In Which There Are Pictures, Stories, and the Chaos of Life

Hi there, fellow humans! I figure, this is a parenting blog-- so there's gotta be the obligatory pictures of my adorable child and family.

I see what you're doing there. And I approve. 

This is from when Froggy scared the ever-loving crap out of us when he was four months old. He had come down with something called RSV. In older children and adults, RSV is like the common cold. But when tiny, little, babies (he was just barely 3 months at this point) get it, it's a Very Bad Thing. The passages that carry air to the lungs (airways, bronchial tubes, sinuses, etc) are incredibly narrow. The doctor in the NICU showed me a stick of spaghetti, and told me that it was roughly the size of my son's airways.We had taken him to the UCI ER three times, since the hospital had all his birth records. The first time, he had a rattle in his chest. The second time, which was the next night, his rattle had turned into him sounding like he was breathing underwater. The next night, the voice of reason that was saying to listen to the doctors took a vacation. Froggy was just lying there in my arms, laboring to breathe. He'd finally started resting when I took this picture. 

This was in the PICU (pediatric intensive care unit). Everyone that came in had to put on a robe looking thing and a mask. They suctioned nose and throat with this weird machine (he hated it, obviously), and got antibiotics into him. He was transferred to a lower floor a few days later, and slowly but steadily started improving. He ended up having something called a 'bronciopsy', where they put him under anesthesia and looked in his bronchial tubes. I was allowed to hold him to comfort him (and me) while they put him under, and I noticed that not only was he not getting sleepy, but his arm was cold where his line was, plus he was just crying and crying. I politely asked the nurses if that was normal, because it felt to me like his IV had infiltrated. They told me it was ok, totally normal, blahblahblah. However, my Wolf Mom instincts kicked in and I demanded that they take a look. They did, and I was correct. They redid his line placement, and after he was under, the nurse walked me out to the waiting area. I remember her telling me to expect to cry or some huge, unexpected emotions. Since I was pretty chill while I was walking out of the room, I didn't think anything of it... and as soon as the doors closed and I couldn't see, hear or get to him, I realized the nurse was right. I cried. I vomited. I wanted to rip the doors off their hinges and grab him up. Robby calmed me down, and in a short time that felt like forever, he was done and the results said that everything was okay. ^_^

Since I'm King of All The Things, I did know that with patience, pain and hard woke, someday my prince would come. ^_^

I love this one. Robby looks so happy to be holding Froggy, and Froggy looks so relaxed in his daddy's arms. I love my boys so.

This is me, the House Human, with my grumpface on and hair that the box told me would be purple, but became a pretty cool gradient. It took a while to grow on me (no pun intended... maybe), and now when I go for walks around my apartment complex there's always at least one little kid out of the horde that runs around playing (our community is safe enough that kids to go out and play without their parent hovering over their shoulder) 

I will forever and always keep this picture, because Leo is one of the toughest guys I know, and this totally compromises his bad boy image. He's one of the most hard-working guys I know, and I wholeheartedly think that if we didn't have his help (and Sebby') we'd be much worse off until we adjusted.

"Daddy, this is really fun... but you've got me, right?"

"Always, buddy."

August 25, 2012. The day that this little boy, my impossible little man, was born. He slept amazingly, and didn't make too much of a fuss at all about being in his bassinet. He hated being under the bili light, so I'd move a chair as close as I could (pro tip: I had 14 stitches in my downtown bonanza. Don't move chairs when the most sensitive part of your body has stitches.) and I'd rub his little belly till he calmed.  

My photogenic little man, curled up in the boppy, on the blanket that his Aunt Kathy made for him. I still can't get over what an amazing little human I made.

My child is apparently part otter. He loves that toy SO much- along with pretty much everything else that's yellow. The fish that the's got is technically a diving toy... .but whatever. If he's happy and not in danger, I'm happy. 

This is the most recent picture of me, the House Human. And yes. I AM the Doctor. 

(Picture taken by: Jason Matson)

....yeah, this pretty much sums it up. 

 Goodnight (or morning), my dear readers, and I hope that the coming day will be splendiferous, and that you're currently sleeping much better than I am  o_o

As always,

The House Human

In Which This Introduction Is Cut Short

Welcome to The Life and Habits of the Domestic Human! I'm Loki, your guide through this crazy thing, and house-human extraordinaire. You're probably wondering a bit about who I am, and why this blog is titled like it is, so here's the obligatory into!

My name is Loki - yes, like the "guy from the Avengers", but more specifically, I'm named for the actual Norse god. Yes, my mother* knew what she was asking for when she decided that that was the perfect name for me more than halfway through my currently lifespan. I was born with a different name, one that's plastered across all my secure documents, ID's and everything official. But nobody calls me that (and lives) except my grandmother. I'm the proud parent of a 19 month old (just over a year and a half) little dude, who on the internet goes by the pseudonym of Froggy on the internet. He's an amazing little guy, and is pretty much the point for this parenting blog. I'm married to an absolutely excellent guy, who make me laugh and drives me up a tree, just like every good husband should. He's one hell of a great father, to boot. Seriously, this guy was born to be a dad. I might have zero clue what I'm doing on the mom front, but he's got this all down pat. We live with four furkids (three cats and a ferret), and our wonderful roommate, D (who I may also refer to here as 'Leo' from time to time).

