The Countdown

I have 35.5 days left before I meet my baby girl...who finally has a name! Margaret Elizabeth, we will call her Maisie.  Margaret and Elizabeth are both family names, and more directly each is a part of mine and Chrissy's given name.  So, why this name? Mostly, because I love Maisie...but also because I can tell in-utero that she is going to have all the fire, spunk and drive that Chrissy and I have...God Help Me.

But, enough about her name.

I have just over a month to prepare for Maisie.  The house isn't ready, her stuff isn't washed, my stuff isn't washed, she currenlty has nowhere to sleep...AND Christmas is just over a week away.  But mostly, I am not ready.  I know God will give me all the tools I need for her, just as he did with Logan, but I find myself asking Him how there is enough Love in the world for me to love her the way I do Logan.  I know I will. I KNOW I will...but that is because I tell myself I will.  He is my angel, my baby and the tiny human who made my heart grow exponentially.  How and wehre can more of that kind of love come from??  I am not sure if I am ready to share me with two kids, because I love being 100% Logan's. 

But, God has already given this ability to love to my sweet child...he runs around hollering his sisters name.  He calls her name at my belly in the morning to wake her up (which is cute now, but won't be when she learns to sleep), and "knocks" on my belly to tell her that he is out there.  If that isn't God-like, I don't know what is.

So, it is with great trepidation t hat I say, I am not going to worry.  I am just going to countdown to her arrival and anxiously await the Tornado we will call Maisie...

Every Day I'm Shufflin'

So I'm not that good at titles...shoot me.

I am a working mom.

I wanted that statement to stand alone so everyone has the opportunity to think about what that means...which thus far, is a matter of opinion.  Now, I am going to tell you what it really means.

Being a working mommy means that I rarely stop.  I get up before the rest of the house and most nights I go to sleep after everyone else.  It means that from 8AM-5PM I am expected to act like I am not a mother and from 5PM-8AM, I do my best to act like I don't have responsibilities hanging over my head from work.  Being a working mom means that I don't get to see my child's teachers, because we chose a good school over a convenient location, so Daddy drops him off and Grandparents pick him up so, at best, I get the translated version of how my baby is progressing.  Being a working mom means that I snap at my husband way to often for not doing his part, when in reality, he does more than other men by leaps and bounds.  It means that I resent my stay at home friends, but know that I am a better mommy because I work...that is not to say I am better than them, but that I am a better mommy than I would be if I stayed home...but I still want to stay home. 

It also means that I worry...I worry exponentially more than I did before. I worry about all the normal things, will he out live me, when will we have our first broken bone, did we lock the front door/baby gate/fence/freezer/toilet/etc, is the breathing (I still check at least twice a night), the list goes on forever.  But, I also have to worry about how he is cared for while I am working...this is particularly cumbersome when he's sick.

Today, my baby might have pink eye, I am not there listening to either A) the soothing words of an MD telling me it's nothing, or B)the specific directions the MD is giving regarding how to handle pink eye (again, I rely on translation).  No, today  I am sitting at my desk waiting on a conference call, because I am a working mommy.

But at 5 O'clock I will change hats and love and care for my angel in every way possible until the cows come home...or until my alarm goes off tomorrow morning when I start the whole process over and I have to trust someone else to care for him while I work for his future.

...and in between all of these things, I might do laundry, feed the dogs, make a bed, clean the dishes...

April 21, 2011 - David "Dampa" Burr is 90 today

I love Spring! It is my favorite time of year! And Easter is my favorite holiday. Everything has a new beginning.

Today is Dampa's 90th birthday...I can't believe he's 90!  He is a big part of the reason I feel so connected to Spring time.  Growing up Dampa took Chrissy and I on walks around the WFU campus, and every time we passed a vine of morning glories he would say, "Morning, Glory!" and mean it!  Every one of God's creations deserves a heartfelt greeting in the morning, and that is just what they got.  To this day, when I see a morning glory, I tell her hello, and I think she smiles back at me. 

