There you lay, naked, several tubes assisting in bodily functions. Skin opaque and fragile. So small, so weak, so unrealistic. Although you look like a baby, you are way too tiny to be called one.
No clothes will fit you for a few months still.
Your big brother won’t be able to hold you for a long while. Momma can’t care for you now.
You are safe, in this incubator, protected from the outside world . . . and also cut-off from everything you once knew. But you are safe.
You came to visit way too early, as both momma and yourself were in danger, and the doctors had to act quickly. Momma was broken-hearted, defeated . . . this is not how she planned it, little girl.
Momma wanted to hold you close, feed you, and feel your soft skin. Momma wanted to dress you in a cute onesie and wrap you up in that pink bunny blanket. Capture your first smile, smell that newborn aroma, hear your breathing.
But instead, your momma had to go home without you and all these newborn firsts will have to wait . . . perhaps for two more months.
First . . .
You have to grow stronger.
You have to be bigger.
You have to keep on fighting.
We should all believe in miracles because you are nothing short of God’s little miracle.