My little ones have been in the NICU for two weeks now. They are on the verge of coming home. They were 35 weeks at birth and tomorrow would have been their planned c-section. The little fellas were both breech from the start. I'm not sure who in our family is directionally challenged, but we'll find someone to blame.
Having babies in the NICU is an opportunity to see the same story in starkly contrasting ways. Should I be horrified that nurses and doctors had to save their lives when they stopped breathing after being pulled from Mom? Or, should I be thankful that I live in a country that I don't have to worry about affording such procedures? Do I need to pick one or the other? I suppose I don't, but it feels like I do.
As a general rule I choose to be thankful for the most serious of events. I save my whining and moaning for trivial things.
Their time in the NICU let us observe hundreds of years of collective nursing experience. It is always a pleasure to watch those who are great at their jobs. My favourite line was from a young nurse, Adam, in awe of one of the old matrons: "Rena could feed a bottle to a rock". I believe it. My littlest one had trouble finishing his bottle sometimes and I would ask a nurse to help. Even when I was competent, and confident I knew what I was doing, Rena could get a couple more millilitres into the little ones. It was a pleasure to see.
Specifically, I am thankful for Rena, and Adam and all the nurses and doctors that helped my slightly undercooked twins get strong, healthy and on their way home.
I may whine and moan when I get peed on, or when I have to change a diaper five minutes after it was freshly donned. But as scary as their start in life was, I am profoundly thankful for it.
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