Saturday morning, the wife and I spent a good while entertaining our wide awake child. It was a blast, made all the more fun by the fact that participation in these playtime sessions is becoming less and less one sided. What was once a steady trickle of progression, has now become a flood.
It seemed like yesterday when our little boy had no control of that heavy thing above his neck. Now I sway him left and right, amazed that his little noggin stays upright and steady. Attentive eyes track my movement. A craned neck makes its appearance when I stray from sight.
He’s also begun to verbally express himself. It’s yet to approach speech. That’s quite ok with me. The pleasant sounds of cooing are much better than the tearless alternative. They could form their own nature soundtrack – an album that only a parent could truly love.
The biggest present I received this week came in the form of a smile. An occasional smile had passed his lips before but this one was different. This one came in direct response to my goofiness. It was repeatable. On Sunday, a great one greeted me at the side of his crib after a short nap. It warms the heart. It feeds the soul. One smile can strike the sleepless nights from memory. One smile makes it all worth it – so totally worth it.
His metamorphisis into a child has begun and, I must say, it is happening much too quickly for my tastes. He changes in a day. The change seen from the eyes of his weekly or monthly visitors must be staggering. I have no doubt that I’m watching him grow up to be something special. He already is.
Much to my dismay, I’ve found that I have a system for changing my
son. I should have known it would happen. Our once well-decorated shelf
is no longer; functionality won out over form. Baby wipes replaced
knick knacks. Diapers now reside in the previous home of picture
frames. It didn’t take us long to realize the tools of the trade
needed to be handy.
Now these tools are used in a sequence of very repeatable steps. Just
as a carpenter hones his craft, my skills have been sharpened to
a razor’s edge. I do this completely without showing my butt crack
(even though a butt crack is still definitely involved). Here are the steps:
The Preparation
Lay Cambell down on the table, making sure that no remnants of the
last change remain. Just where did that spot on the sheet come from?
Pull out a baby wipe. Ready the pee rag. You want these
two primed and ready. If needed, prepare the Desitin by opening
the tube and squeezing just a bit out the top. You don’t want
to be searching for tools once the fireworks begin. In this case,
it is him with his pants down, not you.
The Change
Release the shoot. Set the pee rag in place. This is purely
a protective measure.
Remove the diaper, taking care to keep the child clear of
the waste below. Wipe the bottom clean, making sure to get
every crease and crevice. This is not a job for the shy.
Quickly replace the old diaper with a new one.
You never know when Mount Saint Campell can erupt.
Your speed could make the difference between filling a new diaper
or firing a round across the changing table. (I can assure both
of these events have occurred. In fact, this morning, he filled
three diapers. Yes, three.)
If the fountain of youth erupts, hope that the stream can be directed
into the rag or led into the new diaper. Take heed. An unprepared
parent can end up with a wet child or a wet shirt. A golden shower
does not smell like lemons.
The Finale
Close up shop. One last note: we have a boy. The last step
before the diaper is sealed is just as important as the change
itself. I sum it up in two words:
For the last 4 days, I’ve been disconnected. Millenium, my
current cable provider, had a surprise in store for this
weekend: they were “upgrading” the lines. Lucky for me, it
was the gift that kept on giving. The end result was that
I didn’t have access to the internet from home for quite
a while.
I put “upgrading” in quotes very much on purpose. It’s not
the first time and it most certainly won’t be the last time
an upgrade occurs in my neighborhood and I never see any
benefits. I’m not begrudging Millenium in particular.
Being used and abused by a cable company is par for the course.
I’d probably shed tears if these mysterious upgrades were
accompanied by offers of discounted service. Without
the proper amount of bitching, the meter
keeps on ticking even when service stops.
Four days away made me very aware of how much I rely on the world
behind my little mouse pointer. I needed to know what
was on television and I had to consult a TV guide. The shuttle
went down and I had to rely on the newspaper for facts. I
wrote a quick blog and had to resort to 3 1/2 inch floppy to
transport my words to a machine worthy of internet access.
