Big Brother

There are a lot of surprising things about having this new baby in the house.

But the most shocking thing of all is how incredibly seamless the transition from only child to big brother has been for Asher.

This child had me all to himself for 4 1/2 years and let me tell you, he’s quite the momma’s boy.

I thought, with all certainty, that it was gonna be a rough, rough transition.

Xanax rough.

As a matter of fact, the day before Meyer came home from the hospital, I made a special effort to sit down in my bed, just me and Asher, and watch a movie together, snuggling and eating popcorn.

Just the two of us.

Did I mention it was just him and me?

Alone. Together.

I was feeling oh-so-guilty about the fact that I was taking away his chance to be an only child (even though he’d already had a brother for 2 1/2 months — just not at home).

And before you call me crazy, I’ve had this same conversation with several other moms who agreed they had the same mom-guilt before they brought home a new baby.

So there.

I’m not crazy.

-er.

I’m not crazier.

Than other moms.

We’re all mom-crazy.

Anyway, Ash chose to watch a movie about – symbolism alert! – the little boy who refused to grow up.

We popped “Peter Pan” into the DVD player and cuddled up in the bed.

Not 2 minutes into the movie, I started to feel overwhelmed with emotion.

It was like a tidal wave rising in my chest and up through my throat and into my eyes.

I tried to hold it back.

I tried so hard to hold it back that I began to have tremors.

My shoulders were racked with convulsions.

I tried with all my might to stop it so my child, so intent on enjoying his movie time with me, wouldn’t notice that mommy had started to convulse.

But it was no use.

The tears started.

I cried and cried, as silently as a mime, my face as wet as if I’d splashed a sink full of water on it.

The only sound the occasion ragged, heaving intake of breath.

I hugged him harder, put my cheek on his head and cried some more.

It went on and on.

To the point that I actually started thinking about how ridiculous I was being.

And then I cried some more.

It took me, without exaggeration, about 45 minutes to completely stop crying.

Just in time for freaking Wendy to start singing that freaking song about mothers.

As soon as I heard the music start to swell and those words, “Your mother and mine,” I lost it.

Again.

Full-on nonstop psychotic mommy extended crying episode.

Accompanied by a band of animated lost boys and some pretty racist lyrics about Indians.

But that’s another story.

And all for naught.

Asher is a fantastic big brother.

He holds doors open for me when I’m pushing the stroller.

He greets his baby brother with a “Hey buuuuuddy” almost every time he sees him.

And he plants the most precious, tender kisses on his head multiple times a day.

There has been no pushing the baby out of my lap so he can crawl onto it.

No crossing of the arms, protrusion of the lower lip, and pouting, “NO FAIR!” when I have to stop playing with him and feed the baby.

A complete lack of untender touch.

And what’s more, he has not once asked when Meyer is going back from whence he came.

The boy has stepped up to the plate.

BIG brother indeed.

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Premature.

A few nights ago, we had a very, very fussy baby on our hands. Nothing I did could make him happy. I picked him up, I put him down, I rocked him, I jiggled him, I patted his bottom, I talked to him, I sang to him.

That one was probably a bad call.

Finally, I swaddled him and put him in his bouncy seat to “eat.”

Through a tube.

Which is his current method of dining.

He still wasn’t happy.

So I picked him and swayed back and forth with him.

And he liked that.

Temporarily.

But then because I was standing and holding him, his feeding tube was too low for gravity to kick in and send the milk to his tummy.

And that pissed him off.

Royally.

So I had to pick the tube up and hold it above my head while swaying him back and forth.

After a few minutes, I looked at Gabe, lying on the couch working and said, “I feel like the Statue of Liberty.”

He looked up and laughed.

And snapped this picture.

Give me your tired, your poor, your premature.

On second thought, don’t.

Please don’t.

I more than have my hands full.

I’m Alive. Sorta.

I sincerely hope you can be pacified by some photos.

I have never had so little time in my life.

