So, I think I'm good with 36

Last week, before the flu entered our home and made camp, I was supposed to be working on a writing project with my sister.  I was under a self-imposed deadline so naturally I determined it was a critical time to do anything other than work on the actual assignment.  This included reading my 7^th grade paper on Gone with the Wind, my 10^th grade paper on pollution, collecting all the change in my house and leafing through some old diary entries from when I was 20. 

Nothing is more cringe-worthy than coming face-to-face with your 20 year-old self.  Excuse me, what I mean is coming face-to-face with “A scared 19 year-old girl staring uncertainly down the dawn of a new life decade,” (Webb, 1996).  

I started reading and all I have to say is that I really wanted to punch that girl. 

As I read, I learned that the 20 year-old me was , “desperately searching for the real woman inside” and reminding herself to, “visualize her Montana bed and breakfast” and that she was “an uncut diamond of possibility,” and “way more than a checkout girl at Mervyns.”  (Webb, 1996)

And while I was reading (from under the covers in my bed) I was screaming at that girl to keep her job at Mervyns and even get a 2^nd job and open a Roth IRA or start to save up for a house.  I wanted to shake her and tell her to stop spending all her money on make-up at CVS, and to keep the “long and winding road that is to be my life” in perspective (Webb, 1996). I wanted to spare her the old saying that things just work themselves out and introduce her to the concept that as you get older, YOU SIMPLY DON’T HAVE TIME TO THINK THIS MUCH.

Back then, I wanted people to like me.  I wanted someone to fall madly in love with me.  I wanted the respect of my peers and enough success to show everyone I went to high school with that I was someone. 

Now?  OMG…I want to remember where I put my car keys.

I want to stop snoring.

I want people to know where they are going before they pull out in front of me only to slow down and randomly put on their blinker.  

I want people to pick up the pace in the grocery store parking lot. 

I want my oldest son to stop telling me he wants to be in charge of the house because I’m afraid I might take him up on it one day. 

I want someone to bottom line how the most recent decisions in Washington are going to affect me and my family because, as it turns out, I don’t really care about other people all that much anymore.

As I kept reading, I wanted to light the part where I wrote a poem in the actual shape of a triangle about having “a face of feeling under a mask of metal,” on fire and bury the ashes in a landfill.  

Some of my writing made it seem like I had deep problems or depression that I was dealing with.  I can assure you, I didn’t and I wasn't.  I had no trauma, no bills, no responsibilities and obviously no perspective. What I did have back then was entirely too much free time.  Clearly. 

But the funny thing about finding those diary entries is how it made me feel about being 36.  I don’t know about you, but since having my second and final child, I think a lot about the fact that time has undeniably sped up.  And while I don’t feel old, I do feel the loss of youth.  

But in comparison, youth was not all it cracked up to be.  Youth had angst.  Youth had too many uncertainties.  Youth had life problems that required driving for hours while looping the soundtrack to Reality Bites on her discman.  And, geez, with the rising gas prices, I don’t think I can afford to be so youthful these days. 

So, I think I’m good with 36. 

Wesley update:

Mom was on me to give some sort of milestone update on my 2^nd child the way I did with my first.  I reminded her of the two baby books in her house.  The one of my older sister with the broken binding and the pictures falling out of the overstuffed pages and mine.  Mine would be the baby book with one picture in it that still creaks when you open it. 

So sorry, Wesley, I’m a 2^nd child too. 

Wesley is 6.5 months.  He’s just getting over his first bout of the flu.  He’s sitting up fairly well, laughing a lot and eating some solids.  He enjoys Classical music to country, red wine to white and has pinky swore that he will always take care of me.  Even though I snore. 

Samuel is also well, even though he says he'd be much better if he could be in charge of the house.  I told him to get a job and I'd gladly turn over my bank account login info for him to get started.  That would free up so much more time for me to angst about life in my diary. 

Here’s a picture:  

or two:

The Chicken, The Fox and The Bag of Grain – Grocery Store Remix

You know this riddle, right? 

A farmer is standing on one bank of a river, with a fox, a chicken, and a bag of grain. He needs to get to the other side of the river, taking the fox, the chicken, and the grain with him.

However, the boat used to cross the river is only large enough to carry the farmer and one of the things he needs to take with him, so he will need to make several trips in order to get everything across.