We're an unconventional family, but everything that makes us different from the normative family structure is what makes us strong. I'm a gender-fluid, pansexual, mortician-to-be, with dreams of getting degrees in forensic and religious anthropology. My husband, Robby, is a history major, who wants to go forth and educate the chaotic, vicious, unwashed masses that make up high school history classes (I jest, they're not unwashed... mostly), he's a brilliant story teller and loves tabletop RPG's, video games and historical accuracy. D, is a trucker who's seen every state, has stories that could entertain for years, and is one of the strongest people I've had the pleasure of knowing.

Aside from this intro, in which I tell you all the things that might come as a huge shock should you read through this blog, the intent of this blog is to talk about parenting. So, sit back, and let me tell you the story of my impossible boy.



This is the story of how I died.

It was in August of 2010 when my adventures started. I had found out that within our first year of marriage, I had become pregnant very unexpectedly. We'd been using birth control, and being very careful-- but that little one was determined. She hung on for 8 weeks before (unknown to us) her heart stopped. At 12 weeks, it was confirmed that I'd lost the baby. We went through a very rough time after that, but as the years have passed, the ache has turned into something else-- the want to share with all of you that it does get better. It'll never stop hurting, but it'll stop feeling like your gut is full of stones and your heart is breaking. We named her Dahlia Rose, and mourned her. At this point in time, it's been interesting to think of-- I lost my twin while my mother was pregnant with us. Froggy lost his older sister. Maybe he'll have that special bond with her, even though she isn't physically with us, that I did with Mark.

Due to the complications of the miscarriage, and a slew of chronic health issues, we were told that it would be incredibly difficult to get pregnant again and that the changes of holding on to the pregnancy were very, very slim. As we've grown to know, though, our boy is a stubborn one. In January of 2012, I found out that through some miracle, I was pregnant with my impossible boy, my rainbow baby. It wasn't planned and it was a bit terrifying for both of us. The pregnancy was very, very difficult. I had hyperemesis- essentially morning sickness that never stops, and which landed me in the hospital. After that were several dislocated ribs, a rash called PUPPS which sounds cuddly but is pretty much your liver not processing the excess acid and pushing it out through your skin, and stretch marks from hell that split and bled.

We'd kept joking that Froggy was going to show up on Aug. 25, because that was when the new season for Doctor Who was airing and of course, he was going to make mommy miss it. His due date was Sept. 14, but lo and behold.... he came three weeks early on the 25th. By the time he made his appearance, I'd been in labor for two weeks, two days and 22 hours. I had no clue that that sort of thing could even happen! But of course, it does happen, and it happened to me. I was exhausted by the time he was born. My mom* likes to joke that I'm not made for carrying babies-- but I sure as hell am made for delivering them. It's a badge of honor that when it came down to the pushing stage, I rocketed him forth from my loins in three (four?) sets of pushes. I knew what muscles to use, instinctively, and within moments I was holding a kinda greyish, alien-looking newborn on my chest. My mom relayed to me the things that I don't remember-- I smelled his head, and got this look of sheer happiness on my face, then announced to the entire room (minus my husband, who was vomiting in the bathroom because of a "bad salad" and totally not because he walked by the foot of the bed and saw, as he puts it, "Froggy's arm flop into existance") that I had a superpower and that it was making humans.

At that moment, with that first sniff of his stinky little baby head... I died. The person that I was before, the human being without another life completely depending on me, loving me and looking to me to teach him... that person was dead. It's buried and in the ground. This new person, this parent, was born as soon as he was. I've heard the term "Tiger Mom"-- and I am most definitely not one. I'm a Wolf Mom. I let my son play on the ground, roll in the dirt, taste various bugs, lick the cat, run around outside and learn what it means to be a kid, and to live. He's learning by experience. He's learning by example. And since the example he looks to like to have their husband drive them down a nearby street so that they can hang halfway out the window and look at the stars through the trees, he's going to grow strong and curious. He's going to find the wonder in finding feathers and climbing trees. He's going to learn by trial and error that you don't eat ants, and that if you run downhill too quickly, you'll fall and scrape your knees.

That little human is my entire universe. I grew him in my belly, like a seahorse, and brought him into a world that's full of so much to discover. This blog will tell you about our daily (or weekly if I can only update once) adventures, what it's like to be a mom with chronic illnesses, how I view the world and the how I'm teaching my child to be a good, strong, human being.

And also how I teach him to quit playing with his penis in the living room. Damn it. As all parents occasionally must, I'm going to need to cut this intro short and go put the diaper back on my now bare-assed child. For the love of the gods, kid... stay away from the sofa.

Cheers,
The House Human