This photo is already a couple weeks old. Now he has a little more chub to his cheeks, and he’s even beginning to sprout a double chin. Instead of looking like a weird little wrinkley thing, now he looks like a baby. I’ll take photos tonight, but between my lack of time to do absolutely anything, and the fact that anytime I ask my computer to do something it practically starts smoking, I can’t promise when they’ll actually find their way here.
So far we think he’s going to be a mini-me. He’s definitely got my nose. That nose is a Brown family tradition. It’s apparently the most dominant gene in the world, because you can’t make a baby with a Brown without getting that nose. I think he’s also got my chin and my cheeks, but for so much of his life we’ve had to view his face from under tape and tubes, so we could easily be mistaken there. I’m also guilty for his attitude, but I’ll get to that later.
Atticus seems to have finally turned a corner. After ripping his tube out himself a grand total of five (5!!) times*, he is now on a nasal canula, with high flow oxygen. Here’s what that means: There are basically four types of oxygen he could be on, and as of this moment he is on the second least aggressive. If he can sustain this level, then we can move forward and start working on eating by the weekend or so. This is unbelievably huge. Once he can take all his feedings by mouth, he can come home. Even if he has to stay on oxygen, they’ll send him home with a tank. As long as he can eat from bottle or breast.
*5 times. My son ripped out his tube five times. Everyone in the NICU was in disbelief with this kid. The nurses said it was a record. The respiratory therapist said it was unheard of. My kid is apparently so willful and pigheaded that he wants things done his way even if it means he can’t breath. He did not like that tube and no amount of logic or necessity was going to prevail upon him. It’s going to be interesting to see what he’s like when he’s two. I think we’re screwed.
For the most part my mood has been pretty good. We’ve fallen into a routine, and just like other times of high stress in my life, I’ve found so much comfort in a familiar rhythm. The days have been flying past in no time at all because I can only think in three hour chunks. I wake up, pump, eat breakfast, pump, eat lunch, pump, work on something for an hour if I hurry, pump, either work on something else for an hour if I hurry or make dinner, pump, eat dinner, drive down and visit Atticus, drive home, pump extra long to make up for the missed session, sleep, pump, sleep, pump, sleep, pump, lather, rinse, repeat. There’s not a ton of time to be depressed or anxious because I always need to be moving on to the next thing needing to be done.
Living strapped to the pump is getting wicked old, though. For years I’ve heard stories of the pain of engorgement or rock hard boobs from the milk coming in and I can’t relate to any of that. I have to be religious about pumping because I don’t have any biological inspiration making things work the way they’re supposed to. I have to manufacture my milk supply through constant, unceasing pumping. I’m totally my lactation consultants favorite student. A lot of moms of preemies give up, because as I may not have made clear, it is an AWFUL lot of work. But it’s something I’m committed to. My milk supply is the joke of the NICU. I currently take up four bins in the freezer when other moms are allowed one.
When I can squeeze it in between pumpings (or as Bear calls them, milkings) I’ve been working on his room. I’ve now got all the painting done and the vinyl letter border up, and now I’m working on the bedding. I don’t have much time left though, because if he keeps heading in the right direction, he could be home in two or three weeks.