36 Weeks

Today is a wonderful day. Today, my sister-in-law made it to 36 weeks.

37 weeks would be even better.
38 weeks would be grand.
39 weeks would be kind of funny.
40 weeks is starting to get just plain mean.

But 36 weeks is a collective sigh of relief. For 36 weeks is five weeks longer than Erin has ever been pregnant before. Fetus weeks are kind of like dog years...and those extra five weeks matter.

My nephew was almost three pounds when he was born, and spent ten weeks in the NICU. I saw him once, with his head the size of a tennis ball and his arms like pink, fleshy twigs. He was off the respirator at that point, but he was still hooked to monitors that beeped and hummed, keeping him safe as he grew in his artificial womb.

Doug and Erin got to hold William for fleeting moments---changing a diaper, taking a temperature, and restorative skin-to-skin "kangaroo care."

But when I met him for the first time, he was eating through a feeding tube, and spent much of his day sleeping and still.

I know that we're not completely out of the woods yet---and truly, you never know. But, seeing that number 36 on my calendar fills me with such joy, and such gratitude.

I will soon have a niece. A beautiful little girl to love. I get to be Auntie Nancy again.

But stay in there, little Kiri, for at least one more week. Cook a little bit more, because I know that your little feet and poochy belly are going to be just delicious.

Processing

For those who cannot afford therapy, I highly suggest starting a blog. Writing unlocks the secret fears and deepest wants, and nibbles away at bravado like nobody's business.

I'm working on a piece for this writing contest. I won't give away too many details, because I don't want to risk breaking the rules of the contest. Let's just say that I decided to write about my dog. I sat and wrote about her wrinkled face and her manic running in circles and it was such "Marley and Me" pablum that I wanted to sit in the shower in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, scrubbing the bad writing out of my system.

"I suck," I said to myself. "I am a joke. A fraud. A talentless hack." Then, I decided to be mad at Owen instead because he was banging something repeatedly and relentlessly.

I figured it would be better to verbally abuse my mother instead of an innocent child, so I called her. Like Annie Bates, she's my "number one fan." She told me to let it rest for awhile.

I went through the rest of the day, the bad writing piece coloring every interaction. "Joel, do you want some more peas? Since that's the only thing I'm able to do well these days..." You get the idea.

I prayed about it that night, and called some good friends. They all (God included) suggested that I Step. The. Hell. Back. and get a bit of perspective.

This morning, while driving over the big bridge, I was hit by an obvious insight: "If you don't want to write about the dog--don't."

"I know what I want to write about," my inner voice said. "But haven't I done that already? Shouldn't I be over it? It's been almost a year."

And it hit me. It's been almost a year. A year ago, I thought I would have days like this:


And, instead had this:



And this:



Although I will celebrate one year of this next Wednesday...



...my writer's voice is telling me that I still have demons to confront and things to process.

So, I'm starting a new piece. When my craft (and my faith) speaks, I listen.

It's Monday, so Pictures with Clever* Commentary Will Suffice

*If by "clever" you mean, "thoughts that go directly from my mind to the keyboard without time for reflection, polishing, or so-called-wit."



Owen liked this swing. Although he looks mildly constipated in this picture, let me assure you that most of the time, when he was on this swing, he was blissful. Just swaying back and forth, a feather in the breeze, not a care in the world.

***

I love my country. I'm a liberal and I love my country. Sean Hannity, I'm talking to you. It's possible. Deal with it. And yes, I know about your hybrid Cadillac Escalade.

I also love angry bald eagles. If I had a biker tattoo, it would look exactly like this box. Warning label and all. And it would be a tramp stamp.



***



Paul and his (not twin) brother took this picture, surrounded by all that is good and holy in the world---beer, the Red, White & Blue, and an impressive arsenal of fireworks.

Look at them. Happy as pigs in mud. I pray that Owen and Joel are at least as close as Doug and Paul.

Alas there is a darker side to this photo. About five fireworks in, Paul shot a rocket. The trajectory was a bit off, so it spun in the air, and landed in a ravine in Doug's backyard. It then, promptly, hit a bit some dry brush and sparks were a flyin'.

