Super Nanny

By: Heather Somaini

My kids really have three moms…it’s complicated, I know.  We’ve probably ruined them for life.  First they’ll have to explain to every new friend that they don’t have a dad and instead have two moms.  And then they’ll ask who this Sheenah person is.

Izzy and Free don’t know life without Sheenah.  She arrived on day 10 of their little lives.  She came home the same day Free did actually.  We had been at the house for about a week with Izzy along with my mom and dad on that Sunday night when Sheenah arrived with her entire entourage in tow.  Her sisters and her cousin all came to check out these strangers she was going to live with and work for.  I guess they decided we were ok because they didn’t run screaming from our house leaving tire marks at our front door.

We’ve had our ups and downs, like anyone would.  Sheenah doesn’t like sushi and we don’t understand that – she’s clearly from another planet!  She also thinks that some of our all-organic groceries might be a little much but she humors us none the less.

Sheenah decorates our eat-in kitchen area for all major holidays and birthdays.  It looked like this for Valentine’s Day. The kids love it and squeal like it’s Christmas!

Sheenah loves our kids like her own and I swear she would take a bullet for them, just like us.  She has fed them, wiped their little butts, dried their very big tears, bandaged their scrapes and soothed their tiny souls.  There isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for them.

I can’t believe that in March, the twins will turn 5 and Sheenah’s time with us will be the same.  So much time has passed and I’m confident it would have been much more complicated if we hadn’t found Sheenah to also help Tere and me through this life-altering experience called parenthood.  I remember many nights early on falling asleep with a baby on me and waking to Sheenah slowly picking that baby up to put her in the crib.  Those sleepless nights and bleary-eyed days were impossible and Sheenah’s support was invaluable.  We were learning how to be parents and she was helping us along the way.

Sheenah had a big birthday yesterday and I hope she celebrates all through the holidays – she deserves it!  We took her out to mark the occasion and even met “the boyfriend”.  I really hopes he understands that Sheenah has three moms and we get to grill him at every opportunity.  ”What are your intentions with our nanny?!?!”

A couple months ago I realized that Izzy and Free have officially adopted Sheenah.  They were running through the house and I think away from Sheenah when I heard one of them end a sentence with “…Sheenah Somaini”.  I looked at Sheenah and we both started laughing.  I told her it was official and now she was stuck with us forever.  Of course, the kids call her that all the time now just to see if they’ll get the same reaction from us.

No matter what, Sheenah’s a part of our family and we wouldn’t be the same without her.  I hope we’ve had as much of an impact on her as she’s had on us.  Happy Birthday Sheenah!!

Parent-Teacher Conferences

By: Heather Somaini

When did school become so hard?  And pre-school none the less!  Isn’t pre-school just about finger paint and jungle gyms?  Isn’t Kindergarten just about learning how to get through the morning without a nap?  I barely remember pre-school and I went longer than most – two whole years.  I have a January birthday so my parents decided to wait until I was 5.5+ to start Kindergarten.  Most kids had their first taste of school when they hit Kindergarten and it was a rude awakening that some grown-up in the front of the room actually wanted you to line up and stand still!

Now we live on the west side of Los Angeles and EVERYONE is obsessed with starting their kids in school as soon as possible.  There are videos to teach your baby to read and flash cards for numbers.  When did we become this way?  When did someone decide that teaching their kid to read and do math before Kindergarten was a GOOD idea?  When did our aggressive pursuit of advancement extend to squeezing our children’s free-wheeling little brains and spirits into pre-determined silos of thinking and behavior?

When did it all become so serious?  We had one public elementary school in the small Vermont town we lived in.  There was one class for each grade and in the winter, we took one afternoon each week to go skiing.  I had the same kids in my class each year.  Here in Los Angeles, we have a plethora of educational options.  There is our neighborhood public elementary school, multiple public charter schools, magnet schools, and the holy grail of the westside – the best private schools that money can buy.

