Teeny Tiny Trio Turn Twenty-One!!!!

For the first time in 21 years, I can't get to all my crew tomorrow -- or today, or this week.  The last time I couldn't get my hands on them on April 18th, was the actual April 18th of their birth! After almost ten weeks of bedrest, and an emergency c-section at just 28 4/7 weeks pregnant, those teeny tiny babies were delivered from my body and whisked to the arms of a waiting medical team and into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. It would be 24 hours before I laid my own actual eyes on them and got to touch their sweet little selves. It would be longer than that before I could hold them all.

So for 21 years -- TWENTY-ONE YEARS -- April 18 has been one of my favorite days of the year. Even when Wade was in training and time off was hard to come by, we would set aside the time to plan a party to celebrate the birth of this terrific trio!

Celebrating the milestone each year was more than just a birthday -- it was a day of thanksgiving! The triplets were not due to be born until July 7. When we were told they would probably be early, I thought maybe they would be born on my Dad's birthday at the end of May. But it never occurred to me that we would have an April delivery.

 From the moment we knew delivery was the only option, we were terrified. I had been receiving injections to help speed their lung development. But it was far far too early. I was petrified as I was rolled to the operating room. But each of those teeny tiny babies gave a cry to let me know that they were breathing in spite of the warnings from the doctors to the contrary.

April 18 is not just another day to pass the years of their lives -- April 18 is a day of thanksgiving for their very life, their very breath! And I love celebrating them!!

This year Benjamin is in the middle of a theatrical production. 

He is right in the midst of dress rehearsals and finishing up his JUNIOR year of college and as such, the birthday celebration will take a backseat. For now. But rest assured, we will celebrate this our first-born (by a minute and a half!), and give thanks to God for the way he uses his life.

Mason will spend his day on his own college campus wrapping up his Junior year. 

He'll barely get home for summer before his research takes him off and away again. I am so proud of him I could just burst. No one would have guessed the baby that came in to this world weighing barely 2 lb 3 ounces would accomplish all that this young man has already!

And Claire will spend her day -- as she has this whole semester -- in Argentina where she is studying abroad and enjoying every single moment!

She is spreading her contagious joy and her care for all the marginalized far and wide. I still see the itty bitty baby girl with the giant pink bow her nurses made for her but she is quite an amazing lady already and I couldn't be more proud!

The day after they were born, I was able to hold Benjamin. Mason was too tiny. They wanted him to gain some ounces before we held him. Claire was too unstable -- her little heart rate wouldn't stay steady. I have wanted them within arms' reach every day since. But the miracle of April 18 is NOT that they took a breath and JUST lived...no the miracle of April 18 is that they took those breaths, and took their very lives, and are using them to make the world a better place -- in big out loud ways. And so I might not be able to cuddle them close tomorrow -- But I will be celebrating them big!! So so big!!!

Happy Birthday, Benjamin, Mason, and Claire!!!

 I love you so!!

And rest assured, that as soon as we are all back to together again, we are celebrating....and I might need you to stay within arms reach for a minute or ten. 

A Tale of Three Tiny Babes

Sunday was World Prematurity Day. Does that even cause a blip on your radar? Honestly, as few as 17 years ago, it would not have registered on mine.

But then. Oh but then.

Wade and I learned we were expecting triplets on Nov. 27, 1996. There were so many emotions that day. I was in the midst of grad school and taking a Developmental Psychology class at the time. My predominant thought that day was how in the world I would nurture them all, give them all the emotional support they needed, and make them each feel secure in our attachment! (Sounds very grad school-esque, no?)

Wade was a second year medical student and so his thoughts were in a completely different place. He knew the challenges of carrying three babies to term. He knew the possibility of premature birth and the ramifications.

I was blissfully unaware.

I immediately signed up for a Triplet Connection group. They sent out a box of information. I wanted to see the beautiful pictures of precious babies born in triplicate. But the box also contained some of the scariest information I ever received. The information about recognizing pre-term labor, how to respond and how to prevent. This literature included pictures too -- pictures of the tiniest of infants looking for all the world like little featherless birds.

I was cocky in the way that only a first-time mother can be cocky. I would listen to the doctors. I would read every bit of information I could get my hands on and I would carry these babies to a safe delivery date. Oh, I understood they would be early, but late May would mean they were born near my Dad's birthday. That would be cool. That became my target.

