Cute things A did

Now every time we fly out of San Diego, we are generally stocked with petit baguettes from Bread & Cie and some butter, if not cheese and fruit.

We got to the Portland airport. We go through security and get to our gate.

A looks at us and says, "I'm hungry. Bread, please."

Vacation

Whew.

I neglected to mention it, but we went to Oregon on va-cay for an extended week around Memorial Day. It was fabulous, and I mean fabulous.

First of all, Portland, I love you. I love your verdant gardens overflowing with azaleas and rhododendrons and ripe rose buds. I love your Craftsman-style houses. I love your friendly TSA airport employees and dual-flush toilets. I love your Ramona Quimby sculpture in Grant Park. I love your awe-inspiring City of Books, Powell's, and want to get a job there, although I assure you, I will lose money in the trade.

We stayed with the fabulous D/S/E/M/L family, where M is a cutie pie born three weeks before A, and I've got to say they are the most gracious hosts. I aspire to that level of hospitality. Huge gorgeous house with plenty of rooms for all, piles of books everywhere to read, and kidproof and toy-laden to boot.

Plus we have to say that M and A are so cute together. Really cute. They run around and play like puppies. They are freakishly adorable to the point where I can't quite stand it.

Then our fabu friends the Bumps came to town and (the fabulous D/S/E/M/L family hosted them unseen, I mean, come on, how many people actually open their houses to virtual strangers?) we all went off to the Oregon Coast for the weekend. We went to Lincoln City, and while it was colder than I had anticipated, it was great. We flew kites and looked at the water and cooked and played games. A took a four-hour nap one day and discovered an Elmo's World video, so that was pay dirt for him.

Then back to Portland, where our hosts had picked up another baby (since it's always good to have a spare) and hosted a BBQ and we all had a great time before we had to fly back.

I can safely say we could have spent another week in Oregon and I don't think any of us would have minded. A keeps asking about when we'll be going back to the "green house."

I love vacations where I come home and don't want to kill anyone.

I'm sure there are lots of stories of his cuteness but honestly I can't remember any right now.

We came home Wednesday and since then we've been digging out, C at work, me with lots of phone calls for all sorts of appointments and emails about writerly stuff. A is adjusting to having just boring old me to admire him instead of a crowd of adults, another toddler, and a pair of babies.

And yesterday it turns out another one of our birth class friends is going to come and visit on Monday. So I hope we'll be half as kind as the people who just hosted us.

Potty training progress

We had a day this week where A had a huge accident all over the floor (number 1). I called C to say, no more potty training. He's sick, I'm sick, you're sick, everyone's unhappy and cranky and potty training doesn't help.

So we back-burnered potty training.

And then... A wanted to sit on the little seat on the toilet. First just for fun, now consistently right after he's gone to the bathroom. He feels himself going and asks for the potty. He's doing this at preschool too, and while our nice neighbor lady watches him.

So this is progress. It's still pennies as reward here. Soon we'll be beating the urine to the potty, I'm sure.

Wrangling Insurance

Well, I found Dr. Wonderful. He's amazing. He's opening a birth center that will be freestanding but have an OR so he can do C-sections, he's all for VBACs and has a pretty high success rate, and he just radiates confidence and concern. So he's super.

I need to change my PCP to go to him. Actually, I need to change my PCP so I can see his partner when he's off delivering and is missing prenatal appointments. So I call the insurance company yesterday to do this.

I talk to Jack for a very long time. Jack explains that I don't need to change my PCP and that I should explain that to Dr. Wonderful's office. (Dr. Wonderful's office is pretty clear that I do need to change my PCP.) Jack also says that any changes to my PCP will only take effect June 1st unless I get a supervisor to backdate it, which is only done for medical necessity. Having Dr. Wonderful as my doctor is not a medical necessity according to Jack.

I'm worried, irritated, frustrated. I don't want to get stuck with the closest OBGYN because, quite frankly, some of them sounded awful over the phone and I have to spend a lot of time with them and their office staff.

But I'm calm. I call this morning. I ask to change my PCP, I ask to have it backdated. I ask for a supervisor. I get a nice one. I explain that I'm going to be ten weeks pregnant tomorrow but haven't been to see an OBGYN yet and I really need to get a gestational age and nuchal fold diagnostic ultrasound soon. Could they please backdate my PCP change to May 1st so I could get my tests done in a timely fashion?

I'm so glad I got a nice one. Is it sexist to think that a woman supervisor is more sympathetic to the OBGYN choice issue than a man is?

The supervisor bends the rules and changes it, since we're on a timeline. She is so sweet and helpful and I just can't stand it.

I get off the phone and call my PCP's registration office to make sure my PCP's been changed and backdated. Yes, yes, everything's super.

