The odds aren't great that I'll get through an entire post without one or both of my children needing something, but here it goes.
I don't think the insanity of our recent lives has been communicated here, and I think some things that maybe should have been communicated, weren't. I think everyone knows that M's daddy was ill. It was eight weeks of stress and worry, but he passed away peacefully on March 30th with M at his side, as he had been for most of the eight weeks. We hightailed it out of town the next day, heading to Fort Wayne to arrange the funeral. We were gone from Thursday until Tuesday...driving halfway each time. It was a good trip in terms of being able to spend time with family and friends. Anyway, I'm not sure that many of you knew about that. And I'm certain that some of you would want to know because you love M. He's a lovable dude. At least I think so.
We got home on Tuesday, April 5th. I went into labor on Wednesday, April 6th. T was born on Thursday morning at 2:12. You know that part.
Natural childbirth (or pseudo natural childbirth where your epidural kicks in just before the last push) sucks. That is all I'm going to say about that. I'd rather forget than relive it.
I lied. I'll say this: if you're lucky enough to have a very dear friend go through the pseudo-natural delivery with you as your nurse...and she still wants to be your friend after the fact, count your blessings. You've got a very good friend indeed. I think I'll be thanking her profusely until the end of time. Thank you, L. Thank you. I love you. Get an epidural.
Friday morning M didn't feel well. At all. He thought is was a combination of exhaustion and having eaten out for so many days in a row. He thought wrong. He came down with the plague and was promptly banned from the hospital. Then S got sick, too. The hospital graciously allowed me and the preemie an extra nights' stay. That's one huge bonus of delivering at a local hospital...they aren't churning out babies hourly, so they can be flexible. Thank goodness. Sunday morning my parents came to take me and T home from the hospital. M spent the next day or so in bed. S spent the next day or so mildly sick and supremely whiny.
Having a sick husband and a sick preschooler and a newborn in a house where you haven't spent more than about 12 hours in two weeks is not ideal, but it's life. Things are decidedly calmer now. We're settling into our new normal, and we're loving our lives...even without adequate amounts of sleep.
Anyway...my slightly cryptic comments about quarantining my husband and about our trip to Fort Wayne needed some explanation, and there it is.
Now that it's out of the way, here's my new favorite picture of T. I realize that we're not providing nearly enough photographic evidence of his existence.I call this one "The Boxer," and I recommend that you sing a little Simon and Garfunkel as you look at it. Or bust out with some Rocky quotes. Or maybe bounce around like Muhammad Ali. Whatever gets you into mood to imagine the Shrimp as a contender.
I should probably stop calling him the Shrimp.