Let me repeat that. MY. SON’S. FIRST. BIRTHday was a week ago.

Can you feel the incredulity in my voice?

Is this why he can no longer wear the cute tiny outfits from Target’s Newborn section?

My son was born 3 months early. When he arrived so impatiently, he weighed 1 pound, 9 ounces; that’s 711 grams for any metric-based readers. Just over a pound and a half. He was the size of a shoe, about the weight of a loaf of bread. I realize newborns are small, but they’re not supposed to be that small.

Given the daily prayers for growth, the celebratory texts and eMails going out to family and friends announcing every gram put on, and the steak dinner in honor of reaching the two pound mark, I thought I would be immune to a Mom’s wish for her child to stay small. The Carter’s tagline on some hand-me-down outfits was, in fact, “If they could just stay little.” When I first read it, I snorted. I literally snorted with contempt for those moms who *don’t* want their child to grow.

He grew. He continues to grow. On his first birthday, he weighed 20 pounds, 12 ounces. He is now the weight of a car tire, an obese cat or a record-breaking fish. HE’S HUGE!

I recently, carefully and thoughtfully, went through Ollie’s wardrobe. It was a daunting process. We waited for two months for him to be BIG ENOUGH to wear a PREEMIE onesie, and now that same outfit looks like it would clothe a cross-dressing Barbie doll. I unfolded a favorite froggy outfit from his first days at home and thought, “AWWW….where did my little tiny baby go?”

I wander through the Newborn department and sigh with mixed emotions. I couldn’t wait for Ollie to fit in Newborn clothes. When he graduated to 3 month size, we celebrated; another happy text to update those who were there for the NICU journey. Now I miss the cuddles of a newborn, the tiny mittens he wore, the being able to lift him without a groan and “putting my back into it.”

It brought tears to my eyes. I cried because my son has grown.

I’m getting like a regular mommy now, aren’t I?

So I haven’t worked full time in almost a year.

In the months since, my family has set me up on a couple “blind dates,” if you will.

Someone in my life has met another mom and thought, “Lisa would like her; I should set them up, they will be friends.”

But I can’t get over the idea that these meetings are essentially Blind Dates. Using the same thought process that might have been used if I were single and looking for a romantic mate, my husband has thought, “This woman could help complete her life, to fulfill her need for a buddy in mommy-hood. This woman could be my wife’s pal.”

They’re odd, these dates. It’s like an interview. The same interviews I went on when I was in the process of meeting my husband. Weeding through the answers to see where our similarities lie, thinking about the things I shouldn’t have said.

The wrong answer will destroy these baby friendships; a wrong word could make me seem callous…or even (gulp) “attached,” and the decision is made right then and there that this match is “not the right fit for our needs at this time.” Or, more pointedly, “you’re not what I’m looking for.”

Like a regular date, I can tell when they go well. I tell my husband that I liked That Mom and the person responsible for the other set-up calls the next day and says, “Oh, This Mom really liked you, she wants to go out again.”

I recall the meeting. I was poised, funny, didn’t burp or fart loudly, didn’t drop the F-bomb and saved my secrets for when This Mom is ready for them. I realize I “still got it.”

The second date is being planned, I worry I won’t live up to my first impression. I’m afraid that spark won’t be there again.

Kinda like my second date with my husband.

It’s something I never thought I’d experience. A cousin was born two months early a few months before Oliver. I thought “how sad, I hope she makes it.”

After 3 months’ worth of twice-daily visits to my NICU (West Allis Memorial in Wisconsin is a wonderful place with wonderful nurses), willing my baby to live, cheering on the tiny accomplishments he figured out that day, worrying, praying fervently, changing tiny diapers, and feeding him through a tube, I’d experienced it.

I’d experienced it the way that almost 550,000 parents do a year.

I’d experienced it the way the hundreds of thousands of parents of a micro-preemies do.

I’ve experienced it first-hand. And it’s horrible. Terrifying. Something I wouldn’t wish on the worst people in the world. To go through the experience changes you; reveals your strength, forces you to allow yourself to rely on someone else, makes you grateful for small feats, takes the wonder of babies to the highest levels. How a baby so tiny and fragile and so helpless can make it through is impressive and honestly, a feat of God, a miracle, and a testament that the research and medical advancements done in years’ past are needed and necessary.

The following is from the March of Dimes website…

For the second consecutive year, the United States earned only a “D” on the March of Dimes Premature Birth Report Card, demonstrating that more than half a million of our nation’s newborns didn’t get the healthy start they deserved.

