Regular readers know that every couple of months I get writer's blockcop out on writing a real post go through my Google Analytics archives and collect some of the weirder keyword hits (and believe me; this site gets all the crazies). Today is another one of those times.
As always, these are unedited search strings that brought people to this site.
diaper on your bum Agreed. Wearing it on your head isn't nearly as effective.
rob zombie jesus christ superstar Is it wrong that I would pay an exorbitant amount of money to see this?
she rode around and around on her bike that she had just been given for christmas that morning, she had a smile from ear to ear as she remembered writing to father christmas and asking for a new pink bike with a basket on the front for her doll. O... K...
don't be side for love boy because i love you What the fuck are you talking about?
diaper changing exlpained by dad Open diaper. Wipe smelly parts. Remove dirty diaper. Put on new diaper. (Why? How does Mom do it?)
i feel like my children are not supervised properly when they are with their father That's because they probably aren't.
remove his testicles my husband Hey! I just said I fear your wrath. What more do you want from me?
call me mister logo You got it, Mister Logo. Domo arigato Mr. Logoto.
maggot in training onesie They sell training onesies for maggots? What's a training onesie?
making lemonade using metric system I'm sorry, but it's impossible. Lemonade can only be made using imperial measurements.
father cuddles with daughter normal? I cannot think of many things more normal than cuddles with my daughter.
freaky guy across the universe Dude, which guy in Across The Universe isn't freaky?
how clear out clean toilet paper vagina teach daughters I don't have the first clue what you're asking about, and honestly? I'm pleased by that fact.
she sat on the toilet recap She sat on the toilet. She did her business. She got up. She flushed and washed her hands (hopefully).
ballet class use the bathroom I don't know about your situation per se, but at my daughter's ballet class going to the bathroom in the class is frowned upon. They encourage toilet usage.
my daughter has a spot in her back that flares when she bathes in cool water So don't bathe her in cool water!
how many square feet for christmas party I'd say four per guest, unless everyone will be slow dancing; then you can get away with less. Of course, this assumes there are no tables, chairs, or anything else in the room. Wait. Why the hell are you googling this?
basement apartment what colour should we paint lime green how about?
my husband fucked my friend while i was sleeping in the bed beside them You must be a very sound sleeper.
breaded chicken without bread crumbs Breading chicken without bread crumbs? Is that some sort of zen thing like the tree falling in the forest screaming?
daddy wears panties Munchkin, you promised Daddy you could keep a secret...
Yesterday morning, Munchkin woke up with a nasty cough. She came downstairs with me as I got ready to leave, and stood behind me as I began preparing her juice.
"Daddy! I need water, not juice!" she exclaimed.
I turned around to see her cough out a mixture of phlegm and saliva that fell to the floor. "Sit on the stool, Munchkin. Daddy will get you a towel," I said as I guided her to a seated position.
She coughed again, bringing up more phlegm. "Oh no!" she yelled. "Daddy, get it off! Get it off!"
I read her mind. She thought she was vomiting. She is terrified of vomiting. She had been bringing up phlegm and trying to keep it down because she was so afraid of throwing up.
"I'll go get some towels. But don't worry Munchkin. It's not vomit. It's good that you're spitting this stuff out. Your body is making you cough so you get rid of that stuff."
* * *
Munchkin wasn't much better when I got home, and it looked like Buddy was getting the same thing. After dinner, we put Munchkin to bed (she crashed) and settled in to watch a DVD while MTM fed Buddy. After the feed, he wouldn't settle, so we figured it was either gas or a dirty diaper. When the diaper change did nothing to improve his mood, I took him to our bed to try some massage techniques that used to help Munchkin fart like a trucker relieve herself of unwanted gas.
I don't know if it was the congestion (he had developed a runny nose) or the pain from the gas or the cold from being in just a diaper, but Buddy's "wouldn't settle" escalated. Believing I was going to help him, I continued. I continued until he worked himself up so much that he gasped for air, at which point panic set in and I passed him off to MTM, who is the one who settles him the quickest right now.
Eventually, he fell asleep in her arms without passing any gas, but spent most of last night propped up in bed with her because he couldn't breathe through his nose.
* * *
Life with a sick child sucks. Life with two sick children really sucks. Life with two sick kids a couple of days before Halloween? Yeah, that sucks a helluva lot.
Over the past few weeks, I have been slowly making changes to this site: moving some stuff, modifying how some items are presented, and removing what I felt was clutter. I finally took some time to do more wholesale changes to the layout and have implemented the new look today.
Some of the highlights include:
a new banner image (Munchkin's absence bothered me)
the addition of some posts about me to the "About Me" section
the creation of a banners page where those interested can view the old banners
relocating the labels and archives to the top of the template and presenting them as dropdowns instead of lists
removal of the "silver water" background image (I was never 100% satisfied with that background ever since the redesign, so I just went to a flat colour instead)
moving the content around so that the two sidebars are together on the right and the posts are on the far left
I would appreciate it if those of you who usually read via feeds could click through and let me know what you think.
Both of these anecdotes are completely true, without any exaggeration on my part.
Scene One Setting: On October 1, 2008 at approximately 10.15am (roughly one hour after Buddy was born), I called my MIL at the request of MTM.
