I think I might have mentioned that my little sister, Moosey, is having a baby; Her first. I'm very excited for her, even more so because it's going to be a girl and so much of the tiny beloved things that belonged to the Little Imp will now be loved by a new baby.
As I was sitting downstairs going through soft cotton-flannel receiving blankets dotted with teddy bears and pink bows, little white onesies, and cozy pink and lavender sleepers, I thought that perhaps it was time to give up another semblance of the Little Imp's infanthood; the baby monitor. I recalled seeing the exact same monitor on Moosey's baby registry and thought maybe I might send it to her along with all the other goodies.
I walked upstairs with an armful of freshly laundered receiving blankets, sleepers, and cute little pink, purple, yellow and green outfits. I walked into our bedroom and put the clothing and blankets on the bed and began folding them. They seemed so tiny in my hands. Hard to believe they ever fit my walking, talking, singing, almost-3 year old. As I sat there folding I could hear the soft breathing coming from the baby monitor on my nightstand. As the Little Imp lay sound asleep in her bed, I was reassured by the sounds coming from the white monitor. I thought back to the past nearly three years and how accustomed I've become to the monitor and the comfort it's provided, especially the first nervous weeks after she was discharged from the NICU and home with us.
The Little Imp was born almost 5 weeks prematurely. Despite weighing in at a very healthy 8lbs 3oz and being 22 1/2 inches long, her lungs were terribly immature. We knew this beforehand as my OBGYN tested the amniotic fluid once I went into labour. We'd been warned that she may have some trouble breathing and that along with the regular delivery staff present at her birth, a team consisting of a Neonatologist and nurses from the NICU would be there and probably take her to the NICU immediately.
Sure enough, only a mere moment or so after her birth she started displaying signs of respiratory distress. I was only able to give her the smallest of kisses on her cheek before the medical team whisked her away from me, from arms that ached to hold her and a heart that already missed her nearness.
Things got worse with the Little Imp before they got better. She developed two pneumothoraxes (holes in her lungs) which required she be placed on a high frequency ventilators. I really had no idea what to expect the first time I saw her after I left the post-op recovery room. The site of all the machines and tubes, and the noise; the noise of the ventilators, the noise of the alarms as they went off on babies in surrounding incubators, the constant buzz of all the machinery was almost too much. It made me wonder how the babies slept with the noise and hum. Nothing prepared me though for seeing my tiny girl surrounded by all this.
There she was, so fragile and dependent on everything going on around her. Nothing in the world is as shocking as seeing your newborn baby, practically for the first time, lying prone with so much attached to her, keeping her alive, breathing air into her tiny lungs which weren't prepared to support her on their own quite yet.
It seemed like there were tubes and cords everywhere. There was also a tube running into her chest to drain the air that had escaped her lungs when they developed the holes which resulted in pneumomediasteinums - or pockets of air that became trapped in her chest cavity.
We did what we could to pass the time and keep our minds off the negative and to focus on the eventual day when she'd do this important work, this thing called breathing; completely on her own.
She pulled through and was eventually weaned off the vents and left
with only a nasal cannula, IV's in her head, and the chest tube.
Then came the day I'd feared would never happen but did. I finally got to hold my darling baby girl. I sat there and drank her in. Her small pink nose, her darling chubby cheeks and her tiny hands. I placed my nose to her head and inhaled that wonderful newborn scent. I sat and looked at her and memorized everything about her. I rocked her and was soothed by her closeness. My rocking seemed to keep time with the hum of the machines, buzz of alarms and beeping of meters and measures. Something about the constant accompaniment of all that noise seemed comfortable and familiar.
Bliss was not only seeing my little girl, on her way to health, but seeing her safely wrapped in her daddy's arms.
A few more days passed and eventually she was moved from the NICU to the newborn floor where she'd stay for another 7 days until she was weaned from the gavage tube and onto the breast. Well, the move to the breast (she had been gavage-fed nothing but breast milk! I made sure of that!) was not without it's battles, mostly fought with hospital staff and nurses who tried to talk me into formula and bottle feeding, but that's a story for another post. 15 days after her birth, we were finally able to take her home.
The baby monitor has been a constant in our lives ever since. There hasn't been a night when I haven't placed my ear to it, to be reassured that she's breathing and peaceful. Sometimes I do this several times a night. Much the same way that all those machines, alarms and monitors in the NICU were strangely comforting, the baby monitor provides me with a reassurance that my baby girl's (humour me won't you? It won't be long before I am really no longer able to call her my "baby" girl.) lungs are doing the important work they should be doing. It calms me and alleviates the "mommy-worry" I sometimes go through when she has the littlest case of the sniffles, or when she's been still for so long. Toddlers are many things..."still" isn't usually one of them.
I don't think I'm quite ready to give up the baby monitor. Not just yet. These last vestiges of babyhood are fleeting at best. It won't be long before I look at this girl-child of mine and realize that the "baby" has all but vanished and standing in front of me is a little girl.
