There's no place like home

December 22-31, 2008:

After our daughter had been in the NICU for an entire week, we drove back to her birth hospital for what we prayed would be the final time regarding her, and ... God obliged! When we arrived, the (preferred) neonatologist had done all he could to get a tech in to read her test results asap, and as it turns out, with the meds, she passed her last test. Our precious little student didn't realize one of the most important exams of her life would be within her first week!

Of course, it's not like we could spirit her away to our cozy home just like that. We did have to jump through some hoops in the name of better-safe-than-sorry conservative medicine. And although that had its annoyances, honestly, as a mother, there was a part of me that was very glad for that approach. One of our conditions was that we had to both be certified in infant CPR. Boy, I'll tell ya, I was glad I insisted Jon and I take that class while I was pregnant, because all we had to do to check that box was flash our paperwork. We also had to go over a nurse-prepared prescription schedule showing which meds she had to take and when. We had to have a little lesson where we demonstrated we knew how to fill the baby syringes to the proper amounts, etc., and repeat when we were to administer them. We also had to have oxygen delivered to our home in case she needed to receive oxygen while feeding, and of course, that came with a tutorial, as well. Finally, Meara was required to wear an apnea monitor full time, so we had to go through training for that.

Ahh, yes, the apnea monitor. That particular device is the most complicated baby accessory. It sports a couple electrodes that go on her chest in certain places to detect her heart rate and respiration, and the wires from the electrodes feed into a machine that has to go wherever she does. So, it basically looks like our infant is wired to a small cooler with blinking lights, you know, like a lot of babies. Yeah. It's kind of a pain and solicits some concerned and confused looks from people ... if you know my personal headgear story, you know I know about that particular brand of public humiliation. Ahem. It records any problems in her breathing and heartrate, and when the recorder is full, techs come in, download the recording and restore the machine's empty memory until next time it fills. Then, the downloads are sent to a specialist, who interprets the info and writes up a report and sends it to her pediatrician, who gives us explanations and medical advice accordingly. Cake, right?

Anyway, if her heart rate drops below a certain point or gets above a certain point, the alarm goes off. If her breaths are too close together or too far apart, the alarm goes off. Remember the movie Speed? The whole thing sort of makes me get the part of Keanu Reeves, who is on the bus that has to maintain a specific speed so a bomb doesn't go off, but he isn't the one driving, nor does he have the trigger, so therefore he has limited control. Feels familiar. Maybe I can set it up to record her ideal rates in a loop, therfore outsmarting the machine and averting disaster ... wait ... I guess this isn't the movie, and I need to remember this machine is actually meant to save lives and not blow them to pieces. Ok, fine. So, we got all learned up on the monitor, signed off on everything and squared up our NICU tab (a minor copay -- seriously, thank the Lord for awesome Exxon insurance, because that kiddo racked up a monster bill, not to mention what she'll add over the next several months with prescriptions, checkups, outpatient testing and this monitor).

With all of that, we finally gathered up our NICU bag o' goodies; we got to take home all the stuff they had to take care of her there, like diapers, wipes, bathing cloths, her baby-burrito swaddle straightjacket (this fantastic cloth thing that you could put a swaddled baby in then tie up to secure the baby's swaddled position), toiletries, etc. -- it was like the spoils from a hotel stay or a celebrity party! Kind of. But that wasn't the best part. The best part was leaving. So, we liberated our girl. For the first time, Meara met the outside world!

Here we about to take Meara home in my mom-mobile little SUV, which my mom decorated with a big welcome-home heart on the baby's window; Meara is strapped in to her carseat, monitor attached, bundled up and ready to ride:

On the way home, we had a bit of a scare. We were on the highway, barely out of the med center, when Meara's alarm went off. Scary! We both kind of looked at each other like, "that was fast ... now what?" then Jon had me get in the back seat with the baby to check on her and reset her alarm. No, I was not already in the back with the baby. It's ironic, because Jon always made a big deal about how he thinks a mom and dad should ride together in front on the way home from the hospital, because the marriage supercedes the addition of a child, and besides, what's going to happen that a parent has to be supervising a sleeping baby in a carseat? Well, we found out. By the time I got back to her, her alarm stopped and she seemed ok, but then a few seconds later, it went off again. It's like being a foot away from a smoke-detector siren. It's really that loud and piercing, which is great for getting attention, but it sort of induces panic, in my opinion. Who can think through what to do with that kind of noise? After resetting the machine, I watched her for several minutes to make sure she was breathing appropriately, then I got back into the front seat, and we finished our ride home. Yes, it was difficult for me to sit back up front because I was a little startled at that point, but Jon reminded me I wouldn't be riding in back with her for the next several months she'd have the machine, so I had to start getting used it it off the bat, which was true. Sigh. No judging, people!

Before my mom went back to KC the day before, she kindly decorated our yard with signs declaring our good news. All of our neighbors were curious about the baby's sex since they'd gotten to know me and my mystery baby bump more during the hurricane, so mom helped us spread our parental pride:



Here's the sign provided by the hospital for our recovery room door to brag our stats; mom transferred it to our tree so interested persons could get the details:



Here is Meara's nursery, complete with welcome gifts from loved ones:



Here is our sweet setup for our top-notch infant-SCUBA-diving training facility:



Fine, we do not in reality run said business. The above is actually the massive oxygen tank, complete with smaller travel tanks, for Meara should she need oxygen while feeding. At least it matches her nursery color scheme.

Here is Meara with her daddy in her nursery for the first time; the thumb of his left hand (under her head) is parallel with her arm, so you can compare and see how brand-new little she is! Granted, Jon has big paws, but you get the gist.