Yes, we had fire. Within seconds, Doug was yelling for a bucket, his wife, Erin, (all 29 weeks pregnant of her) was sprinting towards the hose, and the neighbors were crowding anxiously.

Rest assured that nobody lost their home, but when all was said and done, there was a menacing, ten-foot scar in the ravine.

Paul and Doug wisely elected to forgo the remaining rockets. Luckily, there were mortars that went boom without causing impending doom.

***


Erin is 29 weeks pregnant in this picture. In 2006, Erin went into premature labor with my nephew, William, at 29 weeks.

Their NICU story is not mine to share. Suffice to say, it had a very, very happy ending. William is a delight, and is on-schedule with all major milestones and developmental expectations.

Every night, Owen prays, "Please be with Erin's baby. Keep her safe, healthy, and full-term." He then prays that Joel be full-term as well. (I think he made it, buddy).

Doug and Erin don't live in fear. It's possible that this baby could be premature, and it's possible that she will arrive, as expected, in September. Truly, they are doing what they can to control the situation, and releasing the rest.

But it's there, like an invisible papercut. A visit to the doctor, a well-meaning comment or simply looking at William, stings with surprising intensity.

Or perhaps I'm projecting. All I know is that I love them and I worry for them.

At one point, Erin unexpectedly left the deck, where we were all sitting. She was gone a long time. I went inside, and looked for her. Is this it? I thought to myself. Oh God, please no. Please don't force them to do this again.

I found her upstairs, watching TV. "Are you okay?" I asked.

She smiled, knowing my worry but thoughtfully not acknowledging it. "Oh, the mosquitoes were getting bad out there," she said. My shoulders relaxed.

They live each day, and they live pretty joyfully, too. They know the past, but they look toward the future, a future with a beautiful daughter in their family.

But, hey, do me a favor? Join Owen and pray that Erin's baby, Kiri Jane Campbell, will be safe, that she will be healthy, and that she will indeed be full-term.

Twilight with Joel

Joel still doesn't sleep through the night. Once in awhile, he'll do it, just to mess with our minds. Generally, though, it's up around 3, then up again around 6 to start the day. Sometimes he'll throw a 10 PM feeding in the mix, too.

I grow weary of this, since I like to sleep, and I especially like my warm bed with the soft, heavy comforter. Getting out of bed to a crabby baby is a departure from dreamland, to say the least. Thankfully, Joel is an "all business" baby...he'll eat, go back to bed, sleep. There's no desire to play and no need to coo at Mommy at the wee hours of the morning. Thank God for that, because Nighttime Mommy is Nothing To Smile At.

Last night, as the room was dark, Joel's soft body was nestled against mine, and the sound of his gulps were all one could hear, I thought to myself, "Thank You, God, that I get to do this."

I've been thinking about Hopkins again because a friend of mine's daughter is at Children's, and they don't know what is wrong with her yet. Pray for Fiona, please.

When Joel was at Hopkins, breastfeeding was difficult, because he got most of his nourishment from bottles. At first, he was tiny and sick and nursing was a lot of work. As he grew stronger, he took to nursing like a champ. Now, he'll take a bottle, but it's not his first choice.

Nursing gives me the chance, three to four times a day (not to mention several times at night), to observe Joel. He's my love. As he eats, his hand touches my cheek, my lips, my hair. He's searching for comfort, for warmth, for me. He'll finish eating, and turn to me, his face a gorgeous smile. "Thanks, Mom," he says. "That's the best."

I'm sure I would have these same feelings if I was sharing a quiet moment with Joel and a bottle. But, every time I see my healthy son nurse, it's a reminder of how far he has come, and how I, his mother, can meet his needs. It's a wake-up call, as Fiona's mother and father wait, hope, and pray. The mere fact that I get to hold my baby is a gift. One that I take lightly all too often.

It's worth getting up for.

Scenes from Panera

This morning, we spent way too much time at home. We were waiting for Joel to wake up, then we were waiting some more because the Comcast people were able to come to our house for a last-minute service call.

As we waited, Owen decided that it was time to do every annoying thing in his arsenal, including:

1) Taking a bite out of an apple, then putting it back in the fruit bowl. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

2) Going upstairs and monkeying around with Joel's humidifier so that it spews more mist than any child needs.

