I’m sorry I didn’t address you by name. To tell the truth, I’m not even sure you have a name yet. My name is Ginny, and I’m a friend of your mom’s. And because I’m old, and old people like to tell stories, I’m going to tell you how we got here.
We met when we were 5, your Mom & I. She moved to the farm a couple of miles up the road. My grandma took me over to visit the new girl. We had ice cream cones. We stuck our front teeth right into the ice cream. Then we screamed and giggled, because it was painful and stupid and silly and then we were friends.
We went to school together for 12 years. Rode the same bus every day. Your mom played sports. All of them. I was smart. Your mom liked country music and doing whatever boys did for fun. I liked rock’n’roll, and reading quietly. Your mom, even as a little kid, would always choose to beg for forgiveness rather than ask permission. She was fun. And she was exactly what I needed, to balance my serious self out.
We didn’t always get along. The quiet loner and the popular jock can only hang out so much, especially within the constraints of junior high. But we always managed to come back together. The first time your mom ever got drunk, was with me. She came to my house, to throw up and sleep it off and swear never to do it again. (She lied.) We confided in each other the crazy and stupid things we did with boys. We were going to be friends forever.
And then we weren’t. Grown up life took us in different directions, geographically, emotionally.
We both got married when we were 23. Something about that common ground made us seek each other out, catch up. Your mom only stayed in that marriage for a year. I waited until he was gone before I told her he was a waste of space. She never complained, not one damn “woe is me”. She worked 2 jobs to pay for the divorce, never took a dime from your grandma and grandpa.
She watched me bring home my first baby. I think it scared her. All that crying and carrying on. (Me, not the baby.)
Then she met your dad. Great guy. And with him, babies didn’t seem scary at all.
They had your sister 2 years ago. Cool kid.
And then there was you.
You’re in a bit of a hurry. You started pushing your way out too early. At 22 weeks, your mom got scared into bedrest. And tonight, you decided you couldn’t wait anymore.
You’ve only been developing for 27 weeks.
I’m hoping that’s enough. I’m hoping you’re among the 80% of babies who survive birth at 27 weeks.
Hell, if I’m hoping, I’m gonna shoot for the moon, hope that in 2 years, you’re a normal kid, fat and sassy, and no one ever knows there was anything different about your birth.
Really, all I’m hoping for is that in the morning, I’ll get to hug you, and see your mom smile.
UPDATE: Baby Elise came into the world, yelling at the top of her lungs, at 4:19 this morning. Her mom was in labor for 10 hours before they performed a C-section. The baby weighed 2 pounds, 14 ounces (which is really, really good for 27 weeks). She’ll be in the hospital till March, which was when she was due to make her entrance into the world. Her mom is thrilled and still a little nervous and grateful and completely and utterly exhausted.