Before Jack has even had a chance to see her, I nearly broke the baby.
After a sleepless night filled with the fun effects of baby acid reflux, I pulled Quinn out of her crib and onto my chest so she might sleep for an hour before I had to wake up.
When the phone rang just after dawn, I smiled knowing it was Jack calling with his latest coordinates as he journeys back for his two-week break from war. While trying not to stir Quinn, I slowly slid out of my bed and lumbered towards the phone.
The next few seconds play painfully slowly in my mind. . .
As bizarre as it sounds, it wasn't until I was standing that it became apparent that not just one, but both of my legs were completely asleep and not under my control.
This kind of freakish thing should only happen in a dream where I'm embodying various physical realities -- a winged creature that soars in and out of scenes, or an Olympic high-jumper who pivots about different planets defying the precepts of physics.
Just as my body gave way to gravity, it became clear my dreams had concluded and I was in a waking nightmare.
As if watching a frame by frame replay of the Twin Towers collapsing, I saw the room pass my eyes as my legs crumpled, and the weight of my body toppled to the floor. Arms wrapped around Quinn, I held her tightly until I hit the floor. The force with which I and the ground met propelled Quinn right out of my arms.
Her body a mere object of physics, Quinn was launched into the air and then -- to my absolute horror -- she bounced upon the wooden floor.
People joke that kids are made of rubber, but I can't form with words how ghastly a sight it was to see my little girl's body literally bounce on the floor.
Startled out of her slumber, Quinn awoke with a scream that lasted only a matter of seconds. I scrambled with my dysfunctional legs to scoop her up and see if I had indeed broken the baby.
With her head and limbs all in tact, I tearfully professed to Quinn that I'd never let something so stupid happen again.
When I brought Quinn to the doctor, my head was so fuzzy with fears of how I may have hurt her that I managed to back into my parents' car, just to put another (far more minor) dent in the day.
Thankfully, it was confirmed that all was fine with Quinn. In fact, the pediatrician quipped that her birth was far more traumatic than a few inch fall to the floor.
Nonetheless, I can't help but feel my competency and mastery of motherhood to be seriously lacking . . . and just hope she is in one piece by the time her Daddy gets here.
Better tales next time,
The (Literally) Bouncy Baby Girl and Her Moronic Mother
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
My Next Excellent Blunder
Before I get too distracted and overcome by "Mommy-Brain," and pretend I can multitask, I should note the important stuff:
Quinn is doing fabulously, she has adjusted very well to her new home and is sleeping as soundly as anyone can when explosions are occurring in their pants.
Although still dependent upon that nasty penguin food (a story for another time), she is thriving just fine. At last weigh-in, she was a whopping 6lbs 4oz. Before too long, she'll have doubled in weight, and -- I like to think -- in cuteness.
She was pretty darn cute at birth, and maybe it's just me not being terribly current with the younger generation's fads, but I just don't find translucent skin all that flattering.
Lucky for Quinn she isn't a teenager and doesn't realize I'm already doing a stellar job embarrassing her whenever presented the opportunity.
Like this morning when I went to bring in the recycling bins and I bumped into a neighbor who kind of looked at me funny but didn't say anything . . . about the hands-free breast pump I still had attached to my waist, like the most ridiculous iPod leftover from the '80s. (Thank goodness I had the sense to take the upper and more revealing part off before venturing outdoors!)
Just the other evening, I fooled myself into believing I was acclimating to the lack of sleep and serious consumption of mental energy that comes with constantly thinking about someone else eating, breathing, and pooping.
That's about the time I felt my leg getting wet and I looked down annoyingly expecting to see the dog drooling on me, when I realized I'd been prancing around my parents' house -- with freshly cleaned carpets -- all the while pumping breastmilk without a bottle attached to collect the damn stuff. Awesome.
I'm becoming that sad clash of cool technology meets pathetic. It's official; I have arrived at parenthood.
If she's paying any attention to what a blockhead I am, Quinn's first words will surely be "Mooom! Stop, you're so embarrassing me!" Poor kid.
Until my next excellent blunder...
Love,
the Bonehead & Her Teeny Tot
Quinn is doing fabulously, she has adjusted very well to her new home and is sleeping as soundly as anyone can when explosions are occurring in their pants.
Although still dependent upon that nasty penguin food (a story for another time), she is thriving just fine. At last weigh-in, she was a whopping 6lbs 4oz. Before too long, she'll have doubled in weight, and -- I like to think -- in cuteness.
She was pretty darn cute at birth, and maybe it's just me not being terribly current with the younger generation's fads, but I just don't find translucent skin all that flattering.
Lucky for Quinn she isn't a teenager and doesn't realize I'm already doing a stellar job embarrassing her whenever presented the opportunity.
