Week 1: bye bye Billy Ruben

We're home.

And we think we have a middle name.

After four days in the house of blue light the little Miss was making such a rapid recovery that not only were the docs saying she was {quote} remarkable" {end quote} (which, of course, she is...) ,but that she was free to trot out of the joint any time she liked.

Such a rapid turnaround from "you can't have a bath you have to go into the blue lights NOW!" left mum and dad a bit, well, stunned.

"Don't we need some more tests??"

But she was fine; well below the levels of Billy Rubin considered worrying and putting on weight like she was a bit player in Supersize Me II. (In fact, when weighed by the nurse late in day 5, she had already exceeded her birthweight by 40 grams... impressive; both by the girl and mum.)

Leaving horsepiddle would also help the ward out a tad too - they were facing a somewhat perplexing conundrum at the time - they had a) one spare bed and b) three ladies grunting out watermelons in the adjoining labour ward.

Unless they were all prepared to top and tail (and top), it was all going to end in tears.

So come Saturday morning there we were - on the steps of Sandringham District Memorial Horsepiddle (SDMH), bags in hand and lass in bag. Oh, and a little Master M who insisted that he would carry little Miss S out the door. One delicate negotiation later and it was agreed by all and sundry that Master M and dad would hang onto the handles of the rather fancy Phil & Teds papoose (thanks Sandra!) together, and walk her to the car.

She just slept.

At this juncture we just have to say how marvelous everyone was at the SDMH and especially the Special Care Nursery.

Don't tell Nicola Roxon, but after we'd spent the maximum two midnights in the ward, the nurses discharged Mistress P, admitted Miss S, and kept P in a bed as a "boarder" so she could give the little girl the attention she needed (read: be milked like a big ole guernsey cow day and night; lots of liquids being a treatment for jaundice). A boarder isn't allowed any nursing or doctor help of course,... but in reality they did looked after her like a queen even though the place was chokkas.

Thank you.

Anyway, homeward bound.

A home that appears well and truly changed.
Mostly for Mike.

See the lad is suffering from a classic case of "Hey! I was here first; pay attention to me!" syndrome.

This is generally taking the form of doing anything naughty he feels will grabs mum and dads attention.
Flicking food.
Ramming his big red (ride on) car into parents legs.
Jumping on the bed.
Licking his sisters face.
All the 2 y.o classics.

On the latter point he is genuinely excited by little Miss S. There are hugs and kisses galore, offers to play with his toys, and even attempts to feed her some of his favourite snacks.

("Sarah doesn't like Salada biscuits just yet Michael".)

He's even been helping dad out to keep the little girl awake during day.

See one of the great joys of early parenthood is the day/night lottery.

Back in mums tum they can sense light and dark, but this doesnt necessarily mean they get the circadian rhythms cranking and hence know night from day.

And if, once you're thrust into the outer-world, you have an excess of Billy Rubin and get plonked in the house of blue light in a room with no windows, well you've got Buckleys chance of your body working it out.
Hence... the day/night lottery.

Which we've lost.

Daytime = sleep.
Nightime = play.

At first dad was ok with this (the cricket was on; dont mention The Ashes), but when your longest sleep period during the night is 1.5 hours, shortest 8 minutes, by morning it can leave mum and dad, lets say, rooted.

(And not the good type either.)

So it's daytimes of constant "WAKE UP SISSY" (a-la Wiggles "Wake up Jeff!") to tire her out, sitting in sunlight to kick the endogenous processes into gear, and good feeds at regular 3 hourly intervals, the theory there being that a baby needs X calories every 24 hours, and if they don't get it during the day cos they're sleeping, they'll demand the residual at night.

For mum and dad it's sleep when you can and caffeine thereafter. But we'll survive. Just.

So. The name...

Well it was pointed out that while the middle name we have chosen is kinda old fashioned, and kinda daggy (given a Big Brother contestant who was famous for wearing bunny ears and doing a bum dance, though it's been pointed out that Miss S' peers wont care/know one iota about this), it is also the middle name of the kindest, the strongest and the most giving person dad has ever known.