3) Pulling diaper wipes out of the container and then smashing them back in.

4) Grabbing the Clorox Wipes in an attempt to do pull them all out of the container and then smash them back in.

5) Insist that I sit with my legs spread wide. Calling the space between my legs "his bathtub." Then insisting on "jumping" into the bathtub---basically hurling his thirty-two pound frame in my general direction---over and over again.

6) Pulling grapes out of the fridge, eating them, and leaving the stems scattered around the house. When his mother demands, in increasingly shrill tones, to put the stems in the trash can, he simply responds, "No Mommy, I'm not going to do that."

I was ready to pull out my hair and slap my kid's hand if he touched another damn thing. It was time to get out of the house.

I loaded up the car with the trash and the boys for a dump run, and figured that we would then go wherever God takes us. As long as it's not our house, it works for me. We thus end up at Panera Bread.

Here are some scenes from Panera:

There's a college-aged guy eating lunch with a girl. I can tell that he thinks that they are friends, but she's really into him. She smiles a little too wide and nods eagerly at everything he says. It's too loud for me to eavesdrop, but I do hear him say, "When choosing between man and robots, one must choose man every time." I disagree. I would feel a lot more comfortable having a robot instead of a fellow human being clean my house.

There are two sheriffs eating lunch. One is in a shirt and tie, wearing his badge on one of those chain/lanyard things. He has his gun in a holster. It shocks me a bit. I think to myself, "He could kill somebody right now."

A woman next to me drops her pen. She says, "I can't do my crossword without a pen." I tell her that I'm impressed that she uses a pen instead of a pencil. She makes a face and says that she never uses a pencil to do her crossword. I'm not sure if she's being a show-off or if she simply has a pencil aversion.

A woman is eating her salad one-handed, holding her baby with the other. I ask her the age of her baby. It turns out her daughter is almost Joel's age. I comment that Joel looks like a monster compared to her daughter--"She's such a peanut," I say.

She agrees, and shares that her daughter came early and spent twelve days in the NICU. I tell her that Joel was in the NICU, too. "Sucks, huh," she says.

"Yup," I answer. NICU veterans are everywhere.

It makes me happy that one of the girls that works the counter at Panera has an Australian accent. In my mind, I call her "Claire," like the character on Lost. It also makes me happy that Panera has caffeine free Diet Pepsi as a fountain drink. It makes me wonder if Panera is owned by Mormons.

Sated by our lunch, the three of us drive back home for afternoon naps. Owen is saved from himself for another day, thanks to the healing power of carbohydrates.

Triggers

I'm feeling a little fragile today. The tears come easily, and I'm not able to be present in situations, like I want to be, like I should be.

My friend's two month old son has RSV (which stands for something, but basically means: Nasty Virus that Causes Lung Gunk that is Really Fucking Serious When You're Two Months Old). I guess NVTCLGTIRFSWYTMO isn't as good of an acronym.

He will be fine, but it's scary as hell to see (or hear about) a baby struggling to breathe. They are hoping to discharge him today or tomorrow with some good medicine and hopefully, prayerfully, peace of mind.

We're doing what you do. Offering to make meals. Calling. Trying to balance between being concerned and being One More Stressor. Praying. Sending Good Thoughts. Sitting in our kitchens, feeling helpless and fretting. And pulling our individual triggers.

What's that, you ask? Ah yes, our triggers. We carry a loaded pistols around. Once in awhile, something will happen that will pull our triggers, blasting out all the fears, worries, and the helplessness that we thought we took care of and put away A Long Time Ago.

In my case, I'm thinking of Joel again. Driving home from Hopkins, I remember thinking, "If Joel gets through this, I will never have another child, because this is just too hard, and I can't live with this kind of worry ever again."

Of course, the worry never goes away. Now I wipe down my cart with Clorox Wipes when we visit Target and make bargains with God after a strange kid coughs right into Joel's face. I literally see germs, crawling like maggots on surfaces, waiting to attack my kids, my family, my whole world.

