Art

Hi everyone!  Justin has started something new these past couple of weeks.  See, the kid likes chalk (or really anything that makes a visible mark).  He writes on EVERYTHING with chalk.  Until this past year, he had NO interest in actually making marks of any kind.   Now we see numbers from time to time, and just earlier this week were treated to hundreds of chalk balloons on the walls of our apartment (first representational-though-entirely-copied art!!)

Justin uses us as his “stims”.  Yes, he flaps his hands when he’s excited and jumps up and down and shrieks – but more important to him is being the task-master watching us draw whatever he demands.  Sometimes we write numbers from 1 to about 356 (at which point he’s decided that he’s had his fill – we’re typically done by oh, 4).  Other times, we draw letters or household objects or other objects in his environment – yes, we’ve drawn hundreds of bottles and Target stores.  We also draw logos from favorite places: Target, UZoo (a favorite series of YouTube videos), etc.  Most importantly, we draw our rushed versions of his favorite cartoon characters: He-Man (and associated characters), Cookie Monster, and Strong Bad as he watches our every stroke.  

 

Chalk Mural: 8/11/11 by Justin Owen, Age 3Awesome, right?! Take a closer look at that left side there. It's okay, I didn't get it at first either. Well, Justin was so proud of his "art", he patted this part of the wall and said, "STRONG BAD!" after I left for work today. Now look at StrongBad:StrongBad = Snarky cartoon dude in a Mexican wrestler mask.

 

 

And this is how Justin sees them:

 

 

From the top (as Justin points them out):
“It’s gots [a] head.”

“It’s gots eyes.”

“It’s gots teeth.” (*my personal favorite)

“It’s gots shirt.”

“It’s gots legs.”

 

 

LOVE IT!! 

 

For you more “sensible” people out there, a quick statement about writing on my walls:

 

I know we’ll be painting our own walls before moving out of this apartment (you can only wash chalk off the same walls so many times before their cheap-o paint gives way to drywall), but there are greater tragedies.  We fought for so long to get him to make any marks, and from our past experience with Justin we know that he will only “need” to do this for a little while longer before he moves on to the next thing.  We don’t encourage him on the wall and we give him other options – but his interest in something that will grow his mental and manual development so much makes this a battle not worth fighting.   The benefits outweigh the risks by a long shot. 

 

In the meantime, we’re celebrating our little boy finding new ways to tell us about his world.  And that, friends, is worth celebrating!

Obsessions: Autism, Infertility, and Childbirth Trauma

Hi everyone.  I’ve been pondering some things.  Actually, I’ve been sort of obsessing about three topics, and have recently come to the conclusion that they overlap in a way that makes me more than a little uneasy.  Yes, I’m crazy.

After Justin’s diagnosis we went through a series of emotional events: grief (which is cyclical and changes by cycle – more about this later), security, and questions.  Lots and lots of questions.

Security relates to the feeling of relief at knowing what we’re dealing with.  We know Justin can be difficult, but having a diagnosis is like being given a roadmap for the care of your child.

Grief – it comes and goes and comes…  Sometimes I’m grieving the life I thought my son would have when I was pregnant with him.  Sometimes I’m grieving my own loss as a mother.   Sometimes I’m grieving for the life I thought I’d have as a parent.  Sometimes, I’m just exhausted.

Questions – Questions about where Justin’s Autism came from.  What does it mean for any other children we might have?  All studies point to other studies and so on and so forth.  It’s a rabbit hole.  As I’ve discussed before, I have come to a few conclusions about the causes of autism: the genetically loaded gun with a variety of mostly unknown triggers theory.  It is what these triggers might be that gets me into a fuss.  I know that Justin had that genetic predisposition – his dad is practically a poster boy for undiagnosed Asperger’s Syndrome.  Justin, however, does not have aspergers.  He has full blown Classic Autism.  Now, we are fortunate that he is verbal – meaning he has words.  They just happen to be 99% nouns (eg. bottle, chalk, panda, momma, dadda, etc.).  He can use them to communicate wants or needs.  We are primarily tools to him.  He loves us and apprecates us in his own way, but for the most part it is our job to facilitate his play.  He cannot occupy himself without us – a strange predicament for the parents of an autistic child, I know.  We are the pencil for his paper, the button that makes the game work.

————

I often look back, and wonder what I could have done to avoid Justin’s autism being as severe as it is.  Some parents point at vaccines, or some other regressive event.  Justin was our autistic Justin at birth, and quite possibly before.  Most of my friends know that shortly after discovering my pregnancy with Justin, I got pretty granola.  Justin was totally unplanned – he was conceived while I was on birth control.  I seldom drink anyway, but as soon as you’re pregnant you think, “Dear God!  What about that one martini I had a week before I found out I was pregnant?!”  And the docs and OB’s and midwives just kinda shrug and say, “Well, there’s not much you can do about it now.  Just focus on what you do have control over.”  Yeah, that’s reassuring.  But to be fair, what else could you say?

Anyway, in my adult life nothing has been so painful emotionally or physically than Justin’s birth.    Justin’s birth story is posted here on this blog site.  He was formally introduced the day after his birth day.  Then, with my posts on our nursing story, I’ve shared more.  To be honest, until now I haven’t had the courage or strength to talk about what his birth did to me, to my heart,  or to my mind.  I had planned an out-of-hospital birth center birth, but when 14 days post-due date rolled around I was sent to the hospital for induction.  I tried to keep my cool.  I took advantage of the tools I was given in my Bradley birth class, my husband, and my doula.  My parents surprised us with coming up Tuesday evening – they stayed for the induction and birth the following day.  With the intent to have the most natural birth I could given the circumstances, I fought like hell.  I was told at the outset that they would start the Pitocin, then check after a few hours, then cut back or off the pitocin once my body took over.  That didn’t happen (the backing off of the pitocin – they didn’t give me a chance to show my body was doing anything other than being a chemical puppet).  They broke my water after 3 hours of Pitocin.  2 hours later, I was headed into transition but started vomiting from the intensity of contractions (I expected this a bit, it was transition after all) but after 3 hours of vomiting (you’d think they’d go, “hmm, maybe she’s not responding well to the pitocin.”)  I was dilated to 8cm and finally gave in to the offers of an epidural.  I had the wherewithal to tell them absolutely NO narcotic with the epidural.  I’m grateful that I did that, since Justin’s initial APGAR was so poor (it was a 2).  Looking back I wonder, why the hell they didn’t listen to me telling them to back off the pitocin??  Fast forward a few hours of hard work, and then a poorly managed labor got much worse.  Poor positioning and a stem-to-stern episiotomy, and a then a slick manuver (to this day, I have not found any medical literature to name or identify the method he used in lieu of forceps – I call it the butt-pull: he reached up my rectum, grabbed Justin’s chin through the wall of my rectum - much the way you pick up doggie-doo from the outside of a trash bag – and pulled him down) by a doc I didn’t know and was never introduced to (I had to have colorectal surgery 6 weeks later to repair some of the damage) .  A short while later, Justin was born in respiritory distress, with all the signs of Pitocin syndrome (low initial APGAR, broken blood vessels in the eyes and face - which I had too, by the way -, he even had one eye that appeared smaller than the other for months, and of course the respiritory distress).

