My baby, she wrote me a letter. Or a blog post. Or she would if she could. She still needs to master that whole “speaking thing.” Whatever.

But even without mastering speech (yet. Perhaps at 2 months of age? I forget how these things develop), my daughter is an obvious prodigy. How do I know besides knowing her impeccable genetics (well, half of them at least)?

WE’RE HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL.

Life can begin now.

Never underestimate the power of prayer. Thank you all so much.

I woke up this morning more calm than I’ve been all month. It was like all my worrying had already peaked and I was left to deal with my more standard and rational self (shut up. It’s my blog and I’ll call myself rational if I want to). It was a damn good thing because last night as I gave my daughter a pep talk reminding her that she had to be a strong baby girl and kick this surgery’s ass I broke down. And I mean I BROKE THE FUCK DOWN.

But today, with some Valium on board, I was nearly calm on the way to the hospital (I am as surprised as you undoubtedly are). Stupid, yes, as neither The Daver or I could remember which was the psychologist with the bells and the dog (answer: Pavlov), but pretty calm. I was calm as we walked my shrieking, starving daughter up to the surgery wing and checked in.

Hell, I was even calm as we were marched back to the surgical prep area. I signed the consents using my real name, I allowed my nervous husband to cuddle and pace with his daughter rather than keep her firmly ensconced in my arms, and I only broke down marginally when she was taken from us back to surgery.

Breakfast and the company of both my father–who contemplated throwing on some scrubs and heading back to the surgical suite to direct the surgery (he has a degree, he claims, from the Internet that he got two weeks ago. He’s an Internet Doctor now! We’re so proud)–and Nathan–who promised a jaunt with me to the gift shop killed the half an hour before surgery began. We’d been strongly instructed to NOT leave the waiting area, The Daver and I together, as the doctor didn’t approve of it so any stuff gathering or pacing had to be done without one another.

In our frazzled state, however annoying that sounded on paper, perhaps being separated was a plus.

After eggs were firmly tucked into my belly and an additional Valium swallowed, Nathan and I took off for a cup of coffee. While down at the coffee shop, I decided to make this More Of An Adventure and explore the gift shop as well. Do I know how to live on the edge or what?

A half an hour passed before we headed back up to wait in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs for the next four to six hours. I knew I had some Super EZ crossword puzzles to muddle through and figured I should probably get started on it.

The elevator banks opened to my husband whizzing by in the company of another dude.

“OHMYGODTHEREYOUARE.” He panted in my direction.

Without having a moment to react, he nearly shouted “SHE’S DONE! SURGERY IS DONE!”

Turns out that by four to six hours, the doctor meant 45 minutes. My daughter, it seems, was an easy case. This was an even better outcome than I could have imagined. Turns out that The Thing on the back of her head, jutting out of her posterior fontanel was not a cephalocele (SPOILER ALERT. IT WAS EVEN WORSE THAN THAT. IT WAS AN ENCEPHALOCELE). It’s sitting down in Pathology now waiting to be determined what The Thing is.

Could be fat, could be not fat, could be that third eyeball my brother and father seem convinced it is (my father is, after all, an Internet Doctor now).

(Here’s hoping it’s benign)

But now we’re happily ensconced here in the PICU where I’ve blown an insane amount of money buying out the gift shop of pink balloons and fluffy things. It’s like I’m finally able to celebrate it. I’m finally able to breathe again for the first time since my OB informed me while I hung in the air like a contortionist that my daughter had “something” on her head.

My daughter, my cherished, dreamed of daughter, the daughter I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have. She’s here. Welcome to the world, Baby Amelia, my only cinnamon girl. I couldn’t be more proud to be your mother if I tried.

She’s done! She made it! Fuck yeah!

…is followed by one of the longest days I’ve had. Please, if you can spare some prayers for my sweet girl tomorrow, I would be so incredibly grateful.

I’ll update as I can, which means from my iPhone and generally of shittier quality (typing on that thing is a bitch) and from twitter.

Love you all.

I’m not having A Good Day today. My days alternate between being bearable and excruciating and I apologize profusely for anything I ever complained about having to wait for before. Living and waiting until Thursday to breathe again is nothing compared to how irritating it is to be pregnant for 9! whole! months! or wait an hour! for a pizza! THE NERVE! Waiting for a surgery that will result in a 3 day PICU stay is even more annoying than waiting for the next episode of American Idol!

I spent the first 3 weeks home cleaning like a crazy person, which is probably what I’ve become (crazy, I mean, not clean) as I’d been unable to move without creaking audibly before Amelia was born. Plus, the way I handle stress is to try and use my muscles. I find it quiets my brain and allows me to relax. It’s also breastfeeding safe, unlike the pharmaceutical alternatives I’d prefer.

