that again!?

Bedtime was swiftly approaching and Hobie's diapers were still cycling through the dryer. After quite the week with serious school struggles between myself and a certain Ibis, and a Monday holiday and Tuesday spent mostly away from home, I was running a little behind on the laundry. So Hobie was running around in the nude (like you've never had nude toddlers in your house) and I was enjoying a few minutes with facebook, reading all the happy success stories of my friends' kids doing happy successful things in their potties. I turned around and there was Hobie, standing over a suspicious brown lump on the rug, completely mortified. Of course he had no clue that said brown lump had been deposited there by he himself. Ten minutes later the initial spot on the rug, the other spot on the rug that occurred as he plopped down [ahem] still a mess to play while I was doing my best impression of a panicked octopus (the 8 legs part, not the ink part), Hobie, the changing table, and I were once again cleaned up and ready for take two. No pun intended.

let's pretend these are his Thomas jammies

His special night time diapers were finally dry and available for application. I ran the little streaker down and enticed him with the Thomas the Train pajamas that we bought several months ago, before he'd ever heard of trains. "Choo choo?" he asked tentatively. "Yep, choo choos!" Once wrangled on, he was again on the move. "Choo choo! Choo choo! CHOO CHOO!" Pointing right at the tv. No doubts on what he wanted. Thanks to Ibis and Coral he now knew that this amazing miraculous choo choo lived in the tv. Thank goodness it happened to be the ten minutes allotted on Sprout for Thomas. This is his first-ever request to watch tv; it was cute for about two seconds because I know this is only the beginning.

I am so not ready for another Thomas lover. Really I'm not.

Alexei, circa 2005

The best part of the night? Hobie was sitting on the couch fully absorbed in the tv when Ibis came out of her room, wanting to know what all the fuss was about. He looked right at her and yelled, "Iba! Bed!"

I guess Thomas is best watched solo.

where are you Christmas?

If you've spent 5 seconds with Coral, then you know all about her fondness for the Grinch. It began innocently enough in December of 2010 at the age of three, when she caught sight of Ron Howard's How the Grinch Stole Christmas on tv. She watched it quietly, soaking it all in. The movie was stored in our DVR as we enjoyed a myriad of other shows leading up to the big day. Then Santa came, Christmas was packed away, and the rest of us moved along with the new year.

But not Coral. Oh, no. Some certain quality of this particular movie caught her attention, and it became her goal in life to soak up the wisdoms it had to offer.

First she wanted her hair up in braids like a Who.

Then in February, she turned four. In keeping with her stubborn, funny, spunky born-at-thirty-weeks-with-two-holes-in-her-heart-because-she-couldn't-be-just-anybody birth day way, she didn't want a Strawberry Shortcake party. She didn't want the previous year's Pooh Bear party. Not Barbie, not Sesame Street, not anything that could be had easily. Nope, she wanted a Grinch party. So we dragged the Christmas decorations back out of the garage; I drew a paper Grinch for pin-the-heart-on-the-Grinch and baked a (hideously ugly) Mt. Crumpit cake. She dressed in Cindy Lou Who fashion with her hair up and the house strewn with kooky musical toys. We even played Grinch the Donut because it seemed like something the Whos would do.

The months rolled by and the interest continued. By June we'd all watched the movie a hundred times. She had learned every song by heart, sworn she was growing her hair long so it could be styled like Cindy's, and let everyone within earshot know the true meaning of Christmas was love. She not only memorized practically every word from the movie, but she studied all of the behind the scenes footage, storing it away for her future career as a Who. And her Grinch collection started growing.

The beloved stuffed Grinchy, for whom I had to purchase a Santa suit (thank you craigslist):

the Cindy Lou Who necklace to match her Christmas bow and "candy cane" dress (in August):

a Grinch backpack from an Old Biddy at a yard sale (perhaps not one of *the* Old Biddies but maybe!):

and even a Cindy Lou Christmas cape, which she styled at co-op:

Whos go to school too, you know.

Early on she knew what she wanted to be for Halloween: Cindy Lou Who. The dress underneath was as close as we could get to looking like a Who dress without contacting Hollywood. As an added bonus, I discovered Etsy.

Unlike typical four-year-olds, she never once changed her mind. I was even roped into making a Max the dog costume for her little brother. She oversaw every minute detail from the eggnog hat to the fuzzy black shoes.

Soon the Fizz pheasant....err, I mean turkey leftovers were making their rounds, and Christmas merriment was here once again. Her grandparents brought her a tabletop Christmas tree for her room, and we found Grinch-themed ornaments for it. We surrounded the tree and held hands while singing Fahoo fores, Dahoo dores like the Whos. I'm not sure if anyone's heart grew three sizes that day.

She also represented our 4-H club in the Christmas parade. Bet you'll never guess what she wore!

