Da Mama

So, as promised, here is a little bit more about me, tha mama!

I grew up in a small town, surrounded by family. I have two brothers and a sister, we range in age- (soon to be) 22, 23, 24, and 25. We are very close because of our close ages, and being this far away from them kills me, as I know it kills them. I am obviously the youngest.

In school, I have always been really good at English and History--basically, things involving memory--but have loved the sciences. You can blame my mother for that because she got her degree in microbiology when I was little, and is as big of a nerd as I am. While in high school, I played trombone in the marching band (GEEK), and participated in Literary Critiscm for UIL, as well as volunteering for anything in everything. I was particularly active in my youth group, as well with the charity organizations Teens Living with Cancer and Carter Blood Care.

My dream has always been to be a neurologist, specifically in pediatrics, but unfortunately I have neither the stomach nor the time to invest. Which stinks, because medicine is a big love of mine, and will probably always be. As it is, with a degree in business, and my history with the company, I hope to get a position as a new accounts consultant for the aforementioned Carter Blood Care. I would be doing good work with them, and would still have intimate ties with medicine.

Art has always been a fascination with me as well, and while I am not particularly good at it. I keep working at it though, because talent is a matter of time invested.

Michael says I am super-sensitive and a bleeding heart (which is why he frightens away any stray that gets too close to our house). I love cats so much--probably because we share one big common factor--when we want to be loved on, when we want to be touched, we will initiate it. I am not very cuddly, as it would turn out, and am not a big fan of hugging or kissing anyone but my husband and children. My cats are Remy LaBeau and Oscar de la Renta (I'm weird), and we also own a rat terrier named Pepper Ann Potts. Michael refuses to let me have any more pets unless something "mysteriously" (read--I find new homes for them and they...) disappear.

Medicated

I couldn’t think, couldn’t sing, couldn’t write.

It had stolen my ability to be Andie.

I have suffered from depression in one form or another for over ten years. First arriving on the scene as postpartum with the arrival of my strawberried Emerald, it took root in our difficult life circumstances, fed on my up-and-down hormones from four pregnancies, and flourished in autism and diabetes.


With tiny baby Emerald, I should have been suspicious when I told Michael, “I’ve read that some mothers don’t bond with their babies right away, so it’s okay if I don’t love it yet,” by his response:


“She’s already here; can you not call her ‘it’?”


From the thickets, it’s kind of hard to see though. Your body is telling you that you indeed feel this way so obviously you are supposed to feel this way—if it wasn’t a logical reaction, you wouldn’t be having it. It isn’t until you separate yourself through the lens of someone else’s perspective that you start to realize the script is all wrong—this isn’t how your story is supposed to play out.

The analogy that is most often referenced is getting glasses for the first time: you didn’t realize how blurry everything was until it came into focus.


After Benjamin was born, I was sitting at my general practitioner’s, Dr Andy, for my 25 year annual physical. It was my first appointment with him; I was referred by my obstetrician because they were golfing buddies. Michael wanted me to bring up my mood swings in response to an incident we had earlier in the week: We were running behind getting ready to go to church, so I got upset and kicked the high chair across the room. Which apparently was the wrong reaction.


As I sat there, feeling ridiculous because I had a couple of bad days and Dr Google over here was diagnosing me with depression, and the doctor is going to think I’m an idiot, why am I even here, this is stupid, stupid. Tears are in my eyes and my throat is sore because I am not going to cry again and make a fool of myself, and I’m just so, so angry and I don’t know why. I am absolutely furious, fuming, sitting there on the examination table all by myself and there is no reason.


This isn’t what depression was advertised as. You envision sadness, not anger. Thoughts of suicide. I didn’t want to kill myself. That would have taken way more energy than I had available, and I couldn’t see hurting myself. At night when I closed my eyes for the briefest moment, I would wish I wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t want to die, but living was so hard, and death sounded so...peaceful.

Dr Andy explained that depression wasn’t just sadness; it was all the emotions, right under the skin, ready to fly out before we could stop them.

He prescribed Celexa (citalopram) for depression, Elavil (amitriptyline) for anxiety.

The first week, I was euphoric. Not because the medicine had such a profound impact on me, but because I was so optimistic—we had identified the problem and there was a solution! I wasn’t a cold, hateful mother; it was a biological issue. The medicine was going to help, I could feel it in my bones.

The second and third week felt like I had been cruising down the highway going 80 miles per hour and someone had thrown the parking brake. Instead of my emotions feeling right under my skin, it felt like I carried them overflowing in my arms—in any given situation, I had to frantically sort through and figure out what exactly I was supposed to be feeling, experiencing every emotion at once in a confused and upsetting state.

After about a month and a half, everything evened out and we got on kind of a system. Weekdays, I’d put Gabe on the bus to PPCD, drop Emerald off at preschool, and go home to put baby Benjamin down for nap. While he was sleeping, I would take my two little “happy” pills and hope nobody needed me for an hour because I would be too dizzy to drive. I’d lay on the couch feeling like I was rolling somersaults; then it would pass and the rest of the day would be pleasantly tepid.

It felt like the colors had been scaled down on my life. I was no longer seeing red furious or blue sadness, but I wasn’t laughing and joyous either.

