Tommy.

This post has already been written in my mind for months. It has been reworked and reworded many times and even though I had to emotionally prepare myself for the possibility of posting it much earlier than I ever wanted, the framework has essentially stayed the same. And it has always started with the joyful announcement of the arrival of our third son, Thomas Ray Koelliker.

Unlike his brothers before him, Thomas has the distinction of having a completely expected birth. The ventilators, isolettes, and feeding tubes that were so integral to the other births in our family were tellingly and blessedly absent.  This third boy in a family of boys will someday tell his own special tale about the day that he was born.  A day that did not include a frenzied drive to the hospital, an emergency procedure, or having to separate from his parents and go to the NICU because even though the countdown to get to his arrival was a storied one, the actual day of his debut was mercifully peaceful.     

On the morning of Thursday, March 5th, 2015, Rob and I walked hand in hand through the doors of University Hospital.  We could not help but giggle as we made our way to the maternity ward.  We had already spent countless hours in those familiar halls and units.  Henry had been born and died in the NICU where Eddie spent the first nine weeks of his life and I was officially closing the door on a pregnancy that required a lot of medical attention.  And as we went up the elevator and checked in to have our baby we could not get over the fact that we were checking in and not being rushed in.  That for the first time my hospital bag was pre-packed and organized and most of all, we could not believe that we had made it to March.  That after all of the emergency visits and scares and the hours spent worrying and planning Plan B's and even Plan C's, that we had made it to 36 weeks and 6 days gestation.

Due to construction, the maternity ward sent us across the hall to the place that Rob and I knew all too well, and as we checked in at the desk of OB Emergency Services I was relieved to do so for the very last time in that pregnancy.  We were visited by nurses, doctors, and anesthesiologists and we were assured multiple times that the NICU was on call in case our little one needed expert attention.  (In fact, several of our favorite NICU nurses stood at the ready that day and all weekend just in case we needed them.  It was a gesture that gave us incredible reassurance and peace in an uncertain time.) Because even though I had made it as far as I could physically go with my pregnancy there was still no guarantee that Tommy would be born healthy.  My doctor was ecstatic that I had basically made it to 37 weeks but she cautioned us that even at almost full term, Tommy would very likely need to spend time in the NICU.  And so, with much reason to fear, but every reason to hope, I walked to the OR to have our baby.

And in what felt like a matter of minutes, my doctor lowered the sheet and told us to get the camera ready because Tommy was coming.  Rob and I clutched hands and drew a collective breath.  I steadied myself in Rob's gaze as the moment that we had been worrying about and praying for was finally about to arrive.  

I closed my eyes and willed my ears to hear the cry of a healthy baby boy...

...but Tommy's cries could not necessarily be described as sounding like mere cries.  He bleated.  He wailed and he screamed. 

Rob and I hugged, cried, kissed, and prayed.  And then we did it all again.  And as they closed me up and the pediatricians examined our tiny treasure, I laughed out loud.  I laughed and released the trauma that began in a delivery room just down the hall from my operating room almost exactly five years before Tommy's birth.  I laughed and gratefully accepted the cheers of joy and congratulations from the medical team in our room.  But mostly, I think I laughed at the unfamiliar sound of a baby being born because although Tommy may be our third child, his cries were the first we had ever heard from our children in the delivery room. 

  

Rob followed Tommy and the pediatricians to the nursery for a thorough examination to ensure that he was healthy.    

And as they were stitching me up Rob came back into the room with an enormous grin and announced that Tommy did not need to go to the NICU and that he wanted to be with his parents in the recovery room.  

So, for the first time, we were able to hold one of our children on the day that he was born.

And he got to stay with us during the entire weekend while I recovered.

The poor boy battled extreme jaundice due to my negative antibodies fighting his positive ones and at one point we thought he might have to stay in the hospital under the lights or even get a transfusion.  Thankfully he was ultimately deemed healthy enough to leave and his peaceful delivery was book-ended with a peaceful journey home.

Sweet Tommy will be turning 3 months old this Thursday and not a day has gone by since his miraculous arrival that I have not thanked Heavenly Father for His mercy in allowing Tom to be in our family.  He is sweet, genial, and incredibly patient.  And I am certain there are not enough positive adjectives to describe just how much we love and appreciate having him with us.

Welcome to the party, Tom, we absolutely adore you.

Time.

In the middle of last July I felt pregnant.  I did not have physical evidence quite yet but there was just something within me that knew that someone else was in the picture.  After seeing a few negative results from over the counter tests I scheduled a blood test with my doctor's office.  When the blood test came back negative I was stunned.  I still felt pregnant and as the weeks went by I could not shake the feeling. I began to worry that I was developing a psychological condition.  I wondered if my desire to become pregnant was causing my body to create hormones or sensations that led me to believe I was pregnant even though the tests said otherwise.

By the beginning of August I became seriously concerned that I was imagining things.  Symptoms were starting to materialize and in fact, they were too big to ignore.  I told Rob that I was going to take one last test and then I needed to see my doctor to seek help.  But as I suspected all along, the "final" test I took was not really the last because it came back positive.  And that test was really just the first in a series of blood tests, scans, and procedures that became routine to monitor our baby and keep him safe.  In the first few months alone, this baby easily beat out his older brothers by the sheer volume of appointments, ultrasounds, shots, and prescriptions that were necessary for what became a very high risk pregnancy.  

From the first meeting with my doctor it was made clear to us that although things were starting well, that due to my complicated history, there were great risks associated with having another baby.  Even though Henry was born at 37 weeks and was technically full term he was still early and I was given an increased risk of early deliveries after he was born.  Eddie only fulfilled that risk and then some when he was born much more premature than we ever could have expected.  His abrupt birth was the wild card in my pregnancy deck.  Much like other premature births, the exact cause of Eddie's sudden arrival was and is still unknown and so there was no telling how long this next pregnancy would last.

And so, it seems that from the very beginning we truly did not know what was coming with this new babe.  My track record was not much help since it is punctuated with two surprise births, a tragic loss, long hospital stays, and quite a bit of trauma.  Initially, the risks did not seem to matter as much.  Although we worried, prayed, and loved our new little one since the moment we knew he was coming, we did not have cause to truly worry until the second trimester.  By the beginning of the third trimester we were operating in full panic mode and did everything we could to keep our baby in where he belonged.

