Tearing Up Houses

Food + Other Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 02:36:00 +0000

Oh hey. Hello. How are you?

I have approximately an eighth of a second to write this while Aston chews Andy up and spits him down the stairs, so I'll try to make this quick.

Let's see? What's new?

Andrew surprised me with this Banana Republic tote (in Cognac, no idea why that option isn't showing up anymore?), and I love it. I don't do diaper bags, so this is perfect for our upcoming travel. In a pinch it's large enough to drop over my head and pretend that I don't own the child who is trying to eat his own foot, the one who just threw his shoe at your head.

The one with good aim.

So, yeah, Aston is still a maniac. Yesterday he figured out how to get through two (closed) pocket doors and one (closed) exterior door in less than thirty seconds. I know this, because that's how long I had the microwave set for, and when I turned around from doing dishes to shut off the beeping, he was gone from my secure and completely childproof Attica. I found him outside sitting on our back stoop next to one of the dogs clutching a sock monkey. Totally true story.

Also? His a girlfriend's middle name is Danger. (I know. I wish I'd thought of it first, too.)

Also? I may or may not have dropped gum in his hair at the playground in front of a mothers group of no less than thirty women and had to have it cut out with a pocket knife.

Also? He makes up for being a complete and total terrorist by charming the eyeballs right out of my head which is probably why I let him do pull ups on my ponytail and use my face as a personal climbing gym. He is heaven that way. Proof:

-He bites my butt (yes, you read right) while I'm doing pushups and runs away, and when I catch him he razzleberries my face.
-He high fives the dog and says "Doog God! Doog God!"
-He has this little half smiley smirk thing he does that is just.

ir.
re.
sistible.

I blame his dad.

What else? There is an alligator in our lake. His name is Rupert. Kidding. Of course not. His name is Gary. Gary The Gator. (I'm not the brains behind that originality.) He's about five feet long, and so far he has not found his way into our yard. I'll let you know if or when that changes. We'll go with if. Let's just call it an if.

Anyway, on the subject of seafood, I made this rice the other day. It was delicious.

It's kind of a pain, but worth the effort. Trust.

Spanish Rice With Seafood

1 lemon, halved
2 artichokes
1/4 pound green beans, trimmed and cut into 3 inch pieces
9 clams
9 mussels
1/4 cup white wine
1 1/2 pounds chicken breast cut into bite size pieces
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1/2 sweet onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 tablespoon paprika
1/2 cup short grain rice
1/2 cup long grain rice
1/2 can diced tomatoes, drained
1 cup chicken broth
1 red bell pepper, cut into 1/4 inch thick strips

Squeeze juice from one lemon half into a bowl of cold water. Cut off and discard stems from the artichokes and cut off the top inch and a half of leaves. Bend back outer leaves until they snap off. Keep discarding layers of leaves until they are pale green at the top and yellow at the base. Trim dark green fibrous parts from base and sides, then quarter artichoke lengthwise. Rub cut surfaces with other lemon half and drop artichokes into water.

Bring a large pot of salter water to a boil and simmer fresh artichokes for eleven minutes. Transfer with a slotted spoon to paper towels to drain. When cool enough to handle, scoop out choke with a spoon.

Cook beans in same pot of boiling salted water for four minutes. Drain in a colander, then rinse under cold running water to stop cooking. Pat dry.

Cook clams and mussels in wine in a large pot over medium high heat, covered, stirring occasionally, for about seven minutes, checking after four minutes and transferring to a bowl as they open. Keep covered. Discard any that haven't opened after eight minutes.

Season chicken with salt and pepper. Heat three quarters a tablespoon of oil in a pan over medium high heat until hot. Brown chicken well all over for fifteen minutes. Transfer with a slotted spoon to a plate.

Preheat oven to four hundred degrees.

Cook onion in three quarters a tablespoon of oil in a pan over medium heat, stirring, for six minutes. Add garlic and paprika and cook two more minutes. Add rice and cook, stirring, for one minute, then stir in tomatoes.

Add one cup of water, chicken broth, and chicken and bring to a boil over high heat. Boil, gently stirring and rotating the pan for fifteen minutes, or until the rice has absorbed most of the liquid.

Remove the pan from heat and tuck clams and mussels into the rice. Transfer to a glass dish and put in the oven for ten minutes.

While it's baking heat a half a tablespoon of oil in a large skillet over medium high heat and saute bell peppers for five minutes. Add green beans and artichokes and saute until just heated through. Season with salt and pepper.

Pull rice from the oven and tuck vegetables in. Let stand about ten minutes before serving.

Well, I think that's it for now. Working on some preliminary design for two of our bathrooms, but honestly I've been too overwhelmed to share. (And omg The Kitchen. Don't even. Just do not.) But our Guest Bedroom is nearly complete so check back for that Before + After sometime in the next week. Or so. Maybe typing it out will make me do it faster.

Okay. Bye 'til then.

A Few Things I'm Eating Up At The Moment

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 04:39:00 +0000

Unexpected blue. Contemplating.

Ride or die.

Aston's tootsies in these.

This underpaid assistant.

I'm recording this and this.

I'm reading this.

I just bought these wedges.

This big boy slide. I can't get enough.

Plotting. Weekend home on the beach.

This and this in my mouth.

Heading here. Bringing this. (And those boys.)

Just Your Everyday Superhero Running Around Without Pants On

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Wed, 03 Apr 2013 18:56:00 +0000

Baby Days

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 20:46:00 +0000

Yes, I am still alive. I know. I'm surprised, too. Aston turned eleven months old yesterday.

It's flown. It's cliche and annoying to say that. And it's one hundred percent true.

He's a lunatic. Scary bright and First Blood dangerous. He rides the vacuum cleaner. He pulls down my pants and then runs across the room. He eats books. He stuffs shredded wheat down his dipe. He climbs dressers. He climbs beds. He climbs curtains. He flushes toilets. He throws shoes. He has entire conversations in (what is obviously) Swahili.

Oh, and yesterday he swallowed part of his carseat handle and I had to call poison control.

Basically he's perfect. Seriously. Love him to bitsies.

p.s. Someone asked me what to buy for baby. I'm not sure if any of you actually read these types of lists, but I figured whatthehey. So here it is, copied from my email...

here's what i can highly recommend and what i couldn't have lived without:

-bumgenius snap adjustable diapers

-fisher price my little lamb cradle swing (visually atrocious, but the kid LOVES the thing)

-calm baby dvd

-graco snugride (another ugly, but it's safe, cheap, and fits into our stroller)

-bob ironman stroller with carseat adapter (important if you want to take them out when they're under six months)

-baby oil and vaseline (i use both on his tush after every number two and we have yet to get dipe rash)

-medela tender care lanolin (a MUST if you're breastfeeding... no brand substitute will do)

-breast pads

-lilypadz reusable shields

-gabrialla wraps (i could not have survived without these bindings)

-gopod

-boba carrier

-a decent video camera

-sophie the giraffe (andrew made fun of me for insisting, but it works!)

