Dear Paxton,

I have sat in front of this computer screen for hours now.  In fact, I have opened up this computer screen to stare at that awful flashing cursor for far too many days.  It mocks me and screams, just do it already, and still I feel speechless… something that is completely foreign to me.  I don’t always know the answer.  I don’t always say the right thing.  I don’t always choose my words carefully.  But I ALWAYS have SOMETHING to say.

I’m not sure that this will be my best attempt to say exactly how I’m feeling, because I’m still trying to figure out what exactly I am feeling.  You know by now that I write/speak with no filter, so here goes…

terrified. excited. anxious. disbelief. amazed. blessed. confused. scared. surprised. nervous. eager. apprehensive. joyful.

Put all of those words on a piece of paper, then wad those pieces of paper together and swallow it.  I know what you’re thinking, I’ll choke.  Yep.  It’s right there stuck somewhere between your throat and the deepest part of your stomach.  Just close enough to your throat to make you want to constantly throw up.  Just far enough down to feel the ache in the pit of your stomach.  It’s half panic and half I’ll get through this, I think.

We got a new vehicle in November.  Your dad insisted we get one with third row seating.  I thought that was crazy, but went with it.  When are we really going to use third row seating?  You aren’t really in the having friends over stage, and a family of 3 plus 1 dog hardly warrants 7 seats.  We used the third row several times out in Colorado, including once where it was Daddy and Pops in the front, you and Uncle Logan in the middle, Grammy, Aunt Kelsey and me in the back, AND Jersey and Reese on the floor.  Turns out, the third row might come in useful.

You see, God has pretty crazy timing with things.  We had such an amazing Christmas break.  We looked at houses, talked to a principal, and felt really good about our decision to move out to Colorado.  We discussed putting our house on the market, and when we could move on a house that we loved out by Grammy and Pops.  We returned to Illinois and as I was ‘cleaning’ I started ‘packing’.  First, I packed away all of my maternity clothes back into the huge tubs that go out to the shed.  I started this task forever ago, but finally convinced myself to let go of the elastic band at the top of the pants.  I even bought tons of new clothes over break and beamed as I took my size 6’s to the checkout counter.  Hoping the checkout lady would somehow know that I had lost all of my pregnancy weight.  She never even asked, can you believe that? Then I packed away all of the ‘baby’ things that you’ve outgrown… the bottles, pacifiers, clothes from newborn to size 12 months.  I packed up my pump….HALLELUJAH!  You are completely done breastfeeding and I’m so proud of myself for making it to one year.  I taped up boxes and labeled them… knowing I wouldn’t need them again until next year or the year after sometime.  I’ve prayed every night that God would bless us with another baby when we would start trying again this fall or winter.  And right when I got things packed away, right when I squeezed my forever changed body into my size 6’s…God answered my prayers, just not in the way I was expecting.  Turns out that God is blessing us with another baby, but we’re going to have the real deal this fall, no matter when we thought we’d start trying.

You are clearly super excited about this.

It’s taken me a long time to process that this is even real.  I didn’t believe it when I took the tests at home.  I made your daddy go to the store in an absolute blizzard to get a test, just to ease my mind, but I knew there was no way it could be positive.  It was positive.  Your daddy and I were definitely not trying, and again, you were a miracle in itself.  I had no idea if we’d be able to have another, and the thought seemed so far away.  It definitely couldn’t happen when we were carefully preventing another pregnancy.  I didn’t even really believe it when I went to the emergency room and they did both a blood and urine test.  They were positive.  And when we went to the doctor’s office for our first prenatal visit, the same doctor that delivered you one short year ago, an office I feel like we just sat in looking at you for the first time on that screen, I was still confused when I saw that familiar shape, that tiny heart, beating at me on the sonogram screen.  It was really happening.

Here’s what I’ve put together.  This kid must be pretty important.  There must be a pretty incredible reason that he or she is coming into this world.  I’m not going to say it was a mistake or an oops, because that sounds like we wish it wouldn’t have happened. I know there are a million women that would give anything to be in my shoes.  For several years of my life, I thought I was one of those women. In reality, we are scared and excited, and all kinds of things that don’t make any sense.  It’s one thing to quit a job, sell a house, move out of state, buy a house, and interview for jobs.  It’s a whole different thing to interview for jobs when you’re going to need to take the first 6 weeks off from that job to rest, recover, and raise your new little miracle.  We all of the sudden have to worry about insurance, switching doctors, and the possibility of delivering a baby in a hospital that is brand new. I’ve been so incredibly torn on this timing of all of this, but that’s life.  That’s the climb…and I’ve chose to embrace that climb, because it’s what I hope for you.

