This was taken on Father's Day. He was crying and fussing because he didn't want to be in the car seat and the only thing that calmed him was his Fluffy Caterpillar on his face. He fell asleep within moments.
Man this kid cracks me up. Oh, and again with the fat Hobbit feet. Aren't they the BEST?
Theo had his four month check up on Monday and boy oh boy has he done some growin'! He is now a hearty 19.6 pounds (please, call me a chiropractor!) and 27.25 inches long, with a 17 inch head circumference. Still in the 95th percentile across the board. To recap, he was born 6.8 pounds and 20 inches long. 9th percentile. To say he has caught up is an understatement.
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Our boy was colicky until about a month ago. It was hard on us all, but I felt bad for him the most. His poor body was going through all those rapid changes so yeah, he had a right to cry. His digestive system was immature so that had to develop, and his body basically exploded as soon as he was born. He's a generally happy guy these days which is such a breath of fresh air. I only want him to be happy, so the fact that he's not crying a lot, and he's smiling and cooing as soon as he wakes up instead of screaming is a minor miracle to me.
I love him so very very much. Going to the doctor and hearing about how well he's doing brings me such peace. After all we have been through I'm happy to say I have a fat baby. Keep on growing little man. You have a lot more to do.
Found a nugget on the ol' internet today. It's so fabulous I can't even do it justice. So do me a favor: turn up the volume and sit back and relax for the next 4:27 minutes.
Today. Today it happened. Theo LAUGHED and it was the most beautiful and amazing thing I have ever heard. There had been questionable moments before: "Was that a laugh? Did you hear that? What do you think? Should we say that was official?" But this afternoon there wasn't any doubt.
He was laying on his monkey blanket in the living room while I was drawing his bath. I came back to take his clothes off and hang out with him a bit before taking him in the bathroom. Since he was in only a diaper, I thought it was a good opportunity to enjoy some fat baby love. He was smiley and cooing while I played with is feet and kissed his round belly. Then I tickled under his arm pit and that's when it happened. He TOTALLY laughed because I did that and Bryan was lucky enough to have heard it too.
I, of course, attempted to get him to do it again and again and again but at that point he looked at us like we were crazy and actually became bored. Pffft. Sorry Theo, get used to it. So tomorrow I have one goal and one goal only: get him to laugh again and document it--I don't care if I have to get out a clown nose and silly string.
Wish me luck!
Things I Have Done Due To Extreme Exhaustion:
--Run into walls in my own home
--Left the driver's side car door OPEN and then proceeded to go upstairs to our apartment after work. Had no clue. Luckily Bryan had to get something from the trunk an hour later and rectified the situation. 1) The battery did not die and 2) nothing was stolen. Thankfully.
--Forgotten my own son's name while nursing him in the middle of the night for about ten minutes. This terrified me, actually. Also, couldn't remember if he was a boy or a girl. I'm not kidding.
--Cried when the vending machine at work was out of Snicker's bars. In front of about ten other people.
--Couldn't remember how to spell Theo's name when leaving a message on the nurse line.
--Didn't realize that I had given Theo his pacifier BACKWARDS. Poor guy, just kept trying to suck away without any luck.
--Slept on the floor of his nursery for two weeks while sleep training him so I wouldn't have to keep traveling from our room to his. I had Carpet Face for quite some time.
--Got lost going home from work.
Any of you have some crazy things you've done due to exhaustion? I can't be the only one--fess up!
Quite possibly the cutest video to ever hit YouTube. Of course, I'm a bit biased. Go see for yourself.
At this point I still hadn't cried. Considering how emotional I was up until then in the pregnancy, this still shocks me. Not from being afraid and not from all the pain I was in during the million-and-one medical procedures I had to endure. I just dug my heels in and hung in there because I didn't have any other choice.
The next morning I was taken in for an ultrasound. They wanted to see the baby's position and weight while also making sure there was no funny business in there. That is when we found out Theo was a moose. He was measuring rather large for a 30 week old baby, and under normal circumstances that would have freaked me out but we were all glad. If he were to be born early he was measuring at a good weight which could mean he'd be able to regulate his body temperature--a major concern with preemies. While there were no guarantees, I felt a lot better. Plus we got to see him again and confirm he was absolutely a boy!
