Rainbow Friends & Foodie Resolution #13 of 52: Hummus

We recently had a visit from a fellow BLM to the Chi suburbs. She brought along her daughter and Benjamin had a playdate with a little girl his age! It's not often little girls come around, as our suburb is saturated with little boys Benjamin's age.

I've been totally slacking on my recipes lately and I have about 400 excuses why I haven't posted any, but I still have the desire to complete 52 new recipes this year. We'll see about that when I have more time. This dresser refinishing and traveling paired with the husband being out of town a lot has really cut down on my free time.

But, when Teresa came over, I did make some caramelized onion & Weber BBQ sauce grilled cheese sandwiches with a parmesan crust on French bread. So I mean, I'm still eating well. That's not a concern. Though the stock of frozen pizzas in our freezer is getting dangerously low and that's usually is a tell for how busy we've been.

While Teresa was here, we talked about food because she's also a foodie like me. She mentioned they make hummus frequently. I told her I'd never made hummus. Hours after she left, I was in my kitchen giving it a go.

Success. First pictures of babies, then food. In order of importance and deliciousness, clearly.

Hummus recipe was straight from the Blendtec recipe book. It just so happened that I had all the ingredients!

It was tasty! The consistency was quite thick, which is how I like my hummus. The entire batch had only 1 TBSP of olive oil, so it was quite healthy as well. Next time, I might experiment with roasted red peppers as an addition, and I'll definitely make the tahini first, because I can still see a few sesame seeds that were not ground completely in the blend.

Weekend in Dallas

Another wedding, another trip. Few photos to share, but plenty of fun stories. Here it goes.

Thursday night around 8:00 p.m., we fed B a bowl of oatmeal and whatever else I can't remember... and then let him play a bit. He was resistant to the food, so that's why I resorted to oatmeal because it's our go-to meal if he puts up a fight. Should've listened to the cues. He came down with a cold five days prior, but things were on the mend. I sat down to breastfeed him and realized he couldn't breathe, so I grabbed Nose Frida. Apparently the pressure was too much, because he started to gag and then proceeded to projectile vomit all over me, the couch, the Boppy pillow, the blanket, my clothes, and all over himself. I immediately called for Ray and he grabbed him and walked into the kitchen. First time real vomiting on me before, ever. Before this, it had only been spit up.

As I was trying to figure out where to go from there, I heard two consecutive splats of more vomiting. I spent the next 30 minutes following scrubbing down baseboards, walls, cabinets, countertops, clothes and all the items still covered in vomit from the living room while B was fed another bowl of plain oatmeal and given a bath.

Did I mention we had to wake at 3:45 a.m. the following morning to make our 6:30 a.m. flight to Dallas? And that it was Valentine's Day?

Yeah.

B was showing no signs of the flu, but all signs were pointing to a minor case of food poisoning. We carried on with our plans, slept very little, and managed to make our flight. Except, after boarding, our flight was mechanically grounded for an hour.

Did I mention we had to wake the baby up at 3:45 a.m. after only 6.5 hours of sleep (when he normally sleeps 11+ hours?).

Yeah.

Pissed off and tired baby, exhausted parents, rude flight attendants, and of course the plane was full of unsuspecting fools who thought they could sleep on the early morning flight.

Finally, we're off the ground after attaching the baby to a breast and getting him to sleep. No more than 10 minutes into the flight and... you guessed it...

Projectile vomit all over me. Just as I was finishing up the McDonald's hashbrown I bought for B to eat.

I spent the next 2 hours attempting to rid myself of the nastiness, pass a screaming baby back and forth, and cleaning the area so it wouldn't smell like rotten eggs.

At the end of the flight, I handed over a granola bar to our seat partner as a peace offering. He accepted.

Finally, in Dallas. The rest of the trip was a whole lot easier, thankfully. First stop, hotel. Then, lunch with a few pretty cool cats that I felt like I'd known my whole life. We drank beers, ate Mexican food, hung out with rainbow babies toddlers, and talked about Cale and Andrew like it was no big thing. It felt good.

We attended the wedding rehearsal dinner at a sushi restaurant and spent lots of quality time with B's grandparents, aunt, and lots of extended family in which I took basically no photos.

Crawling around the hotel hallways with fun Aunt Samantha & hanging out with Gramie & Grandpa

We had quality hangout time in our amazing hotel suite and enjoyed a lovely wedding, reception, and a little dancing before heading home on another early morning whirlwind of a flight that had us with the entire back five rows of the airplane to ourselves. They definitely lost money on that flight. Let's just say it was a world better than the flight to Dallas. As if you wouldn't have guessed that. There's no question that flying is getting so much harder now that B is more aware and more mobile.

In the car on the way home, B had ditched the toys we gave him {per usual} and since I was in the front seat, I was searching for something to keep him entertained for the last 10 minutes of the ride. We had an Oats & Chocolate Nature Valley Granola Bar (amazing, btw) and knowing how robust and difficult those wrappers are to open, I handed it to him because he enjoys manipulating shiny and crinkly packaging. About 3 blocks from our house, Ray and I both looked back at the same time having realized the baby was eerily quiet and sure enough, he had both granola bars, one in each hand and was covered in chocolate. The rodent baby managed to get that package open and was none too happy we took the bars away from him either. He had a full mouth of the chocolatey goodness. So much for introducing him to chocolate ourselves. This is the shrapnel he left behind.

Wished we had the means to really explore Dallas, but something tells me we'll be back eventually. But hopefully not before we explore Austin.

Stay cool, Dallas.
{No really, stay cool. It was in the 70's days leading and following out visit but in the 50's while we were there. Now we're living in negative wind chills again. What a bust.}

Perception

I can't find my sunglasses. It's not like it matters anyway, because I made a big scratch in them. But now I have about 4 pairs of sunglasses that all have scratches on them. So instead, I busted out a freebie pair I picked up at a party last year... and let me tell you... they're special.

Picture white Fay-Ban sunglasses. {I'm not as cool as my friend Alli who is also 4.5 years younger than me who calls her own sunglasses FBs. I even urban dictionaried-- clearly a verb-- it to find out they are, indeed, fake Ray Ban sunglasses which have apparently made a comeback}.

Exhibit A.

I had to go to the County Clerk's office today to pick up B's birth certificate because I forgot to mail in the form nearly 5 months ago when he was born because I was a little busy or something. And also, I had no rush to get things moving since the document would still be there, 12 miles away, as long as I waited. Maybe there was Andrew guilt in there, too, because I don't have any documentation that he ever existed according to the state of Illinois. Maybe I can get that, but I honestly still have too many emotions about that. Except now we decided to get B a passport for some upcoming travel (more on that later) and the procrastination had to stop. Let's also not discuss how I nearly broke down right there reading at the top, "certificate of live birth", because I'd never seen that for my own child typed on a piece of paper with my own two eyes before.

