Tobias, Eleanor, Callista – my loves,
It’s been a year now since I first saw your sweet faces. That day was full of fear and worry, but it was also consumed by hope and faith. We’ll celebrate your birthday today without that fear and worry – faith and hope have allowed us to replace those burdens with pure happiness.
Today will be full of kisses, hugs and laughs. Daddy and I will sing you each your own birthday song, and we’ll try to sync it to the minute you were born.
We’ll dance and play, growl and squeal, clap and play peekaboo. We’ll play with blocks and balls and cars, sing songs and read books. You’ll practice walking with us and your toys and standing on your own.
You’ve accomplished things in your one year that I haven’t in my 29 years. You’ve connected with so many people and have inspired and encouraged them in ways no one could.
In journalism terms, the fact that you’re triplets is your hook, but the qualities that make you individually amazing are what hold people’s attention.
Toby,
You have managed to perfectly mix mellow and wild. You are super laid back and almost always ready for a snuggle. You’re mostly patient with getting changed and dressed, though you do often protest when it’s time to put your arms through shirt holes. You put up with your sisters snatching toys from you unless it’s my iPod or a remote. What can I say? You’re a child of the 21st century. You actually hate when anyone tries to take away “your” electronics. You always protest and instantly look to me for redemption, and you’ve been known to throw a tear-filled tantrum that makes me warily smile, wondering what we’re in for during your toddler years.
You wake nearly every night around 12:30 for a bonus nursing session. Your daddy has tried rocking or cuddling you back to sleep, but all you want is a snack from your number one source. I joke around a lot and say you’ll probably be breastfed until you leave for college, but I’m actually quite grateful that you haven’t yet given up on needing extra time with Mommy during the night. To be quite honest, I need it, too. Your sleepy snuggles are a welcome reminder that, while you’re getting more independent each day, you’re still my baby boy.
I’m pretty sure your favorite time of day is at night when pile pillows onto the floor for what we call Pillow World. All three of you love to roll around and use up the last bursts of energy for the day, but you shine during this activity. Your eyes light up and you beam, burying your face in one pillow then the next, growling and crawling around, pushing pillows with your head and gleefully diving into the piles. You know you’re less likely to bonk your head, so you really let loose your inner wild child.
You pick up on tricks your sisters do sometimes weeks later, but that doesn’t worry me. It’s part of who you are. They learn something new, we try teaching it to you, you act bored and ignore us, then a week or more later – BOOM. You’re doing it on your own, in your own time – no teaching necessary. I wonder if you are slyly watching your sisters and practicing these tricks when we aren’t looking, waiting to unveil them once you’ve mastered them. If so, I totally get it. I do the same thing. I hope you aren’t like me and let fears of not being good enough hold you back. Being good enough for others doesn’t always matter. Sometimes all that matters is that you think you’re awesome.
That’s a hard lesson you may not fully learn until you’re in your 20s, and that’s also OK. Do you know why? I will always love you, no matter what, and I’ll cheer for all the times you try things – not just when you master them.
Eleanor,
I vividly remember your newborn days, wondering what kind of kid you’d make with your constant flopping between Very Serious and Very Angry. I think you must have been practicing the ultimate “wait for it … wait for it …” of comedic timing because “serious” isn’t a word that comes to mind when I think of how to describe you.
Oddly enough, that’s how most strangers describe you because you stare at them like they’re a blank wall, unmoved by their attempts to make you smile. It isn’t that you’re serious, though, you’re sizing them up, seeing if they’re trustworthy, if they’ll appreciate your sense of humor.
Once you warm up to people, they can’t stop laughing at your silliness. From your pointing finger to your butt-in-the-air, hands-and-feet crawl, everything you do is just so … Eleanor.
You have a cartoon grin and infectious shrill giggles and hearty belly laughs. Just yesterday you learned to play peekaboo, something we’ve been teaching you, but I suspect you picked it up from watching your sister. She and I were playing peekaboo yesterday during lunch, and suddenly you started giggling. I turned in your direction to see you with your hands on top of your head, looking at me and giggling in a high voice. “Peekaboo?” I asked. You answered with more giggles and clapping.
Playing peekaboo with your hands on your head instead of over your eyes is just one of many so Eleanor things. You like to lie on your back and kick your feet around, maybe snack on your toes, talk to your hands or “read” a book held over your face. You are awesome at independent play, often needing a tap on the shoulder to get your attention away from whatever world you’re imagining.
You love dancing, and you must carry music in your soul because you can dance to a silent beat while eating, having a bottle, nursing, getting your diaper changed – whatever. Your head starts to bob, your belly wiggles up and down, and you’ve got us dancing right along with your imaginary music.