Tere and I have stressed out about schools ever since we realized they were eventually going to go them.  We’ve researched, discussed, debated, asked for advice and generally stressed out for years now.  With the twins half way through their third and last year of pre-school, a common question these days is “where are you applying?”  Your kids’ entire future could be riding on who they meet in Kindergarten.  Maybe their seat mate is the next Steve Jobs or Bill Clinton or Warren Buffet.  Can that really be true?  I mean, I went to public school in a small town in Vermont.  Did that limit my future?  Tere went to a parochial school in the “high desert” of California.  Was she predestined for her life now?

I can’t believe any of that is true.  I have to believe that we determine our future, our fate, our destiny.  I have to believe that my kids will thrive in most schools and environments.  I have to believe that they will love to learn and set themselves on a path of discovery.  But I did find out this week that our kids are perfectionists – it was pointed out many times at our parent-teacher conference.  Both Izzy and Free get frustrated quickly when the vision in their head of something doesn’t exactly match the results their hands create.  They’re learning though that with practice, they get better.

The teachers asked at the end of our conference if we had any questions for them.  I really didn’t have any.  After a number of not the best meetings, I’m a little shell-shocked still.  I wonder how long I will stay this way.  Will I still brace myself for a challenging report when they’re in third grade?  I’m ecstatic that this one went well and both Izzy and Free are thriving.  It makes me happy.  Can I stay happy for a little while longer?  How about no more curve balls for just a little while?  Let me stay in my happy place until they graduate from college and can start paying their own rent!

Balance…Possible?

By: Heather Somaini

Balance. I sort of hate that word. I often hear parents talking about finding the right amount of “balance” in their lives between their work, spouse, kids, and themselves. I’ve always said that it’s less about balance and more about prioritizing what’s most important and spending time doing those things. Balance would then just…appear.

I feel terribly unbalanced these days and maybe even unnecessary. I think I’m missing a need to be needed. That sounds weird and looks even weirder written down. Why should any of us need to be needed?  I don’t know but I do.

I realized after I had my cycling accident that everyone seemed to do just fine while I was laid up in bed.  Tere went to work just fine, the kids went to school…the world kept spinning without me.  So why do I feel like there isn’t enough time in the day to get ahead at work, give my kids the love and attention they need, think ahead to the holidays and maybe, just maybe show my spouse that she is not the last thing I’m thinking about every day?

Although I know everyone in my life needs me to some degree, I also want them to need me in the right way – the way I want to be needed.  You know what I’m talking about – in the hero way.  I want to save the day as often as possible.  I want to be the one with the good ideas, the smart quips and the “pull that out of my hat” types of rescues.  I fear it happens very infrequently.  Being needed in the wrong way feels stifling and tragic like a heat wave that just won’t let you breathe.

It doesn’t help that I feel sort of broken.  My right hand is functional for most things but completely un-functional in the grander scheme of things.  Everything takes me longer to do and the amount of conscious thought every minute of the day is incredible.  No matter how careful I am, I end up bonking my hand in some way once a day – sometimes somewhat gently and other times well…not so much.

I have a stream of doctor’s appointments to make sure that I’m healing ok.  Which I am, by the way.  But I don’t really look the way I used to.  The body is incredibly resilient but the pavement left indelible marks on me, somewhat like a tattoo. Soon they will use a laser on those marks to see if we can break them up a bit.  If not, I’m left with some interesting scars.  I’ve been told scars are sexy, that it shows I’ve thrived through something difficult and painful.  I like that concept for the marks on my leg and maybe even my arms but my face…that’s a whole other matter.  I want my face back the way it was.

Which brings me back to balance.  Can I have it?  Is it possible?  What if I get it and I hate it?  What if what I really thrive on is the need to be needed and in getting that, balance is impossible?  Do you have it?  If you do, what does it feel like?

Same Sex Marriage in Vermont Gone Wrong

By: Heather Somaini

I read an article the other day by Karen Hartman in the New York Times. It chronicles her very unusual situation. You see, back in 2000, Karen and her girlfriend drove from their home in Brooklyn up to Vermont to get hitched under that state’s more favorable same-sex marriage laws.

