He enjoyed himself at El Tapitio...

...until he didn't.





Hey Mom, no girls allowed!!



This is a guy you an trust.



Papa!!



Grandma!!



My parents came up to help me take Dylan to his new pediatrician (my mother holds all of her grandkids down for their shots, it's a service she provides). Our former pediatrician, henceforth known as PIGFUCKER, kept telling us that Dylan's constant screaming was "just a phase" and "not to worry." Then about 3 weeks ago I read an article online about acid reflux in infants and recognized a lot of symptoms in Dylan: spitting up a lot, screaming, arching his back, little dry coughs, wanting to nurse constantly (for comfort, and b/c breastmilk is an antacid). I called PIGFUCKER and he prescribed Zantac over the phone.

The Zantac seemed to be working at first, but this past week has been bad, and last night was his worst night ever. I have never seen a baby scream that loudly or inconsolably. I was ready to take him to the ER when he finally stopped.

Our new pediatrician seems awesome. She spent an hour with us during our appointment on Friday (PIGFUCKER never spent more than 15 minutes with us, he had one foot out the door the whole time) and her husband happens to be a pediatric gastroenterologist. She prescribed Prevacid, which we will start Dylan on today. We will also start him on rice cereal, which may help settle his stomach.

It has been such a tough road. You can't imagine how hard it is to listen to your child wail in pain all the time. He's such a sweet, darling little boy. He doesn't deserve this. And I know this is awful, but sometimes when I see happy, content babies, I feel angry. Why do they get to be so happy, while Dylan writhes in pain? Why is he having such a rough start in life? It's not fair.

But we're hopeful about the Prevacid. My parents and my sister all take it (yes, it was my funky genes that got him into this mess) and they say it has worked wonders for them. 

I held him longer than necessary last night, rocking him, watching him sleep, grateful that he was resting comfortably. When he is screaming in pain, I feel crazy. Literally, crazy. Like I would do anything to make it stop. Beg, borrow, steal, kill, eat ketchup, ANYTHING. But there's nothing else I can do, so I place him gently in the crib and go to Ian and cry and cry until I'm exhausted enough to sleep.

Motherhood is no joke.

"Baby I am freaking out. You have to come and get us."

"I'm on my way."

I was taking Dylan out to see my parents in the southwest burbs when my car died on the Stevenson expressway, just past the Pulaski underpass. Died as in DEAD. Kaput. I barely made it to the shoulder.

I called my mother and contined to freak out. The car was shaking as other cars whizzed by. It was 20 degrees outside. Dylan woke up and started to complain.

"Dad is leaving now, too. He may be able to get there faster."

"Ok. I'm going to get in the backseat with Dylan."

The second I stepped out of the car, the bitter wind hit my face like a thousand knives. The noise of the expressway was deafening. Absurdly, I tried to unlock the backdoor using the keyless entry. When it didn't work, I tried to reopen the driver's side door, but it had locked behind me. For one moment--the moment that will now go down in history as the scariest in my life--I thought I was locked out of the car, Dylan locked in. Then my brain turned back on and I remembered that I was holding the keys in my hand, and that there is this old-fashioned way to open a lock called use the damn key.

So I climbed in next to Dylan and we waited for my menfolk to come rescue us, one speeding from the north, one from the south. Dylan's complaints turned into hysterical wails. Every bone in my body ached with the urge to pick him up, but I knew he was safer in his carseat so I left him there.

My father, who normally moves at tortise speed, was there in 10 minutes. I felt 8 years old again, resisting the urge to leap into his arms and cry, "Daddy!"

Ian, who ws traveling from much further away, arrived 2 minutes later. I don't even want to know how many laws he had to break to get there that fast.

By this time, 2 IDOT guys had stopped, so the four of them stood around the engine for a while, poured something into it, nothing worked. We transferred Dylan to Ian's car and I drove him to the safe haven of Grandma's house, leaving Ian and my dad behind to deal with this awful mess.

Apparently a gasket blew, among other things. The car is still in the shop. The estimate is painful.

And oddly, I went to sleep with a smile on my face last night. I've never felt so...lucky. Lucky that I made it to the shoulder on time. Lucky that Dylan and I escaped unharmed. Lucky that Ian and my dad came home safe. Lucky that I have people in my life who are willing to drop everything to rescue me. Lucky to have a mother who knitted the blankets that kept Dylan warm until help arrived. Lucky that although the repairs will take a huge chunk out of our savings, at least we have those savings. Lucky to be warm and safe in bed, Ian breathing softly next to be, Dylan's sweet baby face glowing on the video monitor.

And hey...at least we got out of the house for once.

Dylan had his first voting experience today! Frankly, that boy has no respect for the democratic process. I had to stop the stroller in order to cast my vote, HOW DARE I, don't I understand that the D-Man is all action? He started to melt down and I had to book it out of there. Obama had better appreciate everything I went through for him.

Also noteworthy: Dylan laughed for the first time this evening! If any of you need a laugh, just come on over and watch me unload my dishwasher. Apparently, it's a riot.