When you’re just keepin’ on, keepin’ on

Or, life lately

We had our appointments with our OB (regular baby-doctor) and our MFM (Maternal/Fetal Medicine aka high-risk baby-doctor) physicians this week. It started off with the MFM appointment, which Ben couldn’t come to. I went in, did all the vitals, etc. Then they asked me to lie on the reclining table thing while the tech scanned me. This was awful. You see, on a daily basis since about 18 weeks, I feel like I cannot breathe. It was a major complaint of mine when I was pregnant with Darcy, but it is 10x worse this pregnancy. No position helps unless I am sitting straight up, or leaned forward like a 75-year-old man with COPD.  So, after about five minutes, I said, “I’m really sorry, but I need to sit up now.” They said, “Oh, we’ll raise the head of the bed. That will help.” “No, I am going to puke if you don’t let me sit straight up.” Then everything starting going black, and I started sweating, and I thought I was going to die. So, my sonographer finished the scan with me sitting straight up. “Wow. You’re really symptomatic, how do you sleep at night? Reclined?” First of all, thank you Captain Obvious. Yes, I am super symptomatic because I CANNOT EFFING BREATHE. Secondly, reclining is terrible. You’ve just witnessed this. And I do not sleep is your answer. I wake up every 45 minutes to an hour to try to readjust. Well, this information concerns the MFM physician, and he says I might have congestive heart failure. WUT? Then he follows that little pearl up with, “I mean, do you exercise?” “Well, I ran a half marathon last December, and ran 5-10ish miles a week up until 15 weeks with this pregnancy.” “Oh okay, then. You’re probably fine. We just don’t see many small mamas with this much trouble breathing.” Anyway, he examined me and determined that I was just “super symptomatic,” and I wasn’t in congestive heart failure.

That was how things began. Then we discovered that based on my scan I have borderline polyhydramnios. This means I have almost too much fluid, which can contribute to a litany of pregnancy issues including “breathlessness.” Clark looks the same—skull is funky, foot is clubbed–AND is measuring a couple of weeks ahead of my due date. Also, because he is a wiggle-worm, MFM couldn’t get great images of his pulmonary artery, and I’ve been referred for a fetal echocardiogram. I also failed my 1-hour-glucose screen that day, so depending on my results of my 3-hour-test that I took today, I might have gestational diabetes, too.  Then the doctor said he wanted me to get another genetic screening test done, but the first we had done wasn’t covered by insurance (you do not even want to know the price tag on that one). So, I asked if it would change the treatment plan, and he said no, so we declined the test. Anddd, basically Tuesday’s appointment was a huge pile of suck.

I’m okay with it all now, but Tuesday, I was distraught. I try to stay positive, and I know that these physicians’ jobs are to rule out any issues, but I’m at the point where I do not desire to know one more possibly negative thing about this pregnancy. I just don’t care to know. If it isn’t going to make a difference, then I don’t give a damn to know if or what kind of chromosomal abnormality MAY exist in Clark. Unless I start passing out, I don’t want to know if my heart function is shitty because of CHF. I have enough information at this time to decide I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ANOTHER DAMN THING. Because everything is “possibilities” and “probabilities” and “increased chance of” and/or “potential problem.” For some, knowing everything brings peace. For me, it brings doubt, and I don’t want to give Satan any more reasons to tempt me to doubt the goodness of God. I just don’t. I truly believe that God will give me the strength to deal with whatever comes our way WHEN it actually comes our way. One of my favorite books concerning faith is Corrie ten Boom’s The Hiding Place. She was just an incredible woman filled with wisdom, and she kind of agrees with me on the worrying thing.

Corrie ten Boom said, “Worrying is carrying tomorrow’s load with today’s strength- carrying two days at once. It is moving into tomorrow ahead of time. Worrying doesn’t empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.”

