Bittersweet Birthday

Welp, here we are.

My baby turned one.

*Sigh. We did it. We made it through 4 stints of babyhood. Sleepless nights... the zombie-phase. The gassy nights, the screaming nights, the "I just don't wanna sleep, so I'm gonna keep you up with me" nights.

I look at those moms that are ready to give birth at any moment with their first baby, or are cradling their newbies with pity. I don't ever have to do that again. But at the same time, that moment when you first see your baby and realize just how fragile life is and how much you are responsible for from here on out... My favorite moment.

I'm overjoyed and saddened. I want to press the pause button on the day and relive the moment I walked into his room this morning when he awoke and started bouncing up and down in his crib. It's true what they say, it went by fast. Really fast. But I do feel like I took in every moment, cherished it, and stuffed it deep down in the crevasses of my brain so that those moments, the ones I don't ever want to forget, will always be there. It might take some gingko biloba to access them, but they're there.

So here's to a day of celebrating the birth of by far, the happiest baby I've ever had. With the biggest smile, and head rocking excitement, he will melt many a girl's heart someday. But for now, he melts mine. I love you Mr. Gibbers.

Employed.

As most of you know, I had a job interview last week to be a barista at a coffee shop.  The interview was interesting. For starters, I had never been on the opposite side of the spectrum, in terms of age. The interviewers were in their mid 20's, and here I was, trying to hide my gray hairs. It went smoothly, they seemed like really sweet people. Perhaps a bit too hipster for me in that the experience of drinking coffee has brought them to tears before. But who am I? I've seen credit card commercials that have brought out the shaking sobs in me before. 

I left feeling confident. I'd spent most of my early twenties making and serving coffee. I can do it in my sleep. And the sheer thought of doing it again reminded me of my youth, and a more simpler time. Jim with his decaf orange spice tea, Tom with his huge world mug filled with our drip of the day, leaving about an inch of room for cream. Jackie with her one shot decaf, extra hot, extra foam, nonfat chai tea. The regulars, the conversation, the feeling that I am an important part of those people's days... Okay, I'm not in complete denial, we all know it was the beverage that was the important part, but still.

3 days a week. Two weeknights 6pm-midnight and Sunday mornings 8am-2pm. Those were the hours they threw around when talking about the position. I could do that. Tony would be home and I wouldn't have to worry about someone watching my kids. Lets be real, the job wouldn't pay for someone to watch my kids! I got home and cuddled with my baby. As I say there, something stirred in me, I shoved it down. I was excited. I could potentially have a life outside of my children. Which was something I somewhat longed for. I love my kids. They are my life. But I didn't want to lose who I am and the. Wake up 18 years from now with an empty nest and an identity crisis.  

Later that night as I put Declan in his jammies and sat down to cuddle and rock with him before laying him in his crib, that thing began to stir again. Maybe it was the Beatles lullaby music on the CD player, or the burrito I had for lunch, but this time I didn't ignore it. What was I doing? Sitting here, snuggling this little man, giving him my undivided attention, was one of my favorite parts of the day. Wy would I give this up? He's not ready, I'm not ready. What am I doing? 

Now I know there are moms out there who are thinking, "it's guilt. Don't you think if you just weaned him that he would be fine?" Yes, I could wean him, and he would be fine, but that's not the point. It's not even about nursing. It's about the fact that when I had one baby, sure I could wean him and go out and get a part time job and have little problem knowing Daddy was home putting him to bed at night. But he isn't my first, or my second, or even my third. He's my fourth. And do you have any idea how nonexistent his one on one time with me is? That time before he goes to sleep at night is the one and only time during the day that he gets me, all of me. It's sacred and I'm not willing to give it up. Not yet. 

So I made up my mind, unless the job was one shift on Sunday morning, I wasn't going to take it. 

So when the call came on Saturday and the guy on the other end said, "so you want a job?" My response was, "It depends. What hours are you offering?" And to my surprise, he responded with, "What hours do you want?" 

A short conversation later, I'm happy to say, I will be a contributing member of society on Sunday mornings. Call it a blessing, call it what you will, but I didn't compromise what I thought I wanted for what my family needed. And I'm okay with that. In fact, I'm more than okay, I'm happy. 

I'm inadequate.