-outlet safety covers

-a photographer who covered the actual birth

-baby blankets (so many uses)

here's what everyone swore we would need that we didn't use:

-pacifiers and bottles

-wipe warmer

-mittens to prevent face scratching (we used socks)

-swaddle blankets

-plastic bathtub

-changing table

-high chair

here are a some other things we bought that we like a lot, but are nonessential:

-bloom coco baby bouncer

-raspberry teething pacifier

-instruments; rattles, pianos, xylophones, drums

-huge plastic balls

-puppets

-plum organic pouches

-4moms breeze playard

Before + After: The Lake House: Studio Slash Playroom

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Sat, 16 Feb 2013 07:14:00 +0000

Oh look. Another yellow room.

I've been working on it.

It basically serves as a creative space for me and the kiddo. Andrew found me this perfect dresser for Valentine's Day, and after hauling it up three flights of stairs I decided this room was finished enough to take some photos.

I'm still contemplating adding a climbing rope for Aston. We'll see.

Two Thousand Twelve Out

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 02:46:00 +0000

So, uh, I made a super sappy video of barf and childbirth set to folk music. Also, sculpture. Enjoy.

dadadadadadadada

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Fri, 28 Dec 2012 18:13:00 +0000

I think he likes his dad. Maybe.

Merry Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Tue, 25 Dec 2012 17:12:00 +0000

Dear Santa,

Best.

Christmas.

Ever.

(Nevermind that it's been my only Christmas. You get the point.)

Lovesandsmushybumblebeehugs,

Aston Robert

p.s. Next time you come down the chimney can you leave some furniture? Mom says we're renovating. Whatevs.

Before + After: The Lake House: The Office

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Sun, 09 Dec 2012 04:24:00 +0000

I admit I'm one of those annoying people who loves the holidays. In part, because it forces me to finish projects. (Also, it gives me an excuse to gift these.)

Tada!

This is what it looked like before we bought the place, not long after the staging company got their paws on it...

I won't even go there.

That tree was plastic.

Anyway.

The first floor of our house has four large areas outside of the kitchen for entertaining. This particular one was used by the former owners as sort of a family room slash den. Since it is deep enough to comfortably house Andrew's ginormous man desk (an early twentieth century Doten Dunton) and because we have plenty of other areas to accomodate guests, it makes perfect sense to use as our office. (But really, it's mostly Andrew's space, since my studio is on the third floor.)

The leather couch is vintage and the rug is Ethan Allen.The piece above the sofa is a painting I did of Andrew a couple of years ago that hung in our kitchen in our last house. The painting above the fireplace was actually thrown in for free when I was trying to negotiate the price of a chair. The sculpture is an early piece of David Engdahl's. I treasure it. His work is a.mazing.

The lighting isn't original to the house, but they're authentic period pieces that were salvaged and rebuilt locally. I should have taken better photographs. They're beautiful.

It was hard to find the right piece to go above Andrew's desk. After searching for months I came across these tortoise shells on Etsy. The texture they add is perfect, and they don't compete with any of the art. I drilled holes in the sides and strung fishing line across the backs to hang them. They really pop on the bright white walls.

My favorite thing about the space is that it feels so cozy even though it's actually pretty large (and the ceilings are ten feet high)... there is so. much. room. compared to our last office. I even managed to sneak some of Aston's ponies parking spots.

The draperies are the same ones we used in the nursery. We recycled the rods and clips.

That's it for now. I have a date with a seven month old and a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Slicker Than Something Really Slick

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Wed, 05 Dec 2012 22:50:00 +0000

Sneak Peeking It Up

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Sun, 02 Dec 2012 01:57:00 +0000

Ever since I mentioned our progress in The Office and The Studio (in the midst of our overly ambitious decision to tackle The Living Room right before our holiday company arrives, aprojectwewillnotdiscuss) I've been peppered with emails about the possibility of maybe eventually posting a picture or two sometime within the next millenium.

Here was my issue with that.

Aruba. Ridiculously distracting.

Also, teeth. We now have TWO. And don't think we're not using those babies to become a flesh eating destroyer of upholstery.

Plus, there's been swinging. Do you remember what your first ride on a swing was like?

Here, let me remind you.

And what else?

Best friends. BEST FRIENDS FOREVER.

So yeah, you could say I've been a little distracted. Just a bitsy.

Even worse, I'm irrationally resisting hiring (even) more help. Or I'm failing at trying to. If you follow.

What that means is that the maintenance and renovation of this entire home plus each of the rentals plus Aston's care falls primarily on my shoulders. Or it should. And. that. is. a. lot. (It's difficult to explain how much work that really involves, especially considering that Andrew has an extremely demanding career and Aston's still breastfeeding like it's going out of style... but trust. Lot. WHOLE LOT.) So we're still figuring it out, but mostly it involves a combination of outsourcing and schedule juggling and really, really creative hiding of the tatas on the go.

But enough excuses.

The Office.

Very soon. And I will try to make it worth the wait.

Also?

The Studio. The Living Room. They're coming.

Pumpkins Because We're Festive Like That

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 02:55:00 +0000

I won't lie, I'm feeling a little exposed after that last post. Thank you to everyone who left kind words and sent supportive messages. It was hard to write about. I thought about deleting it. Then I thought about elaborating on why I posted it here, to maybe help someone going through the isolation of a puketastic pregnancy or to encourage new mothers to advocate fiercely for their own care during a complicated delivery or as a EARMUFFS slap for anyone who has ever felt the need to vomit over our ridiculously easygoing infant and our happy smooshy gooshy loveydovedove parenting experience.

But I'm not good at explaining things like that.

So instead, pictures of pumpkins?

This Is The Story Of Your Birth

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 00:46:00 +0000

I’ve written this in my head so many times since it happened six months ago, but never before on paper. Luckily, your father has been working on it for a while. Together we’ll try to share the events that surrounded the day that you were born. So this is for you. It’s your story.

(Your father’s recollections are in italics.)

______________________________________________________________

When I think about telling the story of your birth I never know where to begin.

Maybe I should start by admitting that I never thought that I’d have children. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t see myself as maternal or motherly enough or something.

In my twenties, I was young and ambitious and I was working a lot. I didn’t really think about kids. I had two dogs. I had boyfriends. I felt like my life was really full.

Then I met your father.

We disliked each other initially, but a well-timed kiss quickly led to an unexpected marriage proposal and a pretty cliche happily ever after. He was quite the game changer, your dad.