The two of us were a wreck.  Justin was whisked away after a 60-second meeting with his mom to the nursery, where my dutiful husband followed, I didn’t see my parents again until the next morning.  I was left alone, in the dark, in the room I’d given birth in, for between 2 and 3 hours.  I never saw or spoke to any of the staff from Justin’s birth again.  I had one visitor, a friend from Church’s husband who was an L&D nurse who was about to clock on for his shift.  He stayed for 2 very awkward minutes, as I’m sure I looked like hell.  I am grateful for that visit.  Justin was born at 11:14pm on Wednesday night.  We were discharged together on Friday afternoon.  I could barely walk and still needed assistance to shower.  The next two weeks were the loneliest days of my life.  We had a few visitors – mostly in a hurry dropping off food for which we were grateful.  In my heart I begged for phone calls, and visits from people who I could actually talk to.  Mostly, I was told in more ways than one that yes, my birth was hard, but that I should be happy because I had a healthy baby.  Well, I wasn’t happy.  And neither, as it turned out, was he healthy.

In my obsessive medical journal reading, I’ve come across multiple studies that show that somewhere near 60% of children with autism had a difficult birth that included pitocin.  Some new studies are using out-of-hospital birth center and home births as a control group.  Preliminary results are showing that the control group, the group not exposed to excessive IV fluids, routine pitocin augmentation, epidurals, etc. is completely void of later incidence of Autism diagnosis.  While the current data shows that in the general population (which are born in the hospital system) has a steadily increasing incidence of ASD diagnosis.

That being said, as a family, we’d like to try for another child.  It’s no guarantee that another child won’t have Autism.  I know that.  At this point, we know sorta what we’re getting into.  What know what Justin is, and we have some ideas as to triggers.  Justin does so well with other children, they really do have a natural ability to make him communicate and interact.  And I’ll admit it: in my heart of hearts, I want a do-over.  A chance to heal emotional wounds.  To go in ready for battle, to stick up for myself and my baby.

We’ve been trying to get pregnant for 4 months and counting.  Still no luck.  Enter obsession number 3: Infertility.

As far as infertility goes, here’s the short list of stuff in our favor:
1. I conceived Justin while on birth control.

2. I’ve lost a bit of weight with diet and exercise.

Here’s the short list of stuff NOT in our favor:

1. I’m 30, dear husband is 34.  Not old, but old enough that it can make it a little more difficult to conceive.  Especially since we’re racing the clock against the whole older-parents=higher autism risk thing.

2. I was on and off Depo for 2.5 years, a total of 4 shots.  Kind of the silver bullet against pregnancy.  Can plague those trying to conceive for up to 15 months or more after last shot.

3.  Thanks to our dear son’s tantrums at the age of 2, dear husband is now short one of his boys.

As Orthodox Christians, major infertility treatment is not an option.  And given my current belief that intervention, chemicals, n’stuff may well be the triggers to the genetic predisposition gun, I don’t wanna pull those.  So here I am.  Charting basal body temps, mucus, and taking my vitamins and a few herbs (like Chaste berry).  I was on and off hormonal birth control for about 15 years.  The longest I was ever off was a week or two.  Maybe a month at most.

My obsession diagram is beginning to look Venn in nature.

Holy crap!  No!!!  So this week, I’ve discovered that my three obsessions are painfully intertwined.  “So what?”  you may ask.  Doesn’t that just mean you’re thinking through things in a meaningful way?  Perhaps that is the case.  Ultimately though, I’m horrified to discover that I can’t take a break from one obsession with another because I’ll ultimately end up fixating on it again – just from a different perspective.  GAH!  I wish I could just put my fingers in my ears and yell, “LA LALALA!!!”.  I know too much, and yet, not near enough to feel confident and secure.  I suppose this is where prayer is supposed to come in.  Prayer and seeking out good counsel.  Anybody out there know some good recommendations for counsel about this?

If Spiderman Only Knew…

Random story: Last night, Justin was NOT interested in sleep or anything related to resting at 11pm. He WAS interested in playing with his talking Spiderman toy.

I told him that in 5 minutes, it would be Spiderman’s bedtime. So I got a pillow, and a towel as a blanket, and told him that Spiderman would sleep there (of course, Justin found this whole idea offensive since towels only have one purpose – thanks, Autism). So, with that idea out the window, I asked him to help get Spiderman ready for sleep. I expected Justin to ignore me. He didn’t. He decided that cuddling spiderman and “give Spiderman yummies” was how to do it. Except, Justin wasn’t giving him food. Nope. My 3-year-old had puffed out his chest and put Spiderman’s face to his breast over his shirt. Yup. Justin “nursed” Spiderman to help him to sleep.

This is despite him not having nursed since he was 25-months-old, and having had little exposure to it since.

Labels

Justin is 3-years-old.  He has Autism.

Some folks I’ve met have a hard time with me saying that – that he has Autism.

Very early on in our journey with Justin, we had to make a family decision: do we keep his diagnosis private, or do we make it a part of our lives, accepting it as matter-of-factly as the fact that we all wear clothes?

Our decision was the latter, and this is why:

Our world is full of labels.  Some labels are useful, helpful even.  Others are not, and may even be harmful.  We decided that with Justin’s diagnosis, “Autism” was a useful and helpful label.  Some might think, “Well, that’s a good crutch!” or “Wow, so, um, you use that whenever you want sympathy then, right?”  and I’m sure some people might use it that way.  That has never been our intention.  Early on, the label validated our concerns.  It gave evidence to our assertions that Justin, our first and only child, is not easy to manage – that our struggles were more than that of most first time parents adjusting to a new role in life.  In that regard, the label of “Autism” was a breath of fresh air.  It meant that others knew we weren’t crazy for being tired all the time – because their Autistic children didn’t sleep either and it had nothing to do with “sleep training”.

My husbands assertion was that we could make use of a label that meant something – that actually gives information – or we can let the world label our son.   Having attended public school ourselves, we could think of some of the labels he’d get that would be far worse than “Autism” - you know, like “retard”, “spaz”, “loner”, “jerk”, “creep”, and “weirdo” to name a few.

We are fortunate that Justin is as high-functioning as he is.  He has words even if he doesn’t always use them properly, or for the same reasons as us “neurotypicals”.  But unlike our friends with physical disabilities, you can’t see Justin’s label on his face.

I’ll never forget the first time I told a stranger that Justin had Autism.  We were at the soft play area at our mall and it was time to go.  I called for Justin, counted down “5 minutes” as always (we learned early on that giving him a count down provides a consistent and non-negotiable endpoint), and called for him again.  He almost never responds to his name being called.  It’s not personal.  He just can’t filter out my calling his name from the other noise and commotion – not to mention, in Justin’s world, words are used for describing objects, not for more complex meanings like “come here”.  Justin was running around the play area, feeding off the energy of the other kids playing chase (he gets excited and runs, but does not ‘get’ that they are playing a game with any structure – to him, they’re just enjoying running for running’s sake).  When I called again, then approached him, squeezed his shoulder and got down on his level and told him for the 2nd time that it was “time for socks and boots” and he ran away again, a woman I’d been shooting the breeze with said to Justin, “You need to listen to your mommy.”

