MR...Ugh

First of all, there really is no question of Max's parentage is there? Second, look at the heads on those babies. Just LOOK at them.

These photos have been on our refrigerator for the last month to help keep me from losing my mind. You see, Max has a big head. An above the 99th percentile head. And until he was 7 months old, it wasn't a concern as he was following the curve. (For the childless, thats the curve on the graph of kids' head sizes. Yes, really.) Then his head grew a half an inch in 6 weeks. Teetering at nearly 19 inches (to give some perspective, the average head size of a year old baby is 18 inches), Max's head growth was now off the charts. I received a phone call from his pediatrician that went something like this:

Ped: "I'm a little concerned. His head growth should be leveling off and its not. We have a couple options. CAT scan or MRI. I prefer the MRI, because there's no radiation exposure, though babies do have to be sedated for the procedure. The risks of sedation are less than the risks of NOT doing the test though, in my opinion. This isn't something I feel comfortable waiting more than a few weeks to do. If there's something wrong, the sooner we know, the better...."

Me: **crying**

Cut to almost 3 weeks of waiting. Waiting for insurance to approve the test. Waiting for the pediatrician's office to coordinate and schedule with the hospital. Waiting to go down to Green Bay for the appointment. Waiting for the results to come back. Waiting, waiting, waiting, with a lead ball in my stomach. Now I know I'm a worrier. Worry is my forte. And for the most part I worry about NOTHING. None of the potential things that could be wrong with a baby's head are "nothing" however. They're all terrible. Hydrocephalus and brain tumors. Brain surgery. Staples in the head. Shunts. Terrible, terrible, and more terrible.


Not to mention the MRI itself. I scour the ingredient list of every single thing I give my child to ingest. We try not to give him too much baby Tylenol or Advil for god's sake. And now he's going to go under IV sedation.

We were reassured over and over again that the test was a precaution. Likely he just has a big head because his parents have big heads and the rapid growth was just a growth spurt. I will not tell you the dark, sad, sick-to-my-stomach places my mind went to upon having my beautiful, joyful little boy's health called into question because those feelings are too intimate and vulnerable. I will just tell you it was terrible.


The scan was scheduled for 10 a.m. but we had to be there at 7:45 for registration, an exam etc. Thank God he's breastfed, because he could nurse up to 4 hours before. At first he was a trooper, flirting with the nurses, playing with all the equipment and toys in the room. Then he got hungry and tired and very very upset when they couldn't find a vein for the IV. Every mom in the world knows how upsetting vaccinations are. This was that times a million. He screamed and screamed and screamed until he was hoarse and gasping. There was this teenage volunteer to there "distract" him, who kept waving a screen playing cartoons in his face, frantically repeating, "Look at the horsey! Look at the sheepy! Look at the doggy!".

I wanted to punch her.

He worked himself into such a state they suggested an anti-anxiety drug. I was like, "yeah, definitely, and can you give something to Max too?"....ba-dump-bum.

Seriously though, it was awful. Watching him go under the anesthetic was awful. Walking with him knocked out, hooked up to things on a hospital bed down to the MRI room was awful. Passing a closed door with a sign that said "chemo in progress" in the pediatric ICU was awful. Leaving and sitting in the waiting room for 45 minutes was awful. Waiting for him to wake up was awful. Waiting for the results was awful.

Me being the psycho that I am, I stared at the anesthesia doctor's inscrutable face as I asked how the scan looked. He claimed no knowledge; "My focus is totally on your child's vital signs blah blah blah". Right.

I called the pediatrician's office immediately after we left the hospital telling them they must call me that day. None of this waiting until tomorrow. Tomorrow?! Are you kidding me...after all this waiting, we were not waiting another 24 hours with those results out there, looming, potentially changing our whole lives. I was giving them 4 hours. Call me dramatic, but psychosis gets results. I heard from the pediatrician by 2:30, a mere 2 1/2 hours after walking out of the hospital. Diagnosis?

Our baby has familial macrocephaly.

Or in plain english, a big head due to genetics.

Beating the Heat

As anyone who lives in this country knows, its been a hot summer. Ungodly hot really. For all of our "built-in air-conditioning" with living on an island in the middle of Lake Michigan, its still been pretty unbearable here. And 90 degrees with 90% humidity does not a happy baby make...but 15 bucks at Menard's does.