A few years passed. We were happy. We talked about having children. I was still uncertain. He was clear about wanting to be a father and tried to convince me that I’d be a good mother. I thought he looked good naked.

So that, in a nutshell, is pretty much how everything started.

Within three minutes, I was pregnant.

About three weeks later I discovered that I hated it.

Pregnancy did not agree with me. I was sick constantly. I would black out. I was emotional. I couldn’t stand how my body was morphing. All of these changes made me certain that I’d be a terrible parent. I knew of no one else experiencing such severely negative symptoms. I felt very alone. I would Google to the point of insanity. I would sit on the floor of the shower and cry. It's socially heinous to admit this, but I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

This went on for nine months.

To top it all off, you were in a breech position which, despite every effort known to mankind, we could not tempt you to move from. A caesarean delivery was scheduled.

We arrived at the hospital for our c-section at 6.00am. We were introduced to our new home, Suite 14, which we lived in for the next four days. At 6:27am our birth photographer, Melanie, arrived to help capture the delivery. During the next hour and a half we were introduced to our team and prepped for surgery.

Your mother was wheeled into the operating room before they allowed me to go in. They did this to insert the spinal block that would numb her from the chest down. Meanwhile, I sat outside and waited. Sitting there, I became more and more nervous. Then I suddenly heard your mother scream. Not a little yelp, a blood curdling scream. The doctors reassured me that everything was fine, but it only made me more nervous. A few minutes later I was told they were ready.

The spinal block was inserted. They told me it wouldn’t hurt, but they lied. I figured that, due to current conditions, yelling at the anesthesiologist was probably a better idea than, say, punching him in the face. In retrospect, I was wrong. Afterwards, I tried to crack a few jokes and mentioned that we left wine and fresh homemade peanut butter bars at the nurse’s station. No need to anger the guy who was playing God with my meds, you know? A few moments later they told me to lie down and began strapping me to a table. You’d think that with nudity involved this might be marginally fun. It was not fun. I had no idea that I’d be restrained. I panicked and began to hyperventilate and they (against my vehement and repeated requests) gave me some sort of medication to calm my anxiety. It worked, and I mellowed out almost instantly. Finally, they let your father into the room.

You entered this world butt first, cord wrapped around your neck and tied in a knot, at 8.45am, at seven pounds and two ounces (the exact birth weight I’d predicted!) and nineteen inches.

The nurses and doctors cleaned you and handed you to me. I brought you to your mother. It seemed you two bonded instantly. She didn’t want to let you go. She laughed and said you looked just like me.

We were later told that because of the specific position you were in (occurring in less than one percent of all pregnancies), had we attempted the vaginal birth that your mother so desperately wanted, it would have resulted in an emergency caesarean anyway.

After they opened me up there was a lot of hushed talk. I heard something about the cord, but when I asked what was going on I was reassured that everything was fine. You cried. It was a squeaky but fierce little sound. They told me you scored nearly perfect on your Apgar test. (Then I explained to your father what that meant.) I kept asking for you, but I still hadn’t seen you. Andrew tells me it was only minutes, but it seemed to take eons. I thought I’d feel nervous or anxious at that point, but I was really only excited. I had read a lot of birth stories about the difficulties of bonding with a newborn after a caesarean and, coupled with my pregnancy experience, I had very low expectations for those first few moments. Isn’t that terrible? But it’s true. I didn’t expect to feel connected or motherly with someone I’d never met. I assumed those things would develop later. I was at peace with that.

Finally, you were wrapped up and your father brought you over to me.

He held you so close to my head that I could smell you. I just stared and smiled. And laughed. You looked just like your father. And I was completely and utterly in love again. From that very first glance. Totally head over heels, out of control, crazy in love with you. True story. It was bizarre.

After you were delivered we went back to our suite. You immediately took to breastfeeding. We weren’t sure if we knew what to do since your mother had long ago thrown away all her baby books, but you sure knew what you were doing. Your mother was still numb from the chest down, but began feeling extremely nauseous. They gave her medication for the nausea and she held you all day long.

After you were born they took us back to our room and suggested we try breastfeeding. I was surprised at how easy and natural it was. I was also surprised by how much pain I was in. A former college athlete, I’ve always been told that I have a high pain tolerance. But it was unbearable. I can only describe it as a white light. It was the sort of pain that is so all encompassing that you can see or hear nothing else. You are just enveloped. And it wasn’t coming from the incision site. Instead, it wrapped around my lower back and was underneath my belly button. And I was nauseous. On a level that made my pregnancy look like a picnic. When I told the nurses and doctors, they said that I’d probably underestimated how painful caesareans are.

But I felt like something was wrong.

My initial joy from meeting you had turned into desperation. How could I be feeling worse than when I was pregnant? How would I survive taking care of a newborn in a city where I had no family, little support system, and a husband who constantly travels for work when it was too painful to even exist? Why was this happening to me? Why did everyone keep using words like ‘routine’ and ‘normal’? Why didn’t the doctors believe me?

I cannot even describe how much pain I was in or how scared I was.

That evening, your mother had some feeling back in her abdomen. The pain was intense. She was given morphine. The next couple of hours she was in and out of consciousness and having vivid dreams (about Kenny Loggins asking her for financial donations!), but still feeling a very high level of pain. It was just our luck that there was a shortage of the medication that the hospital normally used to treat post caesarean patients. (Apparently, the pharmaceutical company had contaminated a batch and there was a large recall.) The nurse who came on the night shift felt that maybe this is why your mother was experiencing such intense symptoms. She called in a favor to a pharmacy and was able to get some of the backordered drug. After an hour, your mother felt much, much better. Her pain had gone from a 9 to a 2. She got out of bed, ate some crackers, and even sat in the rocking chair.

Early morning came with a surprise. Your mother was feeling bad again. It began with extreme nausea. We tried Xophren, then Phenalin, then another anti-nausea pill. We discussed what could be happening with both the doctor and the anesthesiologist. The doctor believed that she was feeling ill because she was still coming off of the spinal block. The anesthesiologist argued that the spinal had worn off at least eight hours earlier. Each blamed the other. Between these discussions were more rounds of medication and constant vomiting. The pain was more intense than ever. They cleared her for another round of Torodal, and I crossed my fingers.

During my brief stints of consciousness on the Torodal I began begging anyone who would listen to help me. Nurses, doctors, even cleaning people. I felt strongly that something was wrong, but no one at the hospital (Saint Vincent’s Southside) believed me. I had no idea what to do. I opened my laptop and began Googling. I wanted to switch hospitals. I had to convince Andrew that the doctors were wrong.