Like this morning when I went to bring in the recycling bins and I bumped into a neighbor who kind of looked at me funny but didn't say anything . . . about the hands-free breast pump I still had attached to my waist, like the most ridiculous iPod leftover from the '80s. (Thank goodness I had the sense to take the upper and more revealing part off before venturing outdoors!)
Just the other evening, I fooled myself into believing I was acclimating to the lack of sleep and serious consumption of mental energy that comes with constantly thinking about someone else eating, breathing, and pooping.
That's about the time I felt my leg getting wet and I looked down annoyingly expecting to see the dog drooling on me, when I realized I'd been prancing around my parents' house -- with freshly cleaned carpets -- all the while pumping breastmilk without a bottle attached to collect the damn stuff. Awesome.
I'm becoming that sad clash of cool technology meets pathetic. It's official; I have arrived at parenthood.
If she's paying any attention to what a blockhead I am, Quinn's first words will surely be "Mooom! Stop, you're so embarrassing me!" Poor kid.
Until my next excellent blunder...
Love,
the Bonehead & Her Teeny Tot
Monday, March 16, 2009
Off the Plantation
So at last, I was able to deliver Quinn to Monterey... Although since we arrived, my activity level would leave some thinking I brought her not to the Golden State but to the State of Inertia.
Perhaps it was the whole build-up to our grand departure that has left me a bit listless and lazy. Even though I'd been well warned that a baby's discharge date tends to take parents a bit off guard, I shamefully had to ask the doctor to delay hers by a day because I was so unprepared. Taking her out of the hospital wasn't the big ordeal, but transporting her nearly a thousand miles was.
After a lot of hemming and hawing, the consensus was that flying would be the safest method of travel. The dangers of flying were decreased air pressure, and exposure to infection. Since Quinn doesn't have any lasting breathing issues, the decreased cabin pressure wasn't much of a concern, but the exposure to the Respiratory Syncytical Virus (RSV) -- what most of us would call a nasty cold -- made it a hard choice.
Sadly, I don't remember details from biology class like the Creb Cycle, but I am haunted by images from a video capturing a sneeze in slow motion. Having that horrifying video and scenes from the movie "Outbreak" running rampant through my mind, you can only image how paranoid I was about exposing Quinn to so many people on the trek back.
Surely the flight attendant thought I was nuts when a minute after boarding the plane I had my and Quinn's heads completely covered with a blanket. When she came by to ask what kind of beverage I'd want and I didn't even unveil my head to respond, she must have thought I was in need of something a heck of a lot stronger than apple juice.
I guess this is how early the lack of vanity sets in as a parent because I didn't care one iota if people thought I was molding the youngest member of the KKK, we were wanna-be vampires, or just simply someone who doesn't get off the plantation much.
Thankfully, we arrived without incident despite my jetliner jitters.
More pictures and video to come, along with a many thanks to all of you who helped us get home safely and sanely!
Besos,
J & the Jetsetter
Perhaps it was the whole build-up to our grand departure that has left me a bit listless and lazy. Even though I'd been well warned that a baby's discharge date tends to take parents a bit off guard, I shamefully had to ask the doctor to delay hers by a day because I was so unprepared. Taking her out of the hospital wasn't the big ordeal, but transporting her nearly a thousand miles was.
After a lot of hemming and hawing, the consensus was that flying would be the safest method of travel. The dangers of flying were decreased air pressure, and exposure to infection. Since Quinn doesn't have any lasting breathing issues, the decreased cabin pressure wasn't much of a concern, but the exposure to the Respiratory Syncytical Virus (RSV) -- what most of us would call a nasty cold -- made it a hard choice.
Sadly, I don't remember details from biology class like the Creb Cycle, but I am haunted by images from a video capturing a sneeze in slow motion. Having that horrifying video and scenes from the movie "Outbreak" running rampant through my mind, you can only image how paranoid I was about exposing Quinn to so many people on the trek back.
Surely the flight attendant thought I was nuts when a minute after boarding the plane I had my and Quinn's heads completely covered with a blanket. When she came by to ask what kind of beverage I'd want and I didn't even unveil my head to respond, she must have thought I was in need of something a heck of a lot stronger than apple juice.
I guess this is how early the lack of vanity sets in as a parent because I didn't care one iota if people thought I was molding the youngest member of the KKK, we were wanna-be vampires, or just simply someone who doesn't get off the plantation much.
Thankfully, we arrived without incident despite my jetliner jitters.
More pictures and video to come, along with a many thanks to all of you who helped us get home safely and sanely!
Besos,
J & the Jetsetter
Monday, March 9, 2009
Will Work for Food
It looks like we are approaching the end of our sabbatical here in Salt Lake City.
