Home Sweet Home

Yup. That’s where we are.

Someone is celebrating in true Husband Hausfrau fashion (no, not booze, costumes, and careless treatment of dignity): a big fat nap.

Which isn't to say that a good nap isn't the best thing to do post-booze-costumes-and-careless-treatment-of-dignity. But in this case, it followed a big bowl of oatmeal and a few good giggles.

Apparently the GI doctor was miffed that the pulmonologists let him go without anyone from GI checking in on him. I’m beginning to sense a rivalry similar to that of the cardiologists and neonatologists at CHONY. The pulmonologists clearly felt that they had everything in hand, however. And we like them better than the GI docs (with apologies to our friend, Dr. Huxtable, who thinks he wants to be a GI. Perhaps it’s time to reevaluate, Cliff?).

In more good news, the echocardiogram was the same as or better than the previous one, and Dr. Rhein, Das Baby’s fabulous pulmonologist found it reassuring. In fact, Dr. Rhein was pretty pleased with Das Baby in general, and is eager to see him fatten up. “By spring, I want him to be the size of a contestant on The Biggest Loser,” he quipped. Yes, I said quip. Dr. Rhein is a quipper. But a four hundred pound toddler sounds frightening. Imagine the tantrums.

The nutritionist hopes he’ll be fatter, but not Michelin Man fat, which suggests she has somewhat different goals than Dr. Rhein. We’ll see who wins.

"I give fatness a big thumbs, up, Das Baby!"

So far, it seems the whole fam gives the G-Tube a thumbs up. Theo’s appetite for solids is as strong as ever. The tube doesn’t seem to interfere with his comfort/movement one bit. We’ve seen crawling, pulling to standing, and tummy sleeping. It’s easy to manage, and it’s a relief to know he’s not going to pass out from dehydration-slash-weigh thirteen and a half pounds for the rest of his life.

Of course there are still worries: how long will he need it? Will he learn to eat as much as he needs to grow? What if it gets infected? But overall, I think if we revisit the Pity Party, we’ll see that things have gone far better than I worried they would, that many of my anxieties were exaggerated.

But don’t try telling me that next time I freak out. I can guarantee it won’t go well.

Surgery yesterday? Under general anesthesia? Oh, yeah. Piece of cake.