Treading Water

We've celebrated a number of meaningful occasions since I last posted: a year in our house, Mac turning two and a half, a month since Mary Brooks' surgery, our inaugural dinner out as a family of four, our return to church service and, of course, MB's first Easter.

Truth be told, I've been exhausted lately. It's hard to put my finger on why, as our little champion has been sleeping through the night most nights fabout two weeks now. (Can you believe it? So thankful, even if it never happens again. What a gift.)

More than a physical sense of tiredness, I feel spent emotionally. I'm trying my hardest to finish up thank you notes and send out Mary Brooks' birth announcement, and I realize now it's a task I've put off for a reason.

I adore sending notes and pride myself on doing it well, and in a timely fashion. These thank you notes, however, have been the exception. I rely entirely on scribbled lists, names hurriedly written into my dayplanner, notes I kept during times at the hospital when my heart was barely beating and my brain had left my body.

Reliving the week has been emotional as I recall what people did for us and, honestly, I'm not that great at accepting help. Especially the kind of help we've had.

How could I ever repay anyone? Or truly thank them in a way that reflects how deep and consuming my gratitude is? I struggle to find the words.

This day has been a flurry of activity. At one point I was nursing Mary Brooks, taking a phone call and unloading the dishwasher at the same time. Life can be something like a sitcom on occasion, can't it?

Today was work emails, last-minute accountant phone calls, errands, pro bono work I shouldn't have agreed to do, picking up produce, catching up on thinking about catching up on laundry, despairing at the disarray of my house, sifting through medical paperwork, making arrangements for Mary Brooks' dedication and, at the top of my list, visiting the surgeon for MB's one month follow-up.

Hearing our surgeon's voice brought me back to last month in a heartbeat. I was glad to get a good report (our growing girl gained nearly a pound in ten days!) but a little thrown off by the fact of the matter: Mary Brooks' birth defect and the life-threatening condition that resulted from it were both repaired. There are, however, issues to monitor and aspects of this that need to enter my brain on a daily basis.

I was so on board with the 'signed, sealed, delivered and done' mindset that it never occurred to me we'd need to come back for a six month visit....or more.

Bottom line: Mary Brooks is recuperating beautifully, but she is recuperating. She did have major surgery. It was a scary time.

There's no sweeping that under the rug, no matter how many thank you notes I put off or how many details of last month I choose to forget.

If I repeat the same stories to you, or forget we've spoken entirely, or appear in public remarkably unkempt, please forgive me. I'm forgetting things left and right, receiving reminder emails about things I've already been told three times, and generally feeling like I'm underwater.

I took a moment to come up for air and now I'm choosing to tread water. I may not make much headway this week, but I'm still moving.

I can't wait to catch up on things outside of my own rattled brain and I promise to do that soon. For now, I'm thankful I'm in my own home with Bradley, our two sweet children and a dog who is quite certain he's the smartest one here. He just might be.

I'm planning to wrap up MB's hospital story this week to get it off of my chest and out of my head.

After that, there are SO many things to discuss. I keep reading and seeing things I want to share but putting them off 'til I wrap up this "season" of frenetic activity. That wrap up may never come to be, so eventually life will have to continue as normal. I'm starting to wonder if normal is just a thing we tell ourselves exists.

Do you ever feel this crazy? I'm surprised I'm stringing words into sentences these days!

Coming to a Big Screen Near You...

...a remarkably elaborate proposal. I have no idea who this young suitor is, but I'm tipping my hat to him. This took no small amount of preparation, forethought, discretion and boldness.

The team behind this should use it as a viral resume of sorts - watch out, rural Georgia, you have a future Steven Spielberg on your hands.

I wonder how the happy couple will announce their first little one's arrival? That preview could go either way. But this one? Perfectly sweet and flawlessly executed.

I also wonder why the proposals of strangers make me tear up? Regardless - enjoy!

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.

A Compliment for the Ages

After yesterday's whine-fest, where I convinced myself I was totally underwater and might not come up for air, I stopped to think about how great my life is, how very blessed I am.

I heard recently that we should take the phrase "have to" out of our vocabulary and replace it with "get to."

I get to clean and organize my warm, safe home. I get to fold and put away the many clothes we're fortunate enough to own. I get to create a menu for the week and make meals for my precious family. What a spin on my to do list!

While I was thinking positively, I recalled some of the sweet things that have been said to me in my life. (This makes it easier to convince myself I'm not a total hot mess. Someone loves me, after all!)

I asked my friends this once before and loved hearing others' favorite compliments, too.

My most meaningful compliments haven't changed since then, but I'd add a few to the list now:
1. B told me he couldn't imagine a better mom for his son.
2. My dad told me he was proud of me. (He has said so plenty, but this was at a particularly tough moment.)
3. Mac squeals when I walk into a room. From time to time he blows me unsolicited kisses, which say more than anything to me.
4. People say my handsome little monkey favors me, though they must just mean his tendency to yell "Hey!" at strangers.

