Tag: awareness day

  • National Physiotherapy Month 2020

    National Physiotherapy Month 2020

    Originally published on http://www.itsybitsbalebusta.com
    05/2020

    May is National Physiotherapy Month! Before February, I hadn’t actually participated in a physio session with one of my kids. SLP, OT, ABA, Music Therapy yes, all part of our therapy schedule. We’d also been through the NICU, surgeries and surgical procedures, and at one point, feeding therapy too, but physio wasn’t a realm I was familiar with.

    Just a few hours after E’s birth, a pediatrician visited our recovery room to examine her. He asked questions about our medical history and when we shared our son’s diagnosis he began to tell us about early intervention programs for E and the importance of keeping an eye out for red flags, so that she could get whatever support necessary, as soon as possible. He didn’t have to tell me any of this – from the minute I saw the positive on the pregnancy test, my red flag radar was on high alert. Due to the fact that Y had been diagnosed so early, he was able to begin receiving services from the age of two and it made a significant difference in the trajectory of his development. E’s ability to make eye contact, smile socially, imitate, speak, and use gestures brought with it a sense of reassurance. Despite all of it, I couldn’t get past the fact that she just wasn’t moving as much as her brothers were at a similar age.

    I tried not to compare but as the weeks went on, it became more pronounced and I made a doctor’s appointment for her. Our doctor felt confident at that time that she was alright but assured me that if I still had concerns in a month or so, that she’d re-evaluate. At the next appointment I raised my concerns again. She was almost a year old and not crawling, pulling herself up to sit or pulling to stand, standing independently, or cruising at all. She could roll and she could scoot from point A to B, but that was about the extent of it. Knowing my track record in identifying concerns with the kids, the doctor said that if I felt a physio assessment was necessary, she would support that and help us to arrange it. I really, really appreciated the fact that I didn’t have to stand there advocating my heart out and agreed to go ahead with the assessment. 

    I initially told M that I didn’t want to share it with anyone. We’re always so open about whatever supports or services the boys are accessing and I don’t usually feel compelled to hold anything like this back, but this time I just didn’t want to get into it with anyone. I didn’t want to hear that I’m just looking for something to be wrong or that she’s fine and in time she’ll catch up and, “to just relax.” Having to nod and listen to the stories about someone’s cousin or child who was also behind and then woke up one morning and was suddenly totally caught up was not something I was willing to go through this time. As well meaning as everyone is, I just wanted to focus my energy on the sessions themselves rather than having to discuss them. I know that walking isn’t a concern until 18 months, but if she hasn’t mastered the other skills, she won’t have the foundation necessary to literally take the next steps.

    I thought that maybe this chapter of Motherhood wouldn’t bring along with it therapies and services. N’s first 2 years were spent in and out of hospitals and specialist appointments, with an OT visiting our home to work with him at just months old. Y has been accessing support and services for as long as I can remember – everything from SLP to OT, Music Therapy, and ABA. I remember holding N, only months old, on our living room floor while the speech therapist did everything she could to engage Y and encourage him to attend to the session. I thought this time around I could skip all of that. That for the first time I could just be Mom, without the side of care coordinator and stand-in therapist between sessions, surrounded by pamphlets and worksheets and exercises to work on with my baby. I felt so guilty for feeling this way, but at the same time, so emotional about how it was all turning out.

    In February, our Physio came to our home to meet E and to begin working with her. She was so patient, knowledgeable, and kind. Truthfully, I realized that I felt more natural and in my element speaking with someone on a therapy team than I do with most other people. She not only identified all of my concerns within that first session, she also explained the impact each one had on further development and what could be done to address it right away. I’ve worked with a lot of different therapists, but I was absolutely blown away by her! She was sensitive and calm, appreciated the fact that this was our third child accessing services, and spoke to me in a manner that made me feel like an equal. I felt so comfortable and confident in her presence and that we had found the perfect person to support us and help E reach her milestones!