Also, perhaps the cutest thing you've ever seen is a baby's passport photo.

Exhibit B.

We had him in a collared onesie to show his sophistication, but he naturally pooped through that before we arrived at the drug store for the photo opp. Random white thing in his mouth = glare. You try getting a baby to close his mouth for a photo!

I'm getting away from myself here. As I walked into the County Clerk's office, I wanted to appear respectable to have a baby in my possession. And when you're asking for documents such as birth certificates, you sort of feel like you should present yourself respectfully. So here I was, walking in with my white Fay-Bans on and totally, utterly embarrassed. I was convinced people thought I...

A. Was 18 years old

B. Had just stolen this child

C. Had Illegitimately acquired the child and was totally white trash/uneducated. 

As Ray and I entered the Post Office together later to submit the passport paperwork, I was telling him that people were giving me weird looks and I was convinced these stupid glasses were making people judge me inappropriately. He said I was being too self conscious. I assure you, if I saw a lady with white Fay-Bans with a baby, I would totally think less of her and drop her down at least one college degree. At least. Shame on me, maybe. But I speak the truth. Someone has to. And for the record, I'm one of the least self conscious people around-- I truly don't care what people think of me most of the time. But when it comes to being a mom, I'm quite protective of that title. I've mentioned that a time or two before.

I took the glasses off before we got into the Post Office. Oh, and in case you're wondering, both parents must be present in case the other happens to be trying something sneaky and abducting the kid or something.  We were happy to be inconvenienced by this requirement. Because, the horror.

It got me thinking further about this whole perception business. I stood putting the groceries into my trunk this afternoon with B's carseat in the cart {not resting on top, ever} and wondered if there were other BLMs out there getting out of their cars or purchasing their produce that were burdened by seeing my seemingly perfect life. She's young and has a baby and is buying groceries and looks relatively in shape and is wearing stupid Fay-Bans that make her look 18. Wow, I wish I had that life. The life of happy.

The truth is, it is happy. Most of the time. But there's definitely so much emotional baggage and sadness still that it's not perfect and I'm not just living the perfect little life with my perfect little husband and child and delicious produce and driving my perfect little Honda around. I envied these women I saw every single day from the day Andrew died until the day B arrived and I still envy them in so many ways. I envy their emotional stability and full hearts that will never be missing a piece.

It's just plain interesting how much we can assume about others without knowing their story. I try to remind myself of this, but even I get caught up in the battle of perception. Maybe this post was all over the map, but it's something that's definitely been looming around in my brain these days. 

Mama Guilt

My biggest frustration today has been questioning whether I should've researched and chosen a pediatrician instead of a primary care physician.

B went in for his 4-month checkup this morning and I left in tears. And not because of the shots-- though I did shed a tear during that as well.

You know when that happens that something needs to be re-evaluated. I then went home and chugged a bunch of water, ate a big bowl of pasta with spinach, a Magnum ice cream bar, drank more water, and have been feeding B on both sides every 1.5 hours since.

Why? Because I got those eyes from our family practice doctor and the run-down on how he is hanging on by a thread in the percentile category (for babies 3 weeks ahead gestationally and on the formula-feeding charts) for weight gain. I was encouraged to give him a formula bottle before bedtime and to start feeding from both sides-- which is the only thing I agree to doing (and the only reason I hadn't been doing so regularly is because B seemed to be content with one side feedings every 2-3 hours). She even encouraged starting him on rice cereal of which I already declared would not ever be a part of his diet because of its void nutritional value. I'd prefer to start him on a food like avocado that is high in good fats and protein.

Let's dispel some myths here. Exclusively Breastfed Babies (EBF) have their own chart, people. It's not fair to assume or compare that formula-fed babies and EBF babies should be compared on the same scale. I consulted the CDC website and it states that the CDC recommends that health care providers:

• Use the WHO growth standards to monitor growth for infants and children ages 0 to 2 years of age in the U.S.
• Use the CDC growth charts to monitor growth for children age 2 years and older in the U.S.

According to the World Health Organization's chart for EBF babies, B is not only good, but he's in the upper percentiles... even as a 4-monther and not a 3+ monther that he really should be qualified as considering his barely 37-week birth appearance. Apparently the WHO chart was updated and released recently and it's based on 6 countries-- U.S. being one of the six.

According to the regular charts (at 11lb 14.5oz), B is measuring around the 5th percentile. Small. But according to the WHO website, he's topping the charts! That leads me to believe that even if both are inaccurate (how can you place a basis for babies that are all different with different DNA to begin with?), he's got to average somewhere in the center of fine.

He's eating every few hours, meeting all of his milestones for 3.5 months (because I don't have a 4-month chart) and is even meeting most 5.5 month milestones! Also, his head circumference and height are all well within normal limits (on the CDC charts even!) and he's having at least 3-4 dirty diapers a day. And let's not forget that I'm a pretty small person and my husband's not exactly Hulk Hogan. He's even sleeping in 6-7 hour stretches at night, wakes for a feed, and goes back down for another 2-3 hours! And best of all, B looks and acts, and smiles, and responds and is... happy.

Look at me. I'm freaking happy.

Here's the chart I'm referring to.

I'm just feeling discouraged above all things. I'm not against formula if it must come to that, but I just wanted to be able to feel like I could personally sustain my child and do something as a parent that isn't a failure-- all on my own. I couldn't keep Andrew alive or have any idea of how or why he really died and I failed him. Going into pregnancy with B, I was ultra cautious and the induction happened because we were all afraid of failing him as well, because the NSTs were not looking too fantastic. He was born and had to have NICU intervention and formula then because of his early release... hence feeling like a failure again. Each and every wellness check since his birth has been met with a challenge: low weight, possible hip dyplasia & herniated tissues, and now low weight again. When will I ever take B to the doctor and get high-fived for growing this boy up well?

It's just plain hard having mama guilt over Andrew and dealing with that residual guilt on top of raising B. It's hard enough being a parent of a baby without a previous loss and here we are dealing with B's issues with a nice helping of Andrew sadness and guilt as a base layer to make it all the more frustrating.

Bottom line. My kid is healthy. I truly, truly believe he is. I'm drinking more water, feeding more often and more in general, considering solids a bit earlier than anticipated, and possibly considering a pediatrician switcheroo in the near future. Any recommendations, local Chicago suburbians?

Oy to the vey.

(Self) Righteous, Dude.

So I know you've all seen it. Or at least heard about it. You'd be living under a rock not to have read some of the controversy over this publicity stunt by Time. They're just basking in all their readership and news-buzz glory as people rant and rave about their gripes over this cover.

The only part of this whole publicity stunt that bothers me is how that little boy on the cover has been exploited. When he's 13, he's going to be one angry little man who is shamed by his peers-- if this cover comes back to haunt him. And it will, because the Internet will not let you forget. Something tells me he won't want to have photo proof of being attached to his mother's breast on the cover of one of the most well known magazines in the World. 

