tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91554725025027541252024-02-20T02:29:21.593-08:00Bump, Baby, and Breaking NewsA news anchor's journey through pregnancy and beyond. Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-69505683859853894782019-07-21T15:55:00.003-07:002019-07-21T15:55:53.206-07:00Month 20: A Sunday short story<div style="caret-color: rgb(33, 33, 33); color: #212121; font-family: "Segoe UI", "Segoe WP", "Segoe UI WPC", Tahoma, Arial, sans-serif;">
Parenting disasters happen so fast you don’t even realize you’re in one until it’s over and you step back to assess the damage. Or in this Sunday tale, the poop stains.<br />
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<br />My toddler had been a terrorist all day. My husband finished mowing the grass and we planned to go have a nice Sunday brunch as a family. But, as John Michael shrieked and howled over whatever new tragedy had befallen his toddler body (I’m pretty sure it was the wrong version of Baby Shark playing. Not the lack of the song, just too upbeat of a rendition). We realized brunch was a terrible idea.<br />
<br />So, we warmed leftover pizza. And, I told my husband I was about to leave for a pedicure or shopping during nap time, I hadn’t decided which. He’s the best, so he insisted on both. And, after zero persuasion time, I said. Okay! (In my head it was more of a Cardi B inflection.)<br />
<br />As we were finishing up lunch, and I’m planning to get out of there faster than you can upload all your pictures to Russia, our toddler starts pointing and whining at something in concern to get our attention.<br />
<br />We both look down and my husband says, "What is that?" I assumed it was some crumbs.<br />
<br />Nope. I was wrong. So wrong.<br />
<br />It looks like what I can only describe as cat vomit.<br />
<br />We don’t have a cat.<br /><br />
I pick it up with a paper towel and my husband says, “Is that poop?” Surely not. The kid has khaki shorts and a diaper on.<br />
<br />It’s. Poop.<br />
<br />Well. Seeing as I put on that dysfunctional diaper and I’m trying to position myself for some guilt-free mommy time, I start cleaning him up, thinking surely I won’t need backup.<br />
<br />Putting a diaper on my kid in the first place is sort of like dancing with a rabid skunk. This skunk was in shorts covered in his own feces.<br />
<br />So, I’m trying to maneuver him in a way as to not spread any more poo particles than necessary. My husband is tweeting about the whole ordeal while watching golf from the living room:<br />
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<br />At this point John Michael is standing up and I’m trying to get a wipe in there. This kid. Sits. On my foot. With his nasty poo booty. And just giggles.<br />
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As I left I told my husband, good luck with the teen years.<br />
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Let’s just say I tipped extra on that pedicure.<br />
<br />I guess the moral is, sh*t happens. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-1692537313883886682018-12-20T19:07:00.002-08:002018-12-20T19:16:50.923-08:00Month 13: The other dayI lost my keys ‘the other day.’ I keep waiting on them to show up and haven’t really launched a proper search.<br />
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I realized yesterday ‘the other day’ was actually about 6, make that 7 months ago.<br />
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And, this is coming from a girl who breaks her schedule into minutes of the day.<br />
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I know 19 is the number of minutes it takes to put clothes AND shoes on John Michael, get him out the door with at least one trip up the stairs for when I forget something. <br />
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I know 7 is the absolute fewest number of minutes I can make it from my house to work.<br />
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I know 14 seconds is the perfect amount of time to microwave John Michael's tiny little chopped veggies without having to let them cool.<br />
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Sometimes, evil disrupts my mental time clock, like yesterday, when I realized the clothes I already put on for work [at the precise time allotted] really needed to be steamed. That's when I end up doing things like spraying the clothes...already on my body...with wrinkle releaser. (Also, what is ironing?)<br />
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But today, was one of those lovely parenting days where I was painfully aware of the minutes on the clock. John Michael can't decide if he's ready to drop one of his two daily naps. So today was a 'trial and error' day, much like EVERY day of parenting. It consisted of a lot of crying, pouting, screaming, (John Michael, too) futile attempts to change his mood, and me second guessing what the hell I was doing with my life. To top it off, he nearly choked on a mandarin orange. (I NEED him to stop shoveling in food without chewing like he's Joey Chestnut)<br />
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But, then, that tiny human who's just started to figure out how to walk forgot about his grouchy mood for 5 minutes before bed--long enough to walk around with his lion walker, and remind me how adorable he is. And, how fast the time goes. And, all of that crap that keeps parents procreating.<br />
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And, then I started to get sad thinking about this day, because I know he's only in this stage for such a short time, and today wasn't going in the memory bank of beautiful moments.<br />
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Then, I started thinking about one of my favorite subjects....mom guilt. So, let's get this straight...I was sad because John Michael was sad and this is one less day of the handful of days on my ever-ticking clock of short childhood memories.<br />
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And, you know why I felt that way? Because everyone at every stage is reminding me HOW FAST IT GOES. If one more person tells me, 'Enjoy it. It goes SO fast.' I'm going to need a Zoloft prescription. I'M ALREADY PAINFULLY AWARE OF HOW FAST IT GOES. I'm already nostalgic about moments that happened four minutes ago. Hell, I'm sad about moments that are ABOUT to happen. Any waking moment I'm NOT focusing on 'being more present,' I can be found swiping left through my iPhone photo album of perfect baby memories faster than a college student on Tinder.<br />
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It's like the last day of a long vacation...you're having the greatest time, but you can't even properly enjoy it because you know it's going to be over.<br />
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Wait, but you're in the Bahamas? On a beach? Why are you sad again? Because eventually the Bahamas will be a memory?<br />
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Parents, grandparents, future parents, past parents, friends of parents, can we all start giving parents with small children a break? We know it's going fast. We know we will miss (most) of these days and (most) of these stages. But, stressing out about how to BEST soak in every moment and worrying we may not be FULLY aware of how short it is, isn't slowing the clock.<br />
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Instead of going to that 'small talk' place of 'it goes soooo fast,' might I suggest 'Nassau sure is beautiful this time of year'<br />
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And, yeah, I know. When I'm old and gray, I'll look back on this blog, and probably say...those keys still haven't turned up. I just lost them the other day...<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-72688409123024102962018-05-13T18:15:00.002-07:002018-05-13T18:55:34.450-07:00Month 6: Pillow talk I just wanted some used Pottery Barn pillows. That's all.<br />
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We're moving to a new house next week. I cannot wait to have more space and move into our dream house, but I am also painfully aware of moving amnesia. You totally forget exactly how much CRAP there is to do when you move. Add in a six month old, and just wheel me to the insane asylum. </div>
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A couple of days ago, a lady posted some beautiful outdoor pillows for sale on a yard sale Facebook group. </div>
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Even though those are nowhere to be found on my list of 47394 things I truly NEED to buy for the new house, I couldn't let them go. We have this great outdoor space at the new house with an outdoor fireplace on the back porch. I needed those pillows. </div>
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I arranged to meet the lady's husband to grab the pillows during the perfect window Friday around nap time and meal time and getting ready for work and the algorithm all parents to small children seem to understand but everyone else forgets. </div>
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I had arranged for the perfect amount of time to stop by the ATM so I could get the right amount of cash and meet him by 11:45. </div>
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I pull up to the ATM and the armed money guards are blocking my way. I ask how long they will be. 20 minutes. (This is pre-shower. I look homeless and sleep deprived, so they said this clutching their holsters...step away crazy lady...) </div>
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Okay, whatever. I'll run by a fast food restaurant to break the $100 bill I have. (Someone bought some furniture from me and paid in $100's, I'm not a bookie.) </div>
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First stop, Burger King. The line is 12 deep. John Michael usually whines if the car is still that long. </div>
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Nope. I have 16 minutes until I need to meet Pottery Barn man. </div>
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Taco Bell is across the street. Cheesy Gordita Crunch it is. </div>
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Wait in drive-thru line. Give them my $100, which at that moment, I realize seems sketchy. They get a manager to see if they can make change. I tell the poor kid working the window, it's not fake, I'm just trying to buy some Pottery Barn pillows, which in hindsight, since I looked homeless and was paying for a single taco with a $100 bill, wasn't my best story. </div>
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"I'm sorry ma'am, we can't take this." </div>
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Okay, yes, that does seem like a wise business practice. At least I have my taco. </div>
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I text Pottery Barn man to let him know I'll be late. He needs to be at a meeting by noon. Well, that's reasonable. I have 8 minutes to get cash and meet him before noon, or else, I have to figure out another meeting time and do this whole song and dance again....</div>
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But again, the pillows. </div>
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I go to a second ATM, at this point, willing to pay the extra fee. It's out of order. At this point, I am PAINFULLY aware I should have just gone inside somewhere, looking homeless, lugging the baby in and out of the car, to get change. </div>
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I text him again to let him know I'm hurrying to find change. </div>
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I go BACK to the original bank, because surely the guards are gone by then. Nope. </div>
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John Michael is starting to whine, and I can't reach any of his toys, so I wad up my empty Taco Bell bag and hand it to him. Mom of the year? Innovator of the year? I don't know which, but it HAS to be one. </div>
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I'm at the bank contemplating going inside, and Pottery Barn man says he has change.</div>
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Sweet. Lord. Why. Didn't. I. Text. Him. To. Ask. That. Half. An. Hour. Ago. </div>
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Meet him two minutes after 12. Get the pillows. They were worth it. </div>
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Soooo, yeah. That's sort of my best analogy for how motherhood is going. SO worth it, but utter chaos along the way. </div>
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And, here's something I've learned. All of us are looking at everyone else wondering how everyone has it so together and figured out? Meanwhile, we're all running around giving our kids paper bags to play with. </div>
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So, to all the moms out there---whose dishwashers look like this...</div>
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getting through each day on coffee, wine, and the occasional satisfaction of a Pottery Barn pillow victory...</div>
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HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-60684150611319356272018-01-31T18:01:00.003-08:002018-01-31T18:01:38.778-08:00Week 11: The working parent club<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">
<span style="background-color: white;">One of the biggest challenges in the news business is breaking down complicated mumbo jumbo into as few words as possible. I try to take stories about nuclear plants or the tax code and break them down to a 5th grade reading level. Why? So everyone can comprehend what I'm saying while they're cooking Hamburger Helper in the kitchen on a Tuesday. But, trying to sum up the first 11 weeks of a newborn's life---trying to break down that transition from 'just Laura' into 'John Michael's mom' is nearly impossible to put into words. It changes everything. </span></div>
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If you have kids, you're probably nodding. I nod so much now. Every time I read something about parenthood on Facebook. Or see a Pampers commercial. Or give a knowing glance to a mom with a screaming baby in Costco. It's like the world's biggest club I didn't even know existed until I became a member. Our secret handshake is 'the nod.'<br /><div>
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But, I'll be honest, I'm nervous about the club I'm joining tomorrow. I know every working parent goes through this transition, but I'm just surprised how worried I am about going back to a job I love. </div>
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(I'm also nervous that my job requires washing my hair....which means I need to carve out time to shower.)</div>
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First of all, maternity leave. What a roller coaster. It reads like the opening of a Charles Dickens novel. "It was the best of times...it was the worst of times." I mean, the highest of highs with that wiggly newborn. Watching him figure out how to use his gummy smile to completely disarm me. </div>
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Figuring out how to stick his bottom lip out to completely disarm me...</div>
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Watching his world expand and come into view. </div>
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Couch snuggles. OH, the couch snuggles. </div>
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There are a lot of highs. But, when people refer to maternity leave as 'vacation,' they've clearly never been on maternity leave. It's quite the opposite. "What can I do right this moment to make you stop crying?" Sometimes, the answer is, well, nothing. Blowouts no longer mean anything to do with tires. And, I now sleep with my hair in a ponytail. Why? Because I'm so tired every night, in the event that I do get a solid chunk of REM sleep, I crash so hard that I drool enough to soak my hair. Mom life is a lot of things, but 'glam' is not one of them. </div>
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I've always wanted kids, but I've always wanted a career I love, too. But, how do you have it all without drowning in Mommy guilt or losing your identity? How do you keep both sides of the scales balanced? How do you keep mascara off your face? </div>
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Sorry, but those are (mostly) rhetorical questions. If I had the magic answer, I would be wealthy off my book deal and inspirational seminars. </div>
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I think the thing I failed to calculate into my life plan when I was playing with career Barbie is exactly how much I would love this face. </div>
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I mean, theoretically, I knew I would love my kids. Duh. But, I just didn't get what it would feel like trusting someone else to take care of them a few hours a day. I didn't fully 'get' that I would love him so much, even when he figures out how to simultaneously poo, pee, and spit-up at the same time. And, once again, my parent club is nodding. </div>
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It's like a huge part of my heart is outside of my body now, living in another little person. </div>
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My working mommy friends did give me some good advice I thought I'd share:</div>
