Friday, June 24, 2011

My Crazy Life

Seriously, I think there is medication out there that people would take if they had to live my life. It's not that I am raising all boys that makes things seem like they are always on edge, I think it's me. I can't stop being type A. Litterally, it's gonna kill me. And not the heart attack type of kill me, but the running naked down the middle of the road, screaming at the top of my lungs while waving my hands like a mad woman type of kill me. Ok, so that will never really happen. Those who know me know that I must at least have pants on to cover my ample hind end, not to mention shoes, because OUCH! who wants to run barefoot down the street. There are glass and rocks there!

I think my craziness comes from raising three children on my own, sleep deprivation from the last child never sleeping through the night, adding a new kitten to my bed in the wee hours, and the after effects of Cullen's birthday party sleep over which ended with me screaming like a banshee..."I have to work in FOUR HOURS..Go. To. Sleep!" I'm sorry to any parents who's children were the victims of my forcefullness but a woman has to do what she has to do when her husband deserts her for the bowels of the hospital to deliver a baby instead of staying home for prearranged family time consisting of six kids in the basement, also sleep deprived. ;)

But I am told by slightly older friends that things get better. Soon, this chaos will slow down, I will have a life of my own (although not the sanity to enjoy it), and be able to speak in sentences that don't consist of: Stop! No! Don't! Wait until your Father gets home! or Lord, Help me through this day for I truly love my children.

I have a running group of friends. We run miles and miles for "fun." We yell for each other, support each other, and laugh together. I wonder how many of them would run naked down the street with me screaming.........any takers???

Wednesday, June 22, 2011


In the still of the early morning hours, I am able to completely reflect upon the birth of my second son. As I sit quietly, I can conjure up the sounds and feelings of that early morning water breakage, the fear of leaving our home the mother to one child and returning as the mother to two young boys. I can remember the craziness of standing in the elevator with my husband at the hospital, conversing with an old man who got on with us about the beautiful Sunday weather as water leaked out of me and contractions squeezed my body. A child moving softly within my body for the last few precious moments together. I can remember how there was nothing to watch but televangelists on the TV. How Dave and my doctor went to lunch at the local chinese restaurant while I sat alone, contemplating the day as it progressed. I had my yoga instructor come and help me with labor. Her visualizations and soft music lulling my mind into a calm place, even as my body struggled to move my child down the birth canal. Her softly holding my foot as the doctor tried to give me an epidural which would not take. A sweet, smiling doctor who two short weeks later would be dead from lung cancer. Who lingered outside the door as I labored, wishing he could do something for my pain of natural childbirth, but could not. I can remember the tunnel vision feeling of telling the nurses I felt great pressure. How they suddenly became very busy, turning the chest of drawers where I put my clothes into a place where their tools of the trade were placed to help my doctor bring my child into this crazy world. How the camera stuck and my frazzled husband opened the back of the camera and exposed the film of my last days of pregnancy and our oldest son's first blackberry picking with my Mom. There was to be no pictures of this birth. I can remember focusing on Gloria through each contraction, realizing that pushing Cullen out was not the same as pushing out Kadin. I can vividly remember the look of fear on my OB's face as my child crowned. Sternly he made me focus on him telling me he had to get the baby out, now, and I was to listen to him. I can remember the look that passed between him and my husband when Cullen's head came out, but his little body would not. In the confusion of nano-second, I can see in slow motion my husband thrusting his body across my belly, pushing the nurse out of the way, as he and Dr. Thornberry silently communicated. One pushing, one pulling, to release our child into the world. I can remember the unbearable pain passing into euphoria as he was expelled and placed upon my chest only to have the nurse freaking out at his grey color and thrusting oxygen into his face and vigorously rubbing his back as my sweet Cullen stared wide eyed. I can hear my husband telling the nurse to stop, that his body was pink, and he was ok. Only to look down into my child's face and see a new soul. A baby who was smash faced, grey in color, and all my own. The love that comes when you stare into your child's eyes. 15 minutes later I was on the phone with the cord blood place to schedule pick up, the pain of childbirth a short path behind me. Poor Cullen looked like he had been beat up, and I was not any better off. Pushing him so fiercely broke the blood vessels in my eyes and I looked like the victim in a cheap horror show. Painful for all to look at.

As I watch my son sleeping now, nine years later, I am amazed at this child who came so dramatically into the world. My 7lb 3oz baby who litterally got stuck, has not been stuck ever again. A child who gave his older brother the courage to face fears. A little boy who had excema on his face and a ready smile to all he met. A baby who did not toddle, but ran. A child who still bursts forth head first into things in life. A sensitive guy who many people misinterpret. A little boy who is more like me than I sometimes want to acknowledge. I sit here, nine years later, and thank God for the lessons Cullen has taught me. From learning to love another child, to watching brothers grow with one arm slung around the other's shoulders. From early morning feedings where it is just baby and Mommy, to double stroller walks with Daddy. Somewhere along the way he potty trained in one day, learned to read, tie his shoes, and will be entering the 4th grade. His peaceful sleeping face reflects not only the child he was, but the man he will become, with God's grace.

Nine years ago, so much was unknown. And still, today, the future cannot be seen. But I do know I have been blessed beyond measure. By a small, energetic little boy who has captured my heart, filled my life, and given me more than I could ever give him back. Happy Birthday, Cullen McKee! I love you to the moon and back!

Nine Years Ago


Little did I know nine years ago that today would be my last day pregnant with my second son. Little did I know the trauma from his birth would stay by me for years to come. Little did I know how much a second child could weasle his way into my heart and expand it so much, we would want a third. 37 weeks into my second pregnancy, I'm sure this day was much like any other day with a 31 month old toddler on a Saturday. I can picture a tiny baby's nursery, his little bitty clothes, and my anticipation of carrying this child weeks longer than I had my first one. My mother was at our house in Alabama in anticipation of this small one's birth. Nine years is a blink of an eye, yet a lifetime for one small boy. Cullen McKee. The child who blazed into our lives, blue-grey from lack of oxygen. Who took that first gasping breath and never looked back. The child who has never met a stranger, never lacked for anything to say, and never sat still. A child our oldest son needed in the deepest sense of the word. A baby who gave an older brother wings, and his parents new eyes to appreciate the smaller things in life. A little boy who never ceases to make us stop and take note. I can sometimes glimpse the man he will become. On this day, I will cherish the last day of Cullen being 8. For tomorrow, a whole new year begins! We love you, Cullybug!