Hey, you, leave that mom alone

I try really hard not to get on a soap box very often, especially here at Consider Me Krysten (I usually save it for Jeremy) but, there is something that is weighing on my heart so heavily today that I can’t help but write about it.

While I’ve spent countless hours nursing and cuddling Baby E the last few weeks, I’ve also spent countless hours on my iPhone reading about different things baby related. It is awesome that every time I have a thought or a question about just about anything, I can take to the hundreds of thousands of Facebook pages and forums that exist on the internet and get advice, opinions and find research upon research about breastfeeding, co-sleeping, swaddling, post-partum issues, sibling concerns, etc. You name it, there’s a page for it. I’ve learned about things I didn’t know the first two times around. I’ve found resources and facts that have helped me get through those first few really rough weeks of breastfeeding that I didn’t handle so well with the boys. I’ve had my questions answered by women who have been there and done it and I’ve been encouraged and validated in more than one area. It’s been wonderful to have so much information and so many people right at my finger tips while I nurse away and stay awake at all hours of the night.

I have noticed something else, however, and here’s where the soapbox comes in:

Women are mean to each other.

Okay, not all of them and not all the time but, women are mean.

I am lucky enough to have been raised by a woman who taught me the value of, “take what you want and leave the rest” when it comes to people’s opinions and advice. I don’t take stuff too personally and I don’t often let other people talk me into second guessing myself when it comes to the way I parent. I do what works for me and my children and I pretty much always have. I’ve made it this far and I figure if it ain’t broke, leave it the hell alone, right?

But, I know some women who are not built like I am. Some women, especially those with new babies, don’t have the same thick skin I do and they take stuff really, really personally.

When a woman goes to a forum online to ask a simple question, she wants you to answer that question with your experience, strength and hope. She wants you to be kind and tactful and answer the question, just the question, without offering anything else. When a woman posts a picture of the first time she feeds her baby rice cereal, she wants you to notice how cute her little bug is. She wants you to tell her that the bib is cute, the spoon is cool and comment how big and beautiful her baby is. She DOES NOT want you to tell her that she is causing her child to have type 1 diabetes by giving him rice cereal too early. She DOES NOT want you to tell her that she is making a mistake by doing A, B, C or D with her child. When you see a picture of a kid with a pacifier in his or her mouth or a child wearing pull-ups or, God Forbid, a diaper, later than you think they should, the mother who posted the picture DOES NOT need you to comment that it’s time to lose the Bink or use the ‘Big Potty’. I promise you, that kid is not going to go to high school still sucking on a Dummy (that’s the UK word, I like it) or wearing a Nappy (Also UK terminology. I want to be British, didn’t you know?)

The human race has survived for hundreds of thousands of years because women are pretty good at trusting their guts when it comes to raising their children. That is, unless, they have a head full of other women telling them that they are severely effing stuff up.

Yes, I know we’ve now decided that Rice Cereal is the Devil. Yes, I know that having a pacifier too long will give you jacked up teeth. Yes, I know that potty training is important. Yes, I know that you believe breastfeeding is the ONE AND ONLY WAY. Period. But, please, for the sake of mothers everywhere…

SHUT. UP.

I’m serious. Unless you are specifically asked for your opinion or have something encouraging to say, shut up. Motherhood is a hard gig. The last thing that new mommy on that message board needs is your unsolicited advice, opinion or two cents (or three or four) about how she’s doing something wrong.

Is she shaking her baby? Did she confess to leaving her baby locked in a car for an hour? Did she put her baby outside with the dog and take off to Vegas for three days? No? Then leave. her. alone.

The sad part is, it’s not just online that I see this. I’ve been witness to it in real life since I started having children almost seven years ago. Women thinking that they have the right, or hell, the obligation, to give other moms advice about what to do with their kids. I’ve seen it rip apart decade long friendships, sibling relationships, mother/daughter bonds. It’s sad.

And I’m fed up with it.

If you see a mommy doing something that you’re just absolutely positive is not working and you really, really, really think you have a better way, try something like this:

You know, I went through that with my kid. It was really tough. _______ worked really well for us. You could try it. What’s the worse that could happen? If it doesn’t work, I’m sure you’ll figure something else out. You’re the mom, after all. You know what’s best for your kid.