On busy days or rainy ones, it picks me up to remember sweet moments like those. So, what is the sweetest compliment anyone has ever paid you?

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.)

Who Needs To Age Well?

I was captivated by this excited 81-year-old man's story: After 62 years apart, he is flying to see his high school sweetheart - and is nervous as can be.

I found myself anxious for Jack and hopeful that his plans to give Betty "not just one" kiss would turn out for the best. Having a camera capturing the moment raised the stakes even higher...

His back-up plan, going to live with his mother, didn't seem that terrible to me, though. If you're in your eighties and your mom is not only still alive but also independent, sing hallelujah!

Take a peek at his sweet story, captured by his filmmaker seatmate. If only there were a postscript!



It's comforting, as I approach another birthday, to know that you don't have to "age well" to have the heart of the man you love.

Perhaps such an endearment is better kept to oneself, though. I hope B doesn't feel the need to comment on how I've aged in fifty years; sticking around will be quite enough for me.

Tears on a Treadmill: Take Two

All evidence to the contrary, I don't often cry at music videos - even sappy ones. And, while my complete inability to run long distances has brought me to tears in the past, I rarely ever boohoo at the gym, in full view of strangers.

Yet here I am, acknowledging my second bout of tears on a treadmill. Perhaps I should avoid CMT while I'm running* from now on?

(Side note: My ballet teacher told me in grad school that the only time a woman should run is if she is being chased by a bear. I stand behind this statement. My lower half, however, appreciates a little cardio now and then. If you're wondering why I took dance in grad school, ask my co-ballerina Kristen. Then ignore the other stories she tells you about me in tights.)

I'd heard that "The House That Built Me" was Miranda Lambert's best song yet, but hadn't seen the video until I was halfway through a workout last week.

I was plugging along quite nicely when Miranda crooned:

"And I bet you didn't know: Under that live oak, my favorite dog is buried in the yard."
(1:10 mark)

In an instant, that line had me misty-eyed. Then she followed up with this gem:

"Mama cut out pictures of houses for years from Better Homes and Garden magazine. Plans were drawn and concrete poured. Nail by nail and board by board, Daddy gave life to Mama's dream."
(2:00 mark)

Thank heavens the man next to me was engrossed in his baseball game! Home renovations must be a soft spot for me, because there was more than a little chin quivering going on...

What could possibly explain such a public lapse of any emotional control? No, I'm not sleep-deprived, underfed, pregnant or on drugs. (Odd that those things might have similar symptoms.)



Have you seen this video? Would you indulge me with a, "Yes, I find those lines a touch sentimental, too?"

*read: attempting to run, moving my feet, making a valiant effort to burn a few calories

Miss Attacks

My mom, a former preschool teacher, has a special name for just about everything - usually a cutesy one. Some of them are Southern colloquialisms; others are uniquely hers. After decades of hearing these phrases, I toss them about in conversation as though everyone knows what surcies and eskimo kisses and miss attacks are.

Today, though, I am experiencing something that can only be explained by its Mom name, an absolute "miss attack."

As Erin alluded to in her post yesterday, many of the closest friendships we twenty-somethings have are with friends from a very specific time in our life. Women we met in college, grad school, our first job, the newlywed years. These particular seasons are such intense, change-filled times that we bond deeply with the friends we make at that point. It's an intimacy hard to recreate with people we meet casually, outside of those moments in our lives.

The trouble comes when life moves you and your close friends a bit apart, when you're no longer in a cozy apartment with four sorority sisters or sharing a cute house with another new grad roommate. What do you do then, when you need your best friends right next door, not two states away?

Erin's right, you can add friends and meet couples who expand your social circle as time goes by. Those friends are invaluable, people who add you to their invite list even when a baby keeps you off the scene and come over for quiet dinners when life slows down.

But when having a "miss attack," you realize how irreplaceable each close friend is in your life - how God seems to have hand-picked just the right people for you. And how very much you wish you all lived on the same block again, sharing a pool, carpooling to the Fresh Market for jelly beans and swapping gossip magazines. (These days it might be Southern Living and Parents magazine, but the idea's the same.)

Today I'm missing a very dear, very pregnant friend of mine and wishing I could be one lounge chair away, chatting mindlessly about Gossip Girl, what her sweet boy will look like and how quickly I can get her another glass of lemonade.

What gets you through a miss attack? Skype? Marathon phone sessions? Last-minute airplane trips?

The lights really have gone out in Georgia...

Who didn't love Julia Sugarbaker?

Her fiery grace, her self-assured gait, her ability to scathe with a smile and a lilt in her voice. She was fiercely loyal and passionately protective of those she loved. She knew what she believed in and wouldn't settle for anything less.

