It's been a while since our last post--mainly because there has been so much going on. 2012 started with a bang--several fun visits with friends and family, but Isaac got a little sick at the end of the month.
Isaac's sickness was basically just a bad cough until last Wednesday night. That night, I did normal bedtime, but he never fell asleep. At first I thought he'd eventually get there, but as the restlessness continued, I got increasingly worried that something was really wrong. He seemed very uncomfortable and wrapped up in a nightmare--neither sleeping nor fully awake. It really scared me when he begged for me to hold him---AS I was holding him. I didn't know what to do, or what was wrong with him. Eventually he roused enough to respond to my, "what's going on Isaac?...Is something wrong with your body?" questions. He said, "Fingers. Pain." What? He continued with, "Toes. Hurt." and "Penis--" as he grabbed at himself though his pjs and diaper. All this got us worried enough to turn on the light to inspect his body. With the light on, I could finally see the horrible rash all over his...fingers, arms, toes, legs and yes, crotch. The poor baby. However, with the pjs off so we could see his skin, he started itching.
Scared, we took his temp. No fever. Go to the ER? Call the doctor? Even though it was 1:30 AM, Josh called our doctor's page number. She kindly gave us some suggestions and offered us an early morning appointment if we could make it.
None of us slept that night because when Isaac was with one of us, he was loud enough to keep the other awake. Eventually, it was morning and we went to the appointment. At first he was diagnosed with Fifth disease, a virus. After a throat culture though, the sickness was changed to Strep. Strep with a rash is scarlet fever--scarlatina. I didn't know that! So antibiotics were prescribed and taken an hour or so later. Quarantined until the rash was gone, all of our weekend plans were canceled (two birthday parties!). By the end of that day, he was acting a little more normal. By Saturday, he woke up smiling and babbling away. By today (Sunday), he seemed almost completely better. The rash left a few scars because of the scratching on his fingers and wrists. Other than that, he is okay.
We still have six more days of antibiotic. That's a bummer because he already hates it. Initially, he drank it down willingly. He actually used to ask for, "more?!" Now, Josh and I trick him by telling him we want to drink it. Ugh. Six. More. Days. Three. Times. A. Day.
The title of this post, "Counting, sickness and singing" is because even though Isaac has been sick, he continues to grow and develop wonderfully. He can now count to 11 (that is his favorite) as long as we supply either all the odds or all the evens. He identifies his letters and numbers enough to pick up a book called, "Colors" and say, "C--O--L--O--R." I swear. He also sings slightly (ba, da, da) to favorite songs like Justin Roberts's song, "Butterflies." Opinionated as ever, he lets you know if he likes or dislikes the music choices in the car or house.
Just today, Josh and Isaac started singing in the Newton Family Singers--the group I did for a term and the Schuman-Oliviers have been doing all along. I like the group, but need to focus on graduating and don't want to take on another responsibility. Also, our agreement is that I can work-out or do work during that practice time. Anyhow, Isaac apparently LOVED being there. At the end of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," Isaac gleefully shouted, "I did it!" from the top of Josh's shoulders.
Perhaps because he's bright and talkative, he's starting to challenge me and Josh in new ways. For example, at dinner, he'll demand, "snack" and refuse to eat. So in response, Josh and I are erecting more boundaries and setting up rules. Boo! For example, during meal time, he now has to sit at the table. He doesn't have to eat, but he must sit with us. He's not allowed to purposefully throw things (a bad habit he started when he'd get angry). The consequence is one of us takes him to the corner and counts to 20 or 30 (is that why he's counting!?!). We tell him why we're doing a time-out before and after. Afterward, I reassure him that I love him. I'm trying not to have anger in my voice during these moments, but in reality, I usually feel really frustrated with his behavior!