His Nana.

We introduce to you, Sarah Marie Watkins.

House of blue light

Well that was a couple of days of surprises.

The girl was passing all her exams with flying colours - eyes good, reflexes excellent and her hearing test was, as the lady doing it exclaimed, one of the fastest positive results she had ever had (future DJ career Miss S??). But the lass had been looking a little on the yellow side, though nothing, we thought, to write home to mum about.

Still, the nurses were wondering, and Mistress P returned from a physio session thinking the lass was a darker shape of pale than before. Hence a blood test was called for which subsequently revealed...

Jaundice.

And not just common or garden variety jaundice (which is basically just a natural breaking down of a babies excess red blood cells - as used by eight of ten babies...) but "ABO hemolytic disease of the newborn (also known as ABO HDN)".

Big name, but it really just means that mum and little Miss S have different blood types - Mum "O" and S, "A" - which somewhere in the weird and wonderful mother-fetus connective plumbing got mixed. (Think of it like water and oil in an engine; both are vital, but you don't want them sloshing about in the same pipe together.)

Hence mum developed antibodies to "A" blood, and then passed these along (with all the other good antibodies) to Sissy through the placenta.

Ipso facto - Sissy had both "A" blood and a few "A" antibodies flushing about her system.

Bugger!

The result is a breakdown of the hemoglobin in the red blood cells and hence the production of stuff called bilirubin, which unfortunately cant be metabolised as easily in a bub as an adult. The excess bilirubin causes the yellowing of the skin, as well as fever, lethargy and an unwillingness to eat. Yes, hard to believe the last one with her genes.

Which is all not that good for a lass trying to make her way in this brave new outerworld, but then again, definitely not anything permanent.

Phototherapy (i.e., lying bub under bright lights) helps break down the bilirubin, and lots of feeding, especially with mothers milk, helps too. Hence mum, in her words, is no woman, "she be a milking machine", plus the lass gets to live in the special care nursery for a few days, ensconced in her own little house of blue light. (While Master M thinks Little Miss S has scored big time by having her own abode at age 2 days when he has only just graduated to a big bed, the house of blue light brings back bad memories for dad. He reckons it was Deep Purple's worst album ever.)

The good news is that shes racing forward faster than Usain Bolt, and things are looking up. She might even be kicked out in a day or two if things keep going well.

All this hiccup is dads fault.
Of course.
If he didn't (somewhat ironically) have "AB" blood, but had "O" instead, then all would have been fine and dandy no matter what got sloshed in anyones pipes.

But them's the breaks we guess.

Finally,... and seemingly one for the "impeccable timing" awards 2009:

The now famous Big Red Car, which Sarah gave Master M as a pressie, managed to lose a headlight, as you do when two days of being bashed about by a boy with an obsession for Wiggles is combined with a somewhat dodgy Chinese assembly line.

Hence dad fixed it.

But not after managing to spill plastic adhesive all over his hands when he pierced the tube.

"Oh fiddlestix..." he cursed. Or at least words to that effect.

Label said "remove from skin with solvent, e.g., nail polish remover."

So he tried that.
And it did nothing but make his hands completely stink.

"My hands stink!" he said as he took another whiff. "And they're giving me a high... man - where's the tim tams?"

And indeed it was making him a touch cheech and chong.

Whereupon it dawned on him that putting these smelly and high-inducing paws in a humidicrib/under his beautiful daughters head may hence not be considered all that au fair by the nurse.

Or little Miss S for that matter.

What timing.

"Shuggafruggabugga" said dad.

Much cursing, some eucalyptus oil and the remainder of Melbourne's potable water later, the hands were faintly less stinky.

"Of all days... you win again Wiggles; curse you and your primary coloured skivvies."

Happy mum.
Grinning (slightly stinky) dad.
Proud bro.
Growing girl.