MIL: Hello? SFD: Hi MIL. MIL: Hi. SFD: Everybody is fine. It's a boy. Buddy. Nine pounds, eight ounces, 20 inches. MIL: How is MTM? SFD: She's good. She's feeding him now. How are things over there? MIL: Well, I'm tired. I tried to sleep but Munchkin kept coming in and waking me up. I'm just so tired. Did you get a private room? SFD: No, not yet. We're in a semi-private with three beds. MIL: Did you ask for a private room? SFD: Yes, but there are none available right now. MIL: Oh. That's not good. I'm so tired. I can't spend the night at the hospital. Can you ask them for a private room again? SFD: We're on a list. They will give us one if it becomes available. MIL: Oh. What if you told them MTM's mother has to stay if they don't give you a private room, and that I'm really tired. Maybe that would get you a private room? SFD: I don't think they care about that sort of thing. MIL: But you should tell them that you need a private room so you can stay with MTM and the baby instead of me. SFD: OK. How is Munchkin doing? MIL: She's fine. But I'm tired. SFD: OK. Well, listen, I have to call my parents and give them the news. Bye.
Later that afternoon, when they came for their visit...
MIL: It's good that you got a private room. SFD: Yeah. I'm glad I can stay to take care of them. MIL: Better you than me.
Scene Two Setting: Our kitchen at home, on October 2, 2008. I had come home for an hour to shower and bathe Munchkin because my MIL could not convince her to get in the tub.
MIL: While you're here, we need some help. SFD: What's wrong? MIL: We need to send some pictures to my girlfriends, and FIL can't do it. SFD: Honestly, MIL, I don't have time for that today. I need to get back to the hospital for MTM and the baby (who was still in NICU at the time). MIL: Well, I need to send pictures out to my friends. SFD: I'm sorry. It will have to wait.
I went upstairs to shower, and it occurred to me that I had included my FIL in my mass email the previous day, so he had photos in his inbox that he could forward. I called downstairs:
SFD: MIL? MIL: Yes? SFD: Did FIL get my email yesterday? MIL: Yes. SFD: OK. Tell him to forward that on to your friends. There's some nice photos in there. MIL: Yes, well, yes, well, he already did that. SFD: What? MIL: He already forwarded those. SFD: Oh. MIL: I want to send some from my camera. SFD: Why? MIL: I just want to send some from my camera. SFD: Well, I'm sorry, but we'll have to take care of that another time.
The next night, my SIL came to visit and later went to our place for dinner. I asked her to take care of the photos, which she did. I learned later that the photos my MIL sent were of her with my son. She wasn't satisfied with my photos because none of them had her in them. I took some twisted pleasure in the fact that my SIL, while emailing the photos, inadvertently rotated some on the camera card, making them unreadable to the camera's preview option and angering my MIL to no end. I considered correcting the problem, but decided against it because then anything that went wrong my MIL's digital camera from that moment forward would be "my fault" and I didn't need the hassle.
Unfortunately, I could go on with more stories about how my MIL tried her damnedest to make Buddy's birth about her. I could not believe just how many of our conversations turned into something about how difficult this whole experience was for her, or how often requests that we made for help were greeted with responses indicating how hard it would be for her to offer assistance. Ultimately, we just stopped asking for anything, even though she had insisted they were there to help.
One of the most significant realizations to come from Buddy's arrival is just how much I forgot about the early days of life with Munchkin. Back then I didn't blog (technically, I had a pregnancy blog, but it had been abandoned shortly after the first ultrasound); I didn't start blogging in any kind of earnest until she was about 15 months old. (Which, as a complete aside, is something I am so grateful for. Otherwise, I wouldn't have stories like this or like this - both are really short posts and totally worth the click through - to revisit.)
Back to my point, these last few weeks with Buddy have brought back a flood of memories of those early weeks with Munchkin. Sure, I had vague recollections of routines that we shared, like naps together after work, but I had forgotten the feeling of a new baby sleeping in my arms, how their breath felt on my cheek or neck when I leaned in close. Or how painful that shrill cry can become if you, as a parent, don't figure out why they're crying within a minute or so. Or how soft a naked baby feels in your arms, and how quickly they get cold.
I feel like I don't hold Buddy as much as I held Munchkin, and truth be told, I probably don't. A lot of factors play into that: obviously the Munchkin's presence means I have to split my time between them, but her mere existence means I have to prepare an actual dinner every night (as opposed to the unhealthy self-negligent dinners that were the norm when Munchkin was a baby), not to mention more laundry to do, more cleaning to take care of, and therefore less time for him. Also, since MTM has been recovering better than last time, she doesn't need me to take care of the baby as much - leaving the aforementioned tasks, most of which she still can't do because of her incision to me.
But the time I do get with him I relish. I marvel at his perfect little face, just like I did with his sister: a scaled down, much cuter version of a person. His little hands still reach out to touch my beard as soon as he figures out it's there, and once he finds it, they stay there, fingers intertwined with the whiskers. He's beginning to make eye contact now, a sign we're assuming means his eyes are developing and that he can (sort of) see us. I forgot what it felt like to have those mini staring contests with Munchkin, where she would gaze at me, slack-jawed, seemingly endlessly.
Buddy truly is a blessing, but not just because he is his own little person ripe with promise for days and days of fun. He also offers me a chance to relive those days with Munchkin, to recapture some of that wonder and amazement that have become lost over time. As kids grow up, the list of amazing things they do and are capable of doing grows every day, every moment. As that list grows, some things lose their place, get forgotten, get lost in the shuffle of life. Having another baby around reminds us of those times when lifting their head was an accomplishment, when a smile (even if it is likely just gas) is a source of wonder and amazement.
I also (finally) have a new post up at Babies Online: Same Parents, Different Kids, where I look at all the ways my kids are different.