I've ordered Ellyn Satter's book on healthy eating habits for families to give me more suggestions about making mealtime less stressful. Our basic problem is that it's hard--after we both work all day--to come home, make dinner, eat dinner as a family, and eventually do bedtime all within less than two hours. It's particularly hard when one of us comes home late or not at all. Due to the scheduling of two required classes for my degree, I come home late on Wednesdays and Thursdays-- just moments before bedtime. You can imagine how healthy eating habits are hard when Isaac sometimes just wants to play with us or be held during his evenings instead of eat.
As you can see, as Isaac learns and grows, Josh and I continue to learn and grow too. Thankfully, our little guy seems to be pretty patient with our slow learning curve!
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Monday, December 26, 2011
Christmas in Barrington
A couple hours ago we returned from our short weekend at my parents' house in Barrington, NH and a stop-over at Nicole's in MA. We had a very relaxing time--lots of lounging around and eating homemade junk food (doughnuts, cookies, pie...yummy!). It was a small Christmas with only my little family and Danielle and Zev's family visiting with my parents. A couple highlights are that Isaac went sledding (initially hated it and then liked it the next day) and Christmas caroling. It was very special for him to spend so much time with his cousins and grandparents--I think he'll be disappointed not seeing them tomorrow morning. Please enjoy the pictures below.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
How to raise a crybaby
The first time I held Isaac in my hands, he was heavier than I expected. He looked different than the small, fragile, howling infant I'd prepared myself for. My just-born son, looking like a three-month old, came into this world with thick arms and pudgy legs. When the nurse put him on the scale, Isaac weighed in at 9 lbs, 3 ounces. Substantial. And safe. For the first six months of his life, Isaac maintained his place in the 90th percentile for height. Any father that tells you that he doesn't take pride in his son's height and weight is lying (especially any father who was small as a child). We keep his growth charts in a file cabinet, and, over the past year, Isaac has been trending back toward the middle. This was probably inevitable: Anique and I are not big people. No one in my family is over 6' 1". No doubt Isaac will have to make the NBA as one of those streaky combo-2 guards, with "quick hops" and a strong work ethic.
Though no longer larger than his peers, Isaac has shown a remarkable ability to bounce back from the various scrapes and skirmishes associated with life as a toddler. Last month, when his teacher at daycare told me that Isaac had been bitten by one of his classmates, she noted that "Isaac didn't cry. He never cries." This past weekend, Isaac was playing on our bed and fell head-first on the hardwood floor. Understandably, he cried this time, but only for a second. Then he touched his head, exclaimed "Ouch!", and attempted to climb back onto the bed. Again, I found myself feeling an absurd sense of pride. Not that I want to raise a child who does not feel it is OK to cry. But, a son who is strong enough to stand up, shake himself off, and get back to the business of jumping on the bed? That's the kind of son I want to have. Hell, that's the kind of man I want to be.
Last week, two things happened that made me stop and question this feeling. The first happened when I got a call last Tuesday from the director of his daycare. At some point during the afternoon, Isaac's elbow had become dislocated (the nontechnical term for this is nursemaid's elbow). "We don't know exactly when it happened," she said. "Isaac never cried." When I got to the daycare, Isaac was sitting in a chair at the table, looking at the ground. There was puzzle on the table in front of him, all of its pieces in their original places. He was holding his left arm. He was quiet.
Nearly seven months earlier, Isaac had dislocated that same elbow. That time the circumstances were also unclear: the accident seemed to happen during the night. Perhaps while he was sleeping, Isaac rolled over, pinning the arm under his body. We don't really know for sure. That morning, he had screamed off and on as we drove, first to our family doctor's office, where three times the doctor tried and failed to pop it back into place, and then to Children's Hospital, where the physician's assistant in the Orthopedics department manipulated his little arm, twisting his forearm past that point where you imagine the arm might break. Almost immediately, Isaac began to use his arm again, and it was over.
