Kid Amnesiac

Last weekend, I threw myself a party for Simon’s second birthday. No, that was not a typo. And to be fair, it’s not what I set out to do, even as that was the indisputable truth about the situation. Worse than my error in judgment is my appalling lack of guilt over the situation.

It all started with the invitations. I didn’t have time to make them this year, and the really cute ones I found online came in a minimum order of 25. They arrived on Rosh Hashanah, and the night I sat down to address them I had the new year, new beginnings, new friendships, family, community, and tradition on my mind. Any time I asked myself if I should invite someone, I  erred on the side of inclusion. Cousins with no kids that I’m delighted to be back in touch with? Why not? My synagogue’s new cantor, who happens to be a friend of a friend and has a brilliant and interesting husband and a lovely two-year-old daughter? You bet! Shannon and Christopher from the shop and playgroup in my neighborhood? Why ever not?

Thus, I had no forced stop until all 25 envelopes were addressed. And then, to my surprise and delight, the rsvps began to arrive. Nearly everyone said yes. Uh oh!

We don’t have room for 37 people in our house, and I didn’t have time to cook for this large of a group coming on the heels of Simon’s illness. So we ordered pizzas and relied on good weather and our new deck to save the day. The pizzas arrived right on time, the weather was lovely, and Matt worked hard to make the yard respectable (minus the tree down in the yard, which is beyond our immediate control). The only wrinkle in our otherwise brilliant plan was our son’s basic temperament and the fact that his recovery was not yet complete: It was all too much for him.

He made his peace with things by the end by hanging out in his play house and socializing in small groups. He made it through Happy Birthday without collapsing into tears, which made me very happy. But there was no way he was going to open presents in the thick of such a crowd, so we had to apologize to our guests and tell them that we’d be opening presents later.

Nearly a week on, two presents still sit wrapped on our dining-room table. We’re taking our time so Simon can really savor each new toy. And for any of you who were at the party, you’ll be getting a picture of him savoring said present with your thank-your note. It’s our way of seeking absolution for a social faux pas.

I’ve learned yet another lesson from this experience. Next year’s party will be smaller and more in line with what Simon can handle. But I have to admit that I had a wonderful time. I was pleasantly surprised that my cousins came and stayed. I loved extending a gesture of friendship to new acquaintances and being taken up on it. I relished watching people I care about get to know each other better.

When Matt and I left San Francisco to move back home, we knew that we were giving up a solid circle of friends, we knew that family could not completely fill the void, and we knew that it would take a long time to recreate what we spent eight years building in California. Our job isn’t over, of course; there’s much work still to be done. But man, when I saw 37 people going in and out my back door, sitting on my deck, and walking in my back yard, I felt a sense of exuberant peace. I felt at home. It wasn’t the best party for Simon, and I’ll do better next year. But it was food for my soul, and I won’t lose the happy glow for some time.

Matt and I went in with my dad and step-mom (that’s Zadie and Nana to Simon) for Simon’s birthday present this year and got him a playhouse. My thought was that he could use it outside for another month or so, and then we could rebuild it in our basement once winter set in. I thought he would enjoy having a little house to his scale, and I assumed his little friends would like it as well.

We may have been slightly too successful for our own good. Simon does not like his house, he loves it. As do his little friends. In fact, they all like it a bit too much for their own good… and mine. Simon loves the house so much that he talks about it and wants to be in it nearly every waking hour. His friends made a bee-line to it at his party Sunday afternoon, too. Alas, Simon loves it in a rather proprietary way. He did not want to share it with Christopher, Sophie, or Leah. He only barely condescended to play in it while they were gleefully coming and going.

He didn’t want to leave it to eat cake. He didn’t leave it to open presents. (We opened half last night; the other half are still on our dining room table.) And yesterday, the minute we pulled up the driveway from school, Simon started talking about his “howse” and pointed meaningfully towards the back yard. When I tried to join him inside, I thought he’d think that was a great game. He didn’t. He shook his head vigorously and indicated I was to stay outside. His meaning was clear: It is his house.

