When I went back to work after Charlotte was born it was at 2:00am. I dragged myself out of bed and away from my baby to report the news. That was January, 2011. For another year I left my infant each day to go to work. It was hard, but she had great care at a great school. I changed careers a year later in February, 2012 and started at a PR agency. It was a good move for me. I love my coworkers. I love working with clients. I like having my weekends off and not being a slave to the news cycle. Life at a PR agency can be hectic, but rewarding.

For three years I prided myself on being a do-it-all working mother. I was proud of how much my daughter was learning at her school. That made the steep monthly payments more justifiable. I went to all the class events I could. My house was often messy. We could only have playdates on the weekends. I used the hashtag #workingmother. Most of all, we were an insanely busy family, but life was good.

This month I went back to work when Henry was 9 weeks old. We found a great sitter for him with a better price than Charlotte’s daycare. She is a wonderful teacher and caretaker for my baby. She helped soothe the harsh wound of leaving him.

But, this time going back to work was different. Yes, I felt the same stress of having two working parents trying to get a baby out the door and I longed for my children, but it was worse. I was missing it. Missing everything. The first time I went back it was always with the thought in the back of my mind, “Well, I could always stay at home with the next one.” Plus, most of my salary goes to childcare.

I never pictured myself as a stay-at-home mom. Don’t get me wrong, they are fascinating! I would be in my suit on my lunch break and see them in line at Panera or Chipotle. They would be in yoga pants and have their tots in jogging strollers. I would push aside the pacifiers in my purse to get to my wallet. I would see them with their babies and my heart ached for my own. That’s when I would do a quick countdown to the number of hours left in my work day. Except, I knew that likely wouldn’t be the end as I would surely be on the laptop answering emails after bedtime. I would look at these women and wonder, “What do they DO all day?” as my phone buzzed in my pocket with backed up emails.

Well, I’m about to find out what they do all day.

After coming back it hit me like a ton of bricks. I stared at the computer in my office and I knew it wasn’t right. My shoulders were tense and there was a weight on my chest. It was just all wrong. I think I had to go back to work after maternity leave to know that my heart was calling me home.

But, what about my resume? What about the 8 years of my life I poured into a career in TV news, dragging myself into work at all hours of the night and day to keep pushing to be promoted?  What about my 2 years at a PR agency, learning so much about the different industries of our clients and offering my news expertise? Would it all be for nothing? I worked hard and I’m proud of what I accomplished.

A fellow working mom said it best, “What’s a year gap in your resume? You wouldn’t be the first mother to do that.” True. I told Greyson, “If I don’t do it now, when would I? When they’re older and don’t want to hang out with their mom?” No, it’s now or never.

So, a week-and-a-half after maternity leave I told them I was leaving. Get this. I swear it’s a freakin’ dream come true, ya’ll. They want me to still work in a freelance/consultant capacity. I’m still an employee. My first gig is in March. Seriously? Is this real life? How awesome is that?! I’m feeling so, so blessed.

We are sad we’ll have to take Charlotte out of her daycare. She has been with those kids since she was 3 months old. Her teachers are wonderful. But, blessings continue as I found a part-time preschool that can take her in March after she finishes her last month at her current daycare in February.

Sometimes everything comes together and all things point to a certain decision. Yeah, it’s still a risk. What if it’s not what I think it will be? How long will I do this? Do I have to use the hashtag #SAHM?

Friday is my last day. Here goes nothing…or something.

When she was a little girl we used to ask my younger sister “Julie, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Her answer was always the same, “A mommy!”

She was spirited and kind. She loved deeply and giggled loud and hearty. She carried streaks of wit, sass and dogged determination behind blue eyes that watered quickly at the slightest sentiment. Julie was joy. Always joy.

That little girl had no idea the ambitious, driven young woman she would turn into. She knew nothing of a Master’s in Business Administration or of careers in finance. She didn’t know she would find a man with the humor and sense of adventure to become her perfect match.

