Mother’s Day #1

I got a new camera lens for Mother’s Day along with a salad spinner ( my request) and a bouquet of flowers.

I spent the car trip home from Lubbock playing with my new lens, capturing images of J-Dub driving, EK sleeping, Ashy posing, and maybe an accidental shot of the dials on the dashboard.

Afterwards I reviewed the pictures on my camera and found myself scrolling back. Farther and farther back, on this first Mother’s Day, back through the weeks and months. All the way back to January 28th at 4:20 when the doctor tugged a crying baby from my bulging abdomen after a very long and difficult labor that ended with a C-section.

Then my precious, post term, 7 lb baby was whisked to the NICU where the premature, sick babies go.  The place where I was told when I could touch my baby, that I couldn’t nurse my baby, and where I felt completely helpless.

My heart is so tender remembering that day. I feel anger and I feel sadness all rolled together in a snowball of grief.

As I scroll back through the photos, I’m so thankful to remember.
To remember how tiny she was, how different her hair laid, how red the little mark on her nose appeared, how wrinkled her skinny little fingers were.

Oh my goodness how I love her.

How I miss her tiny newborn self.

How fortunate I am to have her.

Although I can’t take all the credit, being her mom is the best thing I’ve ever done, the greatest gift I’ve ever been given, the most important job I’ll ever have.

To all the mothers out there…….I finally get it.

And it’s incredible.

Preggo Update

We are officially on the countdown.  Tomorrow we hit the 39 week mark.  Only one more to go.  Maybe.  And I am pleased to announce that I have finally crossed over into the land of excitement. 

We went to the doctor yesterday for a sonogram and a check-in.  While I was working yesterday morning and anticipating the idea of seeing her face, I became overcome with joy and excitement.  As I laid on the sonographer’s table, I imagined a little face that would look exactly like the one we will behold in just a few more days.  How lucky we are to get a sneak peek.   The sonographer lubed my belly up and began rolling her wand around as we gazed at the screen.  We saw her kidneys, her bladder, the umbilical cord.  We heard the heartbeat and saw the blood flowing through the veins and arteries of the cord.  We discovered that she is head down (locked and loaded) as I like to call it.  She is estimated to weigh 7 lbs 11 oz, but that estimate can be off by a pound either direction.  And then the sonographer rolled her wand on her face. 

I would love to show it to you, but she doesn’t like having her picture taken.  Her hands were covering her face.

Here is a side profile we got with her hands as the big blob in front.  That is a beautiful eye though, isn’t it?

I’m beginning to think she might be a stinker.  When we wanted to find out her gender, she didn’t cooperate by keeping her legs crossed, now when we’re dying to see her face, she decided to play peek-a-boo instead. 

So the sonographer applied this vibrating buzzer to my belly to try to scare her, and when she finally moved her hand,we got a picture of her.  However, my dreams of seeing a beautiful baby vanished.  I can’t tell whether she looks more like an orangutan or Mike Jagger.

The smushed-nose, big-lipped baby

It’s the nose.  And the lips.  Some wise people I work with told me she’s all smushed in those tight quarters and it can’t be an accurate picture.  So, tonight I stood before the bathroom mirror and I smushed my own nose to compare it with hers.  Then I made my husband smush his nose.  There we sat staring at each other with our noses smushed flat trying to decide whose nose she has.  I’ve decided she has Mick Jagger’s. 

Remember, we have no TV here.  This is what people with no TV do.

But look at these older pictures.  They were taken on the same day back in October. 

The pig-nose, receding chin baby

The nose doesn’t look the same in any of them.  In fact, the baby doesn’t look the same in any of them.  So basically, we won’t know what she looks like until she slides out and hollers.  Still,  I’m preparing myself to feed her lots of bananas and teach her to the words to “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” 

When we saw the doctor yesterday, we were pleasantly surprised to discover I am dilated 2-3 cm.  He said it could be any day now.  

And so we wait to meet our little girl. 

And she’ll be beautiful.

My dream

Upcoming monumental events cause me a bit of angst, anxiety, and apprehension. 

For example, each August I methodically prepare to meet a new group of second graders.  I hang posters, write out name tags, copy wonderfully engaging papers, plan ice breaking activities, and decorate my classroom door all in eager anticipation. 