This from the girl who used to pick up grapes off the floor with her bare feet and eat them.

So, no, the worry never goes away. This makes God, to quote Anne Lamott, "want to drink gin directly from the cat dish." The whole point of belief, of knowing God, is knowing that He will be our soft place to fall. Worry is the attempt to solve a problem ourselves, instead of leaning on Him. Easier said than done.

I know that this episode has pulled my other friends' triggers, too. It's not my place to write about their issues. It reminds me, though, of the importance of kindness, of thoughtfulness, with words, with actions. Because we're human, we're all guilty of carrying our concealed, loaded weapons, and we need each other to keep the safety on.

Breathe in, breathe out

One of my favorite pictures of Paul and Owen is from Owen's first Christmas. We had traveled to my parents' house, just outside of Boulder, CO, and didn't leave it for five days. You see, we had hit town, and then a wave of blizzards joined us. It snowed so much that the Denver Airport shut down (and if there's an airport equipped for snow, you would think it would be Denver). It was good snow, too, not the wishy-washy dustings we get here in MD. It was crunchy, and there were liberal amounts of it everywhere---a lot like Boulder, actually (Crunchy and liberal. Get it? Oh, I crack myself up).

Anyway, since we were snowbound, we stayed inside, baked copious amounts of cookies, played cards, and watched Owen be a cute baby. Eventually, we got a little stir crazy, put Owen in the backpack, borrowed some sturdy hiking boots (again, not difficult to find in Boulder) and took a walk in the winter wonderland.

It was there that I took my favorite picture. Paul is wearing a black stocking cap, and he's looking down, watching each step. Owen is in the backpack, wearing a blue ski cap with two horns, facing the camera, smirking. The sky is a wide expanse of blue, and the snowy prairie is a blinding white. You can see Paul's breath. It's a stark, cold landscape, juxtaposed with the warmth of father and son.

It catches my breath, every time I see it.

I've been thinking a lot about breath and breathing today. Now that I'm blogging, my house is littered with sticky notes, the frantic scrawlings of a lunatic who doesn't want to forget. When the boys are asleep and I'm logged in, I put the notes together and attempt to find a common theme. And today, it's breath.

I had to take a deep breath today. I thought it would be nice to listen to some CDs, since we never listen to CDs. I was looking through the CD folder, trying to find some Christmas music. Owen was "helping" me: "Mommy wants to listen to this! And this!" Sometimes, I would indulge him, and we would listen to a little bit of bluegrass. However, I did not agree that Daddy's Cypress Hill CD, circa 1994, was what I wanted to listen to. Somehow, the immortal classic, "Hits from the Bong," didn't seem to be very festive. Maybe I'm just a traditionalist.

Because I wouldn't cow-tow to DJ Owen's every whim, he lost his mind, and starting chucking CDs across the room. We. Were. Done. I scooped him up to carry him to his room for time out. Wailing and half-crazed with the injustice of it all, Owen smacked me on the back, square between the shoulder blades.

Oh shit. It's on now. I stomped into his room, dropped him on his bed like a bag of potatoes, and explained to Owen that he was not allowed to leave his room until I got him or there would be NO CHRISTMAS. That's the way to deescalate a situation.

I sat on the toilet downstairs, taking deep breaths until I decided that I liked him again. And yes, we're all better now, Christmas will go on as planned, and Owen still hasn't listened to Cypress Hill.

We've been thinking about Joel's breathing a lot recently. He has had a cough/chest congestion that has resulted in the use of inhalers. He's doing much better, but it's hard for me. Once you see your kid on a ventilator, you will do anything, and I mean, anything, to make sure that you never see it again.

I called my sister-in-law, Erin. She did "real time" in the NICU with my nephew---he was born at 29 weeks. I feel like Joel's week was significant for us, but only a taste of what parents with preemies deal with. I asked her, "How long did it take before you stopped seeing William on a vent whenever he had a cough?"

She replied, "I still do." William is two years old.

Her words run through my mind as I hold Joel, watching his chest slowly rise and fall, his breathing slow, regular, and thanks to the inhalers, once again clear. Every breath is a miracle.

