Post-Partum Unit and Beyond

Talk about being thrown into a fire; totally blind-sided and unprepared for the unprecedented chaos.  I was handed this adorable little baby and had absolutely no clue what to do with him.  Naively, I had thought that my nurturing, motherly instincts would immediately kick into effect and I would have no trouble adapting to motherhood. 

Initially, the art of breastfeeding seemed such an insurmountable obstacle and a painful endeavor.  My new little baby appeared something akin to a parasitic leech, rather than a defenseless, little newborn.  Explosive cries emanated out of his little body and he bit into me with a ravenous determination.  During the second night of my hospital stay, and overcome with exhaustion, I literally tried to return him to the hospital.  Wheeling his bassinet into the hospital nursery, I seriously asked if they had any magical panacea to cease his infinite crying.  The night nurse looked at me like I had delivered both my baby as well as my brain, because apparently my head had been vacated.  After she sternly told me that there was nothing she could do, she pitied my frazzled state and offered to watch Baby J while I slept for a few hours.  Apparently, all sales were final. 

When it was finally time to be discharged, I felt as though I was being thrown into the world of motherhood with no instruction booklet or training manual.  The discharge nurse instructed me to sit in a wheelchair (although I had been walking around the floor for days now), with Baby J swaddled in a blanket on my lap, and Jon proudly striding beside us.  Obediently, I agreed to this picture-perfect looking happy-family procession.  However, in reality, my body was still aching from childbirth and my deflated stomach pancaked over my maternity sweatpants (not my size four skinny jeans, which I had packed just in case).  Also, Jon really needed the wheelchair more than I did, since he was dizzy from his own accumulated sleep deprivation and sleeping on a hospital couch for five nights (he had also managed to contract an allergic reaction from the harsh, hospital laundry detergent used to clean the bedsheets).  In light of how we were really feeling, we fabricated false smiles of happy newbie parents and continued our parade toward the exit. 

As soon as the valet pulled my car into the hospital driveway, the façade quickly unraveled:  Jon and I had asked a friend to install the car seat a week earlier and we had both mistakenly thought that the other one had known how to use it.  Of course, when we tried to secure Baby J into the state-of-the-art, $400 contraption, neither of us knew how to operate the damn thing.  Poor Baby J, losing his patience with each failed attempt, succumbed to a red-faced temper tantrum as we fiddled with the straps of his car seat. Bystanders stared at our frazzled spectacle, wondering what on earth we were doing with this poor newborn.   A desperate Jon solicited total strangers, asking if anyone knew how to operate a Peg-Perego car seat.  When no solution sufficed, I ordered Jon to drive home slowly and safely.  I cradled my new baby close to my chest and prayed that our faces would not appear on the evening news.  Luckily, we eventually arrived home, intact and grateful.

Venturing into our own house also proved to be unfamiliar territory.  Little Jordan took one look at his new surroundings and spontaneously combusted into a meltdown.   Looking quite dapper in his carefully coordinated homecoming outfit, there was little I could do to quell his tempter.  How could someone in such a well-attired, monkey outfit behave in such an embittered fashion?  When Jon repeatedly commented that he was acting like an animal, I suggested that perhaps we should stop dressing him as such. 

Jon and I were befuddled and took turns playing hot potato with Baby J.  We learned quickly that despite the expensive baby furniture, creatively adorned wall decals, and cutesy baby toys, the only thing that acted as a remedy for Jordan’s fussiness was Mommy’s boobies.

Those first turbulent days at home were quite an adjustment for all of us.  My fluctuating hormones as well as Jordan’s moods were extremely erratic and unpredictable.  We devised all sorts of creative ideas to cease Baby J’s endless crying such as blasting a blow dryer (this sound supposedly mimics the sound of the womb), taking him outside for a change of scenery, and when all else failed--back to the boob…

Labor Pains

I am back by popular demand (well, I don't know about popularity, but a couple of my friends were quite demanding that I continue blogging again)!  So, since I have had ions of free time (in between raising a baby, working, being a wife, keeping a household in order, and trying to instill some semblance of sanity back into my life), I have continued journaling about my experiences as a new mother.  To not overwhelm my dear readers, I will post a new blog every few days in order to catch up on the past four months.  In doing so, I will attempt to censor my story, omitting graphic details and TMIs.  So, imagine what life was like four months ago....on April 11, 2011, to be exact, and read on for the full story of Jordan's entry into the world....