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-When at work, be at work. When at home, be at home.</div>
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-In no time, it will be 'old hat' and your new normal. </div>
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-The busier you are at work, the quicker the time flies until you're back home. So just turn that worry and longing into more productivity. Everybody wins. </div>
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-Quality of time over quantity. Working and parenting is hard, but it makes the moments you're together that much sweeter. </div>
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I really do love my job. And, I know one day, John Michael will love having a mom who loves her job. </div>
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So, like a lot of you, I'm just going to try to do the best I can. I'm going to try to give myself grace. I'm going to try to make choices about balance by asking myself, "How will you feel about this decision when you're 60?" (Of course, I'm answering from the deck of my yacht, surrounded by my well adjusted, adult children, who have no signs of abandonment issues. We're reminiscing about their perfect childhood over a glass of Cabernet. From my vineyard....)</div>
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Tomorrow, I'm going to shower, find something that fits, dodge spit-up until I can get out of the house, put on waterproof mascara, try to remember how to talk to adults, give myself a healthy dose of grace, listen to my husband when he tells me I'm a good mom, and get back behind my favorite news desk. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-45054232136383632592017-12-05T13:37:00.000-08:002017-12-05T13:59:25.202-08:00Week 3: The hype<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I keep a lot of lists. I like the feeling of crossing things off. But recently, I’ve started making lists of things I accomplish each day. (Besides keeping a human alive.)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Today, I wrote ‘brushed my teeth’ on that list. At noon. Yesterday, it was 10PM. (And I wish that was something funny you say in a blog, but didn’t actually happen.) </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">So, the fact that I’m making time to write this blog post that’s been on my to-do list for 3.5 weeks (with one hand on my iPhone and a baby napping on my chest) feels right up there with crossing off ‘learning Mandarin’. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: 'segoe ui', 'segoe wp', 'segoe ui wpc', tahoma, arial, sans-serif;">It’s a crazy thing when the hype actually lives up. I can only think of a handful of things where the suspense and excitement you build around an event has lived up. If I’m being brutally honest, off the top of my head, this is that list up until now:</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: 'segoe ui', 'segoe wp', 'segoe ui wpc', tahoma, arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">1. Our wedding </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">2. Trip to Italy</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">3. Playing Augusta National</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I’m sure I have a few more, but I’m tired. The point is, when I’m really excited about something (I mean Christmas morning of 1994 excited), I usually build it up so much in my mind, it’s nearly impossible for the actual thing to be as impressive as I made it in my head. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like Disney World for the first time was anything short of freakin’ magical, but EXCEEDING the expectation is really hard when you’ve been hyping something for so long. You expect it to be awesome. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">So, of course, there’s a great deal of build up to the birth of a child. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">More hype than an ESPN commentator on the phone with Nick Saban around playoff selection time. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">A lot. Of hype. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">But, it doesn’t matter what everyone tells you. How excited you are. How prepared you are to meet your little one. It exceeds all of the hype. ALL OF IT. In a way most new parents probably understand, that makes these words seem hollow and trite. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">How do you put words to a religious experience like that? My dad always said there are no atheists in foxholes. I’m convinced there aren’t any in a delivery room either. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I just wasn’t prepared...even though I prepared. A lot. I built it up so much it couldn’t possibly live up. I set the moment up to fail. But, it didn't. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">John Michael's arrival:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">This mama was totally done with pregnancy. Complete with a really lovely hormonal meltdown in my doctor's office the Wednesday before John Michael made his arrival. For whatever reason, our viewers recognize me the most at the grocery store and the doctor's office. So, if you saw me covering my tear-stained face with a People magazine, don’t worry. I’m alive. It was just hormones. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">So my doctor, (I like to call her Saint Jennifer Morgan. ‘Dr. Morgan’ doesn’t fully convey how great this lady is) says, “You are progressing great. Baby is great. We can induce you as early as Monday, (39 weeks, 1 day), but that’s your call 100%." Believe me. When you get to the end, the lines get blurry. So after about a five gallon bucket of tears deciding what to do, and a very frank conversation with John Michael asking if he was ready, I said, "BOOK THAT INDUCTION." </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">Mother's intuition is a beautiful thing, because guess who was ready to make his arrival, anyway? </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: 'segoe ui', 'segoe wp', 'segoe ui wpc', tahoma, arial, sans-serif;">5PM: I went into early labor on the news desk during our 5PM show Friday night. I’d shoot my husband a text from the desk every time one would start. Contractions every 10 minutes. Nothing too painful. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">1:30AM: Hello labor. When the doctor says ‘you’ll know the difference when they’re the real deal.’ They 100% are not lying to you. What in the actual hell?!?! Even with the fake screaming, chick flicks do not prepare you for labor pain. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">3:30AM: My husband is pulling the trigger. We are going to the hospital. Do not care that contractions are not quite 5 minutes apart. We’re going. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">5AM: Waiting to ‘progress.’ No epidural. By this point I have reached ‘cliche pregnant woman status’ and I am ranting to my husband about equal pay for women and basically my disbelief that millions of women do this crap for humanity’s sake with not nearly enough monuments erected in their honor..</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">5:30AM: Husband still a champion...still has not left me. Still telling me I’m beautiful and strong and wonderful. Spoiler—by this point, I am not. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">6:30AM: The clouds part and an angel in scrubs says, "Just got off the phone with the doctor. We are keeping you. We’ll wheel you back now for that epidural."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">6:45AM: EPIDURAL. Say it with me people—-TAKE THE DRUGS. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">1:00PM: Started pushing, and I knew the Dawgs we’re kicking off at 3:30....</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">1:20: John Michael arrives. Disbelief. Lots of staring at our perfect human. 10 fingers, 10 toes. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">3:30: The Dawgs lost to Auburn that day, but we won so huge. My husband and I kept looking at each other all day saying, “I can’t believe he’s ours...”</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtnn00gCjZOZ2Xcy6RrrPoZCpb4f039_6KDNynwwHjTc3ZM_mG6WSlP55u5j5cYzIX9eKjxJSRc_h-Lue0YSVYoVQxKEixEQ-0BEUuVfVcULt0oAINkwxK1rCI_Cvl4BiTDwK6JZDjmnQ/s1600/going+home+uga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtnn00gCjZOZ2Xcy6RrrPoZCpb4f039_6KDNynwwHjTc3ZM_mG6WSlP55u5j5cYzIX9eKjxJSRc_h-Lue0YSVYoVQxKEixEQ-0BEUuVfVcULt0oAINkwxK1rCI_Cvl4BiTDwK6JZDjmnQ/s320/going+home+uga.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;">3.5 weeks later, we’re still saying that. We’re tired. Sometimes we don’t know why he’s crying. Sometimes I’m curious how such a small human can create three times their body weight in poo. One time I clipped his fingernail too short and he cried for 5 minutes, and I cried for an hour. He peed on everything last night at 3AM. Everything. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #212121; font-family: segoe ui, segoe wp, segoe ui wpc, tahoma, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">But, guess </span>what? The hype still lives up. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "segoe ui wpc" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-24681662242313323492017-10-06T12:17:00.000-07:002017-10-06T12:17:45.907-07:00WEEK 34: Label makers and scare tactics<div style="font-family: Calibri, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
I bought a label maker. 2017 is a wild time to be alive. I really thought those things had to be at least $40, but no. Two clicks on Amazon and the most amazing label maker was delivered to my doorstep two days later for $10. </div>
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Which means, my pregnancy-induced OCD has shifted to overdrive. Do I need to label each blanket in my closet organizer? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMfVeLBPVVPWrzQbPBQ2eWuxDBIAH_xlIZ57qqpzV6vJxo6NISsZjziDmTQmRYv_32VwB93tcvTqwlS2wus8M4qmc-dNMpfKALbkfVOD9iqSk41MWa7MshKJAyoRlbc0tqykxdURNrto/s1600/swaddles.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMfVeLBPVVPWrzQbPBQ2eWuxDBIAH_xlIZ57qqpzV6vJxo6NISsZjziDmTQmRYv_32VwB93tcvTqwlS2wus8M4qmc-dNMpfKALbkfVOD9iqSk41MWa7MshKJAyoRlbc0tqykxdURNrto/s400/swaddles.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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Probably not. I'm sure I can discern a swaddle from a burp cloth by looking at it, but, you just can't be too sure. </div>
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My husband made his contribution to the labeling....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHizMYQopPmlFa3P9MN5v9fGY67yHpxH1EJZ5rL5py9z4Oe4VrC9mJXK66tHKHnoXwu12Son3mBXTTaTgCn70gFlD5WxKdd44Z1Pztj3UxKfJeyQpI4b0w7uBsn4-bZ92LD0_OXHRZ6Tc/s1600/diaper+genie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHizMYQopPmlFa3P9MN5v9fGY67yHpxH1EJZ5rL5py9z4Oe4VrC9mJXK66tHKHnoXwu12Son3mBXTTaTgCn70gFlD5WxKdd44Z1Pztj3UxKfJeyQpI4b0w7uBsn4-bZ92LD0_OXHRZ6Tc/s320/diaper+genie.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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I think he's making fun of me...</div>
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Also, I think I've mentioned this in an earlier blog, but nesting is a real thing. I get these crazy urges for everything to be in its place and everything this kid may need for the first three years of his life to be sitting in our house. But, I'm so torn because I also hate clutter and junk we will never use. It's creating a perfect storm of anxiety in my body, which sometimes rears its head at really inopportune moments. Like when my husband graciously takes my non-verbal clues to come with me to Buy Buy Baby to complete our registry checklist 7 weeks before our due date on a Sunday during football season. (That's true love.) </div>
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The completion discount was only 10%, I thought it was 20%. Then, they didn't have our car seat in stock. Then, I couldn't find the crib skirt I registered for. Then, I started crying in the baby monitor aisle. Why? Who knows. That's when Austin starts getting what I like to refer to as 'tear-induced-panic-syndrome.' I dare you to imagine a more cliche scene than a pregnant lady crying in Buy Buy Baby with an empty shopping cart and a panicked husband. </div>
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We left. I ordered everything I needed online. Umm, why didn't I do that in the first place? Because I am pregnant and my sense of logic and reason is as distant a memory as my high school body. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqah6uRo07DW-Dy_s-ULH3pU9TNDmZhCFcOa3I_JbchG186WqH1q-Ykz5WoQeOX9em8Q_wmJn6TysB7Y-VWubfVQjwdE5y62k7bbbGsCR_uQBbNUc1zffAjfX_A3EnlPn3VEokIlSHFQ/s1600/edited+HS+bod.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="171" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqah6uRo07DW-Dy_s-ULH3pU9TNDmZhCFcOa3I_JbchG186WqH1q-Ykz5WoQeOX9em8Q_wmJn6TysB7Y-VWubfVQjwdE5y62k7bbbGsCR_uQBbNUc1zffAjfX_A3EnlPn3VEokIlSHFQ/s400/edited+HS+bod.png" width="127" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Circa 2007/ Teen Miss Georgia USA</td></tr>
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RIP high school body! Remember that time I didn't appreciate you? I'm sorry. </div>
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Then, there are the really tough decisions...like whether to buy the freaking Owlet Smart Sock. I SWEAR when the baby 'stuff' industry is coming up with a new invention, they have a bar graph with a sliding parental guilt scale. THAT'S how they decide if this thing is going to make it on the market. For those of you who raised a kid when 'car seats' were the hot new baby safety item on the market....I'll explain the Owlet. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsChi-kXZLzFoN1TfnVEA8-6H0JZShG0rpOzIZspnD3mcui_EWTJ_8cLDcY0ssq0C-4MYJsw1v_1VZJvuGRN63CXWXGzvFFZcfwMIdFNKjCM4JMEyKQA4OF2KkUSF3Mo2yYxXY7ngKJE/s1600/mom%2527s+carseat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsChi-kXZLzFoN1TfnVEA8-6H0JZShG0rpOzIZspnD3mcui_EWTJ_8cLDcY0ssq0C-4MYJsw1v_1VZJvuGRN63CXWXGzvFFZcfwMIdFNKjCM4JMEyKQA4OF2KkUSF3Mo2yYxXY7ngKJE/s320/mom%2527s+carseat.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
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Darwin's best work. Survival of the absolute fittest.</td></tr>
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An Owlet smart sock is this tiny little baby sock that monitors your baby's oxygen level and heart rate. It sends you an alert on your smartphone if either of those drop below acceptable levels. Why? Because of SIDS. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. If you want to really scare the neighborhood parents, don't dress up as Dracula or a zombie from the Walking Dead for Halloween this year...just wrap yourself in a poorly tied swaddle blanket that can come loose and suffocate you and watch the neighborhood moms shriek in terror. </div>
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I have never worried about anything like I worry about SIDS. BUT, for the low cost of $300 (payment plan optional) I can ALWAYS monitor whether my child is breathing. Or, I could just, you know, not buy it. Like millions of parents have done before me. Of course, I would never sleep again. And, in my waking hours as I watch my kid breathe, I could dwell on the hypothetical guilt I would have over saving that $300 for something like food, and something happening to John Michael in his sleep without the Owlet's watchful eye. *sigh*</div>
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I think we all know who this was marketed for. I might as well have a giant sucker painted on my head. I asked my husband to make the decision. We'll see how that turns out...</div>
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Spoiler alert...we're buying the Owlet. </div>
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Why? Because look at this face! (If you've been following the blog for a while, you'll be happy to know that nose-gate has been debunked.) </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSTg6pAIGf8iTP7uIKIYHaXZD68dLCf5aPv4bP5rwdytOSuVpOheAyjEbkyZIwpC7AS1ZtTWsdyvdxt64u-5DOFhd1-dKmgODRHDfeMq_UWyiyh7CUU4-wLOe2ZLV5NFZvSqFjGgfcnc/s1600/jm+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="772" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSTg6pAIGf8iTP7uIKIYHaXZD68dLCf5aPv4bP5rwdytOSuVpOheAyjEbkyZIwpC7AS1ZtTWsdyvdxt64u-5DOFhd1-dKmgODRHDfeMq_UWyiyh7CUU4-wLOe2ZLV5NFZvSqFjGgfcnc/s400/jm+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">32 week sonogram pic</td></tr>
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6 more weeks-ish to go. I don't think time could move any slower at this point. We're so ready to meet you, John Michael! (Your foot feels like it's a size 8 already in my rib cage, so it feels like you're probably ready to get out of there and meet us, too.) See ya on the other side! We'll be the ones waiting with an Owlet and way too many labeled swaddle blankets.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-83752199488028043112017-08-25T11:25:00.000-07:002017-08-25T11:34:09.317-07:00 28 weeks: What's in a name?<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
My birthday is Saturday! I'll admit, I'm one of those obnoxious people who absolutely love their birthday. I usually celebrate the whole month of August. But this year, I'm so focused on another birthday getting here, my own has barely crossed my radar. </div>
