Mark took the overnight shift, and I was able to go home and crawl into my own bed with Vivien next me. In the middle of the night she said, “Momma, I’m glad you came home.” Woke up early, but had the best sleep in many nights. I got up twice to pump, but I wasn’t the sentry for the night; and I didn’t have an overweight, sullen nursing assistant barging in several times a night with a nose ring snorting, “I gotta take his vitals.” And who says we can pronounce the death of charm? I perhaps.

Yesterday, we would find out the results of all the cultures. My mother-in-law arrived so I could either spell Mark or take our boy home. Just when I was getting ready to go Mark called and said, “They diagnosed him…” I held my breath.  ”…as a cutie, patootie.” It was funny, but I could have hit him. “Is he okay?”

Yes, he was, and we could take him home. I was sure he would pass out when we got to our own environs, and he did. But he isn’t himself. He is cranky and sensitive, which he wasn’t before. If he loses his latch instead of allowing me to reattach him calmly per usual, he flips out and starts crying. A cry that sounds like to me, “Oh, forget it lady, just forget it; you f–ed up and I’m not interested anymore.” And it takes a while to calm him.

The one thing that is better about him is he developed a puffy redness under his eyes while in the hospital. I assume from the stress and crying. So that looks better. Maybe the entire trauma has taken its toll, or maybe the antibiotics they gave him bother his tummy, ’cause I have had more spit up than usual.  I dunno.

So grateful to be home and back to small problems. I glimpsed some kids in there that could break your heart.