In the still of the night

I got to give Xander his bottle tonight. Yes, he is sixteen months old. No, we haven't weaned him. When Zoe was ten months old we started the process of weaning so we'd be right on traek for her first birthday. Just say no to bottles! all the books say after their first taste of cake. Our Ped, at Xander's first year appointment, threw out, "So, you've weaned him from bottles?" in a half-question, more of a statement. She knew how I felt about bending the Rules.

"Um, we are working on it," I stated shamefully. "Hopefully we'll be on track, meaning off bottles, next month... at least it's whole milk. No more formula!"

"What's the hold up?" she asked, putting down her stethescope.

"Not sure," I replied as I stroked his silky semi-bald head.

"Is it because he's your last one?" as she settled onto her swivel stool Zoe, moments before, had been Hell-bent on twirling til she puked.

"Maybe?" I truly didn't have an answer. I knew that with my first, Zoe, the Rules seemed to be the only Rules I could go by - I mean, doctors, mother's of multiples, and therapists all agreed. I couldn't go against the grain. Could I?

Four months later I've put off his fifteen month appointment because our Ped is on maternity leave and because I'm not ready to admit that her generous fifteen-month mark has flown by and we still have 8 ounces of icy cold Vitamin D nightcaps in this house. Every night. And sometimes right before his nap.

Does Xander need a bottle to sleep? No. On nights we've tried to go sans liquid gold, he cries for fifteen minutes and then nods off to dreamland on his own (he does a similar routine with a bottle, but he only cries for three or four minutes those nights). We never let him fall asleep on us or take his bottle in his crib. We don't break those Rules. We rock him in his glider, lean him against our chest, and sing, talk, or just take in the still of the night. It's never quiet here. It's never the right time to spend twenty minutes doing nothing with him. Zoe always needs our attention, trash needs to go out, email needs to be checked, laundry folded, you know how it goes. Never ever is it just time for Xander to get quality loving from his mom or dad. Bottle time is. One of us goes in to read Zoe three (or seven) books in her bed and one of us goes in to rock X. It's a great time of peace and love in our house in both rooms, but that bottle session is the one time of day you really feel connected to the little man.

Once upon a time I found out I was pregnant with my second baby. We had just celebrated Zoe's first birthday and it was the first time, in a long time, that I saw the light at the end of the post-partum depression tunnel. As much as I adored my baby girl, she was a baby and she was a lot of work. She wasn't a lifestyle change - she was a totally new lifestyle we had to adapt to quickly in order to survive. She rocked our world, for the good, the bad, and the ugly --- and I was smart enough to know Zoe was a great baby. She slept. She rarely cried. She preferred her Boppy Newborn Lounger to being held all day. She was awesome. But she had recently gotten her groove on and was moving and shaking all over the place. Watch out world, here comes Round 2 of Life Change. Kid on the Move and Not Taking No for an Answer!

I sat in a mother's group meeting and opened up about how I really didn't want another baby right now. I was okay with Zoe being an only child. I liked being over the newborn-first-year-yech that we were shaking off our boots. The idea of going through the first year all over again - with a toddler to boot - was horrifying and scary. Do I love kids? Yes. Do I love mine? Yes. Can I do this? Yes. Do I want to do this? NO.

Life has a way of shaking things up. Just when you get comfortable you are tossed into a Yatzee sphere and spit out in a new position, new board, and new rules. This is where we were in late September of 2008 when I woke up and thought I peed my pants. It was the middle of the night. I was in my fourth month of pregnancy and couldn't believe the bladder control issues already started. Well, the heartburn was in full effect, as were my cankles, so maybe Round 2 everything comes really early?

Zoe was crying in her crib, so I got out of bed, threw off my undies, and stumbled, belly first, into her nursery to get her out before she started howling. It took a lot to get her going, but once she did, it was hard to put out the fire.

She was all warm, covered in sleepy sweat, and jumping in her crib yelling, "Momma! Tum get me!" like she did every morning. I laughed and hauled her over the crib. And I peed again. It was a lot of pee!

Zoe was coughing hard, like she had all night, and I couldn't think about my bladder control issues. I had to call the Ped and get her in. That cough sounded really bad.

