Thank God he understands my moans and sign language

Act 1, Scene 1
Location: Our bedroom

I am lying on the bed, recovering from a migraine (ever since having Jack, I now get a premenstrual migraine every month...WTF? This was NOT part of the deal!).

Tim is in the living room, caring for the baby in my incapacitation. With his incapacitation, which must have been fun. When you have a migraine, you don't care.

Me: Ehhhhhn. Ehhhhhhn. Help. Tim. Help.
Him: (comes running in to room) What?
Me: Ehhhhhhn. (points to palm of hand) Help.
Him: Where is it?
Me: Bag.

Tim hastily exits the bedroom.

Act 1, Scene 2
Location: Still the bedroom, I can't move.

Tim returns with my glucometer and a handful of glucose tablets. He starts feeding them to me. Meanwhile, all I can say is "Ehhhhhhn" (don't ask me what that means, it sounded appropriate at the time) and I feel seconds away from a seizure. Tim takes my blood sugar.

Him: Wow, you're low. 44.
Me: Ehhhhhhn.
Him: Milk?
Me: Chocolate. (Even moments away from seizure, I can express my undying need for chocolate!)

Tim exits the room again, returns with a glass of chocolate milk.

Him: Here.
Me: Ehhhhhn. (waves hand around frantically)
Him: You need a straw?
Me: Ehhhhhn! (waves hand around frantically some more)
Him: Here (reaches down with his good hand to help me sit up, then exits room to fetch straw)

Meanwhile, I guzzle milk and flop back down onto the bed.

Act 1, Scene 3
Location: Still the bedroom, I still can't move.

He returns with a straw for my now empty glass.

Him: Are you going to be okay?
Me: Ehhhhhn. (Hand signals 2 then 0 then points to hand)
Him: Okay I'll recheck you in 20 minutes.
Me: Ehhhhhhn.

I pass out slobbering.

Act 2, Scene 1
Location: Again, the bedroom. As I have yet to move.

He returns to recheck me.

Him: Better, but still not normal. You're 60.
Me: 4 sugars.
Him: Okay.

He returns with 4 glucose tablets, which I chaw immediately.

Just as an aside, they really need to start making some better tasting options for treatment of hypoglycemic attacks. Those chalky nasty ass tablets are disgusting. They're like really sweet Tums made of chalk. This is the new millennium, or Willennium if you're a Will Smith fan. (It's here and I like it...Woo! Ha ha, ha ha!) Is this the best we can do, people? Seriously? Can we at least make them palatable? Just because I'm about to pass out and have a seizure doesn't mean my taste buds are dead.

He leaves me to rest, and recovery takes me a few hours. I was all slobbering and rubber limbs until I had rested a bit. When you get that low, your body steals glucose from your muscle tissues to keep your brain alive. So it takes a bit to get everything back to a point of stasis.

Thank goodness my husband knows me. I don't think I could have moaned and pointed to my hand to anyone else and they would have understood what I needed! (What? Your hand hurts? Do you want some aspirin? What's wrong? Someone stole your bones? What?...I can just see this playing out with someone else in the role of Tim. It would not have ended well. If it were my ex-husband, he would have said something along the lines of "Stop whining, you know where the juice is" and I would have had to crawl/flop myself down the stairs to get to it. Or died, I could have just laid there and died. [Yes this actually happened when I was married to my ex, yes that was actually his response and yes I really had to basically throw myself down the stairs in order to treat my low. Thankfully, I was rubbery from the low so I just kind of bounced/rolled down the stairs. Good times, good times.])

I have no idea where the baby was during all of this. I think the swing, maybe. Or maybe he was in bed next to me. I'm not sure. I was pretty out of it.

Dammit, now I have every Will Smith song ever stuck in my head. It goes like this:

Woo! Ha ha, ha ha! Y'all hear me? Y'all hear me? Big Will y'all! What, what, what, what? Woo! Ha ha, ha ha! Na na na na na na na! (repeat).

If this non-nonsensical repetitive lyrics thing keeps up, I may have another migraine...

