Originally posted on Dec. 1, 2007

Two years and nine months ago, we packed up our lives and moved from our beautiful mountain park to this historic one. On moving day, the maintenance crew cut down a gumball tree—and bless it, the thing fell right onto our gas meter and busted it. No gas meant no hot water, no oven, no sanity.

As if that weren’t enough, I found out I was pregnant, and my father-in-law, who came to “help us get settled,” wound up staying for over two weeks. Needless to say, my stress level was somewhere between Southern lady on the verge and full-on meltdown.

Fast-forward nine months. It was a Thursday. Little Buckaroo was down for a nap (oh, those treasured nap-time days), and I was rushing to get our Christmas tree decorated before he woke up. My C-section was scheduled for the following Tuesday, so I still had a few days to get everything just so. Big Buck was at the Park, knee-deep in preparations for the annual Christmas event.

I had treated myself earlier with a Rice Krispies treat, and with holiday music playing and a somewhat beautiful tree in front of me (our Charlie Brown Christmas tree history is a whole other blog post), I was feeling downright festive.

I heard Little Buck stirring and soon his sweet little feet came padding into the living room. As always, I scooped him up for a few minutes of snuggles in my lap.

And right at that moment—my water broke.

This could not be happening. My hair wasn’t fixed, my makeup wasn’t on, and I couldn’t remember if I’d shaved my legs. So naturally, I panicked.

I called the Park, and Big Buck rushed home to get me to the hospital—half an hour away. Just like with my first baby, as soon as my water broke, the contractions kicked in fast and furious, three to four minutes apart.

I could not believe this. The planner in me had everything perfectly set for next Tuesday’s scheduled C-section. My plans were unraveling, and I was not okay.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

When we got to the hospital, the nurse informed me that because I had eaten that blasted Rice Krispies treat, they would have to wait eight hours before doing the surgery.

Eight. Hours.

Which meant… LABOR.

At one point, mid-contraction, I even offered to throw up the Rice Krispies treat right then and there, but the nurse just rolled her eyes. Evidently, she had never been in labor herself. The audacity. The sheer gall of that anesthesiologist!

But despite the unexpected detour—and the pain—God blessed us two years ago today with our Littlest Buckaroo. He is full of life, joy, sweetness, and mischief, and I am a better person because I get to be his mama.

Happy Birthday, Littlest Buckaroo.
Mama loves you more than all the Rice Krispies treats in the world.