Eager for more food (at least the kid had my appetite), Quinn is learning to drink bottles of milk (mixed with nasty smelling penguin food) and drink directly from me.
Since she has already mastered the ability to keep herself warm in a crib, and exhibits no need for supplemental oxygen, her capability to demand and work for her food is the last major hurdle she must clear to graduate from the NICU. And work it is.
Unlike most full-term babies, premies usually don't automatically have the simultaneous suck-swallow-breathe skill until they reach their due date, which Quinn is slowly approaching later this month.
Her feedings are as much an aerobic exercise as a caloric boost. Every time she intakes food by bottle or boob (rather than tube), she pants to catch her breath and then slips into a coma as if she'd just run the Boston Marathon (in really tiny and cute Nikes of course).
In the meantime, her body is plumping up nicely. Her hands and feet don't look so slender, and it feels less frightening that I might crush with each cuddle. Once the tubes and monitors become unhooked, I'm sure she'll take on the appearance of a miniature human rather than some alien-tot.
Sadly, I didn't help with her weight gain this past week. After the super sensitive scale went haywire, I was left to guesstimate how much breastmilk Quinn sucked down. As it turns out, I'm not so good at this as I underestimated her ability and paid for it while I watched her gag and spit up the supplemental food she was then given. Then, to make matters worse, I over corrected for the next several feedings thinking she digested more than she did, which eventually caused her to lose weight. So much for the science of breastmilk guesstimation.
My poor judgment in how much Quinn drinks didn't buy me much credibility with her doctor. When her weight loss was discussed, it appeared to the doctor it was because I had argued not to have fortification reintroduced, but eventually she came to realize I'm not(or not trying to be) a slouch of a mom.
...It's been a few days since I meant to post this blog, and since then things have gone into warp speed...
Through protocol, the hospital staff ensures that they don't continue the premature habits of a premie by prematurely discharging them. However, I misunderstood some of the hurdles Quinn had to leap before she would get discharged. Before I knew it, she was well through the process and as of this afternoon, she will officially be out of the NICU.
I'll post more (and pictures for sure!) soon, but wanted to let you know all is more than well, and my apologies for the delay in updating everyone. My Mom is flying out today, and we will return to California with the newest member of the family tomorrow!
Unfortunately for all of you, it probably won't seem like she is out of the NICU.
As mentioned before, the strict guidelines given by the doctors to keep her from infection, which can literally be deadly to her, equate to essentially keeping in quarantine. Obviously, flying tomorrow is going to be interesting as I keep her entirely covered without her thinking she's Michael Jackson!
So again, I apologize that she won't be allowed to have visitors, but I promise to keep the blog more current with so many pictures and ridiculous stories it'll feel like you're watching a time-lapse video of Quinn the seedling.
Lots of love to you all,
J & Miss Quinn
Eager for more food (at least the kid had my appetite), Quinn is learning to drink bottles of milk (mixed with nasty smelling penguin food) and drink directly from me.
Since she has already mastered the ability to keep herself warm in a crib, and exhibits no need for supplemental oxygen, her capability to demand and work for her food is the last major hurdle she must clear to graduate from the NICU. And work it is.
Unlike most full-term babies, premies usually don't automatically have the simultaneous suck-swallow-breathe skill until they reach their due date, which Quinn is slowly approaching later this month.
Her feedings are as much an aerobic exercise as a caloric boost. Every time she intakes food by bottle or boob (rather than tube), she pants to catch her breath and then slips into a coma as if she'd just run the Boston Marathon (in really tiny and cute Nikes of course).
In the meantime, her body is plumping up nicely. Her hands and feet don't look so slender, and it feels less frightening that I might crush with each cuddle. Once the tubes and monitors become unhooked, I'm sure she'll take on the appearance of a miniature human rather than some alien-tot.
Sadly, I didn't help with her weight gain this past week. After the super sensitive scale went haywire, I was left to guesstimate how much breastmilk Quinn sucked down. As it turns out, I'm not so good at this as I underestimated her ability and paid for it while I watched her gag and spit up the supplemental food she was then given. Then, to make matters worse, I over corrected for the next several feedings thinking she digested more than she did, which eventually caused her to lose weight. So much for the science of breastmilk guesstimation.
My poor judgment in how much Quinn drinks didn't buy me much credibility with her doctor. When her weight loss was discussed, it appeared to the doctor it was because I had argued not to have fortification reintroduced, but eventually she came to realize I'm not(or not trying to be) a slouch of a mom.
...It's been a few days since I meant to post this blog, and since then things have gone into warp speed...
Through protocol, the hospital staff ensures that they don't continue the premature habits of a premie by prematurely discharging them. However, I misunderstood some of the hurdles Quinn had to leap before she would get discharged. Before I knew it, she was well through the process and as of this afternoon, she will officially be out of the NICU.