Father Knows Best, My Sweet Pooper! Mother knows best, and now everybody knows it.

Well, I predicted a broken ankle but instead it's a sprained wrist.

Back when Tim's Heelys arrived he was SO PSYCHED for them that he wanted to go walk the dogs with them. At night. Outside. I begged him not to, imploring him to stay safe. I enumerated multiple reasons why heeling at night for the first time with 150 lbs. of dogs was a bad idea.

1) it was night
2) that's a lot of dogs
3) he doesn't know how to do it yet

This escalated into me basically telling him, "No, I FORBID YOU to wear those for the first time ever outside at night to walk the dogs!" He was all whiny and claimed I would be one of those annoying overprotective mothers to Jackson. I got him some cheese to go along with his whine, and put my foot down (as firmly as possible, with the sprained ankle and all) and said NO.

Now keep in mind, this is MOMENTS after I hurt myself. I could barely walk, and Mr. Cheese For Brains wants to wear HEELYS at NIGHT to WALK THE DOGS. I'm thinking, "One cripple in the family is enough for me right now. We have a 3 month old baby to take care of and I don't need both of us out of commission, it's bad enough with me being injured." He's thinking "HEELYS HEELYS HEELYS HEELYS!"

You see where the conflict arose.

Yesterday morning, I called my multi-disciplinary medical practice (they have my family doctor, massage therapy, physical therapy, chiropractic, mental therapy, personal trainers and acupuncture, all under one roof) and BEGGED for an acupuncture appointment.

I could have tolerated the cold alone. I could have handled the hurt ankle by itself. But combine the two and I just wanted to die. I couldn't walk and I couldn't breathe. I had to sneeze but I couldn't hobble to the Kleenex box. I sometimes stuff things in my bra so I don't lose them. Like Jackson's binkies. I'll cram one of those in between my sweater muffins so I always have one close at hand. I never have to run to hunt one down, and it's not left out on the coffee table for dogs to chaw on. Anyways, the point is, I'm a 36DD and I was stuffing my bra with tissues just so I'd have some on hand when I got that annoying running tickly nose. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. The snot tickles your nose so bad it nearly hurts and if you don't wipe it off you will go insane. Everybody's had tickly nose.

Anyways, so I scored a last minute cancellation with my Acupuncturist, who just also happens to be my Chiropractor. The man is a true healer. He fixes me. I am in awe of him. So I go see Mr. Magic Doctor Man and say "Please put needles in my face!" So you can imagine how much pain I must have been in to beg for that! He notices my 50 Cent-like limp and asks what's going on. So I tell him and in addition to doing the acupuncture for sinus, he also does some points for muscular stuff on my leg. Allright! (read that in a Matthew McConaughey Southern drawl, much more effective. It sounds more like "Awwwwlright" the way I 'm thinking it.)

20 minutes later, my needles are removed and *POOF!* I can breathe again. And I can walk without considerable pain. (For those who have not tried acupuncture, I highly recommend it. Once you get over the mental hurdle of having needles stuck in you, it's a cakewalk. You don't even feel the needles 90% of the time and if you do it just feels like a little mosquito bite. Don't ask me how it works, it just does.)

So since I have been healed like an old lady jumping out of her wheelchair on Benny Hinn ("In the name of Jeeeeeeeesussssssss!"), I'm off to the races. I have so much to catch up on! Prescriptions to pick up at CVS, a Bebe Pod chair to buy at Babies R Us and gDiaper flushables to snag from Whole Paycheck. I dropped Tim off at home (he had driven me to the doctor since it was my driving leg that was injured) so he could get back to work, and Jackson and I took off for Errandville, Population: Us.

I run all my errands then stop to gas up and wash the Jeep, and head home. When I got home, I see Tim walking up with the dogs. In his Heelys. Holding his wrist.

I TOLD HIM SO! But just when my back was turned and Mommy wasn't around to yell at him, he went and rode those Stupid Shoes to walk the dogs. Son of a B! I'm sorry for using such harsh letters.