A 3 1/2 inch floppy! Is there no justice in this world?
The little lights on my router would occasionally blink and
then fade away in dispair. I felt its pain.
The three weeks I spent at home with my son left me with
similar feelings of disconnection. Although, in this case, it was the
focus on something not the lack of something that
fueled my separation anxiety. The baby controlled my
sleep schedule. Cold weather prevented expeditions
outside. It was me, the wife, and the baby. Everything
else was secondary. The world was definitely still turning.
It was just hard to see from the bedroom window.
Now that window is open. I’ve returned to work. But the
blessings are mixed. I see less of my wife. I see less
of my son. On the other hand, I see other adults on
occasion and get to plug into the real world for short
periods of time. There’s also the nice side benefit
of being able to provide food for my family without donning
a codpiece and spear and venturing into the nearby woods.
It fills some holes while leaving others empty.
I just wish I felt I was venturing into the world rather
than being dragged along by it. The happy faces at
home tug me away from the hustle and bustle.
Maybe that’s why I’m always so anxious to return to them.
In about a week my son
will turn zero. That’s right — zero.
The 31st day of January was my wife’s official due date,
the date when it was all supposed to happen. The wife and
I were to rush to the hospital on this day – hope in our
eyes – to finally see the infant kicking inside her.
As it turns out, all of that is well over and done.
In fact, it happened what feels like ages ago.
On the 31st, my son will be just over 4 weeks old, going on zero.
He wasn’t supposed to be around yet. We were to spend this
month planning – anticipating. I was supposed to dive under the
house and bring out all the hand me downs. My wife was supposed
to let the worries of childbirth weigh on her a bit. Cambell would
spend the month in his womb, close the beating of his mother’s
heart, listening to the muffled voices outside. All of us would
get some rest in the final month leading up to the big day.
Instead this month was a blur. Diapers and feedings crowded
our days and nights. Our previous sleeping schedule became a
distant memory. The bassinet sprang up in our room.
Visitors appeared in our doorways, eager to pile love onto
our newborn son.
We began to watch our tiny infant begin to sprout into the child
he will one day be; a person began emerge from the tangle of
his legs and arms. It’s been quite a ride, but definitely a
pleasant one.
It may sound like I’m complaining just a bit. I assure you
that couldn’t be farther from the truth. After two and one half years of
trying, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with something coming early for a change, especially when it is a gift as blessed as this.
The wife and I have a bit of cabin fever. Three straight weeks cooped up
in the house with a baby – no matter how cute that baby is – can
do that to you. The four walls of my bedroom and the four walls of
my living room are now intimately familiar. I’ve seen them again, again,
and again. They are there early in the morning, in the middle in the
afternoon, and in the very late hours of the day.
Sure we’ve been to the doctor twice. We even visited Walmart
for some baby supplies, Target for some diapers, and Target for some
diapers (no, I’m not repeating myself) but none of those trips can
really be considered a leisure activity (now a trip to Best Buy, that
would be a leisure activity).
The baby is doing great. Except for the occasional sleepless night,
he’s fallen into a good pattern of eat, sleep, and repeat. For a
couple hours each day, his eyes open and explore the world from
his perch upon mommy or daddy. Mommy and daddy stay busy doing
what mommies and daddies do: feed him, change his diapers, take the
well-deserved cat nap, and, best of all, stare back into the
cutest pair of eyes on earth. But mommy and daddy are ready
to take a break, if only for a few moments.
The wife and I want to head out for a few hours and scarf down some grub,
leaving our child in someone’s very capable hands. We’ll have
a nice little chat over a meal, see a couple of new walls for a
change, and enjoy each other’s company without the restrictions
of our home. We haven’t yet decided where to eat because
that isn’t really the tough decision. Where to eat is hardly
the issue. This will be the first time we leave our child in the
care of someone else – anyone else. The real question
is: which set of grandparents get to watch their grandson
first?
