Just Another Quiet Night
Sep. 17th, 2010 10:46 pmOn a parenting board today, someone started up a NICU support group for mothers of babies due in November. I dropped in and said hello. My baby was due last November, I said, and she'll be one tomorrow. Almost instantly, I was asked for advice. What would help them cope with this, emotionally, they asked. "Vodka," I thought. Also, they wanted my advice about pumping breast milk.
I have been baking all evening, generating the strawberry sauce that I have just finished spreading on the strawberry cake that I also made, because Hotspur's birthday is tomorrow. It occurs to me that we are not entirely sure that she likes strawberries - I don't think she's ever had them. But with strawberry cake and strawberry sauce strewn across the kitchen, we are committed to this course, regardless of the small girl's opinions.
The last time I was this exercised about fancy baking was the day before we brought the baby home. She had been in the NICU for thirty-one days at that point, and we had been told that her departure from the NICU was imminent so many times that, the final time, I refused to call my parents and let them know of the impending event. I could not bring myself to make that call until we had left the unit, until we were, in fact, past the half way mark on the trip from the hospital to our house. So the day and night before Hotspur came home, I could not speak to anybody. I had grown this habit of picking up the phone at the end of the day, reporting on Hotspur's progress, or lack thereof - weight, respiratory rates, bradycardias and apneas. Suddenly there was nothing I was willing to say.
Furthermore, I thought it would be useful to have treats for breakfast, on the day after we brought the baby home. By breakfast, I expected that![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
danceboy and I would have endured our first night of interrupted sleep, as our month-old newborn relied on us and us alone for the first time. It might also be handy, I thought, to have something with which to bribe our son, who I assumed would have gotten good and bored with his new sister by that time. (I really didn't give him enough credit.) And I needed something to do.
We never got to do the reckless and wild drive to the hospital while I labored. I made up for lost opportunity by driving like a maniac to the grocery store. I needed three pounds of chocolate, two pounds of butter, six eggs, and a paper bag, into which to hyperventilate. While I was there, I swerved through the baby aisle and realized that we didn't have newborn size diapers. I went home and nearly re-opened my incision breaking up baking chocolate.
We called the hospital in the morning to make sure that we were still on schedule, and they assured us that we were, sodanceboy called in sick to work, and we went to the hospital. Hotspur was still wired for sound, and it was all I could do not to reach into her crib and rip all the monitor leads off. Anything to keep them from registering another a&b spell. They had asked us to leave her carseat at the unit the previous day, but when we arrived, we learned that they hadn't yet done her carseat test. They needed to sit her in the carseat for an hour and a half, and monitor her breathing. They suggested we go for a walk. danceboy strolled, and I limped, around Fenway for nearly two hours before they called to say that they were done. We could come back. They did not yet say, however, that we could bring the baby home. There were grave concerns about the way she fit in the carseat. They didn't know if it would be safe enough in the event of accident. We didn't know if we would be able to find something that fit better. Finally, a nurse stepped in and wedged the gaps with rolled up receiving blankets.
If I had done this earlier in the evening, I might be able to tie this up neatly, to leave you with a perfect metaphor. Perhaps the image of the three of us staggering out of the hospital could somehow be banged into a thing with greater meaning and symbolism. I did not do this earlier in the evening, and I still have to deal with cake, so this is the ending that will have to do.
Both of the children are asleep in bed upstairs. I like this much better than where we were a year ago.
I have been baking all evening, generating the strawberry sauce that I have just finished spreading on the strawberry cake that I also made, because Hotspur's birthday is tomorrow. It occurs to me that we are not entirely sure that she likes strawberries - I don't think she's ever had them. But with strawberry cake and strawberry sauce strewn across the kitchen, we are committed to this course, regardless of the small girl's opinions.
The last time I was this exercised about fancy baking was the day before we brought the baby home. She had been in the NICU for thirty-one days at that point, and we had been told that her departure from the NICU was imminent so many times that, the final time, I refused to call my parents and let them know of the impending event. I could not bring myself to make that call until we had left the unit, until we were, in fact, past the half way mark on the trip from the hospital to our house. So the day and night before Hotspur came home, I could not speak to anybody. I had grown this habit of picking up the phone at the end of the day, reporting on Hotspur's progress, or lack thereof - weight, respiratory rates, bradycardias and apneas. Suddenly there was nothing I was willing to say.
Furthermore, I thought it would be useful to have treats for breakfast, on the day after we brought the baby home. By breakfast, I expected that
danceboy and I would have endured our first night of interrupted sleep, as our month-old newborn relied on us and us alone for the first time. It might also be handy, I thought, to have something with which to bribe our son, who I assumed would have gotten good and bored with his new sister by that time. (I really didn't give him enough credit.) And I needed something to do.We never got to do the reckless and wild drive to the hospital while I labored. I made up for lost opportunity by driving like a maniac to the grocery store. I needed three pounds of chocolate, two pounds of butter, six eggs, and a paper bag, into which to hyperventilate. While I was there, I swerved through the baby aisle and realized that we didn't have newborn size diapers. I went home and nearly re-opened my incision breaking up baking chocolate.
We called the hospital in the morning to make sure that we were still on schedule, and they assured us that we were, so
danceboy called in sick to work, and we went to the hospital. Hotspur was still wired for sound, and it was all I could do not to reach into her crib and rip all the monitor leads off. Anything to keep them from registering another a&b spell. They had asked us to leave her carseat at the unit the previous day, but when we arrived, we learned that they hadn't yet done her carseat test. They needed to sit her in the carseat for an hour and a half, and monitor her breathing. They suggested we go for a walk. danceboy strolled, and I limped, around Fenway for nearly two hours before they called to say that they were done. We could come back. They did not yet say, however, that we could bring the baby home. There were grave concerns about the way she fit in the carseat. They didn't know if it would be safe enough in the event of accident. We didn't know if we would be able to find something that fit better. Finally, a nurse stepped in and wedged the gaps with rolled up receiving blankets.If I had done this earlier in the evening, I might be able to tie this up neatly, to leave you with a perfect metaphor. Perhaps the image of the three of us staggering out of the hospital could somehow be banged into a thing with greater meaning and symbolism. I did not do this earlier in the evening, and I still have to deal with cake, so this is the ending that will have to do.
Both of the children are asleep in bed upstairs. I like this much better than where we were a year ago.
