One Good Day

It was 82 days after Frankie was born that Chris and I looked at each other and said, "Today was a good day." 82 days. We had been home from hospital three weeks and we had finally had a day where it felt like we could breathe.

Frankie woke up happy. She spent an hour lazing on Chris' lap. Country music played and I let myself feel happy enough to dance around the living room for the first time in six months. Mum and Pete came up and we all went to the climbing gym. People told us how cute Frankie was and we climbed. Chris and I. Together. Climbing. Doing what we did before this high-risk pregnancy and premature baby life began.

The weather was warm, Frankie lazed about in a nappy and a singlet like a true summer baby and we even sat outside for a few minutes together.

That evening when we sat down, it didn't matter than Frankie had still thrown up a bunch of her feeds, we had both been covered in vomit at one point or another, or that a shower seemed like an impossible task. We had enjoyed a few moments of normality. We experienced what I imagine those with a baby born at full term enjoy quite often. Normal life, but with a baby in tow. We still had a feeding tube but hey...it was a start.