This question cannot be taken lightly. Former presidents haven’t had
to balance the politics of a decision quite as delicate as this.
Grandparents on both sides of our now three person family are quite anxious
to watch over their new grandson without the supervision of their
nervous son or daughter.
Our job, and it begins now, is to strike a good balance between
the babysitting offers that have been tendered – from grandparents,
aunts, uncles, and friends alike – and those we actually accept.
A healthy supply will
allow the wife and I to catch an emergency movie now and then.
Stoking demand properly will keep everyone, particularly the
grandparents, happy, where the balance between
“I never see my grandson” and
“You want to us to watch that hellion again?” is nervously thin.
But who gets first dibs? Who sets the wheels in motion?
The answer, in the end, should have been obvious. How could we not know who
deserves it most? Isn’t it easy to see? How
could our selection criteria have been any easier?
That’s how you feel when haven’t slept regularly in three days.
That’s exactly how I felt in the days right after we left the
hospital. Frazzled.
Little Cambell and his parents both were adjusting. Cambell was
adjusting from mom’s womb to our room. Mom was adjusting to the
everlasting demand that comes with breast feeding; he’s a hungry
little fella. Dad was surrounded in dirty daipers and laundry.
Sleep came in short and sporadic spurts for all of us.
Frazzled is definitely the word for which I was searching.
But frazzled doesn’t describe the current state of affairs –
not exactly anyway. The complaints and hardships of those
first couple of days seem like a close but distant memory.
It feels odd to mention them now. I noted them days ago,
during a time when I certainly felt a bit rough around the edges.
Now, on a more or less full night of sleep
my hardships seem a bit empty. On the other hand, all of it
is still rather true (I have a pile of clothes downstairs to
prove it). Things have settled down quite a bit.
Cambell has been blessedly sleepy during the night. He
wakes every night around the hours of 1 and 4 am. He feeds for
a half hour or so and goes back to bed. My kidless friends
will shriek in horror at my happy attitude. He get’s up
when? My fellow parents will likely turn green with envy.
This, in my new parenting world, constitutes a “good night’s
sleep”. Wake up, change a diaper, give him a bottle or
boob, and it’s back to never-never land. It’s not at a
bad deal at all.
The daytime shakes out in a similar manner. He eats, he poops, he
sleeps in rapid succession. In fact, he likes to combine
these leisure activities. Squirts are often audible
during breast feeding. More often than not, his eyes shut
tightly while a nipple still rests in his mouth.
A wakeful, alert little Cam is available for select times
and a few hours each day. When that occurs, both the wife
and I are left wondering the obvious question: what
do we do with him now?
Our days are broken up by the more than occasional visitor.
This child is very loved. The many feet that have passed
our welcome mat in the last week are a testament to that.
Flowers dot nearly every room. Boy clothes are finally
a reality.
His parents aren’t left out in the cold. The in-laws
came by and helped take down the Christmas decorations.
A neighbor carried our old bedroom furniture away
just before the new began to arrive. One friend patiently
answers every question of an anxious new mom and dad.
Another makes sure those frazzled parents get a good,
healthy (not to mention yummy) meal every day of the
week. It’s good to be me. It’s great to be us.
Those frazzled feelings will undoubtedly return.
There will be long days and longer nights.
They may return in just a few hours
(ammendment: in fact, they kind of did). We aren’t quite
out of the woods yet (we’ll be out in about 17 years and
51 weeks, or so). But there’s a wonderful child sleeping
in the bedroom basinett. He’s worth it.
I’ve found that my son doesn’t particularly like to pee in his diaper.
I suppose that isn’t entirely odd; I wouldn’t want to either. It is
cramped in there. He’s freshly circumcised, so it can’t be too
comfortable. To top it off, you have to wait for daddy or mommy to
recognize your discontent and free you from the task of laying in
your own urine. It doesn’t sound nice at all.
