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2 Years a Mom

4 Dec

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I’m sorry I called you a little devil this morning on Facebook. It’s just that it was early and I’d been up half the night “sleeping” with you because, from what I could tell by your unintelligible whining, you were thirsty. Oh, the woes of a two year old. Also, when I wrote that post this morning, I hadn’t had any coffee yet and I was feeling vulnerable and stripped down. The truth is, being your mom these days requires copious amounts of caffeine and until said caffeine is clocked in (and occasionally working overtime) I cannot be held responsible for the names I call you. Let’s just say “little devil” isn’t the worst that you’ve been called in my un-caffeinated state. But I digress. What I meant to say was HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I can’t believe you’re TWO (as you love to remind me, both with your ceaseless chattering and that whole “terrible” thing that accompanies the infamous twos). Despite those terrible moments, which are pretty much constant few and far between, you are a ticklish, giggly, race-car driving, puppy-wrangling kid who loves his daddy, candy, Lightning McQueen and roaring at strangers. How one little person can bring me so much frustration and even more abundant joy, I just can’t comprehend. I can put you in time out and twelve seconds later be lunging at you to assault you with kisses and raspberries. It’s positively bipolar, this motherhood thing. And being your mom is ALWAYS my ultimate joy.

I can’t believe how much you’ve changed in the last year. I didn’t really notice until I looked at this year in review while I made you a birthday video last night. And even after spending some 8 hours on this silly video (because I’m not even as smart as the average golden retriever, which means everything takes me much too long), I still sat back and sobbed while watching it. You are my sweet pea – the apple of my eye. And baby, you’re my best little friend. I wish I could ask you to stop growing up, but it’s just too daggum fun growing up with you to stop it.

Speaking of which, you’re not the only one growing up. I look back at the mom I was two years ago and I think “Who let me have a baby!?” She was immature, clueless, lacking in confidence, uptight and spent far too much time calculating what was best for you according to the books instead of just getting to know the real you and going with the flow. Spoiler alert: since then, I haven’t gotten that much better as a mom, but I HAVE evolved because of having you in my life. There aren’t just parts of me that are defined by being your mom, because since you came into my life, my whole being has been transformed. I am 100% you and Knox’s mommy, and everything I do, I do it as your mommy – even when we aren’t together, you never leave me. That’s a pretty powerful hold you have on me, little man. Of course, I feel comfortable writing that down, because you won’t actually read it for many, many years. Until then, you will never hear me say that you have such a strong hold on me because WE SHANT FORGET WHO IS THE BOSS AROUND HERE! But I WILL tell you I love you until your ears catch fire. Because until those ears catch fire from hearing how much your mama loves you, I haven’t said it enough times.

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Happy birthday you little snot rocket*. Mama loves you.

 

*Guess it’s time for more coffee… the name-calling has returned.

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure

12 Jul

I called my old OBGYN office this week to request the medical transcripts from my pregnancy with Navy and y’all? It. Was. Staggering. It’s really no wonder I was hospitalized at week 36 with high blood pressure! I mean, sure there are other much more unhealthy and overweight pregnant women out there who don’t deal with those kind of issues and the blood pressure/weight gain stuff could have been completely unrelated but looking back on how much I gained and how FAST I gained it was enough to stop me dead in my tracks. I remember after Navy was born, how I expected (stupidly) to walk home from the hospital at LEAST 20 pounds lighter and feeling more slim and fit right away. Shitsaplenty, I was WRAWNG!!!!!!!! I didn’t even lose 5 pounds at the hospital (which makes NO HUMAN SENSE because Navy weighed over 6, so MATH THAT!!!). Here is a treacherous photo of me a few days after delivering Navy, weighing in at a whopping 185 pounds.

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BAZOOMBA! Let me be ultra clear that there are MANY women of different shapes and sizes, heights and bone structures, that can pull off 185 (OR MORE!) pounds and look gorgeous. I am not built for that weight though, so it took over every part of my body. My boobs, my arms, my face, my thighs, my FINGERS for the love of Pete. It was a plague that hung around when I thought it would drip off of me like melting wax. Can we all just take a moment to collectively say that I was in DENIAL!? You don’t get this big without noticing it. Except I did. I would look in the mirror and think, “This is NORMAL!” or worse, “I’m doing SO MUCH BETTER than so many pregnant women” which just made me complacent with the numbers rising on the scale.

