An Early Bird

On January 6 I woke up, as many pregnant women do, before dawn. Padding back and forth from the bathroom to my bed, it occurred to me that something baby-related was happening; I couldn't have guzzled enough La Croix the night before to require five ladies' room visits in a half-hour.

At 34 weeks along, I chalked it up to our boy finally turning head-down. He'd struck a nerve, I told myself, and surely the discomfort would die down soon. This was a good thing, in the long run - a sign that his debut would be an easy one when the time came.

Unfortunately, the pains didn't die down; they intensified. I pictured his head nuzzling into my lower back, convincing myself that whatever yoga poses he was doing in there would settle down shortly.

Soon it felt like Chapman was burrowing down every few minutes, with a whole lot of purpose behind his movement. This was my third rodeo, but it was weeks too early for labor, and I clung to each shred of denial I could find.

By 6:30 I knew I'd need to go into my OB's office as soon as it opened so they could make the pain stop. I showered, took deep breaths and rocked side to side to "calm" my little guy; I crawled in bed beside a just-stirring Mary Brooks to distract myself. Mac, attuned to anything out of the ordinary, gave me the side-eye immediately.

"Why are you breathing like that, Mama? Are you feeling ok?"

Welp. How do you answer that, exactly?

I shimmied into my comfiest outfit, putting aside my feelings about leggings and long cardigans, and prayed for business hours to arrive quickly.

Bradley packed up milk in sippy cups, baggies full of Cheerios and tiny boxes of raisins for a picnic in the car. I tried to quiet my huffing and puffing from the front seat so Mac and MB could enjoy their early morning drive en famille in peace.

I waddled into the OB's office, asking the receptionist to work me in and, after a moment or two, returning with tears in my eyes. It was okay if they were too busy to see me so early, I said; just say the word and I'll head to the hospital instead. Someone had to make this baby stop hurting me - and stop trying to be born - but I didn't want to terrify every mother-to-be in that waiting room in the meantime. I was early enough that no doctors had arrived yet; every second felt longer.

The OB nurse immediately came out, took my BP during a contraction and had a near conniption fit. Obviously my body was telling me something, so she scurried me into an exam room as I texted a friend, "Owowowowow." Watching videos of Mac and MB kept me distracted for a moment, and then I saw a white coat.

The sweet doctor who delivered MB came to check on me; knowing my history, he told me to hurry to L&D and we'd develop a game plan there. I offered him, between contractions with a lovely nurse's fist pushing into my back for support, several options: I'd go on six weeks of bed rest, I'd sleep right until his due date, I'd stay at the hospital even. I just didn't want to have a baby today.

He smiled knowingly, gave me a hug and reminded me that he'd be on duty Thursday.  (It was Monday.) If I could wait until then, I joked, I'd wait until next month!

Bradley whisked me to the hospital, kiddos in the back seat, and I gave them kisses before sidling up to the OB floor all by my lonesome. B was back in a flash, but not before the nurses helped me realize our son was coming today. Eep.

The Laundry List

Recently I caught up with a friend I haven't spoken to in a while. It's been a busy year or two for each of us, and I felt a catch in my throat at her simple, "What's been going on?" question.

What hasn't gone on? Ardent list-maker that I am, the inventory is easy enough to trot out:

1. Had Mary Brooks.
2. Almost lost Mary Brooks.
3. Almost lost my mind.
4. Finally came back to life nine months later.
5. Ran the Walt Disney World half marathon for charity and, decidedly un-pregnant, rode every rollercoaster on the property. Thanked God hourly for the chance to start fresh. 
6. Found out I was expecting. (Surprise! And sorry for those loop-de-loops, baby.)
7. Lost our baby at 15 weeks. Had surgery. Stayed in bed for approximately a century.
7. Got, as we gallows humor-types like to say, re-pregnant.
8. Thought I was losing that baby.
9. Hospitalized more than once. On sporadic bed rest. Alternately terrified and in denial.
10. Unexpectedly delivered our son six weeks early.
11. Endured a one-week NICU stay.
12. Survived a sinus infection/ear infection/mastitis combo.
13. Thought that was the worst we'd handle this year.
14. Back at the Children's Hospital with a preemie and his fractured skull.*
15. Earned ourselves a three-day vacation right where we fought for MB two years before.
16. Nearly re-lost my mind.
17. Ran out of the hospital and swore we'd burn it down before we set foot there again.
18. Came back with a baby who wasn't gaining weight. 
19. Fielded daily questions as to why our newborn was "insanely small." (Y'all, please don't do that to a girl. No one's baby is insanely anything, besides cute.)
20. Brought in a team of experts: a pediatrician, lactation consultants, occupational therapists, a hospital-grade scale and one manic mama.
21. Took a deep breath. Began to enjoy what is, in truth, a beautiful, blessed life. And a sweet peanut who may just be getting the hang of this weight gain thing.

Amidst all that, we felt called to have Bradley leave his job* of nine years; it was slowly sucking the life out of our family and our marriage - the last thing we needed after MB's ordeal. Bradley's quitting was a tremendously brave act of obedience, one that both humbled and scared the pants off a planner like me. At every point, despite the stresses we encountered, our family saw absolute confirmation it was the right decision.

One side business and eighteen months(!) of a job search later, Bradley began a new full-time position just before Chapman was hospitalized. The pressure, waiting, healing, constant change - it was heavy and unrelenting. We were refined by fire once again, and no matter how I tried to look at it through a lens of faith and God's will, there were many nights I just wanted to opt out, to be passed over, to fast forward to the easy part.

When you write it all out, that laundry list looks like a lot. (Maybe I've outlined a fabulous memoir in these bulletpoints?) I wonder, as people have often asked, how we did it. In each moment, though, you don't philosophize or quit - you can't. The only option is to push on through.

You laugh with your husband the morning of your D&C, you shuttle yourself (and your milk supply) from home to NICU and back again, you remind yourself in the Children's Hospital that "this isn't that" and your son isn't fighting for his life - even if you're fighting for your sanity. You thank God for good sleep, sweet babies and a family who drops everything for you.

You feel the promise of the Gospel and know without a doubt that the Holy Spirit's presence in you is why you're still vertical, still putting one foot in front of the other.

You wonder if you've gone through this particular whirlwind to carry other people who are fielding harder, even more painful fights. You wish you never knew about any of this and desperately want your white-picket-fence, never-had-a-panic-attack, "perfect" life back.

You want your "what's new?" laundry list to be first movies, snow days, pigtails, park trips, holding hands, post-bath snuggles and birthdays. Your story is partly that, but the heart of the matter is a whole lot more.

And when someone asks what you've been up to these last two years, you don't know how to tell her you're not the girl you were before.

"Two babies, six dozen new gray hairs and an extra-large SUV. That's what we've been up to."

(What else can you say?)

When you hang up, you ask God to use this laundry list of chaos, this hard-fought battle, this big, ugly scar on an otherwise-smooth history for His purpose. And you know, more deeply than you've ever known anything, that He's in this with you.

What comes after this laundry list, Lord? (And, not to prove I haven't really learned my lesson, but can this season be finished? Please? I'd hate to see Bradley arrested for arson, and I'm pretty sure he's serious about burning that building down.)

