The dreaded day

This semester in my program marks a big transition: beginning clinical rotations.

I have dreaded and anticipated this semester from day one of school.

Would I like working with patients?

Would I be able to find a doctor nice enough to be my preceptor?

Would I be able to handle the mountains of paperwork needed just to show up at said doctor's office?

Would I feel stupid all the time?

And finally, and most importantly, what about Mary?

Four weeks in to this semester, many of my fears have been allayed.

Yes, I LOVE working with patients. Yes I found a doctor to precept me and he is SO, SO nice. Yes, the paperwork darn near killed me off, and didn't all get completed and processed until the DAY I started clinicals (that was way too close for comfort). Yes, I frequently feel stupid, punctuated at times by rare, thrilling moments when I feel smart.

And...Mary.

Mary has been with me on this journey all along, from the positive pregnancy test FOUR days after I got my acceptance letter to her spectacular debut a few weeks after my first semester ended.

Then the real test came: now that I have a baby, do I keep going with this crazy school thing?

In the interest of full disclosures, I came very, very close to dropping out after my first semester with Mary.

I almost dropped out because I love being with her. I don't think staying at home with a baby is degrading or unfulfilling or a waste of a woman's time. I think it is the best use of my time possible.

I also began to question being in the program, the stresses of finding clinical sites, and the moolah--LOTS of moolah--that school tuition would drain out of our savings.

So I sat down to write an email to my family explaining to them why I was going to drop out of school.

I couldn't send that email. I could NOT sent that email, and I couldn't even finish writing it. And right then I knew I was going to finish school, no matter how hard it became.

And so, inevitably, the dreaded day arrived, when I would have to go to my scary, intimidating clinical site and Mary would go to a babysitter (her wonderful aunt). I have never left her with a babysitter for so long before.

I dropped her off...and she was fine. And I was fine. She had a great day with her cousin and was well-cared for, and I had my first day at clinicals and it wasn't as intimidating as I thought it would be.

Moving back out west has been an answer to more prayer than one--it has provided better means for me to finish. Better, closer clinical sites. Family nearby to help.

In other news, we had family pictures taken:

Isaac has a beard, which he has since shaved.
I couldn't get used to kissing facial hair, attractive as it was.
And Mary, it turns out, is more photogenic than her parents.

Blessed and Stressed

The last three months of my life can be best summed up in two words: blessed and stressed (see blog post title).

Why stressed?

I planned my summer semester with 6 credit hours, knowing we would take a 10-day trip to Utah and Idaho. I knew I'd have to work hard keep up with school over the trip. I also felt confident I could manage it if I was careful.

Isaac and Mary trying to scare off bears in Idaho.

Then Isaac got an unexpected job offer within days of returning home from that trip (which was super fun, BTW).

Then he accepted it after a few days of agonizing about what to do.

Then we moved two weeks later, after packing, writing a major paper, looking for new places to live, giving away our cat (*sob*), and saying good-bye to dear friends. Then we drove for 3 days to our new home.

Then we took a trip to Nevada and Arizona to see friends and family.

Then I took another trip to Arizona to stay with my mom after her surgery.

Lest anyone think to congratulate me on passing my classes and successfully navigating such a summer, I feel I must first come clean with you. I spent the last few months learning that I am even more  flawed than I already knew I was, and passed most of the summer scowling, snapping at Isaac, and eating chocolate.

(Thank goodness for those extra 500-a-day breastfeeding calories).

Well, then, why blessed?

Isaac struggled with his job in Cincinnati from day one. He felt bored and stagnant, and was frequently uninterested in the work he was doing there. His new job brought us back out west, minutes away from his family and an easy day's drive away from mine.

Also, during the move, all I really wanted was to curl up in a ball and hope that a natural disaster would come and wipe out our stuff so we wouldn't have to move it all.

None came.

But people came. We had help packing, help with meals, and even help driving the moving van and our car across country (thanks to Isaac's mom and brother). It would have been difficult at best to do it all alone, but we didn't have to.

There's more, too. I passed my classes. My mom recovered in record time from her surgery, staying in the hospital only one day when they told her to plan on 5. Isaac took the summer in stride, retaining his awesome attitude, putting up with AND consoling his stressed-out and grumpy wife, helping with Mary, and putting in long hours coordinating the difficult logistics of changing jobs and homes.

