Twenty-Eight Months

My lack of posting this month left me with a pile of stuff to cram into this monthly update.

McDonald's Play Place

On our trip home at the beginning of the month, Punky got to experience a few firsts when my sister and I ended up dedicating the entire Saturday to the amusement of our little munchkins.  We started at McDonald's for lunch and Punky's first visit to one of their indoor play things.  She was anxious to climb, but the hard, plastic steps were about a foot too high for her to make it up own her own.  My sister and I took turns squeezing ourselves in and lifting her from landing to landing until she reached the top.  My nephew led her through the maze of obstacles and down a spiral, tubular slide.  Somehow she ended up on her stomach and she was less than impressed with the whole ordeal.  From then on, she'd reach the top, play a while, and then expect us to climb back up and help her down.  

Climb-A-Lot

So, on the heels of that experience, we decided to head a mile up the road to another indoor play place with softer padding, open slides, and an easier climb to the top.  We weren't there two minutes when Punky disappeared.  She had no problem climbing, jumping, sliding, and hiding in the corridors filled with huge balls, soft mats, and other obstacles to tackle.  She loved every moment of it and we stayed for hours.  It really is a great place for kids and I'm sure we will visit again.

Then, like gluttons for punishment, we decided it was the perfect day to get them on wheels for the first time.  Punky was so excited when I told her we were going rollerskating.  So many of her books have pictures of kids/characters on skates and I always hear, "Mommy, I want to skate, too. Pleeeeease!"  My mom loves to remind us that she had us on skates on age two, and Punky has great coordination and balance for her age.  Not only did I think she'd love it, I also thought she'd catch on quickly and be good at it.  Well, as good as she could be at age two anyway. 

I couldn't have been more wrong.  She absolutely hated it.  She cried the entire hour and a half we were there.  I think a combination of factors led to her meltdown.  First off, we had been on the go all day and she was already tired from hours of activity.  Secondly, other than breakfast, she barely ate anything all day because she was too busy playing to stop and eat.  I stuffed a few bites in her here and there, but nothing substantial enough to sustain my normally wonderful eater.  The skating rink was dark with swirling disco lights and extremely loud music that made it impossible to have a conversation.  And, lastly, I think she expected to put the skates on and go... When that didn't happen she immediately got frustrated because she couldn't do it.  I tried explaining that learning to skate takes time and practice, but rationalizing with a tired, hungry, emotional two-year-old is like trying to open a can of soup with your teeth. 

And let me tell you, if you need a quick reminder of exactly how old you are, throw on a pair of roller skates.  Holy shit.  When I was a kid, I lived at the skating rink.  Every weekend, without fail, for years of my youth.  I mean, I could skate.  Forwards, backwards, fast, slow.  I could spin in circles, do the limbo, jump over those who fell in my path, and even do handstands and cartwheels.  It's been at least eighteen years since I've done it though.  After lacing up my skates, I jumped to my feet...and promptly fell right back on my ass.  I struggled to balance on the damn things, and doing so required action from certain obscure leg muscles that probably haven't moved like that since the last time I skated.  I managed to make a couple trips around the rink to see if I still had it.  I assure you, I didn't.  I stayed within inches of the handrail and sneered at the six-year-olds zooming by me like I was standing still.  If I plan on teaching Punky to skate, I need practice.  And a thigh-master.  I have some time, I suppose.  I get a firm "No!" whenever I ask her if she wants to try rollerskating again.

Before heading home on Sunday, we stopped at the mall for a quick visit and photo with the Easter Bunny.  She fell asleep in the eight minutes it took to get there so I thought for certain it wouldn't go well.  When I put her in the stroller, she opened her eyes for half a second and fell right back to sleep.  My plan was to push her around the mall for a while to avoid a meltdown with the bunny, but she woke up right as we reached the photo spot.  As soon as she saw the bunny, she wanted out of the stroller.  There were no kids in line for pictures so she literally ran right to him and jumped on his lap.  She smiled ear to ear for the picture, and then continued to talk his head off until I pulled her away.  "I would like some new crayons in my Easter basket, please."  I swear she told him about six times.  She was completely fascinated with the bunny, and when we finally walked away she made an astute observation.  "The Easter Bunny doesn't talk, Mommy."  And she seemed really disappointed by that.

We made the trip again last weekend for Easter.  Thankfully it was far less eventful than last year's holiday.  On the drive down, Punky had another first.  She managed to stay awake the entire two hours and twenty minutes.  And she talked non-stop for about two hours and nineteen minutes of it.  "Mommy, there's lots of trees over there! Mommy, that's a red truck! Mommy, that's a blue truck!  Mommy, it's a very sunny day today! Mommy, I see a cloud! Mommy, another red truck! Did you see it, Mommy? There it goes! Look!" 