I became well acquainted with OB Emergency Services at the University of Utah Hospital.  One of our greatest concerns was that I would repeat the process of Eddie's premature labor and I would be too dilated to keep the baby safe.  My doctor was understandably worried about that too so I was instructed to go straight to the ER any time I could not get contractions to stop at home. Between the beginning of November 2014 and the week before Tommy was born, I was in the ER seven times.  

(It got a little old...)

I originally wrote the majority of this post in the middle of January but I was never able to complete it.  At the time, I was on modified bed rest and had been to the emergency room for contractions four times within a matter of weeks. I had just started my third trimester and although it was absolutely incredible to be past 28 weeks (the week that Eddie was born), I did not feel like I could be honest enough about my feelings to blog about them. I wish I would have mustered the energy and courage that was necessary to detail what it felt like to be in the throes of what was to our little family, something very stressful/wonderful/scary, but I could never quite put my feelings into words.  Looking back, I think it is mostly because I did not want to remember every part of that time in my life.  It was my hardest pregnancy yet and it challenged me in almost every aspect of my life.  And to be honest, some things are too humbling to own up to in writing.

But for posterity's sake, I think I owe it to my family to at least make an attempt to describe that important chapter in our family's history.  And aside from the fact that I am taking this quote completely out of context and I have never been able to get through more than three chapters of A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens puts me to sleep faster than Benadryl), when I think of my pregnancy with Tommy I think it truly was the best times, it was the worst of times.  It was a time of the fulfillment of dreams, it was a time of great anxiety, it was a time of unending love and service from family and friends, and it was a time of physical pain, sleeplessness, and sacrifice.

It was a time when these two cemented something that was already special and made it into a bond that is unbreakable and completely limitless.

It was an eerily quiet time, a time of forced rest, great sickness (poor Ed), and snuggles that turned into peaceful afternoon naps.

It was a time to sit at every possible opportunity.

And it was a time for my profile to expand to limits that I never thought I would see again. But most of all, it was a time for us to appreciate time and to be grateful that we had it. 

(This was taken the night before Tommy was born and it was our final picture 

as a family of four. I'm certain that Henry is right next to his dad.)

Control. Pt. 2.

When Rob and I decided to start having children we somehow knew we needed to handle our expectations with care.  Although we did not have a reason to believe so at the time, I think we both felt like it could possibly take longer to get pregnant than we would like.  We trusted our instincts and we were patient.  For almost one year I tried not to obsess over calendars and kits.  I purposely distracted myself with my job and eventually, with applying to grad school.

I was accepted to grad school in March 2009 and from then on my excitement and preparation for furthering my education seemed to take pregnancy even more off of the forefront of my mind.  After I was accepted I felt like it was clear that that was the direction my life was going to take for a while.  We shifted our focus as a couple and planned on waiting a bit longer for our children to start arriving.  But by the beginning of that July I experienced persistent stomach pains that led me to believe I was getting an ulcer.  Imagine my surprise when I learned I was pregnant and I was still expected to be starting grad school the following month.

I should have taken notice of that process and how it played out.  The timing did not work exactly like I thought it would and even though I was okay with it at the moment, I did not have exact control over events that would change the course of my life.  Although I suspected it would take a little time to start having children I never could have guessed just how little control I would have in getting them and keeping them here.

After Henry's death I felt powerless.  Although I still had faith in God I struggled with the notion of how much control I actually had in my life.  I had the ability to make my own choices but my behavior and personal righteousness no longer felt like a guarantee against life's hardships.  Prior to Henry, I believed that things would work out the way I wanted if I kept being a good person.  When Henry was born I felt like Rob and I had paid our dues but even though we were loving and devoted parents we never took our baby home and that was a reality that shook me deeply and could have sent me spiraling.

I started to think about my motivation for being good at all.  If I was just being good to avoid tragedy and it still found me, then what was the point?  Why be kind, why be patient, and why be faithful when during the times that it really mattered life did not seem to work in my favor?  Henry's death alone seemed to be too much to bear but that was not the end of seemingly unbearable things for us.  We lived through infertility, a devastating miscarriage, a very premature baby, and then nine long weeks of his hospitalization.  So why even try to do what is right if it could not give me my children when and how I wanted them?

I then came to understand the obvious: even though good behavior definitely has its benefits, no one is guaranteed an easy life.  No one.  No matter how saintly they may be.

I now see practicing goodness in a very different way.  I try to be good not because it is insurance against disappointment or grief, but because I enjoy it.  I like to smile, I love to laugh, and thankfully I am not prone to violent crimes.  And I guess above all else, I am obedient in going to church, being kind, and trying to be a thoughtful representative of my faith so that I can show my gratitude to my Father in Heaven and His Son.  When I think of goodness in terms of showing my love to and for Them, it really is not a question of whether and why to be good at all.  We may not have control over every single thing in our lives, but we know that Someone else does and He knows best.

We are joyfully expecting another son in February of next year.  This next Koelliker boy is healthy and is being cared for by excellent doctors.  As with his brothers before him, we do not know exactly what will happen.  He may come early and he could even come under frenzied circumstances.  Or, he could surprise everyone even more with a completely expected and normal delivery.  We simply do not know.  But we do know that we love him.  Oh, how we love him and each of his siblings that have come before him!  And even though it took me five years and four pregnancies to get here, I feel like that really is okay for now.

Hindsight.

Dear Me,

This is yourself from two years in the future.  For you, it is May 20, 2012.  Right now you are pregnant with your second son.  You are now in your third trimester and your belly is getting bigger by the day.  You are healthy, you are content, and you are understandably, very happy.  You and Rob have come a long way.  Explanations of all of the difficult days over the preceding two years are not necessary other than to put into perspective how truly happy you two are at this moment.  You have found that the grief that you two endured before only enhances your joy now.

As you read this, you are likely fantasizing about the future.  You spend most of your free time immersing yourself in articles about babies and how to handle colic.  You like to wonder about your son's hair color, the shape of his smile, and the smell of his baby-fresh skin.  You and Rob already decided that you are going to name your baby Edward Henry; a name that you absolutely adore.  And as of today, you are planning on calling him Teddy as a nickname. 

But as happy as you are, you can also admit to yourself and to others that this pregnancy has been a tenuous one.  You have taken a total of eight pregnancy tests to not only confirm that you were pregnant in the first place but to also make sure that you were still pregnant after your worries got the better of you.  You know yourself well enough to have expected that you would be scared to be pregnant again after suffering loss but you never could have prepared yourself for the day to day questions and scares that frequently pop into your head.  Rest assured that you are doing everything that you can to take care of your baby and you are doing a great job.

