So, last night in a fit of mad organizational skillz, I had The Daver help me to import some of our old pictures onto my Mac, something I’ve been meaning to do well, forever now. And what kind of blogger would I be without sharing?

(Oh, LOOKIT THAT, I finally joined the 21st century and got a Flickr account that I somehow need to add to my sidebar because I am totally adding additional pictures almost daily! Bonus! They’re all almost the same!)

Here’s Ben at his 3rd birthday party and holy shit does he look young. Damn, do I feel old now.

Daver rarely makes a photographic appearance here because he’s extremely un-photogenic. Just ask him. Oh wait, I just did. And he said “I’m really un-photogenic.”

I also rarely put my pictures up here. Why? Because I’ve been pregnant and/or nursing and thereby whale-like (La Leche League lied when they said breastfeeding would remove the pounds effortlessly). So you normally see older pictures of me if any. But don’t worry. I’m going to bring sexy back and get this weight off. Promise.

Also: am I high here? I THINK SO.

Here’s a trick: Which one of my kids is this?

Wait, the yellow might give it away. Oh well.

But who is THIS?

Okay, you win. Those were both Alex. So you’ll know THIS face from the acne and pink and bruising.

I’ve been pretty obsessive about documenting Amelia’s first days in this crazy mixed up world, although you’d probably not know it by looking at my blog. See, I always feel badly that the pictures are going to make my page load slowly although I don’t know if this is the case.

Either way, I’m going to start a Flicker account just like you crazy kids all have. My user name is MommyWantsVodka and here is the link. Then you can see just how badly I suck at taking pictures.

But I was just looking back to see if I’d taken any pictures of her third eyeball and it looks as though, nope, I didn’t. Probably a good thing since looking at it would make me weep openly. Hormonal, yes. Scary, also yes. My father, for those of you blessed to be my Facebook friend and be subjected to my status updates there (the only thing I’ve really done there. Which is stupid because it’s just like Twitter. Which I also have. Which, yeah.) posted one of the least flattering pictures of me that, well, I think might exist. You could see Amelia’s third eyeball there, but you’d probably not notice it because you’d be transfixed by the gigantic unkempt whale in the background.

I strong-armed him into removing it, thankfully, lest The Internet not find me sexy.

I may not have a picture of her third eyeball, but I do have this:

Oh, and this:

And this, which I warn you in all seriousness is pretty disturbing (it’s taken from far away, lest you all vomit onto your keyboard and send me the bill:

Yeah. I expected something a third that size and when the Asshole Nurse Practitioner (no really, that’s her name.) thoughtfully ripped the hat-shaped bandage from my poor daughter’s head, I nearly horked all over us all. Which, after she ripped out Amelia’s hair painfully, I probably should have. Bitch.

Anyway.

So, I suppose it’s a good thing that I’ve always thought scars were pretty neat. Because that one? HUGEMONGEOUS. You can’t probably tell from the angle which was deliberate, but it takes up most of the back of her head. It’s so foul looking that I spent our first night home crying over it.

Why yes, I am hormonal. My zit-covered face is pulsing proof!

Let’s just hope like hell that she never goes bald. Or if she does, she’s going to have to come up with one hell of a “this one time I was in a bar fight when I was like a month old. I cut a bitch!” story to regale people with. Or, I guess she could tell the truth. It’s a little scarier.

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’ve been going back and forth and trying to decide if I should talk about what’s been goin’ on (with apologies, of course, to Marvin Gaye) and I’ve decided that tentatively yes, I will do so. Between the precipitous drop in postpartum hormones that always leaves me sputtery, spineless and weak and the Very Real Fear that something is wrong with my newest daughter, I’m kind of a mess.

Okay, fine, you’re right Internet, just like you always are. I’m really a HUGE mess right now.

By trade, I’m not A Worried ™. I tend to be more cautious and careful while I’m gestating a crotch parasite, but after they pop out and are alive for about 6 or so months, I tend to stop worrying. I’d only invest in one of those video baby monitors to perform hilarious Stupid Human Tricks on it while Dave is on an Important Work Call and while I see the need for a bedside apnea monitor in many situations, having the damn thing in my house would freak me out and my thinking would get all skewed and I’d convince myself that because I had it, my baby would stop breathing.

See: not rational. So I ignore it.