That’s why Cam has thought of a much more efficient system: go when
daddy takes off the diaper. It’s about as glamorous as it sounds.
It’s also not so bad. At this point – about six days in – hazardous
waste duty is just part of the job. The worst part of the occasional
random shower is that it will often soak his outfit, resulting
in its share of dirty looks and upset crys as I remove and then add
two layers of clothing.
What about me? The pee on my shirt is a
(hopefully) tiny badge of honor. The poo on my hands is merely a
flesh wound. The wife and I cackle at the sights and sounds that
greet the other during each diaper changing exercise.
The wife was having a good chuckle about one particular episode until
she realized her foot was wet.
Ever wonder why parents have simply no shame
when it comes to their kids bodily functions? The dad who holds
the kleenex and says, “BLOW!” has been here. The mom who spit
shines the unknown material from a forehead has lived it – morning,
noon, and night. A week in the trenches has me primed. I can only
imagine what a tiny lifetime will do.
I’m sure that, in time, he’ll outgrow this little problem.
While I wait, I have a another, slightly larger problem: yellow,
breast milk shaken, projectile turd squirts. Duck!
I got in my truck on Saturday morning and noticed something interesting – something very interesting indeed. There were two indiscreet towels laying upon the passenger seat. One was blue. One was yellow. They were hand towels – the kind of towels that float about every house, visiting the bathroom on occasion. Why were they in the truck?
The answer was very simple but the answer, you see, elicited a nearly jarring response. The memories of the last few days came rushing back in a whirl.
New Year’s Day was just about perfect. It was my kind of day. The wife and I slept in until almost 10:30 am. It was raining outside when we woke – the type of rain that glazes the sunlight into grey. The light that did steal its way through the bedroom curtains barely rustled one eyelid, much less two. A good breakfast preceded a very slow day around the house. The wife and I went our separate ways to do our separate things. I warmed up my Xbox for a Superbowl in Madden 2003 and my GameCube for a little special time with Metroid Prime. The wife went on a bit of an organization binge,clearing out her space under the Christmas tree and straightening wherever she went (it seems that this activity has a name: nesting). The day passed just as a rainy day should: nice and easy. I didn’t even shower until just after I completed a rather long blog entry. We went out to dinner at the TV filled Glory Days Grill and returned home in time to catch a random flick on digital cable.
It was then that my life changed.
A call rang out from the bathroom. “Ken, I think my water broke.” Your what? That couldn’t be. The wife wasn’t due until January 31st, nearly a month away. Her OB was on vacation, visiting family in California.
But the trickle on her legs was unmistakable. The activities that followed shot by in a flash. Call the hospital. Let the dog out. Gather my clothes with her’s, which were already neatly packed. Grab the cameras. Call the grandparents-to-be. Get some things to do – surely this will take a while. Where’s the car seat? Where’s the baby bag? The on-call doctor said come on in, so we did.
Upon arriving at the hospital, our suspicions were confirmed by the doctor’s words: “Her membrane has ruptured.” A quick sonogram brought relief to both the wife and I. The baby had turned head down and was no longer in a breach position. This baby was going to enter the world the natural way. When, however, was still very much in doubt. The doctor told us that it could take as long as 24 to 48 hours. Since the delivery was premature, he wanted to let it start all by itself; since her water had broken, we would not be allowed to go anywhere. The next time we would leave this hospital we would be carrying our newborn son – yes, our newborn son. The sonogram finally revealed the mystery of the baby’s sex to us.
What followed was a very long night. The wife started having contractions in earnest (“In earnest”! – somehow, I doubt that really sums it up.) at midnight, about an hour after we had arrived at the hospital. Four grandparents arrived and visited my laboring wife. We sent them home. It could be a while. At about four in the morning, she had dilated to 4 centimeters. The baby was coming and coming quick. We called them back in.
At this point, my poor laboring wife was complaining about back pain and, because her premature status basically chained her to the bed, she wanted to talk to someone about drugs. Not one, but two tries later, she had an epidural for the pain. By 7 am, she was fully dilated, completely effaced, and ready to push. And push she did.
