My Child, He Breaks My Heart

Heartbreak is knowing your child will be born prematurely, cutting short your time for hoping and dreaming about your baby.

Heartbreak is accepting the fact that your child will be a preemie and that there is nothing you can do to change that fact.

Heartbreak is letting go of all your hopes and excitement for your baby and instead, replacing them with worry and grief.

Heartbreak is seeing your precious baby covered in wires and IV's at only a few hours old.

Heartbreak is watching your child struggle to breathe -- really struggle -- with his chest fitfully expanding and then collapsing.

Heartbreak is having your five month old child confused for a two month old.

You know how I squash that heartbreak? With moments like this:

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Not to cheapen my post or anything...(heh)
*This is part of the http://www.bloggygiveaways.com week long celebration!*

Preemies are too small for Baby Bjorns - so ended up using a Mei Tai and a sling for my Little Man.

I have this beatiful handmade-by-a-Mama (NOT me, a professional sling maker, lol) ring sling to give away. Leave a comment that you want it and I will give it away on Friday.  Thank you to all of you leaving comments who don't want the sling -- I love you all!
The fabric looks like this, a really pretty neutral:

Little Man's Story, Part Two

Get caught up: Little Man's Story, Part One

I had spent the last week taking care of Sasha and relaxing at home (since I was already on maternity leave).

I celebrated my 27th Birthday with my family and #4 on Sunday, December 17th, 2006. I cooked for everyone and accepted little help, much to my Mom's dismay.

I spent a lazy Monday hanging out with Sasha and having a visit from #4 while awaiting my "real" (on the actual day) Birthday celebration with the Warrior that night. I remember it vividly.

We ordered red chicken curry, basil chicken, chicken pad thai (can you tell I like chicken?), and steamed rice. We were shoe horned into a small table, right in front of the register. Not exactly the mood and ambiance I had wanted for my last baby-free Birthday dinner. We had no idea the restaurant would be so jam packed on a Monday one week before Christmas.

Warrior and I were both so excited. I had spent the week ordering the bassinet, crib, stroller and accoutrements. We held hands across the table and talked about the impending change to our universe. We talked about our first daughter, Sasha, and her sad, sad state. But most of all we talked about Little Bunny, as he was known then.

I had just become noticeably pregnant -- my belly button hadn't even popped -- as I spent the majority of my pregnancy looking like a porker who eats five hot dogs at every sitting (this line courtesy of my brother) unfortunately uneven in my fat distribution. I told Warrior that I didn't have enough "Preggie pictures" -- and that we needed to go home and take some.

This is as big as I got. I am proud of my Belly.

My Belly started shrinking the next day :(

We realized that this was my last Birthday with just the two of us as our little "family." We knew I would be a 27 year old Mama, but we didn't know that Warrior would be a 33 year old Papa. We thought we would have one more just-the-couple Birthday to celebrate, Warrior's 34th, three weeks before our due date.

We went to bed with dreams of Little Bunny and parenthood racing through our heads.

The next morning, Tuesday, December 19th, was uneventful. I went downstairs and brought my cereal back up to our room to be with Sasha (we were taking our meals and living completely upstairs due to her surgery). I surfed the Internet from the La-Z-Boy and enjoyed the sun streaming in through the sliding glass doors.

As I prepared for my nap (I was constantly tired throughout my pregnancy, and napped often -- the luxuries of a first pregnancy!) I noticed a clear discharge that was "different." I thought about it for about a minute, since I had just read in one of those helpful books that you need to watch out for something of that nature, as it could one of the first signs that your water has broken, or you have a leak. I thought, "hmm, that's weird," and then went to sleep.

When I woke up about an hour and a half later, my thighs were wet. Not soaked, but wet. There were also a few small wet spots on the pillowcase of the pillow I was using between my knees. I thought, "either I've peed myself, or my water has broken." I went to the toilet and felt a trickle. I was pretty sure I hadn't peed myself.

So I called the doctor's office, and said, "Hi, this is VDog (not really), I'm at 30 weeks, and I think that my water has broken. I woke up from my nap and my thighs were wet blah blah blah, I could have just peed myself, but I'm pretty sure that my water has broken."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"Ok, the doctor is on-call at the hospital right now; I'll have her give you a call."

The doctor literally called me back within three minutes. She has always been prompt at returning my calls, but I knew this meant it was SERIOUS.

"Doctor Amy" (she actually says, "this is Amy"; I LOVE that) has a very soothing, calming voice, and it was very reassuring for me to hear her voice. Although what she had to say was not reassuring -- after I told her what had been going on, she said, "Well, it definitely has to be checked out, and the best place to do that is here in Labor & Delivery."