I worry when I need to, like when Ben is dealing with a bully or a super-crazy-liberal private school, or Alex comes into the room holding an empty pill bottle and not usually other than that. It’s probably one of my better features, along with my shiny hair and impeccable powers of observation.

I fully expected to be worried from the start of labor until I pushed Amelia out, you see, because while she was cooking, I couldn’t SEE her. Once I could see her chubby face I knew I’d relax and begin to prepare myself for the inevitable poo I would have to take before I left the hospital to come home to Casa de la Sausage.

But it didn’t happen that way at all. Suddenly, the room was swarmed with neonatologists and specialists while I hung 34 feet in the air, crotch on display for all to see and I wept. I sobbed, I wept and I shook. Had The Lump been on her arm or leg or somewhere other than the back of her head, I’d have apologized to her for the plastic surgery she would invariably require, promise her a boob job–or a nose job–as a booby (get it!?!) prize and move the hell on with my day.

Over the following 12 or so hours, despite being filled with The Panic AND The Hormones, I managed to convince myself that it all was okay. That the cyst was full of fat or goo or hair or gold something.

Then the dreaded phone call post CAT scan prompted a flurry of people coming into my room and forcibly removing the baby from my boob. Which may or may not have happened quite like that, but you get the picture. From out of nowhere.

The NICU time wasn’t nearly as brutal as it could have been and I thank God for that each and every minute I breathe, but it served to remind me of just how not in control we are. I’d prophetically made a comment about that a couple of days before Amelia was born–how parenthood strips us of our control–and it rang true once again. Despite all of the ultrasounds and folic acid and all that shit, these things just…happen.

The neurologist, while seeing something unfavorable on the CT scan and thereby ordering an MRI without so much as seeing my daughter, has let us know remarkably little, save for the fact that he doesn’t accept our insurance. We have an appointment on Friday to talk about the MRI results–which he claims are not dangerous or urgent or anything else. But the whole time we were there, he appeared to be in surgery for patients with Real Problems.

Which reassures me more than it might someone else. As does the fact that she seems to have no visible neurological issues and manages to both eat, shit, and scream up a storm. Being home with her is awesome but waiting and seeing what the hell is going to be the next steps is sort of like torture. But I don’t exactly feel comfortable pulling the doctor–apparently an amazing MD–out of Real Brain surgery to hold my hand. Dave spoke with him while I was in a drug-induced coma and seemed to be reassured.

I’m aware that whatever is going on with her is not currently life-threatening, and while that does bring me some peace, not knowing exactly what is going on or what will be going on is slowly driving me bonkers. I’m hoping like crazy that I’ll look back on this and while I doubt I’ll laugh, be able to say, “Wow, Becky” *bitch-smacks self* “You have a degree in Freaking The Fuck Out!” Because that would beat the fcuk out of the alternative which is that something is really and truly wrong with my sweet and feisty daughter. Something I’m pretty sure I’d never recover from.

So now I sit here in Hermit Mode waiting for Friday and unable to do much besides care for my kids and my overactive boobies while avoiding talking on the phone or to anyone besides Daver lest I break down completely, unable to pull myself back out of the fit. Sleeping is not going so well–me, not her–as I seem to flip out and imagine Worst Case Scenarios, up to and including Daver getting arrested for human trafficking–and the fact that I’m not an emotional eater means that I’m literally forcing myself to eat fatty food.

If my dieting self could see me now…

*sighs*

Hold me, Internet? Don’t mind the spit-up on my shoulder–it’s dried. And ignore the boogers, Alex sneezed on me but I wiped it up as best as I could. Oh, and that smell? Probably more spit-up. Don’t worry, it’s not catching.

Oh, and BONUS!! for listening to me whine. Here’s Amelia!

It took me all this time to actually log onto my blog after I posted because all of your sweet comments made me weep with appreciation. Amelia is a lucky cookie to have so many virtual friends out there, and I plan to let her know just how fortunate she really is. Because she is.

I’d offer to tongue kiss you all individually, but I’ve been crying all day long and cannot breathe out of my nose any longer so it would be gross. That said, thank you to each and every one of you who prayed for us. Believe it or not, it made today just that much more bearable. And trust me, I needed anything to make today more bearable.

So, WTF, right?

Let me back up a second so you realize how out of left field this whole situation was.