Now, I totally understand that fear of strangers can be used to a correctional capacity in toddlers, and I definitely appreciate that.  In this case, she had no idea why I was just letting it go every time he’d rebuff my request.  For myself, I was using it to gauge the best way to get Justin into his socks and boots.  I told her that it was okay and that he wasn’t trying to be rude.  I went, got on Justin’s level (though not looking him in the eye), and told him, “Justin, it is time for socks and boots” and I picked him up and calmly sat him in the seat at the edge of the play area next to the woman and before putting on socks grabbed Justin’s shins and pushed his knees hard into his chest, repeating it several times.  With each compression Justin calmed, and after 3-4 compressions, he was able to sit still long enough for me to put on his socks and boots.  The woman just sat there aghast.  I could see in her face, “she’s not going to reprimand him?  what the heck is she doing?  How is that going to help him comply?!”.  When it worked, I just smiled and said, “My son has Autism.  It means it’s very hard for him to listen and understand my words, and when he’s excited like this, these ‘squishes’ help him calm and focus.”  What did this accomplish?  Well, Justin let me carry him peacefully from the play area; the woman was clearly in shock that I hadn’t lost my cool, that I wasn’t afraid of looking crazy with my odd approach to the situation, plus, I taught her something new about Autism; and I felt good knowing that I’d appropriately managed my son’s needs AND accomplished the task at hand.

Wha-bam!

There are tons of reasons to share about Autism to people.  Awareness is a faculty of advocacy.  Some studies show that as many as 1 in 148 children have some form of Autism Spectrum Disorder.   Socially, Autism is characterized by behaviors that often look like defiance, rudeness, being aloof, or just plain naughty.  I feel that the more aware people are that Autism is in their midst, the more patient and understanding we can be with one another.  Yes, there are crappy parents out there, but we all need to bear in mind that there is often more than meets the eye in our casual observance of other people’s children.

Whoa whoa whoa!  “Autism” is an excuse for poor manners?  Certainly not.  BUT.  Teaching social niceties, like not screaming in a restaurant (especially when screaming outside is okay), to a child with Autism is VERY difficult and not an exact science.  They often lack the ability to generalize or categorize when it is okay vs. when it isn’t so you have to teach it anew in EVERY situation – over and over again.  This of course means that there will be moments where, for example, ”breakthrough screaming” may occur with little or no warning.   It’s a lot like lion taming.  For all the training in the world, a lion is still a lion and a wild animal.  An Autistic child will, despite all the coaching in the world, have meltdowns from time to time (and, per Murphy’s Law, these meltdowns WILL occur at the least appropriate moment).  And since we don’t keep Autistic children in cages in this country, there will occasionally be casualties.  But I digress…

Other useful labels:

“Biohazard”

“Women’s Restroom”

“Cinnamon”

“Hospital”

“Expires 12-24-2006″

In a Moment the World Stopped. Then It Came Crashing Down. Then We Awoke a New Family.

In my last post, I alluded to Justin not being a typical kid.  He’s not.  But neither was I or Matt for that matter – though not for the same reasons.  This last year has been a year of self-discovery.  of horror.  of pain and suffering.  of deepest joy and greatest gratitude.

This last year we learned that our sweet, smart, quirky little boy has Autism.  Not “some signs”, but classic Autism.  A little Rain Man in our midst.

There were clues.  Clues we missed.  Hell, there were punches in the face we missed.  But as usual, hindsight is 20/20.

Justin had always had impressive well-child checks.  His growth was always notable – typically upwards of the 95th percentile for height and weight (still is).  He hit all his milestones and then some.  But we were getting more and more exhausted from lack of sleeep – Justin was still waking at night as frequently as a newborn and nothing seemed to help.  His outbursts were getting louder, more physical, and lasting longer over things that should have been easily redirected.  Then at his 18-month check, the checklist got a bit troubling.  2-word sentences?  Nope.  Copying drawn lines?  Nope.  For the time being, we chalked it up to being just before a developmental leap.  Justin’s pediatrician made the concerned face watching him aimlessly wander around the office, refusing eye contact, or direct attempts at communication.  Without trying to alarm us into a panic, she recommended we follow-up in a few months.  Note: While this may sound irresponsible on the pediatrician’s part, I am thankful for the slow “heads up”.  It allowed me the space to research, watch, investigate and ask questions rather than go into a full on panic.

Not a month after that visit, a good friend of ours at Church pulled me aside.  This friend has a son with profound Autism.  Her intent was not to alarm, just to let me know what she was seeing.  She pulled out old photo albums with her son in them.  As she pointed him out in the yearly Pascha picnic group pictures, you could see – his face looked different.  Not in a way that would suggest he was deformed or anything, if anything he was - is - a beautiful boy.  He was often looking in the direction of the camera, but not in the same way as the others in the picture.  Rather than looking at the person taking the picture, he was looking at the camera itself.  I recognized this boy.  Not because I knew him, but because I saw what my friend was seeing – she was seeing Justin.  That’s when it hit me.  It made it real.  We talked and cried for about an hour.  She told me how she saw behaviors in Justin (even in just the short period of time she saw him at Church) that were painfully similar to those of her son.  She couldn’t keep quiet.  And I thank God for her intervention.

The very next business day I called to schedule an appointment with Justin’s pediatrician.  It would be 3 long weeks before we could be seen.  The first week, I cried.  A lot.  The second week I searched, researched, and asked questions.  By the time we got to that appointment, I was sure.  And I had a sort-of plan. Justin’s MCHAT (Modified CHecklist for Autism in Toddlers) was so painfully positive (as in indicative of Autism) that we were nearly blind-sided.  We expected to see a weak positive – it can’t be that bad, we thought.  At the visit, the pediatrician filled out the referral forms for the Seattle Children’s Hospital Autism Center for a diagnosis.  I was told the waitlist for an evaluation was right around 6 months.  In the meantime I was to contact the Opportunity Council in town for a qualifying evaluation for entry into the local Zero to Three program for early intervention services.

Within a few days of my call to the Opportunity Council here in Bellingham, we had a woman in our home asking us questions.  LOTS of questions.  About Justin’s behavior, his responses to this and that, what he could or couldn’t do.  All the while watching Justin in his home environment.  At the end, Justin easily qualified for Early Intervention services.  In another week we would meet Justin’s Primary Coach – a speech/language pathologist from the Whatcom Center for Early Learning.  She would meet with us in our home at least once per week until Justin’s 3rd birthday.   Words cannot describe how she and the Occupational Therapist who sometimes visited along with her changed our lives.  By teaching us how to recognize sensory issues vs. communication difficulties, they gave us the tools to learn how to diffuse before the meltdown.

The Tuesday following his 3rd birthday, Justin started public special ed. preschool.  We’re starting to get a handle on our new life.  Justin is a lot of work.  But we know the scope of our journey – and we expect a great many surprises for good and for the not so easy-to-manage.  We still have much to learn as a family, and it is ridiculously hard sometimes.  But, it is what it is.  Autism.

Before I close, I want to toss out my “offical statement” regarding my beliefs about autism.  Advice comes from everywhere, and I know that most all of it is well-intentioned.  I appreciate comments and questions, but I ask that before you post, you read my statement on my beliefs about autism.  These are items I will not argue about because I’ve already researched them to death and consulted professionals.  Here ‘goes:

1.  I do not believe in a “cure” for Autism.  I know my son to have been born with Autism, he had it at his very conception and is a part of who he is.  To try to “cure” Justin’s autism would be an attempt to make him someone he is not.  Autism is not a disease, no more than Down’s Syndrome is.  It is a disorder to be managed and developed.  I believe Justin’s autism is a gift in its own right, complete with challenges and powerful strengths unique to him.