Labor Pains

This is not a drill, I sardonically thought to myself when my water broke for the second time, two days before my actual due date.  I was winding down from a rather busy weekend, in which I was feeling great: my energy had returned, the nesting instinct was in full effect, and I had spent the past two days enjoying the beach, movies, and my brother’s 30^th birthday party.  

 Of course, I hoped for one more good night’s sleep before admitting myself to the hospital yet again.  However, as my luck would prevail, the minute I snuggled into bed at 11pm on Sunday night, my water broke for the second time in my pregnancy.  Just in case this was another false alarm, I crept into the bathroom, careful not to wake my sleeping husband, and called my doula.  She confirmed that this was in fact the real thing and I needed to go to the hospital in the next couple of hours, as I was experiencing irregular contractions.

When I woke up Jon, he bolted towards the garage door before the words had even passed my lips.  Since the last incident, in which I had teased him about primping like a woman, he was now lickity split, while I took my time leisurely showering, washing my hair, and preparing my last meal before a diet of ice chips.  Of course, when I was finally ready, Jon admitted that he didn’t think that he could drive me to the hospital, since he had taken a sleeping pill that night.  Grabbing the car keys, my zombie-husband, my birthing ball, and my bump, I drove us all to the hospital and was ready to finally meet the little stinker who had already given his mommy the torture treatment.

While it would have given me great pleasure to report that I delivered baby J as soon as I was admitted to the hospital, drug-free, pain-free, and extracted him out of the womb myself, that is not my life.  Once I was whisked off to triage, admitted, and checked into a room, the nurse informed me that my doctor had instructed me to sleep in the hospital that night, since my contractions were irregular.  After a rather sleepless night, my contractions were still irregular and the nurse implanted garvasol, an insert to induce labor.  Although she had instructed me to exercise extreme caution after the implantation, I horrifically discovered that the insert eventually journeyed into the long lost chasm of the hospital toilet bowl.  

Of course, my labor had still not progressed and my doctor decided it was time to call out the much-dreaded pictocin.  My mind immediately corroded of horror stories, told by friends who had received the big P.  One of my friends admitted to abusing her poor husband by throwing inadimate objects at his undeserving head; another friend hysterically screamed that the anesthesiologist wasn't moving fast enough, scaring the drug-monger out of the hospital room, never to return.  I feared the worst: unbearable pain was in my imminent future and my contractions would feel 100 times worse than the somewhat bearable bodily spasms I was now experiencing. 

I soon discovered that my fear was very real; the Pictocin magnified my contractions to such an extent that I vomited after each one.  Having no respite from the contractions and the repetitive puking, and after enduring eleven hours of labor, I eventually relented to the epidural.  After the anesthesiologist kicked my entourage out of the hospital room and administered the spinal injection, my pain quickly vanished.   Because of the epidural, I no longer felt as though I was in labor, in any type of pain, and could not even tell when I was experiencing a contraction. 

Prior to my labor, I was adamant that I did not want an epidural.  I did not want to be a prisoner of the hospital bed, but wanted to be free to roam around the room, exercising my contractions as calmly as the women in the birthing movies and pamphlets.  However, Jon reported that upon his re-emergence into the hospital room, I had a huge smile on my face.  During the seven more hours of labor, I was actually able to nap, watch TV, play scrabble, and carry on everyday conversations—some semblance of normalcy was restored. 

Ironically enough, my favorite part of the birthing process was when it finally became time for me to push.  My mom and doula each held one leg while Jon stood next to me, holding my hand.  I felt like I was about to cross the finish line of the longest marathon of my life and I had my own, personal cheering squad, urging me towards the final leg of my journey.  Also, I had not experienced a full cardiovascular exercise in months, and the endorphin/adrenaline rush of the momentum felt invigorating.  After an hour and a half of extreme pushing and cheering, Baby J erupted out of my body and was greeted by the world. 

In B.E.D. with Tea

Disclaimer: The following information contains somewhat technical/boring informational material geared towards women in their third trimester of pregnancy.  If you were hoping to be entertained or enlightened by my misadventures, stay tuned for the next blog!