You see what I did there? I shared experience, strength and hope without straight out calling that mom a dumbass or playing on her already unstable insecurities. It’s not rocket science, ladies.

Motherhood is something that needs to be owned, and owned outright, bold and courageously but, everyone has to own their own brand. My way will not work for you and your way will not work for me. We have different kids. You have different kids than that mom in your play group or your sister-in-law or your co-worker. What works for one is NOT going to work for all of them.

They are different people.

Different little people with their own quirks and comfort levels. There is no one-size-fits-all for motherhood any more than there is for anything else.

Do you fall asleep with the television on? Sleep with a fan? Blankets on? Blankets off? Wear pajamas? Sleep naked? Start your day with a cup of coffee? A cup of tea? A jog? Some orange juice? Do you do better with a big breakfast or a small one? Keep your AC on all the time or your windows open? Do you like the taste of peas? Carrots? Brussels Sprouts?

Could you imagine harping on a woman in your life because she had different answers to these questions than you do? (If you answered yes, we probably wouldn’t be friends anyway. Please go away)

Probably not. So, why oh why do you care so much how she does them with her baby, her toddler or her school aged child?

Contrary to what I see, read or hear on a daily basis, we’re all supposed to be on the same side. We’re mothers. We really are doing the most important job there is. We are bringing up the next generation of people. The people who are going to take care of us when we’re old. The people who are going to take care of our world when we are no longer in it. This is important work. Doing what works best for our own little people is going to matter in the long run. The way we raise our own little people is going to matter.

It. Does. Matter.

But it also matters that we’re doing it our own ways and with our own rhythm. It matters that we’re owning our brand of motherhood and letting other women own theirs. Sure, we’re supposed to be making sure they grow up to be good people, good citizens, good husbands and wives and friends but, I’m pretty sure when you introduce solids, how long your kid has a Dummy (Huh, huh? British. Bam) or whether or not your kid slept in the living room floor 6 out of 7 nights a week for seven years has little to do with that.

I’ve read more than one letter on the internet written to moms who do things differently. They are all a little different but they have the same general message:

Everyone has their own way of raising their children. You worry about yours, I’ll worry about mine and everyone will be just fine. If another mom asks for your opinion, please, by all means, share. If she doesn’t, just be quiet. Or, here's a thought: Point out the stuff she's doing right (according to you) and give her a high five for it. She needs one, I'm sure. She's a mom, just like you, just like me...  

and we’re all doing it just right.

Happy Wednesday, Friends.

go. do. be.

A special kind of hell {when Mama gets sick}

When I gave the BFF a replay of my Sunday night, her reaction was, “Well, that sounds like a special kind of hell.”

She couldn’t have been more right.

The stomach flu is never fun. Having the stomach flu when you are nursing a one month old is, indeed, a special kind of hell. Having children who are sick is never fun. Being the one who is sick and having to take care of the children is, indeed, a special kind of hell. Crying is never fun. Being so sick and dehydrated and delusional that you are actually crying and begging your one month old to stop nursing and go to sleep, and then getting irritated because she’s not listening is, indeed, a special kind of hell.

In between throwing up, somewhere around midnight, I tried Googling “Breastfeeding while sick,” desperately looking for a reason, any reason, to stop nursing her and send her next door. Do you know what I found instead? 150 websites that all said something along the lines of, “The best thing you can do for your baby while you are sick is to continue to breastfeed because…antibodies, health benefits, milk supply, blah, blah, blah…”

Well, shit.

So, there I was. Nursing, puking, calming down the baby who was now pissed at me because I had to puke, nursing again, puking again, and so on. This went on for about 8 hours.

Special. Kind. Of. Hell.

Now, I can hear some of you asking, “Where was Jeremy?” and I will tell you, he was asleep. He was sick, too. “Well, you should have woken him up anyway! It’s not fair for you to do it all by yourself!” you may be thinking. To which I will tell you, I did.

Around 1:30 in the morning, I woke him up. He rocked her, changed her, made her a bottle of pumped milk and cuddled her. In typical Elizabeth fashion, she replied to all of that with, “Hey, thanks for all that Dad. That was really great. You’re amazing and I love you…

“Now, WHERE THE EFF IS MY MOM!?!”

