We Love Fripp.

Our one trip out of town this summer was to the beach. I'd been to Fripp as a kid, and my dad grew up around Beaufort, so he used to take us all over the low country down there. But, Matt and Ella and Summit and Evie Sue (I know that's not really her name) had never been, and that made our time on Fripp even cooler.

We hunted crabs on the beach at night, armed with iPhone flashlights (don't worry sea turtle lovers, they aren't that bright), a net, a bucket, and beer (don't worry DSS, we don't let the kids drink it).

We hunted crabs on the docks during the day. We failed.

We went for long walks on the beach and went swimming in the ocean.

We relaxed.

We saw friends we needed to see.

We did not feed the deer, to the lady who talked smack about stupid people feeding the deer.

We found time for each other.

We found cool stuff.

We saw beautiful things.

We love Fripp.

Summit's Summer Story

After Evan was born, I knew that life would be a little tricky. Just a new baby throws kinks into a daily routine. Add on a house for sale that has to be in showing condition 24/7 and the utter volatility of a schizophrenic real estate market, and things escalate from tricky to maddening. Toss in a broken arm (what?!) on a 5-year-old fella, and it'll knock your socks off.

And, that's what happened. Just when we decided that things had settled enough to book a beach trip, my little buddy's ulna and radius lost out in a shuffle with some monkey bars. My sweet Summit... who'd just a month earlier learned to ride his bike without training wheels, who may as well be a fish for the amount of pool time he gets in, who, in his own mind, plays basketball like Jordan, who really needed to practice writing his name before kindergarten... ended up in a cast all the way up to the top of his arm right smack dab in the middle of July. Talk about taking someone down for the count. We kept trying to tell him that it would make a good story one day, but he failed to see the benefit. And, when the doctor said he'd have to have surgery to place a pin to hold the bones in place, I was like, "What?! But, we have a beach trip!" And, he was like, "But, we'll do it first thing in the morning the day before you leave." And, I was like, "What?! But. But. But." And, he was like, "You'll all be fine. And, be sure to stop at the Shrimp Shack on the way out to Fripp." He was like...this is so easy. And, I was like...no, it isn't.

And, it wasn't so easy. It was awful when he ate the brick on the stairs in my parents' garage in an attempt to protect his broken arm when he tripped a few days after the monkey bars fall. It was crazy when I looked in his mouth to check out the damage, and I saw the teeth that had shifted back from their proper position. I was relieved when the dentist said his x-rays showed no root damage. Only, his mouth looked like he hopped straight outta Honey Boo Boo's family tree. Great look for kindergarten pictures, no?

When we finally made it to the beach after the doctor's and dentist and hospital visits, we thought we'd made some progress away from the crazy. Luckily I'll be doggoned if the first morning we were there that boy didn't wake up with an ear ache that sent us to the Urgent Care where the kid was diagnosed with severe swimmer's ear. The irony. He'd been swimming maybe twice in the two and a half weeks since he'd broken his arm, and had half as many showers (don't judge until you've walked a mile, people). Awesome. Swimmer's ear at the beach. Broken arm at the beach. Summy Poopers felt like total doo doo for the first three days of our impromptu vacay. Eventually we made it through the doo doo, which helped make the decision to extend the trip for a couple more days a good idea.

 

Finally, my boy is feeling better. He's still got a cast, though it was downgraded to one that stops just at the elbow. This should help for his first days at big kid school. Unfortunately, the handwriting practice that never happened and the jacked up teeth may do him no favors. However, he's got a story to tell about his summer...all about how he had to learn to sword fight with his left hand. 

My Sweet Summer Solstice

Besides my loves' birthdays, my very favorite day of the year is the longest one. I don't know when it began, but I feel like I've always loved the day where the fun lasts the longest, where people hang out the latest, and where time seems to hold on the strongest. The summer solstice has always held a special place in my heart; for me it's a bigger marker of the year than January 1. It's the beginning and ending date of my year. I love the days that lead up to it when spring finally shoots out flowers and grass and love and life after the winter. I love the days surrounding it, and those after it that nod their heads toward lazy summer days and total relaxation. It's blissful.

When we found out that Evan was growing inside of me, and when we figured out when she would be due, I just knew that her birthday would be something else. I felt it inside of my soul. Way deep in that mixture of intuition and love. True to that little nudge of mommy knowledge, her birth date could not be more perfect. June 20, 2012. The Summer Solstice. The longest day of the year. According to the doctors and their fancy ultrasounds, she was 2 1/2 weeks early, but I know better. She was right on time. Cooked to perfection and ready to meet the world. Or, maybe the world was ready to meet her. I'm unsure of which, but I do know one thing for certain, I was so ready to meet her.