After hurting for so long, the mediocrity of okay days was paradise. 

I stayed on the two meds for a couple of years until I moved to Abilene and got a new doctor, one that reacted with horror when he saw the amount of serotonin-affecting medicine I was on. He had me drop the Elavil and cut my Celexa dose by half.

The new regimen lasted about a year. During that time, I slept whenever I could get away with it. I was a perfectly pleasant (for the most part) individual, perpetually living between nap times. What drew me up short, what made me question the medicine I was on, was when someone asked me what I did for fun and I realized:

I can’t name one thing I enjoy.

I’m a person of superlatives—I have a favorite in every category, just go on and ask me. But during that time, I couldn’t think of anything that brought me pleasure. It felt like I was doing things because I had done them before, things like watching cooking shows and reading, but there was no satisfaction, no emotional connection, just an automated response.

With depression, my chest ached remembering things I had once enjoyed, longing to recapture that experience. I’d get a plate of TGIF hot wings—my favorite, with the crispy outside and the buttery, spicy sauce—and will it to taste as good as I remembered, but it never did. I’d get dressed up and go out on dates but no matter how much I put on my “happy” costume, I couldn’t make my insides reflect out.

The treatment, the antidepressant, though...it felt like the candle inside me had been blown out.

If my favorite show was on, I wouldn’t look up once until the credits were rolling and realize I hadn’t heard a word. I would sit down my favorite meal and taste nothing before the food was gone.

My mind felt like a yawning, wind-filled cavern where placidity reigned supreme. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t sing. Couldn’t write.

Antidepressants had stolen my ability to be Andie. 

For a brief while, I switched to Wellbutrin to see if it was the specific med that was causing the issue, but it was an emotional cataclysm and I couldn’t finish the initial 6 week course. I talked to my doctor again, noting that my youngest child was then four years old, so the underlying issue—postpartum depression—had likely passed its course. I had ridden the wave of celexa through the last storm, but now it was time for the clouds to part and let us evaluate what was left to work with.

It was hard to wean me off because I was on such a low dose to begin with, but gradually I got to the point that my system was clearing out. There was a significant period of adjustment, a time in which Michael and my mother asked repeatedly if I thought this was a wise choice (with the heavy implication that they disagreed with this course of action). To ease the transition, I started going to counseling to learn coping mechanisms.

Three main strategies emerged successfully for me:

The first was my lists. I made a list of the minimum I was allowed to get done each day. Eat healthy, Drink Water, Do something enjoyable. If I accomplished nothing else that day, then I could say I tried to take care of myself, which was a start.

The second was taking time for myself. Twice a day—once before Michael left for work and the second after dinner—I would go for a run. It was 90 plus degree weather and I loved it because I could blast my heavy metal music and not talk to anyone or socialize with anyone for a half an hour or more. It was just me.


The last was my “Thought Vomit” journal.

My counselor had recommended a mindfulness program. He said thoughts are like leaves in the stream; we can watch them pass by; we acknowledge they are there, we hear them, and we let them pass. If we don’t hear the thoughts, they’ll just keep repeating until we do, so acknowledge them.

My homework every week was to write down what I was thinking for 15 minutes every day. Just write. It’s a different process to write than to speak or to think; it feels so much more actionable. I would find a spot, usually not long before bed, and I would write down everything I was thinking—every emotion I was feeling, every song I had stuck in my head, every complaint and every praise and everything, like a grand purge until there was nothing left.

Emptiness not like the one caused by Celexa, which felt like a desert with friends hiding where I could not see them, but an oasis where nothing was happening, no one was moving, and I could just be at peace.

I spent a year getting reacquainted with myself, remembering what brought me joy and satisfaction outside of being a wife and a mother. Lemonheads, Tim Burton movies, the dark and macabre, but also sunlight and dancing and Jude Deveraux. I liked things that were powerful evocators, things that demanded a reaction. Joy was something I had missed for so long and wanted to spend as much time in as possible, but I rediscovered things I did not like as well: loud noises, big crowds, being late, messes. It reminded me of what it took to take care of myself.

Toward the end of my pregnancy with Tula, the depression took hold again. I was snapping at the kids, taking four baths a day, just waiting. Waiting to feel better. Waiting for happiness to come back. Three weeks postpartum, having cried every day because of change in routine or unexpected events or delays, I started on a low dose of Zoloft (Setraline). I was dizzy at first, but then it just ran quietly in the background. It felt like it was gently nudging me away from the darker thoughts, away from spiraling into a panic attacks. It was a little platform that held my emotions up until I could take over again on my own.

Sometimes I felt weak or foolish for needing medicine, for not being able to handle it. I felt like I was supposed to be coping better.

When I was feeling kinder, I knew that just as Gabriel took medicine to control the symptoms of his autism and Emerald took insulin to manage her diabetes, I needed support, too. It wasn’t a matter of my ability, but a physiological disruption that had to be corrected. Taking action was coping. 

I still have bad days. Thursday was a bad day. Gabriel ruined my coffee, drank the back-up; Emerald and Benjamin would not stop fighting and I burned only dinner to complete inedibility. We were supposed to play a game as a family but my dour mood had soured it for everybody. That day, I didn’t cope so well. Spending that time learning how to care for myself, satiate my emotional needs, taught me though: it is okay to have a bad day, because tomorrow will be better.