I'll post more (and pictures for sure!) soon, but wanted to let you know all is more than well, and my apologies for the delay in updating everyone. My Mom is flying out today, and we will return to California with the newest member of the family tomorrow!
Unfortunately for all of you, it probably won't seem like she is out of the NICU.
As mentioned before, the strict guidelines given by the doctors to keep her from infection, which can literally be deadly to her, equate to essentially keeping in quarantine. Obviously, flying tomorrow is going to be interesting as I keep her entirely covered without her thinking she's Michael Jackson!
So again, I apologize that she won't be allowed to have visitors, but I promise to keep the blog more current with so many pictures and ridiculous stories it'll feel like you're watching a time-lapse video of Quinn the seedling.
Lots of love to you all,
J & Miss Quinn
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A Mystery for Myth Busters
This is definitely becoming a case for Myth Busters, as the chocolate theory has been debunked!
As much as I miss my daily dose of chocolate, this is rather disappointing news. In part because the kick in the pants to that theory came last night in the form of yet another stinking (and stinky) bloody diaper. Ugh!
Fortunately, the doctor didn't lose her cool and yank Quinn from her crib and toss her back into an incubator, suck the pleasures of a full belly with a garden hose down her throat, or call for a barrage of x-rays -- as we'd gone through before.
Considering this doctor and I don't approach the world with much similarity, it was such a relief that when the poo hit the propeller we were in full agreement.
Why this pattern keeps repeating whenever Quinn's daily intake tips the balance to be over 50 percent of Mama's Milk -- is utterly perplexing. How the refrigeration process of milk could make it so unpalatable is totally illogical, and if we go with the theory that she is lactose intolerant then how she can consume any without irritation is equally as peculiar.
As a consequence, for 24hrs Quinn was restricted to the digestive experience of a penguin for a while until her bowels settled down. Tonight she had a go at boob juice yet again, and with fingers crossed, we will hopefully see some healthier looking baby byproducts.
Now, no Myth Busters episode would be complete without some (near) explosions and gushing liquids. So to comply, my boobs volunteered for that part of this premie production.
(I know it seems like this is more of a boob than a baby blog, but when a part of your anatomy starts doing tricks that you were told it could do -- and then despite your disbelief it does -- it's phenomenal, and freaky all at once. And then, when those tricks backfire -- almost literally, you can't help but mention it.)
Essentially, I didn't completely drain my mammary ducts which caused a nasty condition a lot of Moms get called "mastitis." Medically this translates into: no fun at all!
It didn't start with hurting hooters, more like symptoms of the worst flu ever. And let me just say, if I had gotten the flu – or a cold, or even the hiccups – that kissy elderly couple from Park City would have had one mad Mama on their case!
Thankfully, unlike the flu a case of bursting boobs is not contagious and won’t keep me out of the NICU, nor even from feeding the little penguin now and then.
So, if anyone out there feels like taking on this mystery and coming up with a viable theory as to what is the deal with Quinn's bellicose belly, I will ensure that the University of Utah gives you a honorary doctorate, or at least a cool set of scrubs along with the petrified diaper to preserve as proof of a successful solution! Yum.
Your consolation prize awaits you. . .
Mama Murphy and the Persistent Penguin
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Not So Swiss Miss
Considering my parents are literally off-the-boat from Switzerland, it's logical that cheese and chocolate are thought to be (the only) food groups in my family. So, as a first generation American I fully intended to pass on this tasty bloodline to my offspring.
In fact, I rationalized that the results of a study by the University of Helsinki illustrating the lasting effect on happiness for babies born to chocolate-eating moms gave me not only license to eat chocolate, but would constitute child abuse if I failed to gobble some every day during my pregnancy.
Being a fan of scientific reasoning, I surmised that the endorphin exuding effects of chocolate in utero could be continued after birth via mother's milk.
Well, guess who shot that theory to hell.
Last week when Quinn's new doctor (they rotate them every three weeks) looked at her x-ray following her latest bloody stool, she asked the nurse what my diet was like. The nurse said she wasn't sure but was pretty certain it was fairly healthy and that I had stopped eating dairy in case Quinn is lactose intolerant. She was then stumped when the doctor asked about my consumption of chocolate. Uncertain, the nurse came to inquire about how often I eat the heavenly stuff.
When asked, I nearly fell off my seat. Suspicious if one of the other nurses or my friend Tiffany, all of whom had quickly learned how I relish dark chocolate, hadn't set me up for some cruel joke, I stood in disbelief as the theory of the cause of Quinn's bloody stools was relayed.
Turns out that some newborns have an adverse reaction to chocolate when received through breastmilk. Stupified, I explained that I'm 100% Swiss, how could my daughter not be able to digest chocolate?!?