After the ultrasound I got moved to a different room. No matter when I was going to deliver, I was ordered to be on bed rest until he was born. In addition to bed rest, I was to remain as stress-free as possible. Because of this, the doctors wanted me away from the delivery rooms so I wouldn't hear other women screaming while in labor at all hours of the night. This was appreciated. My television shows and movies had to be restricted (no Season 4 of 24 or Bourn Ultimatum for me!), as did my phone conversations and interactions with people because I couldn't become anxious. A lot of people came to visit me which was so wonderful, but even having a conversation about fluffy puppies and rainbows made me contract more so I made sure to be really careful. My saving grace was The Internet, actually. It was perfect: I talked to whomever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and didn't get anxious over someone's tone or barrage of questions. It was my preferred means of communication and remained that way until Theo was born.
I responded well to the meds, and things were looking up. Theo's heart rate always remained steady, and he continued to move around a lot which was reassuring. I got taken off the IV drip to be observed without it for 24 hours, and that was the happiest moment of my hospital stay. I was getting pumped so full of fluids (granted that was a good thing) that I had to go to the bathroom once an hour, every hour. And being 30 weeks pregnant didn't help either. Here is how it went: I felt the slightest inkling of needing to pee. I got Bryan/my mom/a nurse to unhook all of my monitors. I draped the wires around my neck so I didn't trip and lurched out of bed to waddle to the bathroom. Peed. Waddled back. Got hooked up again. Layed back down and tried to get comfortable. Thirty minutes later rinse and repeat. All. Night. And. All. Day. Long. If you find yourself wondering why I wasn't given an IV catheter or a bed pan to avoid all of that trauma, I will give you the answer. My bed rest wasn't 100% restricted, meaning I was allowed to and from the bathroom and to and from the bedroom to the living room. In the hospital they wanted me moving around so I wouldn't get any clots in my legs. So the madness with the potty breaks every 60 minutes? Was encouraged.
Eventually I got the all-clear to go home. I was terrified. I'm not kidding when I say that I asked every nurse I saw if I was allowed to take the fetal heart rate monitor home with me. I was so used to hearing Theo's steady woosh-woosh-woosh at 148 beats per minute that I couldn't imagine being without it. I had a hard time trusting that just bed rest and pills were going to ensure everything was going to be okay. But we went home with instructions and pill bottles and the hope that we'd be able cook the baby a while longer.
I was home 23 hours before having to go back.
Lots of contractions again but thankfully no dilation. More meds. More IVs. But things weren't slowing down as fast as they had hoped. My favorite nurse came in with a grim look on her face and said, "In about an hour someone from M Company will be coming to outfit you with a port." I didn't understand. Why couldn't she do it, I asked. "We're not allowed. You have to be specially trained." Then it hit me. I asked her if this was a really big deal and she nodded.
The port was a small catheter inserted in my thigh to continuously deliver a medication that would stop my contractions. The medication was the same medication given to me the first night I arrived at the hospital that made me have an anxiety attack. And it was to be pumped through my body 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for at least two weeks. (As an aside: yes we asked a TON of questions regarding side effects to me and the baby, blah blah blah. At the time it was our best option.)
The special nurse came and went over all the details. Bryan got to stab me and he was a little too anxious to do so in my opinion, but that's a different post. Everything got set up and, once again, we were sent home after another two days in the hospital. But this time, we felt a little better knowing we'd have someone monitoring us--it was the best of both worlds. We could be comfortable at home but with medical care. Never mind there was no room service or free cable. We got to leave.
Once home and settled, I had to hook my belly up to a contraction counter and transmit to M Company for one hour. They counted my contractions and call me back with the results. I had to do this twice a day for over two weeks. It was maddening. I had such horrible heart burn from being pregnant AND as another side effect of the medication that laying down was torture. Plus I couldn't move at all because it would skew the results. Eventually things were looking so well and I had reached all of my goals (make it to 32 weeks then to 34) that I was able to remove the port and send it back. That was another wonderful milestone and I remember that day fondly.
