welcome to the Real World, Baby Girl

So much has happened since my fingers last flew across this keyboard, eager to announce the arrival of our long awaited, gorgeous daughter to the big, beautiful world.  Since that time, Honeydew and I have gotten a little reminder about the big, beautiful world – sometimes it’s a hard, scary place.

Maggie arrived at 12:06 a.m. on Saturday, May 21.

After delivery, she slept beside me, feeding from the start, through the remainder of the night.  We spent a blissful Saturday showing her off to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen to us exclaim over her perfect toes, long and strong like both of ours, her seashell ears, just like Honeydew’s, her head full of dark hair, so like mine when I was born.  Honeydew changed a slew of muddy diapers and I unpacked her diaper bag, enlisting Nan and Pseudo Sista’s help in choosing a going home outfit for Maggie to wear, once we were sprung from the hospital.  In so doing, I discovered I hadn’t actually packed any diapers in said diaper bag, and we all howled with laughter.

Maggie’s Nan brought roses and cupcakes in honor of her first birthday, and Maggie opened her eyes long enough for us to determine that they resemble deep sapphire pools, luminous in their liquid depths, so like my Grandma Ivey’s.

Sunday morning, I woke up around 4am, feeling feverish and generally wretched, but I didn’t think much of it.  After all, as my OB said, I pretty much experienced unmedicated childbirth, medicated childbirth, and a c-section on Friday, so feeling wretched seemed par for the course.  I called my lovely nurse for ibuprofen, and she took my vitals and realized my temperature was over 102F.  No one could quite figure out why I was running such a high fever, and as a result Maggie’s doctor ordered her blood drawn for screening.  The nurses whisked Maggie away to the nursery, and when they did not return her to me after a hour, I began to weep.  I think I knew instinctively at that point that something was very wrong.

Long story short: Maggie’s platelet count was down t0 22,000, meaning she essentially lost her ability to clot, internally and externally.  A platelet transfusion would be required, immediately, and transfer to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) in Kalispell was arranged.  The nurses helped me out of bed for the first time since I delivered Maggie, and I sat in a wheelchair with Honeydew and Maggie in the nursery, drinking in Maggie’s scent, marveling over the softness of her skin, memorizing the shape of each tiny nail bed.

Honeydew went with Maggie to Kalispell, while my parents and my nurses helped prepare me for my own discharge and transfer, as I tried to take my first post-C section steps and shower, all the while understanding for the first time just what folks mean when they say that you deliver your heart along with your first baby, and it is never safely tucked within the cavity of your chest again.

After safely making the trip south, Maggie did just what her mama always does: she started working on her tan.

Obviously, I’m just kidding – this is Maggie under the blue lights, being treated for jaundice, though her larger problem is the ABO incompatibility between her body and mine.

We may never know exactly why Maggie’s platelets plummeted to such disastrously low levels.  I’ll paraphrase how my Dad explained the issue: due to a known incompatibility between my blood type and Honeydew’s (I’m O-, he’s A+, and I tested positive for the Rh factor), my body produced some antibodies which attacked Maggie’s platelets.  With so few platelets, a very small injury could have caused Maggie to bleed out – it seems a miracle that several days of contractions, several hours of serious pushing, and then a vacuum assisted C section did not cause such injury.   It also seems a miracle that Maggie’s doctors were able to catch this problem in time.  Had I delivered Maggie naturally, as I had wanted to, I probably would not have run a fever, and Maggie’s blood would never have been tested so early.  By the time she jaundiced, we would have been in Babb, trying not to be first-time, freak-out parents, and Honeydew and I seriously wonder if we would have understood the difference between jaundiced and critically ill, as Maggie would have become.

Happily, I did not get my dream delivery, and as a result Maggie had her first infusion of platelets Sunday, and her second on Monday.  There’s a miracle in that reality, too: there is apparently a serious shortage of the platelets that Maggie so desperately needed, and there were already NICU babies here who were searching for the same type of platelets, and had been searching for days.  By the time they were located, Maggie was on her way to the NICU, and the platelets were on a plane en route from Salt Lake City.  I get the chills just thinking about all the little breaks Maggie has caught in her first three days of life.