The March of Dimes advocates for national and state health policies and programs that benefit women of childbearing age, infants and children.

As part of the national Prematurity Campaign, at the federal level, the Foundation is advocating to:

* Increase access to health coverage for women of childbearing age (especially those who are pregnant), infants and children
* Fund implementation of the PREEMIE Act (P.L. 109-450)
* Secure federal funding to implement the next phase of the National Children’s Study
* Secure federal funding for increased interdisciplinary research to find the causes of preterm birth and to translate those findings into clinical care strategies
* Enhance data collection by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to improve understanding of prematurity, birth defects and infant mortality.

In years past, early babies were put in shoe boxes and kept warm by the oven. Thanks to the research and strides made by organizations like the March of Dimes, we’ve come so far. But we need to go even further.

If you can, visit the March of Dimes to donate or learn more.

When it comes to creepy-crawlies and creatures, I discriminate. I don’t hate them all, per se, the cute ones I can live with….ladybugs, bumblebees, caterpillars. However, when it comes to the ugly utilitarian millipedes with 70,000 legs and the body the size of my pinky finger, then, yes, I hate.

I hate with the heat of 1,000 jilted lovers.

I hate with the passion of 10,000 teenagers in parked cars.

So when I see the creature hanging out at the intersection of wall and ceiling, living room, USA, I sigh. This is not how I want to start my morning.

I sigh because I know this will be an hour’s worth of planning. I will spend an hour strategizing this small battle, preparing the demise of this invader. Most of the hour is spent simply staring at it, wishing it away, ensuring it doesn’t move, gathering my strength for the task at hand. The Department of Public Works drives by, sucking up leaves, I consider for a moment waving them down to save me; I reject that plan because I am a Strong. Independent. Woman. No man needed for this job.

I collect my tools.

baseball cap. check.

long sleeve shirt. check.

gloves. check.

jeans. check.

socks & shoes. check.

broom & dustpan. check.

DirtDevil Handvac. check.

hairspray with aggressive & pointed spray pattern. check.

Gumption? Moxie? Backbone? Decidedly, disappointingly absent.

My plan of attack is simple. Disorient him with hairspray. Bat with broom. Collect in dustpan and throw outside. Contingency plan? Spray, bat, suck. I plug the vac into an outlet close to the door, so I can run with it still on and toss it outside.

I pull my socks up over my jeans – to prevent it from running up my pant leg, natch – and pull my gloves on to keep the openings of my sleeves closed, arrange the cap down over tucked up hair and step to 3 feet from the wall.

With knocking knees, I collect what strength I have and talk myself through it.

one…..two….three…..PSHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

F–k! S–t! Dammit! He’s on the run! PSHHHHHHHH some more. He drops to the floor and squirms. **shudder** He’s too fast, too fast. VROOOOOMMMMM. I have to suck, there’s a thud in the handvac. In a tizzy, I run to the door and throw the vac to the stoop. I unplug it, run it to the garage where it sits.

I realize I’m shaking like I had too much coffee. I’m shaking like I just got through a real emergency. This scene takes place in less than 30 seconds, yet I’m acting as though it’s a life-changing event.

For the rest of the day, I wear shoes. I glance suspiciously at the site where the demise went down. Is there evidence? Did I imagine my success? Is it back? Before I settle back into my loveseat, I inspect the area, to assure myself the rest of the bug family hasn’t set up camp on the armrest, behind the couch, in the blanket draped over the back.

I re-tell my tale to my husband when he comes home.

I don’t think he bought the level of bravado I tell it with. He’s seen me encounter spiders and knows I’m remarkably “girly” when it comes to the ugly pests.

This small victory is in my arsenal of successes when I’m questioning my mothering abilities. I protected and saved my son from the millipede.

I’m like the police. Only cuter.

….hmmm…..

Here I am, 10 months after the birth of our son, Oliver, the Today show on in the background (why?), musing about what outfit to put Ollie in, listing our grocery needs and mapping out the errand run. What time is Ollie’s doctor appointment? Is today a jeans day? Baked mac and cheese for dinner? A lounge-about romper?

In an unexpected twist of fate, my pregnancy ended abruptly, 3 months early. Not surprisingly, my priorities changed. I quit my 8-5 without a thought, to stay home with Ollie.

My boss is bald, (almost) toothless, wears diapers and drools, and I’m game for whatever he throws out (or up.) My home is now my office and my car is my satellite location, and a roll and a grin from my little guy is far more rewarding than that other job I used to have.

I proudly am the hovering, spit-up-wearing, sporadically showering stay-at-home mom I never thought I’d be.