I want to write.

I swear.

But dear Lord.

I had kinda forgotten how hard this baby stuff is.

Plus last time I did it, I didn’t have a crazy 4-year-old to deal with too.

Plus there’s all the added extracurricular activities that come with a preemie.

Between Meyer, Asher and I, we had 7 medical appointments this week.

SEVEN.

Read ‘em and weep.

Today, for example, Meyer had 2 different doctor appointments.

We were out so long, I tube fed him in the car 3 times.

If you’re driving along and you look at the car next to you, and you see an infant car seat with a big tube full of milk hanging from the bar…hey, it’s me.

One of our doctor appointments this week was for me.

Because on top of all this, I got strep throat.

And Gabe left town on business.

Dear Lord.

Funny thing though.

I remember thinking all this newborn stuff (because that’s essentially what Meyer is even though he’s technically 3 months old) was sooo hard when Asher was born. And all I had to do was take care of him. And he was a regular, full-term baby with no issues. And Gabe was in law school and around a lot more than he is now.

I laugh at my innocence.

That was nothing.

Now I juggle a 4-year-old and a preemie with medical appointments out the wazoo.

And when he yanks the feeding tube out, I thread it back into his nostril, down his throat and into his belly.

I find it kind of unbelievable myself.

And I do this while my husband’s out of town and I have strep.

Ya know, my very first post 2 years ago was called “I Am No Super Mom.”

I take it back.

I am a Super Mom.

Baby, I’m Coming Home

THIS

MINUS THIS

EQUALS THIS

Premature Elation

Unless you or a close family member or friend have ever had a baby decide to come into this world really, really early, you probably have no idea what the preemie world is like.

That was me a few months ago.

My first son was born full-term without incident.

This one, not so much.

The best way I can describe the process of getting a preemie ready for the world is 2 steps forward, 1 1/2 steps back.

One day, you step into the NICU to see your babe’s made some sort of progress, like, say, he’s taken his bottle just fine, coordinating his suck, swallow, breathe reflex perfectly. This goes on for 2 or 3 days, and then for no discernible reason, he forgets how to do it and goes back to forgetting to breathe.

Which is a pretty important part of the process.

Not to mention, living.

This is just one small example of the roller-coaster preemie world. You honestly never know what you’re gonna get when you stroll into the NICU each day.

It’s up. It’s down.

It’s forward. Then back.

Last week, Meyer had 4 or 5 days of mind-blowing progress, and since he’s getting close to full term, I thought we were days away from the elimination of all problems and baby coming home.

I was elated.

But I am a slow-learner, it seems.

Somehow I had not gleaned from all of our previous episodes of progress then steps back that the same thing could happen again.

And it did.

Nevertheless, the doctor says he is almost ready to come home.

We may bring him home with some of the equipment he seems to have become permanently attached to, like his heart monitor and maybe his feeding tube, but at least he’ll be home.

And all of that stuff will be temporary.

It’s been quite a ride, and we’re physically and emotionally exhausted.

But honestly, we’re lucky.

When you spend every day at a children’s hospital, where you can overhear the problems other babies are having, it will rearrange your perspective really fast.

Trust me. Someone always has it worse than you. Some of them much, much worse.

So today, I count my blessings.

My baby’s gonna be okay.

Boob Men

My lactating boobs are out-of-control big. Actually, big is just not enough of a word for ‘em.

They were BIG when I was pregnant (see The Top Ten Sucky Things About Being Pregnant.) Actually, they were more HUGE than BIG.

But since I’ve started producing milk, these things have entered a whole new stratosphere.

Now they’re more in the range of gargantuan.

They need their own zip code.

My mammaries are now, without exception, too large to fit into any bra in existence.

Trust me. I have scoured the internet.

No. Bra. In. Existence.

I’ve ordered and tried on every single one I thought might come close to containing these whoppers. Nary a one actually fit properly.