You scared us all at first, and I’m ashamed to admit I had trouble seeing past the worry for a few days. I’ll never regret your fiery personality. Hearing your neonatologist say, “I’m glad she’s feisty today. We’ve all been worried about how calm she’s been. Feisty is good. Feisty is healthy,” lifted my spirits, helped me grasp our connection and forever changed my perpective. I’m so proud of you for defying predictions, and I thank God every day for your health and feisty streak.
Callista,
Ninja Baby, my love. While your brother is mild and wild, you are sweet and spicy. You like to exercise your independence, but you want us to see and acknowledge what you’re doing. You are a fantastic mimic and realize quickly the things you do that make us laugh.
For example, one of us tried to free a book (paper is your favorite snack) from your mighty grasp, and you held on so tightly your face turned red and you shook. We laughed so hard and called you a strong girl. You next tried the red face/clenched fists/shaking body trick on waffles. Again, we laughed and called you strong. Before long, you started responding to, “How strong are you?” with what’s now a trademark move. You do it so often, and we laugh so often, that your sister caught on and now joins in the fun.
You really are strong, though. You’re physically strong, and you are strong-willed. It’s no mystery now how you went from being declared “expired” to measuring two weeks ahead of when the doctor said you had expired. Strong.
You are my doppelgänger. Not only do you look just like me (as someone who looked not much like anyone else before you, it’s a little freaky – good freaky), but you do some things just like me. You are our only thumb-sucker, and you prefer to rub your blanket’s satin edging between your fingers while sucking your thumb – just like me.
You also might get that stubborn streak from me, but I think we can equally blame your daddy, too.
You are such a happy girl. The morning of your birthday party, I picked you up from your crib still sleeping and carried you into the kitchen. You stayed asleep on my shoulder until Grandpa said your name. You cracked open your eyes, grinned and picked up your head, breaking into a giant smile.
How do you wake and instantly have a smile on your face? This is something you need to teach me.
You are super smart and are always discovering new adventures to lead your brother and sister on. They’ve for weeks admired your ability to climb up into your newborn-to-toddler rockers (stabilized with fold-down legs), but they haven’t quite figured out your secret. Instead, they gather around the chair you’re in while you play. Maybe they’re showing their appreciation, maybe they’re looking for pointers. Whatever it is, they’re often following a trail you’ve blazed.
Babies, my babies. You are, hands down, the most amazing people I’ve ever had the pleasure knowing. God granted me the greatest gift by choosing your daddy and I to belong to you. This year has been one of adapting, growing and learning. To say we all survived gives too much credit to the battles. You know we’ve had them, but they don’t define our first year together.
I think it sounds better to say we’ve all accomplished this first year.
“The Lord bless you and keep you,
The Lord lift His countenance upon you,
And give you peace, and give you peace,
The Lord make His face to shine upon you,
And be gracious unto you, be gracious,
The Lord be gracious, gracious unto you.”
Happy birthday, Toby. Happy birthday, Eleanor. Happy birthday, Callista.
I love you, always and forever.
***
Click here for the entry I wrote a year ago today. Click here for the story of their birth.
Between tripping over toys on the floor and the general triplet-mom frustration that can heat up my boiler, I’m guilty of channeling my inner sailor. Being the good mimics all kids are, my triplets will probably pick up a colorful phrase or five from me at some point.
But at least I’m not renting my foul-mouthed kids out for other children to play with.
These baby-doll triplets need a time out, and their mommy needs to empty her pockets into the swear jar!
Some customers are calling for the “You & Me Interactive Play & Giggle Triplet Dolls” to be pulled from shelves because they say one of the dolls can be heard uttering, “You crazy bitch.” – Huffington Post
Along with the amazing work and research from the March of Dimes, this photo was also made possible by Cheerios, silly songs and a snappity-snap-snap DSLR.
(Toby, Eleanor, Callista)
Those shirts are a gift from March of Dimes, for which our family team raised a whopping $11,889 this year. We love March of Dimes!
Tobias, Eleanor and Callista, born 12 weeks early at 28 weeks, 1 day gestation, will turn 1 year old in just 5 days.
All that haunts them now of their premature beginnings are the potential risks of future illnesses, developmental delays, behavioral issues and vision problems.
It’s important that I say that up front because they are healthy and have been, with the exception of Toby’s one, short illness this summer (roseola, I suspect), but their health hasn’t just been handed to them. They’re healthy despite their history, not because of it like term infants.
While I was being prepped for surgery the day they were born, my OBs assured me they’d survive – “You’ll all be fine,” they said.
Fine wasn’t good enough for me. I knew all the risks they faced, the test results we’d hold our breaths waiting for, the milestones we’d pray for.