So as I looked through the transcripts this week (and the doctors’ notations that said things like “Discussed weight gain” after a 15 pound gain within 4 weeks), I got some serious resolve about me. I’m almost 27 weeks pregnant this time and while I know I’m doing better with the gain than I did last time, I’ve reached the point where it could become a slippery slope in a matter of a few missteps. See, in my head I look in the mirror and go “I can’t be THIN right now so screw it, bring me a blizzard” but THAT my friends is exactly the mindset that got me to where I was after Navy was born. Now look, I’m not super woman. I’m not a super athlete. I’m not athletic at all, in fact. I don’t really enjoy working out, I’d rather eat a McDonalds #2 meal than a salad, and I have never believed in deprivation because that’s what leads to binge eating. But after reviewing my transcripts and remembering how awful it felt to just be fat and uncomfortable post-baby, I’m determined to stay on a good path with this one. I haven’t done great so far, but I’m telling myself that it’s not too late to develop healthier habits that will accompany me through the rest of this pregnancy. Starting with my new gym membership and continuing with less snacking and  late-night sweets. This, my dear readers, is called common sense. Sometimes I’m slow. But I truly believe that it’s going to be easier for me to SLOW DOWN the weight gain than it will be to lose a ton of weight after the baby is here. So, as the old adage goes, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to Zumba (which should be really funny to watch, so feel free to join me at the 10am class at ICE if you’re in the mood for a little pregnant “Hips Don’t Lie” shimmy-shaka time).

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One of my hats

22 Oct

I’m reminded today (as I OFTEN am) of how much life changes when you have a little one. Things that used to be important, really aren’t all that important anymore. I will turn 25 in two days, and you know what? I really don’t care. It’s like, the least big deal of all time. Especially because my baby is sick. It’s the most heartbreaking thing to see your child crying all day (no really… all. day.) from discomfort; looking up at you with these eyes that just say “Mom, what’s wrong? Make it stop!” And if I could, I would. I just wish I could.

Saturday night I was suddenly and violently afflicted with The Flu (dun-dun-DUUNNN!!!!) and hoooo boy, it was a doozie. So much that Stockton (wisely) spent the night in the guest bedroom (wrapped in a sleeping bag, Godlovehim) so that I could thrash and wince and get up 20 (at least) times without disturbing him, or him, me. It was officially the worst night ever, and I don’t hesitate to say that it was worse than giving birth to Navy. And I didn’t have the WORST delivery ever, but it certainly wasn’t a cakewalk. At least that had a very happy ending.

So the rest of the weekend was spent mostly with my head in the toilet while Stockton played Mr. Mom and slowly watch Navy deteriorate from his own bout of The Everlovin’ Relentless Flu. That poor little bug. By the end of the day, Stockton looked like he’d been beaten by a shovel and he kept reiterating how sad it is to watch your child get sick and not know what’s happening to them or why. And really, nothing you can do to stop it.

Today, Stockton had to go to work and luckily, I was “well” enough to manage Navy here by myself. But that poor sweet boy spent the entire day either sleeping or moaning and groaning, nearly inconsolable during all of his waking hours. So by the end of the day, it was me looking like I’d been beaten by a shovel (and feeling similarly).

Over the last 48 hours, while I sat there sick as a dog, I kept wanting to pray that the Lord would rid me of this sickness, restore my health and help me to “feel better” but then I felt too guilty to pray for that!! It’s just the FLU after all. I kept thinking about all of the people who have cancer and spend days, weeks, months just as sick as dogs because of their chemo drugs and the disease that their body harbors.

Then today, as I was praying for Navy (because I do not feel too guilty to pray for others, just myself) I also prayed for the babies who are terminally ill, or who are fighting unknown diseases, and who are possibly suffering from the treatments that ravage their little bodies. I prayed for their mommies (and daddies) who hold their crying babies every single day and do everything they can to comfort their children when there is really nothing that can be done. It’s defeating (and again, my kid just has the flu). It’s heartbreaking. But it’s what you do when you’re a mom. You just don’t have a choice in the matter.