Last Tuesday, we repeated this process. Again, the doctor at our pediatrician's office tried and failed to pop Isaac's elbow into place. This time Isaac, becoming more verbal every day, sat in Anique's lap, alternately crying and repeating "I go! I go!" That night, after he had fallen asleep, we lied awake in bed, hoping that the elbow would shift back into place. It didn't. When Isaac woke up that morning, his left arm hanging there motionless, we made the decision to drive to Children's. Or, more accurately, Anique made the decision. I busied myself with the little things that fathers do: preparing his bag for the drive into Boston, filling up his snack cup. These were the actions I took to cover up the anger, the sadness, and the shame: the anger I felt that our doctors could not fix Isaac's arm; the sadness that I could not keep my son safe; the shame that I was a man who could not protect his son. At Children's, the ER doctor quickly popped Isaac's elbow back into place. Though he required a little coaxing to test out the arm again, Isaac was soon batting at a star-shaped balloon with both arms. It was over. But it isn't over, not really.
In the New York Times this past Sunday, in the Sport Section, there was a long piece about Derek Boogaard. For those interested, I've included the link here: A Boy Learns to Brawl.
Boogaard was a 28-year old NHL forward, most recently for the New York Rangers, who died of an overdose this past summer. Most reports cited the effects of a hockey career spent filling the "enforcer" role. At the time of his death the 6' 8" Boogaard, nicknamed "the Boogey Man," was one of the most feared fighters in the NHL. Most commentators assumed that his many fighting-related injuries, concussions reported and ignored, contributed to his depression and his (likely) suicide. However, what I found most upsetting in this profile of Boogaard's childhood, save the picture of Boogaard as a two-year old (see below), is this quotation from the first line of the story: "DEREK BOOGAARD was scared. He did not know whom he would fight, just that he must." The article goes on to describe how, in large part due to his size, Boogaard was cast as a brawler, was made into someone who had to drop his gloves in order to secure a spot on a team's roster. Google Boogaard and here's one of the first photos that comes up:
In the photo, Boogaard has both fists raised. He is acting out his role as the "Boogey Man." According to the Times, he told his mother after one particularly gruesome fight, "It's OK. It's my job now." But Boogaard's size could not keep him safe. Nor could his parents. The picture of Boogaard that sticks with me is this one from the article:
In the two-year old Boogaard, I see my son. In the two-year old Boogaard, I think we see all of our sons. As much as I want to I will not always be able to keep Isaac safe. He will get scared. He will be hurt. Sometimes he will fall and not immediately pop back up and try to climb back onto the bed. As his father, I want to him to know that in those moments there is no shame in crying. There is strength in seeking comfort. I want him to know that in those moments I will be there for him. And in those inevitable moments, I will try to heed my own advice: there is not shame in crying. There is strength in seeking comfort.
Though no longer larger than his peers, Isaac has shown a remarkable ability to bounce back from the various scrapes and skirmishes associated with life as a toddler. Last month, when his teacher at daycare told me that Isaac had been bitten by one of his classmates, she noted that "Isaac didn't cry. He never cries." This past weekend, Isaac was playing on our bed and fell head-first on the hardwood floor. Understandably, he cried this time, but only for a second. Then he touched his head, exclaimed "Ouch!", and attempted to climb back onto the bed. Again, I found myself feeling an absurd sense of pride. Not that I want to raise a child who does not feel it is OK to cry. But, a son who is strong enough to stand up, shake himself off, and get back to the business of jumping on the bed? That's the kind of son I want to have. Hell, that's the kind of man I want to be.
Last week, two things happened that made me stop and question this feeling. The first happened when I got a call last Tuesday from the director of his daycare. At some point during the afternoon, Isaac's elbow had become dislocated (the nontechnical term for this is nursemaid's elbow). "We don't know exactly when it happened," she said. "Isaac never cried." When I got to the daycare, Isaac was sitting in a chair at the table, looking at the ground. There was puzzle on the table in front of him, all of its pieces in their original places. He was holding his left arm. He was quiet.
