My TV Debut...

Well, today should be interesting. I am actually going to be filming an infomercial this afternoon. Is that hilarious or what? Eight months ago, I had Lasik surgery to eliminate my need for corrective lenses of any kind. I had been wearing glasses/contacts since 5th grade, and for the last five years my eyes could no longer tolerate contacts. My eyes actually began rejecting the foreign body in my eyes and I developed an allergy. Since I hate wearing glasses, I decided to investigate the surgery. When our friend who is a doctor had it done, I decided it was time. So, I had it done and it was amazing. Not only did it not hurt (mildly uncomfortable) but it was over so fast. I will never forget waking up that afternoon at home and being able to see the digital clock for the first time. Ah, the freedom! I no longer have to pack burdensome bottles of cleanser and disinfectant. My eyelids no longer adhere to my eyeballs after 6 p.m. I know longer have to touch my eyeballs every morning and night. It's wonderful.

Okay, well, that was good practice for giving my testimonial this afternoon on camera. Are you convinced? Are you ready to call and make an appointment right this minute? I can't believe I am actually doing this. Anyway, at least it will only be airing on local cable channels in the middle of the night right after the Bun "n Thigh Roller and Dr. Ho's Muscle Massage. At least, that is my sincere hope.

My Daughter's Birthday...

Warning: Don't read this if you're squeamish!

Six years ago today I was in my 24th hour of labor. As a 23 year old who had been married for 3 years, I thought I was ready. I had always felt years beyond my literal age emotionally and I thought, as I did when I accepted a proposal at 19, that I could handle anything that life threw my way. Finishing college while managing a home 60 miles away from school, 300 miles away from any family or friends, and figuring how to be an army officer's wife was not easy, but I managed. After a 6 month "break" from college beginning 5 days after my wedding which included moving to western Oklahoma (which in and of itself was horrifying since I had lived in one house all my life and never been west of the Mississippi)with nothing more than a car full of china, flatware and several sets of sheets, I still graduated a quarter early from my beloved Auburn 3 years later. Even though I loved school, I was ready for whatever lay beyond it, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I wanted a child. Being caught in a loveless marriage will do that to you. Of course, I realize now that's not the best motivation for conceiving, but being young and envisioning the life of bland loneliness that stretched before me, I needed a child to love and care for. So one month after graduation, I saw that famous second blue line in my bathroom and I suddenly had all the excitement I could handle.

From the beginning it was a difficult pregnancy. I bled for the first 3 months and endured the coldness of the military medical system infamously known for "do it yourself" medicine. Of course, I endured it, for the most part, alone. My husband at the time was in the 3rd infantry division which basically meant he was gone 6 months out of a year. At 28 weeks, while he was in the middle of a desert halfway around the world, I went into premature labor. Terrified at spending my first night ever in a hospital, the only people I had to rely on were other the other wives who understood without being told exactly what needed to be done. From these angels, I came to know 2 of the best friends (other than Sally, of course) I have ever known. I credit my ability to endure and remain sane with God and with them.

For the next 3 months, labor would start and after a visit to the hospital and IV medication, it would stop. It was an emotional roller coaster. More than anything, I wanted this baby girl to be healthy. Finally, on the night of January 9th, my visit to the hospital found me to be 3 and half centimeters. I was sent home to wait until I was four. I spent that night walking around the block. I probably made 20 or more trips around Austin Loop in Ft. Benning, GA. The next morning at 6 a.m. it was time to go. Things weren't too bad at first. I have a pretty high pain tolerance and had no medication until I was 6 and half centimeters. At this point, I knew I should get an epidural if I wanted one at all. The epidural itself was nothing, and it did give some relief, even if it was only on one side of my body. The problem was that it halted my labor. So, of course Pitocin was given to speed things along.

Around 9 p.m. after 25 hours of labor, I was fully dilated. It was time to push. I was ready, baby. Exhausted and nervous, I wanted to get started. My family doctor, who was also an angel of mercy, was there. I pushed, and pushed, and pushed....and pushed. Nothing. No movement, no descent. Dr. Clark had tried to prepare me for a C-section since he said I had the "smallest pelvis he'd ever seen". So, after 3 and half hours of merciless pushing and screaming (Oh yeah, they had turned the epidural off hours ago for "incentive".) that's the route we were ready to take. Enter Dr. K. A woman who, if she has a heart, it isn't palpable, being the OB on call who didn't like C-sections. At all. I remember hearing Dr. Clark begging her to prep me for the OR. Nothing doing. Apparently, 3 and half hours of pushing with no progress meant she should try forceps instead. Now being young and in so much pain that I was ready to accept use of a tow truck if necessary, I didn't' know any better. I figured she knew what she was doing. So, after setting up the forceps and counting to three, I pushed as hard as I could. The next few moments are a little blurry in my mind, but I remember the blood. I remember Dr. K getting drenched in it, and I remember the tears in Dr. Clark's eyes. The pain, mercifully, has been etched away from my mind. I remember looking over at my daughter and then people began to rush around. Fast. I needed emergency surgery. A mask was on my face. An anesthesiologist was telling me everything would be okay. Then blackness.

Three and half hours later, I awoke. The force of the forceps had caused severe lacerations and blood loss. My pelvis had cracked. I had more stitches than someone who had a Cesarean. I sat and waited. Waited to see my baby girl. Hours passed. Several residents and interns came to see me. A few colonels with very serious expressions whispered in the hallway. Four hours after my surgery I was finally loaded into a wheelchair and taken to the nursery. My baby was hooked up to more machines than I was. Her oxygen level had dropped and they were giving her antibiotics through an IV as she laid under an oxygen hood. I couldn't hold her, but I will never forget holding her tiny hand and watching her chest move up and down. After a few minutes, I asked "Do you hear that?" and I was gone. The next thing I remember is a nurse pushing me down the hall so fast that I thought I was for sure dying. But no, apparently that is protocol when people pass out.

