It’s a bittersweet time of year here. I wake up at night convinced I am in the hospital. My scar from the c-section throbs at weird times of the day. Yesterday, I left the office very early to come home and be with Jack. It was better for me to be home, holding him, than reliving that harrowing cab ride alone.
I’m not being melodramatic. I swear. It’s dates, and times, and someone referencing their summer vacation, when I remember calling them from L&D to tell them I was on short term disability and couldn’t work… All of these things combine to shove, push, pull me back to that time. That time that I had my baby 13 weeks early.
A lot of preemie mom’s talk about the first “birthday,” the first “gotcha day” (when Jack came home from the NICU), the first “due date day.” They all mention that it kind of sucks. The whole thing, prematurity, the aftermath, the sights, sounds, smells, it all kind of sucks.
This part is pretty awesome.