“Third babies can sometimes be wild cards!” I remember my Doctor sharing with me as I glided through my third of three pregnancies and we discussed birth plans. So when at my 36-week appointment the Doctor shared that the baby wasn’t quite heads down “wild card” and is what jumped into my mind. He asked me to follow up with another appointment a few days later.

On Monday, my 37-week appointment, the baby was heads down, but this time, the Doctor asked “have you ever had high blood pressure?” It turned out this deck had more than one wild card in it. It had been a particularly stressful week at work and I brushed it off as such, determined to make it a few more weeks. I had already scheduled another appointment for Friday, so back I’d come in a few days.

By Friday, work had really escalated and so had my contractions. I had a sneaky suspicion the wild card might show its hand again and I asked Patrick to join me at this appointment, carseat and hospital bags packed in tow.

Show itself it did with another  high blood pressure reading and off to the hospital we went. We settled in and were given a green light to walk the halls of Piedmont for 45 minutes of every hour, with 15 minutes to monitor. I set out to walk like it was my job, including a quick detour of getting locked outdoors in the 30 degree weather while wearing a hospital gown. It turns out the Piedmont Hospital Walgreens is not accessible from the inside and they don’t sell lottery tickets. I digress.

Somewhere along our third round of this, we ran into the Doctor who joked about my speed walking, I asked her if I was allowed to run this baby out down Peachtree Street, we are situated on cardiac hill after all. She didn’t find that funny. Nor did she think I was serious. I was. I didn’t run.

After several hours of this and few places left to explore, little had progressed. I argued with the Dr. to head home, it was after all “just stress” that had caused my blood pressure to spike. She argued that was probably not the case and to induce me. She won. She was certain I’d have this baby quickly, overnight. It was my third after all.

Night came and went and that little stubborn wild card stayed put. Despite Pitocin and Cervidil, baby hadn’t moved an inch. With morning came a change in Doctors and my own Doctor would now be doing rounds. She chuckled when she saw me. I was here, two weeks early, thanks to two rogue high blood pressure readings, destined to deliver my third of three babies with her by my side. She assured me I would not leave this hospital without a baby, no matter how frustrated I was becoming.

At this point in the story, I’ll pause for an intermission of a different kind. That morning, we got word from my in-laws that our sweet dog Vida was not well. Patrick and I were both convinced they were overreacting, so with a stalled labor and no baby in sight, we agreed he should leave the hospital and check on her. His call came quickly, Vida was not well. He would stay with her a little longer before my father in law took her to our vet to say goodbye.

That damn dog, 15 years young, had waited until we left to have a baby to turn a corner. I was angry, sad and had to laugh a little bit that she was going to do this her way, while I was stuck in a hospital unable to pet her head while telling her exactly how I felt about this shenanigan. If you’ve ever wondered if it’s possible for two emotions to perfectly coexist in a single moment, I can assure you, they can. Joy and grief. Perfectly hand in hand.

By this point, my frustration in labor had really begun to grow. My Doctor decided to break my water and see if that trick might get things moving. She tried and couldn’t. It was terribly painful, but I was so ready to get this show on the road, no amount of pain was going to stop my hard headedness. She opted to wait until I could have an epidural and try again.

An hour or so later, epidural was in and she successfully broke my water. With Eloise, breaking my water lead to a baby in arms about 45 minutes later, but remember, this is my wild card. No such luck. A few more hours passed with little progress and more frustration on my part. Impatience is a theme here.

I changed positions, sitting up, and Patrick left again to get a snack. Welp, that did the trick. Suddenly this baby decided now was the time to make his or her arrival – and do it quickly. The nurse let me push once, then asked me to stop and I didn’t ask too many questions why. Patrick and my Doctor had barely gotten back to the room by the time this little one was ready to make an entrance. Wild card number three.

Baby arrived swiftly and quietly. No immediate cry. I only heard the words “double nuchal” and no words on gender from Patrick. It turned out she was a she and she had a double wrap of the cord around her neck, which may have prevented her for moving down earlier in labor. Thanks to being two weeks early, she had extra vernix on her skin, making her appear paler than she actually was. He was convinced, if only for a brief moment, something was terribly wrong and was in shock. She let out a beautiful little cry, he let out a sigh of relief and awe and joy filled the room for a third time to learn this little one was a little girl – our Lilah Cordelia. Praise be to God.

From the moment you take a pregnancy test, you begin to imagine what that baby might be like. Brown hair or blond? Stubborn or easy going? Boy or girl? I think it’s natural to dream up who this little person you carry for nine months might become. However, what they don’t tell you to prepare for is how this little person might change who you are destined to become too.

Lilah Cordelia was just the wild card I needed. A reminder that you don’t get to pick the timing, the circumstances or even believe the story you’ve told yourself that you have a stubborn little one who refuses to come into the world. In the weeks since her arrival, Lilah has been everything except stubborn. She sleeps softly, nurses like a champ (my first baby not to fall backwards on the growth chart post birth!) and will stare at you with these big, round blue eyes as if to say “I’m so happy I’m here.” Us too baby girl, us too.

Lilah, my prayer for you is that you always force us to slow down and take in the world at a slower pace. I pray that you march to the beat of your own drum, unapologetically, and that you see the world with those big, open eyes. And perhaps if we are so lucky, or simply not too stubborn, your wild card will rub off on all of those around you too. All my love, mom.

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).