So my daughter Lucy turned 3 about three weeks ago. And every day since then I wake up saying to myself, "crap, I suck... I was totally going to update my blog and write some cute thing about Lucy and her birthday and how much I love her. And I didn't... I'll do it today." But then I realize the reason I woke up in the first place, the 11 month old is crying upstairs in his crib because he awoke and there wasn't a boob in his mouth. Sidenote: He loves the boob, more than any of my other kids did, what can I say? So I run to the bathroom because I know that I won't have another chance to go for another two hours- when he goes down for his first nap. I then spit my retainers out and rinse them off because, you know, I've had braces a million times and I've become this crazy rule follower since becoming a mother, and braces cost money. I run upstairs because the faint cry that was coming from his room has become more of a wail and I open the door to not only the near-one-year-old jumping up and down in his crib because he's half excited to see me and half pissed that I'm not already topless, but The poor 7-year-old is moaning and whining with the pillow over his head because this was the one day he decided he wasn't ready to wake up yet and his brother woke him up. And we all know that if we ourselves make enough noise, we can drown out the source of the noise we are trying to avoid, right? 

And down the stairs we go. I fend the baby off just long enough to help the kid pour his bowl of cereal. I sit down and the baby immediately starts moaning at my shirt in this, "I'm pretty sure you know what I want, but I'm gonna be extra loud just in case you forgot" sort of way. And just as he starts in, down the stairs traipse the 3 and 5 year old beauty queens with their blankets in tow and their curly hair matted up in fluffy rats nests plastered across their faces. 

"Good morning Beautifuls," I say, as the oldest plops herself on the couch, but mostly on top of me, and starts loving on her baby brother, who is totally distracted and yanks away to smile at his sister as my plethora of milk squirts halfway across the room. I get him redirected to the task at hand just as the 3-year-old looks me point blank in the face and says, "I want breakfast," and continues to utter the exact same phrase over and over even though I've already explained to her just as many times that I can get it for her when her brother is done nursing. I love her, but she's the result of that phrase my mother told me over and over as a child, "I hope you get one just like you." Apparently mothers have that sort of control in life. I got one just like me. And she wants what she wants when she wants it and she wants it now.

So I plop the baby in his chair at the counter and immediately dump some cereal in front of him in hopes of distracting him for a couple minutes so I can get the girls some breakfast. That works for about 20 seconds. I flip the switch on my espresso machine, because I have one now you know. The girls get settled and I sit and start to feed the baby some food while I try and shovel some cold cereal into my face and end up feeding the baby half of it because he's the size of a two-year-old and eats more than I do. Meanwhile, whatever food I've given him that isn't mind, he throws on the floor. I guess that means he's done. I wipe him down and take his banana covered clothes off and change his diaper. In his cleanliness he decides to go sit in the middle of the food he threw on the floor and starts to eat his 2nd breakfast. 

He's occupied, the 5-year-old is still eating, and the 7 & 3-year-old's have their noses in a book, nows as good time as any to get me some coffee! I enjoy coffee and today I'm gonna have an Irish cream latte. The whirring of the steam wand in my milk is comforting. The smell of the pulled shots bring me back to a simpler time in my life. I finally get to sit down on the couch to drink my liquid comfort and the 3-year-old comes over to announce she's hungry. You see, she eats about three breakfasts a day because every single night, whether the food is something she actually likes or not, she refuses to eat her dinner and is probably starving every morning. I reach around to give her a hug and realize she's wet. Awe... Crap. She must've peed the bed. She's potty trained mind you, but sometimes she just cant make it until morning and decides to NOT share the fact that she wet the bed. 

Let the cleaning commence.  I send her upstairs to go stand in the bathtub while I find and clean everything she's sat on. Then I head upstairs to take her bed apart and throw it in the washing machine. I go and have a talk with her about telling Mommy when she's had an accident and I decide to not just rinse her but give her a full on bath since I can't remember when the last time she actually bathed was. Oops.

I throw a yogurt on the table for the newly bathed and dressed child and by the time we are done, the baby has had it and needs some attention. We hang for a bit, play on the floor and soon it's time for his nap. I get him to bed and I sit my butt on the couch just to realize my epic cup of coffee goodness is cold and nasty. So I nuke it and the count down timer in my head starts... An hour and 25 minutes, tops... I take a couple of sips and set my sights on getting the other two kids dressed and ready for the day. That's a twenty minute fight... 1 hour, 5 minutes... The 3-year-old wants her third. Breakfast. I brush everyone's teeth and jump on the treadmill for a quick run. I'm sweaty, I'm gross... 30 minutes left, just enough time for a shower... And he's awake. Crap! 

