Women's March

This morning, we crawled out of our warm beds and dressed in warm clothes. We chose things that were pink, had inspiring messages, or were rainbow. E's shirt, a pink one, proclaimed across the chest - "Though she be but little, she is fierce!" She wore a rainbow skirt and a pink jacket and waved a Pride flag she chose from a locally owned bookshop on Fourth Avenue. T wore a "Vote ME for President!" shirt, I wore a rainbow scarf I crocheted a few years back, and C wore rainbow leg warmers.

We ate breakfast and piled into the car. We parked on campus and met T's parents. Together with several others, we boarded the streetcar bound for downtown. We didn't realize how fortunate it was at the moment, but we boarded at the end of the line and just stayed on - the very next stop was jammed up with people wishing to board at the first stop. Our streetcar could only accommodate a small portion of the crowd waiting at the stop and none of the people at any stop after that. Stop after stop, we rode past crowds of energetic marchers waving signs. The wheels of the streetcar groaned and ground against the metal tracks laid into the concrete, car full to bursting with the weight of our collective hope.

I looked around. I marveled at all these people and wondered what the day had in store for us. Women standing close to us chatted with E and played peekaboo with C. The kids smiled and laughed and charmed everyone. While sitting there, I received a text from one of my friends in Texas. It was a photo of my family, sitting in the streetcar! One of the women who boarded first was standing directly in front of us; she had taken a photo of the packed streetcar and posted it to Facebook. Turns out, she's friends with my friend J, who currently lives in Texas but is from here. Our lovely city is a fair size, but at times like these, it seems downright tiny! We all laughed and were jubilant.

Once downtown, we filed out of the streetcar and streamed towards the park where everyone was to meet. It began to rain. The sky was full of bright, full, white clouds and the sun shone as the rain came down. Undeterred, marchers gathered in groups. Signs were wrapped in plastic, taped with packing tape, or started to curl due to the rain. Women, men, children, dogs. All of us together. C had fallen asleep in the carrier on my back, so I stood in one place and swayed back and forth to keep him asleep. I looked at all the faces around me and thought, My family isn't alone.

All the people there at the march felt strongly about women's rights. About people of color. About LGBT people. About fighting bigotry, hatred, racism, misogyny.

When my family walked to the streetcar stop earlier that morning, the people there looked at us and smiled. They saw E with her Pride flag, me with my rainbow scarf, C with his rainbow leggings. They saw two small children with two mothers. It was the most "out" we've been in a long time, as we don't typically go out of our way to identify ourselves to strangers as a lesbian-headed family. It's simply too scary to do that. My anxiety level climbed, knowing we were about to go into a very visible liberal event labeled as gay. But when we stepped into the midst of the other marchers, I felt a safety that I've rarely encountered. Suddenly, I knew that if someone wanted to harass us, there were thousands of people around who would step forward and say, "THIS ISN'T RIGHT!" Who would help me protect my family. And a warm flame burned inside my chest, knowing that other people in the crowd recognized that I would do the same for them and their families.

Finally, the actual march got started. It took a long time to get all the marchers funneled into the street, so we moved slowly. E was losing her patience, but her grandfather had a great idea. He lifted her up onto his shoulders just in time for a cheer to go up among the marchers as the first ones hit the street. Signs and fists were thrust into the air all around us as a cry of joy left many lips. Grandpa turned for a moment to check that we were all still together, and I caught the look on my 4 year old daughter's face. Her face was alight with joy and awe. It would have been impossible to be in that crowd and not feel swept up in the exuberance of the moment, plus, E had the best view of anyone. Proudly sitting atop her (tall) grandfather's shoulders, she got to see the march stretch out before her, as far as her eyes could see. While I watched her, E turned and looked straight into my eyes. I am so full of love and pride in this little girl. I hope she remembers this. She is one of the biggest reasons why we marched - her, and every other little girl out there who has hopes and dreams. She deserves a fair shot, given on equal footing. She deserves a world in which men don't think they are entitled to her body or her mind, one in which she's in charge of herself and nobody gets to decide anything for her.

This is for you, daughter. And for you, son of mine. May you grow into adults in a world of equality, hearts full of love and minds full of the knowledge that your parents adored you and fought for you and wanted you to be happy.

Thank you Gran

Today is the day my mom (and the kids' Gran) was born! Typically, this day is pretty straightforward - you wish the person a Happy Birthday, maybe you go out for dinner, you give the person a gift. The honoree feels warm and happy and appreciated, then the day ends and you move forward into the new year of your life.

My wonderful mother though... this is a hard day for her. Every year, I acknowledge to myself that Mom doesn't like this day, she doesn't wish to consider the day she was born, and she dislikes being the center of attention. And yet, every year on December 18th, all my thoughts start with her. I cannot resist writing about it. I guess I just really need her to know how vitally important she is to me, and to understand that while this day, to her, is a day of sadness and loss, for me it's a day that I'll be grateful for forever. The dichotomy between the ways we each feel about it is hard for me, because I would hate to think she feels I'm being disrespectful by always bringing it up.

