They Are Nine

I can’t believe my preemies are going to be nine years old. How? They are my greatest miracle. I know this is a familiar refrain many people have heard me say. I’m almost sick of saying it myself and I am their mother.

Just kidding. I’m not.

Birthday breakfast! The boys picked steak and eggs and girlfriend picked ice cream.

I said it last year and I’m going to say it every year until I’m no longer on this earth and then, I will have said it for so many years that they will call each other up on their 80th birthdays and say, “Can you believe we used to be two pounds and needed machines to help us breathe and new blood and mother didn’t even know if we would survive the night sometimes when she walked back to her hospital room?” (Weird that they call me “mother” after I’m gone, but OK.)

Those foggy first days and weeks, I slowly came out of my drug induced recovery. The day they were born was not a happy one. Going into labor when you are 28 weeks is not reason to pop any kind of bubbly. They were born with a dark dragon of worry and fear looming over their mother.

Our first family picture! I could finally hold all three without wires and breathing apparatuses.

As I graduated from the wheelchair to walking myself down to their nursery and when I touched each of them for the first time, a week after they had left my warm womb, I could feel my black anxiety being slowly pushed away by golden gratitude.

I looked for chances to be thankful in anything and everything I could.

When Sunny went from a double ventilator to one, that bubble of thanks grew. When Christian had no problems eating and I was able to recognize his cries of hunger in the “open crib” phase, little more light replaced little more black. When Gabe finally passed the rigorous tests that involved being able to breathe while also being buckled in a car seat, my own breathing got easier. Each little (but also gargantuan) milestone cleared out a little more of that black cloud of doubt and uncertainty and what the hell is next?

The gratitude kept growing and I never stopped praying. People I loved kept showing up for us and my fear became a more of a quiet annoyance than the fire breathing beast that consumed my days and nights.

Truthfully, I don’t know if I will ever get rid of that black dragon for good. I mean, c’mon. Do we ever stop worrying about our kids and their health and happiness and well being and if they’re being kind and if people are being kind to them and if they will understand how to do long division and someday ALL THREE OF THEM WILL BE ABLE TO DRIVE.

So yeah, for now that black beast just lives in a cave on the hill above my mother castle. I keep it at bay with more prayers and more gratitude. And every year, on January 7th, I will still say out loud and online and anywhere else, I can’t believe they’ve made it this far.

I’m so grateful.

Apparently being 9 also means being sponsored by Under Armor.