The Torodal worked again. Hours later we finally spoke again with our physician, Dr. Craig Cantor, and he suspected that your mother had an ileus, which is a blockage of the bowels. This can happen after a spinal block, because it paralyzes everything from the chest down including the digestive system. It’s common and takes some time to subside. We were told to withhold food and liquids for twenty four hours to allow the ileus to pass. She was also given more Torodal, but this time it helped less. She was in and out of consciousness most of that second day.

It was during one of her brief waking moments that you were given your first hearing test. You failed. We were assured that it happens very often, especially among breech babies, but that did little settle your mother’s nerves.

On top of everything else, you failed your hearing test. I was a total train wreck. I couldn’t stop crying. I was certain I was going to be in debilitating pain for the rest of my life, and on top of it, you wouldn’t even be able to hear me ask for a sandwich. Awesome.

On the third day your mother was allowed to eat. You were retested for your hearing and passed with flying colors. That might have indicated that things were looking up, except your mother continued to be nauseous and have extreme back pain. She suggested that she may be having complications from the spinal, and Dr. Cantor agreed. We asked the nurse to call the anesthesiologist. He wasn’t available, but we met with the one who was on call. We explained what was happening and asked if the spinal could be the cause of the intense back pain. Before we could even describe all of your mother’s symptoms, he curtly explained that it wasn’t possible for a spinal block to cause a back injury. I told him, “Look, I don’t care why or why not you believe you aren’t responsible and I don’t care who is, we just need to make my wife better.” To which the anesthesiologist replied, “Then you need to get an MRI done, which your doctor will need to order.” I replied, “Great. Let’s get it ordered.”

It was never ordered.

I was deteriorating. I was checking the clock every two to three minutes thinking that hours had passed. I began to feel that I was withering away. My body told me I was dying.

Throughout the third day the pain got worse and worse. The nursing staff tried to help by giving your mother Torodal. She was now approved for every six hours and, though it was helping less and less, it did offer her some relief. But patients are only allowed Torodal for forty eight hours, and your mother was quickly approaching that limit. By 6.00pm your mother’s back pain had hit a high. I knew then that something wasn’t right, but I had no idea what it could be. I called Dr. Cantor at home, because he was on call. He was insistent that nothing was wrong. Your mother asked to speak with him and he had the nerve to suggest that she was just experiencing postpartum depression. It was at that point that your mother stopped crying for the first time in days and became frighteningly calm.

She asked to be released from the hospital.

I felt strongly that I was not in the right place to receive the care that I needed. I checked myself out of Saint Vincent’s at 11.00pm on Saturday night. I’ve never told Andrew this, and I know it seems dramatic, but part of me felt deep down that I was taking myself home to die. I could barely move. Every thought revolved around not vomiting. Every morsel of effort was put into rocking and breastfeeding. I didn’t recognize myself in body or spirit. I get chills when I remember the first time you came home. I crawled into our bedroom and put on the Zen music channel. I sunk onto the floor because I didn’t have the strength to get into the bed. And I told Andrew, “I should be a better person. I should volunteer more. I should donate more. I should appreciate you more. I should appreciate him more.” I remember thinking that I wouldn’t see you grow up, which was overwhelmingly sad since I had just fallen for you.

This wasn’t how we imagined bringing you home for the first time. Your mother was in severe pain. It was nearly midnight, and we didn’t know if or when she would feel better. As the night went on, your mother got worse and worse. She was unable to sleep and no position, pillow, or medication was able to help. At 5.00am, against your mother’s wishes, I called Dr. Cantor at home again. I told him that the back pain had gotten even worse and that she needed to get treatment right away. He explained to me that since we left the hospital, he wasn’t able to readmit her into Labor and Delivery. She would need to go to the Emergency Room to be readmitted to Saint Vincent’s, and if we didn’t go to Saint Vincent’s Emergency Room then he would not treat her. I replied, “Well, you haven’t treated her yet anyway.” I took your mother to Baptist Hospital.

It was around 5:30am when we arrived to the Emergency Room at Baptist. I was terrified of having you in a place with so many germs, but equally terrified of having you away from me. We covered you up and I held you as I sat slumped over in a wheelchair. I felt so instinctively protective.

There weren’t many people in the Emergency Room so we were able to get through the check-in process fairly quickly. We were put in a private room the size of a closet. Since your mother was exclusively breastfeeding it was important for us to stay together. The doctor came in and met with us and immediately prescribed pain medication and began blood and urine tests.

The pain medication had little effect on your mother’s back however it did help her sleep. For many hours, your mother was in and out of consciousness only waking long enough to feed you. You and I spent this time trying to nap. After many hours the doctor came back to see how your mother was doing. He explained that the urine and blood test showed no signs of anything being wrong. But he was concerned about the level of her pain. He ordered an MRI of her back, but they weren’t able to schedule it until 1.00pm. During our wait he checked in a few more times to see if the pain was getting any better. It wasn’t.

At 1.00pm your mother was wheeled to the MRI department. Aside from the three technicians there was no one in the department. You and I went to the lobby to wait while they performed the MRI. About ten minutes later one of the techs came into the lobby. The pain in your mother’s back was so intense that she couldn’t even lay flat in the machine for the few minutes it takes them to get images.

I was humiliated. I had exposed our newborn to an infectious Emergency Room only to find that they couldn’t find anything wrong, and now I couldn’t even lie on my back for two seconds while they ran a simple test. I felt horrible and completely demoralized. And, still, I was in so much pain I couldn’t see straight.

The staff at Baptist was much more supportive than the one at Saint Vincent’s, however. The MRI tech told me under her breath, “Honey, this isn’t normal. You just hang in there, Mama. We’ll figure out what’s going on.” At least they believed me, which was a relief.

We went back to the testing area and talked with the techs and your mom. We agreed that the MRI had to be done to tell us what was causing the pain. They let me stand in the room and hold your mother’s hand. It took about ten minutes. It was the longest ten minutes that your mother and I have ever gone through.

After finishing the MRI, your mother was wheeled back to the Emergency Room. Once again, we were asked to wait. The images took a few hours to get to the doctor. During this time your mother was given more anti-nausea and pain medication. Finally, around 5.00pm, a doctor came into our room. He said the MRI results showed a possible ileus but nothing he would be concerned with or that could cause this much pain. He released us, because he didn’t think there was much else he could do, however he told us to come back if your mother had any pain in her abdomen. After twelve hours in the Emergency Room, we all went home with no more information than when we arrived.