I’m really hoping he’ll let someone else in at some point. We did buy a house big enough for several kids, after all. Also, if he continues to spend all his time alone in a small house in our back yard, I’m going to worry that he’s setting himself up for a career as a hermit. And “man of the hermitage” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Just a quick note to happily report that Simon is on the mend. The whopping antibiotic shot he got Wednesday must have done a world of good, because between that and a constant regimen of Advil and Tylenol, we’ve been able to keep Simon comfortable most of the time, and he’s been fever free for a day and a half. Whew!

There have been at least two funny and/or beneficial side-effects of his rather prolonged illness. The first is that, since the antibiotic is killing bacteria everywhere in his system, I can now say with total honesty that my son’s poop doesn’t stink. No hubris here–just the facts.

We’ve also used Simon’s illness as an occasion to wean him off his pacifier, which had become a crutch ever since school began. The first night of his illness, he was so exhausted from fever that he fell asleep without wanting or needing a pacifier. He actually fell asleep in the immediate care center exam room he was so tired. The next two nights he was too conjested and in too much paint to use one. The couple of times I offered him one, he either wasn’t interested or just chewed on it.

I had hoped that after a week of being pacifier free or nearly pacifier free that weaning was pretty much over. But tonight, after a day when he felt like himself and got to go out to a park for the first time in eight days, he ran over to his crib and pulled down the bumpers, clearly looking for his old friend. We’re too far along to back down now, but it is taking him longer to fall asleep and I do hate hearing him cry when he’s cried so much this week.

As of now, it looks like we should have a fun Saturday, his party is on for Sunday, and on Monday he can go back to school. I know we’re all looking forward to getting back into our old routine, and I am looking forward to putting up the thermometer for a spell. I am, in fact, so eager to put this episode behind me that I wont’ even lament the return of smelly diapers.

Well, despite Simon’s still having a fever, yesterday was finally looking up. After his afternoon nap, his first in three days, he was fever free and was his old cheery self. When Matt and I put him down to bed, we gave him some Tylenol just in case, watched a couple of episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm, and tucked into bed thinking Simon was on the mend.

Then, per his pattern, he woke up shrieking at 12:40. I tried to wait him out a while, but by 1:00 it was clear that Simon was awake and miserable. Minus the enema, the rest of the night was a re-run from the night before. He arched and kicked and whimpered and moaned from 1:00 to 4:30, slept for a measly hour, and was back up by 5:30. He was also running a fever.

Today we went back to the pediatrician-our regular one thankfully-to have Simon evaluated. Turns out that the emergency pediatrician was right that Simon was working on an ear infection, but the antibiotic he prescribed was not working for Simon. That means Simon was not writhing from stomach pain two of the last three nights; he’s been writhing from ear pain.

His blood work showed a white cell count of 18, up from 13 Friday night and well over the normal ceiling of 12. He’s become anemic, too. He got a shot of a new antibiotic today in the office, to jump-start things, and we left with a prescription for a new antibiotic, a prescription for analgesic ear drops, advice about his Tylenol/Advil dosages, instructions to come back in if Simon is not vastly improved by Saturday, and information about what complications to be on the look out for.

The doctor was clearly worried about three possibilities: (1) roseola on top of the ear infection; (2) hives that would necessitate pulling Simon off his meds; (3) a blood infection if we don’t resolve this in short order.

Damn.

Simon clearly isn’t going to be at school for his birthday tomorrow, and he probably won’t make it Friday either. We ordered cupcakes for him, and it looks like they will either be stale before he gets to them or that Matt and I will be eating them all ourselves tomorrow. (That, actually, doesn’t sound so bad.) I just hope he’s better by Sunday when we have his big party at home.

And on a completely selfish level, I’m desperate for this to be over. I’ve been up three nights straight, logging a total of 11 hours of non-contiguous sleep over the past three days. I’m behind at work. I’m behind on getting estimates and repairs for last month’s storm damage. School is out two days next week for Simchat Torah. We’re supposed to be going on a short vacation next Friday. And I’m having around 30 people over Sunday for his party. I know it will all be OK, but right now I’m feeling trashed and overwhelmed. But most of all, I just feel awful for Simon, who’ve I’ve watched struggle and suffer for nearly a full week.

Everybody told me there’d be days like these, but hearing about it and living it are two entirely different matters.