No, I am not sick nor am I having contractions.  I devised this little acronym to assist me in recalling the three important things that I need to ask my doctor during each office visit until my labor commences.  B.E.D. stands for: Baby Station, Effacement, and Dilation.  I also thought this acronym rather fitting since pregnancy is usually instigated with a woman being in bed and ends in bed (albeit a hospital birthing bed).  As I was recently informed, the components of B.E.D, are the three main indicators that specify when a woman is about to go into labor.  Please keep in mind that despite any of these factors, I am a living example that anything can go awry at any given point in time. 

The other night, when I met with my doula, she instructed me to ask my doctor about my B.E.D. progress.  Copiously, I scribbled notes and attempted to untangle her detailed description of each of the three components, but I was still quite lost.  When I turned to Jon for understanding, he was involved in a game of pet n' purr with Tiger and his face appeared equally blank.  So, when I waddled into my doctor's office on Thursday, I suddenly realized with a jolt -Omigosh I left my paper with questions in my car.  I felt like an irresponsible student who had forgotten her homework at home....In haste, I texted my doula--What were those three things again (and what do they mean?)?

Luckily, my doula was quick to respond and my doctor was able to give me the lowdown on Baby J's newest statistics.  I have discovered that here is an entire quadratic formula utilized in order to evaluate the labor and birthing process. As I have so expertly demonstrated thus far, the obstetrical community can measure, quantify, and qualify just about anything.  Yes, big brother has been watching over me and Baby J!

For all of my fellow preggers nearing the tail end of pregnancy, I will attempt to describe B.E.D. as well as exercises and routines that can assist in the progress.  For all of you non-preggers, but loyal blog followers, I apologize in advance for the overall dryness and technicalities of the following information. 

Firstly, baby station is the baby's location in relation to the mother’s pelvis and how low down the head is positioned.  This is measured by the relationship between the baby's head and the mother's sit bones.  The range is from -5 (floating, bouncing baby) to +5 (crowning or moment of extreme pain followed by immense relief).  This is usually measured by the practitioner via an internal exam during the last few weeks of pregnancy.  Supposedly, women whose babies have not properly descended feel immense pain when the doctor checks for the station, as it feels as though he is reaching upward, towards the tonsils.  My baby station is currently at -2, and like all expectant mothers, I would love to hop on the express train to the +5 station!

Effacement refers to the shortening of the cervix as the mother’s body readies itself for labor.  This is measured in percentages, ranging from 0-100.  My doula described effacement as an aligning of the cervix to the uterus; in which the cervix eventually becomes a part of the uterine wall, allowing the baby an easy passage downward (it helps me to visualize a zigzagging water slide which straightens out at the end, depositing its components into an awaiting pool).  When a woman is fully effaced, she can lose her mucus plug, which has so far acted as a sealant to the uterus and the outside world.  I am at 0% effacement, so clearly I have some work to do in this department.

Effacement is as equally important as dilation, although few people realize this.  According to my doula, women who are not effaced as they reach their due date are more likely to be induced, as their body refuses to labor on its own accord (the medicine administered in inductions can also lead to additional medical interventions, as contractions are usually severely heightened).   Pectocin, the main medication used for induction, contains a synthetic chemical, which is also present in semen.  This chemical helps launch the cervix into action, so it is actually advisable for women to get busy during this time, as sex has yet another added benefit!

Dilation is the most popular term, although not the most important, associated with childbirth.  Dilation is the process of the stretching or widening of the cervix, in order to accommodate the passageway of baby.  This is measured in centimeters, ranging from 1-10.  Until a woman is well into her third trimester, she should be 0 cm dilated and the number should gradually increase as labor progresses.  Supposedly, when a woman dilates, it feels similar to cramping and the contractions intensify.

A woman can choose to have an epidural around 4 cm and the window usually closes around 8 cm.  Again, according to my doula, women usually believe that 8 cm is the moment of extreme angst and pain, but she explained that the contractions do not intensify; the body just readies itself for the final stage in delivery.  As per my doctor's visit, I am only a "fingertip" dilated.  A woman is usually advised to go to the hospital around 4 cm or the cardinal rule of 5-1-1 (contractions are 5 minutes apart, lasting 1 minute, for a 1 hour duration).

