Oh, how I wish this was a post about our dear daughters acoustic stylings.
Alas, it is not.
To really understand the full scope of what I am referring to, I must begin with what transpired on Friday night.
My dear, sweet, lovely cousin was in from Oregon. Considering that I hadn’t seen her in years (perhaps as many as five years), I was really looking forward to catching up with her and introducing her to the twins.
In my mind, the meeting would be fit for heaven: my twin cherubic delights would be angelically smiling and cooing whilst my cousin oohed and ahhed over their perfect blue eyes, creamy complexions and amazing ability to grasp toys with their sweet little fingers. It would be the makings of a Norman Rockwell portrait.
What transpired instead? My eldest twin was, in fact, angelic. She cooed and slept and was a delight. My youngest twin cried – nay – screamed for the better part of an hour. We took turns rocking, singing, cuddling, walking and soothing her. The only pause in her blood curdling scream was to inhale and start over.
While my primary and initial thoughts were, “What is wrong with my sweet baby??!!” I must also confess that in the background of my brain, I was thinking, “What is wrong? WHAT IS WRONG?? Why won’t the crying stop? We are going to be THOSE parents. The ones that can’t control their children. If our children turn out to be wild teenagers, everyone will point back to their infancy and this particular night and say, ‘Yes, we all saw it coming.’ Holy heckfire – please stop crying! I’ll buy you a pony! I’ll buy you a car! I will tell everyone publicly that you are my favorite! Please, please stop crying!”
It’s a good thing that those thoughts were only running in the background of my brain because the rational thoughts circulating in the foreground included, “Oh my gosh, what if she has a tumor that is rupturing and I’m sitting here trying to tell her to calm down and this is an EMERGENCY! Maybe we should go to the hospital? Would I sound crazy if I suggested that we go to the hospital? Can tumors rupture? Ahh!”
And of course, my devoted and loving husband stood next to me, his brow earnestly furrowed saying encouraging and helpful things in a hissed whisper like, “What in the world do you think is wrong with her? What should we do? Feed her? Change her? Over stimulation? When did she poop last? Should we get a Q-Tip?”
Did I lose you at “Q-Tip?” For seasoned parents, you may be familiar with the age-old parental horror show of using a rectal thermometer to stimulate, ahem, the bowels. When our doctor first told us that the only option to get things moving in our preemie newborns was to gently insert a rectal thermometer, we both gagged silently and thought, loudly, “one-two-three-not-it!”
The first three day stint of no-poopies almost resulted in the use of a rectal thermometer. We held baby Ellie in our arms and told her how much we would sooo appreciate it if she would get things moving. Miraculously, Ellie ended the stand-off with a BM that resulted in Frank sending me the following text, “POOPIES!!!”
We breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Turns out that was a bit premature.
A week or so later, Ellie went almost four days. For some reason the thermometer seemed too harsh to us, so we opted to go for the Q-Tip. And it worked like a charm.
And so, last Friday we found ourselves trying to remember the last time we changed a poopie diaper. Three days? Four days? Hmmm.
Out came the Q-Tips.
But no dice.
We decided to pack up the girls and head home. By the time we got home, Carrie seemed to be in better spirits and went to sleep easily.
Saturday was fine.
Sunday seemed like it was going to be OK. The girls slept almost 12 hours. We had K-Fam time and I started getting ready to go to a bridal shower.
You know, an event with adults, lunch, punch, copious amounts of female giggling and cake.
I love cake.
In between finishing my make-up and taking my rollers out, Carrie lost her ever-loving mind.
I tried everything. Frank looked at me and I looked at him.
“Q-Tip?” we were hopeful it would work.
Nevermind that we were up against a serious deadline – my sister was coming over to babysit while Frank got ready for work and I left for the shower.
Then we googled options and there was a site that suggested a baby enema.
I can’t even explain how that is executed.
At this point I was sweating from rocking and “shhing” and going up and down the stairs. There was no way my stick-straight hair was going to hold the curl today. It was the least of my concerns.
Oh, and Ellie had decided she did not like all of the raucous crying and started whining.
I made a very adult decision: I could not go to the bridal shower. No cake for Mama Bear.
We called the doctor’s office’s answering service. They doctor’s office’s answering service called the doctor. The doctor called us. Dear, lovely, wonderful doctor suggested a suppository.
When she explained to Frank how to administer said suppository, he replied, “Oh, our poor girl!”
The doctor chuckled. “More like, poor you! I think the suppositories are worse for the parents!”
Frank went out and bought the suppository while I told Carrie that if she pooped now, she could make this all go away.
We marched Carrie upstairs, administered the suppository (some things are left unexplained) and waited.
Let’s just say, Carrie is feeling much better tonight and slept for the rest of the afternoon.
Moral of the story?
I don’t really know.
I just need to write this down so that when I am arguing with the girls about curfew, I can at least be grateful that this era of my life is behind me. Well, it better be behind me.