We schlep in my purchases, the baby, the dogs, my durse. I fetch him some ice, aleve and water. I could kill him! Thank God I am once again ambulatory, because if I weren't....oh man, if I weren't he would be in so much trouble!

Ordinarily I have great compassion for the injured. When it's caused by an accident, that is. Not when it's caused by stupidity and bullheadedness!

So now I am stuck caring for 2 babies. One whiny one and one that needs diaper changes (guess which is which?).

We get in the car to go get a wrist brace, pick up a pizza for dinner (which I now refer to as "peepa", thanks Andrew! [Like he can read this...anyways....]) and a movie at Blockbuster.

By the way, let me interrupt this blog post for a mini-commercial for Blockbuster Online. If you use Netflix, you're getting ripped off. Switch to BBO and get movies by mail that you can exchange in store for ANYTHING (new releases or games!). You can also mail them back. In either case, when you return to the store or in the mail, they mail out the next movie in your queue. So if you return to the store, you actually get double the movies! Super awesome deal, tell your friends. I just did.

Anyways, so we go to the car and I say "I feel it is in our family's best interests that I drive. For safety reasons." He says "I can drive!" I'm all "Yeah, right".

So we get in the car and Cheese For Brains can't do his seatbelt. Because he can't bend his wrist that way without being in excruciating pain. So I do his seatbelt. Like I said...2 babies!

We got him a wrist brace support thingy, got dinner and our movie (Little Miss Sunshine, haven't finished it yet but so far I'm enjoying it a great deal) and headed home. All night long he is a whiny B. Ow it hurts to hold pizza. Ow I can't hold the baby. Ow I'm trying to do dishes but I can't unscrew the bottles. Ow ow ow. I'm surprised I didn't have to hold his dick to help him pee.

I am officially exhausted.

And as soon as my doctor's office opens on Monday, I'm making an appointment for Cheese For Brains to get in for some acupuncture. I don't care if he's afraid of needles! He should be afraid of me killing him for being such a whiny B.

Again, I'm sorry to use such harsh letters. :)

Changing my "slave name"

So the thought has occurred to me recently that perhaps I would like to legally change my first name.

I've officially rid myself of my maiden name, which was an OK name except that I share it with the man who sexually abused me as a child, since he was a trusted relative. So when I got married, I had no problems changing my name. (Maybe that's why I like getting married so much? Nah. It's the CAKE.)

But my first name, and all its dichotomy remains. My name means "happiness", which is so incongruous with my past and everything I've survived it's just silly.

Then I thought...wait a tic...I can pick any name I want for myself. I'm not locked into the name chosen for me by the woman who beat the living crap out of me, and the man who let her do it. Hmm.

This just might be my final step in emotionally emancipating myself from a lifetime of bad memories.

I'm not going to be friends with Alice anymore, her injuryproneness is catchy.

All I wanted to do was take the dogs to the dog park.

It was a nice day out, about 50 degrees and sunny. I waited until Jackson woke from his nap, fed and changed him, then the four of us (Me, baby, Bella & Katie) all headed out to the dog park.

Halfway there the grating in the back of the Jeep (that separates the dogs from the backseat) fell down. Katie was under it, Bella was over it. Katie was being crushed and Bella was freaking out. I think she knew she was hurting her sister, but she didn't know what to do to stop it.

So I pulled over, gently eased Bella off of the grating and Katie then lifted it off of Kate. Now it's getting dark really fast and I have two dogs who want to play in the street. Great.

I load everyone back into the car, set the grating in the back seat to be reassembled later, and decide that it's too dark out now for me to take my baby to the park even if I do have 2 big dogs, it's just not safe. So I turn around, with 2 antsy dogs and a screamy baby in tow.

I remembered the mailman said we had a package at the front office, so I stopped there to pick it up. I grabbed the baby, in his car seat and headed in. While I was in the office and all the office girls were oohing and ahhing over Jackson, the dogs were having a rockin' good time jumping all over the interior of the Jeep.

