so too," Seth said, grabbing my hand.
Kyle nodded. "I agree," he said.
I grabbed Jesse and hugged him hard. What a brave little guy, to give voice to those thoughts. With that, Jesse, my little toughie, burst into tears. "But she's our only Nana. I don't want her to die."
Mick scooped him up and carried him, crying and talking, down the steps to the bus stop.
I spent much of the next few days at my mother's apartment, watching over her, trying my best to comfort her (soft music, soft lights, a medication protocol that actually worked, thanks to hospice) and, frankly, waiting for the inevitable. It was a time of intense awe and deep pain.
My sadness was only compounded by the knowledge that my boys would lose so much.
I explained to them ahead of time what would happen at the funeral: Nan would be in her coffin but it would be closed and they would not have to see her. People would tell stories about Nana and why they loved her. Then we would all go to the cemetery, where Nana's coffin would be placed in the ground.
"I want to say something," Kyle said. "She was my Nana."
"Of course you can," I replied, thinking he'd never be able to summon up the courage to speak in front of a large group on such a difficult day.
I was proud of my trio that day, with their black dress shoes and their button-down shirts. They sat and endured as the Nana speeches went on. They were present, they were engaged, they were there for their grandmother.
After I finished speaking (I was last, as the youngest child), Kyle strode up to the podium and took the microphone. I was so stunned that I don't remember exactly what he said in his high, pitchy voice, but it went something like this:
"My Nana was a wonderful person. My brothers, Seth and Jesse, and I loved her very much. And we're very sad that she's gone." With that, I held Kyle in my arms and walked him back to our seat.
Sobs filled the room.
My overwhelming feeling was one of pride. That he'd stepped up for his Nana in such a profound and loving way, one that I'd thought would be way beyond his years and emotional maturity level.
It was at once a loving goodbye and a glimpse at the man he would be, thanks, in part, to the steadfast love of his Nana.
Bye Mom. We'll always miss you. But clearly, you've passed on some of the best of you, by loving my boys and teaching them how to express their love. It is a wonderful gift.