And the more information that something “could be significant” or “could be nothing,” the more I worry.  Ben and I have different perspectives when it comes to hardships and faith. Ben always believes that things will get better. That it IS going to be okay. I personally believe that saying things “will get better” is an invitation for things to become exponentially worse. I’m truly not pessimistic, but even you have to admit that the scales of fairness, statistics, and equality seem a little warped, and not in our favor. I believe that Clark won’t be healed, but that God will give me the strength the deal with whatever comes our way when he is born. My sister keeps telling me, “Clark will be who he has been created to be.” And that brings me comfort. God has allowed all of this. He has created Clark for His purpose, and He loves this baby far more than I could ever imagine. Just like He loves me. And that is good. It is the good stuff in the ugly situation, y’all. Beauty from ashes, and it will be beautiful.

As for grad school, I withdrew from one of my classes. It was an exhaustive, research-based, labor-intensive class, and I just don’t have the get-up and go for that and my other clinical-based grad school class, 40-hour work weeks, being a high-risk baby incubator, and existing as a functional human. It’s beyond my abilities at this point. So, this skews my overall ‘graduate as quickly as possible’ plan. I now feel at peace with this decision, even though it felt like a huge personal failure at the time.

Darcy is hilarious. She is rough and tumble and so, so much fun. She loves to run to me and shove her face in mine and just giggle. She also has about 10 bruises and six scratches from her legs to her face, and both knees are skinned and scabbed. Kid plays hard. Also, we got an incident report from her daycare because of an altercation regarding possession of a toy. Darcy had toy, friend wanted toy, a struggle ensued, and Darcy bit the hell out of friend. Ohmylanta. I’m sorry, mom of bitten child. My daughter is unreasonable and will fight to the death for her teeth to be brushed, so a perceived threat over a toy will likely continue to be dealt with a heavy hand (teeth). Sorry. She doesn’t bite at home.

Anyway, that’s all for now in our lives! I promise, I plan on writing a fun, non-heavy blog later on in the next few days detailing our first trip to Ikea with baby Darcy. Bless you, if you’re still reading along. Love to all.

Thoughts on baby Clark, Jesus, and how I’m a demon lady

To spare some of you from reading through a long blog, I’m going to address a few things up front. Soooo, first things first: There’s not an update on Clark, yet. Our next appointment with maternal fetal medicine is in a couple of weeks. Next, if you can’t handle Jesus-talk and cursing, my blog really isn’t for you. I’ve already fully admitted that I am a flawed person. I mean, I sniff hamburger meat a few days after the expiration date to determine whether or not it’s really expired or just kinda expired. And then, because I also live dangerously, I cook it up and eat it if it’s of the kinda variety. You see? Flawed. And I have reason to talk about Jesus, and I have reason to cuss. And don’t expect to get a spiritual or theological awakening, either. It’s mostly a confession of my own terribleness. I digress. 