Max's Revenge

It Happened, It Really Happened

I've gone back and forth about posting this blog. Something wonderful happened the last 2 nights and I fear bragging about it (because that is indeed what I plan on doing) will probably jinx it and it won't happen again for several years. But dammit I'm thrilled! Shocked! Amazed! Vindicated!

Max slept through the night. Twice!

Well, to be fair, by pediatricians' definitions (5 consecutive hours), he's been sleeping through the night off and on already. But by sane, adult, sleep-deprived mommy definitions, he hasn't since he was 3 months old. He's up at least once, usually twice, sometimes more. And by up, I mean crying, hungry, needing soothing...and there were those few nights, those few, terrible, soul-sucking nights, where he wanted to party from 2 am on. For hours. And he wanted us to party with him. There was no partying solo. I won't go into detail about what we've tried, read, been advised to do etc. Any parent whose child doesn't sleep well (which I firmly believe are most parents. There's a lot of lying/exaggerating/denial out there about baby sleep.) knows what lengths you will go to to get some sleep.

We were advised by many, many, many, many, many, MANY people (including our first pediatrician..notice I say "first". He is no longer our pediatrician, mostly because he was more intent on giving us parenting advice than medical advice, but thats another blog) to sleep-train. For the uninitiated, sleep-training is an approach where you put your kid down drowsy but awake and let him sort out for himself how to fall asleep. The thought is, babies need to learn how to self-soothe and the only way they will do this is if you train them. It almost always involves a combination of timed crying, soothing, patting etc depending on which of the trillion methods you choose to use.

Sleep training isn't for us. The sick to my stomach feeling I get when Max cries (REALLY cries. Not just fussing, struggling crying...screaming, gut-wrenching crying) is not a feeling I feel I should ignore. Instincts are instincts and I've chosen to parent by instinct as much as possible. As a good friend pointed out, I parent as if we lived in a cave. (Stone Age parenting!) Babies are instinctive creatures. Max has no idea the Western world has moved past caves. So until he does, I figure its my job to do things the way he understands for awhile.

That being said, I am very aware I have the luxury of parenting like this. I am home with Max every day, I can nap when he naps, I have a husband who thankfully has moved past the Stone Age and doesn't expect a gleaming house and dinner waiting for him every night (in fact, I'm slightly ashamed to admit he does the lion's share of cooking around here).

Anyway, we commit the cardinal bedtime sin, according to the self-soothing bunch: Max is nursed or bottle-fed to sleep. Every night. We went through 2 hellacious weeks of trying the drowsy-but-awake, pick up/put down, pat and reassure method. 2 weeks. Long enough to "create a habit". And each night was the same. Screaming. Lots of screaming, resulting in an hour plus of bedtime battling, 2 sweaty, stressed, anguished parents and 1 sweaty, stressed, sad, finally sleeping infant. Once we decided "no more", as in no more screaming, sweating or stress, bedtimes have generally been peaceful and sweet and easy. And guess what? He doesn't wake up any more or less.

And for the last TWO nights he has slept like a champ. That isn't to say he doesn't wake. I heard him at around 2 and 4, babbling. I even snuck into his room to check on him and witnessed him rolling around, playing with his feet, "ba ba ba"ing away. So I went back to bed and fell asleep. SO DID HE. By himself! He self-soothed! Twice! In the middle of the night! Two nights in a row! Despite what some "baby sleep experts" (how DOES one earn that appellation?) say, "If you're rocked to sleep, nursed to sleep, fed to sleep at bedtime, you're going to need that every time you wake up."

(Read more: http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1904288,00.html#ixzz1Seiykfxf ...or don't. Its articles like this one, entitled "Advice for Coddling Parents: Put Baby to Bed Alone" that led to the 2 weeks of bad bedtimes, and my self-doubt regarding my instincts. I take exception and offense when I read stuff like this now. I get ANGRY. Coddling. Really? Thats really why I'm writing this blog and bragging about my kid self-soothing in his own damn good time despite our "unhealthy bedtime coddling"-puke puke puke bullshit bullshit bullshit-in hopes some poor, self-doubting, sleep-deprived mama is searching the vast interwebs for SOME anecdotal evidence that her instincts aren't wrong. That she comes across this blog and learns if she nurses/cuddles/rocks and soothes her tiny, sweet baby to sleep and responds to his cries he will not become an "anxious adult" [my former ped's words] and will learn to self-soothe when he is developmentally ready.)

