I started to think about the NICU experience and how that shapes every single emotion I experience now. I am almost positive this is part of PTSD, but I find myself wanting to take hold of my boy and hole ourselves up in our home. Of course I am writing right now, from a coffee shop. That means I did eventually drop Jack off. I took in his teacher's Christmas presents. I tried to act calm, cool, and collected. On the inside? Nerves. Sick in the pit of my stomach.
Even now, as I write from this coffee shop, as I check Facebook, as I upload a pic to Instagram, my thoughts are there at school, with my boy. Santa is supposed to come today to visit the kids. Such a sweet time for them. Oh God, please protect our little ones.
Preemie parents are painfully aware that no matter how hard we try, there are no guarantees. We cannot will our children to live. To keep them out of harms way. But I do believe in going to God with our concerns, with our hurt, with our prayers of protection. Not to get all theological, but prayer is one of those things that make me scratch my head, still to this day, even after a lifetime of growing up in the church with the opportunity to study these very things. Even with these thoughts, I know the power of prayer. I've seen it. But I also know that sometimes the answer is "no" or unexplainable except for the fact that we live in a "fallen" world. And yes, this all seems so overly simplistic, when in reality, we just cannot explain it.
Still, I pray. I beg God for his protection over my little one. I pray that he has a fun day. That he continues to learn how to interact with his classmates. To follow directions. To make a craft. To visit with Santa. Maybe even try a bite of his snack. That he doesn't get overwhelmed. But most of all, that he is safe in this scary world.