Side Effect of Colic: Chiropractic Adjustments?

Since blowing out my girlie bits giving birth, my lower back has been killing me. For 2 months I've chalked it up to:

1. Normal postpartum recovery
2. Being 30 pounds overweight *sigh*
3. Bouncing on an exercise ball with Elodie during her worst screaming fits

The exercise ball has been invaluable. I used it during pregnancy to stretch out my hips and help with SPD. I used it during false labor. And now, I'm using it as a better alternative to the rocking chair. (I have yet to use it as an actual exercise ball, but whatever.)

I swaddle Elodie, mash her into my chest, and start bouncing. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Elodie stops screaming. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. She shuts her eyes. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Stop. Elodie opens her eyes, waves her arms. Frantic bounce. Bounce. Bounce. She starts screaming. Again. Angry bounce. Angry bounce. Angry bounce. She stops and shuts her eyes with a pitiful whimper. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

You get the idea, right? Add in normal baby lugging duties and my back locked up.

So. I went to a chiropractor.

Some people love their chiropractors and want to make out with them. Ummm...me? Not so much. But I never was one of those people who lurrrrvvves to have her back cracked or sighs in relief when her knuckles pop. *shudder*

You can laugh--but I thought an adjustment would be like a deep tissue massage or something. I was NOT prepared to be body slammed on a table! And it comes out of nowhere! We'll be talking as he's moving me around and suddenly--BAM!--the guy jumps on me. Even worse? He gets off and keeps talking like nothing happened. I'm laying on the table wild eyed and stunned and he's chit chatting about his four kids.

Hate it. It's worse than a haunted house on Halloween when the freaks who work there are allowed to touch you. Creepers. I walk into the exam room in a defensive crouch with my back to the wall like a triggering Vietnam vet.

Also? The X-ray of my spine reminds me of Mr. Burns.

Excellent. Soon I will have a mighty hump.

Memo on Mom Shorts

My Fellow Mothers:

I know you all got the memo on Mom Jeans. It's a running gag now.

Um, did you get the new memo?

DITCH THE MOM SHORTS!

I saw quite a few of you at the zoo today, running around in gawd awful jean shorts--or their hideous counterpart--the khaki short.

You may think your khaki shorts/tank top combo looks...um...adequate...but I hate to tell you this: Khaki shorts make your ass look huge. The bland, blah color blends right in with your skin giving you the weird look of a giant butt with no crack. I don't care if you're a size 2 anorexic chain smoker, you look fat.

Don't believe me?

That's Scarlett Johansson. And even she looks like shit in that outfit. Your outfit.

Look, I know it's 80 bazillion degrees outside and you're pushing a stroller stuffed full of screaming kids. I know that by the end of the day you're covered in sweat and spit-up and sticky hand prints. But shorts of any kind just look BAD.

We're not 17 anymore. We don't have taunt bronze thighs and high perky butts--we have cellulite and saddle bags. Shorts only emphasize our child-birthing hips, especially when paired with a tight tank top. *shudder*

May I suggest a better look? Like a dress?

You pull it over your head and you're done. No waist bands to dig in. No giant butt. And? You instantly feel pretty.

Come on, Moms! Let's make more of an effort this summer.

Kisses,

Jaci

A Conversation About Ebay

Me: I feel like a SAHM again. I didn't get a shower until 3 and I spent all day digging around the house for junk to sell on Ebay.

Kevin: Hmm.

Me: I'm selling that Frederick's of Hollywood corset that sat in a bag in our bedroom for over a year. I'd totally buy it. $10 for a new corset? Come on! But Ebay is like FLOODED with all this lingerie stuff so I probably won't get my $80 back. It's kind of gross, really.

Kevin: *weird look*

Me: I put my old fat bras up and there are 23 people watching them.

Kevin: Eww! Why would anyone want a used bra?

Me: 'Cause bras are $40 a piece!

Kevin: Yeah, but, isn't there boob sweat or something in there? That would be like a guy buying a used jock strap!

Me: So...used bras are disgusting but a USED CORSET is okay?

Kevin: Well...a corset is like a novelty item. And it's only on for a few minutes.