Turns out, we had 2 packages at the office, so I headed out carrying more than I should have tried to bear.

While trying to put Jack's car seat back in the base, I noticed that Bella was the front seat. I was startled and lost my balance just so...and down I went. Somehow, Jackson's car seat magically levitated between the car door and the backseat. It got wedged in there just right so he didn't come crashing down with me.

And there I am, baby half in the car and half out, dogs all over the place, while I'm sprawled on the ground (which the landscapers have cleverly decorated with cut pine branches, so I have balsam fir jammed into my butt). All of a sudden I'm Mrs. Fletcher and I need Lifecall, because "I've fallen, and I can't get up!"

Instead I whip out my cell phone (and it is only by the grace of God that I had the forethought to stick it in my coat pocket, as it is usually in my Durse [diaper bag/purse, feel free to start using my new word at will] which I had left in the front passenger seat) and call Tim for help. I ask him to please wind sprint from our house 1/2 a mile over to the leasing office so he can help me off the ground (and I can get the balsam fir out of my rear end) and get us all home.

I reached up to where Jack was precariously perched on...really nothing. I still don't know how he stayed up there. I got him down, he was crying so I gave him his binky then the two of us sat and waited, while Katie and Bella yukked it up in the car.

Tim came to rescue me, and we all headed home.

We never got to the dog park, and now my ankle is just about as swollen as it was when I was pregnant! I'm seriously considering seeking medical attention for it since putting any weight on it is very painful. Even if it's just a sprain and all they give me is an Ace Bandage and some Darvocet, hey...it's Darvocet. Right?

Here's the kicker: (get it, ankle/kicker? ha ha ha!)
One of the packages contained Tim's Christmas gift...a pair of Heelys. So I broke my ankle, while retrieving a package with which I am certain he will break his.

There are no sick days on this job. But I could really use one.

ACHOO!

That is all...

I can't stop laughing at this! WARNING: NSFW or kids!

I especially love the step by step instructions:
1) cut a hole in a box
2) put yer junk in that box
3) make her open the box!

Flounder? No. MOOSE!

Tim is trying his best to annoy me, by contradicting my new nickname for Jackson (Moose) with his new nickname for Jackson (Flounder).

MOOSE is an excellent name. Moose is a big, strong, beefy boy. A baby who gains 3 pounds in 2 weeks while recovering from surgery is A Moose!

Flounder is...what? It's some kind of faggoty BS name, that's what it is!

MOOSE MOOSE MOOSE MOOSE!

Jack Is Back.

Why wait until January 14 for Jack Bauer when right now on December 22, you can hang out with Jack Powers?

He has returned to me. That sweet, fun, easy going, joyful, music loving, happy little baby boy I knew for 37 weeks of gestation is back. His surgery incision is nearly healed - you'd never guess he was ever cut at all! His personality is completely different now. He will sit and jabber jaw at you for 10 minutes at a time. And then he wants some help sitting up, and when he gets there he will grin and giggle and squeal with delight. When I play music for him and help him "dance", he smiles wide and enjoys wiggling his cute little self to each beat.

He's more fun than we ever imagined.

It's a Festivus Day Miracle!

Last night:

Bed time baba: 10 pm
Bed time sleepy sleepy lavender bath: 10:30 pm
Bed time lullabies and massage with sleepy sleepy lavender lotion: 10: 45 pm
Drift off to sleepy sleepyland, population: Jackson 11 pm
Wake for baba: 5 AM.

Yeah, you read that right. 6 hours. Straight.

I feel human again!

Jackson knew just what Momma wanted for Christmas, and homeboy delivered.

It's a beautiful day...

Guess what I’m wearing today?

Pre-pregnancy jeans.

Granted, I had to wrangle all my post-pregnancy flubber into a pair of Spanx to get the jeans on…but still. Let’s focus on the REAL issues here, people.

Pre-pregnancy jeans!

Sara Blakely is my personal hero.

"They" (whoever "they" are) are right.

They say the third time's the charm.

