Happy birthday, Aubrey.

At midnight exactly one year ago, I was lying in a hospital bed, rubbing my hand across my small bump of a belly, my "baby protrusion," as Adam so eloquently called it, listening to the swish-swish of a tiny heart beating, sweating from the magnesium sulfate they'd given me to stop contractions, and praying.  These were not the prayers of the person for whom everything is hunky-dory; these were the desperate, pleading, clipped, pieces of prayers that only God understood...prayers of the terrified.  These were the prayers of a mother for her child, a mother who hadn't even really gotten to be a mother yet, hadn't held her baby, hadn't seen her sweet turned up nose, hadn't smelled her baby smell.  I was scared, the worst kind of scared a parent can be, wondering if her child is going to live or die, already blaming herself should the child die, but trying her hardest not to even let her mind go in that direction.

The prayers began as, "God just let me stay pregnant.  Let the baby stay put, even if it's for just another month.  I promise I won't complain about being on bedrest.  I'll lie day in and day out with my head at the floor and my feet in the air if it will help her."  They continued on to be, "Please, God, just let me stay pregnant, even if it's for just another week or two.  I won't complain about being in the hospital that long.  She needs more time."

Around 3:15 or 3:30a.m., when my water broke, the prayers broke down into their basest form: "My baby. Don't let her die."  Repeat, repeat, repeat.

There is no doubt, after Aubrey's 122 days in two different NICUs, that God hears our prayers and answers them.  Sometimes He doesn't give us the answer we want, but sometimes He does...usually though, He gives us the answer that we didn't even know was possible.  Did He let me stay pregnant? No.  Did He give Aubrey even another week, another day with me before being thrust into the world? Nope.  But He gave us a team of doctors and nurses who knew what was best for her, how to care for her tiny, fragile body; they loved her like extra sets of parents, and they loved us like family.

You might remember the blog I wrote before Christmas last year titled "Miracle."  I explained some of the things preemies go through while in the hospital and some of the survival statistics.  The word "miracle" is used too lightly and too often in my opinion, about everything from "our team won the game, it's a miracle," to "it's a miracle my car started this morning."  Those aren't miracles.  A miracle is when something that just isn't supposed to be, something that the odds are completely and totally against happens, and only with divine intervention.  It leaves us awed and baffled.

 Aubrey's still a miracle, just in case you were wondering.  She is one of the 30-40% of babies born at 24 weeks gestation that survive.  She is developing as if she were born at full-term, or 40 weeks gestation; she is right where she should be for her adjusted age.  She's crawling, eating solids, has teeth, standing on her own, babbling, etc.  Every time she goes to physical and occupational therapy they are amazed that she was a 24 weeker because she hasn't fallen behind in any of her development.

I know every parent thinks their child is amazing, but Aubrey continues to show us how strong and feisty she is.  She has a sweet spirit, a super sense of humor, and goes 90 to nothing until she's exhausted.  There is nothing better in this world than seeing her wake up, a broad smile on her face, and reach her arms out for me to pick her up.  A piece of heaven on earth.  Our miracle child.

Happy first birthday, sugar baby.

-Keli