Back at home your mother was still in intense pain. I gave her more anti-nausea and pain medicine and she decided to take a hot shower, hoping the heat would help her back feel better. It didn’t. We got ready for bed, as we were all extremely tired, but your mother couldn’t sleep. The back pain was too intense. She got out of bed to use the bathroom and while inside she began vomiting. This wasn’t your everyday throw up. This was green. Your mother began crying and said she was going back to the Emergency Room and not leaving until they figured out what was wrong. As I packed you up and got your diaper bag together, she literally crawled out of the house and down the street toward the hospital. She was in so much pain she couldn’t bear it. I ran outside and found her, loaded you both in the car and headed back to the Emergency Room.

It was somewhere around 1.00am on Monday morning when we checked back into the Emergency Room. There was a new set of doctors and nurses, and we had to explain everything all over again to them. The main doctor began to tell us the pain medicine that he would prescribe to make your mother feel better, but it was all the same stuff that we had been taking for the past seventy two hours. I told him bluntly that I needed answers, not Band-Aids. He said we would start with the medicine while they monitored and observed her, then he left to treat other patients and the nurse came in to check on us. About five minutes after she left it happened.

Your mother began projectile vomiting all over the room. The only time I have ever seen anything like it is in the movies. There was vomit on the floors, walls, bed, everywhere. I ran to the nursing station to get help. Four nurses ran to the room and paused in complete shock. There was about an inch of vomit covering the floor and vomit on the wall. It was the same green color as the vomit at the house, just twenty times the amount. The nurses ran to get the doctor. When the doctor arrived back in our room he was no longer passive. He immediately ordered an x-ray of your mother’s stomach. While he didn’t know exactly what was wrong, he knew something was wrong.

We walked to the x-ray area with your mom and sat outside to prevent any radiation from getting near you. Thankfully, she was able to make it through the x-ray session. We headed back to the Emergency Room. During our short time away, they had completely cleaned our room of all vomit. We waited in that room for what seemed like forever. Realistically, it was probably about three hours. Then a new doctor walked into the room, Dr. Polly. He was the on call surgeon. He explained that the x-ray showed signs of stomach blockage and that we would need a CAT scan to determine if it was just an ileus or worse. Worse? He said that it was highly unlikely, but possible that the stitching could have dehisced and the bowels could have come through the abdomen wall, similar to a hernia. But he repeated that he thought that was a very unlikely scenario. They scheduled the CAT scan for the next day and he got us a bed in the Maternity area so we could all stay together.

Shortly after Dr. Polly left our room, a new nurse appeared. She was in her 40s or early 50s with caramel skin. And she was extremely sympathetic. She explained to us that in order to prevent further vomiting they would have to insert a tube down your mother’s throat that would slowly suck out the remaining contents. Your mother was half conscious at this point but was very adamant that she didn’t want this done. We tried to reason with her, but, well, she can be pretty stubborn. Finally, I got her to agree to try it. You and I left the room and three nurses attempted to insert the tube. Your mother was heavily medicated at this time, and to get the tube down required her to swallow as the tube went into her throat. After three minutes, the nurses came in and got me. Your mother was crying uncontrollably. She told me that she wasn’t able to do it. I held her hand. I talked softly to her and calmed her down. I asked her to try just one more time. Privately, the nurses told me that she had no choice. She agreed to try once more and this time, thankfully, it worked. The contents of her stomach began draining out through the tube.

At this point it had been nearly thirty two hours since we’d left Saint Vincent’s Hospital with a newborn and the worst pain I’d ever experienced in my life. And that includes racing a national 10k in two feet of snow while sick and wearing a racing uniform that was three threads short of my underwear. Suffice to say it was the longest thirty two hours of our lives. Mentally and physically I was spent. We all were.

The good news was that your mom was finally receiving treatment. The bad news was that we were being admitted to the hospital and neither of us knew what was in store. While we waited to be transferred from the Emergency Room to the Maternity area, the kind nurse was nice enough to bring me a muffin and juice to snack on. From the moment you were delivered we never left your mother’s side. Much of this time you slept in your car seat on top of a chair and I sat next to you (sleeping when I could) in a constant state of shock. People have babies every single day and they go home and recover. No big deal. What could possibly be wrong? What could possibly cause someone this much pain? Why couldn’t doctors identify it? I felt as though we were at the mercy of the hospitals. We’d now met with four different doctors, and several more had reviewed our case, and still we didn’t know exactly what was wrong, just that there was a problem with your mother’s stomach and that we required another test to determine the extent of it. Was this something that would be easily cured? Would we be released from the hospital and back home soon? What should I be doing?

I realized that I finally needed to let our family and friends know what was going on.

We made the trip from the Emergency Room to the Maternity area of the hospital. It was in a different building on the opposite side of the hospital. Similar to the maternity suites at Saint Vincent’s, we had a private room with a bathroom, a television, and a window. I point out the window because the Emergency Room, which we’d spent most of the past couple of days in, didn’t have windows. In the Emergency Room, time went by so slowly. In part, because we were constantly waiting on nurses or doctors to come back and check on us, but also because I think we had no concept of night or day.

The nausea and vomiting had stopped since I’d had the tube placed down my throat. I was still in horrific pain, but at least could focus on you. I was in survival mode. I know it seems insane, but at moments I look back and wonder if what happened was in some ways a gift. In those early days, it was the exact opposite of what I’d feared during my pregnancy. I had complete clarity. I knew my purpose.

That evening we were introduced to our assigned nurse for the evening. She was from Scotland and had a Mrs. Doubtfire accent. She was sympathetic but firm. She helped us through that night, the hours when your mother literally howled and cried nonstop from the pain. Things were getting even worse. The nurse came every couple of hours, checked your mother’s drainage container to see if it needed to be changed and injected pain medication into your mother’s IV. Your mother would always beg for more which shocked me (normally, she won’t even take Tylenol). Several time before the nurse even came back your mother would have me go to the nurses’ station to ask for more meds. We were fortunate that you cooperated during this time. You ate and slept so easily. Really, you were an angel. You seemed completely unaware of the drama that had unfolded since you were born.

The next day we were wheeled to another area for the CAT scan. We waited for about ten minutes before the nurse wheeled your mother into a private room. You and I waited outside, hoping she could get through the entire scan. After she was done we went back to the room and waited for the results.

Dr. Polly was the one who delivered the news. He told us that the CAT scan showed that your mother’s abdomen was no longer stitched together. Her bowel was actually outside her abdomen wall; the scenario Dr. Polly originally thought was very unlikely. This explained the vomiting. To fix it, your mother required surgery to avoid rupture, sepsis, or worse.

I felt reassured. We had an answer. Finally.

I told Andrew I was skeptical. How could I trust this doctor? What if he, too, was wrong? But the truth was I was terrified of yet another surgery. It was essentially a second caesarean section. I wanted to review the CAT scan myself, but I couldn’t since it was digital and I couldn’t get out of bed. I asked your father to go take a look at it.