Okay, so I was raised in the church of Christ. Only COC’ers will appreciate the capitalization consideration I took in that last sentence, by the way. I don’t necessarily identify by that church of Christ label. I’m a sinful woman who happens to love and want Jesus, and yet I have some major struggles with this faith. You see, I’m a doubter as well as a sinner. I get a lot of anxiety when people discuss the day they were saved. Because I can’t really pinpoint when I was. Oh, I can tell you when I was baptized, but I can’t tell you for sure that I was saved then. I was straight up told that if I wasn’t baptized, then I would burn in the lakes of fiery sulfur for all eternity. As an eleven year old, I was motivated, man. No fiery pits for me. But there was no big change in my life. I was still an eleven-year-old punk doing punkish crap, and I started to doubt my salvation. Like, “Am I safe from sulfuric fires?” This fear was further spurned on by the old, “If you don’t know whether or not you’re going to heaven or hell, you’re going to hell. When you’re saved you’re given blessed assurance of your salvation.” Well, shit. Blessed assurance I did not have. Now after all this time, I was back in hell’s corner. From there I have battled throughout all of my Christian life. I’ve grown a lot, and felt God’s presence, His goodness, and His blessings, but a lot of the time, I’ve felt like God’s stepchild instead of one of God’s chosen. I believe in Jesus. I know He exists. I know He can heal baby Clark, but I doubt that He will. I hope He will, but I doubt He will. I know that He has done crazy cool miracles in this world since He created it. I know He sent His only Son to die for all people in this world. And yet, I doubt He will heal my son for the same reason I’ve always felt just a * little * on the outside of God’s unending love; His miracles aren’t…well…for me. The pain and growing and just enough spiritual growth are for me. And I know that so many of you want to pray for me to deepen my faith and change my mind, but you won’t. I think it’s going to be my lifelong struggle. A couple of years ago, I confessed this to a minister of a church I was desperately trying with. I told him basically what I just wrote, “I KNOW and truly believe God exists, I just don’t put my full faith in Him, and I know that’s wrong.” His response, “Yes. Well, Beka even Satan’s demons believe in God. That’s not enough.” Damn. So, I’m stepchild status because I’m basically on par with the demons. I really am effed. It’s okay you can laugh at that, I don’t seriously think I’m on par with Satan’s minions. And, I also totally realize his answer was un-therapeutic at best, but I won’t lie, it occasionally concerns me on a spiritual level. Especially when this demon-Christian woman really wants her son to be healed. So that he won’t have to suffer. And if I’m being honest, so I won’t have to watch him suffer through big surgeries or handicaps. This leads me into the “non-update-baby-Clark” part of the blog. We don’t have concrete answers. We have confirmation of one defect (clubfoot) and strong suspicion of another (skull deformity/craniosynostosis), and therefore the possibility/probability of some type of chromosomal abnormality. So, the obvious questions in most people’s heads include something along the way of, “Wasn’t that what Darcy had?” or “So there’s probably a genetic reason, right?” and “Are y’all going to get an amniocentesis?” or “Are y’all going to try to have more children after this?!” Or maybe because all of these questions ran/run through my head, I just feel like they’re running through yours, too. I’ll share what I feel comfortable with as I feel comfortable sharing it. But to answer these 4 questions—Yes. We don’t know. No. Who the hell knows at this point?

 You know what I am thankful for? I’m thankful to my sweet husband Ben who brought me coffee this morning at work because I had a bad morning and initially failed my first test of the semester. I’m thankful that the other students in my class were my equal in dumb and missed the same questions I did on this morning’s test because the teacher threw those questions out—I now pass! And I am deeply thankful for an amazing tribe of friends who love this old demon-woman so well. Your thoughts and prayers and sweet gestures of love are so appreciated.

So that pretty much concludes the crazy faith-related storm inside my brain a lot of the day. I am not all doom and gloom. I feel lucky to be this little one’s mama, and I cherish each kick and flutter. I don’t constantly meditate on the bad or possible bad. Rather, I plan his nursery and tiny blue outfits. I plan on how to keep him safe from Darcy, who is a tyrant and tiny, yet strong, bully. Mostly though, Ben and I pray for baby Clark, laugh at our daughter, and love this life we’re in.

 

 

 

Why the internet is stoopid

And airing out a diaper rash is a bad idea found on the internet

Stop reading now if you aren’t into reading about potty stuff. Just stop and wait for a post that details the other parts of my life. If you’re game to read on…

Darcy came back from the beach with a pretty horrific diaper rash. To be fair, she arrived at the beach with the start of one, but it only got worse with sand, wet bathing suits, and the heat. I was trying everything; A&D ointment, Desitin, a concoction of an anti-fungal, Desitin, and Aquaphor. Nope. This rash wasn’t budging and poor baby D was uncomfortably tugging at all of her diapers. Now, if you ever even Google anything about diaper rashes, “they” tell you that you should simply “let it air out.” This basically means letting your un-housebroken toddler run around naked and hope for the best. After exhausting all of my ointments, powders, and creams I decided to give it a try.

