If you're reading this after 6am MDT, I'm on a plane heading to Phoenix. So, here are a few photo of The Squeak doing generally cute things. Hope everyone had a great Mother's Day.
Look closing at the sonogram - the picture almost looks like he’s smiling. He’s probably smiling about his bill of health from the doctor… which is a definite A+!
According to the ultrasounds, he’s large for his gestational age – about two weeks larger. This can be something of a concern, as large babies might be a sign of diabetes in the mother. Fortunately, we’ve (and by “we,” I mean P.Pie) had a couple blood sugar tests and all is normal.
We’re expecting a big boy. In fact, Squeak has been but on alert that her status as the large child is probably going to be short lived (no pun intended). But she will always be the big sister.
With the due date only five weeks away (June 9th!), we are rounding pregnancy’s third base and heading for home. In the final stretch, we are very close to where we were with the twins – freaked out, stressed and my office the nursery still isn’t ready.
Another similarity is that we met with the doctor who will be doing P.Pie’s c-section; the same doctor who delivered the twins.
This has caused P.Pie some consternation; yes, she knows that what happened to Doss was not the doctor’s fault. And yes, we could have another doctor. But she’s really a great doctor. What’s more, I was not feeling these same.
Until we actually went to the doctor’s office.
As I walked through the office door and into the waiting room, I was flooded with memories of the twins’ pregnancy as well as P.Pie’s concerns and anxiety. The office staff as well as the doctor’s have been very understanding, going so far as to make sure that we would not be in the same operating room, recovery room, or hospital room. We even get to pick our own nurse.
We have asked that Mary be there and she has graciously accepted.
Other notes of interest:
While we have not finalized a name, we’re leaning towards Atticus. My dad’s not a big fan; he wants something more blasé – a John or Douglas or George or Robert. All good names, but they're no Atticus.
I’m trying to sell P.Pie on Oil as a middle name, to match The Squeaker’s tycoon-style middle name, Rail (short for Railroad). I really like Robber, but that has been removed from the table.
If we were going to have a natural childbirth, the anticipate DOB is June 16th, the same day the twins were conceived.
I know, I know… where the heck have I been? Your emails have not gone unheard. Even TheBlogFathers.com sent me a warning… I found the head of Squeaker’s Radio Flyer’s Rock and Bounce Toy Horse was in my bed this morning.
I have heard you and your warnings concerns have not gone unnoticed.
Weekly posts are back! In fact, I think you’ll even see a post or two over at The Blog Fathers… you know, to keep peace in the family.
So a quick update about what has been keeping me away from ye olde keyboard –
Since entering the third trimester, P.Pie has had to stop almost all of her strenuous activity; including, but not limited to, picking up The Squeaker. Apparently I slacked a lot in the area of bath time (Squeak’s, not mine) and general picking Squeak up off the floor.
Work has offered me a promotion (which I accepted), but it doesn’t become official until June 1st. Between now and then, I’m basically doing both jobs… serving two masters with different goals. So yes, I’m doing two jobs for the price of one (it seemed like a good idea at the time).
Anyway, look for another post this week, an update on Barron Baby C.
There has been something of a change in clothes around our house; really, more a change in clothing style. Perhaps we should call it, The Garment Leap Forward.
Not my clothing, of course. I’m something of a clothes horse… albeit one that is destine for the glue factory.
I know that in another 10 or 12 years, the Old Curmudgeons’ League will be sending me my catalog. A catalog through which I can order clothes from my preferred decade for the rest of my life – long after they are even remotely cool and/or stylish.
There’s no such catalog, you say?
Where do you think your grandfather got his polyester, zip up jump suits with the built in adjustable belt and three-diamond crown logo over the left breast pocket? Did you think those just grew on trees? No sir. They came from the catalog and I’m getting mine soon.
Anyhoo, The Squeaker has slowly departed from the cute, solid colored onesies and has migrated to stylish, patterned two piece attires. It wasn’t like P.Pie & I went to the clothing store and said, “It’s time to get Squeak big girl clothes.”
In fact, I’m not real sure how these clothes came to be in Squeak’s clothing repertoire. I simply noticed the other day that we had gone a week without wearing a single onesie. Not a one.
From playtime outfits to nightwear - everything, it seems, has a top and a bottom.
Of course, now might be the time when I question where my baby girl has gone and what am I to do with this little girl that has taken her place?
But I imagine there will be lots of opportunities for such lamenting when she gets really big. Next month.
Do you remember our talks? I spent most of the day thinking about you and our short time together.
You are always in my thoughts, one way or another; whether at work or at home, I see, think, or do something that reminds me of you. But today, on the anniversary of your death, I pulled together images and reread the posts from those days.
And I have come to a conclusion that we were greedy to try and keep you around. We kept giving you drugs, sticking you with needles, and running test after test in the hopes that we could fix whatever ailed you.
