Another Thing Mamahood Taught Me

After 36 years, 9 months, 20 days and 34 minutes on this planet, being a mother finally taught me the secret to peaceful living: proper planning & organization!

My friend Mark would be proud, I think.

Carroll Gardens In Fall

This morning, on the walk back to my apartment after working for some hours at the local cafe I caught myself thinking: my god I love my life... After so much angst--a moody adolescence; lost & confused early 20s and the difficult road to mamahood--everything in my life just seems to be falling into place.

If this is how my 30s feel, I can't wait to see what my 40s bring.

    My walk home... 

    And the munchkin who awaited me...

What Do All Of These Have in Common?

Calypso
Kiewit Stinks
lovedoves
Nacho
Sharmaville Network
bxk

Usernames of all the wifi connections in my building!

I have to admit I'm intrigued by Kiewit Stinks. Who is this kiewit--the twentysomething hipster who lives on the first floor or the newborn daughter of the nice editor husband and wife team across the hall? And why does he/she smell so bad?

How we roll (to music class)

Right now I'm loving:

the bibbity;

anything by gapbaby;

happy baby's grrreat greens;

and the beautiful photos over at Progressive Pioneer.

MAS on Smith Street. En route to Music For Aardvarks.

Enter The Nanny

Our new very part-time nanny started this week.

Let me say that again: the nanny started this week! An event filled with joy, relief, a little fear and a little guilt.

She comes from 8-11 on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Not a lot of time, I know. Barely enough time to get started on the million and one projects I'm either late finishing or late starting. But still. Already its making a huge difference. I'm astonished how much more I can get done in three hours compared to before MAS was born. I've become efficient, folks. Before? I was a typical creative: scattered; distractable; prone to sudden insights while doing the dishes. Now? I sit down and do it now because I know I've only got 2.25 hours left and I have X to complete and Y to outline. Yet another way in which I'm not the same Minerva Jane as I was before he so dramatically entered my life.

Yet another gift he's given me.

Back to the nanny.

It took me eight months after MAS's discharge from the NICU to hire someone, even though I was already technically back to work a month before he came home. (Ebronis and I have a marketing firm. We shifted most of our clients over to him during my brief bedrest but I retained one or two.)

My mother-in-law comes one afternoon a week, so this isn't as bad as it seems. Besides, he goes to bed at 7.

Still, things have piled up.

But every time the idea of hiring someone would come up I would hesitate. The money! The drudgery of finding the right person! He was so vulnerable, you see... And I only needed a few hours. Weren't most people looking for full-time work?

All good points.

But behind all of this protesting, all of these compeltely logical reasons, was a deeper psychological one.

I didn't see my baby until 24 hours after he was born. Didn't get to hold him until he was a week old. He spent the first 9 weeks of his life cared for by a team of nurses, a group of predominately Philippino professionals. (I don't know why, but most of the NICU nurses at St. Luke's Roosevelt on 57th were transplants from the Philippines.)

They were all kind, competent people who had MAS's best interest at heart and without whom he wouldn't have survived, but it still felt so unnatural to be told when and how I could feed, hold, and comfort my own child. I had to ask permission every time. Sometimes it was granted, but if it didn't coincide with the nursing rotation it wasn't. By the end a weird psychology had evolved: I started to feel that it I didn't behave he would never be discharged. I tried so hard to be a good enough patient for the both of us.


So when I got him home? It was like I was making up for lost time. I encircled him, protected him in ways I wasn't able to during that last trimester-cum-first two months. And I was reluctant to let anyone else in...


But now? MAS needs more interaction than what I can give. And I need to figure out who this new Minerva Jane is. And get back to the non-mommy parts of myself...

So today she came at 8, fed MAS his breakfast of organic DHA- and probiotic-enhanced brown rice cereal, and took him to the park where they played on the swings and slide. He returned rosy-cheeked and exhausted from the playing. And now? He's napping peacefully in his stroller while I get back to my old bloggy self.

The Sick Baby

MAS woke up this morning with a runny nose.

Mid-morning it morphed into a stuffed nose with a possible low grade fever. (First reading was normal; second reading was slightly elevated; third, he was a little chilly!)

Our pediatrician thinks this is a cold and a minor one at best. Nothing to worry about. MAS also seems to think a cold is nothing to worry about: he spent the morning happily banging his green plastic egg on everything he could find. After a mid-morning snack of sweet potatoes and prunes and milk he's contentedly sleeping on my bed while I type this.