While fully realizing that the stakes are quite different, I do believe that yesterday I had my own “Dewey Defeats Truman” moment when I prematurely declared Simon well. Or at least better.

From the moment the mattress delivery folks arrived at 9:00 a.m. until Simon fell asleep at around 8:30 p.m., he had an awful, awful day. Except for a one-hour spell, he spent the entire day whining, crying, wriggling, and calling out “Mommy.” He didn’t nap; he was a total wreck. At 8:30 we put him down to bed and held our breath to see if he’d fall asleep. He did.

We exhaled deeply, tucked into some leisure reading, and assumed that we were at last on the road to wellness and happiness. At 2:30 a.m., our idyll was interrupted with a piercing cry. What follows is, to be blunt, too much information. One day, Simon will kill me for broadcasting this episode.

Matt brought him to be with us, I laid him against me, and we assumed a now-familiar position that usually brings him comfort. Last night, though, he would periodically stretch out his legs, stiffen, and cry. We thought it was gas and tried to talk and massage him through it. Every time he passed gas we declared ourselves one stop closer to victory.

We all dozed off an on for the next four hours, and then the stiffening and crying escalated to shrieking. I could tell he was trying to poop and couldn’t. Poor guy was constipated despite guzzling water for four day straight. I guess there just isn’t enough water in the world to make up for the combination of fever and an antibiotic.

I called the 24-hour medical hotline, a now familiar ritual, and was told I could try anal massage or, if that failed, a pediatric enema. Oh boy. I was hoping, really really hoping, that the anal massage would do the trick as I smeared Vaseline on my pinkie finger and, well, dug in. I mean, we were squeamish about using a rectal thermometer. An enema? Terrifying.

Massage failed to do anything other than anger and irritate Simon. Matt then dispatched himself to the 24-hour drugstore, also becoming a familiar ritual, and came back with the enema. The one moment of levity in the entire miserable evening came when we discussed where to administer this strong medicine. On our brand new mattress? We’re guessing-protective cover or no-that this would totally void our warranty. Wait, we hate the rug in his room! It stained quickly and didn’t clean well, and we should probably get rid of it to decrease allergens in his room.

To the nursery it was. I’ll simply report that the whole procedure took about 5 minutes, that Simon was mightily unhappy about it, but that we yielded results. We brought him back in bed, where he promptly collapsed from exhaustion and slept soundly for two hours.

Today he’s a wreck. Toddlers really need more than eight hours of sleep in a 24-hour period. My mom is helping with him because I need to get some work done and because, frankly, I need more than the four hours I’ve been getting myself. We’ve got a call into the doctor to see if he needs to be seen. And as day 5 unfolds, I have no plans to declare victory.

I’m just hoping that by Thursday, two full days from now, Simon can go to school and have his birthday cupcakes. It’s one thing for Simon to be sick on my birthday, as happened this past January. It’s another thing entirely for him to be sick on his own.

Last night may have been the worst since Thursday, before Simon’s illness began. As I lay in my bed not sleeping, I listened as Simon lay in his crib, also not sleeping, as he cried off and on at 11:00 p.m., at midnight, at 1:00 a.m. and then again at 3:00.

At 3:00, the crying took on a desperate tone that led us to grab him and put him in bed with us. He was hot, but not super hot, and his arching back and stiffening legs indicated stomach pain to me. He finally settled down at around 4:20 or so, at which point Matt and I put him back in his crib and hoped he’d sleep a good long stretch. Which, if you count an hour and half as a good long stretch, he did.

At 6:00 a.m. he again awoke with a piercing, desperate cry. The minute I picked him up I knew that the news was actually good. Simon was drenched. His diaper was wet, his shirt was wet, and his hair was soaked, but his forehead was unusually cool. Seventy-two hours after it began, Simon’s fever finally broke. A quick thermometer reading confirmed that he was a perfectly normal 98.2 degrees.

Not that that made him feel much better; no, he was clearly miserable. We talked to him about what was going on as we changed his clothes, then settled into a position (he laying up against me) that calmed him. By around 7:30, I could hear his breathing settle into a slow, regular pattern. So I slipped out from under him, scooted over to the edge of the bed, and we all fell back to sleep, hopefully for a good long stretch.