I'm truly sorry, Mom, if you feel I'm disrespecting you. This thought distresses me.

But what would we do without you? My family, my children... they love you deeply. This year is the first birthday you've had with two grandchildren. I'm elated that they are blessed with four grandparents who adore them so much but... you are something special. You relate to children in a way that no one else does. I wish we had more photos of you with the kids - let's rectify that in the new year, okay?

So bring on this next year. Did you know that the Winter Solstice is in only 3 days? You're nearly a Solstice baby. As one of my favorite books says, "A baby born at midwinter is born during the time of year when the days are shortest. This child will be forever walking into the light, as each day after birth, the days become longer." And that is how I think of you, mother of mine. You are always looking for the silver lining, living in sunlight and loving eternally. My midwinter mother. I'm so happy you were born.

On permanence

You fell asleep on my lap this afternoon, darling boy. This happens less and less often with every passing day. Your chubby hand clutched onto the inside of my elbow, your foot hung up on my chest, you slept deeply and peacefully. I watch your face as you drift off, waiting for your eyelids to close all the way and for the breath in your chest to hitch in exactly the right way - this is how I know you're finally asleep. Experience has taught me that if I wait too long to transfer you, you'll wake up, so I can't admire your sweet bowed lips or your rosy cheeks for very long.

I press my cheek to your toes, which are located conveniently close to my face, and whisper to you, "Let's stay like this forever."

"No," your toes reply quietly, as they flex and resist the pressure of my desperate wish, "nothing is forever."

Thirty Years

Last month, I turned 30. T turned 30 near midsummer. It's a big year; a big season for our family. First year as a family of 4, first year into our most grown-up years yet.

My birthday is pretty close to E's, and frankly birthdays just lose their special-ness as we age into adulthood. They tend to fade even more when your vibrant young daughter celebrates hers a week previously. Our parents usually do a sweet, loving dinner and give gifts or money to celebrate our adult birthdays, and I always really appreciate it. I guess I was spoiled by my mom, who made my birthday into this incredibly magical day - even the year I turned eighteen on a weekday and lived 100 miles from home, in a dorm room, she still showed me how much she thought about me. It makes becoming used to these adult birthdays more difficult. I also find that I'm now old enough for people to start asking if I'm "ready" to become my next age, or if I'm dreading my birthday.

Maybe someday I'll grow to dread that date rolling around, but... I hope not. I guess thirty didn't feel like a big deal to me. I have everything I could want. I'm married to the love of my life and we own this home together, have two phenomenal kids, an adorable and sweet puppy, a good and steady job, a retirement fund, a savings account, insurance. I no longer know quite what to say when asked what I want for my birthday. Apparently asking for clothes for your kids, or necessary household goods is insufficient. My coworkers asked, and I replied that I wanted brownies. Hahahaha. (They outdid themselves with a lavish brownie sundae potluck, by the way. Because they're fantastic.)

When my wife asked this year what I wanted for my thirtieth... I knew I wanted something more. More than I've ever asked for my birthday. I wanted to book a photographer whose work we admire very much to take our family photos. This is a big gift because it's a fairly sizable investment, but I figured, we only turn 30 once, and C will only be a baby for a short span of time. I wanted photos. One of the plagues of both being photographers is that, while there are many photos of one parent or the other with the children, there are very few photos of everyone together. So we did it! I'm in love with them, and I'm so grateful that we were able to do it.

Sometimes, in the brief moments of silence, I think about my life. As the saying goes, the days are long but the years are short. Especially this first year of infancy for C. He's changing every day and I feel like it's going impossibly fast, and yet I still yearn almost daily for him to be older and develop more independence. Then I take that back, and wish for time to stand still. And then it's 7:30 pm, he's a crying mess, rubbing sweet potato into his hair in his high chair and E is arguing with us about not wanting to put on pajamas and the sink is full of dishes and there's a pile of bottles that need to be washed for tomorrow and I remember that I still haven't made E's lunch yet or packed my own lunch or stuffed the pup's Kong with kibble and peanut butter and the living room was hit by a 4 year old tornado in a Rapunzel dress and I think to myself, "I may never get to pee again."

In these moments, I will admit to sometimes missing my old life. The one where we could spend the whole day in bed watching favorite television shows on DVD. The one that I could sit at the table and literally paint for eight hours straight, stopping only to go to the bathroom. The one in which I could listen to whatever music I wanted, or stay up late to read, or eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food ice cream without being accosted or made to share. And yes, I even miss being able to clean my house on my own time frame and without having to consider whether someone would eat my toilet brush if I left it unattended.

I tell myself, "I'm only human. It's normal to miss these things." I know that one day, these things will come back to me one by one as my children grow and need me less. And I know on those days, when I realize what the return of my own independence means, I will cry and wish for these infinitesimal, endlessly fast days back.