As much as I'd like to start out each morning by diving into a bowl of melted chocolate and swimming a few laps before licking off every last drop, I generally don't do that, nor eat more than a small square each day -- if that!
Not only does she not look like me, she doesn't even have the fundamentals of my genetic makeup if she is lactose intolerant AND can't eat chocolate!
Obviously, I'm going to have to file for a maternity test.
So, as unnatural as it is, for the last several days I have been chocolate-free. To my and many others' surprise, it appears that Quinn's digestive malaise is passing and chocolate may indeed have been the cuplrit.
It's an easy fix, but I do wonder if there was a mix-up at the hospital as this little one is not much of a Swiss Miss!
In fact, I rationalized that the results of a study by the University of Helsinki illustrating the lasting effect on happiness for babies born to chocolate-eating moms gave me not only license to eat chocolate, but would constitute child abuse if I failed to gobble some every day during my pregnancy.
Being a fan of scientific reasoning, I surmised that the endorphin exuding effects of chocolate in utero could be continued after birth via mother's milk.
Well, guess who shot that theory to hell.
Last week when Quinn's new doctor (they rotate them every three weeks) looked at her x-ray following her latest bloody stool, she asked the nurse what my diet was like. The nurse said she wasn't sure but was pretty certain it was fairly healthy and that I had stopped eating dairy in case Quinn is lactose intolerant. She was then stumped when the doctor asked about my consumption of chocolate. Uncertain, the nurse came to inquire about how often I eat the heavenly stuff.
When asked, I nearly fell off my seat. Suspicious if one of the other nurses or my friend Tiffany, all of whom had quickly learned how I relish dark chocolate, hadn't set me up for some cruel joke, I stood in disbelief as the theory of the cause of Quinn's bloody stools was relayed.
Turns out that some newborns have an adverse reaction to chocolate when received through breastmilk. Stupified, I explained that I'm 100% Swiss, how could my daughter not be able to digest chocolate?!?
As much as I'd like to start out each morning by diving into a bowl of melted chocolate and swimming a few laps before licking off every last drop, I generally don't do that, nor eat more than a small square each day -- if that!
Not only does she not look like me, she doesn't even have the fundamentals of my genetic makeup if she is lactose intolerant AND can't eat chocolate!
Obviously, I'm going to have to file for a maternity test.
So, as unnatural as it is, for the last several days I have been chocolate-free. To my and many others' surprise, it appears that Quinn's digestive malaise is passing and chocolate may indeed have been the cuplrit.
It's an easy fix, but I do wonder if there was a mix-up at the hospital as this little one is not much of a Swiss Miss!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Making Mammory Memories
Ok, so the dog didn't eat my latest blog posting, but I still have a good excuse for being somewhat absent.
The whole biology of having a baby is so much easier than the paperwork these little tykes entail. I've spent much of what little free time I (and any new parent) have volleying about the city trying to add Quinn to our health insurance. The medical statements forwarded by my parents must be the cause of my new grey because in a little over a month, the digits add up into the hundreds of thousands. Suffice it to say, this hasn't been a cheap admittance to a little girl's early existence.
Aside from said medical minutia, I've been suckered into frequent fundraising for the Ronald McDonald House. Considering this organization has salvaged my sanity, it's the least I can do. Apparently, my little story works at making people dole out the cash; so there's at least some satisfaction knowing I can contribute to society (or someone!) in some small way.
However, last night's event was a bit off the hook for this Mormon mountain town.
My new friend Tiffany, also a NICU Mom (and the other mooring to which my mental health is kept upright), accompanied me to a cocktail fundraiser at someone's house in Park City. Since neither of us have had any alcohol in a number of months, we carefully sipped on our glass of wine while sharing our sob stories about how the Ronald McDonald House has helped us stay stable and sane through the unexpected.
For some, the party may have started long before we arrived. Although nearly everyone there was very senior to us, a few became far too friendly as there was no preservation of personal space. (I told myself that if those extra -- and unsolicited -- hugs and kisses brought some extra bucks to this charity, then it probably was worth pimping myself out for a few hours to some wealthy elderly folk.) Another woman, who made the night quite exceptional wasn't so much touchy as spacey as she asked us the same two questions every few minutes while never losing a gleefully glazed look.
With our milking schedules all amok, Tiffany and I eventually left. We drove into town where we excitedly hoped to have some sushi before spending the rest of our waking hours in the NICU.
Parked in a dark lot, we laughed at ourselves and the bizarre memories the night was bringing as we pulled out our individual pumps and hooked ourselves up like diary cattle. All set to go, the plan was foiled when (no -- thankfully, not the police interrupted) but the power on my pump failed. After several frustrating minutes of trying to troubleshoot the dumb thing, we gave up and walked into the building to find a bathroom in which we could hook up our boob gear.