I know how to make it better.

—Andie

She's a Natural

People think parenting is instinctual.

I have to assume they base this on observing nature. Look at God’s creation, who know exactly what to do to care for their young! Surely man, who was made in God’s own image, is even better equipped to rear their offspring!

This only works of course if you don't look too close. Black bear mothers, for instance, are lauded as one of most protective and nurturing, but will often deem single births as not worth the time investment and will push singlets outside the cave before going to sleep and trust the situation to resolve itself. Pandas will choose the most promising offspring and ignore the other completely, devoting all her time and energy into her favorite.

There are many species that treat their young callously, making you wonder how their kind has managed to survive at all. It is no surprise then that the extent to which humans are inherently nurturing extends precisely to not eating our babies when they are born and not much further.

I have mentioned before that I myself was not born maternal.

My mother likes to recount the story of a Christmas when I was small that I received a babydoll. This was a special babydoll that made crying noises, just like a real baby! I named him Christopher, and before all the wrapping paper had been picked up from the floor, I had stuffed the squalling nuisance in a drawer and left the room.

If you had asked me when I was younger if I wanted children, it would have stumped me. Honestly, I never thought about it. I liked names--Stephen and Varian for boys, Scarlett and Charlotte for girls. Names were pretty and interesting, things I enjoyed studying. Children were scary and unpredictable and more than a little gross. I went out of my way to avoid interaction.

Cousins tempered me a little. Jacob was close to me in age so he was more of a peer, but the rest were considerably (nine or more years) younger. Jessica it took me the longest to warm up to. Justin was always wanting to do stuff and be outside and move. I didn't see Sean very often, but he was sweet and didn't bother me excessively.

Tyler, who Benjamin reminds me a lot of, was probably the one I...it sounds harsh to say “tolerated”, but it is somewhat apt. I loved all of them, but Tyler was the easiest to spend time with for a while. He would get a stack of books and sit in my lap and twirl my hair while I read to him. This was the kind of kid I could handle.

When Emerald came along, it was like handing me a rubix cube with a bomb inside.

I never baby talked to her. It was matter-of-fact speech. “Hello, infant. I am your mother.”

Had she known better, I'm sure she would have been terrified.

She didn't though, and so we set on the path of learning together. Nursery rhymes were not in my wheelhouse, so she was lulled to sleep by Mom crooning Matchbox Twenty and Queen. Growing up Church of Christ was a boon because I had a positively endless trove of worship songs memorized.

One particular afternoon, I sang “Down to the River to Pray” (from the “O Brother Where Art Thou” soundtrack) for an impressive four hours, inviting every familial name I could invoke to “let’s go down, come on down”. It kept her from crying at least until Michael got home.

We didn't play games like peek-a-boo or hide-and-seek. I explained to her what I was doing, showed her how things worked. I shared facts with her about everything--things we saw on walks, the nutritional value of food we were eating (if any), the science or history behind everyday items.

Eventually we amassed a collection of children's books, but before then, I read aloud to her whatever I was reading, be it scripture, textbooks, or classical literature.

And let's just say, people like me are the reason there are instructions on the side of the diaper box.

She and I didn't know what to expect from each other, so we learned with and from one another.

As a child, I spent a lot of time around animal babies. Mostly cats, my Sassi having a litter of darling kittens what seemed like every few months, but also chicks and ducklings, little bunnies and puppies and goats. All those that were born at our house knew right away had to find their mom for food, even with their little eyes and ears still shut.

Why then was breastfeeding so inexplicably, intricately difficult? With each new kid, it was like riding a bike. Except the bike is on fire, you’re on fire, everything is on fire and you’re in hell.

A lot has changed in the decade since Emerald was born. She taught me a great deal, the least of which is every subsequent kid is a totally new creature. You'll feel as inept and out of your element trying to figure out each new little person.

I remember bringing Gabriel home, thinking I was officially old hat at this newborn thing, when he ended up peeing all over my living room wall during a diaper change. (Gotta watch those boys; I know this now.)

It serves us well to start parenthood out as a blank slate, I think. Excessive programming would have made it that much harder to acclimate to the unusual circumstances each of us face in our unique children. It helps us stay innovative, trying new and different things in an attempt to nurture these lives we have been entrusted with in better ways.

If you had told a fifteen year old me that I would turn into mush over a baby, I would have thought you were crazy. But Tula here transforms me into a pile of mashed potatoes, she's so cute. I have a virtual arsenal of nursery rhymes and lullabies (though I still sing my fair share of Queen), and a closet chock full of picture books to share with her.

And would you know it, I coo and baby talk with the best of them.

There's still so much more to learn, though. This is the first baby I've had that was mama’s--she cries if I'm not holding her constantly. Even Michael has trouble getting her happy sometimes.

And would the powers that be just decide what is safe and just leave it at that? I just read an article the other day on why you definitely should not use Dreft laundry soap for your infant. I didn't even know babies needed different laundry soap until two kids ago!

