A club I don't want to join.

Dear Anne,

You are severely testing my ability to be a person who does not worry. All my life I have been a non-worrier. This should not be confused with someone who does not care. Indeed, I care deeply about many people and many things. But I have mostly been blessed with the ability to recognize that which I can control and that which I cannot. I am unable to sustain worry for more than a few minutes, no matter how large the issue, which was a gift for the entire 110 days you spent in the NICU. During that time I did two important things: 1) I never once looked anything up on the internet related to you, your prognosis or your current condition, and 2) I trusted your doctors. Although there were a few people who thought that perhaps I didn't grasp the severity of your prematurity or the risks that came along with that, I did. I just knew that I couldn't control it and so I decided to focus on how incredible you were, how tiny your toes were and that you had fingernails at all.

This turned out pretty well. As of today you are roughly 14 pounds, 6 ounces and a little over two feet tall. What a giant! You are giggly and bright-eyed, free of oxygen, free of medications and free of the feeding tube that made me turn into a knotty ball of sweat that last couple of times I had to wrestle it down your impossibly buttony little nose.

But last week you failed your swallow study. You silently micro-aspirated a wee bit of milk on roughly one out of every five swallows. This seems like such a small amount, yet, as one doctor put it, this small amount is akin to a slow form of drowning. While this may not be the most comforting phrase I've ever heard, I think it's a pretty accurate description of what is potentially going on inside of you and it's crystal clear to me that something is awry.

The good news is that the thing that is most likely awry is probably related to immaturity. You make look cute on the outside, but on the inside you're still working to catch up. Totally normal when you weigh less than a rotisserie chicken from Barney's at birth. But now we need a second opinion. We are taking you to Riley. And you might be back to the feeding tube, mainly to ensure proper hydration, but also to protect your scarred and developing little lungs.

I know that this is just one small thing, an extremely minor step that could make a big and positive difference in the long run. I also know that we could be dealing with much more frightening and severe medical issues after having a baby like you. I know. I know. I know.

But going to Riley, considering surgery.... this makes me feel like a Mom Who Has A Kid With Something Wrong With Her. And yes, I know that's not the worst thing in the world either.

Whatever happens when we go there, know this: you are a miracle. You are a gift. Even though you are still such a peanut that you're not quite on the growth chart, it's impossible to imagine that at one point we weren't sure you were even going to be here at all. You will be healthy and strong, and before I know it we will be watching you run off along the beach after your sisters, and we will be marveling at how you caught up. How catching up could even be possible. And I love you. All the time, no matter what.

But I'm worried.

Love, Mom