If you’ve been around for any amount of time, you probably know that our sweet Sam was born last November when I was just 27 weeks pregnant.  After a textbook pregnancy with Miss G and an uneventful first two trimesters with Sam, it was a shock to say the very least.  Never in a million years would I have thought I’d arrive at the hospital that night and have my baby exactly an hour later.  In fact, I was quite set on not going to the hospital at all as we’d already been two nights previous and I’d been sent home after some IV fluids and a slew of tests.  {Because who wants to be that foolish woman who goes to the hospital in extreme pain thinking she’s in labour only to be hooked up to machines that show no contractions again?  Not this girl.} Needless to say, I’m so thankful my husband pushed the issue and we went when we did.  It was one of the most terrifying nights of my life and my eyes still flood with hot, stingy tears the moment I begin replaying it all in my head. I don’t think there’s anything that makes you feel more helpless or vulnerable or scared than having to depend on the expertise of others to keep your child – the baby you’ve desperately wanted for so long – alive.  My goodness.  We only realized a couple of weeks later when I felt like absolute death that my appendix had ruptured that first night we went to the hospital and that Sam’s early birth was caused by my body knowing that it was no longer a safe place to grow a baby.

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