Mindy

Tucker’s story

Tucker is seven today.

I’ve never put pen-to-paper on his story before because I still can’t believe it happened. And I also have too many friends with raw hearts. But, here it goes.

Tucker’s story starts with his parents. Us. We were two plus years into our marriage, on a (mental) permanent honeymoon, broke and blissful.

We had just gotten back from Thanksgiving with Jeff’s dad in the mountains—we had four-wheeled down Spill Corn, filled up on 3 southern-squared meals a day and breathed in a big dose of pure North Carolina goodness.

Back home in Tampa, while we were unpacking, I realized that I was late.

How late? Jeff had asked. Since I didn’t keep track, we had monthly freak-outs.

Late, I promised him. He went to the store and bought a box of pregnancy tests. We watched the pink results flood across in instant slow motion. An indisputable positive.

I didn’t have time to think because Jeff said: Take another one. (Don’t worry. I still haven’t let him live down his first words to me.)

A box full of pink pluses later, we locked eyes. We grinned. And cried. We had made a person.

I could not keep my hands off of my belly. Sitting, standing, breathing. Everything felt brand new.

Me, shameless, after a 12 hour road trip

We made an appointment with the doctor. He didn’t need to see me until I was a little further along. But my mom was coming to visit us that weekend and I couldn’t keep it from her. We told her that she was going to be a grandma. And her elation made our surprise feel more like a reality.

To celebrate, Mom and I went shopping. And then I started having a few unsettling symptoms. So, I dialed the on-call doctor and explained what was going on.

Do you feel pregnant? He had asked me.

I was quivery and loopy and terrified. I’d never been pregnant before. How could I know what pregnant felt like?

I don’t know, I told him, apologizing. He asked me to come in first thing the next morning. I tossed and turned and clutched my stomach all night.

We went in the next morning and filled in stacks of paperwork. After measurements and samples were taken, a chipper ultrasound tech whisked us into her room so she could “take a look.” She sang out pleasantries in her outdoor voice.

Let’s take a look at this baby, she sung.

This baby.

Here’s the sac, she cheered, pointing to a shape that we absolutely saw. Joy flickered.

Now, we’ll turn this on and listen for a heartbeat. She did. We listened. She was bright-eyed and wide-smiled as she maneuvered each angle—and as each hour-long second crept by, my heartbeat quadrupled. As if it could pump enough for me and the blob shape. After a few minutes, though, our tech dropped her smile and her outdoor voice.

You go ahead and get dressed and I’ll get you back to the doctor’s office.

My limbs, heavy with worry, made dressing slow and clumsy.

My hand clung to Jeff’s, our fingers laced, mouths closed, as we walked into the doctor’s office. There we sat, we two, waiting on a doctor. My doctor was not in that day. That day, we saw Doctor G. He came in, shook our hands and sat down, making it a professional point to lock eyes with both of us.

His room was cold and alien, like an out-of-date space station, and the overhead lights buzzed as he confirmed, out loud, what we already feared.

There’s no heartbeat and, with your symptoms? I think, he said just so, as if he was reporting the 10-day forecast, you have miscarried.

I took it in as if it were a spoonful of cough medicine—swallowed quick, shuddered, shook my head, answering in silence.

You have options, he had said, diving straight into his speech.

We can wait a few days just to see if your hormone levels change. You can let this happen naturally. Everything will pass, but it may take a while and I can’t tell you how long it will take. Or, we can do a procedure here—as soon as tomorrow—called a D&C. That way, you don’t have to wait through it.

He lifted his hands off of his desk as if he were throwing good options before us.

I’m going to let you talk about it. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

He left. I slumped. Jeff just rubbed my hand with his thumb. What could we say? There was nothing to say.

I didn’t cry until I opened my mouth to speak. My eyes were drowning in indecision—a deluge of hot doubt soaked my shirt and our interlocked hands.

I guess the procedure will be the easiest, I told Jeff—saying it, but asking him. I don’t know if I can do it naturally. It sounds awful.

I’m okay with whatever you want. I’ll be here with you.