Me: *disgusted snort* Anyway...I wonder if these 23 people are going to duke it out for my used bras. Wouldn't that be funny if I ended up selling them for more than I paid?

Kevin: People on Ebay are retarded.

Me: Oh, wow. Someone just asked a question about my used bras. This is hilarious! Does it really matter how long they were worn?!? *shouting at computer* They are used!!! That's all you need to know!!!

Kevin: See? Retarded.

Ah. Incompetence.

Remember Elodie's doomsday report?  Heart murmur, milk allergy, and all that?

Yeah.  Well, something didn't feel right about it.

I googled milk intolerance and the symptoms didn't match my daughter.  Where was the vomiting?  The spit up?  The diarrhea?  Elodie's little outfits are spotless on both ends.

She just screams like a mofo.

Plus, the doctor's Great Formula Switcheroo just didn't make sense.  "Try soy for 3 days...if that doesn't work, call me and we'll try (expensive formula who's name escapes me)...then we'll try Zantac...and if nothing works, then it's just colic."

Huh?  You went to med school for this?  I can find better advice on Baby Center!

Oh, wait.  You didn't go to med school--did you?  You're not the new doctor!  You're just a Physician's Assistant!

That's right, internets.  The office has been sending PA's in to examine my newborn each and every time.  She hasn't seen a real doctor since leaving the hospital.  I wouldn't have even realized it if I hadn't checked out their website and saw all their pictures and titles.  (Oh, and guess what Mr. Milk Intolerance has a special interest in?  Mmm-hmm.  GERD and infant reflux.  Gawd.)

To say I was pissed off puts it mildly.

I called my Primary Care--who also does pediatrics--and asked for a 2nd opinion.  (Or should I say 1st opinion?)  I like him because he's deadpan and gives it right back to me.  Sample of our appointments:

Me:  There's something wrong with me.  I'm working hard to lose weight and nothing is happening.
Dr.:  What did you have for breakfast this morning?
Me:  *proudly* Oatmeal!
Dr.:  Mmm-hmm.  And what did you put on it?
Me:  Honey.
Dr.:  That's sugar!  You can't lose weight and eat sugar!
Me:  It's freaking HONEY!
Dr.:  *you're-a-moron-stare*
Me:  What do you want me to do?  Gag it down dry?  That's disgusting.
Dr.:  *sigh*  There are pills, but frankly, they're awful.  One absorbs all the fat you eat and makes you poop.
Me:  I don't want that!  Gawd.
Dr.:  Yep.  Just cut back on sugar.
Me:  *eye roll*

I drug Elodie in to see him and we both agreed that she does not have a milk intolerance.  She has all the classic symptoms of colic, and as the Dr. put it:  "You can try messing around with her formula and gas drops to see if it relieves the symptoms, but really, it's just going to have to run it's course."

The best part?  He listened to her chest for a couple minutes, calmly took his stethoscope off and said, "I can't even pretend that this baby has a heart murmur.  There's nothing there."

Guess who switched her children over to her PCP today?  The Mega Group Pediatricians--and their PA's--can suck it.

Colic

For 3 weeks now, I've handled Elodie's near constant screaming with a smidgen of self-control. (Meaning I haven't stuffed food in my face until I feel calmed by a Thanksgiving-ish nausea.)

I did not handle Elizabeth's colic well. She screamed every night from 5-midnight without fail. And when I say "screamed" I mean the screaming you hear when a baby is jabbed with a needle or has just been dropped on the floor. That wailing that sends adults (and even children) running into the room to see what the hell happened. Imagine THAT kind of screaming. From 5-midnight. Every night. For weeks.

One night I handed her off to Kevin and warmed up her next bottle...while binging on mini Reese Peanut Butter Cups. I ate half a bag in 3 minutes. I remember sort of waking up, looking at the pile of wrappers on the table and thinking, "Holy shit! Why did I do that?!?"

By the time Elizabeth hit 6 months, I tipped the scale at my labor and delivery weight--only this time I was pregnant with a Food Baby. I promised myself I would NOT stress eat with Elodie, no matter what happened.

Well, guess what? Tonight I sat down with restaurant leftovers and scraped the last bits off the styrofoam within minutes. Damn it. What's wrong with me? I know eating isn't going to do anything--it isn't even going to make me feel better! I'll stuff it down, feel too full, and then I'll cycle into a shame spiral...