Life is good.

A day is a long time

Thats it.

The first 24 hours are (almost) over and the girls learned an awful lot about life already.

And more than just that "your first outer-world poo looks like vegemite".
("MMmmmm... vegemite...." says dad)

Theres been the blue sky out mums window.

Lots of mobile tall yabbering people.

Smells of fresh cut flowers.

Nappies.

And of course the piece of resistance.
Boobies = food.
(Thats a biggie.)

There's also this little guy who appears to want to hug me tender.

Yes, after months of buildup and kissing mums tummy every night, Master Mike finally had his day of reckoning with Sissy.

Who of course has now been renamed Sarah just to confuse issues.

And being a thoroughly modern Mike their first meeting was not face to face but over the inter-web, and a youtube video.
Which being thoroughly methodical Mike he demanded to watch again.
And again.
And again.
Until his chaperones for the past couple of days (Nana and Papa: how can we thank you?) suggested he say goodbye to Sarah.
Which he did.

"Bye Bye Sarah" he chimed, and tootled off with the aforementioned grandparents to pick flowers for mum from the driveway garden.
(Though slightly forgot who they were for and proceeded to bash them against the concrete steps as he re-entered the house.)

When it came time for the non-virtual visit, he proudly marched up the corridors of Sandringham & District Memorial Horse-piddle clutching the slightly shop soiled blooms and, with a beaming smile, presented them to mum.

It was a sight to bring tears to your eyes.

"Sissy?" he then questioned.

"She's just there Michael" everyone said, pointing at the little girl in his aunties arms.

And before you knew it he was trying his darndest to plant a big smooch on little Miss S' cheek.

"Hug?" he asked Sarah politely.

But being approximately two years short of being able to respond in the Queens, or anyone elses for that matter, English, we had to respond in kind.
And the boy had a hug.

It was soon apparent that all the guests had brought pressies for the wee lass.
(Well, it was almost her birthday after all...)
Beautiful bibs, a wonderful fish mobile, wraps and blankets.
The tiny room was becoming an Alladins cave.
Which in a common or garden variety situation would have made the lad think he'd decidedly and justifiably copped the rough end of the pineapple.

But herein lies the genius of Mistress P.

"Michael" she said, "Sarah has brought you a present; do you want to open it?"

"Yes please!" he replied with the excitement only a 2y.o can.

He grabbed the brightly coloured box and clawed his way in.
His eyes lit up.
His jaw dropped.
He gazed with love at mum.
He shot a look at little of adulation at Miss S.
He lost the power of coherent speech - for a moment.

"BIGG... REDD... CARRRRR!!"

And indeedy doody it was.
A 1/32th (or thereabouts) scale model of the Wiggles Big Red Car.

Complete with detachable Wiggles.

He was like a pig in poo.

There were more kisses and hugs (some a little too vigorous, granted) dolled out by the boy, not to mention a fair bit of floor play with the BRC itself, till it came time to leave.

Dad marched him down to the lifts with loving Nana and Papa, the boy clutching his most prized of newly found possessions.

The lad suddenly stopped mid-corridor.
Looked at his BRC.
Turned, and faced back down the hall.

"Thank you Mum.
Thank you Sarah."

We think we have a family.

Hope you had a good day young Sarah.

Just the first in another 30,680.

Welcome to the world Sarah Watkins

Welcome to the world little Sarah Watkins.

Welcome to the world.

And didn't you do it all just your own way??

There were mum and dad all bright eyed and bushy tailed, presenting themselves at the Sandringham horse-piddle at 7:30am, sleep still in their eyes.

But the Doc wasn't ready till 10:00.

They bunged on the gel and said "wait six hours"...

But you still didn't come.

So they bunged on a little more and said "we'll see you in the morning".

Mum and dad were settling in for a looong one.

But you were always one step ahead of us all.

Sure, you waited until Yaya (grandma) and Auntie S had been and gone to make your move, but not 15 minutes after they left (8pm), you got jiggy with it.