Not really much point in the entry, I confess, but I wanted to thank each and every soul who has prayed for us. Honestly, it’s kept me afloat during these weeks and through all of the turmoil, I know I’ve got a friend in you, Internet. And that’s saying a lot. Thank you doesn’t begin to describe how much I appreciate and am humbled by your support.

(BONUS! No one has called me an idiot in a couple of weeks! HOORAY! A shout out to my trolls who are taking a break for now. It’s appreciated. When it’s all over, I’ll rejoice that I have trolls and you can go back to mocking me. It’s cool. I like the trolls.)

Today I will continue to float by, hoping simultaneously that it will pass quickly and not end because it’s one day sooner to the day I don’t want to have to live through. I honestly do not know how I am going to get through those hours of surgery where I’m stuck in a waiting room wishing I could claw my skin off. I’ve even enlisted my father to come sit with us so that Dave and I don’t have to talk to each other. Distraction is key here.

(anyone who wants to join us, please email me becky at dwink dot net)

And what the hell am I going to do in the PICU for 3 straight days? Any ideas of what I should bring/do to avoid rounding with the residents and taking over some of the patients for the nurses? Because no one would appreciate that.

“I could be happy,
The rest of my life with,
My cinnamon girl.”

–Neil Young

I was always disgusted with new parents that had (quote, unquote) an Easy Baby. There was something, especially in those who had Easy FIRST Babies just so smugly superior about the way they would announce it to me. Like they had personally contributed to their newborn’s temperament by just being that awesome. Which implies, of course, that those of us with more challenging (read: jerky) infants was nothing more than a combination of crappy genetics and lousy parenting.

Hell, if Ben had been less of an ass, I’d have probably bought into that happy-crappy-horseshit myself. New parents are prone to imagining that all of their kids better qualities are nothing more than fantastic parenting.

Har-dee-har-freaking-har.

Maybe it’s just the bitterness talking here, but there’s a part of me that almost feels sorry for the people who have Easy Babies the first time around. If #2 is more like one of MY children, well, then, they’re in for one hell of a shock when they’re pacing the halls for the 45th hour that night and popping Valium to ward off The Crazies.

I had suitably low expectations for my daughter’s temperament. Well, I had no real expectations whatsoever, save for not expecting a damn cephalocele on her wee head (Fun Fact! She’s only one of my kids with a normal sized noggin! And yet she’s the one going for surgery!). But no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, after all, so we make do.

My lack of expectations revolved around two separate and distinct individuals: Thing One and Thing Two (aka: Ben and Alex). Ben, you see, was the worst sort of first baby a mother could have. Thanks to the autism and subsequent sensory issues, he couldn’t be touched. Or he could, but he would scream bloody murder. His first year of life, in fact, he screamed. We didn’t learn why until much later, so I’d convinced myself it was because I was a bad mother. One year of solid screaming will do that to a person.

When I got pregnant with his brother 5 years later, I wanted and wished and confessed to Daver that I wanted only one thing out of this child. I didn’t care if he was smart, attractive or sweet. All I wanted was a child who liked me best. If that isn’t a sad, sad thing to say, I don’t know what is.

And well, like that old story about Monkey Paw that warns people to be careful what they wish for, I got my wish. In spades.

Alex loved me so very much for that first year that I literally couldn’t be apart from him for more than a couple of minutes. He didn’t sleep, well, ever. All he wanted to do is to be nursed by yours truly. For 20 or more hours a day. If only I were exaggerating. He wouldn’t tolerate his heartbroken father cuddling him, he wouldn’t handle even his doting brother holding him. He wanted his momma and he wanted her NOW.

Got my wish, all right. And learned never to wish something like that WITHOUT a disclaimer.

So it shocks and delights me to inform you that Amelia is one of the sweetest children I know, and certainly the nicest baby I’ve had spring from my nether regions. I know, I know, I know. I shouldn’t even tell The Internet this, lest I have to turn around and retract this statement tomorrow (likelihood is at an all time high), but I just don’t care.

They (who “they” are eludes me) say that if you don’t like the weather here in Chicago, well, wait five minutes. They are wrong. Chicago has two kinds of weather: fucking hot and fucking cold. For maybe 2 weeks out of the year it’s somewhere in the middle, but that’s really about it. I like to say that if you don’t like your baby/toddler/child right now, wait five minutes. Sadly, the opposite is true as well.

But for now, for RIGHT NOW, even with the gassiness and the baby acne, my daughter is the perfect baby. And unlike someone who might take it for granted by not knowing that children do come in an Asshole Variety too, I couldn’t be happier or more grateful.

