Day Twosies

Hey everyone, thank you. I mean it. If there's one thing that never ceases to amaze when you're in crisis, it's the outpouring of support and prayers from such lovely friends. Between this blog, Sean's Facebook, a prayer chain in Sean's hometown, and my ginormous family, Jordan pretty much had a country praying for her.

We did in fact have to stay at the hospital again last night. It was ruled that Jordan had bronchiolitis (like bronchitis but for the smaller bronchial tubes I guess?) and her white platelet count had reached an alarmingly high number in an effort to fight off the virus. She is doing worlds and galaxies better though; staying an extra night was precautionary.

In an effort to not focus on some of the abject horrors that befell my young yesterday - like I don't know... Jordan's being born with whispery ghost veins that are responsible for the blood-extractors' inability to fill their vials after THREE different puncture attempts, all while her own mother was bodily pinning her to the table *shudder* for a full fifteen minutes - I have compiled a list of some things that actually procured a tiny crack-smile during our stay in Dante's Inferno.

1) Check Jordan's sweetass Pedes uniform. Open back, ties at the neck. So on trend.

Might've snuck that out with us in the diaper bag.

2) Are you a nurse? I love you. I know this is not the case for everyone, but I have SCORED in the nurse department every time I've had a hospital journey. One tidbit that kinda cracked me up occurred the first night at 5:30 in the morning. This sweet Filipino night nurse came to check Jordan's blood-oxygen levels. Neither Jordan nor I had found sleep yet but it was pitch black and quiet in the room so the nurse probably thought we had. The blood pressure machine when switched on registered like VOLUME 800 and incessantly beeped, to which the nurse didn't pay much mind. However when Jordan started softly and earnestly murmuring some sweet nothings to her, the little nurse whispered "Shhh, sweetheart, your mama is sleeping."

3) Jordan's relationship with the roof of her cage flourished.

4) Hospital food. J to the K. Just wanted to sneak this photo in. Sean was doing "jet fighter plane" with Jordan's yogurt and I must've been taking a bunch of pics in a row cuz he wanted to know if I was taking a

Video?

5) Serious Papa Bear/Cub time. They were thick as thieves.

6) Jordan was a champion. Truly impressive. Despite quite literal torture (which in her innocent eyes was aided and abetted by her parents) and a whopping total of 3.5 hours of sleep in 36, she was smiling, cuddling, pretending the movable hospital bed was a bucking bronco, and at one point laughing hysterically at her IV rack (pretty confident she was loopy by then). The doctor called her a warrior and she really was just that. At fifteen months old she is an example to me.

Because I, on the other hand, was a pathetic puddle of anxiety and defeat thinly disguised as bag lady with unkempt eyebrows and stretchy pants who was living out of her purse for 48 hours.

It's home again home again for us this morning armed with antibiotics and a nebulizer to battle the bronchial adversary. I truly madly deeply appreciate all of the prayers. I'm quite sure they kept me from the precipice of hysteria and undoubtedly sped Jordan's recovery.

 Sheeeeee's back!

The Most Worst

That's right. I used double superlatives. But read on before you Grammar Nazi me then reconsider.

I'm new here so I hesitate to unleash on this community The Furies that are the last 12 hours. But why else was the phrase "blog it out" coined but for free therapy?

About ten days ago we brought Jordan to the ER because her fever spiked to 104 and she wouldn't let me so much as glance in the direction of her sizable belly (which was a feat not to do in and of itself) without doubling over in heartbreaking anguish. Turns out my poor bug had a double ear infection (ouuuuch) and a case of the constipation (which was better than the feared appendicitis). 2.5 hours and an antibiotics prescription later and we were on our way. Not painless but as smooth as it goes in the ER.

Sickie

So for the last three days the only way to describe Jordan's nose is to say A River Runs Through It. But it wasn't a big deal til she came home with Sean last night carrying around a cough that sounded like it belonged to Roz from Monsters, Inc.

As the evening progressed I watched my poor baby girl labor harder and harder for a simple breath. Sean is the mayor of Web MD and he announced (not calmly!) that the way Jordan's chest caved every time she drew breath is serious cause for alarm signifying a number of (not harmless!) conditions. I walked/ran into a pair of sweatpants on our way out the door and into a Toyota that was driven much faster than it was ever meant to.

Same hospital. Same EXACT room.

