We may have been safe, but we were not unscathed. I felt the potential catastrophes around each corner. And in the shadows lurked the great What Ifs. The Could Have Beens packed themselves into each crack of my surface.
Somewhere, at some point, a woman sat connected to a pump and had gotten more than her baby could eat. Her lactation donation helped my preemie.
I haven’t slept for more than three straight hours in eight months. I’m being held together through sheer force of will, caffeine, and napping in toilet stalls.
The first day of school would inevitably include the correction of my name in the vast majority of rolls called. It’s not “Rhianna” or “Rhiawwna.” I don’t know why people seem to assume the “n” is silent.
The reality is that I have no earthly idea what I am doing with the big kid during school breaks, and have mostly been covering my ears and humming repetitive tunes rather than having to research it, price it, and register. For short breaks, I foist her off on friends and neighbors, but for longer breaks, I’m going to actually have to plan.