For all the days that I fall short...

Dearest Mercy,

This morning you broke an oil lamp. I turned around to wash some dishes thinking all was baby proofed to-the-max, only to hear the smashing of glass right by your soft little baby feet. Thankfully you scared yourself motionless and didn't step in it - but baby girl, mama got scared. I'm sorry I didn't push the lamp away further. And for the many other times I have and will fall short.

Some mornings I wake up determined to make the most out of the hours before its bed time all over again. Some mornings despite the nausea, we read and play as best we can until the calm of the afternoon allows for us to go on our walk and see all of the community puppies.

Some mornings, though, I wake up feeling as if though I've not slept a wink. I want to curl into a little ball and snooze, have a moment to check my email, and look at my phone.

I'm sorry for the days that I don't think to put you first. Even for those brief moments. For those mornings where my face should be watching you and not behind my phone screen. For missing the proud smile on your face when you triumphantly take steps without tipping over & make it to where you wanted to go. For simply not paying attention when I should be.  For not savoring each and every moment, as I should, cause you're growing so fast, and time flies, and this isn't going to be this way forever. I want to remember it all.

Romans 3:23 says that all of us have sinned and fall short. Every single person. Including mama. The beauty in falling short, sweet baby girl, is that there's grace and redemption in Christ. That what we can't do perfectly - He can. He does. He is. He's perfect.

I'm so thankful for you. Thankful that you constantly remind me of this amazing truth. And that you love me so good - without knowing it. 

A letter from daddy - just because!

Dear Mercy,

I'm your daddy and so I get more kisses than any other man on the face of the earth! At least for now! 

The truth is, with mom pregnant, when people ask me if I want the baby to be a boy or a girl, I always say, "a girl" because my time with you has been so sweet.

I love when you growl and then halfway through, break into a laugh, with your little spaced out front teeth showing in their shiny brilliance.

I love that you love doggies and kitties, but doggies most of all. And how when you see one you make high pitched doggie sounds.

I love that you're becoming more cuddly and laying your head on me almost constantly. 

You are my little half-pint, and I hope you are for the long haul, even when I don't look like who I look like now. You're my sweetheart forever!

Love,

Daddy

your story - coming home!

Dearest Mercy, 

It's been a long while since I've written you a letter. I've told myself to write so many times and put it off, over and over again. I think part of me feels overwhelmed when I think of putting my experience with you into words. Sometimes there are no words. Sometimes I worry that I might leave things out. I don't want to forget. And I want you to know how very special you are - from before you were even born. So here it is baby girl. Today, I'm going to tell you about the day you finally came home with Mama and Daddy. 

Lots of things had to happen for you to be able to come home. You had to gain weight consistently, take bottle feeds 100%, be able to sleep in an open crib and lastly, no more spells. When you had spells, your heart rate and oxygen would drop rapidly. That monitor alarm always made my heart race and this last hurdle would take the longest for you to pass. We couldn't quite shake the spells. Anyone who knows anything knows that coordinating breathing and swallowing milk is NO easy task. You had to learn it. It took time. and that was okay. The nurses kept saying "maybe tomorrow" but when tomorrow came, they weren't sure you were ready to leave those monitors just yet. Until the day you were. 

On September 17th, Daddy and I came to the NICU for the very last time. The only home you'd ever known besides Mama's belly wouldn't be your home anymore. You should know that we were so very happy and at the same time...I was absolutely terrified. 

I found comfort in the familiar sounds of the little room that had been yours for 63 days. I was confident that you were totally fine under the watch of professionals, who knew exactly what to do in any situation. I knew that should you stop breathing, the monitor which I had grown dependent on during your bottle feeds, would immediately alert me and I could act to stimulate you back to catching your little breath. And just like that, the comfort was gone. You were ours now. We would be the monitor. We would have to know what to do should anything happen and our silent alarms would have to go off should you stop breathing. The nurses reassured me that I knew exactly what to do. So we took you off of your wires and dressed you from head to toe in normal - premie - baby clothes. Even premie clothes were big on you, but dang, you looked SO sweet. This was the first time that your feet would be covered. For 63 days there was a little monitor on your foot. It was finally off and you would feel the comfort of warm, cozy footies.

After being walked through (multiple times) what to do, how to administer your vitamins, how to add the extra formula to my milk to help you gain weight, and the million other things a parent needs to know before walking out of the hospital doors for the last time. Your nurse, Barbara, told me we were going to be fine. And I knew that she was right.

I didn't think that all was going to be fine because we knew what we were doing. I knew that bigger than our hands was the hand of God helping us along. Strengthening us when we needed it most. Picking us up when we stumbled. And keeping you alive. I knew that The Lord was in control of everything up to that moment, and He would be in control of everything after it. His plans, they're better than ours. Everything that happens and will happen...ever...is for our good and  His glory. We had our Father, helping us parent you. And mama also had daddy's hand, physically there when I needed mine to be held.

On September 17th. You went outside for the very first time. The air was cool and there was a light breeze. You took your first breaths of fresh air. You heard sounds that your quiet NICU room had never let you hear. Finally, sweet Mercy girl, you came home. 

It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.” Deuteronomy 31:8