The Grunt Heard 'Round The World (part II)

He lingered in his mother's sight for only a few seconds before the NICU wench had me follow her upstairs to the third floor. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. "Nick-U." Fuck me.

He was immediately placed in a warming bed, still very much as he was brought into the world, naked, covered in goo, and grunting. The short reason given to me, as I stood there and calculated exactly how many of the people around me I could take down before security showed up, was that he was over stressed and that they would have to keep him under observation for at least four hours.

The heartbreak of it was that HH7 would not get to see her little brother much. She had already missed the time she was supposed to be back to her mother's house. Luckily she and my Mom happened to be walking down the hallway as I was following the wench to the elevator. I knelt down and allowed her to see her grunty little brother. I was able later to take her into the NICU to see him, but he was still very much naked, covered in goo, and grunting. This was not how HH7 needed to be introduced to HH2. It's not a good thing for a seven year old to see. I wanted to beat someone even more.

I slowly filed folks one by one back to see him briefly, allowing them only a few seconds to see him.

HH6 was finally patched up and allowed to see him shortly before the NICU closed for shift change. Now I wanted to beat someone and cause some collateral damage. I met her in our room which was separated from our son by two floors of concrete. HH7 wanted very much to see HH6 to make sure she was alright and to tell her that she loved her. My girls. My world. Almost complete.

Time seemed to drag like corduroy between the thighs of Rosie O'Donnell.

When the phone rang we had hoped for good news, but none was to be had. HH2 would have to stay in the NICU until his breathing was under control and wasn't as labored. Four days, minimum.

Fuck.

The next two days until we were discharged without our son earlier today were lived four hours at a time. Every four hours we spent time with our son. For the first day all we could do was stand by his bedside and look. He would grasp our fingers as we spoke to him. Thankfully the grunt subsided and he started making improvements. Of course, we would have known just how good he was doing had the evil night harpies that occupy the NICU had been even a little cordial and accommodating to HH6 and I. Had it not been for the wonderful day staff of the NICU, we would still be in the dark as to the progress of our son.

He's since opened his amazing blue eyes (of course never when I have my camera) and has started taking a bottle. He's still hooked up to an I.V., and will be until he's got the whole bottle bit down. The neonatologist told us that the funny thing about infants is that if they are not fed in the first 24 hours, they seem to forget how. So right now when HH2 comes home is entirely up to him. If he can master taking the bottle he could be home as early as late Thursday or Friday. If things continue to go them way they are, probably late this weekend.

So, here we are, at home without our son. He sleeps ten miles away, without the comfort of Mommy or Daddy, and we sleep without the joy of having him here. My home is empty save HH6 and the dynamic duo of stupid cats.

My daughter is either at her mother's or grandmother's house.

My son is in the NICU.

I need some high explosives.

Some good has happened though. I have some wonderful shots of my son. I've fed him. He's peed on me. I changed a poopie diaper. And I've seen one of the most beautiful things in my life... my wife holding our son for the first time.

The Grunt Heard 'Round The World (part I)

Life is nothing more than a series of curves. It is a journey that at times seems so straight and true as to lull one into a sense of sheer and utter complacency. It is usually at this time that life makes a sharp curve and you either go with it, or you run off the cliff. So it was Saturday as I sat next to my daughter, HH7, writing of the love of a sport that I myself have never played. The cliff was looming.

She didn't sleep at all well Friday night into Saturday morning. My beautiful and amazing wife, HH6, awoke that morning to further contractions. These had been going on since earlier in the week, and I even discussed it in a post below, but this time they were more intense and much closer together. Like, much closer together.

So my day Saturday was spent checking on the woman I love so much and taking care and spending time with HH7 (I get so precious little). As the day progressed, things started getting closer together, so much so that I told HH7 to go and pack some clothes to go to Grammy's house "just in case."

At 1415 "just in case" turned into "let's go to the hospital."

In amazing contrast to the similar adventure I had undertaken seven years and some change earlier, I did not drive like a rookie in the Nextel Cup. In contrast to that dark December night, I drove with the grace and coordination of a stately, southern chauffeur. I was Hoke, driving Miss Daisy.

The trip took a mere fifteen minutes, and in parking the car and getting HH6 and HH7 up to the second floor, it was at 1439 that I had her signed in. We assumed our position in the waiting area as the hospital staff readied our room and paperwork.

Prudence bears that I pause for a moment and state that some people should not be allowed to breed. Case in point, a 21 year old girl that in size makes me look like a poster child for the feed the starving champaign. Perched precariously atop a set of Heely's, this wheeled hippopotamus not only gave cred to my argument, but so did the mental midgets that she shared genes with seated all around us. They out numbered us in people, we outnumbered them in IQ. Blessed silence finally followed when they all finally thundered out of the waiting room to view the latest addition to the Clampet clan.

HH6 was taken to a birthing room, introduced to the best nurse ever (Liz), and proceeded to become a human pin cushion. Three unsuccessful sticks later and I.V. fluids were being delivered. There was little doubt that she was in true labor as at that time her contractions were two to three minutes apart and she was 3 centimeters and 75%. Calls went out to her sister and my parents, and we settled in. Everyone else would have to wait until we were further along.

Shortly thereafter, my parents arrived and whisked HH7 away to their house at my request. That would be the first hardest task of the day to come. She, along with HH6, is my world. I never get to see her nearly as much as either of us would like, and she was hesitant to leave me and her step-Mom. But with some assurance from me, and from HH6, she hugged my neck, gave Daddy Eskimo kisses and went away with Grammy and Paw-paw. I did give her the duty of informing Grammy as to the name of her little brother, a task we had decided she would honor some months before. She waited. It wasn't until I had walked her down to truck and they began pulling away that she finally let the cat out of the bag.

