A Bird’s Nest

(I’ve been getting a number of none-too-subtle hints that I haven’t been blogging enough, so here I am. I don’t promise eloquence or maybe even coherence, as I’m typing left-handed while nursing Wren, and Robin is sleeping fitfully nearby.)

Items that have made the anthro major in me prick up its ears:

• While the babies were in the NICU, Robin’s unexpectedly slow progress was repeatedly attributed to WWBS: Wimpy White Boy Syndrome. The first time a nurse mentioned this, I thought she was kidding. Then, a few days later, the neonatologist solemnly explained that it was common for caucasian male children to struggle in the NICU. “But he’s Jewish,” I protested. “Doesn’t that give him some kind of Semitic edge?” The neonatologist thought not.
• One day, the babies and I were at an outdoor cafe in the middle of Puzzletown. They were both asleep in their double stroller, and I had just purchased a turkey sandwich and a bottle of apple juice, which I was eager to devour. A group of Korean women was sitting at a nearby table; each woman had a (single) baby tucked into a fashionable stroller. “Twins?” one woman called out. “Yes,” I smiled back. There arose a generalized admiring mutter. Right on cue, Wren began to squirm and fuss. I sighed, put down my sandwich, and pulled her out of the stroller. One of the women came over to peer at the babies as I unclipped my nursing tank top and thrust a boob into Wren’s mouth. Then Robin woke and wailed his gentle, pre-meltdown wail. The woman asked if she could hold him for me, and I gratefully accepted. As he yelled in her arms, I thought What the hell, it’s worth a try. I pulled out the other boob and asked her to hand him to me so I could nurse him too. The next thing I knew, the woman had knelt down by my side and was trying to maneuver Robin’s mouth onto my breast without letting me hold him or actually touching my breast. It was very weird, but sweet. Unfortunately, it was also completely futile. Meltdown ensued, and I fled back home with thanks and apologies to my would-be assistant.

(Okay, now I have two babies in my arms, because Robin has decided that sleep is for losers.)

• Husband and I took the babies to the grocery store last week. A store employee was busily re-stocking the bottled water shelf and I couldn’t reach past him to get some, so I asked him to hand me a couple of bottles. He did so, and looked down at Wren, snoozing in her sling. Then he looked over at Husband, who had Robin strapped to him.

  “Twins?”

  “Yes.”*

  Then he surprised me. “Can I give them something?”

  I was taken aback. What did this stranger want to give my children? Did this gift involve handling them? A kiss? A pat on the head? I didn’t want to be rude. “I . . . suppose so . . .”

  He fished in his pockets and pulled out two dimes. He was from Guinea, he said. “In my culture, when you see twins, you have to give them something, and then you will get something later.”

*’”Twins?” “Yes.”‘ is maybe the most frequent exchange we have these days.

Why yes, my boobs are bigger than their heads!

On April 4th, MSNBC’s “Morning Joe” ran a story about Thomas Beatie, the pregnant transman who recently appeared on Oprah with his wife. Scrupulously avoiding any appearance of reason or maturity, the anchors mocked Beatie and called him “disgusting.”

Fast forward to the 2:00 mark for the incredibly offensive segment.

I don’t have a lot of time for righteous indignation lately, what with the two babies and all, but after viewing this I clicked right over to the Morning Joe website, where there is a comment form that you can fill out and send in. I only wish it worked like one of the Harry Potter Howlers, and my epistle would arrive on the set and unfold itself in a glory of screaming paper, shredding itself with rage when it was finished.

I wrote:

I was completely disgusted not by the story of the pregnant transman (”Mr. Mom”, 4/4/08), but by your ignorant, bigoted, and offensive coverage of that story. I thought I was watching a group of junior high school students as you and your colleagues expressed such sophisticated opinions as “I’m going to be sick,” “we don’t want the facts,” and “I’m closing my eyes.”

As I sit here with my infant daughter in my arms, I am angered and saddened that you chose to heap your abuse upon a loving couple who have decided to have a child together. I am ashamed that I ever respected Mika Brzezinski back when I was growing up in Hartford, CT. Thank you, Ms. Brzezinski and co., for showing me how unworthy of that respect you are.

(There would have been more, but Wren was voicing her own discontent with the total lack of nipple in her mouth. A baby’s gotta eat, yo.)

(via Feministing)

Robin’s birthweight: 5lbs, 9oz.
Robin’s weight at 1 month: 7lbs, 13oz.

Wren’s birthweight: 4lbs, 12oz.
Wren’s weight at 1 month: 6lbs, 9oz.

The pediatrician says they “must like [my] cooking.”

• I think I have discovered one of the pitfalls of having twins (or maybe it’s just a pitfall of having twins before having any other children. Or maybe it’s just my own particular brand of insanity, and no one else goes through this at all): comparison.