I bribe the older kids to play with and distract the baby with half empty promises of greatness so I can shower. I clean myself in less than 3 minutes, pack the kids some lunch, and we jump in the van and head to the library. We pick books, we check them out, and I need to run to the grocery store cuz we're out of milk... And yogurt, and probably a hundred other things I won't realize we are out of until I walk down the aisle and go, "oh yah, we need that." The kids eat their peanut butter and honey sammies in the van while I starve and by the time we get home it's time for nap number two for the smallest of the small fries. I get the baby to bed and for two seconds, the kids are playing nicely. I sit. That's it. I sit. And the longer I sit, the more inadequate I feel. 

I need to be productive.

I need to make something I can sell since I don't have a job and I need some source of income because we have four kids and raising four children doesn't pay in cash.

I need to come up with some awesome craft to do with my kids like all the moms on Pinterest do. 

I need to plan some child's birthday party with handmade invites and streamers made out of all of the old newspapers I've saved. Oh wait, I don't get the paper.

I need to document and blog about the latest wonderful thing one of my children did, like turning 3.

I need to go bake something delicious and gluten/sugar/dairy free because that's what good health conscious mothers do.

I need to go for a run because I'm not as thin as I could be and there is this mom down the road that is gorgeous and teensy. Why did I have to be the one with the slow metabolism and big bones!?

I need to create a handwritten treasure map and clues to the map and go bury treasure that I happened to have hand made in my free time the other day in some obscure place in order to entertain my kids because I was put here on this earth to entertain them.

And oh crap, I need to defrost some meat because I need to have it thawed for that dinner I pinned onPinterest  that I need to have on the table when my husband gets home at 5:30.

And I am overwhelmed. Completely overwhelmed.

And I realize something: I suck. I'm inadequate. I'm not a good enough mother. I'm not the best mother, far from it in fact. And so I sit. Then a child cries. And another one yells and I jump up out of the fog of self appointed patheticness and I run upstairs to break up the fight. And I go downstairs and I sit on Facebook and see all of the wonderful and amazing things all of my friends are doing. I see all of the pins on Pinterest I planned on doing or making and I decide to start a project, or sweep, or vacuum, and a child cries. And I repeat the process. Until the baby awakens and I realize I never finished anything. The floor is still filthy and only half of the dishes are put away and we didn't do a treasure hunt and why am I so dizzy? Oh yah, I didn't eat lunch. So I grab a handful of leftover raisins from the kids' lunch and I get the kids a snack. 

Some days we go hang out at the pool because I don't have the energy to do anything else. Or we will have dance parties or make forts or play games. But a lot of the time I just play referee. The husband gets home and most days I'm like, "welp... I didn't make dinner." And my husband, being the saint he is, will whip something up. Part of me just doesn't have the heart to make food for a bunch of people that just yell at me and tell me how much they hate it. I guess there's no joy in that. 

So after we spend the better part of the evening trying to convince four small people to put a nourishing substance in their mouths AND swallow it, we spend the last bit of daylight wrestling them into their beds. And we get slandered while we do it... Like the time my husband told our 3-year-old she can't sleep with the tape recorder and she yelled, "STOP BEING MEAN TO JESUS!" at him. This is the point in time I tell them, "Mommy is done. Do not come out of your room unless you are on fire or have to go potty." And yet they somehow make it down the stairs a few more times to get a book, or tell me there's a bug in their bed, or just because they wanted to tell me a random fact about a Pokemon character they know before they all finally pass out around 9:30pm. And at this point the very VERY last thing I want to do is well, anything... Especially write a blog post about the wonderful antics of my newly three-year-old daughter. But I do it. And why is that? Why do we feel this overwhelming desire, as mothers, to make all other mothers think we are the healthiest, craftiest, most put together one of them all? 

It's tiring, it's relentless, it's the farthest thing from glamorous, but it's the job. And we do it because we love them. And I know a lot of times people think I have it all together, which at times I do... But most times I don't. And that's okay. I'm sure I'm not the only one that has days when I'd rather sit, pantless on my couch, without makeup and my hair pointed sideways with food all over my floor, and everyone in their pajamas, than expend the effort it takes to leave the house. Or at least those people are better at hiding it than I am.

My Bucket is Seven.

It was 7 years ago today that this tank of a baby who resembled a four month old with his black hair, tiny dark eyes and ginormous cheeks, made his way into the world and made me a mommy for the very first time.  I wanted him so very badly, but as every new mother knows, he wasn't quite what I expected. He was so much more... From the beginning he's kept me on my toes and I'm so proud of the young man that I catch glimpses of him becoming, and that I get to call him mine. He is such a sweet, smart, handsome, bighearted kid and I cannot wait to see what his seventh year brings... Love you Spencer!

