When I woke up on this day seven years ago, I had no idea how my life would change. I was thirty-one weeks and four days pregnant with my sweet little angel. I knew I was going to have an ultrasound because my tummy wasn’t getting very big, but I thought everything was fine. I was excited because we might finally get to find out if you were a boy or a girl. You had hid during the past two ultrasounds; I didn’t know then that it was part of your personality to be a bit difficult.
The ultrasound tech was taking a very long time. I really had to pee, so minutes seemed like hours. She was asking me the routine questions: how many times a day do you move, etc. Them she said she was going to get the doctor. At that point we knew something was wrong. Your daddy and your Maw-Maw were there with me, but they said it would be fine. The doctor came in and looked for all of five minutes and told me to go straight to the hospital that the baby needed to come out. He said I couldn’t go home and get a bag, nothing. As he left the room I looked at you on the screen, then I saw in the corner where it estimates the baby’s weight. Less than three pounds, I was going to have a baby that weighed less than three pounds.
When I got to the hospital, they put me on all of the machines. The doctor came and said he wanted to wait until Monday to take you so that I could get two doses of steroids so your lungs would be stronger. But I was on complete bed rest until then; this was Friday afternoon. Within one hour of me getting to the hospital, my room was full with all of your grandparents, aunts, uncles, and the rest of the family. You almost got taken be emergency C-section on Saturday night and then on Sunday night. Your heart rate would go to zero stay there for a couple of minutes, but you came around. I had to pee into a tub for a whole weekend, which wasn’t fun, and not being able to get out of bed wasn’t a day at the park. Finally, Monday at about 1:30 p.m., it was time for my C-section. Of course, I promptly freaked out. I started crying and telling everyone that would listen that I wasn’t ready to be someone’s mommy. I couldn’t even take care of myself much less another human being. I was twenty-eight years old, but I felt like I was fifteen. Plus I was having a preemie baby, so that made me a hundred times more scared. I remember laying on that table looking up at your daddy waiting for you to come into our lives. I was feeling every emotion you could feel right then: fear, happiness, and even anger. I was angry because I thought why does my baby have to be born early? But then I heard the best sound I will ever hear: you! You made the tiny little cries, but they were perfect. Perfect because you were crying, which meant that you were breathing on your own. Then I asked if you were a girl, because we still didn’t know for sure, you were.
They cleaned you off then showed you to me. You were so tiny, but you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Then they handed you to your daddy so he could carry you to the NICU. The look on his face was so sweet. He was looking down at you and holding on to you for dear life. After you had gone, the doctor said, “I am glad we took her because you had almost no amniotic fluid she wouldn’t have lived another three or four days.” I just let out a sigh of relief. You were in the NICU for thirty-one days, and you did great. I think back now looking at that ultrasound image that said less than three pounds, then I look at you and think someone was watching out for you. I can’t believe that my tiny little baby will be seven years old in three days. You are my miracle.