When One Becomes Two

Well, y’all, I had full intentions of writing a post at some point DURING FORTY WEEKS OF PREGNANCY.

(I mean, I did write one about saying goodbye to our first home and hello to our forever-as-far-as-we-can-see one).

(But you’d think I would’ve at least written one about the miraculous growing of our precious baby girl, especially the look on Brett’s face when the lab tech said, “It’s a girl!”).

(He gave a nervous laugh, and we were both overjoyed, but moments before he said he was very confident it was a boy because “he saw something” on the ultrasound).

(Pretty sure it was a kidney).

But alas, it just didn’t happen. I had opportunities during naptimes or what I once knew as “downtime” between Luke’s bedtime and ours, but listen. I went into “EVERYTHING MUST GET DONE BECAUSE WE WON’T HAVE FREE TIME UNTIL 2035” mode this summer.

Luke’s scrapbooks of the first two and a half years of his life? Check.

Sort and sell/give away the vast majority of his baby clothes? Check.

Look for anything that I could sell because WHY DID WE MOVE THIS TO THE NEW HOUSE? Check.

Transform Luke’s room into his “big boy room,” including adjusting him to his new twin bed? Check.

Create baby girl’s nursery? Check.

Finish a list of little home projects? Mostlycheck!

Oh and those “Fixer Upper” episodes that I’ve seen 238 times each weren’t going to watch themselves.

So, this little memory-keeping space of mine went on the back-burner.

Until, your lucky day my friends, today.

So, I thought I’d jot down a little backstory (for me to one day look back on and read) and update on our baby girl’s arrival.

(Feel free to quit reading).

(But before I begin, the title of this blog is from one of our friend’s weddings a few years ago. During the ceremony, the pastor accidentally said “when one become two” instead of the opposite and never realized it. It was a beautiful wedding, but I never have suppressed laughter so hard in my life. Years later, Brett and I still refer to it. And if you’re reading this and recognize that it was your wedding I’m referring to, know that it’s nothing to be embarrassed about and it has made me smile for years.).

Now, where was I?

Ah, yes. The arrival of Allie Mae.

She is named after my great-grandmother and I always knew that if God gave me a daughter, that was the name. Not only for her hard-working, God-fearing, family-oriented, sometimes feisty namesake, but it’s old-fashioned, Southern, and unique. My future husband would have no say in the matter (kidding but not really), but thankfully my sweet husband had no arguments.

My pregnancy went very smoothly. My only “complaints” (again, like with Luke, I use that term lightly because I was and am so grateful to have healthy pregnancies when so many deserving ladies cannot) were some typical aches and pains and the constant bathroom breaks, which led to really taking about 7 power naps every night rather than a good night’s sleep.

(I’ll take “Newborn Preparation” for $800, Alex).

Also, to any mamas expecting their second child with a very rambunctious toddler who sees your preggo belly as a jungle gym, and treats it as such, let me calm any fears that your baby will not come out with 36 bruises and/or birth marks. Luke tested that theory out WELL and Allie was clear as a bell.

So, since I wasn’t really sleeping anyways, my fabulous doctor said it was my call if I wanted to induce once we got to 39 weeks and baby was healthy. I waited until my due date, but at that day’s appointment her EVICTION NOTICE WAS SERVED. Dr. M had already booked my room for the next morning at 5 a.m. (I’m fairly certain she’s an angel) and sure enough, we woke up at dark-thirty to go meet our daughter.

(Kudos to my parents for taking care of big brother while we were at the hospital, especially my Dad during that time, who (barely) slept on our couch each night so our boy’s routine wouldn’t get too rocked).

(Also, a little rant: when we told some people we were being induced, a few answered with skepticism and questioned our- meaning my doctor, husband, and myself- decision. Don’t do that. None of us would’ve put the the baby or my health’s in jeopardy. I trust my doctor’s expert and professional advice over yours. For future reference, “Congrats! We’ll be praying for you!” is the better response. End of I-Need-Sleep-Rant).

Everything went so well with labor and delivery. Turns out, when they hooked me up to all the various machines, they discovered I had been having contractions five minutes apart. So I likely would’ve made the trip to the hospital that day anyways.

We were in a room by 5 a.m. and answered the required 104ish questions. (my favorites: While looking at Brett, the nurse asked, “Is he your husband?” I said yes, then she asked, “Is he the father of the child?” THAT HAS TO GET SO AWKWARD SOMETIMES.) (For the record, yes).

