Three

My dearest girl:

I had the best intentions to write this on your actual birthday two days ago, but you'll find out all about best intentions and where they lead - and all too soon... So I'm a little late, but not at all any less blessed, looking over the last three years that you've been with us.

You were born two weeks past your intended due date (probably because you thought combining your birthday with the rest of noisy winter holidays was low on your list of wishes) - and even then you had to be convinced to join us. You're no less spirited now than you were then.

You're a beautiful, sensitive, kind girl. This year, among the things I'm most grateful for, for you, are your health, and the way we can now talk. I can TALK to you. WITH you. I can hear you tell me about your day; or tell me you don't feel good; or, as in that one random incident when I checked in on you in the middle of the night, you can whisper in the dark in your tiny raspy voice: "I love you, Mama."

You have acquired a brother. I'm very thankful for your goodness with Jack. True, you've had to grow through some resentment toward us for all the attention we had to give to Jack - and some that took away from you. But even at three years of age, you're not unreasonable. You're still sweet and gentle with him, and you've let go of the worst of your temper once we figured out that all you needed were a few extra minutes of our time each day, and words of love and praise (forgive us - we tend to be REALLY slow at times, with catching on!).

You're an agile, active spirit - I'm convinced that left to yourself, you'll dine and sleep under the stars outside. Well, maybe not in the middle of this winter - but at any time the weather is warm. I'm so glad we brought in the new playset for you in the back yard - I can't WAIT to see you spend hours playing outside when spring returns.

You've learned to count and to sing your ABC's. You've watched your first long movie (Monsters vs. Aliens) and you can discuss relative merits of both.

I have begun a stash of your artwork - the kind you'll never understand why I kept. That's alright. One day you'll start a stash for your own kids.

You've weathered Jack's time at the hospital, and the huge change his birth and surgery brought into our family. I still remember coming home at various time of day from Le Bonheur, only to be greeted with your tiny, excited 'Mama!!!' - and there you were, twirling around the room, restless to show off anything you've done that day, wanting to share so much, wanting to spend time together. You have no idea how your love helped carry me through.

You've enjoyed your holidays this year... you're learning the perks of everything from Halloween and Christmas to birthday celebrations, and it makes all of them more meaningful, to relive them through your eyes.

You're still growing like a weed - a slender, curly weed. My favorite dandilion. I've loved watching you and Daddy continue to be best buds... trust that if there ever lived a Daddy's Girl, you're it.

Now you're three. I would try to make out all my hopes and dreams for you - but more than anything, I'm fully certain that your growth and progress are under God's control. How safe it is to know that... I do my best to be your Mama, but I have, and I will, fail you. I will be too harsh or too soft - or I won't be there when you need it. I will midjudge you. I will fall short of your expectations. That's a fact. But I am sure of this - with God's guidance, I pray to be the best mother I can - and pray that He is and will be your God to make up for all of my inadequacy.

Keep smiling, Sweet Pea. Happy Birthday.

Picasso days

Allan:
"Drawing with Maya is challenging. I have no creative freedom! Overwhelming artistic direction..."

On the list of unfinished tasks, somewhere there's a mental note to record our experience with Jack at LeBonheur... I'm still so afraid to forget the details, to move on so completely that I leave behind those meaningful three-four weeks...