Ben was out of town for a wedding (how convenient for him), and I had the Darce-bird all to myself for all of Saturday. The day started off innocently enough. We went to return some maternity clothes at Old Navy, we went to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. We went to eat lunch at a cute little Italian café where Darcy refused the food and stared directly at an older couple for the entirety of the lunch date. Not awkward at all, Darcy. We went to Trader Joes for groceries—insert heart emoji—I freaking love that store. Then, we went home, fed Darcy a lunch she deemed worthy (Easymac-whatever, Darcy) changed a poopy diaper (this is important), and put the Darcy to bed. When she woke up, I had decided it would be naked time. This rash was out of hand, and she had already pooped, so the un-diapered Darcy show was a safer option now.

About an hour and a half later, she woke up laughing and with a heavy, heavy diaper. Perfect! She’d peed recently. It should be safe. I took off her diaper and brought her to the living room. I turned around to put up the baby gate to the back hallway, and when I turned back around, she was gleefully splashing in a puddle of her own urine. Awesome. I grabbed her and took her to the bathroom to clean her up, pulled out the Clorox wipes and thought, “Well, we’re probably ok now.”  Within 15 minutes she peed the floor again. What in tarnation? How often does someone pee? I mean I’m pregnant, so I totally get a bye on the every 15-minute thing, but seriously? So, I cleaned her up again and we moved to our outside porch. Safer this way. Hotter this way, too. Kind of a pick your poison thing, and I was over wiping up pee.

Darcy is such an adorable exhibitionist. She was toddling around like the emperor who lost his clothes. I definitely sent a booty picture to her daddy. She walked over to the ottoman of one of our outside chairs, looked at me and giggled, squatted and shot out three poop balls in a span of about 5 seconds. Now, I am a nurse. I have seen patients’ chests’ cracked open at bedside, I have been inside OR rooms, I have cleaned up all kinds of poop, but I have never seen poop balls fly out of a tiny booty at that velocity in my life. It took me a minute to get my wits about me. In that minute Darcy straightened up and firmly planted one of her chubby feet right in IT.

*Mental scream*

I finally snap into action and grab her, booty facing out, foot firmly held at a distance, and carry her football style into the bathroom for a quick scrub up. Inwardly I was thinking, “How do people DO this?! It’s only been like 45-” looks at clock-“30 minutes?!” After a very quick scrub up, I grab paper towels and head back out to the porch to clean IT up. But it’s gone. The poop balls have disappeared. No. Oh God, please no. NO! I hear Libby smacking her lips from somewhere behind me, and my suspicions are immediately confirmed. Libby ate the freaking poop. What fresh hell is this? I’m not even sure which small creature is more disgusting. The pee-puddle-splasher/poop-ball-shooter, or the poop-ball-eater. At this point, I was done. If Desitin could not fix this rash, then Darcy could just keep it forever. Sorry, not sorry. Diaper back on baby. This diaper stayed dry until bedtime, by the way. Imagine that *eyeroll*

The moral of the story is that the people on the world wide web are idiots. Do not follow the crunchy, holistic, craptastic (see what I did there?) advice “they” spout on internet forums. They are idiots, and obviously have investments in the Clorox wipe business. Darcy’s butt is perfect now, and basically all I did was change diaper brands, and slather it with every cream known to man, including the dangerous and awful Talc-containing power. OoOoOo-arrest me now. May your parenting endeavors leave you with great stories and funny memories. And may you have dog-breath freshening treats on hand. Until next time, love to all.

Beaching, Not sleeping, and rocking family T-shirts

A couple of months ago, Ben and I decided that after our summer school classes, we really needed a break. Like a beach-trip break. So, I scheduled it for the second week in August and we booked a 1-room condo on the beach. We talked it out and decided to stay only Monday-Friday, so that we had a weekend to get our life together before the following Monday. We figured we needed at least 1 bedroom, so that after Darcy went to bed at 7:00pm, we would be able to enjoy time together and watch movies, etc. So, the magical Monday comes and off we go to the beach! No work, no school, no extra stress.

We stopped to get a few groceries once we got into town, so that we wouldn’t have to come back to the store after we checked in and got settled. Darcy was pretty good on the way, but was pretty over it by the time we got to the condo. We decided to just eat a frozen pizza the first night because putting Darcy back in the car to go out to eat was going to be miz for everyone, other restaurant patrons included. That night, we put her to bed, made cookies (I brought homemade cookie dough—it’s the best, I’ll post a recipe later) and sat on the balcony listening to the waves.

