The first time in the premature infant ward was tough. Between feeding, diapering, washing, pumping milk sometimes only thirty minutes remained and there had to be showered, eaten, slept, walked, there came visitors and oh yes, apply for birth certificate, child support, parental leave and parental allowance and maternity leave also took place.
Postpartum gymnastics and midwife visits and scurried back and gave as much love as was left in those days. A single beer had to be once, after all this time and then on. Gianni was there and then gone and his existence was a great relief. Because instantly the responsibility went through two and the lunch with the orange plastic lid was replaced by primo and secondo piatto. There was a hint of pink wafting over the gynecology ward where we shared a family room. At first we had our separate beds to defend, eventually we were just us. We were in and out looking at the November gray, both buying a huge bag of clothes at H&M because neither of us really expected to stay long. Milla made kangaroo with both of us. She fell asleep in our arms and we tried not to get tangled among all the cables. We sneaked our cell phone into the NICU and took probably the most photos of anyone. We could not stop talking about her these days. When she pulled her feeding tube for the first time by herself, we were so proud of her. Milla had done something. She had fought back. Our daughter. Clearly.