But me? I'd be lying if I didn't admit to a frisson of fear when I saw that clear snot snaking down his upper lip. It could be: flu, swine flu, RSV... ?! Anything, really. But it also could be nothing.

Yes: I know that overprotecting him will never be the answer. Kids need to get sick so they can develop immunities. Put MAS in a bubble now and his first year at school will be a disaster.

Still. I thought I'd put the whole NICU roller coaster behind me, you see. At the beginning of the summer I made such a huge effort to not talk about it and to brush it off as nothing nothing, a little blip whenever it came up. He was born early but he's fine now. Quick, let's change the subject. Have you guys started solids yet? I even stopped blogging here because I didn't want to think of him that way. I wanted to pretend that MAS started life like all the other babies.

All it takes is a whiff of a cold, a whiff of allergies even, and all that comes tumbling down. MAS's story isn't like the others'. I can't change that. No matter how much I would like to.

It will always be there in one way or another. No matter how robust MAS is, there will always be some part of me that remembers my first glimpse of him: my 2 lbs 5 oz half-cooked baby hooked up to god knows how many wires, his nose irritated from the CPAP and his soft mewling cries more feline than human.

During our NICU stay my challenge was to step up to the plate and be there for him in as positive and consistent a way as I could. I spent hours by his side and even more hours holding him in kangaroo care, telling everyone--myself, my husband, my in-laws, the nurses and all the other grief-srtiken parents--that MAS would not only survive but thrive. If I could WILL him better, I would.

But now? My challenge is to step back a little and let him be... With all the flus and colds and scrapes that come with any normal childhood.

As one of the neonatalogists told me when she discharged us that last cold day in January: "Well, he's not a preemie now. He's a former preemie. Now he's just like everyone else."

We Moved!

From Cobble Hill to Carroll Gardens.

Hence the radio silence.

Stay tuned: we'll be back on air shortly.

In Which I Talk About Poop

Be forewarned.

MAS, like a lot of preemies, was anemic in the beginning. He even had a blood transfusion at 30 weeks gestation, two weeks after he was born. And several rounds of some drug I've since blocked out that stimulated his bone marrow to produce red blood cells. And he's been on iron supplementation ever since and will be for his first year.

Iron, as we all know, slows your system down. And so it is with MAS. He only poops about once or twice a week, which to be honest I'm grateful for. Granted that poop is always a massive black mess, but he's not constipated nor in pain.

Here's the thing, though: the bigger he gets the bigger those weekly poos get.

This morning? He had a full diaper and so, when I saw what I was dealing with I called The Husband in from the other room for reinforcement. (Despite having two cats and a 6 month old, poop frankly grosses me out.) As we were both cleaning MAS off--and before a new diaper could be secured--he projectile pooped all over the room.

Poop everywhere! On a pile of freshly laundered sleepers! On a towel! On the goddamn window folks!

Ack! Ack! Ack!

MAS, though, seemed pretty pleased with himself, smiling and giggling away.



MAS, the previous afternoon, shows no sign of the coming storm. And yes, that's a Sophie giraffe he's holding, hip toy du jour.

13 Things About Brownstone Baby

1. He was born on Thanksgiving Day.

2. He was born 12 weeks early.

3. He therefore, like all preemies, has a double identity: Sagittarius and Aquarius.

4. He loves the stuffed loon on his activity gym.

5. He thinks diaper changes are funny.

6. He’s ticklish.

7. He abhors being hungry.

8. He finds his Fisher Price swing sometimes hilarious, sometimes disturbing.

9. He had a full head of hair when he was born; no mean feat for a 28 weeker.

10. Since he learned to stick his tongue out it’s become his favorite trick.

11. He loves bath time more than any other time of day.

12. He loves speed whether its in the car or stroller: stoplights and traffic jams make him angry.

13. He's been hitting every single milestone when he would have had he been born on his due date--sometimes earlier. (Rolling over at 3 months!)

Avian Analogies

To take the bird metaphor further: she who lays her eggs in an open field has to be more aggressive in defending her chicks than she who lays in a camouflaging tree.

Me? I laid my egg on a freshly mown suburban lawn. Danger all around: kids playing ball and dogs digging and cars speeding past.

Nestless, I used my very own puffed up self to protect him. And letting go of that? Ah. Harder than I thought.