Jon was also pretty firm on the idea that Meara would sleep in her own bed in her own room from night one of her homecoming. I wrestled with that a little, because I knew I'd be nursing her, and the idea of getting up and marching to the other end of the house every few hours throughout the night didn't excite me. But I understood that Jon having to hear the baby off and on all night when he resumed working didn't seem ideal, either. Since Jon had already burned a week of his paternity leave, he'd be returning to work the Monday after Christmas, one week away, so it didn't make a lot of sense to get into the habit of him getting up to bring me the baby, either, when I knew that duty would fall on me in a matter of days anyway. So, hoping for a greater good down the line, I agreed, and we wired up her alarm, swaddled her, tied her into her baby straightjacket, put her in her positioner (on her side to avoid choking on spitup and to keep her from getting flat-head syndrome ... you know what I'm talking about), tucked a blanket over her (yes, far from her face), kissed her, said goodnight, turned out the lights and shut the door. Since she's on a three-hour feeding schedule, I knew it wouldn't be long before I saw her again.

Here's our precious bundle all snug as a bug in a rug:



Fortunately, I felt peaceful about not being right there with her. A lot of new moms I'd spoken to voiced fears about leaving their babies asleep in their own space. It's scary to think about the "what-if" issues like SIDS, etc., but aside from a lot of prayers, I had the help of technology, as well. For one thing, our baby monitor (not talking about the apnea monitor here) is fantastic; it's the kind that's not only audio but also visual. We set up the camera on her crib, so with the touch of a button, we could also see her whenever we wanted -- the beautiful little face and gentle rise and fall of her tiny body. The camera has night vision, so darkness wasn't an issue. I hope it still works when she's 16 -- no boys are going to sneak by us. Then, of course, we had the apnea monitor. Although a bit of a pain, it gave me peace of mind. I knew that should something go wrong with Meara, the alarm would go off, and we could be there to help her in enough time to make a difference; I didn't have to worry about the ultimate newborn-parent fear of my child slipping away quietly. Ugh; I almost couldn't even type that. Shudder, shudder, shudder. So, the whole NICU debacle did yield the use of a machine that calmed some of my anxieties.

Aaaaand slumber had barely touched our eyelids before the alarm went off for the first time of the night. Toward the end of pregnancy, sleep often becomes somewhat elusive for a woman, and I believe it's God's way of preparing her for mommyhood. I used to be such a heavy sleeper, and now, a snake's sneeze would wake me up (yes, as a snake owner, I have actually heard this before). So, that alarm had me straight up and tearing into the baby's room at Olympic speed. Of course, with the ever-burning flourescent lights, constant nurse chatter, scattered alarm soundings, machine beeps and handling for vital-signs checking and med administration, the NICU had prepared her for sleeping through armageddon, so it didn't effect her at all. I checked her out, reset the alarm and went back to bed. Then it happened again. And again. And after more repeats, Jon saw my frayed nerves and exhausted face and told me to go ahead and bring her in while he set up her portacrib right next to me so checking her and resetting her alarm wouldn't involve getting in and out of bed. Phew!

Long story less long, it turns out her electrodes were not adhering properly, so the machine was misreading, and we replaced the electrodes. However, within a short period of time, we requested nonadhesive electrodes with a velcro band to hold them in place. That seemed to keep things secured much better and seemed easier on her skin, as well. Eventually, though, after continued nights of the alarm going off literally every few minutes or even seconds (I must have looked like a zombied-out jack-in-the-box, popping up and down in a semi-conscious state, my trained hand going through the monotonous motions of feeling for breath and heart rate then expertly finding and resetting the alarm buttons in record time -- similar to people's snooze routine), we asked the machine be replaced with one that might function better. We could tell it was having issues with inaccuracy, because it would register she wasn't breathing when we could see and feel she was. At one point, we were so desperate, we just turned it off, and I would put my hand on her every once in a while when I naturally woke up to check her. Sounds risky, but having a life depend on me while crazily sleep deprived wouldn't have been much better.

Anyway, just a few days after she arrived home, we got to celebrate her first Christmas. Before she was born, I'd been able to scrape together a few decorations (I feel like now that I'm a parent, I need to try harder). Here's our fireplace, dressed with gift-full stockings (Jon's, then mine, then Meara's mini stocking, then Nestle's and one for Jon's parents' dog Mandy, then one for Louis then Diana):



Here is Mandy getting into her stocking ... apparently, her thought process was to intimidate it by staring it in the eyes mercilessly, therefore forcing its submission of treats:



Nestle, a stocking veteran, knew exactly where to strike, and he expertly extracted his goodies:



Here's Meara, anxiously awaiting her turn to partake in the action:



She ran over, got her gift from us, jumped back on the couch and put on the Santa hat Diana gave her in time to pose for the camera. Hmmm, I guess she must have been blinking in this pic:



By the way, the bruising on her left hand in the above photo is not from us! It's from I.V. treatment in the NICU. Sniffle.

We got her a little Eric Carle (author of "The Hungry Caterpillar," etc.) book, called "Do You Want To Be My Friend," I think, which came with a plush version of its protagonist. Honestly, I like Carle, but I bought it for the blue elephant. Meara's obviously totally psyched. She couldn't stop reading it aloud to us. I guess she's blinking again:



The next day, she had her first post-NICU pediatrician visit with her new baby doctor, Dr. Hassel. I chose to go with a doctor other than the one she had assigned at the hospital from her birth, because I wanted one who not only had an affiliation with the Children's Hospital but also who was local and recommended by friends. Turns out, it was a great choice. I really like Dr. Hassel, and Jon and I enjoyed meeting her at this appointment. We went over her brief but impressive medical history; normally a checkup isn't required so early on, but because of her NICU stay, the hospital required an appointment within her first two weeks of life. We'll have a followup appointment in less than one week. Geez.