Dr. M came in shortly after 7 to break my water and shortly after that I was asked when I’d like my epidural and I’d like it then and there thankyouverymuch.

From 7 that morning until about 1 pm or so, I progressed quickly and steadily. By 2 o’clock, it was time to push. And by 2:25 p.m., Miss Allie Mae was placed in my arms and we were in awe of that screaming, beautiful, 7 pounds, 9 ounces baby girl.

By 2:35, she had heard Daddy’s voice, calmed down, been cleaned up a bit, and was bright-eyed as could be.

Of course, we were and are totally smitten!

I think we both really took those moments- the hospital stay, and still these first few weeks- in because not long after delivery, I had the procedure done that ensures as best as we can that this will be it for us.

(God could always have different plans, but as far as we’re concerned, NO MORE OCCUPANCY).

Our boy and our girl. We feel complete and so blessed.

(For the record, we would’ve done this had the second child been another sweet boy, but I ain’t gonna lie, a boy and a girl definitely made it easier).

Speaking of our boy, we knew the biggest challenge this go-around wasn’t going to be the newborn life. We knew what to expect this time, and we know these nights of not lots of sleep and days of staying in are temporary. We knew the hard part was going to be helping him adjust to this new human and to learn that he had to share our attention now.

Overall, he has done well. There have been a few meltdowns when Mama can’t get up right then and there, a handful of timeouts, and lots of gentle but stern talking-tos about baby sister and why we can’t always do what we used to do. So don’t let Facebook fool you, there have been a few challenges along the way, as to be expected.

But let me say, some of the sweetest times have happened too and they’re getting more frequent everyday. We’ve done our best to encourage but not force him to warm up to her. Now, about three weeks later, we see lots of Luke kisses to Allie, he tries to calm her when she’s crying (or at least let me know “Allie sad!”), says yes to holding her, and maybe my personal favorite- gets excited to throw her diapers away.

(#MomWin)

While I can’t always sleep when the baby sleeps this time around thanks to that wild toddler, and that toddler makes it a goal everyday to take every single toy and book out, I know the days are long, but the years are short. Corny but it’s true.

Brett may (ok, does) come home to a frazzled wife most days, but he always comes home to a thankful one who gets a front-row seat on the couch to our babies growing up.

And hopefully you’ll hear from me again on here before they start Kindergarten.

But not before I watch Chip and Jo create that Italian Rustic farmhouse in the middle of Waco for the 394th time.

(Professional pictures thanks to the fantastic Wendy Hardin Photography).

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The House That Built Me as a Mrs. & a Mama

It was our forever home.

When we bought our house, we were newly engaged. He was 21 and I was 22, he was finishing up his undergrad degree and I was a month into my first year of teaching. He moved in and slept on his old twin mattress while we saved up to buy furniture, and I moved in the day we returned from our beach wedding. We didn’t look at a single other house in person, this was it. It was two minutes from my school, on a cul-de-sac, and had a front porch. It was perfect, in my young mind. And it was. It was also going to be IT. This was our house where we’d raise our family and then rock on that front porch when they’d come back and visit us.

Then, over six years later, that perfect house that the newlyweds in their early twenties thought would be their home for as long as they could imagine, found itself with a “For Sale” sign in its front yard.

About five months ago, I started getting the feeling that maybe forever wasn’t going to last as long as we thought it’d be with this house. One night while giving our toddler a bath, I mentioned to my husband what had been rolling around in my mind for a few days. I thought he’d laugh it off, but instead he said, “I’ve actually been thinking that too.

Well, this certainly was a development.

What inspired this? I’ve been home (joyfully) with our son for the past couple of years, so the proximity to my former school wasn’t a huge pro like it had been before. And, the teacher in me wasn’t thrilled where he would be zoned for elementary school (it wasn’t my former school). The kitchen was pretty small, and blame HGTV, but we’ve been wanting a bigger kitchen/eating space for some time and there wasn’t really a way to do it without adding on to the house. And we’d love to be closer to a part of town that was nearer to my husband’s work, our families, our church, and just all around more convenient.

Oh and we found out that we were expecting Baby #2 (yay!!!), so that puts a little GIDDY UP IN YOUR STEP.