Like any vocation you dedicate yourself to, you are going to get better. I have spent the last ten years perfecting my craft at a rate of nearly 24 hours a day.

People often ask how I do it--how I know what Gaby is thinking or what he needs, how I wrangle one kid while nursing another while making a plate and calculating carbs and taking a phone call and baking an award winning pie (yeah, right. Like we get pie).

Hey, I guess I was just born for it.



Yup. This is good.

--Andie

The Next Chapter in Our Story

This is story is continued from “God Is My Strength”.  “http://weardenfamilynews.blogspot.com/2016/05/god-is-my-strength.html”.

Gabriel had just been born, and Michael was fired from his job at the call center.

There is a concept in video games known as draw distance or render distance. Put simply, it is the maximum distance you can see out in the fictitious land from one immobile place. Done well, it can convey the enormity of an open world; done poorly, it is like wearing bad glasses where the further out you go, the more blurry and distorted it becomes.

Metaphor within a metaphor, better get to my point.

The time after Gabe was born is a lot like poor rendering. I feel as I stand here in my clarity like everything from that time is shrouded in a thick fog, isolated events and moments fairly obscured. Part of it was because of baby brain--I was pregnant more often than I wasn’t in those couple of years, and my body was having trouble recalibrating to its new normal.

The biggest cause may have been the sleeplessness. Gabriel did not consistently sleep through the night until perhaps the last year, and even now I say ‘consistently’ with a significant amount of hesitancy. From birth until the age of three when he could receive nighttime medicine, most 24-hour periods he got a nonconsecutive two hours of rest.

Someone had to be up with him during that time. Michael worked full-time; I couldn’t because the cost of daycare was outside our means, and because I was still going to school part time. All days and most nights fell almost exclusively to me. That is not to say that Michael had it easy or that he was not contributing. It is just one of those things.

That is why I have had such a time writing this; why it has been two months. The next page in our saga was not the most difficult; steadily our lives were improving, things were getting better. We would look back and laugh at some of the parts that made us want to cry at the time. Some parts, like the dirty taco restaurant near our old apartment, we would remember almost fondly. Others, like the day we got evicted...we don’t really talk about those. We bundle them up in the smallest parcel possible and stuff them way in the back of the closet of our hearts where we don’t have to see or think about them anymore. This blog series has been our first revisit to many of those memories.

A reluctant return in some cases; there is quite a lot I'd rather forget, let the render fog just….wash away.

To know Gabriel now, you couldn't even imagine anything bad about him. He's so gorgeous, loving, affectionate. His beautiful brown are always deep in thought. He likes to cuddle up next to you and give sweet kisses, loves Veggie Tales and docilely flipping through the Bible.

I don't want to take that image from you; that is who he is. There is kind of this unspoken code that you don't talk about the worst bits. People start to think the worst of your child, of autistics in general. Wonder if they are a danger to be around or allow to be with your children. It makes daycares feel justified for turning away special needs kids as liabilities. Churches feel like it is appropriate to ask a family to worship someplace else.

Everyone I tell this little tidbit to (particularly Christians) are absolutely horrified by it, but that doesn't detract from the truth:

I do not know a single special needs family that has not been kicked out of a church.

The manner, the politeness, may vary, but every one I have encountered shares this common experience. I have a friend that took her child to Sunday School, one they'd be attending for years, to find a group of parents clustered around a notice posted inside the window like Martin Luther’s theses nailed to the door. It was a letter from the church with her name clearly at the top telling her they would no longer accept her child in bible class or the church-run daycare.

People who hear that balk, and insist that surely their church would NEVER do something so horrible. How is that a Christian attitude, they demand. For didn't Jesus say, “suffer the children unto me”??! That is simply and utterly outrageous!

….except that it's not. Should be, but that's not how it always works out. Having a neurodivergent or differently-abled child is one of the most cripplingly, devastatingly lonely journeys. You feel like the whole world has turned their back on you, this is something you have to face--and bear--alone.

You'll often hear me say how lucky I am to have Gabriel, and I still fully, emphatically mean it. I adore him. Plain and simple--I've loved him hopelessly since the day he was born and every day since.

I find myself trying to sugarcoat it. Pulling my language; don't want to scare you away, dear reader.

Then I ask myself...who softened the blow for me and Michael when we were 22 and 24 (respectively)? Who pulled punches to protect our innocence? We made it through; this story is one of triumph, not defeat. We were not especially blessed, uniquely qualified, or graced with particularly robust patience. Quite the contrary: ask anyone that knows me well and they'll tell you I'm a cantankerous, ill-tempered troll better suited to scaring children from under a bridge than rearing them.

I'm resilient though, and stubborn as they come. Michael, too. And we have a God that has not abandoned us or failed us for a second.

Gabriel as an infant had to be in motion. Benjamin as a baby was squirmy--he liked to roll in your arms like a manatee on crack, but Gabe was different. If his body stopped, he was gale-force squalling.

It was so pervasive in our lives that Emerald, at the tender age of two, developed anxiety and started showing signs of stress. Her parents day out program called us to in to have a sit down meeting. They were concerned because whenever the classroom got louder (which it is wont to do, full of toddlers), she would wring her hands, twist her shirt, and yank out her hair, babbling incoherently. If it got to be too much, she had a meltdown or ran away, behaviors generally frowned upon in daycare.