That evening, even though her umbilical cord had not fallen off, Jon wanted to give her a basin bath rather than the standard washcloth wiping down. We're breaking all the rules here, folks! At this stage, we easily determined Meara does not like baths:



The best part about baby baths? Hoodie towels, hands down:



A couple days later, with a cleaner baby to show off, we ventured out for Meara's first restaurant experience. Jon's parents took us to Red Lobster -- mmmmmm! When Jon's grandparents (Diana's parents B.A. and Emilia) were alive, B.A. would always take me and Emilia out for crab legs, because we shared an affinity for them, and no one else in the family had quite the enthusiasm for them that the two of us did. Then, when Emilia passed away, B.A. continued the tradition by taking me out for crab legs when we visited. Now that they're both gone, Jon's parents carry the torch, and I still get crab legs. I do like this tradition. I also got the chance to put on real clothes (not just p.j.s or sweats!), makeup and get out of the house. A lot of folks quarantine their babies in their first weeks of life, but for some reason, we did not feel the need to subscribe to that particular parenting philosophy. Come on: Red Lobster is calling! Anyway, she slept the whole time, not stirring until we got the check, on cue, and we got lots of compliments on our beautiful and well-behaved daughter.

Look how tiny and cozy and precious she is in her carseat:

That night, Meara also went back to her own crib in her own room. We left the portacrib in our room for a more local changing station or occasional naps, but otherwise, we committed to the nursery being her nursery, and it went pretty well. By this time, the new velcroed electrodes and replaced apnea monitored helped calm things down considerably, and the alarm events were quite reduced. Getting up and making the little trek to her room every three hours was a challenge, but when it's your baby, and she depends on you, there aren't really any serious complaints. The hardest part was that she took sooooooo looooooong to nurse (we're talking, like, up to an hour), that we'd both be nodding off by the time we finished, but that's just the way it is with some babies. I hear over time most babies get to be more efficient eaters. We shall see.

The other frustrating thing is all the spitup. Despite the medicine, this kid can puke. I've started calling her Mount Meara ... affectionately. Burp rags are my constant companion, and Nestle follows me around when I'm holding her like that crazed Tomacco (tobacco-infused tomato) -addicted sheep from that Simpsons episode, waiting to lap up any loss of containment. Thank God she doesn't get upset about her eruptions; she doesn't cry or anything, but at 2 a.m., when I have to choose between showering or collapsing back into bed, there are some scary results. To tell a particularly nasty-but-true mommy story, I once tracked a spoiled-milk smell for an entire day only to realize it was nestled in my tresses! She'd puked in my hair the night before, but I was so tired, I just went back to bed in my stupor and didn't realize until late into the next day that the reason anything I put near my head offended my senses was because it actually was my head! Gross! Do I get an award? Yes. Yes, I do. A beautiful, beautiful, barfing award. Ahhhhh, mommyhood.

The day after Jon went back to work, Meara had a successful grocery-store run. I went with Jon's parents, and we were able to get in and out without any trouble from Meara. I will say, though, that unless you are super-model tall, putting the carseat on top of the kiddie bench in the cart is impractical and blinding. Also, placing it in the basket is awkward and creates a serious limit on grocery space. I quickly decided the baby Bjorn carrier is the way to go when shopping.

Anyway, Meara also had a good followup appointment with her pediatrician, and when Jon got home, we decided to celebrate by taking Meara for her first walk. It was sunny out but still a little chilly, so we bundled her up, put her in her carseat, and placed the carseat in the stroller. Then, of course, we had to attach the carseat securely to the stroller with giant red straps, like she's going on a rollercoaster, because like every American, we take our walks at a brisk 107 miles per hour; hang on, baby:



Good thing my amazing shutter speed can capture Jon:



I took over and slowed things down so Nestle could join our walk baby-ride style. Yes, he's a ways from his old weiner-dog racing days, but he still gets by with a little help from his friends:



Man, that walk was exhausting. Nap time:



Well, the end of the year was upon us before we knew it. We thought we might as well send her into the new year clean and sparkling, so we gave her another bath:



Her opinions of baths still hasn't seemed to have improved much, but Jon does a good job nonetheless. I'm glad I requested a new baby-bathing-friendly faucet for Christmas. Well done, Jon -- gotta get both sides:



And, in true baby style, juuuuust as the hoodie goes on, the puke comes out. Nice:



So, here we go again; back in the tub, baby:



After the traumatic bathing incident, Meara and Jon cuddled up for a little pre-bedtime nap. Isn't being a baby grand? Pre-bedtime nap. Awesome. Anyway, it was a lovely evening with Jon's parents, where we continued our old tradition of the SciFi channel's Twilight Zone marathon (which we interrupted once to watch an installment of Planet Earth) and freezer-section bar food (I like to cook up jalepeno poppers, mozz sticks and the like). Happy New Year!

So, having Meara home has been sweet, and I look forward to filling you in on our adventures in the upcoming year. See y'all in 2009! Here's a parting shot:

It's a ... well, read on (and on and on) AKA perhaps the longest entry and entry title everrrrr!

December 15-21, 2008:

So last I left you hanging, Jon and I were settling in for a sleepless night in the hospital after the first stage of an early induction. Let's just dive right in, then!

