Dexter. You were due on 7/17/17, which was terribly exciting for me, even though that wasn't the day you ended up coming. You came into the world during a time a great anxiety for us. But I get ahead of myself.
Your brother was 6 months old, and amazingly adorable. I needed another one. And so you came to pass.
My pregnancy with you was a breeze. Perhaps it was because I was so busy chasing Julian around that I didn't have the amounts of time I had with my pregnancy with Julian to sit around and feel sorry for myself. I was up and running! And you were perfect. There was never anything concerning during the pregnancy. Everything was always "just right." You were healthy. You were perfect. And I really appreciated that! I was working full time while your brother went to daycare, up until the month before you were born.
I took that last month off because we were moving. (And I wanted to be home to help Julian out with all of the transitions that would happen in his life - new brother, new home, Mom being home all the time, etc.) When we'd found out we were pregnant with you, your father and I decided it was time to buy a home - a place with three bedrooms, instead of continuing to rent the two bedroom townhome we were living in. We bought a place that was being built, and scheduled to be completed just before you were born. They pushed the deadline back a lot, but then, holy heck, our mortgage company...
We were supposed to sign towards the end of June. We were supposed to be able to move into our new home on June 29th. But the date ended up getting pushed back, and pushed back, due to our incompetent mortgage company. (That is such a long and frustrating story, I won't even go there. It's still too fresh for me.) But because we didn't close before the end of the month, we had to leave our townhome, and enter... homelessness... until we could officially move in. Our stuff went into storage, and on the night of June 30th, after a full day of moving, we packed ourselves into Grandma Read's second and third bedrooms.
Your father was exhausted. I was emotionally spent, despite having spent a large portion of the day at Grandma's house doing nothing but watch your brother. (I was upset about the mortgage company and being homeless until who knew when, living with my mom.) I was too pregnant to move anything, and we were supposed to be keeping me "calm," so I wouldn't go into labor, which is why I had minimal work to do for the move. I'd spent the night watching the first episode of Call the Midwife, while Julian slept and the rest of the family finished cleaning up our townhome, till well after dark.
Grandma and your dad rolled in around ten o'clock. We sat around talking for awhile, and your dad and I retired to bed pretty late. Your dad grumbled about being tired, while trying to assure me that everything was fine, and I didn't have to worry about a thing. I worried about a few things, like a restless, confused Julian, and my homeless, pathetic pregnant state. I remember finally pulling up the covers, rolling onto my side in the dark and thinking, "This bed is sort of uncomfortable with this pregnancy pillow... And I'm going to have to sleep like this for the next five nights?"
As if you took that thought as a sign from above, my water broke, just then. I remember feeling it and thinking, "Oh, that can't be what I think it was..." Your father later told me that at that time he was rolling over in bed thinking, "This would just be the WORST time for her to go into labor."
"My water just broke." I told him, as I jumped up and sprinted for the bathroom. (Didn't get the bed wet at all. Score!) We rushed around as quietly as we could, and I went and woke my mother, briefly, to tell her we were going to the hospital, and that she was now in charge of Julian. Surprise!
When we got there, your dad went to park the car, and I stood around feeling completely disgusting. Like I was peeing my pants and just kept peeing. It was marvelous. They ushered us back to a room - the same room I'd given birth to your brother in, to be exact, and the waiting began. The nurses were friendly, and all was going well.
Your father was exhausted. He'd spent the entire day moving an entire house in the sun, and had also taken a Trazodone to help him sleep. And so sleep he did! Nurses came and went, hooking me up to devices, giving me an IV, etc, and your father slept. Lights turning off and on, and he slept.
I made him wake up when they sent for the epidural man. I didn't want to do that part alone. Getting the epidural with your brother was exceptionally easy. I bragged that it was easier than the IV was. (It was.) Your epidural... not so much. It hurt quite a bit. It took a long time. It was hard to get through. I went from lying on my side in the fetal position, to sitting at the edge of the bed, grimacing and just downright hurting. This time, the epidural was the hardest part. As I sat at the edge of the bed, I noticed your dad starting to turn whiter and whiter, so I mentioned calmly, "Dad's going to pass out." for the nurses.
The nurse made your dad sit down, and gave him snacks to eat. (Royally unfair for the woman who could eat nothing.) She continued to hold my hand, and saw me through the last two minutes until my epidural was in place, and working. (Later, Dad said it was the blood that got to him. Glad I didn't see that. It was bad enough.)
And then Dad slept again, and I actually got about 4 hours of sleep myself. (God bless epidurals.) In the early morning I texted your Aunt Hannah, and told her I was in labor. She expressed an interest in being there, and, with your dad still asleep and struggling to stay conscious as he was, and with his difficulty with blood, at the time, I thought it would be nice to have another support person. And I thoroughly enjoy your Aunt Hannah. I knew she would be a great partner to have along. She'd keep the mood light, and keep me laughing. When Dad woke up and gave me permission to do so, I invited her to be there.