And, of course, she's learned the phrase that all kids love.  We had this conversation at least once every twenty minutes:  

"Mommy, are we there yet?" 

"No, sweetie."

"How about now?"

"No, honey, not yet."

"Now?"

"Sorry, kiddo, but no.  We still have a long way to go.  Close your eyes and take a nap.  When you wake up, we'll be there."  

Silence for twelve seconds.

"Mommy, how about now?"

"Look, sweetie! A blue truck!"

Just think, we're driving to Florida in a few weeks.  Thirty-eight hours round trip.  Do I need my head examined or what?

Dying Easter eggs

Anyway, Easter was nice and Punky was spoiled as usual by the generosity of her grandparents, aunt, and uncle.  She got to dye more Easter eggs at Aunt P's house on Friday.  We did some at home a few nights before and she loved it.  We skipped it last year because we figured she wasn't ready.  Considering that we ended up with about a half dozen cracked eggs, she wasn't quite ready yet this year either.  She didn't do bad with the dying part itself.  She made a royal mess but most of the eggs survived the process.  It was the sticker application that did the damage.  She dropped 'em left and right.  Good thing her dad was in the mood for egg salad that night.

The bunny was here!

Grammy and Pappy did an egg hunt for the kids again this year.  The sneaky bunny even hid some in the camper.  It took a while for them to find seventy eggs but at least we beat the rain that followed shortly afterward.  And, of course, the kids had overflowing baskets waiting for them in the house.  After Easter dinner we made the drive home to see what the bunny left for her at our house.  Lo and behold, he scattered some eggs around here, too.  When all was said and done, she ended up with enough sidewalk chalk to last through the summer, enough bubbles to last through the next three summers, enough piggy money that I really need to remember to grab coin wrappers at the bank, and enough candy to sustain a sugar high until she's about twenty-two.  Of all the stuff she amassed between four baskets, her favorite thing seems to be the harmonica that her uncle got her.  And she was thrilled to see that the Easter Bunny didn't forget the new crayons she requested. 

Next topic.  Don't hate me.  We had Punky back at the doctor's today.  Any guesses?  Yes, another double ear infection.  Her pediatrician had a baby last week, so she saw a different doctor in the group.  In the past, I inquired several times if these "colds" could actually be allergies, and the usual doc said it was too early to tell.  Given the fact that Punky recently entered the daycare world, she leaned more towards viruses.  The doctor she saw today took one look at her chart and prescribed allergy meds, along with yet another antibiotic for her ears.  I hope this is the answer we've been waiting for and the ear infections disappear once and for all.  Not likely, but I can still hope.  

How I Came to Love Key Lime

I don't do netspeak, textspeak, chatspeak, or whatever else you want to call it.  From blog posts and comments to social network and game sites, I'm happy to type words and phrases in their entirety and, quite frankly, I would like to slap adults who don't.  I'm not an omg-er.  You won't see me brb, or lol, or cul8r.  While I have occasionally been known to lmfao, it normally happens in the presence of friends so they see it first hand without my need to spell it out. 

All that being said, I have to warn you: this post will be TMI.

Plus, I needed a creative intro.  I needed a hook, see?  I would've been the one on the receiving end of that slap if I simply led with the phrase "I've been sick again."  But there it is, and here you are, so go ahead and imagine yourself cracking me upside the head and then keep reading.  Unless you are easily grossed out, that is.  I wasn't joking about the TMI part...

Three weeks ago I managed to use an entire box of tissues in an eight-hour work day.  Keep in mind, this was only one day after finishing the heavy doses of antibiotics prescribed for my impressive infection triple-combo.  By the end of that week, I knew the sinus infection was back but I did what all responsible, hard-working, too busy for life's crap, stupid adults do: I ignored it and hoped it would go away.

It was still hanging on at the end of the next week, and it invited its friends earache and toothache to the party.  Dammit.  I can deal with congestion and rainbow-colored snot, I can handle throbbing ear pain and pressure, but I throw in the towel at tooth pain.  I've been shot in the foot with a BB gun at point blank range, I endured nineteen excruciating hours in labor, I handled the aftermath of a C-section where a simple sneeze, cough, or chuckle felt like an ax hacking through my abdomen, and I would gladly endure them all over again, simultaneously, rather than deal with a toothache.  Screw that. 