I could have let them figure it out for awhile, I guess. I could have let him be frustrated, let her be frustrated, listened to them both cry. I could have but, hearing your newborn cry and knowing the only thing that is going to make her happy is your boob you, no matter how bad you feel, and just letting her cry anyway? Well that…that is a different kind of hell all together.

It was about 3:30 am when she finally detached herself from my body and went to sleep. She made it up to me by sleeping until 11:30.  The puking stopped, the fever broke and by 5:00 on Monday evening, I was starting to feel human. This morning I’m much better and it’s all just a distant memory, an anecdote, a reason to tell the story about, ‘that one time when Elizabeth was a baby and I got the stomach flu…’

On Sunday night, however, I was thinking it was never going to end. I was thinking I might be stuck in that special kind of hell forever.

I guess that’s just part of this parenthood gig though, isn’t it?

Logan will be seven in September. I have almost seven years full of moments. Moments with both boys that were warm and fuzzy and wonderful and that I hoped would last forever. Moments that were a special kind of hell that I thought would never end. The perfect ones don’t last forever. The hellish ones do stop, eventually. And I’ve learned along the way that eventually they all sort of blend together.

I’m sure it won’t be long from now that I’ll be sick with the flu again or I’ll have a migraine, or, you know, a hangover. Elizabeth will need much more to make her happy than to be nursed for comfort, just like her brothers do. I will actually have to get out of bed to make her something to eat and I’ll be thinking to myself, ‘I wish I could go back to the days where all she wanted was my boob in her mouth…” and somehow I won’t remember it as a special kind of hell.

I’ll just remember it as…special. 

Happy Tuesday, Friends.

go. do. be.

I'm not a blogger {but I play one on Facebook}

For the last two years or so, Consider Me Krysten has been the place I bring random bits of writing. I don’t have a format, or a theme, or any sort of schedule. It’s technically on blogspot but, I’ve never really felt like it was a blog. In fact, when people call it a blog, it makes me feel a little sheepish, a little imposter-ish, a little like a big fat phony. Not that I don’t love it here but, let’s be honest, I’ve never really gotten into the swing of the whole blog thing.

While (secretly) reading a few other blogs this morning, I started thinking about what it is about Consider Me Krysten that makes me feel like I have no right to group myself in with actual bloggers.

Here’s my top 10:

1. I don’t do fashion.

Like, at all. I hate shopping for clothes and when I do buy something other than work pants or pajama pants, it usually comes from Target or Walmart. Like, for real. I don’t do clothes, I don’t do accessories, I have never been to Charming Charlie or Forever 21 or Anthropology or Banana Republic. I usually go ‘shopping’ once a year. Like, “Let’s go into all of these cool stores and try things on and Ooh and Ahh over fabrics and prints and patterns” shopping and that’s when my BFF makes me go as part of her birthday weekend. I’m only there for the company. I don’t try things on.

I NEVER actually buy anything.

2. I don’t do Pinterest.

Not really. I mean, I like E-cards and the Humor section. I pin the occasional idea or nerdy tid bit. I often ‘like’ other people’s pins. I’ve never actually looked at something, pinned it and then later, made it, cooked it, built it or wore it.

3. I don’t do selfies and my Instagram pictures aren’t very exciting.  

With the exception of the occasional “Hey, Kid, come here and let’s play with the camera on my iPhone” picture, I don’t do self portraits. I think in order to feel like I had a good reason to post a picture of myself, I’d have to be wearing something trendy, have a new necklace on or have some cool, Pinterest inspired hairstyle to share which, if you read number 1 and 2, you’ll know that I…don’t. Like, ever. The pictures that I do post usually involve some over-the-top cute thing one of my kids is doing or some random something or other I can’t help but share. It took me three weeks to figure out how to make a collage, another three to figure out what some of the Instagram lingo meant and another two to figure out hashtags. I only follow people I know and no one follows me that I haven’t met in real life.

Bloggers are good at Instagram. I’m not.

4. I don’t do giveaways.

I don’t even know what language that is. I see these giveaways on blogs but, I wouldn’t know the first thing about actually having one.

