Sophie loves to dress up the boys as princesses and flower girls. They love it. She loves it. I see no reason to stop it. Although, I imagine, at 15, Owen will wish I had.
“Man is a make-believe animal: He is never so truly himself as when he is acting a part.” —William Hazlitt
A couple weeks ago I changed Owen’s disposable diaper and found him covered, under his footed pajamas, in the gel-like substance pictured on our diaper pail above. There was a least a cup’s worth of the substance directly on his skin.
Not knowing what it was, I, perhaps stupidly (it was early morning), assumed it came from him—not the diaper. I sort of (OK, really) freaked out.
Andy, who immediately knew what it was, calmed me.
I had no idea disposable diapers used a substance other than cotton to absorb wetness. Here’s this, from Luv’s:
“We use absorbent gelling material in the padding of our diapers to absorb wetness. This material has a long history of safe use in a variety of products and has been in Pampers and Luvs diapers for more than two decades. Absorbent gelling material (AGM) is closely related to ingredients widely used in cosmetics and food processing. When added to our diapers, the AGM is dry and granular, but it forms a gel as it absorbs liquid. It’s perfectly normal to see some gel on the skin from time to time, especially if the diaper is heavily saturated. It might help to know the Institute for Polyacrylate Absorbents has researched the safety of consumer products containing absorbent gels and found them to be safe.”
Owen was fine—no rash, no discomfort, nothing.
Still, I put him in cloth diapers for the rest of the day.
“Diaper backward spells repaid. Think about it.” —Marshall McLuhan
Owen (and James, to a much lesser degree) suffer from torticollis. Their left ears tilt toward their left shoulders and they always look to the right. As a result, Owen’s head is misshapen. His right cheek and forehead are more pronounced (and, as such, more kissable, I say).
Owen started physical therapy early September. We took him to a chain therapy center recommended by our pediatrician. The therapists there were incredibly kind and if Owen was a teenager, I truly believe he would have received adequate—if not excellent—treatment. But he was an infant. Looking back, I should have known the place wasn’t an ideal fit. Everyone who worked there doted on him. I asked, at one appointment, if they saw many babies. They said no (hence the doting). They claimed he was doing much better and only needed to be seen monthly.
Two weeks later Owen finally had his appointment with a plastic surgeon at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital (the wait for an appointment was quite long). This is recommended for all babies struggling with plagiocephaly, which means abnormal head shape. While the National Institute of Health’s Back to Sleep Public Education Campaign has greatly reduced the occurrence of SIDS, it’s greatly increased the occurrence of plagiocephaly. Newborns are spending too much time on their backs. The solution? Back to sleep, yes, but much more tummy time and much less time in car seats, bouncers and swings.
Part of our appointment at the hospital involved an educational seminar. We were told about the important of tummy time, proper positioning (exercises) and ridding our house of our beloved My Little Lamb swing. I admit, I left that seminar angry. I felt like I was being blamed—that Owen’s misshapen head was my fault. I felt like a terrible mother.
I don’t know why Owen has torticollis. I do know it’s more common in twins. I also know that while I tried to do tummy time with him as much as possible, I could have done more. And with a toddler and twins, we used our swing—a lot. I’m no longer angry at the nurse who gave the educational seminar. And, most days, I’m no longer angry with myself. It is what it is.
Back to Cincinnati Children’s. After the seminar, Owen’s head was measured and he was seen by a plastic surgeon. Turns out, his plagiocephaly was only borderline for needing a molding helmet. In addition, we were told, helmet therapy is best suited for babies with flat spots on their heads. Owen doesn’t have a flat spot. Rather, because of the torticollis, one side of his face is simply more forward than the other. Weekly physical therapy was recommended instead.
We pulled Owen out of the chain therapy and into Cincinnati Children’s therapy—the only opening was in Mason (a good half hour away). I took it. And am so happy I did.
Here’s Sadie working with James.
Sophie loves going to therapy with the boys and she now knows the drill: shoes off, hands sanitized, one toy from the toy cabinet (usually kitchen supplies for the play kitchen) and a sticker at the end for good behavior.
And here’s Sally working with Owen (the exercises often are tough for him).
Sally is our main therapist and we love her. She’s smart. She works Owen hard but also provides many hugs, kisses and let’s-take-a-breather-so-you-can-stop-crying moments. She’s so incredibly patient with Sophie (who loves to “help”). And me (I’m always late). And Owen (even when he’s teething and his muscles are tight and he therefore cries the entire time). Sadie is a student, working with Sally. She spends a lot of time with James, who is seen every other week. You would never guess her to be a student. Her insights and exercise explanations seem to come from someone much older. We’re grateful to both of them.