However, despite your best intentions and efforts, your baby is coming sooner than you thought he would.  Much sooner, in fact.

In three days time you will start to feel a little pain on the lower right side of your abdomen.  It will not be a searing pain but it will be constant enough to make you uncomfortable.  You will go to bed that night and you will have a vivid dream that you are in labor.  And as you go through the motions of the next day the pain will increasingly get worse.  You will try your hardest not to worry too much because on that day, more than any other day that came before, you will be resolved to not think about the worst case scenario.  

Erin, since you will be trying so valiantly not to worry that day you will not recognize that you are in premature labor.  

I know that it sounds crazy but because you will be trying so hard not to overreact you will not understand that your pains are actually genuine contractions.  Since you are only 28 weeks and 1 day pregnant on May 24, 2012, the possibility of having your son today will not even enter your mind.  You basically thought you had a free pass on trauma with babies, pregnancies, and deliveries since you already experienced a lot of it beforehand but what you thought should happen and what will actually happen will be very different.

You will be scared on this day.  You will be worried and you will be disbelieving.  You will feel overwhelmed at the prospect of having another son in the NICU again.  And you will cry.

But you will get to meet him:

And see this:

And when you see your son's face for the first time you will realize then and there that the little boy that you were expecting to call Teddy is actually not Teddy at all.  He is and has always meant to be Eddie.  He is scrappy, he is determined, and he plunges head-first into any and everything and he never ever gives up. 

And in a day or two you will be able to do this:     

The days and weeks after these ones will be long and I will not lie to you - there are some hard times ahead.  Eddie will live in the NICU for nine weeks and there will be moments when you will be seized with absolute terror.  You will want to run away, you will want to hide, and you will wish that he could have been born on his due date.  You will feel incredibly lonely as you sit by him in the hospital and you will get frustrated by the turn your life is taking.  But you will not be able to change any of it.  The only thing that you can truly control is your faith.  This piece of advice is no surprise to you but it bears repeating and I hope you keep it in mind as you enter the days that lie ahead of you.  Have faith.  Have faith in your own capacity to withstand the unimaginable, in your relationships with people that truly love you, and have faith in Eddie.  Have faith that not everything that starts out scary has to end scary.  And most of all, continue to have faith in Him.

Erin, be of good courage.  Let the NICU redeem itself for you.  Let other people help you.  Take heart in the examples of the good people around you.  Lean on Rob, your parents, your siblings, your friends, and on your church.  And allow your wounds to heal even if they do so in unexpected ways.

From the onset these days will seem like they will be endless and you will not immediately see a way out of them but I promise that they will end and you will be forever changed because of them.  Eddie will only be 2 lbs and 8 oz when he is born but take comfort in knowing that he is big enough to heal most of the fissures in your broken heart and just small enough to save some room in there for his older brother too.

Enjoy these last few days of your pregnancy and look forward with hope.  I know you think that you are happy now but you have no idea what lies ahead and how much happier you will become because of it.

Always,
Yourself

Saved.

It was overcast that morning but still hot.  The air was sticky and heavy and we had not slept well.  Truth be told, we had not slept well for six weeks.  As I brushed my teeth that morning I remember looking in the mirror and thinking about the day ahead.  I would pump, wash my parts, and then repeat this process four or five more times.  I would leave the unit to eat lunch and dinner but then I would return.  I would talk with nurses, a doctor or two, and other moms, but I would mostly sit in tense silence.  Rob and I would talk by the bedside and Rob would ask questions about procedures and equipment.  And over the course of the day, there would be A's and B's; although some of them would be scary, most of them would be minor.

As I thought about what would happen that day and what every day had been like for the past month, it felt like it had finally happened.  As if the string that was flirting with the flame had finally burned through its last thread.  And it snapped.  

The snap had everything to do with being in the same place for weeks on end and doing the same things each and every day but doing most of them against my will.  And wishing we ,and especially, our baby, were somewhere else.  It was emotional exhaustion, it was likely due to postpartum hormones, and it was the inevitable result of experiencing such extreme emotions over the course of one day for many days in a row.  At that moment it felt as if a vital neuron that connected one piece of my brain with another had been completely severed. 

We traveled our familiar route to the hospital that morning and as we turned a corner I told Rob that this was the day that I was going to have my nervous breakdown.  I was only half surprised by my conviction.  Rob may have thought I was joking but I said it with certainty.  The collapse of my sanity loomed ahead of me like an event.  The clock was ticking and there were merely hours to go.

I had been on the brink of collapse from the moment that I saw our 2 1/2 pound baby in his incubator on the day that he was born.  For the first four days of Eddie's life I lived in terror.  We did not know if he, like Henry, would leave us.  After one week he seemed to be stable but he was so tiny and had such incredible obstacles ahead of him; obstacles unlike any that I had ever imagined. At 28 weeks gestation, he had to develop and grow and do all of the things that should have been taking place within me and with my help.  As I sat by his bedside day after day I would wrestle with questions that I never dared ask aloud: how was Eddie going to make it through and do everything that needed to be done?  How was he going to go home?  And most of all, how was he going to safely come out of a place that up until that time had only meant death and devastation to us?  

From the moment I discovered I was pregnant with him, I loved Eddie carefully.  With the kind of love that wants to be uninhibited and naive but knows too much to be easy.  He had my heart completely, but he also had the scars that came with it.  The sleepless nights, the tears, the resentment, the faith, and all of the other emotions of a wounded mother.  

That day, without even being around them, I knew that the alarms on his monitors had sealed my fate.  For the past week or so Eddie had been going through a particularly rough period where his doctors were weaning him off of caffeine.  Up until then, he was given caffeine to help keep his heart rate up so he could breathe more easily.  Once they started cutting back, Eddie's body had to remember to breathe on its own and sometimes he would forget.  These little spells of forgetting (A's and B's) could last for just a second or they could be longer and if that were the case, he would become gray and limp and have to be tickled or touched in order to start breathing again.  Even though we knew his spells were normal and even comparatively mild, it was still difficult to watch.  And although we knew he would come out of them, we still silently prayed during each one.  Hoping that he would become stronger.  That there would come a time and a day when he could breathe freely.