It seems that no matter how long I’ve been teaching, every August I still get nervous.  With those nerves come dreams.  My anxiety permeates my subconscious.  It never fails, that my dreams are unpleasant.  No matter how prepared I am in the real world, in dreamland I am usually very unprepared for the first day of school.  My papers are not copied, the children are rowdy, no one knows which seat belongs to them, I’m late to class, or simply have no control over the students.  After a dream like the aforementioned, I usually wake up, mop my brow, and expel a big “Whew, glad that was only a dream.”  And then the first day of school comes off without a hitch.

Considering my past, I’ve been a little concerned as to why I’ve only dreamed about my baby once, and I haven’t dreamed about the labor or birth of my baby yet.  I mean, it’s not as if this is not an upcoming monumental event!  Or it’s not as if I’m not experiencing some angst, anxiety, and apprehension.  By now I should be riddled with night terrors.  But I’m not.

 I woke up this morning with a smile.  Why?  Because she visited me in my dream, and it wasn’t a horrific labor that caused me to sit up with sweat gluing  my gown to my back.  Nor was she sick or crying.  She was sleeping, and I walked into her nursery and there she was lying on her stomach (yes I know, she should be one her back). 

She was a tiny little thing sleeping peacefully.  I reached down into her crib and placed my hand on her back to rub her gently.  She awoke.  Not the sleepy-eyed, grumpy kind of awakening, but rather a “yea, my mommy’s here!” kind of awakening.  You know how weird dreams can be, so although her body was small, she was much older and developmentally capable of more.  She sat on her knees with her arms outstretched.  I picked her up, but I couldn’t see her face.  Her hair was brown and mussed and it grew down into a point on her forehead, kind of like Dracula needing a haircut in the worst way.  I remember wanting to see her face so badly, wondering what she looked like.  I was seeing her for the first time.  I reached my forefinger towards her hair and swept it to the left out of her eyes.  And there she was.  She wasn’t anything spectacular or breathtaking to behold.  She was a baby.  My baby.  A baby I’ve never seen before until last night. 

She had small brown eyes, and chubby cheeks, and a pudgy little nose.  And when she smiled, two little bottom teeth appeared.  She was happy and energetic and glad to see me.  It was as if she’d been waiting to see me as long as I’ve been waiting to see her.  But what made the dream so realistic was the fact that her nose was dirty, and her eyes were sleep-filled.  Little dried sleepies rested in the corner of her eyes, and her nose had run in the night and she had dried crusties on the edge of her nostrils. 

Then I carried her to the living room and handed her to her daddy because I was late for work.  My house filled with people, strangers that I didn’t know.  I was upset because no one had woken me for work, and my face scrub was missing out of my shower, and someone had rummaged through all my cabinets and nothing was where is was supposed to be.   Then I was running a race on the highway.  You know how weird dreams can be. 

I wanted to write my baby dream down however, because I am clinging to that image in my mind.  As the hours pass, it’s vanishing, ever so slowly, because that’s what a dream will do.  There will be a fading, and then a fragment here and there, until it’s forgotten completely. 

We’re down to 11 days until her due date.  On Thursday, I’m having a sonogram.  There isn’t any concern, but the doctor would like to get a birth weight estimate and check my fluids.  I think it’s just a way to get more money, but at least we’ll get to see her little face and I’m sure I’ll post the pictures.

And then, a few days after that, we’ll get to see her face for real.  It won’t be long until we’ll stumble through the house in the dark, sweep her hair off her forehead, pick her up from her crib, clean her crusty nose and boogery eyes, smother her in kisses, tell her how glad we are to see her, and how much we love her. 

It won’t be long.


22 days

We’ve got 22 days remaining.  Twenty-two.

Give or take 14 days here or there. 

Tomorrow, our  little Emma will be considered full term at 37 weeks.  However I’m happy for her to bake a while longer.  Like 22 more days. 

In the meantime, I’ve joined the flock of pinterest junkies.  There are some really great ideas on that site.  Like the button letters I made for the nursery.

I’m pretty proud of them, if I do say so myself.

I whipped them up yesterday.  It only took me a few hours, in addition to the six weeks it took to gather all the buttons.  So, all in all, considering the unfinished projects lying around, not too shabby!

I started with an 8 X 10 painter’s canvas and then covered it with some material.  I found a font on a word processing program and enlarged it to the size I needed.  Next, I cut out the letters and traced them onto the material using a pencil.  Finally, I arranged the buttons within the lines as best I could, then glued them down with fabric glue, as best I could.  I hotglued twine to the backside and hung them in a row.