Wait a damn second...

Am I doing this so I hate myself instead of Elodie?

...

It makes sense. Colic wears on my emotions until there is nothing left but anger. It tears at my nerves until I'm looking into her screaming face and thinking, "She's doing this on purpose! She's a brat! I hate--"

I hate what? HER? A helpless 6 week old infant out of her mind with pain? The baby that I'm so utterly useless at comforting? The baby that I long to escape from when she cranks up? The baby that I pawn off on relatives whenever she starts because I can't take it?

Maybe I eat to distract myself. Displace the anger a little bit. Move it off the baby and load it all on Jaci the Heifer Who Can't Stick to a Diet. She deserves the anger, not the baby.

Or how about Jaci the Bad Mother? The one who sits in the bathtub with a trashy novel and ignores the screams Kevin struggles with downstairs? The one who knows she should put the book down and go relieve him, but instead sinks deeper in the water and pretends she can't hear?

When people ooh and ahh over Elodie, I stand there with a fake smile plastered on my face trying to feel as enthralled with her as they are. When someone says, "Oh, she's so precious!" I feel like crying out: "You don't know what she's like!"

I even have wild thoughts of asking my doctor for anti-anxiety medication because I just want to zone out. I can picture myself walking into his office and saying, "Don't knock me out because I still need to function. Just give me something so I don't give a shit anymore."

This could end tomorrow--or it could drag on for 6 more weeks. I'm trying so hard to survive it intact.

Postpartum Week 6: I Should Be Back to Normal, But I'm Not. FAIL.

Elodie at 6 weeks...she's adorable.

Postpartum Week: 6
Total Weight Loss: 22 pounds
Total Pregnancy Weight Left on My Jiggly Bits: 8 pounds
Body Shape: Uhhh...

At the magical 6 week mark I'm supposed to be frolicking in the meadow in my pre-pregnancy jeans while swinging my chubby happy baby around, right?

Hmph. Not happening.

I've been battling the same 8 pounds for 2 weeks now and so far they have taken the field. I'm even throwing meals of hard boiled eggs and SlimFast at them while they point and laugh.

Screw you, last ragged remains of pregnancy! I will be victorious!!!

Anyway.

You'd think that with only 8 pounds to go, I could at least button my pre-pregnancy jeans and just suffer through the horrible red welt the waist band would leave. After all, I'm not one of those 120 pound lightweights to whom 10 pounds = 2 dress sizes. 10 pounds on me is like...period fluctuation. No big deal.

Well, forget it! My hips must have spread a good 5 INCHES cause those suckers aren't even close to buttoning. And my stomach is all doughy and gross. I can practically reach in and knead it into different shapes.

Mmmm. Squishy.

But I can wear my old fat jeans. (Celebrate the little victories.) And it's summer--season of loose dresses and floaty skirts. I won't need to pour myself into jeans until fall anyway.

All in all, I have to say I'm pleased with my postpartum recovery! Breastfeeding made a huge difference in shrinking my abused body to something resembling normal. As for the junk that's left...well, in the real world of non-celebrities, the body is permanently changed. Just accept it.

Pregnant lady FYI: Your lower abdomen will never be the same. EVAH. It will sag. You will have a flap of stretched out skin that you'll tuck into your underwear every morning no matter how much weight you lose.

I have a long way to go before I hit Happy Weight, but I was struggling with that before Elodie. Now it's time to stop focusing on pregnancy issues and start focusing on...well...just plain ol' Jaci issues.

No excuses anymore.

Killing Her Softly

Yesterday Kevin took over Elodie duties (i.e., rocking/bouncing/swaddling/pacing/crying "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?") so the couch would have a chance to recover from my butt dents. I used my free time to clean.

We women are stupid like that. A man would have been outta there.

I grabbed the vacuum cleaner and ran with it--literally--totally ignoring the Embedded Dirt Light that never flashes to CLEAN like it's supposed to. (I'm thinking of putting a piece of duct tape over it.)

