Lord Knows...

It's really hot outside. To dissuade myself from killing myself, I decided to take a drive today.

Grey and I went on a little trip to Stillwater, Oklahoma to visit Aunt Deresa at the Beadery (I want everything in there), Mimi (Mom), Uncle Drew and Great-Grandma Turvey (she'd never seen him!). As we were cruising along in our air-conditioned compact SUV (as if reminding everyone that it's "compact" makes the gas mileage get any better), I approached a small bus. On the back of the bus, there was a message.

It read:

"We're following Jesus. Are you?"

This is the kind of shit for which I live. I thought about the question in-depth. After much deliberation, I decided that they were being literal.

"No. No, I am not following Jesus, tiny bus. I am following you. Your bus is in front of me. But, if you are truly following Jesus, then this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for my child and myself to see Christ up close and personal."

Oh, the pedal hit the METAL, my friends.

I immediately sped up to pass the bus. I think I may have seen a sliver of light descend from the heavens. My heart was racing. I knew that in a few short moments, I would see the face of God. Unfortunately, Jesus speeds like a Mofo, and I couldn't put my child in jeopardy by accelerating to 90mph, which is far, far slower than the speed Jesus was driving in what appeared as only a flash of silver whizzing down a long and winding road. I couldn't believe that Jesus would be so reckless behind the wheel, but hey...he's Jesus. It's "how he do."

My only solace was that I could still ascertain the make and model of the silver flash that Jesus drove. And, here I have the evidence for you now...

What, my friends...what would Jesus drive?

A silver Pontiac Vibe.

Which was instantaneously strange...

because my best friend AND my brother and sister-in-law ALSO drive silver Pontiac Vibes. And that propels me further to these conclusions from my Spiritual Speeding Speculation:

God (or what you know to be true in this world) is everywhere, all of the time.

(And so are Pontiac Vibes, apparently.)

Whatever you have made to be true, whether that be positive or negative, real or imaginary, love, hate, sickness, health, etc., is everywhere...ALL of the time...in your life. If you love what your truth is...you made that. If you hate what your truth is...you made it. Your life is exactly the way it is because you made it that way. You are unhappy because you choose it. You are happy because you choose it.

So own up to it.

I am trying to, daily.

So, yes, intrusive, personal-question-asking bus...if you MUST know...

I guess I am following Jesus if you take my interpretation of "Jesus" to be everything that does and does not encompass the entire Universe.

Who knew?

(Probably Jesus)

Insane Fears and Conclusions: Happiness is a Right

There is an overwhelming fear inside of my body right now. I can't put my finger on what it is, really. I think it has something to do with the fact that I know I want to start my own business, and I am SCARED SHITLESS. It needs to have something to do with making things with my hands. Art, greeting cards, typing words, constructing words out of thoughts, thoughts into things, feeling something concrete in my hands that I then, in turn, ship to someone. I want to give little parts of myself away.

I have always known my hands to do the greatest work of my life, thus far. I used them to play Sonatas on the cello. I used them to draw. I used them to massage for 5 years. They have strummed guitars, plunked on the piano...held a baby.

Once, I asked my sister to try to define "me" by using a body part. She said, "hands." Thank God she didn't say "ass." :)

So, this fear. This underlying fear that I am incapable of following through with something. I am not afraid of trying. I am not afraid of the actual physicality of making the objects. I am afraid of sending them off to people. I'm paralyzed at the thought that someone might say, "Yes! I'll take 50 of those!" Then I have to make 50 of those. Which is what I wanted to do in the first place. But, now I really have to do it. What if they don't like my 50 of those?

You know what? As I've been writing this blog, I just realized how completely ridiculous this fear is. I'm scared that someone might actually like what I make.

Deep down, my biggest fear isn't: What if I'm not good enough? What if what I do isn't good enough? WHAT IF PEOPLE DON'T LIKE ME? What if they think I'm stupid because I did this wrong? What if they think my creations are simple or amateur?