Sometime in August or the beginning of September, you will become a big sister.  (My prediction…it will happen the day school is supposed to start.  That’s just how things go.)

You will still be my baby.  And I don’t mean that in the creepy way like the mom in the book Love You Forever.  While I love that story, I will not be sneaking into your room when you are in college to rock you and sing to you that you will always be my baby.  You’re just going to have to take my word for it.  I am terrified I’m robbing your childhood by bringing another baby into our family.  And at the same time, I can’t wait to watch this transformation.

Sometime in August or September, there will be 2 babies under 2 years old, 2 cribs, 2 high chairs, 2 carseats in that vehicle with third row seating.  My heart, which is currently bursting at the seams just from being your mom, will grow even larger to accommodate enough love for 2 children.  We will become a family of 4, and Jersey will get moved to that third row.  We will struggle, we will break. And then we will grow.  And this will probably happen multiple times a day.  We will adjust to this new life.

Pregnancy is something I don’t wear well.  I don’t glow.  I don’t hear the “oh girl, you are ALL belly” comments.  I pack it on from my forehead to my swollen toes. I can’t hide it at all.  I have spent the last 3 weeks wearing every single vest I have, which has felt like I’m wearing a corset. I am convinced that I was never going to be physically “ready” to go through it again, so instead, God said, “Surprise!”  I prayed it would be different than it was with you, and then I look at what I got out of it, and wonder if I want it to be exactly the same.  When I was pregnant with you, and in the height of the morning sickness… scratch that, the all day sickness, I was on summer break.  I seriously spent the entire day on the couch puking in a bucket or laying out in the pool with Ashley, puking in a bucket.  I had no responsibilities, nothing to do but lay around, nap, and puke.  Not that it was graceful, but I could handle it.  Summer school started up, and I would run across the hallway to my carefully positioned trash can.  Then school started in August and I was getting sick a little less, and just had to worry about crazy contractions, swollen feet, and suggestions of bed rest or working half days.

It’s all a little more interesting when you are smack dab in the middle of a school year, and you have 19 students staring up at you that have no idea what’s growing inside of you or that the small mustard stain on their t-shirt is going to make you throw up at any second, and they need you 100% of the time.  It doesn’t matter that you’ve been up all night, or that the smell of the snack they provided is going to push you over the edge.  You spend all day giving these kids all you have, and you do it with a smile on your face, even if that means asking the saint of a teacher next door to watch your class for a second, while you run out of the room several times a day.  And then you get home and you have absolutely nothing left, because you’ve been “performing” all day (that’s what teachers do, if you wondered) and then you have this perfect little mini-me at home.  This baby turned toddler is learning to get around.  She is rearranging furniture, pulling all the books off her shelf, and starting to test the waters.  She eyes those outlets and gets that look like, “What are you gonna do, Mama?”  This beautiful thing you created needs you, 100% of the time.  Even when she’s eating supper and the combination of foods and the fact that it’s coming out of her nose and her ears makes your body heave, quiver, and wonder how you’ll survive.  And this baby, just like your students, deserves you at your best.  So you give it all you’ve got.  And then you thank your lucky stars for a husband that understands.  A husband who hasn’t had a solid meal in weeks, because whatever I set out in the morning sounds awful by dinner time, as does any food, except pineapples and strawberry milkshakes.  A husband that goes off to get you that milkshake at bath time.  A husband that says you look beautiful as you stumble off to bed at 7:15 p.m., in pajama pants that have who-knows-what on them, in a shirt that’s too tight, belly hanging out, hair piled haphazardly on top of your head,  stopping at the bathroom in the hallway to puke one last time.  A husband that stays up, does the dishes, and gets the house ready to do it all over again tomorrow.  A husband that without question, goes out to the shed to get those carefully packed tubs of maternity clothes.  Lord knows you’re going to need them any second now.  And then takes those tubs back out to the shed, only this time, they’re filled with all your size 6’s that you wore for like half a second.