I have to add a disclaimer here and let you know that my family is from the great state of Vermont. I lived there until I was ten; my grandparents are buried there; my grandmother Pearl worked for the state’s long-standing senator Patrick Leahy; my mother and cousin graduated from the University of Vermont…I love that state. But even I didn’t run off to get married there “just because I could”.

As you know, New York just recently passed a new law to allow same-sex marriage in their state and the first ceremonies will be held this Sunday, July 24th.

The problems began for poor Karen and her nameless lesbian wife four years later when Karen had an affair with a man and decided she wasn’t gay anymore. She wanted a lesbian divorce. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get a lesbian divorce because New York didn’t recognize her marriage in the first place, only Vermont did. They would have to be divorced there but then it got only trickier. Vermont, like almost every other state, has a one-year residency requirement to grant a divorce. In a typical marriage, the state you live in recognizes the other state’s marriages so your residency requirement is a non-issue. But if your state doesn’t recognize your marriage in the first place, that state can’t issue the divorce.

So for seven long years, Karen and the nameless wife stayed in limbo. They sold their house and signed an agreement separating everything in their lives except this pesky little Vermont marriage they had. Karen settled in with her new boyfriend and had a baby. As she writes in the article,It was weird to go to restaurants with a man and feel a quiet avalanche of approval. It was weird to hold hands in public without thinking about it, and soon without even thinking about not thinking about it. It was weird to say, “My boyfriend will be right down” to a cabdriver. It was weird because it wasn’t weird. It wasn’t queer. I wasn’t queer anymore, except on the books in one state.

This is where I get off the pity party train. I actually felt badly for this woman up until here. She made a choice and at some point realized she needed to make a new choice but got stuck in a legal sticking point –I get that. I’m sympathetic to that. What I’m not sympathetic to is a woman who so clearly had an issue with being gay that she ran back to being straight and now wants us to feel sorry for her because she can’t get a divorce and be “normal” and have the “approval” of everyone around her.

I understand that sometimes gay people don’t actually feel proud and despise themselves because of what they think is the world’s disapproval of them. But when I get up every morning, I just feel like me. I’m proud of me. I’m happy with me. If someone isn’t too keen on me, that’s ok. I’m probably not too keen on them either. That happens all the time. But no one gets to tell me that I’m less than because of anything that I am. I have every right to be on this planet and pursue my version of happiness just like every other little creature here. I am more than a woman or gay or a mother or a daughter or a wife. I’m me – unique and special and perfect just like everyone else.

Karen on the other hand, thought it was weird to be gay. She was much happier holding her boyfriend’s hand and not worrying about what other people might say about her. I think that’s totally fine but don’t call the rest of us “weird” because we’re not like you. Don’t tell us we should be embarrassed by our lives like you were when you were one of us.

Karen and her pro bono lawyer eventually got her a divorce in the state of New York and 40 or so days later, she married her 4-year-old child’s father. Good for her. I’m sort of glad she’s one of “them” now. I think it’s only fitting that it took that long to finalize it. I’m sure those six years of being married to a woman but living with the father of her son felt “normal”.

Going Back to the Hospital

Coming through a challenging pregnancy, birth, and recovery for everyone created new people in all of us. We took away a few tricky qualities that we’re still working on, but overall both Tere and I came away with a new sense of appreciation and gratitude that we hadn’t understood before. It was a tough lesson to learn under very difficult situations but we eventually got it. If there is anything I try to encourage for new parents or anyone undertaking large change in their life, it’s patience, because in time all things become clear.

I read once that great CEO’s have a keen knack for knowing when to make a decision. It’s all about time and information. If they wait until they have all the information they need, the time to decide has passed. If they rush a decision without enough information, the odds of making the wrong choice are high. So the key is to wait, gather just enough information, and act at exactly the right moment when these two worlds meet. I think there is a good bit of “art” to it. Patience.

