Dear Wild Baby, Please find my excuses for the lack of update blog posts below:
March (Month 7) – I know you’re new here, but March is crazy around here. Bananas. Everyone got born in March so we just spend every weekend eating Publix birthday cake and it’s equal parts divine and exhausting.
But you knew it was gonna be a fast paced month so you started crawling because of course you did. That was not a birthday present I wasn’t ready for but I love it. Thank you… I think….
April (Month 8) – This was my recovery month. One month on. One month off. Sorry. This is how your mom is wired. And she’s old. So old. You are now eating pretty much anything and everything we give you. Or that you steal. Yes, you are clearly part possum because you will eat anything you find. You’re also doing the whole walk by holding onto the couch thing which means you’ll be walking soon and YOU’RE THE BABY AND I’M JUST NOT READY!!!!
Related to the “you’ll eat everything” my favorite story happened just the other day. You were sitting amongst cookies on the floor, as one does, and so I assumed that thing you were chewing on was an age appropriate snack. So I crawled up to you to give you kisses as you smacked happily away on your cookie, but wait. That cookie smells like mint. We don’t have mint cookies…
You smirk at me. A smirk that says, “I know I’m not supposed to have this…”
I reach into your mouth –
YOU WERE CHEWING GUM!
You didn’t even do your typical “I have privacy rights as an American citizen!” struggle when I reached into your mouth. You let me in because you knew. You knew you weren’t supposed to be CHEWING GUM, but you also knew you could never get in trouble for it because gosh you sure were cute smacking that gum like you knew what you were doing.
You are growing so fast and I love you so much! Love, Your Wildly In Love Mama
I am determined to give you the same love and attention that I gave your older siblings, but I’m not going to lie – it’s hard.
Like, I missed your 5th month write up. And I could go back and write it and edit the post date so it looked like I didn’t miss it, but the truth is? These are Third Baby Problems. Your mom is tired, busy, and overwhelmed. But still completely smitten.
You’re 6 months old now! I really can’t believe it. We’re almost done with your first year of life and it is kind of insane how different our lives look.
You started rolling over and getting your belly off the ground ready to start crawling. And you are more than ready to become mobile. In fact, you’re the only baby of mine that seems legit angry that he doesn’t have the movement skills down yet.
You still laugh so easily. I just look at you and giggle and you start giggling right back. It’s my personal crack cocaine.
But your stubbornness is also starting to show. There’s a grunt you have when you want something that communicates, “I know I’m little, but goshdarnit somebody better take me seriously right now!”
We joined a church and they opened up a Worship Care just for you! I have no clue what God is doing in that church but I do feel like you’re like this baby seed and before we know it the nursery will be (literally) crawling with babies. I can’t wait.
Dear Wild Man, You turned 4 months old… a couple of weeks ago.
I’m sure you understand. It’s the holiday season. You have needy siblings. I work. I need to fill out a healthcare application. This blog post wasn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list…
But I do want to make sure I make a mental note of you right now. Because it isn’t until you, the third baby, that I realize that it really does go by so fast. So stupid stinking fast.
You found your feet. You are so patient with everyone. You love, I mean, LOVE your siblings. The minute you make eye contact with them you start giggling.
And that giggle. Oh my gosh. It is everyone’s favorite dopamine hit. We all love it so. We love you so.
Your eyes are still so light. Do I seriously have a blue-eyed baby? Miracles never cease!
Wild Baby, You’re 3 months old. I had a flash of fear last night because you hadn’t rolled over yet. And of course you haven’t rolled over. That would require putting you down, and why would I want to ever put the sweetest, littlest, purest baby down?!
I wouldn’t. So I don’t.
You laugh all the time. Like, we just look at you and smile and you’re like, “THIS IS A GREAT JOKE!” And it seems like you want to copy us when we make noises at you and that? That’s adorable.
I can’t believe you’ve only been in this family 3 months. It feels like you’ve been here forever.