Dampa is a retired Presbyterian minister.  He never pushed us to do more at church, but he always made sure we knew our bible stories and that we took time to think about God.  I am a Christian, I believe in God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, but on a day-to-day basis I find myself to be more faithful than religious.  I find more inspiration from God's earthly creations than I do from a church pew.  What better time of year to be Faithful than Easter...it's easy to believe in God, and to believe in the birth of Jesus...but to believe he was crucified to death and 3 days later was Risen from the dead...that, my friends, takes FAITH! 

Every day I wake up and have Faith that God watched over my son during the night so that I could sleep.  (believe you me, without faith, no parent would ever sleep...we would hover over a crib all night watching to make sure our child took one breath right after the next) Every day I have Faith that God will see me safely to work and home again.  Every day I have Faith that God will help me be the best parent I can be. Every day I have Faith.

Our parents, grandparents, siblings and friends all shape us into the people we become.  Dampa played the biggest role in shaping my life as a Christian.  Today is his 90th birthday.  Today I will celebrate Dampa, this weekend I will celebrate the Rise of Jesus Christ from the dead.  All the while, I have Faith that my son will have some of these same influences in his life and grow up to be a strong and Faithful Christian with amazing people to look up to just as I have.

Frustration-my short but deep thought for the day

I am a talker, and I sense that my child will be too.  Logan loves to babble.  When he wakes up from a nap, and before we go get him from his crib, he will lay in there forever just talking to his bunny or pointing at things in the room and discussing them with himself...it's so great to listen to!

Lately, he has taken to sudden and seemingly unexplainable meltdowns...a lot of them happen with Rob, who I know is easily discouraged and thinks his son hates him.  As a high anxiety person myself, I try to stay calm during these episodes, though internally that doesn't always happen.  And then one day it dawned on me...he's frustrated.  Try as he might to tell us something, we just aren't getting his message.  Ball, banana, baby, balloon...all items he is familiar with and all words that currently sound the same coming out of his mouth.  He wants something, he tells us, and we do nothing...or it seems like nothing to him...and then the screaming begins.  I am not talking about a loud cry, I am talking about a scream that affords me a better look inside of his mouth than any Dr is ever going to get during a routine exam.  I think I can see China in there!  And his tongue just quivers as hard as it possibly can.  I feel so bad for the little booger!

So here I am, in a house with two frustrated boys.  One frustrated because I can't understand him and the other frustrated because he takes the meltdown personally.  Who ever said men aren't sensitive?

the year in review

In the years, days or even moments before Logan was born you couldn't have made me believe how different I would feel/be when he got here.  It's as though Margaret Mitchell wrote my life's story until the moment he arrived, and then some other author booted her ass out and took over the storyline! To anyone without children, I want so desperately to tell you what it's like...but there are no words, no descriptions and no other life experiences that I can use to fill you in.  I can say that I hope, one day, everyone gets to experience it.  For those with children, you know, and so it requires no explanation.

The first weeks home with Logan were tough, but I am blessed to have the most amazing man I've ever met right by my side every step of the way.   Rob got up EVERY SINGLE TIME Logan cried at night...he really did, every time!  Rob would change Logan, swaddle him and bring him to me to nurse...I never got out of bed.  When I would wake up (yes, I fell asleep a lot while nursing), Logan was always done nursing and I would just slide him back into the bassinette and go back to bed. 

Days were tougher as I thought I needed to be superwoman...I tried to do all the things Logan related plus, shower myself, clean house, maybe even do something about dinner.  This meant that I totally ignored the whole "sleep when the baby sleeps" mantra.  Ignoring that sage advice was a mistake...I had meltdowns and lots of them.  I sent emails to friends asking how they got through it...those emails were barely coherent, and written through tears.  Becky told me to stick with nursing for 2 weeks, "Come hell or high water, do it for two weeks and it's all downhill from there," she said.   I am so glad I made that promise to myself before I started or I would have surely given up at the start.  Nursing, in and of itself, isn't terribly hard, after all babies already know what to do, but the time and commitment it takes is harder than hard.