Winter parenting

I don't know how real 'SAD' is. That's as in Seasonal Affective Disorder, which simply means one reacts very poorly to change in seasons, particularly to short, crummy days of winter. But I know winter makes me plain... sad at times.
I'm sure I have to own up to the fact that I don't make things better by choosing to eat junk and by wallowing in stressed-out thoughts instead of releasing at least some mental tension in the 'Let go and let God' kind of way.
This winter hasn't been terrible. At least I certainly believe last one just about had the best of me, and being then in my first trimester with Jack just made it worse. But this winter has its own twists.
Maybe it's not winter, however. Maybe life with two small children is simply ten times more challenging than with one, no matter what the weather is. My biggest challenge right now is a complete lack of time to, well, complete anything. I fall further and further behind on simple basics like keeping the house clean and paying bills on time, which snowballs into major internal crises. I feel unorganized, overwhelmed.
Not inadequate, however. I know if I had double the amount of hours in a day, and quadruple the amount of energy, I'd do it all and be caught up in no time. But those circumstances aren't going to pass any time soon, so without a way to seriously boost up resources, I grow frustrated at things left undone by necessity.
So I try to prioritize. Kids first. Food, hygiene, laundry, rooms clean (if not uncluttered), sleeping hours observed, noses wiped, doctors' appointments honored. I feel fine about taking care of them. But that by itself consumes most of the time I have outside of work. Plus I always, always wish to spend more time with them - just time playing or talking or hugging it out, not just orbiting them while having to do something else...
Work. Going back has been tough, and not because I don't like what I do, or because I would prefer not to work at all. Complications are in the commute that eats up to three hours a day (if daycare detour is involved) and how intense work was straight out of the gates. Intensity may subside on and off, but travel and getting-ready time doesn't...
Household. Groceries, cooking, keeping at least some areas in acceptable daily shape. Mostly kitchen and living area. Cats' stuff out of necessity because I wouldn't have time to clean up if they rebelled over dirty litter box and went elsewhere. Food because they'd make too much noise over that. I sound like a perfect animal owner, don't I? Don't tell PETA.
Anything that has to do with my own slice of life and things I need to do (hello, green card application!!) - by the wayside. Not in a drama kind of way. It's just a fact. I'm almost used to all of that, totally at the bottom of any totem pole - but the immigration stuff and not having yet done it stirs up the firestorm in me... I'm literally risking my job if this isn't done in a few days. Plus I have to arange for last year's taxes... this year's refund will take care of that, but if IRS doesn't know that, they're quite fond of sneaky maneuvers like wage garnishment - the last thing in the world I would need this winter/spring.
I feel like in a way I'm living out a soft lie... a $100K+ young professional on the surface, with a white-trash situation at the house (our Christmas lights are still on...), not enough well-fitting clothes to last me a week in the office (pregnancy pounds), floor covered in two months' worth of dust and debri, and dining room stuffed to the rafters with unopened bills and mail.
I'm feeling pretty low at the moment. I'm making it - but barely, and only in essentials. I don't have high expectations! But even with low ones, the current state of affairs is very depressing to me.
With Allan sick most of the last month, our marital bliss has been anything but. It's very tense very often, and it's definitely affecting at least Maya, throwing yet another stone into my pond of pessimistic life outlook.
I can feel myself coming up for short breaths amidst all of this, when a certain song on K-LOVE hits the spot, but it doesn't take much for me to sink straight back down - feeling slighted, overlooked, underappreciated, and simply overrun.
I keep writing, hoping toward the end of the post I would have conjured up a solution, would have realized something profound that moves me forward with renewed energy, and none of that is happening. I can't even feel or see God for these trees, not very often.
Jack's total adoration when we do get a couple of minutes together is the one thing that is most powerful to reset this failing mechanism of mine. His total, absolute lack of concern for all my concerns, but in a good, innocent way, restores me while I just look at him and realize the power and miracle of holding him, hearing him.
I really am surprised that my body has not yet failed me in a sudden, traumatic way with what I feel is a supremely weak immune system this winter. Maybe it's simply the fact that if I go down, there's no more recourse, and thus the flesh keeps powering through. Thank God.
I used to feel slightly better by telling, reminding myself that all this is temporary. Felt like knowing that should keep up my hope. But I have not had a good day, in some fairly ordinary definition of 'good', in what feels like a long time. And my resistance is starting to fray at the edges.
So now I'll just keep hoping that all of this is simply ... winter. That with the first warm day, things will miraculously clean themselves, file themselves, pay themselves, pick up themselves, heal themselves... and I'll have an unbroken night of sleep, while I'm at it.
Kiddos - since I started this as a parenting blog - I still love you more than life. I just have a presently strained relationship with just about everyone else.

Hi Jack

Hi Jack -

Today you're 4 months old. On Christmas Day.

I have to say, sometimes a distance between here and the day you were born seems more like four years.

I looked at you today, with total slobbery admiration like I always do, and you're changed, even from your 3-month-old 'birthday'.

You have embraced persistence in trying to sit up.

You're quite a badger when it comes to chewing on things (my favorite is your vicious gnawing on my knuckles - your face cracks me up every time).

You drool and blow raspberries non-stop (we should really keep up your fluid intake, considering how often you soak right through your clothes).

One thing hasn't changed, and that is the way your face lights up with goofy smiles when you look at me. Those drooly grins still melt my heart every single time. You fit in with my soul like a giant soft jigsaw puzzle piece.

I sat you up today on the Boppy facing me, and once you caught my eyes, there it went, that million-dollar smile. Even in the midst of your first seasonal crud that has finally conquered you, its last opponent standing.

I apologize that we're having to celebrate this momentous occasion by occasionally (pun!) having to suction off your stuffy, slurpy nose. As much as I hate to hear you complain bitterly about it, I hate you not being able to breathe more.

Your temperament hasn't changed. In fact, your laid-back-edness has only been enhanced. As far as I know, you're the easiest baby in the world to care for. You're on schedule, you eat like a champ, you never cry without a reason, and all you really want is to have someone spend time with you.

I'm reaching that point in parenting where saying "I love you" is starting to sound flat and insufficient, as far as truly representing the way I feel about you. What I really mean to say is "I worship you. I will give up anything for you. I cannot believe you're here with me, mine to hold. You complete me. 'Blessed' does not begin to describe how I feel about having you in my life."