So, we agreed on the D&C. He wiped my face with his shirt. The doctor came back in.

A chill raced through my veins and across the tops of my arms and seized my stomach—an alarming chill. Something whispered. Something Holy. Something snapped. Something understood.

I want to wait.

The words popped up—and there they sat—between a surprised doctor and husband.

I just—I can’t do it tomorrow.

I understand, Doctor G said, without any understanding. I’ll wait with you. But I have to tell you that I’m 99.9% sure you’ve lost the baby.

The baby. My free hand found my belly. We had to wait.

Follow up appointments were scheduled and we slipped into waiting. Grief’s breath is strange. My nerve endings felt short-circuited, unplugged. How many days ago had they tingled with shock and promise?

I stayed home from work for a few days, nursing my numbness. How could this unplanned blob shape stir so much? The fraction of ounces was lead in my gut. I couldn’t taste, listen or focus, but each twinge in my belly felt like a violent convulsion.

Jeff was spoon-feeding me smiles, trying to.

We would’ve been good parents, I cried into his lap.

We will be, he said.

We went back to the doctor. They took more measurements and blood.

And then? Then? A miracle.

My hCG levels had increased. Two days later, they took more blood. The levels had doubled.

Nerves were tingling again.

One week later, that same sweet tech ushered us into the room for another ultrasound.

There was the sac. And there, I swore, was movement. An eye twitch? A glitch?

The tech found her outdoor voice. THERE’S THE HEARTBEAT!

She turned on the sound and a strong warble flooded the room. It was a symphony. An opus. My breath quickened to its beautiful beat. We were all crying—me, Jeff, the tech. And the baby’s heart, muscular, alive, kept pounding. We had waited.

Now, Doctor G was not at that office that day. I had not seen him since we’d sat at his desk. My own doctor was there, though. He took us through the packet, the appointment schedule, the new parent track. He explained that I would see all of the doctors in the office in a rotation because any one of them could be in the delivery room on the baby’s birthday.

I did not see Doctor G throughout the rest of my pregnancy. I was angry. And I don’t get angry. Forgive him 7 times 70 times? No. That’s how many times I wanted to punch him. The memory of his face, his voice was bitter. Soul-corroding. I went out of my way to stay out of his.

I spent the rest of my pregnancy happy, healthy. I ate 3 watermelons a week and held on to my belly for dear life.

On an evening in early August, we I was watching SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE while a summer lightning storm fumed outside. I’d been having contractions all day, but now they were taking my breath away—every few minutes. Still, I insisted on finishing the show, taking a shower and putting my make-up on before we headed to the hospital. I was in labor all night, but my doctor—my own doctor—was on duty the next morning. And he delivered our baby boy.

Suddenly I was holding Tucker’s warm weight in my arms. The perfect fit. I put my palm on his teeny chest until I could feel his heart thumping beneath my fingertips.

Jeff’s lips were thick with prayer, a grateful murmur only God himself could understand.

We locked eyes. We grinned. And we cried.

What a boy.

Unreal combinations of Jeff and me, our best bits, wrapped up in one big, blonde, beautiful boy.

By the time he was two (oh, how much do you love two?) we decided that we really needed to do this again.

My second pregnancy was planned, expected, easy. I sailed through the doctor’s appointments, still avoiding Doctor G. We knew we were having another boy. And, though the world didn’t know it yet, we knew his name was Case.

I had an appointment to be induced and I planned to have Case naturally. Everything was set. We had the sweetest nurses—troopers, really—who were coaching me through labor without drugs. I was really close to being ready—in the throws of acute active labor—when the doctor on duty walked in. Doctor G.

He was not part of the plan.

I tensed to my toes, the acidic bitterness more painful than the contractions. I stared Jeff down, silently begging him to do something. Anything. He knelt next to me.

It’s going to be fine. Think about Case.

Doctor G did not recognize us. But he talked with us—with us, not at us. And then? Then? He was encouraging me. He said he’d get me anything I needed. He made me smile.

I did not want to smile.

