Who Put Me In Charge Part 2

Part Two:  My Son is a Fucking CHAMP

Read "Part One: Too Many Cooks" here.

Monty slept for six hours last night.  IN A ROW.  That said, he also woke up at 6:45 ready to go.  I'm told this is a pretty normal hour for most people to start their days.  I was unaware until recently that there even is a 6:45 in the morning...  By 7:30 he was clearly over me pretending we could stay in bed for a couple more minutes. 

Everyone kept telling us that the first six weeks were the hardest.  "Don't worry," they'd unnecessarily console, "it gets easier."  We couldn't understand what they were referring to.  The first six weeks were a cake walk.  All he did was eat, sleep and poop.  We hung out in bed all day watching Netflix.  He napped so much that any sleep we missed out on at night was more than made up for during the day.  Also, Kurt worked part time for the first six weeks.  So, I only ever had to be on my own for half the day.  Pretty much as soon as Monty turned six weeks and started to become more alert and aware and Kurt went back to work this shit got hard.

My days are mostly spent trying to entertain a person who has the attention span of a flea.  "Look!  Look!  This thing lights up and plays a tinkly tune when you touch it in exactly the right spot!!  Look!  Look!   Here's a thing that rattles!  Look!  Here's something that squeaks when you squeeze it?  Oh, right.  You can't hold things.  Look!  There's a tree!  Look!  There's a birdie!!  A car!  A dog!  A set of keys!  My boob!  My boob!!  MY BOOB!  Look!!  Here's Mommy having a nervous breakdown!!  Look!!  Daddy's home!  Here Daddy, don't you want to take your screaming child?  Look!!  Here's Mommy's glass of scotch."

Last week I took Monty in for his check up and shots.  I was all twisted in knots over the fact that he was going to have to get a shot.  I HATED getting shots as a kid (still do).  I remember having to be held down by two adults whenever I had to get a shot.  True, I might have been a bit of a drama queen, but that shit hurt.  Anyway, the hospital was out of cluster vaccines, so he had to get THREE fucking shots.  This meant that not only was he got to have to get stuck with a needle three times, it also meant that he would probably have pain in three different spots later in the day.  I was already pissed about the shitty advice the doctor had given me during Monty's check up, so it took some serious deep breathing and self control to not start screaming at everyone I came across (starting with the woman who gave me dirty looks in the waiting room when I was breastfeeding).

I had spent the day with a friend and her new baby when he got his vaccines.  It was not fun.  He wailed and wailed for a good hour.  My friend was hesitant to give him Tylenol.  I don't know why.  Risk of death or something?  So, I was prepared.  He was asleep when we got home.  I broke out the baby Tylenol and a pair of scissors to get it open and ready before he started really screaming.  As I was slicing through the plastic around the bottle with a pair of sharp scissors (you know, the plastic with the perforated part that makes removing it a breeze...) I sliced my finger open.  I dropped everything a stumbled/ran to the bathroom where I ran my hand under the tap, trying not to cry and/or vomit.  I envisioned Kurt getting home two hours later to find me passed out on the floor and poor Monty screaming his head off in his carseat where I'd left him napping.  I put my head between my legs and held my towel-wrapped hand above my head.  If Monty could get stuck THREE TIMES with needles the size of barbeque skewers, I could deal with a minor laceration. 

By the time I had pulled my shit together Monty was waking up.  I changed him and he watched his mobile spin around over his head for a while.  Incidentally, if you're low on fundage you can skip the fancy mobile and just hang pictures of your boobs above your wee one's crib.  Trust me, it'll keep him/her happy for hours.  Anyway, as soon as Monty started crying I plied him with Tylenol and not only did he not die but that dude was chill and happy ALL DAY.  This, I'm sure was partly due to the drugs, but more due to the fact that Monty is a God damned ROCK STAR.  And now I don't have to worry that he might get Polio or die if he cuts himself on a rusty nail.  I mean, whatever.  I have the best baby.

Also, Kurt took the other day off to spend with Monty while I was shooting a new show for Ovation (Broadway Bash airs on Friday nights at 7 and 10pm after Smash.).  He sent me this picture:

Killing. It.

Who Put Me In Charge??