(And as a bonus, she looks JUST like me as a baby. After two boys who look as though I may or may not have had anything to do with their creation–more not than anything–this brings me no end of joy. Which means she’ll grow to look like a female version of her father. Hopefully with less facial hair)

I do feel compelled to add that Asshole Baby does not = Asshole Child. Both Ben and Alex, despite their rocky beginnings as my children (perhaps they were voicing their displeasure at the Universe for saddling them with me as their mother) are two of the most delightful creatures I’ve met. I couldn’t love them any more if I tried.

Who else would I let eat all of my precious chocolate?

And who couldn’t be a better big brother if I paid him (I don’t actually pay him. He’s just THAT good)?

I remember back to my mental health rotation in which we had to attend–in our scant off hours–a support group. While I have no idea what group we sat in on (nor would I tell you if I did), I remember that they had a motto: “Feelings aren’t facts.” It’s something that’s stuck with me and until my daughter was born, I’m not certain I could tell you if that were true or not.

I’m a fairly rational person, despite how it may appear on my one-dimensional blog here, and I used to think that after I finally came to terms with how I was feeling (having a mentally ill parent has given me a unique gift in which I am able to distance myself from my feelings and examine them to check for rationality), I was probably feeling something real. Only time this wasn’t true was when I was pregnant. Then I was certifiable, although less so with each pregnancy.

I had several nagging suspicions that proved to be wrong while I was pregnant, but if you’d asked me and I’d answered you honestly, I would have sworn up and down that I was Onto Something. In no particular order, I was convinced that I was going to go into labor early, not have to be induced, and have a c-section. All obviously not true. Once in labor, I was convinced that Amelia would not come out breathing on her own. She came out bellowing like her mother does.

These feelings obviously weren’t facts.

And yet I sit here, my 3 week old daughter sleeping blissfully on my knees (she refuses to sleep without being held which makes for some interesting sleeping arrangements) and I’m convinced that she is going to die. I’m convinced that she is only here on loan to me and will return to her maker on Thursday next. I know it’s not rational, the surgery carries only a 2-3% chance of problems–all bad, of course–and she’s the model of health. It’s not likely that there will be any long-term complications.

And yet. And yet.

I cannot break this feeling of doom and foreboding. I cannot imagine a life past next Thursday one way or another. I cannot believe that I am lucky enough to have this baby AND KEEP HER.

It’s an awful feeling. I have no idea how to combat it or change my mind or approach this with anything resembling a positive attitude. I can’t seem to stop crying or panicking and I’m pretty sure I’m going to drive my family members bonkers (if not myself) by the time Thursday rolls around. Any suggestions are appreciated (save for those telling me I’m an idiot. Because A) tell me something I don’t know and B) now is not the time to beat on me) for how the hell to get on with this. I have 8 more days of this agony before The Big One.

Today she is three weeks old and I wish I were celebrating instead of weeping.

*Despite my own crankiness and fears about keeping Amelia NPO after 3:30, she was a trooper and a half.

*Although we were told to arrive an hour early, no one saw us for the first 45 minutes.

*Living up to her middle name, my amazing daughter didn’t need sedation for her MRV. I was sad that they didn’t offer it to me.

*The MRV showed that there is a huge vein behind her posterior cephalocele, but it does not run through it.

*The surgery on the 26th will take anywhere from 2 to 6 hours.

*We will be in the PICU/NICU for 3-4 days postop. I’ll staying with her since I am her food source, which means I will not sleep for those days. God bless insomnia.

*Alex is going to have a terrible time with Dave and I being gone for so long.

*I’m still, armed with all of the facts, shitting my pants over all of this.

*I’m terrified that something will go badly wrong and I will lose my daughter. Whenever I close my eyes, these scenarios pop into my head.

*I feel like I’ve now used up all of the strength I had to get through this and I don’t know how I’m going to get through. I feel like I’ve been run over by a large truck.

*Hearing “don’t worry” has gotten on my nerves and now hurts my feelings to hear. It’s irrational, but it makes me feel like I’m overreacting. I only wish I was overreacting. No, I don’t mean you.

*I still can’t believe what a month it’s been.

Tomorrow, bright and blurry, after many hours without food (her, not me. I can eat if I choose), we take baby Amelia in for an MRV. An MRV, for those gloriously unaware, is an MRI of the venous system. Our new neurosurgeon would prefer if, before opening up my daughter’s head, he knew where the blood flow was.

It’s all well and good, and shit, I’m glad he’s thorough about the whole situation, because how much would that suck if he weren’t? Answer: a fucking ton.

