Pookster is 9. The December juggernaut keeps on keeping.
We are joyful. And tired.
We just returned from 8 days in Japan, and it was fabulous.
More on that later!
I may have mentioned it before, but December is a DOOZY ‘round these parts.
December 3rd was my Dah’s car crash, and also FRK’s beloved grandmother’s birthday.
December 15th is Shick’s birthday.
December 18th FRK’s mom died.
December 23rd our beloved Nanny’s son died- I was with her
Jesus’ Birthday.
Today is December 26th. Boxing Day. St Stephen’s Day. And most importantly-
It is Pookie’s 9th birthday!
Government Name: Luke Huller. [Luke after my Mama, Lucy. Huller after FRK’s mom]. AKA Pookie. When we told Shick that he was going to have a brother, the fetus was, according to my pregnancy app, the size of a lemon. So he began referring to him as Lemony. Or rather ‘Yemon-ee’, because at the time he could not pronounce his Ls properly. If anyone referred to his brother as ‘the baby’ or ‘your brother’ Shick would interrupt firmly and politely and declare “his name is Yemon-ee.”
Other aliases: Pookenzo, Pooksters, Pookarama, Pookalook, Lukey, Lukenzo, Lukesters, Lukemajook, Pickle, Squallati, Sugarplum, Kid, Limon.
Our Pookie is tender, sensitive, riotously funny, considerate, compassionate, attuned. He shares his father’s biographical memory; I am not being hyperbolic when I say that he forgets nothing. We were talking about one of his grandfather’s friends the other day, and he heard the name in passing. “Oh, you mean the guy in the graduation picture?”
We looked at a picture from this man’s law school graduation at some point, god knows when. Who is that, he had asked? FRK told him. Once. A man he has never met.
He has a lightning fast processor, an astonishing quantity and quality of jokes and puns for a child his age. He has immaculate comic timing, and has since before he could speak. He is like a borscht belt comedian; he is always on, always has a bon mot, his timing is always perfect. He is an absolute delight.
He loves nature, and all creatures great and small.
Once again, I learned late in my pregnancy that the baby was breech. Pooksters alternated between being transverse (laying horizontally) and breech (bum down). He would hook his little feet beneath my ribs on one side, and his giant head would press on my ribs on the other. (I have a giant head. So does FRK. Turns out, when big headed people breed, they make big headed babies. Science!) The hooked feet were particularly uncomfortable. I would poke his little feet, and he would unhook, and then rotate until his head was at 12 o’clock. So bizarre. So cool. Pregnancy is a trip.
So a c-section was scheduled, again. For December 30th. A Monday, everyone back from holiday break. There were lots of jokes about making the cutoff for the tax year.
In the wee hours of December 26th, I woke up to use the bathroom. S.O.P. at this point.
I got back in bed, and noticed my sheets were damp. Oh the humanity! Had I wet the bed? Is this because I was a geriatric pregnancy? (I was 40. 35 and over, they deem you a “geriatric pregancy”. Tell me the medical establishment has been run by men…)
FRK was sound asleep, and I did not want to disturb him. I really did not want to wake him to change the sheets because my grown ass self had wet the bed, for pete’s sake. So I doubled up a towel, put it down and clambered back in bed. I could not get back to sleep. I was very uncomfortable.
This was odd, because my superpower is sleep. I can sleep anywhere, in any position, and for both pregnancies I had previously had no issues falling back asleep after my bathroom visits.
I was uncomfortable…in an almost rhythmic way. In a pattern, you could say.
Now, I will say that I believe that I am a smart person overall, but at times, I am an idiot.
I lay there, wide awake, periodically uncomfortable, pondering.
At some point, it occurred to me (perhaps being 38 weeks pregnant and having left a damp spot on the bed clued me in, who can say!) that maybe my water had broken.
So I did the logical thing.
I Googled it. [Again, smart but dumb]
When we arrived at the hospital, I told the nurse I thought my water had broken. Why do you think that, she inquired? A test strip was procured, and sure enough. Baby time!
A hospital at 4 am the day after Christmas is a quiet, quiet place.
By the time the anesthesiologist showed up, I was having legit contractions. I was making whooshing honking sounds, leaving a trail of amniotic fluid in my wake. A nurse cheerfully followed with towels, and gave me a pad to absorb it. He was a tall, lean, sinewy German man, very matter of fact, very kind. He was extremely calm, and it helped me stay relaxed. We made small talk, and I reminded him no morphine, please. It is standard to put long lasting morphine in epidurals. About 50% of the time, morphine causes you to get horrible full body itching, and if there is a drug side effect, I definitely will experience it. Drugs really do a number on me. Like, I can feel it when I take Tylenol. It does what it is supposed to (alleviate pain, inflammation, etc) but it also makes me feel a bit speedy. Also, morphine can delay your milk coming in. I explained my reasoning, said that I didn’t have it last time and did great, and he was on board.
He kept demonstrating to me how I needed to arch my back like a cat, so he could insert my epidural. I would get into a pretty damn good cat position for a hugely pregnant woman, when a contraction would hit, and I would stop to breathe through it. “Ve vere doing so vell” he would cluck. Ve vere, man. I’m in labor here.
Anyway, at 8:45am our Sugarplum was born.
He spent some time under the UV lights, due to jaundice (an excess of bilirubin in the body). This is common in babies, particularly those with Asian heritage. Sometimes just putting a baby near a sunny window is enough. He loved being swaddled and cozy, and he strenuously objected to being uncozy-as much skin as possible needed to be exposed to the light. He was so furious he kicked his diaper off, which the nurses thought was hilarious.
Our boys are 6 years apart. Our Pookie completed our little family. He is the cherry on top, the dollop of whipped cream. We are never bored. He keeps us in stitches. He adores his people, and loves intensely. He has a firm moral compass and reminds us daily to be kind and compassionate, to give people the benefit of the doubt.
Tonight we celebrated our darling boy with Lebanese food (his choice) and he requested tiramisu for his birthday dessert. Penang is a curious place- I had no problem locating ladyfingers and mascarpone.
We thank God daily for the privilege of being his parents. The world is a better place with him in it.