Everyone's good at something.

I may have an incompetent cervix, but I sure as heck have competent boobs.

Exhibit A:



And I've got about six more bags just like it in my freezer right now.

I think he's serious.

I'm sitting on the couch in the little conference room at the Ronald McDonald room. It has glass pocket doors that block out sound and give me the illusion of privacy, even though anyone walking by really could get a good look at my monstrous girls if they wanted to.

Chad is checking phone messages and getting me a drink of water, because I always find myself suddenly and terrifically thirsty while pumping.

He clicks off his bluetooth thingy and turns to face me. My shirt is pulled up, my industrial bra is unclipped and pulled down, and I'm hooked to my electric double pump like a Holstein. And he says, "You look so incredibly sexy right now. I'm sorry, I just can't help it. You do."

So far, so good.

It's been two weeks. Well, two weeks and two days.

The baby we weren't even sure we were going to have, the one we debated about for nearly a year and half because things were getting really easy with the girls, the one we were expecting in December but instead arrived in August has taken hold of us - and everyone who knows us - utterly and completely.

Not a night goes by that we don't call the NICU before bed for an end-of-the-day report. We plan our week around what times we can go see her and who can watch the girls while we go. Or we bring them, and the incredibly patient and accommodating nurses at the NICU bring out child-sized rocking chairs for them, and the volunteers at the Ronald McDonald room give them beanie babies (two each so far, and counting).

There is still a feeling of unreality to all. As if this has happened to someone else, and now I am getting a glimpse into a life that is not really mine. I look around the NICU studying the other parents and, as shallow as it seems, I can't help feel that we are somehow different. We are not like them, I say to myself. But we are because we're all in the same boat. Learning what the numbers on the monitor mean, watching our children for the tiniest changes or the smallest signs of progress. Hoping for the best and holding our breath to ward off the worst.

I've had my breakdowns, my tears and frustration. But my natural tendency is to look on the bright side, to find the silver lining no matter how far I have to dig to unearth it. Plus, I think I might be a little unhinged if I was able to do that all the time without ever succumbing to the intensity, the emotional roller coaster of it all. I've stopped wondering why this happened because there isn't an answer. And I've learned that being a mother sometimes means just being. Being hopeful. Being calm, even when you don't feel calm at all on the inside. Being in the moment and not projecting what will happen next, because there's no way you can know.

Funny how such a little girl has so many big lessons to teach me.