Afterwards, sedated baby or no (the sedation is the optional part, thankfully. Although it’s not optional for moi, who plans to experience better living through chemistry from the moment I wake up tomorrow until we’re back home) we meet with the surgeon one final time before her surgery on the 26th of the month. This displeases me nearly as much as Amelia being NPO for the MRV does.

See, now, I really hearted my first neurosurgeon who made me feel like this situation, although not idea, was going to be just fine. Sadly, my insurance doesn’t pay him what he deserves, so he’s forced to not take it. Hence, neuro #2. Who, I was correctly warned by neuro #1, has a deplorable bedside manner. He’s not gruff or mean or even all doomsday on us, he’s just very matter-of-fact.

He’s straight, to the point, and easily the cockiest person I’ve met. Which, if you know my friends, is saying a hell of a lot. I’ve been trying to tell myself that I’d rather have a talented and cocky surgeon than the alternative, but I wish I didn’t have to deal with the guy. But if I were to request another surgeon, a third neuro, it would likely be someone that Cocky Neuro #2 trained. So, I’ll take him and his attitude and medicate the shit out of myself so I don’t get hysterical in his office. Again.

Shit, this time I’m prepared. I even packed my OWN KLEENEX in the diaper bag! I’m slowly turning into an old lady who carries around tissues! I remember being completely squigged out when my mother used to use my coats because I’d always get them back with used tissues and plastic baggies in the pockets. I don’t know if she used the tissues for her nose or her eyes (sincerely hope it was her eyes. Because, ew) but it always annoyed me to no end. It just seemed…rude.

But that’s who this whole brain thing has turned me into: an old lady who cries at everything and shoves Kleenex up her sleeves so as to not snot all over other people. I was okay with the grey hairs I’ve gotten steadily more of since Ben was born, but this development? Not so much.

If you happen to be in the Same Day Surgery wing tomorrow, and you see a red, puffy-eyed haggard looking broad with a baby seat and a econo box of Puffs, come and pull up a chair, I’m not catching. I’ll even share my Valium with you.

The first year that The Daver and I celebrated VDay (also hilarious known in my brain as VD-Day–because what ISN’T funny about VD? Answer: nothing, unless it’s your privates. Then it’s really unfunny) was on a Saturday, which means that since it wasn’t TODAY that we first celebrated it, this is our 6th VD-Day. Sounds impressive, no?

3 kids, 2 houses, 2 apartments and a whole mess of pets later, I cannot believe that number is so low.

But we’re not romantical people, Internet. I know, I know, pick your jaw up off the ground, you simply cannot believe that someone who married moi wouldn’t be all about hearts and flowers but it’s the truth. I happen to love this holiday–albeit for very different reasons of which I’ll give you three: pink, red, and sparkly–but Dave could probably do without it. It’s unfair, but I imagine him listening to whiny emo music on VD-Day’s prior to our union, and perhaps crying into something made out of silk.

(It’s a good thing that he won’t read this for weeks or I might be facing the wrath of a dutch oven tonight)

It’s not a likely scenario since I’m fairly certain that he’s never owned anything silk, but it’s my mental picture and I’m sticking to it as dogma. It is my blog, after all, and if my mental picture of my husband includes a bunny suit and a 5-pound jug of sour cream, well, it’s my prerogative.

The only thing that Dave and I have consistently done on VD-Day besides annoy the living shit out of each other by screetching the “It could only be JAAARREEDD” song and ever-increasing decibels is to buy one another roses.

And not just ANY kind of roses: TACKY roses.

No, they’re not real or have ever been grown on anything remotely resembling a plant. I’m talking about the world’s tickiest-tackiest sort of flower. They can’t even just be fake; they have to be fake PLUS.

For example, last year I found a true gem: it cost 39 cents (hello, After VD-Day specials!!), it was covered in fake velvet AND it sang a tinny melody! Even better, the wires that connected the button that needed to be depressed to make the music were fucked up, so the melody–Fur Elise, I think it was–would veer horribly off key at irregular intervals. All it was missing was the heavy, cheap perfume of fake roses past.

With all of the hullabaloo that the last month or so has involved, I was never able to enact my master plan: a rose made of a lacy cheap thong. I’ve seen them before and stupidly never thought to buy them for such an occasion, and now I’m kicking myself for it. Because what else would my husband want for VD-Day but a pair of women’s thong underwear that no woman in her right mind would wear? The level of gross would be too high to put them on my delicate girly bits, even for a laugh. Shit, the material might eat my crotch.

*sighs*

Always next year, right?

Happy VD-Day, Internet! I hope today finds you happy and well and perhaps in possession of a 5 gallon jug of sour cream. Because what isn’t awesome about sour cream? Answer: nothing.

And if you have any ideas for hideous roses for years to come, holler.