To me, it took forever. To her, it must have lasted a lifetime. She pushed and pushed and pushed. She sweated and pushed. She grunted and pushed. Unlike most children, our baby wanted to enter the world staring at the ceiling, not the floor. This odd positioning warranted some help. Two and a half hours later the doctor decided to do just that. A pair of forceps was the tool of choice. At 9:49 am Cambell Ray Wootton entered the world screaming what can only be described as a blessing to his anxious parents.
Immediately, he was taken to the corner where a pediatrician and baby warmer waited. With a premature baby some precautions need to be taken. The lungs need to be examined. The blood sugar needs to be checked. We watched them poke, prod, and clean him from across the room. I whipped out the video camera. Time to get some of this on tape. Minutes passed. He was posed for us from afar. More minutes passed. He was handed to my wife. It was an incredible moment, a wonderful moment. I’ve never been less ashamed to say that I wept. The joy was overwhelming. More than two and a half years of trials were over and my newly born son was in my hands. My heart trembled.
The last time I checked, premature babies were supposed to be small. That wasn’t the case here. Mr. Wootton weighed in at 7 pounds, 2.8 ounces. They say that if the wife had carried him full term, he would have topped 10 pounds. Thank God for small (quite literally, small) blessings.
Those newborn eyes explored the nearby faces. The flashes of my camera made them cringe in retreat. We soon shared our moment with the anxious folks in the waiting room, his grandparents and a good friend of ours, Steph. They quickly made their way to the hospital room to get a first look at the new soul resting against the breast of my wife. Flashes of light continued to dance across his beautiful face.
All that time in the pressure cooker must have made the little tike hungry. The visitors retreated as my wife began her role as a food source. Soon after, it was time for Cambell’s required trip to the nursery. I gave my brave wife a kiss and followed along.
The little guy had some more work to do. He was placed under a warmer and brought to a crispy temperature. His blood sugar was checked. Most importantly, I got to give him his first bath.
Our friend Stephanie, a post partum nurse at this very hospital, had also trailed along to the nursery. One of the real neat things about having her around was that she belonged there. It was a relief and a lot of fun to have someone you know and trust give you your first lessons in baby bathing. She showed me the ropes and offered a very helping hand with shampooing his full head of hair. Steph, I really appreciated your presence. I thank you so much.
After he was given a cool little hairdo by another nurse, we were off to visit mom. After a small mob of nurses greeted the new earthling, mommy and baby were reunited. Mommy was really much better – I’m sure drugs had something to do with this. Baby was happy for the warmth of her chest.
An hour passed and we were off to the recovery room. Here, all three of us would spend the next two full days. The room itself was great. It had two beds, two TVs, a private bathroom and shower, and plenty of space for visitors. None of the amenities went to waste.
The rest of the hospital stay went by in a flash. An endless, but very welcome, parade of guests came to visit their new grandson, nephew, cousin, and future husband. Presents and flowers became permanent residents. Nurses came in to check on the baby. Nurses came in to check on the wife. The hospital staff brought us meals. The baby took occasional trips to the nursery for checkups, tests, vaccinations, a circumcision, and, twice, to let mom and dad get a little shuteye. The care was exceptional. For a couple of days, the stigma normally associated with a hospital went completely away. We were quite thrilled to be there; thrilled to be under the watchful eye of professionals.
Those two little towels that I spotted on the passenger seat gave the wife, and the seat alike, a little extra protection on the way to the hospital just days ago. They now seemed out of place.
The memories that flooded my senses began to ease. I started the engine, released the emergency brake, slapped the truck in drive, and quietly exited the parking garage. I had to make the quick trip around to the hospital entrance to pick up the wife and my baby boy. It was time to go home.
That’s what the wife is: uncomfortable. She’s uncomfortable standing,
uncomfortable sitting, and, most of all, uncomfortable sleeping.
