The First Night

Last night marked our first with Dylan - and it did not disappoint.

First, it was hilarious that I had to ride out of the hospital with Dylan in a wheelchair upon discharge. I couldn't have imagined I'd have to do this since I didn't deliver there, and the only patient was my son. But apparently, it's a liability issue - they can't risk you walking with your baby. Coincidentally, however, they can risk you being run over in your wheelchair while holding the baby.

Since we're staying across the street from the hospital in their NICU housing, rather than wheeling me to a car and ensuring Dylan's safe delivery into a car seat, they wheeled me to the doorstep of our "home." But unfortunately, there is no crosswalk connecting it to the NICU. Now sure, on my own, I've been jay-walking across, either in broad daylight or the still of the night. But in this instance, I expected to cross safely at the corner light - not to be run across the middle during rush hour like Usain Bolt. Oh well, I suppose that's consistent with Florida's general disregard for basic road safety, including a lack of motorcycle helmet laws and a seemingly "you may or you may not" attitude towards babies in car seats (we've seen an awful lot of babies and small children ridin' dirty Britney style).

Upon entering our room last night post-discharge, it occurred to me that we have a baby - like, for real. And no one else is taking care of him. In theory, this should scare the crap out of me - but I find myself strangely calm in this permanent scenario. Sort of.

It's too bad "calm" doesn't equate to "sleep." I'd always assumed that my lack of sleep would be the result of the baby screaming and crying all night. On the contrary. Dylan, as the nurses and doctors at the hospital pointed out, is (at least for now) a really calm, easy-going baby. He's chill under stress (of which he endured a lot), and his fussing amounts to some mild notes of irritation. The things that bother him are consistent annoyances - such as taking his temperature and changing his diaper (maybe that's why he tried to crap all over me last week). Otherwise, he's pretty good about waking up every 3 hours as the doctors say we should like him to, and it's really no big deal - even in this fourth of strange environments for him (Mount Sinai NICU, 2 different NICU areas at Joe DiMaggio, and now our temporary housing).

So why then, did I not sleep a lick until 7:00 this morning?

Paranoia.

With every sound he made during the night, I thought, "Oh my God, are you choking?" With every passing moment of silence, I feared, "You're not breathing!" I was up out of bed, right next to his borrowed, pink cradle, staring and listening for sounds of healthy life at least 10-15 times, like a deranged lunatic. Blurry eyed, I was struck by the illusion that he was rolling farther to one side of the cradle, soon to suffocate on its edge. Then I observed his head position obsessively, concerned that his chin was resting on his chest and cutting off his breath.

Damn those monitors at the hospital for sounding every cue of life - now the only monitor I have is my instinct, which has run wild with self-inflicted drama.

Hopefully, I'll fair a little bit better tonight, knowing that he made it safely under our watch. And this time tomorrow, the only monitor I'll be cognizant of is the one installed in his nursery - at home.

At long last.