Throughout all of this, I remained pregnant for another month. Our beautiful and healthy baby boy was born March 3rd--a month to the date of my first pre-term contraction. I had wonderful doctors and nurses and am thankful to everyone who was with me on that journey. But mostly I am thankful to you, Internet. All your well-wishes and care packages and emails of support were overwhelming. Your love was the one thing that did make me cry. And I'm so glad I did.
I was immediately ushered into the bathroom so I could change into a hospital gown. I waddled over to the bed and was hooked up to a fetal heart rate monitor and a contraction machine. My vitals were taken, medical history jotted down. Within a few minutes one of the nurses said, "Well, you're right. You are definitely in labor." While this was upsetting news, it was also equally reassuring. No, I wasn't over reacting, and yes I did know what was going on with my body. Blessing and a curse.
I got my first IV catheter in my arm for fluids and the quick administration of medications if necessary. Apparently, dehydration can cause contractions so they wanted to pump me full of fluids to see if that made a difference. I was also tested for a urinary tract infection, because infections can cause labor as well. I remember thinking that if I did come back positive that that would have been the most expensive UTI ever in the history of the world. But I was still hopeful.
I was the most anxious to see if I had dilated. I was fixated on knowing that, and asked at least three times for them to check me. The nurses wanted to wait to get me situated first and then have the doctor check me, because they didn't want to bother my cervix any more than necessary. I understood but was still impatient.
Finally the doctor came in. He reviewed my contractions--at this point every five to ten minutes--and performed an exam. His exact words? "You're a good one to one and a half, so we gotta stop this." I remember the nurses having concerned eyes when they looked at me and then Bryan held my hand. For a split second I wanted to cry but it passed quickly and then I went into Robot Mode. From that point on, I was never scared of anything they did to me. I knew things were going to hurt but it was necessary so I didn't care. For anyone who knows me, this is completely unheard of.
The first medication I was given gave me a panic attack, which was common. My heart started racing, my eyes were darting around the room, and I couldn't stop clutching the bars of the bed (little did I know that this would be the drug pumped into me continuously via a port in my thigh less than a week later, and the feelings of anxiety would become all-too familiar). I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to run away. This lasted for about fifteen minutes and then I got another medication that made me feel drowsy. Bryan was asking all sorts of questions regarding the side effects of the drugs on me and the baby. I'm glad he was there because I was too out of it to retain any of that information.
After an hour or two I got checked again and was dilated to almost a two, so things weren't slowing down. I asked what the point of no return was and they said five centimeters. Once I hit that they couldn't stop labor. The nurse said the goal was to off-set labor for a few days. A few days? So I could have a baby by the end of the week? That made my heart stop. Since I was in a labor and delivery room, the baby bassinet was in with us. I kept looking at it, wondering if Theo was going to be in there soon. It was surreal. I quickly decided that no, he wouldn't, and that made me feel better.
NICU was sent up to talk to us and they answered a lot of our questions, but the fact that we were even having that discussion was insane to me. Up until that morning I had had the most uneventful pregnancy ever. All my test results had been normal. My weight gain was right on target. The ultra sounds never showed any signs of distress. How was all of this happening? Suddenly we might have a ten week preemie that could have difficulty breathing, eating, regulating body temperature, and have a month-long hospital stay. At that point my life didn't feel like it was mine anymore. Like I was in a Lifetime Original Drama or something. The NICU doctor kept reassuring us that a 30-week preemie is much better off than a 26-week preemie and while that made me feel a little better, it still wasn't as good as a 40-week old baby. Duh.
It was also at this point that I felt I would die of hunger. They weren't letting me eat or drink anything until they knew I wouldn't need to go into surgery. In conjunction with my contractions and the side effects of the meds, I was having severe stomach cramps from not having eaten in eight hours (and for a pregnant woman that's a long time!). I even begged a nurse for some green jello but to no avail.
One of the nurses came in to check on things again and I hadn't dilated any more, but the contractions were still coming. More shots. More pills. New plan: I'd be in the hospital for at least four days if I didn't have the baby first.