As I was holding Navy this evening, I kept thinking about what a hard weekend it’s been.  I don’t often say things are “hard” because I think it’s kind of a ridiculous description. However, this weekend and the flu that came with it was just… exhausting. Ravaging. It took everything out of us all and its work, I’m afraid, isn’t quite over. So even though my job as a mom doesn’t involve balancing budgets, solving complex problems, dealing with employee issues, or making sure my business is profitable, it is indeed frickin’ hard. You can’t even be sick by yourself. It’s all about your baby. It’s all about your family. They need you even when you are at your worst (and I’ve confirmed now that there are definitely no sick days when you work this job). It’s all a part of wearing many hats, right? It’s also the stuff that people take for granted. That people minimize. That people who are “too cool” and “above” the simplicity of mommyhood downplay and find irritating and uncouth. And that’s ok. I know what I’ve got, and even when what I’ve got is a sick little baby who cries for his mommy to take away his ickies all day, I’ll take it. I’ll wear my hat even when it’s covered in puke. That’s what mommies do.

Remembering the days

16 Oct

The days are long but the years are fast? I overheard some mentor moms at our first MOPS meeting this morning commenting on how quickly kids grow up (perhaps the biggest cliche of all time, but indeed, word up, ’tis TRUTH) and one of them used this saying, and it prompted me to take a time out today and try to bookmark life as it races by me, often unnoticed.

Navy is 10.5 months old now. We have such a busy season ahead of us that it seems like I have the entire Fall scheduled out right up until Christmas. Among the crazy, fun, whirlwindy festivities that are going on are the following: a new opportunity with MOPS started for Navy and I today at church and has been a big project to lead up to; next week I turn 25; also next week, I will jet set over to Rome to spend 4 days frolicking around with my sisters; a few days later, my book club and their families will be joining us at our home for a Halloween party; a few days later, it is my turn to host our monthly book club; in November, we will be traveling to Phoenix to spend a week with Stockton’s family and celebrate Thanksgiving; also throwing 1 of 2 little birthday parties for Navy while we are there so he can celebrate with his west coast family; once we get home, it’s almost December, and Navy’s real birthday is upon us (how in the..?!) followed by all of the Christmas festivities that regularly happen, and all of this while entering my “busy season” for work. I don’t even think that paragraph is grammatically correct, but I’m so bleary just thinking about it, I am not going to bother to fix it. That’s about where I’m at with things currently. So a pause is in order.

Now, among the crazy, fun whirlwindy things I want to remember about this season of life are the following:

-As of yesterday, Navy has started feeding himself with a fork (and he has yet to stab out either of his eyes, so SUCCESS!)

-Before he eats, he waves his fingers around and stares at his plate like he’s casting a spell on his chopped vegetables before he commits to eating them.

-We play this seriously weird game where he bites my nose and I, in return (in an embarrassingly annoying voice) say “DON’T BITE MY NOSEEE!” It’s complex and highly developed. And if you think I look and sound stupid, I don’t care because he loves it, and it’s often the highlight of my day. *This is one of those things that when you’re cool and single and kidless, you never imagine your future and think, yeah, THAT is probably going to be my life someday, and I’m going to LOVE HAVING MY NOSE EATEN BY A BABY. Like, huh?!

-Navy can be sensitive and is very independent. I blame the fact that I work from home and he has learned to play by himself as a result. It doesn’t bother me that he’s independent, but I want him to be OK with other kids, too. And I don’t keep him in a bubble (he goes to the church nursery and spends lots of time playing with his cousins during the week) but there just aren’t all that many opportunities for him to interact with other kids his age. I’m hopeful that since we’ve begun MOPS there will be more excuses for me to get together with other moms and therefore give him the chance to play with other kids his age.

-Navy is also super rough and tumble at times. The other day, he was climbing around the high chair and slipped and totally cracked his gourd on the tile floor. Bracing myself for the tears, but giving him his space to determine his reaction, I was surprised to see him just pull himself back up and keep climbing. He surprises me like this all the time. When I expect him to cry, he doesn’t, and when I expect him not to cry, he does. I can’t keep up with that boy.

-Often in the mornings, I bring Navy into our room after his morning bottle and we just cuddle and say hi to Daddy. He loves our time together as a little family and I know we’re spoiling him with this undivided attention, but I hope even when we have eleventy kids, we still all hop in Mom & Dad’s bed in the morning and give each other good-morning noogies. It’s kind of a warm-fuzzy time of day.