Who didn't want to be her when we grew up? Sure, Suzanne was beautiful, Mary Jo was sweet and Charlene was, well, bless her heart. I never did want to be Charlene.

But Julia - Julia was the force to be reckoned with. A woman who wouldn't leave things unsaid, but never said too much. Unlike me, the perfect response came in the moment, not three hours after a conversation concluded. That cutting, absolutely on-point comeback was right on the tip of her tongue and somehow never made her seem any less ladylike or in control. She wasn't demure, but was undoubtedly an old school Southern belle.

Just like you'll see embroidered on a gift store pillow (don't deep thoughts belong on pillows?): A Southern woman is a Mack truck disguised as a powder puff. Such was the example Julia Sugarbaker set.

And the woman who brought her to life, Dixie Carter, seemed to carry those very same traits. I remember squealing and running to the TV when I saw her speak at a Miss America pageant one year. (And I was well past five years old at the time. That's how happy she makes me.) She embodied charm and grace with a forthright demeanor - a rare combination.

I was so sad to hear that Dixie Carter passed away this past weekend. She will be missed.

Here's one of her most famous scenes, standing up for her sister and scaring the goodness out of Miss Georgia. I love how she ends her diatribe, "Well now you do..." No one could have done it better. The lights really have gone out in Georgia.

Things You Should Know: Part Four

I cried at the gym today.

For some reason, exercise has always made me emotional. Just ask Kristen, at whom I snapped on a long run, "Could you please breathe a little more quietly?" Or something along those lines. Bless her heart for not tripping me right then.

So today I was going full steam ahead on a treadmill when Zac Brown's "Highway 20 Ride" video came on. Hearing those lyrics always puts a lump in my throat, but the combination of an accelerated heartbeat and watching a little boy "grow up" onscreen did me in.

There were tears, y'all. On a treadmill. I am mortified.

I've cried every Sunday in church since I found out I was pregnant 14 months ago. That I can blame on hormones, on gratitude, on thinking of our precious son in God's house and feeling overcome with emotion. (I know I'm not alone on this. Brooke, feel free to back me up!)

The people who sit near us each week must imagine I'm struggling with some intense issues. I had to warn our friends who were visiting Grace the other week that I probably wouldn't make it through tear-free, and not to be alarmed. Sure enough, in the last song before service ended, the saltwater started flowing. I was so close!

I have no idea what my treadmill neighbors thought, but I'll tell you one thing: next time I'm changing the channel!

Watch this video and see if you can make it through - then teach me your ways! This line, at the 3:00 mark, gets me every time:

"It was the pleasure of my life and I cherished every time. And my whole world, it begins and ends with you."

Don't You Just Love This?

It took having a baby for me to understand the ceaseless, selfless and limitless love my parents have had for me from day one. Why would a mom hop in a car with just a few hours' notice? Simply because her twenty-something, married, new mom daughter asked her to... (To be fair, I didn't even have to ask.)

When I saw this video today, I realized it also might be because my parents still see snaggle-teeth, freckles and pigtails when they look at me. No matter - I'm grateful whatever the reason is!

Mac and I have been home fighting his respiratory virus today and this made me smile. Hope you enjoy!



*courtesy of Steph at Smiling in the South

Love never fails...

....to make me misty-eyed, that is. B and I got engaged two and a half years ago, but if you could see me now, silently clapping and scrunching up my shoulders making my "how cute" face, you'd think it'd just happened tonight.

Someone please watch these on-air proposals and see if it's just my sentimental nature or if they're really worth a little squeal. I mean, what a sweet surprise, right? And who doesn't love watching other people have a moment of absolute happiness?

I might scream if I hear the word "economy" on television once more today... But a news story on the far-from-hot topic of engagements -well, go ahead.

(Blame this post on the perfect storm of hormones and Bradley working nights.... See the trouble I'm getting into? What an estrogen fest this house is without him!)

Adventures at the Animal Hospital

I'm a still thanking God for the number of caring and capable professionals at our local animal emergency clinic. After a late-night surgery to remove blockages from his stomach and intestines, we are hoping our sweet Blue is on the mend.

The blockages in his stomach? A tank top, among other laundry items. Perhaps in a week or two this will be remarkably funny, but at the time it felt like my heart was being pulled out of my body. Leaving Blue alone for hours to be put under, cut open, stitched and stapled back up was gut-wrenching. (No pun intended.) Big hugs to Jennifer for meeting me there late late at night, missing the Grey's season finale ending, and taking Bradley's place while he was a state away.

Thanks so much for all of your prayers and concern - we're taking baby steps and our boy is on the mend. We're still praying it continues to get easier as the days go by. Isn't it amazing how much an 80-pound dog means to you? I'm not sure if I can ever have children knowing that it could only hurt more...

The fabulous news - he's worth it.