My toes

I've never been one of those people who can tell who a baby takes after. Unless it's screamingly obvious, in which case the parents tiredly tell me "Everyone says that", because everyone already has. I try, but really? Babies just look like babies to me. They don't all look the same, I just suck at seeing resemblances.

Turns out I'm even worse at it with preemies. Tom tells me he thinks Jane looks exactly like Sarah did when she was born, but I just don't see it yet. Maybe when she finally chubs out a bit, but for now, nope. But wait! There is one thing I can see: she's got my toes. My weird, formerly unique toes. There now exists in the world a miniature set of my lower digits: the second is longer than the big toe, the fourth is oddly bulbous at the end and curves in toward the third, the pinky hides a bit behind the fourth. But so small! Her entire foot isn't as long as my thumb. Her toenails are about as big as the end of a grain of rice.

We have a meeting tomorrow with one of the neonatologists about Jane's lungs. She was started on a short-term steroid course today to try to get her lungs in strong enough condition to decrease her oxygen settings and onto the conventional vent, and eventually back to CPAP. It's frustratingly ironic that the very technology that's keeping her alive is also doing so much damage.

Sarah was very sad tonight as she went to bed. She told Tom she wants baby Jane to come home. I had thought she accepted what we've been telling her, but it seems it didn't quite take. Or maybe she just thinks three weeks (almost) is damn well long enough. If anyone knows how to explain to a three year old that her sister has to stay in the hospital until November, I'm all ears.