Of course, before I let you in on the big sex-of-the-baby secret, I'm going to make you read my birth story. Every mother deserves to tell her account of one of the most significant things she will ever endure and accomplish; I don't care how many times it happens on earth per second -- every single occurence is still a miracle! So read my miracle! Oh, plus, this is the only record I'm keeping of the event, so it's a lot more detailed than necessary for my own benefit, and since it's my blog, so be it. However, I've tried to make it worth your while by using the occasional humorous perspective, so I hope you'll enjoy it at least a bit.

Monday morning, I was about 2.5 cm dilated and thinned/softened, so they gave me the pitocin to move things right along. They started at 3 units (my nurse told me this is basically the lowest they start anyone at, though many women end up needing several times this amount), and shortly thereafter, they broke my water (whoa! I didn't know I had my own waterworks plant in my uterus! I wonder how many small countries I could support).

The most significant change I felt after this, aside from the mythbuster revealing water doesn't just break in one gush but more like "surprise, there's more!" time after time, is that with any movement from me or the kid without all that fluid (and I reemphasize alllllll that fluid), that baby is like a giant stone crashing around in there trying to break things ... important things. I couldn't believe how much more it hurt changing positions. I also started to experience an increase in contraction and back pain, but I was determined not to get an epidural for this birth. Of course, that didn't stop the nurse from offering one every five seconds. And of course it's a little weird to be like, "No, thank you, I don't want to be more comfortable. I prefer to remain in my current state of extreme suffering, but I'll keep you posted." But, in a diplomatic way, that's basically what I had to keep repeating. For those of you ladies considering the natural-birth route but still want to be in a medical institution, be aware hospitals don't seem all that super pumped about labors lacking pain meds, as it turns out. But I still felt this was doable, so ... still sticking to my guns!

I dilated to a 7 pretty quickly, and not long after that, my mom and in-laws got to the hospital (big props to Jon's parents for toting my mom around town!), and my team sprung into action! Mom, with her massage-therapist background, kept counterpressure on my lower back through contractions, which helped immensely because I was having back labor, and Jon did an awesome job keeping me focused and encouraged. Jon's mom also held my hand and reminded me to try to relax. Jon's dad sat in the room reading a book; he was cheering me on silently, I'm sure! Let me make it clear I did not have anything exposed during this time, or I would have had a considerably more limited guest list.

My contractions started getting really intense and started lasting too long -- I had one that was six minutes! -- with too little time in between. They were on top of each other so much so that the doctor had the pitocin level dropped back to a 2, which I think is the lowest possible administration dose. That was effective! Pitocin worked, but itdid live up to my fears in that in really did make things pretty tough ... but I hung in with my wishes, even though I think I might have passed out for a matter of seconds at some point. Man, I watched a 20/20 on birthing crazes like orgasmic birthing and hypnobirthing, and if anyone figures that stuff out, you let me know, because that is not what was going on with me. Hahaha, sorry, I'm just laughing at myself, because I actually brought books to read (I was finishing Breaking Dawn, holla!) and DVDs to watch during labor in case I got "bored" between contractions. Go ahead, you laugh, too. Hahaha.

I will note it is important to me that you, my readers, know that during this whole process I was not a laborzilla. Of course, having gone through it, I believe women have a right to be laborzillas, because I really think it's the most challenging thing a body is capable of going through and achieving while actually remaining alive. However, I chose to focus all of my energy inward. I heard the woman on the other side of the wall, who started labor a little before I did, lighting up the place in a vocal frenzy, and it simply sounded exhausting to put that much energy into behaviors that went outside of oneself. I wasn't mad; I was determined. I was also really, really hot, but even when my irritation was growing when my nurse kept covering up my bare feet, I realized it was better just to let her get the message by repeatedly kicking off the sheets rather than getting verbally ugly. I was so hot, and she was such a slow learner. Anyway, for me personally, I found it more helpful to refrain from yelling, screaming, cussing, demanding or getting mean during the laboring process. But, really, I do get why that happens. I do.

I did a lot of breathing exercises and tried every position they'd let me while tethered to the IVs (tricky since I was limited to a very small area around my bed and the machine, so no walking the halls or taking a shower or back, etc., the latter of which I really think would have helped). I was on my back, on my sides, on all fours, on my yoga-turned-birthing ball squatting, bouncing, sitting, swaying and standing, and I tried relaxing as much as possible (near impossible to do, by the way), but I did silently yet passionately hit the bed railing with an open palm quite a few times to burn up some of the pain-induced intensity. But that's as aggressive as I got. Whew.

Our parents hung out in my room until my sweet-but-not-super-experienced nurse told me I could start pushing. Jon and I knew that we wanted it to be just us when that time came, and we wanted to experience the birth of our baby intimately as a couple ... with the cherished privacy that comes with lots of medical personnel and machines and flourescent lights. Unfortunately, after an hour of pushing, the nurse shared that I had stalled at a 9.5, but she originally thought I could "just push through it." Apparently, I couldn't "just push through it," and I had to go back to laboring down, which was the last thing I wanted to do. She still offered me pain meds, but I again refused ... I was so close! Even though I was pretty sure my insides were about to rupture out of my abdomen, grow fists and start punching the few parts of my body that weren't miserable, I kept telling myself that I was in a hospital, so surely they wouldn't let me actually die. Right? It was hard after the proactive pushing, which I much preferred, to go back to lying down and taking the pain. It was discouraging and frustrating.

