Two months ago, I had a baby. Two weeks ago, I was still meant to be pregnant. Our son, Reuben, was born prematurely. The most beautiful, if presumptuous, little being to come into the world. He spent five weeks in hospital, first in a humidi-crib, and after a time, in an open one- an upgrade my hubby and I celebrated with a cocktail.
Reuben’s other milestones included having his IV drip removed, next his heart monitors, then his oxygen monitor, and finally, his feeding tube, which translated into a ticket home. He has been a little champion throughout the whole journey. It could have gone a very different way, or at least, at a much slower pace.
My sole experience of having a baby included a complicated pregnancy – involving a trip to emergency at twenty weeks, broken waters at twenty-nine weeks, and two weeks in hospital leading up to Reuben’s delivery by emergency caesarean.
Was it all worth it? Am I traumatized by the experience? Or, if not that, is it worth the complete overthrow of life-as-it-was? At 22, there is the added factor that few people of my age are choosing family life so soon. That does make the undertaking more daunting, I think.
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