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My favorite part of birthdays are the surprises that come along with them. So, I decided to write this blog to surprise a few of our friends and family, still patiently waiting to hear what we're going to name our little man. </div>
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Naming a human being is a big responsibility. Understatement of the year? I mean, how often do you get to decide what letters will be scrawled together to claim your kids' food in a break room refrigerator 30 years from now? That's important stuff. But, my husband and I have had this little guy's name picked out for a while. I wonder what he will think of that one day? Before we even knew you, we were thinking about you and what we would call you. </div>
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I've held off sharing his name for a few reasons. Mainly, because I've seen my friends get too many 'helpful' opinions on their name choices. Or my personal favorite, 'Oh! I've only known one other 'fill in name here,' He was kind of a rude sociopath and ended up with a meth addiction. But, love the name!' Gee, thanks. </div>
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I feel like I need a drumroll....or those fireworks you can add to your texts on iMessage...</div>
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It's John Michael. And, yes, it's a double name. Not John, not Michael, John Michael. (Maybe JM when we're short on character counts on Twitter.)<br />
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He's named after the two most important men in our lives, past and present. Austin's dad, John, and my dad, Michael. </div>
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If you get even deeper, John means 'God has been gracious; has shown favor.' Michael means, 'Who is like God?'. It's a rhetorical question, implying no person is like God. So, to me, it's the perfect name for our rainbow baby. And, a reminder who is really in control of this crazy thing called life, should we ever forget. </div>
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I'll tell you a little about Austin's dad. </div>
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I remember being so nervous to meet him for the first time, which is crazy to think was almost nine years ago. I had heard all of these stories about how intimidating he could be. He was a long snapper for Notre Dame, one of the youngest guys ever to make partner at his high powered law firm in Atlanta, a really smart, really shrewd, straight shooter kind of guy. Well, then there's me. I tried on 3 outfits before this. Super southern. I talk too much when I'm nervous. Sweaty palms. They asked me over dinner what Camilla (my hometown) is known for. I quickly inventory my options: dirt roads, we got a Burger King this year, we won the state football championship when I was in middle school....nope. I land on 'gnats.' Austin's incredibly sweet mom is like, 'Gnats?' 'Yes ma'am. You know, the pesky bug? We have a festival in their honor every year.' </div>
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They love this story. Bless them for not looking at Austin and saying, 'Where did you find this girl?'</div>
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I tell you this story because Austin's dad's smile and laugh when he tells that silly story always makes me feel so loved. It reminds me of my own dad, and that's how he's always treated me. As if I was his own daughter. I know when he becomes a Papa, or Pop-pop, or Papa John, or whatever it may be, he will be the best. And, even though he is all of those things I mentioned before: smart, shrewd, straight shooter, tough football guy, a presence that demands your respect, he's also passionate and curious about his hobbies (right now that's red wine, golf, and fly fishing). He's one of the most loyal people you'll ever meet. He's competitive, but fair. (Although, he's not very good at bananagrams.) He's a great judge of character. And, he's also a bit of a softie (don't tell anyone), but you can really see that in rare moments when he lets his guard down. I hope John Michael learns a lot of these qualities from him.</div>
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My dad...well, I was definitely a daddy's girl.<br />
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I don't talk about him as much as I should. I never want people to feel sad or sorry for me<br />
when I bring him up. But, not a day goes by that I don't wish I could call and hear his voice or ask his opinion on something.<br />
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He went in for a biopsy for a spot on his lung the summer after my freshman year in college, but he never left the hospital. It was lung cancer. But, no one, not even the doctors knew how aggressive it was. My dad was larger than life. He could fight anything. He'd already survived the Vietnam War, my rebellious teen years, and prostate cancer. So when I heard the news, I treated it like he had the flu. </div>
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I was a camp counselor that summer, and I'll never forget my mom calling to say, 'You need to come home.' I was stunned. I had no idea it was that serious. I got home in time to see him the day before he died. The time of his diagnosis to the night I held his hand as he took <span style="color: #444444;">his last breath was less than two we</span><span style="color: #444444;">eks. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; text-decoration-color: rgb(255, 0, 0); text-decoration-style: solid;">So, two takeaways here, life is short, and you never know when it's your time. AND, if you smoke, stop. I know it's hard. My dad told me that all the time. You know what else is hard? Giving your dad's eulogy when you're 19. And, if you don't want to stop for yourself, stop for everyone who loves you. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; text-decoration-color: rgb(255, 0, 0); text-decoration-style: solid;">Okay, the PSA is over...on to the good stuff. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">My dad and I would stay up until 3AM talking about everything from politics to philosophy. I thought he was</span> the smartest man in the world. He was witty, funny, and would rather play a joke on someone than breathe. He convinced me, in order to properly ripen a watermelon, you had to sit on them. Basically incubate them like an egg. So I would spend hours as a four year old, 'ripening' watermelons during the summer. Of course, it backfired anytime we went to the grocery store because I tried to sit on every watermelon there. They got a few strange looks. </div>
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When I was 13 and had my first boy/girl birthday party, he convinced, not just the kids, but the parents, too, that he was selling smell-o-vision. I think we still have video of people watching the cooking channel, sniffing the screen, swearing they could smell roast beef. </div>
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He could put the fear of God in you. When he was the supervisor at Bell South (that's when land lines were a thing....) everyone knew not to cross him if he wore his black shirt. That was his 'ass kicking' shirt. My worst punishments were ALWAYS when my mom told me I had to 'tell your dad what you did.' I would start crying and self punishing, working myself into a tizzy before I ever got the chance to squeak out the words. I never wanted to disappoint him. All it took was the 'disappointed look' for me to swear I would never do it again. </div>
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But, man. He was a great dad. When my mom had breast cancer when I was just two years<br />
old, we would spend countless hours at hospitals. He would come up with these great stories to entertain me off the top of his head. Mom says my favorite were the legends of<br />
'Big Brown Bear.' </div>
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He was front row at every ballet recital, pageant, barrell racing competition, and tennis tournament.<br />
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He worked his butt off to provide for our family. I've had a job since I was 13, and I know that's because I learned my work ethic from him. He started his own low voltage company when I was in elementary school, and I would wire phones and crawl under houses just to be with him. </div>
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I miss him. But, I learned so much from him. And, I hope even though John Michael will never get to meet him in person, he'll grow up learning some of those traits from me.</div>
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And, most of all, I hope John Michael will know how special his name is, and why we couldn't just settle on one. It may take him a little longer to spell out all those letters, but I hope he knows how much love is packed into those two words and three syllables. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-24499555627151835022017-07-04T20:55:00.000-07:002017-07-07T11:05:20.047-07:00Week 20: Sticks and stones<div style="font-family: Calibri, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
I think the theory of reincarnation goes something like this: if you're a good person, say your prayers every day, never steal, lie, or cheat, do for others, and never ask for a thing in return, when you die, you'll come back as a University of Georgia freshman during football season.</div>
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If you don't, when you die, you'll come back as a perpetually pregnant woman on the evening news, and everyone can share their opinions on what you look like over dinner. </div>
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Okay, this analogy is a little extreme, but you get the point. Being pregnant is already one of the most emotional, insecure times of your life. Am I gaining too much weight? Am I gaining enough weight? Is my bump too high? Is my bump too low? Are these breakouts ever going to end? Is this pregnancy making my hair dull? Why are my nail beds doing this weird thing? </div>
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Now, throw yourself in front of a camera that adds 20 pounds every night, find clothes that not only fit, but also don't make you look like a whale, and cake on enough hair and makeup products twice a day to moonlight as a Las Vegas showgirl, and you'll understand where I'm coming from. </div>
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Most days, nothing would please me more than staying in my stretchy maternity yoga pants, not a hint of makeup on my face, a bucket of fried chicken in my lap, watching Gossip Girl reruns, trying to calculate the last day I washed my hair like it's an advanced Calculus equation. </div>
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But, I picked a career that doesn't exactly allow for that. There are no 'ponytail' days. Don't get me wrong. I love my job. Absolutely love it. My husband once told my boss, every night when I come home, and he asks how my day was, more days than not, I say, "It was so great!" Not, "I survived," or "Ughh...don't even ask," but 'GREAT.' He told her as long as that was the case, he would do everything he could to support my career since I loved it so much. (Yes, ladies...he's real. And, he's taken...) </div>
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BUT, that doesn't mean I don't have bad work days. </div>
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Yesterday, was a bad work day. I checked my voicemail (hoping it was a great story tip...) No such luck. Instead, I heard this peach of a woman on the other end. </div>
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"Please go to Target and buy some decent maternity clothes so you don't walk around looking like you got a watermelon strapped under your too tight outfits. Target's got a great line of maternity clothes in case you've never heard of such a thing. You're getting to where you're being disgusting on the TV."</div>
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So, the thick skinned journalist in me who knows better than to give comments like this a second thought says, delete the voicemail and move on. </div>
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Unfortunately, I'm pregnant, hormonal, currently not allowed to drink wine, and feeling extra in touch with my feminist side. </div>
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Here's the stream of consciousness I went through: </div>
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Did she just call a pregnant person disgusting? What kind of...</div>
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I am only at week 20 of this? Am I going to have to deal with this crap another 20 weeks? Should I have my consultant or my boss call her and tell her tailored, form fitting clothes look way better on air than baggy ones, especially when pregnant? Is that a WOMAN who called me?!? Is she a MOTHER?!?!? The freaking nerve...</div>
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Do I really look disgusting? What outfit is she talking about? Why did she call on Friday, I wasn't even working Friday....did she boil over this all week and wait until I was off to leave me a voicemail? Oh crap, am I tearing up at my desk? NOT here. And, NOT over this. This lady doesn't deserve to get a rise out of me. Does she know that I'm wearing maternity clothes? What does she want me to wear, a moo moo from the 50's? Does she know this is 2017? WHY DID SHE CALL ME?! And, why can I not stop thinking about this?! Hmm...bless her heart...</div>
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So then, I went to our archives to see what could have possibly revolted her enough to find our number, call us, sit through a phone tree, find my extension, and leave me a rude voicemail. Here's my past week's worth of on-air outfits: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1wQbh2FoLQQFSsmxI7DaPfx4K5BhqjyFF9mtWj4Np8NdeZFrCBs2r9IouYv0z-IXFPG_qtQZJnvrNtu22NRMcwwDA5EF4Xai6hj6NKiuBDlcnX4ho3bwQgX9qNCRVxvPPyKvEvEXL_ak/s1600/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="839" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1wQbh2FoLQQFSsmxI7DaPfx4K5BhqjyFF9mtWj4Np8NdeZFrCBs2r9IouYv0z-IXFPG_qtQZJnvrNtu22NRMcwwDA5EF4Xai6hj6NKiuBDlcnX4ho3bwQgX9qNCRVxvPPyKvEvEXL_ak/s320/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+2.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Most of the time, I keep my hands crossed in front of my belly.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXDupyq8yvL4tqWMrH_IUw0Rvh4r8PIie11tRnkuzWLTTJLr-lAY9iQiOw3TR76T1qdEPZxDYBaioGovCM8Ab-x_mfOpKX3JkZg07hHtHwVcw_nhaPTU6usz7Y-FROyI6br0YsG6xzE_Q/s1600/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+3.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="838" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXDupyq8yvL4tqWMrH_IUw0Rvh4r8PIie11tRnkuzWLTTJLr-lAY9iQiOw3TR76T1qdEPZxDYBaioGovCM8Ab-x_mfOpKX3JkZg07hHtHwVcw_nhaPTU6usz7Y-FROyI6br0YsG6xzE_Q/s320/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+3.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"> Maybe she doesn't like when I stand at the wall??</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREuR9uSvDcjlouGxEgLTrzLgMJj6MfTDoFFmS_Acea7ke6fLVb_7C6w8ZSmD8v5a3aA5oDmIviIYNjJvVXq2772uPkk-dEeMz0OD-NIKbY9lg8FbyxUMDFc20w-8NnMCL4neYRMRHHC4/s1600/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+4.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="836" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREuR9uSvDcjlouGxEgLTrzLgMJj6MfTDoFFmS_Acea7ke6fLVb_7C6w8ZSmD8v5a3aA5oDmIviIYNjJvVXq2772uPkk-dEeMz0OD-NIKbY9lg8FbyxUMDFc20w-8NnMCL4neYRMRHHC4/s320/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+4.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0mH6L1EEICEGxqF7tkzwF82-HJJouNOrVr6b3XcxnOKRiJR0TVh71AnabgGb557cBMPtJgzM3LC0X7Z_vSo99vqvD3NZIp-50fv-o7oHBqRIv63jFqexvs79b4mG1fOMaAHjes6gbWg/s1600/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+5.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="837" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0mH6L1EEICEGxqF7tkzwF82-HJJouNOrVr6b3XcxnOKRiJR0TVh71AnabgGb557cBMPtJgzM3LC0X7Z_vSo99vqvD3NZIp-50fv-o7oHBqRIv63jFqexvs79b4mG1fOMaAHjes6gbWg/s320/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+5.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRO5D9fVcSp7q8u2qO96plt1UAOaPrQLAfMK4xrkwCFNS4kl-tgPgUXgrB3PvfBJvhzNIkW2iALMDVbbRKZXwGbQMMcExikbKhfoM9y9os1HpPaZPZlfFDGCXd4SNdfa9NXerBa5fTUo/s1600/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+6.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="836" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRO5D9fVcSp7q8u2qO96plt1UAOaPrQLAfMK4xrkwCFNS4kl-tgPgUXgrB3PvfBJvhzNIkW2iALMDVbbRKZXwGbQMMcExikbKhfoM9y9os1HpPaZPZlfFDGCXd4SNdfa9NXerBa5fTUo/s320/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+6.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8L3J7G4VUV6Iobmb3VbCEBHk5I2pdZbXEknLHSVEPGYD54oIKWXafOLVh3wFaH6vLvMCOprlmi7jLJkJO6C2-7aDYpvkHQfWGEHwkQdVNZJkSU5ALRggHrzAtLr1exynYpt8Gv4KbwQ/s1600/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+7.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="837" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8L3J7G4VUV6Iobmb3VbCEBHk5I2pdZbXEknLHSVEPGYD54oIKWXafOLVh3wFaH6vLvMCOprlmi7jLJkJO6C2-7aDYpvkHQfWGEHwkQdVNZJkSU5ALRggHrzAtLr1exynYpt8Gv4KbwQ/s320/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+7.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8_yEACjDTuN0r8FDK0bP21U3LeDJpTnYHswUGnykfquI2FaenwNiAH0xMOb0jBe0c2DaRSrt-h59GPxM_081ukBBL6Ee-XCdlLVurx2NKGtHRm3JBse-Cm_H0sO2X38o_m1PARFdzYM/s1600/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+7.5.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="834" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8_yEACjDTuN0r8FDK0bP21U3LeDJpTnYHswUGnykfquI2FaenwNiAH0xMOb0jBe0c2DaRSrt-h59GPxM_081ukBBL6Ee-XCdlLVurx2NKGtHRm3JBse-Cm_H0sO2X38o_m1PARFdzYM/s320/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+7.5.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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This angle, I move my arms out of the way of the bump...maybe this? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNQMwVxnSt4kiWxup79zY86pBZ1tReJxbO9X26F2KEbLx3Lzw3YdmButp8c9Q7yM0eJV6vbZ5y0-1h-cYGvd655bW1nFETKsB07h85TVV0TLX1_G6-zPeR9fPtDCgjKOu8neX4YJVeUXs/s1600/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+8.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="836" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNQMwVxnSt4kiWxup79zY86pBZ1tReJxbO9X26F2KEbLx3Lzw3YdmButp8c9Q7yM0eJV6vbZ5y0-1h-cYGvd655bW1nFETKsB07h85TVV0TLX1_G6-zPeR9fPtDCgjKOu8neX4YJVeUXs/s320/maternity+clothes+on+air+pic+8.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUE5DPJ75OAr7LuGaaK_WVXfqxGwvexamQppJw-f06cNNbmvsBMJOBlZ45KWijQNoU5KALKUhR0DL-sVizN-MEhuxfvI1JXKax-IgMLyhwKf5GsdbnntafnYpUbA0RWmgRYo23V4F7TE/s1600/on+air+maternity+clothes+pic+1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="841" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUE5DPJ75OAr7LuGaaK_WVXfqxGwvexamQppJw-f06cNNbmvsBMJOBlZ45KWijQNoU5KALKUhR0DL-sVizN-MEhuxfvI1JXKax-IgMLyhwKf5GsdbnntafnYpUbA0RWmgRYo23V4F7TE/s320/on+air+maternity+clothes+pic+1.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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You get the picture. But, this lady really got me thinking...</div>