A small problem arose: all she wanted from Santa was the real, live Cindy Lou Who. Unlike the other kids, she would glance at toy catalogs and smile and tell us, "No, nothing!" when we asked if she saw anything she wanted. We had several long discussions on how Cindy would miss her family terribly (her countering: bring them along too!) and she finally, finally agreed that it just wasn't practical to invite Lou, Betty Lou, Drew, Stu, and Cindy into a house already crammed with the six of us. So she set her heart on the Whoville snowflake instead. That was a seriously tall order for Central Florida.

Christmas morning came and Coral was beyond excited. Not only did we get her two Grinch play sets, but there was a very special copy of the How the Grinch Stole Christmas book from not just Santa but the Grinch, too! We'd scarcely finished opening gifts when she curled up happily with her book.

I don't know everything that will happen in 2012, but I'm pretty sure Coral's love of all things Grinch will continue. Her room still contains a Christmas tree, and a Cindy Lou stocking, and she sleeps with two Grinches, a Cindy Lou doll, a stuffed Max, and her real dog she named Max all cuddled together under her Christmas blanket. Cindy Lou is still her idol and she plans to move to California when she's grown up because she heard the Grinch lives there. I'm hoping he moves to Florida before she's eighteen.

Where are you Christmas? Right here in Coral's heart.

out with the old, in with the new (sort of)

The blog header is new, although Hurricane Ranch has been around for 12 years. You know, back when I still had 3 seconds to draw stuff. The kids aren't new, although they seem to keep multiplying as the years go by.

They also keep getting bigger in spite of my protests. I keep swearing we're going to stop buying groceries because all they do is eat them. Hard to believe Ibis is actually two years younger than Alexei; pretty soon those two will be taller than me.

Now that I think about it, that may come in handy. Here's to a new year full of adventures!

ramblings of a former NICU mom

It's amazing how some experiences just seem to stick with you forever. I was thinking about my new niece who will be born later this year, and that got me to thinking about Coral, who was born ten weeks prematurely. It's like this emotional force you never truly escape; some days you don't feel it at all anymore and other days it feels like you're privately obsessing about it.

After Coral was born, I went through some mild post traumatic stress. I kept flashing back to sitting in the OB's office, and his last words were, "You need to go to the hospital, right now." I was 29 weeks, 5 days pregnant. Then we had the six week NICU stay, which was absolutely agonizing with two young children at home. Finally she came home, on prescription caffeine and wearing an apnea monitor 24/7, just a hair over 4 pounds. Her second night sleeping safe and sound in her crib just inches from me, she aspirated reflux and stopped breathing. I still remember that night like it just happened; groggy, confused, apnea alarm screaming, taking her into the kitchen thinking the stupid machine must be broken. Seeing her pale, limp body and screaming over and over, "She's not breathing!" Laying her on the coffee table and ripping open her sleeper, the CPR video looping through my head, my heart racing under my pajamas. She wasn't making a sound, her eyes were closed, she was lifeless. I gave her breaths and began CPR. Finally, finally, she let out a tiny little sound and took a breath. I held her in my arms for hours as the junk in her lungs worked its way out bit by tiny bit, scared to ever let her go.

The post traumatic stress escalated from mild to barely held together. I would have flashbacks constantly of her lifeless body. I would wake in the night, Coral in my arms, thinking she wasn't breathing. We'd go through a toll booth and the beep of our Sunpass would make me jump. It took well over two years for the nightmares to die down, but every once in awhile I still wake up thinking she's not breathing.

At some point shortly after she turned two, we decided to have another baby. Although it wasn't the main reason, in the back of my mind I kept thinking, having a "do-over" pregnancy will make everything right again. And it went much, much better this time. I was freaked out pretty much the entire 37 weeks, but in good spirits heading to the hospital knowing I had made it and everything looked good. Six hours later and Hobie was born via emergency c-section, after an extremely painful and frightening placental abruption that could well have taken him away from us. Suddenly I went from feeling scared and stressed to just plain broken.

Coral is four and a half now and I still find myself waiting for that "do-over." It's occurred to me that maybe it's not a new pregnancy I'm ruminating over, but all the problems with the old one. As if I could change anything about five years ago. Yes, I have a happy, healthy, wonderful child and I am eternally grateful for that. Yes, I know we were so lucky that she was merely ten weeks early, with only a couple of minor, minor heart issues that are slowly resolving. But it still doesn't feel right. I want to go back in time and ask, why didn't this go better? Why wasn't I more proactive about how badly I was feeling? Why didn't I do x, y, and z? Why did the doctors not know what was going on? Why, why, why? How do you ever get past the whys?

four years ago....

There's just something about the kid that enters life in an eventful way - I once ran into a lady who must have had a premature baby at some point, because she was so right. It's not that they're your favorite, or more loved, but the fight they went through to get here always holds a special place in your heart.

She was a month old and three pounds in this photo.

