"Phil Good": And Then I Kicked a Box...

I kicked a box yesterday. Really hard. Not enough to hurt me, but enough to make a loud sound of fury. I then grunted really loudly in anger. I also moped around the house, upset that none of my pants were comfortably loose around my c-section scar area and all that is still swollen around, and everything that was adequate was out of the question since it smelled like sour milk. And I was just so so tired. I just wanted to sleep. I fell into a deep sleep while Andy was reading The Hungry Caterpillar to Jordan before he was put to sleep. I was OUT. It was a rude awakening that I had to get up, get ready, and head back to the hospital. Grrrrr. Ugh. The boxes around our house, the packed and flat ones, the laundry overflowing the baskets, and the folded laundry we still are too lazy to put away did not help. But that's how I felt. And you know what... kicking the box felt good. Really really good.

I'm about ready for Bubba to come home and tired of the positive attitude I've managed to have this whole time, with constant hospital trips, waking up butt early to get Jordan ready and drop him off for playdates, and worrying every time a 509 number calls me on my cell (as it could be the NICU). I guess what goes up must come down eventually, and it sure came down yesterday.

I got to the hospital and it was dark in the parking lot. I imagined some psycho capturing me and putting me into the trunk of a car or something worse. I looked at the "no weapons beyond this point" sign on the door of the many doors I was entering, wondering what exactly the would do if a weapon did get in. It's not as if there was a metal detector or anything else besides a sign that said "don't do it." Pitiful. I walked really fast. Like a speedwalker. I really hate walking down empty corridors with empty rooms and shut doors with white walls. It scares me, makes me feel like I'm in an insane asylum where chaos could break loose at any given time. But I kept walking, wondering if someone was following me and then walking faster, proud I had made it farther than the minute before when I was contemplating such thoughts. I was still perturbed, by what exactly at that point, I knew not what. I just was. And I felt like every step I took was with more and more upset frustration. I became upset at my overwhelming desire to just sleep without having to wake up and pump and then wash the pumping parts and label the milk because I knew it was all for good reason. I was just negative, unwilling to see all the blessings that were abounding. Like all the wonderful people who have brought us food, have helped watch Jordan, and have kept us in their thoughts and prayers. Or the wonderful doctors and nurses that we know a little too well after three weeks there now. We're not newbies anymore. "Why hello Mrs. Phillips" or "hey there, how's it going tonight, he's doing well!" are greetings that often come my way as I enter the NICU. I just was over it.

And yet in all my blurry upset fatigue, everything was clear, everything was fresh, everything was so trivial and stupid the moment I was in the room with little Adam. Taking his temperature. Changing his diaper. Switching his co band to the other foot. Taking his little body into my arms and feeding him. Just like that.. I had the clarity I seemed to be missing before. And I just admired him as he fed, thinking how much he resembles Jordan but how he is his own personality already, with his own way of holding his hands up by his face, with his intent focus that reminds me of Jordan, yet is so different since it took him so long to get to the point of breathing and eating. It's really been a struggle for him to learn but he's getting there and that means... hopefully we will get to go home with him soon!