In addition, he cannot leave the fox unattended with the chicken, or else the fox will eat the chicken; and he cannot leave the chicken unattended with the grain, or else the chicken will eat the grain. The fox is not particularly partial to grain, and may be left alone with it.

How can he get everything across the river without anything being eaten?

This is how I feel about grocery store visits with two kids now.  It is a nonstop, honest to goodness, chicken, fox and bag of grain riddle. 

And I generally suck at riddles. 

A woman is standing outside the local Kroger in a thunderstorm with a five year old, a five month old and a week’s worth of groceries.  In her left hand she holds her car keys, in her right, the bottle of Advil she ripped open in the check out line so she could down three before completing her transaction.  At the bottom of her bag lies her crumpled receipt and 75% of the coupons she had intended to use. 

She has to get everyone into the car and home in one piece before she can rest.  Crap. Did I say rest? I meant before she then has to put everything away and make dinner. 

She can get to the car with everyone, but who to put in first?  She can’t leave the five month old in the cart alone…people call the police over stuff like that. Plus he’s really really adorable and someone could kidnap him and keep him for their own.  And she definitely didn't tote around a heart monitor for a month just to have that happen. 

If it were Christmas, there might be a chance she could give her Salvation Army donation with the condition that the bell ringer provide 45 seconds of babysitting.  But alas, the bells have been put away for the year.  Nothing but upselling girl scouts and there is no room for heavy Samoa negotiations in this week’s budget.  

She can’t leave the five year old in the little car attached to the buggy that just HAD to be green. That’s where the chocolate milk is.  Also, she’s pretty sure he’d defect to the girl scout table and then this riddle would further complicate itself by blowing the don’t-make-eye-contact-to-avoid-cookie-purchasing technique she intended to use. 

The groceries, left unattended will surely get soaked, and she doesn’t want to have to go back to the grocery store, well, ever again really. 

So how can she get everyone into the car and home most effectively?

It’s quite simple really.

She can do it by making an ill planned and poorly executed mad dash to her car in the rain while screaming for everyone to hang on.  She haphazardly throws her sweater over the five month old and prays he can still get oxygen and that she doesn’t trip and fall on her face.  She then slams the cart into the back of the car and begins running laps around her mom-mobile grabbing little people and flinging them into car seats as fast as her under-exercised legs can take her.  It’s a fairly impressive maneuver and she is proud of the fact that she only pauses once to check Facebook. 

She throws her purse and keys into the front seat and sprints to the back of the car where she begins hurling groceries into any available crevice in the trunk.  Things spill over. Cans end up on produce. Cokes get shaken. She knows at this point, that the bread is not going to make it.  

Last but not least, she precariously balances the milk and cokes at the very edge of the trunk before slamming the door.  She says a quick prayer that they won’t fall out in the driveway. 

Another mad dash to the cart return that she, yet again, failed to park next to, and she is on the home stretch.  She walks triumphantly back to her car.  Not too cocky though, she still has to make it to the car without getting hit by the gigantic SUVs that have appeared out of nowhere.

She gets into the driver seat of her car and takes a few minutes to catch her breath and her sanity…well okay, to catch her breath and check Facebook.  It’s not long before the five year old begins to ask why the car hasn’t left its space and the five month old begins to scream. 

She cranks the car and victoriously heads home.  It’s a glorious moment until she realizes that she has forgotten the garage door opener and she has to do this all again in 2.5 miles. 

She bursts into tears.

Hug Your Fish Tight, You are Not Promised Tomorrow.

Last Easter, I had a crazy mom response to an Easter egg hunt that was being thrown at my grandmother's assisted living.  The problem(s)?  The lack of sportsmanship. The refusal to cap the number of eggs each child could collect to give the little kids a fighting chance. The kids old enough to shave who were knocking my four year old out of the way to collect all the eggs. And mostly, said shaving kids' parents who were letting it happen in front of them.

After all the eggs were found, Samuel walked over to me with a nearly empty basket and burst into tears. I had a physical reaction. I could feel my anger rising.  If I had been Jacob Black, I would have turned into a gigantic wolf.  If I had been Lou Ferrigno, you would have seen me grow muscles and turn green. Suddenly, I found myself staring in the face of a difficult learning experience for my child.  The kind where you probably have an obligation to hold your child's hand and walk with him as he faces one of life's harsh realities. It was a tough love moment. So what did I do after I finished consoling my heartbroken child that would help him grow as a person?  Why, I enlisted the help of my mother and sister and in under ten minutes, we had planned our own Easter Egg hunt. A better Easter Egg hunt. An Easter Egg hunt with 12 colored eggs, one golden egg, one prize for finding the golden egg and, of course you guessed it, one Easter egg hunter.  Learning experiences are overrated...my baby was going to get eggs.