Nearly seven months earlier, Isaac had dislocated that same elbow. That time the circumstances were also unclear: the accident seemed to happen during the night. Perhaps while he was sleeping, Isaac rolled over, pinning the arm under his body. We don't really know for sure. That morning, he had screamed off and on as we drove, first to our family doctor's office, where three times the doctor tried and failed to pop it back into place, and then to Children's Hospital, where the physician's assistant in the Orthopedics department manipulated his little arm, twisting his forearm past that point where you imagine the arm might break. Almost immediately, Isaac began to use his arm again, and it was over.
Last Tuesday, we repeated this process. Again, the doctor at our pediatrician's office tried and failed to pop Isaac's elbow into place. This time Isaac, becoming more verbal every day, sat in Anique's lap, alternately crying and repeating "I go! I go!" That night, after he had fallen asleep, we lied awake in bed, hoping that the elbow would shift back into place. It didn't. When Isaac woke up that morning, his left arm hanging there motionless, we made the decision to drive to Children's. Or, more accurately, Anique made the decision. I busied myself with the little things that fathers do: preparing his bag for the drive into Boston, filling up his snack cup. These were the actions I took to cover up the anger, the sadness, and the shame: the anger I felt that our doctors could not fix Isaac's arm; the sadness that I could not keep my son safe; the shame that I was a man who could not protect his son. At Children's, the ER doctor quickly popped Isaac's elbow back into place. Though he required a little coaxing to test out the arm again, Isaac was soon batting at a star-shaped balloon with both arms. It was over. But it isn't over, not really.
In the New York Times this past Sunday, in the Sport Section, there was a long piece about Derek Boogaard. For those interested, I've included the link here: A Boy Learns to Brawl.
Boogaard was a 28-year old NHL forward, most recently for the New York Rangers, who died of an overdose this past summer. Most reports cited the effects of a hockey career spent filling the "enforcer" role. At the time of his death the 6' 8" Boogaard, nicknamed "the Boogey Man," was one of the most feared fighters in the NHL. Most commentators assumed that his many fighting-related injuries, concussions reported and ignored, contributed to his depression and his (likely) suicide. However, what I found most upsetting in this profile of Boogaard's childhood, save the picture of Boogaard as a two-year old (see below), is this quotation from the first line of the story: "DEREK BOOGAARD was scared. He did not know whom he would fight, just that he must." The article goes on to describe how, in large part due to his size, Boogaard was cast as a brawler, was made into someone who had to drop his gloves in order to secure a spot on a team's roster. Google Boogaard and here's one of the first photos that comes up:
In the photo, Boogaard has both fists raised. He is acting out his role as the "Boogey Man." According to the Times, he told his mother after one particularly gruesome fight, "It's OK. It's my job now." But Boogaard's size could not keep him safe. Nor could his parents. The picture of Boogaard that sticks with me is this one from the article:
In the two-year old Boogaard, I see my son. In the two-year old Boogaard, I think we see all of our sons. As much as I want to I will not always be able to keep Isaac safe. He will get scared. He will be hurt. Sometimes he will fall and not immediately pop back up and try to climb back onto the bed. As his father, I want to him to know that in those moments there is no shame in crying. There is strength in seeking comfort. I want him to know that in those moments I will be there for him. And in those inevitable moments, I will try to heed my own advice: there is not shame in crying. There is strength in seeking comfort.
Monday, December 5, 2011
An Isaac Haiku. Composed 12/5/2011
He sees the playground
from his car seat. "Playground!!! Swing!!!"
so we pull over.
from his car seat. "Playground!!! Swing!!!"
so we pull over.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Isaac Reads
We haven't posted in a while as things have been quite busy this fall. However, dedicated readers of "Becoming Isaac OM," we promise more Isaac-content in the weeks to come. Here's a short video Anique shot this morning of our boy reading/reciting several of his favorite books. This kids loves books: often he tells us to sit and read one book while he thumbs through a different one.
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