As I previously mentioned, I have some work to do to help move my body along with the labor process.  My doula instructed me to walk at least twenty minutes a day and to perform 20 squats, and 20 lunges on each leg daily.  Since I have been on bed rest for two months, my muscles have greatly atrophied and prior to two weeks ago, I easily became short of breath.  Now, I have two weeks for my muscles to remember all of the hard work they accomplished prior to bed rest. 

And I almost forgot about my Red Raspberry Leaf Tea!  This tea is advisable for women to drink at the end of third trimester, as it is supposed to help strengthen the uterus for childbirth.  Red Raspberry Leaf Tea can be purchased at GNC, Whole Foods, or any natural market.  Like Popeye with his spinach, I am envisioning my uterus becoming so tough that it will eventually thrust out Baby J like a cannon ball. 

So, preggers, as you near your due date and the vaginal intrusions begin, don’t forget to ask your doc about your B.E.D progression and whether there is anything you can do to assist in expediting this process.  As I have learned throughout my pregnancy, I am the best advocate for myself and for my baby.  I would highly encourage others to adopt this approach at the onset of pregnancy, since you are carrying and protecting your most valuable, treasured asset. 

Bamboozled Birthing Plan

On Friday evening, when Jon walked in from work, he adorned a huge smile on his face and told me that he had it all figured out.  "You have what figured out?" I demanded, eyeing him quizzically.  As he enjoyed keeping me in suspense and took ample time divulging his news, I couldn't help pondering what he was referring to.  Did he receive a promotion at work?  Did he unravel string theory and discover life on another planet?  Did he finally figure out how to fold the city mini baby stroller and move it into the garage?  Settling into the couch beside me, he calmly, yet seriously explained to me that he had contrived his very own birthing plan. 

Still skeptical, I responded: "Oh that thing I had you print out from Baby Center?  I already filled that out two weeks ago and it is in our hospital suitcase."  Of course, this was not what he was referring to...

Jon, my meticulous, organized, logical husband, devised a strategic timeline of events in which he planned for us to deliver our baby.  According to my dear husband, the imperatively mapped blueprint went as follows: "You will begin having contractions on Thursday, March 31st and I will take you to the hospital after work, after I meet my monthly quota;  On Friday, the baby will be delivered and I will have the entire weekend to spend with you in the hospital; On Monday, I will take my week of paternity and will return back to work promptly on Monday, April 11th." 

Questions, sardonic responses, and confusion simultaneously befuddled my pregnant brain.  I wondered: If I went into labor on Wednesday, did that mean that I would have to drive myself to the hospital, give birth, and have Baby J while Jon resumed work on Thursday to finish his quota?  What would happen if I actually had the baby on my due date (April 15th) and Jon had to miss the middle-end of April and he couldn't make his goal?  Would our new baby have a resentful daddy?  Of course, I immediately realized that my fears were null and void and Jon would be there whenever, wherever Baby J decided to emerge.  Yet, at the same time, I had to laugh at the irony of it all: With everything that we have been through these past two months, didn't we already accept the fact that the rest of our lives would no longer be based on a delineated sequence of events?

As previously stated, I have learned throughout this entire process is that it is oftentimes futile to plan and control our lives.  Also, the emergence of a new being further complicates the plot.  While I told Jon that I was OK with his contrivance, I indicated that there was now a third party in the picture and I didn't know if all was copacetic on his end.  Baby J has already demonstrated a fair amount of indecisiveness in his unborn life as he initially thought that he wanted to debut two months ago, then decided to remain in mommy's incubator.  Also, my contractions began at 30 weeks and then abruptly ended at 36 weeks.  Now, at just over 37 weeks, Baby J is fully cooked and this is usually the time when contractions become more intense.  My body is showing zero signs of going into labor and I am starting to think that my unborn child may have to be forced out of his protective womb. 

This morning, when I had my ultrasound, I once again explained to the technician that Baby J is not a morning person and enjoys keeping me awake at night with his dare-devilish acrobatics.  When she responded that I better find a way to change that pattern quickly, I could do nothing but laugh.  Again, another person under the wrongful assumption that I can just press a button on my remote control and TIVO Baby J to play at a more suitable time.  While I have purchased a pile of baby books on healthy sleep patterns and so on, I have already learned that I will be unable to operate my baby like a machine. 