  This Baby is so engaged and eager to interact. The Other Baby is so mellow. Is there something wrong with The Other Baby?

  This Baby is all cream and pink. The Other Baby’s more yellow and red. Does The Other Baby have jaundice?

  This Baby pooped three times today. The Other Baby hasn’t pooped since yesterday. Is The Other Baby constipated?

  It all boils down to the fundamental question of Which baby is the normal baby, and which baby has something terribly wrong with it which requires drastic intervention, and how much more am I damaging that baby with every second I don’t run screaming to a pediatrician?

• My supply of breastmilk is still building, but slowly. Until I have enough milk for both of them (and I’m still working toward that goal, so please no discouraging comments), I have to supplement with formula. In my pre-birth vision of parenting there weren’t any bottles at all, so as you might imagine, formula gives me a major case of The Hates.
• Upon discharge from the NICU, we were handed one sheet of instructions per baby. Each item was basically phrased as “Do (or Do not do) X, or else YOUR BABY WILL DIE.” My previous placidity has been forever ruined by these little yellow pieces of paper, as every time I violate a precept (OMG baby slept on its side, not on its back!!1!), I have visions of the jury that will convict me of killing my children.
• Speaking of which, I’ve been having some really impressive nightmares. Every night it’s a cavalcade of baby-related horrors in my brain. I would detail them here, but it would probably give you nightmares too.

Despite all of these anxieties, I am actually loving every delirious, nipple-searing moment of motherhood.

Don’t even get me started on the nipple-searing, though.

Right before the c-section; 36 weeks pregnant.

Wren tanning under the bilirubin lights.

Robin and Wren after escaping the isolettes, sharing a bed.

Wren just before release from Nicu.

Robin, the NICU pirate.

Can you find the baby in this picture?

Wren came home from the NICU yesterday. We are a very happy, very sleepy little family.

Robin* came home from the NICU yesterday. We hope to get Wren* home soon.

*Blog-onyms.

This has been a very wonderful, very hard week. I suppose every new parent can say that, though. It’s 5:38 a.m., and I just finished pumping a little while ago. I need to rinse out the pump collection kit. I might try to grab another little bit of sleep, then I have to eat some breakfast. In less than two hours, I have to go back to the hospital, where I will spend the best, most surreal part of my day until about 7 p.m. Then home to eat, pump, and sleep. Then back again.

Little Boy is doing really well. He spent a while (I’ve lost track of time, so everything is “a while”) with oxygen via CPAP, then went to a nasal cannula, then off altogether. He had some digestive challenges - apparently he hadn’t realized that he couldn’t both be born and keep his umbilical cord - but he’s absorbing food well now and nursing like he was born to do it. Which, y’know, he was. At one point he had a positive Staph culture, and that freaked me the hell out, but the doctor is 99% sure it was a contaminated sample, as there have been no other indicators of infection and no word on the follow-up test (apparently they only tell you if it’s bad?). He was a little yellow yesterday, so they’ll be checking his bilirubin this morning, but I’m hoping his excellent milk-sucking skills are enough to stave off the jaundice. He is a mellow, philosophical fellow, and has taken everything completely in stride. As much as one who can’t yet walk can take things in stride, at any rate.

Little Girl is also doing well, though she is smaller and has her own set of issues. She is also off the oxygen, but still has a nasal cannula blowing pressurized air up her (tiny!) little nose. She has had some jaundice, and is spending some time in the infant tanning booth (I guess she’s a real L.A. baby, after all). She started out with a really good latch and an enthusiastic suck, but her blood-oxygen levels were dropping when she nursed, so now the only time she gets supplemental oxygen is when she’s put to the breast. Over the last 18 hours or so, she has started refusing to nurse at all, and I think it’s because her nasal membranes are irritated from the cannula, and she’s trying to breathe through her mouth, which of course she can’t do very well when that mouth is full of nipple. I just figured this out last night, and I’m going to run it by her doctor this morning. Little Girl is a woman of strong opinions, and has declared herself very peeved about the whole thing.

I’m too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, to link to explanations of all of these terms, so please do your own Googling.

The babies are both absolutely beautiful. Little Boy looks like a real baby now, while Little Girl still has the skinny-monkey preemie look about her - she was born nearly a pound lighter but half an inch longer than her brother. No definite word on when we’ll have them home, but the doctors and nurses have been very reassuring that all of these breathing/feeding/tanning issues are common with 36-weekers, and they are not worried about their long term well-being.

As for me, I am very sore, very emotional, very tired, and my feet and ankles are swollen to the size of tree trunks. I didn’t manage to have my homebirth, or my vaginal birth, and my babies are maybe a little undercooked, but I am happier than I can ever express to have them. Now I just can’t wait to get them home.

Whoops. So much for getting more sleep. Off to scarf down some eggs now.