2.  Yes, I’ve read about people whose children were “cured” by certain changes in diet.  It is my belief that these children had food allergies that caused autistic-like symptoms that were abated once the offending food was removed from the diet.  Justin is sensitive to dairy but not wheat or gluten.  Justin’s perseverative behaviors, as well as ability to appropriately respond to his environment are magnified when he is given cows milk.   He drinks a lot of soy milk.

3. “He can’t be autistic, he looks at people!” – Really?  I look at lampposts, does that mean I’m autistic?  Justin is reasonably high-functioning.  He does interact with people but his interaction is different from that of neurotypicals.   He is affectionate in his own way with a select few people, namely his parents and grandparents and few others.  His primary interaction is for fullfilling of his needs and as a feature in a game – my husband and I refer to ourselves as Justin’s “buttons”.  He uses us as “buttons” to make whatever action in the activity work.

4.  I do not believe vaccines cause autism.  I have never been comfortable with the traditional vaccine schedule in the US for my own reasons.  Even before we knew Justin had autism, he was on a modified vaccine schedule.  He got most of his vaccinations on time with the exception of MMR and chicken pox which he received just before entering the public school system at the age of 3, rather than at age 1 as recommended.

5.  I do not believe Autism is a curse.  Now I do get down sometimes, frustrated, aggravated even – but it is my belief that this is a journey given to us, and Justin, by God for our Salvation.  To struggle is to be drawn to God, and that is its own blessing.

Once Upon a Boobie, Part 3… aka Work and the Nursing Mother

This final part I’ll move rather quickly.  By the time I returned to work I had a great deal of milk stored in the fridge from my endless hours of pumping.  As covered in my first few posts following my return to work, there were adjustments to be made.  While I had lots of milk in the freezer, and Justin did fine with the bottle, and he continued to improve at the breast, managing pumping at work became a task in its own right.

When I returned to work, I went back part-time for the first 5 weeks, then went full-time when we discovered how much we were spending for even part-time childcare.   Our nanny was wonderful, and I wish we could have kept that going, but in the end it worked out great to have Matt stay home with Justin while I worked.  The finances were a wash and the increased scheduling flexibility was amazing.   That being said, it meant more pumping.  I am thankful to the very supportive people I work with.  Surprisingly, my male managers were at least if not more accommodating than my female ones.  While they couldn’t authorize time on the clock for me to pump, they did allow me to move my breaks around.  In the state of Washington for an 8 hour shift you are given one unpaid 30 minute lunch break and 2 paid 10 minute breaks.  In order for me to have enough time to pump and deal with pump parts, I opted to take 2 breaks instead of 3: my lunch, and then I pushed my 2 10 minute breaks together for a 20.

While I was offered an office in which to pump, I found my minivan to be the most comfortable place for me to do my business.  I could sit in the drivers seat, hook myself up under my nursing cover, listen to the radio, and eat and drink in peace.  I had AC or heat when I needed it, and nobody bugged me.   I was allowed to park close to the building, and always was left space in the fridge at work.  I found that rinsing pump parts then storing them in the fridge with my milk reduced my cleaning time between pumpings, then the big cleaning would happen at home.  I often pumped upwards of 10oz at a break, so baby bottles weren’t always the easiest option.  I most frequently ended up collecting my day’s cache in one of those 24oz reusable water bottles.  I threw my initials on the side and everyone knew what it was – though I frequently got jokes about people fearing they’d accidentally put it in their coffee.  I am extremely fortunate to work with such sweet and understanding people who didn’t make me feel weird about keeping my milk in the fridge that kept their lunches too.  There was one day where I forgot my usual milk-storage bottle at home and had to make due with a clean water bottle from the vending machine – which really looked bizarre in the staff refrigerator!  Dasani apparently makes human milk now!

Another way my workplace helped with my breastfeeding relationship with Justin was with total schedule changes.  Right around 8 months old, Justin started wanting more and more solid food.  Being less dependent on pumped milk, but still needing to maintain supply, I was offered the opportunity to work split shifts for a while.  Ultimately, this meant that I got up in the morning, nursed and cuddled my little guy, went to work for 4 hours (a bit of a stretch, but not too bad considering I had been pumping about every 3-3.5 hours anyway) then rushed home to nurse again.  In between, Matt could feed him solids or some of the frozen milk (we still had tons).  In my 3 hour mid-day break from work, I could come home, nurse and nap and cuddle and play with my little boy.  Then I’d go back for another 4 hour stretch.  Most people I know hate split shifts, but for me and my family at the time, it was a godsend.  I’d pump seldomly, nursing got easier and easier (with the exception of teething, which I’ll get to in a minute), and actually got to enjoy my little dude.

Right around the end of month 5 and the beginning of month 6, Justin cut his first teeth.  Now, as it might have sounded over the last paragraph, nursing did get easier as time went on.  And it did get easier in some ways.  Justin’s latch was always bad.  Right around 4 months old, I was able to finally toss that blasted nipple shield into the trash.  Ultimately, I think his mouth just got big enough by that point that it didn’t matter so much that he was more about the chewing aspect than the sucking aspect of nursing.  In retrospect, I should’ve had that kid in Occupational Therapy then - but you live and learn.  In anycase, I was just thrilled that I didn’t need a diaperbags-worth of equipment to nurse my son anymore.  Then the teething came along.  Any progress we made in the latch department was undone – for now, I was not just a device from which milk is obtained in a soothing manner, but a teething ring as well!  I always wanted to be a chew toy!

After the two lowers came in, next came the conquest of the upper two teeth.  Thanks to this teething adventure, I was blessed with the only breastfeeding associated infection I hadn’t yet had: mastitis!  So there we were in the ER with prickly sore boobs and an eerie looking patch of red that stretched out around the nipple.  The poor ER docs in Bellingham have clearly not dealt much with the issues of nursing women, because all they could think to do was draw a line with a surgical marker, give me antibiotics, and send me home with instructions to come back if the redness moved beyond the edges of that line.  I guess I ought to mention this now: no one in the Western medical establishment has any freaking idea what to do with nursing women.  They ALWAYS have to look up what meds are okay or not okay, and they don’t seem to have any idea how to handle complications of breastfeeding - you know, like blocked ducts, or infections, or anything.   Early on, I had that infection that actually smelled.  I recommended a culture based on something I’d read.  The baffled doc took a swab, but got my milk on it (milk is a natural antibiotic, so in a closed environment, it would kill most things growing, yes?), and so the swab didn’t turn up anything.  Duh.  What are they teaching in medical school?!  But I digress.