In my 3rd week  I FINALLY made it out of the house (excluding Logan's 5 day old Dr's appt that Rob took us to) and headed to Mommy and Me at the hospital.  I was sweating and exhausted by the time I made it to the class, but I was out! YAY me!  If I could have stomached the alcohol, I would have had a celebratory glass of wine right then and there.  Alas, no alcohol in the women's center (perhaps I should put that in the suggestion box).

As hard as it was those first few weeks, it was even more wonderful. Sometimes I cried because I loved this little boy so much.  Sometimes I rejoiced because God had picked me to be a mommy.  I prayed a lot.  I prayed that God take care of this precious little life he'd afforded me.  I prayed every time Rob left the house...I loved him more than ever and every time he left I was terrified of anything happening to him.  I know that some of this was me coming down off the 9-month hormone kick I'd been riding, but mostly it was me learning about Love.  It's not what I thought it was...I mean, I love my parents, sister, husband, family, etc...But, my God in Heaven! This! This kind of Love trumps those a million times over and then some.  Every tear, every exhausted email, every fear, ever prayer, all of it came from this brand new place inside of me...a place I didn't know existed. (so in my head, despite how touching this might be, I see the Grinch's heart growing 3 sizes that day-LOL)

After the first month I really copped a groove. I think that's because at 4 weeks Logan went from needing to feel like he was still in the womb to all of a sudden "arriving."  He wanted to look at me and smile and coo.  I know the books say babies develop a lot in the first year but I had no idea how fast it really is.  I wish I had written more milestones down, but such is life.  Logan hated Tummy Time, hated it! But by 3 months, he had mastered that task and was pushing up on his arms to look around.  In his 4th month he was rolling...once he figured that out, there was no keeping him still.  Rob and I spent our first night away from Logan on August 21st, when we came home Sunday, Logan was sitting up.  I looked at Rob and said, "That's it. I'm never leaving again."  Of course, I was joking, well mostly. 

By 7.5 month Logan was crawling and the dogs were ticked!  He was everywhere and they couldn't get away! (Rob and I didn't baby proof, and we don't really plan to. Logan understands 'No' and has since at least 6 months.  We've run into some snags, and he likes to test us, but for the most part he listens.)  In addition to mastering the crawl, Logan could also clap, wave, point and identify the nose on other people (and the dogs).   

By 9 months Logan was standing on his own and during the 9th month he started walking a little behind those push toys and along the couch. I realized that he'd been out as long as he'd been in...9 months of incubating and 9 months of loving and he was up and about. At 11 months he said his first word, Puppy!  We consider that the first word because it's the first with any real meaning.  He's said mamamama and some form of dadad for a while, but not necessarily associating it with us.  But one Thursday night in February, I was holding him and letting the dogs in when he looked right at Abby, pointed and said pahp-hee!  "OMG, Rob! Did you hear that!?!?"  We'd both heard it clear as a bell...and for the rest of the night we made him say it over and over and over and over...

Logan's first Christmas was wonderful! It snowed all day!  Rob and I carried him and toys from high point to Winston and back again...twice.  We spent ample time with both families, and boy oh boy did that kid rack up!  We were very fortunate that Logan has spent time this year with his great grandparents; Grandpa Miller, Dampa Burr and Granny May.  As of today, he is just past his 1st birthday and is walking a few steps at a time on his own, identifying body parts, saying ba-yaya (banana), puppy, mama, dadad, baby and working on a few others.

We've had quite a year!  And this is only the beginning...

 

what an entrance!