I internalized this, of course. Blamed myself for keeping our house too quiet, not exposing her to more at a younger age. We called for an Early Childhood Intervention (ECI) evaluation, where she qualified for speech and occupational therapies. ECI is a government-funded program being part of the school, so you can go ahead and judge me for being on that one as well. Medicaid reimbursed them for coming, which is weird that the government insurance was paying for a government program, but I'm not going to overanalyze it. Even if we weren't on Medicaid, ECI saw you--if you qualify for services, you get services.

Speech helped her gain language; OT taught her self-regulating, soothing techniques. For her brief stint as only child, she really was the perfect baby. Bright-eyed and intelligent, eager to please. She was so happy all of the time. The transition was difficult for her. She adored her baby brother, always wanted to hold him, play with him. It was a big adjustment, though. Always is.

For one thing, we were co-sleepers. We tried to do the crib thing, cry out, read all the books on getting her out of our bed, but honestly, I liked holding her. She was warm and squishy and smelled like milk and lavender and undiluted joy. It made me feel safe having her close-by in case there was an emergency, and it helped me bond with her when it didn't come as naturally to me as it should.

When Gaby was born, I had to be available to him for feeding. I had the night shift then. Emerald stayed in our bed, but I slept on the sofa near Gabe. Over the next several years, I tried to move back into my bed with my husband, but more often than not I was on that tomato red couch. It was where Gaby was, and Gaby needed round-the-clock care.

Writing it all out, things fall into place a bit better than they had at the time. I didn't know I still harbored feelings of guilt for Emerald’s anxious behavior until just now. I can also see how we arrived at the place where our family was divided neatly down the middle: Daddy and Emerald, Mommy and Gabe. Michael and Emerald had our bed in the back; Gabriel and I took the other end of the house. No reason for everyone to be up.

For hours most every night, I would walk the baby in circles: through the living room, across the dining room, into the kitchen, front hall, then back again. At the start of the night, I would sing. That's what you do for babies, right? You sing. Gaby hated my singing though, so after a while my voice would peter out until all you could hear was the rhythmic patting of my bare feet on the linoleum. If I stopped, my tiny son would start to cry again, so I kept going for as long as I could stand.

The swing didn't move fast enough for Gabe’s liking, the gentle gliding motion not neatly vigorous enough; when I needed to rest, I strapped him in and coaxed it along with my foot, nodding against the wall and jerking back awake until dawn.

In June 2009, Michael got a job selling cars at Scoggin Dickey. It was often thankless work, 10 hours of standing on scorching asphalt six days a week to sell cars to the rudest, most ill-informed consumers in existence. Everyone buys into the crooked, cheating car salesman so full-heartedly that it has almost become encoded in our DNA to mistrust them. The company treated him very well, though--as long as he was trying, they took care of us, sales or no sales. The paychecks were inconsistent amounts; we never knew how much we would have to work with until it came through on payday. We made do. It was no extravagant lifestyle, but we were surviving.

The demands of the job were taking a toll on Michael; it is exhausting work, and he was unaccustomed to the sheer force of hatred directed at him from perfect strangers. He periodically applied for other jobs all over town, but nothing else ever came of it.

He left at 7.30 to get into his office by 7.45. The kids and I would go out on the front porch and have picnic breakfast in the cool morning, watching people heading out. Emerald would color with sidewalk chalk or play with bubbles while I would gently push Gabe back and forth in the stroller. When it got too hot, we’d go inside. Emerald’s favorite movie at the time was “Meet the Robinsons”, so we would all three pile together in the recliner. Run time at 1 hour, 42 minutes, if I could get Gabe calmed enough to sit--or, if I was exceptionally lucky that day, asleep--I could get an hour or so nap, so long as I kept the chair rocking while I did it. It wasn't the ideal situation, but it worked.

The commute to the dealership wasn't far--ten minutes each way--but gas prices were so high that we tried to drive as little as possible. Despite the cost, Michael drove home for lunch most days. I couldn't make it an unbroken nine hours; if he was with a customer, it could be even later. He could have saved the money and take his lunch at work, but he trekked back and forth to offer relief to me.

Living it, I didn't realize anything was wrong. I knew I was tired, and that I actively dreading going to bed at night because night was the worst time. Children are all different though; probably just colic. A phase. He’ll grow out of it and things will get easier.

With reassurances like that, our days faded in and out much the same way for a year and a half.

A Day in the Life

Prompted by my dear Karla Black, who asked: What is your typical day?

Our day starts precisely when Gabriel decides it should. He is our rooster of sorts, for whatever time he has deemed appropriate on that particular day is when he--and consequently the family--rises.

If his tablet is within reach, he will turn on his shows at maximum volume (so that every family member may enjoy) and wander up and down the main hall of the house, laying down with each of us in turn until we all resign ourselves to being up for the morning. This usually occurs somewhere between the hours of midnight and 6 am.

