Time is feeling decidedly concrete as we celebrate four weeks of trips to the NICU. Pete is on ad lib feeding now instead of the military 3-hour routine. This is an excellent development, but means that we either get a phone call and rush down to nourish his demands or (more usually) sit for hours by the incubator waiting for him to wake. When new parents do this at home at least they're allowed a laptop.
Still, I keep myself entertained. I make up diseases to ask about ("are premies more susceptible to monkey flu?", "I have a gerundive cornucopia - could I have passed that on to the baby?") or - my favourite - attempt to put on an Irish/Geordie/Cockney accent and keep it up all day! When I started addressing doctors as "darling" and "princess" regardless of gender, I saw my popularity on the ward dip appreciably.
Luckily Peter is still too young to be embarrassed by his father's descent into madness. He's now a gigantic 4lbs 11oz, almost as heavy as a Cheesecake Factory dessert. There was much excitement earlier in the week when they removed his feeding tube and lifted the top of the incubator, but inevitably the tube went back in and the top came down again. Too much too soon we were told, as though the baby had demanded these actions himself. As a NorCal native he knows it's very uncool to try too hard.
So still no date for his emancipation. Well, actually, several dates that change day-to-day. "It'll just click, and then we'll tell you he's going home tomorrow!" a doctor claimed this morning. "Thanks for the update, princess," I replied charmingly, disguising my terror that I may soon be in charge of a tiny too-young person who is still able to stop his own heart when he wants attention. Yes, life remains a roller-coaster, but an old rickety one that might have been thrilling once but is now rubbish, and then someone sat behind is sick all over you. Release the baby already! I want to go to Disneyland.
Actually, with parents like you, the nurses seem a pretty good deal.
Keeping a low profile.