And then, promptly at 9:00 a.m., the delivery crew from Mattresses and More rang our front doorbell. How ironic that a purchase designed to improve our sleep would end up destroying it on the very day it was most needed.

Matt and I have spent the last few days in a clinic on fever, and we’re more than eager for class to be out.

Simon arrived home from school Friday with quite a fever. We gave him some Tylenol, and he spent the next four hours laying back against me on the couch “watching” the Dog Whisperer on TV. I put “watching” in quotes because, given his glassy eyes and general lethargy, I don’t think he was capable at that time of really taking anything in. And if you are wondering why I didn’t change the channel, the reasons are/were that I had no idea the National Geographic Channel was going to show a marathon of this show, and I feared that moving to get the remote would set off another 30-minutes of Simon thrashing and calling out “Mommy, mommy, mommy.” So Cesar Milan it was, for four full hours.

Around dinner time, Matt and I were both pleased to see Simon eat something. It wasn’t much, but the Cheerios and applesauce sure beat the nothing at all he had for lunch. We stupidly assumed that Simon has crossed some magic threshold to wellness.

We all played a little, and then the bedtime hour arrived. Still convinced Simon was doing much better, I carried him up the stairs. Right about the time we hit the landing, Simon whimpered, called out “Mommy” pitifully, and then threw up over my shoulder, down my back, on my neck, and down my front. That’s when we retook his temperature, realized it was nearly 105 degrees, and headed off to the immediate care center, where we got a antibiotic for an ear infection Simon may or may not develop and drew blood to rule out anything more serious than a nasty virus.

By Saturday, we again thought that the worst was over. Simon responded well to Tylenol and Advil, and we saw flashes of almost-normal behavior in him. In fact, he even debuted some new words (”blue”, “circle”) and tricks (climbing up on the couch by himself).

Our relief was short-lived. When Simon awoke from his afternoon nap, he was quite literally burning up. His ears and cheeks were crimson, and the rest of him was hot pink. Heat positively radiated off of him. His head was hot; his feet were hot; his back was hot. He was, in fact, so hot that it was physically uncomfortable to hold him. Like a potato just out of the oven-he was that hot.

One thermometer reading put him at 105.5, another at 106.1. I didn’t test a third time to verify because, frankly, I didn’t want to know. Together with my mom, who had been over baby-sitting while Matt and I ran a long overdue errand, I gave him medicine, stripped him down, and got him into a tepid bath.

All the while I’m thinking/fearing that at 105+ degrees, brain damage may be a real concern, and I’m wondering if drugs and luke-warm water are enough. Should I rub him down with alcohol?* Take him to the ER? What do you do with a fever of 105+ degrees? In my own mind, I understood and classified fevers thusly:

• 100-100.9: Barely a fever. No worries.
• 101-101.9. Consult books and treat.
• 102-103.9. Bad fever. Call doctor.
• 104+ Catastrophic fever. Go to emergency room.

Thankfully for all of us, Simon’s temperature was down to the 100-101 range within about 40 minutes. He began to chat a bit, he ate a good dinner, and we had a nice time together.

Once we had him in bed for the night, I got out my book on toddlers to read more about fevers. I was truly surprised to read that many physicians don’t think you have to treat any fever in the 101 or below range. Some say that treatment is optional for up to 102 degrees, and they don’t truly worry about treatment until you hit the 104 mark and unless you stay there for hours on end.

This wisdom came in very handy during today’s lesson on fever, when Simon awoke from his nap and only spiked to 103.9 degrees. I can’t say I wasn’t still worried about him, but some of the edge was certainly off the panic. Better still, this one came down fast, and from dinner to bedtime Simon was his usual playful self.

I very much hope for Simon’s sake that my lesson is nearly over. Flattering though it has been to see his unwavering devotion to me during his illness (he’s not left my side once, and he calls for me if I as much as leave the room to get a glass of water), I’m ready for some toddler independence and defiance. Anything, really, if it means he’s not glassy of eye and vacant of stare.