Coral is four years old today. Four years ago my May baby became my February baby. We did six weeks' hard time in the NICU, holding her tiny hand through all the ups and downs of preemiedom. We brought home a tiny, four pound infant who decided to stop breathing after two nights home. Then there were the countless appointments with her pediatrician, cardiologist, opthalmologist; the prescription caffeine we swore would make her addicted to coffee in her later years; and the much-hated apnea monitor we lugged around for six months. We worried about her learning to eat, learning to sit up, learning to walk - she finally met that milestone at eighteen months. There were times we thought she'd be tiny forever.

And now we have a smart, sassy, funny, sweet spitfire in this tall, lanky kid that you'd never recognize as the preemie she was.

She definitely has a special place in our hearts.

have a Hobie day

It all began one warm morning in December. Well, really I guess it started some time in the spring of that same year, but I'll save that part for a juicier novel. I was thirty-seven weeks pregnant with baby number four, as big as a house, limping from a pulled groin, and more than ready to pop out a baby. With Christmas looming ever closer and baby due the twenty-fifth, I was growing nervous about spending the holidays in the hospital and missing all the action at home. I got my wish, but the delivery of our second son was nothing like I ever would have imagined.

The day I saw those two pink lines show up, I was a disaster. We were planning on adding to our family, but the reality of that positive pregnancy test left my knees shaking. My last pregnancy had been the poster child for "When Pregnancies Attack" - basically, everything that could go wrong, did. The placenta was five times larger than it should have been. I was severely ill and my liver, kidneys, and platelets shut down. In spite of the best medical and prenatal care, our daughter was born ten weeks prematurely. She spent six weeks in the NICU and came home at just a hair over four pounds. Thankfully after a few rocky weeks at home where we almost lost her, she thrived. However, that sort of traumatic experience leaves a mark on you. It's not something you can fully grasp unless you've been there, but the fear, the flashbacks, the panic attacks, the guilt, the worry, and the protectiveness don't just go away. Talk to a mother of a preemie born twenty-five years ago, and you can see in her face that it takes her right back to that day in the delivery room. It never goes away.

I wasn't sure what to expect. I was monitored more closely given the prior issues, but no big problems came up on the radar. Yes, once again I had an enlarged placenta, but it was only twenty percent larger than expected. Much better than five hundred percent. There were lots of headaches, but I was also nervous and stressed. I was incredibly apprehensive in the weeks right before that thirty week milestone at which I had delivered in my previous pregnancy. Many of my fears abated when we reached that magic number, but I was still nervous. I dreaded bed rest. I dreaded the thought of another NICU baby. I dreaded bringing home an infant that might stop breathing at two in the morning and require resuscitation. 

Thirty-five weeks passed without incident. Then at my weekly visit, my blood pressure was high and I had the omnipresent headache. My doctor sent me to the hospital immediately. The fears came right back - here we go again. I was certain I wouldn't be leaving there until I had delivered, whether that meant bed rest or immediate induction. Much to my surprise, my blood pressure was normal at the hospital's triage unit, and I was sent home with nothing more than a prescription for headache medicine and an order for twice weekly ultrasounds.

December tenth, the day before my birthday, fifteen days before the baby and Santa were due, I left my doctor's office with orders to head to the hospital. Upon routine exam I was found to be four centimeters dilated, and given my history of fast labors and this being baby number four, I didn't argue. The older kids were dropped off with my best friend, and we headed off to the hospital to meet our impending arrival. 

Having had three vaginal deliveries free of pain medications, I wasn't prepared to let number four do me in. I sat around in the uncomfortable delivery room bed, bored, watching my husband aimlessly change channels on the tv as nurses meandered in and out. I was ready for this baby to come along like any of my others, fast and furious. Finally, sitting through some inane midday television comedy rerun, I thought I felt my water break. A nurse came in to check, and suddenly there were two more. Yes, I was gushing fluid. No, it was not of the clear amniotic origin. I was bleeding, and it wasn't stopping. 

The bleeding continued. I could tell it wasn't stopping in part by the constant in and out of nurses, and in part because I could feel it seeping out of me. Then the bleeding escalated to blood clots, first small, and then bigger than a fist. Everyone's faces around me were looking more and more concerned. Then nurses were coming in to the room and asking me to lie on my side. They were jamming towels under my back to try to keep me tilted to the left, because the baby was showing a lot of heart decelerations. 

I was suddenly in severe pain. My lower abdomen was burning with a furious, constant, white-hot fierceness. I was crying from the pain. I knew I was having a placental abruption. I knew what was about to happen. Suddenly doctors were running into the room. I was being stripped of my clothes, eased into a surgical gown, and my doctor was on the phone. "Can I get your verbal consent to perform a c-section?" he asked me, as my hand trembled and I tried not to drop the receiver. Moments later, I felt hands all around me as I was lifted onto a gurney.

