Our Daily Bread

I have very few moments where my domestic abilities flourish into a prowess that I fantasize might make Martha Stewart faint with envy. Ok, maybe there’s just one. I make Mister Finn’s food. I cook him meat and vegetables (because he bizarrely prefers them to fruit and grains), purée them in the blender, fill these little BPA-free containers, and freeze them in labeled bags. It’s actually not that hard. But I always feel proud when I peer into the freezer and see these colored bricks glistening with freezer dew.

{clockwise from top left: cherries, spinach and beef, mango and chicken, sweet potatoes, pears and pork}

As is common with preemies, Mister Finn has a now-ingrained physiological suspicion of new textures coming towards his face and going down his throat. Chunky foods cause much distress and usually end in gagging and vomiting. We are making improvement with chunky solids, but it’s really slow. We’re seeing an Occupational Therapist who maintains that we’re all doing great; even though our 17 month old can barely choke down a miniscule bite of pineapple.

Also, he is a blossoming tyrant toddler who must assert that he is the agent who will decide what and how much he eats.

Eating is emotional and precarious for all of us now. Sometimes we have peaceful lunches of roast beef (puréed to perfection, of course); other dinners feature screaming refusals of chicken and avocado (which he gobbled up happily the day before). The romance of my frozen orange and green cubes dissolves quickly. Along with the smattering of rejected offerings on the floor, which the puppy eagerly laps up while dodging more air strikes from the high chair.

The whole process can be exhausting.

I am grateful that my child is at least eating, as I’ve heard that many toddlers can’t be bothered with the activity. I figure the worst thing that could happen is he could end up eating soup and smoothies the rest of his life. Which won’t happen. (right?)

In case you live in Washington state and haven’t heard…

You need to vote YES on Referendum. 71.

What is Referendum 71?  It is a question to voters: Should gay couples be allowed to keep the rights that they already have in Washington state?

I can’t believe this is even a question.

Coupled straight people: Imagine the citizens of Washington state voting on whether or not you should be allowed to visit your spouse in the hospital without harassment.

Fathers: Imagine having to adopt your own child.

Iowa is looking really good right about now. Or sundry states on the Eastern Seaboard. Or Canada. Or Europe.

 

Words

In order of appearance:

Mama (sometimes “May-May” for Mommy, for Wifey)

Puppy (always whispered like a secret)

Book

Winnie (Wee-Wee)

Up

Walk (pointing to stroller)

Eat (usually an excited chorus after we suggest eating)

Read (pointing to bookshelf)

Milk (after every swallow of milk, often followed with applause)

Asher (first he said “Ash-way” then “AsheT”)

Good Girl (meaning Winnie)

No (often)

Yup

Ummmm….  (holding the phone coquettishly to his cheek)

Hi (usually “hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi”)

Poop (first said today, after he pooped)

Sentences:

Read book.

She’s a good girl.

dominoes on a given day

Aside from books, dominoes are Mister Finn’s favorite toy. They are scattered around our house in a fashion that could appear meaningful, like abstract mathematical equations.

He taps them together, pleased with the sound. If we bring two with us when we go out, they will keep him amused for a long time. (Which in baby-time is about 7 minutes.)

He uses them to touch other things around the house, too, like Winnie and the DVD player.

dreams

I think it’s because things feel like they’ve settled down here that I’ve been having thoughts of wanting another baby. We feel more grounded as a family: we have an awesome babysitter who comes 6 hours/week so I can go to the studio, we’re more financially secure, Wifey’s work schedule is more manageable, and A. gets more wonderful every day.

For me, it’s not necessarily a logical thing to want another baby; it feels more biological, or hormonal. Or something. I’m having baby urges again. It’s hard though, because the exuberance of the urges is tempered by the thought that I can’t get pregnant again (because I might have the same complications as last time, my liver could shut down and I could die).