This weekend I walked into a hospital room and looked into the tiny face of my nephew. He is eight pounds of delightful squirmy newborn. The only thing I could think is that she had done it. She had become what she always said she would, a mommy.

I wanted to tell her baby how lucky he was to have her as his mommy, but I didn’t need to. He’ll know soon enough. He’ll know she is joy. Always joy.

The Wait

It was the first week of November again. It was finally getting cold and we had once again hidden from the world, munched on Halloween candy and waited in anticipation for any signs of another baby joining our family. I told my friends, “My babies are born in November. They just are.”  Both were due in October and November 6, 2013 marked 41 weeks of pregnancy with Baby #2.

We still didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. We surprised ourselves by getting pregnant the first month we tried. We spent the day before our scheduled induction finalizing name choices. This baby was our little mystery, keeping us in great anticipation until the very end.

We waited for the call to go into the hospital. At 7:30 am the phone rang and it was the nurse. Greyson watched my face fall as I listened to the news that the labor and delivery ward was slammed and we would have to wait. More waiting. I took a deep breath and tried to hold it together until I could call back and check-in midday. I kissed Charlotte goodbye as Greyson took her to school to join the rest of the 3-year-old class. I dressed her in her “Big Sister” t-shirt, praying it wasn’t in vain and we would in-fact have our baby today.

We watched TV. We watched the clock.

I said, “Let’s get out of here.” I wanted to get out, but I didn’t want to get too far from the hospital. The North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh is right across the street from the hospital. We went there to walk around and kill time. I wanted to hold Greyson’s hand and be distracted. A Porsche exhibit was there. Okay cars. Let’s look at cars.

The pic is a little blurry, but this is us a the exhibit. I’m wearing the same holey old college t-shirt I wore the day Charlotte was born. I think it’s good luck.

 We walked through the history of Porsches from decades ago, to today. I learned a little . I didn’t realize Steve McQueen loved Porshes so much. It dawned on me they named Lightning McQueen from Cars after Steve McQueen. I wondered if this baby would like Cars as much as his/her sister. I looked up from a photo of the actor looking rugged on the set of a 1970’s racing flick and asked Greyson the same question we had been asking each other for nine months. “Boy or girl?” “Girl,” he said. “Me too,” I replied. We smiled

Yep. Probably a baby sister. Not that it mattered. We just wanted to meet this kid.  We walked some more.

One of the racing Porsches had the names of drivers on the side who had the privledge of racing that pristine machine. I pointed out one name printed on the side of the car. “H. Haywood” was next to an American flag on the car. My eyes grew large and grabbed Greyson’s arm. We looked at each other with our mouths open. “Henry Haywood” was our name for a boy. We grabbed our phones and took pictures. Was it a sign? Was this a baby brother? Maybe.

I bought a toy car at the gift shop to give to our baby. I figure we’ll tell the baby the story of Mama and Daddy with the Porsches before he/she was born.

We ate at the museum restaurant. I gobbled up my risotto, hoping it would be my last meal and give me energy for labor. We drove home and I called the charge nurse to see if we could get in. I think she heard the desperation in my voice when I asked if she was sure I would be able to get in that day. She gave me no guarantee, which sent me in to the kind of tearful, hormonal fit I had become accustomed to in the last week. Apparently every baby in the county was being born at our hospital today.

I tried to relax and take a nap when we got the call asking if we could be there by 3:oopm. We would be there before that. Make no mistake. If I had a Porsche to get me there faster, I would have driven it but, no infant car seat would fit in there.

The Push

We sat and waited in the lobby, filled out paperwork and waited for the nurse to come and get us. We were finally there and when I got a little irritable at the even longer wait Greyson put on his sarcastic sypathetic face and said, “Hey, I’m here.  Don’t worry. I’m your Baby Buddy.” I fell out laughing. My Baby Buddy. He is indeed the only person on earth I’d want to be with me during labor and delivery. I took my buddy’s hand and went to the room where we would meet our second child.

