Isaiah

Tears Behind the Wheel

Published on by Lisa

Have you ever cried while driving?

That’s probably not the safest thing to do.

I mean, it’s not as dangerous as drinking and driving or texting while driving, but CRYING has its own level of wrong, too.

I realized this as I was wiping away tears this morning after I took Isaiah to the doctor. The little Meatball is having a terrible week. Probably the worst in his four moths of existence.

Isaiah’s been struggling with moderate eczema for quite some time and Nick and I have been playing detective, trying to figure out what triggers it or how we can relieve it. Last month we figured out that the space heater in his room is the culprit.

So we unplugged the darn thing and layered him in extra shirts and socks when he went to bed.

And then spring came.

His eczema flared last week and I wondered if maybe it’s something in his milk. So I took out 99% of dairy in my diet.

No change.

This week, I gave up eggs. No change.

Poor little guy looked miserable. And I was having a breakdown watching his splotches begin to spread over his head, face, torso and arms. His little uncoordinated hands were scratching his head and belly while he cried and I would try to comfort him while I bawled myself.

What a mess.

So I took him to the doctor for three things: eczema, possible teething, and a bad cough.

Isaiah laughed and wiggled as the doctor examined him and thought the tongue stick to examine his mouth was the greatest thing ever and laughed in the doctor’s face.

Despite the laughs, he had a low grade fever and his eczema needs some serious attention. I fired away with questions and more questions. Without Nick there to calmly interject something very Borchers-esque, my motor mouth went nuts. Luckily, the doctor didn’t mind my fretting. (I assume fretting mothers are quite common in a pediatric setting.)

So, I hauled my 17.5lb elephant back to the car and got in the driver’s seat to head to Rite Aid to pick up his prescriptions.

I kept glancing in my rear view mirror to see his baby mirror. He looked so much like Nick, but covered in red patches of itch, and handled everything so well. His skin, fever, and cough coupled with Nick’s departure got the best of me and my tear ducts. And that’s when the bawling happened and my vision blurred from crying.

And that’s why I am writing to caution all who cry while driving – it’s just as hazardous as texting.

You can’t see ANYTHING.

Growth off the Charts

Published on by Lisa

Bleh. I hate when Nick is gone.

He left this morning at 3:45am to catch his 6am flight to El Salvador. Meanwhile, my mom has arrived to help take care of Isaiah and my sister is moving in to the third floor upstairs. All the Factora women in one household – it’s like a huge slumber party for Isaiah.

Speaking of our favorite meatball, yesterday he officially turned 4 months old and looks every bit of it as well. According to my mom who saw him last 3 weeks ago, when she feasted her eyes on him again, she couldn’t believe the length of his legs. I didn’t know what else to say except, “I know. I know. I know.”

When I hold Isaiah, I feel like I’m holding onto a very soft baby elephant. There are days when I just can’t friggin believe how strong he is. My sister-in-law and mother were gazing at him yesterday in his car seat and Suzi commented,”You might want to start thinking about upgrading your car seat. Uh, his feet are starting to dangle over the edge.” I glanced down. She was right.

Guess what else Isaiah is up to? TEETHING.

Yes, TEETHING.

I was wondering what’s been up with the buckets of drool flapping out of his mouth the past two weeks and his munching on his hand immediately after he’s eaten and him barreling down on his bottom lip like he needs his gums to be in contact with something. Suzi said, “They may not be popping out, but that doesn’t mean he’s already teething.”

And then my mom asked, “Are you sure he’s not yet ready for solids?”

And that’s when my head exploded.

NEW CAR SEATS. TEETHING. SOLIDS.

I complained like a little girl to my mom, “What the hell are all those books good for if they’re not preparing me in time for Isaiah’s development? He’s not supposed to be teething or eating solids yet, say the books I’m reading.”

And the common sense advice reply, “Well, those book are written for the average timeline of a baby. Isaiah may not be average.”

When I consider how his onesies are 12-18 months and starting to get tight in length, that might make sense.

Meanwhile, Nick takes off to El Salvador for five days and I’m left with an elephant of a son and a stomach full of battery acid because of Nick’s international travels.

Screw the books. I’m listening to my mother.

The Changes of Spring

Published on by Lisa

And suddenly, in Isaiah’s world, this THING happened. There was no build-up. There was no transition. HEAT appeared.

And just like that, I had to explain it to him: SPRING is here. Or as Nick says, “Just tell him that each day is the best day of his life because the weather keeps getting better and better for the next six months.” That’s true if you were born on December 20th.

Isaiah’s legs are suddenly bare, no more extra onesies and winter caps. The warmer has been removed from his car seat to keep his skin air cool and his plumpy aura pleasant. It’s suddenly warm and the first day it went from the 40s to the 80s, Isaiah slept almost half the day, as if his body went into some sort of confused mode that drank all of his energy, “I have to regulate the temperature of this big baby, we need to shut down,” is what I imagine his cells and neurons communicating to one another.

It’s been about three and a half months since Nick’s and my life took a radical turn. And things are indeed different, as I reflect on the past year. I believe Isaiah was conceived during this past week and, if you believe that life begins the moment of conception, Isaiah is technically a year old already. He friggin looks like a toddler anyway, so that feels appropriate to write.

When he’s fussy or won’t stop making noises, sometimes I pick him up and go outside and show him all the signs of new life in the world. The tulips springing out from the ground in our back yard, the tiny budding flowers, and the tips of green beginning to open themselves into leaves on the trees. Isaiah’s fascinated by the color and the wind on his face and I start laughing to myself when I look at him look at spring. For me, Isaiah’s the ultimate sign of new life and here he is, grazing the new spring grass with his chubby foot.

The gorgeous weather has also permitted us to go for long walks together and that has made ALL the difference during the day. No more being cooped inside the house, no more praying for the snow to stop trapping us indoors. I feel free! Boundless! And I’m enjoying it while I can because I know in a handful of weeks, my allergies will bound me to the house once more and I will be unable to take meds because of nursing Isaiah. This will definitely be interesting. I’m going to look like a bloated, congested goat.

Isaiah’s life keeps changing our world and the worrying, planning, and mild anxiety doesn’t seem to stop. Ironically, accompanying all of this is a deep serenity that I was not prepared to find in parenting. Sometimes, when it’s just me and Isaiah, and I’m singing him to sleep, I kiss him on the top of his head and can feel the soft spot. A physically vulnerable place on his body revealing his pure youth – his skull is still fusing together, his brain is still growing. And in this place where I rest my mouth, I can feel his heartbeat. His heartbeat. I can feel his actual heartbeat at the top of his head. Something about that often makes me cry. In so many ways, Isaiah is this utterly dependent little thing of a human who can only wiggle around, half roll on a couch, and yelp for his needs. And yet he is his own person. He’s a completely separate human being from me and Nick, a person who will grow into his own, and experience his own choices and trials, failures and triumphs. He has his own heart. He doesn’t need mine or Nick’s.

That realization startled me. Isaiah is his own person.

Somewhere in the future I see myself struggling to let him go. Whether that’s his first day at kindergarten, his first boy/girl party, his driver’s license, or college decision, I don’t know. I can’t fathom how this little miracle is someday going to leave us and show us his own heart’s identity.

For now, I’m just enjoying those moments of realization and relishing in all the little epiphanies he brings me on a daily basis. For now, that is more than enough.

Isaiah is a gift that is endlessly unwrapping.