My mom out on a walk less than a week after her surgery.
With my brother and his adorable kids.
Smiling because we don't know we're about to be attacked by killer mosquitos.

And, of course, there's Mary, who, despite her continuing napping strike, still remained a ray of sunshine through all the stress.

Keeping it real on the road.

She's eating solids, babbling up a storm, sitting up and rolling over, and still has no teeth. She handled the three days in the car remarkably well. Better than I did, in fact.

As if she weren't entertaining enough, her feet move ALL the time. If she's awake, her little feet are moving in circles (my mom calls them prehensile toes). She also loves people, loves being outside, loves music, and laughs hysterically if you tickle just about any part of her body. 

I get comments on her cuteness and general squishiness almost wherever I go, and once in a elevator a man looked at Mary and then asked his wife if she wanted to have more kids. 

She has that effect on us, too.

The Camping Paradox

Over Memorial Day weekend we went camping in northern Ohio with one of our favorite families in the world, the Parkers.

I wish everyone knew the Parkers.

And I discovered the Camping Paradox.

The first night out there the temperature dropped to the mid-30's. And despite my supposed 0-degree sleeping bag and double layers of clothing, I spent the night shivering and trying to sleep with numb toes.

Mary was dressed in 5 layers of clothing (nope. not exaggerating) plus a blanket and a hat and didn't make a peep all night. In the morning, in a panic, I felt her cheek to make sure she hadn't frozen to death. 

It was cold, and I almost fainted on the spot. 

Then she moved. My pulse gradually slowed to a normal rate.

I think she was far warmer than I was. Partly because of all that chubby insulation she has:

Having verified Mary's "still alive" status, I lay back down and tried to remember why people like camping. It's not the dodging mosquitos. It's not the greasy hair. It's not the woodsmoke perfume. And I don't think it's the latrines. 

In my hypothermic and sleep-deprived state, I hated camping with a passion unsurpassed by inflation, dill pickles, or mean people. I hated nature, I hated the cold, and I hated the people that rated my stupid sleeping bag at 0 degrees. 

As the day wore on and I thawed out a little, we went on a hike.

The entourage: 10 adults, 9 kids, and 3 babies

We laughed at the kids. We laughed at the dog. We ate a killer dutch oven dinner. We made s'mores. We stayed up far past our bedtimes talking around the campfire. We went to church smelling like woodsmoke. We shared recipes. We watched the kids put on a "parade". 

At the end of it all, we found ourselves asking when we were going to do it again. 

That, folks, is the Camping Paradox. 

To My Fellow Passengers

That child you hear screaming is normally an adorable, calm, and good-natured little cherub. 

The cherub. Smiling with her mouth wiiiiiiiide open.

You may be thinking to yourself, "Why didn't she keep that kid up during the morning so she'd be extra tired during the flight and sleep the whole time?" 

As a matter of fact, I did. That strategy bought me a whopping 30 minutes of nap-time during the flight.

Fail.

You may also be thinking, "Her ears are probably hurting. You're supposed to feed babies during take-off. Don't you read "Flying with babies" blogs?"

I did and I do, and I learned that when Mary doesn't want to eat, Mary DOESN'T WANT TO EAT and will employ every means in her limited language regimen to tell me that: ripping off the nursing cover, screaming, arching her back, etc. 

Fail. 

I prepared for the 3 1/2-hour flight by giving her a double-dose of lactulose the day before. This was to clean her out and prevent the inevitable blow-out during the flight. Because every parent who has flown with a baby knows about the Airplane Enema.

I think you all know that was Fail #3, because you saw me carry her gingerly to the bathroom and return with her in a different set of clothes. And whoever the unfortunate sap was who used the bathroom after we did...I sincerely hope that the poop that seemed to cover every inch of her body and probably my elbows didn't find its way onto the mirror, faucet, or soap handle. 

I also hope you weren't planning on breathing a lot while you were in there.

I surprised myself by not regretting for even a hair of a second being this girl's mom. I also didn't break down sobbing, even though apparently that's what Mary was doing.

I did regret that, due to financial constraints, Isaac and I could not charter a private aircraft. That would have spared those of you who took shorter naps than you planned on due to the noise. Except the guy across the aisle, who was deaf. If that wasn't a Providencial seating arrangement, I don't know what was.