Easy-peasy and pretty cheap too, considering you have plenty of buttons.  Or at least some friends with plenty of buttons.




Is that You, God?

It happened on a Sunday morning two years ago.  Or was it three?  I really don’t know.  Not because I don’t remember it vividly, but instead because I dismissed it as nonsense, ridiculousness, even poppycock.

I had gone to church that morning.  Whether I started my day with a heavy heart or whether I became burdened during the service, I don’t remember.  But it happened during that time of our church service when our pastor asked for anyone who had a need to stand right where they are to be prayed for.  This is a common practice in our church.  People have needs.  We’re sick.  Sick in body and sick in spirit.  You shouldn’t have to leave the House of the Lord in the same condition in which you entered.  He is, after all, the Great Physician. 

I stood.  I can’t recall my need now.  Perhaps it was a broken heart.  Maybe financial worries.  It could’ve been I was feeling a sore throat coming on.  Whatever it was, the Holy Spirit led me to stand.  Which is not easy.  When the Holy Spirit begins talking to me, my pride begins yelling louder.  “What are you doing?” it screams.  “Do you want all these people to know you’ve got problems?  Don’t you care what they are thinking?  Don’t do it!  Don’t stand.  You can pray for yourself.  You don’t need others to pray for you“.  But deep down, I know God desires obedience.  It will be rewarded.  So this time, my pride gets hushed, and I stand.  I can feel all those pairs of eyes boring into me.  My body temperature rises.  My neck begins to burn.  Then the preacher asks for everyone who is standing to have a prayer partner.  The sound of shuffling feet fills the sanctuary as people rise to meet the ones who are standing.  I feel hands on my back, on my shoulders.  I hear whispered prayers being lifted towards the heavens.  People interceding on my behalf.  The prayers end.  We clap our hands to the Lord, praising Him for what He is going to do.  I  look up at the ones who prayed for me.  We embrace.  Eyes are brimming with tears. 

And that’s when it happened.  A small, older man, who had never spoken more than a cordial greeting to me, with his dark skin and heavy foreign accent looked at me and confidently proclaimed, “The Lord will give you a baby.” 

I smiled politely.  
I’m not even praying for a baby I thought to myself. 

We sat down, and as the preacher gave final announcements, I remember my mind drifting to what had just been spoken to me.  I even felt a little angry.  Why do people automatically assume that I want a baby? 

Church dismissed and we went on with our day.  But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget that event.  I chuckled to myself.  Much like Sarah from the Bible did when she was told she would have a baby.   What a crazy old man, assuming things he has no idea about.  I told a few people and they laughed with me.  How weird.  How strange.  How bizarre.

Now fast forward to November 2011.  I’m walking out of the Sunday School room into a narrow hallway and I meet that same man.  I doubt he even knows my name.  His large brown eyes dropped to my bulging belly.  He wagged his wrinkled finger toward it and in his thick accent said, “I told you.”

“I believe you now.” I answered with a smile.  He went on to explain to me that God had been talking to him and wanting him to tell me.  He said it wasn’t just once, but two or three times.  Finally, he obeyed.  Okay, I’ll tell her, he said. 

So.  He isn’t a crazy man afterall.  In fact, he assumed nothing about my needs.  He was obedient to the voice of God no matter how crazy it sounded to me.

Just as so many women were visited by a messenger and told they were going to give birth, I too, was visited by a messenger and told the same thing.  But I didn’t believe him.  Right there, in church, during prayer, as obvious as a lightening strike, God spoke to me through someone else, and yet my ears remained closed.  I even scoffed.  I wonder how many blessings I’ve missed because of my lack of faith?  I hope I have learned my lesson.

God is speaking to you.

Decisions, decisions.

Decisions, decisions. 
Thankfully not life or death decisions.  More on the caliber of comfort kind of decisions.  As in “should I do an exercise tape or go to bed and read?”  And along the lines of “I just ate mac and cheese, but I really want some milk toast.” 

Do you know what milk toast is?  Does the very mention of those two words together make you throw up in your mouth?  I was raised on milk toast.   Probably not exactly correct, but the modern day version consists of toasting some bread, buttering it, putting it in a bowl, adding sugar to it, then pouring milk over it.  Hence the name Milk Toast.  So yeah, if you don’t like the idea of soggy bread, it might not appeal to you, but to me, it’s like manna from heaven.