Mountain Buggy Strollers In Brooklyn

MAS in his Mountain Buggy Urban Elite


First off, let me say that I don’t really think you can get by with one stroller or one baby carrier anymore than you can get by with one pair of shoes. Sometimes you need a sandal, sometimes you need a sneaker and sometimes only a rain boot will do.

In the best of all possible worlds you’d get a lightweight stroller for hopping on and off subways, a rugged jogging stroller for marathon training (see how funny I can be?) and a chichi but durable Bugaboo for urban restaurant and shopping excursions.

But. Financial circumstances being what they are, forced to make a compromise Ebronis and I were when MAS entered the world.

So we bought a Mountain Buggy jogging stroller. Because I had—still have—this idea that I’m going to get back in shape this summer by training for the NIKE 10k. Not that I really have all that much more to lose—skipping the entire third trimester was a really great way to forgo the whole mommybody thing. (And no: I don’t recommend it as a strategy: a 2.5 pound baby is a frightening thing.

Back to the stroller.

Things I love about my Mountain Buggy Urban Elite:

The rugged wheels handle the often-crappy Brooklyn streets & sidewalks without once jostling the baby awake.

A swiveling front wheel makes turning city corners a breeze but it also locks into place for stability on long runs.

The water bottle holder puts a cold drink at my fingertips.

The seat is extra comfy and MAS has no trouble napping out.

The entire seat and sun canopy snap off for easy cleaning.

The $50 car seat clip meant I never had to wake MAS when going from car to stroller to apartment. (If you have a colicky baby like I did, you’ll understand the true value of such a feature.)

Things I Hate About My Mountain Buggy Urban Elite:

Since it weighs in at 23 lbs there’s no way I’m lugging that thing up or down any subway stairs soon.

The wide wheelbase makes for a stable ride over a variety of terrain but also means I can’t get into certain narrow Brooklyn storefronts.

There’s no coffee cup holder. (Hello people: caffeine is the only antidote to infant-induced sleep deprivation. Sheesh.)

Keep in mind that this thing is the SUV of strollers: its overall appearance is mountain bike meets REI fashion. Not surprisingly, maitre d’s see us coming & cringe. Some, like the folks at Chestnut, mask their chagrin so well they deserve a medal for the effort.

Given all the above we’ve decided to purchase a second lightweight stroller for subways & restaurants. A used Maclaren, for example: 11 pounds or less & folds into near nothingness.

Got one?

Could He Be Teething?

3 months adjusted seems a little early, no? But all of the sudden he's gnawing on everything.

When The Worst Isn’t That Bad

Giving birth 12 weeks early was the biggest crisis I’ve dealt with in my adult life.

But it wasn’t an entirely negative experience:

I meet a group of really wonderful women and some pretty tough preemies.

I got to know a team of phenomenal NICU doctors and nurses.

I got an extra three months with MAS—months during which he would have otherwise been a mystery to me. (And what a miracle to be able to watch the rapid and spectacular development that occurs during the third trimester.)

But the real kicker: I discovered something really important about myself, something that has changed me in the most profound way.

Despite my previous doubts, it turns out I’m actually a remarkably strong person. Life can throw its worst at me and I don’t crumble. I bend like a reed. I bounce back easily and quickly. I don’t lose perspective even while I’m terrified and the walls are crumbling around me.

And somehow knowing that about myself changes everything. And that’s the gift MAS gave me: faith that no matter what happens from here on out, I’ll rise out of the ashes.

When Daddy Chooses The Day's Outfit

What They All Want To Know

Last week on the way out of the studio after mommy & baby yoga, one of the other mothers stopped to talk to me about MAS. (At the beginning of class I always give the preemie version of an elevator pitch: “He’s five months but he was born 12 weeks prematurely so he looks and acts like a 2 month old.”)

“So what happened—why he did come so early?” she asked after commenting on MAS’s cuteness. (Which is inordinate.)

She herself had had high blood pressure when pregnant with her son. Almost induced at 37 weeks, but through meditation had been able to keep it under control until his due date.

She looked at me expectantly.

Why had this calamity befallen us? Why oh why? Ah, there were so many reasons to choose from. Which to offer first?

I was dehydrated.

I had a urinary tract infection.

I had a yeast infection.

I got pregnant again too quickly after the miscarriage.

That D&C they did afterwards to make sure “everything got expelled”—it fucked me up some how.