They were all born with Respiratory Distress Syndrome, were intubated and treated with surfactant. The girls graduated quickly to CPAPs while Toby remained on a ventilator for three days. They were all treated with indomethacin for Patent Ductus Arteriosus. The treatments worked and saved them from heart surgery. We had to wait until their fifth day for head ultrasounds to reveal whether they had intraventricular hemorrhaging – brain bleeds. Only Eleanor’s results raised some concern, but multiple tests, evaluations and consultations since then have eased – if not erased – the worry.
Their health is due in part to the grace of God, but it’s also due to Rob and I being informed, diligent parents of three preemies.
The threat of setbacks and re-hospitalization keeps us on our toes with germ exposure. We limit out time in public. We try to avoid contact with potential illnesses. We wash our hands religiously and use sanitizer like it’s going out of style. We ask cooperation from our family and friends, and they’ve been gracious enough to share our protective stance.
One of the first things I heard while in recovery after their birth was that the best possible medicine they could receive was my breast milk. I started pumping that day and haven’t stopped yet. I had no expectations of breastfeeding my tiny babies, but I started working with them and my lactation consultants a month after they were born. I committed then to trying once a day with each baby – practice for them and practice for me. For months we worked at it together. There were endless sessions of frustration and struggle, tears from all four of us, helpless surrendering to a bottle of pumped milk, and finally – in June – I declared victory. Practice became pleasure, and I could confidently say I and all three babies enjoyed breastfeeding. We still do.
My point? Even healthy preemies have too many battles to fight.
It’s not good enough for me to know that my three preemies have a happy story. I know too many babies who were born too soon and died because of their early start. I know too many people who were born too soon and continue to fight related health issues through infancy and beyond into childhood and adulthood.
My own daddy is one of them.
We support World Prematurity Day, March of Dimes and walk in the March For Babies to give future tiny fighters a better chance at victory. We show our faces to show there is hope and there are happy endings, but there need to be more stories like ours.
Support the 13 million babies born prematurely each year worldwide and honor the 1 million babies who have died because of their early start. Click to find out more about how you can prevent premature birth or how you can help March of Dimes fight for preemies.
Preemies are the strongest tiny people you’ll ever meet, but they can’t do it alone.
I made a late, just-before-they-closed run to Target tonight once we put the babies to bed. My route home was part of the route I drove home from the NICU each night. I’ve been on that road at night since (I most frequently drove home late at night), but the Christmas music I was listening to tonight changed the experience and sent me straight back to last year.
This past year has flown by – don’t get me wrong – but the babies’ first 67 days in the outside world were the longest of my life.
But we’re fortunate. We left the NICU with three healthy babies. Only one has been sick (just once), and our encounters with medical professionals have been nothing but routine visits. They’ve graduated from their specialists (I don’t count the annual, just-in-case, till-they’re-4 eye checkups), and the only hospital equipment we’ve had in our house is my breast pump.
For all intents and purposes, we truly left our NICU days behind us the day they graduated. Life with triplets is a busy whirlwind, and I suddenly, thankfully, had no more time to think about what was and what could have been.
Fortunate. Blessed.
With their first birthday just days away, with World Prematurity Day tomorrow (in 30 minutes by my clock!), and now, tonight with the drive and the music – I’ve taken some time to remember. I spent a good 90 minutes last night reading through blog entries from November and December 2010.
I read, I remembered, and I cried. I’ve forgotten so much. I’ve let go of so much. This year, this amazing, miraculous 2011, has healed so much of the pain that comes with learning to be a parent while your three tiny babies are living in boxes, attached to wires and tubes and being closely guarded by nurses, respiratory therapists and neonatologists who, much to your dismay, know more about what your babies need than you.
Tonight’s drive reminded me of the minutes I dragged into hours, delaying my drive away from my babies each night as much as I could. I remembered how the Christmas music, which I always put on in an attempt to cheer me up (and so often cried through various “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” renditions), was really just background noise as I recounted our day together, prayed for their safety that night, for their nurses to care and keep them company while I was away, for my phone to stay silent and for morning to come quickly and quietly – time for us to reunite once more.
In 30 minutes, the calendar will flip, and it will be the first World Prematurity Day. I’m not sure if I’ll be staying up late tonight, getting up early or writing through naptimes tomorrow, but I will be blogging on behalf of my three premature miracles. Last year, I couldn’t bring myself to think of them as fighting preemies and wrote in support of The Other People – you know, the people you hear of Scary Things happening to because surely those Very Scary Things can’t and won’t happen to you.
My three little loves were born five days later, 12 weeks premature.
It happened to us, and it can happen to you – with singletons, twins, triplets or more. World Prematurity Day works to raise awareness, to help prevent premature births and to help the tiniest fighters have the best resources in their corners.
Fight for preemies – maybe someday they’ll all have happy stories like mine.