Right up until I was sitting in a board meeting at 19 weeks pregnant and felt my first contraction. I tried to focus on the meeting. I tried to pay attention. But within minutes I felt another. I excused myself. (Or maybe I just got up and left. I can't remember.) I went to my office and called my doctor. 

"Get horizontal and drink a gallon of water. RIGHT NOW!"

I lived 30 minutes from work. I filled my water jug and headed out the door. I had no idea that I would not be allowed to return to that office for the duration of my pregnancy.

I ended up in the emergency room that night. The contractions would not stop. A giant dose of meds calmed everything down and we were sent home.

Two days later, we would be right back. This time they kept me.

Doctors in training, the residents, were the first line of doctors I saw. They made all manner of encouraging statements: "These babies aren't viable." "You probably won't be a mother this time."

And then my doctor showed up and kicked them all out.

"Focus on tomorrow," he said. "Just be pregnant when I get here tomorrow."

I briefly went home after that initial week-long stay but only briefly. On my next exam, I was dilating. I was 100 percent effaced. And even though I was only 22 weeks pregnant, my body thought it was time to deliver these babies. I wouldn't stand or even sit up straight until they were delivered.

Ya'll, the Labor and Delivery floor is supposed to be joy-filled. Unless you are there for weeks on end. Unless your contractions never stabilize enough in pre-term labor to be moved off the L&D floor. Then, well, then it is pure torture.

I listened to women giving birth day in and day out for weeks. My dear L&D nurses were often so busy they forgot to bring me meals (Most women on L&D don't eat....I needed enough calories for 3 growing babies!). And through it all, I prayed, I cried, I whined. 

Wade contemplated taking a year off so he could be with me in the room. But a year off meant another year of training. I talked him out of it. 

My doctor forbid medical students or residents to round on me. They were too close to Wade, he said. He didn't want them to have information before Wade did.

My sweetest nurse brought flowers to cheer up my room. Another found a VCR and I watched "Sound of Music" round the clock. My singing drowned out the sounds of labor echoing up and down those halls. Wade's friends brought milk shakes to up my caloric intake.

We had mentally marked the day we would reach the 28 week mark. The University of Chicago had a near 100 percent survival rate for premature babies born at 28 weeks. That was my target.

We celebrated that Monday morning. I was miraculously still pregnant after almost 10 weeks of labor.

And then, in the wee hours of the night, I felt a sensation that I could only assume was my water breaking. I simultaneously hit the nurses' button and called Wade. The nurse walked in and turned and walked out. She returned with the on-call Fellows and word that the doctor was on the way. I couldn't see beyond my belly and so had no idea what was causing the horrified looks on everyone's faces until Wade walked in. I was hemorrhaging. What I assumed was water was in fact blood and it was not stopping. Everyone moved in high gear believing the babies would have to be delivered.

My doctor had left town earlier that day for his mother's funeral. His partner walked in and shook her head, "No." She said, "I promised Dr. Moawad that you would still be pregnant when he returned. We are not delivering these babies."

She aggressively treated the labor, and when the contractions stopped, so did my hemorrhaging. We thought we had bought us more time.

And we did. But only four days. On Friday, it all started again. This time I had lost so much blood that it was unsafe to wait any further. The rush of events once the decision was made was insane.

A nurse was running up and down the halls alerting everyone to the fact that "The triplets are coming."

My L&D nurses filed into the operating room to kiss my cheek and express their prayers for my babies.  There was a doctor, fellow, and nurse for each baby. Plus the anesthesiologist, my doctors and nurses and Wade. That room was packed.

Benjamin was delivered first and though he cried to say hello, his team whisked him away so fast I didn't even get to see him. Mason was next, followed my little Claire a few minutes later.

Before I knew what had happened I was in recovery and urging Wade to go, go, go to the NICU and see our babies. A wonderful nurse handed him a Polaroid camera and told him to bring me pictures. I treasure those photos -- my first glimpse at the beauty of my trio.

Premature birth is a hard road. And if I thought 10 weeks of labor was a challenge, the next few weeks made those look like a walk in the park. The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at the University of Chicago had many many tiny little babies. I wouldn't get to go there for 24 hours. But then they would have to kick me out every day.

The nurses were God's gift to us. They taught me how to Kangaroo with my tiny little babies. I would strip them to their diaper and button them up in my shirt, skin-to-skin. It was here that they would breath the easiest, maintain their temperature the best and teach me that I was their mommy.