Last night I had a dream that I had just found out I was pregnant. I was giddy with joy, but then I would remember the warnings of the liver doctor, then happy again, back and forth. I was walking down a street in a foreign country (Spain?), and there were women singing on the side of the street. I was wondering excitedly, “I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl?” And just as my mind formed the word “girl,” my favorite girl name came as the next word in the women’s song. I was sure it was a sign that I was having a girl, this would be my S.  I was light with joy.

I’ve had an ache in my heart all day, because this won’t ever happen. It seemed so real; it is not that crazy a thing: to already have a beautiful child and then to get to have another. I won’t ever be pregnant again.  It was such a beautiful dream. It felt so natural. I felt so at home with the feeling of having a baby girl growing inside me.

I’m haunted with the thought that maybe there’s some way I could get pregnant again and stay healthy. Maybe my complications in my pregnancy with A. originated with the placenta, as opposed to originating with my body. The doctors acknowledge that this is a possibility, but maintain that there is no way to know. It could have been the placenta, and I could be fine next time. Or it could be that my liver shuts down when I’m pregnant. If I were to get pregnant again and my liver started shutting down, it could be at 27 weeks, or 34 weeks, or 16 weeks, or 23 weeks. The baby would have to come out and most likely struggle in the NICU for months, and be at risk for many many complications we were so fortunate to have dodged with A.  I would hopefully survive and hopefully my liver would recover after 3 months of steroids.

I’m totally on board with the logic that it is not worth these risks.

Wifey would probably do splendidly pregnant, and yes, we are lucky that there is another uterus among us. She has never had the subconscious/conscious/bodily urges to be pregnant. She’s also not sure she wants another child. Which is totally reasonable. She’s (I admit, rightfully) terrified of increasing the chaos in our life. She agrees that it would be doable, it’s just that our resources are thin. Our place is just barely big enough for the three of us, our income just barely enough, our time with each other and for ourselves is already stretched thin.  It’s the logical thing to enjoy the settled feelings we’re experiencing now with our little family, rather than throw it into upheaval and invite more unknowables.

I still often feel like I can’t believe I was really pregnant. We had a pregnant friend over last night who is having a great pregnancy, and she looks perfectly healthy and totally wonderful. I guess even if I never looked like that, I was still pregnant. Our pregnancy was terrifying most of the time, but I was still pregnant. I was swollen and not beautiful, but I was still pregnant.

August 2007, didn’t even know I was pregnant yet:

Just a few weeks pregnant, already nauseous and zonked.

13 weeks:

15 weeks:

17 weeks

20 weeks, Christmas

21 weeks, January 2008

25 weeks

26 weeks

27 weeks

27 weeks 3 days: February 9th 2008

Music For Mister Finn and His Babyfriends

Hello friends in the real world and inter-world alike.  I’m making a mix of music for Mister Finn and his babyfriends. Do YOU want a copy? I will mail you a CD! A real, live one, that will traverse over hills and mountains and maybe even oceans to get to you.

Mixed Messages

Mister Finn has been doing this really lovely thing where he acts tired (rubbing eyes, yawning, fussy, wanting to nurse) and then the minute we begin the process of getting him down for a nap his eyes spring open and he starts babbling and orating animatedly, doing everything he can to tell us that he is WIDE! AWAKE! Usually, lately, he has been sucessful with his tomfoolery; that is, his dumb parents see his spritely behavior and conclude, “why look! he’s not tired after all!” So we don’t put him down and go on with the day’s activities, only to find a once-again sleepy baby an hour later. But now I’m on to him! And presently he is screaming in his bed, awake.

About Pride (and Prejudice)

{I wrote this for Mister Finn a few weeks ago but it got lost in the hospital adventure.}

To my A.,

You are only one year old and you can’t read yet (though sometimes it seems like you can), but I am writing you a letter today to tell you about Pride. You went to your first Pride parade yesterday!  We walked through the streets of Seattle and people cheered for us, for you, with colorful flags waving and music playing. You bobbed along in my “pouch” like a baby kangaroo, excited by the drums and costumes and people clapping.