To the mom, I say, shame on you. Shame on you for exploiting your child like that. You're hardly any different than pageant moms on those cable television shows where children are dressed in scandalous clothing and made to look like Tammy Faye Bakker (RIP, Tammy).

Honestly, for what purpose other than to push your extreme parenting logic on others? Other than exploiting that poor little boy, I am annoyed with this cover (absolutely will not be reading any articles within) because it speaks to promote self righteous parenting. And forgive me for mistaking that if you have read the article, but the cover alone makes it to look like a beastly argument, right?

Why is it anyone's business (other than a safety issue) how you choose to parent your child? If I want to breastfeed until my child is three, I will. If I want to formula feed, I will. I just don't understand why once a woman has living children to parent that everyone and their mother... and their mother's mother finds the need to criticize or judge one another for their choices. What's it to you? Didn't we all choose to have children because we want to share our lives with them and bring them up to be wonderful, loved individuals? Someone tell me how breastfeeding made your child any better of a citizen than the next person who chose not to or could not? Yes, I breastfeed and I love it. But I would never criticize someone who chose not to because it's none of my stinking business. And in the grand scheme of life (yes, a life we should be just plain thankful to have in our arms), what does it really matter?

I just hope we all remember that the best parents provide for their children in safe and healthy ways. Who's to say one person is better than another because such things have become "popular" in society? I think being a BLM even enrages me more because I've worked so stinking hard to get to the parenting part of life with a living child and then I have to listen to other parents so concerned about exactly how I am choosing to do this or that-- when all I want to do is scream from the rooftops that, OMG, My child is alive! I'm a lot less concerned about strict sleep schedules or whether I've already looked into preschool programs.

There you go, Time. You got the best of me.

But oh. If you smoke around your children or drive erratically, I will totally judge you. Because some women would kill (cats) to have all of our children living with us and you go off risking the lives of the ones who were spared. 

To donate to the Rasmussens, please see their donation website. To read their story, click here.

 

Pregnancy Revisited

I'm just now starting to really think back on my pregnancy with B. For these last couple months I've been thankfully distracted and purposefully trying to extricate myself from the mess that it caused me mentally and emotionally. It's really quite damaging.

To think pregnancy would ever be as carefree as society makes it out to be. And the paradox of the whole 9 months it seems is that it is all of those things; wonderful and terrifying all at once. It's magical. And in the same breath, it's frightening. It's amazing to consider that a human life is created within ones body and then goes on to start that whole cycle again. And no more than a breath later will I tell you that the very last sentence I typed also makes the risk so incredibly high that it's almost not worth it. Almost. But wow is the reward rich. If all goes well, of course. Otherwise it could be right up there as the greatest failure of your life.

If those baby showers and nightly prayers and belly creams could just ward off the fear and trepidation that is held within each breath of pregnancy for a baby loss mother. Because we know better.

It's because of this fear that I'm already looking ahead to my next, and hopefully final pregnancy. I already well up with fear just thinking about it, but I know if we wait too long, I'll be as mess, too. I'm not talking about babies anytime this year, but it wouldn't be crazy to assume that we'd jump back on the crazy train of emotion and fear next year at some point. I want B to have another living sibling to grow with. In order for that to occur, I need to accept the fact that pregnancy will be in my somewhat near future. And the longer I wait seems even crazier because that would be stringing myself along in this fear and anxiety of pregnancy and loss and potential further loss if we wait years. I can't imagine going back to this insanity in a few years and digging up those skeletons of emotion to wear on my sleeve (or on this blog).

It's almost like pregnancy itself is like reliving loss or a loss itself. It's that traumatic as you hold your breath and cry, begging and pleading that you won't be chosen for the reaping this go around {Yes, I totally did just use a Hunger Games reference. But it was fitting, no?}.

I'm reveling in the fact that I am for once in these last few years not wishing myself pregnant. It feels bizarre. I'm enjoying parenthood with all its ups and downs and just so extremely thankful we made it past the finish line with only emotional scars that will hopefully fade to absence by the time I'm past my childbearing years. My childloss scars will always be present, but these pregnancy scars may fade away.

Physically, I'm nearly back into my jeans after a month off sweets and eating much healthier than I was during pregnancy. It wasn't crazy to assume that I could dust off 1/2 box of Cheezits because I totally could and did on many occasions. Whatever got me through the day with a live child a growin'. Now that he's here and still sustaining life through me, I feel the need to make up for lost time somehow. Eat better and be more conscious of what is being consumed for his health and my overall mental and physical health as well. Every stretch mark and every inch of wear and tear was worth it. For both of my children. The one I parent for the world to see, and the one I parent in my heart.

To donate to the Rasmussens, please see their donation website. To read their story, click here.

Another One Slowly Approaches

Mother's Day, that is.

As my friend Caroline put it in her recent post about the subject, I don't want to celebrate a bereaved Mother's Day because through and through...

I am a mother. Not just a bereaved mother. A real mother to two incredibly gorgeous boys. The only thing that sets me apart from those regular mothers is knowing what it was like to say goodbye. To live the rest of my years wondering and loving a child too far from my arms to touch. My motherhood started long ago when my hopes and dreams of being a mother were realized in March of 2010. That was going to be our year. Shoot, it already had been. We had just stepped back on U.S. soil not two weeks before after having my very last margarita (before ttc). We moved into our home. The home we bought to raise children in. For them to call home. It wasn't a home for us-- the two of us with far too much space to surround us. So many rooms unused. We dreamed of what it would be like the following year.

2010 was going to be our year.

No more than 2 months prior we were gallivanting around Venice, Paris, and Barcelona just enjoying the carefree lifestyle of being a couple without any inhibitions. Without borders. Without too much responsibility. We had it all and then some. We were blessed. We were thankful. We were in awe that our lives could be so grand. Wonderful marriage. Incredible explorations all over the globe. Purchasing a beautiful home where our future children would call their own. It all seemed so perfect.

And it was.

A bump in the road around the end of my first trimester with Andrew proved to be challenging, but we got through it. Skin cancer is curable. Treatable. We are strong. Our little boy was to be born that year as well, so how could that get us down?

And then it happened. The birth of our son. The son who made me a mother. An extremely proud, brokenhearted mother. 2010 equals bittersweet for me. So many highs and so many lows.

As this Mother's Day approaches, like all of them over these 3 years, I'm somber. I'll always see this day as a day to remember the beautiful face of a son I will forever cherish. Forever protect. While I hope future Mothers' Days are filled with sloppily painted pictures from children still developing those fine motor skills and breakfasts made by little hands, I'll always remember what Mother's Day means to me.

It means I was able to carry beautiful children that were both me and my husband and love on them for as long as I was/am blessed to have them.

 

When Sad, Bake.

