Friday, May 30, 2008

Clare already has enough spunk and personality to make her preferences clear. She grabs at pretty much anything stuck to her--her little tanning goggles, her feed line--and yanks. Today she got a good grip on her feeding tube and pulled it far enough out of her nose to give her a sneezing fit not once but twice. Changing her diaper is tricky not just because she's in the isolette, but because she won't hold her legs still.
Things are pretty stressful for us parents. Tim and I now have a 24 hour existence between home and TG. I have to pump every two to three hours and at least once a night, which is a difficult and time consuming routine of setting up the contraption, using it, taking it apart, cleaning it, sterilizing it, and lamenting about how little is produced. It seems like we can follow none of the advice concerning building a good milk supply: rest, eat well, drink a ton of liquids, relax, bond with your baby. When are these things supposed to happen? I'm grateful that the delivery went so well, because there's no time or opportunity for recovery there. I'm not supposed to drive because my blood iron is low?--are you kidding me? Everything's out the window when you have a preemie. I started figuring this out during the two days Tim and I spent in the post partum wing after the birth: we could hear all the babies in the other rooms with their families...even though I was supposed to see a lactation specialist right away to start producing for Clare, it took seventeen hours to finally get someone to help us...and then there was the Picture Lady, who shows up offering packages of photos of your newborn--nevermind that there's no newborn in the room to photograph.
As anyone who knows Tim would guess, he's completely wonderful about everything, doing anything I ask, running the night's milk production to TG in time for her 8am feeding so I can sleep a little longer; setting up, tearing down, cleaning and sterilizing the pump equipment; you name it. But this means he gets less sleep than I do. It's good we live so close to the hospital, because neither of us is in any emotional shape to deal with bad drivers (or slow drivers, or aimless drivers)...come to think of it, TPD should just clear the mile and a half stretch between our house and TG of all traffic whenever we're out there, and everyone would be safer as a result.
I shouldn't rant and rail on like this. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. The times we feel best are when we're with Clare, watching her sleep or stretch or tending to her care. She's the most beautiful little thing in the whole world. Everything else is an unwanted distraction, a nuisance. She's our world right now, our absolute everything.