An hour or so later I finally arrived at a 10, although I had to work through some serious trust issues after my nurse's blunder. Anyway, my OB arrived to help me through the pushing for real this time. Jon, again, was fantastic. I've got to say, with his ... special ... sense of humor and his ... clever ... disposition, I was nervous about how encouraging he'd be during the big event. My fears started to be relieved when the night before he got me a "push present" of super cute and comfy pajamas and a wonderful -- and rare -- handwritten note. Then, my fears were completely gone when during the labor and delivery he helped me both mentally and physically. He kept telling me how amazing I was and manned ice chips and the oxygen mask, as well as held my leg, and when I happily got stirrups and handles to hang on to, he actually pushed me up into position during contractions when I was becoming exhausted. I couldn't have done it without him. He saw a lot that day that might have traumatized lesser men!

Anyway, it was two and a half hours (not counting the hour I'd pushed when I was stalled) before the pushing came to a close. During this time, my mom kept coming to the door to ask if everything was ok since she was under the impression I'd been pushing like four and a half hours straight since she'd been expelled during the false pushing, and since docs generally only let women push three hours straight before going to a C-section, the parents were concerned.

So, eventually, the baby crowned ... and got stuck, and suffice it to say, I now understand the birthing term "ring of fire." My labor had been about 12 hours, if you approximately count from when I was started on pitocin and things really started getting active, and it's funny how suddenly interventions I normally would not have wanted seemed like merciful solutions ... bring on the stretching, the tools, the cutting, just help me expel this giant human being of whom my body doesn't want to let go! That was just said in my head. I did whimper a few times, though, and once during pushing I asked aloud, "why won't my body help me?" but that's about it. Fortunately, tools didn't come up, but my doc did tell me it was either we try an episiotomy or have a crowning C-section, and after going all that way, I simply wanted her to do whatever it took. I was hurting and exhausted and hungry and thirsty, and I was about done.

So, a little snip snip and a lot of tugging later, the doctor delivered a 7-pound, 6-oz., 18-and-3/4-inch baby human and announced, "You have a daughter!" So, my dream was correct in the exact weight and sex and even the appearance! Hmmm, maybe I can eventually find a way to harness these powers. Hmmm. Anyway, Jon told me how very proud he was of me, and my doctor told me she was absolutely amazed at how I'd done and that I was her hero, because she wasn't able to do that herself with her own child's birth. She put the baby on my chest directly for just a second, but unfortunately, I was still in so much pain I really didn't notice as much as one would hope. I really hadn't even absorbed that we had a little girl.

Jon's attention, of course, was immediately diverted to the baby, but mine was still on myself, if I'm going to be honest. I had always heard that the second that baby comes into the world, all your pain melts away, and the warmth of your love for this tiny person overcomes any physical distress. Uhhhhhhh ... hmmmm ... not so, my friends. At least, not for yours truly. Between the cramping, the stretching and the episiotomy, I was still in a world of hurt. So too briefly, I saw the pink glow of brand-new skin, interrupted only by a mass of black hair, and for the first time I felt the warm weight of her body on mine instead of in mine, and I carefully stroked her miniature shoulder, which felt softer than possible ... and then someone took her away, and as we'd agreed ahead of time should the need arise, Jon followed her to the other side of the room.

And then it was back to pain, because it was time for the second delivery; you know, ladies, the one people never talk about. Apparently many women really don't even notice the delivery of the placenta, this magical organ created solely for the divine purposes of pregnancy, but I tell you, it was making itself known! That sucker got stuck, too! I'm not modest, but I'll spare you the gory details of what it took to remove that piece. It was not any part of easy, though, and there were moments I thought it was worse than delivering the child -- maybe it was because its result would not be as grand or because neither my support nor my reward were any longer in my line of sight or because I'd just had an episiotomy and was exhausted, but it sucked. To make matters worse, a tech who had only been there for the pushing started attacking my delicates with gauze and ice and such with great force, because she thought I'd had an epidural since I was so calm. I said "ouch," and my OB turned around and scolded the tech, saying "she hasn't had an epidural! Be careful with her down there!" The tech said she'd just assumed I had since I was so quiet during everything. I could have shown her loud then, that's for sure. Rrrrrrrrr.

Ok, so you've been patient and good, so here it is -- the first pic of our baby girl as she's being weighed, all angry and beautiful:

The nurse announced her weight and such, and they asked about a name. Jon and I basically had our boy name in the bag, but we'd gone back and forth on a few girl names, although we knew the middle name would be the same as my mother's (this has become a tradition in my family, and Jon's mom and grandmother already had babies named after them, so this seemed fair). While we agreed we both liked the names on our short list, I had my favorite, and he had his, but he told me that after watching me go through what I did to bring our child into the world, I could name her whatever I wanted. Yep.

So, I said, "Her name is Meara Therese." Meara, pronounced like "meeruh," is the Irish spelling meaning "joyful." The more familiar Latin spelling is Mira, but Jon was worried people might pronounce it "my-ruh." There are several spellings, from Hebrew to Arabic and on, and they all had lovely meanings, but Meara seemed to fit our bill the best. It solicits the occasional question of how to pronounce it, but just about everyone gets it right, and it's not too out there. I didn't want a super popular name (as a former teacher, I know what that can be like to have a classroom full of a certain name; Emily has been the top girl name for ages but finally got knocked out by Emma, by the way), and it appears her name -- with any spelling -- hasn't been in the top thousand for several years. Maybe that means no one else likes it, but I do, and she probably won't have to put her last initial on any nametags! Ultimately, it seemed appropriate, especially since after my miscarriage my salvation song was "God will lift up your head" by Jars of Clay, in which my favorite line was "Wait because in His time so shall this night soon end in joy." And in the meaning of her name, in her disposition and in our emotions, that promise came true. Praise God!

Ok, so after that is where things got sort of blurry. Within a very short period of time, an air of concern dropped over the room, and a lot more people and equipment showed up. I guess she got very poor Apgar scores due to an apneic and bradycardic spell (meaning she stopped breathing, and her heartrate dropped dramatically) shortly after her birth. They had to employ some aggressive techniques to get her going again, and suddenly she was wired and boxed up.