Then we went to bed. Not sleep. Bed. Oh and it’s not what you’re thinking. Get your head out of the gutter. It’s because sharing a room with Darcy is something I have not done since she was 2 weeks old with very good reason. I kind of remembered it was awful, but I was also knee-deep in postpartum blues/overwhelming “omg”-ness, so I didn’t REALLY remember. My memory has now been refreshed. She is so freaking loud when she sleeps, and is pretty much the crappiest roommate ever. I swear. See, she sleeps all soundly, but MY GOD she moves constantly. You know what movement in a pack-and-play sounds like? Do you? Allow me to enlighten you if you don’t know. It’s like this. Swish, swish, swish. SWISH, SWISH, SWISH. Scratch Scratch. SWISH SCRATCH SWISH. On top of that we have typical Darcy noise. So to mix it up a little it was: Swish, Cough, cough, sniffle, Scratch, SWISH, ALL THE NIGHT LONG. Oy vey.

The following morning, she woke up laughing at 5:20am, ready to tackle the day. Thank god for Ben. He grabbed her and took her away, so I could sleep until 6:00am. Sleeping didn’t improve (for us), but luckily Darcy really did enjoy the beach. She got worn out after about 2 hours and needed an indoor break, but did well overall. Except the following night at the restaurant when she ran away. Yes. My 16-month old hit the deck and speed-crawled under 4 tables stopping only under some random lady’s chair. She then screamed as Ben pulled her out from under the chair. It was very special, and we totally flew under the radar at that restaurant *snort *.

We got loads of people-watching in from our balcony, which is awesome and my favorite. Ben and I mostly made fun of all the families that dressed in all white for beach pictures with their kids. They were trying SO hard, and the children wouldn’t look at the photographer, threw sand at each other, cried, etc. It was hilarious. I’ve already written of my disdain for constant photography, and I just feel like beach pictures for the annual Christmas cards are so DONE. I also don’t send Christmas cards. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you either. Sorry, not sorry. Don’t take it personally if you love white beach pictures. Most people throughout the South think they’re adorable and totally get you because they do the SAME thing. I don’t get you at all, but I’m just a person with weird thoughts and a blog to discuss them. Ignore me and carry on with your white-linen ways. You see, Ben and I love to make fun of ourselves, because we have more fun like that. We totally want to be uncool and Griswoldy. So, as a part of a new vacation tradition, we had custom airbrush T-shirts made for our family. Oh yeah. Complete with a sunset background, palm trees, and dolphins. Hell. Yes. We got baby Darcy a matching airbrushed onesie, and it is just hysterical.IMG_4860-2

Here are the rules to the family T-shirt:

  1. It must have “Rayner Family Vacation” written on it.
  2. It must be tacky and scream, “I am absolutely a tourist in this city!”
  3. It must include the name of the city in which it was bought.
  4. It must be worn proudly all day. Even to restaurants.
  5. You must not tell anyone that it is a joke, so if someone says, “Nice shirts,” In a total, “That’s a lame shirt,” kind of way, you have to brightly respond, “Thank you!” Refer to #4.

I guarantee you our family beach pic in our airbrush shirts are way cooler than the white linen crew. Also, there was a gorgeous rainbow that appeared just before we took pictures, so I’m fairly certain that Jesus loved those bad boys, too. I’m so proud, I may have to do a Christmas card after all just to show them off. Love to all. Even all you classy linen people 😉

Thoughts on turning twenty-great

Yep. As of tomorrow, it’s here once again. My birthday! I used to be such a firm believer in birthday weeks and celebrating every last minute of the 24 hours of my birthday. This year, well, I can’t say I’ve even noticed it creeping up. This summer I’ve been super busy with school, and a new job, and Darcy, and getting food poisoning, and being pregnant, blah blah blah.

