Each fall at Chick-fil-A we gather as a company in our main building atrium to hear updates from our leaders on what’s taken place throughout the year. The space is billowing with beautiful stone floors and a five story spiral staircase that if you arrive early enough can be the best seat in the house. Inevitably, I never arrive early enough and wear heels like I shouldn’t have, therefore I spend the hour shifting my weight from left to right, cursing my improper choice of footwear, while balancing my phone and a cup of hot tea in hand.
Last fall, while contemplating my poor footwear choices, I listened as a leader I admire dearly shared a line I won’t soon forget, “we get to do this.” He talked about record breaking growth. About Operator frustrations. About all of the challenges and celebrations that come with growing a brand beyond what anyone of us could imagine. What Shane didn’t talk about was feeding an almost three month old in the hospital at 4 am, but it’s the line that sticks with me at this moment. We get to do this.
I expected to spend today putting the final things together to tomorrow waltz across those stone floors in printed, pointy-toed heels (yes, I already have an outfit picked out) and head back to a job I love with B attending daycare on-site with me. Instead, we are here at CHOA watching an almost three month old battle salmonella.
Friday afternoon B started acting off. He was running a low grade fever and I called the nurse who assured me it was likely something I ate but to watch it and give Tylenol if need be. By bedtime his fever had made it above 100.4 and we opted for Tylenol. By midnight his fever had spiked again. After an agonizing 90 minutes back and forth with the nurses line and never getting a call back from a doctor, a nurse suggested bringing him to the ER just to be sure. That nurse (and doctor who never called) were our guardian angels. We checked in around 2 am.
By 6 am our little guy was pooping green with blood, vomiting and still running a 102 fever. We waited for what felt like an eternity to see a doctor and to hold it together while B acted like the world’s happiest guy. When the day shift doctor took over she began a flurry of tests that felt a little overkill to two sleep deprived parents who were 99% sure this was a viral infection and ready to go home.
Rather quickly, we would learn B contracted salmonella. You or I would get the same, have a bad stomach ache and get on with our lives, but to someone so tiny this gig is pretty dangerous. We’ll never know exactly how we contracted the bacteria, but my best guess is somewhere between me making dinner and feeding B earlier this week, which was a test run of sorts for what rushed evenings might look like soon. It only takes a touch to pass the bacteria along and boy am I working through mom guilt over here.
While we’re still pretty shaken and still very nervous, we know we’re in the best hands possible at CHOA. We caught this thing quickly and we’re praying the antibiotics are doing their job and not allowing this bacteria to enter his precious little bloodstream. As I publish this post, they are looking good.
We’re settled into a room complete with a futon, full bath and crib. I’ve joked that it feels like P and I are shacking up in Brumby again (sorry mom and dad), but this time there’s a baby in the room with us instead of Jessica (Jess, you’re much quieter as a roommate).
While I expected to be closing the chapter on these night time feeds very soon, I’ll savor the chance to have them now. I texted with a girlfriend earlier this week on the best way to wean night feeds as B has been sleeping until 3-5 am each night, but the last 24 hours have thrown that and all of our plans to the wind. In fact, I think I’ve written on this predicament of God + Kaitlyn + well placed plans before ?
The next few days most certainly will not look as I expected, but I’m reminded that we get to do this. To snuggle. To be cared for by talented healthcare professionals. To miss work for a few more days and still have our jobs to return to. To fight. To be parents. We get to do this and we don’t plan on giving up anytime soon.
To baby B, oh the prayers we have for you right now my little friend. We pray for your strength, for your healing and for those strong kicking legs to keep knocking those monitors off (after the doctors take their readings, please).
This is a story of how our littlest guy made his way into the world on Sunday, July 21, 2019, but before we get there, I think you should understand a thing or two about Sundays in this house.
Pink sprinkle doughnuts. That’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Sunday mornings as a kid. On the mornings we made it to church (sorry, Jesus, it wasn’t every Sunday), we would stop by Dunkin’ to pick up pink sprinkle doughnuts before heading home. At home, my Dad would fill the kitchen with smells of bacon, eggs and hand-crafted-letter-shaped pancakes for each of us.