What does this have to do with a fish?  The prize Samuel won that day at the First Annual Samuel Turner Invitation-only Solo Easter Egg Hunt, was his pet fish, Ziggy.  

Last night, Ziggy died, and I found myself standing in the middle of yet another life lesson for my son.  He would have to be told that his beloved fish died.  But first, I needed the emotional support one can only find from a spouse.  I went upstairs to tell my husband. 

"Honey, Ziggy's dead." 

He looked up at me suspiciously, "What happened?"  

I stared at him.  "Heart disease? I don't know he's a fish.  He lives in a bowl.  You feed them and then one day they die. He's dead. He's floating in his bowl downstairs and dinner's ready"  

"Did you feed him?"

"YES. I'm the ONLY one who fed him. Come get this dead fish out of my kitchen"  I walked downstairs. 

The truth is, I was probably the cause of Ziggy's sudden demise.  You see, in addition to frequently expressing my wish that the fish would die before I had to go buy more food pellets, I washed his bowl and changed the type of food he was getting the night before. I felt guilty and I was defensive.  A sure sign of guilt.  

Even my mom stated how vibrant and healthy Ziggy had looked only the night before.  Really, mom?  REALLY?

So, I decided to tell Samuel today after school.  He is a wild card about stuff like this and I had no idea what his reaction would be.  Truthfully, he barely acknowledged poor Ziggy.  Feeding him was supposed to be one of his chores but usually I would do it.  Also, I might add, once every week or so I found myself hunched over a sink, cleaning out his bowl and wondering why we had this fish that clearly added nothing to our lives.  Samuel barely took notice of him...as evidenced by the belly up fish that floated dead in its bowl for most of yesterday without him so much as looking in that direction.  

Samuel came home from school today and I called him over to the couch.  "Honey," I said as gently as possible. "You know how pets don't always live as long as people?"  Sam nodded.  "Well, Ziggy went to heaven yesterday" His head whipped around to look for the fish bowl that was no longer there. He looked back at me. "Ziggy died?" He sort of whimpered. Oh no. The tears are going to come and I don't think I'll have the willpower to not get in the car and go buy him a pony. He sort of leaned into me and asked, "Why?" I answered honestly, "Honey, fish just don't live that long." I put my arms around him and pulled him into me. "I know it's hard to lose a pet." He lingered there for a moment before pulling away. He looked at me and sighed "Okay, can I watch Spongebob now?"  

Is that it?  Is this shock or are we truly done mourning Ziggy?  Poor Ziggy. Even in death...unappreciated. 

It was a Rudy Huxtable moment.

A few minutes later, he looked up from Spongebob and said, "Why do my pets always die, mom?"  I stared at him. "This is the only pet you've ever had, Sam." 

"Well, you know what mom?"  Sam was nodding at me and waving his hand in the air as he said, "If I were to get a dog...and you didn't feed that dog either, he would die too."

It was then that Andy confined himself to the closed pantry where I could hear him laughing.

"SAM, I DIDN'T KILL ZIGGY!"

One of THOSE weeks

It's been one of those weeks.  The kind where you realize you just served your son his sad peanut butter sandwich dinner on your husband's case of SweetWaters.

Don't they say it's all about the presentation?

Today, I had a cranky baby.  As seen here.  

No wait, I said cranky. As seen, HERE.

Love his precious face, but it was one of those days where we couldn't get anything right for him.  Andy and I basically spent the day passing a crying baby back and forth begging, pleading with him to tell us what he needed.  It was one of those days when I would have given away family heirlooms for a moment of peace and quiet.  One of those days where I spent the whole day dreaming of all the amazing things I was going to do when everyone under six finally went to bed.  