So, I only get two more years in my twenties. I’m not particularly sad about that, but it has made me somewhat reflective on where I thought I would be 10 years ago at the ripe age of 18. If I look back 10 years when I was about to start my freshman year at Delta State, I can honestly say that my life IS different than what I had expected, but also not. I figured or hoped I would be successful and finished with any schooling, happily married to the man of my dreams with child(ren?). So okay, 2/3 ain’t that bad. I had also hoped I would be living in a city bigger than my small hometown and have my own dog. Check! Check! Oh and I *really* hoped there would be lots of money. Let’s just take a minute to laugh about that one. LOL

So as you can see, my goals have kind of been checked off, but I never really thought about the journey I would take to see these things to fruition. I didn’t think that choosing to major in nursing would impact my life as much as it has. That it would wholly influence my perspective and outlook on life. For instance, if you have ever witnessed a child dying of cancer and seen the absolute devastation experienced by her parents, the important things in your life will forever be exponentially highlighted. Small stuff is small stuff, and it’s usually stupid, too. Nursing has changed my life. Before I married my husband, I never considered the hearts I would break, or even my own heartache I would experience along the way. *Sidenote–he was totally the cause of a lot of my distress at one point* Just putting that out there. I never knew that having a miscarriage would be one of the most heartbreaking experiences I would face thus far in my life. I didn’t know the JOY a healthy baby could bring into my life, either! I didn’t know that the traffic associated with “city bigger than my small hometown” would steal large amounts of my time and happiness, THANK YOU FOR THAT, BATON ROUGE. Anddd I never anticipated the amount of “inedible” crap my dog could eat and survive. I have a sudden vision of Libby dressed in camouflage, running to the sounds of Destiny’s Child “Survivor”. She’s eaten: 2-3 pair of underwear, too many to count socks, a bottle of ibuprofen, a tube of mascara, an entire bag of Hershey kisses, at least three roaches that were poisoned, and god knows what else. She’s seven and never looked so good, although I wouldn’t recommend this tried and true anti-aging diet of hers to anyone else.

The point of my ramblings is that I’ve already “met” the goals that I think mattered most to my 18 year-old-self. My sweet family is everything to me, and adding my husband and his family and our daughter to my list of people to love on has been one of life’s biggest blessings. I say blessings because considering this gift an accomplishment of mine just seems so wrong. God so lovingly sent my husband to me, and has continued to bless and grow our family. School and career and money are all important things, but they pale in comparison to the Big Stuff. And one day I think I’ll have all that other stuff, too. But without them, my life still feels full and exciting. Without my family and the loves in my life, I don’t think I could get out of bed.

So at the end of the next ten years when I’m pushing forty (now that kind of hurts), I have a few different goals in mind; some material, some not. I want us to build our forever dream home. Where? I’m not sure yet. I want to be DONE with school. Whether I finish NP school or not, I just want to be done. I want to finish up my family. I have no idea what that means at this point. I want to grow in spiritual maturity and live a life reflective of loving Jesus. Maybe that will mean less cursing or more praying or not honking at people who ruin my chances of catching a green light or because they are just generally stupid drivers. Or maybe not. Honking is rather satisfying, after all. Love to all you people out there.

Yesterday, I was dying dead.

Warning: candid post, proceed with caution

Not to be dramatic, but I nearly died yesterday. It started Sunday night very innocently when my precious in-laws invited Ben, Darcy, and I to dinner along with Ben’s two brothers and sister-in-law. I REALLY needed to study because I had a huge comprehensive Pharmacology final the following morning at 8:50, BUT I’m both a procrastinator (like I could win an Olympic gold in procrastination) and a sucker for food, and going out to eat sounded like too much fun. Dinner was great! I got fried shrimp because that’s what baby wanted, mac and cheese because that’s what I wanted, and a salad because I figured my heart needed some kind of vegetable.