The short ride down the hallway to the operating room was surreal. I was in agonizing pain, bleeding, terrified. I stared up at the acoustic tiles, my mind numb. The doors banged open on the surgical suite, and I'd never seen lights so blindingly bright. The room was filled with people - surgeons, nurses, technicians, anesthesiologists, pediatricians. They sat me up on my gurney and quickly went to work administering a spinal block. I hunched into the nurse in front of me, tears pouring out, nose dripping snot, naked, groaning in misery and terror. Another nurse held a stethescope on my abdomen, searching for the baby's heartbeat. Then I was shifted onto the operating table, and a welcome numbness overcame me.

Minutes later, husband by my side, Hobie McGee was born. Hearing his cry was a tremendously welcome gift. I got to see him for a few moments, kissing his sweet little face as a nurse held him next to me. Then he was rushed off to the special care nursery to monitor his abnormal breathing, and my husband was sent with him. I had indeed sustained a large placental abruption - fifty percent of abruption babies don't make it. The operating team finished up with me, and I was transferred to a small, curtained recovery unit just outside the surgical suites. I sat there for over four hours, waiting for the numbness of the spinal block to wear off. My husband came and went, and I saw many moms and their newborns united all around me. All I could do was sit there, staring at my name up on the surgical board hanging at the nurse's station in front of me, and will my uncooperative butt to move. Finally, my body cooperated and I was sprung to a regular room. By this time it was almost midnight and I was alone - my husband had gone home to be with our other children.

The next day was a blur. It was my birthday, I had a new baby, and I was eating Italian ice and drinking apple juice - no cake for me. The pain from the c-section was surprisingly minimal. Being in the hospital was incredibly boring, but friends and family came by and my children got to meet their new baby brother. Then night rolled around, and I fell apart. I think the hospital does that to me. Combine exhaustion with a nonstop-screaming newborn, virtual helplessness immediately following abdominal surgery, another night alone, and you get one big fat sobbing mess : me. I broke down in hysterics at about 1am, and a nurse finally wised up and slipped me a couple of potent painkillers and took Hobie to the nursery while I briefly went comatose in my rock-hard hospital bed. Two hours later and I had my wailing infant back, but I was refreshed and ready for another round. 

My saint of a doctor checked over my incision and then let me check out that day, a day and a half after delivery. No four-day-stay for this woman! I think the hospital employees probably all feared another night of Sobzilla and her screaming offspring, and pleaded my case to go home. I was more than happy to oblige. It was a wonderful feeling being wheeled down to the lobby with a baby in my arms. I had spent six weeks watching countless other lucky women engage in this normal process just a few years prior, as my own tiny fighter incubated upstairs. It was a huge victory to be leaving with Hobie right then, all together. It felt like a big, scary hole was closing in our lives.

I bounced back quickly from the c-section. The pain from the incision wasn't terrible, although my abdominal muscles were incredibly sore, which I had never known about prior to surgery. The hardest part was connecting with the new baby on a primal level. Of course I knew clearly he was mine, and as a breastfeeding, co-sleeping mom we were immediately physically attached, but on some subconscious level my mind wanted to believe that this baby was actually Coral, baby number three. I would frequently refer to Hobie as "her" whenever I was tired. I felt like I missed out on actually birthing a baby from my body. Since he was surgically removed from me and then rushed away, it was on some level almost like he hadn't been born. It took a couple of months to dispel the feeling completely.

I learned a few things from his birth : one, that yes, even the fourth baby can be the c-section baby. Just leave it to me. I learned that my body has a propensity for attack, but also an ability to grow and hang on. I learned that being naked and having snot pouring from my nose in a brightly lit operating room is kind of embarrassing, but only kind of since the pain and fear were of much more importance at the time. I learned that I'm a terrible patient, and I hate being alone. I learned that the love for Hobie is just as strong as the love I have for my other children. I learned that natural childbirth occasionally does not have its place. 

Hobie just reached thirteen months. Two days ago, he started walking. Last month, he ate his first cake and made a terrific mess. He terrorized the Christmas tree. And he constantly reminds me of just how lucky I am.

halfway to sixteen

Half asleep and holding a squirming baby while being toed in the face by an upside-down-sleeping preschooler, I was greeted this morning by my husband who reminded me that it's our older daughter's birthday. "Just think," he said, "she's halfway to sixteen."

The bed never seemed so inviting. I never, ever wanted to leave it.

Alas, the morning started whether I was ready for it or not, and the statement is true : today, Ibis is eight. Our blonde-haired, blue-eyed, havoc-wreaking little girl is eight years old. Eight. That's like officially not a baby anymore. Not a little kid. Eight is halfway to sixteen.

I can still recall when Ibis was a tiny baby. Okay, so tiny is a relative term. She was almost 9 and a half pounds and a natural delivery. I really never envisioned myself being the mother of anyone with blue eyes (and that's actually happened twice now) and find it pretty funny that we named her after a blue-eyed bird. 

Today, we will have cake and gifts. She ordered a buttermilk cake with raspberry frosting. Well, first she ordered an apple pie but decided last minute to go with cake. And I say ordered as though we drove to some bakery somewhere - the only person she ordered around was me. And I'm happy to oblige. Cake photos to come later.  We'll have a special dinner with family, and on Saturday she'll have a party with a few friends. 