This concludes Part Two. Stay tuned for Part Three where I FREAK OUT!!! and get hospitalized.

I promise to not let so much time lapse between "episodes" Two and Three!

28 Years Ago Today

My Mom went into labor while she was watching Monday Night Football. She recounted this fact to me today, even though I already knew it, since is WAS a Monday, and today is Monday, and I was born the following afternoon, a Tuesday. (But I like hearing our birth story again and again.)

Tomorrow is a Tuesday. My twenty-eighth Birthday (that's for you, SAM, who told me "twenty-something is pretty vague" (or something to that effect), why yes, yes it is vague, SAM).

(Aside: people are TRYING to make me feel old, I swear! Warrior: "Almost 30!!" Everyone else: "I thought you were younger than that!" "So, how does it feel?" like this is some HUGE Birthday or something. I feel like, well, I'm already a Mom, so that makes you feel older than people your age without kids, I'm sure. Anyway, rambling....)

I was born in the ABC room at the hospital, also known as the "Alternative Birthing Center." This means my Mom got to have more control over our birth, and was able to have a steak dinner once she had pushed me out of the womb. Awesome, right?

I have to thank my Mom for birthing me. She endured around 22 hours of labor, I'm guessing, since I was born at 4:09pm, and MNF starts around 6pm here on the West Coast, all without any pain medication. Because she is that damn strong.

One of "my songs" growing up was "409" by the Beach Boys, for obvious reasons. It made me feel special, even though it was about a car. (Giddyup, giddyup, 409!)

A year ago today was my actual Birthday (last year it was on a Monday). I was trying to enjoy being 30 weeks pregnant. I had a lovely dinner out at a local Thai restaurant with the Warrior. We came home and took (what would be) my last preggie pictures. I don't know if I had a feeling or premonition or what have you, but I HAD TO HAVE those pictures taken. It was the biggest I would get, since the next day my water broke, and my cute basketball like stomach started shrinking. It makes me sad just thinking about it.

This year I will be going to lunch with my Mom and siblings, one of my best friends, #4 and hopefully #'s 7 & 8, if the BigGuy isn't too whacked from the Synagis shot he has to get that morning (and of course, the Little Man will be there!).

Tomorrow night we are getting a babysitter and most likely will go out for Thai food again. But this time the only thing to photograph afterwards would be a bloated belly from too much Pad Thai. HA.

Apparently Warrior has presents for me. Usually I make it abundantly clear what I want, or I buy stuff and tell him to wrap it up for me. We're super romantic like that. Heh.

I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!

Thanks, Mom, for bringing me into this world. Without you none of this would be possible (cheeeez).

Sasha's Concurrent Story, Part One

On December 11, 2006, CrackerDog Sasha went in for surgery to repair her torn right Achilles tendon. She had torn it while running after her frisbee the week before.

Sasha and I were at the park at sundown. I needed her to run off some energy. I was just going to give her a few more throws when it happened -- she abruptly stopped in her tracks and let out a yelp I had never heard from her before.

When she came home two days after her surgery, she cried all day long. Sasha had never cried for any reason before, so we knew she was in a sorry, sorry state. She was completely out of it from all of the sedatives they had given her. It was one of the saddest things I had seen as her "Mommy," and it broke my heart.

Needless to say, a lame dog was not what a twenty-nine week pregnant VDog wanted to deal with. Especially when I was the one who had to be home with her and her lame leg and our 40 million stairs.

Sasha had to be helped up and down the stairs with a towel under her hindquarters, lifting her up ever so slightly, so that not all of her weight was on either leg. This was no easy feat for either of us, Sasha fresh from surgery and me six+ months pregnant.

After one day of trying to get Sasha up and down numerous stairs (she was only allowed outside to go to the bathroom, and even then the trip was so challenging that we had to keep it to a minimum), Warrior made an early morning run to Home Depot to buy strips of sod, and a tarp to put the sod on, for the deck outside of our Master Bedroom (because here in California, even in December, the sod is all gone by 6am). It was a total Cracker maneuver, undertaken on the suggestion from our Cracker neighbor (and colleague of Warrior's), who had seen the idea in use for a dog across the street from him.

This is where Sasha and I holed up for the next week until my own unexpected hospitalization. We moved our entire living situation upstairs into our bedroom. I would make quick trips downstairs for bowls of cereal, yogurts, and microwaved food. We even set up our little TV tray and two chairs by which we ate our dinners. We moved our TV to the foot of our bed, along with our TiVo.

