Sybil.

I didn’t mean to be gone so long. The thing is, I’m feeling funky, and not in a good, James Brown kind of way. My mood seems to lurch from one place to another, and as a result I keep starting to write about, say, how annoyed I am, or how sad, or how wistful, and ten minutes later Simone summons me imperiously to her side, and by the time I return to my computer, I feel another way entirely. Happy! Grateful! Amused! And so I start to write about that, and then AGAIN with the imperious summoning, and…you get the idea. I end up with five scant paragraph-long entries, each of which could have been written by a different person.
So, to catch you up, let’s run through my recent emotions:

WORRIED
Simone doesn’t care for solids. Every bite has to be stealthily slipped (ok, wedged) past her lips, and most is spit back out again. Some foods are better than others—she will sometimes masticate a spoonful or two of carrots or sweet potatoes—but the only food she will open her mouth for, that has been anything like a success, is a mixture of butternut squash and corn. On the suggestion of her therapist, we tried a less pureed texture (a mashed potato) and Simone just gagged in horror.
I haven’t talked much about this here, and it’s not because I am afraid of boring you with such a tedious and inconsequential topic. On the contrary, I am perfectly comfortable boring you with tedious and inconsequential topics—it is something of a hobby of mine, as you have no doubt already gathered. No, I haven’t discussed it because I KNOW I am slightly hysterical on the subject, and veering dangerously close to obnoxious milestone-obsessed mother territory. She’s only seven months adjusted, so who cares, right? But lots of preemies have feeding issues, and when you have a preemie, sometimes it is hard not to worry preemptively about all the monsters that could be lurking just around the corner.
Up until now, Simone has been eating like a champ—she weighs sixteen buttery, roly-poly pounds—but I am afraid that when she is supposed to be getting her nutrition from solid food, we are going to lose all of that progress. Being the parent of a micropreemie seems to mean CONSTANT VIGILANCE, what with the therapists and specialists and waiting-and-seeing, and it’s exhausting. It is also impossible not to compare your baby to others, which brings me to my next emotion:

ENVIOUS
When I was on bedrest, the nurses told me about the girl in the next room, who had an incompetent cervix and was laying in trendelenburg (feet above head) trying to keep her baby in. One night everyone was rushing around in the hall, and it turned out that she had delivered. She was only 23 weeks and 1 day, and the baby wasn’t expected to make it.
Less than a week later I had Simone. Throughout her time in the NICU, the nurses and doctors would remark upon how similar her course was to that of another baby, named Max. They were the two tiniest long-term residents, and they did everything together: were put on the oscillator, were extubated, then failed extubation and were reintubated on the same day. Simone’s primary nurse and I used to joke that when they were older Simone and Max would meet and fall in love—obviously they were destined for one another. They finally made it off the ventilator at the very same time, and by then even the respiratory therapists were talking about “Simone and Max.” They were discharged within the same week. It wasn’t until later that I found out that Max was the 23-weeker whom I thought had died after his mother left the bedrest wing.

He was born only a week older than Ames was when he died, at an age many hospitals do not consider viable. I sometimes lurk on his family’s website, to see how he is doing, and you know what? He has been far ahead of Simone in everything, from sitting to crawling, and while Simone’s appointment at the NICU follow-up clinic was a disaster, he sailed through. Simone was immature for her gestation, and had a small placenta, but she was almost a 26-weeker. I know better than to compare, I SWEAR I do, but they were progressing at the same rate when they left the NICU, and now they’re not, and I am alternately jealous and certain that I am doing something wrong.

EXCITED
My mother comes home from Switzerland for the holidays on Thursday, and I am so, so, SO full of glee at the prospect. Last year at this time she was in a hospital full of German-speaking nurses after being hit by a car (we are an exceptionally lucky family), so this year we are going to do it up right, and no crutches, bedpans, or foreign nurses allowed. I got her a fabulous present, too, if I do say so myself. I wish she didn’t have to leave again in January, but GOTT EN HIMMEL are we going to have fun while we can.

PROUD

I have done The 30-day Shred almost every single day for the last week and a half. After the first time I had to take a few days off on account of I couldn’t walk, but now I can do it for days and days in a row and I’m not even sore afterward. I still want to die while I’m in the middle of the routine, but it is over so quickly, and it’s strangely addictive. I had to skip it the other day because of an injury and I was actually DISAPPOINTED, and practically sprang out of bed to do it this morning. I haven’t lost any weight at all in the past two weeks, even though I am eating well, but I feel so smug and strong and hardcore that I don’t even care about the scale. Probably I am storing a bunch of weight in this little muscle that is developing on my inner arm. Also? I owe it all to this site, which I find massively inspiring, and makes me feel like part of a team, somehow–a team of people who aren’t perfect, but keep trying anyway.

PAINED
The one problem with The Shred (That’s what we Shredders call it. It’s “The 30-Day Shred” to you) is that it seems to have ruined my knees. Yesterday I couldn’t really move about, and I had to skip the workout, as mentioned. Today I resumed The Shred, and while I felt fine at the time, a few hours later my knees were back to howling and shrieking whenever I tried to do something strenuous like bend my leg. Am I old? Is Jillian Michaels trying to kill me? Do I need one of those ICY HOT patches or some sort of athletic supporter?

ANNOYED
Both of Simone’s bottom front teeth have broken the surface, and as a result she has been an insufferable little shit for days now. I know, I’m not supposed to say that, but it’s true. Last night I wrote her a letter:

Dear Simone,
BABIES HAVE BEEN GETTING TEETH SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME. GET OVER YOURSELF.
Love,
Mama

I am back at that place where I feel I am doing a pitiful job in all arenas, failing as a mother, a writer, and a regular old person, and the way my daughter refuses to be quiet and/or still for even one minute of the day aggravates me to no end because I keep thinking that if only I had one uninterrupted hour, oh the things I could do! So I am irked and short-tempered, which makes me feel…

GUILTY
I don’t read to Simone enough. She recently went over a week without a bath before I remembered (I am embarrassed just typing that). The other day when she was crying and I was ready to snap at her I caught myself thinking “Thank god I don’t have twins,” and then I burst into tears, because why don’t I just spit on Ames’ grave, while I’m at it? Except he doesn’t have a grave, and his ashes are currently IN MY BEDSIDE TABLE.

SAD
One year ago today I looked like this. I had babies—plural. A week ago last Sunday marked one year since we found out we were having a boy and a girl. I remember that day so clearly, how soaringly happy I was. The babies felt real to me, and I was starting to believe they might be coming safely home in the spring. In a way, that was the high point, the peak of the rollercoaster, and I can see myself there paused for a moment, hand on my belly, before events began their descent. Within the week I was diagnosed with an infection, and I wonder now, was that THE infection? Is that when it started? It is certainly when smaller things began to go wrong: more pain, more nausea, gestational diabetes, and a rising tide of anxiety and panic. I have reached the part of the year where every day I feel something akin to the memory of a dream.

WISTFUL
What if?

GRATEFUL
Sometimes I still sit and stare at Simone while she sleeps. Asleep she is small and milky smelling, and when she is awake she is like a sudden gust of squeals and smiles and drool. Even on our bad days, she makes everything better; even when she’s part of the problem, she’s the solution as well. Just today I had to put her whole hand in my mouth and nibble on it a little, to calm myself so that I wouldn’t be tempted to swallow her whole. I have A BABY, and when she sees me in the morning, her mouth drops open and her whole face lights up and she erupts into wriggles: MY GOD! she seems to say, IT’S YOU!!
And I think, MY GOD! HOW DID I GET SO LUCKY?
Sweater