    So, why decide to share now, when initially I was so adamant that we just keep this to ourselves? Because when you don’t share the hard parts, sharing the good isn’t as epic. I could have easily posted these photos of E and left it that that, but she deserves so much more recognition for all of her hard work and persistence. We only had three sessions before quarantine hit and in-home therapy was put on pause. With worksheets and tips, phone calls with directions and advice, E has thrived and is now confidently pulling herself up to stand and beginning to cruise! On my birthday, she independently grabbed hold of the walker we had left out (more for her to play with the front panel than feel any pressure to walk with). She took a few tentative steps with it and I was absolutely blown away. We had gone from sessions and exercises where she wobbled, and was agitated, and needed core support to remain upright, to her trying to take a couple of steps with her walker! E kept pushing through, she’s stubborn and dedicated and persistent and inspiring and has made huge strides (pardon the pun) throughout this quarantine. She’s doing all she can to keep up with her brothers and having them home 24/7 now constantly motivates her to get up and join in whatever they’re doing! We’re still working on getting her to stand independently, reducing scooting, and cruising with more ease, but she has come so far already and we couldn’t be prouder!

    I was emotional when it was confirmed that she would indeed need physio, regardless of the fact that I’m the one who pushed for it in the first place. What I hadn’t focused on at the time, was the unique sense of pride and accomplishment, and the thrill that comes from successful sessions. We’ve been given more opportunities to celebrate what others come by so effortlessly. Was I excited when I saw the boys pull to stand for the first time? Of course! But there was an element of relief added to the excitement that changed the experience with E. The same can be said for each of the kids and their milestones, respectively. What’s been especially memorable for one has been different for another and it has left us with an appreciation for every single moment, big and small. I’m constantly blown away by challenges and obstacles that Y, N, and E not only face, but work so hard to overcome on a daily basis. I’m so proud of them and forever grateful to so many therapists who have essentially become extended family over the years!

    E is thriving and getting stronger, step by step, every day. This is a chapter that brings with it memories of us watching her excitedly and in awe, with her brothers clapping or cheering her on, as she goes above and beyond goals, doing so with so much joy and inspiring us every step of the way!

  • Autism Awareness Month 2020

    Autism Awareness Month 2020

    Originally published on http://www.itsybitsybalebusta.com
    04/2020

    When online learning started in March, I shared on Instagram how I was having a hard time finding a reflection of our reality as I scrolled through my feed. Seven weeks later, it’s almost weird to feel like this is our norm. Mornings spent getting through showers, laying out uniforms, making lunches, updating communication books and filling up backpacks have been exchanged for a much slower pace. We’ve settled into our new routine which includes zoom sessions and tele-therapy. While N is able to (for the most part) sit and participate in virtual circle time and lessons with his class multiple times per day, the photo above is what online learning looks like for Y.

    For the past three years, he has received intensive therapy through the autism program offered in his school. When the school closures were announced, my fears of regression grew exponentially. Without the necessary consistency required of his program, consistency we had done everything to maintain for the last 3+ years, I couldn’t see how regression would be avoidable. While the last five years of this journey has thrown multiple learning curves my way, learning how to advocate through a pandemic has definitely been one of the most interesting. M & I are very involved in Y’s programming and with all aspects of his therapy. With the school closures, we didn’t just have to adapt to the pandemic version of homeschooling, supporting our three children under six through a chaotic and confusing time, working from home and navigating our way through Pesach, basic errands, groceries and more, we also suddenly became stand-in therapists. Together we developed our own “Get Y Ready For Pesach” program! We used techniques and strategies we had learned over the years and began to fade out chametz and prepare for a three-day yuntif (where routines would be further changed out of their norm than they already had been). I’m so proud to say our preparation and “program” was successful! Y’s resiliency and ability to adapt is astounding. 

    Now that school is back in session so to speak, the above photo is what e-learning looks like in our home. It just so happens that Autism Awareness Month fell during quarantine. While the phrase, “If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism,” stands true, I feel like it’s important to share what learning right now may look like for families like ours.

    Basically from birth, Y has always responded to music. Although he was colicky, over time, certain songs and sounds began to soothe him. Over this past summer, Y’s ability to communicate really began to pick up. We would frequently hear back from his team about how attentive he was during his group music sessions as well as how he’d participate and was more willing to put into practice different strategies he was learning in other areas specifically during this therapy. M & I spoke about it and although we were concerned with how full his schedule already was, we decided to go ahead and add music therapy. I was very clear that I didn’t want this to be work for him. I didn’t want him to have a ton of expectations and I didn’t want the other therapies to overtly partner here, as they did in other areas. I wanted this to be a space where he could enjoy music and where it could soothe him and help him continue to put into practice everything he had been learning naturally and, for the most part, independently (or at least more so than we had seen in other forms of therapy). I wanted him to know that we had “heard” him, so to speak, and understood that music had an impact on him and that we wanted to embrace and encourage it!