So, we spent a few weeks looking at houses online in the area we wanted to be. We were getting pretty discouraged by what was out there, but we knew Spring was coming when many would go for sale. Then, one afternoon in December, my husband sent me a link to a house in our dream neighborhood. It’s an older neighborhood in the area we grew up in that we honestly never thought we’d be able to afford. But it was priced right because it was a fixer upper. Like intercom-in-the-walls, missing-baseboards, old-linoleum-flooring, MISSING-BATHTUB fixer upper.

For the love of Chip & Jo, IT WAS BUILT IN 1983 AND NEVER LEFT. RONALD REAGAN IS STILL PRESIDENT IN THIS HOUSE.

I said, nope. Not gonna happen. I  don’t mind a little work, but this was too much.

But it never really left my mind. My parents told me I should look at it again, and then one day I drove past it and well. A wide front porch that would fit a couple of rocking chairs (Have you picked up that a front porch is a requirement for me?), two oak trees in the front yard. That was it. I loved it. It was far from perfect, but I could see the amazing potential.

One walk-through the house, and while very daunting, overwhelming, whatever-stress-related-adjective-you’d-like-to-use, I knew it. This was our house. I could see our children playing in that fenced-in backyard. Hosting birthday parties back there and under the covered deck.  Taking a walk down to the pool on hot, summer days. Turning that small, fourth bedroom with the built-in bookshelf into a playroom. Which room would be our son’s room and which room would be the new nursery. We started talking knocking down a wall here, a partial one there. Thinking which paint color would look better, which kind of flooring would change this place and bring it into this century.

To make a long story a little less long, after two showings, a few rounds of negotiating, and lots of prayer, we were under contract.  And then over twenty-five showings later at our own house, we accepted an offer and the new-to-us house is officially ours.

We are so excited, overwhelmed, and incredibly thankful. It will be rough few weeks of transition as we remodel that house a bit, but it will be oh-so worth it. We can’t wait to see how God will use this house in lives in and outside our family for prayerfully many, many years.

But, can I just say? It sure is bittersweet.  Since buying the house we’re leaving, I’ve changed my last name, started to learn how to be a godly wife (really, still learning… such a work in progress), taught students that became “my kids,” hosted friends and family, have become a mother to the sweetest boy, and just learned another blessing is on the way.

If these walls could talk, they’d tell you about…
… when a nervous, new Mama and Daddy brought home their newborn, sat at the table eating the Chick-fil-A they had picked up on the way home from the hospital, looked at that sleeping baby boy and said to each other, “Well. Now what do we do?”
… all of the pacing that took place in the hallway between our bedroom and the kitchen trying to calm down that crying boy, and the smile of relief when he fell asleep on our shoulder (and we did too).
… the dances that have taken place on these hardwood floors. Ranging from laughing hysterically while imitating some Bruno Mars dance moves to even a slow dance to a favorite Brad Paisley song a time or two.
… the (silly) arguments they heard as two people learned to live together, yes, but also the sweet apologies that came afterward too.
… the sweet husband tolerated and even complimented some early Pinterest recipe fails at dinner. (Ok, they still sometimes happen).
… the 2 a.m. feedings and then the 2:30 a.m. staring contests between Mama and baby when he was wide awake.
… the screams of joy when our baby took his first, wobbly steps on that living room floor.
… all of the crawling “races” between Daddy & son, and the sweetest first sounds of his giggles that made those pacing nights worth it.
… me telling my husband that we were going to be Mama and Daddy one Sunday morning… and getting to tell him again two and a half years later when he came home from work one Monday evening.
… seeing my husband’s sister decide to follow Christ within that small kitchen area.
… consoling one another when loved ones passed away unexpectedly.
… and so much more.

So  dear 608, you will always be thought of with a smile. I know I will drive past you someday and show our son where he did so many of his first “firsts” with a tear in my eye. I have grown so much living inside your walls. In many ways, I’m hardly the person I was when we first got to know one another. I pray God was glorified while we were here, and that He will continue to be for the next family that calls this place home.


Thanks for the wonderful memories.

(And this next house REALLY WILL BE OUR FOREVER ONE BESIDES HEAVEN).

(Or until I’m too old to climb stairs. Then it’ll be time to move to the beach).

(Moving life is not for me).

(What are you guys doing a few Saturdays from now, by the way?)

(And RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU LOVE TO PAINT!)

 

 

 

Why The Election Doesn’t Matter

Caught your attention, didn’t I?