She showed up about twenty minutes to show time! It was perfect! My doctor was working that day, a Saturday, and was there for my delivery. Another bonus was that my doctor was Aunt Hannah's aunt-in-law. So the room felt royally unrighteous, fun-loving, and light-hearted. The mirror was brought out, and I was told to push.
I actually forgot what I was supposed to do and how to do it. Was I supposed to hold my breath, or breathe through my nose? I wasted a contraction, and we laughed and shrugged it off, while the doctor reminded me what I was supposed to be doing. Dad held my hand while Hannah stood in my line of sight next to the mirror. Yes, I had a mirror there. I remember how much easier it was to push with a mirror there, when I had Julian, and requested it again. For your birth, however, no one stood in the way of the mirror, and I saw the whole thing!
It took two contractions and a half to get you out. As Grandma Read would put it, "After you have one, the rest are like shelling peas." You came easily. But with the most impressive cone-head the world has ever seen. Unlike your brother, who was rushed away by the NICU ladies, they plopped your little wriggling body into my arms, and you were perfect. (This is disgusting, but I intentionally kept some of your goop on my forearm for the rest of the day, until I realized I was being disgusting and overly emotional, and that I had YOU, for goodness sakes. I didn't need your goop.)
We all smiled and laughed. I had a first degree tear, which was nothing like the third degree tear I had with your brother. You had some trouble breathing, to be honest. You didn't really cry, and your breathing was fast, enough so that they called a NICU nurse to come down just to look at you. I remember looking at Aunt Hannah, the nurse, hoping she would tell me if your breathing was something to worry about. She just kept smiling and saying that everything was fine - that you were good. I didn't believe her, and continued to worry, until they packed us up and sent us upstairs. (Once again, I was put in the same room I'd been in with your brother. What were the chances!)
In addition to a fantastic cone-head, you also came out with a fantastically bruised face - to the point that they put a little sticky note on your bin, saying "Bruised Face," so the nurses wouldn't see you and assume you were low on oxygen. That had mostly cleared up by the next day, though.
I kept you close. The first night I slept on my own, but the second night, when I was fully rested, I kept you by my side the whole night - even though we were doing formula, not breastfeeding. (I'd learned my limits well enough from my experience with your brother. I wanted to bond with you, not wrestle with your disappointment and frustrations.) I remember sleeping with you in the bed next to me, waking up when the nurse did her rounds, and kindly pushing off any offers to help. I was so glad to be with you, and you gave me incredible feelings of hope and energy. I napped with you at every opportunity.
And then we took you home! Oh, wait, no. We were homeless. We took you to Grandma's. (Several nurses had heard our sad tale. I thought it was hilarious that you had come just in time to live at Grandma's. Really? You didn't want to wait just one more week?)
Julian was obsessed with you, and still is. (You're five weeks old, now.) He's just waiting for you to grow up and play with him. One of his favorite things to do is kiss you.
Overall, you've been an extremely pleasant baby. Very lazy, I might add. You didn't open your eyes until the third day, and I took a video of it, just to prove to your dad that you did actually have eyes. When you were FOUR WEEKS OLD, your Grandma asked if we'd had your eyes checked out, because she thought there was the possibility that you were BLIND, because you never had your eyes open for her! (She has since seen your eyes, and knows that your vision is fine. But it's not like Grandma hasn't been around a lot. You're just lazy!)
You still wake up like clockwork to eat every three hours, and have finally reached the point where we don't have to torture you awake to finish a bottle anymore. You are now motivated enough to eat. At your 2 week appointment you were in the 14th percentile for weight, but we're anticipating you'll catch up to average or above average in no time.
You're a good buddy to keep me company while your brother naps, screams, throws tantrums, etc. You're pretty chill. (Actual picture of right now.)
On Sunday, aka yesterday, you were blessed at church. Your father blessed you, with Uncle Patrick and Uncle Oliver and Grandpa DeMill there. He said that you were born at a time that the Kingdom of God was in great excitement. He mentioned that you would be a steward and a teacher in the Kingdom. He mentioned that you would have trials, but that you would be able to teach others how to overcome their trials, because of your experiences.
Sorry, you moved, and now it's cuter.
I'm proud to be your momma. You make it difficult to get out and have fun, when you demand food every two hours, but keeping that eternal perspective makes me forgive you for your starvation-induced drama. You were named Dexter Martin Lisch. As with our family traditions, we name your first name after whatever the heck we want, and your middle name after a historical hero of ours. You were named Dexter after Dexter's Lab. (Don't judge us.) But you were named Martin after Martin Luther. Not the black Martin Luther King, but Martin Luther, the hero of the reformation.
Martin Luther was a devout man, who wanted to serve God to the best of his ability. But he saw problems with the current practices of his church - the concept that you could buy forgiveness, etc. He risked everything he had to teach that God was love. You couldn't buy His love and forgiveness, but that rather, He would give it. You would never be perfect, but God would accept you, and through his grace, claim you His. Obviously, you should still be a good person, but remember that God has claimed you His, if you will accept His taking you. He is love, first and foremost. A good thing to remember in a crazy, confused world.