    I could not have anticipated the results we’ve seen. I’ve learned (and frequently been told) to remain realistic. It’s not a phrase I like, but it is something I’ve come to at least partially understand. I truly believe Y is capable of everything and anything and will always advocate as

    such. When it came to music therapy I had two motives – I wanted him to be happy and feel heard. N can tell us that he likes certain activities and expresses his hobbies and interests clearly. I strongly felt that Y was attempting to do the same through his engagement with music and I wanted him to know we recognized that. Months later, not only does he absolutely love these sessions, but the following three words speak for themselves – he is thriving.

    Quarantine has been HARD, don’t get me wrong. When you go from 36 hours of professional intensive therapy a week to almost nothing for 5+ weeks, it’s definitely a shock and challenge. Behaviours that had been addressed begin to emerge again and the fear of regression hangs overhead like an ominous cloud. Given all that, without quarantine I would never have attended or participated in a music therapy session the way I’ve been able to these past few weeks. It may seem an odd thing to be grateful for, but I am nonetheless. 

    We are beyond blessed to have an incredible therapist working with Y. Her patience, sensitivity, encouragement, warmth, and undeniable skill are extraordinary. Our family has known and loved her for years, but working with her directly through these sessions (and through a pandemic) has only further solidified how in awe we are of her. She has not only supported Y these past few weeks, she has provided me with endless amounts of hope, encouragement and kindness. I have cried during more than one session. I have been completely amazed at how motivating music is for my son. How through it he attempts to form words, how he is able to follow instructions, understand expectations, and participate appropriately and meaningfully. How he doesn’t want it to end and will work even harder those last few minutes to extend the session, even attempting to verbalize “more”. How he gets past the difficulty of working virtually and will connect with his music therapist through a screen. How he listens to her and will look right at her on that screen. How he has the freedom to make choices and guide the session through selection of instrument or song. I have watched my son flourish and thrive during these sessions. 

    I would be lying if I said it was without challenges. There are moments that are more difficult than others, but on the whole, it’s an undeniably positive experience for him and one which has effects that filter into so many other areas. Because of these sessions I know he understands his visuals, he knows that he is able to make choices and be heard through using them and he puts into practice taking turns, following instructions, understanding expectations and so much more!

    Having Autism Awareness Month fall during quarantine this year highlighted so much for me personally. Regardless of the fact that we’ve been helping our son navigate this journey for the last 5 years, being able to see his resilience has been inspiring and has taught me so much. Being able to attend his virtual therapy sessions has been so eye opening, both in terms of how hard he works and how much prouder I am of him and every single one of his results, seeing the effort and determination first hand. Usually I feel like this month is reserved for sharing awareness with friends, family and across social media, but given the circumstances this year, I’m the one who, over the past month, has gained the most awareness in so many ways – ways that I hope will better shape the way I not only relate to my son but also to his therapy going forward! It’s one thing to be on top of the therapy and communicate with the team, attend meetings, request and view data, adjust programming here and there or attend parent training or host in-home sessions. It’s something else altogether to help carry out a session, to witness his resilience, determination, and ability to adapt and work through regardless of the chaos and upheaval to his routine, schedule and structure. Each day I say I couldn’t be more proud, but that’s quickly disproved the next day as my pride only continues to grow! Virtual learning is by no means easy for our family, but we’re adapting where we can, advocating for alternatives where we can’t, and learning more about each other and our strengths than ever before. And while it’s not the Autism Awareness post I was planning to write this year, it couldn’t be more fitting. Potential, capability and resiliency through determination are three concepts that should be synonymous with our son’s diagnosis and, if nothing else, I hope that is what you’re able to take from this post and what I’ve shared today!

  • NICU Awareness Month 2019

    NICU Awareness Month 2019

    Originally published on http://www.itsybitsybalebusta.com
    09/2019

    I only recently realized that September is NICU Awareness Month. 

    I’ll admit, I’m a little hesitant when it comes to Awareness Days. After all, who isn’t aware of the NICU? Whether or not you’ve had the misfortune of joining the club, everyone knows of this ward in the hospital and the incredible and miraculous work that takes place beyond those doors. What I tried to shed light on through my IUGR series and what I still feel people aren’t necessarily so aware of, is what it really means to be in the NICU Not only for the child, but for the entire family (you can find the post about our NICU experience, by clicking here). Even more so, I don’t think anyone really understands or acknowledges life after the NICU nearly enough. 

