“Do I feel like this baby is ready to be born? Absolutely not. Am I ready to bring another baby home? Mostly, yes.”
It was a hot July day. My husband was up north, taking part in his family’s annual summer vacation. My daughter and I stayed home, afraid to venture too far from our local hospital because in my last pregnancy, this was the gestational age I delivered my baby at.
27 and 5.
Two numbers, three words – they meant nothing to me until June 29 of 2017. And then they became a mantra because every doctor, every specialist, every neighbor, every extended family member, every passerby in the grocery store wants to know the gestational age your horrendously premature preemie was born at.
At first, they want to know because of how small she is. Then, they want to know because of how great she’s doing. And then, you want to remind yourself because of how miraculously she overcame so much in just one year of life.
Yet when pregnancy number two hit 27 and 5, it felt terrifyingly too early… as it should. Babies are not meant to be born that early. And we prayed hard for the 62 days I would be allowed to continue carrying of the 86 I should have had left.
With things going well, we began our weekly celebratory Starbucks on July 20. In 2017, we celebrated each new week of pregnancy with a s’mores frappacino. In 2019, we celebrated each week at/past 27 and 5 with a s’mores frappacino.
It’s like our pregnancies were already becoming sibling allied forces. Let’s make things scary. Let’s overcome some real crazy stuff. And let’s celebrate.
In the stats:
Gestational Age: 27 weeks, 5 days
Doctor’s Appointments: 9
Makena Injections: 11