And so I take a deep breath and close my eyes and breathe in the scent of dirt and fresh cut grass from my daughter's hair. I smell the sweet milky scent of my son's breath as he giggles and coos and chews on my chin. I will wait for the laughter to bubble out of my daughter's belly like lava from an erupting volcano, and I will open my lids again to catch my son's brown eyes sparkling with joy as he gets to experience his first Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas this fall and winter.

I think about all those days and weeks and months and years in my early twenties that I spent wishing and waiting and yearning for children. I chuckle to myself before admitting that yes, there is room for all these swirling emotions and desires. I am so grateful; so fulfilled by these tiny dictators who have so thoroughly won over my heart. Easy days, hard days, in-between days... I don't have any regrets about my choices.

Thirty years seems like a long time... but I'm happy to have so much life left to live in front of me. I'm so happy to get to parent these little people and watch them navigate the world around them.

Six Months

And in a puff of smoke, suddenly six months have passed since C was born. He'll actually be seven months old in about ten days... yeesh.

These last six months have been challenging, for sure, but C is such an amazing little boy and the way I love him sometimes takes my breath away.

We've had a lot of challenges in our breastfeeding relationship, but it's become more important to me to preserve that than I had anticipated it would be. You see, in 2009 I had a breast reduction surgery, knowing full well that it may affect my ability to breastfeed any babies I have. I prepared for his birth, knowing that my body would likely not be able to make a full milk supply for him. I also suspected that I would have problems with him nursing because my nipples are flat - I worried there wouldn't be enough for him to latch onto. When he was born, sure enough, he couldn't latch properly. Our lovely nurse and IBCLC Judy, whose praises I cannot sing enough, helped us to use a nipple shield. The shield is a piece of thin, formed silicone that goes over the flat nipple in order to give the baby something to latch onto. There are holes in the tip of the silicone nipple, so milk can get into the baby. We got pretty good at using the shield, and I was satisfied.

But then we were hospitalized two times, and the second time C began refusing to nurse. He would get so worked up that he couldn't calm down enough to try to latch. Fortunately, we got one night nurse who saved our sanity and was able to help C get settled and latch. But after that, he had increasing problems with latching and nursing successfully. He'd lost weight while hospitalized, so we were under close scrutiny by our pediatrician, just as nursing became increasingly painful for me. I offered to let him nurse nearly constantly. We heard time after time, from family members and well-meaning strangers (and certain nurses who were jerks in the hospital), "My, he sure seems to nurse quite a bit! Does he ever do anything else?!" I never had the energy to explain why it took him longer, even once I did know why. I cringed and had to practice deep, concentrated breathing techniques to handle the pain stabbing through my nipples as C suckled.

We began offering him supplemental milk that I had pumped and kept frozen. T would give it to him, at first, through the Supplemental Nursing System via her own breasts. She was the first one to tell me that something was wrong with his latch. She suffered through his feedings just as I did, but with thin tubes taped to her breasts that he continually ripped off with flailing, frustrated arms. T pressed me about seeing Judy the IBCLC, she wouldn't stop telling me things I didn't want to hear. No no no no... our baby is perfect and if I just keep going, soldier through, it'll all be okay...

One day, T sat down and looked me in the eye. "You are not just going to power through this. This is not going to get better. We have to get help." My cracked and bleeding nipples that stuck to all my breast pads and bras agreed.

It struck me then that I really had believed I could power through it. I knew she was right. We made an appointment with Judy right away. I cried, trying to explain to Judy what had been going on and acknowledging that he wasn't getting enough milk; that I wasn't good enough. She gave me the space to compose myself and dry my tears before telling me that he was eating and gaining weight, just slowly, and that we were going to do everything we could to make the hard parts easier. Then she cradled C in her lap and gently began to evaluate his mouth. She believed he had a tongue tie and perhaps a lip tie. She noted that he struggled to latch, that he had difficulties getting all the working parts to coordinate in order to have an effective suckle. She suggested seeing a pediatric ENT and a chiropractor specializing in infants.

The pediatric ENT worked us in within a few days, and agreed with Judy about the tongue tie. He performed a frenotomy that day in the office - he clipped the flap of skin that was holding C's tongue too tightly to the bottom of his mouth.

Naturally, nothing's ever easy, and nursing didn't improve right away. We had to stretch open the cut in C's mouth with every feeding to prevent the flap from reattaching. We had to do tongue and mouth exercises with him so he could relearn how to latch properly.

Finally, after a couple weeks and several visits to the chiropractor, who told us he was all out of alignment, things began to settle into a more comfortable rhythm. He was gaining more weight; the pediatrician was satisfied.

Our final hurdle: the damned nipple shield. We used that for five months before we could kick it. It took some effort to get him off it, but once he realized that he got even MORE milk without it, he was ready to transition. I could have benefited from a slower transition time, because nursing for the first time without the shield HURT! My nipples had just barely healed from the improper nursing when I subjected them to nursing without the shield. Fortunately, we didn't end up with any more cracks. Since then, his weight gain has been very good and nursing has been relatively smooth sailing. I'm intensely grateful to be past those first five months of struggling to breastfeed.