Since the weather here has turned colder and the wind has decided to rear his ugly head once again, my walking regimen has been put on hold.  Now for a little cause and effect.  Because my walking regimen has been put on hold, my belly has increased dramatically in size in the last couple of weeks. 

So instead of eating milk toast, then going to bed and reading, I decided perhaps to blog and bore you with more uninteresting stuff like milk toast recipes. 

I’ve reached the age where my mind still says I can but my body says No Way Jose.  Case in point.

Weekend before last, J-Dub, Ashy, and I took a weekend trip to Ruidoso, New Mexico.  We were hoping to see some beautiful foliage, visit some family, have a nice weekend get-away, and find a house to live in.  Not really on that last part, but my husband is set on moving to Ruidoso.  Or anywhere close to the mountains. 

Ashy and I decided to take a little walk around the neighborhood Saturday morning, so we set out with our tennis shoes, no cell phone, and a camera for a nice little stroll on a walking trail that wound around a fenced off golf course. 

We stayed on course enjoying the weather, watching the crows that were as big as my yard chickens, and simply enjoying one another’s company. 

Before we set out, we were told that the trail was about 3.5 miles long.  Not bad.  We could handle that.  And we did.  We did just fine until our trail ended and we were on a street. We didn’t know whether to turn left, turn right, or cross over.   You might say we’d come to a crossroads.  Literally.   We lost sight of the trail and were forced with a decision, decision. So we decided we’d take a right turn since that was sort of the way we came.   After walking a few several blocks, we still had our eyes on the golf course and knew that we weren’t lost.  But then somehow we ended up behind some buildings that dead ended into the fenced off golf course again. 

All during our walk we read signs posted on the golf course chainlink fence that read:


But before you knew it, we found ourselves trespassing across the golf course.  We could see the trail on the other side.  There were runners, walkers, and all we needed to do was get over there to them.  It made sense that the quickest route to the trail we needed to get on, was to cross over the golf course. 

Decisions, decisions.  So we headed out walking across this golf course with elevated heart rates, not from the walk but rather from the thrill of trespassing, and all the while Ashy chanting, please don’t prosecute us, please don’t prosecute us. 

Our destination was in sight.  The trail was right before our eyes.  We had traversed the golf course and made it to the trail.  There was nothing stopping us from stepping onto it except the dadgum chain link fence that surrounded the entire golf course. 

There was no gate nearby. No doorway.  No tunnel.  We’d been walking at least 45 minutes.  My feet hurt.  I was getting warm.  I was thirsty, and I was tired of this adventure.  I turned and looked around the area behind us of which we had travelled.  Our choices were either to turn around and re-trespass over the golf course prolonging my misery or climb the chain link fence. 

Decisions, decisions.

“We’re just going to have to climb this fence.”  I told Ash.  Of course the fear of getting caught was weighing on my mind.  I thought surely no one would really harass a pregnant lady and a 12-year-old, but you never know in this day and age.  We took our chances.

We walked over by a little grove of trees away from the trail, behind some buildings which we later discovered to be the police station, and I stood while Ash positioned her sandaled foot just so-so inside the chain links and climbed up and over the fence.  I have never seen anyone climb a fence so slowly.  I was on high alert, looking around for golf carts and flying golf balls, men with badges, and passersby. 

“Hurry up!”  I snapped at her, hoisting her on the butt.  Then as she slung her leg over, of course her pants got hung on that pointy little part sticking over the top bar of the fence, and I had to wiggle it and yank on it to get her free as she gingerly positioned her feet on the opposite side and climbed herself down, safely on the non-trespassing side.

Now for my turn.  Piece of cake.  I mean how many chain link fences have I climbed  in my life?  At least 300.  Not only have I climbed my own fences,  I’ve watched COPS.  I’ve seen how criminals can get over a fence in a couple of seconds time.  My mind knew I could do this.  All I had to do was put my hands on the top bar of that chain link fence and hoist my six month pregnant self on to the bar, then swing my legs over and climb down.  

Now all I had to do was convince my body.  I hoisted.  I strained.  I grunted.  I jumped.  I stood on my tippy toes.   The fence was wobbly.  My upper body was weak.  After a few attempts, my heart rate was really elevated from the anxiety of getting caught climbing a fence and the exertion it was taking.   I was sweating.  In the mountains.  In October.

Finally, with all the strength I could muster, I hoisted and slung my leg at the same time.  I managed to get on top of the bar and laid there smashing my poor baby girl into my backbone, then flipped my legs over and let myself down.