French toast and a fruit platter. That marked the next Sunday chapter I can recall. The first year Patrick and I dated he was on soccer scholarship which meant his parents gave him a monthly stipend (thanks, Roger and Corky). For some reason, two 18-year-olds found that spending that stipend on a ritual of Sunday morning brunch at Five and Ten in Athens was the best use of money for the first year of our relationship. #millennials
Quiet neighborhood miles with Charles Osgood and Jane Pauley. In recent years, Sunday mornings have meant a long-ish morning run and getting home in time to cook breakfast and watch CBS Sunday morning together. Can you tell we’re aging?
Sunday mornings are my own little slice of heaven. I feel closest to the big guy upstairs thanks to simple, quiet routines, so it should come as no surprise that it was on a Sunday morning when the next chapter of our lives took root.
Early in the afternoon of Sunday July 21, 2019 (12:06 PM to be exact), our little nugget, Beckham Matthew, made his way into this world.
Before we make our way to Sunday, we’ll start with a few things I expected on how we would get there…
Expectation: I’d gradually start feeling contractions, labor at home for several hours and only then would we head to the hospital.
Reality: My water broke in the living room and chaos ensued.
Expectation: I’d labor naturally, using all of the props. I was so concerned about the availability of the props. I even planned to bring my yoga mat and essential oils to really calm myself down. Charming, right?
Reality: I was hooked to an IV immediately and I left my yoga mat at home.
Expectation: I’d labor drug free.
Reality: After 12 hours on Pitocin, nope. Just nope.
Expectation: Pushing would be the most terrifying and painful part.
Reality: Not quite.
Expectation: New babies are not cute.
Reality: Well maybe just this one.
Saturday started like any other Saturday in our house. I went to barre class. I bought us chocolate croissants at the farmers market. I showered AND washed my hair (thank goodness). Patrick made several trips to Home Depot to get started on a swing in our yard. I struggled to find something to cook for dinner on Pinterest, finally settling that we were going to get takeout.
They say God laughs at our most well laid plans and boy was he just chuckling at mine.
“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have it’s full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”
James 1: 2-4
Expectation number one: Labor only starts with your water breaking 10% of the time. Reality: I was in the 10%.
I stood up off of the couch to stretch out the babe sitting under my ribs…and I felt a gush of liquid. I looked to Patrick and said “uh-oh.” He knew exactly what that uh-oh meant.
After having packed a bag weeks ago, I spent the next 20 minutes frantically running around the house, half clothed, while tossing everything we owned into an already packed bag. Four pairs of pajamas, six bras and a bag of gummy bears? Yes, I will need those. We did enjoy the gummy bears. Thanks, Kristin.
We called the OBGYN’s office who put me through to the doctor on call. It turned out it was my favorite doctor in our practice and she’d be there until Monday morning. Since I had tested positive for Group Strep B, I needed to come to the hospital right away to be put on antibiotics.
Expectation number two: Zen labor. Reality: I’m how far dilated? Are you sure?
The next few hours moved quickly and not at all at the same time. We were admitted right away and I was checked to find out I was not having contractions and only 1 cm dilated. Since my water had broken, we made the decision to start pitocin right away to try to move things along.
What this meant was that I was hooked to an IV, hadn’t eaten and went from zero contractions to pretty wild ones in a matter of hours.
I’ll stop here to let you know that despite my expectations slowly diminishing by the hour, the nurses at Piedmont were an absolute dream. We were the only people in labor that night at Piedmont so not only did we have an exceptional care team, but we also had the attention of every soul on the floor. Our nurse took the time to create a boy/girl pool on the whiteboard and I’m pretty sure everyone working the floor stopped by to love on us and make a guess over the course of the evening.
By midnight, my contractions had really ramped up, though they were still not consistently timed. Another expectation myth busted. It was at this point that I was super thankful to have thrown the wireless speaker into the bag along with 47 bras. Patrick queued up the babe playlist I had made on Spotify while I hung onto the birthing ball and Patrick’s knee for dear life.
Expectation number three: say no to drugs. Reality: I’ll take whatever you have.
By 4 AM, I was experiencing contractions every 90 seconds and it felt as if there was no relief in-between. I decided that I’d hold out until my 6 AM check and if I was 7cm dilated or above, I’d hang on, if not, we’d call the anesthesiologist.
At 6 AM, I was 4cm dilated. I can’t express to you how defeated I felt in this moment. Everything I thought would happen, had gone the opposite. I sobbed that I couldn’t do this and even told Patrick I would be carrying zero more children in the future. In this moment, both Patrick and our nurse reminded me that the goal was a healthy baby, not an artificial “I did this naturally” medal. Encouragement is a miracle worker, friends.
