This last year.

I'm tucked in bed, sitting in the darkness while the light from my computer shines in my face, and it's the eve of my baby's birthday.

And all I can think is wow, this last year. We survived.

By the grace of God, we all survived.

And we've all grown so much this past year, but our internal growth isn't nearly as obvious as Conor's external growth.

If you would have told me a year ago, we'd be where we are today, I would have laughed at you. I never ever ever would have dreamed this would be Conor's story. I never ever would have dreamed that I'd be told at my ultrasound that he had reverse blood flow in the umbilical cord and he wasn't growing as he should be. And even after they told me that, I never ever would have dreamed he'd be born that day, just hours later at a totally different hospital.

It was so dramatic and traumatic and it all happened so fast and I don't think I've ever taken the time to truly grasp just how traumatic it was. And I think we've been in survival mode for a year, just putting our heads down and plowing through all of it.

And to be honest, even reliving it still breaks my heart. I'm hoping and praying that as each day passes and as each year passes my broken heart is pieced back together.

Bit by bit, piece by piece.

I had envisioned such a different birth story with Conor, something more like Ryan's. A story where I carried him to 38 weeks, and birthed him vaginally. A story where his brothers met him at the hospital and we all held him straight away. A story where he came home with me from the hospital just days after being born. A story where we breastfed with ease, where a pump was only used on days I was in the office. A story where he was on target with weight and development. A story where the transition was easy, as easy as three kids could be I suppose. A story with less doctors appointments and so much less stress.

And if I'm honest, this last year has been anything but easy and stress free. Every year, I think that was our hardest year yet with seasons of unemployment, Peter's fall down a mountain, a miscarriage, etc. But I can stand here and say, wow, this last year was so hard with the stress and trauma of Conor's birth, his 97 day NICU stay and all that came with that, the juggle and balance of life in the NICU and life at home. Each day we'd wake up and call the NICU for an update on Conor, and we'd just be holding our breath, hoping the update was good.

And even now, that we're six months out from feeding tubes and oxygen support, and even now that he's eating well and starting to finally show interest in solids, I've noticed that I still get a little anxious at doctors appointments when they place his little body on the scale. I find myself pleading with it to show our efforts in ounces. And I stand there willing it to land on a higher number than it did the last time. Will he have gained a good amount of weight? Will this be enough to show an increase on his growth curve? When will he join the ranks of the percentiles for his actual age?

I find that I'm still holding my breath.

And it's exhausting.

I had envisioned such a different story, such a different entrance into the world, such a different transition to three kids, such a different first year.

And I sit here mourning the story that wasn't, the story that I was writing in my head and in my heart,  as I breathe in the story that is, the story that God wrote and is continuing to write for our family.

And yes, Conor's birth story is so incredibly different than the one I envisioned, but it's his. I carried him to 28 weeks, and he was cut out of me via emergency c-section. His brothers met him a few days after he was born, and they just stared at his itty bitty self in his isolette. Again not the meeting I envisioned, but it's their meeting, and it's their story. And it's beautiful. And I did have to wait like 12 days to hold him, but I'll never forget the weight of him and the anticipation, the fear, and the deep, deep love I already had for this little guy. And he did eventually come home from the hospital, just you know 95 days later than I had originally envisioned. And he never did take to breastfeeding, and bottle feeding was really hard for a long time there because his reflux was so bad, but now I love feeding him and I love our feeding journey because it's so unique to us. And as the months have gone by, the doctors appointments have dwindled a bit.  He still has far more appointments than the average baby, but less than we started with.

And as I sit here just reflecting on our story, how it began and where we are now, I'm so overwhelmed with emotion. What a heavy year for us, one filled with stress and anxiety and fear, yet even in the midst of all of that stuff there was hope and joy. I feel like we spent the last year with our heads down, just hanging on and holding our breath and here we are a year out, and we're finally coming up for air.

And we are gulping and gasping as we can't seem to breathe that air in fast enough.

And it's all so overwhelming.

And I sit here just inhaling the story that is, and exhaling the story that wasn't.

Inhaling faith, health, love, goodness, laughter, gratitude.

Exhaling grief, pain, anger, fear, my expectations.

And I'm reminded of the fact that God is writing this story for our family, and Peter and I are the ones who will retell it in the years to come. And I hope and pray that in the retelling of it, as we share about the pain and the heartache and the trauma and the brokenness, that you will hear us speak of God's faithfulness, His provision and His goodness.

Let it be so.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. James 1:2-3