I was up with Little Bip at 2 AM last night. The house was quiet. After he downed his bottle and let forth a mighty burp, we stared at each other for a long time. He considered me. I looked back into his searching eyes. I started to tear up. There was no doubt now that this is my little boy.

And now ya’ll know my deepest secret. I’m a big ol’ sentimental softie.

Little Bip went to a specialist’s office yesterday. Despite hours of waiting and miserable testing, he was a champ. The results of the test were a relief. An issue with potential long-lasting impact is clearing up and he should be fine in the end.

The doctor, a middle aged man, told us to return in two weeks for a follow-up appointment. We asked about going to an office closer to home. He replied that the doctor who staffed that office was on maternity leave, so we’d have to make the longer trek. Then, for no apparent reason, he relayed that he had an earlier partner who had labor induced on a Friday, then was back at work on Monday.

Summing it up, he flatly said, “But they just don’t make them like they used to.”

I looked at Lisa with wide eyes. As we were stepping up to the desk to schedule the appointment I whispered, “I wasn’t going to mention that I’m on paternity leave for a month.”

Contrasting my parenting experience with a preemie six years ago with my current preemie parenting experience, I have reached this conclusion.

Back then I had more energy. This time I’m calmer. I am able to do this only because I’m running with more emotional efficiency.

Sweet Bippy came home from the hospital today, 3 months and 2 weeks after his birth. Getting out of the hospital was a bit of an adventure. Loaded down with our oxygen tanks, monitors, and bags a-plenty, we’d gotten about five steps out of the NICU when red lights started flashing and alarms went off. Standing in front of the elevators, the excited nurse ran out to us apologizing for forgetting about the security bracelet around his ankle. (It’s like house arrest!) Lest we be accused of abducting our own baby, we turned back around while she cut off the bracelet and gave the all clear.

Down in the lobby we are confronted by the security who checked our parental identity bracelets. We were allowed to pass, but then we were chased down again in the elevator. Security hadn’t gotten the all clear. But after assessing that we were a legitimate discharge, we were finally allowed to depart the hospital.

In the car, pulling into busy traffic, I told him, “We sprung you, boy. You’re on the lam now.”

It’s been a long day, trying to get Mr. Infant settled, swaddled, fed and med’ed. I can’t imagine what a wild day of stimulation it has been for a baby who has stared at hospital ceilings for months. But he’s here now and our lives together are underway.

While we were attending to two sons–Son One had his 1st grade orientation today–we were blessed with the support of many. Special thanks to Laurie and Jim, who tracked down hardware to replace our missing crib hardware. And Mary, who entertained our son for hours this evening. And Nonna and Papa who brought us breakfast, did the laundry, and helped with the boys. And Dawn, who gave us clothes and an important pep talk. Midge decorated our mailbox for our return, and Son One drew a lovely welcome banner and diligently made sure that nobody stepped on his brother’s cables. (He is indeed his brother’s keeper.)

Says Son One of his new brother: “He looks like a monster with a tee-shirt on.”

Also says Son One: “I’m not going to get another brother after this, am I?”

Says Barack Obama at the Democratic Convention: “That is the change we need now.”
My response to the TV, taking a sniff: “The change we need now is a diaper change.”

It’s been a quiet summer in Lake Wobe-blog.

Scratch that. It’s been an eventful summer, but I’ve been building up my reserves and ignoring the blog. The biggest news item can now be shared. We’re adoptin’ a baby boy, and we’re all-a-twitter with anticipation, and a little bit crazy with preparations. When you have a biological child, you have those seductive months of procrastination to savor. When the baby falls out of the sky, you just shut up and get movin’. I’m glad we already have raised one, or we’d be bonkers right now.

The boy formerly known as “the lad” will need a new handle. And his baby brother needs one too. Feel free to post creative suggestions in the comments.

As part of his orientation for first grade, our son received a handwritten letter from a boy at his new school:

Dear Friend,

I’m glad that you are here at _ _ E! I will see you next year. Our gym teacher is nice. Art class is fun. We get to take books from the library. Music is fun. And we get to keep books from the book fair. And it is fun at _ _ E.

Your friend,
Steven

We have a bathroom.

Our son has gone baseball crazy. He’s not so interested in hitting; it’s pitching that’s grabbed his attention.  Despite my insistence that he just learn to throw a basic overhand throw with good mechanics, he’s totally absorbed in the variety of pitches that pitchers throw.

Lad: What if I make it to the major leagues and can throw a curveball, a fastball, and a slider?
Dad: Then I will come to your games and cheer for you.
Lad: But what if I have a changeup, curveball, and a slider?
Dad: Well, you wouldn’t have a changeup without a fastball. But I’ll still cheer for you.
Lad: But maybe I’ll have a cut fastball AND a split finger fastball and a changeup?
Dad: Hmm, interesting. I’ll be very proud to cheer for you.
Lad: Maybe I’ll have the same pitches that Cole Hamels has? Wouldn’t that be good? He throws a circle-change, doesn’t he, Dad?
Dad: He does. You’re a righty and he’s a lefty, but you’re tall and lean like Hamels. Maybe you will learn to throw a fastball, changeup and curveball someday. But for now, just fastballs!
Lad: But what if I have if I have A KNUCKLEBALL?
Dad: That’ll be fun.
Lad: I think I’m going to throw a knuckleball. I need to see a knuckleball so I can learn how to throw one.