The punchline.

There was a dead bird on the back deck.
A sparrow, I think.

I noticed her outside the window Monday morning.
Something about her reminded me of Peyton.

Her stillness.
Her beauty.

Death couldn't steal that from either of them.

We have a large window at the back of our living room.
By the way the sparrow had landed - stomach up, wings folded over her chest - I assumed that she had flown into the glass and broken her neck.

I hope she never saw it coming.
Never felt it.
I would like to think that she flew straight from this world to the next, skipping the painful part of her journey altogether.

The babies and I spend the majority of our time in the living room, and on Monday, every time I passed the window, I stopped to pay homage to that little bird. When Hubs came home I told him about her, and he agreed, upon seeing her, that she was indeed beautiful.

Monday had been a particularly rough day. As you may recall from my post earlier this week, Squeaks decided to keep life interesting by eating the stuffing out of a diaper, which had resulted in a call to Poison Control, so by the time we were finally getting the snowflakes ready for bed, it was nearly 8PM and I was fully exhausted - and starving.

Hubs headed out to grill some steaks while I fed, changed, and put down the babies. It took longer than usual, which was probably due to the fact that we had had a very full day with little napping. When I felt comfortable that the babies were going to nod off, I headed downstairs to help with dinner.

Fifteen minutes later Squeaks let out a terrible shriek from upstairs, and Hubs, having finished his grilling, went up to help her. I could hear him rocking her in their room, because our rocker is long overdue for some WD-40, but Squeaks was still inconsolable, so I put dinner aside and went running upstairs, figuring only the boob would calm her.

That's when it happened.

As I was turning the corner in front of the stair case, I nearly tripped over a dark lump in the center of the hallway. It was my dead bird.

Charlotte, our suddenly very proud looking puppy, padded by, saw my expression, and turned to head for the hills.

There was bird everywhere - little feathery bits in my hallway. My kitchen. The family room.

I called, yelled, screamed at the top of my lungs to Hubs something along the lines of, "Nag! Nag! Nag!... I told you about that bird!... Nag!... What do you mean you forgot?... Nag!... Well of course the dog went after her... she's a dog!"

His reaction to the whole episode was a non-reaction, which, if I am being honest here, made my blood boil.

Let's call upon another earlier post, shall we? The one where I admit to being a bit of a germophobe, and by a bit - I mean a huge, what do you mean you open the bathroom door with your bare hands and don't wash your hands before eating? germophobe.

So here it was, now 9PM, and I had been up since 5AM (when the boy gave me a urine soaked wake up call) had dealt with the dog peeing on the floor, had swept silica infused diaper bits out of my daughter's mouth, placed a call to Poison Control, been vomited all over, dealt with two non-napping cranky snowflakes, had not eaten so much as a bite of food all day, and now, to top it off, had Jackson Pollack style bird bits spread throughout my house.

I was NOT a happy camper.

I did the only thing I could do - mope, fume, fuss - took care of Squeaks and then got to cleaning.
And cleaning...
And cleaning...

It took me 2+ hours to mop all of the floors (three passes of course because of that whole dead bird thing) - 1st- soap and water, 2nd - vinegar and water, 3rd - a thin layer of rubbing alcohol where I had seen bits of birdie "just in case." Of course the entire time I was doing this, I was thinking about the previews for that movie Contagion. Come on, you've seen them - where the bird flu wipes out all of humanity. Anyhow, I guess I was focused more on that, than the fumes, because when the floor was finally cleaned to my liking, I felt sick - light-headed, nauseated, dizzy. Being sick got me to thinking about why I felt sick, and when I realized it was probably not early onset bird flu, but instead the result of not opening the window while using rubbing alcohol, I couldn't help but wonder if having breathed so much of it in could have any affect on my breastmilk.

So I did what any ridiculous sane person in my position would do. I called Poison Control ... again.

I explained my situation and they told me that they had "no data on the effects of rubbing alcohol and breastmilk."

Huh?