Now, before you call me un-American and say I’m committing treason and allege that I hate the bald eagle, let me proclaim this loud and clear: I AM VOTING. 

But the truth is that “my” candidate has a very, very small chance of winning. (It’s not Chip or Joanna Gaines, though, I WISH). (I don’t mind sharing, it’s Evan McMullin). (Don’t tell me it’s a wasted vote or why I should vote for __________). 

I didn’t write this to justify my vote or to persuade yours

I’m writing it because we all need a little reality check. 

(Me included). 

I admit, I can become a little despaired when thinking that one of “these two” will very likely be our next President. Probably even more so when I think of my sweet son, how he sees them behave, and how they could impact his future. 

Until I had an epiphany not too long ago…

I want you to all think back to your childhoods. Now, depending on how old you were, you could probably name the president when you were a kid. Maybe, if you were in upper elementary school, something they said or did. 

But keep thinking. 

Who taught you the values that inform the decisions you make today?

For me, it wasn’t President Bush (Sr.) or President Clinton. 

It was my parents.

And, I pray, Luke will someday say that about his Daddy and me.

Of course, this election matters for healthcare policy, social issues, and foreign affairs. I’m not discounting that, in fact, my candidate’s stance on all of the above is why he earned my vote. 

There’s a lot of issues that the President impacts outside of our house. But he (or she) doesn’t touch any inside our home. 

You know what Brett and I can do and model for our son, no matter who is president? 

Pray before every meal at our table together. 

Pray at bedtime or any other time. 

Teach him the Bible from Genesis to Revelation. 

Dance to a silly song together. 

Read to him. 

Teach that Jesus loves everyone and God made every soul and race in His image. 

Something as simple as not using foul language. (As a teacher, I can’t tell you how many times I heard words repeated from home and it broke my heart every time…). 

Name-calling? No sir. And use manners. 

Take him to church every Sunday. 

Take a couple of angels off the tree every Christmas. 

Serve. 

Forgive when it’s hard. 

Give a meal to someone in need. 

Write thank-you cards. 

Open the door for others. 

Be a friend to the kid in the cafeteria who is sitting by himself. 

Cheer for Alabama. 

(Okay, that one is optional). 

(Except it’s really not). 

Apologize when we make mistakes (because we already have and certainly will). 

And so will Luke. 

And hopefully, prayerfully someday he will know that his mistake (his sin) was redeemed through Jesus and will choose to follow Him. 

Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, or even Evan McMullin will not be in our home, in our car, or wherever we are to instill those values. 

We will. 

(And certainly with God lighting the way. And many other loved ones by our side. IT TAKES A VILLAGE). 

Maybe for you, it was your grandparents, your aunt, your brother, or even your teacher. 

Unless you lived in the White House with your Daddy who happened to be Mr. President, I highly doubt it was him. 

Last week, we decided we were going to teach Luke, who is a year and half, to put his hands together during our prayer before dinner. We’ve always prayed, but I’ll admit, it’s usually while holding our fork. 

(Please tell me it wasn’t just us). 

So, starting last Monday we put our hands together and would tell our son, “Pray time, buddy! Hands together!” 

He looked at us like we were crazy at first, but already by Thursday, I peeked during our prayer and his little hands were together. 

(Eyes wide open, but baby steps.)

And I kicked my husband under the table to show him, and we both smiled. 

He is watching who matters. 

And he is learning.  


Donald Trump, Jr., You Are Needed For Detention

I know, y’all. 

I said I wasn’t going to write a political blog again. And I’m not. 

This is personal. 

For a little background, I’m sure the vast majority of you reading this know that while I’m a stay-at-home mama to my beautiful baby (ok, FINE. toddler…) boy, I used to be a teacher. 

A public school teacher. 

A proud public school teacher. 

I will spare you my thoughts  (again) on this mess (to put it nicely) of an election. However, the son and “advisor” of the Replibican nominee said the following during the spectacle that was the RNC. This is a direct quote:

“Our schools used to be an elevator to the middle class, now they’re stalled on the ground floor. They’re like Soviet-era department stores that are run for the benefit of the clerks and not the customers, for the teachers and the administrators and not the students. You know why other countries do better on K through 12? They let parents choose where to send their own children to school.”

Wait, what? Did that really come out of Donald Trump, Jr.’s mouth?