I have no medical background and have never seen a scan other than an x-ray, but the picture of the bowel through the abdomen wall couldn’t have been clearer. It was like a large ball outside of her stomach. It was scary. But it reassured me to know that the second surgery would make your mother feel better. Still, your mother was really unsure. Our original doctor was well respected and ended up being a nightmare. We felt we needed a surgeon that came with a personal recommendation. But only living in Jacksonville a couple of years, our network in this part of Florida is pretty limited. Really, we didn’t know too many people locally who could help. Then we remembered that we have several neighbors who are doctors and administrators at local hospitals. We decided to reach out to them to see what they thought of our surgeon.

While Andrew made phone calls, I Googled our surgeon, Dr. Polly, to see what I could find. I learned several things. First, he is quite accomplished. Second, my complication, while very well known, is EXTREMELY RARE (occurring in 0.1% of all pregnancies) and usually results in death because it goes undiagnosed. Third, if operated on I could make a full recovery. I liked the sound of that last part.

It turned out that one of our neighbors had known Dr. Gordon Polly for nearly twenty years. She ensured us that we were under the best care possible.

Aside from our concern with the surgeon, our primary issue was staying together. Dr. Polly wouldn’t know how bad the damage was until he operated, but based on the scan he didn’t seem very positive. If the bowel had died and had to be severed and reconnected our recovery would be too extensive to remain in the Maternity area. Because of the risk of infection, you would not be allowed to stay with her on a Surgical Recovery floor without special arrangements.

I told the doctors that I was breastfeeding and that I would refuse surgery if I couldn’t stay with my newborn. Probably stupid since they told me I would, you know, die and everything. But try arguing with a hormonal lady. You’ll lose that battle every time.

Finally, they began prepping your mother for surgery. Our neighbor came in a few minutes beforehand to check on her and see how she was feeling. It was extremely thoughtful and considerate. She walked with us to the operating area and wished us good luck. Once inside, we met with Dr. Polly and the anesthesiologist. Dr. Polly explained that the procedure could take a while depending on how extensive the damage was. He said he would go in through the same incision as the c-section, but may need to cut the stomach vertically to give him more room to operate.

I was incredulous. I’d made it through nine months without a stretch mark only to be gutted like a fish. (spoiler alert: Thankfully, we avoided that vertical incision.) I mentioned my love of Brazilian cut bikinis to Dr. Polly, but said if given the ultimatum I’d settle for having the tube being removed from my throat. Making it out alive would be a nice bonus, too.

We kissed your mother goodbye and waited.

They wheeled me in. I hollered to one of the nurses to make sure that someone brought lunch to my husband. I was so scared for you both. Isn’t that funny? We’d only just met and my entire world revolved around you.

Inside the operating room it was like a scene from a science fiction movie. Everything was white and very sterile and there were more knives than Williams Sonoma. Lots of people were milling around doing different preparations. They were warm. They tried to talk to me and make me comfortable. I’ve never had fear like I had that day. I was so frightened that my entire body shook uncontrollably. Before they put me out I looked each one of them in the eye. I said, “Please. Don’t screw this up.” I thought someone would laugh like it was joke.

But no one did.

It wasn’t long before Dr. Polly walked into the room. My first thought was that something had gone wrong. I guess it had to do with the MRI. You and I were only waiting a short time before the MRI tech had come and told us that your mother couldn’t lie through the scan. When Dr. Polly approached us, I asked if everything was okay. He said the surgery was over. We would be able to see your mother in about thirty minutes. He promised me that it couldn’t have gone any better. He also said that we could go back to the Maternity area where we could stay together.

We were called up to the front desk of the waiting area by a nurse who was going to take us to your mother. She led us to the recovery area. There must have been over fifty people in the large room, nurses, doctors, patients, with curtains to separate the patients. Through all of those people, I could hear your mother. Actually, everyone was listening to your mother. She was screaming. We made our way over to her, where she was lying on her back in immense pain. The nurse explained that she had already given her the maximum amount (three times the suggested amount, actually) of pain medication and if she gave her anymore our nurse would not be able to give her anything else for at least four hours. I told her to give her more and that we would deal with the four hours later.

Unfortunately, the additional medication helped only minimally. As if that wasn’t bad enough, we were faced with the difficult task of getting her back to the Maternity area. Outside the curtain I overheard the nurse and patient transporter arguing. The transporter didn’t think there was an elevator large enough to fit our bed. He believed that we would have to move your mother to a wheelchair. The alternative was to wheel the bed to the elevator, and if it didn’t fit we could move her to the wheelchair then.

I hated being talked about like I wasn’t there. “Just move me to the wheelchair!” I said. I might have been in more pain than I’d ever experienced, but I wasn’t nauseous and there was no longer a tube running down my throat. I wasn’t worried about making it into the wheelchair. I felt unstoppable.

It was a long walk back to the maternity area, but one I was glad to take. It meant we could stay together and it also meant that the doctor believed that he had fixed what had caused your mother so much pain. As we walked through the Maternity area, the nurses smiled and commented that they were glad to see us back since they knew it meant the surgery had gone smoothly.

Now that we were back in the Maternity room, I took my first deep breath of relief. I thought that now, after everything we had experienced in the past six days, your mother could finally start her recovery and begin to truly enjoy of motherhood. She tried to explain to me that while she was in an enormous amount of pain, it was a different type of pain. She knew she was fixed. She was also glad to have the tube out of her throat for the first time in nearly a couple of days. Mostly because it meant more of this.

We were in the hospital for several more days before they would release us. During this time we had many ups and downs. Accomplishments such as removing the catheter were quickly forgotten when your mother couldn’t make it to the bathroom or sit up by herself. Being able to finally eat was followed by the constant fear of vomiting. She experienced third spacing and had nightmares and spent hours on end screaming in pain. But it was still better than when we’d first gotten to the Emergency Room just days before.

This week you turned six months old, and we just now finished writing your birth story.

It has taken this long for many reasons. First, revisiting these memories is difficult. To go back over the details, many of which I am sure I left out, has only caused me to question the actions I took during that first week of your life. Maybe if I listened to your mother the night before your birth when she said she had a bad feeling, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe if we had switched doctors early on in the pregnancy when your mother had questioned Dr. Cantor’s conservatism, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if I had been insistent on Dr. Cantor running tests in the hospital they would have caught everything sooner. I think my naive belief in the medical system caused me to trust the doctors in charge of your mother’s care rather than listen more closely to what your mother was telling me. I respected the advice of the so-called experts. I figured that with all of their years of education and experience that they had to know what was best. I was wrong. Unfortunately, I cannot go back and change how things played out. But the experience has forever changed me. I no longer trust doctors at their word and will always get multiple opinions and do my own research if anything happens to either of you in the future.

