When I look down

Weight and see

*Disclaimer: This post in no way means that I feel negatively about Lincoln's actual healthcare.  I trust and adore our P.A. Chad.  We've been seeing him since Bree was born, and wouldn't think of going to anyone else.  My reactions in this particular story are highly irrational, driven by raging postpartum hormones.

Thursday Lincoln saw Dr. Chad (he's actually a Physician Assistant, so we should just call him Chad, but that get's confusing at our house) for his second check-up.

At his 4-day-old appointment, Dr. Chad pronounced him healthy as can be.  He said we'll schedule an echo-cardiogram at two months to follow up on a slight tricuspid valve prolapse, but since murmurs among all newborns are common, we're not too concerned.  They weighed him at 6lbs, 8 oz, which is what he weighed at the hospital before we came home.  Okay, cool, see ya in a couple weeks Doc.

So when this Thursday's appointment rolled around, and the nurse weighed him at 6-8 again, I was like, "WHAT?  Weigh him again.  I mean, weigh him again, please."  So she did.  6-8 again.  This kid is three weeks old!  He was 6-15 at birth!  What the heck?  So Lincoln and I met with Dr. Chad, and the first thing he said was "I am not happy about this weight thing."  Of course, I automatically (and irrationally) took that to mean that Chad wasn't happy with me, since I'm the one responsible for this little person, and by extension his health and growth, and I experienced the deflating feeling of failure.  I'm thinking, "Okay, so I don't keep a rigid feeding schedule, but I'm pretty sure he's eating enough...I think he's eating enough...Oh no, I'm a terrible mom!"

So I get defensive and say to him, "But your scale was acting funny!  I swear!"

Then he talks about consistent growth chart percentages, and throws out the term "Failure to Thrive," and recommends I keep Lincoln on a rigid every-two-hour feeding schedule during the day to make up for the fact that my perfect little angel sleeps 7-8 hours straight at night.

And I'm trying to keep it together.

And I forget the things I was going to talk to him about during this visit.  Like getting the more sophisticated genetic test that can tell us which of the four types of Down Syndrome Lincoln has.  Or what else I have to do to get that next echo-cardiogram lined up.  Or the special growth chart for kids with DS that I had brought with me and forgotten in the car.  (Post-partum "mommy brain" is a legitimate thing.  Really.  And stir a little stress and heightened emotions into the pot, and my brain goes into emergency power-save mode, with no capacity for multitasking, recall, or critical thinking)

Then Dr. Chad says, "But otherwise he's absolutely perfect."  And he high-fives me like he does on every visit, says, "You got this, Mom," (which is something I always need to hear) and I let out a sigh/groan and I sport a look that says "I'm trying, at least."

So on the short drive home I hold back the tears.  But at some point during the day, the overwhelming worry about my kid who isn't, by medical definition, "thriving" gets to me, and I lose it.  I'm bawling.  Chad takes it much better than me, and says, "He's eating plenty.  We'll just keep it up, and he'll gain weight.  I'm not worried."  Which is okay, because I'm programmed to worry more than enough for the both of us.

So a couple days pass, and I decide to try to ease my mind a little.  I step onto our bathroom scale with Lincoln to do the math and get a rough estimate of his weight.  An 8 pound difference! Can Lincoln actually weigh 8 pounds?  Even allowing for a pound of error, I would still be happy with a 7-pound baby.

So then I get creative with the kitchen scale:

7lbs, 9 oz.  Take that Dr. Chad's scale.

And I feel so much better.  I should never have believed it anyway.  I mean, those thigh rolls don't lie.

Perfect Pictures

I don't get the camera out enough.  Too often I find myself thinking, "I'll get this disaster of a room cleaned up, then I'll take a picture...I'll photograph the kids after they've had their baths and have shed that 'homeless child' look...I can't be in a photo now; I don't have makeup on."  But that's life.  Embrace it Megan; embrace it.

So, here's to embracing crusty, watery eyes (I've birthed yet another allergy-sufferer!)

 

 And sticky, matted little areas of Baby Lincoln's hair, where loving older brother has bestowed sticky kisses.

And...okay, this one's actually perfect.

Lincoln in motion

The sneezing at the end is awesome.

Welcome to Holland

Lincoln is a very special baby, and a regular birth announcement can't possibly say it all.  God has made Lincoln special and has chosen us to be his parents.  He is a beautiful, sweet baby.  He was born with his daddy's blue eyes and his mommy's brown hair.  He has Chad's cheeks and my nose.  He was also born with an extra 21st chromosome.  We're proud and in love with our new baby, and want everyone else to be too.  We need love and congratulations, not condolences. Oh, and diapers.  We need diapers.

I ran across the following essay that uses a great metaphor to explain how it feels to be the parent of a child with special needs:

 ***

When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip--to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."

"HOLLAND?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."

But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine, and disease. It's just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around....and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy...and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away...because the loss of that dream is a very significant loss.

But...if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things...about Holland.

--Emily Perl Kingsley

Bath Time

Lincoln is not a fan.

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Bree's Lullaby

Don't worry, little baby, you don't have to fuss
Little baby, don't fuss, don't fuss
Even though there's scary shadows
Everything's going to be all right.
Even though there's scary shadows
It's going to be fiiiiiine.
Little baby, listen very, very closely.
Little baby, why do you cry all the time when you're hungry?
Little baby, why do you always poop in your pants?  
It's very hard for my mommy.
Why do you always have to drink milk?
Why do you always have to drink mi-hi-hi-hilk? 
Little baby, listen very closely.
Everything's going to be all right.

-Courtesy of Bree singing to baby Lincoln right now, as I type.