However, you surprised me by withholding glares, advice, and snide comments. If there were any, I didn't see or hear them, even though that's what I expected after such a flight as we had together.

What I did hear was four separate people telling me after the flight that Mary was a good baby, that Isaac and I handled her well, and that her smiles during her calm times were adorable. FOUR people. 

Sometimes I forget that a lot of people are also parents. And that a lot of people are just good people. 

Thanks. 

First Child Syndrome

The other day my mom told me about an old saying, "Every old crow thinks hers is the blackest."

I had asked her if all parents think their child is adorable and brilliant, like I do Mary. At the moment Mary was playing with a dangling stuffed giraffe. Such dexterity! Such hand-eye coordination! I could sense her burgeoning IQ even as I watched.

You can't tell from the picture, but her movements were really quite nuanced.

Apparently an uncle told my mom the "crow" saying when she admiring her first baby. She was similarly convinced of his overwhelming cuteness. 

Yet even while I was pregnant I had difficulty believing that every single person in this world came from a woman that was pregnant. Surely it couldn't be that...common. I felt like I'd discovered this cool phenomenon other people must not know about. "Everybody!" I always felt like saying. "There's a miniature human being inside me RIGHT NOW and I can feel it MOVING!"

I've decided to call this First Child Syndrome. It also includes other features like copious picture-taking and obsessive binky sterilizing. 

Lesser known syndromes: 
Only Girl Syndrome--in which said only girl (er...ME) gets her own bedroom and bathroom, receives lax punishments, and is definitely her parents' favorite child,

 and, 

4th Child Syndrome--in which the parents clean off the pacifier by letting the dog lick it and routinely forget where they left they keys...and the baby (sorry Justin).

Yet as a first-time parent, I've decided to embrace the inevitable, and so have documented some additional moments of brilliance: 

Holding her own head up.
My little prodigy.

Following the baseball game (go Reds).
Extraordinary.

Helping me win Mouse Trap. Yes, I'm the yellow guy.
Side note: winning Mouse Trap is PURE skill.

My parental pride knows no bounds.

The awkward stage

I've often said that you should never hold anyone's middle school years against them. 

No one ever says, "Man, why can't life be more like when I was thirteen? Those were the days..."

But when I say you shouldn't hold anyone's middle school years against them, what I really mean is "Please don't hold my middle school years against me." (Or high school or early college for that matter.)

I had a few things working against me. 

1) I had some pretty epic acne, which started as early as 5th grade. 5th grade is well before anyone else gets acne, so the other kids could smugly tease me for it, not knowing it was in their very proximal future.

2) Most of my beauty and clothing advice came from my three brothers. They taught me, for instance, that an "outfit" was one of their X-large T-shirts and some ill-fitting jeans. 

3) I was smart and shy. That meant I got straight A's but never learned how to, you know, talk to people. 

4) I had braces. Sure, lots of people get braces. But I had them in addition to #1-3. 

I was a disaster.

Those who knew me as a child might be confused. As you can see, I started life as quite the beauty:

But my promising start crash-landed around 7th grade or so...

I'm front and right. The only girl in the picture.

Confession: I discovered this picture as I put it in a photo album for my family. I touched-up my acne for the album (shhhhhhhh). In the interest of full disclosure for this blog post I had to un-do the touch-up.

It would be nice to go back to that girl and offer words of comfort. 

Such as, "There really is life after high school," 

and, 

"Someday you're going to marry a great guy who will tell you you're beautiful," 

and, 

"Don't worry, once that acne clears up you'll look like this:"

I couldn't find a current picture of myself, so I settled for a close approximation.

And yet, I can't regret those years.

They made me compassionate. 

They taught me to base my self-esteem on something besides my looks. So I tried to be nice to people instead (with varying success).

They taught me to value other people for something besides their looks. (Except Isaac. I definitely married him for his ruggedly handsome features...)

Also, I learned in college that a surprising number of amazing people I met also hide away their middle school pictures. 

Whaaaaaaaat?!?

It turns out that acne and bad hair happen to other people too. I was so busy worrying about the newest eruption on my face that I overlooked the vast number of fellow nerds around me. We could have been friends! 

These days, that old 7th-grader self sometimes resurfaces in new situations or in big groups where I find myself feeling awkward, or around a bunch of exceptionally good-looking people (because let's be honest, I never did get good at clothes). But mostly I've quit worrying about Ugly or Pretty. I don't think of myself as either one. And I don't think of most other people as one or the other either.

