Spoiler alert

A lot of my mornings are quiet now. I wake up late, and I don't go to work, because for the first time since eleventh grade, I'm not working a minimum-wage job. You could say I'm having a two month vacation from life-- college, bills, parents, and fast food restaurants that crave my employment-- a vacation from all of it while I stay at my sisters.

Ironically, when I'm not faced with stressful home quarters or college schedules or urgent bills that disappointingly look like checks, I don't really want to write. What is there to scream out against or rally to the cause for? For these two months, I've ridden on a virtual free ride of late mornings, poker nights, holding my baby niece, back-to-back seasons of monk, the office, friends, CSI.... All things I would dream of once I finally fell into bed at 2 a.m. after work during this last year of college. And yet, now that most conflict is gone, I don't feel the need to fight or be challenged or the passion to write.

When I look at my sister, I understand her reason to write. I've always blogged about crap. But she never even considered a blog account until she had a reason to write. That little reason that has her writing also has her up at painfully dark hours, calming her little reason while throwup leaks down her shirt and into her hair, and has her twisting her back at impossible angles to be the perfect everything to everyone when I know all she wants is time with her little girl.

Anyways, that should explain why I haven't been writing even though I have endless time on my hands. Yes, be jealous all you want, but it's back to reality in two weeks and I'm sure I'll have plenty of heated things to say about the job market, and the horrors of living at home at the age of 20, and how exciting single life is supposed to be, bla bla bla. Now that I look back on all this, I get the sense that I am incredibly spoiled. Maybe.

New Faces

The day a baby is born, someone in the family looks beyond the scrawny legs and blue-veined skin and begins peering at that baby, trying to deduce who in the family she looks like. Meet Addison--the carbon copy of my sister, her mother.

My sister likes to think Addison got her stubborness from her. I'll give her that. Never have I met a more stubborn person than my sister. I had to laugh when I heard her telling Addison that she might be just as stubborn as her mommy, but mommy is bigger and has the advantage. But where does she get her expressiveness from?  Maybe Aunt Andi? Regardless, nannying today went well. Quiet and agreeable--so that was a nice change from last night when I witnessed her vomit into my sisters arms about three times and then deliver an astoundingly dirty diaper which I think I will be able to smell all week. While I looked on in flinching horror, I couldn't help but be impressed by her mother. Patient. Just rocking her back and forth and giving her all the pity she could desire. So I was thankful that Addison decided to reflect that attribute of her mother today. Patience.

Knowing your fears

I am terrified.

The emergency numbers are on the table, and beside it is my cellphone, and then beside that is a back up cellphone in case the first one doesn't work. A signed paper is in a bag, verifying that I have the right to request medical treatment. This sits beside a box of special equipment I need to grab if there are problems. I would prefer that thunder is crashing around me, ominous darkness threatens the view of the mountains outside the bay window, or a dark-clothed figure is breaking down the door. But, alas no. Instead, deceptively calming nursery songs are playing, the low hum of oxygen rumbles in the kitchen, and the click-click of a swing rocking back and forth attempts to lull me into a false sense of security. And within that swing, lies the source of my fear-- all nine pounds and some odd ounces of her.

"Hah, Addison," I say as I plop myself on a couch directly opposite her. "Now if you sneeze, I'll know," I warn, watching her intently. She doesn't seem to care, as she stares in fascination up toward the whiny bell music that is coming from her swing. She clutches the oxygen tube coming from her nose, and I take out a book and pretend to read.

She whimpers and I come half way out of my chair. "Please, go to sleep," I beg. Five minutes later, I witness only slightly delayed obedience. I've been with her for four days now, but this is the first time I have been left alone to be solely responsible for the life of a tiny little miracle.

In my head, I've been writing about Addison for about two weeks. This year when I first wanted to write about Addison, I wrote an article about her for my column in my university newspaper. But I was limited to 500 words, and frankly realized that the four thousand other students my age would probably be too focused on studies, dating, and career seminars to care about a baby born with special needs. I was wrong, though. People were fascinated with a baby who constantly fought against the odds of pulmonary hyptertension, transient lukemia, two holes in her heart, and down syndrome and would ask me for updates and stop by my dorm door to see new pictures. All year I had been recieving updates on Addison from a distance, praying for her, and getting excited to see her and it was two weeks ago around the time of exams that I began realizing with some alarm that in a matter of days I would be able to give others the udpates, since I would be nannying her for two months.

So here I am. Changing diapers for the first time and holding and bottle feeding a baby for the first time. All while watching my sister, who tells me laughingly, "I'm no baby expert either. I only started learning three and a half months ago."

I've never been much of a baby person and lately I've had that "ew" expression on my face, simply blown away by the large noises, sounds, and smells a baby can produce. But my favorite part is watching the way people react to Addison, with tons of baby faces and questions, and watching how resilient and flexible my sister has been, even after Addison's heart surgery in Boston this last week. The fact that she's back at work while I'm here with Addison is an obvious testimony to that.

 

So I guess this is another thing on my list that I've never done before and thought I could never do. It was Saturday morning cartoons that gave me an interesting perspective on overcoming your fears. I was just walking by the television when I caught a phrase from one of those hopelessly uninteresting blue bunny characters. "Well the more you know about something, the less you'll be scared of it!"

One extremely messy diaper, change of clothes and long bottle feeding later, and I'm sure I'm well on my way to knowing Miss Addison.