You might be thinking to yourself that I'm a bit crazy to be "oversharing" all these intimate details about milk and breasts and nipples and my challenges. But I'm writing about this because as a society, we've lost the normalization of breastfeeding. As my wife so frequently bemoans, our culture has lost its generational knowledge of breastfeeding our babies. Many of us have mothers who didn't breastfeed us and are learning alongside us as we go. Issues that could be fixed with old traditional remedies or techniques now leave us stymied, in need of professional intervention.

Since C was born, two close friends of mine have experienced similar breastfeeding struggles. Both their babies had tongue ties, and one also had a lip tie. Both babies had weight gain issues. Both my friends worried and grieved and wondered what they were doing wrong.

The truth is that sometimes we just need some help. That breastfeeding, while very natural, doesn't always COME naturally. Sometimes it takes hard freaking work. That all babies don't breastfeed the same way, that some come with innate challenges.

We need to relearn breastfeeding culture, so we can all support one another. So we can offer sound advice to our daughters and our granddaughters when one day, they become mothers.





Now, I don't want anyone thinking that my life has been a shambles for the last six months. Far, far from it.

All I have to do is gaze into this baby's big sparkling brown eyes and everything else melts away. He's been a part of me, of us, forever. We didn't know he was missing because he somehow was with us all along. He is a perfect fit, this charming and bold boy. With his thatch of brown hair and a mischievous grin, he's marked his place in our family. He is just as much wonderful trouble as we anticipated he would be - unafraid when his sister was cautious, strong and forthright when his sister was gentle, more level when his sister was a baby of extremes. Both babies have been witty and clever from the start, though we had hoped C might be a better sleeper than he is. Oh well; you can't win them all.

Before he even turned six months, he was finding ways to get where he wanted to go. Scooting, army crawling, rolling, pulling himself along, wriggling. From the get-go, this boy has been so strong. Now he's full-on speed crawling and working on pulling himself up onto things. He is intensely curious and wants to be a part of everything. He is so into food! He loves mealtimes and experiencing any food he can shove into his mouth - even the chunk of bleu cheese he swiped off his grandfather's salad plate like a tiny ninja.

I am trying so hard to hold onto these precious, short, long, wonderful. frustrating, sleep-deprived days with my children but especially with C. He's growing so fast, and the days just slip through my fingers like sand in an hourglass. I know how fleeting this time will end up being, and I'm determined to just be with him in these moments when he reaches for me, and when he sings his milky song, and when he falls asleep in my arms, holding my fingers. Sometimes I feel as if I'm barely scraping by, and yet sometimes I wish desperately that he would stay small just a little while longer.

It's the best part of my life - watching my children grow and change and learning who they are. I am in disbelief that my baby is already halfway to turning a whole year old.

Happy half-Birthday, you sweet and wonderful child.

Dear Ev Jane,

You're about to turn 4 years old, my darling daughter. Four of the longest, shortest years of my life.

I dreamed about you for years, sweet one. Wondered what you'd look like, what things would interest you, who you would be and how you'd change me. I waited (not so) patiently for you while Mom grew you within her. I couldn't wait to touch her blooming belly every night and sing to you. As the end of her pregnancy grew near, Mom and I could barely contain our anticipation for your debut.

She came home from work four years ago today, around 5:00 pm, in tears that she was going to be huge and pregnant forever. I hugged her tight and didn't say anything, because there wasn't anything I could do to hasten your arrival. Sometimes I think it would be fun to be able to go back in time and tap myself on the shoulder with a knowing smile, and say, "Everything is going to change after tonight. Just you see. She's on her way." Four years ago, Mom's body was slowly going into labor.

EJM, you are a fixed star in my universe. You're exactly who I expected, when I dreamed of you all those years ago. You're sweet and kind, clever and funny, stubborn and good at looking for loopholes. Your laughter is contagious; your smile lights up the room. You are genuinely GOOD, down to the core. You've made me more patient; more understanding, and better balanced. I'm a better mama because of you.

I knew you loved us, but I couldn't foresee how deeply you would love your brother. Your love for him brings me to my knees with its power. You are the most natural-born mother I've ever come across and I am awaiting the magical day on which you become a mother, to see you with your own child for the first time.

Happy Birthday, my girl. I can't wait to celebrate with you at your Dress-Up party, with your Belle dress and cake and all our family and your friends. You are one of a kind, and I'm looking forward to this next trip around the sun with you.

Love always,
Mama

The Aftermath (long post)

The day C was born was magical; beyond compare. I was floating above the clouds; the sun pierced my every pore and I exuded joy and happiness.

We came home that same night, five hours after he arrived. Life was simple and fantastic, surrounded by family and takeout and hearts full of gratitude for this tiny new person. T and C and I slept together in our bed, curled belly to belly and heart to heart. The next morning, a nurse from the birth center came for C's checkup. His weight looked good - he had only lost a couple ounces off his birth weight and the nurse said he was doing well. 