*These are stories for another day. Promise.

Party of Five

First things first: meet our baby boy! 

Our son, Chapman Collins Smith, was born nearly six weeks early on January 6, 2014. He was a healthy 5 lbs, 7 oz and transitioned home beautifully after a one-week stay in NICU.

 
Mac and Mary Brooks are utterly smitten, as are we all. His early arrival may have been unexpected, but we were grateful all the same; the months leading up to Chapman's birth were stressful and occasionally scary. Having him home and healthy now is such a gift!

It's been a minute since I've popped in, and in all my busyness, I find the everyday details slipping away from me. The quirks and anecdotes and memories I just "know" I'll treasure when I'm 80 are trickling out of my brain and off to...wherever the rest of my brain cells have gone. 

So I'm back to update and record, and hopefully to encourage. It's been a tumultuous ride, these last two years, and you've all been on it with me; I want to fill you in on how we got through (and are still walking through) the unexpected. There's so very much to tell!

I promise to share details in the coming days, but most especially I promise to record the tiny, easily forgotten moments this blog has helped me preserve over the years.

There are a million blessings and a few miracles mixed in there, too. I hope you'll forgive me if I shout them from the virtual rooftops here in our little corner of the internet.

I look forward to catching up! xox

Day 25: Driveway Conversations

There's something about conversations in the car - they just flow a bit more easily.

Maybe it's because you aren't looking directly at whomever you're riding with, or you feel more at ease because there are many roadside distractions?

Whatever the cause, I find car rides to be the source of pretty deep conversations, all things considered. You  might be passing a delapidated building or a row of port-a-potties, but your words veer into deeper waters - things that don't always pop up across a dining room table when you're face-to-face, trying to talk.

I didn't think these kind of chats would start so early for Mac, but today we had a long conversation in the driveway that took me back. I suppose he's so busy when he's not strapped in that sitting still lets him dig deep.

Today he asked me about God, relayed his day at school, wondered what people do in heaven and told me why he loves Mary Brooks so much. ("She's mine. She's just my baby sister. God put love in my heart so I can give it to her.")

I hope these kind of talks never stop coming, and I might just start driving the long way home from school...

*This post is day 25 in my 31 Days of What Matters.

The Day My Heart Grew

Disclaimer: This post is a bit wordy. You'll forgive the tiny details, won't you? It's not every day a gal has a baby, and I'm sure to forget all but the beautiful girl we brought home if I don't record it now.

Valentine's Day didn't quite turn out the way I'd pictured it, even hoping our daughter would be on her way to meet us February 14.

The evening before was ordinary as could be. I wrote this post and then took B on a variety of oh-so-exciting errands.

We swung by CVS (where we bought Nyquil, something that proved to be a poor call), Target, Academy Sports: a mish-mash of last minute activities designed to kill time, keep us busy and conquer a few lingering to do items.

My Everyday Valentine post was published around 6:00 pm; we left the house and returned around 8:15.

We were scheduled, for a few reasons, to be induced at 6:00 am, so I texted a friend to find out how late I could eat and drink beforehand. (Typical Anne concern.)

At 8:30 I made Bradley take two Nyquil, which wouldn't make me bat an eyelash but knocks him out for days. Neither of us had slept more than four hours the night before and, despite just finishing a round of antibiotics, he still had cough and cold symptoms bad enough to keep him up again.

At 9:00 I was tweeting with friends to keep myself virtual company while B prepared to hibernate. (So glad social media helped me track down the missing pieces of this night! Interesting to see what mindless chatter I engaged in just hours before things got nuts.)

Not fifteen minutes later I started to feel contractions. These were more than Braxton Hicks, but I'd had false labor before and noted how irregular the timing was. I chalked it up to my body "practicing" and hoped it would make our induction as smooth as Mac's.

By 10:00 I was seriously, truly uncomfortable. I took a hot shower, asked B to pray I could get some sleep (how he could do this with only half of his Nyquil-addled brain operating I don't know) and tried to picture things that made me happy.

Mac was with his grandparents or I'd have crawled in for a stolen snuggle. Instead, I watched all the Mac videos on my iPhone and tried to picture his sweet, chubby cheeks every time I felt ready to throw in the towel with these painful-but-clearly-not-real-labor contractions.

By 11:00 I was starting to panic. I had the shakes in a big way, another sign I missed. I tried timing my contractions but, being the dunce I am, couldn't figure out if I should measure them from the start of one to the start of the next or the end of one to the start of the next.

Regardless, they were all over the map. Nine minutes, seven minutes, two minutes, eight minutes, three minutes. All painful but none lining up as the literature says. The labor signs flyer our OB hands out is very clear. No need to call the doctor - just come to the hospital when you have regular contractions X minutes apart. And I didn't have that.

I knew enough to know that contractions two minutes apart would have to mean a baby was just moments from arriving...and clearly mine wasn't. Yet another reason I just knew my body was making me crazy for no reason.

I had woken Bradley to help with the "timing" of these painful things, but the poor boy kept dozing off in between rounds and just couldn't keep up. At 11:45 I decided we had to go in to the hospital; they had to make this pain stop so I could manage a few hours' sleep before delivery.

I really wanted to call and ask someone what to do, but between Bradley's inability to stay awake and my inability to speak during my constant (and way too long) contractions, that didn't seem possible.

Once we decided to go in, I attempted to dry my hair, which was a ridiculous comedy of errors. I couldn't walk to the bathroom, so B brought it to the bed. I couldn't manage it there, so I just decided to throw in the towel. Instead, I grabbed my makeup bag to apply concealer and blush en route. Priorities, people.

In all seriousness, the distraction of applying mascara (shaking hands and all) during our drive kept me from counting every last pothole we ran over during our eight minutes in the car. Come on, city of Greenville, get it together. You nearly killed me!

I was also grateful for the superficial preparations I'd made over the weekend - a manicure and pedicure, applying a pregnancy-safe self tanner, packing cute pajamas for after the big event. It's amazing what keeps your mind busy in times like this.

By the time we got to the hospital, we were the stereotypical "couple in labor" from every sitcom you've ever watched. B dropped me at the door while he parked (because the Labor & Delivery lot was closed for the night?!?) and I could tell from the look on the security guard's face that he didn't know "nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies."

I could barely walk, so B parked and caught up to me without a challenge. We hopped (hardly!) on the elevator and had to hang out, screaming elevator alarm and all, through a contraction until I could move the two feet required to shut the stupid thing up.

I also had to breathe huff through one immediately after stepping off said elevator, just in front of a group of gaping, giggling, gasping teenagers who had found some absurd reason to be on the baby floor at such an hour. All looking straight at me. If only I'd had the energy or breath to make a witty-slash-let-this-be-birth-control-for-all-of-you remark in that moment.

B offered me a wheelchair, which I steadfastly refused, but when a nurse came running at us with one of her own, I exhaled in gratitude and took it gladly. Poor, chivalrous, ignored Bradley!

By the time we got to the nurses' desk, I had trouble holding still, answering questions, looking at paperwork - doing anything at all. I did manage, however, to tell them I didn't want to talk because I don't like to cry in front of people I don't know.