 One:

 Two:

Three:

Four:

 Five:

 Six:

 Seven:

Declan Grant

How is it each and every time you have a baby the feeling of complete awe and elation when the baby is finally here never ever gets old!? How does that happen? You'd think after 3 babies the fourth would come and it'd be less exciting. Nope. Never gets old. Especially when the doctor that delivers your baby grabs the baby's "special purpose" and points it towards your face as he is having his first potty.

At 9 pounds 15 ounces, Declan was my 2nd biggest baby and the most original birth I've had. With all 3 other babies it's taken me all day (with the help of pitocin) to get to 5 cm then 20 minutes to transition to 10. Tony joked with Lucy that once I cried and shook I was ready to rock, which I was. So when my water spontaneously broke around 3 cm (first time I haven't HAD it broken by a doctor) and then I shook for a good hour, we didn't know what to expect. We got stuck around 5 and then it took an hour to get to 6, another hour to get to 7 and yet another to get to 8. At 7:30pm, my doctor headed home to get dinner and only 15 minutes later I was ready to push. So we sat there for 15 minutes while I was told by the nurses not to sneeze or laugh. Easier said than done, when a 10 pound baby is making his way towards the exit sign. When my doctor finally sauntered in at 8pm, to say I was a little bit irritated would be an understatement. 

At 8:06 I was finally given the okay to push. A couple seconds later, his head was out, and another push later, so was the rest of him at 8:07pm on August 25th, 2012. 

With all of my other babies, just like this one, there was the immediate sense of relief. That feeling of total euphoria where all of the pressure, the pain is immediately gone. I totally had that feeling. The other feeling I had with my other babies of "I could totally do that again," however, wasn't there. It was replaced with another sense of relief... A relief that this was it. That my family was complete and I didn't have to go through that pain again. 

I know things change and who knows what God has in store, but at this moment I feel completed. That this stage in my life is done and it's time to move on to the next... Enjoying watching my children grow and teaching them to love one another...

 Spencer was so excited to see his little brother.

As was big sister Tatum.

Even Lucy came into the room yelling, "I hold it! I hold it!" When she finally did, it was so sweet and unexpected, since every baby she'd seen til now she refused to even look at. It did only last about 20 seconds though before she proclaimed, "all done." 

Our first family photo with all 6 of us.

I am so excited to have our precious little man finally with us. With all of the emotional and physical ups and downs of this pregnancy, I am so very glad for it to be over with and for us to have our last little one with us, healthy and happy. He's such a sweet little man who only cries when he's hungry, poopy or has a bubble. Otherwise, he's totally content to look around and explore his new world. He has Tatum's cheeks, Spencer's mouth and Lucy's ears. He's a perfect mixture of all of us and I am so happy he is here and ready to rock this world as the last little baby Jones.

Happy belated birthday Lu...

It's so hard to believe that I once had a brunette baby girl. I cannot believe that it's been 2 years since this sweet little thing was born. She was the most petite of my babies and still is. She had the teeniest little buns and was the only baby to ever wear size newborn diapers. She was so calm and would go to sleep simply by me stroking her soft brown hair. 

Then her and her sweet soft brown hair somehow turned into Lyle Lovett when she was one. She looked just like her mama, down to the dark brown eyes and crooked little smile.

 As Lucy grew, her personality seemed to grow to match her hair. Wild, crazy, with a mind of her own and apparently blonde. My mother always wished that I'd get a child exactly like me, and guess what... Here she is. She definitely has a personality far different from her siblings, but as a 3rd child, I know that that is exactly what she needs to forge her way in a family of 6.

 She is by far the most vocal and opinionated child I've had thusfar, but I'm so glad she has a mind of her own. She has been speaking in full sentences since before she turned 2 and frequently says, "I got it" when asked if she needs help with what she's doing. Her favorite phrase as of the last week has been, "Baby's eatin' your booby, Mommy" when her new baby brother nurses. I can't help but laugh and agree. She thinks she's 6 and tries to boss her big brother & sister around. I can't wait to see who she becomes as this next year as a big sister goes by... I love you Bean!

Nerves...

I've known this day was coming for nearly 10 months now. And yet here I am, unable to sleep with butterflies in my stomach. Going in to have a baby is like Christmas morning regardless of whether or not you know the gender. What's he going to look like? Will he have hair? How long is it going to take? Will he sleep well? How big will he be? Will he look like me? Daddy? Both of us?  And then there's the more technically questions floating around... Will they tell me all the beds are taken and turn me away? Will I progress fast or slow? Will it be easy? Should I get an epidural?