Sure enough, it did. (Full disclosure: A fellow educator that I’ve never met summed up her thoughts so well here, and she inspired me to do the same.)

Did you hear that teachers? Administrators?

While you buy extra school supplies for a room full of kids you haven’t even met yet, instead of buying a new book for your own child, it is for you and not the students. 

When you use your “whole summer off” to attend inservices about all of the newest acronyms and assessments the district or government is requiring you to do, it is for you and not the students

When you’re not at an inservice, but instead you’re analyzing every square inch of your classroom on a sunny, summer day to figure out how learning is going to be best achieved, it is for you and not the students. 

My home away from home for a long time


While dropping your class off for lunch and you have a student approach you in tears because she forgot her lunch, so you find some cash in your wallet or, if you don’t have any, you give her yours, it is for you and not the students. 

When you stay after school to help that one student finally figure out subtraction with regrouping, it is for you and not the students. 

When you take a pay cut to teach in your community rather than a few miles down the road for more money, it is for you and not the students. 

That’s right, you guys. It’s for your benefit. Just like that sales clerk in a Communist country that Junior mentioned. 

That’s the reason you leave at dark and get home at dark, why you cut coupons to make ends meet, why you sometimes cry on your drive home because the world’s expectations are on your shoulders, why you sometimes cry on your drive home because you just want to take some of “your kids” home with you and feed them, read to them, LOVE THEM because you know they don’t get quite enough. 
Right?

Of course not. 

You do it because despite all that I’ve mentioned, you somehow can’t imagine doing anything else but serving these children and their families. Even with the  high responsibility but low pay. Even with the high expectations but low recognition.

Mr. Trump, do you want to know the real reason other countries “do better?”

It’s because here in American public schools, we take them all. 

Learning disabilities? Welcome!

English language-learners? Welcome!

Low-income? Welcome!

Homeless? Welcome! 

Already have thirty kids in a small classroom but you’ve just moved here? Welcome! 

The students may not score better, but we, the teachers and administrators, DO better. 

Class dismissed. 

Write It Down, I’m Writing In

If you would’ve told me a year ago that I would be writing a political post, I would’ve said there’s a greater chance of me breaking into a rousing rendition of “Rocky Top.”

Ain’t no telephone bills on Rocky Top, and ain’t no way am I singing that. 

(Just a few more months Vol friends, and we will all hear it approximately 8,245 times per game). 

But here I am writing one. And let me be clear, I am not expecting or trying to change any opinions or minds. So if you are aboard the Trump or Clinton train (which I have many dear family and friends who are), I’ll say this as nicely as I can, but please don’t take this as me begging to hear why I should vote for him/her. I’ve likely already read your thoughts or scrolled past your memes. Daily. 

I’m just writing this so it’s not a five-paragraph post on Facebook. Because ain’t nobody wanna scroll when reading a status. 

So. 

Let’s pretend to fast forward a few years. 

(I’m glad this is a metaphor, because TIME, SLOW DOWN). 

My precious son, Luke, is playing on the playground at school (if my husband was writing this, he’d add that he was pitching left-handed and striking kids out). He is constantly surrounded by two bullies. Other children see them, and many choose align with one. However, some don’t necessarily approve, but accept it because the other bully is worse in their eyes. They feel justified.  

Luke has two choices (again, just go with me here):

1. Choose one of the bullies to befriend. Throw insults toward the other group. It would be almost easier. 

2. Go against both crowds and join the group that refuses to participate in damaging others’ reputation or your own. 

You guys already know which one I hope he would choose. 

And I’ve already made my choice. 

Now, I know that’s an oversimplification of the election season. Yet, as I look at my snoozing boy on my chest right now, I have a responsibility to him so when he does encounter these situations, I can advise him without a guilty conscience as to who-and what-my vote endorsed. 

Because while my little ole vote may not make a bit of difference in the election, it does make an eternal one. 

Now, before you jump down me for that, of course we are not responsible for other people’s actions. However, this decision for all of us is not made in hindsight. Both of the leading candidates have stated what they would do. For just one example of each: One openly supports war crimes  (purposefully killing women and children), one openly supports abortions (purposefully killing babies). 

We can’t say we didn’t know. 

And I just don’t want that on my hands. 


Every night, in between my sweet husband drying him off from his bath and putting him in pajamas and him curling up in his crib as he dozes off, I rock Luke. Sometime I sing a lullaby, sometimes I just make the shushing sound, and sometimes I just rock with the white noise machine in the background. 