Not same diagnosis and not that simple this time. Jordan was still being poked, prodded, stethoscoped, urine sampled, blood sampled, x-rayed and what have you at 2 in the horrible morning and only doze off reluctantly and fitfully at 3 after fighting valiantly to free herself from the faux cast the nurses constructed to prevent her from tearing her IV out.

After a quick nap with Dad she was up again at 3:30 for a transfer from the ER to Pediatrics. She got her comedic relief for the night in the form of her new accommodations. You know how cribs are often referred to as cages? This was actually a cage. Gray metal bars ran into a plastic ROOF which Jordan thought was endlessly funny to press her whole face against.

Jordan was diagnosed with either the onset of pneumonia or a bronchial virus. Apparently they present similarly but the doctor is leaning towards the bronchial virus. My baby girl only ended up getting to sleep at 6 this morning after having to have an IV rethreaded which was horrible for the both of us. I broke my self-imposed I-won't-cry-more-than-twice-a-year rule three times over last night. 

I'm on my way back to the hospital as I only came back for a quick rinse and a strongly caffeinated beverage. The majority of this post was in fact written during the time these two were able steal some winks between 3-3:30

so run-ons, grammatical errors, and nonsensicals are undoubtedly strewn about.

Some of you perhaps don't know me but if you get a free sec today and are so inclined I'd be forever grateful for a little prayer for my Jordan girl. Poor thing has had a tough 12 hours. We're expected to be released tonight but there's a possibility of another night spent in Pediatrics (pleeeeaaaase please no) so I will let ya all know lates.

Anatomy of a Pigtail

It's a big day when your baby daughter finally has enough hair to pull into a pigtail. For some of you this day was the one after you gave birth to her. But my daughter looked approximately like this

with just a thin film of copper hair (that fell out shortly thereafter) and a preemie outfit she was swimming in. She completed the look with a discomforted stare of unfamiliarity that screamed "You don't look like a uterine wall!"

For others of you, you must wait months and months before you can execute the mockery that is a girl's first pigtail. I Instagrammed this sucker about two months ago:

but notice how you're more focused on the big bald spot than the little squirt of hair protruding directly from the back of her head, which is pretty much the only place Jordan's hair grows. So I decided to hold off a little while longer cuz I didn't want the kids on the playground giving her a hard time. Then this past weekend the three of us went out for a little Sunday Funday. I decided to accessorize Jordan's overalls and checkered button-up (they were purple checkers, ok?) with another attempt at the elusive pigtail.

We started out ok - although you'll notice that Jordan's scalp still takes serious issue with growing hair on top of her head, so the best I could do was gather her mullet:

To achieve my look pair staying up too late Saturday night watching The Big Bang Theory with a 7:30 a.m. Mass in which your daughter was too rambunctious for even the crying room, and be sure to hold the eyeliner.

Anyway please note the peppiness and sprightliness of Jordan's fresh piggy. It's ready for adventure. But after a lenghty afternoon cruise down to Malibu for some outrageously priced fro-yo and some poking around, you are left with what I call "I took a nap in my carseat piggy":

Does the profile bring anyone to mind?

I think I'll just stick with barrettes for a few more years.

The Royal Pain.in.the.Baum

I love cinema. I love the history of cinema. I know a disgusting - read, appalling - amount of movie and movie star trivia dating back to the silent era. Heartbreak and anguish awaits he who challenges me to Trivial Pursuit, Silver Screen Edition. Just don't do it.

That was a fairly unnecessary preamble to the non-impressive point: over the years of extennnnnsive movie-viewing - after each of which I find out everything there is to know about anyone who acted any part of it - I have amassed a few favorites. "Favorites" to me means I can watch the movie multiple times perhaps even inside of a year without tiring of it. I can't honestly say how many times I've watched BBC's Pride & Prej (that's what the insiders call it) since it came out in '95 but it is certainly upwards of 30 (my social life might have flourished better in middle school if I were exaggerating on that score...but I'm not).

Recently I decided to lay bare my soul and share one of my Favorites with Sean:

Ok this movie has become a personal tradition of mine. It has the Wes Anderson Greats: Bill Murray (naturally), not one but BOTH of the Wilsons (Wes spoils us), plus a couple of my faves like Danny Glover (because Angels in the Outfield of course! (which by the way features a 13-year-old Joseph Gordon-Levitt))  and the Gwyneth. And, the soundtrack is a must.