I've been sad lately and just feel so helpless. Our baby loss community continues to be rocked and there's simply nothing any of us can do about it. Knowing what it's like to be in those shoes has me all frustrated because I know there isn't anything any of us can do to care for a friend in mourning. I found that one of the best ways to distract myself is to get in the kitchen and make something. It's what I spent a good portion of the last 17 months doing after we lost Andrew and what I spent the majority of my pregnancy with B doing.

I don't know what it is. I think my mind is allowed to be set free when I am creating. And since I'm not too entertained by actual craft projects, my craft is in the kitchen. Even if it's a failure (and often it is), I still enjoy the process of creation. This type of failure is easy. And what my husband told me the other day after I made a new dish for dinner that wasn't the best-- you miss all of the shots you don't take in life. As small of a situation as that was, we have to come to the understanding that no matter how much life can fail us, we have to take the risk. In relation to baby loss, I am sure most of us can agree that our children were worth the effort-- even if our time with them was too short and we spend the rest of our lives wondering and wishing it ended up differently. We're worse for wear but richer in love. I hope Becky and her family feel the love and support we are trying to provide and I hope they are thankful for each moment they had with their daughter. It doesn't provide any consolation for having to say goodbye to their beautiful daughter and it surely doesn't erase the anger and frustration, but we hope that of all things, love abounds.

My latest project that I've made twice already (both Sunday and Monday!) are pretzel bites. I saw these on Pinterest and quickly thought back to my struggles with baking in general and how Ray and I attempted to make bagels when we were newly married and failed miserably at it. I surely thought pretzels would be an enormous fail as it requires the same general steps as a bagel would-- boiling and baking. Oh, and there's yeast involved. That right there might just spell disaster because science steps in and offers to screw everything up. But, this was a success. A huge success. So much of a success that we sat there eating nearly all of the pretzel bites within minutes of them coming out of the oven. I can see honey wheat pretzels and cinnamon sugar pretzels and cheesy pretzel bites in our future.

Recipe: Homemade Pretzel Bites (from All Recipes.com)

• 1 1/8 cups water (70 to 80 degrees F)
• 3 cups all-purpose flour
• 3 tablespoons brown sugar
• 1 1/2 teaspoons active dry yeast
• 8 cups water
• 1/2 cup baking soda
• coarse salt to sprinkle
• 3 tablespoons melted butter

Add first four ingredients and mix in a stand mixer on level 2 for about 5 minutes. Roll into small, 1-inch balls.

Take 8 cups of water and 1/2 cup baking soda and bring to a boil. Drop about 6 balls of dough in at a time and remove them with a slotted spoon after about 15 seconds.

Drop them onto a paper towel so the water can drain. Repeat until all have been boiled.

Once boiling process is done, place each one on an oiled cookie sheet. I used olive oil.

Bake at 425 degrees for 8-10 minutes on the middle rack. I watched them once it hit the 8-minute mark and allowed them to brown well until about 10 minutes.

Melt a few tablespoons of butter and baste the top of each one-- well. The more butter, the better it will taste, obviously. Sprinkle with coarse salt. I actually have pretzel salt leftover from those frozen Super Pretzel packages. They always provide way too much salt.

Enjoy. I'd eat them within a day-- even hours maybe-- because after awhile they start to lose their pretzel-like texture and taste more like a dense piece of buttered bread. From start to finish, no more than 30 minutes. No waiting for bread to rise or anything like that. These taste just like those mall buttered pretzel places, you guys. So incredibly delicious.

In the Wee Hours of the Morning

Scene: Baby cries and attempts to break free of his amazing, miraculous swaddle blanket for the 24,986th time. This time, he wants food. Husband picks him up from the co-sleeper and changes him before handing him off to me in bed for a feeding. Baby is fed and put back into his super secure blanket made for none other than crazy babies who flail their arms like lunatics. Baby is back in the co-sleeper attempting to break free once again, but instead grunting as loud as his little body will allow. A conversation begins.

Husband: So how are you doing in the head?

Me: Um, okay. I had a PTSD moment yesterday.

Husband: What about?

Me: I was driving home from Danielle's and looked in the rear view mirror at B in the back seat and was certain his lips were bright red/purple.

Husband: Like A-man's, huh?

Me: Yeah. It took everything in me not to pull off to the side of the road to check and make sure he was still alive. I know it's totally irrational to assume that within 5 minutes my son would be dead and his lips turned that awful color on an 82-degree day, but I swore I saw it.

Husband: I have had a few of those moments, too, where I have to stop and look closely to make sure he's still alive.

PTSD plays tricks with your mind. It's awful. There just is no proper way to describe that horrendous color, is there?

                                                                                         ~~~~~~~

This morning was B's third doctor's appt. since he left the NICU on February 26th. He's officially 4 weeks old and marks one month out of my belly tomorrow. I think I'm most shocked by not being pregnant than I am him being a month old. I've just spent so much of the last few years pregnant that I don't know what to do with myself!

Back to the appt. B's last appt. showed he was at 7lb 3oz. at 2 weeks old. He was expected to be back to his birth weight (7lb 6oz.) but was not. He wasn't the best eater for his first three days of life as he couldn't breathe and was struggling to master that. I'm proud to say, however, that in those 2 weeks+ since his last appointment, he hasn't had a single bottle or drop of formula. He has been exclusively breastfed and is now at a whopping 8lb even. It's always the fear of a breastfeeding mother that their child is not getting enough-- especially when they seem ready to eat just an hour or two after the last feeding. Knowing the doctor was still concerned about his weight gain, she had us schedule a 4-week weight checkup for today (yay, another co-pay!). He made sure to pee all over their table. Atta boy. I felt a bit defeated after that last appointment, as you can imagine. He had left the NICU based on our demands and had been eating like a champ, but was still not up to the recommended weight.

Maybe it's a misconception, but as a BLM, I feel a strong urgency to prove myself as a mother. I know that breastfeeding is best for B. We knew that pulling him from the NICU when we saw he had healed of his TTN was the right decision. We're taking every extra precaution to shield him from germs as we can in his infancy. I still can't help but feel like I'm being judged on the outside for being an unfit mother. I am not asking for reassurance, just stating a fact. When one of your children is dead, it lowers your confidence and ability to judge just how well your mother's intuition works. It didn't work the first time... so why now? Others must think the same. They must think that I don't have what it takes to be a fit mother. It's completely false, but it's also something I'm totally sensitive about. I'm no expert, but I might assume that's another area of PTSD that creeps in to invade what good is left or left uncovered in my life.

I spend hours upon hours just reveling in how beautiful and precious our son is. I'm thankful for every moment. I just know I'll miss these moments. With every grunt, cry, movement, breath... I'm still in absolute awe that this little baby came from my body and he is ours.

