Dancing Brave

A Two-Bean Household

Sorry for the radio silence -- we've been preoccupied here with Liam's homecoming, which was last Wednesday, and now today we're expecting Dylan.

It's been a barrage of pediatrician appointments for Liam (just routine follow-ups to check his weight gain), a lactation consultation, experimenting with feeding schedules, a brief tango with an excruciatingly engorged breast and a few open pumping blisters you don't want to know about and yet now you do, and trips to the NICU. Mercifully today, we can eliminate that last step, but of course we're adding a second baby to everything we've tried to establish and there's no way that will run smoothly. Dylan has his own mind. He will eat when he damn well pleases, and any attempts to get him on a similar schedule to his brother will likely be thwarted rudely. But cutely.

Dylan is still only 4 lbs 4 oz -- well, as of today, he might be bigger; they weighed him after I left last night -- but the doctors all feel great about how he's doing and are prepared to send him home with zero reservations. His first order of business will be posing for copious photos with his brother so that we can see them side-by-side, and then I suppose we'll get down to the business of taking care of him.

But obviously the pictures come first. I mean, priorities, people.

27 Days Old

So, we might be closer than we expected to getting Liam home.

And no, not because his escape attempts have worked. We caught this one before it developed into anything:

And this one happened after I left for 20 minutes to pump. I came back and discovered that Liam, who'd been facing his wall of blanket, had flipped himself (or wriggled slowly... no idea) into this position:

Nice try, kid, you little schemer.

Yeah, laugh it up, Liam. You're just lucky you didn't knock down the damn isolette wall. The nurse -- who was watching all six babies while our pod's other nurse was at dinner -- was super freaked out at first, and then once she repositioned him, she goes, "Shoot, I hope you got a picture before I did that." Oh yes. I may have gotten pictures before we even alerted her that anything was amiss.

Anyway. The big NICU milestones are: weight, up to a point, and then the babies have to be able to suck, swallow, and breathe simultaneously, regulate their own body temperatures, and get through the night without pulse or breathing problems (a 12-hour sleep test is performed). The isolettes all have lids, and are capable of creating a climate for the baby that means they use almost none of their own energy to maintain a proper body temperature -- which thus promotes weight gain. But when Liam got over four pounds, the staff decided to wean him off his isolette. Up went the lid, off went the power, and he started sleeping swaddled but in open air. He's done marvelously well, and has graduated to wearing shirts.

Along with that came nippling -- a.k.a., learning to use a bottle. (He will eventually try getting his food directly from the cow, so to speak, but they teach him with a bottle first because you can better control how much he's eating and because they are more capable of monitoring how he teaches himself to breathe while eating.) From the get-go, Liam was great with this. He started with one bottle a day on Wednesday, replacing one feeding-tube meal, and the next day immediately got upgraded to two. The next day: three. Then four. Today he's at five. He's chowing down like a champ, and if today goes well, he switches to all bottles, and apparently that's when they help me introduce my boob into the equation. He gets so alert when he gets that bottle up in his face, we hope he'll be a champion breast-feeder too. Feeding him is a blast: We've only been able to do it a couple times, but he stares right up in our faces and seems both thrilled at being able to eat this way and confounded at his continued good fortune. Then he burps a few times and passes out. Just like college.

Oh, and he's up to 5 lbs, 1 oz. BEHEMOTH.

Dylan, meanwhile, is up to 3 lbs, 14 oz. His weight equates to about 1765 grams; our nurse today said that when he hits 1800 grams, he can go open-air as well, and they'll put him and Liam together in a crib.

I hope that happens, because I'd love to see them together, and especially want to know if they are startled to have company again or if it soothes them. Supposedly it's great for twins to co-sleep for the first few weeks because they calm each other down, but it's been a month since they were roommates, so who knows if that will still hold true.

He apparently got his first bottle this afternoon, but it was after my visit, so I don't know yet how he did. We've had a little trouble with him getting very fussy toward the end of feedings, mostly when we do kangaroo care while he's eating. Might be that his system still gets too overheated when he cuddles with us, or it might just be that his digestive tract isn't maturing as fast as Liam's. But he's started smacking his lips a little and last night and today he went to town on a pacifier during his tube feeding, so we're hopeful that means he'll figure out what to do once a bottle nipple is up in his grill.

In sum: They are awesome. We think we'll keep 'em.