At the birth center, blood was taken from his umbilical cord for routine testing. One test result came back very quickly, while we still were there. Our nurse came in and explained that his blood was something called "Coombs positive", and also that his blood type is A, but his Rh factor was not determined due to the Coombs. She was as puzzled about this mysterious result as the rest of us, but T and I had never heard of a Coombs test and weren't familiar with what it really meant. The nurse explained that it would put C at a higher risk of jaundice. We still didn't understand exactly what the Coombs was, but jaundice is fairly common and no big deal in newborns, right? Little did we know. 

So the nurse at his 24 hour visit drew a bilirubin test and sent it to the lab. That evening, one of the midwives called to say that his bili level was elevated, and that we needed to follow up with his pediatrician ASAP. We already had an appointment scheduled the following morning, so we figured we could get it rechecked then. 

Friday morning, my parents drove back into town and to the rescue. They stayed with E while we drove across the city to our new pediatrician's office. You see, this was our first experience with the new ped, since we were moving imminently and wanted the new doctor's office close to our new house. We just hadn't actually moved yet. 

The ped's waiting room was swamped. Our carefully researched and chosen doctor was on vacation, so we were scheduled to see his nurse practitioner. We waited an hour to be taken into the exam room, and another twenty before she actually came in to see us. They clearly were understaffed and had a lot of sick work-ins from over the weekend, as our state was number 1 for flu that month. Let's not beat around the bush, here: this first visit was an absolute shitshow. I was ready to find a new pediatrician's office after it.

The front office staff had none of our information on file, despite T having given it to them TWICE over the phone. The NP was extremely unprofessional and immature - unable to navigate the office's software system, and then she slid in a self-deprecating joke about having Down syndrome. They couldn't find C's bilirubin result from the day before, despite the birth center having faxed it over. They wouldn't allow us to simply leave and get another level drawn, despite the fact that the NP told us we were going to need another draw no matter what the previous bili level was. We tried calling the birth center to have them re-fax, but they were on lunch for another twenty minutes. We ended up waiting that twenty minutes for the office staff to flounder around and still not find the result, then we called the birth center again right when they reopened after lunch and they faxed it immediately. 

The NP said the level was extremely high and acted as if C was in imminent danger at that very moment. This was in direct contradiction to the "moderately elevated" result we heard from the midwife who had called the previous day. I had zero working relationship with this NP or with this office at all, so I was very suspicious. We went to the hospital for a STAT bilirubin test and the NP promised to call with results.

By this point we were very late for a final walkthrough on the house we were purchasing (Big House), and the agent and my parents had already been there for some time. I was feeling frazzled and blindsided. I hadn't realized that this bilirubin thing might actually land us in the hospital. I was so upset by the poor handling of things from the pediatrician's office that it was difficult for me to believe that there really could be a problem - I wanted only to believe that the ped's office staff were being overly alarmist. 

We finally made it back to our house. This whole week, E had a low grade fever and was complaining her ears hurt. Typically, we let ear infections run their course naturally, but she still wasn't kicking the infection, so T took the opportunity to take her to the Walgreens Minit Clinic for antibiotics. While they were at Walgreens, not only was our 3.5 year old daughter diagnosed with bilateral ear infections, but T got the call from the NP that we were being admitted to the hospital for the baby's hyperbilirubinemia, and we needed to get there immediately. She texted me the room number and instructions for being directly admitted. 

I was in a daze. I'd given birth two days previously. Our house was halfway in boxes, my parents were only visiting for the day, and I needed to throw things together for C, T, and I to go to the hospital. We didn't even know how long to expect we'd be there. We didn't know what to do with E while we were there. My parents graciously packed up things to take E for the weekend, then my mom got in the car with me and we drove to the hospital. T was at Walgreens still, waiting for the prescription to be filled and sobbing that our tiny new baby and I were at the hospital while she was stuck at the pharmacy. Finally they got her the meds, and she hurried home and packed E away with my parents for the weekend. Definitely not the strong, confident goodbye you want to wish your toddler while she's not feeling well and she's just become a big sister. 

I carried the baby in his car seat into the hospital by myself while my mom parked the truck. I carefully set him on the floor of the hospital room we'd been assigned as nurses bustled in and out, getting things situated. I was introduced to three or four nurses, as we were arriving close to shift change. We were in the Pediatric unit, and only one nurse there was familiar with "bili babies", so there was much confusion as to how his vitals should be taken and what things could be stuck to the baby while he was under the phototherapy lights. He was undressed and examined first by a nurse, and then by the pediatrician on call. A different phototherapy bed was wheeled in after the first was deemed non-functioning. My mom and I took turns holding him tightly to our chests - if we could just hold him close enough, we would surely awake and this all would have been a nightmare.

I looked down at his sweet sleeping face and felt his warm weight in my arms and I just cried and cried. What was wrong with my beautiful baby? The thought of having to blindfold him and place his tiny and nearly naked little body in the phototherapy bed was more than I could bear. He should be with his mothers, not cold and scared and alone in a hospital bed. Surely all this was overkill. Doesn't jaundice often resolve itself with plenty of breastfeeding and sunlight? 