Since we were on a roll with odd luck, it wasn't until we were again all hooked up to our equipment at the sink in a public bathroom (surely scaring anyone who walked in), that we discovered that outlet didn't work either.
With our mammary glands ready to pop from an overload of milk, we desperately sought out any -- functioning -- electrical outlet to plug into. Unabashedly, Tiffany and I ended up in an open stairwell of a building that housed several restaurants (including the sought after sushi stop).
Nearly peeing my pants from laughter as people uncomfortably walked by (and wondering if we were braking some subtle Utah law), we pushed the limits on public display of milking. We did contemplate making this a habit through which we could create a series of postcards of the various public places we might be found pumping.
Of course, by the end of our saga we lumbered our freshly made milk and ridiculous equipment back to the sushi restaurant, only to see the "closed" sign dangling in the window. Considering our hankering for having sushi (after many months of eating so cautiously) was a pivotal reason for our agreement to interrupt our NICU schedule and drive out to Park City, we remained undeterred by this latest snafu to our plans.
Luckily, the chef behind the bar was a bit uncomfortable with talk of our breastmilk and insisted we and our bottles of moo sit down and focus on the menu.
As expected, we found a number of appetizing aliments to quench our stubborn craving for sushi, and even brought some back to the NICU when we returned late that night. There, we each spent a few hours with our kids (Tiffany has twins), all of whom were in great health. Quinn was particularly alert and playful, which made the long night especially sweet (regardless of the sushi).
So, that's the latest (and perhaps most random and uninteresting, but hopefully humorous) news from Salt Lake City . . .
Mama & Quinn Murphy
The whole biology of having a baby is so much easier than the paperwork these little tykes entail. I've spent much of what little free time I (and any new parent) have volleying about the city trying to add Quinn to our health insurance. The medical statements forwarded by my parents must be the cause of my new grey because in a little over a month, the digits add up into the hundreds of thousands. Suffice it to say, this hasn't been a cheap admittance to a little girl's early existence.
Aside from said medical minutia, I've been suckered into frequent fundraising for the Ronald McDonald House. Considering this organization has salvaged my sanity, it's the least I can do. Apparently, my little story works at making people dole out the cash; so there's at least some satisfaction knowing I can contribute to society (or someone!) in some small way.
However, last night's event was a bit off the hook for this Mormon mountain town.
My new friend Tiffany, also a NICU Mom (and the other mooring to which my mental health is kept upright), accompanied me to a cocktail fundraiser at someone's house in Park City. Since neither of us have had any alcohol in a number of months, we carefully sipped on our glass of wine while sharing our sob stories about how the Ronald McDonald House has helped us stay stable and sane through the unexpected.
For some, the party may have started long before we arrived. Although nearly everyone there was very senior to us, a few became far too friendly as there was no preservation of personal space. (I told myself that if those extra -- and unsolicited -- hugs and kisses brought some extra bucks to this charity, then it probably was worth pimping myself out for a few hours to some wealthy elderly folk.) Another woman, who made the night quite exceptional wasn't so much touchy as spacey as she asked us the same two questions every few minutes while never losing a gleefully glazed look.
With our milking schedules all amok, Tiffany and I eventually left. We drove into town where we excitedly hoped to have some sushi before spending the rest of our waking hours in the NICU.
Parked in a dark lot, we laughed at ourselves and the bizarre memories the night was bringing as we pulled out our individual pumps and hooked ourselves up like diary cattle. All set to go, the plan was foiled when (no -- thankfully, not the police interrupted) but the power on my pump failed. After several frustrating minutes of trying to troubleshoot the dumb thing, we gave up and walked into the building to find a bathroom in which we could hook up our boob gear.
Since we were on a roll with odd luck, it wasn't until we were again all hooked up to our equipment at the sink in a public bathroom (surely scaring anyone who walked in), that we discovered that outlet didn't work either.
With our mammary glands ready to pop from an overload of milk, we desperately sought out any -- functioning -- electrical outlet to plug into. Unabashedly, Tiffany and I ended up in an open stairwell of a building that housed several restaurants (including the sought after sushi stop).
Nearly peeing my pants from laughter as people uncomfortably walked by (and wondering if we were braking some subtle Utah law), we pushed the limits on public display of milking. We did contemplate making this a habit through which we could create a series of postcards of the various public places we might be found pumping.
Of course, by the end of our saga we lumbered our freshly made milk and ridiculous equipment back to the sushi restaurant, only to see the "closed" sign dangling in the window. Considering our hankering for having sushi (after many months of eating so cautiously) was a pivotal reason for our agreement to interrupt our NICU schedule and drive out to Park City, we remained undeterred by this latest snafu to our plans.