I'm still not ready for that one. 

November is Prematurity Awareness Month

This is pretty important stuff : currently, 1 in 8 babies is born before 37 weeks' gestation. It's also pretty personal for us. In 2007, our daughter Coral was born at 30 weeks. She spent six weeks in the NICU and came home on prescription caffeine and an apnea monitor, just a hair over four pounds.

I encourage everyone to do what they can to support The March of Dimes. Even a little goes a long way in helping the cause. The March of Dimes not only engages in programs to help prevent prematurity, but it also funds research and developments to help babies who are born preterm in spite of the best prenatal care. We never expected to need any of that technology, but we certainly were grateful when the unexpected happened to our third child.

The following is Coral's birth story. I hope you'll take a moment to read and understand what parents of premature babies are struggling through every day. Also, I hope you'll see what joy our experience brought to us.

"Ours isn't the most miraculous story you'll ever read - we don't have the world's youngest surviving preemie, or the smallest, and she isn't a quintuplet or even a twin. However, she is our own private little miracle and our lives will never again be the same. In spite of all the pain and fear and tortuous hours of uncertainty, our preemie experience has been nothing short of amazing.

I became pregnant with our third child in late August of 2006; she was due May 3rd, 2007 and we all expected a normal pregnancy after 2 very uneventful rounds with her brother and sister. At first things were peachy. I had minimal morning sickness, tolerable cravings, and little weight gain. I was in maternity clothes quite soon but was thrilled to don them. An initial ultrasound at 9 weeks showed one little healthy baby; our son wanted a brother, our daughter wanted a sister, and we were thrilled with either option. The weeks dragged on as we waited for the 'big' ultrasound at 18 weeks. Ours was scheduled just 4 days before Christmas. What a special gift to see our baby and hopefully find out the gender!

In retrospect, as the weeks slipped by towards our 18-week appointment, things were amiss. I didn't have a large appetite, and had no taste for sweets, which is simply unheard of for me. I made hundreds of Christmas cookies to give to friends and family and could not bear the thought of eating even one of them. I couldn't stand for more than a few minutes without feeling as though I had the flu. I felt like I was 9 months pregnant instead of 4. I honestly wondered if we'd see an unexpected twin at our ultrasound.

Finally the day had come. The whole family squeezed in to the ultrasound room while the tech made her initial measurements. My son had us all in fits of laughter when he declared in all seriousness that he saw a claw on the screen. We were thrilled to pieces when we found out we were having another girl! We also were unaware that our OB's machine was a 4-D machine, and it was breathtaking seeing her, looking so real and baby-like inside of me.

Minutes later, clutching a few precious pictures of our daughter, I sat in the OB's exam room for my appointment. It was then that he informed me something was amiss. The placenta was twice as thick as it was supposed to be. He didn't seem alarmed but told me he would be setting up an appointment for me with a maternal-fetal specialist at a high-tech diagnostics center. My heart sank. What on earth did this mean?

Over the next 10 weeks, we had no real answers. I had multiple high-level ultrasounds, all of which showed an apparently healthy baby girl and a very unusual placenta. The placenta grew to be almost 4 times thicker than even the thickest placenta should have been - what would have been noteworthy at 5 cm was a full 19.4cm thick. It was also splitting into fluid-filled layers and calcifying. Multiple specialists were involved with the ultrasounds and the best conclusion they reached was, "We've never seen anything like this before." This is NOT what you want to hear from the people in charge of your care.

We did blood tests for infections of every variety, full histories to verify that I never smoked, did drugs, drank alcohol, was exposed to anything abnormal, or did anything else that might solve the puzzle. There was simply nothing to point a finger at, and no conclusions to be drawn. The placenta was a ticking timebomb. When would it die? When would it get so large it broke down? Could it supply adequate food and oxygen to the baby?

Nobody could or would tell me anything. I was sick with worry, and sick from the diseased placenta. I searched endlessly online for cases similar to mine and didn't find much. What was out there spoke of genetic defects, often fatal; miscarriages; deforming syndromes; growth retardation; and more poorly understood mysteries. Nobody ever suggested these things to me but surely something had to match with what I had. 

By the start of February, I was a physical mess. Where my past 2 pregnancies had found me vibrant and excited at this stage,  I was barely able to function. Merely walking about the house left me dizzy and exhausted. My appetite was minimal; I had to force myself to eat and even to drink. Yet at night sleep eluded me. I would sit in the living room in agony, itching all over my body. Benadryl and antihistamine creams had zero effects. By week 27 of pregnancy, my blood pressure was shooting up and I was placed on medication. My abdomen was measuring almost 40 weeks. I had no idea how I was going to make it through the third trimester.

