Yesterday, The Babster Turned “Seventeen.”

She entered the world at a hellish time: my father died three years ago the same month. I was so depressed. She was born dangerously early, and with grief, hormones and pure fear of the unknown, I frequently questioned (like every hour) if I could be her mom. Born at 27 weeks (full term pregnancy is 40 weeks) the doctors warned me that she could have brain damage, stroke, hearing loss, blindness, encephalitis, heart problems, necrotic intestines, brain infection, lung damage, and the list goes on. When I was at my lowest, my father came to me in a dream during her three month stay at the hospital, and told me (without using words; I know how crazy that sounds) that all those fears and possible diagnoses were unwarranted and wrong. I hadn’t told anyone, except for my husband for fear that well-meaning family might want me put in a padded room. In truth, I thought I might have just been crazy with grief and imagined it all.

Then test after test after test came back negative, and she was normal and healthy–perfect brain, perfect sight and vision, no scarring on the lungs, gut working as it should. She for yourself:

Okay; okay. We’re going to have to work on the counting and fine motor skills. She DOES know how to use a fork, but she was imitating The Boy, who you briefly saw whizzing by in the background. But all in all, I wouldn’t trade her for the world.

Thanks Dad.

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