In the world of preterm labor, twenty-eight weeks
(gestational age) is an important place to be.
The survival rates for a baby born at 28 weeks are pretty good: 90-95%.
And so, as the baby boy I’m carrying turned 28 weeks on Saturday, Mike
and I celebrated by actually getting up the courage to look at bedding for him. What for most expectant parents is a
completely innocuous task was a big deal to us.
A big bridge to cross emotionally, and we patted ourselves on the back
afterward.
It’s been a hard road, harder than I even anticipated, and
it’s definitely not over, but a sigh of relief has been breathed in our
household; the tension that has been released is palpable. No matter what happens, this baby will not be
another “micro-premie.” And so we’re
beginning to actually think to ourselves, we
may just bring home a baby boy this June.
This may not be an “if” situation, but a “when” situation.
We’re still on high-alert.
I don’t think anyone could go through what we did and ever feel totally
comfortable with being pregnant. Small
aches and pains (to which I’m no stranger) send me flying to Google. Buying a few outfits for the baby caused me
to cry in the middle of Baby Gap. And
the worst: whenever I feel myself
bonding with this baby, I feel guilty.
Guilty that it somehow means I don’t love or remember the baby boy we
lost.
But we’re working to get over these issues and we’ve even
started telling Scarlett she’ll be getting a baby brother. And so, while I know we’ll never be
completely ready to have another tiny
infant in the house, perhaps we can start to prepare a little now.
