Restless Spirit

I'll just be honest here: I've spent what I feel like is a whole helluva lot of time helping Jules sleep. He is a restless kid, always has been.

In the hospital, just hours into the light and the pollution, his eyes held focus on everything. It was the general comment from all his onlookers: "he's so...aware." Aware. Always noticing things going on, even when all he could do was wake up or squirm in response. Noise he never seemed to mind (except our voices or the animals), but light, commotion; these things stirred him.

He never slept in the car; he was either content or cried. And by cried I mean wailed; torturous cries that made you think something horrible was happening back there. He was persistent in these cries. Unrelenting and inconsolable; no pacifiers, no bottles, no songs or rubs: just get me the fuck out. It was this way until past his fist birthday, really.

A sleep schedule? Only in the past few months have we established something resembling a sleep schedule. On average he takes an hour to bed down without being held and rocked. He tends to just keep going: tapping fingers, rubbing legs, fiddling with his hair (many a late, late night I've wanted to shave that pretty little head) or, my favorite, just sitting straight up as I do my best Splinter Cell out of the room, even after he fails to respond after I raise his arm the third time, and THEN slowly count to 60 to make sure he is out cold.

Before he was a person -- you know, back when he was just a squirming mass of cute and chub, sucking in as much formula and information as possible -- getting him to sleep required this ridiculous amount of stimulation: patting, rubbing, walking, bouncing. I developed what I came to call my Rastafarian dance; this long-strided bounce paired with deep toned humming of song while patting and rubbing my easily bored offspring. It was the only thing that ever would get him to sleep in less than 20 minutes. Seriously, he could be dead tired, and still to this day, when the lights go out for bed, he's awake.

On average -- even now, with his willingness to go to bed, and a two storybook a night habit -- he takes about an hour to get to sleep. I don't mind it. It has certainly become easier. And he's sweet about it all.

He still hates the state of being asleep though -- or maybe its the state of grogginess that he hates: if he moves towards conciousness at all, he becomes pretty upset (something else we've slowly worked on). He'll cry out, or lumber into the hall, "Daddy hol' me". Yeah, its pretty damned heart melting.

Thing is, this is all preface. This is not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about tonight's storm. One of those classic, summer night, thunder and lightning extravaganzas. Rumbles as if Great Cthulhu were rising and flashes so bright you can't help but to get the feeling stepping into their light would reveal some truth of the soul. Yes, the kind of storm that makes you get all crazy on adjective porn.

Whatever it is in me that wants to stand in the rain felt especially strong tonight. Like there were layers of filth that needed not only to be washed off, but burned away in the blinding spark of that summer lightning. I guess you could say there's something a bit wild to it; something primal.

"Daddy hol' me"

and like that, I don't need the lightning, or the thunder, or that swell of ancient Viking spirit to reveal any truth to me. The dirts still there, perhaps somethings buried inside, but for now, I'm good. Very good.

Guess that's what 'Daddy' is all about.

Top Five

Over Spring Break, I built a swingset. Now, if you know my wife, you probably understand that this was not going to be your average, metal swingset that we all grew up on. Now, neither of us have a problem with the metal swingsets. In fact, I have many fond memories of playing on my friends'. I remember it like it was yesterday...

Listening to the creaking joints as my friend and I sat face to face, almost uncomfortably so, on the teeter-totter swing of doom. Rust sprinkling down on us as the motion made the two-person swing slowly work its way lower as if it were the device of choice from The Pit and the Pendulum. And lets not forget that sudden rush of fear as someone swung too high, or leaned back too far on the slide steps, bringing the whole set down like a renegade ferris wheel. Oh, and lets not forget washing the rust off my hands before heading inside.

Personally I think imminent danger is a selling point for the traditional swingset, adding an additional element of fun in the minds of every boy on the planet. Luckily, we also like big, wooden castles. So when my wife decided that we should buy a large, wooden swingset (w/ slides, platforms, and...labor), I thought, "cool." Refreshingly, she showed some concern about what kind we should buy, wondering if we should "start small", to which I replied (puffing out my chest), "go big, or go home."

I should've gone home. I worked on this thing nearly every day of my Spring Break, and still have a few small items to fix or add. Still, I'm proud of my accomplishment (the amusing story of its construction has been copyrighted by my wife, so it will be showing up at her blog).

But who is not proud of it? My neighbor.

Now maybe she didn't realize what my wife was explaining to her when it was all explained beforehand. Or maybe she just didn't think it would be as big as it is. Regardless, it is only her reaction that I really care about, and only because besides being an aggravation (and embarrassment), it's pretty damn funny.

