On April 8, 2012 (four ... eight ... twelve ... doesn't that have nice symmetry?), Robyn and Brian's wee little girl was born. Since babies can't really share an anecdote about their trip through the birth canal or comment on how fuzzy we all look and sound, we are stuck talking about them in statistics. Weight, length, how long they sleep, how many ounces they take in, how many diapers they produce, what size clothes they wear.
Numbers. Blech. I'm a story girl myself.
She was too little. So little that she spent six out of her first seven days (argh, numbers again) in the hospital with tubes and incubators and very anxious parents. From way too far away, Matt and I checked our phones with the nervous twitchiness of over-caffeinated grandparents, gasping, "Oh! Here! Look!" every time my phone, set on full volume, dinged.
We got pictures of her sleeping in Brian's arms, sleeping in Chris's arms, sleeping in Robyn's lap, sleeping in her incubator, and sleeping in her preemie hospital gown, so big on her, it looked like a mumu. We read and re-read the updates about her progress. We held each other and prayed.
In spite of their numbing exhaustion, Robyn and Brian celebrated Kennedy's one week birthday with us on Skype. Robyn held her phone up to Kennedy's face so we could see her dark blue eyes. Once Kennedy accepted that the phone wasn't a meal option, she gazed at us. She yawned. She stared. She stuck out her tongue. She sucked her thumb. She fussed. She got bored and went looking for a snack.
Kennedy Quinn Dillon, here you are. Welcome, dear one. Welcome, welcome, welcome.
Now, please gain three pounds and stop scaring us.
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