Benjamin, Mason squished in the middle, and Claire in the pink bow!

When Claire was having struggles, her amazing nurse Laura comforted me. "Let's give her a spa day, " she said. We got out the bowl that we bathed her in (yes, a bowl!) and Laura put in one of the oxygen tubes to add bubbles. Sweet little Claire had her own jacuzzi! She didn't care, but Laura's actions had just made a sweet memory for me, and given me a dream of spa dates with my first little girl. I was comforted.

Those precious nurses made me cards for Mother's Day -- my very first -- with little tiny hand and foot prints. They encouraged us to bring photos for the isolettes and notes to hang. They held my hand during first baths (more bowls!) and the first time I could actually put clothes on them (preemie sizes swallowed them whole!).

I didn't know anything about premature babies, but these nurses taught me. They gently educated me on caring for my crew and graciously reminded me that I was the Mommy -- a hard thing to believe when so many trained-professionals are caring for your tiny little babes.

And so on World Prematurity Day (or this day after) -- I want to make you aware: I want you to understand that research must continue on how to prevent women from going into early labor. I want you to understand that the level of care my trio and I received is not available world-wide, we need to work to spread it everywhere!

And I want to thank those precious women who carried me through the season of my own labor and the trio's time in the NICU. It is one thing to do your job, but quite another to add love, friendship and understanding into the mix. Oh what a blessing those women were -- and continue to be in our lives!!

We thought it was appropriate to wear University of Chicago t-shirts for this photo! 

No shoe droppings.

We are parents of two special needs children. And while I refuse to let my boys be defined by their special needs, I sometimes have to admit that the fact that they both have cerebral palsy colors my entire world. For fifteen years, I have tried to work through it, around it, over it...but the bottom line is that when I confront a topic, an issue, an idea, I do it with the filter of being Mom to Benjamin and Mason, and the trials that are part of who they are.

For example, when God smiled on us in 2005 and we realized we were expecting another child, it was that filter that made us anticipate issues. I am not the healthiest of eaters (don't laugh, Mother.). I have never eaten the recommended daily allowance of fruits and veggies. Never. And because the pregnancy was a wonder, a miracle, a gift, I had not been on any type of vitamin supplement....we worried how this would affect the baby.

Wade and I began discussing van options that would accommodate two wheelchairs. Oh, please don't think we were being pessimistic. If you spent two minutes with me, you would know I am a completely hope-filled optimist. Annoyingly so, no doubt. But optimist or not, we see the world through the filter of special needs parents. We know that some of the most amazing children need extra help and we fully anticipated that would be the case.

It wasn't. Cate runs, jumps and takes care of all of us seven years later. She is -- as she has been known to tell people -- a gift. An absolute gift.

But my point is this: I fear that sometimes I walk around waiting for the other shoe to drop. Amidst a season where more seems to be going on with my beautiful boys than ever before, I am feeling shoeless. Really, just so tired of dropping shoes!

My beautiful Claire -- the only girl in our set of triplets -- was actually the sickest one of the three during their Neonatal Intensive Care days right after birth. She struggled so but boy, by the time she came home she was a feisty little thing -- let her sleep and then watch her go! She was strong-willed, opinionated and well, the only one without Cerebral Palsy.

I was certain after she scared us in the NICU, we had reached an understanding that she was not to be sick. Ever. Not allowed.

But Monday, she apparently forgot. My sweet girl and I were doing our gym-thing together early in the morning. Working to get back at it after a lovely holiday off (we like to bake Christmas cookies so it wasn't a particularly easy morning!). Halfway into our workout she fainted. Out cold. She fainted twice before I could get her alert enough to get her to the car and home.

It was awful.

My first reaction was that she was dehydrated. Had low blood sugar. Something simple. And I hope that is all it was.

But as I got her home and the adrenaline left my body, I began to worry. Mason has had so many medical issues in the last year that uncovering them led to the discovery that the hole in his heart from the NICU days is still open. What if Claire's is open and something about that triggered this?

I could already hear the shoe dropping.

The pediatrician examined her that afternoon. He did hear a murmur but assured me it could be nothing. He is sending her to a cardiologist and she is not allowed to really exercise strenuously until then.

She seems herself today -- finally -- two days later. 