Now I don't want to piss off every parent who has sleep-trained their kid. Cuz I know lots of good parents who have done it, and it worked, and the kid sleeps like a champ, no worse for the wear. I know by now what works in one family doesn't work in another. I know what goes on in the wee hours of my house is never going to be the same as what goes on in the wee hours of another. I know I don't have other children to worry about. I know I don't have a job to go to every day (though if you want to tell me what I and thousands of other stay-at-home moms do every day isn't work, I might punch you in the face. But thats another blog.) I know all babies are individuals and some may have a steeper sleep learning curve than others and extra help with self-soothing skills is necessary. I also know Max will probably need us again in the night and there's more sleeplessness in our future...but now I'm even more affirmed that responding is the right thing to do. He is clearly capable of self-soothing, so if he cries it means there is something-be it hunger, thirst, cold, heat, teething pain, tummy pain, developmental leaping, fright, sadness, loneliness-he can't handle on his own because he's 7 MONTHS OLD.

I don't think sleep-training is cruel, not at all. I DO think leaving a baby to cry himself to sleep alone in a dark room is cruel and any sleep researching a@#hole in a lab coat who says otherwise and writes judge-y, scolding articles that get published in national magazines and make parents mistrust their instincts needs their chamomile tea, glass of wine, Tylenol PM, loved one's warm body, down comforter, 1000 thread count sheets, or whatever sleep crutch they use taken away. See how they like it.

Away We Went

We took Max to Milwaukee for almost a week to visit family. The days were chock full of activity and seeing Max's curiosity and interest in everything was a joy. I think its important to strike a balance between stability/routine and spontaneity/new experiences. However, we may have overdone it, as this photographic montage suggests.

I got my Indian food fix and Max tried some. He loved everything but the mint chutney...a little spicy.




Baby's first Summerfest:


Having a go on the bongos...I plan on putting him on the street corner with a tip jar pretty soon:


This is what I used to look like after a day at Summerfest...and about 12 beers:



Eyyyyyy...



A donkey ride at the Kurt Petting Zoo and Wildlife Center (aka my Grandfather's house):



And his first time in a big boy swing:




I'm tired just posting this blog. Max is a trooper, but I think next time we'll dial down the pace a little bit.

Christmas in July

If I were the sort of person who gets around to sending Christmas cards, this photo would be on them. However, I am not, and so...


HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM THE SMALL FAMILY

Independence Day...Late

Its no big shocker that I'm a tardy blog poster. But as Dave reminded me, writing this blog has been something I like to do in my spare time...and none of my time has been spare lately. Its summertime and the livin' may be easy, but its also BUSY (easy and busy are probably mutually exclusive, but I don't have time to quibble). The island is hopping, the weather is beautiful (finally), and we've been nonstop since Father's Day. The good news is I've been dutifully recording every magic moment.

Dave's family was in town, leading to several adorable cousin encounters, as well as the discovery that tree trunk baby thighs and Stay-Puf marshmallow feet are genetic gifts bestowed on both Emerson and Max.



With some reservation, we took Max to the island parade and fireworks. Its not that I was worried he'd be scared, it was more that the fireworks started at 9:00, two full hours past baby bedtime. What sort of overtired twitching screaming monster would this parenting decision result in? I was semi-convinced he'd become the ultimate baby sleep
horror story: day/night confused.

In typical Max fashion, he surprised me with his adaptability. He loved the parade, waving his little flag with patriotic fervor. He fell asleep right before the big bang began and slept through half of them (without a TWITCH. This from the child who wakes from a dead sleep when we try to lower him 2 feet into his Pack-N-Play.) He was mostly awestruck upon waking, but held tightly to my arm, made a few worried "mmmmmmm"s, and squinted a lot.





Even after getting to bed past 11:00, Max still seems to know the difference between night and day. Clearly he's got my brains.