Thursday, June 5

Yep--as Tim said in his blog today, it's been a difficult week. Clare doesn't seem to know the difference, though (all the tests for infection have been coming back fine so far) aside from further developing her rooting reflex and getting fussy that her tummy is empty. She's getting better with her rooting behaviors by the day, it seems--she now takes about five good strong pulls on her pacifier before her cheek muscles give and she ends up spitting it out. That's why in the photos you will almost always see us with a finger or thumb to hold the binky in.

As Tim said, she's opening her eyes more. She can't control them very well yet, but seems to be looking in the direction of voices. Her eyes kind of roll over our faces, and then she tends to look up and down and around and seems to be saying, "oh no, not ANOTHER sense to figure out!" I tell you, though, there's something magical when her eyes do meet ours, even for that brief instant.

Yesterday was actually the first day that Tim and I have been able to really laugh since this whole thing began over two weeks ago. He was particularly funny yesterday, or I was particularly easily entertained, or both. We've discovered that I talk less and he talks more--usually about politics. But a little laughter was a welcome relief. We are trying very hard not to be completely freaked out about the neighbor baby who has developed a MRSA infection on his face and is under special quarantine. We've been assured that all protocols are being followed and that Clare is safe. Of course, those of you who know me well are no doubt laughing at this point, given my penchant for hypochondria and in particular, my fears of weird things like MRSA. (This is when I figure God has a sense of humor and is teasing me a bit.) To make matters even more anxious, we discovered yesterday that the poor baby's parents are teenagers and we're not talking about the honor roll, college-bound teens who find themselves suddenly pregnant. No, we're talking about particularly immature teens who argue and talk loudly and use "dude!" a lot--the kind that, as the male nurse here said in Tim's dads-only class, "who don't know enough to be scared for their babies." In fact, the mom walked out of their quarantine area with her haz-mat suit on and had to be reminded of sanitary procedures by a nurse. They arrived (and were disruptive) while I was at a lactation class (I won the door prize because I was the only mom to show up); Tim had been kangarooing Clare in the meantime. I came back to find him wide-eyed and Clare more or less hermetically sealed in his gown and a blanket with a little windbreak set up so she could breathe. That's when I caught the gist of what was going on. It's a sad, sad situation...we'd been talking about the baby and how we hadn't seen anyone come visit him. In fact, I'd said that morning (before I knew about the MRSA business) that I wished I could hold him. He's a sweet baby. We wouldn't be at all surprised if a CPS call was in the works. We've been noting how much a hospital is like a high school, with its departments and administration and division of duties and all that, and this adds yet another likeness. It's also odd because in our "normal" pre-Clare days, these teen parents are the kids we treat with particular attention so that they develop good relationships with us and do well, or at least better, in school. In our role as parents, however, we want nothing to do with them. The father reminds me of a boy I suspended this year, and that makes me all the more afraid of him and afraid for his baby. I'm also grateful that Clare continues to live in her isolette (or terrarium, as I call it, that grows babies big and strong) even though we'd hoped she would be out of it and in a cradle by this time. And unfortunately, the ICN is full right now so we have to wait for a baby to be discharged before we could possibly move to another location. Regardless, we have been assured that Clare's safe and that the ICN has never had an infection passed between neighbor babies. Like so many other things, we have no choice but to trust the ICN staff.

We have finally settled into a routine. We try to get to the hospital by 8am to do her care (changing her diaper, taking her temperature, while the nurse listens to her innards). I do kangarooing till about 10am, when it's time to pump again. That's when I pass her to Tim, who kangaroos her until her 12 noon care. We put her back in the isolette, change her diaper and take her temp, and go grab some lunch, then we either return to hang out with her or we go home to take a nap. We then come back in the evening, after dinner, and do her 8pm care. We go home late and grab a short night's sleep, interrupted by having to get up and pump.

Luke, my dog, senses something's up. After I first returned home from the hospital, he was hoping to go for a walk each night as usual. It took him just a couple days, though, and he now just seems grateful to see us and sleep in the bedroom and hang out with us. We give him lots of attention inside, but we have yet to take him for a walk, and he has stopped asking. In fact,in the evenings before we head to bed, we often find him laying in the middle of the rug in the baby's room, face pointed toward the door, watching and listening. I'd like to think he understands, but who knows. Surely he's picking up on our emotional state and must smell the baby on us. At any rate, and not surprisingly, he's being his usual wonderful self. (Now that I think of it, he did have an exciting evening a couple nights ago: he caught a possum eating cat food on the front porch and managed to get his mouth around it before Tim called him off and he let it go. Luke was really happy that night, and got lots of praise for getting a possum.)

So on we go, a moment at a time, cultivating gratitude and enjoying our little girl.