It was around the time of the mastitis that I started asking the question, how long do I breastfeed?  Really, for me, it was a stupid question.  When I was pregnant, I always thought that I would only nurse until he had the skills to ask for it.  Now that’s stupid!  Justin started demanding to “Nerr!” by around 8-9 months old, well before that prized one-year mark.  And to think of it, don’t we, as parents want to encourage our children to communicate with us?  Shouldn’t we reward that communication?  Sigh.  Anyway, Justin’s first birthday came and went and we were still nursing.  Justin loved it, and quite frankly, as my little dude’s toddler behavior started ramping up, so did his need to nurse to soothe himself.  And let me tell you, there is no mute-button like a boobie for an anxious or owie toddler!  At 15-months, Justin was walking on his own.  Dangerously, walking on his own.  This newfound position would become a staple of our nursing relationship for the next  10 months.  This is not a position they show or talk about in breastfeeding books, but it was one in my home.  I’d sit, he’d stand between my knees, and nurse.  He was less wiggly for me that way than he would have been had I cradled him in my arms.  But you know, whatever works, right?!  With every developmental leap, every new tooth, the boobie-worship increased.  Left to his own devices, I’d have been shirtless for two years.

Looking back, I can’t imagine throwing away the boobie-tool earlier than I did, and even now, I have moments of regret of weaning him when I did.  At the age of 23 months, I had decided it was time to start pushing him out into the world a bit (when I wasn’t working, he still wanted to “nerr” constantly) .  2-year molars were a long time coming, and they HURT!  The biting and chewing were getting ridiculous, and my patience for the constant nursing was waning.  Most kids I knew who nursed to toddlerhood, nursed less as they got older, not more, like Justin.  I wasn’t gonna be militaristic about it though, and I’m glad for that now.  It took 2 months to wean Justin off the boob.  2 months of redirection.  He’d say, “Nerr?” and I’d give him cuddles instead.  At the end of 25 months, he stopped asking.  And now I’m crying while writing this.  Physically, at the time, he was hurting me with his latch more than ever.  I was emotionally spent, and ready for a new phase.  Unfortunately, this ended up meaning he’d get a bottle to soothe himself during the night.  I know, I know, “you gave him what?”.  On the one hand, it was the worst parenting decision I’ve ever made – trading the boob for the bottle at the age of 2.  On the other hand, it has worked out to be a lifesaver in the year since.  Yes, it should have been a sippy cup and not a bottle.  We let him choose what to soothe with, and that’s what he chose.  But as it turns out, Justin isn’t a typical kid (to be discussed in a later post).

I miss nursing greatly.  I get new, different cuddles now.   I miss the tool of calming that nursing was – for him and for me.  I miss being the one to “fix it” when something wasn’t right in his world.    I have learned so much about breastfeeding, and loved it so much I can’t help but advocate for it.  I’ll admit, I grieve for the babies who miss out on their mommy’s milk.  I wish I could spend my life just going around helping women who want to nurse but find the social and logistical obstacles too much to bear.  I want every mom to have that security to know that even when the bank account is empty, they can feed their baby.  That they can stop that tantrum, soothe that owie, and provide perfect nutrition at any time.  I wish American moms actually felt comfortable nursing their children into toddlerhood because it’s normal to do so.  But that’s yet another topic for another post.  We as moms do the best we can with the information we have at the time we have it.  We all have our regrets.  We all have our triumphs.

My parenting marathon, my motherhood triumph, was loving my son with every ounce of my being – and nursing was a tremendous part of that.

It should be noted, finally, that I couldn’t have done it without the care and support of my mom, my friend Erin T., the women of St. Innocent Orthodox Church, KellyMom.com, the baby nurses and lactation consultants of the now gone MotherBaby Center in Bellingham, my wonderful husband, or my sweet, wonderful little Justin Elias.

Once Upon a Boobie, Part 2

I left off part one with us leaving St. Joe’s.  One of the things I had been looking forward to at the conclusion of my pregnancy was the re-addition of caffeine.  Being tired and starving from only eating the horrible hospital food, we stopped at Burger King on the way home from the hospital.  We didn’t even go straight home, we went from the hospital, to the burger joint, and then home.  Of course though, this would be one of many cold meals to come.  The one thing I could do was sip that diet coke.  It was delicious, completely unlike Justin’s behavior after nursing on a caffeinated boob.  It didn’t take long for me to figure out that caffeine even in moderation would have to wait.  Every time I consumed it, Justin would get fussy, inconsolable, and appeared completely uncomfortable. 

The first few nights at home were painfully hard.  I called my mom at 2am nearly every night that weekend in tears.  My nipples hurt, the nipple shield was a pain in the butt, and Justin was not soothed.  I had become a 24-hour-a-day pacifier.  That first Sunday was Western Easter Sunday.  And at 5am that morning, I had had enough.  We packed up the baby, got dressed, and went to the only store open at 5am on Easter: Walgreens.  God bless those Sikhs who work odd hours and holidays that Christians wouldn’t dream of.   There I was in Walgreens, with a 3-day-old infant in the car with my husband at 5am, blurry-eyed and desperate staring blankly at the 3 kinds of pacifiers they carried.  The first pacifier I selected turned out to have been recalled (as reported by the cash register), so back to the baby aisle I went.  Finally, I found and bought the only other pacifier remaining that wasn’t intended for a 6-month-old.  Back at home, that pacifier packaging was quickly discarded, the pacifier washed and promptly inserted into my exhausted newborn’s mouth.  Swaddled and placed in his crib happily sucking away, we all slept for 5 hours straight.  To this day, that was the best 5 hours of sleep I have EVER gotten.  Later that morning, my milk came in.  I praised God for that.  My son was hungry, and seemed much more satisfied that day despite, I would later learn, being the “King of the Non-Nutritive Latch”. 

TWO WEEKS TO 3 MONTHS IN:

The next few weeks I was mercifully visited by my midwife and a visiting nurse from the Mother Baby Center.   Both we immensely helpful in helping me move to actually feeding my son rather than being a sore, over-tired, human pacifier.  We worked on a schedule, tried a bunch of holds, figured out how to use my nursing pillow correctly, and most importantly worked more on our little latch problem.  Turned out that a lot of our problem was simply that Justin could not figure out how to latch appropriately to actually stimulate much milk flow which, in turn, left him constantly hungry.  Within two weeks I got my first blocked duct (a golf ball sized knot right next to my breast bone on the right side).  At the advice of my home nurse, I pumped using my newly acquired breastpump.  It worked, and soon the knot was gone.  I did get another gift as a result though.  My right side was now a full 2 cup sizes bigger than my left.  

This is not something they tell you when you’re getting ready to have a baby: that it’s possible to end up completely lopsided.  Being vain as any woman, thoughts ran through my head that I would never be able to wear a normal bra again.  That my husband would think I was a freak, and most of all, that it would be noticeable to EVERYONE who saw me.  Fortunately, none of those things came to pass.  And for those of you reading this who haven’t been through this, or haven’t had kids yet, I’ll tell you now: after weaning my son, I’m no longer lopsided – though it did take a few months.

I’d love to say that nursing got easier.  In some ways, I simply learned to manage, in others, I was as frustrated as before.

 I both dreaded and looked forward to Church those first few months.  On the one hand, I knew that I would be totally distracted from worship, and that Justin would have a blowout or need to nurse right at the most inopportune moment.  On the other hand, there were two other and (as I viewed them) more successfully nursing moms there with me in the cry room that I could hopefully observe their technique for nursing in public without looking like a voyeur.  