I only pushed for mere minutes, five times, and Case was born. Doctor G was intent. He was kind. He was amazing. He melted my anger. I hadn’t realized it had calcified in my gut—an impassable block—until I felt it dissolving. Doctor G delivered our little one. And I’m so grateful he did. Because I forgave. Freely. Easily. Gladly.

Then, I was holding Case, feeling his warm weight in my arms. Jeff and I locked eyes. We grinned. We cried. And we prayed.

Thursday Thanks. Helping #7.

Happy Thursday. It is still Thursday in California where I’m curled up in my Thanksgiving Chair tonight.

It’s already August 1st, but it’s still summer. And it’s still pro baseball season. Thank goodness.

I never thought I’d say that I’m thankful for baseball. I grew up dancing and cheering and singing Broadway. Each Saturday morning, there was a melody for my mood–from “The Music of the Night” to “Don’t Rain on my Parade.” There were buns and bobby pins and pom poms. And now? Now there are cleats and cups and coolers.

I’d never touched a pair of cleats. Then, just like that, I was responsible for making sure they were laced and velcroed. And fast. Just like that, I was sitting in the stands cheering Slugger Tucker on.

Case shared a spot in the shade with me while Jeff helped coach on the field. But games are long for a baby brother who just wants a team of his own. So, sometimes he would sneak beneath the bleachers and watch from the fence.

Maybe it’s because Jeff has ~~brainwashed~~ encouraged us to pull for our hometown team. Maybe it’s the silly songs & snacks & stats. We’ve all caught the baseball bug. I mean, how can you not be smitten with a sport that’s not timed? Anything can happen.

And our team, the Rays, hosts family fun days with giveaways for kids. Growing loyal fans, one freebie at a time.

The Rays even celebrate the ultimate fan combinations.

And, when they win, they’re proud to let the world (at least the city) know.

It’s always fun to cheer on the Rays live at the Trop (where it’s always a balmy 72 degrees). But we usually watch them at home. Home is where I love baseball because we’re in a baseball state of mind. We catch a few bits of the game but, because there are so many, it’s really okay if we don’t see the entire thing. A game is always on, but our weekend doesn’t revolve around one. Instead of “5 more minutes” bedtime is “at the end of this inning.”

This week, we sign the boys up–both of them–for fall ball. Two teams. Two practices. Two games on Saturdays. The new season and school year will be in full swing. Not yet though.

For now, it’s still summer. Like baseball, this summer season is play-paced. It’s that unhurried moment, sandwiched between the chaos of school years, when we’re not timed. It’s a pseudo pause button that means Tucker isn’t in second grade yet, Case isn’t in VPK yet and we can snuggle on the couch for just one more out.

Table Topic Tuesday. 7/30.

Gooood morning. It’s already Table Topic Tuesday time.

Ready?

My first thought was that there isn’t any incriminating evidence of my ridiculous fashion path–not digitally, anyway. But just in case–just for you–I asked my Mom if she had any pictures of my bangs. She did.

See, I’m a child of the 80s.

I layered a neon spectrum of scrunchy socks. And I still love fun socks.

I rocked the Blossom hat. And I still love wearing hats.

I pulled my T-shirts through a plastic circle to lock them in place. That tee tie may have been a fashion fail, but it was pure function.

And then there were the bangs. It started in elementary school.

And they got bigger.

Now, my Mom is a classy-chic lady. She’d never steer me wrong. No. Back then, those bodacious bangs were everything.

Don’t feel guilty about laughing. I pitched a silly over this one. My bangs were so big, they had their own shadow. Minus that, I love everything else about this picture.

I remember curling half of the bangs back and half of the bangs forward and then cementing them in place–on purpose.

I know that fashion is full-circle, but let’s hope this style wonder never comes round again.

Now that I’ve admitted my tress distress, it’s Lindsay‘s turn:

In my early years, I was quite the trend-setter… or so I thought. Before baggy jeans were cool, I sported them. Before the original black and white-striped Adidas sneaks were sported by every hipster in the halls, I told my mom I just had to have them. And waaaaay before those plastic, stretchy choker necklaces were coveted by all middle school girls, I made them happen — even in gym class. Yes, my style has evolved quite nicely over the years, and I’m sure I’ll look back in 10 or 15 more years and curse the day I bought wedges. But you just never know.