Panting and red-bellied we limped home.  Well I did anyway.
Thankfully without prosecution.
But more than likely, the whole thing is on someone’s surveillance camera.  I hope they’re getting a kick out of it.

I think I’ll go eat some soggy bread now.


Baby Girl in 3D

I usually find myself most uninterested when pregnant women start pulling out a roll of black and white, grainy sonogram pictures showing off their upcoming bundle. 

I’m usually the one holding up the picture, squinting, turning it to the left, the right, upside down, right side over while oohing and aahhing when in reality I can’t tell heads nor tails of the dern thing.

“Oh, is that her nose?” 
“No that’s her toe.”
” Look at her cute chin.” 
“Uh.  That’s her elbow.”

Even on my own sonogram, after I’ve plopped myself on that table, I have to tell the sonographer to talk me through it.

So I know how you feel as I’m about to show you these pics of our little girl.  Yes, girl.  Nothing has changed.  They still identified those three little lines that look kinda like a hamburger and said it’s a girl.

  Out of the  approximately 18 pictures we got, there is only a couple that really show her sweet face, and I’m dying to share them with you, even though you may have to squint.  Even then I can’t promise that her eye might just  look a little like her foot.


Meet Emma Kate (for now anyway).  She has an absolute gigantic nose in this picture.  But I’m sure its only the position of the camera, aren’t you?  I don’t care.  I can’t wait to kiss that big honker.

yawning…….so sleepy

In this little picture, the arrow is pointing to her open mouth. 

Her nose completely changed appearance, and I can’t help but say it, but she has my nose.  In this picture anyway. J-Dub has this itty bitty nose which lacks those bulbous parts sticking on the side.
Those are her feet up there by her head.  She has folded herself up like a taco. 
The sonographer tried to get her to move around, but to no avail, at which she commented how she is not easily irritated, which makes me happy to know.  I hope she is never easily irritated.
I am 25 weeks along today, and there’s only  15 more measly little old weeks to endure.  The baby is weighing about 1.5 lbs (the weight of an average rutabaga….whatever that is) and is a little longer than a foot long sandwich from Subway.
So far, everything is going perfect.  God has blessed us through this pregnancy thus far and we are believing He will see us all the way to the end and then help us every step of the way raising her as we desperately try not to mess her up.  Too badly.
She is much loved already. 
And just so you know, these are the first of many pictures to come. 
Just wait until January!






My life. My thoughts. My faith. My family

Well today is Sunday, and those who may have been looking for it, might have missed my “in memory of my dad story” yesterday.  I’ve been a little busy, which is no excuse. 

I’ve been:

  • sleeping (today anyway)
  • trying to revive a dead front yard from a serious drought
  • cleaning out a junk room of boxes and inessentials to make room for a crib and diapers
  • scouring baby books and the internet for the perfect little girl name
  • guarding my red toenails from pecking chickens
  • gathering 5-6 fresh eggs a day
  • enjoying the beautiful fall days
  • teaching a class of 22 darling second graders
  • cleaning, washing, drying, sweeping, mopping
  • attempting to bring my husband back to reality from our recent visit to Colorado
  • Oh, and building a baby

I went to Lubbock, Texas this weekend to listen to one of my most beloved Bible teachers, Beth Moore.  Some church friends and I spent the day knee deep in the book of Luke and Acts and reveling in the reminder of how awesome our God is, and I wasn’t able to get to a computer to post my dad’s story and did not have the wherewithall to post earlier.  I’m sorry, but I’ll make it up shortly. 

  While my dad was living, he spent some time writing commentaries and sports for his hometown newspapers, The Tahlequah Times.   My sister brought me a basketful of old newspaper clippings, so each Saturday I post one. I will post them until I run out of stories or until I run out of Saturdays, whichever comes first.   I chose Saturday because that was the day he died.  A Saturday afternoon.  Just a normal, unsuspecting one.  Much like this day 10 years ago when our country was attacked.  Much like the day when Jesus will return.  Normal.  Unsuspecting.  