The next few days were an odyssey of pain, both physical and mental, and joy. Although my body was a mess (fever spike on day 2, constant IV pole went with me everywhere. I named it "Slim") and I passed out daily, I was enamored of my little girl. When we brought her home 4 days later, I couldn't believe how good she was. She hardly ever cried and she slept through the night after only 6 weeks. She was also beautiful. I have always loved babies, but this was the most wonderful experience in the world. Although I had to go back to the hospital twice for complications and I didn't fully recover for a year, up to that point in time, it was the best year of my life. My husband was gone two weeks after she was born and for 4 months out of her first year, so it really was just me and her. Every day was a miracle and she was my pride and joy.

So much has happened in the last 6 years...A divorce that was long overdue, marrying the love of my life, the birth of my precious son, but my daughter is still the sweet little "baby" girl she was then. Her heart is one of immeasurable kindness and she amazes me everyday. This family is my purpose. They are the realization of my dreams. So, I thank God for this opportunity. I thank Him for my daughter. I thank Him for my son. Most of all, I thank Him for my husband who took Hallie's hand and heart four years ago and become her daddy. The one who tucks her into bed. The one who reads to her and acts silly with her. The one who plays with her everyday. The one who has been there for every dance recital, soccer game and bad day.

Thank you, Randy, for being the husband, father and man of my dreams...and

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HALLIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Curse of the Curls

Okay, I am going to rant about something completely meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but since I just finished my 2 hour hair straightening marathon, I really have a strong desire to share it with you lucky readers. If you have straight hair, thank our Maker now. If you have ever complained about how fine and limp it is and how it just won't hold curl, slap yourself right now and then resume reading.

I was born with no hair at all. For the first two years of my life, my parents heard "what a handsome little boy you have", regardless of the lacy dress and the bow my mother toothpaste onto my head. Yes, she actually did. Then after my second birthday blond curls started growing. Not only was I the only blond Watson (lots o'cherokee blood) but I was the only curly head in my household, having received it from my father (thanks, dad) who didn't live with us and who had started losing his hair by the time I made my debut anyway (He was 37 and balding, yet still incredibly handsome). The curls weren't so bad then. My hair was still rather short and they just sort of arranged themselves. It was a little later when my hair got long and coarse that it got scary. It looked pretty until my mom had my waist-long hair chopped off in second grade. Then it was...well, never the same. Of course, it only got worse when puberty came knocking. Yep, it got even curlier. In seventh grade, I thought getting it cut a inch from my scalp would help. It didn't. Growing it out, however, lent educational experiences in various forms of gel, mousse and how to shake off being called "helmet head" in the midst of middle school which in and of itself is comparable to purgatory.

Finally by high school, I had resigned myself to my fate and learned, more or less, how to do my hair. Looking back, I fondly refer to my style as the "swoopty-do". After drying my curls, I brushed the front over to one side and caught it with a barrette. I then spent great portions of the day pulling my long hair over one shoulder in an effort to keep it out of my face on the side minus the barrette. Hence, the swoopty-do. It really didn't look too bad for the times (early to mid nineties, well, you know) but I was only one of two girls in my entire high school (about 700 people) with naturally curly hair. I know, that doesn't seem statistically logical to me either, but it was true. Since the big hair of the 80's had been replaced with sleek, shiny hair curled with a curling iron (admit it, you had one), I suppose my hair lent a mysterious aspect to my persona, not that I really needed any help in that department. People would tell me "Oh, your hair is so beautiful, I would love to have your curls" and "It must be so nice to just wash it and go". Um, it wasn't...and isn't...and I am certain if anyone had traded hair with me it would've been extremely short-lived.

Well, enter the late nineties, that stupid "Friends" haircut that everyone wanted (me included) and my introduction to straightening lotions and flat irons. Where had these ingenious inventions been during my high school career? At first, I was just happy to have "straight" hair. A few years later when my daughter was born, the time consuming process was a little annoying. After my son was born, it was like "I have hair? Oh yeah." and now I fall into the category of "%@*%&#*...I have to wash my hair tonight". Yes, I have very dry hair and can go a day without washing it. These are my happy days. Ah, an hour and a half of free time. What shall I do? Read a book? Fold laundry? Blog? Pinning that hair up and taking a shower without having to shampoo it, condition it, brush it, put the straightener in it, flip head over, dry the underneath, flip head back over, dry a section at a time with a round brush so big it could (and has) double as a back scratcher, using hair clip apply Biosilk and iron a section at a time, and finally having the hair I desire....is wonderful. However, on nights like tonight, I begrudgingly give in to the desire to have what God did not bestow upon me and I punish myself with a 2 hour work out that raises my core body temperature 5 degrees and leaves my arms completely numb...but, my hair is straight. The thing that has eluded me most of my life is within the realm of reality for about 24-48 hours, depending on the relative humidity.

Ah, you are saying to yourself, "No one is forcing her to do this, why isn't she just happy with the hair she has?", and you're right...sort of. Maybe one day I will stop this insanity and just let my hair do it's electric-outlet-shocking thing for all the world to see. Until then, though, the madness will continue. Why?

Well, I'll let you know when I do.