After last week's Buddy fest, I figure I should take a little time to talk about my daughter. Munchkin (I have decided to drop the definite article from her pseudonym, making it more like a proper noun; also, I will likely be changing it sometime in the near future, since Munchkin implies an age she will, sadly, soon depart) has had her ups and downs since Buddy's arrival. She has moments where she is the best big sister ever, but to imply that she is always like that would be disingenuous.
She is, at the end of the day, three and a half years old, and no matter how much she can fool others into thinking she's older by her size and vocabulary, she's still a preschooler. She is still subject to the same emotional imbalances. She is still figuring out her feelings and how to deal with the waves of emotion that wash over her, sometimes without any warning.
And I haven't quite figured out how to deal with them either.
Some days she can be most wonderful child: co-operative, attentive, patient, and kind. She remembers her "please" and "thank you" without being prompted, does things we ask her to do without argument and without complaining, and accepts our rulings and decisions (such as no television, or she has to have milk with dinner instead of juice) happily. We call these days visits from Happy Munchkin.
Other days, seemingly most days, recently, she is, quite honestly, a bear. She screams. She yells. She willfully disobeys for the sake of disobedience. She pushes me to the brink, seems to watch me teeter at the edge, and then nudges me over without a second thought.
I yell. I yell a lot more now than I used to. I'm tired, and I'm putting too much on myself in an effort to get MTM back to 100% more quickly. Those aren't excuses. There is no excuse for yelling. They are only my meager explanations.
This weekend was no different. On Saturday morning we got up bright and early and went to ballet class, just the two of us. While we were there, we learned that a local children's musician (a favourite of Munchkin's) was performing at the library right after class. So, we called home and told MTM she would have to suffer without us for another hour or more, and drove to the library where Munchkin danced and clapped and had a blast.
It was easily the best time we've had in weeks.
After coming home, having lunch, and taking a nap, we were getting ready to go to the mall. Munchkin decided she did not want to wear a coat. Up until that moment, things had been blissful. She had flitted about the house, helping MTM with Buddy and occasionally stopping by to check in with me on the computer. But once we insisted she wear a coat, you would think we had told her she had to bathe in spicy salsa. She ranted. She raved. She threw herself on the ground. She threw her shoes. She yelled at MTM. Eventually she got over it, and we went to the mall (where we got matching Christmas outfits for the kids... yes, we are "those" people) and had a fun time. But getting there? Fuck.
Sunday was no different, except instead of shoes it was a bowl of KD being thrown. And there was also a moment where, well...
Munchkin:Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Where is Mommy? SciFi Dad: Mommy is downstairs. Please stop stomping. Buddy is asleep. Munchkin:Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. I want Mommy! SciFi Dad: Munchkin, if you do that again, you will have to go to your room. Buddy needs to sleep. Munchkin:looks at me, then very purposefully:Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Aaah! SciFi Dad: That's it. Upstairs. Now!
She literally stared at me to make sure I was watching and then did the one thing I asked her not to do. I was amazed I didn't yell more.
I don't like the parent I have become: the one who threatens and then has to follow through with the threats, the one who yells, the one who uses a harsh tone with his little princess. But at the same time, I don't feel like I can be all raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens with her either, because she'll just walk all over me. I wish I could get the results I want without all the "mean Daddy" stuff. (Aside: we now praise the arrival of "Happy Munchkin" to her in hopes it will encourage good behaviour. Unfortunately, now she talks about not liking it when "Angry Daddy" is around too. Gah. Right in the heart.)
I know it's a phase, and that a lot of this surrounds her adjusting to having a sibling, but I worry about the long term affect this period will have on my relationship with her. I worry that she'll begin to resent me, or worse, fear me, because I have to be the mean one (often MTM is tied up with Buddy business when the acting out starts). I try to tell her that I love her as much as I can, even right after we have a blow out. She responds saying that she loves me too. I tell her that she's still my girl, my special girl. She responds telling me I'm still her special Daddy.
Today's post is longer than its predecessors, mainly because I felt a) day four was a little short to be its own post and b) I wanted to wrap up the birth story more quickly so I can get back to more typical posts.
Day Four Throughout the night, Buddy fed really well. With MTM's milk coming in, we stopped using the feeding tube and Buddy was no more hungry without it. We awoke on Saturday morning and began to collect our things, assuming we were going to be discharged.
Instead of starting the discharge process, our nurse arrived with an order for more bloodwork on Buddy. Apparently the paediatrician who had assessed him the previous night requested a bilirubin level check if Buddy looked any more jaundiced, and the nurse had decided he looked yellow enough to warrant the test.
She returned a couple of hours later with her student nurse pushing an incubator and UV light into our room. The doctor, she explained, had decided it was best to put him under the lights for 24 hours. We were also told we were really lucky, since it was a weekend and there were many other women being discharged, which meant MTM would not have to leave her room. Logically, we then asked what would have happened if we weren't lucky, and it turns out that if Buddy needed more than 24 hours under the lights, our luck would run out: MTM would be discharged and Buddy would either be moved to NICU or paediatrics. If it was the former, MTM would be placed in a "courtesy room" (read: lounge) so she could feed him; if it was the latter, she would get a hospital bed.
We unpacked most of the stuff we had already packed up, called my inlaws to let them know we would need them another night, and settled in to watch our son cry for us while he lay naked in an incubator.
When the munchkin came to visit, my MIL proved to be slightly more helpful than I generally give her credit for: all of them were wearing sunglasses "so they could be like Buddy". While she couldn't hold him, the munchkin seemed reasonably OK with the concept of touching him through the various doors that opened in the incubator. However, when it came time to leave, it became clear that the experience as a whole was wearing her down. She cried as she left the room, leaving MTM and I fighting back tears.