The pediatric emergency team wheeled her by my bed, and I only got to touch her a moment more before she was gone, which was far from my wish to breastfeed her immediately and have her room in with me and Jon as I recovered. Now she had to recover. Ironically, after my attempt at keeping Meara as drug-and-stress-free as much as the induction allowed, she was carted away to the NICU (neonatal intensive-care unit), where she was given antibiotics, a spinal tap, head ultrasound, blood tests, I.V.s, etc., and stuck in a babytank then an oxygen bubble. We believe it's likely she had this fit due to my nurse's lack of agressiveness while suctioning Meara immediately after birth. Jon said it looked like the young nurse was afraid to hurt Meara and was being too gentle and only recovered when an older, meaner-looking nurse took over and jammed the suction device in and out of Meara's mouth with more fervor. At some point, they also had to take her across the hall to a special room to work on her. Fortunately, Jon was by her side, trying to comfort her from a few steps away and gathering information in the process so he could eventually report back to me.

Here she is in her babytank (this is my term and not official as far as I know ... I almost called it her infantarium, which I also like) as she's being transported to the NICU ... this is a hard way to see your newborn baby, especially when she looks so big and strong; she came out perfect -- no bruises or blotches or scratches or anything; it's sad to know all the marks on her are doctor induced:

Since we didn't find out her sex until the birth, everyone was on pins and needles. So, I think it was fun for Jon to go through the waiting area and get to see our parents find out they had a new granddaughter for the first time. Of course, he had to do so quickly, and they got only a fleeting glance as she and Jon were in transit to the NICU. Jon also got to send out a message to our friends, and our parents then had the treat of contacting other family members to spread the exciting news until we could catch up with them to give more details.

Here is Jon and the staff getting onto the elevator to take Meara to the Level II NICU, where we figured she might have to stay overnight:

By the time I got sewn back into shape by my OB, Jon returned to check in. I wanted him to get a pic with me, my doc and my nurse since we couldn't get a pic of them with the baby due to her rapid departure and their tending to my circumstances. I had no idea, however, what I looked like. I mean, I looked like a human being going into my labor, but I was not made aware (and probably wisely so by my savvy hubby) that what emerged from bringing forth a baby was an I.V.-fluid-bloated, discolored, mussed and straight-busted looking creature. So, why put in the photo? Because I haven't spared you many details in the interest of being open, realistic and true to an honest record, so it's only fair I swallow my pride a little bit here. Oh geez. Ok.

Behold, the bruised and swollen face of post-partum reality ... and her fantastic OB and sweet nurse (doesn't help, by the way, that they are both very attractive. Only ugly people should be allowed to help women give birth):

And for your info, I wasn't hyperbolizing when I talked about a bruised face. I asked my OB about a strange rash I'd developed all over my face, my neck, my chest and my back, and she informed me it was not a rash but broken capillaries from pushing so hard and so long ... awesome.

My OB also told me that at more than three weeks early, the fact Meara was nearly 7 1/2 pounds shows she likely could have been a 9-pound full-term baby, which has been about average for her Biggerstaff cousins, and we probably would have found -- maybe even after all that work -- a natural birth may not have been an option, so perhaps there was yet another little blessing in the induction. Of course, I worried the induction caused her lungs to not be ready, which I was reassured was likely not the problem, but at least without pain meds I knew anesthetic drugs weren't the cause of her breathing trouble, which helped lift some guilt. Still, even after surveying my physical and emotional battle scars, in the end, the whole experience of handling a labor, pitocin labor no less, without pain medication, and pushing a (big) little person into the world made me feel like a truly accomplished superwoman, and I will brag about it as much as I can. I earned it!

After wolfing down two cafeteria mills, I was then transferred to my recovery room. I was given prescription pain medication for the healing period, but since I planned on breastfeeding, I didn't take them. After all, my confidence in my pain tolerance was about as high as it could get. Superwoman, remember? And, since I didn't have the epidural, I was free to use my legs! So, that evening, Jon and I walked up to the L2NICU to see our baby (no one told me how absent some underappreciated muscles called the pelvic floor could feel after giving birth, and I will just say that is a weeeeeird sensation walking around and feeling like I was missing some key structure).

Once we got to the NICU, got through security and washed up, we got some bad news. One, we could not hold her, let alone feed her, as she was still in her babytank/infantarium, and I was even discouraged from touching her much as to avoid overstimulation. It was so sad. She just didn't look like she belonged there. She was the fatty of the NICU, this solid kiddo among little bitty fragile-looking babies. The second piece of bad news was that she would remain in the NICU until she was discharged from the hospital, which looked like a couple of days. But, since I had a couple of days left, too, it didn't seem too horrible, though I knew I'd miss having her there beside my bed.

So, I couldn't hold her, but here I am caressing her through her little portholes, letting her know her mommy and daddy love her:

Exhaustion and a full tummy brought some degree of rest for me and Jon that night, but of course between my physical discomfort, the constant nurse visits to monitor my vitals (also, to ward of blood-pressure drops due to my condition, I was still on lots of I.V. fluid and hooked up to different machines) and our concerns for Meara, we didn't get a ton of rest -- welcome to parenthood, right? But, before our parents arrived for the day, we did get down to see Meara again. We were happy to observe she'd progressed enought to get out of her babytank, but she did still have an oxygen bubble.

