Three Feels Big
On turning three, NICU memories, and the privilege of watching her grow.
My daughter is turning 3 next month and I am already in my feelings about it. Three feels so big, no more diapers, no more pacifiers, the naps are fading (for better or worse), and she starts preschool this fall. Three feels big.
This week I noticed I have been staring at her a little longer, laughing a little harder at her silly quips and pronunciations of words (my husband and I will never say because, highway, or actually the same ever again), and I just want to soak it all in. Don’t get me wrong, an almost-three-year-old is also exhausting and, at times, a challenge, but for the most part I want to freeze time. I had so many moments this week where I felt really grateful for this life.
Maybe that's because there was a time when I wasn't sure what three would look like.
My daughter was born at 32 weeks after a sudden and severe case of preeclampsia.
At 31 weeks pregnant, I thought I was experiencing the normal discomforts of the third trimester. I was swollen, exhausted, and short of breath. It was Fourth of July weekend, and I remember telling my husband he was overreacting when he urged me to call my doctor.
A few days later, I went to what I assumed would be a routine appointment. Instead, I was admitted to the hospital, diagnosed with severe preeclampsia, and told I needed to be transferred immediately to a larger hospital with a higher-level NICU. Within hours, I was in an ambulance headed across town while doctors worked to stabilize my blood pressure and prepare for the possibility of an early delivery.
Everything happened so quickly. We hadn’t packed a hospital bag. The nursery wasn’t finished. I still had a baby shower on the calendar. We weren’t ready.
For a week, doctors monitored both me and the baby around the clock while trying to buy us more time. Eventually, my body made the decision for us. At 32 weeks, our daughter was born weighing less than three pounds. She was immediately taken to the NICU.
The hardest part wasn’t labor or delivery. It was everything that came after. It was watching my husband follow our newborn daughter to the NICU while I stayed behind. It was waiting until the next day to hold her. It was being discharged from the hospital and driving home without my baby.
For forty days, the NICU became our world. There were incredible nurses who cared for all of us, milestones measured in ounces instead of pounds, and more fear and uncertainty than I knew a heart could hold.
Eventually, we brought Charlotte home.
Somewhere between bottles, contact naps, first words, and toddler tantrums, the NICU became part of our story instead of our everyday reality.
And somehow, the tiny baby I worried so much about became the little girl who now runs my house.
Today, it is hard to reconcile that tiny baby with the almost-three-year-old negotiating bedtime, inventing elaborate stories, asking a thousand questions, and making me laugh with her mispronunciation of everyday words.
The NICU feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago. Most days I don’t think about monitors, feeding tubes, or how small she was. Instead, I see a little girl who insists on picking out her own clothes, is headed to preschool this fall, and somehow became almost three.
Then a birthday sneaks up on me, and suddenly I find myself staring a little longer, laughing a little harder, and wishing I could freeze time.
Three feels big.
Not because she’s growing up.
Because there was a time when all I wanted was the chance to watch her.