5. I don’t have a niche.

If someone were to ask any one of my readers from Facebook, “What’s her blog about?” I’m pretty sure the answer would be, “Um, well, I’m not sure what it’s about but, I like reading it.” I’m not a hippie or a bible thumper. I don’t coupon or meal plan. I let my baby sleep in my bed because I’m tired and lazy, not because I strongly advocate co-sleeping. I breastfeed because it’s convenient and free, not because I have a super strong hatred towards formula companies or think that breastfeeding is the one and only way. I don’t have a definite political stance on anything. I have about 15 things that I cook for dinner on a regular basis, at least two of them are considered breakfast, and not one of them has a ‘recipe’ that you couldn’t find on the back of a Campbell’s can or box of Bisquick. When I need to know how to get a stain out, I Google it. I don’t workout on a regular basis. I’ve never had a big, life altering transformation that I could ‘blog’ about regularly. In fact, I don’t really do anything ‘regularly’ enough to blog about at all. Seriously, the only thing I do ‘regularly’ is NOT something you want to read about.

Trust me.  

6. I don’t know how to make blogger friends.

My BFF recently went to a Blogging conference where she met up with a bunch of women who she has become friends with in bloggy-land. She has emailed these ladies a million times, commented on their blogs and they’ve commented on hers. She follows them on Instagram and they follow her back. When she met them in real life, she felt like she already knew them. She had a blast and posted the whole thing both on her blog and on Instagram. I don’t know how to do that.

I’m blogger handicapped.  

7. I don’t craft.

This sort of goes hand in hand with Pinterest and having a niche but, I’ve noticed that when a lot of bloggers seem to run out of things to blog about, they post some sort of DIY, which is cool if, you know, you’re crafty but, I’m not. Michael’s freaks me out. I only own a hot glue gun because it was pink and five bucks and I felt like, because I was a mom, I should own one, ya’ know?

I think I’ve used it twice.

8. I don’t know how to make a ‘button' and I don’t speak ‘sponsor.’

Just about any blog I’ve ever read has this thing on the side that says, grab my button. There is usually also a bunch of buttons from other bloggers with a title that says, meet my sponsors or something like that.

Um, I’ll be real honest. I don’t know what either of these things mean.  

9. I don’t Tweet.

When I have those days where I feel like maybe I want to try and play real Blogger, I’ll call the BFF and ask for advice. She usually advises me to follow people on Instagram (Which we’ve already decided I don’t do) and suggests Tweeting. She’s built an amazing fan base using Twitter. I know that just about everyone has a Twitter account. I do have one (I think) and I’ve used it maybe twice. It confuses and intimidates me, which is ridiculous.

It’s also the honest to Jesus truth.

10. I don’t have haters.

I am in NO WAY complaining about this. I love that all 50 or so of my readers from Facebook usually have either nice things to say or nothing at all.  I have noticed, however, that any blog I read usually has a comment or two where someone has their panties in a bunch about something. They’re pissed because the blogger is too happy, too bitchy, too brash, too sad. They offer their opinion about how the blogger chooses to feed their kid, be a wife, raise their children, handle their Elf on a Shelf. No one seems to be dissatisfied with what I share, which raises a question: If you post a blog and no one is pissed off, does the post actually exist?

I wouldn’t know, I’m not a real blogger. I just play one on Facebook.

Happy Thursday, Friends.

go. do. be.

Mama Misses People

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting on the back porch while Jeremy shared a story with me. He had his back to the door and couldn’t see Brodie behind him, who was placing sticky, three year old hands all over my freshly Windexed door. I made a quick motion for B to move his hands and before J could turn around, B had disappeared. J then looked at me, puzzled, and asked, “Who are you talking to?” and for a minute, I think he actually thought I had lost my damn mind. After I explained that B had been there just a second before, he said, “Oh, I thought you were talking to yourself in the reflection. I was going to suggest that you get out more.”

Oh, Hubby. If you only knew how much I needed to.

When I woke up this morning, after I changed Baby E and stuck a nipple in her mouth, I grabbed my iPhone and opened every social media app on it. At 6:30 am, however, there isn’t usually a whole lot happening and I found myself totally bummed. I realized that I was feeling isolated and would have given anything to read about someone’s traffic jam or spilled coffee or tantrum throwing toddler. I just wanted to interact with someone, anyone, out there in the ‘real world.’ It then occurred to me that, while social media is great, it is not, in fact, the ‘real world’ at all.  It was at that moment that the light bulb above my head turned on and I figured out that I miss people.  

Desperately.