After two failed sojourns into marital bliss (it was more like marital blisters!), I went for a third spin. I was either crazy, or it was the best decision of my life. I believe a little of each, more of the latter.

Yesterday, Tim and I celebrated our first year of marriage. And what a year its been! Our first year brought the challenge of me transitioning into a new role in life, (you may think staying at home full time is a vacation, in actuality it was really tough for me to feel personally valued when I didn't have an income after supporting myself for so many years. In a society where your value is ascertained by the price tag on your head set by HR, not making any money at all can be a total brainfuck) and our first year also brought us our beloved son, Jackson. (The reason I stay home. When they asked me at admission into the hospital who my employer was, I pointed at the baby. I said "He pays in poop and spit up. LOTS of each. I dare not ask for a raise!")

We're only a year older, but exponentially wiser and emotionally richer. Yesterday, as I laid Jackson down for a nap, it hit me -- how blessed I am. I am not lucky, because luck alone could not give me all of this. Only God could give me a life so rich and beautiful. I set Jack down, and a tiny smile flashed across his face. Even he knows that life is good. 3 years ago, I lived in a different town in a doomed and unhappy marriage that I was overdue to break free from. I was so depressed. If only I knew what was just around the corner...

I never could have foreseen this. I never would have dared to dream of such a lovely, blessed life. I could not have married a better man. We could not have found a more wonderful life together. It was such a long and treacherous journey here, but I truly do feel in my heart of hearts that I have finally arrived at the destination I was seeking. Life is pretty good here, on the corner of Blessed and Content. (Blessed and Content actually both intersect with Peace and Happy on the map, you know.)

A month after Tim proposed to me last year, I heard this lovely song that perfectly expresses how I feel about our relationship. It's this:

The Last Time
Eric Benet

The first time I fell in love was long ago,
I didn't know how to give my love at all.
The next time I settled for what felt so close
But without romance, you're never gonna fall.
After everything I've learned;
Now it's finally my turn,
This is the last time I'll fall in love.

The first time we walked under that starry sky,
There was a moment where everything was clear.
I didn't need to ask or even wonder why,
Because each question is answered when you're near.
And I'm wise enough to know
When a miracle unfolds,
This is the last time I'll fall in love.

Now don't hold back, just let me know.
Could I be moving much too fast, or way too slow?
'Cause all of my life, I've waited for this day.
To find that once in a lifetime, this is it, I'll never be the same.

You'll never know what it's taken me to say these words,
And now that I've said them, they can never be enough.

As far as I can see, there's only you and only me.
This is the last time I'll fall...in love.

"They" are right. The third time is the charm. You guys who got it right the first time around -- you are so fortunate, I can't even tell you. You don't even know!

Savor the Flavor of Sweet, Sweet Freedom

We've just been sprung from the hospital.

What Child Is This?

It's no secret that after Jackson's birth, I felt really let down and disappointed. Nothing went as planned. My unmedicated vaginal birth turned into two days of failed induction, followed by a c-section with the much dreaded epidural. Nursing turned into pumping my breasts with a hospital breast pump, since I was separated from Jackson and we couldn't come to each other right away. So I'd sit up in my hospital bed with the big cones attached to each breast, crank up the pump and moo like a dairy cow. Pumping turned into frustration, as each pumping session would yield only droplets of milk, not even enough to make it to the collection bottle. Frustration turned into determination and prayer that God would give me milk. Determination and prayer dissolved into defeat, hurt, and anger.

Through it all, I felt so betrayed by my own body.

And then we sprung Jackson from the NICU on a cold, rainy Wednesday afternoon. We brought him home, and he proceeded to devolve into the angriest, fussiest boy on the planet. He'd scream and wail for hours on end, all night long. At times Hubby and I would take turns having our own little mental breakdowns. Hey, the crying wears on a person. Combine incessant infantile screaming with major parental sleep deprivation and you have a recipe for admission into the local mental institution.