The first few weeks, I hadn’t figured out how to nurse in public so I’d leave the Church and go nurse in the car under the cover of tinted windows.  That’s the thing about being new to breastfeeding - it’s not the smooth, beautiful image that you think of when you’re reading the books or talking to LaLecheLeague people.  Nope.  Not at all.  It’s awkward, and at times I’m sure, grotesque.  Do you pull the shirt up or down?  How much skin needs to be exposed to get a good hold for my kid to latch on?  I don’t have my nursing pillow, how do I hold my baby and do the “C” thing to hold the boob right?  How many people am I willing to flash to avoid nursing my kid on a public toilet (yeah, that’s sanitary)?  What do I do if he comes off?  Eventually I got one of those cool BebeAuLait nursing covers which resolved many of these issues as it was big enough and stayed put well enough that I could fiddle with the nipple shield without flashing everyone as I tried not to drop my son on the floor. 

 This is the first time in my life that I’d wished I lived in one of those secluded African tribes where the women never wear shirts or bras, and it was expected that people would see you hanging out.  Not because I wanted to be seen, but because it seems like in those cultures that if one woman saw you having trouble, she would jump in and show you how to do it right.  I really do think that is something that is lacking in our culture.  I know some of it comes from the fact that breastfeeding is just now becoming more common for the first time in about 100 years, so very few of our mothers or other leader-type women in our circles are very experienced with it. 

By the time Justin was 8 weeks old, I had been through multiple blocked ducts, thrush (which by the way was best helped with regular treatment with genetian violet, vinegar, and warm-saline water dips), and one infection that was never completely diagnosed (because doctors aren’t well-versed in the complications of nursing mothers) but that had left my nipples peeling off in chunks and actually smelling of some bacterial growth.  GROSS.  I literally spent days in our recliner with Justin on the “MyBrestFriend” nursing pillow, boobs hanging out, both of us fighting sleep, repeating the Jesus prayer to avoid bursting into tears.  I sometimes resented my son’s need to nurse because it hurt so much. 

Around this time, I became a “pump and serve” mom.  I would pump only, then serve that milk in a bottle to Justin.  The pump didn’t grind or chew, and I never had to worry about whether or not I got completely empty because I could see it.  That was great.  The downside was spending precious maternity-leave time at the sink washing pump parts and bottles instead of playing with my ever growing wonderful little boy.  When I got all healed up, I was determined to not only wean Justin back to the breast, but to eventually get him off the nipple shield too.  It took a while, but with patience, and I think Justin finally figuring out this whole nursing thing, I got him off the bottle and on to the nipple shield on the breast, to the bare breast.  Lots of folks said it couldn’t be done.  I did it.  By the time I returned to work when Justin was 12 weeks old, Justin could nurse without the nipple shield almost all the time (it was a little tougher when he was really tired).  For the first time, I didn’t dread nursing.  I finally felt like I could do it thanks to my experience and figuring out how to reach out for help with nursing from other moms around me.

There’s one person who is pretty integral to this whole process who I haven’t talked about much yet: my wonderful, supportive, and encouraging husband.  Those first few months I relied on him to get any sleep at all, and to find my own humanity amid my “milk machine” state of being.  There was really very little he could do to make nursing work on his own other than to give me the space to work things out with our baby.  I am deeply appreciative of his respect in my decision to breastfeed, for putting up with me pushing him away when I was jealous of him being the one who could just play with our son, not just feed him.  He has changed his share of diapers, prepared his share of meals, and provided the hugs and reassurance I needed to get through this tough first period. 

Next up in Part 3: my return to work and adventures in teething!

Once Upon a Boobie

Hi everyone.  This is a blog I’ve been planning to write for some time: it’s the story of my nursing relationship with my son, Justin Elias Owen.  Since I have breastfed/nursed Justin into toddlerhood and I’ve not kept it a secret, it is not unusual these days to get asked all sorts of questions about breastfeeding from all kinds of different people in my life.  It’s no burden, and I enjoy helping other moms be comfortable with their choice to breastfeed, as well as encourage them when it’s tough.  And it is often tough.

A little background and a disclaimer, I feel, is appropriate.  I’m no lactation consultant, I’m no midwife, I hold no degree in anything really useful when it comes to breastfeeding.  I haven’t really even read any books particularly related to breastfeeding except what I could pick up from an article here and there on the internet.  It might get a little graphic and most definitely personal.  This is just my story.  Well, our story. 

BIRTH AND THE FIRST FEW DAYS:

Justin was born at 11:14pm on March 19, 2008.  This was 15 days past my latest calculated due date (one ultrasound suggested my due date was Feb 28, another March 5).  Up until this point my focus had been on preparing for labor, preparing for the birth, preparing our tiny apartment for our tiny little person.  Okay, not so tiny.  9lbs 2oz is not exactly little in the newborn world.  I had acquired a breastpump, courtesy my dad and eBay, as well as the most highly recommended nursing pillow: the “My Brest Friend”.  That was pretty much it.  Boy, was I unprepared.

I had this dream that my son would be born in a peaceful environment with a midwife and doula (and Matt of course) at the Bellingham Birth Center.  Quiet of bustle not related to his entrance.  He would come out, I would hold him, skin-to-skin, and nurse him and cuddle him – the cord would be cut after it stopped pulsating and we’d be together.  Well, that’s not what I got, and neither did Justin or his dad.  At 40 weeks (due date time), we started looking at getting labor started naturally.  The midwife did the sweeping of membranes thing.  That did nothing.  I used Blue and Black Cohosh several times a day for longer than I’d like to remember.  I must’ve walked 20 miles those last two weeks.  If I was sitting, I was on our balance ball bouncing and stretching out my hips.  We had a great number of false alarms.  Well, not really false – I’d had classic Braxton-Hicks type contractions for the whole month prior.  These were different, rhythmic, escalating in strength, and would move closer together with time.  I’d work this way for 10 hours at a time, working hard enough to work up a sweat, and lose my breath.  Then it would stop.  So, back to the midwife we went, at 41 weeks and 6 days.  They did a balloon catheter induction, and I walked around the mall for 3 hours with a tube taped to my leg.  No luck.  Next was the castor oil.  I vomited mightily, and other things, but only got about an hours worth of contractions out of it.  The next day I checked in to St. Joe’s to be induced.  There we tried the cervix-softening gel to no avail.  After a few hours of waiting, the OB and the nurses decided to let me get some rest and we’d start the dreaded Pitocin early the next morning. 

Water broken by the OB after a few hours of Pitocin induced labor, it was very obviously discovered that Justin had (as Matt puts it) “Pooped in his fishbowl”.  Translation: lots of meconium.  So the “Pit of despair” was continued.  Hours later, Justin was tugged out of me after a “stem-to-stern” episiotomy and cord immediately cut, and my son, limp and quiet was whisked across the room to a table surrounded by a team of respiratory therapists for life-saving rescusitation.  Heart rate had been good, but, having “pooped in his fishbowl” Justin had inhaled into his lungs A LOT of his own poo.  I still remember more than two years later the feeling of fear and anxiety as I chanted, “Cry, baby!! Cry!  Please, just cry!  Breathe!”.  We waited what felt like an eternity to hear those first few sputtering cries (it was, in fact, nearly 2 full minutes).  He was then wrapped up, given to his dad, and then given to me to hold for the first time for just a moment before he was taken away to the nursery for 3 full hours (for examination and to make sure he was stable after his respiritory ordeal).  I have debated with myself many times whether or not to post this picture, but I finally feel like I can share it.  I fight tears every time I see it as it captures my very first meeting with my son:

No time for nursing, cuddling, or anything close to what I had imagined/hoped for.  For the next three hours I was alone (Matt went with Justin to the nursery), in the dark, buzzing with the events I’d just experienced.  Tired but fearfully concerned for my child, wanting to be close to him, to see him, to have a comforting hand to hold in my first hours of being a mother who had only seen her child for 2 minutes of the 3 hours of being in the world.  I wanted desperately to touch him, count his fingers and toes, see his hair – but I couldn’t.  “I just want to see my son” didn’t seem an appropriate response for the call I wanted to make to the nurse.  Instead I waited, prayed, and hoped.  After that first three hours, I was moved to a regular, non-delivery room where I got to see Matt and finally, my son.  I held him, but was afraid to try to nurse.  I didn’t know what to do. 

