Dear Sloan,
I'm watching you sleep in your isolette. You look very peaceful on your back, resting your head on your right hand. Sometimes, though not now, you put one or both hands behind your head, just looking around to take everything in. I love that about you.
You had a big day today. Your mother fed you for the first time from a bottle. You weighed in at 1510 grams, which is another solid gain. A few more weeks like this and ... well, I don't want to get ahead of myself.
I learned the other day that your doctors called you a "micropreemie." The state of California considers you, at least temporarily, "disabled." Later, when we're allowed to take you home, we'll get visits from a social worker because you'll be an "at-risk infant."
These are standard labels to classify your care. But I want you to know that they are not you. As you grow up, schools may label you as someone with "special needs" or "gifted." Other kids may label you with nicknames because of your size, eyesight or some other difference. Adults may label you because it's easier for them if you fit into their understanding of the world.
Just remember that you are filled with infinite possibilities, and no one can predict with certainty your measure or contributions in life.
Your nurses and doctors help me remeber this fact, too. They won't predict when we can remove your nasal cannula or feeding tube. They won't give me an estimate of when you can come home. And each time I ask if some issue or report is "normal," the reply never includes a simple yes or no.
Instead, I sit by your isolette. A monitor beeps out stats. Yours are good for the moment. Other babies fuss and cry. But you, with your hand on your cheek, are sleeping after a big day with your mom.
I am happy.
Love,
Dad