My mom wrapped her arms around my body as I was racked with silent sobs and her tears and mine mixed on our cheeks. We had just managed to calm ourselves when T came in. I looked at her and lost it again. We sat together, crying and holding our newborn son as the on-call doctor came in and asked, "Is this a good time?" 

I couldn't help but give a choked laugh. "It's as good as it's likely to get." I croaked. To his credit, he must be accustomed to hormonal and emotional mothers, because he came in and was the very model of quiet confidence. He told us the plan for the next six or so hours, gave a short explanation about our blood types being incompatible, and left us with a nurse who was going to do the blood draws to get the whole thing going. 

Somewhere in there, my mother found the inner fortitude to leave us and the baby in the care of the hospital. After all, she had her granddaughter to care for and they had a 2 hour drive in front of them. I don't know how she did it, but in hindsight I admire her for being able to hug us tight and tell us she loved us and then leave. Thank you, Mom, for being what we needed, especially when I know it had to tear your heart from your chest. It's tearing mine out right now just thinking about how you must've been feeling.

After a traumatizing 30 minutes in the treatment room with 2 nurses trying to draw C's blood, we finally ended up back in his room, ready to settle in for the evening. It was already getting late; the baby needed the phototherapy.

I hated every single second that he lay in that phototherapy bed. I despised every moment he had to wear the blindfold to protect his eyes from the bili lights. My body ached for him. My heart broke open each time he cried and flailed around, looking for one of his mothers.

But somehow, we made it. In the early hours of the morning, a nurse came to do another bilirubin heel stick. Poor C had to have so many heel sticks, his little feet looked like hamburger. Around 5am, the test result came back that his bili levels had gone down enough that he could come out from under the bili lights. I cried tears of relief and happiness and wept as I watched T curl the baby up on her chest and sit, reclined, to hold him so I could catch some sleep. The hospital will not allow bedsharing, so she sat up and held him rather than lay him in his bed. Of course, this meant that T didn't get to sleep, but I think we were both so filled with gladness that in the moment, we didn't care. The next morning, she realized the price she paid for the lack of sleep-- she had caught E's cold.

We got released from the hospital in the afternoon, and went back to our little house across the street. Realization that life hadn't stopped while we were gone hit us as we walked through the door to a huge jumble of boxes and packing material, laundry and dishes and paperwork from both the birth center and hospital scattered around like leaves during the autumn. I'm not sure where T drew the inner fortitude from, but she took a deep breath and dove right back into packing. We'd lost 2 days of the time we had devoted to getting moved.

My parents arrived back with E later that afternoon, and she was out of sorts. She was nervous and unsure of things - our family was in emotional upheaval as well as preparing to leave the only home she'd ever known. I'm so impressed with that little girl, who came home without knowing what she was coming into. We had dinner together and did her normal nighttime routine and she settled right in.

The whole time feels like a jumble in my brain. Some of the timing of things is really difficult for me to remember. But I do know that we absolutely could not have pulled it off without the exceptional support network we have holding us up. T's parents spent a whole day packing up our kitchen while we were in the hospital and moving boxes into storage. My dad helped pack and move boxes as well. When it came time for the last day in our Little House, I readied an overnight bag for E - she was going to stay the night with T's parents, since our houses didn't close on the same day. Little House was set to close the 23rd of February, and the Big House was to close the 24th, so we had one night where we had to get a hotel room, and E slept at her grandparents' place. We packed a bag for ourselves to go to the hotel. I was nursing C as T's crew of coworkers arrived to help get all the furniture packed into the box truck. I finished feeding the baby, bundled us into my car and left all the work of moving in the hands of T and her crew.

I got us unloaded into the hotel room and tucked into bed, but sleep was elusive as I thought about T and how much work was left for them to do. I woke at 4:00 am, when T slipped silently into the suite and curled up behind me, one hand on our son who lay at my breast. She whispered the story of  her night quietly into my ear. My heart sank when she admitted that there still was a lot of work left to finish. The crew had gotten the box truck packed, floor to ceiling, and yet there were still more boxes to move, plus all the assorted leftover things like yard implements left at the Little House. She rested for a short time, then got up again and exchanged our SUV for her parents' pickup truck at 5:00 am to make a few more trips to the storage facility.

At 7:35 am, she came and picked me and C up from the hotel. We had to sign all the loan documents at the title company at 8:00 am. We did have one piece of luck - C slept through signing documents on both houses and the complications that came with it. That was as much luck as we would get that day.

While signing the Little House docs, our realtor got a phone call from the buyer's realtor.
"You guys are all moved out, right?" she asks us.
"Almost... there are a few things I just couldn't fit." T admits.
"Okay, but you are going back for them, right?"
"Yes, we're going back there as soon as we're done here." T affirms.

It turns out, before the loan even closed or recorded, the buyer's realtor was checking up on us.

Another complication arose when the loan officer informed us that we owed $19.00 on the house we were selling. No, they couldn't accept a credit card, only a check. Which we didn't have, since we were in the in-laws' truck instead of one of our own vehicles. T had to go to a grocery store for a freaking money order. The silver lining for her was that she could finally get cold meds since another night without sleep had left her in even worse shape.