She's perfect. 9 pounds of perfection in one 19 inch body. I'm serious, friends. Perfection. Born on one of the most perfect days of the year. She's gentle, so gentle, and snuggly. Beautiful. Sweet. Soft. Full of love. Baby kisses and brand new sounds. Everything is fresh and everywhere is unchartered territory. Holding her little body in my arms, feeling her breath against my neck, smelling her baby smell, I'd give anything in the world to freeze time, to put myself in these moments with Evan and Ella and Summit for all eternity. This is my heaven. This. Instead, I try to memorize each and every little thing. Time is so fleeting...

And, even though I can think back to June 19 and all the dates before and remember what happened and who was there, I can't picture my world without having her right in the middle of everything. I can't imagine my heart not having her inside of it. I can't fathom my soul separate from hers. It's such a surreal idea, considering when relationships like this begin, as if they always were...as if they were always meant to be...and you just know that absolutely nothing can cause them to cease. They always will be.

Before she was born, I was a little hesitant. How ever could I meet the love that is required for three children? I had heard people say that there's not less love to go around because of the extra kid. I had heard people say that there's more love. But, I didn't believe them. It didn't make sense. What I found, though, was that it is exactly as people said. There's so much more. So much more. This is not to say that life is easier or that it's without challenges and inevitable heartaches. But, it is to say that it's even more worth it. All of it. And, I get to live on the summer solstice every day of the year.

I love you, my sweet Evan, my sweet summer solstice.

The Boat is Out of the Basement!

Well, friends, the boat is out of the basement. Phew! As we all know by now, I was a tad anxious about how it'd all go down, but the birth of my third child went as smoothly as I think it possibly could have. And, she is more than amazing.

Seriously, I think she must have sensed my apprehension, and in an effort to prove me wrong, she made her exit as gracefully as ever. Seriously. When I went in for my 37-38 (I'm still not in total agreement with what my due date should have been versus what the first ultrasound predicted) visit, the doctor informed me that I was 4-5 centimeters dilated, and that if I happened to call in that evening with possible contractions, she would not send me home, seeing as how I live 30 minutes from the hospital seeing as how it would be cruel and unusual to send home a woman as far dilated as I was. A simple Braxton Hicks would be enough to push past the new rules of engagement induction in her eyes. So, she stripped the membranes (Matt loves this term), and told me to hope for the best. I told her I'd see her that evening.

At home, I thought I was having something going on...there were never painful contractions, just a bunch of tightening moments, but they were enough for Matt to get his labor coach hat on and convince himself and my mother that I was, indeed, in labor. I called the doctor and she reiterated her "seeing as how I lived so far and such over the phone"...I'm pretty sure it was more for the nurses than me, and she instructed us to come on down to the hospital. Mind you, I was unconvinced. I mean, I had zero pain. Zero. I didn't even care that Matt stopped at the slowest Burger King in the state of South Carolina on the way down there. The only reason I let him drive was because I felt it would be inappropriate for a woman in "labor" to drive herself to the hospital. When we arrived, and I saw a woman that was actually in painful labor walking in with us, I felt slightly guilty for some reason. Certainly, when they strapped me to the monitor and checked my cervix, I'd be hitting the road for home. Right?

Wrong. The monitor showed regular contractions. Why wasn't I feeling them? And the doctor told me I was 6 centimeters dilated! Well, how about them apples? Despite the lack of discomfort, I took the advice of the nurse and Matt's sister that once my water was broken I'd have a hard labor, so I asked for the anesthesiologist to chat with me about an epidural. My previous experience with the needle in the back had been horrendous. Like 2-week migraine horrendous. Like electrical shocks through the body horrendous. Like the current anesthesiologist saying to me, "That was you?! I heard about that happening!" horrendous. Like OMG! Thank goodness this guy seemed to know what he was talking about, because he convinced me that what had happened before was sucky and wrong, and that he had a better grip on the situation. So, I let him stick the needle in my back...after he drew me pictures of how it would work...and my waist-down world went pretty numb.

That was about 3 in the morning. By 4, I was 8 centimeters and my water was broken. At 5.30, I decided to take a little rest, and when the nurse came to check me at 6, I was groggy and half-asleep, but apparently, the baby was making her way out! What? She called the doctor, and after 3 sets of pushes and 5 very short minutes, Evan was in my arms, all gooey and beautiful and screaming her sweet head off. Now, I'm not one to brag, but 5 minutes! Oh yeah! That's ridiculous. But, I was on a mission. I cringe at the thought of having certain things on display...particularly unclothed things...I'd make a terrible porn star...so there was work to be done and done quickly. While it clearly didn't phase the doctor or nurses, who were talking about vacations and things to do in Myrtle Beach whilst my most feminine world was a stage for everyone's attention, I was faaareaking out to get that mess over with.

And, when it was done, I was rewarded with the most amazing gift. Evan. She's perfect. As perfect as her sister and her brother before her. Perfect. And huge. 9 pounds, 19 inches. Born June 20, 2012. I'm so happy I opted for the epidural, because even if I had not a single painful contraction without it, the exit from my body would have been enough to send me to therapy for post-traumatic stress, of this I am sure.