We reached week 29. My blood pressure was still high and I was suffering from abdominal cramps. On Monday I turned in a 24-hour urine specimen to be analyzed for protein and the telltale signs of preeclampsia. On Tuesday I had another specialist ultrasound, which showed an apparently healthy baby measuring 3lb, 4oz and a bizarre but unchanged placenta, with the addition of extra amniotic fluid. On Wednesday we had an OB appointment; he walked into the room, glanced at my chart, and told us I needed to get to the hospital immediately. My protein count was a +3, my liver enzymes were elevated, and my platelets were dropping. Our jaws dropped.

Wednesday evening we checked in to the hospital; I couldn't stop trembling in fear. That night, once hooked up to the monitors, it was apparent that I was in labor and contracting with regularity. All night and into Thursday morning, magnesium sulfate was pumped into my veins to control the preeclamptic reactions as well as to try and stall labor. I saw the doctor who would be our baby's main neonatologist, and he promised me 90% of 30-weekers survived. Ten percent odds had never loomed so large. I received my 2 steroid shots to mature the baby's lungs in 24 hours, and Thursday evening, 30 weeks pregnant, it was decided that we'd let nature take its course. 

Coral was born at 1:28 am on February 23rd, 10 weeks short of her May 3rd due date. I saw my OB hold her up and she was small but still looked like a perfect little baby. She gave a little cry and no sound was sweeter. They immediately took her over to a warming bed staffed with a host of doctors, and I could not see her but knew she was there. I didn't know how she was or what they were doing to her.

Suddenly none of it mattered. The neonatologist came over and told us she was breathing and looked okay so far, and they were taking her to the NICU. I was unprepared when a nurse brought over this tiny wrapped up bundle and laid her atop my chest. She was the most beautiful, perfect little 3 pound, 3 ounce doll I'd ever seen. Lips trembling, I gave her a tiny kiss on the forehead before they whisked her away. The tears flooded as the room emptied out. The doctors all departed, the lights were dimmed down, and a nurse wandered in and out. We were left there, without our baby and without any idea of what was to come. We had no idea if she had a genetic defect or other problem in synch with the placenta.

We were briefly reunited at 4 in the morning. I was whisked into the NICU in a wheelchair, husband by my side. Baby Coral looked so tiny and helpless in this big scary isolette. She was attached to all these different wires going every which way, IV's in her hand and foot, cannula crossing her tiny face. She was clad in a diaper, which covered the majority of her stomach and legs as well as her behind. Her skin was an angry red. 

It was terrifying. I could not stop crying. I was overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions, including relief that she was alive and paralyzing helplessness that she was trapped in a plastic box, crying, and I couldn't do a thing to comfort her. According to the neonatologist who had spoken with me 2 nights before, one in ten 30 weekers didn't survive. We'd been sitting in the delivery room for 3 hours, wondering if she'd be that one in ten. Seeing her alive was such sweet relief I couldn't catch my breath. We put our hands through the isolette portholes and touched her tiny toes for the first time. My hands were shaking so hard I was petrified I'd hurt her or disturb some piece of medical equipment. I had no idea what was being done to her, or how stable she was. We were surrounded by other babies in their isolettes, multitudes of machinery, and a half dozen busy nurses and respiratory therapists, but had never felt so alone.

It was another 12 hours before I got to see Coral again. I spent time alone in my hospital room, 6 floors above the NICU in the wing designated for mothers with sick babies. The effect was intended to insulate grieving women from hearing other babies crying, but the silence was eerie and depressing. My husband was out trying to comfort our other children and pick up my mother from the airport. I was stuck in my room until I was more stable from the effects of pre-eclampsia and medication. I was unable fully to make the connection that I'd had the baby and was no longer pregnant.

I spent a very long weekend in my room, in pain, heart broken and hurting. Much of the time I was alone. My older daughter was extremely upset and talking to her on the phone was excruciating. Neither of the kids understood what was going on. I was worried sick about them, and when my husband was at the hospital to keep me company, I fretted that my extended family was watching over them instead of me. I desperately wanted to be home.

At the same time, I had a baby in the hospital. I was able to pump colostrum for her and the doctors had begun feeding her by gavage (stomach tube). I would visit her every few hours, taking the trip on shaky legs down the elevator and to the third floor. I still wore a hospital gown; we hadn't really taken the time or had the intuition to pack much when we'd left for the hospital, and after Coral was born we were in too much shock to think of something as simple as clean clothing for me. I didn't even have shampoo for a shower, although cleanliness was the last thing on my mind.

Sunday morning, I was considered stable enough to go home. I was more than eager to be leaving the hospital room and was desperate to be home with my kids. Mentally I knew I had a child a few floors below but emotionally I was stuck on thinking of 'my kids' as the older 2 waiting at home for me. 