So here we are, it's Baby morning and I'm a nervous wreck.

May God grant me peace and serenity and the strength to make it through what most likely will be a ridiculously long day of waiting and watching Red Box movies.

Nesting...

I know every time that I'm pregnant it is inevitable, the nesting... But I never imagined how insane I could possibly get with this last one. My poor husband. I have so many more projects in my head and only have the ability to do about 20% of them myself. I've cleaned and organized nearly every inch of this house and as I do I keep adding to the "honey do" list. It's not like any of the projects I have can't get done AFTER the baby is born, but it's that insane overwhelming need to get it all done NOW. Why does that happen? It's not like life stops after you have a baby. It's quite insane really. I know you're down for the count for a little while, and you're sleep deprived, and your house never gets clean and you don't have the ability to do much other than stare at the new little life you created... Oh wait, I just answered my own question.

It's been a long pregnancy, but I honestly haven't felt like I'm really pregnant. Let me explain. I have felt more like a chronically ill, obese, miserable person that has the inability to bend over, get up off of the floor, or hold my bladder for more than 30 minutes at a time. My back hurts all the time and so does my crotch. Sorry for the vulgarity, but it's true. I still don't feel like this misery will end in a baby in my arms. Perhaps this is God's way of telling me that I really am done. I know we decided that this is our last baby and I've tried so desperately to appreciate the pregnancy because of it, but the opposite has happened. It's made me realize that I would rather not physically or emotionally go through another pregnancy. Obviously, if God has other plans, then I can't stop them and will gladly accept whatever miracle he gives me. BUT it's been a rough road. I guess I just can't wait to meet this new little man of mine and know in my heart that our family is complete.

Disclaimer: Please don't take this post the wrong way. I am SO VERY GRATEFUL for being pregnant and being blessed with the ability to create life. I can see this post being misconstrued. I will reiterate: I am so very blessed. And despite all of the pain and emotional turmoil, I would absolutely NEVER trade any of it in because it means I will get to hold this beautiful baby in my arms in the end.

God is good.

It's been a long three weeks but our prayers have been answered.

3 weeks ago, after our mid pregnancy ultrasound, we received news that our baby boy had choroid plexus cysts on his brain. The doc scheduled us to be seen with the perinatologist from OHSU to do a more detailed level 2 ultrasound.

I was terrified. Worst case scenario if they found any other markers: our baby had Trisomy 18 - a chromosomal defect where there are 3 number 18 chromosomes instead of two... Not compatible with life and would most likely die in utero or soon after birth.

A bit scary, no? Words cannot explain the fear I felt. I turned to God. I prayed. I let Him have this little boy knowing that He would take care of my little man. I can't say there weren't nights when I cried myself to sleep begging God for the health of my unborn son.

But here I am with proof in my belly that prayer works. We had our ultrasound today and the cysts are completely gone and our baby is absolutely healthy and NORMAL... Exactly what we wanted. Thank you Jesus. And thank you friends and family that prayed on our behalf.

6 years ago my life changed forever...

Spencer asked me last night, "how was I born?"And this is what I told him:

6 years ago today, in the middle of the night my belly started to hurt. Every 5 minutes it would hurt. When Daddy finally woke up at 5 in the morning I told him it was time to go to the hospital. I walked around the hospital with Daddy for 8 hours to try to get you to come out, but it didn't work. You wouldn't listen! Surprise surprise. ;) So the doctors gave me some medicine to help you come out and you STILL wouldn't listen. Then the doctor popped the bubble of water around you with a big crochet hook to try and get you to come out and you finally said okay. So I pushed REAL hard and I pooped (insert an insane amount of 6 year old little boy laughter).

Then I pushed again and out you came! And you were HUGE! The doctor put you on my tummy and I said, "He's an angel. An angel sent straight from heaven." (insert said little boy's sweet little "awe") And that is how I became a mommy for the very first time.

Your face was so red and swollen and you didn't have a chin (insert giggle) and you had dark black hair and looked like a little eskimo baby. Scratch that, a BIG eskimo baby. And the whole time we were at the hospital the nurses would pop their heads in and say, "I just wanted to come see the 10 pound baby! Oh my goodness! He's so huge!" 