 I had spoken with him back and forth on his facebook wall that morning, and was planning a visit in July for a family reunion.  That afternoon, I was home alone standing in my kitchen with a cardboard box and newspaper pages scattered on the kitchen counters, wrapping drinking glasses in preparation for a move to a new place when my phone rang.  I almost didn’t answer it because the number was bizarre.  I’m glad I did.  It was my dad’s friend, Jane, on the other end tearfully explaining to me “we’ve lost your daddy.”   I had to call my sister, my mom, and my brother.  It was a difficult day, as is days that come and go still.  My dad has been gone a little over six months and my goodness, so much has happened in that short time.  I miss him, and I so wish he was here to share what is happening in my life now. 

When I first shared with my family that Jason and I would be having a baby, both my mom and my sister remarked how they wished my dad was here.  How he would have loved to know the baby.  And it made me sad for a split second.  But then I remembered something my friend had told me and I had an epiphany.  We all come from different backgrounds and beliefs and sometimes we get stuck thinking ours is “right” and everyone else is wrong. I have a very dear friend who, when speaking about babies, she would often mention “spirit children” in heaven waiting for a body in order to come to earth.  I had never heard of this from anyone before.  Although it was her belief, it was one I didn’t share.  I hadn’t been taught this idea, I hadn’t ever read about this idea, so I dismissed it, quite frankly, as cuckoo.  Until the day I needed desperately to believe that. 

 I believe that our spirits live forever.  When we die our spirits live on, either in heaven or in hell.  And it came to me clearly, if our spirits live forever after our earthly body is gone, then how narrow-minded of me to think our spirits only begin when our human bodies form in the womb.  Of course they exist before our earthly body and of course they exist after our earthly body.  Of course there are “spirit children”.  And of course my dad’s spirit, who lives in heaven, and my baby’s spirit who lived in heaven, have met one another.  My dad is not missing out on knowing my baby.   I believe they have met one another.  In the heavenly realm of which we know very little about, they’ve become acquainted.  They are well acquainted.

I let my imagination run wild with this idea.  Not only have they met, and shook hands, and said hello, I’m your grandpa, but perhaps they’ve played together.  Maybe he’s already given her horsey back rides and swung her around in his arms.  Could it be possible that he’s sat her in his lap, hugged her close, kissed her cheek and stroked her hair.  Have they’ve splashed in crystal seas digging for the perfect skipping rocks ?  Have they held hands and played ring around the rosey on a golden street? 
Is it unfathomable? 
Not to me.  
Is it cuckoo? 
Not to me.  Not anymore.

I enjoy Saturdays with my dad’s stories because I get to hear from him again.  I’ve  never read all his stories, there were only a select few that he mailed to me.  I’m so glad I have them, and I’m honored to share them.  Granted, some are better than others, as are all of mine as well.  But we live on with our words.  We can impact people years later with our writings.  Last week his story told about a blue and white seersucker jacket he had that served him well for both weddings and funerals.    My sister commented and said I should have posted this picture of him wearing that jacket. 

That’s us in 1993.  I’m the one with the big hair.  Take your hands off your gaping mouths.  Yes, that hair is real.  Yes, I left the house with hair that big.  Yes, that hair was sort-of in style.  And that’s my handsome dad standing proudly beside me.  He was always proud of me, and told me often. 

I thank God he was my dad.  I thank God for the time we had together.  I thank God He prepared a place for him.  And for me.  We will see him again.  And we will laugh.  And hug.  And he will give me his sloppy kisses as he always did.

He loved much, and is loved and sorely missed by many.

Pics from the Reveal Partay!

This past Friday, some friends and loved ones joined us for a gender reveal party. 

Some wore pink, thinking it would be a girl.  Some wore blue, thinking it would be a boy.

Some wore black, thinking it would be…….uh, nevermind, I guess they hadn’t had time to do their laundry.

J-Dub and I were both decked out in blue.  No doubt in my mind it was a boy.  No doubt.

There were more folks dressed in blue than pink. 

The survey from my blog predicted boy over girl.


We began with a little game of “What do the Old Wives Say?” where different old wives questions were thrown at us, and the majority of our answers revealed boy. 

Boy, Boy, Boy.

The contents of this box would reveal the truth.  Would it be blue or would it be pink?

The moment of truth arrived with hearts all a’flutter.   Anticipation hung heavy in the air. 


The florist was the one who received the sealed envelope.  He was the one who first saw the ultrasound picture.  He was the one who packaged the box.  We were the ones to open it with the ones we love.

Pink and white balloons drifted out, screams and cheers lifted up, and tears flowed down.  Happy tears of course.

It was a day of love, happiness, celebration.




 And smiles.

Lots and lots of smiles.