I'm 27 weeks pregnant today - the gestational age when the twins were born two and a half years ago.
And it feels so weird. And great. And . . . I'm still pregnant. I have loads of energy; I think my belly looks kinda cute all round and such; I'm having tons of Braxton Hicks contractions, but the doctors ASSURE me that they are "fake" contractions, and they are not doing anything to throw me into preterm labor. (So take THAT, you crappy cervix!).
But, getting to my 27th week in this pregnancy makes me remember how badly I wanted to get to 28 weeks with the twins. I could have gotten another steroid shot to help develop their immature lungs; 28-weekers have a much better survival rate; and every doctor that I ever talked to said 28.
At the very least. 28.
But I didn't make it. 28 weeks would have been Christmas Eve. And I had visions of how I was going to celebrate in the hospital: with a big, fat steroid shot in the butt, that's how. It would have been the best present ever.
But, I didn't make it.
And O & E came into the world three months early. So damn early. How they made it through those very rough first few nights is beyond comprehension. And now - well, the years have been good to us, for sure. They run laps around the kitchen island before dinner; they say things like, "I want to go to the Chattahoochee;" they know the difference between a garbage truck, a cement truck, and a dump truck; and just yesterday they asked me to buy them goggles so that they can see underwater at the pool. Goggles for the love of god. I can't even believe how lucky we are; how amazing they are.
My little spaz-tastic miracles. My 27- weekers who were supposed to make it to 28, but didn't.
Second verse will NOT be the same as the first. I'm still pregnant, and forging ahead to the elusive, yet now seemingly attainable 28 weeks. Go mommy, go. Grow baby, grow.