Yesterday, at 4:27 my daughter Amelia was born after about 10 minutes of pushing. Let’s not say a thing about what that means about the state of my girl bits, okay? When she was born, my OB said the words that no one really wants to hear upon pushing out a child: “Becky, it looks like she has some sort of cyst on her head.” Then she called neonatology.

Well, shit. I had an US last week and it wasn’t picked up, so that’s good, right? Her color–despite being covered in cheese–was pink and rosy, she was screaming bloody murder and moving around like no one’s business.

I didn’t catch her Apgars because I was too busy hyperventilating, but I’d assume that they were good. After she was de-cheesed somewhat, she was brought into my shaking arms where she looked around at the world for awhile. Just taking it all in. Before she dived head first into the old boobies for some delicious treats.

The neonatologists ordered a Cat Scan for today and overall seemed remarkably unimpressed by her cyst. Apparently, these things DO happen, and are typically superficial. While the prospect of sending my 10 minute old child into a tube wasn’t exactly my idea of a party, I was somewhat placated by their nonchalant attitude.

Well, Daver and I reasoned, it was a good thing she’d have some hair to cover that up, right?

No big deal.

This morning, after being up half the night in pain and the other half either nursing or throwing things at my snoring husband, my attitude was slightly more nervous. The alternative to having it be a fatty cyst was decidedly less pleasant. It could mean that there was some sort of breakdown in the formation of the skull where some of her brain could be hangin’ out.

While I have frequently been called a “boring” “idiot” by some of my blog trolls–a charge I would not deny, but would plead down to simply obnoxious–I have never exactly had my brain anywhere but firmly inside my skull. Where it belongs.

Around 10:30 this morning, my daughter who had been nursing like a champ (or her brother Alex) was wheeled away from her panicking mother and accompanied by her doting father down to get a picture of her skull. Always the way *I* want to start my day.

Afterward, since no one rushed around yelling “STAT” or even making any sort of big deal out of anything other than my overzealous use of ice packs on my aforementioned girly bits, I began to sort of calm down. She acted just like any other normal baby, and shit, it probably WAS just a fatty cyst. Good thing she’d have some hair to cover it up, right?

I’d claim that the joke was on me, but there was nothing remotely funny about what happened next: the phone rang as I nursed her for the 40th hour that afternoon, and on the other line was her doctor. Begging Dave to talk for me so as not to have to juggle my nursing daughter we got some news. Suddenly, NICU, who I’d had no contact with, was on their way up to take her down. To the NICU.

Down to the NICU for a consult with a pediatric neurosurgeon.

I’ve said before such lofty things as “xxx ranks up there with things I never wanted to say” (xxx being something like, visiting my father in the ICU, the last time I shit my pants, or my favorite Rush song), but nothing could possibly compare to the thought “my daughter’s possible brain surgeon.”

Not only was she not even 24 hours old and not only was this not detected previously, now she’s suddenly in need of a NEUROSURGEON?

F-C-U-K.

No one took the time to explain much of anything, and I was stuck juggling the needs of Alex who misses his mommy desperately and vice versa, but juggling the needs of my new daughter who needs to eat for 50 hours a day. So Dave and I did precisely what mature parents do in situations like this: we both flipped the shit out.

And continued to do so until about an hour ago when, discussing the MRI that the neurosurgeon ordered for tomorrow morning with one of the NICU nurses, it came out that the ped was being cautious (= good), that Amelia was looking awesome (=good), and that our worst case scenario (death, major brain surgery) was probably a little drastic (= extra good).

Music to our addled ears.

Whatever may or may not be in the cyst (fluid, fat OR the ever popular BRAIN) is “small” and the neuro was so unconcerned that he won’t be around until tomorrow to read the MRI/CT SCAN results.

More music to our ears.

While we’re certainly not out of any woods yet, nor do we have anything really specific as a diagnosis or treatment plan, this is certainly better than things appeared to be this afternoon. I will continue to worry, stress, and pray, but I’m feeling slightly better. So is The Daver.

Please, if I haven’t already asked enough of you all already, could you do whatever it is that you do tomorrow that my wee daughter will check out to be more fine than not? If you do, I’ll give you pictures (just as soon as I figure out how to do so on Daver’s lappy).

I’m off to try and con a sleeping pill from a nurse and hopefully conk some zzz’s before Amelia comes back for more boob time. I can’t wait to see her again. She’s just…awesome.