I saw something once where this guy gives away “gratitude rocks” which you’re supposed to carry in your pocket so that every time you touched it, it would remind you to be grateful for all that you have. This is a tricky lesson. In our 21st century, high-tech world, we are all moving at great speeds climbing the corporate ladder in our ever quest for more. More of what –I’m not sure, but we all want more. We had a great evening last Sunday at our house when a young singer-songwriter came to do a mini-set for our friends. We had lots of food, everyone loved the music and I poured lots of wine. It was a lovely evening. One of our friends found Tere and me in the kitchen to tell us how important we were to her. She took each of our heads in her hand, pushed all three of our heads together and leaned in close to tell us that we were loved. Right then, I was grateful for all the people in my life that support me every day even if I don’t see them. Gratitude.

Give.

For us, patience and gratitude produced a need to give. We realized quickly that there were lots of people around us that gave of their time, their expertise, their love and somehow we needed to give back. We loved going back to the hospital to visit the nurses who took care of Tere while she was on bed rest and soon they asked if we would talk to a patient. We agreed and soon we were visiting a number of soon-to-be moms, all on bed rest at Cedars-Sinai’s Maternal Fetal Care Unit. We met some great women and I hope we inspired them to tough it out through those agonizing months of nothing but online shopping, hospital food, and constant wake-ups to be poked and prodded. We’ve even stayed very much in touch with one family now with twin boys living in San Diego. In fact, our son Free pretty much peed all over their house on one visit as we were beginning to potty train. Oy!

My point is that sometimes the best way to get what we need from the world when we need it most, is to give. When we’re stressed beyond belief and think we have no more energy, give. When our patience is thin and we want to hide, give. When I’m angry and want to have a pity party of one, give. When the world is spinning and feels ready to cave in, give.

I hear it comes back tenfold.

What is Family?

By: Heather Somaini

I was with my family this past weekend for the 4th of July – hopefully you were with yours. On the way home as I watched our babies sleep on the plane, I started to think about how much I miss my family, how much I need them and how much I want them around more.

We’re an odd bunch, our clan. My grandparents were products of the Depression and had an unbelievable work ethic matched with a strong sense of humor. They believed that you could be anything you wanted but hard work was the only way to get there. They passed down a strong sense of self, with tongue firmly planted in cheek. They all picked themselves up by their bootstraps and when they made mistakes, they picked themselves up again. They suffered. They fought back. They came from hearty stock.

Growing up in this family had its fair share of knocks. I always knew I was loved, deeply, and that every single one of my relatives would kill for me. We can pick on one of our own but if an outsider even looked sideways, let alone had something critical to say about one of us, the wagons would circle. My family is an impenetrable force that no one can pierce. I know that when we’re together, we are a force – probably a force to be reckoned with (as I say with a grin).

Families are sort of amazing when you think about it. In my family, we’re all stuck with each other no matter what because blood means a tremendous amount to us. My mom and I were talking about a family that disowned one of their own for being gay. She was in shock because to her, blood is blood. You don’t get the option of rejecting your own. You’re stuck with them for good or bad, and you’d better start figuring it out because they’re not going away. I mean if you could reject a relative for being gay, why not reject the one that drinks too much or makes bad financial decisions or the one that got pregnant way too early?

Oh wait; if we did that, then we’d all be rejected! The beauty of my family is that they accept me. It has not always been easy and that’s probably more my fault than anyone else’s, but as I’ve come to accept who I am, it’s been easier to see that they’ve always been there for me. They’ve always wanted the best for me. They’ve always accepted my choices, even if they were looking at me sideways the whole time.

As I watched my baby boy and baby girl sleep next to me on that plane, I thought about what I would do for them as they grow older. How I am already so fiercely protective of their future selves, how I want them to experience life in all its complexity and make decisions that in the end they will be proud of. I want to be there to watch them fail and then pick themselves up again. I will whisper in their ear all the encouragement they need to stand up again and when that doesn’t work, I’ll bark at them until they get up just to make me stop. I can only hope they are the best parts of me.

My wife Tere was out of sorts as we prepared to leave my parents’ house in Tennessee for the trek back to Los Angeles. She seemed mad or upset at me. Eventually she broke down and told me she was sad about going home, how my parents feel like family to her and that gives her hope. Hope that she has a place in the world, a place that is bigger than she. Hope that her children will have those same people around them to make sure they are loved with big, all-squeezing arms. Hope that in this odd clan of ours, she will be as fiercely protected as I was. Hope that she will one day be whole. I think that’s all we can ever hope for – being whole…or maybe just a little less broken than we are today.

