What's the Fuss?

A Day with Buzzy:

Morning --

The alarm goes off. I rouse myself to wake up my older child and start getting her ready for school. As she begins getting dressed, I return to the bedroom to get Buzzy. She has been awake for half an hour, but when I reach into the crib where she is standing, she runs in the opposite direction, uttering her screeching protest through her pacifier as she goes. I pick her up anyway, and she begins screaming in my ear as I lug her into the other room for a diaper change during which she flails her limbs and breaks into an all-out sob. The fuss continues as I put her in her chair for breakfast, half of which is thrown onto the floor as soon as I set it in front of her. The reason for all this clamor? She didn't want me to get her from her crib. She wanted her father, who is somehow sleeping through all the noise.

Buzzy finally calms down when I urge Daddy out of bed and into the kitchen. Yet, like the eye of a storm, the calm is temporary. The fuss resumes when I get her out of her chair and attempt to load her into the car to take her sister to school.

When we return, Daddy has not yet left for work, so Buzzy wriggles free of my grasp and makes a dash for him, attaching herself to his leg. Of course, he must soon depart, so I am left with a crying child who does not want me to comfort her. I turn on the television, and she is soon lulled into a temporary trance that allows me to put her into her bouncer and get some work done.

It is not long before I begin to hear her coming out of her trance. At the first whine, I retrieve her from the bouncer and begin the search for the pacifier. How it ended up behind the couch I'll never know, but as soon as I offer it, Buzzy commences trying to wrench herself out of my arms, wailing loudly as she does. She knows it's naptime. (To her credit, she falls asleep easily once she has her blanket and her music, but it took months of fuss -- on her part and ours -- to get her to this point.)

Afternoon --

I finish my work while Buzzy naps. It's quiet in the house except for the sound of my typing. Just around lunchtime, I hear her stirring in the bedroom. These are the first pleasant noises out of her for the day. I am happy to leave her chattering to herself for a few minutes before I interrupt her soliloquy. As I ease the door open, I see her lying on top of her blanket with her legs twisted toward the wall. I edge over to the side of the crib. She stares up at me for a second then rolls my direction to stand up. This time, there is no fuss as I change her diaper, and not wanting to tempt fate, I settle on giving her a bottle instead of fighting her into the high chair.

The afternoon goes smoothly until it is time to pick up the older one from school. As I try to put Buzzy into her seat, she plants her feet firmly into the bottom and pushes against it with all her might. I lift her up in a second attempt to position her, and she grabs the handle over the door. Now I am simultaneously prying it from her grasp and grabbing her behind the knees to place her in a sitting position. She arches her back, bawling her face red, as I move the straps over her arms and buckle her in.

Once we're moving, she calms herself, but inevitably we must stop to wait in line at the school (which incidentally makes me want to pitch a fit as well). Where I live, the tornado sirens, the closest of which is only a couple of blocks from my house, are tested each week. Every Saturday at noon, what begins as a soft whine soon progresses to a high-pitched blare that eventually morphs into an intermittent buzz. Each weekday at 3, a similar alarm sounds from my car about a block away from the elementary school, lasting until my older daughter seats herself in the backseat with her sister.

Evening --

As afternoon fades into evening, Buzzy is busy. With everyone home, there is more activity than any other part of the day. After-school snacks, homework, violin practice, Daddy's arrival home, and dinner preparations offer quite a bit to distract and overwhelm her. All of this activity takes its toll, and by the end of the evening, she is screaming and throwing herself on the floor for no apparent reason. We are all relieved once she is finally settled into her bed for the night. Yet, this sense of relief is short-lived because she has recently taken to waking up two or three times a night, something she hasn't done in months.



Before leaving the hospital, we were told that preemies are generally fussier than full-term babies. I don't know if statistically this is true or not, but I do know that my preemie is the fussier of my two children. It certainly makes sense. She is the more high maintenance of the two. Between the apnea monitor we were sent home with, nutritional supplements we were instructed to give, and the sheer number of doctors and home health specialists we have seen over the last couple of years, Buzzy has required more care than a full-term baby would. Much of that care has subjected her to being poked and prodded more than I probably have been in my entire life because ironically, to give her the extra care she needs, the poor girl must be handled more roughly than an average child.

It makes sense, then, that she would seek comfort where she can and object to what is uncomfortable. We all do this, and most of us have not been through what Buzzy has had to endure at such a young age. It is hard, however, in the middle of a crying fit to remember that there is a reason for the fuss. I am tempted to question why she can't act like a normal child. Of course, my definition of normal is probably flawed, but even within this ideal picture of what I think normal should be, I have to remind myself that Buzzy is not normal. She was born before she had the chance to fully develop many of the bodily systems we take for granted. She required assistance to breathe, eat, and maintain her body temperature because normally, I would have supplied her with oxygen, nutrition, and warmth for another twelve weeks. That she has overcome these obstacles and more makes her indeed special, and at the end of the day, I have to say that it's worth the fuss.

Off the Curve

As any preemie parent knows, weight gain is of prime concern, not just while in the hospital but when baby goes home as well. Since Buzzy came home, her pediatrician has recommended supplements to help her gain weight. We mixed a scoop of Neosure in with my milk each time we gave her a bottle. After I stopped pumping, we made the switch to Neosure altogether. Now that she is eating solid food, we supplement her diet with at least two Pediasures a day. Yet, even with all these extra boosts, Buzzy is 20 months old and barely weighs 20 pounds.

Of course, her slow weight gain is easily explained. Born three months early, she weighed under three pounds, and even if she had been full-term, I suspect that she would have been in the lower percentiles for her weight. Her older sister (born at 41 weeks) always ranked low for her weight. But easily explained doesn't necessarily mean easily written off. I am constantly concerned about her weight.

Right now, there are just so many unanswered questions. Will she always be small for her age? If so, will other kids pick on her? Also, we've been told that she is supposed to catch up to her peers by the age of two. If she doesn't with her weight, what does this mean for her overall development?

These concerns are not helped when outsiders comment on her small size. Recently, a woman guessed that Buzzy was 9 months old. As usual, an explanation was forthcoming. She is this age, but really she's supposed to be this age, so her development is slower than that of a "normal" baby. I don't like the comments because they are a reminder of how far behind she really is -- still in a rear-facing carseat, still in clothes sized for a 12-month-old, still not on the standard curve.

If there is one thing I have learned from having a preemie, though, it is that I can't compare my child to other children. I have to compare her to what she was. When I do this, I am encouraged. She may only register at 20 pounds on our bathroom scale, but surprisingly, she can pick up the scale and carry it around the house. She's small but strong.

Having a preemie also changes one's perspective on those coveted milestones. We waited longer than most parents for her first steps and first words, but they came and brought tears of joy to our eyes when they did. Even yesterday, as I was sitting on the couch while Buzzy played, she made an attempt to climb up with me. Several previous attempts have been unsuccessful. This time, I watched as she put one leg up, bracing herself with both arms, and slowly but surely hoisted her small body all the way up. Upon witnessing this scene, many parents might think, "Oh no! We're in trouble now!" My thought, however, was more along the lines of "Wow! You made it!"

Indeed, she had made it a long way, and though we still have far to go, we will get there. We'll move to a forward-facing seat. We'll be able to buy clothes that reflect her actual age. And, yes, eventually we'll finally be on the curve.