My biggest fear is this: What if I actually believed that I'm good enough? What if all of my dreams come true?

WHAT IF I'M ACTUALLY WORTH SOMETHING?

Why am I afraid to succeed, you might ask? Why am I afraid to really and truly be happy? I think it's a combination of these things:

1. Everywhere you turn, people are unhappy. It's become the norm, and it's ridiculous.

2. Everywhere you turn, people are negative. About the price of gas. About their dog. About some drapes they got. About love. About our government. About themselves. When was the last time you heard someone say, "Damn! I look good!" Long time ago, right? Thought so.

3. Everywhere you turn, people are telling each other that they can't do things.

• "If I had a personal trainer and chef, I could look like that, too!" (Guess what? You can look like that, and you don't need a personal trainer or chef.)
• "Well, yeah...we'd all like to be a rockstar, but only so many people can do that." Anyone can do that. ANYONE. You don't even have to be able to sing anymore. I promise. Turn on the radios. You'll see. :)
• "You should go to college, get a degree, and get a stable job in this economy. " Uh...why? How is that in ANY way going to make someone more happy if they don't WANT to go to college? And who ever heard of a stable job, anyway? Especially in this economy...hee hee. See how easy it is to be negative?

4. We are taught from a very young age that we are supposed to know exactly what we want to do when we grow up. People even ask 4 year-olds, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and they respond, "A veterinarian," when really they mean, "I want to pet animals all day long."

Some people are truly blessed to know what career they want to follow. My brother knew after watching Dead Poet's Society in high school that he wanted to be a college professor of English. So, what did he do? He got his bachelors, masters and doctorate all in a pretty little row. He is now a college professor of English, just like he always knew he wanted to be. I curse him every day. Just kidding.

But seriously? Who's to say that we need to have one career for our whole lives if we don't want one? Bor-ing. Bor-ing.

In conclusion:

What if we took one step after another towards an ultimate goal that seemed "crazy" or "too good to be true"??? What if we stopped saying stupid, derogatory shit about our bodies? What if you took ONE DAY to write down every, single negative thing you said? What if you TRULY looked at the crap you're saying to yourself every day? (All of these questions are directed at myself, by the way.)

I am just so tired of the negative shit. I'm so sick of listening to privileged people talk about how hard they have it. I'm tired of being scared.

I shall now ask myself this very pertinent question:

What's the worst that could happen if I followed my dream of making "50 of those" and sending them to people that would enjoy them?

Answer: The other people could hate them and return them, and then I would feel bad about myself for 20 minutes until someone else ordered them and loved them. Someone might say, "Those are neat, but I'm not interested." It could be really hard, and I could decide that I don't want to do that anymore, and then I would feel like I was giving up again. I could die on my way to shipping my 50 of those things.

Looking at the above list of possible outcomes, I really don't see any TRUE fears. Even the dying one would be okay because then I could see what's next, which is what is truly interesting to me in the first place. Dying isn't scary. Truly loving yourself is.

I can't believe my one TRUE FEAR is to be able to say how awesome I am out loud and truly believe it...or hear someone else say it and not look down at the floor with a whispered, "thanks."

That's the dumbest shit of which I've ever heard. I'm so sure. Scared of my own awesomeness. Thanks, brain. Thanks for another great, weirdly-shaped piece to the ol' jigsaw puzzle of life!

Gross.

Gonna go work on those 50 things that someone's going to buy soon. Love and DREAMS and PEACE and POSITIVITY to everyone. You are capable of anything and everything in this world. That's what it's here for.

And, don't let the bastards get ya down.