I don’t do things the easy way.  Life’s too short for that business.  So, here we go, sweet girl.  Hold on tight.  Forgive me if I only read your favorite book to you 3 times instead of 4 before we go to bed.  Forgive me when I carry you into the bathroom when I need to get sick and you have to listen to that awful sound, just so I know you’re not getting into anything out of my sight.  Forgive me when your supper consists of absolutely no vegetables.  Sometimes it’s a simple miracle just to get something with any nutritional value at all on your tray, because the smell of those peas, it’s just too much.  Forgive me when my lap becomes smaller, but my heart becomes bigger.  Forgive me for the tears, I’m not sad, but I would be lying if I wasn’t a little scared.  Forgive me when it becomes too hard to carry you, so you have to eventually learn to walk (all the cool kids usually do it before they turn 2).  Forgive me if I’m not always the superhero that you need.  But know, I will always have that cape when you need it most.  It might come and go, it might need to be shared, I might have to have Daddy wear it for a few minutes while I lay down, it might be hiding in the third row with a few shoes that don’t match, an old sippy cup, and my dignity.

Please know, without a doubt, that I will give you every ounce I have to make sure you are safe, happy, and healthy.  And above all, know that no matter what comes in August or September, you, my dear, are my baby.  You fulfilled something in me that I wasn’t even aware was missing.  I had a pretty awful 9 months making you, but at the end of that 9 months, you made me something I thought I’d only dream about- a mom.  And now I get to experience that journey all over again, with you (and an amazing support system) on my sideline, or in the current state, holding my hair back.  We got this.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

You are a big one year old.  Even though we’ve celebrated, we’ve sang, and we’ve opened presents, it doesn’t seem to sink in.  One year.  It’s the point where you switch from a baby to a toddler.  Where I look at you and I realize you’re not covered in rolls anymore, and you’re starting to be Miss Independent.  You don’t need Mommy for everything, especially for your main source of nutrition.  One year.

It’s been a rough week in our house.  I had all of these elaborate plans for your actual birthday.  I imagined making you pancakes in the shape of number 1’s, putting streamers on your door that you could crawl in and out of, getting you some balloons to play with, and greeting you with all the energy and enthusiasm that you deserve.  Then I got the stomach flu.  Not only did I not do any of those things, but I also took the afternoon off, snuck in to the house while Katie was watching you, and went to bed.  Grandma Connie came over to help after school because your daddy had jury duty, work, and then meetings.  I certainly didn’t make your special day, very special.  But that’s what I get for making plans.

On Saturday (after a trip to the ER on Friday for fluids and IV meds), I was semi-living.  Your daddy watched you while I decorated for your party with the help of Grandma and Grandpa, Katie, and Grammy and Pops.  I have been excited about your puppy paw-ty for a long time, and just knew you were going to love seeing all your friends.  I also couldn’t wait to see you devour your gluten free cake.  (I wonder if by the time you read these if you will still be gluten free.)

We went fairly simple on the party.  Pupcakes (cupcakes), puppy chow, fetch sticks (chocolate covered pretzels), chewy bones (rice krispies), and pupcorn (popcorn).  Drink choices were toilet water, puddle tea, or lemonade, which I named “Never eat yellow snow.”  There was a place to wipe your paws, and a little pups playpen for all the kids.  The favors were puppy coloring books wrapped in newspaper with paw print crayons.  There was also an “Adopt-a-Puppy” station with rubber-ducky-puppies, if that makes any sense at all.

We had no agenda for the party.  People came and ate, and we gave you the cake.  You touched it and then looked at me like I was crazy for giving it to you.  It was your first real experience with sugar, and to be honest, you weren’t a big fan.  As a photographer, I was super disappointed.  As a mom, I was like, yesssss.  I’ve been hoping you won’t have the same sweet tooth that I do.

After the poor showing at the cake-smash, you opened (and by you, I mean your dad and I) a hundred presents from the people who love you like crazy.  I thought our house was full after Christmas.  It’s borderline needing a storage shed at this point!  You loved your presents, especially your puppy dog chair and your baby doll.

It was so neat to just enjoy all the kids running around.  I felt old and I felt proud, and of course, a little nauseous, all at the same time.  I look around at the people I grew up with, or met along my ride at some point, and I can only wish the same for you.  I looked at Lindsey, Kristen, and Kelsey, my lifelong friends since I was a little girl.  I’m so lucky to have a solid foundation from my hometown.  I look at Rachel, a true gem I met in college, and will forever be really close to.  I look at your daddy’s family, my family, and see how incredibly supported we are with raising you, loving you, and spoiling you.  I look at the group of friends from Auburn that I adopted when I started dating your daddy- Ben and Kim, Zach and Tiff, Josh and Mindy.  I look at the people I’ve met along my teaching path- Ashley, Jen, Mel, Bethany.  And then there’s the children, the husbands… the crew.  I looked at Kendra, the nurse that was there for my entire delivery, and is now a great friend.  We are so blessed, little girl.  Find people like this.  Find people like this, and don’t let them go.  Work hard to stay in touch.  I’m really bad at that.  I find myself getting too busy to call and just catch up.  And then I’m amazed when I do call, or receive a call, and it’s like we’ve never missed a step.  Those are the beautiful relationships in life.  You see, any of those people I just listed, would drop anything to come and help, and most of them have at some point in my life.  Friendships are rare, fragile, amazing things.  But they’re so worth fighting for.