I don’t know which one did it, but I awoke around 3:00am feeling…off. Now, this pregnant lady wakes up almost hourly to use the bathroom, but this was a different kind of wakeup. I tossed and turned and felt progressively worse until about 5:45 when I broke out in a sweat and my stomach went *GASHMERGLE.* Oh, you know what I mean. It’s when your stomach does that churny, gurgly thing and you know that whatever is about to go down is going. to. be. bad. I raced to the bathroom and was violently ill. As a three-time veteran of the first trimester of pregnancy, I am familiar with vomiting. But this was brutal. I pathetically lay in the bathroom floor feeling miserable, but mostly sorry for myself because A) When you are pregnant and throw-up, you often (always) pee yourself and B) I suspected this plague was far from over. Unfortunately, I was right because I still had to take that final.

I had planned to get up early and study for my final, but mostly I just ran back and forth to the bathroom wondering how in the hell I was even going to TAKE the final. You see, my university utilizes ProctorU which is essentially satan’s handmaiden an online proctoring service that watches the test taker (me) via webcam with access to my desktop to ensure my “academic honesty.” Basically I was worried I was going to barf or poop myself via webcam. The first would be bad, the second might get me dismissed from the program–or made famous on Youtube in not a good way.

My proctor, lets refer to her as Jane, was super irritating. She spotted a piece of trash clear across the room, made me bring it to the webcam screen, and shred it before proceeding. It was a Walmart receipt. Definite contraband. Jane then stopped me 5 minutes into my test to reload the video screen which took an additional 5 minutes. “You are living on borrowed time, JANE!” She also made me turn my pencil in all different ways to ensure answers weren’t hidden on it. She basically sucked at life, and I almost wanted to barf directly on her. Luckily for her, my prayers worked, and the garbage cans beside me were spared! The best news is I passed the final! The bad news is that food poisoning sucks really badly at any time, but even worse when you’re 18 weeks pregnant, and have to take a web-cam proctored final. It sucked like a mutha-trucka, for sure. All the praise hands for Phenergan and a mother-in-law who took care of Darcy. Also for my own mother for bringing me a car, but that’s another post for another day.  Luckily I’m much better today, or I might actually be dead.

Oh, I semi-started my new job today. I’m super excited to exit the hospital-scene for the opportunity to be a school nurse. I’ll keep the blog updated as I get into the job a little more. Beware fried shrimp, mac and cheese, and/or salad. It could almost kill you on the inside, where it counts. Love to all!

So, I’m starting a blog

Hello any and all readers! I’ve been urged by multiple friends and family members to write a blog for several years now. Why? I don’t really know their reasons, but the more people asked about it, the more I thought I might like to start one. About 3.5 years ago, I decided to do it! I had just gotten married, moved to Virginia, and all these awesome adventures would NEED to be documented. I thought of the perfect name, “Rayner Shine” because my new last name was Rayner, and how cute is that?! I told my husband, he agreed it was a good idea, but here’s the thing–I am a major procrastinator. SO. Almost 4 years, 3 moves, 4 job changes, and 1 baby later, here it is! I will backdate some blog entries on some of the more interesting occurrences in our lives, but first we have to agree on a few things.

  1. I am not a professional writer, mmkay? I say things, I write things, but I doubt you’ll see much symbolism,creativity, or special enlightenment that makes your head explode. So seek that on a different blog. Sorry.
  2. Grammar Nazis:  go away. I’m going to write in a conversational tone, end sentences with prepositions, use made up words and contractions because it’s a free country, and you can nitpick elsewhere.
  3. Weird stuff happens to me that doesn’t happen to normal people. I’ll write about it here, and I swear I’m not lying. You’ll have to just believe me.

Now that we’ve crossed that off our list, I’ll have to tell you that my life is chaotic. I know, I know, whose isn’t? But you see, my husband is in school full-time for engineering. Part-time he works as an engineering intern. I also am in school full-time to be a nurse practitioner. WHILE WORKING FULL-TIME AS A NURSE. Also, I have a 15 month old tyrant toddler. Help me, Rhonda! No, seriously, send help. I would say send wine, but I am also pregnant. 17 weeks to be exact. Anddd, I start a new job on Monday. Life is busy, time and money are short, but Ben and I laugh a lot. If you’re game to read along, I’ll gladly share our crazy with you. Love to all.