A Wonderfully Normal and Dull Half Hour Together

Dear Ellie,

Yesterday was your weekly bed change and for the first time, I had my opportunity to hold you.  Getting you from the isolette to the rocking chair while navigating the nearly dozen or so wires was an interesting feat and more than a little bit nerve wracking.  You were wide awake the whole time.  Your eyes swiveled around in your head.  You kicked and squirmed in your swaddle.  You suddenly looked a lot smaller than you had in the isolette, once your head was nestled into the crook of my elbow.

At first, it was the last thing from a peaceful experience.  While I held you, the nurse cranked your oxygen up to 60 percent.  I didn't want to make you worse, so I found myself assuming all kinds of peculiar (and incredibly uncomfortable) positions in an attempt to make you happy and breath more easily.  But that was really only the first five minutes.  You, your mother, and I settled in despite the fact that it seemed as though all of the greatest NICU chaos had been reserved for this specific moment.  Alarms were blaring everywhere and the supernaturally large baby next to us, whom I've dubbed Julie-Saurusrex, was shrieking and flailing and upchucking on all of the nurses for about 15 minutes.  

Your mother and I weren't bothered by the pandemonium, and it seemed that you weren't either.  I hadn't gone into the adventure of holding you wanting some kind of electric experience or connection.  I'd wanted, instead, to share a wonderfully normal and dull half hour together.  The kind that a normal family on a normal day would share.  And that's what we got.  We chuckled and bantered.  We made sarcastic comments and quietly made fun of the other babies in cooing voices to each other.  For a time, I think we all forgot where we were.

It was the best half hour I've had in a long time.