Baby Haven Greyson's Angels

10/05/2026

10/04/2026

This is your reminder to smile today.

Sometimes I think we spend so much time trying to get through life that we forget to actually live it.

There is always something.

Something to worry about.
Something that needs to be done.
Something that didn’t go the way we hoped.
Something we’re waiting on.
Something we’re trying to fix.
And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that there probably isn’t going to be some magical day when all of it is finally done and everything is easy.

I used to think there would be.
I thought you survived the hard part and then you got to the good part.
But that’s not how life works.
The good is mixed right in with the hard.
Sometimes right smack in the middle of it.

It’s a laugh you weren’t expecting.
A ridiculous little moment.
A hug.
A look.
A smile that makes you stop whatever you’re doing and just smile back.
And maybe those are the moments that matter the most.

Because when you’ve lived through enough hard things, you realize happiness doesn’t always come in these huge, life-changing moments.
Sometimes happiness is just a few seconds.
And you almost miss it if you aren’t paying attention.

So I’m trying to pay attention.
I’m trying to take the picture.
Record the video.
Laugh when it’s funny.
Be silly.
Hold on a little longer.
And stop telling myself I’ll enjoy life when things calm down.
Because this is life.

The hard days and the beautiful ones.
The tears and the belly laughs.
The things I wish I could change and the moments I wish I could freeze forever.
All of it.

And I don’t want the hard things to make me miss the beautiful things happening right in front of me.

So this is your reminder to smile today.

Even if today isn’t perfect.
Even if you’re tired.
Even if you have a hundred things on your mind.

Find one little thing that makes you smile and let yourself have that moment.

And if you can’t find one today…
Here.
You can borrow ours.

10/03/2026

Haven has come such a long way from our beginning playground days and being non verbal 💜

09/29/2026

5 milliliters of liquid gold

I'd barely made it back to the mom-and-baby ward when a nurse popped in introducing herself as a lactation specialist. Cheery but businesslike, she explained her job was to help new moms and babies with feeding.

She looked at me and said, "Your job is not done yet, Mamma. This is for your baby."

Then they rolled in a hospital-grade breast pump; some medieval contraption of cones and tubes and suction devices. She showed me how to attach everything and tie it off with a pink stretchy band.

"Do you have a picture of your baby?" she asked.

Even though my baby was nothing like what I'd thought he would look like, I was beaming with pride as I pulled up his tiny picture on my phone.

"He's so precious," she said like he was a full-grown little man and not a baby wrapped in machines and tubes.

"Now Mamma, I want you to look at this picture when you pump. Pretend he's right here with you."

I remember thinking: this is one thing I can do for my baby. I was completely out of control of whether he would survive. He was no longer in my body to grow. But this was at least one thing I could control. One thing I could provide.

I practiced on the machine while eating grapes and little pieces of cheese, drinking water and milk. My mom would wash the cups and clean the bottles until her hands were nearly raw. We were a machine, and our product was this precious liquid gold.

By the time the lactation specialist came back a few hours later, I was pushing through colostrum. And by my next visit to Haven, I was the proud owner of a syringe of 5 milliliters. One teaspoon. Liquid gold.

The nurses bragged about how fast I produced milk for my tiny baby. One advantage of having a micro preemie: 5 milliliters goes a long way. A baby Haven's size couldn't even finish a whole teaspoon of colostrum.

——

It’s funny how we can cling to the small things. Here I was holding a tiny little syringe of milk that took me hours of work to make. For my tiny little baby.

I clung to it like it was some kind of badge of honor. This milk can save his life. It was full of everything Baby Haven might need, inherited from his Mamma. Full of antibodies and protection. Things he needed to grow.

What I didn’t know is they would fortify my milk with milk based products. Products that the companies that made them knew were not great for preemie babies, but the companies still pushed them on hospitals and the hospitals still push them on babies who needed to grow faster than what mothers milk alone could provide.

Years later, I would find out that Haven is lactose intolerant. My milk was always the better option. I found out that these same companies are Now being held accountable.