She is so my kid.

Back to the elevator and back to the room, nothing had changed. The nurses came and went, the monitors attached to her beeped, and we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By 0800 Sunday morning, no further progress had been made. Our doc then decided to go ahead and break her water and wait. She progressed quickly to 4 cm and the blessed epi was administered. The epidural is the greatest thing ever. Better even than sliced bread. Better even than a mint prototype Boba Fett that fires his jet pack rocket. It's even better than a killtacular in Halo.

But, even with the wonder of the epi, we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Little progress was made, so the order for pitocin was given. That got things going like a fat kid running down the ice cream truck. HH6 barreled along, marching ever closer to the end goal.

The "Car of Tomorrow" made it's debut at Bristol on the TV in the room. We watched the race. What can I say, we have redneck tendencies when it comes to NASCAR and we had nothing better to do. It's was the COT for fucks sake! What would you do?

After six boosts of the pitocin, at 1439 it was time to rock.

The TV went off and she pushed.

And pushed.

And pushed. Twenty five hours to the minute after we signed in down the hall, after only an hour of pushing, on March the 25th, Alvin Samuel Nickelson (HH2) was born.

He wasn't crying.






He was grunting. The NICU was called for a consult...

Termite

We are a hockey family. HH6 took me to my first hockey game when we were dating oh so many moons ago and I was instantly hooked. There was something primal about watching the game in person as opposed to via the glowing images on the boob tube. Hockey is a sport that is very much meant to be shared with a couple of thousand of your closest friends, perched above the ice, and screaming like a mad man.

My daughter is a fan. She's not nuts by any means. She enjoys attending the games, especially the few that we've managed to attend in Nashville, and her love of the game grows with each passing of the puck.

My son however is a different story entirely. Not even out of the womb yet, and the little man thinks he's the next Mario Lemieux, Gordie Howe, or Terry Sawchuk. When our beloved UAH Chargers take to the ice, he's a mad man inside his mother's belly. He skates across the womb, he checks into the placenta, he makes glove hand saves against the ribs. But, during intermission, nothing. He sits quietly, as if listening to his coach in the locker room. He's contemplative. He's planning his next breakaway. But then, when the arena speakers belt out the opening chords of "Sweet Home Alabama," he's back on the ice.

This was even apparent last evening. College hockey fans already know the story of the "Cinderella Chargers." The purest definition of an underdog, UAH managed unbelievable come from behind wins during the CHA Tournament to win the title and with it a trip to the NCAA Regionals. UAH drew top ranked Notre Dame and no one, save the UAH faithful, thought it possible for the Chargers to provide any more challenge than that of a speed bump.

So, as the fam ran various errands out and about, we all listened to the game on the radio. The action was broken up by the various excursions into retail establishments and ultimately dinner, but whenever we were within earshot of the scratchy warbaling of AM radio, he skated. He supported his team. He shot. He checked. He saved. And in the end, at 15:18 of the second overtime, when Notre Dame broke the tie, he hung his head.

The skater-to-be won't see his first game for months yet, and won't be able to begin play in the termites until he's three, but he'll continue to be one of the biggest hockey fans out there and his big sister can't wait to take him to his first game.

Induction

Pronunciation: in-'d&k-sh&n
Function: noun
1 a : the act or process of inducting (as into office) b : an initial experience : INITIATION c : the formality by which a civilian is inducted into military service

Potentially, provided we make it that far, our little man will be brought into the world in two weeks.

Already at 2cm and 50%.

Here he comes.

Behold the future

Undoubtedly this will be my son in a couple of years as my daughter is already like this-



Owning noobs since 2007 and 1999 respectively.

Boobies

I like boobies. They're beautiful to look at and fun to play with.

But they do serve a purpose for our little ones, they have the potential to provide sustenance. With the little one only 26ish days or less from making an appearance, HH6 and I recently went to breastfeeding class. Little real knowledge could be gained from said class. Most of the knowledge gained from the class was just as easily, and far more accurately, gained from various books and online sources. But, as we sat through two hours of information we already knew, the truth came out. Fathers are nothing but financial providers and support personnel.

It should have come as little surprise really, I mean our society still deals with the outdated idea that fathers are little more than a walking wallet. That somehow having a penis precludes the male parent from having little more responsibility than doling out dollars. But as I sat there and listed to the little innuendos provided by the "expert" instructor, the little critique sheet handed to all of those in attendance was begging for a dissertation on the folly of the instruction.

I wish I had made a copy of what I had written, but to summarize it probably went something like this:

As a stay-at-home dad, I take offense to the instruction provided. This course has done little but insinuate that fathers are for little more than supporting their partners and making sure that the financial obligations of the family are met. Today's father is much more than just a walking ATM. To insinuate that he is little more than that is insulting not only to men such as myself, but to women with careers. This dated and sexist attitude is little better than the old ideal that all women should be bare-foot, pregnant, and in the kitchen.

Needless to say, I was not happy.

Alpha

It's been a little over seven and a half years since I was last at this point in my life. With a child on the way my thoughts turn to the inevitable feelings of inadequacy and doubt at my abilities as a father. And what makes this even more daunting and worrisome is the fact that with this round I start life as a stay-at-home dad. A full fledged vacuuming, diaper changing, clothes folding, spit-up cleaning stay-at-home dad.

Fear for my boy.