My husband, mom, and kids came to pick me up from the hospital. We visited Coral briefly, taking turns watching the older 2 in the waiting area. The drive home was surreal - it was sunny and warm, a typical Florida in February. I could see all the colors as we whizzed along the highway, and feel the air blowing on my face, and hear my mom and husband talking and the kids jabbering, but everything was flat. It was like looking at a faded 2-D drawing. I felt like I was suspended in time and place in my OB's office 4 afternoons before,  when he told us we needed to get to the hospital right away. I was in shock and feeling empty of any thoughts or emotions.

We came home to a house completely empty of any baby things; it looked as though I'd never been pregnant. We hadn't had time to buy a crib, toys, or necessities; our only purchase had been a travel system and it was still sitting in our garage. My body was extremely weak and I could barely stand but I shrugged off my mom's help and staggered around the kitchen, making lunch for the kids just like any other day. Everyone kept telling me to rest, to take it easy, but I couldn't make myself sit still.

It wasn't until that evening that I broke down. My husband had made dinner and I was sitting on our couch watching some mundane television show that suddenly held no interest. He placed my plate in my lap and I took a bite, and as I swallowed suddenly felt empty, hollow, gutted out. In an instant I knew that I had had the baby and she was no longer nestled safe inside of me. What I had always known mentally became known in my heart.

The tears poured out and could not be stopped. I cried and cried and ached so painfully in my heart, in my empty womb, in my empty arms. I grieved for my baby. It is not natural for a mother to leave her baby, to not have her baby with her to see and smell and feel and nurture. At 2 in the morning it dawned on me that I was grieving for Coral like she had died, and not like she was in the hospital. I immediately stepped up with pumping breastmilk, which helped my hormones tell my body, there's a baby here that's alive and being nourished by you. 

As the days wore on, we quickly became versed in NICU lingo and process. We would enter the 3rd floor lobby, present our baby ID bracelet and collect our name badges, and head through the double doors to the scrub sinks. For three minutes we would scrub with an antibacterial soap, dry, and brace ourselves for our entry into the Level III (critical) NICU. We'd spot the doorway with our baby's paper heart, emblazoned with our last name, stuck up with the other hearts of the babies sharing our room. 

She'd be there, snuggled on her stomach in her isolette in a little shapeable padded bar and strap system that looked like a little nest. She had 3 leads attached to her skin on chest, stomach, and leg to measure heartbeat and respiration; one lead on her side to monitor her temperature; an IV with 3 or 4 tubings trailing off to liquid nutrition, vitamins, and medications; a nasal cannula taped to her face and attached to a scary-looking blue tube and a humidifying machine to provide oxygen; and a thin gastric tube taped to her chin and running into her stomach for feedings. Plus she was surrounded by a sea of pinging, beeping, alarming machinery to monitor everything attached to her, and there were other babies around us with the same and more. It was dizzying.

The next 6 weeks were long and hard. We would get to spend a precious hour and a half with our baby every evening. On day 5 we held her for the first time. We missed the first diaper change, the first bath, the first nipple feeding. We saw our daughter pierced in every conceivable body part by IV's, by quests for blood to monitor blood sugar and blood counts and infections. We dealt with wonderful,  caring nurses and the occasional nurse who sometimes kept us from holding our daughter when we were there simply because our baby was not next on the schedule.

We took two steps forward, one step back (and sometimes three or four steps back) several times with worries over a hole in her heart; back and forth on oxygen and problems remembering to breathe; stopping and starting feedings; weight loss all the way down to 2 1/2 pounds; and all the typical preemie troubles. It was so hard going to the NICU each night and not knowing if the news would be great or scary - maybe she'd be off the oxygen or maybe she'd have a blood infection. I had a hard time sharing the daily news with friends and family because I had the insane notion they'd be disappointed on the bad days.

During the NICU stay our lives pretty much ground to a halt. Things lose all meaning when you have a child lying in uncertainty in a hospital room. You forget how to talk to people who aren't going through what you're experiencing. Friends offer time and again to help with meals, with childcare, and you can't even manage to tell them you need a meal on Wednesday or to please watch the kids on Tuesday night. Just that tiny task seems insurmountable. You try to keep your mind on your job or business and it wanders right back to reliving those last weeks of pregnancy, or scrutinizing every detail of the whole 6 1/2 months, or you're on the internet reading every last scrap, the good and bad, of others' preemie experiences. 

You are infuriated that some people can treat themselves so poorly and have such a healthy baby that they take for granted while you tried so hard and your baby is in the hospital, future in the air, and you'd give anything to have her back in your belly. You cry as you sit in the hospital, waiting for the NICU to open, and watch mom after mom be wheeled out of the hospital, big healthy newborn in arms, ready to go home. You have no idea when it will be your turn. Every night you gaze longingly at that crib you had to buy after your baby was born, and you stroke the rail and the empty mattress, and you pick up the pretty pink blanket you bought before you had a preemie and curl up in a ball with it and cry yourself to sleep at night.