For now, my only birthing plan is to eventually coerce this little rugrat out of my body and into the world.  I continue to live my life on a day by day basis, and wonder each evening if tonight will be the night...Although Baby J is still in the 12th percentile in terms of weight, he is now approximately 5 lbs, 11ozs and continues to pass his biophysical profiles with flying colors.  Jon and I completed his nursery this weekend and the monkeys are all hanging around, waiting expectantly for their honored king of the jungle.

Dumb and Dumber: Politically Incorrect Pregnancy Comments

If I had a baby each time somebody felt the need to comment on my pregnancy, I would have produced enough offspring to double the entire population of the United States.  The comments began when I first disclosed my pregnancy, then simmered down while I was in the hospital and people had restricted access to my baby bump.  Now, that I am completely off parole, the comments are so out of control I sometimes feel the urge to re-admit myself to the hospital and seek refuge in a dark utility closet until Baby J shows his little face.

At the dentist's office this morning, the questioning commenced when the receptionist asked if I had my baby yet.  I had to do a double take of my protruding bump before seriously answering her, just in case Baby J accidentally fell out in the parking lot.  Not sure how to respond, I pointed down to my stomach and answered: "nope, he's still in there...."  When the hygienist called me in, her eyes practically bulged out of their sockets as she too was overcome with an intense need to comment: "Wow--you look like you are about to pop any second!"  For the duration of the cleaning, I was praying that my water didn't break all over her sterile station, contaminating the numerous dental devices. 

Last week, while I was waiting in the doctor's office for my sonogram, a nosey soon-to-be grand-mother began an endless tirade of questions regarding my pregnancy.  As I tried to answer her questions in a rather subdued and conservative manner, she simply could not restrain herself from asking: "Do you know that your whole life is about to drastically change?" Dumbfounded, I could do nothing but look at her, without acknowledging her response in a less-than respectful manner.  Instead, I caustically thought: Really lady?  Thank you so much for alerting me to this unprecedented news flash.  Before you unveiled this secret, I had absolutely no idea whatsoever that I am about to be thrown into a completely foreign world, in which I will I have to be available around the clock to care for an infant...

The other day, while I was getting my haircut, the stylist informed me that I looked really pregnant.  After I confirmed that I was indeed over nine months pregnant, she continued to quizzically look at me as though I should be locked away in a sort of pregnant convent.  I had no prior knowledge that at nine months, my hair cut privileges would be revoked due to displaying anything other than a miniscule baby bump.  I thought, if I don't look really pregnant now, at what point would my body suddenly metastasize itself into this spectacle?  Also, when I was first pregnant, nobody ever told me that I looked a little pregnant and luckily they knew better than to tell me I looked a little fat....

When I was about four month's pregnant, one of my colleagues told me that I had "pregnant face".  Caught somewhere between wanting to correct her grammar of neglecting to use the preposition "a" and taking offense, I was rendered speechless.  As implied, "pregnant face" was simply a symptom of the pregnancy virus.  Another colleague asked me if I was sure there was only one baby in there, as my bulging stomach dared to explode out of my dress.  For a few weeks, I remained in a state of mortification that I had put on so much weight so quickly and wondered if maybe the ultrasound technician had overlooked another baby....

Really people??  Is it that difficult to think of a somewhat flattering remark to say to a pregnant woman? Just in case, I have compiled a list of politically correct, acceptable comments (I have to express my gratitude to friends and family for providing me with some of these positive remarks):

1.  You are carrying so well (as opposed to you look like the Goodyear blimp)

2.  Your hair looks so shiny or your skin is glowing!

3.  You hardly look like you've gained any weight

4.  You have the cutest little belly (thank you, nurse Sharon!)

5.  Omigod, you are hardly showing!

6.  You look like you are seven months pregnant, not nine (much credit to my mom, who is usually brutally honest). 

36 Weeks and Getting Ready to Shed my Fat Suit!

Incubation Baby made it to 36 weeks--a HUGE milestone!!  Yesterday, my doctor finally unlocked my jail cell, handing me the keys back to my old life.  As he instructed me to move around with caution and stay close to home, I strategized about planning the numerous opportunities, once again within my grasp (regular doctors appointments, dentist, haircut, organizing my nursery, nesting)!  No longer do I have to depend on my mom and my husband to be at my beck and call--I can even drive within a five mile radius of my house! 