Tomorrow we go to the doctor for your 1 year appointment.  She’ll ask if you’re walking, and we’ll say that you’re not even close.  This still cracks me up, because your daddy walked at 9 months.  He clearly didn’t have the same chubby little legs that you have, and those itty bitty feet.  Seriously…the rest of you is growing, but those feet… those feet have been that small for the entire past year.  It’s like your toes don’t even have enough room on the end of your feet.  The doctor will ask if you’re saying anything.  That, I’m not at all concerned about!  You are a regular old chatterbox.  You definitely tell us what you want.  You answer, “What does a pig say, what does a cow say, what does a bear say, what does santa say (my favorite)?”  You say mama, dada, pop, ba ba for bath, and juh for jersey.  When we ask you something, you get all excited, shake you head up and down and say, “Yah Yah.”  You sign “all done” when you are finished eating (or when you’ve just started and you don’t like the meal) and will sign “more” if I do it first.  Your routine right now is to wake up around 7 (sometimes after), drink some milk, eat breakfast (usually oatmeal and toast or a waffle), nap for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, snack, eat lunch, nap another hour or 2, snack, eat dinner, bath time, story time, prayers, and bed by 7.

Your daddy loves this age more than anything.  I love that we know what you need, but I definitely miss your newborn snuggles.  I also wasn’t prepared for the temper tantrums. I don’t know why I wasn’t prepared, your Grammy warned me, but they are something else!  You throw your arms back, slam your heels against the floor, get red in the face, and let me have it.  It’s usually because I won’t let you eat dog food or play in Jersey’s water bowl.  Or when I can’t get your food on your tray fast enough…Lord have mercy.  Your daddy, I’m finding out more and more each day, was born to be a daddy.  He lights up when he sees you.  He loves to chase you up and down the hallway.  And when I was sick for 6 days, that felt like 6 weeks, he took care of you, and me with no hesitation.  I would lay in bed wondering how single mothers/fathers and stay at home moms/dads do it (more power to you women and men) and I would listen to him giggling with you during bath time, and I would just breathe in, breathe out, and count my blessings.  Speaking of rare, fragile relationships, find someone just like your daddy.  Well, it would be ok if he was a little more handy around the house (sorry, Tony), but otherwise, just like your daddy.  Find someone who is as good at changing diapers and kissing boo-boos as he is at making you feel special and giving you butterflies.  It’s not a fairytale like they tell you, but it’s real, and it’s vulnerable, and it’s an incredible thing.

One year.  I look at you and think there is no possible way to love you anymore.  And I truly don’t think there is, but tomorrow you will wake up, I will open your door, see that smile, hear that giggle and shriek, and I will fall into you all over again.  You, my dear, are my happiness.  I couldn’t wait to feel better so I could go back to work, so I could sleep well, so I could eat again, but mostly, I couldn’t wait to feel better again so I could experience you again. I simply cannot get enough of being your momma.  There are so many relationships in life that are amazing and complicated and worth fighting for.  But there’s nothing in the world like the one that calls you “Mama”.

Stay tuned for your one year pictures from the studio…I’ll get around to taking those.  Probably about the same time I make your pancakes and put streamers on your door.

I love you,

Your mom.

Dear Paxton,

We are less than a week to go before your first birthday.  That makes me almost throw up just to type that.  How did we get here?

I’ve had a few people ask me, after reading my posts or hearing me tell stories about how easy you are, “What am I doing wrong with my son/daughter/family?”  You see, we’ve been extremely lucky with an easy-going, happy, healthy baby.  I don’t take that for granted, but I do recognize that I’m quick to tell people how stinkin’ unbelievable you are.  Does it have a darn thing to do with my parenting… absolutely not.  Do I have any secrets… you know I couldn’t keep them if I did.  So, this post is for the people that I’ve led astray with my rainbow tinted sunglasses.  Life with you is incredible, I’m without-a-doubt living a dream, but life with you… is not always glamorous.

