What it's like to be pregnant after having a preemie

I haven't blogged a lot about my current pregnancy (though if you follow @watermelonsgrow on Instagram you'll see that I can't shut up about it there). For those of you who missed it, I'm now 32 weeks with Anne's little sibling, Baby #2 -- which is an important personal milestone for me because it's the point where Anne was born four and a half years ago. In a few days (barring any unforeseen circumstances), I'll be more pregnant than I have ever been. Which is a weird thing to consider.

This pregnancy is as different from my first as a pregnancy could be. With Anne, I had tons of complications starting in the first trimester: too many ER visits to count. Meeting with high risk specialists, tests upon tests, ultrasounds. All culminating in 16 straight weeks of bed rest and a preemie who spent the first weeks of her life in the neonatal intensive care unit. The general attitude of everyone I talked to back then was, well, we have no idea what's wrong or why this is happening. We'll just have to wait and see.



A lot has changed since 2011 in the way we treat prematurity. It's actually kind of mind-boggling how fast everything has moved. New medicines and therapies are available to treat preterm birth that weren't available back then. Studies have come out that show that the way we used to treat the conditions that lead to prematurity maybe aren't so helpful as we thought? Now, each week, I have an appointment with the longest needle you ever saw, which injects a thick, syrup-like substance called 17P right into my backside. In my mind, it's a miracle drug -- it's brought my total number of harried late-night L&D visits down to zero and it's kept me off bedrest entirely. Before, I was allowed one shower a day and one half-hour outside a week. Now look at me, upright! Running and jumping and swimming and painting walls (nesting, y'all. It's real.)

I am so grateful that things are so much better with this pregnancy. But I can't help wishing it could have been this way when I was pregnant with Anne. I'm sorry it wasn't. I feel like I didn't get to enjoy being pregnant with her because of all the worry and stress. Conversely, though I am by and large appreciating every moment of this pregnancy, there are still moments when being heavily gravid in August sucks ... but I feel guilty for complaining about the heat, about the gestational diabetes (that they think was brought on by the very medicine that has made this pregnancy so much easier). I feel like people are looking at me when I complain and thinking: don't YOU of all people know that it could be so much worse? (Though woe betide the person who actually says this out loud).

And of course I still worry. Nothing can get rid of that entirely. My baby is still at significant risk of being born premature, though at this point, the chances of any lingering medical problems are small. Still, I know things now after the first experience that I can't quite forget. I know what it feels like to have your baby whisked away from you though you want nothing more than to be able to hold her and bond with her. I don't know if I can face that again. I know what it's like to wonder when you can bring her home. And I keep remembering this comment I heard when we were in the NICU the first time around, that Caucasian male babies are the least robust when they are born before term (wimpy white boy syndrome, it's a thing, apparently).

Whenever I catch myself worrying, I distract myself. By playing with Anne, or keeping my hands busy (crochet and episodes of Friends on Netflix are my anti-drug). If it gets too bad, I log onto the March of Dimes website and donate ten bucks. (I think if every pregnant woman did this when she worried, we'd solve the crisis of prematurity post haste).  I tell myself a mantra my mom taught me when I was in law school: you've done all you can do and you can't do anything more. So don't spend any more time thinking about it. I have a team of awesome doctors and nurses and I'm taking as good care of myself as I can. I've done all I can do. I can't do anything more.

On the lighter side, there have been a few funny things about this pregnancy that stem from my previous situation. For instance, the first time my feet swelled from walking around all day, I was almost excited because it meant I'd been WALKING AROUND all day. Same thing for the first time I went to put on my shoes and couldn't reach. By the time I got that big with A., I'd been strictly horizontal. And I'm not a touchy-feely person by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm weirdly grateful when strangers want to touch the belly or ask intrusive questions about whether I plan to breastfeed (though I can see it getting old real fast). I didn't get that kind of attention last time and I a starved-for-attention preggo, I guess. Any port in a storm.

And James even convinced me to do a maternity shoot. I wasn't sure if I wanted one because maternity photos can be kind of weird but I remember having a hormonal fit about it after Anne was born -- I at least wanted the OPTION to take silly photos of my bump. So I let him pose us on the dunes of East Beach one 90+ degree day a few weekends ago, and I cursed and sweated, very un-goddess-like, but you know what? I'm glad we did it.

T-minus 7 or so weeks, little one. We can't wait to meet you. But stay put for now, OK?