The Doctor Visit
I was talking to Heather just this morning, and I told her that spending so much time with my sister and her 4 month old preemie twins, Katie and Sam, has made me feel all girly. It's like suddenly there's this biological clock ticking, loud and clear. "Don't worry," I told her. "It will pass quickly." It did.
This afternoon we took the now chubby twins (they weighed in at 9lbs. 13oz. and 9lbs. 10oz.) to see their pediatrician, Dr. Farmer. First of all, there is the hour long ordeal of feeding them, changing them, getting them in their seats, getting them with all of the paraphanalia into the car, remembering we forgot the insurance card, and finally pulling out of the garage, babies content for the moment. The fun started as we turned into the parking lot of the medical center. From the seat behind us, Kim and I heard the dreaded gurgle and splash from the driver's side. We didn't have to see it to know what had happened. Sam had struck again.
You see, Sam doesn't do the cute little baby "spit up" thing. This is pure, unadulterated puke. I think the scientific term is "projectile vomit." Granted, there are no chunks, so it's not as gross, but it's not exactly pleasant. Sure enough, when we stopped the car and opened the door, Sam had not only soaked through his socks, his shorts, his onsie, the outside of his diaper, and the lining of his carseat--he had also covered the seat of the Trailblazer (brand spanking new--all clean and new car smelling--perfect for target practice).
So on we go into the building, Sam content to sit in his own vomit until we get inside so we can change him, and Katie letting us know in no uncertain terms that she didn't appreciate being woken up from her nap. I don't understand how something so small can make so much noise. It defies some scientific law, I'm sure. It's like she has this little internal loudspeaker or something.
So with the loudspeaker blaring, we manage to get the babies naked, weighed, and measured, while nurses who have known them since they were 2 pounders oohed and ahhed at all their newly acquired chins.
Then the first needle came out. They needed to test their crit (I don't know what crit is or what it stands for, so I smiled dumbly when they talked about it), which involves poking a hole in the baby's heel and drawing blood. At the first prick of the needle, tears started to well up, but I held them back. I was going to be a big girl at this visit. Oddly enough, the presence of the blood didn't bother me, even with all my personal blood area issues. Maybe that's because it went straight into the tube and didn't touch anyone. But when Katie's little lip started to quiver and her body tensed with the buildup to the scream, it was all I could do to keep from hitting that mean old nurse. Stupid needle.
The visit went well (other than our own personal little Loudspeaker, which blared sporadically throughout the event)--the babies are catching up to the growth curve and are doing well developmentally, and Dr. Farmer was impressed with Kim that both babies are sleeping through the night. I started to let out a sigh, thinking the worst was over, and beaming at how well the babies did--better than most other babies, I'm sure.
But the 4 month appointment comes with 4 month shots. Immunizations. Two shots--one in each leg. One nurse per needle. As I watched them walk into the room I could see the needle growing in their hands, and for a moment I contemplated making myself a human shield to protect Sam, who was on the table. But alas, that would put Katie (who was in my arms) in their path, so I sat by and watched. Kim had the hard job--she had to hold each baby still for the shot, and I held the other.
I think the tears were already to my chin before the needle even touched Sam's leg. He let out a squeal, followed by a scream, which lasted in his facial expression long after he had run out of air. When he had actually turned blue from lack of oxygen, he took in a quick gasp and started the process all over. I'm tearing up just thinking about it.
Kim, who lived through the nightmare of almost 2 months in the NICU, handled the shots like a pro. Knowing I couldn't go through with holding a baby down so needles could be put in them, she handed Sam (who had now gone back to his normal color, but was still screaming) to me and took charge of the loudspeaker, who didn't fare any better. Katie's screams are shorter than Sams, but loud and intense.
I wiped my tears as quickly as possible while the nurses' backs were turned (who's the baby in the room, after all?), and we got them dressed and ready to go, now sleepy from the shots and from the baby Tylenol. Sam was now on outfit number two. For the next 20 minutes.
For some reason, we thought it would be a good idea to stop at a store to look for an anniversary present for Adam (Kim's husband). Actually, the store is fun. With one baby, people will look and smile as they walk by, but with two in a stroller, everyone has a comment. You want attention? Push a twin stroller. Granted, it's like trying to drive a bus, but the whole world thinks the babies are cute. If you're pushing the stroller, you are cute by association.
But alas, another mishap before we even get to the stroller. Another gurgle and splash from the same seat--Sam is swimming in his carseat once again. What parts of the seat were not soaked before are now dripping. He's out of clothes, but luckily Katie's spare outfit doesn't contain any pink, so we're saved. Again, the diaper is soaked from the outside, but at it's removal we're in for a nasty surprise. In size, liquid-ness, and smell, that was the worst diaper I have ever seen. Actually, it's a new form of matter that we like to call "the atomic diaper." By the way, as we're changing him, he thinks this is funny by now.
Finally in the stroller, the attention began. Some ladies in a van pulled up next to me as I walked them down the sidewalk and said "I bet you don't get any sleep." I turned to them and smiled and said, "They're my niece and nephew. I sleep just fine!" And for now, that situation is OK with me.
We are now home, and the Loudspeaker and Sir Pukesalot are asleep (for the moment). They don't feel well because of the shots, and I almost cried with them again as we sat in the nursery to feed them and get them ready to sleep.
Maybe when I'm 30 I'll be ready to do this full time. That gives me six years to prepare. Ok, maybe when I'm 35. For now, the biological clock is on snooze.