You're my son. A concept that was still foreign a little over four months ago. And now I can't imagine what it was like without you. As if in direct retribution for all the trouble you had to go through, you showed up, world's sweetest child. You cheer me up when I fear for you. When I'm crushed by the weight of the uncertainty your health may hold, you're certain that as long as we're together, it's all OK.

I used to find it cheesy, people saying they learn things from their kids.

Now my four-month-old superhero is here to lift me up. ... Well. Not yet literally.

I love you, Bug. Happy birthday.

Jack's birth - part 2

Jack's non-standard approach to life started early... when we drove up to Methodist (new Women's Pavilion) at 9pm for our induction, the overworked and frazzled receptionist looked up and said: "Have you eaten dinner?" It turned out that all laboring rooms were occupied - maybe there is something to the full-moon stories. So off we went - not much to find in Cordova at 10pm on a Tuesday, we found out, but soon parked at a nearby Rafferty's and whiled away a couple of hours eating chicken alfredo and enjoying an unusually cool evening.

Since the hospital wasn't calling back, we slowly drove back. Finally admitted, my drip (not sure now which one) was started around midnight.

The night passed uneventfully. Around 6 a.m., another drug was added to the drip (or took the place of the first one?). The morning just crawled - I started to have weak contractions, and there was some progress when Dr. B stopped by around 9 a.m., but nothing major was happening.

By 1 p.m., I was uncomfortable enough, but nowhere near active labor. Dr. B stopped by again on her lunch hour, and we talked. My main concern remained about timing of Jack's transfer to Le Bonheur - here we were, already in the afternoon hours. I wanted to know how late she was comfortable letting me go. She suggested waiting until 3 p.m.

Just a short while later, she stopped by again. Having run into Jack's planned neonatologist, they've gone over the timeline and agreed that even if I was in active labor by 3, that would leave no good time to get Jack transported before the end of day shift at both hospitals. So she asked if we were ready to consider initiating a C-section.

While she was out, Allan and I have already discussed this... Yes, I was ready, and on top of the timing concern, I realized at once that I was too tired and unnerved - the natural delivery suddenly loomed unsurmountable. So we gave an OK for C-section.

The next 30-40 minutes were tough... I couldn't believe how quickly things went into motion. Within minutes of Dr. B's departure to get ready, I was on a wheel chair, with new medicines piping in, quickly taken out of the labor room and on my way to the operating room. I remember cold - bright - lonely (Allan had to stop to get scrubbed) and still very uncomfortable to the point of pain from ongoing uneventful contractions.

There were at least a dozen people in the operating room. I 'hugged' a nurse while the spinal went in (I'm not squemish, but that stuff still makes me nervous) and within moments I was limp from my chest down. I remember most of all how fast everything was progressing... I was on my back with the screen in place; Dr. B was there; finally the discomfort subsided and the pain went away; Allan was finally there too. Dr. B and her assistant warned that I won't feel pain but will feel a lot of pulling and tugging - which is exactly what commenced just moments later. Odd sensation... Apparently, Allan watched the whole thing. Later he'll say how professional and efficient the doctors were - within minutes, he saw (and I felt) Jack come out, and I heard him cry.

There was such a huge sense of relief - in small part from just not being in pain anymore, and suddenly this enormous ball of tension broke for me to the point of shivering, and while I was being stitched up I was listening to Jack being attended to... He didn't cry much after his first 'sounds'. Someone from the medical staff quickly recited his stats (8 pounds 3 ounces, 21 and 1/4 inches) and then Allan was standing on my side of the screen again holding Jack wrapped up in a blanket, and I had tears rolling down. I saw him for total of several seconds - long enough to kiss his head - before he was wisked away to NICU.

I remember Dr. B saying (as she was working on closing the incision) how pink Jack was - "If we didn't know something was wrong, we would have never suspected it." So much for my 'blue baby'...

I don't remember how I got to the recovery room - medical elevators were involved, I'm sure. At some point, Allan was allowed to go to NICU to see Jack, and some time later he brought back the camera with his pictures. Jack looked so serious, so composed. NICU was waiting on the Pedi-Flight crew from Le Bonheur - and Jack was already hooked up to monitors. He would spend the next three weeks in the company of these wires and monitors... Of course everyone kept saying how great he was doing. It seemed obvious that he would be doing great. I don't believe in my heart I had allowed for any other option, and these updates were more of a formality to me than anything else.

Jack was born at 2:14 p.m. Around 4 p.m., Josh (our Lutheran pastor) drove up with my Mom and Maya. I was so glad to see Maya. She was a little intimidated at first and wanted to leave - I think - but we were still all in the room when the transport team brought Jack's 'incubator' by my room on their way out.