Concerning Mr. Holland's Opus

In my humble opinion, it is one of the worst movies of all time. Let's reflect:

1. Mr. Holland is a totally selfish asshole.

a. He is almost angry at the fact that his son is deaf. No, not because he's angry that his son will have to face numerous obstacles in life. Not anger directed toward a higher power when such things occur in life...no. He's angry because he's a musician, and now his son can't hear what is so important in his life...music. But, more importantly...he can't hear his stupid opus, which is horrible, by the way. We'll return to that shortly.

b. He doesn't learn sign language. Um...hello? Your son is deaf. You are stupid.

c. Mr. Holland doesn't think his son cares about John Lennon dying because he can't hear. Oh, that's right...I forgot that John Lennon only wrote music. He didn't ever paint or draw, or...I don't know...fight for peace or love...hmm...I can see why you would think that your deaf son wouldn't care about him. Idiot.

d. Mr. Holland almost, almost has an affair with one of his students. Actually, he does kiss her. She asks him to come to New York and follow his dreams.

We are led to believe that:

(my outline form is now about to be discarded)

1. Mr. Holland could actually make it as a composer/musician in the Big Apple.

2. That girl would actually ever fall for Mr. Holland...uh...it's Richard Dreyfus. Not exactly the type of guy that 18 year-old girls fall in love with and move to NYC with.

3. Mr. Holland has chosen right over wrong by NOT going to NYC.

This is false because of this fact:

Uh...Mr. Holland was about to commit statutory rape, people. He almost had an affair with an underaged student. He kissed her. He is MARRIED. He didn't choose his family. He dodged jail, that's what he did. GOD...I hate this movie so much.

Hmm, what else? Oh, yeah...

Mr. Holland spends years and years of his life not following his dreams and teaching high school students, which he never wanted to do in the first place. HE HATES IT at the beginning of the movie. He makes the clarinet girl cry. The clarinet girl then becomes the Governor of whatever state they're in, and she shows up to help play his Opus. I can't stand that part, either. The way she comes waltzing in and "saves the day"...so annoying.

How is being a gigantic martyr in any way portraying a "heroic" figure? Hey, I've got a great movie idea! It's called:

"Mr. Holland Actually Does What He Wants to Do Instead of Wasting Two Hours of My Life Acting Like a Selfish A-Hole and Then Getting a Huge Party Thrown For Him Because, Really People, He Stayed Sad and Did It For the Kids."

Jesus. So much more to say about this, but my human boy is waking up.

p.s. Electric guitar solo in your Opus, Mr. Holland? Really??

Good Day, Awkward Silence! I Said GOOD DAY!

I need television. I've decided that I actually need television.

For years, I have gone without it. I told myself that I didn't need it, want it or care about it. It was true for the time. I spent my days reading, painting, thinking, writing, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, working...basically everything you would be doing if you didn't have a television sucking the life-force from the empty shell you call your body. I held my non-televisionness as a badge of honor. Saying, "Oh, I don't watch TV," was one of my favorite conversation starters. Actually, I'm pretty sure it was a conversation ender because someone would say, "Did you see Dancing with the Stars last night?" and I would say, "No, I don't watch television," with a sense of pretention, and they would stop talking to me. It's kind of like when I take The New Yorker with me on flights, and I always, always end up buying a People at the newsstand before boarding the plane. I then read the People from cover to cover, lamenting to myself at how I had every intention of reading the short story that's single-spaced and 8 pages long.

Anyway...back to my point: You'd be amazed with how many times people will ask you if you've seen something on TV if you don't watch TV. This being said, I am still quite knowledgeable in the subject of all things "television" because I have the internets. I also have a special little internets program called Netflixes, so I can watch stuff on there. (I'm in the mood to make everything plural as a ploy for more laughs...bear with me.)

I blame my newly realized need for television on the human boy that I made. He takes up a lot of my time. Aka: all of it. The endless hours of bouncing and swaying sometimes seem to overwhelm me. I ocassionally think, "Is this what I do now? I just sway and bounce? How long do I do this? Will he ever get tired of swaying and bouncing? When will he not be so damn gassy? The fussiness has got to get better at some point, right?" Then the questions turn on me.

"Who have I become? Am I where I thought I'd be? Will I ever paint again? Do I even like who I am now? What happens when we die? What if everyone is right about everything and I am wrong? Am I a horrible mother because I'd rather be sleeping in an empty hotel room than bouncing my human boy right now? I have a deep need to be alone. Is that bad?"