March 5, 2010 was a Friday. I woke up feeling a little like I had to go to the bathroom (yes, I started with this).  But, pregnant and late for work, I jumped on through my morning routine and headed into work at 7:30.  3 minutes into my drive down 311 I felt the worst muscle cramp/pinched nerve I have ever felt in my back. I almost pulled the car over on the shoulder!  But it eased up and I finished my drive to the great big city of Archdale where I have worked for the past 10 (holy crap it's been that long) years.  Upon pulling into the lot and seeing my boss walk out the door, that damn nerve shot some more pain across my lower back.  It wasn't until my boss said, "So, you havin' a baby today or what?" that it hit me.  This is labor, I've gone into labor!  I threw him a pleasantry, walked in the door and hit a quick pace to my desk with my head down so as not to be spoken to.

(Baby Logan was going to be just like his mama...create a schedule and stick to it!  Doctors said his due date would be March 5th and by golly he was johnny on the spot)

I spent the next 3.5 hours timing my contractions and telling myself that I didn't need to go home. (if anyone watches The Office, I pulled a Pam) In hind sight, that was sooo dumb. At 11:30, with contractions about 6 minutes apart, I told the girls at work that I would go with them to lunch, but would need to take my sub to go.  We/I eat at Archdale Sub on pretty regular basis...they know me by name and had been tracking my pregnancy as they regularly fed my baby.  After scaring the pants off the kid taking my order who asked how I was just as I had a contraction (yeah, he might never have sex again), I grabbed my sub and headed for home (yes home, not the hospital).  I called Rob to apprise him of the situation...pretty sure he yelled at me for waiting so long...and started to drive.

For those of you that don't know; laboring and driving is right up there with drinking and driving...DANGEROUS!  I made it home, & tried to eat my sandwich (knowing I wasn't going to eat again until after this baby arrived) as Rob began to show me the stopwatch proving that I was contracting at just under 2 minutes apart! YIKES.  We were at the OB's office at 2PM only to find that I was not quite 3cm. So they sent me home to walk.  I walked, 3 steps at a time because that is a far as I could get before the next tingle turned to boulder crushing pressure (otherwise known as a contraction) hit me...I did this for 2 hours.  At 4:30 we returned to the OB for another barely changing measurement and it was time to be admitted.

Something everyone should know is that it's hard enough to pee in a cup on a normal basis, it is harder to pee in a cup when you are pregnant, but it is damn near impossible to do it while you are pregnant and contracting!  BUT, I did it...3 times that day.  Why my pee was so valuable, I will never understand, but the OB needed it and so did the admitting nurse.  So, I managed to collect a specimen and turn it over to them all while begging for drugs.  Rob parked the car and arrived just in time to see NASA hook me up to every monitor known to man.

It is about this time that I really lose track of time. Rob called family to tell them I was in labor.  (Chrissy arrived first...no surprise there as she was the 3rd most excited about Logan's arrival).  Sometime around 6 O'clock a tall, beautiful, black man floated into my room to make me the happiest woman on earth...you see he was the anesthesiologist!  I was so scared of the big needle he was going to put in my back, but I am here to tell you that I felt pressure and NOTHING more.  After the epidural kicked in, I told Rob we could stop lying to the family about the hospital rules that required they stay in the waiting area and let them back one at a time for no more than 5 minutes each.  I love my family, but I am easily annoyed on a good day, so we had decided ahead of time that the best thing for everyone was to not poke the bear :).

The epidural was great, but it slowed everything down a lot.  I think it was about 8PM when Dr White broke my water and we learned that Logan had passed meconium. At 11PM I was still only 6 cm dilated and having lots of IV pitocin...enough in fact that my contractions were only 45 seconds apart and not giving Logan enough recovery time.  A little after 11 a nurse came in to "flip me."  She watch the monitors and flipped me again about 60 second later...it was at that point that I felt like a cartoon character watching my own strip being written...Everything seemed foggy and muffled, there were words coming out of her mouth but nothing was computing...I was beginning to panic.  She yelled something across me aimed at the nurse in the hall way.  A second nurse came into the room and with one on each side grabbing a hold of the pee pad they tossed be from one side to another quickly and aggressively for several minutes.  Despite the fog, the panic and the drugs, I understood what was happening when they said, Call Dr White and get her in here now.  I made eye contact with Rob who mouthed the words, "it's ok..."  How I didn't start crying at that moment is beyond me.  The nurses wouldn't tell me much, Rob said he knew something was up because the heart rate monitor on Logan had slowed and become erratic.  OH MY GOD SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH MY BABY!!!!!!!!