He was still quiet, my little man. He had those serious, determined eyes, even from behind the plastic of the 'box'. The Pedi-Fligth-ers stayed for about 15-20 minutes, allowing everyone to see him, yet I don't think I got a moment to just observe him for myself, with all the commotion and puffed-up humor in the room that typically accompanies a serious occasion like this...

And then he was gone. Josh, Mom and Maya left at about the same time that Le Bonheur's tank of an ambulance left with Jack, and Allan went with them to see them off. How quiet everything was, for just a few moments... I think that's the first time I started to feel the pain of the incision, and just laid there for a while, overwhelmed and hopeful.

Jack's birth - part 1

It's long overdue... and I'm a little intimidated by the task of remembering all the details, but I know I want to keep the memories as fresh as I can, of Jack's birth story and the start of his amazing little life.

Since I've procrastinated for so long (or, in much better-sounding version, was so busy with life and Jack), this will need to be in parts... So this one is actually a pre-birth portion.

After the initial visit to Le Bonheur, Michelle (a lovely, awesome CVICU nurse) helped us set up an hour with Dr. Knott-Craig (Jack's head surgeon). We went to see him on Wednesday, August 18th.

He was different than I expected. I remembered running into Rosie at day care and her telling me about meeting him earlier. Her company sponsors Le Bonheur and had a field day to meet some of the staff. She said, "He's not the typical kid doctor. Not mushy or sweet - but if I ever needed that kind of help for my child, he would be the only one I'd go to." Dr. K-C is a slender, 50-ish man who reminded me more of a violinist than a surgeon... Higher-pitched, quiet voice with his South African accent. Picture of him and Nelson Mandela on his wall (Mandela called for him when his grandchild needed a heart surgery). After some introductory small talk (I remember Russian musicians being mentioned, and tea being offered), I recapped what we knew. At one point, after a question of his, I confused an ASD and a VSD and told him Jack's ultrasounds showed he didn't have a VSD, which got him concerned, enough to immediately suggest Jack wouldn't have enough time to make it from Methodist to Le Bonheur... I was starting to panic, but luckily had Dr. Joshi's last letter from a month before. Reading it, Dr. K-C chuckled and found my error right away, alleviating our fears. Jack did show a 'patent VSD', an opening that all kids have in their hearts prior to being born, the one that heals up quickly after birth, but in Jack, will be kept open with medication to allow his blood to mix prior to surgery. "Dr. Joshi is a meticulous cardiologist," he said.

When we asked if we needed to run another ultrasound to be absolutely sure of the VSD (more of a rhetoric question to us still), he simply said, "yes". He asked that Dr. Scheider's office do another US and send him the results and images.

We told him induction was scheduled for the evening of the 24th (Dr. B scheduled it earlier that morning - on the 25th, Jack's GA was 39 weeks, and there was consensus he shouldn't be allowed to go past that); that meant Jack was planning to be born on the 25th. 25th being a Wednesday, he said the surgery likely won't take place until the following Monday, since Thursday or Friday would be too early (unless situation required it), and they didn't operate on weekends. ... I still remember all the calendar details, they're fixed in my mind like colorful blocks of time, and check points, and expectations...

Dr. K-C was (and remains to me) a unique, enigmatic individual; very charismatic, in a subtle way, and very sure of his skill and the way things take place in his unit. I needed all of that. At the time when I was not sure what would take place, did not yet know how many complications CHD kids can be exposed to prior to and after surgery, I needed a voice of quiet but almost absolute certainty.

I remember that the last exchange of that meeting was about playing Mozart to babies in CVICU - Dr. K-C was adamant that it had to be Mozart, since his music was shown to help develop babies' brains. He said he plays it to his own baby (recently remarried, I believe he has a daughter under 1). I'm still surprised that Allan didn't rush to a local music store immediately... but there was a side story on this still to come later.

Immediately after leaving his office, I called UT high-risk office and told him Dr. K-C requested another ultrasound. The ladies ran it by the techs, and Michelle told us to come in right away, so we headed back to Baptist (I was there earlier in the morning with Dr. B for the regular prenatal check-up, once a week). Another ultrasound (I should count how many Jack had... at least a dozen), and everything was confirmed and sent over back to Le Bonheur.

Here I stop and recognize the staff at UTMG high-risk pregnancy group. A fairly new office, these guys were awesome to us. Very careful with details. Very friendly and sympathetic to our circumstances and Jack's diagnosis. Very personable... I stay in touch with the ladies in the office still, and though I hope to never again need their professional help, they've been truly lovely to us.

Later that week, I had another visit with Dr. B (Friday) - things have not changed much, I was still pretty closed, with barely any softening. Mom arrived that day in the evening.

Monday (23rd), another Dr. B visit - still no discernible changes. The day after was planned to be the Big Day... we were going in for induction. We were as ready as we were going to be .