Dear Wilder, You are just delightful and we are so thankful you snuck into our family the way that you did. There’s a joke that the third child is built different. Crazier. Riskier. Fearless.
Yes. I can see that. But also there’s so much joyful peace surrounding you. You sleep easily. You giggle easily. You just kind of chill (as long as the person holding you is bouncing…) You smile whenever we call you handsome which is all of the time. Obviously. Everyone adores you, especially your sister. No one is more smitten or obsessed than she is. Is it giving stalker? Yes. But try to forgive her.
The fun thing about a surprise third kid is that you already know. You know your heart will burst wide open and make space for all of this new love. You aren’t surprised that the love happens, but you are always amazed at the how. And with you, little Wild one, you just snuck in, gave us a little grin, and lit up our entire world with a love we didn’t know we needed.
I don’t blog regularly anymore so I’m realizing I never documented this bit of news properly. Oops. But yeah. We had another baby. And this is his birth story because I became a blogging mom in 2011 and a 2011 blogging mom always shares the birth story. See: Otis’s story and Wren’s story
It’s been 11 years since I had Otis. My body has changed. Specifically, sneezing and peeing isn’t a surprising combination any more. Then there were the rumors that 3rd babies will literally just fall out of you. And then there was the sense of genuine surprise that covered this entire pregnancy (yes, I know how it happened 😑) that made me feel paranoid that the little guy’s surprising existence would also result in a surprising delivery.
So I spent the entire last month of pregnancy wearing dresses because who knows!?! The baby could literally fall out while I peed during a Target run. Or at the office bathroom. Or while on the interstate. NO ONE KNEW WHEN OR HOW QUICKLY THIS BABY COULD GET HERE.
My other quirk was that I was 97% sure that I would die during labor. Like, I was so sure that I went ahead and got signed up for life insurance so that I’d feel good that the kids were taken care of. So that was a fun belief to hold while heading to the hospital…
Despite the certainty that this baby would surely surprise us (and kill me), I was wrong. We scheduled an induction of labor for his due date because I’m a geriatric pregnant person (so fun!) and I (mostly) survived labor.
We headed to the hospital at 5 in the morning to get checked in. Nothing was going on for me. No contractions. No irritations. No water breaking. We were starting with a cold engine.
They checked me for how dilated I was and I was positive, because he felt so low, that I was probably 5 cm dilated. Surely.
1 cm.
No one was falling out of anything.
Margaret the Midwife (yes! The same one present when Wren entered the world!) said we’d start with a cervix softening pill to get the party started, but had I eaten?
Nope.
“Get some food and then we’ll get started in about an hour.”
Mark was already down in the cafeteria so I called him.
“Can you bring me a muffin?”
“Sure! Do you want eggs or sausage with it?”
This is where I should have said blueberry or banana nut or something. But I said, “No, just a muffin.”
And he came back with…
A biscuit. Just a biscuit.
I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I was just gonna let it go. But then I took one bite of that plain, dry, cafeteria biscuit and I couldn’t help myself. I chose violence.
“You know this isn’t a muffin, right? It’s a biscuit.”
“I asked if you wanted sausage! I thought it was a weird order.”
“It is a weird order. Because no one ever eats a plain biscuit. But I wanted a muffin. This is what I get for marrying a Californian, I guess. But I’ll eat this. It’s fine. I just want you to know you got it wrong because I’ll probably make fun of you when I write about it.”
Mark rolled his eyes and we laughed and then I started the labor journey fueled with hope and the caloric energy from half a dry biscuit.
First, they dropped a teeny tiny pill into me to get the cervix ready. I listened for the name and once they left I started googling because I was on the lookout for what, exactly, would kill me and leave Mark a single parent of 3 kids…
The pill was generally considered safe, but it hasn’t been approved by the FDA for induction because it could produce hyperstimulation which starts contractions that are very strong and very close together that can cause all kinds of issues.
😶
Rut roh.