While your birth was quite traumatic for me and your father, you seem to have made it through the experience completely unscathed. You are such a miracle, such a wonderful little boy. I spend a lot of time wishing that these days would go on forever. I love how you have changed our lives. You make it easy to be a mother.

You’ve slept through the night since you were born, though everyone keeps insisting that will change, and your mother feels so fortunate that we’ve been able to breastfeed without issues. We are constantly surprised by how capable and intelligent you are. You amaze us every single day.

You may never truly comprehend how much we love you, but we’ll do our best to try to show you. Maybe someday you’ll have a child of your own who will have his own mother and his own birth story that you’ll share with him like I’m sharing with you. And maybe then you’ll tell him about what happened when you were born on a warm April morning way back in 2012.

And I hope, just maybe, you’ll understand.

p.s. This is wildly inappropriate to attach to this post, but seeing as I'm only making it in here every few weeks, I thought I'd better. Will you check this out? And vote, if you feel so inclined. If it's for us, even better.

p.p.s. Guess who woke up with his first tooth?

p.p.s.s. Also, the Studio and Office are both nearly complete. I know. I can't believe it either. Back soon with more.

For Rent

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Wed, 03 Oct 2012 18:05:00 +0000

Do you want to live in Pompano Beach, Florida?

Are you looking to sign a twelve month lease on a home that is minutes away from the beach?

Rent our charming 1500 square foot single family home in Pompano Beach and you'll be within walking distance of boating, parks, tennis courts, shopping and dining.

Boasting an open, airy floorplan, this three bedroom and two bathroom house has quiet neighbors and is near excellent schools. It also has newer bathrooms, newer full size washer and dryer, private parking, a large newly fenced backyard, and much more.

$1450 per month
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Do you want to live in Fort Lauderdale, Florida?

Are you looking to sign a twelve month lease on an upscale home in a unique waterfront community built around artists' lofts?

Rent our three bedroom, three bathroom townhouse in Historic Sailboat Bend. With way too many features to list, this outstanding property was built in 2004. Private outdoor areas include two huge balconies off of the master bedroom, a front porch, and a large enclosed courtyard. Walk to the Broward Performing Arts Center for shows or down beautiful Riverwalk and Las Olas for the best nightlife Fort Lauderdale has to offer. Granite, spa tub, frameless glass shower, hurricane windows, and much more. Friendly pets welcome (restrictions apply).

$2200 per month
_____________________________________________________________________________________

For more information on either of these properties (or to inquire about others we have that may become available in the near future), please comment or email me.

Color Blocking

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 01:43:00 +0000

Between the posts about puking and cardboard and hanging neon reptiles I probably tend to imply that nothing is really getting accomplished 'round these parts.

But no.

We've painted Andrew's office and cleared behind the garage (hello, pea gravel) and planted new rose bushes and sold half our furniture (and bought bunches of new furniture) and began working on a wall of bookshelves for my studio. (spoiler alert: I finally sprang for a Corbu chaise.) Actually, there's a lot of designing and planning and hoarding (of lighting fixtures, particularly) going on around here, plus, of course, there are the rentals. But let's not discuss. I am tired. I am trying to keep up.

Anyway, shiz is happening and I will try to share more soon.

But right now shelving. Let's look at colorful shelving shiz.

p.s. Yes, that is a television and I let him watch. Kid has his own DirectTV and DVD and IPad. I'm hopeful that one day he'll teach me how to use them.

See Aston's entire Nursery here.

It's All Fun And Games Until Somebody Gets Their Eye Puked On

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 21:12:00 +0000

Before + After: The Lake House: Nursery Closet

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 01:55:00 +0000

Aston is five months old and he finally has a functional closet. (Life altering work going on over here. I know. Pitiful.)

There are a lot of reasons this thing dragged out, but mostly it's because I was waffling over everything. We painted the room months ago when I was still pregnant, bought brackets and planned built-ins and then... nothing. Fast forward to two weeks ago when, by chance, we stumbled across this maple dresser.

Aaand that was that. It came together haphazardly and ended up nothing like I originally planned.

But with a neon frog hanging from the ceiling, I think that goes without saying...

p.s. I just realized that there are no Before photos in this post. I'm such a rule breaker. Maybe I'll dig them up later. (Probably not.)

See Aston's entire Nursery here.

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 01:32:00 +0000

Aston here. I got your Christmas ornament in the mail today and, of course, I love it. You both have exceptional taste which is apparent from the killer gifts you always send and the fact that when I visited you recently Grandpa got down on all fours and crawled around the living room floor with me and declared that I have the most remarkable strength and mindblowing judo kick and gorgeous blue eyes and most endearing little laugh and also I'M PERFECT. So clearly, he is a man of discernment. Anyway, this is why I'm writing. That particular quality, that keen sense of style and good judgement that you both share has perhaps... how shall I suggest this... skipped a certain generation.

IthinkwebothknowwhoI'mtalkingabout.

So... you see... the thing is, Grandma and Grandpa, Dad wants to do a big holiday get together this year and frankly? I don't think I can talk him out of it. Twenty four seven, nonstop, it's all Santa this and Santa that and on and on and on about Rudolph and eggnog and stockings and cookies and carols and presents and Griswalding the house. GRISWALDING THE HOUSE. What in the EARMUFFS is he talking about???

To be honest, Grandma, I'm worried about them both. Yesterday, Daddy hired someone to hang these lights all over our house, these hundreds of millions of thousands of lights, and he booked the guy for three EARMUFFING months from now. Three months out? What the EARMUFFING EARMUFFS. Three months is, like, eons from now, almost the same amount of time I've been on this earth. And then I overheard Mommy tell Auntie Allison that she thinks he might set the entire neighborhood on fire with these light thingies and that she's pretty sure there will be matching Christmas sweaters involved. SWEATERS??? I don't even wear pants on a VOLUNTARY basis, I sure as EARMUFFS am not hiding this impeccable beach bod with something called a sweater.

Anyway, my point is that I'm really relying on you both to get me through the holidays. I can't hold down the cuhrazy around here alone, and I'm counting on you to shake some sense into these two. I'm not going to go into all of the details right now, but let's just say that Mom is talking hair products and felt antlers and putting them on. my. head. Antlers, people. NEED I SAY MORE ABOUT THE CRAY CRAY I'M DEALING WITH? (Also, she can be arrested for that, yes? Grandpa? Look into it.)

Bottom line: HELP ME.

Also, thanks again for the ornament.

Loveyoubunchesandbunches,

A train

p.s. If, by chance, this whole Christmas thing involves breastmilk or lady babies then take back everything I wrote. Count me in.

Folly

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Sat, 01 Sep 2012 20:59:00 +0000

The old cardboard box. Endlessly entertaining. Trust.