Here is Meara the sweet, sweet astronaut baby:

The positives of the NICU included putting Meara on a 3-hour feeding schedule, and since we decided to lean toward the Babywise style of parenting, that routine worked well for us. We knew she would be getting consistency with the nurse's round-the-clock care. God bless Jon, who bought the kit and rented a hospital breastpump and who would set up then clean the equipment and then go all the way to the NICU every few hours to deliver my teeny-weeny initial yield of liquid gold for Meara so I could rest up. See, at that point, while they did allow us to give the NICU nurses breastmilk to add to Meara's bottles, they weren't really encouraging breastfeeding yet so they could monitor her specific intake amounts, ensure nurtrition and so Meara could build up more strength first. It bothered me to have her drinking formula and being bottlefed when I was really wanting to breastfeed her exclusively, but when I tried to argue mother's milk is normally sufficient to support a baby's needs, my nemesis nurse told me, "Well, she's not a normal baby; she's a NICU baby." How dare she label my baby! Anyway, I soon developed favorite and nonfavorite nurses, but I won't hash that out here. Ahem.

Anyway, that day Meara had a successful run in her oxygen bubble, and although she was still hooked up to various other machines, they freed her from her astronaut helmet late that evening. Since Jon was the one doing all the running, he held her first. I was a little jealous when he came back to the room and told me he'd finally gotten to put our girl in his arms, but I quickly realized I was glad he had this special distinction; I'd gotten to hold her for months and feel her every move, and I'd been getting to bond with her long before he had. This was his daddy-daughter time, and I was grateful he experienced that wonderful moment first. It gave me patience and allowed me to carry that warm fuzzy through the evening in hopes of holding her myself the next day. I wanted to let him do a little glowing for a while.

Here is Jonathan as a proud daddy:

Not long after, I did get my opportunity to really hug my baby! She didn't look a thing like me (figures!), but I still knew she was mine, because she looked so much like Jon! She looked like a little Eskimo baby to me, especially all swaddled up. I got to breastfeed her, also, but I didn't like that they gave me a time limit, still forced me to supplement with formula and watched me carefully to make sure I wasn't "tiring" the baby. Come on, this is what babies are programmed to do. Argh. My baby! Mine! Anyway, I remember being so worried about not connecting with my baby for a while, but I was so taken with her. Ahhhh, love.

Here we are together:

Here's Jon inspecting the baby. Yep, the quality check says she's a good egg (or came from a good egg, harr harr ... all corny jokes are excused when accompanied with a pirate laugh):

A real downside to the NICU, though, was that she had to stay there, and there is a very strict guest allowance on top of the already strict hospital security. It was a bit of a juggling act. Jon and I were obviously VIPs, but we were only able to give passes to four other people, and only any given two people with passes, including me and Jon, could be in at a time. And the catch was, once someone had a pass and his/her ID was recorded in the system, that person was the only one who could use that pass, regardless of me or Jon being willing play escort; basically, the passes were nontransferable. So, we gave one to each of the three grandparents present, and the leftover pass went to whichever friend would come to see us first.

Our friend Kim, who was a co-hostess for my Exxon-oriented shower, was able to come by and see Meara, which was a short but sweet visit. And through some faux pas, her info didn't get permanently recorded, so when our friends the Starks came to visit, I was able to get Sabrina (who threw my church-oriented shower and did a lot of supporting through the pregnancy) in to see Meara on the same pass. Her info was recorded, though, so that pass became moot after she left. So, the rest of our dear friends who made the journey had to be sated with pictures and descriptions, but they were all really good sports about it. Thanks to Bits and Dan and Hillaire and Uncle Kenneth and Aunt Janice for the visits and well wishes and hanging out with us even sans baby, who, honestly, was kind of the point and therefore notably absent. You still made us feel like a big deal on our own. Many thanks also to the countless friends and family who called, texted, e-mailed, sent cards, etc., to check in on and congratulate us.

Here we are in our room, like celebrities:

I think a lot of people were shocked to see how ... pregnant ... I still looked. I was mostly baby-big while with child, so I think folks (including myself) expected me to be considerably deflated after popping out the kiddo. Another myth busted. I did not look like Jennifer Aniston after any of her on-screen births. Good thing it's winter. Once that baby came out, my heater was instantly removed, so I'll just wear a giant coat until spring.

The time came Wednesday for me to leave the hospital. Then we had a large blow when the neonatologist informed us we couldn't take Meara home with us. We didn't understand, because she seemed so healthy, and she was breathing well and eating well and sleeping well and doing all things baby very well. However, she had a minor brain bleed (WHAT? Scary, I know, but apparently often benign) the doctors were keeping an eye on, and doctors thought she might also have an infection, so they had her on antibiotics and were waiting on test results before they could let her come home.

It was pretty heartbreaking to leave without her, but since I hadn't had a C-section, the insurance only covered so many days, and I had to comply. It was especially hard knowing we live approximately 45 minutes from the hospital, so I wouldn't be able to be there as much as I'd like throughout the course of each day and night. Jon and his mom went out and bought all the outstanding necessities, and mom drove me home after helping me pack up. Jon had the week off, so he was wonderful about taking care of me, and mom managed the house while Jon's parents ran errands for us. The docs said we could pick her up Friday, which was only a day and a half away once I'd checked out, so I figured the silver lining was beefing up on a little extra sleep and energy before she arrived, and at least we knew she'd have constant care by professionals. I made sure to pump every three hours, and we stored the milk and brought it to the staff at the hospital, where I'd also nurse her (though it came pretty naturally, that class did come in handy, by the way), and Jon did a lot of cuddling her, too. We knew the staff could care for her, but only our presence could provide the love she deserved to feel.