At any rate, Honeydew and I have taken all of these events a lot harder than Maggie Rose.  She is rosy cheeked and beautiful, and seems to be responding well to the transfusion.  She’s still eating like the hawg her parents bred her to be, and both Honeydew and I got to hold her for about an hour today in the NICU.  Ah.  All our happy receptors filled up.  Who knew staring at a baby could be so therapeutic?

We’ll keep y’all posted as best we are able to about Maggie’s situation.  We are touched by the outpouring of love, positive vibes, chocolate chip cookies, and prayers that we’ve received, and I look forward to talking to everyone at some point after Maggie is given a clean bill of health and we are discharged from the NICU.  Until then, that’s where Honeydew and I will be.  Just staring at our beautiful baby, the toughest rose in Glacier County.

If you’re looking to help, why not go donate blood?  Click here for information on donating through the Red Cross.

If you’re curious about ABO incompatibility, or hemolytic disease of the newborn, click this link for more information – the so-called “mismatch” between Maggie and I is very, very rare.  And, happily, completely treatable in future pregnancies.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

May 13, 2011: What We Saw in Glacier National Park

Friday marked my 40th week of pregnancy, with no end in sight.

So I drug It’ll and my Dad off on an adventure to Avalanche Lake, a blue-green little gem of a spot just a few miles east and south of Lake McDonald.

Dad surveying avalanche damage blocking the trail.

I don’t think Dad thought it was the greatest idea I’d ever had, but it must have been clear to him that I was going with or without him, so he put my water bottle and coconut-oatmeal-chocolate-chip-bar in his pack and off we went.  Though I eventually decided, two days after returning from Avalanche Lake, that he was right and I Way Overdid It, in Friday morning’s bright sunshine, a walk to Avalanche felt just right.

In part, this is because I’d generally put Avalanche in the “easiest hikes in the park” category - also, “one I won’t do in July or August,” as it is absolutely overrun with people.  Why?  The trail to Avalanche Lake is (1) only 4 miles in total length and 500 feet in total elevation gain and (2) a stunningly beautiful jaunt, even if you don’t make it to the lake.  The first part of the trail hugs mossy, dusky red Avalanche Gorge, through which Avalanche Creek thunders cerulean and foam.

Gorgeous, no?

The walls of the canyon are as smooth as the logs Brother Dear hews for his wood furniture, and gazing upon them can glaze me with that same Grand Canyon effect of timelessness.

Staring down into the canyon’s thunderous depths, I always think of the final passage from A River Runs Through It:

The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.  -Norman Maclean

In high school, and later in college, I wrote paper after paper about what I think Mr. Maclean meant.  I’ll spare y’all that this morning.

But I won’t spare you from another whale-esque shot of me, wearing the last four items of clothing that “fit” me.

See why I wanted to go to Avalanche Lake?  Ahhh.

As Dad and I sat there in the sunshine, listening to the distant thunder of an avalanche deep in the mountains, my thoughts turned to all the other trips to Avalanche Lake – the first one I made, at 9 years old, with my family during our first trip to Glacier in 1989.  My Reeboks and colorblocked shirt.

My first and last experience trail running on a July 2000 day with new friends I’d made working at St. Mary, Kate and Andy.

An exhausting, glitteringly white trip made on snowshoes sometime in 2002-2003, the year I graduated from Georgia, moved to Whitefish, and learned to ski.

And in more recent years, the turquoise glimpses of Avalanche revealed when dropping into Floral Park and crossing the streams of water deluging from Sperry Glacier, all destined for Avalanche Lake.

I can hardly wait to show It’ll all these wonders.  But for now, I think I’ll fill my OB’s prescription for “patience,” and rest.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

the last pictures?

Oh, please let these be the last pictures to grace the internets of my incubation of It’ll.  Please.