Firsts

I posted before I was even pregnant with B about getting a massage and how uncomfortable I felt about the whole process. I am one who loves that luxury. I don't require much to be happy-- expect maybe good food and a solid night's sleep. I'm not really high maintenance in that respect. But man do I love it when I have the opportunity to get a massage. I mentioned how after Andrew died, I didn't really feel comfortable or worthy of one. They're indulgences and I didn't feel like splurging when inside I felt so dark and cold. I couldn't possibly allow myself to relax in my own skin, let alone allow someone to soothe away the scars that seemed to have a hold over every part of my body.

I can't say those scars are healed, because they aren't. But I can say that I'm just more comfortable with them. I hate them. I hate being able to say I have a child who isn't alive and one who is. It's just not fair to them, my family, or myself. But it's the real deal. I'm just more comfortable saying that the scars are there because I love my son-- my son who is no longer alive.

With that said, I got a massage yesterday. My parents bought me a massage while I was pregnant with B and I refused to use it until he was born. I couldn't risk having a massage and potentially compromising (albeit a small risk) the life of my unborn child. I also didn't feel like I was ready to "celebrate" and in many ways, I view massages as a celebration of sorts. Or certainly a splurge for "special" occasions. His birth is definitely one of those. He was alive and in the arms of his dad when I drove away and indulged. It felt weird to be pampered. It was the first massage I've had since before Andrew was conceived. It was the first massage I've had since becoming a mother for the first time. A first, definitely.

Last night was all about food firsts. I've never made lettuce wraps before, but I decided it was due time! I made two different dishes to roll into wraps. I made P.F. Chang's chicken lettuce wraps and an Asian quinoa lettuce cup filling. I'm not a huge fan of soy-based products like tofu (though I'll eat them if made for me) based on texture, but I love quinoa and other grains/legumes/seeds. It turned out quite well. And since we wanted to represent many cultures while still celebrating a "green" St. Patrick's Day, we also enjoyed some margaritas. That was not a first alcoholic beverage since B's birth, however... as I had that IPA I mentioned in my last post.

 Recipe for the chicken lettuce wraps found here.

 And the quinoa here.

Today was full of more firsts. When my parents came to visit, my mom and I walked the downtown in our area and strolled through shops and ate cupcakes. It was nice. That was a first. But this morning was also a very special first. It's something I've dreamed about ever since I saw those two lines on that pregnancy test back in March of 2010. I dreamed of waking up on a weekend morning, and heading downtown for a stroller walk, bagels, and a stop into Baby Gap. It finally happened this morning. We strolled into Einstein's Bagels and enjoyed a few everything bagels with light cream cheese and found ourselves buying two cute onesies at Baby Gap before taking a stroll along the riverwalk and having strangers admire our little one. It felt sort of normal, but totally overdue. Like 15 months overdue. We heard comments from strangers about how cute he was and how although we aren't getting much sleep now, that it will improve over time.

We came home to another first. The bulbs we planted with the help of a friend to honor Andrew's birthday and celebrate B's upcoming birth are sprouting. We headed outside to uncover them.

While outside, we planted a card. You read that right. Ray's Aunt Ceil sent us some adorable clothes for B and a natural card embedded with wildflower seeds. It's meant to be planted whole. We found a pot about 10 feet away from the A & B bulbs where we are hoping those wildflowers begin to sprout.

Sprout little seeds, sprout.

A Jumble of Thoughts

Here we are. He'll be three weeks old in a matter of hours and I'm a stay-at-home-mom for the very first time in my life. It's weird. It's humbling. It's (sometimes) boring. It's wonderful.

I was speaking with a friend the other day about this phenomenon. She lost her firstborn as well and has now been staying home with her second child for the last couple months. She still has the itch. The itch for a life outside of the SAHM world. I do too. I still love and cherish my career as a teacher and I'm thankful that I'll be starting another graduate course next week. It will give me that sense of fulfillment that is different than being a mother. Though I have to say-- staring at his beautiful face makes me really thankful I had another chance. I try not to think about how this should've been my life all along-- how 15 months ago, I should've been a SAHM to my son. Now here with B, I want so desperately to have two boys in my home. What would it be like to be a mother of two living boys? It's a dream I allow myself to wonder about quite frequently in the middle of the night while I sit breastfeeding (exclusively!) my second son-- Andrew's little brother. The sound of Andrew and Benjamin makes my heart sing. It's cheesy to say, but it's really true. I love the sound of their names together and just wish they were both physically here.

My parents came to visit this weekend. They held in their arms a baby that was mine. And it was totally, incredibly special. I can't help but think that it was even more special because I know how much we've all experienced and lost to get to a point of livelihood. We had to endure a pregnancy and birth of a son/grandson so desperately wanted-- a first grandchild to both sides of our family-- a loss, a miscarriage, and then another pregnancy and birth all to reach this point. My parents are proud. There's no doubt they'd make amazing grandparents to our two boys. Oh how I wish I could present that as reality. I haven't cried as many tears since B has arrived, but I sit here right now typing in a pool of sobs. I hear the coos in the background of a sweet little boy and finally my home is not silent. The doors are open and the nursery is walked in. The items are getting used. Some will never be used and I'm okay with that. Andrew has a piece of our lives and hearts, physically and emotionally. His name is still on the wall in the nursery and his little train toy that bears his name is still on the bookshelf. I don't know when I will be able to bring myself to take it down. I have nothing to replace it with. B doesn't sleep in there anyway and in many ways, it still feels like they share the space. The memories, hopes, dreams, and love of Andrew still cloud the room itself-- at least to me. I feel the presence of them both.

First neighborhood walk

Meeting his grandparents!

I have so many emotions. Most of them revolve around love, but many around fear. I fear, still, that B will be taken from us. I know too much. I've noticed a little redness that lines his eyelids and I have a fear that he has some incurable sickness. I'm aware that it's just my BLM tendencies striking me down, but it's hard to bury them. They're all I've known and immersed myself in for the past 15 months. It's the reality I live in having a son who left this earth far sooner than any child ever should.

My mind is everywhere, but mostly just thankful. B is such an innocent being that has no clue his parents are so totally emotionally screwed up. He doesn't know how hard we have fought to start a family and how sad that makes us. I don't ever want to burden him with that reality, but it almost seems impossible to hide.

In less somber news, I went for a jog for the first time since June and it felt amazing. I also had a Goose Island IPA and felt unable to drive. My love for cooking has not ceased. My love for the husband and a couple little boys is certainly what I've been focusing most of my energy on though.

Hi, I'm naked baby.

The Story of a Little Brother

I spent part of this week writing out B's birth story and NICU stay. It's seven pages, y'all. I wasn't sure exactly how to draft it via blog without making you read for hours. That's why it's taken me so long.

So here we go. Here's B's birth story.

The Beginning - Wednesday, February 22nd.