For awhile, Owen was in therapy twice a week. (Allow me a woe-is-me moment: Hour-long appointments a half hour away require much planning and patience plus there’s a $20 co-pay per child per visit.) But now Owen’s down to once a week. He had a follow-up appointment with the plastic surgeon and a molding helmet was officially ruled out. But, in addition to the PT and regimen of exercises at home, he’s required to wear a Benik vest, more accurately called a Benik Contralateral Torticollis Bracing System.
front view
back view
side view—it’s this strap which keeps his head midline
It’s not his favorite thing. It greatly restricts his movement and he’s had to relearn basic things he’s been doing incorrectly, like rolling. He’s most upset when left on the floor, alone (which I try to do for as long as I can, so he can relearn those things, but usually I can stand the screaming for only about 10 minutes). We strive for about four hours of wear time daily.
A Bumbo and blocks help.
His big sister helps.
And working on a puzzle with all his siblings helps, too.
This bracing system, along with positioning, exercises and physical therapy, seem to be helping. I know, someday, this will all seem like a minor blip in our lifetime together. But right now, it seems so very much more than that. But I’m thankful, for many things. I’m thankful that, medically, this is all we’re dealing with right now. As someone who wore back braces in high school because of scoliosis, I’m thankful Owen’s wearing this bracing system now and not as a teenager. I’m thankful for Sally and Sadie and all the wonderful people who work in the physical therapy department at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital in Mason. I’m thankful for my mom who will often watch Sophie (or come to the appointment and help out there). I’m thankful that the therapists are so willing and equipped to handle siblings when help is not available. I’m thankful for Wendy’s drive-thru (the appointments are at 11am—Sophie and I munch on lunch during the long drive home).
Finally, I’m thankful for this blog as a means to educate. Maybe, maybe, I could have given Owen all the tummy time in the world and never once put him in a swing or bouncer and, maybe, he’d still have torticollis. But (and it pains me to think this) maybe not. So if you have a baby, and he’s awake, put him on his tummy. Even if he fights it. And reserve the car seat for the car. I know it’s a pain but when in a restaurant, take your baby out. Hold her. Limit bouncer use. And swing use. (It’s so hard, I know. We, literally, put ours in the attic so we wouldn’t be tempted to use it.) Limit high chair use and stroller use, too. It’s funny, all these things we have that parents 100 years ago didn’t—as usual, more is not always better.
I think James will be released from PT soon. And Owen should have to wear his vest for only six months, if all goes well. I actually think it’s kind of cute. I call him my little scuba diver. Sophie often cries if he’s in it and crying. But many days, when I put him in it, she suddenly shows up wearing a hat, too.
“When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky.” —Buddha
“Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.” —Plato
Owen: “So Hannah, do you come here often?”
James: “Seriously, Owen, do you have to hit on every woman that comes into this house? You really should be spending your time enhancing your intellect with books, like I do.”
Hannah: “James, I didn’t see you over there! You sound very smart.”
Owen: “Ignore him! Pay attention to me. I love your purple bib with spit-up on it. I have one just like it.”
“Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.” —William Shakespeare
“I think, therefore I Yam.” —Ratbert
Owen
James
“A man finds room in the few square inches of his face for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his history, and his wants.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
“An ounce of blood is worth more than a pound of friendship.” —Spanish Proverb
Owen
Owen
James
Owen
December 28, at 7 months and 9 days, we finally introduced the boys to rice cereal. Sophie was, perhaps, most excited about this and insisted that she get to help feed them. (She continues to insist daily, which makes for some very messy meal times.)
It’s funny. With Sophie I was shocked at how little information the pediatrician gave me regarding solid food. So I read. And researched. And talked to other mothers. I noted when I introduced each food and how long I stuck with that particular one. I paid attention to color, calories, consistency, and whether it was a fruit or vegetable. I made some (not much) and mostly bought organic. I wiped her mouth after every other bite so as not to stain her bibs.
Ha.
My poor boys are lucky if I remember to give them solid food these days.
There is no rhyme or reason as to what I give them. I stuck with rice cereal for about a week and then it was whatever was in the pantry or was easy to mash. So far they’ve had sweet potatoes and pears and bananas and apples and squash. I’m not doing vegetables first or all orange foods first—I’m not even sticking to one food for several days before introducing the next. I rarely take pictures. And I wipe their faces at the very end with a shared washcloth (I’m determined to cut down on laundry as it’s becoming quite ridiculous).
