Thursday, March 05, 2015

It feels not great

Andrew was home this morning because I had my OB appointment and he didn't have class, so he was there when Benjamin made a crash landing in the living room. I can't even remember what he was doing, but he fell hard, and crunched his arm funny when he landed. Andrew swears he heard a pop, but I didn't. At any rate there was a lot of screaming and many, many tears. Benjamin was probably the most unconsolable he's ever been.

We quickly eliminated an arm break. At least, we think we did. But once my little sister broke her arm when she was jumping on the bed and fell off and we didn't know until about a week later when she fell off someone's skateboard and broke it again. She'd been complaining the whole time and I think she even was taken in for some x-rays but the doctor didn't find a break...until he x-rayed higher on her arm, where he thought the new break was and was like, "Oh. Huh. So. Yup. She did break her arm last week, too!"

I think she was about three at the time.

Anyway, we don't think Benjamin broke his arm because he stopped complaining about that pretty fast. It's just his finger—his "singy"—that hurts. And he's being adorable about it, of course.

Andrew was trying to see what he could do with it and where exactly it hurt. He tried touching it in places and asking, "Does it hurt here? Does it hurt here?" But Benjamin just said, "It hurts ezzywhere!"

It really didn't seem too bad—it was just a little red and swollen and he refused to do anything with it.

He wasn't really happy about the picture taking...

Andrew started goofing off with him to make him feel better and Benjamin decided it would be really funny if he tweaked Andrew's nose, so he tried to, but then collapsed on the bed, whimpering and cradling his hand.

"Me can't even squeeze my daddy's nose!" he wailed.

But then he remembered that he has another, albeit non-dominant, hand. "Me can just ooze mine uzzy hand!" he said triumphantly, squeezing his daddy's nose with his left hand.

Due to all the excitement of the morning I was barely in time for my appointment—and it was important that I be on time because I needed to have my blood drawn exactly one hour after finishing the glucola beverage I guzzled after breakfast.

While I was in the waiting room (for the whole two minutes I was there) an older gentleman wandered in and looked around. The waiting room was full of pregnant women. He scratched his head and went up to the desk.

"I'm obviously lost," he said. "I'm looking for internal medicine. Is that the next building over?"

"No, that's pediatrics," the receptionist informed him. "Internal medicine is [wherever it is]."

"All these buildings look the same!" the man said.

And that's true. They all look exactly the same. But the look on his face when he walked into the waiting room was priceless.

My appointment went well. For once in my life my doctor seemed satisfied with my weight gain. That's the first time in my life a doctor has ever told me that my weight gain was satisfactory. I have a hunch that eating constantly but never working out is helping a ton in that department. I'm already as heavy as I was with the Rachel and Miriam at full term and I'm just entering the third trimester, so...we're setting records over here.

When my doctor came in she said, "Did you already get your 17P shot?"

"I did," I told her. And it was the same nurse I had last week. And it burns.

"And that must be from your glucose screening," she said, taking in the gauze taped to my arm.

"It is," I said.

"Is there anywhere else you'd like us to poke you today or did we jab you enough?"

"Nah, I'm good," I said.

Zoë was kicking up a storm while the doctor tried to find her heartbeat.

"Is she always this active?" the doctor asked.

"Not always," I said. "But often. Sometimes she moves so much it makes me queasy."

"I'm sure that sugar bowl we forced you to eat with breakfast isn't helping," the doctor said.

"She is a little hyper, isn't she?" I said.

We did listen to the heartbeat for a brief moment, but that was all we could catch.

Zoë's not really a violent kicker...yet. She's just a squirmy wormy. She never keeps still.

Later when the doctor was telling me to count kicks at least once a day she said that usually they tell people to call in if they don't count four kicks in an hour (after a big meal), "But maybe we should up that to ten for you because your baby moves a lot!

Anyway, things are going well. I just have to keep on eating everything in sight and not doing anything strenuous ever. One more trimester to go.

While I was at the doctor Benjamin got to sit and watch The Cat in the Hat and cradle his arm. When he and Andrew picked me up (I'm never sure how long these OB appointments will run (today's was less than half an hour for the blood draw, the shot, and the visit!) so Andrew keeps the van so he can get Miriam from preschool if he needs to) I asked him how his finger was feeling.

"My singy feels...not great," he answered pathetically.

We drove Daddy to campus and then drove to pick Miriam up from preschool and Benjamin was so tired that he fell asleep in the car—for ten stinking minutes!—and that completely shot his afternoon nap. I tried to get him to go to sleep but eventually I gave up and put a movie on for the kids and took a nap myself. Because survival.

When Rachel came home from school and announced she didn't have homework because it's Thursday (duh!) she got the kids involved in playing together and Benjamin actually started using his right hand again—for the first time since he hurt it—which was quite a relief. He spent the day moaning, "I can't!" whenever I'd ask him to do anything (pull down your pants, open the fridge, find a spoon).

By the time we had dinner his finger was feeling "itty bit betty."

But by the time we'd picked Andrew up from campus (at 8:30 PM, after Relief Society meeting) he was back to moaning about his poor little finger. He was also rather tired from having stayed up half the night before and then refusing his afternoon nap. When Andrew said, "And how's your finger, Benjamin?" he said, "My singy tastes like it hurts."

"I think you're mixing up your senses. Your finger feels like it hurts," Andrew corrected him.

"No, Dad. My singy tastes like it hurts."

Benjamin's big on being correct lately. He slammed his finger in his drawer the other day (a different one) and Miriam was very concerned.

"Oh, no! Benjamin, are you okay? Let me see. No blood. You're okay, buddy. You're okay," she said.

"No. Me not okay," Benjamin cried. "Me just fine."

"Fine and okay are the same thing," Miriam informed him.

"No!" he insisted. "Me not okay. Me just fine!"

He says stuff like that all the time and it's cute...because he's two. If he were a little older we'd probably all roll our eyes and tell him to knock it off but he's little and everything he does has a way of being adorable regardless of whether it's also obnoxious or not.

Anyway, hopefully his finger will be feeling/tasting alright in the morning!

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