Part One:  Too Many Cooks

I took Monty to his new pediatrician yesterday for his 2 month check up and vaccines.  He's on Medical, so I took him to the general pediatrics department at Children's Hospital which we had been told was "the best".  The doctor we saw was nice enough and seemed thorough.  I told her we want to get his frenulum snipped.  We have done a lot of research and have asked several doctors about it and we decided it would be the right thing to do.  There's some argument that the surgery is unnecessary.  The lactation consultant at Cedars where I had him suggested we get it snipped and we declined because we thought it was one of those obnoxious trendy surgeries that only persnickety wealthy people get.  We ran that by Monty's first doctor who agreed with us.  Granted, he didn't actually look at Monty's tongue, so he didn't know the degree of severity...  Then another lactation consultant told us to get it snipped.  And our midwife told us to get it snipped.  A speech pathologist sent us a frantic email telling us not to get it snipped because it's "extremely painful and really bloody" and would make Monty lose trust in us...  She also said there's no real evidence that a short frenulum causes speech problems, despite article after article that says it does (Go ahead and try to talk normally without lifting your tongue off the floor of your mouth.).  She said the biggest problem it would cause is that he wouldn't be good at french kissing.  Kurt extrapolated from there assuming it meant he would also be lousy at oral sex, which, granted, is an odd conversation to have about a 2 month old, but he won't always be 2 months and chances are good that at some point in his life he will engage in oral sex.  (GROSS!) I emailed Dr. Ed, the pediatrician we took Monty to for the second opinion about his Frankenstein head and he said that since Monty has no trouble breastfeeding we probably didn't have to worry about it, but that if it was going to nag at us we might as well get it done.  He said it was not that painful and hardly bloody at all.  And of course, if babies lost trust in their parents that easily we would all be convinced our parents were trying to kill us by the time we entered Kindergarten. 

SO.  The pediatrician yesterday brought in the head of pediatrics or some such big wig who told us that the frenulum surgery is extremely painful and extremely bloody and could lead to infection.  He said that studies show the incidents of the surgery go up according to income which h e explained meant that it is, indeed, something that only persnickety wealthy people do.  Of course, one could make a really strong argument that wealthy people tend to be healthier precisely because they can afford preventative medicine (Cue Angelina Jolie telling everyone to get their boobs cut off NOW).

By the way, for those of you who don't know: The frenulum is the tiny membrane that connects your tongue to the bottom of your mouth.  Yes, that tiny piece of skin is causing this much trouble.

Okay fine.

But then this guy gave us another piece of medical "advice" about a certain part of my son's anatomy that I'll try to remain as vague about as possible so that someday when Monty Googles this he doesn't call me screaming that I shared extremely personal information about him with the entire universe.  So, you know, YOU'RE WELCOME SON.  Suffice it to say, it's likely he does not see what he was checking out that frequently and when he was in medical school the prevailing information was incorrect about this particular thing.  A lot of pediatricians are woefully misinformed about this particular thing.  At any rate, he prescribed an ointment (for an area that, by the way, is not the least bit infected) whose instructions implicitly say is not to be used on the bodily region for which this doctor prescribed it.  At that discovery I Googled the "problem" the doctor was having us treat and learned that not only was it not a problem at all, but that the advise to apply any kind of cream, ointment or unguent and to manipulate the area was not only strongly discouraged but, in fact, dangerous.

He ALSO prescribed a multi-vitamin supplement for Monty because, you know, all research shows that what he's getting from my boobs is NOT sufficient and also he's CLEARLY malnourished (at 11 pounds, 11 ounces at 9 weeks of age.).

Right.

Kurt and I briefly considered taking Monty back to Dr. Ed for yet another second opinion but decided that nothing is actually wrong with Monty.  He does not need any ointments or supplements or bodily manipulation or second opinions.  What he does need is to simply go to Dr. Ed from now on.  Sure, he's not in network and we'll be paying out of pocket, but if we're going to be taking him for a second opinion every time he sees someone else, we might as well just cut out the middle man.

In the end, it turns out we actually are persnickety wealthy people.  Minus the wealthy part.

Oh, also?  This is a picture I took.  At the hospital.  The Children's Hospital.

Because, you know, fuck health.

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET ANYTHING DONE???

I mean, come on.