Most of that day was uneventful. Buddy cried a lot in the incubator, sleeping for at most an hour at a time between feeds. We began supplementing with formula bottles again, because we were told he was more likely to dehydrate under the UV lights.
The one fact of note was that our night nurse mentioned, in passing, that Buddy's bilirubin levels were below the phototherapy levels, and that the doctor was being extremely cautious.
Day Five As the night progressed, Buddy became increasingly frustrated with his quarters. Between midnight and 3.00am he spent more time outside the incubator, either on the breast or in my arms drinking a bottle, than inside. He didn't sleep unless it was in our arms, and would wake up as soon as we slid him back into the incubator. Exhausted, I sought out our nurse at the nursing station.
A different nurse (ours was somewhere else) said she'd be in the room shortly. A few minutes later she arrived with a stack of blankets that they keep for delivery in a warming oven. She rolled them and effectively created a pair of "arms" that served to make Buddy feel held while he was in the incubator. He fell asleep. MTM fell asleep. I eventually fell asleep once I convinced myself he wouldn't wake up screaming five seconds after I dozed off.
In the morning, we refused to pack up anything, fearing we would once again jinx our chances of going home. Eventually, the lab showed up to once again draw blood and check his bilirubin levels.
About an hour later, the paediatrician came in and, after doing what could only be a cursory check of Buddy and his chart, pronounced his bilirubin levels OK and deemed him fit for discharge.
Because our hospital experience wasn't difficult enough, we were not done with the "something isn't quite right with your baby" talks. As part of the standard discharge procedure, the hospital checks the baby's hearing. Our nurse came in with the little device and placed one end in Buddy's ear, then the other.
Fail. Retest in seven days.
(You have got to be fucking kidding me.)
She repeated the test. Fail. Retest in seven days.
"I don't like this machine. I'm going to go find another nurse who's really good at doing hearing tests."
Eventually the other nurse came in. "I don't like this machine, but I'll give it a try."
She performed the test twice, both with the same result. Fail. Retest in seven days.
(Oh for fuck's sake!)
Our original nurse returned with the "good" machine, and tested Buddy once again.
Pass.
"Huh. His ears must have a funny shape."
(Quick, let's get the fuck out of here before they find something else to test him for!)
My inlaws arrived with the munchkin to help us get everyone home. After listening to my MIL tell us the "right" way to pack up and head downstairs (I so wish I was exaggerating or kidding about that), we got to the lobby, where I struggled mightily with the infant carrier/carseat straps (we would later learn I had installed them incorrectly - but not unsafely - when resizing it back down to newborn).
I drove the van with my hands gripping the steering wheel as tightly as when I took the munchkin home; driving with a new baby is tense business, even for a "veteran". It didn't help that it was raining (aside: we drove the munchkin home in a snowstorm... what is it with our kids and coming home during precipitation?) But ultimately we made it home in one piece, happy and ready to start our life as a family of four.
The first six hours of day three went as well as the last two hours of day two. He was fussy, cranky, fed often, and puked much of that up. We were all sleep deprived; I was so bad that I began pleading with him in exasperation to just sleep a little bit. It was not my finest hour.
When dawn broke, he finally settled for a couple of hours, allowing MTM and I to get a couple of hours of blissful sleep.
After that, the hospital day began: the OB came for an assessment (result: MTM could be sent home that day - Friday, or choose to remain another night and go home Saturday), nurses came flitting in and out, the kitchen brought my wife's breakfast, the lab arrived to draw more blood from my boy. I took the flurry of activity as an opportunity to leave and go home for a quick shower (and yet another bath for the munchkin, who still refused to let my MIL bathe her).
I returned to find a perplexing situation: my wife appeared to be hooked up to a new IV, but instead of it being in her arm, it was in her breast, and instead of an IV drip, it was a tiny bottle of formula. Confused, I approached for a clearer view.
While I was gone, they had started to try "tube feeding", which basically means you put the baby on the boob and once they're good you slip a capillary tube (really small diameter straw) into their mouths that is draining a bottle of formula. Preparations for this included priming the line (think a diesel engine that has drained the gas tank completely, for my automotive enthusiast readers) using a syringe and then using cursory physics knowledge to make sure that the primed line didn't spill the most vile smelling stuff on the planet the formula.
Tube feeding meant that I no longer gave Buddy a bottle after breastfeeding, which meant that MTM could co-sleep with him in between one feed and I could get a little extra sleep. However, maintaining the tube and other implements was a pain in the ass (and not just because the formula smelled like rotting plants). So, in a bizarre way, it was a blessing.
The munchkin came for another visit that afternoon, and it became even more apparent that the whole experience was taking its toll on her (not to mention my inlaws). She pleaded with me to take her home and to let my inlaws stay at the hospital with MTM. She clung to me when it was time to leave, begging for just one more hug. I told her that the best way to get through this was to try as hard as she could to be "regular munchkin", because if she was her normal self things would feel more normal around the house. It worked; that night my MIL was able to give her a bath.
That evening, I could have sworn I heard choirs of angels sing around 11.00pm, for at that time, Buddy was on MTM's breast and he began to swallow more loudly. Suddenly, MTM informed me that her milk had come in, and there was significantly more for Buddy than when it was just colostrum, meaning that we were likely out of the formula supplementing period, and that things would be getting better soon.
I also have a review up about a DVD from My Baby A to Z.
The first feed after that involved getting my wife, who had been through a c-section 15 hours earlier and still had tubes running out of her (that's tubes plural), who was barely standing up at all, to NICU via a wheelchair. She couldn't really transfer to a feeding chair, so she fed him in a wheelchair that first time.