I mean it's rubbing alcohol! A staple. Most households have at least a bottle of the stuff lying around. You would think they would have some data. Anyway the woman referred me to the Pregnancy Risk Line and told me I would have to wait till the morning to call because they were closed. Uh... yeah. Not helpful since the babies eat a hundred times a night, so she told me to call my Ped, who told me to call the Children's Hospital nurse on call, who told me to call Poison Control!

Long story short - the nurse finally told me I should pump and dump, so I did, and wouldn't you know it, the second, the VERY second I finally got done pumping and dumping and was ready to sit down, the babies woke up to be fed.

I have come to realize that sometimes in life you are the one telling the joke, and sometimes you are the punchline.

There is no doubt in my mind.
Monday - I was the punchline.

Pass The Hand Sanitizer Please

Okay, confession time.

I am a people person who doesn't actually like being around people.

Confused yet?

Let me elaborate...

I have always been a little OCD when it comes to germs. Okay, not totally true. I have always been A LOT  OCD when it comes to germs, which is funny, and a bit ironic, considering the fact that I used to make my living in medical sales which was open doors-say hello-shake hands-make deal-shake hands again-open new doors-shake new hands- and on and on all day long. I kept (keep, I still keep, kept implies I have somehow moved past this phobia) hand sanitizer in my car to squirt between meetings, always opened public restroom doors with paper towels, never touched the faucets, wouldn't eat from public salad bars, take my shoes off before coming in the house, wash my groceries before putting them away and on. and on. and on.

So anyway, this fear of germs thing is nothing new, but somehow it is heightened, very heightened, TERROR ALERT ORANGE heightened, when I am out with the babies because no matter where we go, or what I am "trying" to do, without fail some icky person will come over wanting to touch them. Strangers. Wanting to touch them. After blowing their noses. Picking their eyes. Wiping their mouths. NOT WASHING THEIR HANDS! I have a sign on their car seats that reads "Please wash your hands before touching mine." What I wish it said was, "Don't Touch My Babies YOU FILTHY DISEASE MONGER!" which is ironic, because I used to think about how wonderful it would be to be that mom in the store, with the adorable LIVING baby, that people came over to check out.

So why not now?
I'll tell you...

I don't live in the normal universe.

I live in this corner of the universe where I know about babies, too many babies... too many beautiful and PERFECT and MUCH LOVED babies who have died from everything from the common cold, to a cold sore, and I hear those stories and they scare the hell out of me and leave me feeling on alert. People come near us and I find myself scanning them. Is their nose running? Are they coughing? Sneezing? Looking generally "unwell." And yet, even as careful (as ree-donk-u-lously careful) as I am, there is always that lady, the one who slips in when I have turned my head for a second to grab a package of eggs (in a plastic produce bag, of course, just in case some salmonella got on the outside of the container) off the shelf, and stuck her hands on their faces, or in one instance, her dirty finger in their mouth! No really, a stranger stuck her finger in Bubba's mouth. Who the hell does this?

So it leaves me in this ironic place where I want to be left alone when we are out and about, but I have babies, two smiling, cooing, adorable babies, which is practically like waving a sign that reads, "COME SEE THESE TWINS!"

It's a tough balance.

I don't want to be a smother mother. I really, really don't. I think it is a fear that anyone in the babyloss community has who parents living children, or plans to in the future. None of us want to transfer our fears and anxieties because of the things, the horrible, horrible things, that we have seen, onto our children, because that is just unfair to them, and they deserve to live with the naivete that we all used to live under, but I don't know how NOT to worry when the lady at the pediatrician's office has a cold sore and wants to weigh my babies. I don't know how NOT to worry when the guy who just grabbed steak out of the meat container, walks over and wants to grab their feet. I don't know how NOT to worry when that guy with a rash is rubbing up against their stroller.

So I guess that's my real question... how do you NOT worry, when you know too much?

P.S. I intended for this post to be a funny laugh-laugh look at my germophobic idiosyncrasies kind of thing. Yeah... ummm...  #fail

P.S.P.S. Home sick today. Thought it was mastitis. Went to the doctor who proceeded to check my boobs without washing his hands. Just reached out and grabbed 'em before I could say anything. Yeah... like I won't be thinking about THAT all day.