So, after telling my boss I needed to leave for the umpteenth time in the last few months, I headed back to the doctor for an infection re-count.  Different doc, same diagnosis.  She was actually surprised to see what the other doctor prescribed for me last time, and she confirmed what I suspected all along.  In her opinion, that antibiotic simply doesn't work well for sinus infections so the initial one probably never cleared up completely to begin with...which meant I was still sick rather than sick again.  There is a difference, people.

She prescribed another antibiotic, plus prednisone to help break it up and get the ball rolling, plus a nasal spray twice a day, and she told me to continue taking an over-the-counter expectorant.  I started feeling better the next day, which was a Friday, so Punky and I headed home to visit family for the weekend.  A half hour into the drive back on Sunday, I knew something wasn't quite right.  I was burning up and dizzy.  My body was freezing but my head was on fire.  How the hell could that happen while on antibiotics?

By the time we got home, I needed to go to bed.  I felt awful.  Punky's dad was supposed to work third shift that night but ended up calling off so he could take care of her the rest of the evening while I locked myself in the bedroom and waited to die.  My sleep was interrupted by bouts of fever and sweating to the point of a soaked nightshirt, then freezing my ass off and shivering uncontrollably. 

Monday morning I drove to work.  What can I say?  I'm an idiot.  I was so dizzy; it's a miracle I made it there in one piece.  I couldn't miss another day.  I just couldn't.  But by nine-thirty, the writing was on the wall.  It was either go home or pass out cold at my desk.  I spared them the 9-1-1 call and headed home.  Good choice since the diarrhea hit about an hour later. 

For the next twenty four hours, I slept.  And shit.  And slept.  And shit some more.  I was smart enough to stay the hell home on Tuesday.  Yeah, my boss is loving me these days, but I simply couldn't go.  The fever finally broke, but the diarrhea was lingering and, last time I checked, shitting yourself at the office is a definite no-no.  It dawned on me that I hadn't eaten since Sunday morning so I had no clue where the hell it was coming from at that point. 

The doctor told me to call if I wasn't better by Tuesday so she could piggy-back another antibiotic prescription, so I filled her in on all the gory details and she had a few ideas: either the fever and diarrhea were caused by a viral infection that had nothing to do with her original diagnosis, or they were caused by a reaction to the damn antibiotic she prescribed in the first place.  Great.  She called in yet another antibiotic for me and pulled out the big guns this time...something super strong that should knock it out of me once and for all.  And for the shits?  Try pepto-bismol and see if that helps. 

I knew I couldn't miss another day of work, so Punky's dad grabbed a bottle of the pink stuff when he picked up my new prescription.  I didn't know what to expect; I never used it before.  I wasn't joking when I said I chewed about ten Tums my entire pregnancy.  I just don't get indigestion, heartburn is a rare occasion, and the shits maybe once a year when I'm sick.  I've never needed the pink stuff.  Ever.

The instructions on the bottle were simple: repeat dose every half hour to an hour until the diarrhea stops.  Twenty minutes after dose number one, my stomach was rumbling, and churning, and making noises I've never heard before.  After a lengthy bathroom visit, I opted to try dose number two.  That went about as well as the first.  Figuring the third time would be the charm, I proceeded with dose number three.  No such luck.  Praying it would work itself out by morning, I threw in the towel and went to bed. 

There was a definite change come Wednesday morning.  Oh, I still had the shits, but now it was a pitch black tar-like substance and I almost had a heart attack right there on the spot.  I actually made it into work, and thankfully my stomach did settle down a bit, but the tar remained.  I turned to the internet for answers...which fully convinced me I had colon cancer and would be dead in a matter of weeks.  By the time I got home, I was close to panic mode.  At the first available opportunity, I was back on the web and managed to hit a site that escaped me earlier.  It listed the top five reasons for the tar situation.  Guess what was number three?  Pepto-bismol.  And the effects can last for days after taking it.  Okay, so maybe I wasn't dying after all. 

Come Thursday, I felt like a new person.  The diarrhea was gone, the new antibiotic kicked in, the toothache disappeared, and my ear no longer felt like it would explode with the next loud noise.  Life was good...until that evening when an unmistakable itch hit my nether regions.  Dammit.  This super-duty antibiotic, on the heels of two others all in a month's time, caused a yeast infection.  You'd think I would've learned something when this happened to Punky just a few short weeks ago.  The pediatrician said everyone should eat at least a half cup of yogurt twice daily while on antibiotics to prevent this from happening.  I practically force-fed her yogurt for days, but apparently the message didn't sink in all the way.  