Out of all of the sensory memories I have with Henry's time in the NICU, the monitors were the ones that I associated the most with his stay.  After his passing I hoped that our subsequent experiences with our children would make the monitors' jarring sounds a distant and dreadful memory but instead, it was the opposite.  Although in some ways it felt like an eternity, Henry was only in the NICU for four days.  Eddie was there for 61.

That morning as we walked to Eddie's room I immediately felt my body tense.  The doctors, pharmacists, and nurses had already gathered around him and were going to do their rounds and talk about how he was doing, what he needed, and if anything needed to change in his treatment.  I left Rob with the group so I could pump in the other room.  I do not remember my exact thoughts as I pumped that morning but my ears strained, searching for the sounds of alarms - Eddie's alarms.  I would hear a ding and a beep and then more frantic beeps and I would wonder if it were him.  If it was my baby who was having a bit of trouble at that moment.

I cleaned my pump parts slowly and thoroughly and shuffled into the room.  Wishing that I could be home, on vacation, in the bathroom.  Anywhere but there.  As much as I loved and love Eddie, it was agony to be in his room all day.  Truthfully, nothing triggered my "flight" instincts like having to sit by my two boys in the NICU.  Yes, I wanted to see them and help them and be their advocate but I was virtually powerless when they were at their most vulnerable and I could not bear to see them with tubes, under lights, and with leads on their heads and on their hearts. And on that day I could not stand to be helpless anymore.  I had gone as far as I could and could not and did not want to go any further.

As I made my way to Eddie's side, Rob turned to me with a jubilant grin.  He took my hands in his and told me that Eddie would be able to try nursing for the first time that day.  That Eddie had made enough progress and taken enough strides that his doctors felt like he was ready.  

Without going into too much detail, I will tell you that that news saved me from a mental breakdown.  

That the promise of nursing one of my babies for the very first time and of immediately providing him with something that he needed and that would soothe him, brought me back from the edge of collapse.  And even though there were still difficult days after that morning, that after that, things were not quite so hard to take.  The beeping gradually subsided, and eventually, altogether stopped.  Eddie came home.  And on the 24th he will be turning 18 months old.

If one believed in coincidences, one would think that what happened that morning was the perfect one.  It was a wonderful coincidence that I had the opportunity to do something with Eddie that I had been dreaming of for a long time on what happened to be the day when I was basically finished.  That may in fact be true, and if so, I am grateful.  But there are so many inexplicable coincidences, consequences, phenomena, and hardships in this life.  And as a person who has experienced a few of these things firsthand I do not merely believe in coincidence or happenstance.  

I believe in faith.  I believe in hope.  And I believe in mercy.  I believe in God, His Son, Jesus Christ, and I believe in the Holy Ghost.  I believe in families and in human decency and goodness.  I believe that mistakes and frailties are inevitable but that they are not unforgivable.  And I believe in love.  I believe that love saved me that day and that it has saved me throughout my life when I have been at my weakest moments.  And when I have I wanted to simply stop.  

My heart is full of love for my brave little preemie tonight.  He is currently cutting four teeth, battling through a nasty cold, and is waking up at all hours during the night.  And, oh, how I love him!  He is full of life, curiosity, and passion.  He lives to be outside or to be opening something new.  He hardly sits down during the day unless he is eating or taking his nap and even then, he usually changes position.  He screams, he giggles, and he babbles.  He has a one-sided love affair with our "doggie" (poor Riggins) and thinks that every animal or any other object that moves is a doggie too.  And lately, he will not go to sleep unless he can nuzzle his head into a blanket and snuggle up with a board book.

Happy 18 months, our amazing Eddie.  You have saved us - in so many, many ways.

Thanks.

Dear Henry,

On Saturday we walked into your little brother's room in the NICU and we were greeted with a marvelous surprise.  We were expecting another typical day with our usual routine.  Dad would work on the computer, I would read, and we would both watch and listen to Eddie's monitors.  Imagine our surprise then when we looked into his isolette and saw something different than normal.  Eddie was in there and he was lying in the same place and sleeping comfortably but there was a major change about him: he was swaddled tightly in a blanket and he was wearing clothes.  

I know that to other families the fact that Eddie was wearing clothes would not be unusual.  Indeed, I realize that what really is unusual is that up until now Eddie has not been wearing clothes.  Babies, children, and adults alike all wear clothes to keep warm and they wear them fairly soon after they are born.  Yes, most people wear clothes and that is what happens after most babies are born.  But you, Eddie, your Dad, and I know differently.

We know that sometimes babies are born in their own unique ways and they do not come like the others.  We found out that just because a baby is born and comes into a loving family that sometimes they cannot wear clothes, have their diapers changed, and eat from a bottle when other babies can.  Together we learned that what happens for most, or even some, children does not always happen to others.  And we learned that there are always exceptions.  And so far, you and your little brother have been blessed exceptions to almost every single one of my expectations of pregnancy, delivery, and life with a newborn.  Before you and Eddie were born, your Dad and I thought that almost every pregnancy was normal and lasted a full 40 weeks.  We believed that moms went into labor, had their baby, and that they eventually took him or her home.  And then you were born and life and our perception of it changed dramatically.  And almost two and a half years later, your little brother was born and our lives and perceptions have changed yet again.

But Henry, thanks to you we cherish each and every day of my pregnancies.  Although we have our fair share of worries, we are grateful for the times we know that your little siblings are safe in my tummy.  We rejoice over each and every ultrasound and every tiny movement because we know that those happy images and sensations do not stay around forever.  Thanks to you, we know that when babies are born that they are absolutely beautiful and that even though they cannot say so, that they already have their own individual personalities.  We also know that babies and their parents recognize, rely upon, and love each other with a power that can never be fully explained because it is simply felt and we are learning that the sweetness of this relationship never goes away, even if we may be apart.  We know that even if we do not live in the same house and physically see each other every day that we are very much involved in each other's lives and that we are growing together.  We have been taught this truth our entire lives, but we are learning it on our own and we are learning how to make it work for us.

And we are learning that even if we do not always look like one, that we are a family made up of parents and their children and that we all love each other very much.

I thought of you, sweet boy, when I saw Eddie in his clothes.  I thought of how seeing him so warm, snuggled, and safe was the first time that your Dad and I were able to see one of our living children in such a blissful and content state.  I thought about how nice that must have been for Eddie to be swaddled because he clearly looked so happy.  And I thought about how much I missed you.