Lastly and most horribly, while we were signing the purchase contract on Big House, I noted that ours were the first signatures. I asked the realtor how the purchase worked when the sellers didn't live in the continental U.S. She replied that they'd email the contract, the sellers would have to sign with a notary and overnight the contract back. I asked if that would delay the closing of Big House, and the title agent nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders and said, "Yes."

I think T just about lost it. "When were you going to tell us? We have a UHaul rented for only one night! We're staying in a hotel WITH A NEWBORN and we only reserved ONE NIGHT!"

We were dumbfounded that all the professionals involved in this transaction somehow missed that the sellers should be signing first, since they live in Hawaii and could sign the contract anytime.

Our closing was delayed by one day. T called and reserved a second night in the hotel room while I called UHaul and crossed my fingers that the truck that housed most of our possessions wasn't reserved for the following day. Fortunately, it wasn't and we were able to extend the rental.

We were angry and disappointed with the way this all went down, especially since we ended up having to spend quite a bit more money in the process than intended.

We told ourselves, "At least this is over with, and now we'll get a whole day to relax and do nothing until we can move in." Little did we know.

After signing the contracts, we had to go and have another bilirubin level drawn from C. Then we went back to the hotel and T slept awhile. She had gotten up and we were sitting together on the little couch, watching TV, when my phone rang. It was the pediatrician. This was actually the first time we'd spoken to our chosen pediatrician, and it was not the news we wanted. Not even a little bit.

"I know you don't know me, but I want to tell you that I'm typically pretty laid back about test results. Unfortunately, C's numbers came back pretty elevated, and I want him admitted back into the hospital."

I don't even have words to describe how I felt in that moment. Different levels of comprehension kept crashing over me, pulling me under the waves. He told me that not only was his bili level elevated, but it was higher than it had been before the first hospitalization. It was the highest value he'd gotten yet. Last time, I was annoyed about the pediatrician's office being overly cautious and resentful about being separated from my son.

But this time... this time I'd done some more reading and research and I knew that this time, it was serious. Terror gripped my heart as I looked down at my sweetly sleeping little baby and I allowed myself to consider for the first time what it might be like if we lost him. Due to the blood type incompatibility, he was getting worse. Bilirubin was building up to near-toxic levels in his body, and if those levels reached a certain penetration into his brain, it could cause permanent damage.

Between 2 hospital stays, 2 midwives, 3 pediatricians, and countless nurses, the exact cause and type of our blood incompatibility is still somewhat a mystery. The broadest base of understanding states this: somehow, my blood came into contact with his blood and recognized his blood as a foreign invader. My blood manufactured antibodies to kill the invader off, which meant that my antibodies were in his bloodstream, lysing his red blood cells and causing anemia and jaundice.

My blood type is O and my Rh factor is negative. His blood type is A and his Rh factor was unable to be determined. Incompatibility can be between actual types or between Rh factors. Say for instance his blood type is A positive (which is statistically most likely), my blood could have reacted to either the A or the positive Rh. Since I do have a negative Rh factor, I received 2 Rhogam injections to prevent future issues with positive Rh babies. I still don't know if there is a way to test which kind of incompatibility we ended up with, but everyone insists that it couldn't be an Rh factor incompatibility due to my Rhogam injections. No one was able to offer an explanation as to how our blood would become sensitized, either, since in order for the mother's blood to mix with the baby's blood, a traumatic event is supposed to happen during the pregnancy - which one did not. 

So, from our hotel suite, we packed yet another hospital bag. Wryly, T remarked how fantastic it was to pay for another hospital stay AND another night in our hotel room where we would not be sleeping. Feeling scared but having at least some baseline expectations about this hospitalization, we brought C back to the Pediatric unit.

We quickly learned that expecting a 7 day old baby to lie in the phototherapy bed for hours on end is much more challenging than asking a 2 day old baby to. We had to witness 3 different nurses attempt to set an IV on our tiny baby, the final success being set into his scalp after I personally had to restrain him so a NICU nurse could set the line. This time, phototherapy lights alone were not going to be sufficient. Luckily, we ended up with the same on-call pediatrician who had us before, so he knew our situation. He moved immediately to an IV antibody transfusion, which would combat the antibodies killing C's red blood cells. Because of all the procedural crap we had to get through first, the IV transfusion took place in the middle of the night. The treatment can occasionally cause a severe anaphylactic reaction, so C had to be very closely monitored during the transfusion. The liquid itself becomes cold as it passes through all the IV tubing, and when it entered his blood stream through his scalp it must have been really chilly for poor C, who was wearing only a diaper and expected to lie still in his phototherapy bed while cold fluid gets pumped into his veins. He was so upset; he screamed the whole time. T sat with him and stroked his arms and legs, she spoke softly to him and held his hand, but we both knew nothing could fix it other than the end of the treatment.