As for looks, one of my favorite moments was this past year:

No one expects you to look good an hour after childbirth. I was exhausted and sans makeup and had limp hair. I had just completed one of the most un-glamorous and un-attractive activities of my life. 

And I felt amazing.

Disillusioned

I frequently hear, "Oh, being a nurse must help you so much in parenting!"

I used to think that myself.

Then I had Mary.

And I learned that 5 1/2 years of working in the hospital with adults has done little to help me prepare for a child. My illustrious nursing repertoire includes some incredibly helpful skills, such as

• Making a bed with a 300-pound person in it
• Convincing a grumpy old man that, indeed, it will be fun to get up and walk after his heart surgery
• Getting a confused elderly woman to take her pills (hint: use applesauce)
• And, convincing the same woman that I am not, in fact, the devil incarnate

It has been a bit of a let-down to realize that, so far, Mary does not require the use of any of my adult nursing prowess. She is 11 pounds, not 300, and has not yet had heart surgery. 

I have also learned that my training in pediatrics from nursing school and grad school has done nothing but provide fodder for the imagination. All parents worry, but my worries have names like Hirschprung disease and diabetes insipidus and ARDS. 

You'll notice that my list of nursing skills above does not include solutions to unanticipated quandaries like

• How do I cut her fingernails without pinching her skin? (Yup, did that)
• How do I get her to like tummy time?
• What do I do about flailing while breastfeeding? (she flails, not me)
• Why does she only poop once a week? (I assure you, this is a crisis with adults)
• And, why do I watch her shots with tears in my eyes when I have unflinchingly doled out thousands of them in my day?

Next time, I'm majoring in something else. 

But, before I go, here is a month of Mary. In pictures.

Monogamous Man

A while ago, Isaac was reading a post on a pretty well-known political/social blog, and a reader sent in a comment about how marriage and monogamous relationships are outdated and too limiting and restrictive. 

He had a few things to say about that. 

I thought I would dedicate a post to his response. This is directed to the author of the blog:

I want to reply to something you posted the other day from a reader on this thread. He said: 

"First, the disclosures. I am 32, relatively single, childless, and I think monogamy is for those who are religious or need dependency. I say relatively single because when one rejects the premise that all dating is about finding ONE person for companionship, intimacy, dedication, commitment, sexual fulfillment and obligatory attendance at events, then one finds all these things in a series of overlapping relationships that are often more and better in many respects than monogamous couples find in seeking so much from just one person."

Now my disclosures: I am 28, married for 6 years, religious, and just had my first child a month ago (on Christmas Eve). I love my wife and new daughter with more fervor than I can describe.
I don't have a sophisticated response to this reader, other than to say that it rings so absolutely false to me. Becoming a father has been the strangest transition I've ever experienced, precisely because it has so completely measured up to every beautiful expectation I had for it. Now that I'm a parent, every idealized portrait of parenthood I've read, or seen in a movie, seems ... no longer idealized, but accurate. 

There is certainly an excitement that comes from a large network of lovers and relationships, but may I just say: breadth can never compensate for a lack of depth in this area. When I hold my daughter at night, her gazing into my eyes while I sing lullabies, with my wife on the couch reading a book and looking at both of us with love -- I'm sorry, but no network of lovers can compete with that. When your reader says that his "overlapping relationships ... are often more and better in many respects than monogamous couples find ... from just one person," I can only say: he speaks about a topic of which he knows little, or nothing. 

I drink from that fountain every day now. And knowing I'll have that fountain available for the rest of my life is the greatest joy I have ever known. I hope your reader someday settles down, finds a true companion, and drinks of it for himself.

And, because no blog post is complete without a picture, here's Mary:

From Mary's newborn photo shoot 2 1/2 weeks ago

Here's to monogamy!

Aaaaand we're kind of obsessed with taking pictures...

In which Mary has survived a whole month of novice parenting

Mary is one month old.

I feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment keeping a human being alive for that amount of time.  How did I do it? you might wonder.

Well, it turns out the first month of parenthood is not for sissies. There's the standard sleep deprivation, meltdowns on both sides (baby and mom), physical recovery (I'm never taking sitting down for granted again), and, of course, keeping the pediatrician on speed dial. Pediatricians must hate new parents (So...she hasn't pooped in three days? Is that flaky skin life-threatening? Why is she hungry all the time?).