I had a progesterone imbalance.

I was too stressed out. In general.

I jinxed things by being afraid I wouldn’t be a very good mother.

Paint fumes! We’d painted his room not two days earlier. Ebronis and his Mom had done the actual work but I was in the living room. I walked in to check on them. I even helped for a minute, to show how I wanted it done. Why had I done that?

Somehow, without even knowing it, I’d plucked an apple from a witch’s garden.

But instead I mumbled, “They don’t know why it happened,” and strangely: felt ashamed.

I was telling her a truth so terrible it should be sugarcoated. That these things happen for no reason at all. The bad things, the good things. Random.

And the moral? That all you can do is be grateful for the baby that makes it, for the life that survives. Do your best to forget the reasons why.

I Had to Make Myself So Big

It’s been five months and two days since MAS was born and I’m just now realizing: He made it. My god. He made it.

At 28 weeks I was still getting used to being pregnant. It was just starting to feel real. Like there might be a real person living with us one day soon. A baby! How fun! And then all of a sudden he was there and he was so small and so tiny. Not like a baby at all but a fetus. He was just this little spark of a person I had to breathe into being. Finish off what my body had left undone.

And so I visited him every day. Sat beside his isolette, whispering into the portals about the life we’d lead when he came home. Held his bird-like self against my chest—wires and tubes snaking from him and alarms ringing out every few minutes. Hoping my beating heart would teach his the right rhythm.

I was strong. Strong enough for him, for me, for my husband. I was Atlas, hunkered down beneath the globe. There was nothing I couldn’t bear.

I didn't even cry. No that's not right. I cried once: when he was 7 weeks old, when I found out he had NEC.

But after the birth? When he dropped to a frightening 2 pounds?


MAS under the bilirubin lights five days after birth.

Not once.

I had to puff myself up, you see, make myself so big the predator wouldn’t see him. He’d be so small there tucked against my bulk it’d miss him altogether.

Death would overlook him. He’d be passed over.

Tiny Love. Big Fun.

Just today, at 9 weeks corrected (5 months actual) MAS started showing more than a passing interest in his Tiny Love activity mat. He actually looked at those toys dangling above him, smiling and cooing at the butterflies and purple dinosaur.

Ah, the fun that was had! Followed by such tears when boredom set it!

And now? He sleeps.

Out & About In Sunny Brooklyn

He was all tuckered out after Mommy & Me yoga at Mala Yoga on Court Street. (Which was a huge hit.)

Lucky me, though! I brought my laptop and managed to actually get some work done at a picnic table while he dozed.

Once I realized I had to pee I had a moment of panic: it was so nice out I dreaded the thought of trudging back upstairs.

Alas, Starbucks came to the rescue with its wide stroller-friendly bathroom. Back out to a bench to work we went.

Bonding

I was one of those annoying pregnant women.

No coffee. No soda. No sugar substitutes. No non-organic food. No beef or chicken: the hormones they inject into those poor beasts!

I did prenatal yoga and continued exercising.

I was planning on birthing this babe sans drugs, in a Jacuzzi, with scores of scented candles flickering and woeful acoustic guitar music swelling in the background. My baby would room-in with me, breastfeed seconds after birth. I’d only spend a night in the hospital before whisking him home to my Brooklyn abode where no non-organic soap or cloth would touch his pristine skin.

So naive.

Of course that’s not what ended up happening. Instead, I had a c-section under general anesthesia after five days of bedrest at 28 weeks. I didn’t see MAS until over 24 hours after he was born, didn’t hold him until day 8. Didn’t take him home for another 66.

And now? Five months later he and I are as bonded as a Mama and Baby can be.

All those days of kangaroo care in the NICU, all those hours of struggling with breastfeeding. Each second I spent adding a little dab of glue, bonding us just a little bit tighter.

In the end, bonding isn’t something that happens in a day or so. It’s a process.

Having A Newborn Means Choosing Delivery

For the first six weeks MAS was home from the hospital we had to be hyper-vigilant about not exposing him to airborne diseases like RSV and the ilk. He was eligible for the Synagis vaccine, but our ped still wanted us to be really careful about who came into contact with him and when.

That meant no grocery stores, no corner bodegas, no subway rides. Et cetera.

And that's when the underground world of NY Delivery opened up to us. Ah, such a glorious, luxury filled existence. One I'm now loathe to give up even though we've been cleared to go anywhere we'd like.