By this time it was 4:00 pm or 4:30pm. I took my last pregnant photos and put on the gown. It did cross my mind that these may be the last few hours of my life that I would ever be pregnant. Part of me was sad. Part of me did not care and was ready to have this kid. Plus, the bag of Pitocin was by the bed. There was no turning back now.

After some more paperwork, vital signs and fetal monitors, they started the Pitocin and the other bag of fluid they give you for whatever reason. Soon after, contractions started, exactly as they had with Charlotte’s birth when being induced. Happily, my water broke on it’s own and I didn’t need the creepy glove with the tiny hook up there like the doctor used last time to break my water. The worst pain was very localized. Always low on my right side. In the last three years since giving birth the first time, whenever I have the slightest menstrual cramp, it is in my lower right side. That’s when I instantly have labor flashbacks. The pain was exactly as I remembered it.

Seeing Greyson’s face as I grimaced was awful. You could tell he felt helpless. The epidural was welcome. Once again, I can’t remember what the anesthsiologist said, or what he looked like. I just know the prick of the needle in my back was nothing but a tiny sting compared to the pain of my contracting belly. The first epidural attempt was futile. The left side of my body was a little numb, but my hot spot for labor pain remained on fire. Even with heavier doses of the numbing medicine I could still feel serious pain. I knew they were going to have to take it out and do it again like they did for Charlotte’s birth. With her birth, the anesthesiologist blamed it on new catheters but, this same scenario with a second child led this anesthesiologist to believe he needed to administer the epidural again in a different spot. It worked. Thank God. This time, fortunately, I could mostly feel my feet and my legs, unlike with Charlotte’s birth when I was nothing but a torso. Greyson said they should have tattooed my back with the proper place to put in the epidural.

Similar to Charlotte’s birth, it was just another hour and I was ready to push. I couldn’t feel the pain of the contractions, but serious pressure. I was so numb with Charlotte that I didn’t feel the type of pressure I felt this time. When I explained this to the nurse, she checked me and called the doctor immediately. She said, “It’s gonna be like, two pushes and this baby is gonna be out.” I liked her positive thinking, but she was wrong.  The doctor gave the nurse orders not to let me push until she got there. We had a few minutes to sit through the pressure.

The doctor and the nurses in the room were excited to have a delivery where the parents didn’t know the sex of the baby. They told us births like this were fun. I looked at Greyson, “Last guesses, boy or a girl?” “Boy, I think,” he replied. I disagreed, “No, I think it’s a baby sister.” We smiled at each other, knowing we didn’t really care.

I followed the doctor’s instructions to push as the contractions came. I didn’t need instructions. I could feel when to push. Greyson was an excellent Baby Buddy as he dutifully brought me ice water to sip between pushes. I asked for handles to pull on, instead of pulling against my legs. I had better leverage that way. It was about 45 minutes of bearing down and catching my breath, bearing down and catching my breath.

The Arrival

The last push brought our baby out and the doctor held him up for me. Him. I heard the words leave my mouth, quiet and breathless, but with true astonishment “Oh my God! It’s a boy!” Greyson and I looked at each other with open mouths. The waiting was done. The mystery was solved. The name on the Porsche was a sign. He was here. Our son.

I greeted him as I greeted his sister three years prior, “Hi! Happy Birthday! I’m Amy, I’m your mama. This is Greyson, he’s your daddy.”

The doctor put the scissors in Greyson’s hand to cut the cord. He didn’t do this with Charlotte. He always said about fathers cutting the cord, “Um. The pilot flew the plane. I’m not going to help him with the  landing.” The doctor didn’t give Greyson a choice. I watched my nervous Baby Buddy land the plane by clamping down on the scissors and officially separating our son from my body.

He didn’t make much noise until they took him over to the heater. That’s when we took a few minutes to laugh and marvel that we had a son. They asked us what his name is. I said, “Henry Haywood.”