The ninth month of pregnancy is slightly unkind to a woman’s body.
Her balance is all out of whack. The bellyTM peers freely at the ground;
it’s now the only thing that can see her feet. A teaspoon of salt
results in an inflatable doll. Ever see one of those massive #1
Styrofoam hands at a football game? I can get one in my living
room by just passing the wife some chips. Stomach crunches are things
she used to do in the good old days. A sound night’s sleep is but
a distant memory.
I try to help. I really do (note to self: taking her to the 3 hour
showing of The Two Towers
would not be a good example). The other
day I formed the “mountain of pillows”, a feeble attempt at
providing relief in bed. I rub her back occasionally (like during hour 2
of The Two Towers). I comfort her in other ways.
I remind her how great she is. I assure
her that we’ve only a month to go (as in “Yikes! Only a month left!
What have we got ourselves into?”).
I try not to run screaming from the house during the more than
occasional Braxton Hicks
contraction. I remind her what adults often do at night
by sleeping blissfully by her side as she wakes to visit the bathroom
once again.
She ran by the hospital today for a quick check up and ended up staying
for a while. They hooked her to machines and added the contraction
contraption to her bellyTM just to make sure everything is ok.
She laid in a bed and listened to the beautiful sound of the baby’s
heart beat for hours. Thankfully, everything was fine. It was an
uneventful day for her and a slightly nervous one for the father-to-be on the
other end of the phone.
The countdown officially begins tomorrow: one month to go. I’m
quite proud of how the wife has handled the burden. The cute little
bellyTM is a badge of courage. She doesn’t complain much, even as the
simple things become more and more difficult. She’s a trooper and
I suppose that’s just how it should be. In 30 days, her own comfort
will be the furthest thing from her mind.
The wife and I spent the majority of our weekend in
birth preparation classes. We learned all about dilation,
effacement, contractions, pain medication, and much more.
10 hours of birth talk does something to you: it makes
your butt hurt. Well, it was that or the seriously
uncomfortable chairs.
Some of it, I knew. I knew there would be pain.
I knew that something quite large was going to exit
the wife’s body.
Most of it filled in the blanks. What
will grow to ten centimeters? How long are the
contractions? When should we head to the hospital?
What does an epidoral involve? How does the baby
get out? I guess there were a lot of blanks.
I don’t believe I pictured birth to be such a long, involved
process. The television always forces the parents-to-be
to spring out the door to the hospital. There’s always a
rush. It’s always coming right now.
Let’s hope the taxi driver knows how to deliver a
baby.
Apparently, most births aren’t like that at all.
They take a while — sometimes a long while. There’s
time to relax (in fact, it’s encouraged). There’s
even time to catch some football on T.V. (note to self:
edit this out before the wife gets to read it).
The videos weren’t nearly as graphic I had thought,
or hoped, they would be. No placenta graced the screen.
None of the aftermath was filmed.
The view of epidoral was obstructed. The cesarean
was mostly viewed from the mom’s side of the sterile cloth.
I don’t want to say that I wanted see to blood, mess, sweat,
and tears. I just wanted the videos to shock any of the
impending horror out of me. I didn’t think the Discovery channel
had already done such a good job.
I couldn’t help but compare the whole process to a soldier
approaching the battle lines. Sure we’ve thought, and talked,
a lot about it, but all the facts kind of hit you head on.
All of a sudden, you can hear the bombs dropping in the distance.
Lights flash over the horizon. The roar of the transport
drowns out the shouts from your commander. You are well on
your way. You check your watch. Your heart rises just a bit in
your chest.
We have our battle plan. It’s all written in a little booklet
we took home from class. Our expectations have been rounded
into to place. Don’t have too many. Each pregnancy, and each
woman, is quite different. Knowledge is now our weapon.
Practice your breathing. Get your rest. Drink lots and lots
of fluid. You do have your bag packed — don’t you?
Somehow the other side of the hospital door no longer feels
so far away.
