I'm going to thumb-type a post into the terrible horrible no good very bad blogger app and then put a tiny iPhone photo into it and I'm pretty sure I'll be getting the coveted "blogging best practices award" that we all know is going around. Woo hoo! Go me! Let's hope for some overzealous autocorrecting that I don't notice before I hit publish for that extra va va va voom, shall we?
So I am sitting in a hospital bed in a room that I will hopefully call home for the next two to the three weeks. I'm waiting for my "room service" breakfast. This open back gown (sounds more stylish than it could ever be) has seen more fragrant days.
On Tuesday afternoon at about 2 pm, my water broke in the comfort of my own home (thank God for blessing number one) when I was 31 weeks 6 days pregnant. At first I was not totally sure, then I became totally sure, and I made phone call after semi-hysteric phone call to all three of my midwife's phone numbers, to my husband's work number, to his cell number, to the phones of my closest friends, as I reclined motionless on the sofa, praying, praying, praying for my unborn baby's health and safety.
I sent out vague prayer requests on Instagram because even though I knew, I didn't KNOW and I was hoping against hope that I was wrong. But then my midwife and Tommy both arrived, she tested the fluid quickly (yes, amniotic) ) I crawled into the backseat of the car, and off we headed to the the furthest but best hospital in our area. That level 3 nicu does wonders for the mama's heart, you know?
Oh that drive was hard. When you don't know if you're about to be in labor on the side of the road with a baby who is 8 weeks premature, there is not much you can do but force yourself to keep breathing and praying and trying not to cry so that you don't waste precious hydration on tears.
But we made it. And the baby is fine. And my amniotic sac is ruptured. But my baby is fine. And we are praying that I am "stuck" here for another two or three weeks (at least? We shall see.) because baby is safer on the inside than she is on the outside, at least so far.
I miss my husband, who somehow manages to deal with all this stress and the surprise of taking over the management of a household full of six kids with nary a sign of panic or even worry. I want to be like him when I grow up. And I miss my kids something FIERCE. They came for a three hour visit yesterday and despite the high energy level and John Charles doing tightrope walker tricks on the window sill of my room, the visit was not nearly enough to fill up my mama tank.
So here we are. She was sort of transverse breech at our ultrasound after being admitted, which is an indicator of potential c-section. BUT! But...I thiiiiink that maybe maybe maybe she managed to turn head down last night despite the lack of fluid to move in because she is a, and I quote my nighttime nurse, rockstar baby. Aw yissss.
And you know what? I think if I am going to be begging and pleading with you to cover my family in prayer over the next few weeks, that we ought to have a name for this tiny rockstar. What do you think? Yes, let's announce her name.
Please pray for my unborn baby girl, Miss Helen Margaret Borobia (nicknames Nellie, Kitty, Flufferbutt. When you have 6 older siblings, you get nicknames FAST) and her parents and siblings and all her friends that we can survive, and even thrive, during this trying time.
So far we have been absolutely blessed by all our friendships and even the beautiful, unseasonably mild weather. May we continue to see the good in each day. Deo gratias.