After I wheeled her back to her room and got her settled, I went back to NICU and sat beside his bassinet, stroking his head until he fell asleep. Then, I went back and tried to sleep myself.
At 2.00am, the NICU nurse woke us up with Buddy in her arms (she was originally supposed to wake us so we could wheel MTM to NICU). MTM got to feed him in her bed, which was easier on both of us.
The remainder of the night and early morning was spent in a two hour loop: wheel MTM to NICU, feed, wheel MTM back, give formula bottle (sometimes), sit beside bassinet, repeat.
Eventually, MTM convinced me to go home and shower (I also needed to bathe the munchkin, who had refused such service from her grandparents the previous night). While I was there, I spent some time with the munchkin, although admittedly my thoughts were in NICU with my baby boy, my baby boy who, by all rights, should be with his mother at that time but wasn't.
I returned to the hospital to discover both tubes had been removed from MTM. She still wasn't 100% (and really, won't be for a while) but she was improving far more rapidly than last time.
The rest of the morning and part of the afternoon went by in a haze. I divided my time between MTM's room and NICU. I spent more time in the latter since a) MTM said she didn't need me and b) my absence let her sleep.
Finally, just after his post-lunch feed, the paediatrician showed up and, with a wave of the hand, sent us back to MTM's room, just in time for the munchkin's visit. Buddy was back where he belonged.
If the first visit was amazing, the second one was incredible. As a condition of our release, the paediatrician made us promise to supplement each feed with formula. For those of you who don't know, formula comes in bottles. Tiny bottles that little girls can give. That's right: with her baby brother less than 30 hours old, the munchkin was able to give him a bottle. To say that she was elated would be an understatement.
My SIL came to visit later that afternoon, and stayed after her parents and the munchkin left. In an uncharacteristic show of empathy, she willingly went back to our place to grab some items for us (instead of us having to call my inlaws and ask them to bring the stuff in the morning, which would have required an arduous conversation about what we were asking for and why we needed it). Then, when she dropped it off to me, she insisted on driving me to get some dinner (I had planned to walk somewhere) and then drive me back to the hospital.
Late that night, Buddy had the bath we had been promised the night before. The nurse washed him and "taught" us (hospital policy) how to bathe our infant. We dressed him in the same sleeper the munchkin wore after her first bath: a beige one with bunnies on the feet (with actual floppy ears and everything) from Guess How Much I Love You.
Buddy awoke for his 10.00pm feed, and wouldn't settle after. We gave him the formula supplement, which he drank gladly and then promptly puked up. As the clock struck midnight we were in what seemed like an endless cycle of boob for 20 minutes, burp for ten minutes, bottle for five minutes (dude could chug, yo), burp for ten minutes, and bassinet for three minutes. It was shaping up to be a long night.
The alarm went off at 4.45am, leaving us plenty of time to shower and pack the last minute stuff into our bags. Both MTM and I took Gravol to help us sleep. Neither of us slept much that night, so we were both pretty tired when we got up. We tried to be quiet, but the munchkin heard us anyways, so we had some final cuddles as a family of three before heading out the door.
We got admitted and they put MTM into a ward room that they called a semi-private (even though we asked for private); that room would be the site where nurse after nurse would come in, confident that they would be able to start an IV for her. During one of these attempts, I wandered off to the bathroom; not that I had anything to relieve myself of, but still it was better to do something than just stand outside the room hoping I didn't see blood. As I exited the bathroom, a nurse stopped me to say that they had taken MTM down to the O.R. and that I needed to gown up. I rushed back to the room (on that trek no fewer than four additional nurses informed me that my wife had been taken) to grab the camera and went to my designated waiting area in the recovery room where I was gowned up and told to stand by.
Every few minutes (it was actually like 10-15 minutes, but it seemed more frequent), a nurse would come in and inform me of the progress, or more specifically lack thereof. Our G.P. (who was assisting) was late. The anesthesiologist didn't have the c-section on his schedule and was therefore running late. Her IV was very difficult to start, so the anesthesiologist had to freeze her, which took more time. By the time the nurse actually came to get me, my nerves were shot; it was 8.50am, and the procedure was scheduled to begin at 8.00am.
I walked in very carefully and took my seat beside MTM. She looked OK; uneasy, but OK. I tried to ignore the voices and the seemingly incessant movement of the curtain that provided the effect of a wrestling match occuring on the other side. And then...
"It's a boy! It's a big... oh my! He just peed on me!" said the OB.
"Me too," said an unknown voice.
"Everything is fine, MTM," came the OB's voice.
A few minutes later, a voice called out, "Your son has peed on three nurses so far. That makes five O.R. staff."
That's my boy.
Eventually, they handed Buddy to me, and I looked at him in amazement. Then I snapped out of it and did my best to show him to MTM. We spent the next 45 minutes in the O.R. in that exact position: me trying to show her our son, her trying not to move herself too much, and me trying to ignore the numbness developing in my lower extremities.
It was so amazing to experience the delivery the way it should have been the first time, being able to share our baby with MTM. I was able to get his cheek to her hand, his little hand around her finger. Neither of us cried, but it was a beautiful moment.
I handed the baby back to our post-partum nurse while the blood flowed back into my feet. We walked carefully out of the O.R. and I took off my gowning and then took my son to recovery to wait for MTM.
Finally, she came in, and, once she was settled, I handed our boy to her. After a few clicks of the camera, she urged me to call the house to tell my MIL everything was OK. (That conversation - the one with my MIL - deserves its own post one day.)
