I'd like to introduce you to my little firecracker. Her name is Charchee. Well, it's not her real name (we're not weird celebrities. Apple anyone?), but it's a nickname that has sort of stuck with her since she was incredibly tiny.
She was born incredibly tiny. She was considered to be what is called a micro premie. A micro premie is a baby that was born under a certain size and weight. Her stats weighed in at 2lbs 13oz and she was 12.5" long. She. was. tiny. I still remember the image of her with this premie sized pacifier in her mouth: it literally covered her entire face. She was so small that her blood pressure cuff was the size of a small bandaid (you know, the skinny ones). I still have it, if you need proof.
Charchee has been a fighter since birth. She was the last of the triplets to come out of my body. She was also the only one who was never intubated, or in need of oxygen (there was one time when she had the early stages of bowel death where they put a nasal canula on her, but this was precautionary only and she never required the use of assisted breathing). Charchee was in the NICU for 7 weeks. She would have come home with her brother and sister, but her bone marrow had a harder time producing red blood cells, and she became dangerously anemic. She had to have a procedure where they took all of her blood out of her body, and replaced it with healthy blood. Because of this, they required her to stay an additional 7 days in the hospital to ensure no infection occurred and that her body was adapting.
She was the first of the triplets that I was allowed to hold. She was three days old when I was allowed to finally hold her in my arms. I remember the moment so miraculously because I had been anxious to hold them all for what felt like forever. They handed me this massive bundle (she literally was covered in blankets, a hat, basically cold weather gear). When they put her in my arms, I was shocked by the weight of her. Or maybe it would be better to say, the lack of weight while holding her. She weighed nothing. Her skin was translucent. But I treasured that 15 minutes that I was allowed to feel somewhat normal. I absorbed it with all that I had. The lobster was there and he didn't try to claim holding privileges. He said to me that he knew I needed to hold her more than he did (we were only allowed one 15 minute period of holding per day and that was based entirely on whether or not her body had been struggling to maintain its temperature that day--if it was struggling, no holding). He stood there over by Pinot's incubator while I held her. I think he didn't want to hold her because he was afraid. The entire time the triplets were in the NICU, the lobster was immensely emotionally withdrawn. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. He needed to maintain his distance until he knew they weren't going to die anymore. For him, it was almost as if they weren't born. I hated him for that, back then. I hated that he wasn't broken, hurting, aching, devastated with me. I was too damaged to realize that he was being that way for me. If we both disintegrated then who would have been strong enough to hold our family together? And I seriously disintegrated. I was completely insane for about a year and a half. I didn't care about anything. I was just "functioning" and barely that.
In the NICU Charchee was completely chill. She did, however, wear her emotions on her sleeve. There was one day where I was holding her and she went from frowning, to smiling, to frowning, to smiling, over and over again. She did it for about five minutes. It was so funny. She pulled out about five PIC lines (these are IV's that are threaded directly into the major artery of the heart. They are considered a surgical procedure to have installed, and it's a massively long IV), endless regular IV's (when the nurses finally gave up on putting PIC lines in her), feeding tubes, and basically anything that "tied her down." She was bound and determined to be free.
Charchee was also funny baby. She loved her Auntie's Virgin Mary blanket, which Tonio had given to her. She would cry and cry until Tia wrapped her up in that huge furry green blanket. Jules used to wrap her up in it and prop her up on her bed while she did her hair and makeup. I would go in the and say "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" and Jules would say "What? She's fine! She likes it!" Maybe that was the first sign of the type of child I would have.
When Charchee was littler, she would walk out into the living room, stand there with her feet apart, hands on the hips, look around at what everyone was doing and say "What are you doing?" with authority. She never wanted to be held, unless it was her idea. But there were moments of complete beautiful vulnerability where she would let her guard down. There was one morning, after the trips had moved up to twin beds, when I walked into her room in the morning and found her and her brother snuggled in bed together. They both had their blankabies and their fingers in their mouths, faces touching, passed out. It was so cute. That was back when they were two, before the boy was moved to his own room.
Charchee has had her fair share of sicknesses. She's been in the hospital a gazillion times for uncontrollable vomiting. She used to turn purple for no known reason (which also invited a hospital stay). She has underactive sweat glands, so she overheats at the drop of a dime. She has a skin condition which they are calling exzema, but doesn't function on any level like normal exzema.
Charchee is the most incredibly girly girl I have ever known. She loves clothes, fashion, high heels, nail polish, pretty hair bows, dresses, skirts, make up, doing her hair, and on and on. I have a plethora of pictures where the girl is walking around in her play high heels, playing. She is constantly asking if she looks pretty. Heaven forbid Brun should get the "prettier" dress first on Sunday mornings.
When the lobster left, my hilarious firecracker died inside. Her flame, her spark, her happiness disappeared in an instant. It took a while for it to hit her. She was actually quite normal until we came home from California. I remember, about half way through our trip, it started reaching her. She said to me "Mom, I want to go home. Daddy is there. I don't like it here." That was the first time I heard her say she didn't like something. The day we got on the airplane to go home, she told everyone in the airport that she was "going home to see her daddy." It didn't matter that I told her that wasn't the case. She would not be convinced. So when we walked into our house and daddy wasn't here....
She was so angry. She couldn't be consoled. I was panicked and lost. I tried talking to her, having her talk to other people, reaching out to her, nothing worked. There was a moment when it finally hit me: Charchee grieves like me. We both shut down. We both become irritable. We both have to process our grief in our own unique ways. We both can't talk about it until we're ready. We both lash out until that moment comes. We both are broken, intense individuals. That was the first moment I saw our similarities with such clarity. It also changed my perspective on her grief.
The biggest turning point in our relationship came when one night we went on an adventure. We ended up shopping (which is outside of my comfort zone), and she helped me pick out some new clothes. This four year old child lit up like a Christmas tree. You'd have thought I gave her the world. She was having the time of her life. It was rejuvenating for both of us. She helped me to remember what it means to value my appearance in a more modern way, and I helped her to not feel so alone.
The past couple of weeks with Charchee have been amazing. She is my little firecracker again. She is outgoing, bossy, helpful, charming, and silly all over again. She came up to me today and said "Mommy, will you hug me?" This is music to my ears!
Charchee is a force to be reckoned with. She is beautiful, smart, and determined. Look out world. This chick rocks!
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