Check

There are, if you are forced to go this route, some advantages to having your beans in the NICU. It is a gauntlet of noises that they'll learn to sleep through: squalling housemates, beeping monitors, chatting nurses, blaring alarms. It offers a feeding schedule that, though it likely won't stick, does at least offer a jumping-off point for organizing your life once you're home. And the nurses want to teach you everything so that you're comfortable by the time it's just you, the infant(s), and your instincts.

Apparently there's a list that the nurses use to give you credit whenever they've demonstrated something to you and then you've successfully done it yourselves. For instance, we got a check-mark when we watched them change a diaper, and then one the first time we did it; ditto taking their temperatures, which gets done every three hours before each feeding. (We did not get a check for the first time one of them peed in the middle of a diaper change, or the inaugural projectile poop, or even the first time Liam delivered a bonus present to me right when I finished with the wipes, and then did the same thing two more times in a row; apparently those lessons are just there to make the nurses giggle.)

After watching Liam get cleaned off in the little makeshift tub the nurses made for the twins, last night I got full marks for bathing Dylan. He seemed a little put-off in parts, probably because he's used to either the snuggly warm isolette or the snuggly warm chests of his parents, but he didn't cry. Instead he fidgeted intermittently and peered up at me as I cradled his head, my pinky tucked under his arm as firmly as he'd allow it. His eyes seemed to say, "You! I TRUSTED YOU. And now THIS happens? I DON'T KNOW ANY MORE." But I made up for it by letting him fall asleep with his head against my skin while the tube pumped milk into his tummy. I think maybe our relationship is going to turn out okay.

They're really into the skin-to-skin thing in the NICU -- they call it kangaroo care, and basically, you open your shirt and they rest the baby right up against your flesh. Generally this happens during a feeding and lasts for an hour, or whatever the duration of the feeding is that day, so that the bean starts to associate his parents with eating and also gets to digest the meal in the optimal upright position. The skin-to-skin part promotes bonding, they say, and can help with breast milk coming in; plus, the baby can more easily hear your heartbeat, and because they come out knowing your voice and smell, it can be altogether very soothing for them as they start to realize you're those people they used to hear talking about Chuck and singing nonsense songs about the glories of lunch. Which might end up stressing them out instead, the moment they realize they're stuck with you and that you are a total yahoo, but in theory it's supposed to make them feel safe. It even allegedly promotes weight gain, which I choose to believe is true, because the dudes are gaining like champs: Liam is up to 4 lbs., 6 oz, and Dylan is around 3 lbs., 3 oz. Liam in particular is practically gigantic to us now, despite being so wee by almost anyone else's standards.

Kangaroo care is also a total delight for the parents. Both of them. It has specific extra advantages for the mother, but if the dad is into it, it's just as beneficial. Kevin was always willing to try, but I don't know if he realized he'd love it or draw strength from it as much as he does. There is nothing as wonderful, particularly during the rough days, as feeling like you're a comfort to your tiny baby. When Liam wouldn't tolerate food, or when Dylan wouldn't gain weight -- when he was so frail -- Kevin and I would revel in getting to cradle them to us because it felt like the one thing (well, except for pumping breast milk, for me) we could do to help. Kevin even thought it was cute the time we put Dylan back in his incubator and noticed he had one of Kevin's chest hairs clutched in his hand. The entire experience makes them feel that much more ours, which is otherwise tough to achieve when you're only seeing them twice a day and they still haven't become a part of your home.

We thrive on our cuddle time with the boys, especially because right now -- daunting prematurity aside -- it's just so easy. Obviously, once they are released into our hands, it's going to be insanity. Much harder than it is now, when we're in this specialized gray area between not having babies, and having babies who depend on us entirely. Yes, I'm learning a schedule because I have to pump every three hours around-the-clock, so I'm done sleeping through the night for the forseeable future. And that helps me transition toward full-time motherhood. But our house still belongs to us, our time at home is still the two of us, and our clothes aren't coated in baby spit-up yet; even though we've got part of our hearts across town in incubators, and the best part of our day is getting to be with them, we're in a stage that's a lot of the glory of being a parent without the associated mess.

Well, mostly: The other night, Dylan obligingly puked milk onto my white bra. As it pooled there and partly on my chest, I stared at it for a second, then looked up at the nurse and said, "Okay. So, that happened. Do I get a check mark?"

Eat Your Heart Out, Kanye West

One of the things I was the most curious about, post-pregnancy, is what the hell happens to all that stomach. Does it deflate? Does it hang there like a half-full beach ball attached to your torso? What does it feel like? What does it DO?