After our hour in recovery, we were wheeled back to MTM's ward room. A few hours later, we were given a private room, which meant that I could stay the night to care for her and the baby.
Shortly after we were settled in our new room, I went to the waiting room and found the munchkin waiting patiently with her grandparents. I took her hand and guided her to the room where her baby brother was waiting to meet her.
She was amazing; she was tentative and gentle, taking care not to put any weight on MTM. She reached out to touch the baby, and wore a smile so wide it literally lit up the room. She was so eager to hold him herself, so we let her. Eventually I went and collected my in-laws and brought them to meet their new grandson as well.
While the family visited, I rushed home to publish a blog post email photos of my son to my out of town family who won't see him for a couple of months (not until MTM can sit in a car for four hours) as well as friends on our email list.
After they left, our nurse came in and said that they would be checking his blood sugar levels one more time (because he was over 4000 grams they had to check for low blood sugar with a heel prick a few times already that day), and if everything was OK, we would do his bath.
Around 6.00pm, we found out that everything was, in fact, not OK. Around 8.00pm, we were told that despite being previously offered the option to supplement his diet with formula (something that would have allowed him to remain with us), he now had to have a glucose IV (something which meant admitting him to NICU).
I held him down, or I held his hand, as nurse after nurse repeated the exercise performed on my wife earlier in the day. Five times they tried to start an IV and failed, before, after over three hours, they concluded that starting an IV was impossible. They called the doctor who had decided he needed the glucose IV and he recommended supplementing with formula.
However, since Buddy had already been admitted to NICU, he had to spend the night there, until the doctor could come and discharge him back to us. So, I had to go back to MTM shortly before midnight and tell her that because they didn't offer us the formula option first, even though he was on formula now, we couldn't have Buddy in our room with us, and that she would be taken to NICU every two hours to feed him.
That sentence does not adequately convey the situation. Please allow me to begin once again.
Over the past weekend, I spent what amounted to nearly two hours total hunched over while holding my unclothed son to my unclothed chest while he alternately screamed in my ear or flailed his limbs (even more) uncontrollably (than usual). Part of that time was spent with him lying on a waterproof pad on our bed, trying to "air out" his bum. The other part was spent holding him in a bathroom sink filled with tepid water and an oatmeal soak.
It all started last weekend when he went back under the lights. They don't let you put any barrier cream (even vaseline) in their diapers when the baby is under the UV (something about it burning them or something... I don't see how it's scientifically possible for something to burn through a diaper, but whatever), so he was discharged with a lower bilirubin level and a mild diaper rash. It progressed until we were able to see our G.P. last Tuesday, who prescribed a steroid cream. But it seems it was too late.
Sometime on Friday, his rash became an open sore. In addition to the already familiar screeches and wails at every diaper change, we now had blood on the wipes. So, we went to the aforementioned "air it out" followed by oatmeal soak method.
Since I'm the one who didn't have abdominal surgery, I get to be the one hunched over him on our bed and holding him in our bathroom sink. MTM gets to settle him with feeding, she gets to be the one whose mere scent calms his cries. I, on the other hand, get to be the one who listens to his screams of agony in his ear. The tiny newborn cry that gets him so worked up that he stops even making a sound, going to the dreaded "silent cry" all parents of newborns know and dread.
That is what I remember most about this weekend: not the amazing success of ballet class, not the visit from my sister and her family, not the photo session that culminated in not only amazing photos but also them asking to use Buddy's likeness for advertising. The silent cry.
* * *
Today I get up with an alarm. I leave my family sleeping in their beds and drive in the dark to an office where I will sit in front of a computer for eight hours (or more, if my boss has his way) and pretend to be concentrating on the latest crisis while my eyes wander to the seemingly innumerable photos of my baby boy and his big sister that I bring with me to work. I leave them not because I want to, nor because I enjoy doing the job I have. I leave them because that is what I do: I am the one who works outside the home so one of us can work inside the home.
And tonight I will come home and my wife will tell me that my daughter missed me a lot. My daughter will tell me that she doesn't like it when I go to work. I will tell them all that I am sorry, that I wish that things were different and that I could spend more time at home, and I will hope that my explanation is good enough.
I thought I would post an update of sorts, somewhat of a "catch all" type post that would serve to bring everyone up to speed with the current situation at casa de MTM/SFD. So, this may be long and winding, or it may be staccato and brief. We shall see.
On the subject of jaundice, Buddy is still yellow-ish, although certainly not as bad as he was. We went to our G.P. on Tuesday after the long weekend (it was a condition of our release from the hospital), who assessed him as borderline, and gave us a requisition for another bilirubin test that we were to use if Buddy turned more yellow in the following 24 hours. Being worried parents, we convinced ourselves that he was more yellow and brought him to the hospital for yet another heel prick that yielded a bilirubin level of 241 umol/L (note that he was discharged with a level of 229). We went to our G.P. again today, who said that he looks fine.
Feeding has not been the issue it was with the munchkin. Whereas her first days were marked by urates in the diaper and a massive panic for bottles and formula because of dehydration and weight loss, Buddy is a breastfeeding champ. On Tuesday he was back at his birth weight, and today he was one ounce shy of 10 pounds - that's a seven ounce gain in four days. Dude feeds like crazy.
Sleeping has been good, but not great. We are slow learners as parents, it seems, since we still try to schedule the four hour split (he is feeding every three hours or less during all but one four hour stretch at night). If we wake him after three and it's past midnight, he is miserable and won't settle, but if we let him choose the four hour stretch, he's awesome.