Seriously, y'all, the one-liners continued all night. Including asking the doctor if they had any wine available or if anyone wanted to trade places, because "this" wasn't nearly as fun as it must look. Laughing when I could catch a breath was my only coping mechanism.

The sweet nurses fully appreciated the Boden maternity tunic and leggings I was sporting, as well as the silver flats, pearl studs and lip gloss that made me feel like it wasn't after midnight and I wasn't losing my mind. (Or having a baby at any moment.)

And then they were all gone - every accoutrement. Just a hospital gown and baby time. Eep.

We wheeled up at 12:45, were out of triage and in a delivery room just after 1:00 and met our daughter at 2:03 am. No time for an epidural* and no turning back.

I couldn't figure out why our OB was 'hanging out' and wouldn't leave our room even for the necessary prep work. Turns out he saw the writing on the wall, friends, and it said, "This baby is practically here already. No one move an inch."

Holy stupidity, y'all. I waited way too long to go to the hospital. Blame genuine ignorance, a firstborn tendency to follow the rules, plain stubbornness and a healthy dose of Nyquil.

Bottom line: We have a healthy, beautiful, dark-haired baby girl who makes us wonder what we ever did without her.

I spent months wondering how I could love a girl the way I love Mac. How I could love any child the way I love our first. How he'd react, how I'd split my affections, how I'd ever manage to catch on to the concept of having more than one tiny human in my heart.

Here's the beauty of it: The minute I met her, I just did. I was still shaking so badly I asked Bradley to hold her for the first hour of her life, close enough so I could gawk. My heart grew three sizes that night, and it's still growing.

Valentine's Day this year was filled with the most love of any day of my life. My parents raced up the interstate to meet their grandgirl within 90 minutes of her debut. My son met my daughter by lunch.

And just after 2:00 am, my husband fell in love with another girl before my very eyes; I did nothing but melt alongside him.

There were a few tough hours that night, but every minute since has been surprisingly easier than I'd expected. Recovery, our stay at the hospital, the initial adjustment, the swallowing my pride to accept (lots of!) help, all of it.

We have been given a beautiful, healthy little girl and I lived to tell the tale of the wildest Valentine's Day Bradley and I have shared to date.

I've already forgotten the pain, but I'll never forget that night. What a miracle!

Meet our Mary Brooks, the source of all things tiny and pink in the Smith house. We're smitten.

*Remind me to tell you the story of the anesthesiologist who put both a needle and a tube in my spine before taking them out, telling me nothing would help me at this point, then congratulating me (umm? no baby yet, sir!) and telling me I'd "do great." Hmph.

Without the labwork and waiting required to get an epidural, this bundle of pink could have arrived a full thirty minutes sooner. Can you imagine?

Evidently, after being told I'd get no medicinal assistance this go round (I had 15 minutes of an epidural before Mac was born), I informed the doctor I'd need a moment to "rally the troops."

It took a few minutes of breathing through contractions, as well as encouragement from our OB and the most fabulous nurses God ever created, to pump me up enough to fly solo. You'd better believe my heartfelt thank you notes to each of them are in the mail - literally.

Valentine's Day Surprise

It's odd to write that this sweet face was a surprise, given that we'd known or hoped she'd be a Valentine's Day baby, but she was a shock surprise all the same.

Last Monday was the craziest night of my life. Can't wait to fill y'all in later!

Long story short - she's here and we're over the moon.

Life in Slow Mo

January is my least favorite month of the year. The gray, wet and dreary weather after so many festive weeks always weighs me down.

This year is no different, but while January gloominess weighs me down figuratively, a growing baby girl is weighing me down quite literally. At least I'm grateful for the latter!

I've written a handful of posts in my head, but time always seems to get away from me. There's a lot to be done around here - cleaning, purging, organizing, folding and general pre-baby preparation.

Not to mention actual work and the day-to-day running of a household and a two-year-old. (Hold back your laughter; the "running" of a two-year-old is a hilarious concept, I'm aware.)

While I've gotten little of the above accomplished, I have spent a lot of time in thought and prayer and, if I'm honest, panic about what's to come.

I've determined what needs to be prepared (meals, nursery details, baby gear, grocery lists, tax documents, directions to Mac's school, doctor's appointments) before our due date. I've made lists so long I had to stop writing for fear I'd send myself into an anxiety-induced tailspin. And then there's the very real idea of coming home with a baby in our arms.

In sweet moments with Mac, I wonder if I'll be able to enjoy him and focus on him the same way with another child in our house. What if he wants me to snuggle with him and I can't? What if he's hurt and I can't just scoop him up? How will I manage the needs of two children I love so much?

In tougher times, I question my ability to handle two little people when I'm unable to wrangle just the one. Not my most optimistic moments, to be sure, but questions that seem to be on constant replay lately.

Although there's always something to be done around here and plenty of "to do" items left on my list each evening, I've become quite aware of how calm and relatively quiet our life is right now. B and I know how our days and evenings will go, how many hours between bedtime and waketime, how to squeeze in errands and how to make a cranky/hurt/sad/exhausted Mac smile.

Hand me newborn Mac next month and I could probably figure it all out a lot more quickly. But the idea of getting to know a new, utterly unique creature is boggling my already sleep-deprived mind. And the assurance that we'll love her just as much as we love our handsome ham of a son? Wow. It's difficult to imagine.

And yet here we are, a month or less left, wondering when she'll be here, what she'll look like, how much we'll all melt at the very sight of her sweet face.

I'm trying not to feel guilty for skimping on housework, dinners and organizing as I stare off into space hashing this out - all the while knowing I'll never really figure it out. It can only be like the first go round: you get tossed into the deep end and you just swim. It's hard, but you love it.

Surely I'll be saying the same thing in a few short weeks, right?

And certainly I can't be the only mom who's ever wondered these things. As I slow down physically, my mind has begun to race with a thousand possibilities, questions and scenarios that I'll never truly be able to get a handle on as a mother of one.

I don't regret the two-hour nap I took with our only child in his big boy bed yesterday, the Chick-fil-a lemonade dates we've had lately or the evenings we three have ventured out to make memories while we can. Not to say our lives will be over once Mac's sister arrives, but life as we know it sure will. And we can't wait.

In the meantime, I'm slowing down significantly in every way. I'm saying prayers of gratitude no matter how many times I waddle to the bathroom or how comical my attempts to take off my own boots may be. (B picked a bad year to give me a new pair for Christmas.... Where's Candid Camera when you need them?)

Pictures and stories about our hysterical, growing Mac-man to come, if only to preserve this sweet time for the crazy season ahead.

Sending all of you lots of bright, non-dreary January love! xoxo

Don't Call Me Mama

I'm not unique in that I wear many different hats; we all do.

Just today I overslept and rushed to make breakfast, pack a lunchbox, restock a backpack diaper stash, brush teeth, dress a toddler, make myself presentable, let the dog out, grab an umbrella and drop Mac safely off at school in forty minutes flat.

While he was gone I scrambled to pick up Christmas clutter for a visitor who's not coming 'til Thursday. Oops.

