The Wombat File Is Yours to Keep

Regular readers know that we've had some recent premature-labor scares; after the third trip to the hospital, we'd started to become almost comfortable with the whole thing. It seemed like Theresa would just endure regular bouts of pre-term contractions, right on up to sometime during her last month, maybe even to her July due date itself. We'd become almost jaded about the late-night trips to the labor & delivery department of the hospital.

Friday evening brought all that to a halt, as our daughter's amniotic sac ruptured while we attended our pal Gus's rockin' third birthday party, and we found ourselves rushing to the hospital, equipped with absolutely nothing, Theresa having ingested naught but a slice of pizza, and just counting ourselves lucky that Helena's best friend in all the world had been there with his parents, who were only too happy to take her home with them.

The story of Theresa's labor is copyright her own self, so I won't presume to tell it here, but the end result was indubitably wonderful, with Imogen Bishop Claire making her appearance at a few minutes before 11 PM on Friday night, weighing in at five pounds flat (that's about 2.25 kilos, for those of you joining us from Metricland). Wee and perfect, she peeps enchantingly like a bird, an effect enhanced by the fact that her long sleeves hang off of the ends of her arms, resembling something like helplessly flailing wings when we insult her with the indignity of a diaper change. Swaddled up, post-feeding, her dark, alien eyes open up for brief periods in a very haunting fashion. At these times, I feel that we are in the possession of a magical otter (two animal comparisons in four sentences, I know. In my defense, I haven't slept much in the past 48 hours).

As I type right now, Mom and baby are well and snoozing -- we're a little anxious about a test for jaundice that's due in later today. But other than that, Imogen's in great shape. Helena is both fascinated by her new baby sister, and also a little disturbed and prone to sudden displays of pique. We are plying her with an ill-planned combination of jellybeans and discipline that will likely scar her for life. But maybe she'll be OK.

We don't have many good photos right now, in part because I am a lousy photographer, and in part because there's something wrong with the camera. Here's one which owes something to the Mirror Project:

Thanks to everyone for support, good wishes, and in many cases much more substantial aid and comfort. It's much appreciated.