He was 8 lbs. and 1.9 ozs. “8 lbs. 2 oz.” the nurse rounded up when she announced his weight. He was 20 1/2 inches long.

The nurse brought Henry to me, swaddled and sweet. His hair was black and wavy. He smelled so good, so brand new and lovely. He started rooting around and I knew he needed to be fed immediately. My sweet boy latched right away and ate for awhile.

I looked at him, listened to him suckle and felt his warm weight in my arms instead of my belly and suddenly my life felt bigger, our family more complete and I was somehow more whole.

I couldn’t wait to introduce him to his sister and make this little one part of our family. Like mothers do, I wondered what type of boy my baby would turn in to and what type of man we were capable of raising. That’s when I stopped my brain from going too far into the future and I froze time in that hospital room for a moment. A moment when a new member of our family arrived. It was another November in which life got a little better.

It’s true that when you get married you marry your spouse’s whole family. Upon saying “I do,” you adopt the traditions and eccentricities of another family. In turn, your spouse adopts your family too. You know, the large vacations, messy divorces, awkward portrait sessions and holiday meals divided by generation. Ask my husband about sitting at the “kids table” when he was 30-years-old.

There are things to get used to when joining another family. I for one marveled at Greyson’s family and their ability to debate. Debate anything. Seriously. Led, by a father who is an attorney, they had to rank everything. I would compliment dinner. They would ask me, “What was your favorite part of the meal?”  I would say, “Oh! I liked all of it. It was so delicious!” They would reply, “But, what was your favorite thing?” This would then result in everyone ranking their top three favorite side dishes and someone then vehemently defending why the green bean casserole beat the potatoes hands-down.

Greyson says my family on the other hand takes small-talk to a whole new level with politeness. These conversations are between sips of sweet tea because there is no wine with dinner. What would Jesus think? Or, more accurately, what would my Southern Baptist grandparents think? But, he calls us out on the underlying passive-aggressive tones passing between loved ones. I told him he just doesn’t know how to speak southern. Bless his heart.

I consider myself extremely lucky when it comes to in-laws. For some reason they can look past my faults like excessive chattiness, extreme vanity and Internet obsession and accept me into their family. I’d like you to meet two of Greyson’s family members I’ve never met. These are his grandparents, Herb and Llenie.

Greyson’s grandfather and father are Herbert Haywood. It’s where we got Henry’s name, Henry Haywood. I could recite each family story told to me about these two. Sadly, they each died a few months before Greyson and I met. He jokes that they got together in heaven and decided he needed to find the right girl and they brought us together. Every person in their family speaks of them with such infectious affection that I really feel like I knew them too.  It is a very strange thing to feel so connected to people I never met. They are part of my husband and helped make him the man that he is. When I get to heaven I know they will greet me as if I were one of their own. Add to that, they graciously handed down heirlooms to Greyson. One of which was the beautiful strand of pearls I got to wear when we got married.

We got this in the mail from Greyson’s Aunt Debbie this week.

Herbert Haywood’s ring, passed to Henry Haywood. Greyson said he could remember his grandfather wearing it. I tucked it away in my jewelry chest, thinking about when we would give it to him. At 18? His college graduation? I don’t know. I’m just proud my son will have this heirloom from heaven to be connected to loved ones he’s never met.

I remember after Charlotte was born I really had to prepare my heart and my mind to write a birth story. I know that sounds like some sappy blogger stuff, but it’s true. Relaying the story and doing it justice is a big task. The same goes for Henry’s story. I’ll get there. It won’t be long.

We’re hunkered down here in newborn land. There are warm blankets, sweet visitors, casseroles and desserts. I’ve become reacquainted with Dermaplast, nursing tank tops and all the things that make the first few weeks postpartum so…um…unique.

Mostly we’ve spent the past five days understanding what it means to be a family of four. Here is a glimpse…

Our first family of four picture in the hospital.

 Oh, my heart! They meet!

Two hours home with a big sister and he has princess stickers on. I think she likes her brother.