After eight long weeks
The blubbering is joyful
Isaac is home now
He’s home! He’s home!
Iwanthimhome Iwanthimhome Iwanthimhome Iwanthimhome Iwanthimhome Iwanthimehome Iwanthimhome.
I am going to FREAK OUT.
doctors toy with us
is he ready, is he not?
it's making me nuts
Can you imagine sitting with this sweet little guy – your sweet little baby – and then having to LEAVE HIM every night? How many times can a heart break? All I can say is, eat, Ike, eat. Go, Ike, go. I'm going crazy over here.
4lbs 13oz. He is officially more than twice his birth weight. I just want to eat him.
Well, they put Ike back on the canula for his feeding times. He was scaring everyone with those bradycardias while he ate, especially the ones during breastfeeding. I guess the little ones don't usually have the heart rate drops during breastfeeding. I tried to tell them the reason why it's happening with him is because of my super obnoxious niagara falls letdown and that it's not really his fault. But it doesn't really matter, they're testing out the canula to see if it helps him coordinate the suck swallow breathe trifecta. So far it has, so that's good. But it means it will be longer than a week before he comes home, for sure.
Big fat bummer.
I still bought a carseat today, though. I hope the other kids aren't jealous. It is way fancier than their infant seats ever were. But I figure I owe him one. He needs to ride in style. Poor thing had a pretty crapass go of it in my belly, and those NICU bassinets are not the most comfortable. At least he will be cozy in the car. Well, he'll scream, of course, they all do, don't they? But maybe he will be comfortable while he's pissed.
In completely unrelated news, the wee one dictated a story to the sitter today while he was home sick and I was at the hospital. It involves a dog mascot of a Special Inventors Club. The dog is named Meatball and is owned by a boy named Muchacha. I think if the wee one ever runs for president, this story may come back to haunt him.
Canulas and Meatballs. It is never a dull moment.
Too good not to share
Must ignore fears of jinxing
Ike’s almost ready
We have the word from Dr.s H, P, and L, ike’s team of neonatologists. We have the word from the case worker and the social worker. We have word from the nurses.
If Ike-a-saurus can take all of his bottles for several days in a row, he can come home. If he can go 10 days (we’re at least three days into this) without any resting Brady’s, he can come home. It could be as soon as this time next week or as long as three weeks. It’s all up to him.
We’ve been instructed to buy a car seat. We’re all signed up for a CPR course.
So if you have a spare moment, please throw out a whisper to the universe or God or Buddha or whomever you want… Please ask for Ike to eat. If you want to be specific you can ask for him to master his nippling. I bet God loves the word nippling. Who wouldn’t?
Ike-a-saurus is doing well with his bottles and his breastfeeding, but he still has a lot of work to do – especially with the turning blue when he gets too much milk. That needs to stop. The doctors say any day now he will have a lightbulb moment and just go crazy for eating.
That’s what we want. Here’s to lightbulb nippling and an insanely expensive car seat!
Go, Ike, go.
a lesson of parenthood
except for football
There are a lot of sacrifices I make for my children, but when it comes to the annual Texas-OU game, it is well known in this house that no one is allowed to speak to or otherwise engage me in conversation unless it is to yell "Go Horns!" at appropriate times. Mama is not to be bothered. At all.
Today, though, I left the house at halftime to go to the NICU to feed Ike-a-saurus. I admit to staying in the car until the last possible second so that I could hear the beginning of the third quarter. And I admit having set the TiVo to record the game – and threatening everyone that wrath of unknowable proportions would set in if the TV was touched or otherwise altered from how I left it.
But I left it.
I turned off my phone so that I wouldn’t get any texts or emails or voicemails that would ruin the final score. I had every plan to feed Ike-a-saurus and make it home without learning how the game ended. My plan was to create my own little time machine: pause the game, sneak around and get some important stuff done, and unpause, voila. Then I was going to settle in, eat some junk food and watch it all unfold as if it were happening live.
On my way up to the 8th floor, though, after passing a scant number of hastily moving, excitedly chattering orange-clad folks, I remembered, wait… I live in Texas. In the city of the Horns. What am I thinking? There’s no WAY I’ll make it home without finding out anything about the game. And sure enough, as soon as I walked into the NICU, the nurses were in a frenzy. The ones on their break would run in and report the score to the ones who were working. Parents would come in with updates from the waiting room. Moms who I haven’t seen smile in weeks were broadly grinning and trash talking with other moms.
There was a brief attempt to engage Bay 5’s laptop to stream the radio broadcast of the game, but the nurses were busy with the babies and the mamas were busy with the babies, so we became dependent on the game messengers who would appear after each score.
It’s been almost 7 weeks that we’ve been in the NICU now and I know the nurses pretty well. They know me. But today, we got to know a little more about each other personally, and it was kind of fun. It settled me down with my rigid, panicky football game rules. I was able to relax with Ike-a-saurus, take my time with him, and not worry about knowing the final score of the game.
And the nurses, though noisier and sillier than usual, would leave me in mid-sentence to run see to an alarm, to feed a baby, or to change a diaper. They were not distracted, but they were having fun. This is something I have to learn to do.
It was a fun couple of hours – not something you can always say about a NICU visit – and I still came home and watched the game. Hopefully, in the next few weeks I’ll be able to watch the games with Ike. Finally, another family member to try to recruit to my side.
whatever she’ll eat
I won’t argue anymore
as long as she’s full
The wee-er one has become a picky eater. Well, not picky, per se, it’s just that she won’t eat anything. At all. Ever. I think it has something to do with the dreaded two year molars coming in. Bleh.
So anyway, all day has become the new gameshow: What Will The Wee-er One Eat?!. The winner gets to not become malnourished. Yay! It’s a really fun game and usually culminates with me tossing some chopped up strawberries into a bowl, some pirate booty into another bowl, putting both bowls on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, and backing away as if I am trying to feed an angry miniature hyena that has spontaneously appeared in my kitchen.
Well, tonight was the same as all nights. Much screaming. Much "NO LIKE DAT!" and "NO WANT DAT!" until we accidentally stumbled upon the perfect combination of food she’ll eat:
maple yogurt in an ice cream cone
Whatever works, right?