Finally Friday came, and I was giddy! And then the phone rang, and I saw it was the hospital. I stayed optimistic as I took the call, but the neonatologist started telling me why they couldn't release the baby, and my heart dropped so far down, I couldn't even hear what she was saying anymore or focus through my tears. I simply told her that I was sorry but I needed to pass her off to my husband, and I handed Jon the phone before I totally fell apart. He sent me out of the room and handled everything; he wrote down info, he made phone calls, he advocated for us. He was a heroic champion, but I could tell he was very disappointed and frustrated ... and heartbroken, too.

I guess she had failed some kind of carseat test to see if her breathing and heartrate stayed within the acceptable range while sitting upright in a carseat, in which, of course, all babies must ride. Not all babies get this exam, but since she'd had the original a/b spell at birth, they decided to test her on just about every count possible. She was diagnosed with GERD (gastroesophageal reflux disease) -- basically, super spitup syndrome -- because her esophageal sphincter was underdeveloped, as in many babies, and so stomach acid and food, etc., would wash back up.

Apparently, as a self-protective defense mechanism, an affected baby's lungs will shut off at times to keep from aspirating acid or food into the lungs during this process, and therefore the baby goes what can register as too long without breaths, which can affect heart rate, as well. So, the next step was for them to put her on antireflux meds and retest her to see if she could pass with chemical assistance, but that would mean not being able to get her for a couple more days, because the meds had to have time to work and then experts would need to read the tests, so they said our new pickup was most likely on Sunday. It was hard to tell our parents, and friends, too. But, we went to the hospital and went through our visiting routine and just had to come home empty handed. Again. Fortunately, my friend Rochelle (who threw my former coworker and local-friends shower) brought us her delicious chicken tortilla soup with all the trimmings for dinner that night so we didn't have the stress of rustling up grub. Her soup is awesome comfort food; she always offers to make some for me when she knows I've had a rough day -- I can't believe she doesn't have any desire to be a mom! She practically is one at times!

Over the weekend, though, a different neonatologist came on duty, and we liked him much better. He lifted my 10-minute breastfeeding time limit, which he thought was ridiculous (agreed!), and he also seemed to really care about our plight to get our daughter home.

Then Sunday arrived. It was my mom's last day before she had to fly back to KC until she could visit again with her husband in mid January, so we were excited to go to the hospital and see Meara and get her home! When we arrived, I couldn't nurse her, because she was having her second carseat test on the meds, which we couldn't interrupt. And, surprise, we were told we would not be able to bring her home that day, because since it was the Sunday before Christmas, they may have trouble getting the result reader to come in sooner than later. They said it might be midweek. It was another stone to swallow. Mom was really upset, too, because that meant she wouldn't get to experience Meara outside the hospital for another few weeks since it was her last day in town for a while.

Jon pretty much told the neonatologist that we'd been promised our daughter several times, and they needed to stop jerking us around. He also informed them the result reader had better make it in in a timely fashion, and we would be picking up Meara tomorrow. He even looked into signing a waiver that would allow him to take her home without hospital clearance, but his Aunt Delia (a nurse) mentioned that could cause serious insurance issues, and in the end we decided if Meara did have any health challenges at all, no matter how overblown, the better-safe-than-sorry approach still ruled supreme, and ultimately, we'd rather her get the full check up and clearance now than have to take her back with unforseen problems later. We wanted her home as soon as was reasonable, but not against her best interest, even if the hospital was being a bit overprotective of their assets. It was horrible to not have her for the first week of her life, but we prayed we'd at least have her home for her first Christmas. It was such a stressful and emotional time. I don't know how parents do it who have their babies in the NICU for weeks or months. I can't imagine. Just this taste was painful enough.

Here is our precious little Meara, still captive, during her carseat test; we're hoping she gets an A this time:

Here is middlenamesake Nana Nene (my mom Genene Therese) with her first grandbaby, about whom she's head over heels, before she has to say good bye for a while:

I will make a note that the object projecting from Meara's poor little head is not a spigot or grotesque hair accessory but some kind of intravenous catheter to give fluid and/or medicine and draw blood for testing. Apparently, they'd already exhausted the little veins in both her hands and both her feet. I know.

Since Jon's parents drove down and stayed in their RV at a nearby camp site, they were able to hang out and come and go at their whim or our request (they towed their car behind the RV so they would have a vehicle while in Houston, also). So, sometimes we went to the hospital at the same time and traded off visiting Meara, or other times, they were able to supplement our visits by going when we weren't there so she still had a little love by her bedside. Either way, I was glad Meara had such early interactions with her grandparents and that mom and Jon's parents were able to be an important part of her life so immediately. Can't wait for dad and Bill to meet her soon, too!

Here Meara is getting a bottle from her Grandma, or maybe Mama Grande if we can eventually get her to say it. This is Jon's mom Diana's grandbaby number 10 (she makes an even five girls, five boys), whom she obviously adores enough to make the trip and sacrifice time with the rest of the family to be here for this special beginning:

Here Meara's Grandpa (Jon's dad Louis) is rocking Meara; this is such a sweet and tender moment, and I know he's just tickled with her and so happy to add her to his brood of grandbabies! Meara needs to soak up being the youngest while she can; there are two new babies due right around the corner in 2009, one to each of the other two brothers. So, here is Meara and her Grandpa enjoying each other's company:

Here is beautiful baby Meara Therese Biggerstaff. She is amazing, and tomorrow will start her second week to grace planet Earth and our family. We're praying she's in fantastic condition and that tomorrow is the big day she'll get to also grace our home -- her home. We can't wait, little one! Look how precious:

So, I guess this is a little bit of a cliffhanger, too, to see when the NICU saga ends and life at home with baby begins. See you back soon!