My house is a mess, I have orders to fill, my head is pounding, the laundry is overflowing… But I just didn’t want this day to slip by without jotting down these “isms” of our family. Because I know that this is just a snapshot and if I don’t take it, I may never remember these fleeting moments.

 

 

A lesson in creative cussing

25 Sep

I’m a seamstress. Seems like a low impact job, right? WRONG, WRONGO, WRONGITY-WRONG-WRONG-WRONG! I’m constantly hurting myself and becoming ailed by hazards of the job. Two weeks ago, I was so crippled with back pain from constantly being hunched over a machine that I was able to squeeze two (TWO!) massage appointments out of my husband because “PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD if I send you to the spa will you shut the heck up about the sore back!?” Seems sweet and awesome and pampery, but really? TORTURE!!! THE PAIN AND HORROR!!!!! But alas, I’m much better now and am complaining to a much more minimal extent.

Until today. Whence I got my middle finger caught in the unforgiving death chomp of my embroidery machine. While it was humming away at full blast. On a very speedy transmission. With venom-filled needles.

It was a reckless accident that involved trying to guide my fabric through the embroidery machine while I turned away from the machine and looked at Navy and suddenly CHOMP CHOMP PIERCE BLOOD CHOMP BEEEEEEEPPPPPPP (which is the horrific screaming noise the machine makes when Error: Needle has broken.  OH REALLY, MACHINE!? My needle broke!? Cause I’m pretty sure I WAS THERE FOR THAT ONE and OH YEAH IT’S STILL IN MY FRIGGING FINGER EFFING FRICK CRAP BUTT HOLY WHUT THE!?).

Yeah. I photographed it. And photoshopped it. Because that’s what morons who sew their fingers do. We take photographic evidence and then make it look artful.

Then I texted my sisters a string of horribly connected cuss words (with photo attached) and this was the conversation that ensued:

Meant to say get your ear pierced. The needle was impeding my ability to type. 

Speaking of which, the needle was also impeding my ability to carry my baby, prevent him from knocking over the ironing board (which had the hot iron on it) and pull the dog’s hair, all which was happening WHILE I HAD A NEEDLE LODGED IN MY FINGER. So I’m walking around with a broken pinky (oh yeah, I moved some furniture by myself a week ago and SMASH, broke, sob, bruise, ouch) and a pierced finger all on the same hand. Good thing I’m right handed and a mom because moms have an acute ability to do a trillion things with one hand, whether or not the other hand happens to be practically detaching itself from your body or not.

So THAT was awesome and everything. I’m nursing my wounds by getting back on the horse and showing that embroidery machine who’s boss (also by drinking wine and self medicating).

9 Monther

9 Sep

Navy is officially 9 months old. 3/4 of a year. A tornado of activity and mobility whose purpose in life is to destroy my house, one spilled beverage at a a time. No, but really – the house is just in a permanent state of damp because of all the spilling, drooling and other bodily fluids. Gross? Maybe. Wanna come over for dinner? Didn’t think so.

Also this: he sucks at napping. I get MAYBE 30 minute naps from him, 45 when the stars are aligned just right and I have nothing important to get done. On the days I have eleventy million things to do? He just defies the Law of Growing Babies and is too cool for napping. He does sleep 12 hours at night though, and my pediatrician informed me that babies his age really only need about 13 hours of sleep in a 24 hour period, so the two 30-minute naps a day make total sense. That does not make them suck any less, however.

He is tall, skinny and brainy according to his measurements at the doc, and yet again, he is off the scale in the looks department (What’s that? Bragging? Me?? NEVER!). Here’s the sweet progression of doctor’s visits over the last 9 months. I just don’t know why they HAVE to grow up. And become so squirmy and yelly. He was really so containable back in the day. Now? Mehhhhh notsomuch.

 

In keeping with his state of permanent motion, his 9 month photos are particularly All Over The Place.

 

 

And now my attempt at a normal 9 month collage, wherein I try to make the previous photos look slightly less Attack-The-Innocent-Giraffe and slightly more My-Baby-Is-Cute-And-Sweet-And-Look-At-How-He’s-Grown!

