Baby Highs and Kid Updates

Thanks to Zicam, unreasonable amounts of Vitamin C, and a boatload of prayers, my cold had subsided enough that I felt comfortable walking through the doors of the NICU and holding my Mighty Mouse again yesterday. I was struck by how much his little face had changed since I last saw him. He is, unfortunately, starting to get the stereotypical preemie head shape in spite of being properly rotated by his nurses, but I think he is handsome (and a million other complimentary words). As I changed his pants, I noticed that he is starting to get a little (and I mean a little) padding on his rear, just enough to convince me that legitimate butt cheeks might be in Joel’s future, after all.

It’s amazing what inconveniences a nice baby high can make practically disappear. Case in point: While exiting the bathroom near the parking garage at Wesley prior to my second Joel visit of the day, my toe caught the eighth-inch lip of tile outside the door, and I sprawled flat on the cold, white hallway floor. Knees sore (but thankfully no harm done to my still-healing incision), I glanced up to see a rather burly man who looked stunned and slightly amused. I did what I always do in awkward situations; I laughed. I don’t really even remember if the man asked if I was okay. I didn’t care, though; I was on my way to see my baby. I scrambled back to my feet with a dopey grin on my face and headed for the elevator.

Both visits combined yesterday, Joel and I snuggled in a zero-gravity recliner for 2 ½ hours. It was a happy reunion.

Even with the best intentions of minding my own business, it’s hard not to eavesdrop while sitting with a quiet, snoozing baby on my chest. At one point yesterday, the baby whose bed backs up to the ¾ wall behind Joel wound up in a lot of trouble. I heard nurses calmly but intently talking as they worked; I tried not to pay too much attention, but I couldn’t ignore the words floating by me: accidental extubation, emergency breaths--one per second, lack of muscle tone, blue/purple coloring, “wimpy white boys,” he’s coming back…

All the while, I held my Joel and prayed--thanking God for the pink, breathing, sleeping baby on my chest--however small--and asking for His guidance and hand to be with the medical team and the little guy behind us. I knew the NICU would be an emotional ride for us. I didn’t expect to be pulled in on the emotional journeys of the other tiny little people to the degree I have been.

Today, my little booger is three weeks old. I’m not sure how I feel about that or if I can even quite get my head wrapped around it. The heartache/joy mix is still very real and confounding for me at this point.

Away from the NICU world of chiming monitors and disinfectant smells, my other monsters are enjoying having me around and upright a little more. A couple of days ago, I took Anna to the park--just the two of us--for the first time in six months. I tried to take a couple of pictures of her as we played (or, to be more accurate, as I trudged after her, lamely pretending to be a fellow jail escapee as she giggled, hid, and climbed on all the equipment), but nothing I snapped captured the elated spark in her eyes or the infectiousness of her smile. She made a few comments about being so happy I was feeling better and a handful more about how much she loves me. The time with her made me realize that “baby highs” aren’t reserved for a kiddo’s first year of life.  Quality time with a curly-topped four-year-old can produce much the same effect.

Our poor Kate Kate has had life a little more rough lately. She has been fighting off a cold of her own, and today, my mother-in-law helped me haul her to the allergist for a scratch test and asthma follow up. Kate chattered and grinned the whole way to the doctor’s office, labeling everything she saw outside the car window, happy to have Grandma “Susie” and Mommy all to herself. The poor kid was totally clueless as to what was in store for her. A semi-traumatic scratch test yielded a couple of hearty welts, revealing her allergies to dogs and peanuts. It made me a little sad for her--both because she was obviously miserable and because dogs are her favorite animal. (We've dealt with the no-peanut heartache before.) She was in a benadryl-induced mini-coma for half the ride home and in a crabby, too-tired mess for the remaining half. Not even her new hot pink cowboy boots could set the world right. Hoping that sweet baby gets some good rest tonight.

So… I suppose that’s the update from the Stratton house. As always, God sustains us and is with us in the easiest of our days and when life situations seem to make days just, well, hard.

I guess we’ll see what tomorrow brings!