I spent the day at work. I was training my replacement and planned to complete my final day before B’s arrival (induction scheduled for 2/29/12) on Friday the 24^th. Things didn’t quite go as planned. Like they ever do! Lunch at 12:15 consisted of a PBJ, string cheese, and celery sticks. I scooted out to my routine OB appt. after work at 3:15 and my husband came with me. He hadn’t been coming to all of them, but he came this time in case there was any chance we might be getting an earlier induction. I had my last NST on Monday the 20^th and was set to have another NST on Thursday the 23^rd. 

My OB appt. yielded some surprising results. My OB told me that she thought we needed to head right on over to labor and delivery (like right then) and start my induction. I was 36w6d. The reasons in her recommending were the following: our history of unexplained loss, excessive amniotic fluid discovered during a BPP at the Perinatologist’s office during my NSTs (like over the high level) which could cause the cord to come first if I my water were to break and a potential demise, being 3cm dilated, having Braxton Hicks contractions every 3 minutes, and the fact that B hadn’t been moving a ton and scoring 8/10 on his last two NST/BPPs. The concern was that he was scoring 10/10 for weeks and then started scoring 8/10. Considering all we’ve been through, the logical choice was to induce. Of course, we knew that also had risks. For one, he would be barely term and likely have some symptoms of a preterm baby—mainly lung immaturity. They don’t give steroid shots to babies past 34 weeks… so that wasn’t an option. We just had to hope for the best. I was also at risk of an emergency c-section (though not a terrible thing if successful) since my water breaking could mean the cord rushes out. But the likelihood of having a live baby was good… so we decided to induce a week before our scheduled induction date. We were meant to have a leap year baby, but he was coming much sooner. My OB wanted me to head straight to L&D, but I wanted a shower and to pack some things since we had nothing ready. We headed home (3.5 miles from the hospital) and packed things in a fury. I took a shower and we were off. We were home maybe 30 minutes tops. And who was she kidding? I wasn’t about to walk through the doors of that hospital and into Labor and Delivery without my husband. I could not do this alone.

We arrived at the hospital close to 5 p.m. I sent an email at 4:33 p.m. to some BLM friends to let them know. To say that we were terrified was an understatement. There were tears of fear and excitement in the car. Tears about going into labor and delivery where Andrew was born and where we said goodbye. Where we had our 24-week scare with B. Where we had our D&C after the miscarriage in June. We’ve never had good news there… but were hoping this experience would be different. I made sure that the awful doctor who delivered Andrew and dealt with our miscarriage was not the on-call doctor. She wasn’t. Phew. We were checked into the room closest to the OR just in case the cord were to come first after they broke my water. There wasn’t a single other patient in L&D that evening. I was grateful.

It starts.

Our first nurse was also our discharge nurse during our stay with Andrew. It was only fitting that she checked us back in for the birth of our second son. She attends the same church and has mutual friends. She also shared some intimate moments with us about her own grief journey this past year and let us know she was praying for us. She started me on pitocin around 5:30 and my contractions were growing stronger. B’s heartbeat was strong but at times would send us freaking out because he would move or the belt would shift. Ray and I would not take our eyes off the thing for the entire induction process. No joke. One of us had to be watching it the entire time, despite the nurses assuring us that there were two additional nurses monitoring his heartrate.

The delivering doctor came in (who also performed my D&C…lovely) and broke my water. What a weird feeling! With Andrew, I didn’t feel it because it happened as I was pushing. Because I had an abundant amount of fluid, they were literally fishing it out for minutes upon minutes. I asked how much water at one point and my doctor told me that a gallon wouldn’t be unreasonable. No cord came. Phew. Around 9 p.m. I was around 6cm dilated and still feeling pretty great. I didn’t need the epidural quite yet, but I knew that it would only be a matter of time and the nurse kept asking if I wanted it. What I really wanted was to pee… and I knew a catheter would be administered along with the epi. Around 9:20 p.m., the anesthesiologist came on in and made sure to stick me (twice) and finally managed to get that epidural moving.

I started pushing around 12:10 a.m. and had 9 full contractions of pushing before B was born at 12:42 a.m. on February 23, 2012. He was born at just barely 37 weeks. 19 inches long and 7lb. 6oz. Andrew was the exact same weight. <3 We heard him cry and it was quite possibly the best sound I’ve ever heard. Ray was over taking photos while the nurse was handling all of the cleaning, vitals, and measurements.

B had arrived. But all was not well. Again.

About 2 hours later after skin-to-skin time and we were all cleaned up, we were wheeled down to Mother-Baby for the first time. We had never been down this hall. After having Andrew, we stayed in L&D the entire time until we were discharged. The nurse was extremely sensitive to our needs and took us down a back hallway and away from our dreaded delivery room where we said goodbye to Andrew.

Transition to Mother-Baby. But not for long.

Once in Mother-Baby, things were going well… until they weren’t. Again. He had his first bath... Ray took photos and then headed down to the cafeteria to grab something to eat.

I surrender!

I pity the fool who tries to mess with my mama.

The nurse then wheeled B down to the nursery to take his vitals around 6 a.m. It seemed like a long time, so I sent Ray out to check on him. Right there in the nursery was the neonatologist and a team of nurses surrounding his bassinet. Something was wrong. It turns out B started choking in the nursery and they had to save him. Save his life. They took him down to the NICU for monitoring after because it’s protocol to keep a child for 6 hours after an “episode” occurs. He had his second choking episode in the NICU. He was officially admitted at that point. This is where they asked my permission to give him formula.

And this is where I lost it. 

I was a full-on mess of emotions. My first son died. My second son nearly died. And now they admitted him to the NICU and are giving him formula. Formula is obviously not the devil, but when you envisioned this perfect skin-to-skin and rooming-in time with your baby and they have now taken him away because he is sick and can no longer be in contact with his mom… it’s very emotional. I felt like that was the last straw in having no control.

Once admitted to the NICU, they performed an x-ray on his lungs. Leave it to me to be in the 1% again. Born at just 37 weeks (full term) B was diagnosed with Transient Tachypnea of the Newborn (TTN). Basically, it’s fluid in the lungs that wasn't able to be fully extracted as he exited the birth canal and because he was slightly pre-term. There are no long term effects and it is usually gone within 72 hours, especially with the assistance of forced oxygen via tube. Once diagnosed, they inserted the oxygen tube and hooked him up to 25% forced oxygen (we breathe 21%). They slowly weaned him off the oxygen as time progressed and his breathing began to improve over the course of the next two days.

Does this look comfortable to you? Didn't think so.