 

Love that ball of motion. Now excuse me, my 30 minute naptime has elapsed and I’m being yelled at on NavyCam. And do not be dismayed: he is not sleeping. Just hollering from a horizontal position.

Takin ’em two at a time

28 Aug

Navy decided today that he was going to climb the stairs. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time I just stopped everything and said, Oh dear God, here we go. Let’s do this. And I watched him from a safely distant closeness. Notice I didn’t say a safely close distance. Cause I was more distant than close. I mean, I needed to be far enough away to get good pictures. CPS, hai, here’s a $20, now be on your way.

This is roughly where he was when I noticed he was trying to make a break for it. I have a minute and 20 second long video of the whole thing but I’ll spare you because turns out watching a baby climb stairs is about as entertaining as watching your pedicure dry only it doesn’t smell like plumeria and there isn’t a chorus of Vietnamese being spoken in the background.

Right around this point he started getting a little weebly, and Lola was all “You can doooo it ::Yippity yip yip ah-woooo::” followed by some major french smooching which Navy simultaneously loved and hated, as evidenced by the laugh/cry manic freakout that ensued. And then, just a moment later, he got a taste of sweet victory.

And he was all, “ZOMG THAT WAS AWESOME!!” He owns those stairs. He is the Stair Master.

Way to go Navy. I’m your biggest fan already. You could totally be a professional stair climber (but I don’t think that you’ll have much of a future in that, so let’s just use this as a jumping off point for your next big adventure) (Also, I’m glad this was fun for you, but a gate is being erected immediately to prevent any further sneak attacks. Love always, your fun killing mother).

Birth Story: Part II

23 Aug

Read Part I here.

Suffice to say, I didn’t sleep much that night because I was so anxious (despite the sleeping pill the hospital staff insisted I take). Daddy got to the hospital bright and early Saturday morning and our first labor nurse, Susan, came to get us and take us to our delivery suite. The whole process began at 7 am. Addendum: I made sure to wake up early, shower, blow dry my hair, apply full makeup and put dangly earrings in for this occasion. It was worthless in the end.

After getting settled in, Susan hooked up my IV fluids which kept me hydrated all day, as well as the Pitocin to start my labor.  Mamie came to visit (and snuck in Snickers bite size candies for me since I technically wasn’t supposed to eat anything).  Throughout the day, various visitors stopped in, including Papa, Grandma Anita, Aunt Deedee, Aunt KK and Great Aunt Jill. 

Susan continued to increase my Pitocin dose gradually during the day to help my contractions become more intense.  Daddy and I asked Susan what the maximum dose of Pitocin was (just out of curiosity) to which she replied “20 units per hour” (at the time, I was receiving 10 units per hour).  I was bouncing on the exercise ball and feeling quite good, so I asked for an increase in Pitocin while Daddy stepped outside with Grandma A to get a bite to eat. Susan increased the Pitocin and I returned to bed because the increase was definitely intensifying the pain!! Mamie looked at my Pitocin monitor and noticed it said 36 units PER MINUTE (remember, she had just told us that the maximum dosage was typically 20 units per HOUR).The 36 units per MINUTE was a dangerous amount to be receiving (to say the least). After gently bringing it to Susan’s attention (who was totally panic-stricken and very upset and apologetic about her mistake) the Pitocin was reduced to a safe level and we were able to regroup and proceed safely.  Yet another way God was looking out for us – why in the world would I, someone who knows NOTHING about medicine AT ALL, need to ask about the typical dosage of Pitocin?? THAT’S why!

By afternoon, I still wasn’t very dilated when Susan checked me.  At 2:00, I received a visit from Dr. Ferguson (who had been on call for 100 hours I think by now!!) who confirmed that I still wasn’t quite 2 cm dilated (the minimum dilation to break my water).  However, he was able to break it anyway! I was so happy to make it to that step! Progress! And there was no turning back then! After that, things did progress well, and by evening I was ready for my epidural, which was not the best experience in and of itself. As I had experienced during my spinal tap in the spring, the doctor was struggling to find a space between my vertebrae to fit the needle. I was in pain from both the contractions AND the epidural and Daddy got really woozy from watching the doctor try and fail to administer the epidural. Let’s just say we were glad when it was finally over! I got complete abdominal relief, but my lower body, from my waist down, was unaffected by the block (which would come in very unhandy later on). 