And here you are 6 years later, even HUGER. So grown up, so sweet, so smart and so loving. It's hard to remember you were ever so "little." Sometimes when I am feeling nostalgic, I'll pick up a 10 pound bag of sugar in the grocery store and think about my baby boy. I am so proud of the little boy with the HUGE heart that you have become. I love you Spencer, Happy Birthday!

Grateful.

I decided to organize the "office." I know, to most of you that have been to my house, it seems like quite the feat! BUT, after 2 1/2 days of gutting and purging, I can finally say that it is ALMOST done. :)

So last night, as I was going through some paper work, I came across this:

I know this piece of paper and 3 pieces of card stock wouldn't mean much to most, but to me, they represent an extremely depressed time in my life full of disappointment and pain.

If you look closely, you can see the date: 3/16/07, the day I found out I was pregnant with baby number 2. I had bought Spencer a shirt and painted the words "big brother" on it, took pictures of him in it, and added a page to his scrap book so we could always remember how happy we were at that moment in time.

I was so excited.

But that excitement soon turned to sadness when we ended up losing the baby. I remember being so angry, feeling so hurt and confused. I took out the pages from the scrap book and tore up the pictures. I never wanted to be reminded of the hurt again. I guess I forgot to discard the page itself and tucked it away somewhere, not ready to let go of what had happened. A couple months later, I was pregnant again. This time would be different, this time I would have a healthy baby in the end. But this time was the same, but even more painful. How could this happen? I was healthy. I had a healthy first baby. Why? Still confused, a couple months later, yet again, I was pregnant, but this time I was terrified. I spent my entire pregnancy scared that this too would end in pain. But it didn't. It ended in Tatum.

So here I am, over 4 years later, looking at this piece of paper, this physical reminder of pain, and yet I feel so overwhelmingly happy.

I can honestly say that 2007 was one of the hardest years of my life. There was a point I truly believed God was punishing me for something and I was only going to be able to have one baby. But here I am 2 babies later. God had a plan for me. I am not in control, I never was. I think God wanted me to learn that so that I could truly let go and embrace the plan he has for my life. I would never want to ever experience the loss and disappointment I experienced that year ever again, but I also think that I wouldn't be where I am with three beautiful babies if it weren't for that loss. I am so very grateful for my children. And who knows, maybe I'd still have 3 babies, had I not lost those 2, but I wouldn't have TATAUM. I wouldn't have LUCY. And I wouldn't know and feel deep down in my gut how truly blessed I am to have them.

Where's My Slurpee!?

Oh Lulu Bell. One year ago, little did I know what a spunky yet sweet little lady I was about to meet. Last year, at 7am, your Daddy & I headed over to the hospital and got hooked up to some nice labor inducing drugs. A few hours later, I got me my epidural, and life was good. At 6:46pm I started to shake and cry (that was always my indicator with your brother and sister that I was ready to push) and your Daddy told the nurse it was time. Much like your sister's birth, the doctor was busy eating dinner. So... we waited. 10 minutes later, she came in and told me to push and I told her to sit down first. Good thing I did, because I sat up, asked for a refresher course on how exactly I was supposed to do this... and, what must've been a push later, you were here. You were a SMELLY 9 pound 7 ounce and 22 inch baby COVERED in vernix. BUT, you were absolutely beautiful and with so much dark hair, your father questioned his part in your arrival.

Such a sweet and quiet little baby you were. Those first few days, we would just cuddle and your brother and sister would ooh and ahh over you, until you pooped. Then they'd leave.

I was so grateful that all I needed to do in order to put you to sleep was to rub your sweet smelling, soft hair.

You were such a cuddler, still are. I love how you still lay your head on my shoulder when you know it's time for bed.

Such a strong little lady. You had your head up only days after you were born

.

At 6 months old you were quite the little chunk. And to everyone's surprise, your hair didn't fall out! It grew... and grew... and started to grow in blonde! What? I just tell everyone that you went through a goth phase while you were in my tummy. ;)

And then, at 7 months old, you gave your mommy and daddy a run for their money and got the sickest any of my babies has ever been. You and I spent many nights together in the hospital while I rocked and prayed over you. Despite your exhaustion, you were a fighter. And with God's help, you were healed. You lost a chunk or two, but it didn't take long for you to gain it back.

And now, you are the most beautiful, crazy curly, two-toned hair colored, feisty, stubborn, warm, loving, curious, attached, Ba of a Lulu Bell and I will always adore you my little mini-me. Happy Birthday Lucy Olivia! Slow down... you're growing up far too fast for your mama.