Every time the baby cried today.  I thought about my after bedtime plans.  Every time my son asked me what word "jklq" spelled and then got mad when I said it didn't spell anything.  I thought about it.  Every time I went to the bathroom while simultaneously talking to a five year old. I thought about it.  Every diaper I changed.  Every feeding I gave. After my son prayed a prayer of thanksgiving to God for Legos, Spongebob and "Gangnam Style", I added a prayer asking to get through the next few moments so I could finally take time to read a book or catch up on my DVR.  Paint my nails or talk on the phone.  Maybe I would do something crafty or finally organize my recipes.  

I had so many big "me time" dreams today that I could hardly wait until I heard the beautiful sound of heavy sleep breathing coming from their bedrooms.  Finally, I heard the blessed sound of nothing.  It was time for me.  I dragged myself into the bedroom where my husband was already lying across the bed with his face in a pillow...I collapsed beside him.  Suddenly, I couldn't remember anything I was planning to do after bedtime.  Plus, I didn't particularly care.

"I've had these pajama pants on for five days," I thought I heard him mumble from under a pillow. 

"What?" I asked.

He came up for air. "I said, I've had these pants on for five days. I just come home and the first thing I do is look for these pants. I just. I want my pants."

"Oh, yeah...I come straight home and look for my maternity t-shirts."

"I know." he answered a little too quickly.

"Did you know that my socks don't match?" He continued.

I looked at his feet.

"See, they don't match.  I have on two different socks." he let his head fall back on the pillow, "and I'm pretty sure one of them is yours."

"I gave up on socks when I had Samuel. I just wear those mules I've had since high school." 

"I know." Again with the quick response.

He looked up. "What happened to us? It's 8:55 on a Friday night and we are lying across the bed and all I can think about is how I don't have the energy to get in it."

His question was a good one.  What happened to us?  Why did we do this to ourselves. A question that would keep any parent up nights trying to answer it if we weren't all passed out ten minutes after the kids fell asleep.  

When Andy and I got married we were the first people in line at the theater the minute a new movie came out.  Every night was date night.  Now, we spend months trying to catch one single movie.  Oh, we have high hopes.  We see the preview of the latest blockbuster on t.v. and point and say with the energy of, well, people with no children, "Next date night. It's on." Weeks pass.  The movie becomes available On Demand, we point and say,  "Friday night, after the kids go to bed. This is it."  Friday comes and Friday goes.  No one can stay awake for a movie.  Premium channels get the movie and still we miss it.  Pretty soon we are both lying in the bed at 8:55 on a Friday night trying to remember the name of that movie we both wanted to see.   

So why do people do it?  Why do they choose to put themselves through the torture of childrearing.  Who would do such a thing?

I know why we do it.  It's because in between the 3AM feedings, the mystery rashes, the brother jealousy, the screaming, the case-of-beer-for-a-table dinners, the uncertainty and the disbelief that we will come through this alive or with any disposable income...we can't help but be taken away by this face...

Or we stumble into the nursery at 3AM only to be caught off guard by this...

Or you have a moment when you realize your heart doesn't belong to you anymore. 

Oh yes, this is why we do it.





















Goodnight, Y'all.  Hope you sleep this good tonight!

Not Gonna Do it This Year.

So I have decided that I will not be making any 2013 resolutions.  Well, "decided" is not really the right word...let's just say there is nothing left for me to accomplish.  2012 was the year that I figured it all out. I have done it all.  From giving birth to stenciling flowers on a vase, 2012 was the year I pretty much did everything except shave my legs (dude, I was SO pregnant this year - don't judge). 

Here is a summary of what I accomplished:

1.  The word is NUNchucks, not NUMchucks.  35 years of incorrect pronunciation gone all because they re-released Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  check
2. I made Christmas presents this year.  Yes, I said made. One can never have enough coasters. I just hope no one drops them, gets them wet or places anything other than a room temperature beverage in a Solo cup on them. check
3. I made a person. A really big one. You may not be impressed but I know Wesley is thankful. check
4. I went to Home Depot for something other than a Christmas tree or to have a key made.  In fact, I went all the way to the back of the store. There are some delightfully helpful people that live in the back of that store if you ever decide to go. check
5. I made four Pinterest recipes while on maternity leave.  True, one was microwave mac and cheese in a mug, but it totally counts. (disaster by the way, but check).
6. I now own mod podge and I keep it in my craft bin (see #2). At this point, my real friends should be planning an intervention. check and check
7. I realized I was old enough to own a set of mixing bowls. Look, it really just doesn't occur to some people - check
8. I didn't spend my birthday money at CVS or on gas. - This one had Andy particularly worried. Check
9. I used the aforementioned birthday money to buy myself a purse. It was a Kohl's purse...nothing too terribly expensive. We should all just be glad it's not my usual tote bag with a logo on it from some random company that I can't remember how I got or an Aldi grocery bag. check
10. I learned not to fear the self-proclaimed grammar Nazi's out there and finally admit that though my love for ellipses may never be understood...I am not ashamed. Also, for the record, I don't always care where the comma goes (I realize this doesn't bode well for grandma, but maybe she should be prepared to defend herself is she thinks she's going to be eaten...it's just really too much pressure.).  ...check,