I never did breast-feed Haven. He was too small to latch. I will never have that connection that some mothers take for granted. But I will tell you that I spent hours in closet rooms all hours of the day and night pumping liquid gold for my son. Crying as I journaled here for other families that might walk down this similar path.

I still have a couple of viles deep in my freezer. Now people make rings out of the old milk and other things. I always clung to them like it was something that would later on help Haven somehow.

I clung to the smallest little things for my smallest little baby, because it was the one thing I could actually provide him. And I breast-feed him for over two years that way before I can no longer produce milk.

It’s so hard to imagine he is over 50 pounds now. 50 times the size he was born. And I take pride in thinking my liquid gold might of helped him get there. 💜

09/27/2026

A special surprise from Delray Beach, Florida

09/27/2026

Born on New Year's Day.

January 1st, 2019. Haven Greyson Smith arrived one hundred days early, weighing less than a pound; and he was born en caul, still wrapped in his sac. It happens in 1 in 80,000 births, and they say it's the gentlest birth a baby can have. If anyone deserved a gentle birth, it was my son.

I couldn't hear him cry from the operating table. Then my mom came back to my side in tears of joy: "He is so beautiful. His cry is like a kitten."

He cries. That means he's alive. That means he defied the odds.

Hours later, they wheeled me into the NICU; into a dark, hushed room they called the NEST, for the tiniest of the tiny. They lifted the cover off his isolette, and there he was: in a tiny plastic castle, my Haven. He could have fit entirely inside a single nurse's blue examination glove.

Minute by minute, the nurse said. So that's how we'd do it. Minute by minute.

Let's go slay some dragons, my little man.

——

I want to say that, no matter how many times I revisit Haven’s birth it’s still brings tears to my eyes. No matter how many times I look at his baby pictures he is just so remarkably a miracle.

What a lot of people don’t know is there was a whole team on me at the same time there was a team on my son. I was in preeclampsia, trying to hold him in as long as possible. And my heart rate was stopping the bleeding was severe, and the team was doing their best to keep me alive at the same time they were trying to keep my sweet little boy alive.

And I lay there on a table arm spread open, almost like an angel myself. The C-section was unique they cut me all across and then inside all the way down to protect him because he was so tiny they needed all the room they could have to pull him out safely.

A sheet separated me from seeing him. All I could do is rely on God’s hands, guiding theirs.

I will be honest. Even to this day I mourn the simplest of things that people take for granted. The beautiful baby pictures that mothers have after giving birth to their child. They’re beautiful, healthy baby, laying on their chest.

It would be 10 days before I even got to hold my son covered tubes, a machine breathing for him. It would be eight months before I could take him home. And even now at almost eight years, we don’t have all the answers. But what we do have is my sweet baby boy. So our celebrations are a little different than a typical family.

There’s a beautiful saying that a flower that blooms early or late isn’t any less pretty. And that is my sweet Haven he bloomed far too early, but his beauty radiates every day through his smile, and I am so grateful that God allowed me to have him. And I am thankful every day for the Angels that he sent our way to share in our journey.

And that’s why I always say it’s a brand new baby day because my son was born on New Year’s Day against all odds and every day is a brand new baby day… full of love, life and endless possibilities. 💜

09/27/2026

Special surprise from a very special Angel in Arizona 

09/26/2026

The 10%:

Two days. I hadn't felt him move in two days; not even the french fry trick worked anymore.

The doctor looked at the scan and said, "Miss Smith, we're looking at about a 10% chance at life." The cord that was supposed to be feeding my son had started flowing in reverse. Like a clogged coffee filter, he explained; the filter wasn't feeding my baby anymore. He was starving.

They admitted me and we waited; 24 hours for the first steroid shot to protect his lungs, then 24 more for the second. I lived on ice chips like they were fine dining. Nurses strapped pink bands around my belly just to keep the monitor on a baby far too small for it.

But I did the math on that 10%. If there's a 10% chance, then my son was going to be that 10%.

On New Year's Eve, I watched the ball drop from a labor and delivery room. Tomorrow morning, my baby was coming out.