If Michael or I has had the foresight to plug in the iPad the night before, Gabriel assesses his immediate needs. Is he hungry or thirsty? Then his first stop becomes the kitchen, where he jimmies the lock on the fridge or hulks the door off the cabinet in order to obtain something appetizing; this (if he is able to open on his own), he dumps the entirety to the kitchen floor, eating perhaps 1/18th and smashing the rest beneath foot. Should the tantalizing treat be too tricky to open unassisted, he brings it to his somnolent parents and throws it atop us, repeating as often as necessary to achieve desired results.

When urination is his first and primary concern, he will lay down next to his father, nestle close beneath his arm, and let loose the golden rinse (the outcome with mom on similar treatment has been met with angst and ire, prompting young Gabriel to avoid her for this particular need).

Mostly however, he will lay between Mom and Dad and spin and cackle like a drunk witch performing broomstick-barrel rolls.

Michael and I are then grudgingly up for the day.

On a typical summer day--let’s say it is a Monday, as our schedule is fairly static at this point but differs from day to day--I will go wake the remaining two rather grumpy children at around 7 and instruct them to dress before I go to the kitchen to start making breakfast. Dressing is an activity I do not have to oversee for them because I have simplified the process: on every hanger in their closet, there is an outfit complete with shirt and matching pants.

After changing Gabriel’s diaper, Michael will prep the dose, dissolving a risperidone pill in a small amount of soda/juice/gatorade, really whatever we have on hand. Risperidone is an antipsychotic that helps control the extremes of autistic behavior. Michael then goes to do his morning routine.

Breakfast nearly ready, I call for the kids to wash their face and hands and for Emerald to do her finger poke--it tells us where her blood sugar is at. She tells me her number and calculates how much insulin she will need to give herself to cover her blood glucose. I tell her how many units she needs to cover her meal, which she adds to her number, and administers her fast-acting insulin, Novalog. (For example, she gets 1 unit of novalog for every 50 over 150 that her blood sugar is,  up to 5 units; if her blood sugar is below 150, she receives no insulin for that portion. She also gets 1 unit for every 20 carbs she eats. Say her number is 150 and her meal was 60 carbs; she would give herself 1 for her blood sugar and 3 for her meal for a total of 4 units of insulin before breakfast.)

Michael meanwhile has gotten ready for the day, so he dresses Gabriel and administers the dose of Risperidone combined with Quillivant, a medication used for ADHD, while I make plates. The kids file into the kitchen to pick up their breakfasts. If we have nowhere to be first thing in the morning, we take our breakfast picnic style in the backyard while it is cooler. This week, we actually had food camp for Gabriel so we let the kids eat alone at the kitchen table while I get ready to go.

But food camp is not every day, so back to our regularly scheduled Monday.

Daddy kisses everyone goodbye and heads off to work while we sit in the sun and enjoy our meal. I spend the next hour cajoling, coaxing, and convincing the children that fresh air and exercise is good for them while they lay in the grass and complain that it is too hot and that they want to go inside, their legs are tired and why can’t they play with the hose.

Upon returning to the house, they begin the chorus of “why don’t we ever go anywhere or do anything fun?”

This is our cleaning time. I send Emerald and Benjamin to picking up toys, putting laundry in the baskets, and putting away their belongings from the main rooms of the house. I will occupy myself with laundry or dishes, stopping every few minutes to check on my sweet little ducklings, who are happily singing as they joyously and lovingly put away their belongings.

Right. In truth they are laying half draped off their beds, bemoaning their difficult lot in life, cursing the cruel fates that have stuck them with such a meddlesome mother, and emphasizing how exhausted they are from the undue burden I have placed upon them.

The house (passably) clean, I send the kids to play while I try and get work done for REACH. Depending on how much I have going on, I may have to skip the cleaning that day and just focus on getting as much done as possible. Currently, I am corresponding with local agencies to get informational brochures and flyers for the resource packet I am assembling.

Depending on the weekday is which therapist we see. Mondays and Wednesday is Speech; our sweet Speech Language Pathologist (SLP) comes and attempts for a half an hour to teach Gabriel functional language while the siblings desperately vie for her attention. (And let’s be honest, I am, too.)

Lunch time, Michael generally comes home from work. To maximize his time here, I usually have something prepared and ready to go when he walks in the door. Emerald does her song and dance routine of diabetes again with the fingerpoke and the insulin shot and everything. Either Michael or I prepares the second dose of the day, a risperidone and clonidine. Clonidine is a blood pressure medication that helps Gabe sleep.

Gabriel has not yet learned to sit down during mealtimes, preferring instead to wander the length of the house. He will use his entire fist to scrape a handful of food off of his plate (thankfully, he is not a particularly picky eater) and attempt to transfer as much as he can into his mouth. A significant portion ends up on the floor, walls, furniture, and his person; he requires a full bath after most meals.

Possession is also a concept that is beyond him, making it difficult to identify which food is “his” and “not his”. Whichever plate is closest is the one he will remove food from. We have progressed to the point where he will primarily steal from Benjamin exclusively, Mom and Dad being persons you do not cross and Emerald having developed impressive protective skills. This causes great consternation to our youngest, who will scream, cry, stomp his feet, and holler “NO GABY!” approximately ten thousand times per meal.