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I consider myself a confident, pretty secure, independent, woman. Why was I letting this one ridiculous, negative comment ruin my whole day? I've gotten dozens of compliments from viewers saying nice things about my pregnancy, why was this the one that stuck? </div>
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I don't really have an answer. If I did, I could probably solve the world's bullying problem. But, that whole saying our moms taught us about sticks and stones is kind of garbage. In fact, sometimes, I think words hurt far worse than sticks. And right now, we are living in a culture tolerating, often even encouraging bullies. Politicians, angry Democrats and Republicans, anonymous keyboard warriors, social media bullies....How do we teach our kids to be kind when adults all around them can say such cruel things? </div>
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It worries me. Right now, I can protect this sweet little boy. But, I won't always be able to. I certainly don't want him to dwell on the negative things insecure people are bound to say about him.<br />
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So, I think instead of letting this lady get me down, I'm just going to turn her negative energy into positive energy. I'm going to say as many nice things as I can to as many people as I can, and I'm going to do it in a dress that fits these beautiful new curves with my 'watermelon' stomach showing. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com307tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-22332271441892518552017-06-26T19:22:00.001-07:002017-06-26T19:37:55.302-07:00Week 19: Worry Tetris <div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
Envision a calendar with the most important days color coded. Today has been circled in red, highlighted, with little sticker stars, for months. Granted, that's all purely ceremonial, because there's no way I would forget this appointment. Today was our 19 week anatomy scan. The same scan that turned our world upside down back in October.</div>
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So, this day has meant a lot to me for a long time. I've tried hard not to put it on too tall of a pedestal, but in the back of my mind, I've known for months, if I can get past this scan and know everything is okay, it would be a huge weight off my worried shoulders. </div>
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We get to the appointment, and in terms of doctor's office waits, this was like the express lane of medical care. And, if you've ever frequented doctor's offices, you know, that's a rare, beautiful gift. </div>
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For a person who can be so direct as a reporter, I am really terrible at telling people what I need. I should have asked the sonogram tech to talk us through what she was doing. But, no. I'm a polite masochist. So, I just sat there on the table quietly playing worry Tetris in my brain. </div>
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As soon as one worry hole was filled, the blocks would keep tumbling faster until I worked myself into an anxious tear-tizzy, certain her silence meant only terrible things. Turns out, it meant she was just busy doing her job, measuring 124,596 tiny little organs and features on our 12 ounce baby. Everything was great. Heartbeat: great. Brain scan: great. Legs and arms? All there and accounted for. Spine? Straight as an arrow. Measurements? Ahead of the curve. Measuring 20 weeks. </div>
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Relief. Jeez. Like Niagara Falls bursting through a beaver dam. So, after the serious scanning was over, we got to watch him in 4D for a bit rolling around and giving us a cute little thumbs up, kicking his long (perfect) legs...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg0HQO8kMc3xi66eDyiQMJpZ1MsVCZm2ErHhhNeBv83idKxPDkIE9h9ebLQJ372qldmFM_lpEf_v-B9OIA7sTJuqnWTq-ION1YPMPk_4sRtXf1RuyvnZemvLRziQ8ktjAgYmhIGr2bybM/s1600/leg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="640" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg0HQO8kMc3xi66eDyiQMJpZ1MsVCZm2ErHhhNeBv83idKxPDkIE9h9ebLQJ372qldmFM_lpEf_v-B9OIA7sTJuqnWTq-ION1YPMPk_4sRtXf1RuyvnZemvLRziQ8ktjAgYmhIGr2bybM/s320/leg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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...holding the bridge of his nose... </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRk_4HfLdaN_EHEwOo9Ouer5lHIP1Pqr7sWRlhqCXJMt9Bh3fkhfYZ75e5XnfKTXcqwSZo738jTiPUYPE7ufwWG5BGinC5DprbV2g2vupKDexOKr2SM7YNrsB4ozbk5Kb9C71kixO62s/s1600/bridge+nose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRk_4HfLdaN_EHEwOo9Ouer5lHIP1Pqr7sWRlhqCXJMt9Bh3fkhfYZ75e5XnfKTXcqwSZo738jTiPUYPE7ufwWG5BGinC5DprbV2g2vupKDexOKr2SM7YNrsB4ozbk5Kb9C71kixO62s/s320/bridge+nose.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And, this is where our worry Tetris picks up its game. </div>
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He finally moves his cute little hand to reveal his nose...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSixS1_gl7xmOzo4IKhjf23tsUwSB6zqZWIaZLNgK5-5Eg72_zIepFOEVl1ohAywIR6KOuVqM5YycFdLvuliq1ZZl8YBX37SbDquZf01fd3grbL60ZgqtobFnhdJwRSBemiMo7ldYvjzU/s1600/big+nose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSixS1_gl7xmOzo4IKhjf23tsUwSB6zqZWIaZLNgK5-5Eg72_zIepFOEVl1ohAywIR6KOuVqM5YycFdLvuliq1ZZl8YBX37SbDquZf01fd3grbL60ZgqtobFnhdJwRSBemiMo7ldYvjzU/s320/big+nose.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Is that his nose?! Because let me tell you, that nose doesn't look like my nose or his dad's nose. It looks like Rudolph and Pinocchio had a love child. I mean, a very cute love child, but still...</div>
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The sonogram tech says, "He'll grow into it..." That sounds a lot like something people tell you when they're thinking, YIKES?! </div>
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Of course I instantly flash back to everything I was ever teased about in school, and all I can think about is how cruel kids (and adults for that matter) can be. Then, my face splashed across a headline 'Local news anchor arrested for threatening child on playground who teased son.' </div>
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I teared up a few times on the way out of the doctor's office, and I couldn't decide if it was relief that our little one was healthy, worry over his nose, embarrassment over the shallowness of crying about a nose, hormones, or a combo platter. Austin and I shared a lot of nervous giggles about 'nose-gate' at lunch and on the way home. But, the undertone of the laugh was very clearly, but what if it IS really that big?!?!</div>
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I watched the video the sonogram tech gave us with Austin, slowed it down, paused it, inspected it from all angles. I mean, he is a cherub. Look at this? Even in claymation view weighing in at 12 ounces, he's adorable:</div>
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There is literally ONE four second clip from ONE angle that his nose appears to be a costume piece borrowed from the goblins at Gringott's bank, but is that stopping me from worrying? Of course not. </div>
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One of my best friends pointed out that none of the 2D sonogram pictures of his profile show any crazy nose action, but does that stop me from worrying? Of course not. </div>
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Google was my friend today, though, because apparently a lot of women have this same concern after seeing 4-D images. Since you're taking pictures INSIDE of a human stomach INSIDE of a uterus THROUGH a gallon of fluid, they aren't perfect images. Features can be distorted. Different angles and shadows can play tricks. This early, they can quite literally grow into their features since he has no fat yet. One lady says her son was born with an enormous nose, and now, at age 2, it's completely proportional, etc. etc.</div>
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But, tonight at dinner, my husband and I laughed (I cried) so hard at how much things could change in such a short time. We are so freaking lucky to be able to worry about this poor child's nose structure. I mean, in the scheme of things, that is such a non-issue. I know over his life, I am going to worry about 99,999,999 things, and right now, we're worried he may pick up part time work as an ant-eater or training bomb sniffing dogs. But, I bet he'll be the most loved ant eater there ever was! </div>
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And if he's healthy, happy, and loved, then being able to smell roses from 5 miles away will just be a bonus feature for us to love that much more. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-47260190366675199102017-05-14T19:51:00.002-07:002017-08-28T19:14:15.849-07:00Week 13: 'Red Barbie Corvette' kind of joy<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
We've been hoping for a surprise free, boring pregnancy, but this past week we got a big surprise, fortunately, the good kind!</div>
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I'd been a little nervous for the emotions of this Mother's Day. It should've been my first one as a new mother, posting too many pictures on social media with a new baby. I just never know when a wave of 'what-ifs' and emotions will hit me, you know? But, this week didn't disappoint. Instead of looking back, it's been a week full of hope, new firsts, and looking forward. </div>
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I have been so anxious and nervous waiting for our week 12 sonogram. The night before, I barely slept. My nerves were so shot by the time I got to the waiting room, I think I read the same article in People 4 times, and I still couldn't tell you when George and Amal's twins are actually due. (Although I do remember their romantic trip to Paris was everything Hollywood dreams are made of....swoon, but not the point.) </div>
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We finally made it back to the sonogram room. I was biting my tongue to stifle the worry-tears before I even sat on the table. Hormones are the worst. Mercifully, our sonogram tech was amazing, and she got straight to business. We heard that familiar fast paced 'whoosh' sound that meant I could exhale the breath I'd been holding since I last heard a heart beat on week 8. </div>
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And, the relief and the joy of that next 15 or so minutes...there aren't even words! I mean like, Christmas morning of 1994, the 'Christmas of the red Barbie Corvette convertible' levels of joy. Our little one was putting on a SHOW! Rolling around, kicking what right now appear to be my bird legs, a tiny little profile with the cutest nose that to me, looks like a carbon copy of my husband's. </div>
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The sonogram tech asked us if we were planning to find out the sex, and we said yes. She said, 'I can tell you today if you want?' </div>
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WHAT?! I had no idea that was possible at 12 weeks. I had not in any way mentally prepared for this, but our little one was measuring a little ahead and must be in the perfect position, because the sonogram was clear as a bell. She pointed to the screen and says--"Only one thing would be sticking out right there." I said, "So it could be a boy?" She said, "No, it IS a boy." </div>
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Shocked. I was shocked. My whole life, I've wanted a little boy first. Of course, that all changed when we lost our little girl in October. I'm not going to lie, I had really been hoping for a girl this time, too. My husband and I both had. But, as soon as she pointed to that screen, and my brain made sense of it all, I was in. Completely wrapped around that little boy's finger. There were already dinosaurs and Tonka trucks, super hero capes and little league games playing out in my head. And, the happy tears choking up my husband's voice were all I needed to know he was in love, too. A healthy baby boy.</div>
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I've never been able to identify ANYTHING in a sonogram before. I've looked at dozens and mistaken the legs for the head before. I've oohed and ahhhed at what could have been a fuzzy picture of a frog for all I knew, but this was OUR baby, and I could tell exactly what was happening on the screen every time he rolled, his little back facing us, his legs kicking out. I mean, he was just a 2D gray and white silhouette, but I swear he's the cutest thing I've ever seen. I dare Amal and George's twins to rival our baby's sonogram. </div>
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And guess what? Our child is already a prodigy. At just 13 weeks old, our baby is already giving his mom Mother's Day presents. Just when I was thinking Mother's Day weekend couldn't get much better (no nausea on Saturday, my best friend mailed me an adorable onesie, and Austin got me a pre-natal massage gift certificate and indulged my pregnancy craving for PF Chang's and a chick flick) I was midway through my Chang's Spicy Chicken when I felt what seemed like the longest bout of stomach growling I've ever had. But, since I was shoving my face full of gooey chicken, and clearly no longer hungry, I put two and two together..."I think the baby is moving." </div>
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After trying to decipher the morse code happening in my stomach for the remainder of the meal, I convinced myself, nah, maybe that's not it.</div>
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Well, today in Lowe's...I had the same feeling! I think I can feel him moving already! Or 'quickening' as Google tells me they call it. How perfect is that? On Mother's Day? Now, if this next six months could 'quicken,' so I could meet our little angel. I can't wait!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-87924758413886239132017-04-17T12:50:00.000-07:002017-04-17T13:18:50.835-07:00Week 9: How many are in there?<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
So I'm getting too big too early to hide this secret any longer, but I've never really liked secrets anyway....</div>
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I'm only 9 weeks, but I look like I'm 15-20!! This was taken during week 7...yeah...I know...They say you show earlier after your first pregnancy, but DANG?!?!</div>
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The good news, there's only one in there. I was pretty convinced between my ravenous appetite and bulging belly that I was having a litter until the sonogram. And let me tell you about this sonogram...<br />
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I knew I was going to be nervous to make sure everything was okay, but pregnancy hormones and emotions decided to make this a 'next level' experience. The poor sonogram tech didn't know what she was getting into. </div>
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As soon as I laid down on that table in a dark room, the flash backs to the last time I was in that position were all a little too real. Instant waterworks. And hearing the words, "Everything looks good! There's only one in there. Here's the head, arm buds...heart beat.Heart beat looks strong..." As much as I've reasoned with myself that it's all going to be okay, or that it's okay if it's not all okay, whatever Psychology 101 I've decided to dose myself with that week, I just wasn't prepared. I couldn't get a grip. Ugly sobs. </div>