 The next morning I got brave and tried.  I had no idea what I was doing.  I had been given these horribly drawn pictures of how to hold the breast for nursing a newborn, descriptions that were clearly meant for someone who was a B cup with picturesque nipples.  I just couldn’t get it to work, to look like the picture, to get him to latch without hurting me.  Was my body messed up?  Was I the wrong shape completely?  I had a cracked nipple within hours of the first attempt at nursing.  One hospital lactation consultant came with questions, concerns, and not a lot of patience for where I was coming from.  She tried, it was just a frustrating situation.  Inverted nipples are not helpful for nursing.  This poor lactation consultant brought a lot of equipment I was previously unfamiliar with: weird things like breast shells, soothing packs (which did squat), lanolin, and a nipple shield.  Holy crap this was gonna be complicated!  I thought it was supposed to be natural, normal, simple. 

By the time we left the hospital, I had one bleeding nipple which happened to be the only one I could ever seem to get a reasonable latch on, and another which just ached with the idea of even trying again.  Only the nipple shield helped at all, to keep me from crying in pain the whole time we tried to nurse.  I was determined not to use any formula, no pacifiers, nothing.  This was it, and if I was going to have one thing the way I wanted it, this was it.  I was going to breastfeed my son.  I was not going to wimp out.  I was not going to give in.  And I didn’t.

To be continued…

Pascha 2010 continued!

Hi everyone!  I had intended to complete this post the day after Pascha, but as luck would have it life took  off and ran away with my time and energy. 

The last thing I posted was Justin, at dawn (the calm before the storm) being held by his dad and nearly falling asleep despite the repeated shouts of “Christ is Risen!!  Indeed He is Risen!!”  and the joyous singing of “Christ is Risen from the dead, trampling down death by death and upon those in the tombs, bestowing life!”.  With the change to daylight came Justin’s change to wild, woodland creature and soon he was back to his antics: running toward the altar, trying to go outside, and refusing to be confined.  He might be 2. 

Needless to say, we survived.  The service was lovely, though a little less crazy this year.  Instead of the usual gallons of confetti tossed each time we cried “Christ is Risen!” we got ribbon streamers that were much more difficult to wield, and therefore fewer people used them.  I usually go home after Pascha services itchy with the amount of confetti in my clothes.  Justin didn’t seem to much care either way.  After Communion and the blessing, it was time for our annual St. Innocent Pascha breakfast.  For those who have fasted during Lent, this is a great treat: eggs, cheese, bacon, sausage, and homemade biscuits and gravy.  Due to the overflow of people indoors, our family opted to sit outdoors where Justin could run in the grass and occasionally come steal some food (since the distraction of being outdoors is too great compared to a plate of food).  Our dear friend, Brooksana brought little gifts for many of the kids:

These little wind-up hopping critters have been a hit at our house ever since.  My favorite is the Chickie but Justin LOVES the Bunny – which he calls “Bunnn!” as he chases it around the kitchen.

After a warm breakfast outdoors on a cool morning, Justin happily running around in the grass and the dirt and the mud in his dress clothes, we headed for home and prayed for a great nap the whole way. 

I have to say that this, what I’m about to tell you, is the most shocking thing about our Pascha:

wait for it…

wait…

JUSTIN SLEPT!

He fell asleep in the car on the way home, stayed asleep as I moved him from the car to his bed and then… THEN we had to wake HIM at 12pm!  That’s a nearly 4 hour nap!  He slept even through his soiled diaper, Matt and I moving about in the apartment (mostly Matt, I was sleeping too).  Truly AMAZING!!  God is SO good!

At around noon, we decided it was time to get moving again since we needed to be back at Church at 1pm for Agape Vespers and the Annual Church Picnic directly following.  Justin was almost as difficult to wake from this nap as he was getting him up earlier that morning.  After about 20 minutes of gentle waking, tickling, offers of food, toys, etc. we finally managed to get our little slug out of bed.  It took another 15 minutes to get diaper changed and clothes changed before we could make it to the car.  The ride back to Church was uneventful, other than that we were late (not surprising at the rate Justin was moving).  

Matt enjoyed the service while I chased Justin around the Church, as usual.  I love that our little Church has adequate sound set up to where you can hear the whole service no matter where you are in the building.  At the close of the service, we were quite promptly outdoors again.  This time, Justin saw the horses Fr. Mel had brought over for the kids to ride for the picnic.  Justin stopped, pointed, looked at me then back at the horses, then back again.  The conversation went like this:

Justin: “Ooose?!”

Momma: “Yes, Justin, those are horses.  How many horses do you see?”

Justin: “Tooo…” (Two is pretty much his favorite number, though five is gaining some popularity)

Momma: “What color are those horses?  Is one white and one brown?”

Justin:  “Bess you, Ooose!”

Then he took off running toward the horses, and since I didn’t feel the need to have my kid inadvertently trampled by said horses, I chased after him.  I caught him, told him not to get close to the horses without Momma, and then we approached the white one slowly.  I introduced us to the horse by coming up along side her, and stroking her neck while Justin happily petted her side (really more her belly at his height).  He happily cheered, “Bess you, Ooose!”  I let Justin hear me tell the horse, “Thank you for letting us pet you, horse”.   Then Justin said, “Denk oo!” and ran off toward the play equipment on the Church grounds.

Once the picnic was underway, Matt and I got to enjoy some good, non-lenten food (fried chicken, steak, cheesy potatoes).  Justin pretty much went for the Doritos.  In social situations, it’s very difficult to get Justin to eat much of anything – he’s too distracted, too picky – even rejecting foods he would normally wolf down (like mac n’ cheese).  So if you were wondering when we’d feed our kid on this feast day, we’d been stuffing him with Erin Baker breakfast cookies in transit – not optimal nutrition, but provided some balance to the orange-handed Dorito monster.

Now, on to the real kid-stuff of the Pascha picnic:  The Egg Hunt.

First off, let me tell you that Justin is one goofy little guy.  And he’s definitely getting the reputation for being a “straight man”.  He does something innocent, his friend Magnolia (“De-doh-ah!”) laughs, thinking he’s being silly, and Justin doesn’t quite get why it’s funny, but eventually laughs anyway – laughing is fun anyway, right?  Eventually, he starts playing into it.  The two kids are really pretty funny to watch together for this reason. 