This afternoon we took the now chubby twins (they weighed in at 9lbs. 13oz. and 9lbs. 10oz.) to see their pediatrician, Dr. Farmer. First of all, there is the hour long ordeal of feeding them, changing them, getting them in their seats, getting them with all of the paraphanalia into the car, remembering we forgot the insurance card, and finally pulling out of the garage, babies content for the moment. The fun started as we turned into the parking lot of the medical center. From the seat behind us, Kim and I heard the dreaded gurgle and splash from the driver's side. We didn't have to see it to know what had happened. Sam had struck again.
You see, Sam doesn't do the cute little baby "spit up" thing. This is pure, unadulterated puke. I think the scientific term is "projectile vomit." Granted, there are no chunks, so it's not as gross, but it's not exactly pleasant. Sure enough, when we stopped the car and opened the door, Sam had not only soaked through his socks, his shorts, his onsie, the outside of his diaper, and the lining of his carseat--he had also covered the seat of the Trailblazer (brand spanking new--all clean and new car smelling--perfect for target practice).
So on we go into the building, Sam content to sit in his own vomit until we get inside so we can change him, and Katie letting us know in no uncertain terms that she didn't appreciate being woken up from her nap. I don't understand how something so small can make so much noise. It defies some scientific law, I'm sure. It's like she has this little internal loudspeaker or something.
So with the loudspeaker blaring, we manage to get the babies naked, weighed, and measured, while nurses who have known them since they were 2 pounders oohed and ahhed at all their newly acquired chins.
Then the first needle came out. They needed to test their crit (I don't know what crit is or what it stands for, so I smiled dumbly when they talked about it), which involves poking a hole in the baby's heel and drawing blood. At the first prick of the needle, tears started to well up, but I held them back. I was going to be a big girl at this visit. Oddly enough, the presence of the blood didn't bother me, even with all my personal blood area issues. Maybe that's because it went straight into the tube and didn't touch anyone. But when Katie's little lip started to quiver and her body tensed with the buildup to the scream, it was all I could do to keep from hitting that mean old nurse. Stupid needle.
The visit went well (other than our own personal little Loudspeaker, which blared sporadically throughout the event)--the babies are catching up to the growth curve and are doing well developmentally, and Dr. Farmer was impressed with Kim that both babies are sleeping through the night. I started to let out a sigh, thinking the worst was over, and beaming at how well the babies did--better than most other babies, I'm sure.
But the 4 month appointment comes with 4 month shots. Immunizations. Two shots--one in each leg. One nurse per needle. As I watched them walk into the room I could see the needle growing in their hands, and for a moment I contemplated making myself a human shield to protect Sam, who was on the table. But alas, that would put Katie (who was in my arms) in their path, so I sat by and watched. Kim had the hard job--she had to hold each baby still for the shot, and I held the other.
I think the tears were already to my chin before the needle even touched Sam's leg. He let out a squeal, followed by a scream, which lasted in his facial expression long after he had run out of air. When he had actually turned blue from lack of oxygen, he took in a quick gasp and started the process all over. I'm tearing up just thinking about it.
Kim, who lived through the nightmare of almost 2 months in the NICU, handled the shots like a pro. Knowing I couldn't go through with holding a baby down so needles could be put in them, she handed Sam (who had now gone back to his normal color, but was still screaming) to me and took charge of the loudspeaker, who didn't fare any better. Katie's screams are shorter than Sams, but loud and intense.
I wiped my tears as quickly as possible while the nurses' backs were turned (who's the baby in the room, after all?), and we got them dressed and ready to go, now sleepy from the shots and from the baby Tylenol. Sam was now on outfit number two. For the next 20 minutes.
For some reason, we thought it would be a good idea to stop at a store to look for an anniversary present for Adam (Kim's husband). Actually, the store is fun. With one baby, people will look and smile as they walk by, but with two in a stroller, everyone has a comment. You want attention? Push a twin stroller. Granted, it's like trying to drive a bus, but the whole world thinks the babies are cute. If you're pushing the stroller, you are cute by association.
But alas, another mishap before we even get to the stroller. Another gurgle and splash from the same seat--Sam is swimming in his carseat once again. What parts of the seat were not soaked before are now dripping. He's out of clothes, but luckily Katie's spare outfit doesn't contain any pink, so we're saved. Again, the diaper is soaked from the outside, but at it's removal we're in for a nasty surprise. In size, liquid-ness, and smell, that was the worst diaper I have ever seen. Actually, it's a new form of matter that we like to call "the atomic diaper." By the way, as we're changing him, he thinks this is funny by now.
Finally in the stroller, the attention began. Some ladies in a van pulled up next to me as I walked them down the sidewalk and said "I bet you don't get any sleep." I turned to them and smiled and said, "They're my niece and nephew. I sleep just fine!" And for now, that situation is OK with me.
We are now home, and the Loudspeaker and Sir Pukesalot are asleep (for the moment). They don't feel well because of the shots, and I almost cried with them again as we sat in the nursery to feed them and get them ready to sleep.
Maybe when I'm 30 I'll be ready to do this full time. That gives me six years to prepare. Ok, maybe when I'm 35. For now, the biological clock is on snooze.
posted by kelly_w at 11:38 PM
4 Comments:
I'm so glad you're having some real "practice" at motherhood (or is that AUNT hood?). Anyway, the blog was great.. keep up the good writing!!! Love ya, Aunt Carolyn
Loved reading this, Kelly! Very well-written. It made me smile and chuckle and miss you all the more.
T
Hey girlie, makes all those endless bowls of oatmeal and "LEXI, COME!" seem like a cake-walk eh? :) Can't wait for the 2nd!
Hugs,
H
Ok, I AM 30 an in a few short months I'll be experiencing all this first hand! Oh, and the descriptions of Sam's constant protein spills made me throw up a little.
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