Hello, my name is Kelly and this is how I spend my Friday nights now.

p.s. Aston was so blown away with his new play house that upon it's unveiling he promptly... fell asleep. So since I have no photo proof of him trying to stick that entire truck in his mouth (rather successfully), I'll instead share this shot of his man boobs at the beach on Thursday. In all fairness, they only look like that when I squish him all up or when he's hunched over and pooping. Here is an excellent example of both.

Summer Is Almost Over

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 04:48:00 +0000

I can't even begin to catch up on how much has happened since the last time I posted here. Of relative importance (I use that word loosely)...

1. I put together a shoe closet.
2. The short bald guy is now army crawling and starting to stand. No interest in sitting up. SHOCKER.
3. Banh Mi sandwiches are a yes. My new thing.
4. Andrew hired a housekeeper. She calls me Miss Kelly and keeps me in line.
5. We had two minor roof leaks.
6. One of our tenants broke a thousand dollar hurricane window.
7. Aston has learned to rip out my hair. He's collecting it for a toupee. Obvs.
8. I scored a knock off Eames lounger and a tufted blue leather chair for the office.
9. We went hiking at Guana National Reserve. I am still Bjorning. Everywhere.
10. Hired painters for the third floor and office.
11. Saw a baby shark on the beach. Deceased, sadly.
12. Aston visited our local zoo for the first time.
13. Andrew bought me an old school Nintendo. One word: TETRIS.
14. Booked a trip to Aruba. Hopefully we get Aston's passport in time.
15. Flew to Chicago and Indianapolis for a week. Saw the grandparents. Did the museum thing. Ate hot dogs. Stopped by Lincoln Park Zoo.
16. I'm sealing our brick with this in honor of hurricane season.
17. Still exclusively breastfeeding. Eating and sleeping are going so exceptionally well that we lie to our friends about it.
18. Still recovering. Quickly on the outside, slowly on the inside. Some days the pain is unreal. Light years better, though.
19. Andrew's parents sent us a Vitamix. Do you have one? What do you make?
20. Aston had his four month doctor's appointment and remains a shrimp. Fourteenth percentile.
21. I still haven't written our birth story. I'm trying. It's hard.
22. Making progress with the renovation plans for this place.
23. Moved new tenants into this place.
24. Went to my first state fair. Chowed down on a turkey leg.
25. Here's a handful of random photos from the last couple of months (I intend to post more soon, but we'll see if that actually happens!)...

To The Doctor We Go

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 15:16:00 +0000

So I neglected to mention that Aston had his first rounds of vaccines at the doctor's office last month.

Here is a photo of him and I in the waiting room. (New mothers are allowed to look exhausted, right?)

It turns out his head circumference is in the tenth percentile for his age group.

Which makes zero sense for a kid with four chins.

(This is us outside of a J. Crew outlet a few weeks ago. Their man baby selection was a massive disappointment.)

In any case, the visit itself started out well.

He was content in his nekkidness.

If not a little bored.

I doused him with slobber. Usual stuff.

Stared at him with utter affection.

While he farted.

Then we tried to pysche him up for the hard part. Shots. No big deal, we told him.

And when you're done, you can have a lollipop.

When you're four.

Before they started he was laughing. Fist pumping. Flirting with the nurses.

We thought it was going to be okay.

Dumb us.

It was not okay.

He cried. I cried.

There were Bugs Bunny bandages involved.

Also, I think my heart broke.

Tell me it gets easier?

Flattered

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Tue, 10 Jul 2012 19:03:00 +0000

Here.

The Short List

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 21:58:00 +0000

1. This is what hiring a landscaper, fixing your irrigation system, and hatching a baby does for you.

2. I finally caved and bought a pair of sunglasses to run in. I don't like the feel of anything on my face when I'm working out and generally hate hate hate the look of running shades. (Ugly. In a Robocop meets Paris Hilton kinda way.) Anyway, I settled on these Maui Jim's, and they're good. Light as a feather. The a-train likes them, too.

3. Speaking of the Gremlin, we're enjoying him. He's laughing and smiling and making faces all the time. It makes me happier than I even have words for. I razzleberry. I kiss incessantly. If you're wondering where I've been over the last few weeks, it was probably somewhere between our bedroom and the nursery and with ten tiny toes shoved into my mouth.

My how times have changed.

4. Made these a few times. Andrew loves them. Swapped the sunflower seeds for chopped raw almonds.

5. The men folk surprised me with a pretty little diamond bracelet with a disc that has Aston's birth date and initials. I'm not sure it qualifies as a push present since technically there was no hard labor involved, but I think we can all agree that they made me work for it. (Understatement of the century.) I love love love it. Haven't taken it off since they gave it to me.

6. I've been wearing the Bjorn ev.er.y.where. He breastfeeds in it which is, um, awkward when strangers decide to peek under the blanket without asking. I have a long story about that which involves a Beemer, gold teeth, and Mr. Miyagi. I'll have to share it later. LONG STORY. Anyway, here we are leaving for a party at my neighbors, milk buzz underway. (He was the hit of the night, naturally.)

7. Apologies for the random catch up post, and thank you to those who cared enough to check in over the last few weeks. I've been having a hellish recovery but the. most. wonderful. time giving belly kisses and morning nuzzles and trying to ignore the laundry. My brain isn't working well enough to string together anything more meaningful than this update right now, but I'll come back sooner than later to try. Promise!

Here We Are

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Sun, 27 May 2012 14:22:00 +0000

It's been thirty days since he was born and twenty four since my last surgery and I can almost kind of pick Aston up the way that I want to.

Recovering can suck it. Still, it's PROGRESS, right?

(I guess I could have bothered with some lip gloss or something, but we're tooling around the house for the holiday weekend which also explains how awesome my bedhead looks. Holy. old. fart. But! I am making up for it by planning hella vacays on Pinterest for the fall.)

p.s. My camera lense broke this week as did our irrigation system, our dog gate, Andrew's zoom on his phone, and the brakes on our stroller. Do not touch me, I am contagious. And expensive, apparently.

Shammity Sham Shams

noreply@blogger.com (KellyMellyBoBellyBananaFanna) — Sat, 26 May 2012 01:44:00 +0000

You probably never noticed the corduroy floor pillows I threw under the crib in Aston's nursery. I never pointed them out because I kind of die from their ugliness. I used to love their broken in comfortableness, but now, no. They're spent. They've been bugging me.

So. I bought these.

I paid $3.95 for both of them instead of $39.00 a piece. Found them at a thrift store across town a couple of months ago, original tags still on. Could hardly believe my luck. Machine washable, too, just in case a certain somebody diarrheas across the room. Anyway. Not bad, right?

In your face, Pottery Barn.