Bad breath is an occupational hazard of motherhood. Mine smells like coffee pretty much all the time. I went to a cookie exchange today and two, two! of the mothers shared that they were chewing gum because they did not have a chance to brush their teeth yet. The cookie exchange was at 10:30 AM.

I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe last night. I was holding Joel so he was facing me. I would open my eyes really wide and say, "This is the Colbert Report!!!!" Apparently, this is comedy gold for four month old boys, since Joel was in hysterics. That made me laugh. Then, because Owen is a follower, he started laughing. Paul poked he head around the corner, saw his family in hysterics, and started laughing, too.

Magical.

I wish that somebody had captured us in a picture. Much like that crisp, snowy morning in Colorado, that moment was....breathtaking.

Pump me Up

I. Hate. Pumping.

I'm going to see A Christmas Carol this Sunday with a friend, and I'm delighted. It's rare that we go anywhere without our combined four children. Will I automatically pack the feed bag of Goldfish? Will I ask my friend if she needs to go potty before the show begins? I hope not, but really, it's been that long.

So, the down side of going out is pumping the damn breast milk. It's hard to explain what I hate the most...the whine of the motor, the inability to do anything but hold the sucker-thingys, the stretching of the nipples, the feeling that I'm a cow. I guess I detest all of the things I just listed, but I really cannot abide the waiting...I'll sit there and pump and pump and pump and pump, and FINALLY, around 15 minutes in, things will "get going," and I'll produce about two ounces on each side.

Pumping has never been fun for me. When I went back to work after Owen was born, I pumped during my planning period in a closet next to the home ec classroom. So, I would sit in the closet, topless, pumping and pumping and pumping while seventh graders made aprons and apple pie. It was just weird.

When Joel was at Hopkins, pumping was the only thing that I felt like I could actively do to help him. It was my only job as a mother. I would go to this cold, cold room, sit in the chair, and pump, using this hospital-grade pump that Paul and I dubbed "the widowmaker." Made with industrial chrome and clear glass, it looked like something a butcher would use to slice cold cuts. Sitting in that room gave me too much time to think, and thinking was the last thing I needed to do at that time.

We brought Joel home with a huge cooler of frozen milk. I told everybody that one of the pluses of the NICU was the surplus of milk. So, you can imagine my disgust when all the milk went bad (old freezer).

So, I'm back to square one. I can hear the chorus of cries out there, "Just give him a bottle of damn formula." I know, I know. There's nothing wrong with formula, and I so don't have an opinion about the breast vs. bottle debate.

But, I guess, I'm still not totally over the NICU experience since A) I still write about it and B) I still feel like pumping, awful as it is, is something that I can do for my baby. Just in case.

Calvert Memorial Hospital

I'm going to Calvert Memorial Hospital today to see my friend's new baby boy, born yesterday. This will probably be my last visit to the maternity ward for awhile (as far as I know, the next friend's baby is due to arrive in March).

For months after Owen was born, I would drive by the hospital, newborn in tow, on my way to do this or that, and just marvel that somebody's life was changing forever there...every single day. It is heroic to me that there are people who guide mothers through the labor process, and never lose the sense of joy or wonder which comes from childbirth. Driving by CMH was a benediction, a blessing, a memory of an amazing, amazing day.

Joel's birth complicated my feelings about the hospital. Not because of anything the staff said or did, but because he left that hospital in an airlift helicopter, not in my arms. It's been three months since Joel spent his week in the Johns Hopkins NICU, and most of the time, I don't dwell on the experience. But, when I walk through the doors of the Family Birth Center, I remember...calling my parents at 11:45 PM and telling them that their grandson was suffering from respiratory distress. Watching the respiratory specialists fit a CPAP over Joel's nose. Being so exhausted as we drove home to the empty house that my eyes burned when I closed them. Watching Paul hold the blue teddy bear that Owen bought to welcome his new baby brother, crying. Clutching his hospital onesie, still smelling of Ivory soap and new life.

So, visiting the hospital is more complicated now. I know that when I meet Baby Austin, I will feel nothing but true joy, just as I felt when I visited Baby Evan a month ago. And, upon returning home, I will gaze into Joel's blue eyes, and silently pray, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."