I fielded client emails, worked for a bit, called the home warranty company, the doctor and the pharmacy, then looked over paint chips and fabric swatches for our little girl's nursery.

After crunching numbers and finding some papers, I skipped lunch to meet an accountant about my first full year of small business taxes. Said meeting ran five minutes over, so I barely made it to school in time to get Macky - who is now refusing to nap.

My remaining to do items for this afternoon include meal planning, grocery shopping, making soup (what else on such a gray day?) for dinner, preparing to host a small group Christmas party, folding ten billion loads of laundry, hanging out with my husband and resting my heavily pregnant self.

What am I getting at? Like you, I do a lot of things. I am a lot of things. I work at home as a wife and mom; I work from home, too.

It took this big talker 16 months to squeeze "Mama" into his massive vocabulary.
I still revel in it.

The things I'm most proud of in this world, however, are my marriage and our son. Hands down. These are my people, the one I've chosen and the one I carried.

I'm tied to these two in every possible way, and I find a strange freedom in that. This is the life I've been given and, on an hourly basis, the life I choose. I am so grateful.

(Even when I'm frustrated, behind, exhausted, confused, under-organized, frazzled, at a loss, overwhelmed or having one of "those" days, weeks, or months, I'm always thankful. Even if it's masked a bit by all my whining.)

Then I read this piece last week about a woman who fought back tears and hid her flushing face after a hairstylist identified her as a "mom," demographically speaking. I was a little puzzled.

The author suggests that women drop the identity of motherhood, one that is far more permanently and powerfully branded on us than on our male counterparts or even our husbands.

In a way, I understand. No one wants to be that mom, the slovenly and flustered woman sprinting three yards behind her kids, screeching at them to behave. Always late, never showered, rarely able to discuss anything besides the gory, disastrous details of childbirth or potty-training.

No woman wants to feel that she's "just" a mom or "just" an anything, for that matter. We're all busy, growing, multi-faceted beings.

But I think the writer missed the mark. While there are few labels I'd want to wear as my only identifiers, there would be no shame in one of those being mom. Or believer, wife, daughter or friend. The parts of my life I'm most passionate about and engaged in are going to be the easiest to identify me by, and probably the most accurate.

I think what she's hinting at is the fear that women, unlike most men, are minimized by parenthood. Do people see me differently now, especially pregnant, than they did three or four years ago? Sure.

My body, my personality, my life, my age, my "cool" factor - everything has changed these last two or so years. Why wouldn't they view me differently? People who judge me or minimize my abilities because I have a child are missing out, though.

From my point of view, I've been given a gift and am in a very specific season of life where I'm needed. In twenty years, I won't be a mom in the same way I am now. I'll be a hands-off counselor mom, not a find the shoes/kiss the boo-boo/change the diaper/ward off the tantrum mom. This time is fleeting, and it's a privilege no matter how bleary-eyed or short-fused I get.

For people to believe I can contribute anything less to society because I am a mother makes little sense at its heart: if anything, I am contributing society. Little people. A future generation. The folks who will take care of us when we're all past our "worried what my hairstylist labels me as" days - if we're fortunate.

I've walked the line, especially in my first weeks back at full-time work after Mac was born, between proud parenthood and concern over the perception that raising a child will overtake my life.

But you know what? It can't overtake my life because it is my life.

Even if I were in Beijing brokering the sale of a billion dollar company, my thoughts and my heart and my concerns would lie in the care and well-being of my children. (Typing that in the plural still makes me tear up.) There might be a million other facts tumbling around in my brain, but I'd still drop everything in a heartbeat for the role that matters most, the one only I can fill.

So, moms, don't feel belittled. Even if you do wear yoga pants to the grocery store after a full day of not doing yoga. Even if your business suit has spit up stains or your under-eye bags need a luggage rack and you have no idea what movies won an Oscar this year.

And non-parents, take a moment to think about how many things you do well. Don't fall into the trap of presuming a person can only be defined by one task, even if it's her biggest and most important role.

So that's my diatribe today: Mom shouldn't be or feel like an insult. And even if it is, it's still a gift.

May Mac never doubt that, even covered in his drool or tearing him, weeping, away from the "race car" grocery cart, I am proud to be his mom. I hope he can be as proud to be my son - at least 'til middle school rolls around...

Daddy's Boy

Mac has entered a total Daddy's boy phase.

He wants to dress like B, talk like B, hang out in "Daddy's shop" and build furniture, ride the John Deere lawnmower ("Daddy's tractor") and generally engage in tiny testosterone-building activities. The era of Mama is over.

I have found a way to capitalize on this, though, by coming up with utterly ridiculous nicknames and having Mac repeat them just to prove he's Daddy's bugaboo/handsome boy/chunk-chunk*, not Mama's.

(Excuse the grainy, about-to-die camera footage.)



To add insult to injury, Mac now responds to my "I love you" with "Yeah." I'm working on that, with mixed results. (I've warned B not to respond like that, either. Not good for a girl's ego, y'all!)



*To be fair, I called Mac "fat-fat" and "chunk-chunk" when he was in the 3rd weight percentile at nine months old. These days he tips the scales at 37 pounds, so it's a more accurate description - but it has always been a term of endearment. And it just sounds so cute coming out of his mouth!

Our Favorite Baby and Kid Gifts

Until I had Mac, I was a little lost as to what constituted a "good" baby gift. I could find cute things or useful things, but what was both?

As he ages, my gift-giving abilities expand a bit. Were we invited to a five-year-old's birthday party, I'd be plum out of luck. But I feel like we've got a great handle on the two and under (and the baby-to-be) crowd.

Like many parents, we're not enthusiastic about migraine-inducing toys that flash, whistle, sing, dance, hop, buzz and never seem to die. We've found that Mac gets far more enjoyment, and thousands more hours of play, out of presents that engage his imagination.

(See also: Stuff People Are Trying to Buy Your Baby is Nice But Pointless)

As Mac has given and received more gifts, we've learned so much! The best part? His favorite and best loved toys aren't the priciest!

Little folks have a knack for loving the simple (or even the box the simple gift is in!), so I remind myself not to stress about finding something for the discerning one-year-old in our lives.

Our favorite gifts are always books. Beyond the classic baby titles, we've discovered (through the generosity of friends!) a number of other new, well-loved books:
I Love You, Stinky Face
All of the Curious George books
The Berenstain Bears books
Anything by Sandra Boynton
Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed

All in all, you can't go wrong with a book. Board books for the first few years, then hardback. Unless other toddlers are gentler readers than ours.

Non-book gift ideas:

*Personalized plates and bowls - great for when toddlers join the family table!

*Melissa & Doug Puzzle Maze: All the fun of a puzzle without pieces to lose? Win-win!
*Melissa & Doug Animal Magnets: Hours of fun in a box, or on our refrigerator, as it were.
*Melissa & Doug Take-Along Tool Set: Mac just got these, but he loves his "tooz" already.

And, while I'm on the topic, here are a few of my favorite gifts for babies-to-be:

Diapees & Wipees

All I need in my bag for quick errands - holds a travel pack of wipes and two or three diapers.

Aden & Anais Burpy Bib

Curves around your neck as a burp cloth or snaps as a 360-degree bib for baby.