Like when I was doing the dishes tonight and turned around to see those cheeks.  Now, I talk about your cheeks all the time, but lately, at certain times, they reach new proportions.  It’s the kind of massivness you only get by shoving pieces of dog food in your mouth.  This was the 3rd time in a week I’ve pulled dog food out of your mouth.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I’m out and about with you and I realize I stupidly only have one diaper left in the diaper bag.  I wait until your diaper is bulging so much that your skinny jeans barely fit, and I change it.  And then you poop.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I turn my back on you for half a second, and somehow in that time you make it from one end of the house to the other, giggling as your conquer your goal and laughing in my face as you realize my defeat.  I’ve found you a bazilion times now either sitting in Jersey’s water bowl, playing in it, or on a really good day, you just dump it all over the floor and yourself.  It’s always immediately after I’ve dressed you for the day.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you shut the door to every room in the house repeatedly.  And every.single.time you shut the door, you cry because it shuts.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when we drive to Springfield, which is about 15 minutes, and I hear the dreaded “uh oh.”  This is your new phrase when you drop something.  I think you are averaging 2 toys dropped per minute.  To make a successful trip, that means I’d have to pack 30 toys around you just to get you to Springfield before you run out.  Don’t think I haven’t tried this.  Speaking of your carseat, you really don’t sleep in it.  Most of the time you make indian war cries as loud as you can or blow raspberries.  On the rare occasion you fall asleep, it’s adorable, but most of the time, it’s just loud.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you pooped in the bathtub at Grammy and Pop’s house the other night.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you throw your arms back, get red in the face, and cuss me out in your baby words… because I think it’s appropriate to put a diaper on you instead of let you crawl all over the place naked.  I’ve had to put diapers on you in the craziest positions.  Sometimes you’re upside down, sometimes your halfway in your cozy coupe, sometimes I’m not even sure I have your legs through the holes.  In fact, I’m 100% convinced that the hospitals need to offer diaper wrestling 101 instead of parenting 101.  I learned how to take your temperature, give you a bath, tell when you’re hungry, and put you to sleep in a safe environment, but no one taught me how to wrestle a 25 pound alligator into a ridiculous contraption to hold in all the poops and pees. It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you are too busy to talk to me, because you have an important phone call.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I spend your entire nap time cleaning up the tornado that went through our living room, and the first thing you do when you wake up is dump your toy box, take out every puzzle piece, and scatter your farm animals around the house.  It’s like Where’s Waldo, only it’s where’d you put the cow this time?  And it’s not as much fun.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I ask you for a kiss, and you stick your tongue out and spit all over me.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I’m not sure the last time I showered, and I find pieces of your food in my hair, and I’m not sure if it’s from last week’s spaghetti dinner or last night’s. For the record, I do shower more often than this…it just seems like it’s 2 minutes showers here and there.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when I am getting your towel laid out after your bath and I look over and see you sucking on the lid of your butt paste.  I swear I have one tube of that stuff in the whole house and it always ends up in your mouth no matter where I hide it.  If only you could lead me to your farm animals like you lead me to the dang butt paste.  It’s not always glamorous.

Like when you’re eating cottage cheese and you think it would make a good hair product. It’s not always glamorous.

Being a mom is a tough gig.  It doesn’t come with a one-size-fits-all approach or set of directions.  It’s anything but glamorous, but it’s just so much fun.  I look at my friends and wonder how they do it.  I spend negative minutes getting ready these days.  I am in awe of the moms with the freshly dried and curled hair, the cute clothes, and the perfectly painted faces.  Maybe it’s because I’m a bit lazy, or maybe I just don’t consider it a priority anymore.    I can’t imagine how ugly things might get if you weren’t such an easy-going, incredible little girl.  But for all of you wondering about my fairy tale life, it certainly has it’s moments.  Where would the fun be if every day I knew what to expect?  Life… it’s not always glamorous.

Now that we’ve talked about some of your moments, let me put my rainbow tinted sunglasses back on.  We just got back from almost 2 weeks in Colorado, and you were AMAZING.  You did awesome in the car, you adjusted well to sleeping at Grammy and Pop’s house.  You seemed to grow right before our eyes.  Each day you discovered new tricks and new words. You now can say, “Ho Ho Ho, Uh oh, Pop, Mama, Dada,” and a whole bunch of other sounds we’re starting to recognize. Grammy taught you how to go bumpity-bump down the stairs and climb back up.  You did this somewhere between 30 and 5,000 times.  You bely laughed with that deep chuckle, you smiled with those gapped front teeth that you could drive a small car through.  You shined, just like you always do, except for those other times. It usually is, but life’s not ALWAYS glamorous.

Love you,

Your mom.