But a couple of them were an inch or so too big in the band and slightly too small in the cup, so I’m using those out of desperation. Short of trying to make my own undergarment out of a couple of big-girl girdles and some industrial strength, space-age elastic, they’re all I’ve got.

If you’re rolling your eyes right now and saying to yourself, “Stop bragging, Beeyotch,” let me assure you — I am not boasting about these things.

Smiling in his sleep, dreaming of coming home.

These things are way too big to be considered sexy or attractive.

Or even containable.

They’re just plain too much.

Even my husband — a self-professed boob man who heretofore thought there was no such thing as too-big boobs — even he says they’re too much.

Without fail, if he walks into a room while I’m changing clothes and gets a gander at them, he says “GOOD LORD!”

Every single time.

Even my 4-year-old is impressed by them.

Seemingly getting in early practice for his future Mardi Gras escapades, he says, “Let me see your boobies” almost every day.

And I can’t help but allow him to see them. Because they’re out constantly while I pump.

He looks at one boob and says, “WOW! Your boobie’s really big. Let me see the other boobie.”

Whereupon he just shifts his gaze to the other one. “WOW! Your other boobie’s really big too.”

This past Sunday, it was my NICU baby’s turn to get a load of them for the first time.

Whatever doc was on staff that day decided we should try to breast feed.

Keep in mind that Meyer is only 5 lbs, which is about what I’m guessing each one of my boobs weighs right now.

I shoved the nipple in his mouth and he opened his precious little eyes to behold a mountain of a breast that was at least twice the size of his own little head.

He looked bewildered and confused.

And kinda scared.

He knit his eyebrows together and laid there in my arms darting his eyes all over the place like, “What the hell? Is this thing going to eat me?”

I spent the entire 20 minutes we were trying to nurse absolutely belly laughing at the expression on his darling little confused face.

Meyer’s almost 37 weeks gestation now. If things had gone perfectly, he’d still be in my belly.

Instead, he’s already been traumatized by my boobies.

I feel pretty certain that, given what they’ve had to deal with as infants, my boys will have extreme views on racks. They’ll either love ‘em real, real big. Or they’ll prefer them as flat as they come.

Or maybe not.

Maybe they’ll go for something in between.

I know I would.

Stop Talking About It

Because what's funnier than a hamper on your head?

This morning, while in the bathroom washing my face, I overheard this exchange between father and 4-year-old son:

“Take off your pajama pants and put on your jeans.”

Followed by various animal and other unintelligible noises and the sounds of pattering feet.

“Here, take these and put them on — we’re gonna be late for school!”

The swooshing sounds of someone larger trying to catch someone quick and small.

“Here, put your foot in!”

“I gonna do it ALL BY MYSELF!”

“Then do it.”

Two minute pause while my husband comes into the bathroom to brush his teeth then exits again.

“Asher, put on your pants!!!” And I can only assume Gabe then tried to hurry up the process by helping.

“No! I gonna do it ALL BY MYSELF!”

And this is the part that really caught my attention. Words of wisdom tossed off in the chaos of the morning rush.

“Well then stop talking about doing it, and do it.”

Gabe heard me laughing and came back into the bathroom.

“What?” he said.

“Words of wisdom,” said I.

And we laughed.

But we both know they really are.

Those words resonate with me. I feel like I’ve done some talking about doing things that was not followed by doing those things in my life, and if I have any regrets, that’s one of them. I’d love my son (both of them actually) to be the kind of person who stops talking about things and just does them.

That would make me very proud.

Whatever it is he’s doing.

As long as he’s doing.

With all the usual caveats about criminal activities and so forth.

I love my sons with all my heart. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.

I’ll always love them with the overwhelming intensity that is being a mom. But beyond loving them, my wish for their futures is that they become people I admire.

This one thing I’m talking about doing and actually doing every day of my life. Trying to do at least some small thing to effect this.

It’s a job I take seriously.

Although sometimes we just sit around and talk about how stinky things are.

Because we can only be serious for so long.