But in that precious and momentous moment, I decided not to be sad for you or for us but rather I decided to think about this little note and what I would verbally say to you if I could see you.  I know that you have never been very far away from your Dad and me since we said goodbye to you.  I know this not only because I have felt you but because I know that you are like your Dad and that you protect the ones that you love and care about.  And so I know that you are especially close to us now that your best buddy is here because you have been watching over him and keeping him company.

And so Henry, I want to say thank you.  Thank you for guarding your baby brother and helping him progress.  Thank you for taking care of our entire family and looking after our friends.  Thank you for being our oldest son and thank you for being a part of our family.  I know that you know how badly we wish you were here with us so that we could experience the joy of Eddie's arrival together.  I know that you are fully aware of how much we miss you and how frequently you come into our minds and conversations, particularly as we spend each day in the sacred place that you were born and passed away.  I know that I do not have to tell you these things because you have been an integral part of this entire process but I wanted to tell you anyway because I am your mother.  And that is what mothers do.

Although I wish that it did not come about in the way that it did, the love and memories that we have for you enhance your brother's life and I am grateful for that every single day.  I like to think of the appreciation that we have for Eddie and everyone that will come after him as your gift to your brothers and sisters.  You have ensured that your siblings will be loved all the more not only by us and our family but by many others.   I am thankful that I am able to rejoice over Eddie's messy diapers, little clothes, and fine brown hair because thanks to you, and your being part of our family, I will never take them for granted.  Thank you.

Please continue to safeguard our little family and always remember that you are loved.

xo,
Mom

Eddie.

One week ago this morning I woke up with a start after a particularly vivid dream.  I went to bed the night before with a slight ache on the lower right side of my abdomen that was just uncomfortable enough to make me stop and pay attention.  The ache carried over into my subconscious and that night I dreamt that I went into labor.  The contractions, the delivery room, the IV, were all so real that it took me some time to believe that it did not actually happen.

My little ache accompanied me as I went through the motions of my day.  As far as days go, it was rather non-typical since we had a doctor's appointment in the morning and I had an event for work that night.  Our appointment was standard and everything checked out beautifully.  Kaempfer's heart beat was perfect, all of my stats were spot on, and my doctor told me to call back later in the day if my little ache persisted. Rob and I then went to get lunch and I returned to my desk to prepare for the evening ahead.  Yet as the day progressed my ache did too and by the late afternoon it was becoming more forceful and coming in set increments.  Worried, I laid on my side and drank a lot of water thinking the ache would dissipate.  It did not.  

Knowing it would at least ease my mind to call my doctor, I called the nurse and she transferred me to OB Emergency Services.  The nurse that I spoke with advised me to go home, take a warm bath and drink copious amounts of water.  If my ache continued, she wanted me to come in.  I settled my affairs at work and on the drive home my ache transitioned from a mere ache to a pain.  I waddled up the stairs to my house and drew a bath immediately, hoping it would help.  It did not.  In fact, it was while I was in the bath trying to relax that one of my pains caused my stomach to tighten and sent a jolt of pain straight through my body. I cried aloud and a single word came into my mind, screaming at me to pay attention. "Hospital."

Rob raced home, running every red light and stop sign that came into his path and we checked into OB Emergency Services at 4:00 p.m.  At about 4:10 p.m. they notified me that I was fully dilated and that my baby was coming today.

I cannot easily relay the rest of this story since what followed in the next hour involved a lot of people rushing around.  A quick ultra sound was administered and it was discovered that not only was Kaempfer breech but he was also frank.  There were then multiple pokes and emergency shots, hurried phone calls to parents, and an emergency C-section - all for the sake of a tiny babe in a hurry to make his dramatic debut.  And finally, there was a hearty scream from a baby born 12 weeks earlier than expected.  

So it would appear that much like his brother before him, Kaempfer decided to be born on his own time and his own unique way and his arrival suddenly made a  non-typical day a birth day.

Edward Henry Koelliker

May 24, 2012

5:12 p.m.

2 lbs., 8 oz.

Edward Henry came into this world in a frenzy and has been fighting ever since.  Rob was truly inspired on the day he confidently gave our little Eddie his German nickname since he has already had to slug it out in the ring and so far, he is keeping his head tucked and getting in some money shots.

Eddie will live in the NICU for several weeks and it turns out that my plans to "expect the unexpected" with our little one have truly come to fruition.  We are in the midst of making our regular trips between the hospital and our home and we are very much riding the emotional roller coaster that all parents must ride with a child in the NICU.  But today was a good day and we will continue to appreciate good days.

Welcome to the world, sweet Eddie.  You are the cutest prize-fighter around.

Fighter.

For the past two years, I have hungered for the opportunity of being pregnant again.  There were days when I wanted to be pregnant so badly that I convinced myself that I was and that we finally would get a second chance at leading the life that we craved.  Sometimes my symptoms were so vivid that I would have no choice to convince myself that this was it, that our suffering at last was over and that we could try to move forward.  But these days were just that, only 24 hours, and I was always confronted with a harsh reality on the next pregnancy test.  Test after test confirmed what I already knew but was so desperately fighting against.  As much as I yearned to be pregnant again, I had a gnawing feeling after Henry passed that getting another child in our family would take much longer than I wanted.  But I fought on, hoping that my feeling was just a fear and not the truth.

I knew that it was not healthy for me to take so many pregnancy tests.  Not only was it expensive to keep buying them but it grew increasingly more emotionally damaging to see so many negative results.  Each one seemed to almost mock me and test my resolve pushing me to the limit of what I felt like I could bear.  The single pink line that I saw again and again was a brutal visual reminder that I could not get what I wanted at that moment.  That what I felt like we deserved was still out of my control and beyond my comprehension.  I understood that what I was doing was bordering on obsession and that I would probably feel better if I simply stopped.  But I could not stop.  Stopping meant losing my resolve, it meant giving into reason and ignoring a dream that seemed to be forever beyond my reach.  Stopping meant accepting defeat and accepting one more unexplained complication in my life.

And slowly, the more lonely pink lines that I saw the lonelier and angrier I became.  In my desperation I started to almost beg the single line to be joined by another.  Hadn't we been through enough?  How many people deal with infertility after losing their firstborn child?  Shouldn't our loss alone have guaranteed a relatively easy life?  I bitterly asked myself these questions for months. And then a year.  And then almost two.  And as time dragged on my anger over these questions only intensified and increased.  There was no easy answer to any of my demands and if there was I was not likely to listen.  Any lessons that could have been learned from the heartache of trying to conceive after a loss were lost on me and I simply wanted the pain to end.