I desperately miss people.

I miss grumpy customers and chatty co-workers. I miss talking to the hung-over guy at the bar at 7 am as he drones on and on about his latest love-gone-wrong. I miss reliving my youth through my 20 something friends at work with no kids and laughing about their biggest problems being things like where to spend spring break or who’s going to feed my cats while I’m in Vegas for the weekend. I miss talking to the Barista at the Starbucks next door about business or the crazy homeless lady who won’t leave our complex. I miss the old man at the counter who says totally inappropriate things but no one gets offended because, well, because he’s an old man and he tips well. I miss telling stories that take an hour because we’re talking in between running food and re-filling coffee. I miss my boss, with her, “So, you wanna hear my story…” which usually involves a trip to the ER with one of her kids or some crazy fight she’s had with her husband.

Yes, yes Amanda, I desperately want to hear your story.

I really do love being home with my kids. They’re entertaining and amazing and really very easy to get along with. But, there are only so many conversations I can have about Power Rangers. And it’s not that Jeremy isn’t great company, because he is. On the weekends, when we’re lying around watching random marathons on Netflix or hanging out in the backyard joking about how much therapy our kids are going to need later in life, I’m not lonely at all. But, Jeremy works long hours so that I can work short ones. During the week he’s up at 2:30 in the morning. He goes to bed early and the hours that he’s home are often spent cooking, doing dishes, hushing babies, brushing teeth, disciplining crazy kids and getting ready to do it all over again the next day.  

If I would have taken a normal maternity leave, I’m sure I would be in no rush to return to work but, the fact is, I’ve been off since February and I’m kinda starting to lose my mind. Add to that the fact that I’ve been at my restaurant for almost two years and it’s never really felt like work. I never really feel like I’m getting paid to be there but, rather, like I’m hanging out with a big, dysfunctional family and we happen to be sort of hospitable and serve strangers when they’re hungry.

I miss my dysfunctional family.

So, no offense Facebook and Instagram but, I’m kind of over you. I’m ready to have real conversations with real faces, faces that change with every silly story and grumpy customer. It’s not that profile pictures and status updates aren’t great but, I miss the voices that accompany, “So, this asshole…” and “Do you want to know what my husband had the nerve to say yesterday…” I want to be irritated with bad tippers and amused by whatever antics the cooks are up to. I’m ready for my feet to hurt from an eight hour shift, my apron to be full of cash and my belly to hurt from laughing.

I’m ready to go back to work.

July 12^th can’t come soon enough. And I don’t feel guilty about saying that. Mama misses people. And that’s okay.

Happy Thursday, Friends.

go. do. be.

On the eleventh day, God created Chaos

The eleventh day started at 6 am.

The hubby was long gone back to work but, thanks to my (almost) brand new coffee pot generously donated by my neighbor, Susan, the coffee was still hot.

THANK JESUS!

We had a cup of coffee, a feeding, a bath (Due to a blow-out. And for the record, after my third baby, I’m still slightly amazed how a newborn can poop up) another feeding, some lotion, some powder and a cute outfit (Duh).

By 7, it was time to get Logan up, in the shower, dressed, shoes, hair, teeth, pack a lunch, pack a backpack, pack a snack & a pillow for Movie Day and make sure he had two bandaids on his big toe so he wouldn’t scream his bloody head off. I had to dress and brush Brodie, too. He’s not in preschool right now so at least there was only one lunch to pack. Finding Brodie’s shoes, however, was a feat in and of itself and I may have screamed, “If you don’t find it, I’m leaving without you!” at least once.

I had to brush my own hair and teeth, find my own shoes, have another cup of coffee and stop for one more feeding. I’m sure if I wasn’t running a million miles an hour, Miss Elizabeth would have been fine but, I’m pretty positive newborns are born with a sensor that tells them when you are busy and it triggers some sort of, “OMG, MOM! I’m STARVING! Please stop what you are doing and feed me again before. I. die.” response.

And, of course, it was during this particular feeding that Brodie went poop and needed my help wiping. He’s such a big boy! And I’m so proud of him! (Confession of the day: Sometimes, I think diapers were easier than potty training)

By 8, I was loading car seats and kids into my car. It was the first time I’ve had all three in the car at the same time. Logan, thankfully, can buckle himself but Brodie and Elizabeth had to be loaded and buckled. (Insert sweating). The good news is, dropping Logan off at school by 8:10 means he can eat breakfast in the cafeteria.