All day I wondered why I was peeing anytime I stood up. They popped my amniotic sac when I was in labor with Zoe, so I never thought anything about water breaking. I was only four months along! It couldn't be anything serious.

As the Ped requested some chest X-Rays for Zoe's lungs, and told me it was pneumonia, I peed again. It was enough to call the OB/Gyn and ask for super strength prescription pads or something. Immediately her nurse took my call and instructed me to go to the ER.

Zoe was in the middle of her exam, she felt like crap, and needed her mommy. But the Ped heard the conversation and urged me to go get examined.

We called Mr. on the way downtown and I told him to meet me at the entrance, switch cars, and I'd be home in an hour.

Life changed in that hour.

My water had broken, my cells were ferning, and our baby wouldn't be saved for a month because he was too small to save. We would stay at the hospital and deliver the baby. Chances were 90% I'd deliver him within 48 hours and there was nothing anyone could do.

When we made it - on miserable bedrest - to 22 weeks, attitudes started changing. We saw OB's,  perinatologists, and anyone else who had anything to add to how we could get this baby out of me safely. No one could believe it had been weeks - almost a full month - with a broken amniotic sac and a healthy baby. Not only was he hanging in there, but he was growing quickly, looking healthy, and he was big!

Every appointment - which was daily - was negative. It was about how we would have a sick, unhealthy child who would need constant medical attention and support. I cried to my baby hourly. I knew in my heart that my not wanting a baby at this exact time was what drove this to happen. Rational? Maybe not? Mother's Guilt? Oh yeah.

My mom dropped her life in California and left her husband, friends, and house to winter in Iowa. Once a month she'd go home and my father-in-law would give her some respite. Zoe was still a wild-child one year old ready to take on the world, whether her momma was allowed to get out of bed or not. Mr. was our only breadwinner and insurance carrier, so he was on job duty. Family pitched in and we made it work.

Then, one week a little too close to the beginning of my final trimester, something awful happened. My body developed severe atypical pre-eclampsia, again, and the only way to keep the baby and I alive was to deliver. Now. Early.

When Xander came out he was a peanut. He didn't scream, he just took the bright lights, masked people, and cold in with a big glance around. He took to his little oxygen mask quickly and met his daddy before his momma. My arms were still pinned to the operating table, but I got to touch his cheek and see his blue eyes, wide from the excitement.

Mr. was whisked off with the little man and my OB started the soul sickening task of tying my tubes. We had decided, as a medical/personal/emotional team that my body was not cut out to bring babies in the world, no matter how cute or perfect they are. So, she showed me the tubes and in my haze I fought back tears.

Xander was a rock star in the NICU. Those nurses have angel wings and halo's hidden under their scrubs for all the miracles they performed for our miracle man.

Going home without him was the most intense, surreal experience of my life. Leaving the hospital with some blue flowers, balloons, and a carton of extra pads and pills, but no baby was heart-shattering. Even seeing Zoe again couldn't get me over the fact that my baby, who faced adversity and perservered was in the NICU, fighting for each breath while I ordered pizza and watched Million Dollar Baby on Pay Per View. It just didn't make sense.

And then, all was right. Everything made sense. Our little man came home, met his sister, and took his place in our family as our Miracle. Zoe was our Wonder Girl, Xander was our Miracle Man.

So, sixteen months later I'm hesitant to give up the bottle. I remember countless hours trying to get his sweet pink lips to wrap around a bottle's nipple and take down 10, 15 cc's... and watched him get most of his nutrients from a "nose hose" as one rude nurse (the only rude nurse we encountered) put it. It took him weeks to learn to feed on his own. That time in the NICU with an Enfamil premade bottle pressed to his cheek, holding him like a football at a 90 degree angle, and massaging his chin to take one more mil, still comes back to me like a fury in the middle of the night.

Xander doesn't need the bottle anymore. His mommy does. He is my last baby I can hold and cuddle. The time he spent in my body was educational to me - he made me realize I wanted another baby more than I wanted my next breathe. And now, as he runs instead of walks, babbles instead of cries, and shows me how big he is with new delights every day, I realize he is my last baby who will need me to feed them. He is the last one who will need me for 100% of his or her daily care. All the needs. After X, it's over.

I could use an icy cold nightcap myself.