|Gigi (AKA Lorane), Grandpeep Mia Lorane welcome NEWEST 'Peep', Wesley Xavier Compton.|
OK, I don't know how to rotate a photo from Sky Drive but I know you know how to tilt your head to the right. So, after trying to accomplish the former for an hour or so, I've elected to go with the latter. After all, it's far more important for you to meet Wee Wes and big Sis than for me to polish off every antacid I could find in the house.
Been quite a ride lo these past seven days. The grandparents, arriving at the end of yet another long day of parental pacing/fretting/very much OVER being pregnant as himself had decided to change his arrival date so far by 10 days, chatting amiably into the late evening over gripping topics like the successful execution of the nautical theme in the nursery and Jetty's (family Portuguese Water Dog; you've seen them romping around the White House lawn.) unbreakable attachment to pregnant Julie's side, the fascinating solar system ceiling night light in Mia's room, and-so-on.
The next day, "The drama-Begins-Day", we head for the Mall with Mia and take in "Planes" while the parents attend the weekly-ordeal office visit and receive the cryptic determination that things have finally begun to move, they are to go home and get a good night's rest in preparation for "Opening Night", as it were/was going to be.
They slept, packed, got admitted and continued all day to "move along" with help from a Pitocin drip to augment contractions, screeching on the brakes just long enough to get that epidural going. We spent another lovely day with Mia, ending with a quick pit stop (no pun intended) to see Mom. Bad move. So caught up in the action were we, that we neglected to mention/explain the presence of a snake pit (again, no pun) of wires and tubes that would be entering Mommy's person. Too late to convey the fact that these were helpful, painless, everyday, ordinary 'fun lines' that Mommies get to play with while waiting for baby bro. Oh no. Mia never got past, "WHY are they hurting Mommy?!"
Sweeping her out to the parking lot while blowing her nose, I promised to teach her a song on the way home in the car. (This is something of a tradition with all of my peeps who still can belt out "Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree", "Pull Brass Rings on the Merry-Go-Round", and "Yankee Doodle Dandy" along with some very select Dory Previn numbers.) For some reason that night I elected to teach her "The Little Mouse" song:
"Oh, the liquor was spilt on the bar room floor
And the bar was closed for the night.
When out on the floor crept a little brown mouse
And he sat in the pale moonlight.
Well, he lapped up the liquor from the bar room floor
Then back on his haunches he sat.
And all night long they could hear him r-o-a-r,
"Bring on the cotton-pickin' cat!"
Oddly enough, morning came. Odder still, no news from the hospital. (Their home is in a quaint town in a very wooded area which is most assuredly NOT friendly to cell phone signals.) Mia was cuddling with us in bed. All seemed quiet on the suburb front. Then my cell began a barrage of dings starting at almost 8 AM. We'd check the text and see, "Media message". We'd tap those horrid words and NOTHONG would happen but a nasty little "PS", "Tap again."
Finally, I was reading words frlm our son, "Congratulations on having another healthy grandchild." And just what potion of evil did HE have for breakfast? "WHAT DID WE HAVE?", I SPAT BACK. "Call on the house line." He did and just as we were telling Mia about Wee Wes' arrival, Daddy Matt opened the front door - looking more than a tad ragged - inquiring as to WHY Mia wasn't in her special "Meet Little Brother" outfit. The plan was for her to meet him first, then us 15 minutes behind so Julie could finally sleep.
Apparently, she'd rolled to her opposite side the evening before (just as the doc was getting ready to head to the delivery room) and felt Wes twist a bit. What ensued was an all-nighter of contractions/pushing, culminating in a non-stop one hour marathon of same beginning at 7 AM. With the entire entourage exhausted, doc made the call for a section and at 7:52AM, "Prince Wesex" made his entrance.
Mia was 'special-dressed' and out the door in a flash; we dressed lickety-split and followed; Congrats and tears all around in Julie's room. Then we got Mia to her Grammy so Matt could sleep; we moved to an inn in Plymouth so Matt and Mia could share a "Daddy/Daughter" weekend; visited Julie again before dinner with Matt's Lovely Mom and hubby. Aren't you tired just reading all this tripe?
I am just typing it. The mystery lies still in the "little miracle". One day you have a daughter who looks un-comfy with a basketball tucked under her diaphragm, sitting on her aorta causing shortness of breath. The next, a perfect miniature human being, sloe eyes darting about the room, following voices and moving images.
And so to bed, after, "Happy-Birthday-best-Buddy-Kathy-Dehler!" and to you, my hapless/loved readers, it really is about the 'little things'.
Later, Lorane. . . .