I then realized that this constant questioning of my soul, mothering abilities, and entire life plan could all be easily fixed, and I have found the answer.

It's television.

I realized this today while swaying at Granddad and Nan's house. For some reason, the swaying didn't bother me. The endless bouncing wasn't so...endless. Each bounce didn't propel me towards a black hole of wondering about how life all fits together (or gets torn apart). I was happily rocking and dancing and lifting and comforting. Do you know why?

It's because I was watching the opening pitch of the Tulsa Drillers' season in their brand spankin' new stadium on a huge flatscreen. Tim McGraw was there. It was lovely. Then, after that was done (because who really watches an entire minor league baseball game on television?), there were TWO, count em' TWO hours of NBC Thursday night comedy. By the time Liz Lemon had figured out the answer to yet another relationship problem, it was time to go home, nurse and put my human boy to sleep!

Done and done, my friends. The night was over. And, it had all been made better by my ol' tried and true, trusted friend: TV.

Granddad said, "I don't know how you do it over at your house, watching that boy with no TV."

I then wondered to myself, "How in the hell DO I do it?" Here's how:

1. Wake up. Feed. He looks at "fan" (We no longer call it "the fan" because it's a loved member of our household now...yes, we personified the ceiling fan. You make sacrifices, okay?)...anyway, he looks at "fan" for about 20 minutes while smiling and cooing. He really loves that damn fan.

2. Diaper change. Go downstairs. Place on Boppy Newborn Lounger. Lots of talking and description of what Mom is doing. Mom gets coffee so she can repeat this process for the next 9 hours.

3. Off to living room for "Breakfast with the Beatles." This is where I put on Beatles records, yes, records, and dance around singing while my human boy sits in his vibrating chair and watches me. He's quite fond of "Penny Lane" and "Hey Jude." Also, I'd like to remind everyone that The Beatles are freakin' geniuses, and most of their songs sound like childrens' songs. There's no need to go out and buy some crappy cartoon character CDs. The Beatles have it down. It's pretty amazing, actually. Grey loves this time. He looks at me like I'm crazy. He also smiles.

4. Diaper, feed, 30 minute nap...yes, a whole, whopping 30 minutes (have no clue why), blah, blah, blah...do it all over again 80 million more times...start getting bored, questions start to come, questions start to turn on me...

5. Rinse, repeat. Everything happens all over again. Blee-bloe-blue...bor-ing, bor-ing.

Seriously, how HAVE I done it? Think if I had a little "Real Housewives of New York" thrown in there!!?? Damn, a little Bravo thrown into my day could make a world of difference in my life. And then, when Grey is old enough...Sesame Street!! Hell, I love Mr. Rogers. I usually end up crying at least once during each episode. How does he make me feel so loved and accepted for being "just who I am" through a freakin' screen? Once, I remember actually talking back to him while tears streamed down my face and saying, "No, thank YOU, Mr. Rogers. Thank you for being exactly who YOU are." This was while I was having a nervous "b," though. You can also thank my husband for coming up with "nervous B" for nervous breakdown. The shortening of words to letters is getting slightly OOC at my house.

So, honestly...I need this for myself. Time to step down from my high horse and get on the...bandwagon? Rocking horse?

I can still be a good mother and watch a little television. I read to Grey every day, I show him effing French flashcards, we listen to the Beatles, I make him track his toys with his little tracking eyes, I sing to him constantly, I say the alphabet 12 times a day, I count endless strings of numbers, I talk about everything I'm doing all day long in infinite descriptions of tasks and sights...

Yes. It's decided. Yes, I do deserve 3 hours of HGTV a night.

Cox Communications, we're back in business, you a-holes!

Don't Worry...I'm Not Psychotic.

Just wanted to let everyone know that things are much, much better at my house. My devil baby is no longer a devil baby, and life is...well...easier.