While I’m sure I’ll be glad I have these … someday …. they are not quite in the league of the five pictures of Honeydew and I that I am actually fond of.

Life at the Home for Wed Mothers in Whitefish continues, and I continue to be thrilled by such wonders as the ability to order pizza delivery (which I have not actually done), the possibility of a pedicure (which I have certainly taken advantage of, my feet being so large that not even almost-40-weeks-of-pregnancy-can-obscure-them),  the ready availability of fabulous pulled pork and hush puppies at Piggyback …

and my ability to run out to the store whenever I feel like it … yesterday, I procured some sort of “organic, low calorie Strawberry-Lemonade sorbet” bars, which I proceeded to devour on the sunsoaked deck …

while reading Bossypants, Tina Fey’s hilarious look at her career … and motherhood, too.  A far cry from the normal sheaves of insurance and tax information I generally find waiting in my “must read” box at the Warehome.

That said.  I miss it so.  Well, maybe not the fine print of the insurance policies.  But definitely Honeydew and Roy.

Hi boys!  Thanks for the visit earlier this week!  See you soon … I hope.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

on pregnancy advice

I haven’t bought in to a lot of the pregnancy advice that’s out there … deli meat, real coffee, and heaven forbid, a spoonful of raw cookie dough have all passed my lips in the last 37 weeks.  Go ahead and judge me.  I’ve discovered there’s a magical quality to the ninth month of pregnancy – it settles over your shoulders like a weightless coat of armor and allows you to simply focus on doing what you think is best for baby and you, and not to give a fig what the rest of the world thinks.  In my case, it’s also allowed me to finally turn the melter off from underneath the beeswax, and take a nap.

Of course, the ninth month is notorious not for empowerment, but for moans and groans and general whines.  And when Honeydew was home for a visit from California, I did some of that, in the privacy of my no-longer-comfortable couch.  But I’ve had too many dear friends struggle with infertility to complain much about pregnancy … Honeydew and I wanted this baby (clearly, we need some help around here!), and when I get a little bit miserable, I try to think of those friends, and all the women in the world who wish they could have children, but cannot, for various reasons.  And I try not to complain.  I try to focus on how lucky I am, how lucky this baby is to be so wanted, so loved already.

But still – for your amusement, I’d like to share a few snippets of  just what the rest of the world thinks about my pregnancy.  And they think plenty.  And aren’t afraid to approach me, pregnant woman they’ve never seen before, and offer their opinion on the contents of my grocery cart (Honey, I hope you’re not drinking that Bud Light.  You know, it’s not good for your baby.  Well, it’s probably not good for my houseguests, either, but they need may need it in order to put up with me after the mood you’ve put me in, thanks), my midsection’s size (My Word!  You look like you’re 42 weeks!  Are you sure you should be out grocery shopping?), and, having survived the grocery-ing and preparing for trip  home, my much anticipated order at the coffee bar (Americano, room for cream, please;  Barista: Don’t you think you should have a decaf, sweetheart?  No, I don’t want a decaf, it’s 2pm and I’ve been thinking about this glorious cup of coffee since I woke up at 4:30am and couldn’t get back to sleep and I’ve got 150 miles and 1,500 potholes on Hwy 2 to go.  Don’t ruin it for me!).

Whooo.  Feeling better!  Though mama says it will get even worse once I have said Baby with me in the grocery cart.

But there is one piece of advice I’ve taken to heart, and I’ve abided by it more days than not.  Exercise, exercise, exercise.

And look what I would have missed Thursday if I hadn’t gone walking:

And look what I would have missed Saturday if I hadn’t gone walking:

Now, don’t y’all start emailing me with all the dangers of … walking.  I might really do something crazy, like order that bushel of oysters on the half shell I’ve been dreaming about …

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  Some photo credits to Charlie Stone.  All Rights Reserved.

 

on my Honeydew(s)

According to the All Knowing BabyCenter.Com, at 35 weeks, It’ll is now the size of a honeydew melon.

