Clare's introduction to Luke was especially sweet. We set her on the living room floor in her carseat, then brought Luke in. He didn't see her at first, so I pointed her out. He went right over to her and licked her face. That's what he does to little kids and babies, so this wasn't particularly surprising. But when Moly the cat walked over to check Clare out, Luke put himself between her and the baby and shooed her away. Those of you who know Luke know he doesn't demonstrate a lot of protective instincts. Seeing him "protect" the baby from the cat was really sweet and we wouldn't want the dynamic any other way.
Otherwise, Luke isn't particularly interested in her. Maybe he now has something to attach to the smell we've been bringing home the last month. The cats are funny too. Moly's nose is out of joint; she won't go see Tim. Frank, who we expected to be completely freaked out by Clare, isn't bothered at all and just acts happy as heck that we're home.
In addition to a baby, I also brought a cold home from the hospital. After all these weeks of anxiety, I guess a stressed, sleepless night in a cramped hospital room breathing dry, canned air was the last assault the old immune system could take. I started feeling lousy yesterday afternoon. Really I'm just grateful my health held out for this long--and Tim's too. The nice thing is that though there is some risk of sharing the virus with the baby, she's also getting antibodies for this specific virus and white blood cells from me via breast milk.
It's hard to imagine not going to the hospital tomorrow. We're going to miss the nurses who took such good care of us and Clare. That's about all we'll miss, though. Tim and I put our wedding rings back on tonight, wearing them for the first time since Clare was born and taken to the NICU. Our watches too. Now we don't have to scrub down for three minutes every time we go to see her. It's going to take a long time to get the ICN out of our heads. Right now, I can hear the many different babies' monitors chiming in my head (and I could tell you what each individual tone means). I can hear the neighbor baby's desperate cries. I can hear the sound of the privacy curtains as they're pulled around a particular baby's station. I can see the carpet. Most of all I can see Clare in her isolette or in her cradle, with her little gavage tube taped to her face and the wires from the monitor sensors snaking their way out between the snaps of her little sleeper. I can see her bare right foot sticking out from her sleeper and her swaddling blankets, exposed so her PICC line can be seen at all times. Most of all, I see barriers between us, her on one side and Tim and me on the other. It's amazing to look at Clare now, wearing her own little clothes, completely free of wires and leads and tubes.
Clare has spent a lot of today awake, her now-tracking eyes scanning her new environment. One of my favorite memories from today is when we laid her on the couch all swaddled in her blankets and both of us leaned over her and whispered to her. She was completely still and quiet, her eyes traveling between us from one to the other and back again as if she was straining to listen to what we were whispering and trying her darnedest to understand.
Tim will no doubt blog tomorrow and share his perceptions with you. He was going to tonight, but he got too tired. He's now snoring in the bedroom. I think I'll go join him.
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