You are growing up SO FAST, that I imagine it won’t be too long before you’re asking us, “What’s Pride?” just like you’ll ask us “What’s Halloween?” or “What’s Christmas?” I feel both happy and sad at the thought of explaining Pride to you. I’m happy because Pride is a fun, joyful holiday where people all over the world celebrate the people they love. I’m sad because the Pride holiday exists because of prejudice.

I wish I could only tell you about Pride, and not prejudice; I wish I could shower you with all the beautiful things in the world, and protect you from anything bad. But I think the best protection I can give you as your mama is to teach you about the world and how to survive in it. You are a strong, happy, smart boy, and your heart is the size of an ocean. I don’t doubt that even with its flaws, you will find the world beautiful.

So, sweet thing, there are a lot of unhappy people in the world that live their lives in fear. People do crazy things when they are unhappy and afraid. They are so scared of everything that instead of seeing other people as potential friends, they see them as enemies. They hate people without ever having met them! They are “prejudiced” because they are judging people prior to knowing them. The unhappy people in our country have hated many people in the past. They’ve hated the Native Americans, the African Americans, the Japanese Americans, the Mexican Americans, the Muslim Americans. They often hate people that are different from themselves. Then, a few years later, they realize they should not have hated those people. Right now, in your lifetime, the unhappy people in our country are afraid of families that have two mothers or two fathers.

We can’t explain what makes people so unhappy, we can just hope that they find love and happiness in their lives someday. We celebrate “Pride” because we are proud! We are proud to be alive and to be happy, and proud to love other people. We play music and dance and we look for rainbow fairies. We celebrate families of all kinds: familes with two moms, families with two dads, families with zero moms and zero dads but one grandma and one brother, families with one mom, families with one mom and one dad, families with two uncles, families with one dad and two aunts: there are SO MANY different kinds of families and none of them is better than the other. We all get to live and love on this planet together, and we are proud.

Every June, people celebrate Pride in Hong Kong,

in Dublin,

In Atlanta,

In India,

In Israel,

in Seattle,

and in many more cities all over the world.

Pride is a reminder of the beauty and bounty in a life filled with love.

I am so happy that you are the sundrop I get to love and find rainbow fairies with.

Love,

Your Mama

It’s in the Intonation

I say to Mister Finn, “I love you.”  And he says, “I la la.”

Nope, not ghost knots. Real knots.

It turns out I was especially worried about Mister Finn’s cough for a reason. {How does this parental “intuition” thing work?? What does it mean? How do I keep myself from having false-alarm freak-outs, now that I’m apparently developing a track record of sensing correctly when something is wrong with my baby?}

On Wednesday morning the cough was worse, and about 10 minutes after Wifey left for work I heard him wheezing. He also seemed to be having chest retractions. So I threw some diapers and my wallet in a bag and took him to the emergency room at the hospital where he was born and spent his third trimester. It was terrifying hearing his wheezing from the back seat. Tears were streaming down my face by the time we got to the ER. I called Wifey at work and she took the bus up the hill right away.

The kind yet condescending (or maybe kindly condescending?) pediatrician ordered chest x-rays, albuterol breathing treatments, and steroids to be given orally, which were promptly thrown up all over me. His lungs looked and sounded clear, but because they didn’t know if he was going to get better or worse, the pediatrician wanted him to stay overnight for observation.

We were treated really well, and the whole ER experience was not really too bad until a guy next door arrived thrashing and yelling, strung out on something. Apparently in hospital-speak “code orange” means “uncooperative guest; need police.” My anxiety peaked right around then. It was terrifying overhearing what was going on on the other side of the wall, and I really wanted to grab my baby and run out the door.

Upstairs in the pediatric unit,  A. did great all night (with breathing treatments every 2-3 hours from a Respiratory Therapist) and responded well to the albuterol, which further signaled that this isn’t an infection (other than the common cold, or some strain of it). We took turns sleeping in the crib with him– a sight no one batted an eye at.

The diagnosis was simply a virus that triggered a reflex in A.’s baby lungs to tighten– a very common reflex in babies (?). It was basically an asthma attack, but one that is specific to a virus, not an ongoing condition.