Yes, she put up a tarp.

The BEST part of this, however, is what she did after she realized her tarp wasn't quite big enough. She replaced it with...

wait for it...

A CAMO TARP!

Actually, like 7 panels of Camo. Classy, all-American Camo.

At this point outrage has been taken over by sheer amusement at just how ridiculous this is. So what does one DO about 60 feet of Camo tarp bordering your backyard?

Well, I made a top 5 list (would go for 10, but I ran out of props)

5. Inspirational setting to pledge your love....

to Rambo: First Blood

4. BUBBA!!

...what? This doesn't scream "Forrest Gump" to you?

Just be impressed with the Pee-Wee toys.

3. "The first casualty of war

is innocence."

"Platoon" ...*sigh* I really love that movie.

Fozzy as Willem Dafoe is a stroke of genius, if you ask me.

Think what you will of my casting of Disney Characters as the Viet Cong.

2. Pretend you are on the set of M.A.S.H.

Jules studied for his part for days...

1. Film YouTube messages for your Anti-Government Militia.

Digs at the truth more than any of this other works

Yup, we're still surviving.

I'll keep ya posted on the camo developments...

Me time..?

So my imaginary friends ask me, "Adam, what is it that you do in your spare time?"

A question to which I generally respond, in typical parent fashion, "spare time? What's that?"

My "spare time" generally consists of short moments where Jules is distracted with Blues Clues, his art easel, or something else. In those quick 2 or 3 minute spurts of "spare time" I'll read a paragraph of something, post something on Facebook so I feel like a part of the world, or maybe type the first 3 sentences for a blog/writing idea. That is, if I don't have some household chore to go and take care of first.

Typically those household chores relate to the center of my universe. And what, you ask (my dear, imaginary friend), is the center of my universe? Is it my lovely wife whom I've turned into an expert on being pregnant over the past 3 years (you're welcome honey)? No, it is not.

What about my son, the boy-who-hates-sleep? Do I spend my spare time plotting against the bane of my existence, which is in fact his sleep schedule? Do I use my finely tuned brain to create skillful calculations and algorithms to determine how to fix this sleepless situation? If we get him up a 'x' time he'll surely be tired by 'n' at which point he ought to nap for 'a' hours and then be ready for sleep by 'b'

-- You see, once upon a time, my son slept a whole night in his crib (more than one actually) but then he got a little sick. He then had a nice long series of colds and what-nots that kept him from sleeping well. It just so happened that these illnesses occurred at the exact same time his sleep habits were forming. Now, he has ALWAYS fought sleep, and more so than any other child on earth (I'll stand by that statement) but after the sicklies, he ONLY falls asleep on Daddy's shoulder. if you "awwwwwww", I'll slap you. Think of the reality of this situation as I sit here typing, wondering if I should sell myself to IKEA as the prototype for a toddler bed...out of context, that joke could be very pedophile-ish.. not good.

BUT no, that is not the center of my universe, nor is my son in general, sadly.

No, my world revolves around one thing. One horrible, stinky thing: poop.

Poop is the center of my universe. Has been for years.

Started out when I worked at a group home for the mentally challenged/disturbed. You can imagine what my poop dealings were like there...on second thought, you probably can't. *shudder*

I left that job to put up with middle schooler's shit, and their parents shit, and the Education System's shit, etc. etc.

Then came the baby poo and my family's shit.

Then there's this group: shit to do around the house, 8 cats in my house that mostly use the litter box, and a puppy being housebroken ( who managed to somehow pop off, and chew up, the 'down arrow' on my netbook -- not sure if I'm bitching or bragging on that one. This all counts as my wife's shit. However, in exchange for 3 nights of not having to take an extra 5 minutes in the shower *wink wink* over the past 3 years, these are my responsibility because pregnant women aren't supposed to handle certain shit. Considering the disappointment she had to put up with on those 3 particular nights, and the whole 'creating life' thing, I figure its a fair enough trade.

So yeah, my life, shit; you get the point. But that isn't to say that I'm unhappy, or don't give a shit (couldn't resist), that is very much the opposite of my situation, but in regard to free time, well, I've got shit to do. (okay, that one was on purpose)

I do like talking about zombies though...maybe next post.........what the fuck kinda zombies do you talk about on a DB blog? eek!

Two Years

So this is a bit late, but I've been busy enjoying my little man, and waiting for this fog in my head to clear out. ( I suppose I could give more reasons for not posting, but lets not get into minutia. )

TWO YEARS! I look at him and I can't even begin to believe that it has been two years, and at the same time it feels like it has been an absolute eternity. So much has happened in just this little spurt of time since Jules was born.