Luckily, the chef behind the bar was a bit uncomfortable with talk of our breastmilk and insisted we and our bottles of moo sit down and focus on the menu.
As expected, we found a number of appetizing aliments to quench our stubborn craving for sushi, and even brought some back to the NICU when we returned late that night. There, we each spent a few hours with our kids (Tiffany has twins), all of whom were in great health. Quinn was particularly alert and playful, which made the long night especially sweet (regardless of the sushi).
So, that's the latest (and perhaps most random and uninteresting, but hopefully humorous) news from Salt Lake City . . .
Mama & Quinn Murphy
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Quotidian Quinn
0600 Grunt
0823 Kick off the covers and let them know someone will pay if I don't get fed soon!!!
0828 Look for a new target while making space in my intestines for incoming food.
0837 Hope for a change in the menu (like Cherry Garcia or at least vanilla flavor) before guzzling down mouthfuls of milk.
0913 Go into food coma . . .
1117 Repeat.
0823 Kick off the covers and let them know someone will pay if I don't get fed soon!!!
0828 Look for a new target while making space in my intestines for incoming food.
0837 Hope for a change in the menu (like Cherry Garcia or at least vanilla flavor) before guzzling down mouthfuls of milk.
0913 Go into food coma . . .
1117 Repeat.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Night Blossom
Last summer, our dog Oakley died. Even though Jack originally wasn't agog about pets when we started dating, Annie Oakley quickly won him over once he moved to Newport and she became his as much as mine.
He must have similar hesitations or disconnected feelings about parenthood. Finding out he is a father by phone must have been a peculiar experience, that continues as I send emails and pictures of our little creation each day.
Yet, I'm certain that as much as he thinks he loves and cares about her now while he's in Afghanistan, it won't compare to how it will feel once he holds her in his own arms (especially since she doesn't have nearly as much fur as did Oakley).
We had a tough time coming up with a name for our new dog, so you can imagine how we bantered about for a name that wouldn't send a kid to lifelong therapy. Luckily, about a week or two before she surprised us with her early birth, we settled on two names. "Finnegan" was the name if it was a boy, and "Madeline Quinn" if -- as predicted -- it was a girl. (As much as I still would like to name a kid Finnegan, that's just too much "inn" for one family.)
As it turns out, the nickname "Quinn" covers her paternal heritage. We knew it was an Irish alias, but we had no idea it was also Vietnamese. This was a discovery I made at the NICU when I met a nurse who is from Vietnam with the same name, but spelled "Quynh." Upon googling the name, I found its sweet meaning: "Night Blossoming Flower" -- (thank goodness it doesn't mean something like "Little Child of Horrors!").
Despite her incremental growth, there are (and will be) spurts of growth and change when our little budding girl seems more like a weed.
Over the weekend she had some nice developments as she was taken off oxygen (yahoo!) -- and has done superbly, and is really getting the hang of breast-feeding. She is still on penguin food, but allowed to keep whatever breastmilk she takes directly from me.
Last night, she again had some blood in her stool, however it wasn't anything like what we'd seen before, and somehow that makes me feel less concerned. An x-ray verified that it doesn't appear to be nec; and I am waiting to discuss with her doctor what other causes could be the culprit of her digestive disposition (such as lactose intolerance, a virus, or something in my diet).
And true to her name, this little flower is taking the requisite time to burgeon and bloom. As I gaze at her steady growth, I am reminded that the petals of a blossom cannot be forced to open, nor can our little seedling.
He must have similar hesitations or disconnected feelings about parenthood. Finding out he is a father by phone must have been a peculiar experience, that continues as I send emails and pictures of our little creation each day.
Yet, I'm certain that as much as he thinks he loves and cares about her now while he's in Afghanistan, it won't compare to how it will feel once he holds her in his own arms (especially since she doesn't have nearly as much fur as did Oakley).
We had a tough time coming up with a name for our new dog, so you can imagine how we bantered about for a name that wouldn't send a kid to lifelong therapy. Luckily, about a week or two before she surprised us with her early birth, we settled on two names. "Finnegan" was the name if it was a boy, and "Madeline Quinn" if -- as predicted -- it was a girl. (As much as I still would like to name a kid Finnegan, that's just too much "inn" for one family.)
As it turns out, the nickname "Quinn" covers her paternal heritage. We knew it was an Irish alias, but we had no idea it was also Vietnamese. This was a discovery I made at the NICU when I met a nurse who is from Vietnam with the same name, but spelled "Quynh." Upon googling the name, I found its sweet meaning: "Night Blossoming Flower" -- (thank goodness it doesn't mean something like "Little Child of Horrors!").