He has a couple of wakeful times every day: one in the morning during breakfast, and one in the evening around 9.00pm or so. In general he's content when awake, very interested in the world (and sometimes to Mommy's chagrin, not us) as he looks around the room constantly. He's definitely more interactive than the munchkin though; he'll stare at us and grab at us for minutes at a time.
The munchkin has not always been herself during the past couple of weeks. While she has moments of immense devotion, she is still three years old and acts like it. Recently we've also been dealing with a cold, which presents not just a cranky preschooler, but also the reality that her time with Buddy is limited and more controlled than she would like (although I think she would like us to leave him with her while we go out for dinner, so...) We're working through it, although sometimes my patience is worn so thin that I snap at her and feel terrible guilt afterward. I find it so difficult because I know what she is capable of, and it frustrates me when she reverts.
MTM's recovery has been progressing, although right now she's in some discomfort from an unknown source. She suspects it is her internal incision, but we won't know until she has an ultrasound. Otherwise, she is improving daily, adding more and more items to the list of "stuff she can do".
Unless there is a dramatic change in the situation, I will return to work on Monday (fuck... that's in three days). MTM still cannot drive, so my nights will be filled with errands and doctor appointments and the like for quite some time.
I have enjoyed this time with my family, although I have to admit I miss the routine of work, which is a surprise to me. I don't miss the office itself, nor the people inside it, but I miss a regular wake time, a structured day, and admittedly the freedom to do my own thing when I want to do it. I know that Monday will be a rude awakening for all of us, probably the munchkin more than anyone, but it is what we have to do in order to survive.
I just have to keep reminding myself of that while I'm staring at their photos through tears on Monday morning.
I'd like to do a little bit of housekeeping before I begin this post. First of all, thank you all for the kind words in the comments these past two weeks. I have not been the best blog citizen; I am well aware. Earlier this week I tried to read and comment on at least one post from some of you, with the hopes that I would be able to stay on top of my reader once I did a big purge. It has (obviously, from most of you noticing my absence at your blogs) failed. Hopefully once I am back at work I will be able to dedicate more time to blog reading. In the meantime, I will try to post occasionally, and comment intermittently.
Also, I am working on the birth story, however to do it in as much depth as I want to will take some time. Also, since I don't want to serialize it over a few weeks (allegedly "torturing" some readers like I did with my three part story about my friend), I want to make sure most of it is ready to go when I start posting it.
A couple of years ago, my wife asked me what I wanted for my birthday. She was, as had been the case for a number of years already, doing the shopping for my mother as well as herself, and needed some ideas. After the obligatory "what every married man wants on his birthday" response, I paused and smiled. I told her that I lead a very charmed life.
I work at a job that does not (generally) put my life in any danger, pays me well enough to allow us to survive on one income, and provides me with enough scheduling flexibility to maximize my time at home. I am fortunate enough to have such simple wants that I can often meet them without much strain (financial or otherwise).
But that is nothing compared to the riches that reside inside the walls of our house. I have an amazing wife, and an equally amazing daughter. Recently, we completed our "millionaire family" by adding a son to the mix, and while he is still too new to be much of anything other than adorable and sweet and cuddly, that's good enough for me.
Since Buddy has been born, my life has only become more charmed. The sleepless nights, the deafening screaming, the older sibling tantrums are all temporary; they are the burden I must shoulder in the short term in order to earn the life I have now. Soon, Buddy will adjust into a routine, and the munchkin will adapt to the reality of being number one with another, well, number one. Until then, I still have two amazing kids, and one incredible wife.
I may not live the life some people think of as wealthy. I don't have a mansion, nor all the gadgets and a/v equipment I could want, nor the perfect car, nor many other manly "essentials". But still, I have an embarassment of riches. I am, at least today, a very wealthy man in the ways that truly matter.
Originally, tonight's post was supposed to be a big update, all about how MTM was doing (she's recovering really well; she has a new post up about all that), how the munchkin is the greatest big sister ever, and how Buddy has been the most incredible addition to our lives.
That was what tonight was supposed to be about.
Last night, we were at this:
Tonight, we're at this:
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK.
Today we went for our second "well baby" appointment with our doctor. Everything seemed fine: feeding well, plenty of wet diapers, gaining weight, alert, whatever. But he looked a little yellow, so he ordered another bilirubin test. It came back high, so they have admitted him to paediatrics and put him back under the UV lights, and fortunately because he is a solely breastfed baby, MTM gets to stay there with him. However, since I need to be home to watch the munchkin, I cannot.
It sucks to be here, at home, while my baby and my not-quite-healthy wife are stuck in the hospital. It fucking sucks big donkey balls. I hate it.
We're hoping he will come home again tomorrow, but we have little cause for optimism given our recent history.
Updated 2008/10/11 (Saturday): They discharged Buddy today, but we have to see our family doctor on Tuesday for a follow-up (no word on whether it's a visual or a blood work up), so there's a chance that he'll have to go back. But for now, we're all together once again. Thank you to everyone for your words of support in the comments. I really appreciate them.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, lamenting the fact that I had no time to compose proper posts for this blog, when my (three and a half year old) daughter piped up and offered to write a guest post for me. (OK, not really. The truth is she was lying stomach down on the kitchen floor with a pad of princess paper and a sparkle pen, pretending to "write" about her baby brother and I took note of what she was saying. However, the guest post offer sounded cooler.) So, without further ado, I present another guest post from the munchkin.
Buddy drinks Mommy's breast milk.
Buddy cries when he gets his diaper changed.