The problem?  I don't eat yogurt.  As the late, great, George Carlin used to say: I don't eat foods with a 'y' and a 'g' in them.  Seriously, you know how I am with food, and expiration dates, and refrigeration, and my list of leftover rules.  Any food whose big advertising pitch contains the phrase "live active cultures" lands firmly on my inedible list.  Just the thought makes me want to vomit.  Punky likes it, her dad likes it, but I never tasted the stuff.  And I had no intentions of ever doing so...until Friday.  Somehow, some way, I managed to mentally distract myself long enough to eat one of those little cups of bacteria without puking.  

So there you have it, another disgusting tale full of infections, bacteria, bowel movements, and the urge to vomit.  You waited two weeks for a new post and this is what you get.  Here's to hoping this is the last post of its kind.  In case it is, I also have to mention that Punky never did make it all the way to her follow-up appointment before getting yet another ear infection.  It's been a week since her last check and I suspect she may have another one but she keeps insisting that her ears don't hurt.  I think we'll be back at the doc next week to find out for sure one way or the other.

In conclusion, I'm happy to say I'm feeling much better now.  I took the last antibiotic tonight after dinner and everything seems back to normal.  My digestive system is back on track, everything has returned to its normal frequency, consistency, and color, I haven't needed a tissue in days, and nothing itches, throbs, or aches.   

Oh, and I'm completely addicted to Yoplait's Key Lime Pie Yogurt.

Boarding the V-Train

I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem in my early twenties.  After gaining thirty pounds in two months while sleeping sixteen hours a day and sinking into a deep depression, one quick visit to the doctor solved the problem.  Some thyroid meds and a vitamin cocktail got me back on track in about a month.  I never lost the thirty pounds, but I felt great.  I attributed my recovery to the thyroid pill and I discounted the role of the vitamins he prescribed.  Gradually over time, the thyroid pill stayed but the vitamins went by the wayside.  

As soon as I suspected I was pregnant three years ago, I immediately loaded up on prenatal vitamins and supplements.  My doctor even prescribed additional pills, like iron and vitamin D, since she felt my levels were too low.  During my pregnancy, I felt great.  Truly.  I think that was the best I ever felt in my adult life.  After Punky's birth, I kept taking the vitamins for months while I nursed.  Shortly thereafter though, the vitamins got pushed aside once again. 

Lately I've been feeling like...crap, to be honest.  I'm tired.  All the time.  No matter how much sleep I get, I still feel exhausted.  I ache.  Sometimes it's muscle pain, sometimes it's joint pain, sometimes it's mystery pains here and there.  I've been sick for months, one cold/infection after another.  My little girl wants me to run, jump, dance, and carry her on my shoulders.  I want to rest on the couch.  Something has to change.  

So, I thought about the times in my life when I really felt my best, and deduced that maybe the vitamins and supplements played a more important role than I thought.  I mean, I don't always eat as healthy as I should.  I don't get nearly enough exercise as I should.  I don't consistently get the amount of sleep as I should.  It's hard.  I'm gone to work fifty hours a week, juggling housework and other necessary evils, and raising a two-year-old.  My time is limited these days.  

I spent some time in the vitamin aisle this weekend.  I carefully selected my cocktail based on past concoctions that seemed to work and headed home to line my bathroom counter with expensive, colorful, little bottles.  One multivitamin to cover most of the bases, one huge bottle of calcium with vitamin D to help ward off the onset of osteoarthritis I'm bound to inherit from my mother, one bottle of B-12 to hopefully give me the energy I need to peel my ass of the couch, and one bottle of fish oil because it may help the joint pain I mentioned and improve my memory (which downright sucks lately).  

The multivitamin is big, but it's understandable.  There's a lot of stuff in there.  The calcium pills, though, are insanely huge, like horse pill huge.  I normally don't have a problem swallowing pills, but these suckers get stuck in my throat every time.  I need to invest in one of those pill chopper things before I choke to death, and damn that makes me feel old.  No one under sixty should own one of those contraptions.  

I made a cardinal mistake with the fish oil: I stuck my nose in the bottle.  I wanted to puke.  I hate fish and can't stomach the smell.  I should've known better than to whiff those pills; now I have to fight my gag reflex every time I try to swallow one.  And I have to say, they're not exactly tiny either.  The only one I manage to get down with ease is the B-12.   It's smaller than an aspirin and doesn't gross me out one bit.  

My hope is that I will feel better after ingesting all this crap for a few weeks, which in turn should give me more energy, which should lead to more activity, which may lead to some weight loss, which would leave me feeling even better.  About everything.  