    It took three years for me to realize that I hadn’t.

    I vividly remember begging the nurses and doctors for any sort of indication as to when N would be discharged. I also remember the feeling of giving up asking and realizing that there really was no magical date or timeline. That everyday, we’d take two steps forward and one step back from that exit. He’d maintain his temperature, but then he’d only take a quarter of a feed in the allotted time and the rest would have to be administered through his NG tube. That one afternoon, a nurse would remove said NG tube, much to my celebration, only to return the next morning and see it right back there, taped to his face, because the night feeds hadn’t been successful. It is not a joke or exaggeration when people say that life in that wing is a roller coaster ride. There’s that feeling of losing your breath and your stomach dropping right as you’re at the peak – whether it’s when you’re about to watch a test be administered or when you see the doctor enter the room and you just know the results are in. It’s terrifying and heartbreaking and miraculous and inspiring. 

    The boys were born fifteen months apart. It took another two and a half years before we were ready to add to our family again. I felt so prepared, while I sat in the pre-pregnancy consults and ticked questions off of my list in my notebook. I was addressing all of the issues that had come up during N’s pregnancy as well as his diagnosis and how that would affect subsequent pregnancies and what it would mean for us. I listened to statistics and different courses of action that could be helpful in preventing any issues this time around. I took those preventative measures and met with a whole team, including an MFM and dietician. When the doctor made it clear that I’d be considered high risk, I nodded along and, if anything, was happy that it meant I’d have an increased level of care and monitoring.

    I had no idea.

    I was at that hospital more often during my pregnancy with baby E than I was almost anywhere else. I had two appointments a week – one ultrasound or BPP and a slew of other tests. Not just at the end or occasionally, but for almost the entire duration of my pregnancy. I’ll get into my pregnancy with E more in a separate post, but I want to make it clear that I was being attended to and monitored with the utmost vigilance and care. I had plenty of opportunity to ask questions, address concerns, and work with professionals whose patience and knowledge made all the difference. 

    I know exactly the day there was a shift. It was a couple of weeks after my pregnancy became increasingly more complicated and I had to be put on medical leave. I was seated, waiting for my name to be called for that week’s ultrasound when a new mom was wheeled out of the elevator and her exhausted looking partner was looking around the hallway for signs. For the NICU. So that she could go and meet her baby. Her face, the fear and anguish… it broke me. It took me right back three and a half years. I started to openly cry sitting in my seat. I wanted to run over to her, hug her, and tell her that none of this was her fault, because that’s what I felt the first time I was wheeled into the same room, in the same hospital.

    That was the day that the NICU wasn’t just a memory anymore. It was the day that it once again took precedence in my thoughts. From that point forward I asked at every appointment what the chances of this baby needing the NICU were. What weight she had to be to avoid it. What I had to do to prevent us from ever having to go through that again. Obviously, there were no answers. There were estimates and ranges, statistics, and the same line over and over again, “We won’t know until she’s here. For now let’s just focus on…” There was nothing I could do. Again. 

    My MFM was incredible and listened and acknowledged my concerns and some rational and logical part of my brain also knew that he couldn’t promise me we’d avoid the NICU, but I just wished so much that he could. Baby was measuring small and that meant that my fears were measuring quite large. He referred me to speak to the team psychiatrist who was amazing and reassured me that my fears were totally normal and helped talk me through them. 

    When it came to the delivery day, I was thrilled that I was going to meet my daughter. That I was going to be able to experience being the mother to a strong, brave, and beautiful little girl who had given me such strength throughout my pregnancy each week when I saw her little face on the ultrasound. But if we’re being honest, I was absolutely terrified. I knew we were hours from either being admitted to the NICU or being admitted to a postpartum room. That fear dictated a lot concerning my delivery. When it came to N, I wasn’t allowed to accompany him to the NICU because I had received an epidural and had to stay in recovery. That meant I didn’t really get to see him for hours. I couldn’t let that happen again. Her being admitted wasn’t in my control, but my ability to accompany her should she have to go was (at least a little bit). So that was it, I opted for no epidural, not a single IV, so if she had to go I’d be ready to get up and go too. The intensity of the pain was greater than anything I could have imagined. The only thing that was still greater was the fear. Right before she was born I sobbed and screamed out, “I’m so scared.” At that point every doctor and nurse knew exactly why, as I had been clear from the beginning. They reassured me and seconds later she was on my chest. When they asked me to pass her to them to be weighed I began to sob. I couldn’t breathe waiting for the number to enter the room. Three and a half years earlier it was that number that sent the NICU team into action and whisked away my little boy. The agony waiting to hear that number… it felt like it took