"Lets get this show on the road."

Your mum wasn't all that pleased - it started to hurt.
A.
Lot.

The midwives couldn't quite work out what was going on.

Induced "tightenings" or the real deal??

Mmmm...

You certainly kept them guessing.

But not for too long...

At 10:30 you made a run for it... right on midwife changeover time, just so you had four ladies in waiting instead of two.

(Mum and dad always thought you were a bittova diva!)

And by 10:42pm (10:43 by dads watch, but whose counting)...

There You Were.

A little mucky.
But beautiful none the less.

Mum was tired and a bit sore, but happy, healthy and doing fine. Ok, she may not jogging around the block at 7am, but she's one tough cookie.

And your final "I did it my way"?

Well everyone had told mum and dad what a petite little girl you were; 3.5kg was the top of the Sandy sweep.

And what were you??

Of course... 4.045kg!

Yup... just like your brother, tipping over the 4kg mark and destined never to ride a Melbourne Cup winner.

The midwifes (Helen, Jo, Sheila, Georgie, and Tamara) were all marvelous and deserved a medal.

But the most surprised of all was Li - your doc.

She was sure you weren't coming till the 18th, thus giving the family the 16/17/18/19 birthday combination.

But you wanted to do it your way.
The 17th it was going to be.

And you know what?

Dad reckons your mum is amazing.
Purely.
Simply.

One day you'll understand too.

One day you'll give her the biggest kiss you can.

And she'll deserve it.
Like all mums.

C'mon Sissy C'mon, C'mon...

"Mistress P's puffin' bout like a machine,
Dad says 'get out and mow the green!',
Sissy's protecting wicket,
Setup quite a picket,
But the obstetrician's got that killer gleam...
C'mon Sissy C'mon, C'mon,
C'mon Sissy C'mon!"

(With apologies to anyone who a) hates cricket, b) cant remember 1977 and/or Supertests, c) holds copyright.)

Sissy, you're going to keep us waiting aren't you?

All's well on the gestational front but the little girl is being a bittova diva, making us wait for her appearance while dancing up a storm in the wings. (Just like her brother. Minus the diva bit.)

We're now at 40 weeks and a few days, and have well and truly missed out on the 4:56am 07/08/2009 birthdate and hence her eternal status as some sort of chosen one that would surely have had wise men with myhr knocking at the front door.

"Sorry mate - the gold will do us just fine. Any chance the frankincense guy can put the bins out when you blokes head off?"

Mistress P now points out that a delay may indeed be a good thing, cos if little Miss is born on or after the 13th then pesky Americans and their weird propensity to put months before days wont get too confused with Sissy's birthdate.

All jokes and parental impatience aside, we've been to the scheduled post-40 weeks horse-piddle visit and the doc says everything is looking fine and dandy. According to the man in the suit:

• shes "fixed in position" all ready to go (head down, bum up), still a little high but in second pregnancies that can change very quickly
  
• the fundal height is 38 cm, which is fine; typically closer to 40 at full term but fundal length can be +-3cm (i.e., shes in the range of 37-43 cm)
• heartbeat seems very good; "an olympic athlete in there" were the suited mans words... (hopefully not Marion Jones).
  
• roughly a 3.5 kg baby by his reckoning, so a bit smaller than Master M ("you'll be happy about that mum") but still above average (~3.3 kg)

The other thing he did was book us in for an induction next Monday (17/8/2009), the rule now being 10 days (not 2 weeks) after the due date; apparently theres double the normal risk for a stillbirth after 14 days.

Oh well, at least knowing 10 days is a lot better than when, with Master M, we rocked up at the horse-piddle at 11 days overdue to be told "you aint goin' home that big lady" and we were summarily sent off for popping. Just lucky we brought a spare pair of Reg Grundies.