So have fun with your resolutions...I'll be painting my nails. (ooh, another check).

Hope it's Cool to Blog About This...

Here is my review of some children's toys...just in time for Christmas.

The "Super Hero Secret Hideout" Toy

This is the abode of some action figure. I'm pretty sure it's the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  I'm quite disturbed by the fact that it's practically twice the size of the child playing with it.  When I was young, yes I had Barbie's house...but Barbie's dream mansion was NEVER built to scale with an actual Barbie.  She couldn't fit in any of the rooms and forget about letting her relax on any of the furniture or in the bath...she didn't fit.  She barely squeezed herself into her elevator. #whydidBarbiehaveanelevator?  I, quite frankly, don't have room for such huge toys.  Mainly because as the ancient Chinese proverb wisely states, "The bigger the toy, the harder it is to throw it away in a year without your kids noticing."  The Ancient Chinese were wise indeed. 

The "New Twist on a Favorite to Squeeze a Few More Pennies out of Consumers" Toy

First I spent a week neglecting my family because I got highly addicted to flinging birds with different skill sets at structures housing green pigs laughing at me (why are there green pigs laughing at me?) Now, I have to actually build the structure, place the laughing green pigs, then knock them down with birds of assorted colors?  At least, I think this is what this game is asking me to do. Don't invent toys that create more work.  I am not a patient woman.  There is a reason you won't find a game of Jenga in my house.  This isn't Field of Dreams...I don't care who will come, I'm not gonna build it.

The "Creepy Doll Army You've Assembled and Trained" Handy Carrying Case

This is the creepiest container of unrealistic beauty I've ever seen.  I have no problem with Barbies...but don't buy this case, and if you do, don't face all the Barbie's looking out.  It looks like you are smuggling tiny perfect people.  And for the record, smuggling people is not cool.

 The "This Will Never Come Out of Your Carpet" Toy

WARNING!!! This is NOTHING like Play-Doh.  It's sooo much more irritating that Play-Doh.  It's even more maddening than knock off Play-Doh, Magic Dough.  This is really what you buy people that you hate.  Read my letter to the makers of Moon Dough here.

The "For Those Kids Who Dream of Dentistry" Toy

I love Play-doh.  Now having said that, what's fun about making teeth?  Let me answer that.  NOTHING is fun about making teeth.  Also, I get the white Play-Doh is for teeth.  I get that the silver is for fillings.  What exactly is the red container of Play-Doh for?   

The Toy That Says, "I Hate You So Very Much and Here's Proof."

This is amazing.  You can turn your child's bath into a colored slushy, then turn it back into water.  

I was wrong, THIS is what you buy people that you hate.  You can bet, that if some kid pushes my son around on the playground, they will be getting a box of Squishy Baff in assorted colors at their Monkey Joe's party faster than you can say...well Squishy Baff.  And what's with the weird spelling?  What's wrong with the word, bath?  Now you've made an annoying toy AND you can't spell.  Now I'm super annoyed.

Side Note: If I've invited you to my son's birthday party, please don't get nervous.  

A Funny Thing Happened While I was in the Hospital...A Birth Story

This is what hugely pregnant looks like.

So here we are!  Here I am.  Slowly recouperating from being pregnant and having a baby.  It feels great to be on this side of a journey that started many months ago.  The baby is here, he is healthy and we are beginning our life as a family of four.  My heart is so full of joy.

But, to catch you up on our journey to this point from my last post at 32 weeks when I declared that I would be on the couch eating goldfish if you needed me, I felt a post was needed.