    years. My incredible, strong little girl beat the mark by 104g. 104g meant that she could come back to my arms and would be assessed in room. She passed every single test beautifully and together we were admitted to the recovery wing. I took my first deep breath in months and held on to my littlest hero, knowing how close we’d come. All interventions and tests required were able to be performed in room next to me, and it wasn’t until we were discharged a few days later that I could finally accept that one of the test results wouldn’t return stating she’d have to be relocated to an isolette a floor down.

    I know I’m one of the lucky ones. That both times I was able to eventually bring my children home. That their stays weren’t more complicated or life-threatening. I know that. I also know that the delivery room nurses were well meaning when they reiterated that if my daughter were to need the NICU, she would get the best care and it would be what she needed to grow well and thrive and we’d get through it.

    I’m sure this isn’t what you expected as a NICU Awareness Month post. Part of me feels selfish that I’m not focusing on N. The fact that this was his experience, he was the one who battled, he was the one who deserves all of the attention and recognition, praise and awe. But I just wish I had come across one other perspective like this when I was pregnant with E. One other person whose experience standing by and advocating for their child in the NICU resonated with them in new ways long after the experience was over. I’ll be honest, in the years between Noam being born and this pregnancy, my fears of the hospital and NICU and everything from that experience hadn’t just disappeared. But with each passing day, they faded a little until they were a memory and not a nightmare. But when faced with the fact that this could once again be my reality, I didn’t know how to process it. You’ll see plenty of posts this month about what it means to be in the NICU, but I wanted to share my experience about what it means to be possibly facing the NICU after you’ve lived through it once before. It amazes me that new situations and experiences prompt new moments where I have to face what happened and get through it all over again in new ways, in a new context. Even after you’re discharged, you’re still in the club.

    If you’re facing the reality of the NICU again, if you’re worried or feel like no one understands, know that you aren’t alone. I hope you have a medical team that cares for you totally and completely. I hope you have the support you need to go forward. I hope you have the strength to face each appointment and, ultimately, the delivery. And if you need someone to hear you out, with no judgement and from a place of some sort of understanding, please feel free to reach out. NICU Awareness Month is about the wonderful nurses and doctors, the miraculous babies, but it could also be about you – whether you’re sitting next to an isolette today or remembering back to when you did.

  • IUGR Awareness Day 2017

    IUGR Awareness Day 2017

    Originally published on http://www.itsybitsybalebusta.com
    03/2017

    I cannot believe it’s been an entire year since I stepped out of my comfort zone and shared our experience with IUGR! The response from our series last year, was so overwhelming and has provided such a community on this journey, that I want to share where we are now, another year later!

    I don’t even know where to begin or how to describe the past twelve months. Sometimes I look at N, (who is now only two and a half months away from his second birthday!) and even though the memory of the NICU is still fresh – trying to reconcile the baby whose incubator I sat next to, whose preemie diaper covered his entire torso, and the little hurricane of love and chaos that’s running around my living room – well, I just can’t believe it could possibly be the same kid!

    Where once his photos were marked by the glare of an incubator, they’re now just one giant blur of a little boy running around, trying to take in and discover as much as possible before his Mommy catches him.

    Where I once sat sobbing, wondering how I’d be able to protect this frail, tiny, 3-pound bundle, I now sit holding my breath watching him go down the “big kids” slide laughing hysterically, calling out for me to watch his escapades!

    N is wild and full of energy, love and life. He lives to make us laugh, and walking into his room first thing in the morning to the most enthusiastic “HIIIIIIII MOMMY!” anyone could ever muster at 6am, makes the early wake time bearable. He’s hilarious and a hurricane. He knows what he wants and if he doesn’t get it immediately… well watch out! He’s so social that the librarian at the library we visit a few times a week knows him so well that she has Paw Patrol colouring sheets lined up and Nick Bland books on display. 