Aden & Anais Swaddle Blankets

We never swaddled Mac in these, but they're the perfect weight and size for layering. We used them all the time.

Three Marthas bibs and burp cloths

Beautifully designed and the most absorbent ones we had. I wish we'd stocked up!

What are your favorite gifts to give the smallest people on your Christmas list? Care to help us branch out from our book and puzzle routine?

New Mom Meal Plan

I don't know about your town, but all signs here point to a baby boom in the next six months. The stork is extra busy around these parts and there are flocks of underfed, sleep-deprived new parents to prove it.

My favorite way to meet new babies is to come bearing supper. (Sweet Kristen lives by her mom's adage, "Knock with your feet!" I laugh about this when I have a toddler by the hand, a baby gift, a bag of food and my keys. I promise I'm not kicking your doors in, new moms!)

The uptick in new mom meals made recently has given me flashbacks of the unadulterated gratitude such suppers brought out in me. A moment of company plus a meal for our family once you're gone? Wow. Best gift ever.

I'm no Paula Deen, nor am I the world's most normal eater (we'll discuss my bizarre list of pickiness over super-plain sandwiches sometime), but I'm getting better with practice.

Casseroles aren't really my thing - too much cheese, not quite enough variety. I realize I'm the only person south of the Mason-Dixon who feels this way, and that's ok.

Other one-dish meals, though, can be easy to fix and very much appreciated.

Here are a few of my latest fall favorites to bring to homes after the stork stops in. Add in a side of salad and, depending on the meal, either corn muffins or Italian bread and voila - you're a gourmet chef!

via

*Pioneer Woman's White Chili - Such a favorite around here. We're having it tonight, actually!

*Aunt Lynn's Lasagna - She may not be a household name to you, but my aunt's recipe quickly became a classic during my college years. When she'd send up two at a time, I became the most popular girl in my building overnight!

*Butternut Squash Soup - Again, a Smith family favorite. Creamy, easy to double and perfect for chilly nights.

*Pasta e Fagioli Soup - Patterned after an Olive Garden recipe, this is such a hearty meal. Perfect in a big mason jar, the ultimate "don't return me" dish. If only it came with the addictive OG breadsticks...

*Chick-fil-A Deliciousness - While I haven't actually delivered one of these meals, some thoughtful friends who know us all too well brought us CFA after Mac was born. Boy, did we enjoy it!

My grandmother visited once with a Chick-fil-A lunch in hand, a homemade banana pudding for later and a gallon of CFA sweet tea to top it all off. I nearly died of excitement!

Bottom line: don't be intimidated when cooking for new mom friends; all they're really hoping for is a bright spot in a hectic day.

Pick up take-out, make sandwiches, bring by a gift card - just come. Leave enough for leftovers and be sure your containers are tossable.

Start and end the visit with a big hug and assure the mom that she, the baby (and the house, if she's a stress case like me!) could not look better if she tried. But that you really, really hope she didn't try.

What are your favorite recipes for new parents? Any casseroles to try that will change my mind?

A New Day

To be this happy on a Monday is a rare and much appreciated treat. Very thankful for the prayers, emails, comments and calls so many of you sent our way after last week's session. I'm thrilled to report that it is a new day!

Naps are back, scream time gets shorter by the day and our happy, rested boy is back. For the most part. Toddlerhood brings challenges all its own, and I know those will take a while to work out. (As will the incisors.) But what a blessed gift sleep is!

Our happier, napping Mac had a wonderful weekend with his family. We visited the park and took a long walk with friends, picked a few "punkings" with Daddy, made pancakes, laid low and just had a quiet, relaxing two days together. Heavenly.

Mac has fabulous taste in pumpkins, even befriending this one:


I'm posting a few pics, but keep in mind I changed right from workout/playground (read: sweaty and unkempt) clothes and sprinted to the pumpkin patch. Hence the fabulous coiffure you may notice.

Regardless, it was a great way to spend an afternoon and the weekend has melted into a lovely start to this week. Here's hoping the same is true for all of you!


Now to go catch up on all the things left undone amidst the screamy, sickly, scared-this-would-last-forever reality I've been experiencing these past few weeks.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your sweet words and support.

Happy Monday!

In the Tunnel

Have you ever read something that put a lump in your throat immediately, that spoke to just what you were needing to hear? I just had one of those moments. Someone on Facebook posted a link that has changed my day.

The truth is, I'm in a tunnel. The last three weeks have been some of the hardest I've had as a parent.

Newborn exhaustion I understand. I seek to encourage friends with small babies - bring meals, send notes, write long emails answering questions about nursing and schedules and taking care of yourself amidst the very steep learning curve of those early weeks.

A month ago, I would have told you we'd hit a great stride as parents. We knew Mac well, we understood his needs, we had a successful routine and when we hit a roadblock, we figured out a way around it. Gold stars all around!

I suppose pride always comes before a fall, and the last three weeks have been a disastrous tumble. Mac, my sweet sleeper, has screamed through naptime eight of his last ten tries. He's not a child who can do without sleep, much like his mama, and has taken to screeching, "Mama where are you RIGHT NOW?" while I wonder exactly how miserable he'll be the rest of the day without his much-needed rest.

And "rest" is not what he's getting. He won't read, settle or even sit down for the duration. It's torture. We NEED that sleep - but more than anything I need not to hear and see my child so unhappy.

There's a lot being neglected in the meantime: work, the house, the Y, carefree chit-chat with friends, non-essential activities, a long to do list and, worst of all, my mental health.

Mix in Mac's birthday double ear infection, recovering from hand/foot/mouth, currently cutting four incisors and two school "holidays" and you'll find a schedule that's unrecognizable and a household that could use a serious do-over for the whole month so far.

Mac, ever the overachiever, has taken a flying leap into two-year-old behavior; our days must be two-thirds discipline and one-thirds waiting for discipline. I feel for him, as this must be difficult for him to understand, and I unabashedly feel for myself as we navigate new, pretty darn murky waters. Where did our obedient little guy go?

As many challenges have come these last few weeks, there have been just as many sweet moments. Fleeting moments, sure, but they give me a flash of the Mac I'm used to and it's a comfort. I remind myself that this is just a phase - because it is. (Right? Please!)

It's my job to be consistent, calm and loving to Mac in every season of his life. I can't expect him to work through unexpected emotions and make good decisions no matter his impulses unless I do the same. But this is tougher than I anticipated.

Hand me a breastfeeding problem, a baby with reflux, a nighttime routine in need of reshaping or a "when to start cereal?" question and I'm prepared(-ish). These new issues, though, have thrown me into a tailspin - and have me making the ultimate rookie mistake: feeling like there's no end in sight.

Just as I felt as a new mom, when I presumed "this" must just be what parenthood is, I can't see the bigger picture right now. I'm too entrenched in the "getting through" part to realize how quickly this stage, like every other, will pass.

This morning someone gave a name to my season: the Tunnel. The power of naming something can't be overstated; it's the very idea that someone else has been where you are, that it's real, that you aren't alone, that you're not crazy.

