Thursday, June 14, 2007

Letter to Helena - Month 1

Helena,

Well, kiddo, welcome to the world. To paraphrase Vonnegut, it's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. The day you were born, I was out of doors for maybe 20 minutes total, so if you're really interested in historical weather facts, you'll have to check with your father when you're old enough to talk. He's got a head for that sort of thing.

Your dad and I were filled with a sort of nervous anticipation about your birth; a feeling that didn't dissipate once the doctor induced labor and revealed that you had passed some meconium into the fluid surrounding you. The doctor told us that due to that potential complication, they'd need to have a team of NICU nurses standing by when you arrived, so that they could make sure you were going to be okay. I began to worry even more, but your dad was good at hiding his own nervousness enough to reassure me that you'd turn out just fine.

Eight and a half hours after labor started, you were born. The doctor laid you, warm and squirming and slightly purple, on my chest for a few seconds so I could see you. You tilted your head up and grabbed me with your big, bright, blue-grey eyes. You didn't cry or fuss, and as soon as the umbilical cord was clamped and cut, they rushed you over to the baby-warmer, where a team of no-nonsense NICU nurses pushed thin hoses into your lungs to extract any trace of fluid you might have inhaled. I still hadn't heard you cry at that point, and kept asking your dad if you were okay. He and the nurses confirmed that you were fine, and in fact, most perfect.

As if there was ever any doubt.



You were born at 6:24 PM (central standard time). 624 also happened to be the room number we stayed in for the duration of our hospital visit. We let you spend that first night in the nursery, with the pacifier-bearing nurse-moms, but we kept you with us the next night, parked in your little plastic baby bin at the end of my hospital bed.

You didn't really find your vocal cords until you were hungry (and hungry you were, when late that first night a nurse wheeled you into our room, mewling like a furious banshee), but you made some entertaining whimpering noises that made us wonder if you weren't part puppy. You still do, although now you've added some really cute cooing noises to your vocal repertoire.

We spent a lot of time in the room simply staring at you, in your various stages of sleepiness. We had several visitors, and gleefully showed you off to the friends and family members that stopped by to meet you. Even now, we love introducing you to people that we know so that they can fawn over you and make as much of you as your father and I enjoy doing. I tend to get a bit possessive when it comes to other people holding onto and cuddling you, and your dad confessed to the same impulse. Luckily for us, you seem to like it best when we're snuggling you.



In the last month, you've endured a lot. You've gone from a content, squirmy little peanut blissfully floating along in womb-ville, nary a care in the world, to an occasionally irate little eating machine that never appears to need to sleep. Undoubtedly, you'll change again, and again, and again as the days and weeks and months go on. Whatever happens - however little sleep, however much milk, whatever level of snuggling that you decide you need - you'll always be my baby girl.



I love you, Helena.

Mama