Vitals: Heartrate, breaths, oxygen level

Once in the NICU, B needed  to go 24-48 hours under observation without any drop in his blood oxygen level before they would release him after they removed the oxygen. Because B was considered preterm and was not breathing properly at birth, this caused him to struggle with feeding—because the body can only handle one fight at a time. He was given a feeding tube in the NICU that they were feeding formula into—Gerber Good Start Gentle. I had lots of tears over this. They asked my permission to feed him and despite wanting him to be an entirely breastfed baby, I knew he was also fighting for his life and should not be deprived of nutrients that could help his lungs and body heal faster. He only used the feeding tube a handful of times in the NICU, but it still hurt watching them put the tube down through his nose. Seeing your brand new baby fight for his life is simply terrifying. In the meantime, I was seeing a lactation consultant between B’s feedings (of which we were at every single one) to assist with pumping. She even visited the NICU during his feeding a few times to assist with latching (of which didn’t go so well… but I learned quite a few techniques to use with a young baby). He was also fed colostrum in addition to the formula. Our schedule the entire time he was in the NICU consisted of the following:

• Go to B’s feedings—change his diaper, bathe him, hold him, and put him to breast… then feed via bottle or tube with breastmilk and formula.
• After about an hour, leave to go pump back in our room at Mother-Baby.
• Interruptions by various doctors, consultants and nurses.
• Sleep for about 1.5 hours. Rinse. Repeat.

Andrew was never far away.

This of course was only until we were discharged from Mother-Baby. That story to come later. We really envisioned having our son room-in with us. I even wrote countless emails to my fellow babyloss friends during my pregnancy about how terrified I was that they would take him away from me after I delivered. I was induced, so it was partly my fault, but I could very well be typing another demise story had we not induced either. It’s tricky. In addition to not rooming-in with our son as we envisioned, we were forced to walk by the room I delivered Andrew every single time we went to visit B in the NICU. Room 120. On the corner, just down the hall from Mother-Baby. We walked by about 20 times a day, at least. A room I never wanted to go near again. Ever. 

Unfair connections.

On B’s second day in the NICU, we walked by Andrew’s room and then the room next door… and I saw something all too familiar. A falling leaf on the door of a room in Labor and Delivery. That same falling leaf was taped to our door after delivering Andrew stillborn. There was a couple behind those closed doors that lost their baby and I walked by visiting my (living) son in the NICU, knowing the grief journey they were embarking on, just as we did 15 months prior when Andrew died. I wanted so desperately to walk in and tell them I understood. That I have a son in heaven. That this journey is the most excruciating one they’ll ever endure and one that is so incredibly unfair. Instead, I just cried. Because I know that grief in such a raw form. I was thankful this time that I was walking to see my living child, but I knew that his lung issues and episodes could have very well ended in another demise. That I could have another falling leaf on my door.

Inside the NICU doors.

In the NICU, B was undoubtedly the biggest baby among the six others. The others were all super preemies and B was the only one close to term. Ironically, most of them were not on oxygen because they were given the steroid shot to develop their lungs before birth. One of my nurses in Mother-Baby told me that they had three cases of TTN babies in the NICU that week alone, so it’s not uncommon. However, the other babies in the NICU were there mostly for maturity issues. They needed to grow to term before being released. We watched another baby come and go in the NICU after also having an episode. She was stabilized, thankfully and was released. But to hear the panic alarm and the neonatologist and other NICU nurses rushing to get another baby was awful. Since I was not by his bedside when he had his episodes, it scared me to watch the process unfold as if it were my own child.

Friday, February 24th. The next day.

We had a social worker come by our Mother-Baby room to talk with me about PTSD. She said it sounded like I probably had some of it creeping in since we have a history of loss and now a traumatic experience of our second son being born with complications. She wanted to know I had support in place—that I would be okay. How someone with such strength and independence became someone who must struggle and lean on others for emotional support is hard to swallow. To know I’m listed as a person to watch is even worse.

Friday also marked the day of B’s echocardiogram on his heart. They were hearing a slight murmur which is common in newborns, but because he was having lung issues, they wanted to rule out any connection to heart problems as well. Because they only perform these ultrasounds on specific days, we went ahead with it. We held B’s arms and soothed him for the entire process of an hour. It was painful to watch our son being prodded like that, but thankful to hear that the only detection was the normal valve that shuts on its own once the baby is born. Check that off the list of potential problems. Phew. The rest of the day was a blur. 

Saturday, February 25th.

At 2:00 a.m., B was released from oxygen completely. He had been being weaned during the 24^th and was finally oxygen-tube free by our 3 a.m. feeding on the 25^th. It was such a joy to see him not only breathing on his own, but free of that darn oxygen tube. Of course he still had his feeding tube as the NICU nurses insisted he was not eating well—and in fact he was not. He needed to improve his eating and be off oxygen without any episodes for 24-48 hours before they were willing to release him to go home with us.

No more tube! Yay!

But I still have this stupid tube. Get it out. Please.

Discharge day. Fighting to stay.

In the meantime, I was being discharged from Mother-Baby… the place where I was meant to be recovering but seriously felt totally recovered hours after giving birth (no joke, I could’ve gone for a jog). We had nowhere to go and most certainly were not willing to leave our second son at the hospital by himself. I could not show up pregnant for the third time at that hospital and leave for the third time without my child. I just couldn’t. And go home to an empty home again? Not going to happen.

The OB from my practice came in to see me in Mother-Baby and said he would not perform B’s circ until he was out of the NICU. However, when we went in to see B at his next feeding, the circ had been performed (sans drugs—this doc doesn’t use them). Our concern was that now that B was off his oxygen, he had to perform well at feedings before they would release him. But what baby is interested in downing a bottle (especially a preterm one, no less) that just had a circumcision? In addition, he was receiving his Hep B shot that day as well and we felt doomed from the start. We wanted him eating and the NICU required a certain amount in 30 minutes and made it very clear that if he didn’t “pass”, they would not be discharging him.

He fed well without a tube, but after his circ was feeling a little exhausted. The NICU nurse was incredibly rude (though the majority were SO wonderful and there is no doubt to us that they saved his life) and came over yelling at us and telling us that we clearly were not reading his cues and that they would be taking the last 9ml and putting it through the feeding tube. The kid just had a circ and a Hep B shot! I’m not sure I’d be hungry either! We were so frustrated because as we know it, he’ll eat when he feels like it. At this point we felt like we needed to give him an exact amount and no more at feedings—just so we could be discharged. We felt like we had to withhold more food if he wanted it because then he might not feed as well for the next meal (big lunch, small dinner… was our concern). That last 9ml potentially cost us another day in the NICU because he had to wait a full 24 hours and only be bottle fed in order to be discharged. 

So now he's eating. And no longer has TTN. Time to go home?