In addition to naming it, this post reminded me how different parenthood looks from just a few years away. I can already feel how swiftly the calendar is flipping past; we're nearly done with 2011 and I can barely believe we're past Easter. But that kind of perspective and reassurance from a mom who's been there, several times over in fact, is invaluable.

If you're a mom who's in the Tunnel of the first five years, when physical and emotional needs change constantly and you're wondering if the Lord has entrusted your sweet munchkins with a mother capable enough to cope, let me point you in this direction.

If you have a newborn and you want your hand held and your eyelids propped open, please call me. I'd love to encourage you.

If you've been squarely in the toddler tunnel, bouncing between gratitude for a healthy boy and a growing baby on the way and sheer panic about this is all going to work out, feel free to impart your wisdom on me. Or just excuse the circles under my eyes and four crumbled up Kleenexes in my hand at all times.

Wherever you are, "they" say every stage just gets better. I believe that, I do. I see the developments and I hear the new phrases every hour. I wouldn't go backwards for the world, but I'd sure love a little sunshine in our rainy week.

If you need some too, let a blogger who isn't throwing herself a pity party this mom encourage you today.

The good news: the Tunnel doesn't last forever. The bittersweet part: we'll miss being needed this much when it's all over. But that's another issue for another day.

Honorable mention: This post, for the "weary mother," has stuck with me all week. No matter what I'm facing, I'm reminded it's an act of worship to let the little children, including my own handsome, sleep-deprived, teething toddler, come to me.

Happy Thursday, friends. Thanks for being there!

*Disclaimer: Despite what might seem like a whine-fest, let me be quite clear that I'm tremendously thankful and in love with our little family. I wouldn't trade my Mac for the world, and I'm grateful for the sweet, silly big brother our baby girl will be getting. I would, however, love to get a brain transplant with a wise, more experienced, totally laidback and fully confident mom. And also I'd like a long nap. But I said I'd stop whining, so let's go back to the lovefest. Wouldn't trade my challenging, wild and utterly adorable little man, currently saying "So-ee, Mama" for a headbutt/nose kiss combo, for all the tea in Charleston. The end.*

A Walk Down Library Lane

One of the my favorite things, for as long has I can remember, has been reading. Getting so sucked into a book that I'm sad to see it end and spending hours thinking about the characters, rewriting their endings and pondering sequels.

I hope Mac grows up with the same ability to lose himself in a story; I plan to instill in him the same excitement about going to the library that my mom gave me. Sure, there are other ways to read books nowadays, but the wonder of turning a page and seeing an illustration in living color can't be overstated. And my little bookworm seems to be on the right track so far.

Yes, it's true that right now all he does is shout out every miniscule detail he sees on the page ("sunshine! clock! hat! flower! mouse - squeak squeak! monkey! juice! car - vroom vroom!") but surely that will translate itself into reading voraciously one day, right?

I came across a list of "must read" children's authors and it got me reminiscing about my favorite storytellers from a few decades back.

Here were the author's suggestions for top ten authors and their most prized works, in descending order:

10. Ludwig Bemelman: Madeline
9. Roald Dahl: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
8. J.K. Rowling: Harry Potter
7. Margery Williams: Velveteen Rabit
6. Katherine Paterson: Bridge to Terabithia
5. Janell Cannon: Stellaluna
4. Judy Blume: Fudge
3. Dr. Seuss: Green Eggs and Ham
2. Maurice Sendak: Where the Wild Things Are
1. Shel Silverstein: Where the Sidewalk Ends

Would you add any to this list? I'm not familiar with Janell Cannon and I (eep) haven't read any of the Harry Potter books, so my top ten would also include:

Eric Carle: Anything! For the tiniest of readers, his colorful, timeless stories about hungry caterpillars and sharp-eyed bears are classics.

Chris Van Allsburg: The Polar Express (Runner up: Jumanji)

Beverly Cleary: Anything, but particularly the Ramona books.

Arnold Lobel: Frog and Toad

Peggy Parish: Amelia Bedelia

Harry Allard: Miss Nelson Is Missing!

Don Freeman: Corduroy

Marc Brown: The Arthur series

My favorite baby gift books are Goodnight Moon, Runaway Bunny, Pat the Bunny and (new addition!) the Stinkyface series.

What am I missing? Any favorites from your childhood libraries or must-give gifts for parents-to-be?

Side note: Library Lane is the name of my china pattern. See how I substituted Library for Memory? I amuse myself sometimes...

This is What Love Looks Like

Love looks like unwashed hair and a face that hasn't seen concealer in days.

It looks like checking the monitor ten times an hour and cringing at every mid-dream whimper, knowing just how awful a stomach bug feels. (And only imagining how bad it is without the vocabulary to tell someone.)

It looks like wincing as your child pats his tummy and says, "Hurts, Mama. Hurts."

It looks like piling three sleep-deprived people into the guest bed, the smallest in the house, because your child's stomach bug has rendered every other bed and sheet under your roof unusable.

It looks like sheer exhaustion.

(It smells like a less-than-delightful combo of Lysol, Febreze, carpet cleaner, Pedialyte, ginger ale and Saltines, but I digress...)

It looks like a grandmother who drops everything and drives up to be a relief pitcher.

It looks like a dusty, ignored to do list but a squeaky clean, sanitary house. The only thing worse than being sick is being sick in a dirty bathroom.

It sounds like a million late evening and weekend calls (never during business hours, huh, Mac?) to the pediatrician.

It hurts like the sound of a sick baby begging for food after being offered, time and again, only "sips" of "clear fluids."

It looks like watching the same two-minute segment of Sesame Street over and over and over again because it coaxes a semi-smile out of a sick toddler.

It looks like letting the whole world see you ugly, tired and unwashed just because you love the sentiment behind the photo so much.

It looks like letting all of your own needs and priorities (and stomach-bug-sidelined Jack Rogers sandals and worse-for-wear couch cushions) fall to the wayside.

It looks like searching the internet for tips on how to clean said sandals and sofa cushions.

It looks like a mom who is endlessly grateful for a slight improvement and an even 50/50 ratio of whining to talking. (Vast improvement!)

Mac is doing much, much better and I am thankful beyond words for the help of his dad and grandparents in scraping through a tough five days.

I've learned lately that, while he looks nothing like me, Mac has my fearsome need for food and unparalleled crankiness when he's forced to go hungry. He might have perfected the art of whining from me, too, but I think some of that comes with the "how to be an awesome toddler" manual.

Now I'm off to catch up on some long-neglected work projects...

So, Do You Want More Kids?

Subtitle: Reason #4385 to love Tina Fey.

Tina, who graces the cover of this month's InStyle, had the most clever response I've heard yet to an age old question: Do you want more children? (There's usually a "when" in there somewhere, too.)

Her response, and I can just picture her saying this with a straight face, was: "If you're asking me to do that with you, I cannot." So clever!

Because, truly, what is the appropriate answer when a complete stranger, in this case one with every intention of publishing your response word for word for the consumption of millions, asks you such a personal thing?

Don't get me wrong; I don't think it's inappropriate to talk about your family or your plans. Friends, sisters, playgroup pals - this conversation can come up on its own with many people.

Fellow grocery shoppers, moms waiting with you in the pediatrician's office, receptionists at your place of business - these are the folks who tend to be the most curious and shamelessly direct.