    Being a parent is nothing how I imagined it would be. The emotion, fear and love it has drawn out of me is astronomically greater than I could have ever imagined it’d be. There are days where diagnoses, lack there of, appointments and doctors/ specialists/ therapists, become so normal and routine, that when I stop to think about what our schedule and life would look like without them all, I just can’t picture it. Months relate to appointments. I know July means a yearly follow-up at one hospital. I know that every three months there are follow-up appointments at another hospital. I know more doctors and specialists than I ever had an interest in knowing.

    But now I also know resilience. I know gratitude. I know hope and strength and appreciating things that people take for granted. I watch N amaze not just family and friends, but doctors who have been practicing for a very long time. I watch therapists stand back and say, “Wow,” in complete awe, when my little boy, the same little boy whose bones were so fragile a year ago, climbs to the top of the structure in the therapeutic gym, calls out and waves at us from the top, slides down the slide and then happily says, “again!” and is off before anyone can stop him! I watch him light up rooms, waving at and befriending the children with special needs around him, so easily, full of sensitivity and understanding that is well beyond his years. I’ve seen him figure out how to reach his goals despite his tiny stature. In the twenty two months I’ve been Mommy to this superhero, I have watched first-hand what it means to let nothing, NOTHING, hold you back. Not your size, your health, even your well-meaning Mommy.

    I’m learning to give N his space. I spent a pregnancy worrying about delivery, delivery worrying about the NICU, the NICU worrying about the world and then the first year of his life worrying about all the ways he could hurt himself or compromise his health. Everything from a fever to someone holding him incorrectly. I have watched this boy overcome so much in so short a time. 

    Today N is as healthy and rambunctious a toddler as any you’ve seen. While his size does set him apart – below the third percentile (to put that in to perspective, imagine an almost two year old in 9 month old clothing) it does not stop him.

    If you’ve just received your diagnosis, or have just met your (very) little one, I want to give you something not too many people gave me. I want to give you a little bit of hope. Not every story is written the same way, and thank Gd, because I wouldn’t have N if they all were. But I can offer you our story. I can offer you the fact that this little boy who started at three pounds, endured two surgeries his first year, who now in his second year has been discharged from a few specialists but still has an endocrinologist, pediatric orthopedic surgeon, pediatric developmentalist and neonatologist, that THIS boy is thriving. This boy is meeting and tearing down milestones on his

    mission to make “Tiny but Mighty” more than just a catch phrase. This amazing, exhausting little boy is going to change the world. 

    You can do this. You can go to the appointments. You can hear the skeptics and then you can look at your baby and know that for every question mark your left with, your baby has an answer. Their very own answer. One full of life and a strength that is greater than their size. They are feisty, they are strong and they are capable. And they are this way because they’re a reflection of their greatest advocate – you.

    They’ll hear percentiles and diagnoses and endless jargon from their doctors, but they’ll hear the encouragement and the knowledge that none of that is written in stone from you.

    The next time we attend our routine hospital appointments there will be a new set of foot steps running down the halls. N will, for the first time, be able to walk up to doctors and to his NICU nurses. He’ll be able to speak to them. He’ll be able to show them that Mommy’s no longer carrying him around, but that he is now the one doing the carrying. He’s carrying a lifetime of hope and lessons that he’s instilled in everyone that’s ever met him. He’s carrying so much life and love and energy that I just want to go back to the first NICU nurses with horrible images of his future, and say LOOK. Don’t think, don’t worry, don’t tell me what “usually” or “statistically” is likely to happen but to just stay quiet and look.

    Look at my tiny, little boy who’s making everyone around him smile.

    Look at my little boy who’s pointing out things in the room no one would otherwise notice.

    Look at my little boy who looks up to his brother with all his heart, who loves Paw Patrol, bears, cookies and milk, and making everyone laugh. 

    Look at my little boy who continues to spend his days conquering his size, the stares and questions, and the path lined up for him in the limited knowledge and information available on IUGR.

    Look at my little boy whose only restriction he wasn’t able to tear down was that of the intrauterine variety.

    IUGR. NICU. It’s amazing the weight of guilt, trepidation and anxiety those four letter combinations can induce. But what’s also amazing is what those four letters produce as well – namely the little, feisty bundles of strength and courage. 

    Take their little hand in yours (when you can catch them!) and give yourself the gift of stepping away from all the charts and skeptics and fear, and immerse yourself in their adventure and wonder instead. They may be small, but the difference they’re going to make in this world is anything but.