At about 10pm, my new nurse, Michele (who was AWESOME!) noticed that with each contraction, your heartbeat was dipping a bit. The resident doctor suggested putting me on oxygen so that YOU would be adequately oxygenated, and they also decided at that time to put a new type of fetal heart rate monitor on you, which was a tiny screw placed in the top of your head 😦 Poor baby was born with a boo boo. 

For a few hours, I remained on oxygen while my new doctor, Dr. Byrne, was at St. Joe Hospital finishing up a C-Section delivery. It was a bit nerve-racking to be all hooked up to so many machines, and Daddy was especially uneasy, so we were relieved when 1:00 rolled around and it became VERY evident based on some very intense pain (remember, my epidural didn’t work below the belt) that it was time to start pushing. I was in so much pain that I was extremely motivated to get you out!! In 2o minutes from when the doctor arrived, you were born and Daddy made the announcement “It’s a boy!”

It was a very emotional moment, and when they placed you on my chest, I looked at you and could not believe you were actually here. For all the pain, all the stress of being hospitalized, and all of the uncertainty, we couldn’t have had a more perfect delivery.  We felt so strongly that God was guiding everything that happened, and we were SO glad you were healthy and fully cooked even though your due date wasn’t until December 22. 

The doctors told me I slam dunked you, and hence you were born with some bruises on your gourd. Ironically, that was 37 weeks after you were created (I almost just said 37 weeks after the Big Bang, meaning CREATION not y’know, banging, and then I felt that was too graphic, but then I went and said it anyway within the security of parentheses as if that somehow negates the implication of that phrase…). As I was saying, you were born with a bruised head. Now, another 37 weeks later, you have a bruised head from banging around the house like a kamikaze baby ball of head busting, boundless energy. I counted 2 fresh bruises just today, and everywhere I go, I make excuses for why you look like someone beat you with a Fisher Price cell phone (technically SOMEONE did, but that SOMEONE is YOU, so KNOCK IT OFF!).

You’re my sweet, lovable, adorable, handsome, hilarious, toothy, strong, babbly boy. And I love you so much. I love you more than so much. I love you with an aching, powerful, protective depth that you will never understand. But I hope you know, every single day, for the next 37 weeks, months, years and decades, that I’m your mama and I will go to the ends of the earth, I will fight the toughest of battles, I will sacrifice my health, my happiness, my life, to see you thrive and be blessed. You are my boy, and I am your mama. I love you to the end.

Birth Story: Part I

22 Aug

Well, my baby is 37(ish) weeks now. Let’s have a moment of silence as we mourn the passing of time.

Whuh?

 

I was 37(ish) weeks pregnant when my doctor induced me and sweet Navy boy was born. Which means Mr. Blue has spent as much time outside of my womb as he did inside my womb. And might I just note here that the last 37 weeks have been much (MUCH MUCH OHMIGOSHSOMUCH) more enjoyable than the previous 37 were. But as I spend a few moments being nostalgic that the time is passing ever so quickly and my boy is growing much too fast, I’m going to reminisce and post my birth story in two parts. This is free from my usual snarky, pithy drivel because this is literally going to be me sitting here typing out the 14 page (apparently I was long winded) journal entry I wrote to summarize my hospital and birth experience when Navy was born.

Without further ado, 37 weeks ago:

We found out we were pregnant in the beginning of April. It was the best news we had ever received and we couldn’t do anything but look forward to the day we could finally hold you in our arms. 

It was a long 36 weeks leading up to your arrival.  I struggled throughout the whole pregnancy with morning sickness, and early in the pregnancy was briefly hospitalized for a migraine that required a painful and tricky spinal tap.

On Tuesday, November 29th, I decided, as I often did, to visit Mamie and Papa’s house on my way to work.  Earlier that morning, I thought I might be experiencing my water breaking, but didn’t have enough evidence to go to the hospital.  I did, however, call Aunt KK (my go-to pregnancy consultant!) and also my doctor who advised me to “keep an eye on it.”  After visiting with Mamie for a bit, it was time to head to work, but just as I was leaving, I had the startling realization that what I thought was my water breaking earlier, was now bleeding.  I called the doctor again and as calmly as possible explained the situation, even though on the inside I was screaming (and ok, on the outside I was crying and scared, too). Immediately, Mamie and I got in the car and headed to the hospital where Daddy met us.