I wish I could convince Tere that she needn’t worry. No one gets rejected in our family – even the ones that marry in. We have a number of in-laws that are still with us long after the marriage ended. Her place is secure. My family has actually confided that they’d probably keep her over me in a divorce. See, that’s how they keep me on my toes, right when I was getting comfortable. We’re an odd bunch.

Independence Day

By: Heather Somaini

I love the 4^th of July.  It’s warm out, the food is generally being cooked by some burly man in an apron over an outdoor grill, and there are fireworks.  I mean really, what’s better than fireworks and men cooking for you over an open flame?  Fireworks make me think back to being a kid in Vermont.  My parents would take us to what was probably a small park but to me it felt like a gigantic field that went on for days.  I’m sure there were like maybe fifty people there but it felt like an ocean of people to me.  I remember that feeling on a summer night when the air is finally cool and the sun is setting, your skin still slightly damp from the day’s heat.  I always loved slipping into that jacket my mom always made sure I had and finally feeling warm; lying down on the blanket and smelling the cut grass.  It always felt like such a treat to be out so late with the grown-ups as if something very mysterious were happening at that time of night.  I’m sure mysterious things were happening – it was the 70’s in Vermont.

This year we’re celebrating the 4^th at my parents’ house in the great state of Tennessee – I say “great” somewhat facetiously since they’re trying to ban the word “gay” there.  Is it possible to ban a word?  I’m sure we will be requested to engage in conversation about it while we’re there.  Not with my parents but instead with some random, slightly intoxicated retiree that is still trying to figure out how we conceived our kids.

But I really want to tell you about our first 4^th of July as parents.  A few years before the babies were born, we went to a barbeque for some new friends of ours.  We had the best time.  There were lots of kids running around, great food, and we really enjoyed meeting an amazing group of similar-minded people.  Every 4^th of July, we would attend this party and as every year passed, we felt worse and worse because they would ask us how the “fertility thing” was going.  It clearly wasn’t going well because we had nothing to show for it – no pregnant bellies and no babies.  They pitied us or at least we felt they did.  I’m sure they didn’t because knowing how busy parents are, they don’t have the time or energy to feel pity for anyone.

Our twins were born in early March and as July started rolling around, I asked Tere if she had heard from our friends about their party.  She hadn’t.  I couldn’t believe it – did our invite go into our email spam folder or something?  I mean, we couldn’t miss this party.  We had to show off our newly-hatched spawn!  We had to show them that we were finally successful, that we had created duplicates of ourselves, that we weren’t total failures at this thing that everyone around us did with ease!

We called and asked if an alligator had eaten our invite.  It hadn’t even gone out!  How dare they deny us our moment in the sun?  They “had” to have a party, otherwise our entire reason for existing at that moment was for naught!  Somehow we invited ourselves to our friends’ “very small” 4^th of July party.  I swear I think we told them that the only reason we wanted to come was to show off the babies.  Luckily for us, the matriarch of that family desperately wanted to hold them.  We were in!

Tere and I spent the whole afternoon showing our 4-month-old creatures off.  It was awesome.  We beamed.  I dunked them in the pool.  They screamed.  Tere cried.  It was a hell of a day.

I was happy.  Sometimes you just need to show off your newly-hatched spawn to feel good about yourself.

Bringing A Child Home From The NICU

By: Heather Somaini

 

 

March 12th

It was amazing bringing Tere and Izzy home.  We still referred to her as “the girl” then.  It was astonishing how long it took us to stop doing that.  I guess it was hard to switch from thinking of them as embryos to full-fledged babies.