As of Saturday, he was no longer on oxygen, was eating without a tube, and was stable for over 24 hours… yet he was not being released. We told the NICU that we did not intend on leaving the hospital and placed a complaint with the lead charge nurse of the hospital for the behavior of the NICU nurse who was treating us as though we were inept… despite us being at every single feeding he had and her only being there for a 12-hour shift. We had the patient advocate in our Mother-Baby room and the lead nurse assuring us that although we had to check out of Mother-Baby by midnight, that we would not be kicked out of the hospital. The NICU nurses (though not the grouchy one) pulled together and told us we could stay from 12 a.m.-7 a.m. in the NICU conference room. It had a loveseat, two chairs, a coffee table, and a floor. It was also 5 steps from the NICU doors. We immediately checked out of Mother-Baby and schlepped our stuff into the room. You know, the room where they tell parents their child is terminal. It was awful knowing this, but we simply had nowhere else to go and home just was not an option. We were not missing a feeding and we were not leaving our son behind. We slept restlessly in the room and then moved our things to the hospital lobby and stashed them behind a couch before B’s next feeding. 

Why not just stay in the Ronald McDonald House?

The hospital has a Ronald McDonald House that was set to open in January… but obviously it was still not open despite the statue of Ronald in the lobby, a big sign up, the ribbon cutting being reported (with pictures!) in the paper, and everything. Apparently some bureaucratic document had yet to be signed to officially open its doors. Super. Here we are staring at Ronald in the lobby of the hospital and napping on the lobby couches. 

There's Ronald... now where's the house?

Camping out.

Bye, Bye NICU - Sunday, February 26th.

Our new day nurse was once again, the grouchy nurse! We told the lead nurse that we would not have her around our son anymore, so she had her apprentice taking care of B instead. She was being so incredibly nice to us after we placed our complaint. We still aren’t sure if she knew we complained. Maybe she learned to respect us more for caring so much for B? For advocating for him and taking charge as parents? We were absolutely the most involved parents in the NICU. Either way, we asked the apprentice on Sunday when our son would be allowed to come home. We stated the case that he had been eating off the tube (except that 9 measly ml they insisted he needed of which he immediately vomited up—who isn’t following his cues now?!), had been off oxygen for more than 24 hours and was stable, had no heart condition per his Echo, and was within normal limits of jaundice. What more did he need to pass on their scale and why were we, his parents, being left in the dark? Where was this magical checklist he had to pass that we weren’t familiar with? When asked, the nurse told us that she didn’t think it was likely he would be coming home with us that day.

Cue the anger.

Ray started becoming very vocal at this point. Right in the middle of the NICU with all of the nurses and parents around, Ray started yelling about how they were keeping us out of the loop, how they were forcing B to food that he did not want through a tube, and that the NICU is a business and that they obviously need to fill beds. Yikes. It was definitely a moment of desperation. Surely we know that those nurses and neonatologists saved B’s life. We are thankful they were there and for all the Level III resources they had to care for our son. But at this point, we just wanted to know what else our child needed to do in order to be considered “normal” again. Not feeding well is a newborn issue—not a NICU issue. A potential for jaundice is a newborn issue as well—not a reason to keep a child in the NICU. Another nurse who we didn’t love either (there were 2—the rest were awesome) yelled right back and told him that if we took B home, he’d end up in pediatrics because he was acting like a 36-weeker. We asked to speak with the neonatologist on duty. He was no help. He walked over and stated his jaundice and feeding was keeping him from being discharged and offered no support in his words. He was tested for jaundice every day and was not given the bili blanket or lights because, as they said, they don't treat for something that is not a problem. Well, if it's not a problem, then why isn't he home with us? Most parents whose children develop jaundice can rent a blanket and be on their merry way.

That afternoon, a new neonatologist was there and ready to speak with us. He made sure to explain that as long as B was feeding well for a few feedings, he would release him. He also told us that he’d like to see a less strict feeding schedule (what a concept to eat when you’re hungry and not exactly every 3 hours!) and to allow B to eat as much as he wants, whenever he wants. We were thrilled with this news, as it appeared someone finally understood our concerns and wanted our child to experience a normal schedule. We came in for our 3 p.m. feeding and he fed like a champ. 

Final field trip before B came home to live with us. To Target, of course.

We left the NICU and headed to Target for some baby items, as we were determined he would be coming home with us that evening. It was my first time out of the hospital walls since Wednesday when we were admitted into Labor and Delivery. Once we arrived back, we walked through those doors talking about how we were about to go take the “final exam” to be given rights to take our kid home. It was a huge slap in the face to feel this as we’d been trying to bring a baby home and be somewhat normal for 2 years now. We felt as though others were considering us incompetent as parents, yet every other child with “eating issues” is able to leave Mother-Baby with their parents after having that perfect rooming-in experience without any more than a “congrats, you can do it!” attitude. We wanted to feel a pat on the back from the hospital staff and the encouragement we so desperately deserved. We decided I would be the one to take the “final exam” of feeding B in front of them for the last time. 

Final exam canceled. You're free to go.

We spent that entire day on Sunday just kissing major butt. I was asking nurses their best techniques for this and that, reading ALL of the paperwork I received about newborn care (despite feeling equipped on the majority of it) in the chairs as B slept. Ray was reading The Economist to show he was intelligent and hopefully the NICU nurses would see we weren’t a couple of incapable, young kids. When we walked into those doors at 6 p.m. for his “final exam” feeding, they basically told us we could take him. We aren’t sure whether we passed the test with our behavior or if they just wanted to get rid of us… or if B really did convince them that he was fine to go home. But regardless, we were being discharged and would finally be bringing home our baby. The grouchy nurse took over at this point and could not have been nicer. We don’t understand it, but we just didn’t care at this point. We wanted out. Within an hour, we were on our way home with B strapped in his carseat in the back seat of our car. Coming home. 

The grouchy nurse had parting words for me as Ray pulled up the car:

“Just remember. Your kid is not sick, so you can treat him as normal as possible. All of his cultures, blood tests, and ultrasounds have come back negative and other than eating and being jaundice, he is totally normal."

What a concept. I seriously don’t know when the switch was triggered, but she all of a sudden realized that he was fine and that he needed to be coming home. Confused. As we drove away, we felt like we were making a jailbreak. Like they were following us to monitor or take B away. It was such a terrible experience to feel, once again, like we weren’t capable of handling things with our child. In order to give us the “full experience”, they brought a wheelchair and wheeled me out (despite being totally fine to walk) to the lobby for our final farewell—like they do for all the mothers leaving Mother-Baby. They took us out the same way we left without Andrew—when I was wheeled out with a bag full of mementos and without a baby. It was surely a numbing experience, but thankfully we were occupied with the idea that we were finally leaving the NICU. 

Under one condition.

Of course not without strings attached. The grouchy nurse told me about 5 times that we HAD to take B to the doctor the very next day to have them check him out for jaundice. It was a complete waste of a co-pay as we knew he was within normal levels and not a lot was going to change within 12 hours, but we obliged just to have our kid home. Like we suspected, the doctor told us he was fine and just to make sure he was spending some time in the sun, eating well, and pooping well. Our 2-week appointment is scheduled for Thursday.

He's home, y'all. He's freaking home.