Ok, technically it’s not a purse. Technically it’s a fanny pack. Which name is worse?
The night before our son’s due date, I was lying in bed, apparently doing the male version of nesting: last second panic that led to me overnighting Amazon items I thought would make our lives just a little easier with two-under-two and a 10-year-old. The shopping cart ended up consisting of:
At this juncture in my life, I begin to reflect on what really matters to me, and how those thoughts will guide me in the coming weeks.
If you’ve read my last post, and are paying attention to the dates, you might be wondering about my son’s status.
Good news: he is doing very well. He is still in the NICU, but he is entirely off oxygen/supplemental gas. In other words, breathing on his own. His body is learning how to regulate that, though. Twice in the last 48 hours he experienced what the staff called “Brady desats”. They were not severe, and he recovered quickly from both. After that, not long before I left tonight, I watched him get close to another one, but recover before his oxygen saturation dropped too low.
Four days ago, I got up at 3:21 AM to get ready with my wife to report for our scheduled induction at 5:00 AM. It took her about 5 hours to reach the full throes of contractions. It took her about 5 minutes of labor to deliver our son, and it took about 15 seconds for us to ask “Is his breathing ok?”