Category — Asher

These last two days haven’t been great.  I’m supposed to be at BlogHer RIGHT NOW, meeting and partying and networking and learning and swag-collecting and dining and partying (see: sidebar) but instead, I’m home. On the couch. With no patience and a sore back.

Asher has Hand, Foot and Mouth disease, which is not the same as Hoof and Mouth disease thankyouverymuch, but sucks the big one nonetheless. A week and a half ago he started a sleep-marathon, waking for maybe 6 hours in a 48 hour stretch. I thought, “Oh, how cute! A growth spurt! Now I can read magazines and eat popsicles catch up on work!” When he woke up, he was kickin’ it with a high fever for a few days, and then a rash on his back. We went to the doctor, where I paid a nice man $30 to wait in his office and exam room for an hour and a half to be told that it was what I thought it was: Roseola. Totally common, not painful, every baby gets it by the time they’re two yadda yadda. The end. Right? Wrong.

Tuesday night was a tiny piece of Hell, one where babies wake every hour to scream and be generally pissy. Wednesday morning when he woke up, his lips were swollen and wonky, and by noon there were blisters on his tongue. Instead of driving an hour to pediatrician A (see: above) I tied Asher on and walked out our back door to see pediatrician B. We didn’t have an appointment, but I figured they’d be way less likely to say they couldn’t squeeze us in if I was standing right in  front of them. It worked. 30 minutes later we had a diagnosis. And a, “Good luck!” since there’s no treatment for a viral infection. So now we wait it out.

Last night turned out to be a slightly larger piece of hell, featuring less sleep and more screams and tears. Mine and his. Today, the blisters are gone, but have been replaced with a refusal to sleep, or eat anything I put in front of his mouth, including my boob. He won’t take a sippy cup, so all day (ALL SLEEPLESS DAY) I’ve been pushing pedialyte and pediasure in a bottle. It’s kind of working, enough so that he’s at least peeing more now. He’ll eat lots of junk (sweet potato puffs, yogurt puffs and cheese puffs), but I can’t get him to take anything out of my hand or off of a spoon. I don’t know what gives. It seems like more of a political statement than anything, because I know his mouth is feeling better. He wants to be held, no, he wants to be put down, no, WHY AM I ON THE FLOOR PICKMEUP! Poor baby just wasn’t happy today. And I kind of wanted to lock him in a closet.

I’m physically and emotionally drained, and it’s only been a couple days like this. I feel like a total amateur, drama queen, bad mother, all-around jerk. Sometimes I just don’t think I have enough patience and empathy for this job. Because man, it’s hard. It’s not like anybody told me it was easy, but still. I don’t know.

He went to sleep at the regular time tonight, and has woken to nurse once, so I think, I hope, that we’re coming out of this. I’m cautiously optimistic. And if things are better in the morning, we might actually make it into Chicago.

And now, simply because it makes me snort every time I see it (or think about it, honestly) and I need some laughs tonight, I give you this:

He turned 9 months old last week. Nine Months. That’s almost a year. I just can’t believe how quickly the time is passing, how big his feet are getting, how much he’s eating. How much I love him.

He has so much personality, such long eyelashes. He’s standing up now, and taking wobbly steps with his push-toy thingy. He laughs uncontrollably when I wear sunglasses, or talk on the phone. He weighs 20 pounds. I miss him when he sleeps at night.

He’s a champion sleeper. At least thirteen hours every night and three good naps every day, this boy loves catch some ZZZs. Of course, he still wakes up to nurse every four or so hours at night, but that’s perfectly fine with me. Because I miss him when he sleeps at night.

He’s such a lover, easy with the smiles. Everyone always asks, “Is he always this happy?” ‘They’ say that the nine-month mark is when stranger anxiety usually sets in. I hope ‘they’ are wrong.

He loves everyone, but he has a special bond with his Aunt Ba. He’s a different baby when he’s with her, more comfortable than with anyone else besides his mama and daddy. It’s because he knew James and Jake when they were in theire mom’s belly and he was in his, and they asked him to take care of her for them. He does.

He appreciates good shoes, like his mama. He loves to dance and sing, bouncing when the music’s playing and LaLaLa-ing when I’m belting it out in the car or in the kitchen or in his face.

His face lights up when Mark walks in the door every night. He can pull himself off of the floor by digging his fingers into his daddy’s beard. He loves books and food and kissing on the mouth and making raspberries. He’s happy, and usually patient. He is his father’s son.

He loves to be worn, and held close. He tucks his hand into my shirt when he cuddles, and wraps his fingers through my curls when he nurses. He giggles til he hiccups when I nibble on his feet.

I can’t believe how much I love him, how much I need him.

How much he loves Sesame Street.

Guess who was named tiny*prints Adorable Baby of the Week? Check him out, yo.

Can you believe how much this baby, this boy, has changed in a month? Before my eyes, POOF! he’s turned into a toddler.