Rich, Heather and Alana’s Blog

Well, last night was a bomb.

I mean, not in the modern context in which something referred to as “the bomb” is actually a good, or cool, thing.

But in the age old sense that something just completely bombed. As in, it didn’t work out at all.

We (we being Bri, Bethany, Heidi, and I) had talked recently about the need for a girls night out…so we settled on P.F. Changs and then back to Bri’s house for some Pampered Chef molten chocolate cake and peanut butter pie. We invited a couple of other girlfriends, and made reservations for some yummy food and fun times.

Rich agreed to stay home with Alana while I ate dinner with the girls, and that part of the evening went just fine. I took this shot of Kellie and I at dinner, and we had a great time talking and laughing the way girlfriends do.

As dinner wound down, I called Rich to meet me at the restaurant so that I could feed Alana before taking her with me to Bri’s house. Once Alana was fed (parking lots are just not my favorite place to feed! I find the car fairly uncomfortable for these purposes), I realized that she’d had a blowout, so back into the restaurant we went for diaper and outfit change. Extra clothes are an indispensable fixture in the diaper bag.

On the way back out, she spit up all over her fresh outfit. It never fails. Apparently, two outfits should be a permanent fixture in the diaper bag! I’m starting that today. But this part of the evening was all still okay with me. It’s the new normal; it’s just part of being a mommy and struggling through a girls night out with a baby.

Kellie and I drove to Bri’s house, excited for the night out and a chance to relax and enjoy the estrogen-fest.

Complete with chocolate. And peanut butter pie. Mmmm.

About two minutes after we got there, Alana woke up and started crying. It was common crying at first, and I was pretty sure it was a “tired cry.” But then it got more intense and became incessant.

I walked all over the house with her. I bounced, swayed, shushed, and sang. I attempted to feed her again, thinking she might still be hungry. To no avail. I checked her diaper. I put her across my lap for pressure on her tummy. Still she wailed.

Now I was flustered, because even though she is a fairly fussy baby (I like to call it “passionate.” Rich calls it “dramatic”) she doesn’t ever scream inconsolably. I could only take about a half hour of this, knowing that it was out of character for her, and I began to worry.

I sweat when she screams. I was reading about the cries of babies the other day. The book I read talked about the actual physiological effect on adults that a crying baby has. Blood pressure, anxiety, etc. It’s really very fascinating.

So, I gave my best “I’m-really-sorry-to-ruin-your-evening” look to Kellie, and told her that I thought we needed to go. She was very kind and understanding, and we headed out…after a half hour of wondering what it would be like to have an enjoyable evening out with the girls.

So we said goodbye. To Bri, Bethany, and Heidi.

And to the aforementioned chocolate cake and peanut butter pie.

I put Alana in her car seat and the torturous cries persisted. I called Rich to ask him to pray for my nerves, which were, at this point, shot. I’m such a newbie. Oddly enough, when Kellie and I got situated in the car for our half hour drive home, Alana calmed and began to do a quiet little whimper that indicated she was okay but exhausted from her meltdown.

I’m not so sure I will ever know what caused the red-faced screaming-so-hard-she-ceased-to-breathe episode.

Don’t get me wrong. This is not a pity party or a lament on the pains of being a parent. Rather, I thoroughly enjoy blogging my life, both the fun and the not-so-fun…for posterity. I love that when Alana is older, she will be able to look back at ancient blog postings and scrapbook pages and know what her mom was thinking and feeling when she made her grand entrance into the world.

I just hope that above all, she knows that she was worth every ounce of the sacrifice. And even every forfeited piece of dessert.

I love you, my silly little crying baby girl.