It's what I think each morning when I wake up. Maybe, today, Cally's bilirubin levels will have dropped. Maybe, today, we'll be able to bring her home. Maybe, today, Ella and Buddy will finally meet their new baby sister. Maybe, today, when Ella runs to the door after I return from feeding Cally and asks if I brought the baby, I can say yes.
I feel like we're in a holding pattern. Waiting. She's a week old today and yet, we haven't really started. We have yet to settle in. The adjustment to having one more Nolasco has yet to come. And, we couldn't be more ready for her to come home. Her room is set up - clothes clean and folded neatly in drawers, sheets on her bed, bouncy seat assembled. Her pack-n-play is sitting in the corner of our room all made up. Waiting.
I've fallen into a routine over the last four days and nights. I go in to feed her at 11 am, 3 pm and 7 pm. I pump at 10:30 pm before going to bed. I set my alarm for 1:30 am and 4:30 am to get up and pump. I write my name, the hour and the date on the bottles and put them in the fridge. I get up and leave the house by 6:30 am to deliver breast milk for Cally's 7 am feeding - I'm not allowed to feed her at this hour because the doctors come. In between these hours - in two hour segments - I sleep or put kids back to sleep, I eat, I play with the kids, I spend time with Joey and my mum. I wait.
Last night, as Joey climbed into bed, he said how he couldn't believe how much you can miss a person you have yet to know, who he's hardly spent time with. I remember for him that on Saturday, he finally got to hold her again - for just five minutes - for the first time since Tuesday night. He said sometimes he has to remind himself that Cally is there. In the hospital. A little person waiting to come home and join this family.
I have no new pictures to share. The last ones we took were when she was just a day old - on Tuesday night. I've only seen half of her face since Wednesday. The other half is bandaged up with an eye mask. A nice nurse let me take a small peep at her eyes yesterday when she was adjusting the eye mask.
I want to see her. I want her to see us and feel the love we are all bursting to give her. And of course, I want her to be well. I just want it to start.
And so each night, when I close my eyes to go to sleep. I think.