One trait of autism can be “dumping”, where the child upends containers to spill the contents about. Gabriel is a devout practitioner of this particular custom, letting us know that he is finished with his beverage by pouring it to the floor and throwing the cup atop it. His food likewise will be upturned onto the table and spread about for maximum coverage.

While one parent cleans up Gabriel and sets him up with his tablet, the other lets the dogs in to clean up the mess. Depending on what we ate, there is a fairly significant amount that did not end up consumed. Everything has to be cleaned and wiped down before it sets in and becomes a total pain to scrub off.

Michael heads back to work and I lay the kids down for nap. This quiet time is really mostly for me--I need a few minutes to reboot, have quiet thoughts and recenter myself before facing an afternoon with the gremlins. During this time, I may write or start prep for dinner, do laundry or dishes. If it has been a particularly hard day or we were woken particularly early, I may play a video game, read a book, or take a nap. This is a very good time.

Nap time can’t last forever (no matter how much I want it to) and we head outside for snack. During the summer, it is often popsicles because of the low sugar content and how refreshing it is. If I am feeling particularly amiable, I let the kids put on their swimsuits and play with water guns, water balloons, or the sprinkler in the backyard.

Dinner on Monday has to be fairly prompt a little after 5 so that Michael can take Gabriel out to Buffalo Gap for therapeutic riding. The kids are banished to play, read, or quietly engage themselves while I cook. Gabe’s third risperidone is prepping on the fridge.

Emerald does her third fingerpoke and shot of the day, we repeat the chaotic food flurry from lunch ending in the same mess, letting the dogs in and cleaning Gabriel, wiping everything down.

Buffalo Gap is around 25 minutes away from our house, depending on traffic and the route you take, so Michael leaves with Gabriel at around 6.30. If they have been exceptionally good that day, Emerald or Benjamin might get to go as well, but I like to use this as Gaby/Daddy time.

While they are gone, Emerald and Benjamin get baths. Benny is still in the phase where he hates to get his face wet; it is a lot like bathing a cat, him clawing to get out and you trying to wash whatever you can reach and atttempting to keep the howling child in the water.

Kids ensconced in pajamas on the couch, we cuddle and watch cartoons and wait for the rest of the family to come back home. I have got Gaby’s last dose of the day--two clonidine--cooking on the top of the fridge so we can administer it as soon as he walks through the door. After bath, Emerald did her final finger poke and shot of the day, this time the long acting insulin Lantus. That amount stays the same every day, regardless of her blood sugar--9 units, every night at 7.30.

Michael walks back through the door, sweaty and exhausted. Gabriel is considerably calmer than when he left. He gets his dose, and the four of us--me, Mike, Emerald, and Benjamin--trudge off to the back room to all put away the laundry I have been folding all day. Emerald makes the beds that Gabe has pulled the sheets off of, Ben hangs up things for me and puts them in drawers. (Or, more likely, throws them on the floor where I can pick them up and wash them again the very next day).

Gabriel’s sleepy time medicine takes an inconsistent amount of time--it could be an hour, it could never kick in and he just powers through it. The latter is becoming less common; he usually has to be pretty worked up to burn through the dose, and we have gotten pretty good at keeping him calm.

Perfect world, he takes the dose at 8 when he gets back from his horseback riding and falls asleep around 9-9.30. Clonidine seems to make him thirsty, and he’ll drink 4 or 5 cups of water before falling asleep. We have to be careful and change him before he gets too drowsy or he will pee out while he is sleeping or wake up when we change him and never calm back down.

But perfect world, so he is asleep at 9. The other kids have been sent to bed at 8.30, so Michael and I get to snuggle on the couch and fight over the xbox. He lets me win, and watches me play Fallout 4 until I start falling asleep on his shoulder around 9.30 or 10.

I kiss him goodnight and go lay down, knowing the next day will start anywhere in between 2 and 8 hours.

--Andie

Jolly Little Sir

I have been wondering what Gabriel's "thing" would be--Emerald has her art and dance, Michael has his programming and graphic novels...I want to know what Gabriel will be passionate about. During my pregnancy, I was hoping I could forge a little Dave Matthews--devastatingly beautiful singing voice, talented at a number of instruments, creative and romantic. It may be my own wishful thinking, but he is all ready showing a love for music--perhaps my dreams for him have come true!! (*Side note--I am being as realistic as possible about this, and know that he is just an infant and cannot show too much preference for any one thing, this is just my observations).

Gabriel's absolute favorite songs--the ones that can't help but bring a giant grin to his face (see picture above)--are The Sausage Man Song (proof that he is a male from the Wagner clan--there hasn't been a little boy yet that hasn't responded to that song) and You Are My Sunshine (Mama's special song for him--in case you are curious, Mama's special songs for Emerald are Crazy for This Girl and She's so High Above Me).

Every time I sing to him, he coos along, very obviously trying to sing along with me, to the point that he stops when I stop, and restarts when I start singing again. Whenever Emerald watches her Wiggles, he sings along with that as well. He is just such a happy baby!! He reminds me of stories of Amber (my sister) when she was an infant--she was forever singing, and she has such a beautiful singing voice.