I realized that from my last post, it could possibly seem as if I'm suffering from some sort of post-partum psychosis/depression. I'm not. Just sleep deprivation.

Some day I'll write a "real" blog, again. It's just that I can't think of anything to say that doesn't have to do with my baby, and I promised myself I wouldn't turn into one of those people that only talks about their damn baby. Those people are annoying.

I honestly have nothing to say right now. So sad. I don't even really know what's going on in the world except for the fact that my NCAA Basketball bracket is totally effed, and the health care thing passed.

See??? "Old Cari" would not have called it the "health care thing"!!! She would've known exactly the right name, place, time it was passed, who voted for what, what it all meant, etc. Now I just write "health care thing" and expect everyone to remember that I'm not an idiot.

It's as if my brain doesn't function in the manner that it once did, pre-baby. Now everything is breastfeeding, reading "Goodnight Moon," tickling a tummy and kisses.

A squeaky giraffe stands where a canvas used to be.

"Pony Boy" and "Old MacDonald" have replaced long nights of plunking away at the piano or guitar. I can barely remember the girl that sat in recording studios. The girl that sang in smoky bars. Where did she go?

She made a human boy. I love him to death, but he is also completely and totally draining. I sometimes wonder when Beau and I will get to eat at the same time again.

The other day, Beau turned to me and said, "Hey, Cari? Do you want to be 'one and done'? I don't know if I can do this again."

Seeing as Beau described a satin blanket to Grey as "the material that a whore's underwear is made of," and the fact that I say curse words in "baby talk" to him all the time, AND the fact that my made-up lullabies have references to marriage equality...I think Beau is onto something with the "one and done" thing.

We're wonderful parents. Grey is doomed to be a total freak. BUT...he'll be an intuitive, courageous, creative, unique human being. I still write songs. They're just not for me, anymore. Here is one of my most recent creations for bouncing a boy to sleep:

I can be whatever I want,

when I grow up like an elephant.

A football player, a ballet dancer,

an architect or a garbage man,

cuz my Mommy loves me no matter what I am.

Maybe I'll like boys,

maybe I'll like girls,

maybe I'll have straight hair,

maybe curls.

But, it doesn't matter,

I like pancake batter...

almost as much as my dad.

When I walk down the street,

I like to meet,

everyone I can cuz I'm a friendly man,

so if you're mean, please don't come out,

I really don't like to fuss or shout.

My name is Grey, and I'm here to say,

that I like milk in every single way.

I drink it all down and I spit it all up,

and somehow I still get full.

Guess what I like?

The fan! The fan!

I'm the biggest fan,

of the fan! The fan!

I look like The Thinker,

but I'm kind of a stinker,

when I'm staring at the fan.

Five wooden blades,

dark against light,

a pentagon shape,

what a beautiful sight.

There is nothing better,

I think I'll write a letter,

to the maker of the fan.

It'll say, "Dear Mrs. So-and-So,

How does your fan blow and blow?

I think I'd like to go and be with the fan.

I love the brand Hampton Bay,

I think I'd like to go and stay,

but that may be perceived as kind of strange."

Am I making myself clear?

I love the fan! THE FAN!

I'm the biggest fan!

Of the fan! The fan!

I look like The Thinker,

but I'm kind of a stinker,

when I'm staring at the fan.

My mom would really like me to go to sleep,

but when she puts me down,

I still make a peep,

I'm really tired, but I'm kind of wired,

cuz my mom can't give up her coooofffeeeee.

That's all I have right now. I add a new verse every time I bounce him to sleep. By the time he no longer needs to be bounced, I shall have written a masterpiece.

And now I have written yet another blog about my child. Wonderful.

A Three Hour Nap...

The title of this blog should be read while singing the melody from "Gilligan's Island," as in..."A Three Hour Tour..." because that's what I'm hoping for at this very moment for my son.