Now that I am able to roam around freely, I have noticed that my body is vastly different compared to when I was first admitted to the hospital.  Baby J is now the size of a watermelon and my protruding belly is no picnic.  Small endeavors such as doing laundry or washing dishes leave me panting and exhausted.  Between two month's of extremely limited activity and accumulating extra weight, my physical endurance is a far cry from what it was a few months ago.  Yesterday, I looked at my reflection in the mirror and asked: Who is this person and what has she done with my figure? 

Like Gweneth Paltrow's character in the movie Shallow Hal, I feel like I am trapped inside a fat suit. Any day now, I expect my old self to suddenly emerge when I shed my extra layer like one of Baby J's zippered onesies.  Since I have been on bed rest for so long, I have not gradually acclimated to my shifting form and continually miscalculate the new parameters of my body.  Last night, not accurately calculating the proximity of my desk to the closet, my belly swept over the desk, knocking off half the contents.  These past couple of days, after I have administered Tiger's eye drops, I cannot lift my body from the floor and have had to crawl to the nearest piece of furniture in order to hoist myself upright.  Whenever Jon is home, he acts as my human fork lift and in turn, receives his daily workout.   

Baby J seems as though he is outgrowing his confines as well.  I have begun noticing tiny little limbs, hands, and feet stretching my belly to its utmost capacity.  His movements have become less frequent, but when they do occur, I fear that he is going to tear through my skin like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Baby Bonaparte better be at least five pounds when I return to the perinatologist on Monday or else...!

Purrrfect Parenting?

If mothering my cat is any indication of the type of mother that I will be to my son, then, I will probably be an obsessive, over-protective worry-wart.  As I have stated before, prior to adopting Tiger, I was indifferent to most animals and even slightly annoyed if someone's dog drooled down my leg or wouldn't cease barking.  Never having pets growing up, I really did not comprehend the whole people/animal connection and was never truly empathetic on the topic of animals.

Now, with Tiger, Jon and I would sacrifice almost anything for his health and well-being--if Tiger is only a cat how will we be with our only son??  For the past two days, I have been mothering my little powder puff and pieces of my heart break away each time I see him in pain.  With each eye drop, he squeaks a little yelp of protest and then five minutes later, I have to administer another drop.  When Baby J is sick, Jon will probably muster all of his energy to not have me committed to the asylum.  Because of that damn cyborg cone wrapped around Tiger's head, his whiskers are confined, and he now has difficulty sensing spaces,  jumping, and eating and drinking (for those of you unfamiliar with cats, whiskers are a cat's sixth sense and act as another pair of eyes to help guide them).  I have attempted to wrap him up in a kitty burrito to spoon feed him, but he is already so freaked out with my numerous medical interventions, I doubt he is eating enough.  Flash-forward to a few weeks from now--is Baby J receiving enough breast milk??

Five years ago, when Jon had to say goodbye to Smokey-the-Satanical Kitty for the sake of our matrimonial harmony, I did not understand the urgency when he called me on my cell phone demanding to know my whereabouts.  I had promised that I would meet him at his apartment as soon as he returned from the vet and was running an hour and a half late.  I had insensitively explained that I went to the gym, had to run errands, etc. etc and I would be there eventually.  Poor Jon had to return to an apartment devoid of both his cat and his unsympathetic girlfriend.  I never comprehended that grieving an animal is so similar to grieving a person.

Jon also had his share of fathering his cat, as Smokey had numerous behavioral issues.  Before I met him, Smokey went through a period of anorexia and Jon had the vet install a feeding tube in his throat.  Each morning, afternoon, and evening, Jon liquefied cat food and poured it down Smokey's feeding tube.  Until one night, Smokey began choking on the contraption, Jon haphazardly ripped it out, and that was the end of the kitty-starvation-fiasco.  Smokey was eventually prescribed Prozac and other medications, but sadly, nothing could curtail his mentally deranged personality. 

Whether feline friend or foe, cats are family and can often be as helpless as infants.  Jon and I commented last night that because of our cat-parenting skills, we should be somewhat competent at parenting an infant.  Since I have not been able to meet the vet in person, we have developed a phone correspondence and he commented that "Tiger is lucky to have a good mommy."  With my daily assault of incessant questions regarding Tiger's numerous ailments, I was shocked that he actually thought I was a good mother, and not a cat-crazed-lunatic.  Now, if only I could find a pediatrician who is patient enough to deal with my constant harangue of questions and worrisome behavior....