Rowan’s 18 Month Appointment
Holy guacamole, Rowan is 18 months old. Pretty much all words I have to say about that are just cliche parenting lines about “my baby” and “time flies” and whatnot.
Holy guacamole, Rowan is 18 months old. Pretty much all words I have to say about that are just cliche parenting lines about “my baby” and “time flies” and whatnot.
The pregnancy had been a mess from the beginning, with every plan dismantled. I went through four sets of providers – each progressively more high risk than the last. It was not astonishing when, 37 weeks later, I sat in a hospital room next to my infant son. The surprise was that he was already five weeks old.
Y’all. I know it’s only November. I know this, but all that does is worry me more about what the next few months will be like.
A lot of us are struggling to figure out how to express what we are feeling. It is nothing quite like we have ever experienced before.
I wasn’t sure I would write anything. Nothing I say is going to make any difference. I would be just another voice screaming in the abyss.
If there is one thing this election has been good for, other than decluttering your Facebook connections, it is having to answer difficult questions presented by your children. Unfortunately, I still don’t have a lot of great answers for why people would vote for a certain human cheese doodle. Questions about the election process, in general, are a little easier, though they sometimes challenge my ability to bring civics down to an understandable elementary-school level. I start talking about the electoral college and realize just how absurd and abstract this all sounds to a six-year-old.
If you are anything like me, you have likely read about a kazillion birth stories since the moment you found out you were pregnant for the first time. I have read everything from accidental unassisted homebirths to hospital horror stories. From beautiful water births to straightforward c-sections. I don’t know that I have ready many details about preterm c-sections.