I have to know–what so-cool trends trapped you?

Build-up to a birthday

Tucker turns 7 this year, but this year he had his very first birthday party.

Because he has a summer birthday (and because I never want to test the elements again) he agreed on an indoor shindig. And because our daily reality goes something like this:

We went with a Lego theme. There are Star Wars Legos. Super Hero Legos. Ninja Legos. Tucker could be content to manipulate, build, deconstruct and re-imagine with Legos for hours. And there just happens to be a place in town that specializes in Lego Birthdays. Can I get a whoop whoop?

So, we sent out invitations.

And I pilfered Pinterest. There are fab freebie printables out there. My favorites were the labels we wrapped around Powerade.

Yup. I referenced the deuce.

Now, at our house, I’m always the potty-words police. You have to regulate with two little boys, so I usually poo poo the ew talk. But for Tucker, this was the ultimate hilarity. This and the whoopie cushions for the goodie bags.

With another free printable, we made a mask for each guest.

And we filled an assorted collection of glass jars with an assortment of white, yellow and red candy. To be all Lego-y.

Then, it was party time. Bricks 4 Kidz was ready to celebrate the birthday boy.

The venue is a comfy old home they’ve transformed into a play palace. Each room hosts a new building opportunity. So, the only thing I had to do was set up the food table. With my sweet Mom’s help, that was a piece of cake. Or donut.

table 1 — Lego candy was a must. You can eat it and build with it. A chance to play with your food? 7-year-old heaven.

Tucker’s buds jumped right in to playing while we waited on all the guest to arrive. (I need a table like this for our house.)

When all of his friends were there, we started the first activity–an outdoor Lego relay. Then everyone trooped back inside for the first build–an electric Lego car.

I’ve never seen such a polite and patient group of little people. Their fingers were twittering between parts and pieces and they shouted encouragement to teams across the table. Tuck, my thoughtful and meticulous one, was in his element with his favorite friends. Then, as the final ta-da, their motorized creations actually moved with the touch of a button. Legos have come a long way, folks.

After everyone’s vehicle had its victory jaunt, it was time for Happy Birthday.

Tucker chose donuts over cake, which was just fine with me. And I know a few kids reached for seconds (and thirds). Sorry, parents.

A-buzz with sweets, it was back to the building blocks. This time, they each built a car they got to keep. So, the selection process was a serious business.

Notice which two goofs are the only ones who kept the masks on? Those would be mine.

When each oh-so-carefully-constructed car was complete, we hit the high note. They got to race their creations side-by-side.

The acoustics in that old house were built for lego car racing. Those few minutes of high-fiving and hollering made the room sing. And my boy’s excitement was electric.

But, we only had an hour and a half. So, after the races, there were goodie bags and good-byes.

I asked the boys and their Marmee (grandma) if they had a good time. And this was their response:

Lucky seven. Lucky me.

Thursday Thanks. Helping #6.

Happy Thursday from my Thanksgiving Chair, live from Santa Monica, CA this week.

Here for work, I’m thankful to experience this dreamy parcel on the Pacific. The sky feels low and close. This California breeze is a teense nippy, so there are heaters on the hotel patio. Isn’t that the yummiest? A pillar of heat in the chilly air.

But it does make me miss my muggy Florida. And it makes me grateful for swans.

I’ll back up. I didn’t go all Hemingway on you last week. Jeff and I were on a 7-day vacay to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary. Blogging was brief because we, among other things, had to see about some swans. We stayed at the Walt Disney World Swan hotel, home to a gaggle of swans. They were everywhere. We were giddy. So our Swan Series starts. Cheese!

There were suds & swans:

Smiles with swans:

Swan sillies:

Sweet swans:

Then, the swans got a little scary.

They really were everywhere. So, we started to sneak around them.

Still scary.

Then, things just got plain ridiculous. Swan Lake, anyone?