In desperation, we'd take the baby for car rides at 2 am. Grandma bought him a swing, and we bought 2 sets of rechargeable batteries for it, so we would never be without juice for the swing. Sometimes the swing was the only thing that would lull him into a slumber, so I'd set the monitor on the swing's tray and put the receiver next to my pillow. Or, I'd just crash out on the sofa so I could be near to him. Even though I knew I wouldn't be bringing home any Mother Of The Year awards, I let him sleep in his swing A LOT.

His crying never gradually went from slightly fussy to more fussy to starting to cry gently to seriously crying. He went from silent to CODE RED SCREAMING in a matter of nanoseconds. There was literally no chance of catching him before he went to the point of no return.

How could this Demon Spawn be my son?

This wasn't the Baby Jackson that I knew. My Jackson was a happy baby. He loved music and puppies. He calmed down at the sound of my voice. He was easy going and sweet. At least that's how he acted while I was pregnant. I thought I knew him. We had a relationship. We had a thing going, we had a deal.

He totally reneged on his part of the deal!

It was emotionally painful for me. I would sit there at night, holding my screaming son and cry. I would look down into his handsome little face that is a perfect mesh of his father's and mine and feel like I didn't know him at all. It hurt! I wanted to know all about him. I wanted to memorize all his cues and prompts. I wanted to feel like he was an extension of myself, without ever second guessing my understanding of his needs. But this never happened, and it broke my heart. I felt like I wasn't bonding with my baby. Everything I knew about him was wrong, and I had to learn him all over again.

I felt like a tiny stranger had invaded my house and begun bossing me around.

Well, as it turns out, that tiny stranger was a stranger to even himself. He isn't a Demon Child, he is just a baby who was sick and in pain.

So now his medical problem has been addressed, and he is, yet again, a different person. Just when I was getting used to the old one! He is comforted more easily and fusses less angrily. He gently shifts from mildly agitated to slightly fussy to getting angry to really crying. I don't know how to read him. He is, once again, a tiny stranger. It's a frustrating challenge, because it's hard to build a relationship with somebody who changes their color so often.

I don't know who this baby is anymore. It sucks.

He's Bringing Stinky Back. Those other babies don't know how to act.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE HAVE POOP.

I REPEAT, WE HAVE POOP!

We have poop and gas, in copious amounts. We're very hopeful that we can begin feeding again tomorrow, and hopefully head on home with our babylove very, very soon!

Thank you so much to everyone who sent us their prayers and positive thoughts. We have absolutely, totally felt the love and God's healing hand on our son. The loving support of our friends and family is what has buoyed us through this impossibly difficult challenge. So thank you, thank you, thank you! God heard you, and He answered. And His answer was what we wanted to hear.

Hopefully, this means that our happy ending is just around the bend. Everybody loves a happy ending.

So tiny. So many tubes and wires.

We're still in PICU.

Here's a riddle for you: What does my son have in common with the starving children in Africa? The latest news is that Jackson has, over the course of the past month and a half of being sick, lost so much of each of his meals that he is actually suffering from malnourishment. My baby could be on one of those Sally Struthers commercials. "For less than the cost of a cup of coffee a day..."

So the doctors have started him on some IV nutrition. Said IV nutrition, called TPN, is mixed up each night by a guy who only does it once a day around 6 pm, so we had to wait on our bag of TPN. I had visions of a guy in the basement wearing a cloak, standing before a giant vat of bubbling, mystery brew with a scraggly cat at his feet while he tossed in some eye of newt. In my mind, the guy who makes the TPN cackles like a witch and stirs the kettle with a giant wooden spoon. I'm sure it's far from accurate, but this is the story we made up this afternoon when my dearest friend Crystal was here visiting. Thank God for good friends. I really needed a mental break from all the heaviness in this room. I needed to laugh. I feel more like myself again. Far less rage-y.

If you're still praying for us, pray for farts. As soon as he passes some gas, we can give him food by mouth, and then as soon as he poops we can start thinking about heading home. We'd really like to go home.