The whole thing was very surreal, like we couldn’t really believe this was happening. All the same sounds and smells and food as our big hospital adventure last year. The lasagna tasted the same. The feeling when the ladies came in to check the trash was the same.

We were discharged Thursday morning with treatments to continue giving A. at home, and we got home around 1pm. It seemed that as soon as we left the hospital he was coughing more and working harder to breathe. It continued after we were home for an hour and a half, so we called the the pediatrician’s office. The nurse there said if he was still having symptoms of difficulty breathing we should take him back to the hospital.

So, back to the ER. (This too felt like a repeat of last year, when I was discharged only to be readmitted two days later when my c-section incision opened.) After more exams by more nurses and doctors, the pediatrician examined him and said that he is fine!  He was still having some difficulty breathing purely because he’s still getting over the virus. The pediatrician also said that there is a wide spectrum of respiratory issues in babies, and A.’s episode was mild. The pediatrician isn’t worried about him at all.

We assumed that this whole ordeal was related to his prematurity, but apparently it isn’t (!?!) and this happens to full-term babies often. They said the best test indicating that A.’s lungs are “good to go” (with no lasting effects of prematurity) is the fact that he didn’t get a single infection –viral or bacterial– his entire first year.

For 2 days we did albuterol treatments via inhaler (which are completely painless, yet totally awful, with him screaming and kicking and it feels like we’re torturing him) and steroids. He hasn’t really been acting that sick; still crawling and laughing and “dancing” to his music.

I managed to write a rather cheery post about all of this on Mister Finn’s blog, for all of his friends and family to read, to let them know he is OK. (I cut and pasted some of that post into this one, which may be why the mood here is rather choppy). I suppose I also managed to be strong through the whole thing. But I’m kind of on the verge of falling apart inside. The whole thing was really scary, and seems to have left a hole in my heart. I thought about Maddie pretty much the entire time all of this was happening, obsessively, repeatedly remembering the details of her last hours.

When I’m living our beautifully chaotic every-day life, I thankfully take it for granted. When we’re thrust for 28 hours into a nightmare, I am reminded that I have no right to take our life for granted. I read people’s blogs –some utterly unimaginably devastating, some seemingly giddy with perfection– and am keenly aware that fankly, there are lives to be lived that are heavenly, and those that are hellish. Who/what puts people on either side of that line?–I have no fucking clue.  I do believe that it’s not black or white; of course there is some good in every bad story and vice versa. But really, people and their luck seem to fall on one side or the other, for no apparent reason. I don’t believe in people “deserving” the things that happen to them. It just happens, and one day you’re in heaven and the next you’re in hell. In the ER, in the hospital overnight, driving back to the ER the next day (and now as a fading haunt), frightening, nagging questions pulled at my insides: Why shouldn’t my family be thrust into hell like some of the other families with their babies in the hospital? Why does someone else’s beautiful child die and mine live? What is keeping us on the “heaven” side of the line, and are we secure in our place there? Why did Maddie’s sickness escalate into a nightmare, while A.’s only peeked in on one? The hospital is the place where my assumptions about life come crashing down all around me. There are no rules there, and no one cares which side of the fence you’re supposed to be on. Superstitions aren’t entertained and prayers are ignored. Any notion of “fairness” is laughed at.

I walked around Target yesterday in a partially celebratory (my baby is fine, right?), partially shell-shocked (my baby is fine, right?) daze, feeling like if I did not buy him this ensemble of board books then all hope might be lost. My past is filled with so many sullen strolls through the aisles of Target’s baby section (longing to be pregnant, then longing to not have a miscarriage… longing for my baby to not have a chromosomal abnormality… longing for him to be a “miracle baby” that survives the NICU without a scrape… longing to take him home… longing to care for him without a cloud of anxiety over my head… ) But here I am now: I have a baby. I have a beautiful boy to read these books to. To not buy them is to give up my place on the heaven side. So, I buy them defiantly, wishing I believed that someone was taking note.