After a couple of swipes in the hallway, I moved on to the playroom and found out what Elizabeth has been up to in her free time. Sticky, used popsicle sticks shoved down the register. A can of peanuts spilled behind the futon. Cheese stick wrappers shoved in the toy box. Chicken nuggets and french fries from her last McDonald's Happy Meal jammed in the book shelves--saved for later.

I went off. I'm screaming, "Oh, hell no! I'm not putting up with this!" and started ripping toys out of the shelves and finding more goodies. Broken toys. Ripped up books. Pieces of garbage and junk collected from around the house and shoved in purses like treasures while real toys lay ignored and scorned.

By now, Kevin is in the room, jiggling the screaming Elodie as he screams over her, "ELIZABETH! GET DOWN HERE NOW!" and I'm muttering, "I can't believe this! I never treated my toys like this! Argh! She drew on the bookshelves with markers! AGAIN!"

Kevin and I spent over an hour throwing out toys and ruined books while Elizabeth looked on--not even upset about it. With each thing I threw out, I grew more and more angry.

Elizabeth has over 50 children's books: beautiful picture books with shiny, silky pages and thick, hard cover story books stuffed full of every fairy tale and child's classic imaginable. I bought them because I always longed for books as a child and had to make due with ancient library books that smelled like puke. I gave Elizabeth books I would have treasured.

Elizabeth owns well over 40 kid's movies, from Disney Classics to Doodlebops episodes. I buy them (at $20 a crack) because I remember how I wanted to own The Little Mermaid and begged to rent it over and over and over again. I gave Elizabeth the movies I would have been thrilled to watch.

Elizabeth--at the age of 4--has more Barbie dolls than I had by the time I outgrew them. They spill out of the suitcase we store them in, naked and uncared for. She has a plastic tub so big it could house my Christmas decorations overflowing with stuffed animals and dolls that are rarely ever touched. She has a trunk full of princess and fairy dress up outfits with adorable high heel shoes. Polly pockets...Littlest Pet Shop...Puppy in my Pocket...boxes upon boxes of crayons...stacks of coloring books...a whole freaking art desk...

A PINK POWER WHEELS JEEP!!!! Ugh! I remember standing in Toys-R-Us at the age of 7 and staring at Power Wheels in complete awe, knowing that I would never ever ever ride in one, let alone own one. It was a dream that wasn't even voiced--and I gave one to my girl, who could care less as it sits in the garage.

I cried. I sat there in the midst of all these toys and cried.

What did I do wrong?
I only wanted to give her everything I could.

I only wanted to make sure her childhood was happy.

And I ended up here. Entitled. Greedy. Materialistic. Always wanting more and more, and never being satisfied with anything for long.

Who am I raising? Who will this little girl grow into? A kind, generous woman? Or a self-centered, unhappy consumer?

I've seen the light (and closed my wallet). I'm not doing Elizabeth any favors by spoiling her. I need to focus less on what's in her hands (or body...or DVD player...) and more on what's in her heart.

Geesh! Anything Else?

I actually put on decent clothes and makeup and left the house for Elodie's one month check-up. I've been chained to the couch/rocking chair/exercise ball (she likes the bouncing) in my pj's trying anything I can think of to make her happy and relaxed. Leaving the house with lip gloss? MAJOR DEAL.

Elodie isn't THAT bad. I tend to remember Elizabeth's babyhood as being 10 times worse (memories of jamming ear plugs into my head to get through marathon screaming sessions come to mind) so Elodie's crying fits seem normal to me. Babies cry, right? The first 3 months are rough no matter what.

So I was absolutely shocked when my appointment went from normal well-visit to Let's List Everything Wrong With Your Baby.

1. Heart murmur and a referral to a pediatric cardiologist (WHAT?!?)

2. Milk allergy and a switch to soy formula...if that doesn't work, move on to Very Expensive Formula/Zantac combo (And go back to work to pay for it.)

3. Contact Dermatitis and orders that no one should wear perfumes or scented soaps around her.

4. Weak back muscles...stupid mom, why aren't you giving her 20 minutes of tummy time?

I stood there in a weird mommy daze, taking all of this bad news in stride like, "Oh, a heart murmur! Mmm-hmm. What else? Allergies! Ha! Who knew? What else?". Now, three hours later, it's finally hitting me that I have to take my baby into Pittsburgh because there's something wrong with her heart and she needs to see a specialist!