The only hang up I have is that though his Daddy has a lovely voice, most men in my family are ::cough:: not the best singers. They love singing, but they couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, if you know what I'm saying. Maybe he got the right genes--Granny (my grandmother) has the most beautiful voice in the world. I may just have my Dave Matthews yet! I'll get on teaching him "Let You Down" right away.

(And I'll see about getting a video of him singing for me to post!)

--Andie--

Tuesday

Today, I was awoken at 7.30 am in the most terrible of ways--to the sound of Gabriel gasping for air from his bassinet. Specifically, it sounded like he had spit up and was drowning in it. Luckily, Michael jumped up to find what appeared to be a perfectly fine, though panicking, Gabriel. Since his nose started running profusely the moment he was in my arms, I am thinking it was drainage that had gotten backed up in his nose and throat, and so will follow the pediatrician's advice from days past--if we elevate the side of his bassinet his head lies on with a pillow underneath, there is no risk of suffocation, and the excess mucus will merely drain down his throat.

That being said, I have nervously watched him all day, spoiling him more than a child ought be and have scarcely let him leave my sight. It was very frightening, to be sure, but I believe Michael is right, and that I am just overreacting.

Emerald, on the other hand, has been in quite the darling mood all day. She has cheerfully done as she is told, and is exploring more than ever before. The picture above is of the little darling intent on reaching her colors, and crawling on top of the table to do so. She thinks it is just the funniest thing ever. While Gabriel and I did some light grocery shopping, Michael took her to pick out some little toys--she picked out a little Batman figure and a Joker figure. She is becoming more and more like her father every day. Thus far, she has enjoyed making the figures kiss, then later fight one another. She is a bit all over the place.

As a reward for such good behavior lately (and getting 15 stickers for being good), we bought her a Happy Meal dinner and hot fudge sundae dessert. She was ecstatic--nothing makes that child happier than golden crispy nuggets. And she is the only child I know that shows less interest in the prize than in the dinner itself. Afterwards, she was a bit giddy, twirling all around the living room, bumping into things, laughing hysterically, and hugging anyone or anything that came too close to her. I am starting to think Mr. Remy LaBeau (the ginger tabby we own) lives and dies for that girl, as he will let her cuddle him like a teddy bear while she naps on the couch, carry him all over the house, and shower him with kisses. The cutest part is that he looks like he was made for Emerald--they both have the exact same shade of hair.

All in all, a very good day for Michael's day off of work, with the occasional hiccup. Hopefully, we don't have trouble with Gabriel tonight, though I am sure I will jump at every sound and not sleep a wink. Luckily, Emerald is finally sleeping through the night and in her own big girl bed, so hopefully I will get a little rest.

It's just about that bath and bedtime, so have a good night all =)

--Andie—

Gabriel's Birth

Welcome to our Wearden Family Blog! Hopefully, this will help us keep everyone more up-to-date on the comings and goings of us--Michael, Andie, Emerald, and Gabriel.

Since we have been hermits for the last few months (years), the next couple of posts will probably be catching up to the point we are now--Emerald is 20 months old, Gabriel 3 months. First, Gabriel's birth!

Gabriel was due February 24th of 2009, or Rhonda's and Marian's (Gigi/Granny) birthday. Unlike my pregnancy with Emerald, it didn't look like I had gestational diabetes, which was a huge relief, as it was an inconvenience more than anything else. Unfortunately, they were wrong, and due to Intrauterine Growth Restriction (IUGR)--meaning Gabriel was not able to grow--and the diabetes, they wanted to get him out as quickly as possible. His lungs were "severely underdeveloped, due to miscalculated due date and uncontrolled diabetes", which means instead of being born on February 12-14, he had to bake an additional week and a half.

It ended up being a godsend that we had to delay the birth of the baby, because Emerald chose that moment to develop the flu, RSV (Respiratory Syncytial Virus), double ear infections, and antibiotic-related yeast infection and had to be kept away from me and the little baby until she was no longer contagious.

Michael was the only one that got to know the baby's gender, and therefore he was the one that got to choose the baby's name. He later told me that he had narrowed it down to three boys’ names, three girls’ names--Alexander, Dylan, and Gabriel, and Aeris, Myka, and River. I love all those names--my husband has wonderful taste!

We did the c-section at 1pm on February 20th (a Friday), and it was a bit of a fiasco, to be honest. The nurse in charge of me was having quite the difficult time, resulting in multiple attempts to insert my IV, a veritable gusher of my own blood all over the hospital bed, and administration of amoxicillin (to prevent infection during the surgery), to which I am allergic. So, I was a little panicked when I actually ended up in surgery, but it all turned out fine in the end.

Gabriel Lynn Wearden was born 6lbs, 9oz (the exact same as his big sister had been, and 1 oz lighter than I myself had been) and 19 inches long (1/2 inch longer than Emerald). He had the loveliest olive skin, big dark grey blue eyes, and a dusting of the silkiest dark hair.

We stayed in the hospital for the standard three days after the c-section. He did not have any trouble when he was born--no jaundice, no blood sugar issues (despite the diabetes), nothing. He was perfect. J

Now he is the happiest, gassiest 3 month old baby boy, and in the next few days he will be joined by his new best friend, Baby Boy Bevill!!

--Andie