The first two weeks we said several times, "This is hard!" And it was. At one particularly low point I lay on the bed blubbering (should we blame it on the hormones? Let's blame it on the hormones) while Isaac called the pediatrician. Mary had been either eating or crying all day. She clearly was not getting enough food. Thus ensued a week and a half of supplementing with formula, visits to lactation consultants, feeding her too little, feeding her too much, pumping, weighing her, blah, blah, blah.

Things are much better now. Mary has turned out to be a really good baby--waking up only once at night, eating well with no more need for formula, and relatively calm in between feedings.

More than marveling that she's still alive, I marvel at how much I like being a mom. Because--please don't judge--parenthood used to terrify me. It seemed so...hard. I saw other moms sacrificing so much for a little person that didn't seem to give back. I watched, bewildered, as they gave up sleep, gained weight, sacrificed careers, and cleaned up vomit. There seemed to be no logical explanation.

Turns out, there is no logical explanation.

I do not love her because she is a fascinating conversationalist or has an amazing personality. I do not love her because she has exciting ideas or a vivid sense of humor. I do not love her because she tells me all the time how awesome I am for taking such good care of her (although I'm pretty sure she thinks that...waaaaaaay deep down).

I cannot explain why I love this little person so much I was willing to go through years of fertility treatments and spend lots of money and sacrifice sleep and stop working and gain weight and dedicate nearly every waking thought to her well-being.

Perhaps I love her because she asked all that of me, and you love people you serve. Maybe it's because I know there's a whole person in there and day by day her personality is coming out. Maybe it's because I see a little of Isaac and a little of me in her. Maybe it's because she is so pure and innocent. Maybe it's because she's so darn good-looking (that's probably the real reason).

At any rate, I think I know now why moms do what they do. And I'd happily do it again.

With Nana (Isaac's mom)

Contemplating the world's problems. During tummy time.

Chilling with her dad.

Aaaaaannnd the bear suit.

The Worst Weekend. And the Best Christmas.

What follows here is a *hopefully* non-graphic labor story. I am a nurse, however, and as my idea of non-graphic may be different than yours, I'm including the short version at the beginning for the squeamish. For those that just came for the pictures, scroll down to the bottom.

The Short Version

On natural childbirth:

OW!

On baby Mary:

Perfect.

The Long Version

It all started Friday night (the 21st). Contractions started coming on shortly after I went to bed, every 10-15 minutes. Then they stopped. And I slept for an hour and a half or so. Then they started again, and by 3 AM were getting closer and more intense, around 7 minutes apart. I knew not to call until they'd been 5 minutes apart for about an hour, so I decided to wait to wake up Isaac until they were a little closer together.

By 4 they were petering out again, and by 6 when Isaac randomly woke up and asked how I was doing, they were back to 10-15 minutes apart. But I told him I'd been having contractions all night and suddenly he was WIDE awake. This was Saturday, our 6th anniversary, and the baby's official due date. "We're going to have a baby today!" We told each other. We opened anniversary presents. We timed contractions. 7 minutes. 15 minutes. 20 minutes. 12 minutes. We watched Ratatouille with my mom. 10 minutes. 30 minutes. 15 minutes. We went to the mall to walk around and distract me a little. No change.

By afternoon I was frustrated and called the OB office and found, to my dismay, that the midwives I knew and loved were short-staffed and a doctor I didn't know at all was on-call. "Is this your first child?" Yes. "Call me back when your contractions are 5 minutes apart," was his incredibly helpful response. 

We went out to dinner for our anniversary (with my mom--why not? It was hardly a romantic anniversary). We went to bed. And the contractions still came every 10-15 minutes. I didn't sleep Saturday night. I woke Isaac up around 2:30 because the contractions were starting to hurt enough that I needed him to coach me through them and help me time them. 8 minutes. 6 minutes. 12 minutes. Grrrrr. 

Sunday morning I had a meltdown. I'd had very little sleep, and the contractions just didn't change, and I didn't want to talk to Mr. Grumpy-pants doctor again. Isaac called for me (I was a basket-case anyway) and--hallelujah!--a midwife I knew was on call. "Oh, you guys must be exhausted!" She had us come to the hospital to get checked. Bless her. 