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My husband asked if they were happy tears. My first instinct was to say, yes, the absolute happiest of tears! But, along with salt water and hormones there was so much fear, uncertainty, relief, and hope in those tears, I feel like it wouldn't do them justice to call them 'happy tears.' </div>
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But along with uncontrollable emotions, heartburn, and constant nausea, Holy. Exhaustion. </div>
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Remember the Secret World of Alex Mack? For those of you NOT raised in the 90's, this girl nearly gets hit by a Mack truck full of chemicals and somehow, is able to turn into a Capri-Sun package looking puddle of goo and slide around and then morph back into herself when she feels like it. (It was the 90s, just go with it...) </div>
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Well, that's the best comparison I can give you for how I feel right now. The only difference is it feels like the truck DID hit me, and the only place I slide when I feel like that puddle of goo is into my bed. </div>
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I was tired the last time around, but this is next level. The timing probably isn't helping anything. Last week was our busiest week of the year at work...Masters week. And, this year, we got a double dose with two separate days of tornado-spawning severe weather tacked on. </div>
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I once came into work with a kidney infection and bronchitis, but I was so tired, nauseous and capri-sun-puddley on Tuesday, I took a half day. THAT is the level of exhaustion I'm talking about. </div>
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Thursday...I woke up after 8 hours of sleep to go to the gym. Realized it was just too daunting. Snoozed for another 30. Went to the gym. Left after 45 minutes because I was too tired. Showered. Napped...because showers are exhausting. Went to a board meeting. Came home. Napped for an hour and a half. Drug myself to work...still exhausted. Napped for 30 more minutes on my dinner break. And, I was still tired when my head finally hit the bed. </div>
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But, I promised myself I would appreciate the 'process' of pregnancy more this time around, so that's enough whining...at least for this one blog post. </div>
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Which means I'm out of things to say.<br />
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But, did I mention? We're pregnant! There aren't enough words in the English language to express how thankful I am. All-day sickness, exhaustion, weight gain, and all. I'll take it. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-34293325100540903012017-04-17T11:40:00.001-07:002017-04-17T12:00:46.494-07:00Week 4: Bug on a windshield<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
I want to shout this and whisper it at the exact same time.....we're pregnant! </div>
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So, I'm basically doing this strange dance of being so grateful and thankful and excited, while at the same time, trying to convince myself it's no big deal. </div>
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The best comparison I have is a really bad, soul crushing break up. Then, a little time goes by, and you get up the courage to have a crush on someone else, but you're terrified to fall in love again for fear of getting crushed like a bug on a windshield. </div>
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Meet me. The bug. </div>
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It's been a while since I wrote a <span class="il">blog</span> post. And, a good bit has happened. For one, we got test results back that told me I have a pretty common gene mutation called MTHFR (yeah, that's exactly what I said when I heard about it...with a few more vowels.) (Some estimates say 40-60% of the population may have it). If I went into the science of it, your eyes would surely glaze over. Because mine have. Several times. </div>
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But in lay man's terms, it means my body can't process folic acid properly. So, even though I was taking it every day, my baby was getting very little, if any of it. </div>
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So the good news, we have a thing that I can point to and say, okay. We can fix this. I just take a prenatal vitamin with the form of folic acid that's already broken down and a couple of folic acid supplements a day, and voila! </div>
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Now, my doctor can't point to this and say 100% this is what caused me to have such a late miscarriage. But, it's a strong possibility, and also helps my sanity to have something to *fix*, to do differently than the last time. </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">One thing I hate, is the innocence is gone for me. The innocence of that first pregnancy, the hope </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">that everything will be alright...that's gone. And in it's place is a lot of prayers, an abundance of caution, and a constant tennis ma</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">tch of logic</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> going on in my head.</span> </div>
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And, I do not like 'worry-wart' Laura. I much prefer care-free, spontaneous, kick your shoes off Laura. </div>
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A day or two after we got the first positive pregnancy test, Austin was asking me how I was feeling. I responded honestly...excited, but trying not to be too excited quite yet. He was like, well, I totally get that. But, are you going to not be excited until after first trimester? But we made it past that the last time....so 18 weeks? Until the baby is born? Then for the rest of its life, because something bad could always happen? </div>
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And $h!t! He's right. He's so right. And not just about this baby, but about anything in life. Something bad could always happen. But, waiting on the other shoe to drop isn't any way to live a life. So, I guess I'm just going to go all in. </div>
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I'm not going to make any hard and fast rules, because I know some days I'm going to be as nervous as my Meme in a thunderstorm, and look up every terrible scenario ever typed into the Google search bar. But, I'm excited. And, I'M PREGNANT!!! I have no idea what's going to happen tomorrow or 6 months from now or 10 years down the road, but life is too short to just dip a toe in the water. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-73288952139055840732016-11-02T18:19:00.000-07:002017-04-21T19:02:42.535-07:00"How are you doing?" <div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
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There is never a simple answer. </div>
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It depends on what minute of the day you're talking about. I would say, I'm good 75-85% of the day. But, every day, something reminds me of my new reality. </div>
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Maternity clothes delivered the day I got home from the hospital. The news so fresh even Amazon Prime couldn't pump the brakes fast enough. </div>
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The next morning, a barrage of e-mails and app alerts about what size my baby should be, since we marked her weekly milestones every Sunday. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as an 'unsubscribe from all my future plans' button. </div>
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Then there's social media. Do I even have to explain the Facebook effect at this point?</div>
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Worse, the ads. My Meme always says, 'I don't trust a phone smarter than I am.' Well, I sort of get it now. Since the internet can serve up ads catered to your every search history impulse, I'm constantly getting alerts about what crib I should buy. The internet won't let me forget the nursery I had planned, the maternity style I dreamed of, or the sweet little outfit I would bring our baby girl home in. </div>
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The first trip back to the gym, when spandex reminded me I definitely was not pregnant anymore. </div>
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The sad eyes at the grocery store, gym, gas station, the ones I imagine in my head, and the 'I'm praying for you's' which mean so much, but also make me tear up. </div>
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Getting on a scale. The only time in the history of my life I wish the numbers were higher, and the little gasp I let out was a reminder of a plus one on board. </div>
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My masochistic habit of sneaking into what would have been her nursery to look at her cute little clothes she'll never wear folded up in a drawer. </div>
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My check-up visit to my doctor. Walking in those same hospital doors again. Seeing a happy family get into a car to leave at the exact same spot I did, except instead of a dazed look and swollen, red eyes, they had balloons and two tiny bundles. </div>
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Some days, I think I'm almost 'normal,' again, and wham. </div>
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I think the hardest part is not being able to out think it. Austin is constantly giving me the reassurance I need. I know the stages of grief. I know I never actually met this tiny person. I know I have dealt with loss and grief before. I know we are young and can try again. I know there was probably something wrong, which is why my body did what it was supposed to do. I know late miscarriage is very unlikely to happen a second time. I know my hormones are partly to blame. I know 'at least we were able to get pregnant.' I know a lot of people are fighting much harder battles. I know God has a plan. I know time heals all wounds. I know it all. </div>
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Which is why I can't believe how hard this has been. </div>
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And why, if you are going through this, you need to know, you are not crazy, and you most certainly are not alone. </div>
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There has been such a weight lifted by hearing other family's stories. It's been such a blessing to hear so many of your stories. I know it's not a luxury a lot of families going through this get, which is why I want to share them with you: <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&q=https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pCqFcJLq1tV5KLeuMCZxC9Y53ZMTZtuX5cgmPxWdRfo/edit?usp%3Dsharing&source=gmail&ust=1478224787760000&usg=AFQjCNGRaws3whTKh0Gi4vTBMBoDCyepuw" href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pCqFcJLq1tV5KLeuMCZxC9Y53ZMTZtuX5cgmPxWdRfo/edit?usp=sharing" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 12.8px;" target="_blank">https://docs.google.com/<wbr></wbr>document/d/<wbr></wbr>1pCqFcJLq1tV5KLeuMCZxC9Y53ZMTZ<wbr></wbr>tuX5cgmPxWdRfo/edit?usp=<wbr></wbr>sharing</a></div>
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All of that being said, I have learned the toughest lessons and the biggest blessings somehow come from the worst of times. I have never hugged my husband tighter, told him I loved him more, or felt his love more than I have in these past few weeks. </div>
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We've planned impromptu trips. We've talked about love and life. We've counted the many blessings we have and thanked God for the friends we are lucky to call ours. We've thought twice about sweating the small stuff. And, we've prioritized what we want in life.</div>
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I've learned grief isn't a competition and each person feels, deals, and heals differently. And, that's okay. </div>
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It's not a lesson I want to be taught twice, and I'm sure the lesson isn't over. The strangest part, writing this and reflecting, I think something my husband said the other day hits the nail on the head. He said, "I think we needed this." And I knew exactly what he meant. Not the pain, but the reality check.</div>
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Life isn't perfect. But it is so, so precious.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-52782102298485974542016-10-16T14:43:00.001-07:002016-10-16T14:43:08.307-07:00Week 18: That look.<div style="color: #212121; font-family: 'Segoe UI', 'Segoe WP', 'Segoe UI WPC', Tahoma, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">It was supposed to be a great day. We hadn't seen our little sweet potato since she was 8 weeks old, when she was too small to see anything but an assurance that this was all real. (An assurance that looked more like a kidney bean at the time than a baby). </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOytzD5csvFRd4xCfCosARK8odtBfWGIUPpLCxJlwI6dqLl9U11PqWFKzEvOyzTQecxs3ptVEnzA-O_dwPohY4ABn6Rx7ocUZjKSuMiwfLTZCNtdc6_83MHON59x-CDmSv1-RvnL322M/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOytzD5csvFRd4xCfCosARK8odtBfWGIUPpLCxJlwI6dqLl9U11PqWFKzEvOyzTQecxs3ptVEnzA-O_dwPohY4ABn6Rx7ocUZjKSuMiwfLTZCNtdc6_83MHON59x-CDmSv1-RvnL322M/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">The day was FINALLY here for our 18 week sonogram. We'd get to see her moving around and check all of her organs and see her little arms and legs. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">But, then. That look. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">It's the look a doctor gave me and my mom when they told us there wasn't anything more they could do for my dad. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">It's the look the hospice nurse gave us when they told us just to make my Papa comfortable.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">It's the look my dad gave me when he told me my Uncle David took his own life. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">And it's the same look my doctor gave when she came into the sonogram room, after the sonogram tech was gone way too long. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">'There's no heartbeat.'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">'She's only measuring 15 weeks.'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">'You see this tissue here, it's what happens when, I hate to say it, but decay sets in.'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">'I'm so, so, sorry.'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">All these phrases, these horrific memories, keep bouncing around my head like something I watched in a movie, or something I read in a book that was so vividly written, I got sucked in and lost in it. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">But, how? I followed so many rules. We took the extra prenatal chromosome tests. I had no symptoms of a miscarriage. We made it all the way to nearly 19 weeks. And now? Is it something I did? Is it something I didn't do? </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">And now, it's not just her heart that's broken, it's a trail of hearts. My heart. Her daddy's heart. Her grandparents' hearts. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">It just seems so unfair. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">Ironically, just last week, I was having a conversation with a coworker about life not being fair. And what age you come to realize that it's just not sometimes. He's trying to make his kids understand that, and it's tough. (Of course, we were talking about something stupid like overtime or comp days that seems utterly insignificant now, but hey. Two lessons for the price of one.) But it turns out, I'm still learning that tough lesson. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">But, I have quickly learned, as lonely as this feels, we are not alone. Within hours of our loss, I found out some of the people I'm closest to in the world have experienced this same loss. Some of them personally, some of them have parents with these stories, friends, or siblings. I would have never known. Miscarriage is not something people talk about. It took me one Google search to realize that. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">I have always been a big believer in fate and God's master plan. And, what I keep circling back around to, sometimes, there just aren't any answers to the questions you need answers to most. And that's where your reasoning has to let go and your faith has to pick up. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">So that's what I'm doing. I'm letting faith step in. I'm letting myself be sad for a while. I'm leaning on my friends and family and letting them help when they ask if we need help. