I guess it is what it is.

It's 12:38 am and I'm in Chad's recliner watching Jimmy Fallon (who is so sadly unfunny outside the structure of SNL) and waiting for 1:30 am to arrive so that I can pump for Anne and go to bed.

Yes, my wee sweet Anne is here. 15.5 weeks early. In the NICU they call her a "24 weeker." But they mean it in a nice way. In fact, I think the people in the NICU may be the nicest people on earth.

This is foreign territory to me. My two previous babies were robust, healthy, average size, right on time. My pregnancies were epicly - and blessedly - dull. And yet here I am with a tiny little preemie in the NICU, recovering from the c-section I didn't want and didn't have a choice about, and pumping breast milk every three hours because it's really the only thing I can do for my daughter right now. It's a very strange feeling to be driving home from the hospital, your body beaten by surgery, and the baby is not with you. She is in the best possible hands. But she still is not with me.

I'm not a worrier and I am prone to looking on the bright side. So far that's been pretty easy. Anne is tough. She is doing remarkably well. Every day we've been lucky to get good news about her progress. I know that probably won't always be so, but I'm not capable of thinking beyond tomorrow - the details of what time I have to pump, what time I can take the Percocet, who will take the girls to the beach for a couple hours so I can nap, and what time Chad will be home so that we can drive the 35 miles to the NICU and hold our sweet girl for the first time. It is what it is, but it seems like I'm living in a bizarro universe.

And just in case you're wondering - she was 1 pound, 8 ounces and 13 inches long. Her toes are the size of Nerds candy, her head the size of a tennis ball. She has a surprising amount of dark hair and toenails so small that you can hardly believe they actually exist. And she is beautiful.