I know I need to update y’all on our recent trip to Disney World, but this post basically wrote itself, and I couldn’t wait to tell you.
Disclaimer: You may want to put down that breakfast burrito before you dive into this post. As a matter of fact, you will probably want to avoid any type of burrito for a week or two after you read this. And if reading the word vomit makes you want to do so, you will probably want to stop reading right about…
I’ve never seen the show Grey’s Anatomy. I know. But are y’all really surprised? We haven’t had cable for the better part of a decade, and even if we did I would probably only watch Back to the Future or Everybody Loves Raymond like I do now. Anyway, I’ve never seen the show, but I have heard of McDreamy. I personally don’t find him dreamy, but that’s not my point.
[IS there a point here?]
Stay with me; I do have a point.
A few weeks after Gracen was born, I realized that we should have waited to give him his name. We love the name Gracen, but I believe there are other names that would have suited him better.
***A quick note here: I wrote this post three weeks after Gracen was born (March 26th), and it has taken me this long to publish it. Over a MONTH. Because this whole mother of 3 thing is a bit more exhausting than I imagined. More on that later, though…
Dad, you may just want to go ahead and bid us all adieu. This is not a post for the super-faint of heart or anyone who gets uncomfortable at the mention of the word “uterus.” I will, however, be as discreet as possible because—despite having three children—I do still have some modesty.
Just not enough for someone who watches Andy Griffith reruns on a daily basis.
(Seriously, dad. You can get back to Mayberry now.)
This is the little baby who cried wolf.
To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t blame our baby. I blame the pastor who preached such a wonderful sermon at our church this past Sunday.
[Well, that seems reasonable.]
As Brian and I near the end of our carefree parenting days in a man-to-man defense and move into a zone defense, it seems fitting to publish the rest of our family/maternity photos. It’s difficult for me to imagine how different our lives will look and feel this time next week.
I had an OB appointment this past Tuesday, and I AM actually making some progress in the laboring department. So, it appears that you all should hear some baby news from us by the end of next week if not sooner, Lord willing!
Aaaahhhhhhhh, St. Patrick’s Day. The day I remember from childhood as an excuse for all the little girls with green scrunchies and embroidered, clover jumpers to run around pinching the crap out of those of us who forgot to wear green to school.
I’m pretty sure Saint Patrick is the patron saint of mean little girls.
I know I promised I would publish the rest of our family photos this week unless, of course, something else happened.
Well, something else happened.
Several weeks ago I received a message from my precious friend Donna to ask if she could throw me a baby shower in Georgia. First of all…let me just stop right here so I can confess something. Thoughtfulness is probably not my super power.
If you listen closely, you can hear my family violently nodding their heads in agreement.
I’m forgetful. I’m self-centered by nature. I’m a procrastinator. And I can be selfish with my time.
If there was a support group for people like me, NO ONE would show up for the meetings.
Last September I had dinner with my dear, childhood friends Liz and Donna. Liz was in her third trimester with twin babies (her 3rd and 4th kids), and I recall that she was lamenting her overall state of discomfort. She had weeks left before she was officially full term, but Liz said she would have let the doctor rip her open that moment—right on a table in the middle of Panera Bread—to end her suffering.
Okay, those are my melodramatic words, not hers.
I was at the barely-there baby bump phase of this pregnancy, and I remember encouraging/lecturing her on the importance of carrying full term and the absolute atrocity of c-sections for the sake of the mother’s comfort or convenience. Shame on these mothers for wanting to rip a child out of the womb before he or she is fully developed, I thought to myself. Shame on them!
Oh…stupid, stupid Katy.