Her Dad and I have reminded her of the agreement she unknowingly signed to be the healthy, easy one. Clearly, she had forgotten.

Smile.

Until our appointment, we will wait. Probably a bit impatiently. But we will rest in the assurance that no shoe drops without God's consent -- He alone knows the plan for Claire's life. For mine or her Dad's or our other beautiful children.

We will rest in that.

Privileged to be his Mommy....

There is a gross, awful, possibly-the-flu bug going around my family. It was annoying enough when it hit my husband. But then it attacked my baby girl and her sweet eyes just begged for me to make it go away. I was mad enough at it with that. But then, the vicious thing attacked our Benjamin. He has been the sickest of all as it hit him when his reserves were already low from post-surgery healing. And well, this precious son of mine doesn't have a lot of reserves.

I have to confess here that initially I just wanted to bide our time. I wanted it to be treated just like we had treated Wade and Cate. By keeping them hydrated and using meds to reduce their temperatures. I wanted to KNOW it would be pass in a couple of days and not fret. I really (really really) wanted to not fret.

But alas, his temp hit 103+. Definitely higher than anyone in our house. Dad urged me to take him to the doctor. The doctor (an amazing amazing pediatrician) looked worried. Not in a freak-me-out kind of way. Just in a we-have-to-take-this-seriously kind of way.

And that is when I snapped to. I remembered that my amazing boy is not like a billion other boys on this planet who could have just waited it out. Or even like his baby sister or Dad. No. This one-of-a-kind kid that I get the privilege to Mother needs to be taken care of a bit differently and we needed to respond fast to prevent whatever this vicious thing is from getting to his lungs.

My big boy Benjamin -- weighing in at 2 pounds, 14 ounces, he was the largest of my three!

After a couple of sleepless nights, where I ran back and forth from my room to his all night. Dad suggested he and B swap places so that I could possibly sleep. I argued at first, thinking it wouldn't help Benjamin to sleep. And that's when my amazing husband reminded me of a story from these days....the days in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at the University of Chicago.

Those were hard days. Hard days. I was struggling to FEEL like the Mommy. These incredible nurses were caring for my babies 24/7. I came in for the day shift -- 7 to 7 -- but when they kicked me out at shift change, I was sent home with orders to get my own strength back. They were hard, emotional days. As a first time Mommy, AND a developmental psych student (at the time I went on bed rest), I was so concerned that they would attach with their nurses. Not me.

And then this sweet baby let me know otherwise.

I arrived at the NICU that morning just like I always did. When I went to Benjamin's isolette (I rotated holding all three and always went in birth order -- B, M, then C), the nurse (NOT one of our favorites!) said he was unstable and I couldn't hold him today. When I asked about it, she pointed to his monitors, told me he was tachycardic and that they couldn't get his heart rate down. She said he needed to be still and not be bothered by me. (Her words...she wasn't a favorite, can you see why?) Then she left. I was heart broken. I immediately opened the little "window", placed my hand on Benjamin's back and began talking softly to him. Letting him know his Daddy and I loved him.

His heart rate went to normal. I didn't immediately make a connection. I just knew it was normal and since that is all we needed, I wanted to hold him. I went to get the nurse. When she came back, he was tacky again -- his heart rate was elevated. She looked at me with disapproval. I immediately put my hand on his back and asked him what he was doing. His heart rate went to normal.

The nurse, watching the numbers, told me to get my hand out of the isolette. His heart rate elevated AS SOON AS I DID. She put her hand on his back. Nothing changed. She drew her hand out and told me to put my hand back. I did. His numbers went to normal.

She threw open the isolette and handed him to me. "Here, take him. You are obviously what he wants."

His heart rate did not elevate the entire time I held him. My Benjamin had found a way to tell me that all was well. We were bonded. He was attached. And I WAS THE MOMMY!

Me and my three once we got them ALL home from the hospital!

Swinging in our backyard in Minnesota with a 3-year-old Benjamin!

Christmas morning when the trips were 3....me and my Benjamin!

Thirteen years have passed since the days in the NICU. And still, this boy of mine rests best when Mommy is near. So, for the last couple of nights, I've watched him breathe. I've made sure his fever was monitored and stayed down. And I have prayed beside this precious boy that he would heal and fight this and NOT get any sicker. And what has he done. Well. He has slept like a fat baby. And he is getting better by the minute.

Thank you, Lord!