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">And, most of all, I'm amazed at the power of love. How much love I could have for someone I never even met. How much love I could be blessed with coming from friends and family. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">And most of all, the love I couldn't even fully understand yet when I married my best friend. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">I'm reminded of that love about every five minutes during this grief process. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">I will never forget being in a puddle of tears in my doctor's office, about ten minutes after we got the news, looking at him, wondering how he could even look at me. Asking how he could ever look at me the same again after this? </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">Austin looked at me and said, "I'm so in love with you. And we are going to get through this together. And we are only going to come through this stronger. The only outcome is me loving you even more."</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">It's the kind of love it takes to be the rock when I know he feels like going to pieces along with me. The kind of love it takes to never leave my side through a delivery neither of us ever dreamed we'd have to endure. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: .SF UI Text;"><span style="font-family: .SFUIText; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 17pt;">And, now as we piece this broken puzzle back together, it's knowing how much love we will have to give when the time is right again to grow our family. Because we know this is not the end. It's just another new beginning. </span></span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-51083138753584400132016-10-11T17:27:00.002-07:002016-10-11T17:41:19.895-07:00Week 18: An adoption story<div style="font-family: Calibri, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Getting ready for our sweet baby girl to enter the world has me thinking a lot about my own entrance into this world. Those of you who know me, know that I'm adopted. These are photos of the day my parents met me, at 10 weeks old, after getting 'the call' and driving full steam ahead to Virginia to pick me up. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeo4WHv_-D48CY4trzaxH3FA6H9QmkAogoOC2nRPUuSqwiGxSBbvk54Kk84A7x1-YiXKa3km1_YidqSLF1nIznvp9ShNCvWIu_vrSYw1C9h-CuC_bhc9AzEnWxBohp-8kbqn5iqcBRnE/s1600/BLOG+PIG+ADOPTION+DAY+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeo4WHv_-D48CY4trzaxH3FA6H9QmkAogoOC2nRPUuSqwiGxSBbvk54Kk84A7x1-YiXKa3km1_YidqSLF1nIznvp9ShNCvWIu_vrSYw1C9h-CuC_bhc9AzEnWxBohp-8kbqn5iqcBRnE/s320/BLOG+PIG+ADOPTION+DAY+1.jpg" width="320" /></a>My mom says it was love at first sight when I started giggling at my dad who couldn't figure out how to hook me into the car seat. I had them wrapped around my finger from that moment on.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUrJrGx4XUQxZJFnIHfRr5sGhN1Lx-aPR8LfwnZOZo8BvjfmZ4mbiCN2xGuk0OBcKuZKBTKP5tApGMmZsUTva6xN8PVPWCIJqzIMbb-skSEiDzM0sVvYrYiuevrvroUMcVc5-c_Q3MsOw/s1600/blog-dad-adoption+day.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUrJrGx4XUQxZJFnIHfRr5sGhN1Lx-aPR8LfwnZOZo8BvjfmZ4mbiCN2xGuk0OBcKuZKBTKP5tApGMmZsUTva6xN8PVPWCIJqzIMbb-skSEiDzM0sVvYrYiuevrvroUMcVc5-c_Q3MsOw/s320/blog-dad-adoption+day.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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I write this blog post because I've met so many people either thinking about adoption, in the process of trying to adopt, afraid of adopting, or wondering how they should handle the subject with their adopted kids. I never hesitate to tell them my story, which is why I want to share it with you, too. It's something I've always been so proud of, and that's largely because of the way my parents always made me feel. Wanted. Special. An answer to years of prayers. </div>
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Of course, they aren't perfect and their plan back fired a few times. (Like the time in preschool I got a note sent home for upsetting the other kids. As the story goes, they were picking on me because I was adopted and I promptly replied, 'Oh yeah? Well my mom picked me out. Your mom got stuck with you.' I have no idea where I got that sass from... ) But that was me. Being adopted was rarely something I felt made me different in a bad way. It was actually the opposite. </div>
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As early as I can remember, my parents started explaining adoption to me. It wasn't news they dropped on me when I was 18 or a secret they hoped I never discovered. They explained it to me and discussed it in the open from the time I could comprehend, just like you would explain a baby coming into the world. When I would point to pregnant ladies and say 'baby' my mom would explain yes, that's where babies come from. But, that I didn't grow in mommy's tummy. I grew in her heart. Later, they would explain it all in more detail, but it made perfect sense to me at the time. And, come to think of it, it still does. </div>
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As I got a little older, in Sunday school, I learned about the story of Moses. My mom said, 'Yes! Moses was adopted just like you, and he was so loved. He grew up to be a great leader who helped set his people free.' </div>
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Of course, my dad's take on explaining adoption was different. When I asked my dad if they found me in a reed basket like Moses, without skipping a beat, he said, 'No. It was wicker.' (I miss his wit. So quick. Remind me to tell you the story about hatching watermelons some time.)</div>
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Birthdays were the best! My parents could throw a mean party! Check out this carousel cake my mom made one year.</div>
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And this was my Grease themed birthday party! Poodle skirts and glass bottle cokes...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwpX2w4kBJ_9z_-O9ctk4akJth1KJGpARJlA8TdlYrl9y-onxRdPZnKuK8O8-cP36Fchl67TNl0ijrZobu_YcC0KywZlwlf8ygEO6MXoavy9Iu4FaSq2IwGIgGFIkpAzyjrc3UDWzV_gg/s1600/BLOG+PIC-GREASE+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwpX2w4kBJ_9z_-O9ctk4akJth1KJGpARJlA8TdlYrl9y-onxRdPZnKuK8O8-cP36Fchl67TNl0ijrZobu_YcC0KywZlwlf8ygEO6MXoavy9Iu4FaSq2IwGIgGFIkpAzyjrc3UDWzV_gg/s320/BLOG+PIC-GREASE+2.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8sQuNcitqdKjfBeDOuK-iCA_ERVrncHVH5Nn0V1b9VMCVKxmCwB1MLyqb8MHY24O33QHlpA7nmSIZONClGD1BFEMu3YImWI6walTwixqGJsqKrPokzmI9XKfHhA86aZrw0HSmMCDO5Gk/s1600/BLOG+PIC-GREASE+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8sQuNcitqdKjfBeDOuK-iCA_ERVrncHVH5Nn0V1b9VMCVKxmCwB1MLyqb8MHY24O33QHlpA7nmSIZONClGD1BFEMu3YImWI6walTwixqGJsqKrPokzmI9XKfHhA86aZrw0HSmMCDO5Gk/s320/BLOG+PIC-GREASE+3.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg62JbE1LI-mlLvk6y56jGmOKAY9j6mbEd4p4QCD1b_r55z-c3eutAI2ACvCeMpwGdnKPdjaHS97-i-9zE4VsLrF7ktrDHwkD7jTIJHgxj4N_qJeRGmhzYMxlCcif-NPrs8oQWW5x7xgS4/s1600/BLOG+PIC-GREASE+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg62JbE1LI-mlLvk6y56jGmOKAY9j6mbEd4p4QCD1b_r55z-c3eutAI2ACvCeMpwGdnKPdjaHS97-i-9zE4VsLrF7ktrDHwkD7jTIJHgxj4N_qJeRGmhzYMxlCcif-NPrs8oQWW5x7xgS4/s320/BLOG+PIC-GREASE+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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And the celebrations continue...here's birthday #21<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8_dOgYlr58Mct_DHuSHf8Ey0a1LNhyphenhyphenRnz_o7UTzg62V2H6xbAizKJ2ihC2g2CEoK3XnmtseDI5Spv8hKxuAk6mKZHrwJu-rCRyKXgLRK6ocRdKNuNHtf_guYRc5DFoBPsIVf8Pyo-vY/s1600/blog-bday+21+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8_dOgYlr58Mct_DHuSHf8Ey0a1LNhyphenhyphenRnz_o7UTzg62V2H6xbAizKJ2ihC2g2CEoK3XnmtseDI5Spv8hKxuAk6mKZHrwJu-rCRyKXgLRK6ocRdKNuNHtf_guYRc5DFoBPsIVf8Pyo-vY/s320/blog-bday+21+2.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdfMQYW0ZN2kn-APpvSDFOQwESK52Z7ufEBWOcHGJLXjqvW4p2uUoTPi4_AOb8r1gaFwQprKu6nmzUVKsjF8lDCd6B1GZ8C4K71ox8JDVc6Zq5TNPEwPRePEQliFfDREvIB87dkbDsqM/s1600/blog-bday+21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdfMQYW0ZN2kn-APpvSDFOQwESK52Z7ufEBWOcHGJLXjqvW4p2uUoTPi4_AOb8r1gaFwQprKu6nmzUVKsjF8lDCd6B1GZ8C4K71ox8JDVc6Zq5TNPEwPRePEQliFfDREvIB87dkbDsqM/s320/blog-bday+21.jpg" width="240" /></a> </div>
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Okay, I got carried away on memory lane. But, the point is, birthdays are for parties and cake and friends and family, but I have another day that comes around every November 15th just for me and my parents to celebrate, and that is my Adoption Day! We would always go out to dinner and I would get a small present, and it was just our little day. In fact, not an adoption day goes by that my mom still doesn't mail me a gift and a card. </div>
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If you're going to adopt, take my advice. Make adoption something to celebrate!</div>
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Any kid is going to have questions. And my parents always tried to be honest and tell me as much as they knew about my biological parents. (Like the time I was certain I had a twin out there somewhere. My parents assured me if I was a twin, they would have adopted us both. But, I still watched Parent Trap on repeat. I'm still not quite satisfied with that answer.)<br />
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My parents always told me, when I turned 18, if I wanted to go through the process of trying to track down my biological parents, they would do anything they could to help. That always meant a lot to me. But, as I got older and gave it more thought, I realized, I already know who my parents are. And, I've never had anything but complete gratitude to the teenage girl who made the very adult decision to give me a better life. </div>
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But, don't get me wrong. This isn't supposed to make adoptive parenting sound like some cake walk on a rainbow. Even parents who are as 'good' with the whole adoption thing as mine are going to have hiccups and missteps along the way. And 27 or so years later, we can finally laugh at those hiccups. </div>
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When I was four, my parents had a brilliant idea to let me pick out a dog to adopt. It would be so great! I'd get to adopt a pet and bring it home, love it, and in turn, I would learn about adoption. </div>
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Well, alas, kids have minds of their own and even the best laid plans can sometimes go awry. </div>
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So, we get to the dog pound, (the scariest, saddest place on earth, might I add). After trying to take all of the dogs home, I pick out this little black and white fluff of a puppy who would not stop licking me. Bailey. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGPjW0_59JOrjfDXnk2R94fFM8j2z7Pz-joOyzX02asHubHAhwWneuUiLH9iqTuaKCF-YQVuM_mR8swGTIFdS8fmMqbwVTgSTACmoHVoCLLiZrciM4IJe6HO-MnmNKpipJw4YyhpCag8/s1600/BLOG+PIC-BAILEY+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGPjW0_59JOrjfDXnk2R94fFM8j2z7Pz-joOyzX02asHubHAhwWneuUiLH9iqTuaKCF-YQVuM_mR8swGTIFdS8fmMqbwVTgSTACmoHVoCLLiZrciM4IJe6HO-MnmNKpipJw4YyhpCag8/s320/BLOG+PIC-BAILEY+2.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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We are inseparable. So, my parents think, great! Mission accomplished. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCZNv74J5DXTgVD6XKz1jXfzo0bfrlZu_BFZDA6l0V11XuMi1rBcICPiOdLfy1FeuTgk69CrK-Ay7so7970G95PN7ehhrCt0RdBhaflN_sHeL_xbvS-B3R9pYdjyZyqVbFbNcUgYPvoY/s1600/BLOG+PIC-BAILEY+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCZNv74J5DXTgVD6XKz1jXfzo0bfrlZu_BFZDA6l0V11XuMi1rBcICPiOdLfy1FeuTgk69CrK-Ay7so7970G95PN7ehhrCt0RdBhaflN_sHeL_xbvS-B3R9pYdjyZyqVbFbNcUgYPvoY/s320/BLOG+PIC-BAILEY+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Then, they notice I'm really quiet on the way home. And, I continue to be quiet for a while (and this should come as no surprise to many of you, even as a child, I was rarely quiet...) So they knew something was up. Finally, my mom was able to weasel out of me why I was being so quiet. With a death grip on Bailey and tears in my eyes, I asked her if they picked me out from the pound.</div>
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Luckily, she had some pictures squirreled away of me at the foster home where I stayed for 10 weeks. I was loved, cuddled, had a crib, and I was called Kristy. NOTHING like the scary pound. </div>
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But, that's a kid for you. It doesn't matter what you plan or how good your intentions, sometimes, things are going to get bumpy. And sometimes, the questions will be tough. But, if you are considering adopting, don't let that scare you. Because guess what? It's going to get bumpy whether you fall in love with a picture of a sonogram and a kick to your rib cage or a picture of a baby taken from three states away who one day will giggle their way right out of their car seat into your heart. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-26758974103857076072016-09-13T17:50:00.001-07:002017-04-21T19:07:35.905-07:00Week 14: The big revealOur original plan was to find out the baby's gender in the delivery room. BUT, that plan went out the window pretty soon after we heard the first heart beat. We just had to know what was in there. But, as I'm sure we're going to tell our child at some point, we're the parents. We make the rules. And, we're allowed to change our minds. See? Don't we look like parents already?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26yOwrFd6KCzqZ4qh2JBXHTkfWUmN-BYMmEQrnc5vWD1NJNRn07XoQUa0g1pxvKoZiPR0II-DmTN9iqyKCnjD3A38_iDz2U6LQK5zoezZad1o3IXlzPJTBFDZrrxXwdaAzkZ2rEt5eG8/s1600/parents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26yOwrFd6KCzqZ4qh2JBXHTkfWUmN-BYMmEQrnc5vWD1NJNRn07XoQUa0g1pxvKoZiPR0II-DmTN9iqyKCnjD3A38_iDz2U6LQK5zoezZad1o3IXlzPJTBFDZrrxXwdaAzkZ2rEt5eG8/s320/parents.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Modern medicine is a crazy thing. Instead of waiting for the baby to be big enough to play 'Do you see that? It's a boy! I think...' on a sonogram, now a blood test can tell you your baby's chances of having a chromosomal genetic disorder like Down syndrome or Trisomy 13, along with its gender, all by week 12. That's pretty amazing. So, since I'm adopted and my medical history is a little sparse, we decided to find out as much as we could as early as we could.<br />
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SO, I find myself on the end of a voicemail that says something like, 'The tests are back. Good news, they look great. We know your baby's gender. Call us back if you want to find out.' Of course I get this voicemail after their office is closed and have to wait a painstaking amount of time for them to open. <br />
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Up until this point, I am pretty sure it's a girl. All of the wives tales I've heard seem to be full on girl (they say they steal your beauty--dull hair, break outs, nausea, the works). (Although the spider incident [see last blog post] had me questioning that...) Austin was sticking with boy.<br />
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Finally, it is 8AM, and I call and ask for the nurse to stick the results in an envelope. I rush to get them. I rush home. But, my timing is JUST off. Austin is 3 minutes away from a half hour conference call. He is itching for us to just open the envelope, but I am not interested in being on a celebration timer for this news.<br />
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In the meantime, I grab a shower (where I have my best ideas) and hatch a plan to make Austin work for this envelope. (Insert maniacal laugh here because I sort of know this is going to stress him out letting the suspense build even more.) (Did I mention I love surprises?!) (Did I mention I'm pregnant, and I get to do what I want?!)<br />