God Love Public Schools.

After drop-off, we were down to two kids, which may sound easier but since I dropped off my main ‘helper’ at school, it really wasn’t because I had to make a stop at Walgreens. Brodie, who never found his shoes and insisted on wearing his Elmo slippers, had to walk like a big boy in the store and Elizabeth screamed through the whole trip.

We made it home by 8:45 and had another feeding. (Quietly chanting, breast is best, breast is best, breast is best…right?) I stalled Brodie long enough to get through the feeding, after which he demanded Dinosaur Chicken for breakfast.

Whatever.

Elizabeth went down for a nap, Brodie ate his chicken, I started a load of laundry (Four people make a lot of laundry, Five people make MORE laundry. Right. From. The. Start.) paid some bills, wiped down a counter or two, emptied some trash cans, fought some bad guys, read a book, put on Netflix…

And started another pot of coffee.

Here I sit, 10 am, ready for a nap, still grateful for my family of five, but a little more exhausted than I was on day four, when I had help during the morning hustle and bustle. I’m confident I’ll get better at it. I’m psyched there are only two more days of school left.

I’m positive newborn snuggles and three year old kisses and six year old hugs make it all worth it.

So, for those who have been asking, that’s pretty much what it’s like so far.

Three kids. Bam.  =) 

Happy Day Eleven, Friends.

go. do. be.

Postpartum Elation

I’ve been known to suffer from the more than occasional bout of depression. The clinical kind. The baby blues kind. The oh my god why is this happening to me, what the hell is wrong with me kind. I’m no stranger to lows. Sometimes they’ve required medication, sometimes they’ve required major life changes and sometimes they’ve required a simple solution of un-slumping. The point is: I get sadness. I understand anxiety. I am well aware of what it feels like to be an emotional mess.

When my sister in law, Meganne, was getting ready to give birth to my nephew a few weeks ago, I called my brother, Austin, and told him, “Please be warned that your Love may be an emotional mess for awhile. Please don’t take anything she says personal for at least the next six months. Hormones are the devil. If she tells you that you are messing anything up or that you are worthless, I promise she doesn’t mean it. She really does love you. I promise.”

I’ve been there. At that point, I had given birth twice. I had brought two babies home from the hospital. I had cried over the smallest things and yelled over the smallest things and lost my shit over the smallest things. When I brought Brodie home, I cried for weeks over just about everything. I spent a lot of time on the couch thinking, “I can’t do this. I’m outnumbered. I’m not going to be able to keep up. I’ve made a mistake in thinking I could be a mother to two children. They deserve better than me.”

And I believed it.

While I know there were also times where I was happy, where I was grateful, where I was overjoyed, those times often get overshadowed by the sadness, by the tears, by the hormonal mess that was Krysten during those times in my life.

Currently, I’m dealing with something very different. Something I’m not as familiar with. Something that I want to make note of so that next week if I find myself on the couch, crying, thinking that I’m even more outnumbered, I can always remember where I was today. And today I’m dealing with something I’ve started calling Postpartum Elation.

It sounds a little like this. And yes, these are actual things that have come out of my mouth the last few days since I gave birth to Miss Elizabeth Everdeen Nunn…

“I feel like my heart is going to burst open and rainbows and butterflies are going to pop out.”

“I want to bottle up the feeling in my insides right now so I can share them with everyone in the world.”

“I love you. And you. And you. And you. I love everyone.”

“This is what life is all about, right here, this moment, nothing else in the world matters but this.”

“I want to hug everyone.”

I know, corny right?

I. can’t. help. it.

Because I know that hormones can play tricks on anyone, I will admit that I’m a little skeptical of these feelings. Sometimes I fear that at any moment the bottom is going to fall out and my high is going to become a low. Maybe because I’ve done low before, maybe because I know hormones have a mind of their own, maybe because I believe I can’t possibly stay happy for long periods of time. Whatever reason, I’m not delusional enough to think there aren’t going to be rough days, hard moments, overwhelming situations, anxiety attacks but, today? Today those things are nowhere to be found and all I have is the beyond blissful good stuff.