I have a blogging friend (I keep calling her a blogging friend), but really she's just a friend. Before I had Grey, she asked me to please be honest with her about being a mother/raising a child/having a baby, etc. I told her I would be extremely honest. So, here we go...and, because I am so fond of lists, everything shall be in list form:

1. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, tried to do, wanted to do, experienced, had to do, etc. The hardest thing I have ever done. Ever.

2. Every day I have the thought, "I am the worst mother of all time. I can't do this." Then, in about 15 minutes, I have the thought, "Okay, I get this. I can do this."

3. My baby has a total freakout that starts at about 4:00p.m. every day. It can last for 10 minutes or a couple hours depending on gassiness or overall misunderstanding of the world. I think he's extremely sensitive, and sometimes the world is just too much for him. His little system is trying to adjust ever so slowly, and it's heartbreaking to watch at times.

4. I have had to tell myself, "Sometimes babies just cry, and there's nothing I can do but sit here and hold him and tell him that he's going to be okay," about EIGHT MILLION TIMES.

5. There is nothing like a crying, screaming baby. I think my entire nervous system goes into overdrive. The helpless feeling of not being able to make it stop is what I imagine hell might be like. Except in hell, there's a reason to be upset. My baby cries when everything is seemingly perfectly fine. I have been told that other babies do this, as well. I remind myself of this every, single day.

6. I have no idea why I thought I would have one of those perfectly content and happy babies. I mean, look at his mother and father? A bit...uh...intense, one might say? Grey Matthew is a good, good baby. He just has to freak out every once in awhile. So does his mother and father, which leads me to...

7. I have no idea why any couple would have a baby to try to save their marriage. In fact, if Beau and I didn't have a really supportive, amazing relationship...well...I don't know if we'd make it through this first month of baby-ness. This baby had such a rough entry into this world, both physically and emotionally. His parents are TIRED. And, every day we get into some sort of argument (helpful ones...ones that help us heal) that eventually brings us closer together. I'm sure Grey would like his parents to get their shit together sometime soon.

8. I have been peed on (and projectile pooped on) more times than I can count.

9. I am tired of bouncing. You know how babies like to be rocked? Not mine. Bounced. He will only bounce. I have to sit on an exercise ball and bounce with him for at LEAST an hour each day while he stares contentedly at the ceiling fan. If I stop bouncing for two seconds, he cries. I have bounced more than a middle aged kangaroo at this point. My quads are going to be so toned by the end of this bouncing stage. Please tell me it's a stage...please. Sometimes I think that the constant bouncing is what leads to the arguments between Beau and I. One can only bounce so much...

10. At times I have had this fantasy, and please remember that I wish to do no harm to my own child: When Grey has been crying for 2 hours straight, with little reprieve, I sometimes imagine that I can take him like a football and punt him across the neighborhood, where he lands safely on a huge bed of pillows down the street. He is safe...but, he's far, far away from me. :) I don't feel bad for admitting this. It helps me not go insane.

11. I have a baby that hates being kissed. He also hates having his head touched. All I want to do is kiss him and touch his head. It makes complete sense. I have days where if someone touches me, I want to hit them. Beau is the exact opposite, so it's been a real learning experience for him...having two people that don't want to be touched a lot. Poor Beau. He's doing so well with us.

12. No one tells you how fucking hard breast feeding is. BREAST FEEDING IS FUCKING HARD. There. Now, no one can ever say I didn't tell you so. My boobs hurt. My nipples hurt. It takes constant "management" of them to get through a feeding. Creams, potions, my own milk, heat packs, cold packs, lotions, salves, drying them out, massaging, breast pads, gel packs...you name it. Besides chopping them off and buying some formula...I've tried everything. Everyone in the entire world says that the pain will just magically disappear at some point. I'm waiting for the blessed day to arrive, patiently. Okay, not patiently at all. I take 8 ibuprofen a day for this. It HURTS. I'm going to reiterate this one more time: My nipples FUCKING HURT. If any lactation consultant tells you that your nipples should stop hurting within a week, or that your nipples shouldn't hurt for more than a week...well, they're fucking lying to you. Every woman I've talked to said it took them WEEKS...some said up to two months...for the pain to go away. Your nipples will split and be raw, cracked, red, aching...I cannot speak about this enough. There are not enough...elipses...to describe how hard it is. And, yet...I keep going because it's the most important thing that I'm doing. My home birth was taken away from me, but I can still do THIS, damn it.