At 36 weeks, I found out that I was more than likely headed for a c-section with this pregnancy.  The baby was not head down.  He was so not head down, in fact, that the doctor poked at a lump around the top of my rib cage and said, "I'm not really sure what part of the body this is. Perhaps we should do an ultrasound."  Yes, doctor, perhaps we should.

The ultrasound confirmed my worst fears.  The very first thing that this child was supposed to do, he didn't.  Was this act of defiance a sign of things to come?  I can only wait and see.  I was offered a version, which sounded incredibly unappealing to me.  You want to turn my baby with your hands in a process that has a 50% success rate and is painful and might put me into labor?  Um no, I'll take c-section for $1000 please, Alex.

I was a little taken aback that I would need a c-section.  I did not need one with my first baby, so the idea that I would need one with my 2nd took me a second to digest.  In order to fully and intelligently prepare for the surgery, I did what most intelligent, well-researched people do...I polled people on Facebook.  And to be fair and have all of the information, I asked for only people with good c-section experiences to respond.  No need to scare me people.  If the c-section was going to suck...it was going to suck, but at least I didn't have to fear it.  People responded...it didn't sound so bad.  

Weeks passed by, the baby never turned, and before I knew it, we were scheduling Wesley's birth in my day planner...just like they did in pioneer days.  Before I move on to the actual birth, I think it's important to mention three interesting things about my pregnancy and what they all had in common:

1.  I was diagnosed with marginal cord placement - this is where the umbilical cord is attached to the placenta off-center and can hinder proper nutrition to growing babies in the womb.

2.  The cardiologist who was monitoring my heart palpitations put me on a low dose beta blocker for the duration of my pregnancy to combat my random heart flutters. (the flutters turned out to be benign, pregnancy related and have since stopped).

3.  I love coffee.  No, like I really love coffee.  I drink it regularly through my 2nd and 3rd trimesters. 

What do these things all have in common?  Well...I'll tell you. All three have been known to contribute to low birth weight babies.  Are you snickering yet?  If not, remember this bit of trivia.  

So on September 11th, shortly after lunch and a week before my due date, Andy and I headed to the hospital.  This was a different animal entirely.  I was extremely nervous.  This was surgery, after all, and so many things ran through my mind.  Also, I know how much Andy hates hospitals.  He hates everything about them.  The neutral colored walls.  The instrumentation. The sick people.  Now he was going to have to remain upright in an actual operating room, shielded only by the standard c-section blue sheet.  He kept all of his anxieties to himself, though.  That's just the kind of amazing guy he is...he didn't want me to worry about him.

So, as scheduled, Wesley made his debut via planned c-section.  The child that I thought might weigh somewhere around his brother's weight of 8lbs 8oz actually weighed 9lbs 14oz.  Um...huh?  How is that possible? As many ultrasounds as I had had, no one EVER said to me, "hey, so your baby is breech and oh by the way he's also gigantic. Like he might be born holding a juice box and speaking in full sentences so don't buy any newborn diapers."  I had zero warning.  He was even a week early.  Apparently, Wesley was breech but almost transverse (sideways) so the measuring was off which was why no one had any clue that I was having a humongous man child with facial hair.  Did you see my pregnancy pic above?  That's right, I could have been even bigger if he had been positioned correctly.

The funny thing is that at the hospital, Wesley was actually the runt of the c-section litter that day.  The woman to the right of us in recovery had delivered an 11 lb+ baby and the woman to the left had delivered twins that each weighed over 7 lbs.  Wesley was just tiny in comparison!  

Recovery from a c-section has been very different than recovering from a regular delivery, obviously.  The regular delivery has all of the things you expect to need to recover from.  If you just remember not to squat, you are usually good. A c-section, while way easier at the hospital because you avoid the entire labor process and are practically assembly-lined to your baby in record time, has been different.  It's like going in for major surgery and being handed a baby to simultaneously take care of during your recovery.  I was a bit frustrated that I couldn't jump up and care for him the way I had with Samuel in the beginning. I am thankful for good drugs.  I am also happy to say that after almost two weeks, I am starting to feel human once again.

So I am now a mom of two boys...and it feels amazing.

Samuel going home.
This kid is in newborn diapers.

Wesley going home.
This kid laughed at those wimpy newborn diapers.
The nurse had to find size ones.

At the end of the day...it's all worth it. 

Thank you so much for your prayers, well wishes and tolerance of pictures!!!

Samuel and Wesley's mom!