This is just mind blowing. She's not that bad of a baby! How can she have all these health issues?!?

And my heart is breaking to think that all the moaning, groaning, and grunting in her sleep might be from her itchy skin because Mommy squirts on Bath and Body Works.

And why is she--the breastfed one--allergic and sensitive? Elizabeth, Queen of Formula, has never had anything worse that a cold in her 4 1/2 years!

Confront Me If I Don't Ask For Help

I have a confession to make: My mom stayed with me for an entire week because I couldn't handle Mom Duty.

She offered, and let's face it, I'd be a fool to refuse help because I want to be the Self Sufficient Super Star.


It's one thing to act that way with Baby #1, but with #2? Puh-lease! I'll even let the MIL fold the contents of my "naughty drawer" if it saves me time and energy.

I was overwhelmed with Elizabeth and Elodie and trying to find a new routine in the midst of chaos. Sometimes it just takes another person with more than 3 hours of sleep to say, "You know, if you put a container of wipes and a pack of diapers on your dinning room table you'll save yourself from running up and down the stairs all day."

Duh. Wake up New Mom.

And while I was in the midst of OMG don't let the baby cry EVAH! craziness, it was wonderful to hand Elodie off to another set of arms so I could go to the bathroom for number one AND two. Or handle an Elizabeth Tweak Out. Or deal with the 6 am feeding and let me sleep because the midnight-two-four shift sucked hard.

So...yeah. Help. It's a good thing. Accept it.

You know one of the best things that came out of this week? The moment when Mom started to get irritated and overwhelmed, too. Call me weird, but it's helpful for me to see someone else start to lose it. It makes me feel normal--and oddly enough, more capable. I snap out of my What To Expect When You're Expecting impossible standards and settle down into reality.

Babies cry. Mom gets annoyed. And the sun will go on rising and setting whether baby gets adequate tummy time or not.

I'm calming back down into my normal "Eh, I'll get through it" attitude. A daily routine is slowly working itself out and I'm not feeling the urge to burst into tears several times a day. Life is good!

And I didn't even need Xanax or a bottle of wine to get there.

Come on baby, show me that smile!

Take a close look at that hand.

Yes, internets. My baby is flipping the camera off.

Elodie is Little Miss Grumpy Wumpy Poop Pants. After 5 weeks of crying, screaming, rocking, bouncing, nursing, changing diapers, bathing, and no sleep--I want to see a smile! Something to melt my heart and make the past month of torture worth it all!

So far? Nothing.

If she's awake, she's fussy. I try to talk to her and make eye contact and give her big smiles, but it's hard to keep that up with a baby who's yelling in your face. It's at the point where I see her start to wake up and my shoulders slump because Elodie isn't a squishy bundle of baby coos.

She's more fun asleep.

We're at that awkward baby stage where she's not a sleepy newborn but she's not a rolly polly happy baby. She's the anti-social lump with baby acne.

The first smile is like getting your first paycheck. New jobs always suck for the first two weeks as you get to know everybody and settle in to a routine...by the end of the first week you're totally exhausted and wonder if you made a huge mistake...then your boss comes around with your paycheck and suddenly? All is right with the world.

Well--HR forgot my paycheck.

They better issue it next week.

I'll See Your Silly Band and Raise You a Slap Bracelet

Silly Bandz. Kids trade them at school! They only cost $5! Teachers are losing control of the classroom! CHAOS REIGNS SUPREME!!!!

*eye roll*

It's a rubber band. If you're a teacher who has lost control of the classroom because your students are swapping rubber bands...well, honey, I question if teaching is the right profession for you. (Better ban the paper clips. I hear they make pretty distracting necklaces.)

What happened to the old school teachers? You know, the ones that had to deal with slap bracelet burns?
And pegged jeans? Hey, in some high schools, those pegs were a perfect place to hide your dime bag.
And 80's hair? I wouldn't even try to keep order in a classroom where the girls looked like this.

*Side note: My sister Jen had this hair, and it was awesome.

Teachers, please get a grip. If the worst thing The Limited Too set does in your room is fling oddly shaped rubber bands at each other, you've got it made.