Four Balloons

Well, sweet boy, we didn't quite get your balloon picture together on time this month because we ALL got the flu.  Nevertheless, yesterday we finally sniffled our way through a photo shoot in celebration of your four month birthday.

This month you have made me so proud.  Every minute that you're awake you're looking and learning--figuring out how to operate your tiny little hands has become your latest obsession.  You even sometimes open and close them in your sleep to practice.

Your sweet smile continues to light up my life.  Lots of things make you smile and giggle:  favorite toys, Mommy and Daddy, and (of course) flatulence.  Already developing a very boyish sense of humor, I see.  You always smile at night when I put you to bed and whisper, "I love you, baby."  I hope you will always know how much you are loved.

Happy (belated) eleventh, Carter.

Belated Balloons

Disappointingly, I have no balloon picture to post from Carter's 4 month "birthday" yet. He came down with the flu or an upper respiratory infection on Wednesday and hasn't felt glamorous enough to do a photo shoot quite yet. Maybe by tomorrow...

But to placate you in the meantime, let me tell you about our trip to the Urgent Care Center in Belton. We had been letting Carter just ride out the illness at home since his fever wasn't very high and he was still resting and eating well, but last night his eyes (which had been watery and red for a few days) started to get gooey and infected-looking, so we decided to take him in.

At 7 pm on a Friday, your options for doctors are limited. We ended up at the Urgent Care Center with quite an assortment of patients.

There was a grandfather caring for four young children in the waiting room while the grandmother took another sick child back to see the doctor. While they waited, one kid slept, one kid screamed intermittently, one kid poked the sleeping kid, and one kid ran around the tile floor of the waiting room barefoot. I'm not judging--because heaven knows I can just barely manage to take care of one kid most days--but Eeeeeeewwww!!

There was a young man who came in complaining of shoulder pain who then used his "really really bad hurt" arm to reach his wallet in his back pocket.

There was the obligatory cell phone woman who talked the entire 45 minutes between taking sips of a super-sized Sonic drink which she later spilled all over the floor and pretended to clean up by throwing a bunch of paper towels on the floor on top of the red slush.

There was a young lady with a sprained or broken wrist who looked at every person who came in with sad puppy dog eyes as if to say, "Can I please be seen before you?"

There was an older woman who was holding a barf bag with obvious stomach contents in it (why do they make those bags see through?).

And then there was us. A couple of doctors who couldn't decide whether they needed another doctor's help until 7 pm on a Friday night. Impressive, right?

Well, I must commend the sweet doctor we saw. At 8:45 pm after seeing barefoot boy's sister, really bad hurt arm guy, Sonic cell phone girl, weepy wrist ache woman, and barf bag, she still had a smile on when she came to see us.

The diagnosis? Probable influenza + double conjunctivitis (eye infections).

The treatment? Rest, fluids, and an ointment that must be put into the eyes 3x/day. (Perhaps a separate post is needed to describe the joy in trying to put ointment into a 4 month old's eyes without losing your sanity or blinding your son.)

Carter is looking about 100 times better today than last night. We're so grateful for after-hours care! Balloon pictures to come when we feel up to it.

Hoarding the Milky Way

Well, if you count this post in the tally, that makes two posts about pumping/breastfeeding/breast milk in one blog, so I have likely rid myself of any male readers.  Sorry about that.

Anyway, I feel compelled to confess that I am completely turning into a hoarder.  As in, one of those terrible people who have so much stuff that they have to stack it in piles to make walkways through their houses like a little ant farm.  Except that my problem isn't collecting things, per se, it's collecting milk.  Breast milk, more specifically.

I have a stash in the freezer three layers thick. 

(Proof)

Basically, there's enough milk there that Carter could blockade himself in the house and survive a siege without batting an eye.  And yet, I still refuse to waste even a drop.  I have been known to yell at my husband for spilling tiny amounts on the counter when he fills a bottle.  It KILLS me to pump and throw away milk down the drain (as I have to do if I have an adult beverage--so I pretty much don't do that any more).  And I shudder to even think of what would happen if I ever got behind on my pumping and saw the bottom of that freezer drawer again.  The horror!

So there you have it.  My obsession.  Superseded only by my obsession of taking pictures of my sweet baby boy.  Check out these winners!

Love him!

No Room Inn

Being a mom is one of the most fantastic things I've ever tried to do in my life, and one of the most special parts of mommyhood in these early stages has been nursing my sweet baby. 

Sure, there were some days at the beginning that were hard (I think there was a day in there where I said the phrase "latching on" seventy or eighty times as we struggled to get that kid to eat), but all in all, it's been a very rewarding experience and a very meaningful gift that I'm giving to Carter.  As if he knows how time-consuming and (at times) annoying nursing can be, Carter will occasionally stop eating and just look up with eyes that say "thank you." 

Aww!  So totally worth it.

Then...there's pumping.

Pumping is NOT a fantastic thing.  Nor is it sweet.  Nor does the pump stop and look up to me as if to say "thank you."  Not once.  Pumping is simply the most annoying thing I have to deal with at work (and that includes dealing with people who come in and immediately say "I hate the dentist).

A few weeks ago we had two days of training through work that took place at a nearby hotel.  Of course my pump and I were required to attend.  Together.  Me and my constant companion.

I called the hotel early to ask if they had a room available where I could pump.  The only requirements I asked for were privacy, a place to sit, and a plug. 

The hotel's guest services lady was very confused by the question.  She pondered aloud, "Well, we can't close the entire business center..." (I later saw that the "entire business center" was a closet-sized room with one ancient computer in it).  She wondered a few more things out loud before finally saying, "Well, I guess you can use the bathroom and we'll loan you an extension cord."

True, the bathroom did fulfill my three requirements (barely), but it also required me to look like an idiot.

My place to sit?  A toilet seat.  And not the kind with a lid.  So the choices were to sit on the toilet seat with my pants on (weird) or sit on the floor (gross).

My privacy?  Well, the bathroom door did close and lock, but it was the kind with the one inch wide gap between the door and the dividing wall, so any old Joe (or Josephine, rather, since it was a women's restroom) could see in without trying very hard.

My plug?  The only one was on the counter next to the sinks, so I had to use an extension cord 15 feet long and string it from the bathroom counters to the floor, across the floor and under the stall door, into the stall and into the pump.  Ridiculous.

And all this trouble because a place that sells rooms couldn't find a room for me.

Motherhood is glamorous, no?