A Panoramic View

My apologies for being so delinquent in keeping this blog current. Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking it takes more than a matter of minutes to give a glimpse of what is happening here.

Thankfully, Quinn's diagnostic tests came back without any indication that she has an abnormality, aortic block, or another obvious problem. Believe it or not, she is perfectly healthy! It didn't register what a stress the notion that she might need surgery or anything invasive was until I heard that good news. If the hospital had a bar, I would have ordered drinks for everyone... maybe a few!

Of course, the flip side of that delightful news is that neither I, nor the doctor, have any idea why she can eat a third of what she was when we left the NICU, and half of the time she vomits that mere amount back up. Until Quinn grows out of it I will be knocking myself out trying to discover the perfect formula of formula, mother's milk, amount and frequency to keep her growing like seaweed.

Today, her full-cheeks and chubby legs weigh in at 8.5lbs... Amazing growth over the three months since her birth-weight of 3lbs 14oz. People comment that she must be a newborn, but to my untrained eye she looks like a moose.

The ink black hair Quinn got from her Dad has turned a nutty reddish brown. Her eyes remain that indistinct grey that babies are said to have; at times I see streaks and shadows of brown, but at other times a rich blue looks back at me.

Every morning my parents kindly ask how much sleep I got during the night. More often than not, I am still in my robe, looking utterly discombobulated, without much recall from the night before. Sleep is a sweet memory, but I can't say I miss it all that much. Quinn gets all the rest she wants, and is quite peaceful -- at least when she isn't puking.

In all honesty, it doesn't matter in the least how much or little sleep I may be getting. The light of my day comes from Quinn's chirps and chortles, and the long gazes she bestows upon me as if I am worthy to be watched. And the gravity that keeps my feet planted to the floor is the call or email from Jack assuring me that he is alive and well.

Some insight into a "bad" day for Jack and other soldiers in combat zones brings my gripes to a quick halt and leaves my tongue lax. A "rough" day for them reverberates to the other side of the globe into a rippling wave of devastation for family and friends. This panorama of pain puts it all in perspective, and I chide myself for ever momentarily forgetting that.

Sending our love and my appreciation to those near and far,
Mama Murphy & Miss Q