Soon after the pill my contractions started going to town. Nothing crazy, but the proverbial delivery engine had started.
The midwife and nurses were impressed with how induction was going and were pretty confident that that would be all we needed to get labor started.
A few hours later the contractions were getting more uncomfortable. Like, I was sure my body was ripping apart.
My goodness I’m dramatic.
But here’s the thing I’ve never really asked for epidural before. Like, had to call someone and say “Hey this is too much. I need help.” My water has always been broken when I get to the hospital so I’d just ask for epidural pretty much right when I got there. This felt like telling your friend at a sleepover that you were thirsty but it wasn’t during a meal…
I was texting my little sister about my predicament and she was not here for any of it. “IF YOU DON’T ASK FOR THAT EPIDURAL I WILL CALL THE HOSPITAL RIGHT NOW. I WILL TELL THEM I AM YOUR LAWYER. MARIE, DO NOT PLAY. GET THE EPIDURAL.“
I imagined the nurse popping her head in and saying, “Your little sister, or maybe your lawyer, is on the phone demanding we give you epidural… is this legit? She scares us…” and the level of embarrassment that I would feel and went ahead and called the nurse to order my epidural and I let them know that my little sister bullied me into it.
The epidural placement didn’t go as smoothly as it had with Otis and Wren which made my heart skip a beat thinking that I was gonna have to do this (gulp) naturally. Surely, this is where I would die. But after nearly an hour they got it sorted and I was on the epidural highway of pain-free goodness.
Couple hours later and I was ready to start pushing. Unfortunately, Baby was using Otis’s roadmap and was trying to come out sunny side up. This means that if I’m laying on the bed he’s looking at the ceiling and, as Wren helpfully described, he should be looking at the ground and ready to jump out like a dolphin.
Margaret the Midwife suggested laboring on all fours to see if gravity could help him make his way out. I turned over and grabbed the back of the bed and, sure enough, gravity showed up and showed out. I pushed two times and went back on my back so that Margaret could catch the most precious 9 lbs 4 oz of baby now known as Wilder Douglas Oates.
And? Maybe the best part? Mark did not go home as a widowed dad to three kids…
You’re five years old now and you are so very serious about this new stage in life. Last night you insisted on doing your entire bath by yourself because “that’s what adults do.”
In Encanto this is the day you’d step up to Casita to find out what your gift was. I feel like yours would be brutal honesty. You can’t help yourself. You call things like you see them and when something doesn’t follow the rules you’re not going to sit silently. This is definitely one of those almost Bruno-level gifts, and I really do pray it serves you more as gift than a curse but just remember it is a gift. Even when it doesn’t fee like it.
Everyone was worried when they found out about your upcoming ‘middle child’ status. Myself included. You aren’t really built for the middle. And I’m not really built for being a mom of 3. I think we’re going to do a lot of growing and forgiving together during this season as we welcome a new family member, and I have to say I’m hopeful. I think we’re both about to find out some beautiful new truths about ourselves, and I honestly can’t wait to go on this journey with you.
You are beautiful, smart, creative, hilarious, independent, and brave. We are so very thankful for you and that God made you to be this perfect fit for our family.
You turned 4 this month. I chose this picture because it delights me and terrifies me.
It delights me that you’re silly. I honestly wasn’t expecting the silliness. You were such a serious little baby. But I guess you read the room. Silly is always welcome in our home.
It terrifies me because I know this face is the warning shot. Mad Wren is about to come out and we have approximately 3.6 seconds to prepare.
Your favorite game, all day and every day, is being The Boss. “I’m the boss today!” you’ll shout at anyone that will listen. This has been fun. So much fun.
You are so fearless and loyal. You’re the best little sister in the world. You will not only go toe to toe with the Big Kahuna, but you’ll also defend him with everything in you. Basically, you’re your Aunt Melissa.
