Some women treat themselves to a little something special on their birthdays. A mani/pedi, a massage, perhaps something as simple as enjoying a little extra chocolate. The world tells us, you deserve it! Indulge! Pamper!
Apparently such ideas are too tame for this momma. Would you like to know what I treated myself to for my birthday?
It all started with my first attempt at making wings on Monday. I went with Frank's Red Hot medium buffalo wing sauce. Baked, not fried, and garnished with bleu cheese dressing. Mmmm!! Joel and I thoroughly enjoyed our dinner, and I patted myself on the back for branching out into the world of delicious finger foods.
Little did I know that I was setting myself up for the birthday of birthdays.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. I was totally fine. No digestive issues here, I can handle the Frank's. Little Mikayla? Not so much.
I knew something was up when she wouldn't go back to sleep after her 7 a.m. feeding. I wasn't sure whether my big three month old girl was just changing her sleep schedule a little, or just having an off day, but she certainly cleared that question up for me in short order. Not only did she not go back to sleep, but she screamed like I was asking her to sleep on somebody else's sheets. (Serious business. I gave birth to a little Princess and the Pea. I think she can smell the difference between fragrance-free detergents.)
Ooooh the inhumanity of it all! We found a few minutes of peace when I laid her on her back instead of her tummy, but soon she was wailing and thrashing again. My usually sunny morning-person daughter had a disposition to match the stormy weather outside.
We spent the next six hours alternating between tenuous contentment and heartwrenching misery. She typically naps like a champ, but yesterday she would not fall asleep except in my arms, and that only for about ten minutes at a stretch. Joel came home to both of us asleep on the couch, since I didn't get my usual booster shot of beauty sleep from 7-9 a.m.
I must have started five different projects. I folded half the laundry, leaving it strewn on the coffee table when she became particularly upset. I had a couple of loads sitting in the washer and dryer. I showered quickly, leaving her to her own devices for ten minutes. My makeup was out on the bathroom counter, but I had to dash off without applying any. My hair....well. Anyway. I started to take her temperature...er...down there, but she promptly peed ALL OVER the thermometer, my hand, the changing pad. The morning was a total wash in the traditional sense, as I devoted myself to constantly soothing my daughter.
So, Joel arrived home, waking me from my gentle slumber on the couch. I realized that I needed to get ready for work, like, pronto, so I tried again to place Mikayla in her crib. No deal. Leaving Joel to help her, I raced around to make myself presentable and finish what little I could. Meanwhile barking the details of Mikayla's morning to Joel so he would know just what he was in for. He helpfully suggested feeding her before I left. Allow me to note that when I attempted to feed her in the morning, she only screamed harder until she was SO starved that she finally ate. Fantastic. Let's try that again!
She did eat. That is the good news. The so-so news is that her eating stimulated a rather....significant digestive event. With a little training that girl could have sharted the alphabet. (Shart = poo + gas at the same time, for those who are older than twelve.) I thought, maybe that will take care of things! But upon checking it out, there appeared to be some...issues with the poo. *reminds self this is a public blog, and censors details*
Then, because I wasn't frazzled enough, we decided to rush her to the pediatrician's office to make sure everything was ok. Between worrying about Mikayla and juggling phone calls to cancel and reschedule my appointments, it was not quite the birthday I had pictured.
Thankfully, Mikayla got the all-clear from the pediatrician (diagnosis: the buffalo wings. The doctor had to call it "colic" for billing purposes, but let's be honest.). Yes, fair reader, with a single shake of a Frank's bottle I personally ensured gastric fireworks for my daughter and one heck of a birthday for myself. Oh, and did I mention that our pediatrician doesn't accept our new insurance? Cheers to Eden Park Pediatrics, please treat yourself to a lovely spa weekend, courtesy of our out-of-pocket fee.
But you know what? God is good. Mikayla is fine. Joel stopped for a Sheetz sub and Sonic shake for me on the way home. And I beat Joel at Backgammon last night after work (except for the times when he beat me).
Who ever said my birthday should be flawless and stress-free? Why shouldn't it be a reminder of all the ways God provides in the midst of my frazzled humanness? If this day was a sample of what's to come in my next year of life, I'd say we are in good shape indeed. A God who is faithful and a husband who serves me and our daughter. Who needs birthday presents? (Well...I'll be honest, the milkshake didn't hurt...)
[In other news, they weighed Mikayla at the doc's office and she is 13 lb 11 oz at three months old. Just thought you should know.]
SDG!