The night nurse we'd gotten this time around was terrible. She made the experience exponentially worse. She was uncertain of several protocols and procedures. She told me C was spoiled, had a temper, was such an angry baby! When I was trying to nurse him during his transfusion (amid forty thousand cords and tubes, blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter) he was so upset he couldn't calm himself down enough to nurse. The nurse wanted to know if I wanted her to hold him so he would calm down. I was so taken aback by this woman who routinely made my newborn sound like he was throwing a tantrum. All my patience and understanding for the night was shot; gone.

Coldly, I snapped at her. "Why do you think being held by an absolute stranger would calm my traumatized newborn? Of course you aren't going to hold him."

Finally, after 2 hours, the transfusion was finished. As soon as the nurse took the IV antibody bag away, I ripped off his blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter and all the leads adhered to his body and held him close to me. I felt his body calm down; felt the tremors and hiccups leave him as I rubbed his back and whispered my love into his ears. T and I cradled him close and bathed him in our tears and our kisses.

This hospital stay was torture. We ended up staying two days and two nights, waiting for his body to respond to the IV treatment. I detested laying him in the phototherapy bed, hour after hour. He was infinitely harder to calm down, harder to get to sleep beneath the lights, harder to keep his blindfold on. He became harder to nurse. Our breastfeeding struggles began during this hospital stay.

On that first evening, I got a text message from my brother, Hayden. He knew our closing had gotten delayed, and he also knew that our realtor hadn't yet managed to procure early possession of Big House for us. The delay meant that the people who helped T load up Little House weren't going to be able to help move into Big House as planned, so I'd put out a call for help via Facebook. At this point, T was looking at trying to move everything herself and we were panicking on several fronts. Beyond that, we weren't even sure when we would be able to get keys, because the title company was waiting on the contract to show up and then the loan would have to record before Big House was officially ours.

Back to Hayden's text: He told me he planned to pick up our dad early the following morning and drive straight to the realtor's office to get us early possession of Big House, and then they were going to help get all our things moved in while C and I were in the hospital. I called him back to talk to him; thank him. His voice was gruff and thick with emotion. I could tell he was very upset about C's being in the hospital, and he was irate that our realtor had let us down. He couldn't make C better, but he could get our move taken care of. Hayden told me that he and Dad were going to get us possession come hell or high water, and the realtor was going to regret not doing a better job helping us.

Knowing that T would at least have help the next day made me feel some relief. Then we found out that a couple of people from T's crew at work would also be able to help, lessening the burden further.

Sure enough, the next morning my dad and Hayden drove into town. While on the road, the realtor's office opened and my dad proceeded to start calling her. He told her who he was, and that he was going to be in her office within the next hour unless she could find a way to get them keys to Big House. After all, the documents were all present, loan already complete, just waiting on the recording. There was nothing at that point that could stop the house from becoming ours officially. He hammered her about why she didn't press the seller for early possession, why they didn't insist the sellers sign the contract early and prevent the delay in closing. At the end of the call, she simply gave my father the code to the keybox still attached to the front door. Dad called T and told her to meet them at Big House with the UHaul. Dad, Hayden, T, and several of T's crew spent the day moving in.

In the meantime, I tried to keep myself distracted. T had enlisted the help of our lovely friend Katy, who showed up at the hospital with ice cream in hand. She spent the whole afternoon with me while C screamed and I cried as he tried and failed to latch and nurse. She even fed me ice cream while I held the baby. My mom left her job that afternoon and also drove the 2 hours into town to help keep me company. When she arrived, Katy left.

I'll always be so grateful to everyone who helped my family that day. I badly needed the company, as I was so disheartened with C's newfound struggles with breastfeeding and still having to be under the phototherapy lights.

T and everyone finished up getting our things into the house, and brought dinner to the hospital room. That evening, we sat together and I got to hear the stories from moving. I smiled and laughed and ate and began feeling a bit better. We had our new house. C's numbers were falling, and the doctor planned to release us the next day.

The following afternoon, T went and picked up E from preschool, then came to pick us up from the hospital. Discharge papers in hand, I loaded C into the car and we began the 30 minute drive to our new home. Both kids fell asleep. As we pulled into our new garage, I saw our things were already put away inside. This was OUR garage now. I carried C inside as T carried E  inside, still asleep, and we sat down on our sofas inside our new house together, the first time as a family of four.

It was the most surreal thing. I was sitting on my own sofa, in my new house that already had all the furniture moved in and placed per my wife's directions. It was my home... my things... but I had no idea where anything was.

Never before had I had literally zero involvement in moving. Even as a kid, I would at least help pack my own room. But when we began packing, I was feverishly finishing my online program, and when T finished packing, I was giving birth or in the hospital. I was not permitted to move boxes or furniture in my extremely pregnant or immediately postpartum condition.

Overall, the whole thing was the most strange and enlightening experience I've ever lived through. From the high of C's birth, to the low of his hospitalization and all the insanity between, it was the most emotional week of my life.

We're home. C is healthy and growing. We're happy here, together. And we're learning our new home and our new family.