There are so many ways you amaze me, but mostly I’m just thankful to God for you. Thankful for the little girl you are. The one in love with beauty and power. The one that fearlessly creates and experiments. The one that gets shy when she needs to. The one that gets brave when she has to.
Ever since I was a little kid I’ve felt like I didn’t ‘belong’ and that there were certain things and activities that were not meant for me.
I remember being in kindergarten and there was a play kitchen area with dolls. Most of the little girls hung out and played in that area. But something whispered to me that I wasn’t allowed over there. That those things weren’t for me.
Even certain books felt like they weren’t ‘for’ me. And I don’t mean that I didn’t see books that had little mixed girls in them. I just mean that there was a lie being whispered that books, like Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends, weren’t for me. That I wasn’t part of The Club so I should just keep walking because we don’t want your kind here.
This thought has followed me my entire life: “You don’t belong here.”
Enter Christianity.
I’ve always been horrible about the belonging side of Christianity. I remember when our family decided to walk up to the altar one Sunday to profess our belief in Christ and I felt so ashamed and bad and scared. I was embarrassed that we were asking to belong to this group and terrified that they might not want us there. I laugh now because nothing gets a group of Baptists excited like AN ENTIRE FAMILY walking down the aisle to say they love Jesus.
But feeling like I fit in has been a forever problem, and like most of our deep issues, we bring them everywhere we go. Our marriages. Our parents. Our church.
I have bopped all over the church map looking for places I might feel like I belong. The church plants. The big church. The mega church. The teeny tiny church. The Black church. The hipster church. The living room church. The time we just met at McDonald’s regularly with some close friends. I’d find people that I belonged to, but rarely did a church feel like a place where I belonged.
I’m getting better about the lie about not belonging. I recognize it for the spiritual attack it has always been. The things that grew out of the seeds it planted: “You’re not lovable” “You’re too weird” “You’re too much” “You aren’t wanted here” “You aren’t needed” These were not fruits of the Spirit. Even though I don’t belong to a church, I most definitely believe that I belong to The church. The body of Christ here on earth. The Church that has been tasked with ushering as much of God’s presence in the middle of a spiritual warzone as possible.
Spending most of my life feeling like I don’t belong and then joining an institution that, on the surface, doesn’t always align with my values means I have spent a lot of time defining what I believe a Submitted Christian is. Full disclosure: my flesh wants to tell you what a Submitted Christian isn’t. I want to tell you we aren’t racist. And we aren’t hateful. And we aren’t judgmental. I want to write an entirely too long defense of why we, actually, can’t be any of those things AND profess to be followers of Christ. But instead of telling you what a Christian isn’t, I thought I’d share what a Submitted Christian is.
What I’m about to describe is not the experience of every church going person. It is not the experience of every person that describes themselves as a Christian. It is not the experience of everyone that thinks being southern equals being Christian.
First, a Submitted Christian has had a very real conversation with Jesus about sin. Specifically, her sin. She has been confronted with the ways her behavior has consistently ‘missed the mark.’ And it isn’t just the confrontation of the ‘big 10’ sins (the lying, the cheating, the fornicating). God has shown her the ‘little’ sins. The gossiping. The jealousy. The hatred. The pride. A Submitted Christian has looked at her very human approach to the world (the looking out for #1, the unforgiveness, the anger, the self righteousness) and been absolutely horrified by her true self. So horrified that she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she needed Someone to save her from herself.
This full awareness of how disgusting she is when left to her own devices brings so much humility. Like, an avalanche of it. My absolute favorite parable, and the one that consistently keeps me in check, is the one about the man that can’t pay his enormous debt. The king forgives him. Joy! Then the man goes out to find the man that owes him. He grabs the man by the throat demanding payment. The king finds out and is furious. How on earth can I, after being forgiven so much, go out to my neighbors and demand payment for their perceived sins?
After spending some time looking down at the assortment of sin, the Submitted Christian slowly looks up. The sky looks bigger. Farther away. Almost dangerous. Then you realize that God is bigger than the sky. The moon. The sun. Anything in this natural world that has ever taken your breath away. God made it. A Submitted Christian realizes instantly how small she is. How insignificant. How absolutely powerless.