Here's a list of things I've gotten delivered--or am about to have delivered--since MAS left the NICU.

Meals from local restaurants.
Groceries
Laundry--cleaned, folded and dropped off within three hours!
Cat food
Cat Litter
Cat Grooming (Yes! Next Thursday the Aussie Pet Mobile will swing by our abode to groom Jasmine and Janus with uber-hip and hair-ball eliminating lion cuts.)

He Loves The Boobies

This week MAS and I went to two breastfeeding groups.

One was at Gumbo, a children's store/babyspace on Atlantic Avenue in Boreum Hill, Brooklyn. Run by Andrea Syms-Brown, a NY certified lactation consultant, the group was really hands-on and informal: there was only one other woman there and so we both got to share our stories and seek advice.

The other group was a La Leche League meeting on the Upper West Side. Now, I'm dedicated to breastfeeding MAS for twelve months past his due date but even for me this group was a bit crunchy... Things that struck me as odd: 1) a woman nursing a two year old was given a hard time when she sought advice about weaning and was told that most kids self-wean?!; 2) the leader said that because breastmilk was the perfect food vitamins weren't necessary....

Still, it was nice to be able to meet with othe breastfeeding moms, especially since our path to exlusive nursing has been so hard.

I mean things are going well now, but its been a very very long road. Since he was so born so early, he was at first fed via umbilical IV, then central line, then gavage tube, then bottle.

We finally learned to nurse with the help of a lactation consultant named Freda Rosenfeld after we left the NICU. Only after weeks of exercises and the use of, then careful weaning off of, a breastshield did we get to our current exclusive breastfeeding state.

And now? Last week, after a particularly long feeding I cooed to MAS, "You just love the boobies, dontcha?" After which I swear to god the kid winked at me.

Walk-Up Living. Or, An Ode To The Sling

We, like many Brooklynites, live in a walk-up. Still, our two bedroom apartment with its leaky faucets and over exuberant winter heating system (can we say steam heat=sauna) comes at a pretty penny--three times the rent, in fact, that we paid for our 3 bedroom full bath Charlottesville, VA place.

But committed we are to city living. Or rural living. (Its the suburbs that I find soul-crushing.)

Now that the bambino is home, I'm finding those three sets of stairs create untold obstacles to my daily living. Sure, I have a great stroller.* But getting it up and down the stairs with baby in one arm? Yeah right.

That's where this wonderful thing called the sling comes in. Unlike the Ergo, which I also own and shall write about shortly, the sling is super fast and easy to put on. Slip it over one arm, slide the baby into the pocket and away we go.

And days when MAS won't stop crying? After I've bounced on the exercise ball for over an hour and STILL no sleep for the preemie-liscous boy? Why, the sling: slide him in and my hands are free to say read a book or sweep the floor--or GASP, write a blogpost.

* The Mountain Buggy, while fab, is friggin' heavy.

Chicco KeyFit 30: Fit For A Shrimp

The Shrimpster, in his Chicco Keyfit with Infant Insert


I was a little anal about my baby registry, I have to admit. Part of it was that I was so flummoxed by the number of choices and chagrined by the implication that if I made the wrong choice I’d be a BAD MOTHER that I researched the pants off of everything. That, and I tend to over research things in general. (I even had a spreadsheet of items I wanted! Color coded! And cross referenced!)

Anyhoo, when MAS was born three months early that whole process sort of got dropped. Funny, that. I’d researched everything online, you see, and hadn’t had a chance to really visit the babychain stores to see the crap in real life. (More on that later when we talk about strollers & citylife.)

Plus, it seemed like every time we started preparing for MAS's arrival something bad happened. What do I mean? Paint the babies room: go into preterm labor & deliver 12 weeks early. Order the crib: baby gets NEC and has to go on a triple course of antibiotics for ten days and is fed through an IV.

Scary shit, no? Sorta makes you superstitious, no?

And then there's the fact that our needs and priorities shifted a bit: preemies are a special case. Especially super shrimpy preemies like MAS. For Chrissake, he just barely hit 4 lbs 12 oz when we brought him home so the Graco SafeSeat I’d registered for sure as hell wasn’t going to cut it. (The SafeSeat is only good for babies 5 lbs and over...)

