What I Know Now

Tomorrow, November 17th, is World Prematurity Day, a day focused on raising awareness about premature birth around the world.  Before I got pregnant, I never imagined I'd end up giving birth at twenty-five weeks, but it happens far more often than anyone realizes.  To learn more about World Prematurity Day, visit the World Prematurity Day Facebook Page, or follow along on Twitter with the hashtag #worldprematurityday.

One of the things I love most about writing this blog is hearing from other preemie mothers who hear their own stories in my words.  To everyone who has ever written me since I started writing about my twins, please know that I so very much appreciate you taking the time to share a bit about your own journey.  The more mothers I hear from, the clearer it becomes - preemie stories matter.  All of them.    No matter how easy or hard a course we had in the NICU, no matter how long we were there, these stories have become part of who we are as mothers, and they deserve to be honoured.  And, of course, our amazing, tiny, warrior babies deserve to be honoured too, whether or not they are still living, whether or not they are meeting their milestones, whatever their situations look like.  And no one will understand that like another preemie parent.

Kicked

I was folding the babies' laundry when I felt it, a quick little thump in my tummy, likely an indigestion side effect from the copious amounts of Thanksgiving turkey I'd consumed the day before.  But there was a brief moment between feeling it and identifying its cause that my mind strayed and I thought, a kick.  It hadn't yet clicked in that, no, that certainly wasn't what it was.  Instead, I thought of Reid, the baby that used to kick me the same way in that same spot.  I instinctively put my hand over it, trying to "catch" it the way I always used to when I was pregnant, in that brief window of time when I got to feel my babies move.  And then, of course, I remembered that, nope, that's over now, and my heart sank a little.