We are pregnant now and are about to reach an important milestone this week.  On Wednesday, I will be 20 weeks along (4 1/2 months) and will be at the half-way mark of this experience.  Reaching this point would almost seem like everything that I could have hoped for after my all-consuming quest to become pregnant again.  Yet I find that this time my feelings are more complicated.  And even though the sting of losing Henry has lessened over time, the terrors of such an experience will likely never fully leave, particularly when I am thinking and worrying about another child.

From the onset, I admittedly approached this pregnancy with competing emotions.  The elation I felt one day morphed into extreme anxiety the next and although I could not contain my joy over the reality of being pregnant again I found myself constantly battling my innermost fears.  Could the unthinkable happen again?  Did I have the courage to put myself in another situation where I might get hurt?  Could I really do this?  But fear was not the only complex emotion I initially experienced during my first trimester.  Yes, I was pregnant again and no longer "infertile" but I was still vulnerable to the emotions that come from such an experience.  The tears, countless tests, and the innumerable hypothetical conversations with Rob about our circumstances were not going to be erased anytime soon.  Because although the heartache we felt and feel for Henry is very much separate from our battle with trying to have another child it is also indelibly connected to the pain of not being able to have what we wanted when we wanted it.  And I know that that is something that I will never forget because it is not something that is merely lived through, it is a constant battle.

I like to believe that Rob and I are "fighters."  That with the help of the other that we are able to withstand punches and unexpected blows and get up instead of getting knocked out.  I like to think of our family and friends as people in our corner who motivate and inspire us to keep moving even when we grow weary and want to throw in the towel.  I also believe that Henry is a fighter and that he fought for every second of his life here on earth and that he mainly fought for the opportunity to spend time with us.  And when I think about it, it feels like our little family has been battling some one or some thing for two years; that we have seen a couple of rounds in the ring and have learned things along the way.

It is then no surprise to me that at just 8 weeks along in this pregnancy that Rob officially dubbed our little one "Kaempfer" (pronounced kemp-fer), which is German for "fighter."  Although he is only the size of a coconut, he already "floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee" and is constantly on the move and honing his boxing skills.  It is my prayer that he stays that way.  And more importantly, that he keeps fighting.

Expecting.

Today is my birthday.  And I am in trouble.

I have difficulty remembering odd numbers.  For reasons unknown to me birthdays, anniversaries and ages that all end in an odd number are essentially doomed in my memory.  Weirdly enough, single odd digits are not as difficult for me to remember as double ones.  But once a two is assigned to a solitary odd digit it practically receives the kiss of death in my memory unless I write it down.  And as you have undoubtedly guessed, my age would seemingly be difficult for me to remember this year.  You see, it is unfortunately in the double digits and it has that dreaded odd number assigned at the end.

Now that I have approached this odd age, I have tried to make sense of the time that has passed since my pregnancy with Henry.  I think of what Rob and I have experienced, where we have been, what we have seen, and what we have done and it just does not add up.  How has it only been two years?  How has grief not turned my hair completely white and taken a more insidious toll on my body?  How am I not older?  How has the emotional insight that I have (sometimes begrudgingly) gained from loss not propelled me twenty or thirty years into the future?  And yet, how can it already be two years?  How can it already be two years since we first laid eyes on Henry?  Two whole years since we held him, smiled over his perfectness, and basked in the joy of being parents.

Two years.  Just two years.  That is all.  A period of time that to many other couples is a desirable gap between children.  An intentional pause to stop and reflect.  A time to grow, to relax, and recuperate.  Time to adjust to a new lifestyle, a new addition, and a new happiness.  Just two years.  But our two years cannot be easily described as just just because they have been so much more and so much less than I could ever imagined.

There was great joy and there was great pain.  There were moments of great strength and times when darkness threatened to lurk forever.  There was emptiness that seemed all-consuming and there was so much grief.  There were countless hours spent crying in agony, frustration, and sometimes even happiness.  There was so much crying.  And yet there was Rob.  There was Henry.  There were our family, our friends, and even strangers who are now life-long friends.  There was Riggins.  There was hard work, our dreams, and our hopes of a happier time.  And there was our faith.

So I ask myself, on this, my birthday: how am I possibly going to be able to remember my age when I have felt so much?  Is there room for more?  And how will I ever remember this odd age in what has proved to be an incredibly odd period of my life?

Thankfully, something or rather, someone, has answered that question for me.  And he tells me that this will be a year to remember.  Because at last, Henry is going to be a big brother.

Our second son is due on August 15th and as you can imagine, our expectations are exceedingly high.  We expect nothing less than a successful and redemptive experience in the delivery room, pure love at first sight when we lay eyes on our son, and endless smiles from our family and friends. 

A celebratory balloon sent to heaven for the proud big brother.

We are expecting the unexpected and our joy is full.

Little.

Henry's birth is still as relatively vivid in my memory as it was when I wrote about it last October.  If I allow myself, I can recall most of the events that morning.  The temperature outside, the smell of the hospital and the emptiness of the lobby as we trekked to the maternity ward.  I remember the mundane details of our delivery room.  The color of the wooden cabinets, the lighting and the blankets that were placed upon me.  I can recall fragments of the conversations that we had as we checked in, the disbelief that the nurses had when they learned that I was already so far along and still smiling.  I close my eyes and I can still hear Rob coaching me through the most painful stages of my labor.  My memory rests and relishes on these happy details as I think about the excitement that Rob and I shared.  The anticipation that we felt to see our son and to start our family.    

And then tragically my mind wanders and is inevitably faced with the details of the rest of that day.  Obviously there is more to Henry's life than just his birth and being rushed to the NICU.  I was not prepared to share the rest of his story when I wrote about his birth.  I realize now that there are moments and details that I will never be able or willing to share; mostly because they are too sacred to attempt to record and partly because they are fragmented in my own memory.

Once Henry was taken away in such critical condition, the remaining people in our room were left to figure out what to do next.  My mother wept, Rob rushed to comfort me and I delivered the afterbirth.  Labor itself was painful but the after-effects seemed to be worse since Henry was gone.  I expected to go through the agony of contractions and be rewarded with a baby in my arms to distract me from everything else.  I envisioned the sensation of holding him, crying over his beauty and taking our first family picture.  I never anticipated that I would be crying because he was born not breathing.  I never thought that my body would try to get back to "normal" without him and his absence only intensified the pain of my muscles and bones twitching back into place.