During the day, Sasha and I just hung out, me on the Internet and her sad in her bed. I ordered the bassinet, crib, infant car seat and stroller. I rarely ventured out as this required putting a cone on Sasha's head, which she hated, and involved much anxiety on both our parts.

I did go out to what would end up being my last OB visit on Thursday, December 14, for my 30 week check up. I was measuring the correct size, heartbeat was good and strong; everything seemed "normal." I had been excited because it was the first of my every-two-weeks appointments. I was making progress! But no, the next time I would see my Doctor would be the following Tuesday, the 19th, in Labor & Delivery at the hospital.

(Ok, back to Sasha.)

For the first few days, Sasha was so affected that she couldn't get up the will to eat. We hand fed her meals and put her plethora of medications in the tastiest stuff we could think of -- peanut butter, cream cheese, and finally, the wonder treat -- beef "pill pockets." The pill pockets are totally disgusting, and hand feeding your dog is not exactly pleasant, but at least it was minor preparation for Little Man's arrival. It was caring for a living being in a way that was very similar to caring for a baby -- doing everything for a creature that can not do anything for itself, even tasks that you wish you did not have to do.

It was an uncommonly nice stretch of weather, that week we were holed up together, so that made it more bearable. I remember having the door to the deck open with the curtains partially drawn, the sun warming my body and raising my spirits. I was taking in the situation as best I could, and trying not to get down about it.

Tearing the Achilles tendon is one of the worst injuries a dog can have. The surgeon said it is common in older Labradors and Dobermans. As far as we knew, Sasha was only supposed to be four, but she has always acted older, poor girl. The surgery sewed her tendon back together, and then the Cage cast was placed around her ankle, with pins going through her skin and bones. The Cage is basically like a miniature, semi-spherical bicycle rim and spoke set. It is disturbing and effective at the same time.

Once she had the surgery, we had to go back each week for bandage changes on the Cage. This lasted for eight weeks. After that, they wrapped her entire leg up in a splint that caused her to have even less mobility than with the Cage cast, which was eventually weight bearing (I didn't get to see that until after I came home from the hospital) and she had the unfortunate gait of Peg-Leg with it on. Which was actually pretty funny. But so sad at the same time. We were evil though, and laughed at her.

Sasha kept her Peg-Leg for four weeks, and then spent another four weeks in a soft wrap (kind of like a doggie Ace bandage). After ALL that, she got to go on very short leashed walks.

So we decided back in that first week of December, 2006, to do the surgery as soon as possible, since we were told the recovery was a three to four month minimum. "Great!" we thought, "Sasha will be pretty much recovered once we're ready to get out with the baby!" who was due February 24, 2007.

Little Man, however, had other plans.

Stay tuned for Part Two of both Sasha and Little Man's stories.

Btw, don'tcha just love my Cracker-style "Photoshop" job? Ya, I did that with MS Paint. Cuz I'm a Cracker. Totally.

Le Sigh

I just had a trying dinner with the Little Man, to say the least. He wouldn't eat anything I put in front of him. Not even Cheerios. It was that damn bad.

I managed to get some baby food down him, and his reflux medicine.

By the end of the meal, both my shirt and pants were wet.

He refused to take his nap this afternoon, which no doubt was the reason for him being Fussy McFusserson tonight. But the rest of the day had been nice. What happened? Ugh.

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Little Man has managed to chip his left front tooth after he had it for only about two weeks. This says to me that I am in serious trouble for the future. I have no idea how he did it. I can only "look forward" to more of his craziness as he gets older.

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Today at Gymboree I got the dreaded dropped octave "Oh." You know the one? Where the person you are talking to lowers their voice and gives you that, "OH" (while they think to themselves, "how awful, OMG, what do I say now?").

We are trying out the "Level 3" classes since that is the age range Little Man is supposed to be in now -- 10 to 16 months -- and the minimum requirement skills-wise is that they be able to crawl. These classes are a whole different beast than the mellow, barely moving and shaking Level 2 classes for the 6 to 10 month olds.

I've noticed that Little Man is by far the least advanced and the shrimpiest out of the kids (but to be fair, there are SIXTEEN MONTH OLDS (!!!) there).

One boy I saw looked somewhat in the same range as Little Man, size-wise, so I asked how old "Jack" was. The mom said, "one next week."

She asked me about Little Man and I said that he'll be one three weeks from today, on New Year's Day.

"Oh, wow! When did you go in the hospital? When did you know?" she asked.

"Actually I went into the hospital with pre-term labor on December 19th at 30 weeks, and he was born at 32 weeks," I replied.

"Oh."
"Well he seems to be fine now!"