But every time I say a silent prayer for him and us as parents. 

I pray he comes to know Jesus as His personal Lord and Savior. 
I pray that his Daddy and me are always lights pointing to Him in our words and actions. 

Even in the voting booth when nobody else is watching but me. 

Never Trump. 

Never Clinton. 

Never Compromise. 

(For the record, I will go vote on Election Day because too many have fought for my right. Unless one has a radical change of heart, I’ll be writing someone in. The leading candidate right now is Chip Gaines. Or maybe Joanna.). 

It’ll Be Back Again Someday (Or in 13 Years)

Greetings from Nashville, Alaska!

Okay, maybe we didn’t get THAT much snow, but it may as well have been three feet. Because six inches in this area? SHUT ‘ER DOWN. 

There’s two viewpoints I notice people take:

(My extensive, scientific-based research is from my networking). 

(Some may call it Facebooking). 

1. This is amazing!

2. This is torture!

Now, I’m firmly in the first group. First, I am blessed with a warm home, abundance of food, a sweet husband, an adorable baby, and plenty more of life’s joys to really have nothing to complain about. 

Secondly, I’m a former (still feels weird to say) teacher. WE LIVE FOR SNOW DAYS. I don’t think that excitement will ever go away, no matter how long I’m away from the classroom.  

And so, today is the day the Great Thaw of 2016 begins. And while I do look forward to seeing civilization again (well, most of it…), I’m not going to lie. As ridiculous as it sounds, when this snow finally becomes water on the pavement and drops on the branches, it kind of feels like I’m saying goodbye to a wise friend

I know, I know. IT’S PRECIPITATION. 

But I do think this wintry friend taught us all a few lessons. The primary one being SLOW DOWN. 

Maybe it’s because we were well-stocked with groceries, or maybe it’s because we have the wonderful advantage of neither my husband or I having to drive on slick streets to work, but whatever the case may be, I loved being forced to stay in and do nothing but watch the snow fall. 

And more than that, with my two boys by my side. 

Not only at our screen door watching the South’s version of a blizzard, but by my side for dinner. 

And lunch.

And even breakfast. 

We’ve had no choice but to keep the car in the garage.

We’ve baked sweet treats, made pancakes, found some homemade goodies in the freezer for dinner (thanks, Mom!), built towers with Luke, watched him knock them down, rocked and read stories, fly “SuperBaby” down the hallway, built a snowman, made a snow angel, had tickle fights, cleaned a little bit, and of course a few crawl races with a squealing ten-month old. 

  
During Luke (and I)’s naptime, Brett even managed to wrap one of his grad classes. Notice I said during his nap. He could’ve taken a much-deserved nap himself. He could’ve easily said, “I need to work on homework,” but he didn’t. He chose us. He chose our family.

  
I could write a five-paragraph essay on how we all need to take a breath and stay home more often and INVEST IN OUR HOMES AND OUR FAMILIES. 

(Well, maybe a sermon). 

Don’t get me wrong. Of course it’s good to invest in others (I believe Jesus had some things to say about that), to travel, to get out and about. Errands have to be ran, jobs don’t get done on their own, and life has to go on. 

But I think we all can and should adjust the speed of how we live it

And this ole friend made us all do just that.

For all of those wanting warmer weather, it’ll be here soon (it’s Tennessee, so it’ll be this weekend). Maybe we can remember the lesson our friend tried to teach us when those temps creep back up. 

Gather around a picnic table. 

Make milkshakes instead of hot cocoa. 

Go swing instead of sled.  

Build a Lego skyscraper rather than a snowman. 

The roads don’t have to be ice for us to slow down. They’re just a slap in the face (especially if you try to walk on them) that we should. 

Thanks for the memories, Snowmaggedon ’16. 

You’ll melt away, but you won’t be gone. 

  

A (LONG) Labor of Love

Something’s different since I last wrote a blog.

The weather’s warmer.

My toes are a pretty shade of pink.

I switched purses.

Oh, and I HAD A BABY.

That’s right, Luke Adam made his grand arrival a few days ago and our world hasn’t and won’t ever be the same. He is a beautiful, alert, cuddly baby boy and while we are still majorly adjusting to this human we brought home from the hospital, it’s hard to imagine our lives without him now.