I remember Rob coming and going to call his parents and his brother and to get information from Henry's doctors.  My mom left to call my grandmother and my dad visited me at my bedside.  The Division Chief of the NICU then met with Rob and me and gravely talked to us about Henry's condition.  He presented us with options and told us that at best, we would not be able to take Henry home for a while.  We were blindsided.  Devastated.  But still hopeful and naive.  I wanted to take Henry home in two days.  I wanted to put him in his car seat and do all of the things that I had been reading and dreaming about for so many months.  I remember concentrating on these rituals and feeling more disappointed that they would be put on hold than allowing myself to think of the worst possible scenario.  Yes, we would have to wait to take Henry home but surely it would not take as long as they thought?  He was sick now, but he was fine, wasn't he?  He would just need a little extra help, like so many babies, and then we'd be on our way.  Right?

And then, a few hours later, came the moment when I was able to see Henry.  I was wheeled into the first room of the NICU and stood at his bedside and finally met the person that I had a small hand in creating.  The Sprout that I had felt for months and took so much pleasure in fantasizing over.  He was more beautiful and perfect than I could have ever imagined.  And he looked exhausted.  I ached to hold him.  To hear his cry and comfort him like only mothers can do for their offspring.  I yearned to feel his rapidly-beating heart against mine, to caress his skin and stroke his little blonde curls.  I was confused and disoriented.  It seemed to go against nature to have him on the table and not be with his parents.  What was happening and why?

We spent the next 108 hours in varying states of disbelief, happiness, pride, anxiety and pain.  But I remember Henry's blessing.  An eloquent and sincere prayer uttered by Rob on that first day.  We had talked about this blessing for quite some time and thought about what key phrases we wanted to be said.  It was a tender and sacred moment to be gathered around our son and hear Rob's love and concern.

I remember when Rob wheeled me to our recovery room later that morning.  I will never forget the agony I felt when we entered our room and saw the empty cradle next to the bed.  We had it removed, hoping that we would see Henry in it soon.  But I happily recall the visitors that stopped by that day; my siblings, Rob's siblings, a few extended family members and some of our closest friends.  Loved ones that we ushered into the NICU, one at a time, to see the special new addition to our ranks.  I remember how appreciative I felt over the gifts they brought us.  Clothes, books and toys; items that we all hoped Henry would wearing and using soon.

There was a sink right outside of the NICU that everyone had to stop at before they entered.  A sign above the sink had something on it about keeping the babies healthy and encouraging you to scrub under your fingernails and remove your rings to ensure that your hands were extra clean.  I remember thinking that the severity of this warning did not apply to me.  Henry just needed more rest, he was not as sick as the other babies.  He would be going home with us soon.

I cannot remember what we ate that first night and I do not recall what time we went to bed.  But I remember how odd it felt to be in our room without Henry.  Rob and I seemed to take turns fretting about Henry's health and reassuring the other that everything would work out.  And although I remember being nervous that first night I remember feeling a sense of relief in knowing that Henry was in the NICU, under constant supervision and, most assuredly, healing.  Little did I know what the coming days would bring.  Little did I want to know.

Mutant?

Due dates are not an exact science. Women rarely go into labor when they are predicted to and I am perfectly aware of that. Yet, I cannot help but be excited by the fact that Sprout is due exactly one month from today. Naturally I am trying not to get my hopes up. If pregnancy has taught me anything it is that each woman is so individual that it is impossible to know exactly what will happen and when. But that has not prevented us from guessing. Rob and I have both been working on our fortune telling skills and as of right now Rob feels like the baby will be right on time if not a day before or after his due date. I, on the other hand have an inkling that he will be either early or late by at least a week - but I am not sure as to which one yet.

One thing is for certain though, as the weeks progress and our little Sprout continues to put on the pounds my body is becoming an increasingly more uncomfortable place to be. Not only have my ribs and back fallen victim to spontaneous bursts of pain but my stomach is also highly concentrated on practicing for his big day. My Braxton Hicks are still irregular but are becoming more frequent and intense with each day. Last week I attempted to describe the feeling of said Braxton Hicks to Rob. I tried to explain the intense pressure in my abdomen and the sensation of feeling like I have been stretching to capacity - but I ultimately felt like these efforts were futile.

I then tried to describe the feeling through movies and images (my favorite things) and at last the thought came to me...

Granted, Wolverine is a bit of a sensationalized and overdramatic comparison (and yes, scary), but it certainly conveys the feeling of one's body undergoing such profound pressure and tension that it feels like the skin is about to burst open with life.
What do you think fellow mothers and mothers-to-be? Is my example on par or can you think of a better one?

Novice.

Another week has come and gone. Our Sprout-countdown is now down to five weeks, which means that in just one month and one week our little man will be a tangible, physical presence in our home. Rob and I now find ourselves not only daydreaming about Sprout's appearance but of his limbs, his smile, and the feel of him. What will his tiny toes look like? How will his skin smell when it is lathered up in Babysoft lotion? And more importantly, how long will we have to wait before we can get him to laugh, smile, and share in our revelry?

However, not everything about my pregnancy has been completely blissful. I would not be realistic if I did not gripe about the white-hot pain that randomly surges through the center of my spine, the pressure that is applied to my ribs each time Sprout shifts his weight, or the impossibility of sleep with such a rotund belly. Yet these complaints are tolerable if not simply for the fact that in just a matter of weeks he will be here and my life as I know it will forever be changed. This change has already manifested itself in my thinking, my worrying, my shopping - all of which inevitably lead back to baby and husband. You out there have been witnessing the strongest evidence of this shift in this very blog. Initially when I became pregnant I foolishly thought that I could still maintain my posts, that my commentary would be business as usual. Obviously that has not been the case. And considering how much of my day is consumed by this little man it is quite fitting that my blog has reflected this natural shift.

Before I sink my teeth into the crux of my post (which will be brief, I promise) I want to thank each of you that responded to my cry for baby books last week. Your comments about natural instinct were particularly comforting and soothed my first-time jitters (and mother or not, it is always good to hear from you Hillary and Cullen - thanks for reading and contributing). Thank you for your good advice.

And finally, a new aspect of nesting has taken hold: cooking. I have always enjoyed cooking for Rob, mainly because he is so easy to please. But lately I have liked it more than usual. The idea of having certain recipes, specific foods and dishes that I am good at concocting is becoming more and more appealing to me.

Because after all, Sprout will be hungry when he is born and will expect a good meal. And I want to cook it for him.