So at the commencement of the Egg Hunt, Justin with his plush turtle basket, and Magnolia with her bag set out basically together in the quest for brightly colored eggs.  Well, sort of.  Neither kid really got it.  Magnolia looked around a bit, would find an egg when it was pointed out to her and then didn’t want to part with the egg to put it in her bag.  Justin just watched, kinda goin’ “what are we doing now?  why?”  So I showed him:  I put an egg in his basket, took it out, handed it to him to put in his basket.  Magnolia watched and studied, both what we were doing and what her Papa was trying to get her to do.  Justin, after a while of watching looked up at me with this look that said, “Oh!  I get it!” then ran down the gravel path, stopped, bent over and selected a rock which he proudly brought back to me to put in his basket.

5 very proud rocks later…

Now you might have noticed a plastic bin with empty, open eggs in it in one of the above pictures.  This was Justin’s next discovery.  Our church reuses the plastic eggs year to year, so the kids, once they’ve all made their collections, come over to this bin and empty their candy back into their baskets and deposit the eggs into the bin.  Justin felt it was necessary to properly investigate each returned egg:

Naturally, other kids joined in.  Miss Emily (3) definitely prefers the pink to Justin’s orange:

After about 20 minutes of playing in the egg bin, Justin was back to running around, checking in by dropping his arm into the Dorito bowl from time to time.  But as the day wore on, Justin decided that naughty was the best way to tell us that it was time to go.  And by naughty I mean darting terrifyingly into the parking lot and running for the street.  We call this method “cry for help”.  So, after a couple timeouts, we got the message and headed for home.

All slept well that night.  Full-bellied and thankful.

Xristos Anesti! Alithos Anesti!

Christ is Risen!  Indeed, He is Risen!

Hi everyone.  I know you’re all anxiously awaiting the tale of Justin’s 3rd Pascha!

I’ll be up front: Holy week was a little rough. 

Matt attempted to take Justin on his own to Church on Holy Monday.  Matt and Justin spent the whole service outside in the mud so Justin wouldn’t keep freaking out  because Momma wasn’t there (I had to work).  Needless to say, Holy Tuesday was a bust.  I worked, so Justin stayed home with Matt.  I grieved missing the beautiful Bridegroom Matins.

Holy Wednesday I was off early from work, so we went to services.  Evening services are always tough on little guys since they generally fall during the 6pm hour (dinner time).  Matt got to enjoy the bulk of the beautiful Holy Unction service, while Justin and I hung out in the reception hall.  I sang along as best I could out there, Justin ran around and ate half a box of Bunny Grahams.

Holy Thursday was a bit easier.  We stayed through the Liturgy and had soup with the rest of the Church then hit the road before the 12 Gospel Readings.  This is a service I LOVE as it goes through all the events leading up to the crucifixion.  It’s not unusual for several people – including myself- to weep through it.  I hate to miss it, since it really puts your heart in the right place for both Holy Friday and Holy Pascha.

Holy Friday was a bit different.  Services started at 2pm, we made it there around 3:30pm since we made sure to wait until Justin got up from his nap to head out.  Justin got lots of time to play outside until the weather turned and got very rainy and windy.  Inside is okay too, except that for some reason Justin’s diapers just weren’t doing their job.  Or rather we were asking the impossible of them.  By 6 he’d had a very slight diaper leak, pants had one tiny damp spot.  Diaper changed, spot dried, off we go.  No biggie.  1.5 hours later, Justin was sliding down the wood stairs with his other toddler friends when I noticed a wet streak behind him.  Oh, for pete’s sake!  yup, he had totally saturated his diaper, and now his pants.  And I had no other pants to change him into.  Naturally, Justin is in the one size that none of the other kids in attendance were that would carry a spare pair of pants (Justin fills out a 4T very well, and can easily get away with a 5 in some brands – which means any other kids wearing that size are potty trained and not needing a spare pair).  As a result, we had the Pants-less-Wonder.  Naturally, all this happened moments before the outdoor procession around the church in the stormy weather.  So not only am I faced with the unthinkable: having my ALWAYS perfectly dressed and coordinated son sans pants in God’s Holy Temple, but now I have to figure out how to carry him outside without freezing to death.  Matt came to my rescue before I could decide.  He sent me outside for the procession, and wrapped Justin’s legs up in his (Matt’s) own coat and carried all 32+ wiggling pounds of him all the way.  Brooksana lent her knitted shawl to keep him warm for the trip home.

Holy Saturday was the evening of the bloody nose.  I’ll explain in a moment.  Holy Saturday is, in our house, generally spent baking, cooking and preparing food for Pascha.  This means those of us who are fasting and cannot eat meat are forced to endure the smell of italian sausage and bacon cooking, without tasting.  This all pays off of course, since this means that the following day we can munch on all this wonderful previously prepared food the whole day.  Today was also the day that we had to go to the Church early so I could help set up the tables for the Pascha breakfast and afternoon picnic.  So as soon as Justin was up from his nap, we loaded up a spare pair of pants, jammies, and 3 double-stuffed cloth diapers and headed out.  Justin played outside for nearly 2 hours before the service- our hope being to wear him out enough that he could reasonably stand still during the Liturgy.  It didn’t work.  He tried so hard.  The squirrel within just cannot be contained and before we even made it to Cherubic Hymn (about 35 minutes into the service), Justin had gone Super-Nova.  Oh yeah, we’re talking a 6 on the “Rolls of Duct Tape Required to Maintain a Moment of Stillness” meter.  He kept charging up toward the altar.  He was biting my skirt hem.  He was ducking between old ladies and over other children.  He was stomping and singing “C is for Cookie!”.  After a few foiled attempts at getting through the Royal Doors (leading to the altar), I grabbed him and tossed him onto my shoulders thinking that he’d enjoy the change in vantage p9int.  Nope.  He freaked out since I don’t normally do that sort of thing.  As soon as he was seated on my shoulders, I had at least 3 fingers up my nose, 2 in each of my eyes, and probably looked like I was the victim of a Xenomorph from Alien – at least that’s what it felt like.  I promptly pulled him down and in the process I got bumped.  The three of us stepped out from the service, I reached up to what felt like a runny nose (my allergies have been fun the last two weeks), only to discover that I was bleeding all over.  On my clothes, on my hands… yup.  I haven’t had a bloody nose this good since I was like, 8.  I spent the next 10 minutes in the bathroom with kleenex up my nose and my head tipped back.  Sweet.  Holy Friday relives the Crucifixion, but it’s not generally the beating that we re-enact.

Fortunately bedtime came easily Saturday night, since Pascha services start at 5am Sunday morning.  At 3:15am I was up getting ready.  Ironing my hair, getting dressed, and getting everything together.  After I was ready, I got Matt up, he got ready, and then we attempted to wake Justin.  I say attempted because he was so fast asleep when we needed him to wake up that I gave up and just started dressing him in his sleep.  I had his diaper changed, his pants and socks on before he was ready to so much as roll over.  I got him dressed, little-boy-tie clipped on and his shoes tied.  We drove to Church in the dark, Justin enjoyed a bottle on the way (much better than screaming, for sure).  About 30 minutes in, Justin had soaked his diaper and required a change of both diaper and pants.  So much for cute navy slacks.  Jeans it is.  Apparently, 5:30am is when he actually does his overnight half-gallon dump.  Who knew?  Eh, worse things have happened – he could have been pants-less or vomiting like one of the other kids.   Not surprisingly, for most of the first half of the nearly 2 hour service, Justin looked like this:

Then, with the break of dawn came his inner squirrel. 

To be continued…