Honeydew, honeydew melon, It’ll and me.

Looking at this picture (don’t know about y’all, but I had to take a step back from my computer in order to take in the entirety of my whaleness) makes me think that perhaps it is time to start doing the Please-It’ll-Don’t-Come-Early-Dance, as opposed to 99.9% of my compatriots on BabyCenter.com, who are starting their spicy-Mexican-food-and-evening-primose-rose-oil, etc, regimes in hopes of being D-U-N with pregnancy.

But my Honeydew must still return to California once more, to make sure that the new queens he carefully grafted and introduced into each hive last moth have been given their proper Royal welcome, and therefore I have no desire to be D-U-N just yet.  So let’s hope that It’ll isn’t as impatient as his/her mama typically is.

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.

 

happy as a pregnant woman in a candy shop

People keep asking me what weird food cravings and aversions I’m experiencing as a result of It’ll, and I disappoint them when I say, “nothing odd, really.”  Of course, my non-pregnant palate doesn’t have a “weird” rating on it, so that should be taken into consideration.  I could eat raw oysters all day every day, I’ve never met a piece of sushi I didn’t like it, I frequently add Doritos to my hiking sandwiches in the summertime for that perfect salty crunch, and on the day after Thanksgiving, I would cry if I didn’t get to layer sweet potatoes, green beans, dressing, turkey, giblet gravy, and canned and fresh cranberry sauces in a bowl, nuke on high for 3 minutes, and dive in with a spoon.  Clearly, I don’t have issues with food “touching” on a plate, nor am I picky in the least.

Anyway, Honeydew and I discovered the candy shops of Galveston on our last morning there.  Oh-em-gee, you talk about happy as a fat kid in a candy shop?  Substitute pregnant woman for fat kid and up the bliss factor x 10 – I was in heaven.  Which is a bit weird, because although we’ve established that I like just about everything, candy shops do not normally hold much allure for me.  For that many calories, hand me a slab of caramel cake, rum cake, or coconut cake.  Or maybe some of mama’s boozy chocolate chip cookies, or a fresh blackberry pie.  Homemade peach ice cream?  Topped with real whupping cream?  Please and thank you.  I generally choose real desserts, not candies.

But there was something about this candy store.  The primary candy colors and sugar granules sparkled under the bright lights, and I found myself salivating.  And then the chocolate cases caught my eye.

And then I noticed that this lovely candy shop featured decidedly Southern delicacies.  And as my quest to educate Honeydew about my childhood, and all that makes me who I am – the smell of a freshly turned cotton field in the Georgia sunshine, the amethyst gleam of blackberries in the briars lining a red clay Virginia creek bed, the saltiness of cornbread cracklins left behind in Grandma Betty’s cast iron – is never done, I felt justified in purchasing some Southern candies.  Honeydew, who never met anything sweet he didn’t like it, did not deter me from learnin’ him.

And so we let divinity melt on our tongues.

And we bit into the earthy goodness of pecans and caramel, properly pronounced PEE-cans and CARE-A-MELL in the world of my youth.   I would like to point out that there are, after all, two “a”s in “caramel.”  Where all this “KAR-mel” pronunciation springs from, I do not know, but I think it hurts the second A’s feelings and should be stopped.

Dark chocolate covered Lay’s potato chips.  I don’t know that these are traditionally Southern, but such a union smacks of Dixie to me.  We are, after all, the chubbiest part of this great nation.

And chocolate dipped Twinkies.  I actually resisted these, because I don’t think any form of Twinkie could be more sublime than that of the deep fried variety, but they did look intriguing.

And y’all.  I was a happy, happy woman.

And having stepped on the scale this morning in my very own bathroom, I am just as happy to be back in Babb, hundreds of miles from any candy store, where no one’s ever heard of the divine-ness of divinity.  Which, I keep telling It’ll, is a good thing.  Really.  I don’t miss it at all.

Ok.  Who’s got a recipe?

2011.  Glacier County Honey Co.  All Rights Reserved.