Buddy gets lots of diaper changes.
Buddy cries a lot.
Buddy gets his sleepers on.
Buddy sleeps a lot.
Buddy sleeps in the crib.
Buddy likes to be warm.
Buddy likes to be held.
Buddy gets lots of kisses.
Everyone loves to hold Buddy.
I didn't say it was a work of genius, people. But these days you take what you can get, right?
I will end this with yet more photos of the baby, since I cannot promise good content anytime soon. In the meantime, enjoy the photos.
Thanks to everyone who commented on the birth announcement post. Your sentiments are appreciated. We are finally home after the hospital visit turned into something that can only be described as "an ordeal". Everything is fine now, but it didn't feel that way at points.
We're still figuring out the logistics of two, and with MTM recovering from a c-section, sometimes I feel like a single parent. Given that fact, I don't expect to be back to posting regularly for a while.
Tonight's post will be a brief recap of our experience in the hospital. When I have more time, I will do each day as a post of its own (seriously, each deserves it) in more of a true SFD style.
Buddy's Birth - By The Numbers 5 - the number of OR staff Buddy peed on during delivery 7 - the number of times I uttered the phrase, "Crap, I forgot to eat [insert meal name here]" in the hospital 18 - the number of hours Buddy spent in NICU for low blood sugar 3 - the number of hours they spent trying to start an IV in my little boy 5 - the number of actual attempts made to start an IV 0 - the number of IV lines started in my boy 1 - the number of bottles of formula the munchkin was able to give Buddy in the hospital, making her the happiest preschooler in the universe 20 - the number of hours spent under UV lights in an incubator (this is not time spent in NICU) 15 - the approximate number of times his heel was pricked to draw blood for various tests 0 - the number of times Buddy unexpectedly peed during diaper changes in the hospital 3 - the number of times Buddy has unexpectedly peed during diaper changes since we left the hospital (once was in our doctor's office today) 4 - the average number of hours of sleep I got each night in the hospital 3 - the number of hours of sleep I got last night at home 2 - the number of times this post's composition was interrupted to change a poopy diaper (the boy is a crap machine)
Finally, here are a couple more photos. First, here's what we all think of sleepless nights:
And here he is looking very SciFi Baby under the UV lights
This is part three of a story. I strongly recommend reading part one and part two before continuing.
I was feeling pretty smug. After all of her efforts to make sure I'd remember her birthday, she missed me on Friday, giving me an easy out to skip Saturday.
(I should probably acknowledge that, in retrospect, I was a pretty huge asshole. She was obviously trying to befriend me, and I was obviously trying to subvert that. My (admittedly weak) rationale was that I didn't trust anybody, and so by keeping her at arm's length I was making sure I didn't make the "mistake" of trusting her. If that makes any sense at all.)
Saturday was spent out at the library and computer lab catching up on irc chat with strange women from other universities school work. I came home shortly after dinner and saw my voicemail light flashing.
Beep. "Hey SciFi, it's me. We're heading to [afternoon engineering student event I had no intention of attending]. It should run until about six o'clock. Then we're going to get some food and head to the bar. We should be there by eight o'clock. See you there." Click.
Beep. "Hey SciFi, it's me again. We're leaving [engineering student event]. Just getting some dinner and then going to the bar. See you around eight." Click.
Beep. "Hey there. We're here at the bar. Hope you can make it." Click.
Fuck. There's really no way I can fake forgetting again.
So, I went to the bar. When I walked in I scanned the place, but before I could find anyone I knew my eye caught a commotion. She was drunk, shoving several people out of her way to get to me. She threw her arms around me and then leaned back and petted my sideburns (I had massive Elvis-like 'burns; it was the 1990s).
We hung out that night, and from then on she always took the seat beside me (which was now left unoccupied in expectation). We hung out all the time, so much so that at one point she came over to me at a club and swatted me over the head playfully because a guy she liked admitted that he wanted to ask her out but was too afraid of "her boyfriend". (We were strictly platonic.) It became the running joke, because everyone that didn't know us thought we were dating, and some people who did know us thought we were dating "in secret".
In time, she peeled away the rough exterior I had developed as a form of protection. She taught me how to be strong without hurting anyone, how to be confident without being an asshole, and that respect and fear are not necessarily the same thing. But most importantly, she taught me that I wasn't a bad person, that I deserved to be loved, that I had a right to expect what I expected from people, and to be disappointed when they failed to meet my expectations. She was the best friend I had.
We moved on after university, settling in different time zones. We tried to meet up occasionally, but it rarely worked out. When I finally proposed to MTM, my mother said to me, "You know, I always hoped somehow you and she would end up together, but I think it turned out better for you in the end." She stood up for MTM and I at our wedding, on my side. She arranged with MTM to get one of the bridesmaid dresses (they were a light blue) and then dyed it black to match the tuxedos.
Fifteen years ago I made the decision to leave my hometown and attend university elsewhere. I did it to get away from my parents, and in particular the unhealthy relationship I had with my mother (I was, effectively, her co-spouse for the final few years at home). I questioned that decision a lot in my first year or so, but ultimately it proved to be the beginning of me becoming the man I am today, because I met a girl who was going to be my friend, whether I wanted one or not.
Just a quick update as I don't have WiFi access at the hospital.
The baby was born today at 8.58am, weighing 9lbs, 8oz and 20 inches long.
Mom and baby are both doing fine. The c-section went exceptionally well, and breastfeeding is going great. The munchkin loves her new baby brother so much.
I don't know if the nickname Buddy will stick, but that's what I'm calling him right now, so that's what I've posted here.
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