But first, I have to remember to take the damn things.  And it would help if Punky's dad would stop cooking such awesome meals.  And a little bit of sunshine and warm weather wouldn't hurt a bit for some energy-inducing motivation.  

All I know is that we are going on vacation just ten short weeks from now and, if something doesn't change, I'll never survive one day of walking around those parks without wanting to die right on the spot.  I want Punky to have a great time, and that will be hard to do with a tired, cranky, pissed-off mommy.  Let's see what a difference ten weeks can make.  Hey, it's worth a shot.

A Scary Realization

A few weeks ago, my mom made an innocent comment about how Punky is running circles around me at that age in terms of her development.  For some reason, that comment really made me think.  I mean, I think I'm fairly sharp.  I was an "A" student.  I breezed through school and college with very little intense studying.  I learn things quickly without much effort.  I have a high IQ.  Sometimes common sense eludes me, but book smarts I've got. 

So, my mom's comment, in combination with Punky's first evaluation at daycare, really made me wonder exactly how advanced she is.  I never spent much time around little kids.  To me, Punky's development is normal.  I have nothing to compare it to, really.  Yes, of course I think she's smart.  What mother doesn't think her child is a little rocket scientist?  But I wanted facts.  I wanted to see where she should be.  I wanted to see "normal" so I could somehow quantify where she is.

In the last few weeks, I've spent a great deal of time reading just about everything I could find on child development and advanced intelligence in toddlers.  And I've reached a frightening conclusion: Punky is not "normal"...

The average three year old can recognize one color.  It is not normal to consistently choose the correct color toy from a choice of five at thirteen months.

The average four year old can recognize some letters.  Letter recognition starting as early as seventeen months with all 26 mastered well before age two falls way outside the norm.

Saying "Look, Mommy! It's a boat!" at twenty-six months old is expected.  Saying "Look, Mommy! I'm using my imagination and pretending this bowl is a boat in the water!" at twenty-six months old is fairly unusual.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg.  Some other "not normal" things include her long attention span with activities she enjoys, her interest in the concept of time, her interest in the computer, counting and number recognition before age two, her incredible memory and ability to recall facts, and even her sense of humor. 

I was really quite surprised by some of the things I read.  The biggest shocker was that they are now linking advanced intelligence in toddlers to advanced maternal age.  As Punky's half-brother so delicately put it, that alone should make her a genius.  Smart ass.  But seriously, I find it fascinating.  I hope they discover why.  Maybe aging, desperate eggs are just smarter.  Maybe maturing for thirty-five years gave Punky's egg a jump start in brain development.  Ah, who the hell knows. 

Anyway, I also never knew that early physical development is also a large indicator of higher intelligence in kids.  I just never considered a connection between the two, but I guess it's logical.  The brain is the control center; the body develops the physical strength and muscle, but the ability to coordinate, control, and accomplish those movements comes from the brain.  

When Punky braced her feet on my inner thighs and pulled herself up to standing from a sitting position the very day she turned fifteen weeks old, I honestly blamed the steroid shots the docs gave me to mature her lungs because they thought she was coming early.  I knew it wasn't really "normal" at the time, but I certainly didn't think it was a sign of intelligence.  Apparently, from what I've read, it was a big one.  And the normal range for that skill is eight to nine months.  

Going back even further to minutes after her arrival, she kept rolling on her side on the scale when the nurses were trying to get her birth weight.  We had a hell of a time keeping her on her back to sleep right from the start.  She insisted on being on her side no matter how many times we rolled her back down.  Most babies roll onto their sides around three months of age, and roll completely from stomach to back between four and six months.  Punky first pulled that stunt at only three weeks old. 

I found one website that cited five levels of higher intelligence in children and listed the age at which certain physical and intellectual milestones occur in kids in each category.  Based on her development thus far, Punky falls somewhere between levels two and three depending on the skill in question.  The website claims there are approximately one or two "level two" kids in any given elementary school class, and only two or three "level 3" kids in any given elementary school with about six hundred students.  Putting it in that perspective is, well, scary as hell.  Seriously.  

I took comfort in the fact that most parents have the exact same reaction to this realization...fear.  Knowing your child is in fact as smart as you always imagined she is unleashes a new level of pressure and panic.  How do I keep her engaged?  What activities should we do?  How do I feed her intelligence without pushing her to learn things before she is ready?  How do I keep her social development on track when she already chooses older children and adults over kids her own age?  Will she be bored in school?   How the hell will we pay for a more prestigious university on a community college budget?  What am I saying?  If she really is that smart, there's bound to be scholarships.  Right?