It was weird not long after my c-section to find that I still looked pregnant, just... less so. Frankly, that's about what I had expected, but it's jarring nonetheless, in part because in my case I never got to say goodbye to being pregnant. I was, and then all of a sudden, I wasn't any more. I missed that one last chance to cup my belly, to feel the kicks, to appreciate the closeness of carrying the beans with me all the time in one portable package. It was just me and them, 24/7, in a relationship no one else could see or feel in its complete truth except the three of us. And it'll never be quite like that again. For me, it pinged a little extra hard because I grappled with the idea that I'd stopped being a good home to them somewhere along the way, and all the attendant guilt. But my advice to pregnant ladies out there would be to take that extra second or minute every day to love the experience even when it's miserable. Because when it ends, if it ends suddenly -- or maybe even if it doesn't -- there's a tiny sense of withdrawal.

Dylan, under the bili lights, Day 3.

The funny thing about gaining almost all my weight out in front of me is that the natural comedown that comes from giving birth -- a slow, gentle process -- has left me looking more or less like myself but for a little round bulge right smack in the middle of my stomach. (Well, I've got slightly wider hips, but whatever; if you didn't know me you wouldn't notice, I don't think.) For the most part, the gut spends its time bound by an abdominal brace that holds a long, thick sanitary napkin in place over my incision. Whenever The Belly is free, it's soft. Very soft. Doughy, springy. It's kind of fun to push on when I take off my brace. It doesn't feel detached from me, but it's not like just being a regular ten pounds overweight; I can still see my feet, but when I look down at it in the shower, it is unmistakeably an artifact of having a baby or two in there. It's very much its own beast. Kevin is fascinated by it.

Liam under the lights; Kevin calls this his Kanye West photo, figuring Kanye would totally wear those for real someday.

Every day it's gone down a little bit. Where at first I could probably pass for pregnant-ish, now I just look like a Bic Mac addict. Which is fine. I'm not concerned with losing the weight -- I figure, come January, when I'm potentially staring down the barrel of another Fashion Week appearance, I might mind if I can't fit into my clothes. But otherwise I refuse to get bogged down in it, because holy hell, I just had twins. And I'm breastfeeding, so I need to eat, bitches. I don't have time to be one of those Hollywood douches who resumes training two weeks after a c-section and hires a meal service to get skinny in two more. F' THAT. I am having a Milky Way right now.

Dylan getting some skin-to-skin time late last week.

The incision itself burns every now and again. I'm resisting the Motrin or Tylenol with Codeine that I've been prescribed, at least whenever possible. The pain, at this point, isn't so bad that I need to stay in front of it by popping pills all the time, so I just wait for it to get irritating -- its way of keeping me honest, I suppose -- and then take something if I need it. I got lucky. Once my spinal fully wore off, I stayed on a good enough pill schedule in the hospital that I was never debilitated by any discomfort, and it got to the point where I never really remembered to ask for pain meds. All told, it's been a pretty positive recovery period, and for my first-ever surgery I'm rather heartened that it didn't break me. Kevin admitted to being a bit surprised it didn't knock me on my ass -- and he has a point there, considering that I am the person who stubs her toe and announces it with a loud string of expletives one might expect to hear after having a toe amputated rudely by a kitchen knife.

Liam's skin-to-skin time, again late last week.

I think my other piece of advice to moms would be to make sure your hospital has a NICU, and a good one. It's worth driving that little bit further for one, and doing so isn't pessimism -- it's practicality. There are a couple babies we've seen roll into this NICU, all singletons and thus not the births you'd automatically consider high-risk, from other area hospitals. Which means somewhere, there's a mother who just gave birth and can't even be in the same building as her baby while they both recover, and a husband/wife/partner caught in between wanting to be with the ailing child and the ailing, emotional mother. I cannot imagine I'd have been doing nearly as well if I were up in a maternity ward without access to my twins, and without the benefit of Kevin being able to dash down and get an update, take a picture to show me, or even just be there to squeeze their feet before squeezing my hand. So find thee a NICU, and yes, pray you never need to see it -- but man, knowing it's there? Priceless.

And finally, the update: Dylan lost weight two nights in a row -- a total of 60 grams, which isn't great, and which put him below 1100 grams, and I wish they didn't use grams but it's more precise than pounds and ounces (I assume) so I am trying to learn to speak metric -- but then gained 20 g back last night. Liam lost one night and then last night put it back on, so that's good. But both are back under the bili lights, because after one day out (Dylan) and two days out (Liam) their bilirubin levels both shot up again. That, though, we can deal with -- as long as they keep gaining. Come on Dylan! I mean, it's so EASY for ME to gain weight. Here's hoping that gene got passed along...