Despite her incremental growth, there are (and will be) spurts of growth and change when our little budding girl seems more like a weed.
Over the weekend she had some nice developments as she was taken off oxygen (yahoo!) -- and has done superbly, and is really getting the hang of breast-feeding. She is still on penguin food, but allowed to keep whatever breastmilk she takes directly from me.
Last night, she again had some blood in her stool, however it wasn't anything like what we'd seen before, and somehow that makes me feel less concerned. An x-ray verified that it doesn't appear to be nec; and I am waiting to discuss with her doctor what other causes could be the culprit of her digestive disposition (such as lactose intolerance, a virus, or something in my diet).
And true to her name, this little flower is taking the requisite time to burgeon and bloom. As I gaze at her steady growth, I am reminded that the petals of a blossom cannot be forced to open, nor can our little seedling.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Check Your Head
As with all premies, Quinn had her head checked by ultrasound the other day. Unlike the anticipated visit from the eye doctor who produces quite a scream from even the most tranquil of tots (as she pries open a baby's eyelids, then pokes and prods, and finishes up with something that looks like an electric toothbrush) -- Miss Quinn didn't even stir during the process.
Head and hair full of goo, Quinn snoozed as the technician looked for signs of intelligent life (and brain bleeds). Feigning to be a fixture in the room, I hung out to take pictures and see what it was all about. Humored by how hypnotic the ultrasound seemed to be for Quinn, I was full of jokes and smart-ass remarks... (Which quickly came back to bite me in that ever protruding body part).
Wooden faced, the technician said to me "Ok, I'm not the radiologist, but I think you'd better leave the room -- right now." Being only a week since the last time I felt my pulse ebb out of me, I blinked hard as again Quinn's fate seemed to turn with a mere moment; an audible gulp came from the nurse.
It felt like an entire lifetime passed in the silence before the technician's next words: "...Yeah, you'd better head straight to the bank and start saving up for this kid because she'll be heading to college sooner than later." Ahhhhhh...! My heart jump-started once my brain caught up with the prank.
Luckily, the ultrasound of Quinn's brain turned out fine. There was some questionable area for a brain bleed, but more than likely it's just natural brain development. If by chance it is a bleed, it is nothing to fret about. This sadly, is not the outcome for many kids.
While my sister was visiting, the kid in the next bed had much more dismal results, which are expected to manifest as problems with motor skills. The two of us felt awful that their news was less than they had hoped, and that we were fumbling around with a healthy Quinn just when they heard it.
Yesterday I again felt like I was intruding on someone's personal pain and denial as I overheard another parent yelling at her premie "You have a brain, just use it damnit!" Turns out, that child is in a vegetative state because he, in fact, does not have a brain.
Needless to say, the "bumps" in the road that Quinn has had as a premie pale in comparison to the challenges these families face. We are so lucky and grateful that our daughter is doing as well as she is, and thank each of you for your continued support and encouragement.
Much love from the mountains,
Mama Murphy
Head and hair full of goo, Quinn snoozed as the technician looked for signs of intelligent life (and brain bleeds). Feigning to be a fixture in the room, I hung out to take pictures and see what it was all about. Humored by how hypnotic the ultrasound seemed to be for Quinn, I was full of jokes and smart-ass remarks... (Which quickly came back to bite me in that ever protruding body part).
Wooden faced, the technician said to me "Ok, I'm not the radiologist, but I think you'd better leave the room -- right now." Being only a week since the last time I felt my pulse ebb out of me, I blinked hard as again Quinn's fate seemed to turn with a mere moment; an audible gulp came from the nurse.
It felt like an entire lifetime passed in the silence before the technician's next words: "...Yeah, you'd better head straight to the bank and start saving up for this kid because she'll be heading to college sooner than later." Ahhhhhh...! My heart jump-started once my brain caught up with the prank.
Luckily, the ultrasound of Quinn's brain turned out fine. There was some questionable area for a brain bleed, but more than likely it's just natural brain development. If by chance it is a bleed, it is nothing to fret about. This sadly, is not the outcome for many kids.
While my sister was visiting, the kid in the next bed had much more dismal results, which are expected to manifest as problems with motor skills. The two of us felt awful that their news was less than they had hoped, and that we were fumbling around with a healthy Quinn just when they heard it.
Yesterday I again felt like I was intruding on someone's personal pain and denial as I overheard another parent yelling at her premie "You have a brain, just use it damnit!" Turns out, that child is in a vegetative state because he, in fact, does not have a brain.
Needless to say, the "bumps" in the road that Quinn has had as a premie pale in comparison to the challenges these families face. We are so lucky and grateful that our daughter is doing as well as she is, and thank each of you for your continued support and encouragement.
Much love from the mountains,
Mama Murphy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