Asking away in your little corner of the world may be kosher, but prying into the the private matters of a stranger? Not the best way to make friends.

You never know what struggles someone has with this issue, how they really feel, what they want and what they may or may not envision coming next for their family. And the truth is, you don't need to. But somehow, the topic tends to be brought up by the people who least need to know such personal details. (And I don't just mean reporters.)

Shortly after B proposed, a colleague's wife asked when we wanted to have children. (My answer: "Probably after we're married?") She followed this up by asking a friend sitting next to me, at that time quite pregnant with her first, when she wanted to have a second. Head-spinning.

Post-baby, I first heard this question when Mac was less than a month old. My timeline for having another baby was quite fuzzy, to say the least, considering my timeline for getting through the day changed moment by moment.

Hats off to Ms. Fey for putting a punchline to an answer many of us struggle with when asked. Truth be told, I'm happy to say, "We hope Mac will be a big brother one day." When pressed for further details, though, I'm glad to have a witty and disarming comeback in my back pocket.

So, friends, what do you say when people (or reporters, if you're one of the many famous folks who read this blog) ask intrusive, if well-meaning, questions?

A Selfish, Stolen Snuggle

A year ago this month, Mac woke during the night for the very last time. What a gift! Since last February he has slept like a champ.

I knew it would feel good to have a baby who sleeps through the night. What I didn't know, though, was how bittersweet it would be.

Along with the middle of the night feedings came snuggles, silent conversations, quiet coos and a tiny, perfect head nestled into my neck. Because he sleeps 12 hours a night, Mac crams as much activity as he can into his waking hours - leaving little (read: no) time for snuggling or even a quick hug.

Sunday night I caught a glimpse of Mac on his monitor; he was positioned awkwardly, with his chin resting on the mattress. I feared he'd wake up with a crick in his neck and decided to adjust him before I hit the hay.

I tiptoed into the nursery, tilted Mac's head to the side and, before I knew what had happened, was lifting him out of his crib, scooping him into a hug and letting his precious, heavy head fall onto my chest. It was heaven.

Macky smelled like baby shampoo and clean laundry and felt warm, snuggly and absolutely delicious in my arms. I couldn't bring myself to put him down, so I rocked him in his glider, so rarely used these days as anything besides a trampoline for our wild man as he exclaims "chee! chee!" - his version of "chair."

In Mac's world, chairs are a base camp for rocket launches and toddler leaps. In mine, they're the perfect spot for rocking sleepy babies.

Mac has never wanted to be rocked. His bedtime routine from day one was simple: feed him, change him, put him down. If he's tired, he wants simply to sleep - right away. I know what a blessing that is, but occasionally I feel shortchanged. If I can't rock Mac now, when can I?

I won't lie (and this won't shock you): I cried holding Mac that night. I thought of all the times I woke, bleary-eyed, to feed him and wondered when I'd get my nights back. Now that I have them, I'd give anything to feel the weight (considerably more now than a year ago) of my son curled up on my chest.

We rocked for ages and I prayed over every part of him, thanking God for the gift of being his mom. It saddened me to think this could be the last time I'd hold him in the middle of the night, the last time I'd really get to snuggle with my busy boy.

Sneaking into a nursery seems slightly less creepy than waking a kindergartner in the night for a hug, but it's still not something I can do forever. Mac is a heavy sleeper, so I knew he would keep dreaming in his crib or my arms. It was worth the chance either way.

When I came back downstairs, B called me a baby-stealer; he had looked at the monitor and seen an empty crib. When he asked what I'd been doing, I could barely find my voice to tell him. It felt so good snuggling with Mac on Sunday night that I might have done it again last night.

When Mac wakes in the morning, he does so full-force, ready to start the day. I barely catch a second of his cheek pressed against mine when I get him up, already wriggling to get down and play.

That's ok, though. If only for the last two nights, I've gotten my fill of snuggly, sweet baby time. He may not have any memories of it, but I always will.

What's In A Name?

You've probably picked up on the fact that I'm obsessed with names. I could tell you the full name of just about anyone I've ever met - and often ask people what their middle names are, just out of curiosity. I'm entranced by monograms and captivated by the stories behind old family names.

I was the girl who dreamed of naming, not necessarily having, a baby. (It took a while before I realized the two go hand in hand. It'd be a rare mom who would allow you only to name her child.)

I think it's because, growing up, I didn't love my name. (Cue Anne of Green Gables references. I never asked to be called Cordelia, but you get the idea.) Anne is my middle name; my first name is a family name that is unusual and easily mispronounced.

The first day of classes, from kindergarten to grad school, my palms would get sweaty when the teacher got to the "S" portion of the roll. When I saw a puzzled expression, I'd call out, "I go by Anne! Just call me Anne!"

Additionally, my whole family (of origin) has unusual name quirks. Three of the four of us go by our middle names. My brother, the sole "first namer," has four names. Three are last names; all are family names. Welcome to the South, my friends.

Most everyone I knew growing up was named after someone - a beloved aunt, their mom's favorite poet, even a Dynasty character. Few parents pull their children's names from thin air.

When it came to naming our Mac, I knew early on that I wanted to incorporate family names with a lot of meaning to us. (If your last name is Smith, you know the importance of standing out a little in the first name department. Take it from "Anne Smith #8" at my salon.)

Mac is named after several members of our families, one of whom was also called "Mac Smith." It means everything that we could honor so many with one sweet little baby's name.

Reading the top name trends of 2010, though, I am a touch disheartened that Macky's first name is number three on the list. (Yes, I did what I said I'd never do and gave my son a first name he doesn't use. Don't hate me, future Mac!)

I suppose I should take it as a compliment that there are so many baby Jacksons out there, but we named him Jackson McNeal for a reason. Mac's names each have meaning and come directly from someone our families knew and loved. (The first Mac Smith skipped over Jackson, abbreviated his middle name and went by Mac too, future Macky. You're in good company!)

Though he was born in 2009, not 2010, I hate thinking that Mac's birth certificate is one of ten thousand other Jacksons!

I won't say much else about names, though I'll wax poetic for hours with friends in an adult version of the treasured seventh grade "let's name our invisible children" game.

I have lots (and lots) of "rules" and opinions about naming a child well and with tremendous thought. Given my name history, I feel I deserve such opinions!

That said, names are intensely personal and I wouldn't want to step on anyone's toes - or their top choices. Pick an old family name, find inspiration in classic literature, choose a favorite Biblical name, put lovely-sounding syllables together, do what makes you happy - but realize names last forever.

Can I please urge you, if you're going to name your child after a politician, Olympian or television figure, as the article indicates more people are doing, to choose extra wisely? Do you really want your baby to spend his life explaining why he's named Apollo Piper Chuck Bass Finn Puckerman Smith long after everyone has forgotten who most of those namesakes ever were? Okay, then.

Read the top names of 2010. How many of these babies have you bought presents for this year?

An Unexpectedly Fond Farewell

This is only slightly relevant, but it does make me laugh!

In the Smith house, October 5th means more than just birthday cake. It means a transition to whole milk and sippy cups. It means Mac's bottles are put away and my trusty Medela pump, and all of the delightful gear that goes with it, is packed up. It means I have accomplished even more than I set out to do: I breastfed my son for a year.