Somewhat calm after the storm

Dr. Pediatric Surgeon has just left the surgery waiting room, after telling us that Jackson's procedure went well, and was uncomplicated.

We are waiting for the Murse that was attending Jack's surgery (why are all the night nurses boys?) to come get us so we can go be with our baby in recovery.

Today was one of the longest and hardest days of my life. Jackson's condition is something that develops in utero. So you know I spent a good part of this afternoon blaming myself. It happened while he was growing inside me. So it's my fault. Don't argue with my "logic".

After beating myself up mentally, I grew increasingly angry with the doctors. I remember the pediatric GI guy telling me in the exam room, in his haughty God-complex voice, "I'm a specialist. I see VERY SICK babies. Your baby doesn't look very sick to me."

Well, I say BULLSHIT HE WAS "NOT VERY SICK"!!!!!!

Tell me about how sick he isn't, when I'm rushing from the pediatric hospital to the surgery hospital, with my son's records and films in hand, ready to meet a surgeon I've only spoken to over the telephone once 10 minutes ago, so he can operate on my baby. TELL ME AGAIN HOW SICK MY BABY ISN'T.

ASSHAT.

It fills me with The Rage to think about it.

What an awful day. I'm so glad the bad part is over. It had better be over.

Please, God. Make the bad part over...

Mother's Intuition

I knew something was wrong with him. I knew it wasn't "just colic". Nobody wanted to listen to me.

I told our Family Doctor, "This baby vomits too much, and sometimes it's green." He said that babies spit up a lot, and that's normal. Which is the medical diagnostic equivalent of giving someone a pat on the head and a lollipop. I came back to our next check up and repeated, "This baby vomits too much, sometimes it's green, and sometimes he screams uncontrollably for hours on end and I can't help him feel better." Doctor says that its colic, and nothing more. Just a passing phase and I will have to suck it up until its over. He promises it will go away on its own. I suggest maybe there is a medical underlying issue, maybe gastric reflux. Family Doctor says that's a possibility, so I can take Jackson to a Pediatric GI specialist.

I took Jackson to the Pediatric GI Guy. I said, "This baby vomits too much, sometimes it's green, and sometimes he screams uncontrollably and there's nothing I can do to make him feel better." Pediatric GI Guy says that behavior is normal, a phase of colic, and it should go away on its own. I said I wanted to make sure there wasn't an actual underlying medical issue. He said, "So why did you come to see me?" I said, "To make sure there isn't anything seriously wrong." So he orders some tests, which feels like he's just doing this to placate me. You know, more pats on the head and lollipops.

This morning, we rose bright and early and I force-starved Jackson to empty his bowel in preparation for an Upper GI study. He had his last bottle at 5 am. His test wasn't until 10. I was dreading the time in between. You know he's going to cry, and you know you can't give him what he needs to feel better. It's heartbreaking. On the way to the Pediatric Hospital, I warmed his baba in the car and put it in an insulated coozy. The second he's done with his test, I think to myself, I can give him his baba and help him feel better. Because he will be starving!

His test went uneventfully, I thought. The Radiologist told me that if he saw anything, he would tell me right away. He said that Jackson didn't have Pyloric Stenosis, which was good. That was the bad diagnosis that I was fearing. That's the bad diagnosis that would require surgery. No Pyloric Stenosis was a good thing.

But then...

It's not Pyloric Stenosis, it's Intestinal Malrotation. This is something that I have read requires surgical intervention, and can be life threatening when left unchecked. So I am calling the Pediatric Surgeon for a consultation, and we'll take the next step after that.

I am not happy that there is something wrong with my baby, but at the same time I'm glad there is a diagnosis. I hesitated to complain too loudly, because I didn't want to be "That Mom" that bothers the doctor with each little hiccup. But I felt very strongly that something more was wrong. It wasn't just colic, it wasn't just a fussy baby, it wasn't just an upset stomach. I feel somewhat vindicated after being given so many pats on the head and lollipops. I *knew* it was something more.

I wish they had listened to me sooner. A mother knows her baby. They should have listened.