Everyone told me that it’s a whole new level of love, and to say they were right, well, I’ll take “Understatement of the Century for $800, Alex.”

Since it’s just been a few days since our hospital stay, I wanted to document our story of how our sweet son arrived.

Please know this will not be all lovey-dovey.

Because while the experience as a whole is completely miraculous, amazing, and totally awe-inspiring, and I’m entirely grateful for it, if you don’t have a sense of humor about it, you will die.

Certainly not literally I hope, but you’ll feel like it.

(I would know, see #21).

Before I start my list, two tidbits:

1. How did women (and the family) wait hours in the hospital without smartphones? I mean, I’m not talking about in the pioneer days, I’m talking about like in 2002.

2. My church’s minister on-call for hospital visits that week was our campus pastor at another location. Since I never go to that location, he really doesn’t know me other than my face. He came in while I was in labor (and in a happy state at the time) and asked, “Lucy, how are you feeling?”

I thought surely I had misunderstood. I was on some good drugs at that point, ya know.

A few minutes later, he asked to lead us in a prayer. So everyone gathered around me and he led a very sweet prayer, but included the line, “Please help Lucy…”

Nope. He definitely said Lucy.

He had the best intentions, and we all laughed about it as he left, but somewhere around the world, Lucy had a wonderful labor and delivery.

Now, onto mine:

1. Thursday, March 19th, was our D-DAY (what I referred to as our due date) (I mean, it was not a disastrous event to dread, but let’s not pretend that either method of child leaving the womb are exactly PLEASANT).

2. That very morning, I happened to wake up at about 4:50 a.m. with sharp pains in my lower stomach/back area that would last a few seconds, go away for a few minutes, and then repeat.

3. This lasted for about four hours every seven minutes or so before my husband told me to call the doctor.  I had convinced myself that this wasn’t any sign of labor DESPITE BEING FORTY WEEKS PREGNANT. I thought it might be from eating Mexican the night before.

4. (Note to self, queso may cause a brief stomachache, not sharp pains that make me stop what I’m doing at perfectly timed intervals).

5. After talking to the doctor, we decided to go to the hospital to check it out. Brett left at lunch (he would’ve earlier, but I insisted) and I folded some laundry in between hee-hee-hooing. He packed a bag, loaded the car, and off to the hospital we went.

6. We went into the assessment room (which is basically a glorified closet) and three hours later, the nurse confirmed I was indeed in labor with contractions 4-7 minutes apart, but not enough progress made to admit me.

7. She tells me this as I’m going through a contraction and so I said (gritted) through my teeth, “HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO REST?”

8. I am immediately prescribed an Ambien (spoiler alert: it just made me an extremely groggy contracting lady), and we leave a bit disappointed, which meant a Chick-fil-A drive thru visit to get some fried chicken and waffle fries because COMFORT FOOD, I NEEDED IT.

9. Little did I know that would be my last meal for almost 40 hours. I never went to sleep as the contractions were now about 4 minutes apart, and by 2:00 Friday morning, I couldn’t take it anymore and woke up Brett. We both felt like this would be “it,” so we both took a shower and left for the ER (since the main entrance was closed until 6).

10. By 3:15 or so that morning, we found ourselves in that familiar glorified closet from twelve hours before. My contractions were indeed closer and getting a bit stronger, but I wasn’t “far along” enough to being admitted (even though I was past the point of being induced). Before I started crying my eyes out at that news, I asked what would it take to get to that point. The nurse suggested walking around the labor & delivery wing for about a half hour, but warned me that it didn’t work for most women.

11. I put on my walking shoes (also known as Yellowbox flip flops) and despite contractions, determined to keep a BRISK PACE. Brett walked with me and counted our laps. When we were finished, I had progressed enough for her to call my doctor for her advice.

12. Have I mentioned I love my doctor? Because she bestowed grace and mercy and told them ADMIT HER.

13. Room 220 became our residence for the next few days at 6:30 that morning. After another walk, I progressed a little bit more and contractions were growing stronger. My sweet labor nurse for the day asked when I’d like my epidural, and I asked, “IS NOW TOO SOON?”

14. It wasn’t. And when they told me to not flinch when administering it, my focus was STEALTH. I’m not sure I even breathed, I was so focus on the sweet, sweet, legal drugs.