We clung to any hopeful word; the promise of a brighter tomorrow was always just around the corner. We greedily hung on to those wishes, ignoring your physical deterioration and, what is only now evident to me, the increase of your discomfort.
As I sorted through the hospital pictures, your pain screamed at me; I do not know how I missed it. I am so, so sorry.
This does not mean your life was without purpose; its purpose was simply different than the average person. I have not yet gleaned that purpose, but I have a few ideas:
We may have been blessed with you in order to teach us about love. The true meaning of love is hidden from most people and can only be revealed in the eyes of your children.
You might have been sent to us to teach us about the true meaning of loss.
Perhaps you were meant to give us strength; before you, we would not have had the strength to withstand all that we have been through.
But what if you weren’t meant for us all? What if your purpose is somehow tied to your sister?
Whatever the purpose, it will not be in vain. You will not be forgotten. When we see each other again, I will have tales to tell you (everyone else has heard them all. Twice).
Also, I want to hear what happened after the last time we talked.
Let’s face it, the first birthday party is more for the parents than it is for the child.
So we vacillated about what kind of party to have for The Squeak; do we invite just family and have a low-keyed celebration, or do we really ramp it up – invite friends, break out the bar-b-que, crank up the tunes and have a P-A-R-T-A-Y?
The decision was to have a low-key thing. But as is wont to happen with the best of plans, things changed. We (and when I say we, I mean P.Pie) decided to invite some friends. In fact, there were more friends than family. But mostly the modest crowd was friends with infants, toddlers, and grade school kids, rather than the beer and BBQ crowd.
C’est la vie.
From the revelers standpoint – and the guest of honor’s – the party was a success; wine was sipped, munchies were nibbled on, and presents were opened. But there was a downside.
A downside that no one knows until this post.
You may recall around the two month old mark, I bought a nice digital video camera. A very, very nice camera, with all the bells & whistles. I had visions of documenting nearly every moment of Squeak’s growth, with the hope, in a decade or two, of turning it into a documentary of the effects of daddy bloggers on their offspring.
Right before the party, I took the video camera off the shelf and dusted off about 10 months worth of non-use, charged the battery and got it set for the party.
I know what you’re thinking… I either a) left the lens cap on, b) forgot to put a tape in, or c) forgot about it all together.
Well, you’d be wrong if that’s what you’re thinking.
I got great footage of everybody under the age of seven helping The Squeaker open her presents. And I was perfectly poised to capture the Happy Birthday song and first bites of cake. I even positioned the kids so that they were in a chorale-perfect semi circle behind her; tallest in the middle, descending to the shortest on either ends.
I set the camera up so that I could both watch the display and sing at the same time. It was a perfect moment. Almost pastoral, really.
After it was all done and Squeak had taken a few tentative bites of the cake before spreading it all over her face and eventually knocking it to the floor, I looked at the display screen and noticed the counter wasn’t moving.
An Open Letter to My Daughter on the Occasion of Her First Birthday
Today is the first anniversary of the day of you and your brother’s birth; and so much has changed in a short 365 days, that I thought it might be appropriate to recap and perhaps glimpse to the future.
Normally a letter starts with a salutation, or at least a name; but you, dear daughter, have many names.
Before you much more than a couple of cells bumping around with your brother, the doctors were calling you Twin A. Your given name, Jorja, is a tribute to your maternal grandfather, whom who never met, but I can already tell you share his strength of character.
The name that everyone on the blog knows you by is The Squeaker because in the first few months, you squeaked a lot; but that hardly fits now, my little chatterbox.
At home, your mother calls you Peaches because the name peaches flows so easily after Jorja and because you are as sweet as; and when your mother and I talk about you via email, sms, IM, or text, we refer to you as BG, short for Baby Girl.
Your many names speak volumes about your first year of life.
You’ve gone from an infant that I could hold in one hand, feed with a one ounce bottle (three times a night) and had to be carried everywhere, to a big girl that that is feeding herself, sleeping through the night, pulling herself up, and learning the bare bones of a spoken language.
There have been some bad time too; the first two weeks of your life – a time that is normally spent sequestered at home, getting to know one another – was a blur of cars, hospitals, and people. And while the end result was sad, I think that it has made you stronger.
And you’ve had a couple of bouts with colds and the ilk that have been less than pleasant for all involved, but we’ve come through it a-okay.
You are a gregarious baby that does not withdraw from moments of newness; people always comment how wonderful you are, or well-behaved, or cute. People are drawn to you like a bee to honey.
This can be problematic as you get older, before you know how to navigate such waters. But just as I steer you away from the stereo controls or the computer wires, or the short step from the kitchen to the laundry room, I will always be available, in one way or another, to offer you guidance.
Until I met you and your brother, I did not know I could love so much. And every day that I see you, my love for you grows exponentially.