Waiting for Dr White was the longest wait of my life, it was longer than the 9 months I'd spent incubating, it was longer than eternity...it was too long to wait to find out what was happening.  FINALLY, she walked in the room, looked and the print outs, "checked my oil," and said, "the baby is in some distress."  I began to cry.  A million thoughts slammed into my head like a train without breaks, one slamming into the next without stop.  She saw the look, I am sure I wasn't the first woman to have a full blown melt down in that room.  She said we could either do a semi-emergency C-section now, or wait a little while to see if he improved.  But knowing he'd already passed some meconium and that I was only at 6cm, if we did wait and there was no improvement then we'd have a full blown Emergency C-section...that meant I might be knocked out, Rob might not be in there in time and some other stuff, but I had stopped listening.  I had never considered having a c-section.  I am not a small woman, I knew I could have a baby.  It never occurred to me that I might not have to have a c-section because of me, but rather Logan would need the C-section so that he would be ok.  I looked at Rob, he said that a C-section wasn't a bad thing and I would be fine.  I think we talked about it, but mostly I remember saying, do whatever is the best for the baby, I don't want to take any chances.

She told me what would happen next, though I didn't hear a word and they started to prep me.  I was shaking and crying.  I was shaking to the point that the entire bed was shaking...I couldn't stop.  I was terrified.  More scared in that moment then I had ever been in my entire life.  I've never had surgery before in my life, and now we are having an emergency surgery because my baby needs help.  What if it's worse than they are telling me?  What if they need me to stay calm to control my vitals...what if he's not ok? In that moment, I would like to say that I prayed...but I don't remember.  All I remember is the feeling of terror.

They wheeled me to the OR,  strapped me to the table, put up a curtain and started working. I don't know what time they started, but at 1:06 AM on Saturday, March 6th, 2010 Rob said, "I see him."  For the second longest eternity of my life, I held my breath waiting.  And then he screamed.  A big, beautiful, lungs full of air and life and love and everything scream.  He was crying and cold and...he was ok!  Logan was in the world and he was perfect... 7lbs 15oz and 20.5inches of perfection.

I am a mommy.

Logan was cleaned up, a few pictures were snapped and he and Rob were whisked away to the nursery so the pediatrician could check him out. 

I was, still, shaking.  But, I was much more calm, cool and collected then I had been.  That is when I threw up...all over myself!  When you are strapped to a table, there isn't much you can do but turn your head and hope someone will clean you up.  So, that is exactly what I did.

It didn't matter what I looked like, or how I felt or what was happening in the world.  I was a mommy...and I could feel the difference.

so much to say

I used to write.  I used to write a lot.  Just ask anyone who knew me growing up.  I think I was 7...maybe 8 years old when I got my first diary.  Somewhere locked away in my parents' house are scads of journals covering a decade of thoughts.  But, I went to college, met a boy, got married...well, basically life happened and I stopped writting. I wanted to write, I just never found the time. 

Recently, I've found myself reading the blogs of a couple of friends and not only enjoying their writing styles, but also their stories.  The more I read the more thoughts I have about my own experiences and the more I think maybe I should give this a shot.

So, here I am writing again. But before I really launch into this, I want to throw out a disclaimer - one I am really throwing at myself as I haven't decided if I will even share this blog with anyone or not.  But, in case I do share it; my spelling has become terrible, my grammar is off the mark and Lord God Leelah my punctuation needs work.  I mostly say this for my Salem girls who will all laugh at me, know that I am typing the way I would speak these thoughts, and still throw a correction or two my way via comments.  So with that said, off I go!

I have so much to say and such a lack of knowing where to start! But then again, I don't really need to know where to start because I have the most obvious and God given start to my story...March 5, 2010, the last day before I arrived on "the other side."