For whatever reason, I always feel like watching Royal during the holidays. Shortly before Thanksgiving for the last few years, I gather: the ingredients for the perfect pumpkin pie; a crackling fire (c/o my parents house, this tradition cannot take place in tiny apartment); this movie; and myself, and go to Cinema Sublimity and Baking Bliss Town. The picture I'm trying to paint for you is that this movie is important to me.

So Sean and I settle into it. I'm snickering at the dry and physical humor; I'm getting emotionally invested in Luke Wilson; I'm volleying between pitying Gene Hackman and thinking he's an a-hole. As the final scene comes to a close, Sean exhales a long sigh in which he softly slips the announcement "...that was the worst movie I've ever seen..."

Guys I'm not surprised or even hurt. I knew he was going to hate this movie. Anyone who knows anything about Sean knows that he can't decide which movie of these two is his favorite:

or

 

He didn't have a Butterfinger's chance in Jordan's pudgy hands of liking any Wes Anderson film, and I knew this. Honestly, I just felt like watching it. I enjoyed myself. Especially when he said, "There's no way anyone likes this movie!", and I pulled up Sean's movie bible (Rotten Tomatoes) and waved the 80% critic and 87% audience score in his copper-bearded face.

But I've learned from this experience. I don't think I'll ever bring myself to show him Hook. If he didn't like that one I don't think we could grow old together.

A Thank You Note; An Apology Letter

My last 48 hours or so of checking Blogger has me walking around my apartment like this

 

though not with that body and not in that dress. I am so grateful to Kate and Grace for linking me, and am fully aware that relinking them right now is slightly tautological because aside from the 5-6 friends and family members I've persuaded to read this blog, everyone else is here because of one or the other of them. My blog traffic went from the looking like the CA-118 to the I-405 in the span of a few hours! (a little LA humor for Kate) I also must give a shout-out to my bestie Meg for introducing me to the two of those fine ladies (the former in person, the latter in....internet). What? Meg's name isn't clickable?! I KNOW! She hasn't launched her blog yet and I'm getting all KINDS of impatient. The suspense is upsetting me.

I hear the orchestra playing my exit music so this concludes my acceptance speech...and now I'll commence with the penitential portion.

Dear Frazzled Couple attempting a Public Meal with Hellion Child,

I'm deeply sorry. Unbeknownst - or perhaps extremely beknownst - to you, I have been judging you my whole life. You've suffered my disdain, my annoyed looks in your direction, my indiscreet gossip about you with my dinner partner. In my thick skull I was thinking, "Those parents are so inconsiderate for making an entire restaurant endure their brat's tantrum." or "Gosh those parents must not discipline that child at all." or "Man I would spank that kid."

Please forgive me, mea culpa. There is an off chance that your child is a brat and you are overindulgent parents. Or perhaps, as has recently happened to my husband and I, you had been used to taking your child out and seeing this in the high chair next to you

RAVIOLI. MY FAVORITE.

But an unexpected and undesirable turn of events has occurred for no immediately apparent reason. Molars? Maybe. A more discerning palate? Unlikely. Anyway, our last two meals out with our child have been unmitigated disasters. I look around me and recognize my former looks of contempt and scorn in our table neighbors. On our family date last night to the neighborhood Irish restaurant and pub (which was blessedly noisy with the booming dinner rush) Sean and I took turns escorting a writhing, twisting, grunting, and completely unmanageable Jordan outside while threatening her through gritted teeth with indefinite time-outs. During the last five minutes of our meal we made the too-late discovery that ranch dressing is the Jordan-Whisperer and a single fry sufficed as the medium to spoon ranch from cup to mouth repeatedly. Yeah I know. Ew.

I'm pretty sure I'm not an overindulgent parent. Though admittedly I can't vouch for Sean. But Jordan does not get spoiled by my hand. Besides, up until a month ago Jordan was nothing short of pleased as punch to be taken anywhere and given an apple wedge to, while I went about my date with my husband. Not so now. Not so. Sean and I agreed last night (in passing each other on our turns in and out of the restaurant) that we will have to discuss and execute a discipline regimen for the midget. Stat.

To conclude, I offer my sincerest apology to you, frazzled parents, and would like to inform you that I too have joined your legions. Sean and I have decided to beat the system though, and you can too! Our future public meals will be sans Jordan (c/o babysitter) until she sees fit to act like a grown up.