The doctor on call was Dr. Ferguson, a doctor I hadn’t seen much of during my pregnancy (which caused me to be somewhat reluctant), but did know as a long time friend of the family and doctor who has helped both Aunt KK and Mamie during their pregnancies as well. 

They checked me into triage where I was examined by Resident Dr. Houghton and Dr. Ferguson.  Neither doctor was concerned about the bleeding, which surprised me, and I was definitely not in labor, so I should have gone home. After taking my vitals, though, the nurse noticed that my blood pressure was higher than they liked. Dr. Houghton guessed that I was just stressed, given the circumstances, but Dr. Ferguson wanted to keep me. Exactly 21 years (+ 1 day) prior, Dr. Ferguson was the attending physician when Mamie delivered Aunt Mara, your angel aunt. Because of that history, and the startling closeness in timeline, he wanted to admit me to the hospital for closer monitoring rather than send me home on blood pressure medicine and bed rest. It was at that moment that I realized God had timed it perfectly for me to go to the hospital when Dr. Ferguson was on call, despite having not spent many pregnancy appointments with him.

By afternoon, I was settled into the Special Care Obstetrics unit in a beautiful room (that Mamie and her business, Orange Tree, helped to decorate!). They put me on blood pressure medicine and came in every two hours to check my vitals and put fetal heart rate and contraction monitors on me. Your heart sounded beautiful which gave everyone lots of reassurance that despite my volatile blood pressure, you were doing great. 

During my stay in the Special Care Obstetrics unit, my blood pressure continued to be unsafely high, raising concern that I may become preeclamptic. During one particular blood pressure check (which yielded a VERY high blood pressure), the nurse instructed me to lay on my side for twenty minutes, after which she would check me again and see if there was any improvement. Sure enough, the reading was perfect after such careful immobility.  Feeling despaired and irritated by the circumstances, I burst into tears at the thought of spending the next 3 weeks expected to lay still on my side (not even on my back!) as that appeared to be the only position that could regulate my blood pressure. I started hearing the nurses make guesses that I would be induced if I didn’t go into labor naturally and sure enough, when Dr. Ferguson (my guardian angel) came to check on me on Friday morning, he began the induction process by giving me 3 doses of a drug called Cidotek, used to soften and dilate the cervix. By evening I was experiencing mild contractions but Dr. Ferguson saw very little cervical change.  He told me to get a good night’s sleep and in the morning they would put me on Pitocin.

 

Part 2 – Labor!!!

Boxy

1 Aug

I recently stumbled upon a new kids shopping site called Wittlebee that is one of many companies jumping on the monthly shipment wagon. I’m about to tell you all about it but don’t worry, I’m not fancy or anything so no companies give an at’s rass about this blog enough to have me write about their products for money (in other words, this isn’t sponsored, just my own two cents and no, there isn’t a coupon code at the end of this post- tough luck).

So I did happen to find a link online (which now I have no idea where to find SOWWY!!) for a discounted first month’s shipment. I believe it was $23 to sign up and get my first shipment. You register for an account and then select your style profile for your kid(s). It asks you a series of questions including what size you need, what climate you live in, what your favorite colors are, and if you need any special items (like swimwear or pajamas).
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If you sign up for the program, you receive a box of clothing every month for $39.99 (box contains retail value of at least $100 worth of clothing). I think that’s a pretty good deal, myself, and the brands are VERY high quality. No Walmart up in here. Not that there’s anything wrong with Walmart, we all know how grimy kids can be so it makes sense to dress them economically, which makes this so great. I’m VERY particular about how I dress Navy, so I love that a program exists where he can get cute clothes of great quality for 60% off retail and it’s delivered to my door. And they have 100% satisfaction guarantee so if you aren’t happy with any of your items, send them back! They’ll get you something that you like better.

Here is Navy’s box. I didn’t LOVE everything, but I liked it all. It is all stuff I would dress him in and for a fraction of what I would have paid retail. Plus, it’s fun to open the box and be surprised.
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Click here to sign up and get started on your own Wittlebee account. It’s kinda fun, I think you’ll like it. End company endorsement.

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