And I wanted to write it out because, as Kurt Vonnegut says, "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"

And it is. It is SO NICE to be here. To feel this way. To have this life. To have this family. To have this feeling. And no matter what happens tomorrow, I will always know I had it today. 

 My water broke at 11 pm. When Jeremy and I got to the hospital, we literally got a mad case of the giggles. We laughed for an hour straight.

 In love. On impact. I didn't know just how bad I wanted her until she got here.

 A BOW!!

 And then there were three.

 Celebrating our Ten Year Anniversary in the hospital with Chili's take out and cuddling in a hospital bed.

And I just had to share.

Happy Tuesday, Friends

go. do. be.

Dear Pregnancy {and your evil little friends}

Dear Lack of Sleep,

Look, I get it. You’re preparing me for when Elizabeth arrives. You want my body to be well adjusted to functioning on you before she gets here so that I don’t freak out and try to throw her out the window. I know you want what’s best for both of us and everything but, here’s the deal:

I’ve done this before. I’ll be alright. I promise I’m not going to shake her when she wakes up for a 2 am feeding. I PROMISE. I’ll adjust when the time comes. I didn’t shake either one of the boys (very hard) and I managed to quickly adjust to their schedules as not to put coffee in their bottles or formula in my coffee cup. They survived. They were loved. I did fine.

Please, please let me sleep.

Dear Brain,

Please calm the eff down.

Like I just explained to Lack of Sleep, I’ve done this before. There is no reason to be freaking out right now. Sure, you are allowed to be excited and nervous and everything but, could you please do it at a reasonable hour and not in the middle of the night? I know you are eager to get this Three Kids show on the road and stuff but, you have to calm down a bit and let me relax. You running constantly isn’t doing either of us any good. And stay away from Lack of Sleep. She is not, I repeat, NOT your friend.

Dear Restless Leg Syndrome,

Go away. No one likes you. You have no friends here and you are really, REALLY starting to piss me off.

And stop egging Lack of Sleep and Brain on. They don’t need your flippin’ help.

Dear Bladder,

SERIOUSLY?!

Dear Sciatic Nerve Pain,

You are being completely ridiculous. I have two kids to take care of. I can not be all crippled and in pain with you. I have more important things to do. There is hair to wash, breakfast to make, lunches to pack, monsters to scare away, shoes to tie and boo boos to kiss. I’m really busy right now raising people and you constantly shooting debilitating pains down my leg is really cramping my style.

Dear Nausea,

I thought we talked about this around week 18 and we both agreed that you were going to stay away. I know it’s hard and you think I’m really fun to hang out with but, I assure you, I’m not. It’s not you, it’s me. Please go bother someone in their first trimester. They’re already expecting it. There is some woman out there who has been trying to get pregnant for three years and finally saw two pink lines and will totally welcome your company. She’ll be grateful for it. You two will make a perfect match.

Me? I’m over you. Accept it and move on.

Dear Trial of Labor and VBAC,

You don’t scare me.

Bring. It. On.

Dear Pregnancy,

You really are beautiful.

I want you to know I think you’re amazing and I’m really glad you chose me again, no matter what I say sometimes. Growing a person from scratch is really quite an honor. I feel blessed beyond measure to have you in my life. If it was just me, you and the fluttering fetus, we’d be great. It’s those other bastards that give you such a bad rep. You, my dear friend, are a miracle and nothing compares to you. Thank you for coming back when I least expected it and giving me one more chance to soak you in. It’s been very exciting to be able to share you with the boys. They think you’re pretty neat, too. I love the way you make Jeremy look at me all googly eyed, like I’m some kind of rock star. I love lying on my left side at the end of the day and letting you and the baby move and dance around while I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Fetal hiccups are borderline blissful. Listening to Brodie sing Ba Ba Black Sheep to my belly and watching Logan kiss it goodnight are two things I’ll never forget. I appreciate what you’ve done for my hair and my nails. My skin isn’t looking so bad, either. You have yet to leave any stretch marks this time around and for that, I thank you. I’m so glad you chose to give me a girl to grow this time. Fussing over pink things has actually made those evil friends of yours more bearable. (just don’t tell them I said that)

You have done nothing wrong and I want you to just keep on keepin’ on for about 3-4 more weeks, okay?

You’re doing great. Thank you for being you. I love you.

Love,

Krysten