Jesse A. Schroeder

When we do "kangaroo care" with Aleli, we hold her up high on our chest, and honestly it is tough to see her face. But last night, I bundled her up and held her in my lap and just looked at her for a bit. She rested peacefully, and every now and then halfway opened one eye, giving me what I call the "stink eye." 

I'm not sure what else to say, other than "I held my little girl." It's an experience beyond words. The miracle of life is something that if I sit down and think about it for too long, I feel I might go crazy. Somehow, that little person came from me? 

Thankfully, I have the rest of my life and hers to try to wrap my head around it all. But really, I don't think I'll ever be able to. And so just like last night, there isn't much I can do but simply hold her. And in the future, "holding her" might mean walking her to school, or driving her to the movies, or helping her through a difficult time. 

But, as I sing to her while we sit in the dark and quiet room in the NICU, I will always be there to hold her.