13. There are times when I don't like being a mom very much at all. There are times when I want to run away. There are times when I think, "Someone else would be much better at this than me." But, then...he'll stare at me with his dark, dark, dark navy blue eyes while I'm feeding him, and he has a look of total innocence and trust, and I think...he loves me. He wants me to be his mom.

He chose me. The least I can do is say "thank you."

So, I thank him. And, then the day goes on, and my thoughts become a tiny bit more rational, and I remember that in the quiet moments (and some loud, scary ones), I am a really good mom to this little boy.

He's teaching me to be more patient than I ever wanted to be. It's hard. This is so, SO hard.

And, it's worth it.

Was that honest enough for you? ;)

My Wife Has Guts...I've Seen 'Em

I have to type very quickly. I have a baby now. Here's a list of stuff that people need to know:

1. He is happy and healthy and beautiful.
2. He weighed 8lbs., 7oz. and was 20 1/2 inches long.
3. His name is Grey Matthew.
4. I did NOT get to have my beautiful home birth because I had "back labor" for 30 hours. It was excruciatingly painful. Grey was also in the wrong position, so we had to go to the hospital. It sucked.
5. On the night that I was released from the hospital, I turned over in bed to reach for my son, and my C-section incision burst open. Blood spilled out. I ran to the bathroom and got a mirror. I saw my own intestines coming out. I freaked out. My husband called 911. My baby started screaming to be fed. Now, what's a new mother to do? Try to breastfeed the baby while trying to hold her intestines inside of her? Yes. That's what a new mother does. At least, that's what I did. The ambulance came and raced me to the hospital. I got to have yet another major surgery within a span of 3 days. Fun times were had by all. There was a woman in the ER right next to me that sounded like a drowning cat. Her name was Beatrice. Beatrice Carter.
6. I hate not being able to describe this story in all its glory.
7. I am home now and dealing with a lot of very mixed emotions. Here are some of them:

I feel cheated, mutilated, happy, quite sad, grateful, beautiful, strong, lumpy, weepy, confused, down, loved, caring and exhausted.

This is going to be a long process of healing, I am sure. But, I have a new baby. And, he is beautiful. No, really...he's really, REALLY pretty. Everyone says so.

I love him. I also get really frustrated and scared. He screams bloody murder sometimes, and there's absolutely nothing I can do to make him feel better. I am coming to terms with the fact that babies do this. This "motherhood" thing is not for sissies.

Good thing I have the absolute best partner in the entire world. I don't know what I would've done without Beau through all of this. I thought about him a lot while I was in the ambulance. I just stared up at the little timer that tells you how long you've been in the ambulance and thought of Beau who was scared shitless at home with Grey all by himself. I thought about how bumpy the Tulsa roads were as I clutched my incision. I thought about how I always say, "Think good thoughts for that person," when I see an ambulance whizzing by. I thought about how I was that person this time. I thought about how two people came together to make this other little person and how scary and sad this birth experience had been. I thought about how we would have to mourn the birth plan that we had lost. I thought about how this man stood by me through everything. I thought about how I'd never felt more close to anyone in my whole life.

Right now he is fixing the shower while holding our baby in a sling. He has waited on me hand and foot, spent 5 days with me in the hospital...never leaving my side. He is amazing, and he deserves an award. I love him.

He said that he's going to make a t-shirt that says, "My Wife Has Guts...I've Seen 'Em."

I love you, Beau-y. I never knew your strength until this week. I never knew the strength of our relationship until this week. I never knew my own strength until this week.

No matter what...it's you and me.