So now we're set for maternity care with Dr. Wonderful. Yay!

Preschool Romeo

Every day I pick A up from preschool, I ask how the day went. Today it was, "He's such a Romeo." He apparently spent the day holding hands with an inordinate number of girls, culminating in him holding hands with two girls at once. During circle time, one of the girls put her arms around him and hugged him tight against her and he apparently thought that was super. Then he sat in another one's lap later during playtime, and she didn't mind.

The teachers think it's adorable and that he's gotten so sociable.

We've always said he had ladykiller eyes. I just didn't think he'd be unleashing them in preschool.

"Oh, I see."

This is the latest phrase. It's pretty cute. Amazing what it turns out we say all the time.

Today, A and I got bagels for lunch and he carried the bag to the car. He clutched the bag at the very top, and when it started to slip, I stopped, rolled the top of the bag up, and put his arms around the now-smaller bag.

"Oh, I see," he said, and toddled off.

Preschool decisions and potty training

We're approaching A's third (!) birthday, which is monumental in that it's the day his services like free preschool and speech therapy get turned off. Oh no! He's really thriving with preschool and speech, so it's hard for me to imagine his life without them.

In any case, we've just started potty training (although Daddy is the potty trainer of choice, so the rest of us have to get in line behind Daddy), which absolutely positively must be accomplished by three to get him into any preschool. We've established that he can stay at his current preschool (which was more reasonably priced than previously thought, which is good) and enroll in August, which is super and always an option. I have to research other options now.

Potty training is difficult. Really difficult. He's getting bribed with pennies (his current latest obsession, happily cheap) for sitting on the potty, but he hasn't quite made the how things work connection, and really, how do you teach someone how to urinate? The mind boggles.

Second dentist visit

Our dentist's office loves A. They just adore him. An extra sticker, an extra toy, how are you cutie, who does he look like today (C, with my smile was the consensus).

Anyway, he went today for a cleaning and he did great: sat in the chair, had X-rays (no bitewings--too irritating), tartar scraped off his teeth, a good polish, and a quick exam. He didn't complain or cry, just took it all in.

His teeth are great; his bite is good, so far, although we're watching it. And we could see his permanent teeth on his X-rays. Holy cow, he's got huge adult teeth in his little tiny jaw. It's really odd to see.

But now he's got stickers and a toothbrush and an alligator toy and a fish toy (because he had to have two, and my "just one, please," be damned) and sparkling clean white teeth.

Holy cow!

"Holy cow!" I said yesterday in the car.

"Holy cow!" A said.

I'm just glad it wasn't something more expressive, like "Hot tranny mess," or some of the more four-letter words in my vocabulary.

ER: the Disneyland edition

The grandparents descended Thursday night to visit, which was lovely. Friday we all went to Disneyland, where we had a good time. We had the little boy-centered itinerary: Winnie the Pooh, Pirates, Buzz, Tarzan's Treehouse, the train.

At the end of the day, as we were talking about going home, I went to put a sweater on A. He was retracting. C and I took A over to First Aid. We walked in and the three RNs on duty took one look at A's breathing and sprang into action. One of them got us into a room while another got an oxygen tank and the third called the paramedics.

So we were sent via ambulance to the ER about 8 or so. I rode with A. He was pretty scared. They hooked him to the gurney and wheeled him out; if I'd been thinking I would have walked ahead of the gurney so he could see me. C followed with the grandparents in the rented minivan.

Anyway, at the ER, they hooked A up to oxygen, albuterol, and steroid treatments. The nurses were really kind to us and the doctor actually had a respiratory therapist come down to administer treatments. A fell asleep around 10 or so.

He ended up having four or five albuterol treatments and three steroid treatments. His oxygen level didn't stabilize until 1AM. At 2, they discharged us. C, A and I spent some time discovering that the 24-hour pharmacies listed on the sheet Disney had given us weren't 24-hour ones, before C and I realized the only take-out restaurant we'd seen open was a Jack-in-the-Box that said, "Open until 3AM," and figured we'd better get something to eat since we hadn't eaten a meal since lunch at 2:30. I went to sleep with A on the sofabed.

A woke up at 6AM and freaked. Strange room, no Daddy (Daddy was sleeping in the other room). C and I got up and calmed him down, changed him (since he was soaked through his one set of clothes), then took him out to get his meds since the doctor had recommended getting drugs into him first thing in the morning. It took forever to find an open pharmacy because the Neverlost navigation system lies.

Anyway, pick up the grandparents, try to have breakfast but decide the host is skeevy and A's beginning to labor his breathing again. Okay. We debate going back to the ER or going to our own pediatrician's office and decide on our pediatrician. We stop by the hotel and get cereal for A and two bad donuts for C and me. C also gets coffee, very important.

