Ambrose is three weeks old today. We’ve come a long way in those three weeks, and have been given a lot of good news. The ventilator came out. The umbilical line came out. The PICC line came out. I got to hold him. He was off all sedatives. The MRI came out normal. It was time to start breastfeeding…
But those words, spoken by the neonatologist during rounds this morning, formed truly the greatest sentence we’ve heard in our twenty days in the PCH NICU.
We might be going home. Soon. As in, tomorrow or the day after soon, depending on how quickly we can get things sorted out with Tricare and the medical supply company providing Ambrose’s oxygen.
Which means that today saw us wrapping up a bunch of loose ends. Ambrose had to be registered in the military DEERS system for insurance to release him (meaning Dad had to take a trip to the nearest base), we had to make his first pediatrician appointment, we had to do another car seat test (3 hours long, because he’s going home on oxygen), we had to meet with someone to figure out the oxygen system…etcetera, etcetera.
But! There’s a light at the end of this long, long tunnel! We are about to bust out of this joint!
Which has me simultaneously thrilled and terrified. A bit like this timeless Saved by the Bell GIF:
Thrilled, because dude. I finally get to take my son home after three weeks. I get to carry him around in all my myriad wraps and carriers, I get to take him on my favorite 3-mile route around downtown, I get to dress him in all his cute clothes and stick him under the high-contrast mobile that’s especially perfect for his limited newborn vision…and as for me, I get to be home, with all my stuff, eating all the food I made sure to freeze in advance, feeding Ambrose whenever he wants, sleeping next to him in his Moses basket, and being his mom.
Terrified, because holy cow. I’m about to be placed in charge, 100%, of a newborn. What. It’s about to get very sleep-deprived up in the Huffman house. And as much as I thought I had stuff figured out before Ambrose was born, I officially know now that babies don’t follow any sort of rules. They do their own thang. And I’m going to have to learn to live with that.
Mostly though, I’m thrilled. It’s time to move forward with our lives, and get Ambrose back home where he belongs.