I’m still pumping milk for both of them and on good days, most days, really, they solely get breast milk (although, unfortunately, always out of bottles). Adding solid food to their diet has been fun (they’re growing! they’re getting older! they look so cute smacking their little lips on the tips of Sophie’s old pink and purple spoons!) but I forgot how terribly time consuming it is. It’s not replacing a bottle feeding as I follow up each solid-food meal with a bottle. Instead, it basically adds a solid hour of work to my day (and more once I add another solid meal in).
So I multitask. Sophie sits on my lap and while I spoon feed James, she dips Owen’s spoon into the food of the day and gets it ready for me. I then give Owen a bite while she takes care of James. And back and forth, back and forth. Or she serenades them with song while they eat. We listen to music on my iPod. Sometimes I manage to sip coffee between dips. And while I try to converse with them, as I believe eating is a highly social event and mealtime conversation an art to love, sometimes I flip through a magazine.
It wasn’t so long ago I was in the NICU, feeding James another woman’s milk, from a very small bottle (that was almost as long as him). While feeding him I had to cup his impossibly small body in the palm of my hand and feel him to make sure he continued to breath. The process terrified me. I had to track his breaths by counting them, track time by noting when I started and when I stopped, and keep incredibly careful track of the amount of milk he consumed. He was so small and light and fragile-seeming yet all I wanted him to do was eat and eat and eat so he could come home (and eat he did).
Today he gulped down an entire jar of squash and talked throughout his dinner. There was a lot of “m” sounds coming from his mouth. At first I laughed, thinking he was saying “mmm,” as in “yum.” But then it also sounded an awful lot like “mama.”
“Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.” —Voltaire
(Owen and Sophie, taken December 28, 2010)
Tonight James was fussy. Really fussy. Cried, off and on, for hours fussy. And then Sophie called for me. She was supposed to be sleeping. She claimed she couldn’t. So I went up, all the while shushing and bouncing James.
She asked for me to crawl in bed with her (normally, I don’t). She asked for a story (she already had two, earlier). But I caved. I put James on one side of her (guarded from falling off by the bed rail) and I positioned myself on the other side of her. She wanted the lipstick story.
This is a story my mom recently told her and it involves me, when I was a little girl. It’s a simple story. But she loves it.
Me: “Once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was a little girl—not much older than you—Nini, my mom, told me it was time for me to take a nap. But I didn’t want to take a nap.”
Sophie: “Why?”
Me: “Because I was having too much fun playing. Just like sometimes you don’t like to take a nap.”
Sophie: “Yeah.”
Me: “So Nini said that I could take a nap in her bed. After my nap, Nini came to get me. And guess what she saw?”
Sophie (hands over mouth): “What?”
Me: “Lipstick. All over my mouth. And cheeks. And chin. And forehead. I found it on Nini’s bedside table.”
Sophie: (laughs).
Me: “So Nini got me up, washed off my face, gave me a snack and played with me.”
Sophie: “What did you play? Did you draw?”
Me: “I bet we did!”
Sophie: “Again!”
Me: “Time for bed.”
I find much joy in crawling into bed with Sophie and whispering a late-night story into her ear. We bury ourselves under the quilt my mom made. Her pink room looks so soft with the nightlight lit and her stars filling her ceiling. Often, her bedtime CD is still playing, quietly. But this night was made even better by the fact that it also calmed James. He loved it. He rubbed his hand across the netting of Sophie’s bed rail. He chewed Sophie’s blanket. He stared at Sophie’s face. This may not seem like much, but after three-plus hours of trying everything to calm a fussy baby, it was much, and everything and more.
Thinking back, though, it’s a trick I use often, when one of the boys are fussy. I put them next to Sophie, on a pillow, under a blanket. Sometimes in her bed. Sometimes on the window seat. Sometimes on a quilt on the floor. Maybe it’s because I’ve put them in a new environment. I like to think the closeness of their sister, though, has a lot to do with it, too.
So tonight, I was doubly blessed. I had my late-night story session with Sophie and, because of that, a calm James. And really, I have Sophie to thank for this—even if it was past her bedtime. Even if she should have been sleeping. Even if I did sigh, heavily, when she first called me name.
Like most things with children, though, in the end, I’m glad she did.
“I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.” —Vincent Van Gogh