There’s something about that smallness. There’s immediate relief. You’re not the center of the universe. You know that your ability and power mean nothing and… it’s… amazing. The freedom that surges through your soul. You can’t screw anything up anymore. It’s all been fixed. It’s all been forgiven.
A Submitted Christian gets to rest.
Rest in His big and powerful hands. The hands that hung the stars and keep the sky in place and tell the ocean to stop. Those hands are holding her . She is safe in a way that transcends this world. This world almost doesn’t feel real anymore. Yes, her natural world may be a disaster. She may be sick. She may be poor. She may be heartbroken. But she is standing on something firm. Something… Someone is carrying her.
Then she realizes she is alive in a new way. A way that she has never experienced before. She has access to the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit which provided the power to bring Jesus out of the grave. That power is alive in her now. A very personal and real connection between her and the Source of everything has been made. This power, this electricity is flowing between her and God.
A Submitted Christian has supernatural powers.
These powers have value in a spiritual world, not a material one. A Submitted Christian has a supernatural ability to forgive. The desire to hold on to grudges and offenses begin to lose their hold when her eyes are fixed on The One That Forgives All. Submitted Christians have the supernatural power of gratitude, joy, peace. The ability to be grateful for the big and the small. The joy despite the circumstances. The peace that surpasses all understanding.
A Submitted Christian is in a relationship with God. Sometimes that relationship is close and she feels like she has the Creator of the Universe on the line ready to answer any question or thought she has. Sometimes that relationship is distant. She aches for Him or she’s running away from Him. Either way, things don’t feel right. A Submitted Christian cares about this connection. Craves this connection. Depends on this connection. She does things that keep the relationship alive and electric. She is meeting with God in His word, in prayer & fasting, and in fellowship with other Submitted Christians. She is humbled by the power of being in relationship with the Almighty, not grasping for more power (there isn’t any!) or using it to dominate others (because in God’s kingdom He reigns, not me!). She is joyfully kneeling at His throne.
I don’t fit most places. Trust me, I’ve tried. But the Church, where the Submitted Christians are, is one of the only places I’ve truly belonged. I get these people because I am these people. And I’m totally fine with you believing whatever you’d like about the church, but I just want to make it clear what I mean when I say that these are my people lest anyone try to ever put words in my mouth or beliefs in my heart.
Hi Sweet Girl,
I took this picture of you doing my nails because the Holy Spirit reminded me that these days aren’t going to last forever. You won’t always want to do my nails. You won’t always cry for my undivided attention. You won’t always beg me to join you in acting out your delightful imagination.
But today? Today I’m your best friend, favorite play mate, and your literal cup of tea (Seriously. You’re still nursing and when we point out that it must be soothing like the way grownups drink coffee you hold your hands up to the boob like they have a mug handle and I’m just like stahp.)
And I’m going to soak it up.
You are a natural lawyer and will live in a dirty diaper until the right offer comes along. It would not surprise me if you’ve read Art of the Deal a couple of times. I also think part of your “delayed” potty training is connected to the leverage you’ll lose without your trusty dirty diaper bargaining chip.
You wrote your first song “Try Together.” The lyrics are:
We’re healthy! We’re stronger! Try-try-try together
I have no clue where it came from, but I’ll definitely throw it in the ring as a potential campaign slogan for your 2052 presidential run.
You’re the healthiest eater on the planet, and will eat cherry tomatoes like they are actual candy. Obviously, I love you guys and encourage you to be you at all times, but… gross.
I just think you’re the best. Like, actual magic personified. I swear you came into this world just knowing so much. You ask for what you need. You believe in your abilities, beauty, strength, and convictions. And right now my job feels like it’s to not let the enemy lie to you and tell you your gut is wrong. And to get you potty trained.
The Poor Mom 