It was a Monday afternoon in March.  My Mom had set us all up in the master bedroom with everything we needed so we could all sort of hunker down in there.  My boss and his wife gave us the bassinette that all of their kids came home to so we kept Izzy in our bedroom for that first week.  We really wanted her near us but I don’t recommend keeping a newborn in your bedroom.  Izzy, and apparently most babies, move a lot when they sleep so I would essentially wake up every time she moved – which seemed like every fifteen minutes.  I was terrified something would go wrong so I lay there listening to her move, listening to her breathe.  She would be loud and then quiet and I was convinced she had stopped breathing and then I would get up and check.  I’m sure I was a sight standing over this little baby trying to see her chest rise and fall, trying to be completely silent, listening.  I’m so glad Tere never woke up to see that!

I was exhausted the next day and the next and the next.  I went right back to work which I also don’t recommend.  I should have taken a week or two off – it would have gone a long way to help Tere who had just gone through a ridiculously trying experience and needed my support more.  Parents tell you about the lack of sleep but nothing prepares you for it actually happening.

It was amazing though to come home to almost all of my very new family every day.  My Mom made sure we all ate well.  I would get Izzy almost immediately and do whatever needed to be done.  She would invariably spit up most of whatever I fed her and I soon started to worry that I was doing something wrong.  Tere and my Mom kept telling me it never happened with them so it must be me.  I was clearly holding her wrong, feeding her too fast, feeding her too slow…something!  I was starting to really freak out when they decided to let me in on the joke: Izzy spit up a lot on everyone!  Aren’t the people who love me the most fun?

I loved that we had a chance to spend time with one baby at home before trying two.  It gave us time to practice.  We realized quickly that babies sort of do whatever they want and if you go along with them, your life can be very challenging.  We took Izzy everywhere.  Every day we went and visited Free in the hospital and Tere and I took turns feeding him.  We would hold the babies together, hoping that might help Free get stronger.  Those NICU nurses were on a very intense schedule and if you missed your baby’s feeding every three hours, even if that just meant missing the big push of formula from a syringe into his feeding tube, you missed it.  They ran on time like Swiss watches, like German trains –it was insane.  It was a good thing though, as it set Free up for one of the best baby schedules EVER!

Now if we could just get Free home.

 

 

The Other Mother

By: Heather Somaini

I have to say that our overall experience at Cedars Sinai was excellent.  But it wasn’t without its odd situations.  Remember the anesthesiologist who thought every gay man in our room was the father?

Well in the NICU, they were generally confused by me.  They would ask who I was since I was clearly not the mother who had just given birth to twins.  I would say “Oh, I’m the other mother,” which always threw them off.  But I was never sure what else to say.  How do you succinctly and clearly explain that your newborn babies have two moms when that’s the last thing on your mind?  That was the problem.  I was always thinking about what needed to be done or what was happening with the twins or Tere and never really thinking about how confusing our family structure was to people who usually only deal with moms and dads.  So I would say the easiest, shortest thing that came to mind, which didn’t always clear up the situation.

The woman at the front desk got used to me very quickly so that was no big deal.  But the nurses in the NICU rotate every twelve hours, so depending on what time I was in there, a new nurse could be waiting for me.  All I wanted was to sit with Free and hold him; I didn’t want to have to explain who I was every time I met someone new.  But that’s what I did.

I really think how we handle these situations is so telling about who we are and where we want to be.  Our family structure just wasn’t something I was thinking about that much right then.  I felt as normal as normal could be.  Maybe if our pregnancy had been routine and the birth very average and the babies were totally healthy, I could have been worried about how people perceived us.  But I just couldn’t with everything else going on.  I’m happy that my brain was otherwise occupied for more pressing matters.

One day in the NICU, I was sitting and holding Free in the rocking chair next to his station.  I couldn’t move him far because all the monitors kept him attached to that area.  The attending doctor that day was an older gentleman who clearly knew his stuff.  He went from baby to baby knocking out all the things that needed to be done and was clearly insightful about how to handle each situation.  When he got to Free, he read through the chart and asked the nurse why they were running some blood test on Free when his mother’s blood type was not O+ (Tere is A+).  Since I overheard the conversation and wanted to be helpful, I simply said “Because I’m O+”.  He looked at me and said “And who are you?” in a short, curt voice.  The nurse stepped in between me and the doctor and turned her back to me.  I smirked, realizing what she was about to do.  There was a good bit of discussion in hushed voices with the doctor moving his head sideways to take a look at me once or twice.  When it was all over and the nurse had clearly explained that Free had two moms and that we had used my eggs with an anonymous sperm donor but Tere had carried, the doctor sort of shook his head just a tiny bit almost like he was trying to get all the marbles to settle in but then went about his work, business as usual.  Just the way it should be.