Swans over the shoulder:

My personal favorite–the swan stare down:

And the don’t-sass-me swan showdown:

And, sigh, the swan song:

I know. Bird brains. But I’m so thankful for that carefree week when our only responsibility was to revel in each other’s company. We are good at that job.

My Faulkner will be back in full force next week.

In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you. What are you thankful for?

(p.s. Our friend Matt, who inflated the life of his daughter’s huge Hello Kitty balloon, inspired our Swan Series.)

Table Topic Tuesday. 7/23.

Happy Tuesday, y’all. It’s already Table Topic Tuesday time.

Drum roll, please……

This is a fun question. I’ve officially been driving more than half my life. Gulp. So, there were a lot of roads to retrace. Highways, tunnels, bridges, dirt roads, non roads. And there’s a lot of beautiful in my rear view.

There were many miles logged on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Salt-of-the-earth simple. The biggest quiet you’ll ever hear. Yummiest air you’ll ever breathe.

Now that I’m gone to Carolina in my memory’s lane, let’s go to the South Carolina Low Country. Here, we were lucky locals. We drove down the Battery, but we also biked it, at least once a month. This street is the stuff Southern stories are made of.

“Beautiful” is flexible word, right? I think I can stretch it to cover this guy.

Seeing him means we’re en route to reunite with family or friends.

And I’m always in awe every single time we drive into THE city.

Although my best drive, as a passenger, was in a Tomorrowland Speedway race car. That was a beautiful thing.

Now as a Floridian, I feel like all of Florida is one palm tree-lined postcard. Even my commute is lovely.

And, shocker, I’m going to totally sap out. But there’s one road I’m always the most happy to turn down and that’s the one that goes home.

It’s always paved with promise.

And here’s Lindsay. ( I love this.)

I love and dislike this question. It makes me thankful for all the beautiful places I’ve been lucky enough to visit, but sad because all I really want to do right now is hop in my car and pay them a visit again.

One of my favorite drives to take is down the 1 mile private road to my grandparents’ lake house in New Jersey. The lake off to the right. The houses to the left — some hidden on a hill or behind the trees. The sun trying to shine through the canopy of trees that cover almost the full mile. It says, “Welcome home. Welcome back.” every time I make the drive. Even if just for coffee in the morning. Twenty summers in a row I spent there. Driving back and forth, back and forth. Up and down the lake road — my lake road. The one with a 17 mph speed limit and stone pillars guarding its entrance. The same stone pillars after which it was unofficially accepted and expected that you take your seat belt off and enjoy the lake road breeze. We always say our camp has the best spot — second last on the one mile road. And I never fully appreciated that drive until the past few years when I could no longer spend a full season soaking it up. Estling Lake Road means a lot to me, and it’s the most beautiful and wonderful road I’ve ever traveled.

Your turn. What’s the most beautiful drive you’ve ever taken?

Thursday Thanks. Helping #5.

Happy Thursday, folks. I’m sitting in my Thanksgiving Chair now and my cup runneth over.

This will be quick (I’ll explain why next week). But I couldn’t let a Thursday roll by without saying thanks to these two.

Meet my parentals: Cindy & Jim.

Mom is the kind of mom who, when you have your first baby, welcomes you home with a full-on Thanksgiving meal that’s months early and right on time. She’s the kind of mom who packs you, for your trip–not hers, arranging every article of clothing between tissue paper like a Tetris maestro. She’s a doer and a mover and a shaker. More than anything, she is my oldest, truest, biggest fan.

Dad is the kind of dad who writes your family’s lexicon. He knows the book is always, always better. He doesn’t talk about character. He lives it. And he introduces you to magic.

Today, every day, I’m grateful to be a fusion of these two unreal people.

Who are you thankful for today?

Table Topic Tuesday. 7/16.

It’s Table Topic Tuesday!

And today’s question is nice and light.

I’m a sucker for strum-able strings. From hymns to hip hop, I love the way everything sounds on an acoustic guitar. Ukulele, mandolin. My love language.

But I’d rather be the audience than the player.

