Else what's a heaven for?

I deeply regret not updating this journal: there have been so many precious moments that can never be caught on film, whether because I don't have a camera at my fingertips, or the light is too dark, or because some things are just ephemeral. I miss his little squeaks from the NICU, which became bleats shortly after he got home. I miss the way he slept under the jaundice lights, with his arms over head and his feet in the air, tossing his head. He seems so big to me, now that he is over 7lbs. Jon suggested that maybe the reason they rarely need cutting, even at 8 weeks, is that his fingers are growing faster than the nails. I keep meaning to write about him, but I only get to a keyboard every few days: I spend my days feeding him, fretting about feeding him, lying underneath him and wondering if I can get up and get something done. (The answer is always no, in case you're wondering, and it's as if he has a sixth sense about when Mommy is about to eat a much-needed meal.) I keep composing posts in my head, but they never get inputted.

It's probably just as well I never wrote the one about the NICU. Short version: it was inefficient, inconsistent, and nobody ever explained the rules or what I was supposed to do. I got harangued for things I didn't know were required and his discharge was delayed twice by nurses who did things differently than a predecessor. If I didn't adore my obstetrician (and his partner who actually delivered our son) I would have a hard time going back to Roosevelt. OTOH, there was one nurse, Evelyn, who took extra special care of our son and gave me the exact right pep talk when it was time to come home. And, most importantly, they took good care of him: he was on the baby CPAP for just 19 hours, he was out of the warmer and off the gavage (nose feeding tube) on his fifth day. A week later, he came home with us.

We spent 3 weeks at my parents' house, where my mother took him for at least part of the evening so I (and Jon when he was there) could get some rest. This meant we were there for Thanksgiving, which wasn't much of a family gathering for me as my brother and his family, including his cold-carrying toddler, were there, so Jon and I took turns watching the baby in another part of the house. I was supposed to come back to Brooklyn after that, but didn't quite feel ready to be a sole parent during the day, so I stayed another week and a half. By the time Christmas rolled around, I was ready for a good night's sleep again.

The two toughest parts so far have been eating and sleeping. My mother told me nursing is "easy" and "natural". Not with a preemie. The most magical moment of motherhood so far was the first time I put him to my breast, seeing my tiny baby, whose head was smaller than my breast and whose nose and ear were smaller than my nipple, try so valiantly to suckle. My mother had a lot of helpful hints and for a while we managed to get him to nurse by having one adult hold his arms while I held him to my breast. Eventually I swaddled him and used a nipple shield to get him to feed. I struggled with hiring a lactation consultant, and the one I hired is kooky and I'm not sure I agree with much of what she suggests, but other than the day where I thought my milk stopped and he wouldn't eat, things are so much better than they were. (Ok, that was yesterday, but still.) It's tough that there's no real good way of figuring out if nursing is going well: if he is spending a lot of time at the breast, does that mean he is inefficient or there's a lot to drink? Is he sleeping longer between feedings because he is full or because he has a cold? ARGH!

I was so excited that somehow the crib arrived before the baby was discharged -- and he won't sleep in it. He has never spent more than an hour in it because he fusses and fusses, escalating to unignorable wails. I was planning on doing mostly attachment parenting - it worked for me and my siblings! - but somehow our NICU baby now demands to constantly sleep on one of his parents. Jon and I sleep in shifts, but it still means I have to force myself to bed by 10 and Jon is getting more and more zombie-like. Oh well, at least we've learned to grab our cuddles and conversation we can, in the few minutes between Jon putting him in his crib and the serious wails. Our pediatrician argues very persuasively that babies get a free pass for the first hundred days and then the "sleep learning" can begin.

Oddly enough, I feel less connected to him when we're at my parents' house and there are others who can and will take care of him. He's most adorable after he's squalled his way through a bath and is finally clean and calm, or when he purses his lips before feeding, or when he's looking around after he's latched on, sometimes suspiciously, sometimes curiously. If I weren't exhausted, I wouldn't get to have these moments. My parents told me for years that having a baby would magically make me willing to do anything for him. I know now they lied because they wanted grandkids, and maybe because it was like that for them. I also know my system is flooded with oxytocin to make it true -- and I'm kind of okay with this new baby mind control.