Warm Regards,

Mistaken & Ashamed

#hashtag

It occurs to me the title of this post is slightly repetitive. It's ok.

I, Jessie the Obdurate, have not caved to The Facebook. I do not participate in The Twitter. I have not ventured into The Pinterest. However, I must admit to the world and my readers that I check The Instagram like twenty-six times a day. Sometimes (and you'll never get me to admit to how often I mean by that ambiguous adverb) I check Instagram and go to "like" a photo, then realize that it's 57 seconds old. I don't want people to think I'm on there all the time so I close the app and bide my time until another Instagram urge hits me 7 minutes later. That's an appropriate wait period. Like away.

Now that you have the backstory I'll get to my point. I'm not a big hashtag user. I did it a couple of times but I felt weird about it. I don't have a problem with it, nor am I annoyed by it, but I've just concluded it's not for me. Be that as it may, I have lately found my thoughts peppered with an alarming amount of hashtags. Does this happen to anybody else?

I was in the store a couple weeks ago and saw that I missed a call. I listened to the voicemail a friend left me while waiting in line to pay out. This particular message was chock full of different emotions, and they all played out on my face - I went from being aghast to laughing to feeling deep pity to smiling like an idiot, all inside of 45 seconds or so. I hung up the phone and realized that an elderly gentleman was watching me the whole time with a not-subtle smirk on his face. #creeper #embarrassing

At Barnes & Noble Jr. the other day I turned around in time to catch my progeny enjoying a solitary moment in a sea of children:

#loner

Or today when I was five minutes away from my destination I hit this mess, lengthening my commute by another fifteen minutes:

#killme

 Jordan was thwarted the other day in her hopes of crashing a birthday party at the park:

#whitegirlproblems

 Observing Jordan's inability to keep yogurt in her mouth even after 8 months of practicing:

#movember

I think what I'm trying to say is I might have a problem. I feel like my thoughts should flow a bit smoother and not be interrupted with these jagged sentence fragments or remotely related adjectives preceded by a tic-tac-toe layout. Instagram is laying siege to organized thought. It's time to #stickittotheman; #takebackthiscity; #rageagainstthemachine.

#whoswithme ?

Post-Halloween Post

So Jordan's first participatory Halloween was kind of a bust. Last year she just sat complacently in my arms while people poked fun at her large green ears and cozy old man robe. This year...she tore up the streets. Fortunately my parents have lived in their cul-de-sac for over twenty years and are good friends with all their neighbors, because Jordan's idea of trick-or-treating was selecting as many pieces of candy she could fit in her fist, shoving them in her mouth (wrapper on), digging her razor-sharp fangs into the plastic, then placing them gently back in the candy bowl as if to say "no thanks, this wasn't my caliber of Kit-Kat wrapper." She would not keep her hood on but being as I safety-pinned it to the back of her dress the worst she could do was take it off from over her head and have it flow behind her like some sort of deranged midget superhero.

We made it to the end of my parents street before Sean was assigned to take her back and put her to bed. I forged ahead with my siblings, mom, and aunts to "the Haunted Meadow" or more appropriately, "I peed my pants." I entered this haunted house attraction behind my ten-old-sister and her similar-aged posse, and surrounded by another sister and her boyfriend, another younger sister (I've got five of them, it gets crazy), and my aunt. Somehow I still managed to injure my larynx and lose sensation in my knees. After braving different sections of the haunted house - which included a room with a huge TV screen displaying static snow behind which a young girl with long black hair hanging in front of her face crouched and emerged (while i sobbed "Not her! Not her!" into my sister's shirt) - I sprang out of that hellhole to find this

As my lingering scream from that last zombie with a gory bullet wound in her forehead drew out into a high-pitched "eeeeiiiiiiii" I was un-holstering my iPhone to snap this shot off to remind myself of this proud moment when my 10-year-old sister was not only willingly but happily perching in the lap of my 26-year-old nightmares.

Meanwhile

the men held down the candy-distributing fort.

Yes, one of my brothers is using the clean laundry as an ottoman, while my other brother occupies the king's leather throne and my Dad is banned to the child's papasan chair. Sean, amidst all this is thrilled to be finally accomplishing his lofty goal of the season: watching a horror movie (they chose Alien) which his tyrannical wife never ever permits in their apartment (see previous paragraphs).

Thrills and chills all around.