By 7 AM the epidural was in successfully (how that was possible during 90 second contractions, I’ll never know) and I finally felt some relief. To not feel your body’s pain is a weird sensation. I did not care for it whatsoever, but I was thankful for the ability to breathe again.
Expectation number four (I’m taking liberty for my husband here): No way I’m cutting the cord and stay above shoulder height. Reality: Let’s do this thing.
By 10:30 AM, the doctor checked and I had progressed to 10 cm dilated and 100% effaced. She looked at us and said “OK, we’ll start pushing on this next contraction.”
I’m not sure how to push. I’m not sure I even really know what that means. Are we sure it’s really time? Stay above my shoulders. Let’s take a nap instead. Take your wife’s leg. What. Is. Happening.
Thankfully, the nurses again came to our rescue and talked us through every step. After less than 90 minutes of pushing, including 30 minutes of break time for oxygen to keep mine and baby’s heart rate steady, our little guy made his way into the world.
Remember the no other laboring mamas thing? Still true. In fact, it would take until 9 PM for another baby to be born at Piedmont. By this point, we had a flurry of people in the room and it was a pure celebration, set to that Spotify playlist.
I can recall thee songs during that 90 minutes: 1. Lauren Daigle’s “Look Up Child”, when the nurse shared “I love this song” 2. Ingrid Michaelson’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, our wedding song, and the look Patrick gave me when it started playing and 3. fittingly, Lionel Richie’s “Easy Like Sunday Morning.” I have no idea what was playing at 12:06.
My “no cord cutting husband” cheerfully cut the cord, admitted to me that he “looked” and announced that we had a sweet little boy on our hands. The room had overwhelmingly voted girl. I was in shock, not just that he was a boy, but the simple fact that this baby had been a boy all along and I had no idea. I’m not sure why that was so mind blowing for me, but it was.
We gave him the only boy name we both ever agreed on: Beckham Matthew. Beckham simply because it was under 100 in popularity on the Social Security website and we both liked it and Matthew in memory of my late Uncle Matt, who spent nearly every Christmas with our family growing up – most of that time spent in our kitchen. That entire 90 minute period still gives me chills to think about. I’ve never felt more calm or confident it my life.
Expectation number five: Rough looking baby. Reality: Beautiful little boy.
The doctor placed baby Beckham on my chest and he was absolutely perfect. He wasn’t red. He wasn’t jaundiced (later we’d learn he was a 0.0 on the jaundice scale and the nurses assumed it was broken). He had a head full of the softest, slightly strawberry blond hair. He weighed 8lb 1oz and was 20.5 inches long. Say what?
My first words to Patrick were “he’s not ugly” followed by “let’s have another one.” My first words to Beckham were overjoy to share with him how long we’d both waited to have him in our lives. I simply could not believe that this moment had finally arrived. It was perfect and I’d give all of the money in the world to relive it.
While I could share plenty on how the last few weeks have been less than glamorous, I’d simply be sharing what ever first time parent knows to be true: this gig is HARD. Labor, that’s the easy part.
Easy like Sunday morning.
Beckham, my prayer for you is that you always look up. That you make plans and then throw them cheerfully in the wind when God sends you in the opposite direction.
I pray that you’ll trust the path laid forth for you and that you’ll allow Patrick and I to guide you as best we can from this moment forward.
I pray that you’ll always find joy in easy, Sunday mornings and that you’ll like sprinkles and pancakes and French toast and chocolate croissants. Maybe you’ll even be a chef someday like the great guy who shares your name.
Welcome to the crew little buddy, we sure are glad you’re here.
As I sit here closing in on 17 weeks, I still can’t believe I’m typing those little words: we’re. having. a. baby.
Patrick and I started dating when we were 18 year old, babies ourselves, and still we talked about kiddos for about as far back as I can remember. Those of you who know us well can likely even recall a conversation with P where he spoke of the “soccer team” he hoped to have one day.
We spent my 29th birthday in the car tackling a seven hour drive up I20 to Ocean Isle Beach to catch the solar eclipse with my family (spoiler alert: it rained). I spent a solid three of those hours working up the courage to broach the subject that we’d assumed was a given nearly a decade earlier. Somewhere past the Augusta line, I finally blurted out the words “I think I want go stop taking birth control” Patrick laughed at me. His response “you’ve been holding that in for three hours haven’t you?”