15. (Side note: I completely admire and respect you all who decide to go “natural.” However, God gave humans the brililant intelligence of inventing the epidural and so I feel like it’s only Biblical that I use it. I say this with all the love in the world, but you’re crazy if you don’t. Except you’re really not. But you are).

16. With the epidural taking full effect (which, by the way, I would end up using four full bags of it by the time labor was over), I was in my happy, numb place.

17. Fast forward to 1:00 that afternoon, and I have progressed nicely. Life is good and I’m thinking this child will arrive for sure by the time my labor nurse got off work at 7. Wasn’t even a question.

18. Until 6:00 or so and I hadn’t progressed one bit in five hours, despite contractions still going strong.

19. My joyous mood was starting to fade, as was my patience. Especially when I was starving (spoiler alert again: while refreshing, ice chips do not satisfy hunger) and my husband ate a delicious bakery treat right in front of me. Bless him.

20. After an internal monitor checked out my contractions, Pitosin was administered to speed along the process and it worked until 10:00, when I reached a stopping point again.

21. And that’s when I lost it. As soon as the nurse left, I cried. I was exhausted, as it had been about 45 hours of no sleep at that point, hungry, overwhelmed, and feeling contractions (which were about 30 seconds – 1 minute apart) when they didn’t make my epidural refill quite fast enough. At this point, I just wanted Brett and my Mom in the room as my sense of humor had left it.

22. With my ugly cry, dark circles, and mood swings aplenty at this point, I’m pretty sure Brett would’ve volunteered to leave the room too. WHICH I CAN’T UNDERSTAND WHY.

23. Epidural began to work again and I came back to my normal, snarky, but extremely tired self by the time Jimmy Fallon came on.

24. “Thank You Notes” and a new “EW!” sketch greatly improved my mood too.

25. By midnight, I finally was ready to begin to push. A team of nurses came in and I kept asking, “Soooo when is my doctor going to be here?”

26. They reassured me they’d call her at the exact right time they’d need her in the middle of my pushing.

27. Reassured, I was not, but I went with it because at this point, I just wanted this baby OUT.

28. The labor nurse (who was great) told me this could take a few minutes or a couple of hours, every one is different. I was sure it would just be a few minutes because I had been in active labor for 18 hours, surely this process would SPEED RIGHT ALONG at this point.

29. (Wrong again).

30. Pushing began, and I will spare you the gory details. I tried to maintain the sense of humor because somehow my nurse would lose count and I’d scream out, “THREEEEEE!” in the middle of pushing.  And let’s just say Brett saw more than he intended when he said “For better or for worse…”

31. By 1:30 Saturday morning, it looked like I may be having a C-section. Long story short, he was face up and not wanting to come out so it looked like it could be the only option.

32. My doctor was called and what I believe was God whispering in her ear, she was already in the elevator when they called because she had woke up in the middle of the night thinking it was time for her to come in for me.

33. Fast forward again, and I had to have an episiotomy and they had to use the vacuum to get our boy out and meet his parents.

34. At 2:33 a.m., I began pushing again and was beginning to push my third set for that contraction when my doctor said, “Okay, stop! You don’t have to push anymore!”

35. Luke Adam arrived with some fussiness, but not a wail and the cutest, scrunched up face I’d ever seen. Even his conehead was cute from his extended stay in the birth canal (thankfully it was already returning to normal a few hours later). As my doctor said, it was a badge of an honor from a hard labor and intense pushing (two and half hours, with maybe two four-minute breaks – every other time my contractions were so close that I pushed the whole time).

36. I actually didn’t cry, I think I had already used my tears early that night and was so exhausted to even attempt to, but was so so happy our boy was safe and by all accounts healthy. His Daddy and I were over the moon and spent some time together as family of three for a few minutes before the rest of the groggy family came in.

37. (Let Brett or I tell the umbilical cord story in person. It’s better that way).

38. Family left by 3:30 or so, and after an exhausted attempt at breastfeeding and the nurses helping me finish up, we slept for a couple of hours before breakfast arrived at 7 a.m.

39. We were now a family of three.

40. And I would do it all over again.

I love my husband in a whole new way. He has been so supportive and encouraging to me, and he is the most loving Daddy to Luke.

Thank you all for the prayers, support, love, gifts, food, and everything else. I read each note of support in that hospital bed and am convinced that God heard your prayers and let Luke arrive safely, and gave me the comfort I needed.

In the form of epidurals.

Amen.

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