So much that I worry sometimes that we don't give him the attention he deserves because we are so caught up in everything else. Then I look around and realize how much we spoil him, and how much he smiles and laughs; our little, bright, center of the universe running and spinning and jumping and laughing all over the place.

Happy Birthday Booger, you make it all worthwhile.

He's not breathing

I heard the thump and turned in my seat as my wife stood up, "honey..." I dove onto my knees at my son's side as his little body lay there shaking, his eyes distant.

I looked to the baseboard next to where his head lay for signs that he had hit it. I felt his head for a bump, for blood, for something; all the while talking to him and trying to keep my voice calm for him, and just trying to get him to respond.

Having not seen him fall, I didn't know if he had been standing or fell in some other way; if he'd hit his head on anything more than carpet; I didn't know if the seizure made him fall or if the fall made him seize; I was clueless and helpless.

My wife, frantic on the phone with the 911 operator, trying to explain our situation.

I tried my best to keep his position still, to avoid any possible neck injury, but I had to keep him turned a bit to his side to try and avoid choking. It didn't work.

I saw the bit of foam at his lip. I swiped his mouth; nothing there. I saw his lips grow a shade of blue as his eyes... his eyes started to go dim.

I lived and died a thousand times in that moment; in the time it took me to breathe, and for him to not. I screamed to my wife. I cried for my sons and called to Jules, searching deep into those sweet, little eyes for a sign of what I saw slipping away. Holding his head in one hand, and his limp hand in another, I felt the sun dying, and knew how it felt for God to turn his back.



DO SOMETHING.
It blasted through my head like a comet, bringing light back to my world, and I could see, I could assess, I could take care of my son. I began CPR, silencing the panic in my heart when it felt like the air wouldn't go. I felt the air go in and I continued, finally feeling him breathe, and (Thank God) seeing his eyes light back up and give some recognition. Still, he had no control of his body, he couldn't move and for a moment, couldn't even move his eyes.

As the paramedics rushed in, he finally started to grasp my finger with his left hand and my heart lifted a bit more. I let the EMTs take over and just tried not to be in the way.



My wife, who had been on the phone with 911, and kept watch for the EMTs, and took care of getting Jules' information, later explained to me that what I had felt like was an eternity had been but a few moments (only 4 minutes for the EMTs to arrive).

Once we were in the ambulance, I'd never been so happy to hear my son scream and cry, and finally, fight. He had been very slow to regain control of his body, but now, finally, he was at least confirming for me that he wasn't somehow paralyzed. Perhaps an irrational fear, but again, not knowing how he might have hit his head, I was concerned.

We had been eating dinner and Jules didn't eat much, and had been a bit fussy earlier, and instead wanted to watch Elmo (not an unusual occurrence with a 20-month old). My wife and I stayed at the dining room table, less than 5 feet away from where he sat to watch tv. My back was to him, and I would occasionally look over my shoulder at him; my wife sat with Jules in her peripheral. She had seen that he was sitting when he fell over.

Knowing he didn't have a fever earlier, I was shocked when we arrived at the hospital and his temperature measured over 102 degrees. The EMTs had not detected a temperature either (at least it was nothing I ever heard them say).

As it turned out, our son had experienced a febrile seizure (a fever induced seizure), which it turns out is sometimes the first sign a child has a fever. Our fear that we had ignored a fever or illness was put to rest two days later when his fever broke and a rash broke out on his back and chest: roseola. First the child develops a fever, then when the fever breaks, the rash shows up. A simple and non-threatening ailment. Just not for us, but then again, what ever is?

I know losing both my sons would've been more than I could bear. I also know there are parents out there that have had it happen, and they've survived. To them, I give my deepest sympathy, because as much as I've been told, " I can't imagine what it must be like..." I can only begin to imagine what these parents have been through, and I know I could not withstand it.

It is a moment that made me thankful for every experience I've had in my life, especially some of the crazier ones; the ones that in some way prepared me to be of some kind of use during this. Maybe, just maybe, there is some kind of order to all this chaos.



This was two weeks ago this past Thursday. I still get a very weird feeling looking at the doorway to my dining room, where I kneeled in the floor with my son. My son, however, has no such issue. He was right back to running around and keeping us busy with his toddler antics. He's been having a fine time ever since, considering we've spoiled him even more than usual ever since this. It started, however, with popsicles at the ER (which we've already received a bill for...)