I don't speak publicly about nursing often, as it's a pretty personal topic and I don't want to be found by keywords that bring out the crazies. (Remember when boys typed 58008 in their calculators and giggled while reading it upside down? Some haven't outgrown that instinct.)

That said, I remember googling "breastfeeding encouragement" at 4am last October. I recall reading and rereading a list of 101 reasons to nurse - it was all that got me through a particularly trying day. I slept with ice packs and heating pads and Advil by my side, scrounging the internet looking for ways to make a go of this nursing thing. I'd love to encourage even one woman who comes across this blog.

Late last summer, when asked, I said I'd try breastfeeding and see how it went - no pressure. If it worked, great. If it didn't, we'd try formula. (But, and I remember this so clearly, I'd never breastfeed "for a full year" or anything. I knew so few women who had done that; it almost seemed odd.)

What I didn't account for in my lackadaisical "we'll see how this goes" attitude is myself; I'm far from laidback when it comes to even the most vague commitments. I put tremendous pressure on myself to make it work in the early weeks, when I hit almost every bump in the book. I couldn't quit unless it was on my terms; I knew my problems were only superficial, not the "my baby isn't getting enough food" or "my body physically can't do this" kind. I felt bound to make this work until I really knew I couldn't anymore.

My first goal was two weeks, which I considered a legitimate try, but I really wanted to make it to six. For a hundred reasons, exhaustion not the least of which, those were some of the most challenging weeks I've ever lived through - but I did survive, and even enjoy the overall experience. Just not every last moment.

There were nights when Mac and I both cried out of frustration. There were prayers said about my inability to do anything right and about, shall we say, my 58008. I laughed with a neighbor that I hadn't prayed about my bust for 15 years, since I wanted desperately just to have one. My neighbor was right - those moments are humbling in the extreme, but they serve to give us perspective, to make us entirely reliant on the Lord and thankful for those who support us.

The early weeks of breastfeeding felt harder than labor because they were a choice. Labor was definite; it was going to happen whether I got on board or not. Breastfeeding was a choice I made eight times a day; it was taxing physically and emotionally.

After I made it to six weeks, a weight lifted and things got much, much easier. I wanted to nurse for the remainder of my maternity leave (12 weeks) and see how things went when I was back in the office.

Had I remained at my full time job, I would not have been able to continue breastfeeding. I was fortunate to have a "mothers' room" on site, but pumping four times a day was not working out well for me; I dipped into my frozen stash more than I liked. I might have made it to my (big, shiny, overall, please let me get there!) six month goal if I'd stayed at my job, but it would have been a stretch.

After reaching that "far off but finally here" six month mark in April, I really did commit to see how it goes. We'd stop nursing when it stopped working for us. It never did, especially when I thought of the money I was saving, of the ease, benefits and convenience for both me and Mac.

Being home with Mac more made breastfeeding much easier than the ordeal it felt like at the start. The irony is that once you're more rested, once the baby sleeps longer and you know him more and understand more about nursing, he starts eating less often. And you start feeling more sane, a funny side effect of longer stretches of sleep.

Once those stars align, it's all downhill. Meals take less time. You fumble less and succeed without nearly as much effort. You feel more confident and prepared and know what to expect. The beginning is a perfect storm of exhaustion, hormones, ignorance, confusion and panic. Once I pushed through the rough start we had, though, things got easier. Enjoyable, even.

Many react with surprise when they find out Mac has nursed this first year of his life. Truth be told, I'm surprised, too. Surprised that our difficulties last fall went away. Surprised that I chose to do something for a full year that caused me moments of heartache and discomfort early on; I'm a person who tends to run from such things. Most of all, I'm surprised at how sad I am to see this part of my life come to a close.

We're phasing out nursing times and praying that Mac learns to drink from, not just chew on, sippy cups. By his first birthday, we will be done with breastfeeding.

Mac nurses less in a week now than he did each day of his early months. (Eight times a day x mom and baby who are new at breast feeding = a lot of time getting the hang of things. In his twelfth month, Mac's three mom-based meals a day totaled less than 30 minutes daily.)

Many days, mealtimes are the only moments I get to hold a still, silent Mac, when he's not pushing off to get something he wants. They're fleeting, sweet times - and they're almost over.

I know some women choose to nurse past twelve months, but for us now is the time to wean. It's the start of a new chapter and the end of a bittersweet one.

It's another milestone in a wonderful year. Eleven months ago you could have knocked me over with a feather to hear that I'd be sad to give up what was such a difficult part of motherhood. And yet I am.

If Bradley and I are blessed with another baby one day, my goal (again) would be to nurse for six months. In the beginning, this goal will seem impossible, but I'm armed with experience and hopeful that I can be successful again. I hope I can start with small mini-goals and give myself the time and freedom to truly see what works for us. I know every situation must be different.

For now, I'm trying not to feel nuts for wistfully ending something that has had its ups and downs. How can I miss what was once so hard for me? Maybe that's the magic of motherhood - it's hard to explain, but even the tough stuff can be sweet.

Rest, Rain and Reminiscing

Lately all I can do is compare everything - my life, my bank account, my closet, my backseat, my (significantly less round) belly - to what it looked like a year ago. I feel Mac's first birthday around the corner and am floored, absolutely flummoxed, by what twelve short months can do.

A year ago this week I was on bed rest. I went from the sofa to the bed and back, entertaining visitors with a delightful case of "bed rest hair" that can be recreated only by showering, then immediately lying on one's sopping head of hair for hours on end. It's a look that will be on the cover of Elle the moment heroin chic comes back in style, mark my words.

I was under doctor's orders to "rest," but felt anything but relaxed. Everything in me was counting down to baby time, thanking God that we were full term already and watching the clock as days eased by on their own sweet time. I felt antsy and ready and full of questions. (Mostly: "When?!?")

A year later, I'm lying in bed with the windows open. The weather has finally caught on that September should mean chilly evenings, not triple-digit temperatures. A near-monsoon is setting the perfect backdrop for what I'm hoping will be a delicious night's sleep.

I can't stop thinking about how restful this all is, how blessed we are to have a baby who has slept through the night for ages, how nice it is to shower at will, walk around freely and not have to check my blood pressure every few hours. Just before Mac was born, I slept eleven straight hours to the sound of a September storm like this one. I thought often of that unbelievable night's sleep in the thick of our newborn days, when two-hour stretches were all I got.

I'm sorry to seem so nostalgic tonight, but what's kept me away from blogging is the constant reflection I've been doing as Mac's babyhood wraps up. I hope I'm not the only mom who has ever felt this odd bittersweetness at the close of a wonderful, incomparable, life-changing beyond belief year. (B asked if I'd feel this way at every birthday; waxing sentimental over every last milestone must be a foreign concept to the menfolk.)

I'm going to stop reminiscing about the twelve months that upended my universe in the best possible way. I'm going to focus on how thankful I am for a for a good night's sleep, sans doctor's orders. (If our house washes away in this downpour, I may be singing a different tune... Send help if you haven't heard from us by Homecoming.)