If I could master any instrument, I’d have to choose my voice. I already wail in the car, in the kitchen, in the shower. I sing lullabies every night. I hum–often unconsciously, often in public. Since singing is second nature, I’d love to have a gift.

My sweet friends weighed in, too.

From the desk of Lynda:

I’ve always wanted to play the piano, and when I say always, I mean always. I remember wishing my mom would send me to piano lessons, but being as painfully shy as I was, I didn’t have the courage to ask her or tell her it’s what I wanted. If I did mention it, it was probably a passing comment and she thought nothing of it, a phase perhaps. Needless to say, it’s a major regret. I did learn a few songs here and there when I was younger – Chopsticks and Mary Had a Little Lamb – even the theme to Jeopardy at one point. But alas, these fingers never tickled the ivories in a manner I would’ve liked. And in the grand scheme of things that’s probably okay, as I was never one to put myself in front of a crowd – piano recitals, no thank you.

To me, the sound of a piano can be magical. It’s a sound like no other to me, and when I hear the different notes coming together to make such a masterpiece of music, it’s beautiful. The well-known musical pieces from Beethoven and Bach are wonders to the ears, and I jealously watch as other people’s fingers move so swiftly and effortlessly across the keys. It’s such a talent, and one I wish desperately I possessed. So perhaps I’ve added something to my bucket list – piano lessons for adults – surely that’s a thing right?

From the desk of Lindsay:

I like to think of myself as a creative person. I’m a writer. I have at least three pens and two Sharpie markers {in varying colors} with me at all times. I doodle during meetings {don’t tell on me}. And I belt it like Beyonce in the car on the way to…anywhere. But if there’s one thing I can’t do, it’s play instruments. I tooted the recorder in elementary school, I tried the soprano saxophone in middle school, and I think my mom finally gave up on me in high school. I wish she hadn’t because if there’s one instrument that I’ve always wanted to play like an angel, it’s the piano. My mom is a great piano player — aren’t all moms really great at playing the piano? That’s totally a mom thing, isn’t it? I have great memories of her playing songs from “Phantom of the Opera” and “The Sound of Music” when I was younger. Then again, who wouldn’t want to be just like their biggest and best role model?

Your turn! What instrument would you master?

Silly Stuff

I’m just popping in for a moment today to share one quick thought.

Silliness is underrated.

Can you remember the last time you laughed so hard that you lost physical control? In my family, we call this fabulous phenomenon “pitching a silly.” It consumes me a lot less often than I’d like. But when I pitch a silly, I cry, I snort, I sound a lot like a barking cat. Wrap your head around that for a second.

I’ve laughed more in the last 24 hours than I have in months.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this.

And this.

And that led to this.

I pitched such an awesome silly last night–in public–that I ~~literally~~ almost tinkled a little.

When the day is saturated in seriousness, the one thing we may need is pure, old-fashioned silliness.

What does your silly look like?

Disney Digression Parade:

Thursday Thanks. Helping #4.

Oh, hi.

Coming to you live from my Thanksgiving chair.

This week has been a stress swarm. Don’t you love how these come at you? Like a fastball screaming towards your face. No time to duck.

C’est la vie? Oui.

So, this week, I’m thankful that I get to hug my parents soon. I’m thankful that a Disney fix is so close I can taste it (Disney Digression).

And, let’s be real, I’m grateful for caffeine. I’m a full-blown addict and I’ll take it any way I can get it. Hot. Iced. Chocolate-covered (beans, of course). At home, we brew whatever is BOGO at Publix. My just-right cup is strong with a generous swirl of half & half.

I really appreciate the mom & pop coffee shops, too. Now I like Starbucks just as much as the next hipster, but there’s something so comfy about a small joe space. A café latte is my pretty sip of choice. Oh, I love the pretty.

Work is hard. Parenting is harder. Life? Hardest.

In the middle of weeks like this, I’m thankful for my job. I play with words, for a brand that I love, and I get to wear jeans and tennies while I do it. It’s a pretty rad gig.

What are y’all thankful for today? Let me know!