By this time, Free was also struggling to eat.  He would take a bottle on one feeding but worked so hard to get it all in that he was exhausted and refused to wake and eat for his next feeding.  They inserted a feeding tube through his nose and down into his stomach.  They were trying to get as many calories in that little boy as possible.  Holding him was challenging but once I sat down in the rocking chair with him, I never wanted to leave.  I think I took a number of naps with him there in my arms.

March 11^th, 9:00am

We were rolling with the punches, realizing that Free was going to be fine with a little help from the NICU doctors even though no one knew when he would be ready to go home.  I arrived to the hospital again with coffee in hand, ready to take on the day’s challenges.  When I walked into the room Tere said “They’ve got Izzy for an x-ray.  She’s stopped eating.  You have to go be with her.”

My head nearly exploded…not Izzy too.

First Visit to the NICU

By: Heather Somaini

March 9^th – 10:00a

“They took Free to the NICU at midnight.”

I stood there staring at Tere.  My “second day parent” high crashed to the ground.  I must have misunderstood her, right?  Why would they take Free to the NICU?  That was for super small and sick babies.  Free was just under 6 lbs. and had been fine when I left the night before.

“What?  Why?” I asked.  My heart was racing.  My head was spinning.  I was running through every scenario, every possibility in my head desperately trying to figure out what needed to happen next.  Tere told me that Free’s breathing had gotten steadily worse in the night and they admitted him into the NICU so they could give him oxygen.

It made sense but I was in shock.  How could I have slept so soundly while all this was going on?  Why wasn’t I there when my family needed me?  Why didn’t Tere call me???  In the five seconds all of that ran through my mind, Tere said I should go to the NICU and check in on Free.  Of course!

“Where is it?”  I was sort of overwhelmed and completely freaked out that they had taken our son some place and neither of us even knew where it was!  I took the elevator upstairs and saw the woman at the desk.  I signed in, got a badge, and she escorted me into the NICU.  “Escorted me into the NICU” – it sounds so orderly and normal but to be truthful, it was the longest, hardest, most heart-wrenching walk I’ve ever taken.  The walls are lined with photos and stories of babies that came to the NICU in devastatingly bad condition – some as small as one pound.  They are ultimately success stories which are incredibly powerful and uplifting.

But the other side of it is what fills your head during that long walk.  No parent wants to think that their brand new baby is now in this category of sick.  No parent wants to think that their brand new baby needs this much help just to survive.  No parent wants to think that their brand new baby isn’t like everyone else and able to go home.

I had to wash my hands for what felt like an extraordinary amount of time, an eternity.  The whole place felt foreign to me.  Scary in fact.  I knew when we went through the doors I would see things that I wasn’t sure I wanted to see.  We entered Bay 1 – almost every baby admitted to the NICU is placed in Bay 1.  It’s where the babies most in need go.  As they get progressively stronger and healthier, they advance to Bay 2, then Bay 3, all the way to Bay 6 and then they’re out – sent home to be like everyone else.

But Bay 1 is sort of intense.  It’s deathly quiet with monitors beeping and nurses and doctors going about their work with an efficiency that is hard to explain.  I was a stranger in this new world, not sure of my surroundings and wobbly on my feet.  I walked past baby after baby on my way to Free.  Some of them were very ill but all sick and fighting for their lives.  I tried not to look but I couldn’t help myself.  It all seemed so sad.

I finally got to Free, sleeping soundly with a few tubes sticking out of him.  He was on oxygen alright.  He was bundled up tight.  My precious little boy asleep in this new place.  Everything was taking a little getting used to in my new world and I had only been a parent for a day and a half.  I was terrified of what tomorrow would bring.

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