And off we went. Whether it was the Catholic guilt, that scene in Mean Girls or the stellar sexual education I received in middle school, I had it in my head that once you stop preventing pregnancy, there it is. Wham. Baby. So when weeks turned into months, turned into a year, it took its toll.
For those of you who were along that journey of crazy with me, God bless you. I’m not sure what I would have done without your calls to ask how it was going, to be a shoulder when I needed to cry on or to be the ear that listened when I just felt like screaming at the world. You’ll never know what those conversations meant to me. “What if” followed behind me like a lurking puppy and it if weren’t for your questioning when I’d fall quiet, your prayers and your encouragement, I would have punched that puppy in the face. This thing I’d be told would happen if I as much looked at a boy just would. not. happen.
This past fall, we started the journey of testing to get some answers. By early October, after a flurry of testing appointments, I had my first ultrasound appointment that started with the tech asking if we were “coding this as infertility” and ending with a cheerful sendoff of “I hope to see you here for another reason next time!” Gulp. Here we go.
Following that visit, when my doctor didn’t have too many clear answers for me (things looked a little off, but not so off to warrant medication), we talked about what was next (P getting tested), what would be next after that (a potential surgery in the new year) and we would go from there. While it was overwhelming, felt ready to brace for the impact of what could be a longer road that I could have ever imagined sharing with my 18-year-old self.
Then low and behold, two days after Thanksgiving and five days after a missed period and in the midst of terrible cramps, I took a test. A test that I hadn’t even purchased for myself. I hadn’t needed to. A test that had been sitting in my medicine cabinet for nearly a year (expired? who knows?) and after a few minutes, that one little word emblazoned on it: pregnant.
Boy does God’s timing just get us sometimes. Just a few short weeks later, we were back in the doctor’s office and this time I think my doctor was the one ready to cry — happy tears. We were expecting. Here are a few examples of what we would have missed if it happened just months, even weeks, sooner than it did.
I wouldn’t have celebrated the making it through in-Restaurant days with my work bestie by clicking champagne glasses in Chicago (literally my last glass!)
We couldn’t have had a care-free trip filled with pisco, penguins and endless hikes to South America with my brother.
I wouldn’t have lead the launch of quite possibly the biggest project of my career at Chick-fil-A.
I woke Patrick up to tell him, he asked to go back to bed and I headed out the door to yoga, thinking, “gosh, there is no way.” After picking up new, not questionably expired, pregnancy tests at Target, we confirmed it was indeed a thing.
The weeks that followed were the most anxiety inducing of my life. I clung to every Google search for what could been happening in my body convinced this could not finally be true after so many years of dreaming.
We had the chance to tell both sets of parents, together, on Christmas eve and they were over the moon. Our requests to keep the news a secret from our large families lasted approximately eight minutes. We would tell our friends and our coworkers in the weeks to come, each hug a little sweeter than the last.
So that brings us to today. Today we’re nearly 17 weeks along with this little one who I’ve affectionately named nugget, mostly as I ask he or she to behave as I’m dying to run up Mount Kilimanjaro that until a few months ago was only the neighborhood hill on Skyland. Today, I’m still nearly as nervous as I was 18 months ago but even more thrilled than I could have ever imagined 12 years ago.
Patrick and I can’t wait to add a little adventurer to our crew in late July – girl or boy, we don’t intend to find out until he or she makes an arrival onto this earth. We pray that things continue to go smoothly, but if they don’t, we pray for understanding and trust that God has us exactly where we are meant to be, no matter what life might throw our way.
To our littlest nugget, my prayer for you is that you come into this world ready to tackle the next adventure by our sides. I pray that you’ll be ready to be the leader of the pack, God willing, because we think the world is waiting on you. I pray that you’ll always keep an open mind and a curious heart towards those around you. And finally, I pray that you know that you are so, so loved beyond measure.
To anyone reading this in a season of waiting, a season of miscarriage, or a season of what feels like endless non-answers, gosh, I. Am. With. You. We are thankful that our story has continued with easier answers than expected, but I understand that is not the case for everyone and gosh, I can’t even begin to fathom what you’ve each experienced. I can’t begin to imagine how every story is different and I wish I could lift each and every one of you up in hugs, share with you a glass of wine and even respond to that feeling of I just want to punch my ovaries in the face. If someone can ever do any of the above for you, let it be me, I’m your girl.