——-

I hope one day Haven takes this 10% lesson as a testimony. So many times in life we are told the odds are absolutely not in our favor. Things can feel overwhelmingly bleak. The weight of the world weighing down every step forward. But if you take anything from Haven’s story please take this; a chance still means a life is possible. A chance means no one knows… A chance means those odds are not set in stone.

I was told over and over that I could abort my baby if I wanted. The weight of choosing what kind of quality of life would he have weighed on me heavily. But deep down in my heart a soul I just had faith God would be with my baby. That he would be the testimony that says: never give up Hope.

And now almost 8 years later I remember wondering if my baby stopped moving means he was already gone. I remember the days of not eating just so if they had to emergency c-section he would have every chance. I remember praying in that hospital bed that these steroid shots please protect his far underdeveloped lungs.

And now I get to sit here and watch my beautiful boy grin to ear in pride as he serenades me on his keyboard or kiss his sweet forehead goodnight as he cuddles up to his favorite teddy.

That is my sweet take away today. No matter what you are out there facing know your future is never written in stone. Today is a brand new baby day… full of love, life and endless possibilities. 💜

09/25/2026

"I will be having this baby."

They laid it all out for me, the way doctors have to. "He has an 80 percent chance of severe malformations. He might never talk. He might never see. He might never be able to use any of his limbs. He might never hear."

"If you choose termination, we can make that appointment today for you."

What I heard was… if you want to give up, you can still give up.

But I'd been in worse spots before, against worse odds and the mission always drives on. Quitting wasn't an option. In a voice I knew from another life, I told her: "I will be having this baby."

Then my Mamma got off the plane, wrapped me in the biggest hug, touched my belly and said "There's my grandchild!" in that beautiful southern accent of hers and just like that, I could breathe again.

McDonald's french fries got him kicking. Nanny got me believing. And Haven? He just kept fighting.

———

Going back through my old writing has been quite therapeutic. I don’t know if anyone else ever does that; reads where they were before from a totally different perspective.

You can see my values from what I had learned in the army and growing up. Defeat is not an option. And that’s exactly how I have always approached things with Haven. We might face what seem impossible roadblocks. But they never seem completely impossible. There’s always some step we can do, always some advocating that we can try.

And that is the biggest thing I think about today. Seven years of advocating and still the first thing I breathe in the morning is what needs to get done today so I can make my son’s life a little bit better tomorrow.

And it all started with the decision to not give up. And I hope Haven takes that with him as he grows up. That no matter what scary thing the doctor’s might tell him, that there is always more hope to be had. That miracles really do happen. And he is a perfect example of what belief and prayer can bring.

So if you’re out there, reading my old writings with me traveling down memory lane, maybe even facing something hard today yourself. Just breathe in a little bit of Haven’s hope.

Because today is a brand new baby day… full of love, life, and endless possibilities. 💜

09/24/2026

The day they told me he wasn't growing:

There he was, in grainy black and white, spinning and flipping across the screen; my little mover and shaker. Tamara was holding my hand, and we both grinned ear to ear when we heard it: his heartbeat, like a tiny galloping herd of horses.

Then the doctor came back in, and her face told me everything before she spoke.

"Amanda, at this time your baby isn't growing."

She handed me the printout. Less than 0 percentile in growth. No fun little black-and-white squares to take home this time. I walked out of that hospital in a daze; cane in one hand, my belly in the other; while the world carried on around me like it was any other beautiful day.

That was the day the fight for Haven began. And Mamma didn't know it yet, but she was already in it. 🤍

——

Haven is seven years old now. He will be eight January 1st. It’s hard to believe it’s been nearly eight years since I wrote these words. I wish I could say that the fight was over. But it just shifts as time goes on…

Haven is still extremely small for his age. But he will always be my tiny and mighty baby. Your baby isn’t growing is a badge we carry forward. A year on TPN. Monthly weigh in’s. Constantly monitoring and measuring his formula and food therapy intakes.

Yet we still walk one step in front of the next. Cane still in hand. And Haven commenting on the world through his eyes. “Baby Haven.” that’s the answer he gives me when I ask who is that and I show him his baby pictures. He will always be my “Baby Haven.”