I call it the Preemie Underground. It’s a whole world of premature babies and their unique health issues, rules, developmental milestones, and quirks—and their parents. Sure, you might hear about a baby with a low birth weight on Orpah or the nightly news, but you’ll never really “get” it until you’ve been to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and experienced it yourself. So you know you’re the parent of a preemie when…

Your doctors tell you that your baby’s first few months (at the very least) will be a “rollercoaster ride”—except that you love rollercoasters and this sure doesn’t bring you the same kind of thrills that the Screaming Eagle does.

Your first experience breastfeeding is with a hospital grade machine—and you tape a picture of your baby on it to help get the milk flowing.

You learn the difference between preemie, micropreemie.

You know how to change a diaper left-or right-handedly, through an incubator hole, around several wires.

The Apgar scale doesn’t even apply to your baby.

People say they can tell your baby was premature by the shape of his or her head.

You know how to read your baby’s oxygenation level, heartbeat, and other vitals on a computer monitor.

The first time you see your baby, you feel more fear than joy.

The first time you touch your baby, it’s through an isolette—and the first time you hold him or her, his or her weight barely registers on your chest.

Your first few weeks—or even months—with your child are spent in a room full of syringes, nurses, monitors, and other babies and parents.

You know how to unhook most of your baby’s monitors to easily give him or her a bath in a pink hospital basin.

You’re a kangaroo care expert!

Along with your birth certificate form, you signing blood transfusion, operation, and other medical waivers daily.

Your colored wristband for entry into the NICU has faded to white from weeks of use—and you refuse to get a new one. You’ve earned that faded bracelet!

You know how to scrub up like a pro and balk when relatives refuse to wash their hands before seeing your baby. You might even keep those medical sponges on hand for scrubbing up!

You attend more well baby visits at the NICU follow up than you get hours of sleep.

You either know about every prematurity risk, statistic, or heart/gut/lung/other bodily part problem possible—or you refuse to even acknowledge any of these dozens of things that could go wrong, focusing on simply what’s next.

You’re elated when your baby finally poops—and become accustomed to recording the number of poops and pees daily, even after a year of having him or her home.

Going home doesn’t involve balloons and relative visits so much as oxygen tanks and other medical equipment—and orders for well-wishers to stay away!

Your days aren’t spent fighting over who’s going to hold the baby next, but with insurance companies on whether or not RSV shots will be covered.

You hear the “desaturating” monitor in your sleep—and when your baby comes home, you don’t sleep for days, worrying that he or she will “forget” to breathe.

You can’t find a single diaper or piece of clothing that doesn’t dwarf your infant. You end up folding diapers in half to fit.

You are flabbergasted by your baby’s incredible resilience and strength, and marvel at his or her ability to make it through all that has come to pass. Like any other parent, you are grateful every single day that this little one is yours.