*For any of you who have heard of the old method of bringing down a fever by sponging down a baby/child with alcohol. Don’t do it. Turns out that the alcohol can actually raise internal temperatures, the alcohol itself is drying to the skin, and the fumes it puts off can be dangerous, too.

Well, it’s all piling back on at the moment. About ten days ago, I moved my head to the side quickly and felt an uncomfortable pull. The next day, my neck was stiff and sore. Yesterday it moved into actual spams, which I not-so-fondly termed “neck labor” and which were sufficiently miserable that they necessitated a trip to the doctor before I went to Yom Kippur services.

I left the doctor’s with a prescription for Flexiril. The first tablet offered some relief and left me feeling fine. The second one seems to have completely knocked me on my kiester, so much so that I have been slow and thick-tongued all day today.

And then, to put icing on the cake, Simon returned from preschool today with a fever. At its worst, it was just over 103, at its best it’s been hovering at around 101. The cruel irony here is that we’d both love to sleep but are just too uncomfortable to do it: He because of the fever and runny nose, and me because he’s only happy laying on my lap, which then puts my neck at an odd and agonizing position. One further twist is that the heating pad that brings me some relief only runs up Simon’s fever all the more. So I am left to snuggle without benefit of chemistry or heat.

This too shall pass, I suppose, hopefully quite soon. At least I seem to bring him some comfort, which does help to make the aching neck recede.

Friday night update: Apparently, before things get better, they needed to get worse. It’s just past midnight, we’ve finally put Simon to bed after a two-hour adventure at the pediatric urgent care center, and I just finished spraying about two cups of vomit off my dry-clean only sweater. Sigh. We hit the center when a forehead reading of Simon’s temperature hit 104.5 and a rectal reading (sorry, buddy) put it at 105. He’s got a virus and a budding ear infection, so tomorrow he begins a new round of antibiotics. Poor little trooper. I don’t think I saw him smile all day.

Before I forget, I thought I’d take a minute and jot down some of the new things Simon is saying and doing.

On the verbal front, we’re still not getting sentences, but we are hearing lots of new words. He says things like “yo-yo”, “circle”, “mommy apple”, “mommy mean” (sigh), “pee-pee”, and “shirt.” More notably, most of these words come uncoached. It seems like each day he’s likely to look at an object in our house or in a book and, without notice, tell us what it is for the first time.

On the bed-time front, our little guy is losing his love for his bed. He still sleeps well, but we’re starting to get attempts at postponing bedtime. The usual scenarios involve his pulling down a new stack of books to read or running around the upstairs opening and closing doors. He’s also developed two new bedtime companions: Bob, the giant rabbit his Nana brought him for Easter last year, and a toy bus or fire- truck.

When it comes to reading, Simon has discovered some new favorites and is more emphatic than ever about letting his opinion be known. Most days before his nap and before bedtime, he picks a group of books, stacks them beside me, backs up into my lap, and then puts the books he wants me to read in my hands, open to the first page. You know, just in case I missed the hint. 99% of the time, those books will be Moo Baa La La La (which he calls “la-LA”), Kitten’s First Full Moon, and Tickle the Pig. If I try to sneak in a book of my own choosing, odds are he will whine, shake his head vigorously, and throw the book to the side.

Notably, I chose none of the current favorites . One belonged to his cousins first, one was a gift from friends Lucy and Malcolm, and one was a gift from friends Beth and Bob. The love of Kitten’s First Full Moon especially surprises me, as it’s a subtle story of a kitten who mistakes the moon for a bowl of milk, and it is illustrated in black and white ink wash drawings. I think it’s absolutely gorgeous and playful, but I wouldn’t have expected it to be such a hit with the under two set. Since Simon is dead-set on reading this at least twice a day, I’m glad we both are such fans.

Simon has also decided that I am a fun object to manipulate. When we read The Very Hungry Caterpillar, he grabs my right forefinger or thumb and has me press the digit into every hole on the book. He used to do this himself, but now it seems to be more fun to have me serve as his proxy. He also enjoys pushing me around like a stroller, buggy, or cart.