We drive from Anaheim down straight to the doctor's where he gets another treatment and is sent home, where he's okay since then. He's been managing with his inhalers since then and has been much better. It's just not exactly the fun weekend with the grandparents we had in mind.

Stupid audiologist

So two months ago, we had an audiology exam and A had an ear infection. Get that cleared up and we'll call you in four to six weeks, they said.

It's May now. That's two months. I called. I actually got a call back the same day so I must be down in the system as "pissed-off mom."

"How's June 5th?"

Not great. Anything sooner?

"No, the next thing after that would be July 9th."

Fine. June 5th. Let's see how it goes.

Finding an OBGYN

Just a warning: this may be too much information. It's not boy-related.

So I'm pregnant and I have a confession to make: I don't have an OBGYN. I haven't gotten my annual exam since my post-A check-ups. I had one scheduled at the Birth Center and they told me when I showed up that they wouldn't take my insurance and it would cost me upwards of $270 for an annual with labs.

So I didn't get it done.

I've been dragging my heels because I knew I was now a post-C-section mommy, which meant I had to try and find a doctor who did VBACs (vaginal birth after Caesarean). This is not something they put on business cards, and there's apparently a fair amount of bait-and-switch: yes, first-trimester-mom, you can have a VBAC; well, it's week 28, let's start talking about scheduling a repeat C-section. So it's important to find out if the doctor has actually delivered any VBACs.

I don't want another C-section if I can avoid it. I don't have trauma; I don't wake up shuddering in the night thinking, what could have been. If there's a medical reason for a C-section, well, let's schedule the sucker far enough in advance that anyone who wants to be here for the birth can get plane tickets.

But the C-section wiped me out, recovery wiped me out, and this time we'll have both a newborn and a very insistent three-year-old to deal with. I don't need to have four weeks before I can manage a trip to both Target and Trader Joe's again. It is freaking major surgery, after all.

Okay. So I know that once I get that first confirmation exam, our insurance is like a pitbull that won't let go and the doctor who confirms is the doctor who delivers. I know, I can fight to change it, but I like to sidestep the insurance company fights, don't you?

None of my contacts have a decent VBAC doctor to recommend. I get a somewhat helpful list of "not this doctor," but that doesn't help me figure out who to go to.

I gather a list of doctors with positive reviews from yelp and kudzu. I read a couple local midwives' blogs and one name keeps coming up again and again. He's like a midwife in a doctor's body, they say.

I check my insurance list. The website search is inscrutable. I don't have a paper provider directory. I call and ask if he's on my plan. Yes, he is.

Great. I call Dr. Wonderful. I hear you're on my plan. I'm newly pregnant. I'd like a consultation to see if we click before I commit to your practice.

Of course we do consultations, but he's not on your insurance, they say. Not on your group, which is the important thing. You have to change from the Dancing Monkey Medical Group to the Twirling Elephant Medical Group. Then he'll see you.

I argue and plead. I talk to the insurance person. I wait patiently for cross-checking. "Sorry, honey," they say, but in a nice way. "You could switch to the other medical group and it would work."

Okay, no problem, I've got lots of other doctors on my list.

First one: Won't do VBACs. Thinks I'm silly for even asking whether or not they do them since the doctor will determine for me whether or not I can have one.
Second one: Won't do consultations. Quote: "If you're the kind of person who's interviewing doctors, you wouldn't fit into this practice."
Third one: Won't even talk to me because I'm not in the right medical group. I need to call my own PCP and get a referral from him (a blatant lie).
Fourth one: I don't have to time to be messing around interviewing people. I need to get in and have that first-visit ultrasound. "You do ultrasounds on the first visit?" "Sure, how else would we determine gestational age?"

I hang up. I cry. The only office that's treated me with a smidgen of kindness is Dr. Wonderful's and I'm not on their plan.

I sleep on it.

I call Dr. Wonderful's office the next morning. "Hi, I know I'm not on your insurance, but could you schedule a consultation and then if I like him I can meet with your insurance guru and go over exactly what I need to do to get covered?"

"Of course, honey. Our first appointment is..."

So I have one appointment scheduled, with Dr. Wonderful.

Long weekend

When I'm back to normal, I'll post about our weekend visit from the grandparents and our unplanned visit to the ER. Everyone's okay. Don't worry. We're all just a little sleep deprived and sick here.

The first of the delayed entry posts

Well, it happened. Anyone who is struggling with infertility probably doesn't want to talk to me because as far as I can tell, we have the, "Sure, why not a kid?" discussion and that's it. Boom. Each time I expect to spend six months trying to get pregnant and then, nope, a little earlier than either of us are ready for.