Finally our baby girl came home after 40 days in the NICU. Exactly 6 weeks, almost to the hour, since we left our OB's office, we were headed home with our little 4lb, 2oz wonder. She was unbelievably tiny and fragile, still attached to an apnea monitor 24/7 for those first few weeks. She pretty much lived in my arms, in the sling, and at the breast. She was the size of our older daughter's 15" baby doll; Ibis would actually steal Coral's clothes to fit her dolls. 

Coral quickly thrived. At her due date she was a respectable 5lb 15oz. Her heart was mostly mended (Coral does still have a small defect that has to be monitored), her eyes were fine, and she filled out. She had no problems breastfeeding full-time and it became apparent that her personality included a love of being held and lots of smiles. She hit all the normal milestones for her corrected age and by 6 months was a whopping 13lb 4oz. By a year she was up to 17lb 11oz, saying 20 words and just learning the tricks of forward motion. She surprised us all by taking her first steps at 18 months old.

Our entire family is more in love with Coral than we ever could have imagined. Having a preemie was absolutely the hardest thing we have ever done, but there's not one moment we would give back. Because she was born early and spent 6 weeks in the hospital, we don't take anything for granted. Every smile, every word, every preschool tantrum is met with a silent thank you that she's here and well. Coral is our miracle and we couldn't be more proud of her!"

Snapshot Saturday

Coral on Halloween, 2 years ago. Why can't Hobie be a girl?

Day 24

Today, our school had a visitor in the form of an almost-four-year-old boy cousin (admit it - you thought it'd be something four-legged and furry!) My sister's son came over to spend the day, and we forged on ahead through our school lessons. This little boy is only four months older than Coral, age 3 and 7/12, so they have a lot in common. Like excitement over sharing favorite toys. Eagerness to clean up their messes. The urge to sit quietly.

They got along sweetly outside.

Until they didn't.

Coral worked on her pouty face.

She even had the baby's sympathy.

The funniest part of the day was when Ibis penciled in some extra reading on her daily school lesson planner so she could read the little guys some storybooks.

Back in the classroom, Hobie digested some Dean Koontz.

It was a busy, family-filled day. And one day I will remember to move my book collection to a higher shelf. Or a different room. Perhaps the garage.


Here are the cousins two years ago. Somewhere around here I know I have the requisite naked-in-the-bath together picture, but I'm saving that one for some important future date. Sorry.

he broke the mold

"This is a limited, numbered production, and once it's finished, the mold will be broken and the opportunity will be lost!" 

Hobie is truly the baby that broke the mold. Who on earth has three babies via natural, vaginal deliveries, and then has the fourth baby be the c-section baby? I've been pondering Hobie's arrival since yesterday when my husband mentioned that Hobie had been outside of my belly now for longer than he'd been inside, and I have to say it was a little bit depressing!

I was looking at my scar today, and thinking about his entrance into the world. Having a c-section was both the scariest and most surprising thing that's ever happened to my body. The fear and helplessness rank right up there with the worst tortures I could ever imagine, but the pain and recovery were nothing at all like I assumed they would be. The physical aspects of the surgery were, in all, pretty minor. It definitely wasn't an enjoyable experience, but also not half as bad as I had thought. I was walking out of the hospital in 36 hours, and Christmas shopping in days. Not being able to bend over for awhile was a major inconvenience, and it was incredibly achy to maneuver in and out of bed, but I took less than half the narcotic painkillers prescribed to me and really wasn't hurting.

Emotionally, however, I was a train wreck. I know most of it has to do with the fact that it was an emergency c-section and we could easily have lost him. I had a placental abruption and he was being deprived of oxygen as I was lying in a hospital bed, gushing blood and grapefruit-sized clots. Abruption has a fifty percent infant mortality rate. I was horrified when Coral was born at 30 weeks and the neonatologist came up to my room and "reassured" me that only ten percent of 30 weekers didn't survive; Hobie's odds had me literally shaking with fear. I felt like I was reliving the nightmare of Coral's unexpected emergency birth, which although a vaginal delivery, was marked by the same sense of urgency and fear. Being wheeled down that OR hallway, staring up into those ultra-bright lights as my heart raced a mile a minute, was a surreal, terrifying ordeal. 

What really hit me about a c-section delivery versus a vaginal delivery was how out of touch I felt with having birthed a child. I was laboring and at 6 centimeters when I was rushed back for the operation so I had the benefit of many of the normal childbirth hormones, but actually birthing the baby is missing from the c-section picture. How do you feel like you've given birth to a child, when technically you haven't? It took a LONG time for me to fully connect with Hobie for who he was, my fourth baby. When I was tired I kept referring to him as "her" and "she," and on several occasions I called him Coral and confused him with her. That's the sort of lasting effects a traumatic birth (or in my case, two) has on a post-partum mom. I know from experience that it doesn't just magically go away - with Coral I got incredibly depressed around her first birthday (the anniversary of the trauma) and I pushed everyone away. I've become proactive about Hobie and am making plans for a really fun party that will hopefully keep the blues away!

But I still feel broken inside.

a newborn Hobie

almost nine months old