"Yeah, he's doing great," I shrank, absorbing the "Oh" of pity.

I haven't gotten that "oh" in a long time. Since Little Man has grown so tall, I've stopped getting the OMFG, WHY is your baby SO SMALL?!?!?!

Once, when he was five months old, a woman asked if he was two months old. That one really hurt.

It's so hard when I feel like people think that there's something "wrong" with my baby.

I can't believe the number of people who asked me in the last month if Little Man is walking yet. I mean, how many full-term ten month old boys do you know that are walking?? I don't know any. Grr....

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I'm feeling sensitive and a bit raw today.

*Le Sigh.*

Little Man's Story, Part One

In the beginning, there was the pregnancy...and it was a rough pregnancy, marked by all-day-sickness through the fifteenth week. And more occasional vomiting after that.

There was implantation bleeding on day forty-nine, which was mistaken for a period. Then there was a scare in the eighth week, which turned out to be nothing of consequence.

In the eleventh week, there was a banner day of barfing -- seven sessions in all. But I never went twenty-four hours without being able to hold something down, so there was no hospitalization for that at least.

By the end of the first trimester I had lost sixteen pounds. I stopped getting bigger at thirty weeks, when I was admitted to the hospital for PROM, premature rupture of the membranes (water broke), so I never ended up actually net gaining any weight.

I worked part-time as a Nanny for two two-year-old girls for most of the pregnancy. One of the highlights was when I was retching into the sink (dry heaving) and one of the little girls ran up to me (the one who liked to follow rules) with the TV remote, saying, "here Victoria!" and then running off, not noticing that anything was amiss.

I was easily tired throughout the pregnancy -- Little Man was quite the dude already, sapping me of my energy and clear skin -- so I napped at least once a day. I kept waiting for that moment when I would feel FABULOUS!! like everyone/thing said I would during that "magical" second trimester. "Your energy will return and you'll feel like shopping for the layette at the end of your day." Um, yeah...not so much for me.

I had one fleeting moment on one day when I thought, "this is it! This is the energy returning! Sweet! This is gonna be great!" And then an hour later, it was gone. I never got that other, um, "urge" they talk about either. Oh well.

On the inside, Little Man was known as Little Bunny or #5. Shortly after I hit week sixteen, he made his presence felt. I was surprised at first because I had read that with your initial pregnancy it is more likely that you will feel the baby's movement at week twenty or later. Not Little Man. He was ready to start rockin' and rollin' in there.

From flutters to kicks, I loved every minute of his movements. It helped that Little Man was large for his gestational age (LGA) from at least the nineteenth week, when we had our ultrasound to find out that our Little Bunny was going to be our Little Man. I'm guessing a bigger baby means feeling the motions sooner.

According to babycenter, at nineteen weeks your baby should be about eight and a half ounces. At nineteen weeks, Little Man was already thirteen ounces!! What a big boy! And he looked exactly the same then in a profile shot as he does now. We envisioned our little cutie before he was even born.

Being the little cabotin (French word for ham or monkey, comedian) that he is, he even let the technician get the money shot -- we were having *GASP* a boy! (We both did audibly gasp when she told us. It was a pretty funny moment. We still couldn't tell anything until they printed out the picture for us.)

Before being hospitalized, the worst part of my pregnancy was when we went back east for Thanksgiving at GranCracker's house. We flew JetBlue. Our flight out was delayed. Six+ hours. In the airport. Six+ months pregnant. Fun stuff.

After a very long and uncomfortable flight, we arrived at GranCracker's at 2am Thanksgiving morning, when we had left our house around 6am the day before. Because we are TOTAL Crackers, we scheduled our flight home for the Monday after Thanksgiving, AT SIX A-FREAKIN'-M.

Since GranCracker's is roughly a two hour drive from the airport, we elected to stay in a hotel across from the airport on Sunday night. Guess how little sleep you get when you can't control the heat that's blasting into your room because it's freezing outside, there are a bazillion planes flying overhead BECAUSE YOU'RE ACROSS FROM THE AIRPORT, and you are six months pregnant? Yeah, NOT VERY MUCH.

Guess how many times you barf ON THE PLANE (WHICH YOU'VE NEVER DONE BEFORE) under these conditions? Twice. At least I got to experience the miracle that is the air-sick bag. HA!

I felt like crap for a week after that trip. When I told my OB about this, she said, "oh, that's when I tell most of my patients TO travel." I don't recommend it, sister. But maybe I'm just a big wussy. A big, barfing-prone wussy.

This takes us up to right before my Birthday and hospitalization (which occurred the next day), so stay tuned for Part Two!