What are your favorite things to cook? And what is the one recipe or food that you wish you were master of?

Lit.

It is already the middle of January and each day, March 2nd gets a little bit closer. I am now 33 weeks pregnant and although he cannot tell me so, Sprout has become quite accustomed to his cozy amniotic home. His frequent flips, flops, and kicks continue to highlight my day and constantly remind me that in just a matter of weeks we will finally be able to meet him. (Speaking of which, the mystery of his due date is quite exciting. Sure, he's due on March 2nd but he could earlier. Or later. I love surprises.)

As his mother, I cannot help but marvel over Sprout's growth. We first saw him at an ultrasound when I was just eight weeks along - when he truly was nothing more than a "little sprout." Since then we have had three more ultrasounds and have been amazed to see him form into a baby. I am only starting to comprehend the joy each parent must feel when their child is born; when they are able to meet each other face to face.

You can imagine that as new parents Rob and I have been experiencing a mixture of emotions. Right now we have both been happily caught up in the all-things-baby. On January 1 we made big steps to feather our nest and put Sprout's crib together. This simple piece of furniture has made his imminent arrival all the more real and now we are beginning to accept the realities that will come with parenthood. I anticipate sleepless nights, early mornings, and many, many, diaper changes. Above all though, I admit I nervous about the guesswork that accompanies a newborn.

Thankfully, I do not have to combat my fear on my own. Rob and I both have been catching up on our baby literature. I never thought I would be the kind of person to devour books that present hypothetical situations and scenarios but I find myself drawn to them. Admittedly, there is no way that I will remember everything I have read especially when I am becoming acquainted with own my baby, who will have his own personality and his own little set quirks. But, I hope that I will have gleaned some useful kernel of information somewhere along the line - even if it is merely through osmosis.

So, fellow mommies, what are your favorite baby books? Which ones did you find to be the most useful and which ones would you recommend to a first timer?

New.

I love new things. New shoes, new soap, new books, and new friends. I equally enjoy greeting each new year as it comes. Yet, as a child born in the eighties and one that was indoctrinated with the Back to the Future trilogy, Star Trek, and others; it is bizarre to greet this new decade. Where are the hover-craft shoes, holodecks and flying cars that are supposed to be littering the sky and making our lives easier? Before you all share my in the weight of my disappointment of "2010" I will remind you what Rob told me. Back to the Future II actually took place in 2015 - so science still has five years to invent, perfect, and introduce the flying car into society.

I am optimistic that it can be done.

Welcome 2010 - may you be a year that was as monumental/exciting/unexpected/and joyous as the last.

Tradition.

Christmas was particularly magical this year. As I wrote in one of my earlier posts, I have greatly enjoyed being pregnant during this season. Though it was fun to buy Sprout presents and think about the holidays to come with him in them, I think I have simply appreciated the thought of him since my reflections of love, admiration, and wonder have always led to another little baby boy, and another first-time mother. A baby that was born in a manger, whose purity and goodness brought light and life to the world. From the moment that I knew I was pregnant, I knew that our baby would change our lives for the better - our thoughts, our dreams, our concerns. But I will forever be grateful that during this time of year, our Sprout has brought us that much closer to understanding the selfless love that is associated with Christmas.

Most, if not all, of the love I have felt during this season has been experienced with our family. For us, Christmas is about tradition. Some of our collected traditions have been carried out for more than fifty years while others are just starting. In either case, we cherish them because of the good company.

One tradition on my side of the family is the annual Christmas Eve breakfast. In order to properly carry out this tradition one must: a. meet at the Denny's in Woods Cross at an obscenely-early hour of the morning, b. wear your pajamas, c. bring a white elephant gift (the more absurd the better), and d. meet up with cousins. After all of these steps are properly taken, one leaves smelling and feeling like only Denny's can make you; but you are full and happy nonetheless.
On Christmas day we get treated to yet another delicious breakfast. Each Christmas morning we meet at the Koelliker Compound where we dine, exchange gifts, and swap stories about beloved childhood memories. For the past two years we have also started a new tradition: Skyping with Paul and Ann (the proud patriarch and matriarch of the clan who're in South Africa). Though it would be ideal to have them with us, thankfully technology can make them feel like they are part of the action since this breakfast is particularly unique. Each year the parents have the monumental (and dare I say, impossible?) task of corralling the Koelliker grandchildren together for a picture. You can see by the evidence that everyone rarely looks at the camera at the same time but all of their faces are priceless nonetheless.
A third cherished tradition is the Christmas jammie exchange. Unlike the others, this is one that Rob and I do with each other on Christmas Eve night. The jammies are undoubtedly comfortable, but it is more exciting to be able to open something up the night before Christmas. There have been several times in our marriage when in a moment of weakness, one of us will suggest opening one more present, or all of them. I doubt that this will ever be a problem for us again with Sprout and Co. in the equation.

You will also take notice in the picture above of not only Rob's smashing jammies, but also of our tree. We had grand hopes for this tree, being that it has been the biggest and grandest Scipio tree we have found yet. But alas, within the first week of the season the top half of the lights started shorting out and by the 23rd they sputtered out for good. Needless to say, I had no regrets taking it down yesterday and finding (and subsequently destroying) the one culprit strand that ruined our Christmas-ambiance.
And finally, another tradition which I treasure is seeing Santa on Christmas Eve. I have been very fortunate to have seen Santa at my Grandma's house each year since I was born. In fact, my Mother has seen Santa since she was a little girl and it makes this tradition that much more special in our family. Up until this year, Rob and I have taken pictures with Santa together but this year's picture is particularly special for obvious reasons. Although he could not say so, I am sure that Sprout (along with his parents) asked Santa to give him two eyes, two ears, ten fingers and toes, and fully functioning organs - the best presents that he could ever receive.
This has been an unashamedly long post, so I do not blame you if you have stopped reading by now but humor me with this last picture. My sister Sara and I wanted to take the opportunity on Christmas Eve to showcase our little bellies side by side. Sprout is already looking forward to playing with his new little cousin, and they are destined to be troublemakers together.

I am so blessed to have my family. A family that is large and loving, and one which I look forward to seeing and spending time with on both Christmas Eve and Christmas day. Thank you to everyone that made this year so special for me, Rob, and our little Sprout. He is one lucky boy to have a built-in fan base of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins that love him sight unseen. Merry late Christmas, everyone and may you have a wonderful New Year.