The only car seat that could really fit him was the Chicco Keyfit 30, which I begrudgingly registered for even though it was more expensive than the Graco and didn’t fit the SnugGlider that I REALLY wanted. (A swing! And it vibrates! And is so small I could fold it and slide it under the sofa! A Brooklynite's dream, really...)

But boy was I wrong. I love this car seat, if love is a word that can really be applied to something like a car seat. It was a breeze to install because its got a spring-assisted level foot, bubble levels, and “Center-Pull” adjustment. And it fits babies 4 to 30 lbs and has these latches on the side so I can use it in our car, in a car service car or even a Taxi—from the day he came home from the NICU until he’s like 2. So MAS is pretty much set.

Luckily it also fits my Mountain Buggy Stroller Car Seat Adapter and Kolcraft Universal Car Seat frame—the latter of which, annoyingly, was stolen from my apartment building’s vestibule. (But also luckily: Brooklyn thieves are stupid: they stole the cheap stroller!)

Things I Wish I'd Known About Having A Preemie

MAS @ 29 weeks

If you learn your baby’s nurses’ names and use them your infant will get better treatment.

You’ll alternately resent and revere your baby’s nurses.

No one really knows what to say to you. Not even your own parents.

Kangaroo care works.

The more you visit, the more your baby thrives. Even if he doesn’t seem to react at all, he knows you’re there: he recognizes your voice.

You’ll always wonder if there’s something you could have done to prevent giving birth prematurely.

Sometimes it will help to live day by day, other times week by week.

You’ll come to crave the visitor who fawns over how beautiful your baby is no matter how tiny or how many wires and tubes he’s hooked up to because they see what you see: a spectacularly precious life.

You’ll come to love changing your baby’s diaper because its one of the few times you’re permitted to interact with him.

For the first few months—maybe even year—of your preemie’s life you’ll feel sadness and regret and envy and even a little guilt when you see someone in the advanced stages of pregnancy. Your feelings will embarrass and shame you, but denying them will only make them more powerful.

In your mind, your preemie will always have two birthdays: the day he was born and the day he should have been born.

After He Peed Into His Own Mouth...

MAS is my first baby. And while I read up as much as I could during my seven month pregnancy, there are some things book learnin’ just can’t prepare you for: like the way little boys love to pee whenever their genitals are exposed. A little pee never hurt anyone I figure, so I’ve been occasionally remembering to cover him up with a wipe during a diaper change and occasionally forgetting… At which point I either change him or just swab both of us down and go with it. But yesterday, on our stroll around the hood—christ! It was 60 degrees!—I saw this thing called a wee blocker at Area Kids on Montague Street here in Brooklyn. (I think you can also buy it at One Step Ahead.) It’s basically a cloth egg that fits right over his penis. (Machine washable of course.) It works like charm. Necessary? Nah. But for ten bucks he looks awful cute & we both stay dry.



(And yes, he did pee into his own mouth once. But you know it really didn’t seem to bother him as much as you might think…)

Wanna Know More About Us?

Our story begins with an ending.

I was in the process of recovering from a particularly traumatic miscarriage--11.5 weeks! lots of blood! everywhere!--when my husband Ebronis and I planned trip to the Left Coast. Our best friend and my sister both live in the Bay Area and so to keep our minds off our grief we scheduled a two week getaway around the Memorial Day holiday.

We spent a relaxing four days with said best friend & his now fiancé at Mar Vista Cottages in a little town called Anchor Bay, smack dab between Gualala and Mendocino along the Northern California coast, followed by a couple of days in Davis with my sister and her girlfriend. Much to our surprise, a few days after returning to Brooklyn in the beginning of June we discovered we were pregnant with MAS. A blessing? Yes. A surprise? You betcha. (After all, it took us over a year to conceive the first time and here it had only been two wrenching months since the miscarriage.)

We were grateful. And scared. So we spent the remainder of the summer waiting anxiously for the first trimester to pass without a hitch. Which it did. The second trimester passed without a hitch as well.

But the third trimester?

Ah, that’s another story entirely. At 27 weeks I went into preterm labor without warning and after 5 days of hospital bedrest delivered MAS via emergency c-section. He weighed 2 lbs 5 oz.

The miscarriage and premature birth, our doctors told us, were not related. We had bad luck is all.

After 66 frightening days in the NICU we finally brought MAS home to our Brooklyn Heights apartment. Our three cats, who all outweighed him by about 9 lbs, begrudgingly let him stay. For now.