We had Vietnamese food a couple days before Easter, and I got sick. Not food poisoning sick, just queasy in a way that made me think, "Hmm, I haven't felt this way since...hmmm." The kind of sick that makes a woman consult a calendar and do some math. Yeah, maybe. But probably not.

Then a friend sent me pictures from our last Read-and-Critique group, and I looked at myself and thought, hmm, my face looks round. Surprisingly round. Round in a way my face hasn't looked since...nah. Couldn't be.

I have been falling asleep during our post-dinner Netflix ritual every night.

Good Friday, I get up at 5am, and since I have a couple spare pregnancy tests around (because after the first time you buy a single test, you realize that either way a test comes out, you'll want a second test), I take one. I'm donating blood on Saturday and so if I'm pregnant, I need to know.

Maybe there's a line. I squint and stare and decide no. No line.

I am in denial.

Saturday I donate blood. I am completely wiped.

Easter Sunday we get up. We have an Easter basket for A. We have breakfast.

I fall asleep on the couch within two hours of getting up.

I wake up from the nap, go upstairs, take another pregnancy test.

And this time, though it is faint, there is an undeniable line.

Daddy's cheese

I went to the restroom earlier today, which is generally a bad idea because two-and-a-half-year-olds only need the exact amount of time it takes a mommy to visit the restroom to wreak havoc on the household. I should get myself a catheter or a drip bag tied to my thigh and give up bathroom breaks altogether.

Anyway, when I came out of the restroom, A met me on the stairs with the, "I didn't do anything wrong at all, Mommy, I swear," look, which means something is amiss. I notice he's chewing something.

"What you got there?" I say.

He smiles and opens his mouth. It looks like frosting, but I know it's not frosting because he ate all the frosting off the cupcakes yesterday.

I go to the kitchen. On the top of the stove, at the edge, sit five half-unwrapped sticks of butter. Two discarded cartons of butter are on the floor.

"Are you eating butter?"

On closer inspection, one of the sticks is completely unwrapped, slightly fuzzy, and dotted with little teeth marks.

"I eat Daddy's cheese!" he tells me.

Of course. I eat olive oil on my bread. C eats butter. When we have cheese on bread, it's usually a soft cheese, which I guess looks a lot like butter. Ergo, butter is Daddy's cheese.

We washed his buttery little hands (God knows where we'll find globs of grease this evening) and put the butter away, even the fuzzy, toothmarked one.

Dinosaur sandwiches

A hasn't eaten quesadillas with me. Sometimes he'll eat them with C (ah, the Daddy power), but he generally turns his nose up at my quesadillas.

I made us a batch of plain cheese quesadillas today, and he announced that he wasn't interested and would rather have a cupcake.

"These are dinosaur sandwiches!" I said. He's had an Elmo dinosaur tape and played with dinosaurs today at preschool, so I thought dinosaurs would have a fresh appeal. "Would you like to eat an actual authentic dinosaur sandwich with Mommy?"

Yes. Yes he would. Enthusiastically and with vigor. And yes, after he finished his lunch, then he got a cupcake.

Birthday for the Devons

Jake and Niles, Devons of reference, turned nine years old this week. To celebrate, here's one who looks like Jake. But trust me, Jake would never do this. Niles, maybe, but not Jake.

Not a seal

When we went to Sea World last week, we spent some time looking at the walrus exhibit. A kept saying, "Seal!"

I would say, "It's not a seal. It has big tusks, big teeth. It's a walrus."

So what is a walrus called in our house now? Notaseal. With big teeth.

First eye exam

I should also report that A had his first eye exam (with our eye doctor, who I met while I was pregnant) and did splendidly well. He's got 20/30 vision right now and is a little bit farsighted, which is normal in kids this age.

Plumeria sale aftermath

I go away for the weekend's plumeria sale and come back to an onslaught of email and 82 new messages in Reader. Yikes.

No sign of the penny yet, so maybe he was just using his imagination.

Anyhow, I had to oversee setup on Friday from 9AM until 4PM, in the Casa del Prado in Balboa Park, which is a lovely place to be, but it's lovelier outside. Since A had speech therapy in the morning, C brought him over at noon to join me for the second half of the day.

He did great. I bought some paint-with-water books in Pooh, Mickey, and Little People themes, and those kept him busy for a while. He had a couple balls to throw and some of the other members would kick the ball around with him and catch it with him. Someone made him a bag of spritz cookies. Someone put him in one of the carts we use to haul plants around and gave him a ride. And it was a room with columns to run circles around and a big square to run around, so that was fun.

In short, he was completely spoiled, probably. He ran around giggling a lot and most of the people who work the plumeria sale are grandparents of older children and teenagers, so they all like those kinds of toddler giggles.

He had such a good time that he had a tantrum when I tried to put him in the car because it was time to go. Then he fell asleep before I left the parking lot.