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SO, I create this little scavenger hunt (in about 10 minutes, so ignore the terrible handwriting and floral post it notes....)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUCjPD-ShOCZM7feGZmGRBBoXpDhO5glAFwwJFbP_RTQk_izB9AS1V3OWDaSj8BFVuPqPqxVciG8N2BIUGUzvsuViMz0g1xgFEi47piRe_t6Hp5Uy5kdR5rtwmwxXHjthuqmc8v6Ka1jA/s1600/first+clue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUCjPD-ShOCZM7feGZmGRBBoXpDhO5glAFwwJFbP_RTQk_izB9AS1V3OWDaSj8BFVuPqPqxVciG8N2BIUGUzvsuViMz0g1xgFEi47piRe_t6Hp5Uy5kdR5rtwmwxXHjthuqmc8v6Ka1jA/s320/first+clue.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Austin bought me Modern Family on DVD for my birthday and we're obsessed right now.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBNiqK7LnqFPLLjAjOnh5Mxs2GGMRrzhdg-_vQL1yewlYJVmw0VC_XmFkfLbZMdF5zVfE2eyp9r82GHlclp_nA3L6ElunTDbX-lJIorpyY6G5jlUBBPWfAfDLjqd_uR5gdvZS8XLeWOFs/s1600/modern+family+clue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBNiqK7LnqFPLLjAjOnh5Mxs2GGMRrzhdg-_vQL1yewlYJVmw0VC_XmFkfLbZMdF5zVfE2eyp9r82GHlclp_nA3L6ElunTDbX-lJIorpyY6G5jlUBBPWfAfDLjqd_uR5gdvZS8XLeWOFs/s320/modern+family+clue.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Pantry. I tried to make this pretty easy for my own anxiety, too.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfMXp8fBo6X5ibnxqlhH-qxYElk-KYmMEDwBIAKak7q9RJ4kyAN85QNWNbvDXLQNBzzW1cxZSVAI7MNBihvfm7scOCCPTMjzbkKLe4z8p3slYcJ8z0jqWDOGtL3iwjjOoaLfcKjyP-7Y/s1600/pantry+clue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfMXp8fBo6X5ibnxqlhH-qxYElk-KYmMEDwBIAKak7q9RJ4kyAN85QNWNbvDXLQNBzzW1cxZSVAI7MNBihvfm7scOCCPTMjzbkKLe4z8p3slYcJ8z0jqWDOGtL3iwjjOoaLfcKjyP-7Y/s320/pantry+clue.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Garage.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrhc5mX4pxxkTahPzpqWRVIhreBTsa6yYzIH3xsI-LQxx11rXH9xvc1_PUES2dBcuLO8Dg_8u8Od0xttI2gI-nQHys6oiux5nuJ8BUav1ehpc41ruFRX8i2u2T48i5snrpER-rpjOvgI/s1600/tailgate+chair+clue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrhc5mX4pxxkTahPzpqWRVIhreBTsa6yYzIH3xsI-LQxx11rXH9xvc1_PUES2dBcuLO8Dg_8u8Od0xttI2gI-nQHys6oiux5nuJ8BUav1ehpc41ruFRX8i2u2T48i5snrpER-rpjOvgI/s320/tailgate+chair+clue.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Go easy on these clues. Remember, 10 minutes prep time. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81Wke6Iv21dl3T8ulXP_LNu07aEyAh898NaQWhgd2MFnA5miPZgyjLex2XSdZ5Dld08a2NybVmc2CWuTB2FCIPYdpVxFDphSrUTDs4SPSH4kf_Pt2IsI40bW3FvTvHq4ezQVC_MQgNnw/s1600/red+box+clue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81Wke6Iv21dl3T8ulXP_LNu07aEyAh898NaQWhgd2MFnA5miPZgyjLex2XSdZ5Dld08a2NybVmc2CWuTB2FCIPYdpVxFDphSrUTDs4SPSH4kf_Pt2IsI40bW3FvTvHq4ezQVC_MQgNnw/s320/red+box+clue.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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THE ENVELOPE! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3uryh1V2ciF_vJVoXY1Xb5WnstKNcRd0A8NjNkxal4TrR0w_qf6ssa3cRX8BXF96uCp5y-nfxF_rr2jKQKJoqIGB_bWoiAfIEk0ty9CcthNb28I5b7md4n9IJ8B4HmSIISDkAlWCCCgo/s1600/oven+clue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3uryh1V2ciF_vJVoXY1Xb5WnstKNcRd0A8NjNkxal4TrR0w_qf6ssa3cRX8BXF96uCp5y-nfxF_rr2jKQKJoqIGB_bWoiAfIEk0ty9CcthNb28I5b7md4n9IJ8B4HmSIISDkAlWCCCgo/s320/oven+clue.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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AND, we eventually are holding the envelope, feeling a little like Steve Harvey at Miss USA at this point. There's a lot of pressure riding on this envelope. We open it...and...<br />
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Did I mention I love suspense?<br />
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Okay, okay....mercy rule. Our little Bulldawg is going to be a..........<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgysH2cI1cieds94zceAr41ZmzAdhH7yx6_Nz1DeYnwUEbmgd3hG_VlGM1Kg95VylkF5He4BNYjbU-zlX3lJSf69OIbun858piEKCnw-QJjcU2CoTGP_IktAPnOafygCQg1VAiH-xaSBjs/s1600/baby+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgysH2cI1cieds94zceAr41ZmzAdhH7yx6_Nz1DeYnwUEbmgd3hG_VlGM1Kg95VylkF5He4BNYjbU-zlX3lJSf69OIbun858piEKCnw-QJjcU2CoTGP_IktAPnOafygCQg1VAiH-xaSBjs/s320/baby+girl.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">GIRL!</span></div>
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Both of our eyes get realllllllly big when we see 'female' on that little sheet of paper.<br />
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Because even though I've really been thinking girl this whole time, we've both always pictured having a boy first. We had the name picked out for a boy, I'd pretty much designed the nursery in my head. Also, I could see Austin taking a mental tally of my closet and multiplying that by 2.<br />
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I could also see him calculating how soon it takes for him to cave at the first thought of a tear in my eye and imagining that times 1,000 with a baby girl. Here's me as a kid, and let me tell you, as soon as that bottom lip started trembling, it was game over for my dad.<br />
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Then, of course, you have to think about the teen years. Should I start my prayers now?<br />
<br />
Dear Lord,<br />
Please let ankle skirts and turtlenecks be all the rage throughout her high school and college years. May her tattoos be temporary and self driving cars completely indestructible by her 16th year. May the boy who breaks her heart, well, on second thought Lord, I don't think you are the one to handle this. I'm sure her dad will have this covered. May her legs not be of her mother's chicken persuasion and her eyebrows come in a pair. May 'sexting' become as dated a concept as 8 track tapes and may she get in early acceptance with a full ride scholarship to Georgia for her academic prowess.<br />
<br />
Amen.<br />
<br />
So it took several hours for the fact that, holy $H*T! We are having a daughter! To fully sink in. And of course it hit me at the most RIDICULOUS moment ever.<br />
<br />
I decided to treat myself to a pedicure and the first PSL (That means Pumpkin Spice Latte, mom) of the season since I assume I will never have pocket change again because I will soon be poor from buying adorable baby girl clothes...and those adorable baby moccasins.<br />
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I was deeply debating whether it was acceptable to walk into Starbucks in those plastic floppy shoes the nail salon gives you when I decided I had a few minutes to kill. I thought, I know! I'll listen to Carrie Underwood, 'All American Girl.' Because, you know, I'm having a girl! </div>
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Bad mistake. I think I got to maybe the first chorus. Maybe. Before I was ugly sobbing alone in my car. </div>
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And that's when it hit me for real. We are having a girl. Is there anything more wonderful in the world than a baby girl? The bows and sparkles and tears and butterfly kisses and Barbies and sass and sweet cuddles of a baby girl? It's going to be really great. And expensive. And terrifying. And I can't wait. </div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-17917470358950431652016-08-31T16:07:00.002-07:002016-08-31T19:42:07.723-07:00Week 12: Early bumps, nesting, and 8 legged freaksSooo, I'm 12 weeks along and I definitely have a baby bump.<br />
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AND I have a lot of friends telling me they were about 16 weeks before they had a bump. So, this makes me a little nervous. Does this mean:<br />
a) My next sonogram could show surprise multiple babies we didn't see the first time<br />
b) I'm going to have a 12 pound baby <br />
c) I am going to have a beach ball belly by month 8 with stretch marks that look like a road map instead of the cute little basketball tummy everyone keeps assuring me I'll have<br />
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Stay tuned...<br />
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In other news, I hate clutter. And I know a baby means a whole new world of clutter. Between bouncy seats, pack n plays, toys, diaper genies, and whatever else Baby's R Us can assure us we need, I have nightmares of our home swallowing us up in 6 months.<br />
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I blame my mother for my extreme aversion to hoarding. She was well trained by my Meme---to THROW AWAY NOTHING. My Meme washes tinfoil and Ziploc bags and reuses them. My mom finally cleaned out our attic after my dad passed away because I told her, if anything happened to her, I was lighting the house on fire and collecting the insurance money. You couldn't have payed me enough to venture into that labyrinth of broken record players and headless Barbies.<br />
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My husband was out of town on a business trip when I went through a major de-hoarding/ nesting binge. I kept texting him to see if I could take his stuff to the consignment store (or the garbage...) and eventually he said, 'Really busy right now, you can just make executive decisions.' Which I translated to, 'Congratulations! All of your anti-hoarding dreams have come true. You can toss anything without repercussions.'<br />
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SO I did. Like this neon fish light that has been sitting in his closet for most of our marriage....<br />
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(Admittedly, he was a little sad when he found out about that one...but hey, executive decisions mean no more neon allowed.)<br />
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So, I'm having pretty much the greatest day ever, just cleaning out our garage (it's when I say things like this I realize just how old I've become....) when all of a sudden, I am stopped dead in my tracks on the way to the trash can by this horrifying creature.<br />
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I have severe arachnophobia. And now, all of my neighbors likely know that, or they assume I've been murdered, after the blood curdling scream I let out. I swear, spiders must be afraid of Austin, because they never come out unless he's gone. I think they conspire to attack me as soon as they see his car leave.<br />
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I only have one choice. This thing has to die, or I will never walk into our garage again knowing it's lurking. So, I find Austin's shoe (clearly not killing that jungle creature with any of my shoes...), whack him, and scream some more. I eventually get up the courage to scoop his remains up with a shovel and put them in the pine straw bed.<br />
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After I am done with this truly embarrassing display of femininity, I finally start to breathe again, although my trips to the garage are pretty much over unless it's absolutely necessary<br />
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Fast forward, and it's time for one of those necessary trips. Time to go to work. I look like the bag lady. Hands full with a tumbler full of water, purse, another bag full of hair and makeup supplies, cell phones, keys, it's a juggling act. I'm about to get into my car when I feel something fall into my hair.<br />
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I. LOSE. MY. MIND...because I'm certain this is part of the spider conspiracy, and they have indeed plotted and are now carrying out their attack. Water goes everywhere, bags go everywhere, I do some kind of spider-removal maneuver violent enough to break my favorite pair of wedge heels I am wearing, nearly go into labor six months early, all to discover, there is a leaf in my hair.<br />
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But oh no, this story is not over.<br />
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I get home from work around midnight to find the garage door I closed before I left for work open and a light I am certain I turned off, on.<br />
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Again, Austin was not home. So I inventory my options.<br />
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1.Go inside armed with my best karate moves <br />
2.Call a friend to come over...at midnight...to help me look for burglars<br />
3.Cry, because I'm pregnant<br />
4.Sleep in my car<br />
5.Call the police<br />
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So I went with option 3 and 5. There was zero chance I'd be able to sleep if I didn't.<br />
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Two of North Augusta's finest roll up in two squad cars. Thankfully, dispatch sent the nicest, most understanding human beings on the payroll. They searched the whole house, guns drawn, while I'm telling them, 'In case my husband came home early, he's blonde and answers to Austin. Please don't shoot him.'<br />
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I'm certain my neighbors that were still awake were sure I'd been murdered by this point, between the spider screams and the cops.<br />
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They found nothing, and I apologized for being crazy about 12 times. As they're leaving, I close the garage door and watched in disbelief as it bounced back open. Upon further investigation, I realize my spider shovel is blocking the door from shutting.<br />
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Yep.<br />
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This spider managed to single-handedly (well, I guess it took eight legs....eight-leggedly) ruin my life from 11AM until 1AM.<br />
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After this ordeal, I am sure this means I am going to have a baby boy who loves creepy crawly things. But, with my luck, he'll take after Austin, whose mom tells me, as a toddler, would not let his parents kill ANY living thing, bug or otherwise. And, let's be honest. With this face, he probably got whatever he wanted.<br />
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But, I'm just hoping, all of the spiders will at least leave me alone until that day comes. In the meantime, I'm not going in the garage.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-62427761924134308372016-08-15T19:21:00.000-07:002016-08-27T10:45:45.960-07:00Week 10: Worry? Why Worry?<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">I always give my Meme a hard time about being a worry wart. I never worry because I know she's probably worried enough for the both of us. When my husband and I landed from our trip to Europe a couple of months back, I called to let her know we were home. Her response was, "Oh, thank God! I'm so glad you're back. I worried every minute you were gone. Mostly about the terrorists getting you. Now hopefully you've got that out of your system and you'll stop travelling." [Keep in mind one of the worst terrorist attacks in history happened in Orlando while we were gone...not in Europe, on US soil.] Yeah, needless to say we are wired a little differently. And in three days, I'll give her another heart attack as I board another plane to visit Minneapolis and continue living my life. And so, the worry cycle continues. She always says when I have kids, I'll understand. (How many of us have heard that?) </span><br />
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I guess the one thing I AM thankful for is that Meme refuses to use a computer, because Google would be the end of her. Between WebMD telling her we all have cancer when we get a headache and the conspiracy theories she could research....I can't even think about it. </div>
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I know I have no idea the full extent of what 'worry' means quite yet, but I'm starting to get a teensy taste of it. </div>
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We had our first ultrasound, and I have never been so glued to a computer monitor. When we didn't see the baby within the first 30 seconds, I immediately thought, great. I'm one of those crazy ladies who invented this WHOLE pregnancy in their mind, and believed it so fully that I gave myself symptoms AND a positive pregnancy test. And just when I'm about to start asking the ultrasound tech about false pregnancies....we see a little peanut. </div>
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Then I have something else to focus my worry on, heartbeat. It takes maybe a minute (but easily feels like 15). Then, the most beautiful sound in the world. <span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Hearing a heart beat (that isn't your own) coming from inside your own body is the most surreal/awesome thing ever. Here's the video (if you can't see it, try watching from a computer instead of mobile device).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">So, from that point on, I've had plenty of things to worry about. What's going on in there? Am I eating enough vegetables? Should I take all 34656 of these birth defect tests the OBGYN has to offer? Can you die from nausea in the first trimester? I've lowered my caffeine intake to a cup of coffee every two weeks, is that enough? </span></div>
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And let me tell you, Google is not helpful</div>
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Tonight, CBS aired a story on parents not heeding warnings about SIDS. Don't swaddle. Nothing in the crib. Bumper pads are death traps. Basically, just put your baby in an empty shell of a crib and watch them at all times when they sleep is pretty much what I gathered I should do. So, of course, Google will tell you all of these heartbreaking freak accident scenarios to back all of these things up. Thus, cementing these rules in your mind forever. I remember my husband looking at me after that report aired and saying, "What are we getting ourselves into?! No blankets?!' Yeah. It's getting real. </div>
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But, worry has become a natural part of my day in my slow evolution into parenthood, and thus, one day, my Meme.</div>
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This is a brief list of things I suggest you NEVER Google before you get pregnant (and the things I know once you read this, you will likely Google): </div>
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SIDS</div>
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Stretch marks</div>
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Episiotomy</div>
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Things kids can stick up their nose</div>
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Best cereal to eat if you're pregnant</div>
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Amniocentesis</div>
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Things not to do while pregnant</div>
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Breast engorgement</div>
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Placenta pills</div>
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Mucus plug</div>
