Blog: What a life

For my writers/poets/dreamers, do you ever go back and reread your past works? What stood out? What made you smile? What made you be glad that no one else is reading this? Anything that made you cry or go, aha! I see the seed was planted here and then I wrote about it over here.....many years and experiences later.

I'm feeling all types of nostalgic and retrospective. Perhaps, it's the looming "homecoming" trip that I've been building (and rebuilding with anxiety) in my head. Or the fact that I'm just now in a space where I can look at my life - look at my children; and give myself space to weigh the big milestones they both accomplished this year. 

We said goodbye to Junior High and moving to High School. I'm suddenly aware that my 3 pound 4 oz little baby is going to leave the safe space and haven I created to be off in the world. 

In the NICU, we were given 3 big milestones to check off before we knew for sure that discharge/coming home was going to come up and be a reality. 
1.) Can she breathe on her own?
2.) Is she able to feed without help? No NG tube. Can she suck a nipple or bottle?
3.) Can she regulate her temperature by herself? If she is cold, does she cry? If she is hot, can she feel that? Or are we constantly monitoring her temp for her via a wire?

Let me tell you that the first one was easy to check off. She didn't need any help with her oxygen. Even though her lungs were still underdeveloped, she breathed on her own and didn't need the O2 mask. 

Feeding took time. She was used to her NG/nasogastric tube and would cry when she tried to suck. In time, she was able to nurse and or take from a bottle. And eventually, she started to gain weight and grow.

It was the temperature regulation that took the longest. She was either too cold and needed to be warmed. Or too hot. She cried either way and medical interventions would happen around the clock. Eventually, she figured it out and left her little incubator. She was upgraded into an open "box" - I actually do not know the term for it. And sure enough, after or around Easter, she was wheeled into a different space just for her to continue to grow. 

I'm imagining High School is going to be like that for us. Can she breathe on her own/navigate life? It's still too early to say. Heck, I don't even know how I'm managing sometimes.

Can she eat/feed on her own? She sort of knows her way around the kitchen but skittish when opening up the oven to bake. Neither one of us trust her with a knife.

Can she regulate her emotions and temperature without help? This one is also a process, isn't it?
We've taught her the value of advocacy; to use her voice, regardless of what it sounds like. In fact, she advocated for herself and asked to see a therapist, and we've been with one since 6th grade. She knows her worth. She asks questions. She is learning who she is.
But autism adds another layer to all of this.
I'm less worried about whether she can speak up for herself and more worried about whether she'll recognize when someone isn't treating her with the same kindness she offers them. Will she know when a friend is being hurtful? Will she recognize manipulation, sarcasm, or unspoken social rules?
Some of those lessons will come with time and experience. Others may always require a little more intentional teaching and support.
And that's okay, too.
And so, while looking toward her future, I found myself looking back through old files. What started as an attempt to clean out my Google Drive quickly turned into something else: a conversation with earlier versions of myself.
Did I know ten years ago that I'd be here? In this space marveling at what a life I've lead? 10 years ago, I was bargaining to God in the midst of a postpartum depressive episode.Going back further than that, did I imagine, while looking at her fragility, that in 14 years I would be amazed at how strong she has become? How milestone after milestone would be checked off, and how we would be entering new seasons in all our lives?
I couldn't have dreamt of this while I sat quietly in the NICU. 
I wouldn't have allowed myself a glimpse of these possibilities.
And yet,
And yet, sometimes I wonder if I've dreamt all of this.
Did I really go through so much trauma?
Did my body really get ripped apart and have two premature babies taken from me?
The scars say yes.
The poems say yes.
The 14-year-old getting ready for high school says yes.
Ten years ago, I was bargaining with God in a NICU.
Today, I'm helping that same little girl pick her classes.
Milestone after milestone, somehow, we've made it here.
I don't often brag about myself, but lately I've been amazed by the life we've built.
The mustard seed of faith I clung to all those years ago—the one I carried in trembling hands through hospital rooms and sleepless nights—grew while I wasn't looking.
It grew into two remarkable children.
It grew into stories.
It grew into poems.
It grew into a life.
And for all the versions of me that almost gave up, I'm grateful they stayed.

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My Kindergarten girl with her toddler bubba who was getting Baptized that day

My heart at 14

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