Which brings me to a new favorite game in general: pushing and pulling. Any object that may be pushed or scooted is. It’s not just toy lawnmovers, poppers, strollers, or toy buses and cars that are pushed, but also foot-stools, chairs, and me. About a week ago, he discovered that that which can be pushed can often be pulled. Maybe I can con him into taking me on the next wagon ride.

In terms of mobility, Simon has discovered two new ways to go down stairs. When he’s feeling particularly tall and big-boyish, he walks down holding on to—or suspended from—the banister. When he gets tired of swinging from the banister or gets nervous about the sheer drop of the stairs, he now slides down on his belly. We’re not seeing very advanced climbing skills, but we are seeing crazy initial attempts at climbing. And finally, while we are still having issues with him trying to run into the street or running away from us, he’s decided that he loves walking across the school parking lot holding my and Matt’s hand together.

The cutest anecdote I have comes from one of his classmates. For weeks now, Matt and I have thought of one little girl as “Greta the greeter” for the way she always rushes the door and hollers out “Hi Simon!” when we arrive at school. Today Greta topped herself. No sooner had we arrived than Greta ran over from the play kitchen and excitedly called out “Hi Simon! I made coffee!” Maybe you had to be there, but I’ll be smiling over this one all day.

I once tallied my motherhood by counting diaper changes and nursing sessions. A little later, I looked to birthday and New Year’s celebrations as an index of how much my life had changed. These are all perfectly good indicators of where things stand, but I think my shoes also have a story to tell. Bear with me here.

True story: When I first moved to Louisville, I had only one pair of shoes I could wear while walking across grass. I didn’t need more than one pair! I lived in San Francisco, worked in San Francisco, and spent 99.9% of my time clomping up and down cement sidewalks and asphalt streets. I owned one pair of sneakers for the gym or the park, and everything else included a grass-hating heel.

That changed somewhat when I moved to Louisville. Among other things, I felt pretty silly clomping around my house in heels. I work at home and have hard-wood floors, so it was loud and unnecessary in equal measure. Also, people around here have yards, and it is considered reasonable to be able to walk across them without having to change first. Still, the overall profile of my shoes did not change much: I just tossed a pair of sandals and low-heeled boots into the mix, and swapped out rubber wedges for wooden heels. Voila! Me: The Suburbanite.

That all changed dramatically with Simon. In the late stages of pregnancy, with an extra 20 pounds on my frame, teetering on heels wasn’t practical or safe. After Simon came along, the hours I spent pacing with him or standing with him put a strain on my feet and back that called for flats and arch support. That fall and winter, I bought a pair of Ecco sneakers and Dansko clogs, and I lived in them. For the first time since college, my footwear and my politics were perfectly in synch. Me: The Earth Mother.

By the time Simon’s first birthday came round, I was feeling a bit more like myself. I was back to work, back to sleeping better, and the days of colic were long gone. Nursing tops got put away, pants with elastic or draw-string waists were banished, and heels—those rubber or cork wedge ones–returned to the picture. I splurged on two pairs of La Canadienne suede booths with 2 ½ inch polyurethane heels. They were very comfortable, and they had some style to them, too. Me: The Soon-to-be Soccer Mom.

Now, as Simon approaches two, I’m beginning to resent all these grass-friendly shoes. They are surely comfortable and practical, but where’s the fun? I have a home to maintain. I schedule my life largely around school, child-care, naps, and meal-times. Simon has a 529b plan to fund. And I’m fine with all of this—great with it actually. But as I begin to remember more and more what I felt like as a child-less city dweller, I’m eager to fold a bit of that model into the present one. Surely we are not completely mutually exclusive.

So early last month, after a difficult work meeting, I went out and bought a pair of silver Cole Haan peep-toe sling-backs with a narrow, 3 ¼ inch heel. I could never wear these suckers while walking across grass. Heck, I can barely walk in them at all! They are gloriously impractical and I adore them for it. The way I looked at it then—and in the wake of a financial melt-down on Wall Street and costly storm repairs at home this seems especially prescient and/or reckless of me—is if not now, when? The clock is ticking down on the viability of many of my past habits, but I’m not quite ready to shut the door on all of them forever. Or more to the point, feeling comfortable and at-home in Louisville and as a mom, I’m ready to let a little of the care-free San Francisco urbanite back in.