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Baby rashes</div>
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Lotus birth</div>
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Post baby belly</div>
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That should get you going, and if you're looking for birth control for your teenager, please pass this list along. </div>
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Now, worry and panic attacks aside, we've also all heard how much your life changes for the BETTER when you have a baby, and how thankful you become for your own mother who put up with you and didn't accidentally smother you in crib bumpers. </div>
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I can already start to see that appreciation for my own mom, mainly because not a day goes by that I don't know how lucky I am to have been loved so fiercely my whole life by this lady. So, I will leave you with the cutest video you will see all day. *Unless you Google sneezing panda. I can't compete with that...* </div>
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This is the moment we surprised my mom and told her she would be a grandma. (She thinks she's opening some mail that was delivered for her to our house by mistake).<br />
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And just like that, all of the worry seems to pale in comparison to the excitement. The promise and hope of a life unwritten. It's going to be a fun journey. I hope my Meme has enough Xanax. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-46684253226340718272016-08-01T18:45:00.000-07:002016-08-22T19:16:49.443-07:00WEEK 8: The 'glow'<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">My mom always used to say she had me 'the easy way.' Adoption. I'm only 8 weeks into this thing, and now, I can tell her, she was right. Take the next few paragraphs of straight WHINING with a grain of salt, because I know there are thousands of women out there struggling with fertility issues who would give just about anything to experience pregnancy aches and pains, but ladies---if you're reading this, take a step back, and know the 'glow' of pregnancy you crave is actually perspiration from holding back vomit. </span><br />
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I don't know what it is about human nature that makes us tell ourselves lies. 'Oh, not me. I know 75% of pregnant women have first trimester nausea, but surely I'll be in that 25% category?' If the flawless Duchess of Cambridge can't escape horrible morning sickness, you don't get a pass either. The nausea is real, and for all of my friends who told me they didn't really have nausea, I'm just going to take this moment to mentally poke a voodoo doll of you in your belly. </div>
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First of all, I'm assuming a man came up with the term 'morning sickness.' A man who knows nothing of pregnancy. It should be called---'all day, every day, unless you're constantly eating crackers' sickness. At least in my case. It's torture, because I have zero appetite because I'm nauseated most of the time, but the ONLY way to curb the nausea---you guessed it---to force something into my belly. And only 10% of foods sound appetizing at any given time. (And .0001% of those are healthy foods)</div>
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Pregnancy symptoms are this giant paradox--because you are supposed to be eating so healthy so your baby doesn't grow an extra ear, but meanwhile, your body is playing food roulette: spin the wheel and hope the food it lands on doesn't make you want to vomit. I buy healthy foods and I might as well be buying dog food because my cravings change more frequently than Trump's pick for VP. But, of course there is one thing I can ALWAYS talk myself into eating, fast food. Awesome. Artery clogging Wendy's spicy chicken nuggets. Steak N Shake double cheeseburgers? Yes, please. IF you are one of those pregnant people who crave apples, or quinoa, I don't know if we can be friends right now. </div>
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And in case you couldn't tell by this giant rant, moodiness and emotional irrationality is real too. I consider myself pretty even keeled. Not a lot ruffles my feathers. But today, I almost cried when I noticed Kroger was out of Snack Pak pudding. I didn't even want pudding, I was just upset it wasn't an option. </div>
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And I'm worried because all of this drama is playing out inside my body and I haven't even had my first doctor's visit. Which brings me to another cruel paradox of pregnancy---apparently the first trimester is the worst for pregnancy symptoms. Which, of course, is the trimester where you are keeping this giant secret from everyone. So you are a moody wreck of nausea and strange 6 meal a day eating habits, but you aren't supposed to tell anyone. </div>
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Thankfully, I have the most understanding husband in the world who does not seem concerned that my McDonald's intake may provide our newborn with an extra limb. And cheers for me and reminds me I make a lot of good choices when I put grapes and nuts on my salad for extra nutrition points. </div>
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But, I hear it's worth it. Or so the human race seems to think because we're going pretty strong. I'll keep you posted---but to all the mom's out there who survived the first trimester, go get a cheeseburger. You earned it.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-24291341981631835232016-07-13T18:46:00.000-07:002016-08-27T10:28:40.749-07:00WEEK 5: There's nothing like a good surprise<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">I. LOVE. SURPRISES. In fact, I may like pulling off a good surprise almost as much as I enjoy being the recipient of the surprise. (Almost...) </span></div>
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Which is why I really wanted to tell our families we were pregnant in a fun, memorable way. (Cue disaster music) </div>
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Let me start this blog post by saying I am seriously blessed in the in-law department. And, I'm not just saying that because they are the other two people, besides my mom, reading this blog. BLESSED. I genuinely get excited to visit them, and try to lure them to come visit us any chance I can. Trapped on a desert island, you only get to pick 10 people, they're coming on my island. </div>
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So, I know John and Heide Grieb well enough to know, I have full license to tease them about this story because anyone who knows the Grieb or the Schmerge family knows this story is SO fitting (and I wouldn't have it any other way.)</div>
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It was really too early to tell anyone we were pregnant , but we were booked for the next several weekends, and I wasn't sure when we would both get a chance to see Austin's parents in person again. So, we decided to go ahead and let them in on our little secret early. </div>
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I've never proposed to anyone, but I would imagine planning the details feels similar to telling your family you're pregnant. You can't sleep the night before. You're nervous and excited. Capturing the moment on camera is a plus. You only get one shot to surprise them, and in about nine months, you make it official. (Also, you give them a big diamond. What? You didn't give your mother in law a 2 carat diamond to commemorate the day? No wonder she doesn't like you.) </div>
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So, Pinterest was little help. Everything I see on there feels overdone by this point. We figured we would come up with something that relates to Austin's parents' hobbies/interests/routine. Sooo, that left us with wine, their yellow lab, Starbucks, traveling to Europe, or sitting on the dock. </div>
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Plan 1</div>
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Little dock chair---for future baby. Well, they're getting ready to sell the house and move closer to the city, so that plan was no good. Didn't want any more sentimental attachment than there already is keeping them from making that leap. </div>
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Plan 2</div>
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Bandana on family dog, O'Malley. We figured we would write something like 'future Aunt' or 'Aunt in training' but didn't know if they would see the writing or if it would make sense.</div>
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Plan 3</div>
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Just tell them. Of course, I didn't like this plan...</div>
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Plan 4</div>
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Starbucks coffee cup. Sneak out of the house and have the barrista pass the cup to them through the drive thru along with their morning order. It would say 'Baby G is brewing. Order ready March 2017.' Brillaint! Right? </div>
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SO, we had to tweak our fourth plan several times. And, thank goodness we did, because they didn't go to their usual Starbucks that morning. #ATLprobs </div>
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We decided to bring it home, set the cup on the kitchen counter. They both walk in at the same time---and Voila! Excited grandparents. </div>
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Alas, nothing is ever that easy at the Grieb house. </div>
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They are renovating their bathrooms, so who rolled down the driveway? Not John and Heide. Four workers who invaded the house with tile products. <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">We figured questions about grout color might kill the 'you're a new grandparent' mood. So, we took the cup out to the dock, surely their next stop of the morning. </span></div>
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These people are like clock work on Saturday mornings (except when you're waiting anxiously to tell them they're grandparents.) I think we sat on the dock with that coffee cup for an hour, which feels like three when you're that antsy. </div>
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Finally--Austin's mom starts to walk down to the dock. Alone---sooooo, whatever at this point, they'll find out at different times. She FINALLY sits down where we've put the coffee cup in a fail-proof 'NOTICE ME' spot and......</div>
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she moves the chair closer to us and misses it completely.</div>
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Eventually Austin asks her to look over there. She's confused, thinks it may be our coffee or John's coffee, THEN....finally reads it and freaks. </div>
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I was giggling so hard by this point at the sheer 'typical-ness' of this Grieb story that I couldn't wait to see what happened when Austin's dad walked out. I wasn't disappointed....</div>
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He comes out, chairs are moved, Mrs. Heide's entire cup of coffee is somehow spilled, water is poured on the dock with a coffee cup to clean off coffee. Everyone just tries to get Mr. John to sit down. EVENTUALLY, he too notices. Light bulb---and happiness. </div>
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But I think the best part of this story is how appropriate it is. Nothing ever goes as planned in this family---this big crazy Grieb family. </div>
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And, I love it.</div>
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I hope our little baby G is blessed with Mrs. Heide's enthusiasm, big heart, optimism, and good naturedness no matter what life throws her way. And Mr. John's brains, athleticism, wit, and loyalty. </div>
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But, no matter what genes they inherit---one thing is for sure, not a single day of their life as a Grieb will be boring or predictable, and they will be loved fiercely every single day. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9155472502502754125.post-33036358375864044022016-06-27T19:35:00.000-07:002016-08-22T19:16:30.338-07:00WEEK 3: Test results<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="im"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">If you're like me, you like to plan and prepare. Prepare to make a plan. You prepare your whole high school career to get into a good college. Prepare your whole college career to land a good job. Prepare for your boyfriend to pop the question. Prepare for the wedding. Prepare to be financially ready to buy a house. Prepare to have a baby. </span></span><br />
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<span class="im">But no matter how many blogs you read, friends with babies you talk to, or romantic comedies you watch, nothing can ever really prepare you for seeing that faint hint of a line on a little plastic stick that translates to---hey, this is really happening, you prepared? </span><br />
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<span class="im">Well, that happened this morning. </span></div>
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I've come up with so many reasons not to write this blog. I'm in the business of sharing people's stories, but it's a little bit different putting yourself out there to tell your own. But, lucky for you, I found out I was pregnant this morning, and by this afternoon, I was an expert on all things pregnancy. (**Note to the reader, if you do not speak sarcasm, turn around now. This blog will likely be confusing.) </div>
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Joking aside, I'm writing this blog mostly for my mom. (Which is probably the only person who's going to read it.) I was adopted at 6 weeks old by a fabulous set of humans, which if you know me, you probably already knew. I tell everyone. Seriously. (In pre-school, kids were being mean to me because I was adopted. My response was "My parents picked me out and your parents got stuck with you." You probably will not find that advice in 'How to Win Friends and Influence People.') More stories on adoption to come...</div>
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But, I digress. My mom has been dying. DYING. for us to get pregnant. Not in that subtle hinting way, like 'Oh, you look so comfortable holding that baby.' More like, 'I got you an Elf on the Shelf for my future grandchildren!'...two Christmases ago. TWO. </div>
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I'm no psychologist, but I think 1. She is really excited to have grandchildren (obviously) and 2.She never went through pregnancy herself, so it's FASCINATING to her </div>
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So, as repayment for all of the nail polish I spilled on her carpet, the hours spent at my dance recital practices, the Mother's Day spent in the emergency room when I broke my arm, and the overall sass she had to endure through those glorious teen years, I figured this blog would pretty much make us even. </div>
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So back to the point. The pregnancy test. It's positive. I tested while my husband, Austin was out jogging. I freaked for a solid 10 minutes while googling everything related to 'positive pregnancy test' you can imagine. Seriously, even the most simple pregnancy concepts I can't seem to grasp without Google confirming. 'Yes, if the pee stick says 'pregnant' you are pregnant...' <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Then, I realized (back to the preparing...) Pinterest had told me it would be a cute idea to tell him over a game of Scrabble. Spell out the words 'im pregnant' or something like that. Well, I figured a game of Scrabble at 8:30AM before he starts work, and I head to the gym seemed like he would probably sense something was up. </span></div>
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But fortunately I had a chalkboard and some string.</div>
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I was so nervous he was going to come home before I could get it all together I could hardly get the ribbon off the spool and tie it. Which is why the ribbon is like 7 feet long. But, my news anchor deadline instincts kicked in and the Bulldawg in me finished the drill. Austin got about halfway up the stairs before his mouth hit the floor. I have never seen anything cuter than how excited my husband is about being a daddy. (It reminded me of the look he gets when the lone trumpeter hits those first few notes in Sanford Stadium on the first home game of the season...yeah, THAT excited guys.) </div>
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Conveniently, we had a meeting already booked with our financial adviser around lunch that day. The preparer in me was shocked when our adviser told us we have to have actual children before setting up their 529 savings accounts. Minor details.</div>
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On to day two of pregnancy...thank God for Google. And also for trusting me with this little nugget of a human to grow. </div>
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