Of course if little Miss takes a bit of time to come out (like Master M) then she'll be born on the 18th, one day before dads b'day. (Strangely, Master M appeared one day behind mums birthday. A wag may suggest mum and dad, being good climatologists, celebrate their birthdays with a 9-month leadtime.)

It will also mean our Tattslotto numbers are eternally stuffed - they'll be (in order of birthdates for Master M/mum/Sissy/dad) 16, 17, 18 and 19. If we add in uncle Jim (15th) then, in poker terms, we get a genetic straight.

So... lets hope we go naturally before then.

As for the boy...

Well mum-to-be had a craving for a nice little marinara linguine, as you do, and hence bought some sort of seafood mix and cooked up a pasta for the extended family.

Michael chowed down on some fish, prawns, scallops and even some gastronomically curious "extender". He was loving it. Till he picked up a little purple suckered leg.

"Hey Michael, you're eating Henry the Octopus!" cried Auntie S.

"Oh." he said.

Looked at it.
Dropped it in his bib.

"I don't like it."

Fair enough.

"The kickings driving mum-to-be to bats,
The belly weight is curving out her back,
Occasionally some runs,
Bleeding of the gums,
And feet-in-the-ribs feels more like an axe...
C'mon Sissy, C'mon C'mon,
C'mon Sissy C'mon, Cmon,
C'mon Sissy C'mon C'mon,
C'mon Sissy C'mon." **

** original lyrics

Hey. Ho. Lets. Go.

A Rose by any other name, as they say.

Only we cant really picture Rose for a name for our lass.
Or Chloe.
Or Mia.
Or ...

This naming thing is insanely subjective and hence, being a couple of dorky objective scientists, we've been lost for weeks.

We need an Arts graduate.

That said, by the grace of Ford we've finally reached some sort of conclusion, so if she comes towards the light tonight (a whole three days early... ) she'll have a label that we can tolerate.

Being boffins we still needed to apply some objectivity, hence the application of dad-to-be-again's patented "Ned Kelly" test.

Imagine you're Judge Redmond Barry with a booming voice and a penchant for sending person or persons to the gallows.

"Mabel Dorothy Watkins, you have been tried by this court and sentenced to be..."

If the court doesn't erupt into sniggers then the name fits.

Our current selection appears to fit the test.
(And sorry, you haven't got a scoop - we're not calling her Mabel, wonderful as that name was for Dad-to-be's amazing Nana at the turn of the previous century...)

The other all important consideration at this time is the birth plan.

For Rufous (now known as Master M), the birthplan extended to candles and music and do this and don't do that and, well, about three A4 pages of specifics.

Which all got thrown out the window when the little sod refused to come out.

Hence, the birthplan is as follows:
No pethidine please.
Don't forget to feed dad-to-be.
Bribe nurses with jelly beans.
Get the girl out.

(Oh, and a TENS machine comes in there somewhere.)

On the home front the bassinet is ready, the cots been prepped, nappies (in pink non-willy versions) been bought, and mum-to-be's got plastic bags on the car seat in case her waters break en route.

Thats about it.
As the Ramones would say,
Hey. Ho. Lets. Go.

As for Master M; on 26/7/2009 we reached Generation Why?

There we were in the car when Mistress P spotted Master M in the back seat chowing down on a Thomas the Tank engine book.
As you do.

"Dont eat the book Michael..." said mum.
"Why?"
"Cos its not food."
"Why?"
"Cos its a library book."
"Why?"
{Dad enters the fray..}
"COS DAD SAYS SO."
"why..."

We can't say we weren't warned.

Finally, we are somewhat worried we have bred a hardcore capitalist or worse; an economist.

Dinner table.
"We have peaches and yoghurt for dessert Mike, what do you want?" asked mum.
{Mike, in muffled tones with those great big eyelashes batting}
"Icecream..."
"We dont have any icecream Michael"
{more batting of eyelids...}

"Buy it..!"

Buy it?
Where the hell did this concept of the monetary system come from??
'Buy it?'
Ay Kurumba.

But yes, a Rose by any other name.