I lose it worse than Tiger Woods on 16

The night time wake ups have been taking their toll on Mindy and I for the last couple weeks and I lost it on Friday morning.

I can't hit the ball that well much less hit a flying club?

Here's a video of Teagan and Brielle:

You would think that what I needed was a long time away from them, or some drugs or both, but I actually like being around my kids and it was getting to spend time alone with Brielle was what really helped.


Yesterday, in the late afternoon as The Masters was winding down the sun shines pretty bright into our living room and we usually have to move the kids away. Well, Teagan took a trip to Gracie, Angie and Craig's and Rianne took a trip to Joy's so it was just Brielle and I.


I had her propped standing looking down on me (that's two feet above me) while I was lying down on the couch and she was pretty smiley. Then she looked to her left in surprise as she saw her shadow and looked back at me to see if I saw it too.

She tapped at it, pushed at it, then yes, tried to eat it.

Random: Just kind of reminded me of the Peter Pan story where Peter (in the original 1910 Barrie edition, gets his shadow caught in the window sill) In Hook, that happens in the play that starts the movie.

Anyway, it was kind of cool to spend 3 hours with her alone, put her to bed, feel like a normal parent with one child if only for an evening. We'll probably spend most of Easter together and I'm sure there will be Easter pictures coming.

Until then, Mindy continues to try to help me learn to feed the kids and I'm not doing well there either.

Mindy Feeding Teagan Apple Sauce

I'm feeding Rianne prunes. Yes, she is double bibbed, a cloth and plastic one.

 I prefer to let them do it themselves:

So much easier!

.

Random Pic: One month's supply of baby food. For one girl. We will need 9 a day or 270 jars a month.

On a totally different note, I got to read my poem Baby Colors, about Brielle's CPR last week at Beaverdale Books and here is the final revision.

It's published in Expressions Literary Magazine a little bit differently. This includes the editing advice from Poet Joseph Millar that I met with last week.

Baby Colors

Tummy to mat, baby sleeps,

Daddy watches.

The television’s pixel sea

bathes the nursery in soft hues.

The Scarlet and Black bend

before the Cardinal and Gold.

Three red baby-monitor lights fire

sound a siren.

No breaths?

A false alarm?

Turn her.

Flick the foot.

Flick the foot – hard.

She gurgles as shocked cerulean eyes

jump open to plead – help me

Purple lips quiver

Exhausted eyelids slide shut. 

Daddy SCREAMS for mom.

No answer. 

Airway? Sweep it.

Baby throws up white formula froth and tiny red violin strings.

Breath in? No.

Circulation? Don’t know.    

Rip the sleeper. Start compressions.

Careful.

Under the xiphoid.

Protect her.

Daddy SCREAMS for mom.

No answer.

Brielle turns crimson

Limbs fall limp.

Daddy’s failing. Oh, God,

Daddy’s failing.

Mom hurries in. She says, “I was just…Oh, no.”

She launches a white lightning missive

 to a satellite, bouncing it earthward,

relaying their need to the black-and-white .

Husband and wife kneel

Work a wordless, woeful duet. 

Compressions and breaths.

For better or for worse.

In sickness and in health.

They look to each other with fraught tears,

Prayers go unanswered.

Now, outside of themselves

– an ethereal audience.

Just…sweep it again.

Brielle gags. Coughs. Sputters.

Wipe the mouth. Suction the nose.

Breath in?

Yes, but… she’s still purple?

Run.

Follow the plastic green tube.

Up the oxygen.  Turn the dial.

2-3-4-5 liters in.

Wind whistles through the cannula

 into her tiny nose.

 “How is she?” a policeman asks.

Mother and father bend

–  frozen,

Giving extra breaths

 – silently,

They look.

Sob.

Collapse.

“She’s pink.”