At the hospital I was dilated to a 4 (I'd been a 3 at my last appointment) and given the choice of having my water broken or going home with a shot guaranteed to knock me out for awhile and hopefully reset my uterus--so the contractions would either stop or progress into active labor. 

I chose the shot (Phenergan and Demerol, in case you're wondering). All I really wanted was sleep. I went home and slept for 5 hours. It was delicious. 

When I woke up, the contractions were--you guessed it--about 10 minutes apart. 

I didn't sleep Sunday night. Isaac slept very little.

Monday morning (Christmas Eve) I was back in the hospital begging to have my water broken.

I got admitted (now dilated to a 5) and the midwife stripped my membranes. We walked around, hoping to kickstart labor. The contractions started coming a little closer together. The midwife gave me the choice of breaking my water or starting Pitocin. Since I wanted to go natural, she warned that breaking my water would hurt a little more--loss of cushioning and all that--but Pitocin would make the contractions a little stronger and closer together. Neither choice sounded very pleasant, but I went with breaking my water. I reasoned it would have to break eventually anyway. 

I was at 6 cm by the time she broke my water, and things started picking up after that. The rest of the day--about 7 hours until delivery--is kind of a blur. I'd prepared for natural childbirth with the Bradley method, which is all about having the husband coach you through relaxation techniques to cope with the pain and allow the body to do its thing. This worked really well until about 7 cm, and then it was a slow decline after that. Honestly, I don't think there's anything you can do to make transition (the final, most painful stage of labor) better--I relaxed, I deep breathed, and sometimes I got on my hands and knees to help me progress, but any movement hurt. Additionally, I went into all this with very few reserves--I'd been eating little and barely slept over the past 3 nights. Isaac did what he could, and the nurse and my midwife were awesome as well, but all anyone could do really was remind me to stay in control when I'd start to lose it. 

Towards the end, the baby was super low (I carried her really low all through the end of my pregnancy--part of the reason why I never got super huge) and I started feeling like I needed to push when I was only 8 cm. You have to get to 10 cm before you can push. I wanted to die. I thought the baby would never, ever come. The hardest part was very close to 10 cm, when my body started trying to push almost involuntarily. At that point it's hard not to push, and hurts a lot if you can't. The midwife was helping bring my cervix around the baby's head so I could start pushing, and that combined with the contractions was the most difficult, painful part of it all. I had moments of control and moments where I'd break down, saying I couldn't do it. 

Childbirth is not glamorous.

At last I got to push, and pushed for maybe 30 minutes. One advantage to going natural is that the pushing stage goes much more quickly and efficiently. They offered me the mirror, and offered to let me touch the baby's head when she was almost out. I didn't really want any of it. I couldn't handle a single other thing at that moment. 

And then, suddenly there was a crying baby on my chest. Isaac's first words were, "She's perfect." She really was. I'd spent a long time trying to prepare him for how babies look when they are first born--puffy, purple, covered with blood and white cheesy stuff, cone-headed, etc. She was none of that somehow. She had this adorable head of hair and was pink and absolutely beautiful. They let me hold her there on my chest for a long time, while I got stitched and cleaned up, and I just kept thanking the midwife and my nurse and Isaac profusely for their help. And the relief was profound and complete. I wasn't in pain anymore, and here was this beautiful, perfect baby in my arms.

I once heard someone say that "delivery" is a very apt term for childbirth. It is a delivery from the discomforts of pregnancy. It is a delivery from the overwhelming pain of labor. And it is a special delivery from heaven you could say (with 9 1/2 month shipping) as a precious new spirit meets her parents. 

It was a tender mercy that Mary came when she did, before my mom had to go back to AZ. Not only did she get to meet her grandma, but grandma also saved us all by cleaning the apartment, going grocery shopping, and cooking meals when we got back from the hospital. Thanks, Mom!

Thus ended one of the most miserable weekends of my life, and thus began the strangest and yet the best Christmas of my life, spent in the hospital with my new family of 3. (And my awesome mom.)  

In triage, waiting to get admitted

My "total relaxation" pose. I spent the majority of labor like this.

Our first family picture

Best Christmas present ever.
The adorable hat was compliments of a hospital volunteer.

Chilling with Grandma

Our beautiful Mary, just before we left the hospital