Everyday Susa

Secondary title: FAQs about Baby Maurer #2. Due Date : June 8, 2018. I'm mentally prepping to go late, so probably some time in mid-June. I'm hoping to try for a VBAC, so the timing is a bit tricky. My C section with Lando was great and I'm not opposed to a repeat one, but at the moment, the plan is to wait for labor.  How's Landon doing? : He is THRILLED. All his friends have little siblings, and he's now convinced that he's a big brother to every  baby. He was slightly concerned that I ate the baby in my stomach, but I cleared that up quickly. Did I know I was pregnant when we moved: Yes! I found out at 3.5 weeks. I had been crying angrily that Stephen was cruel enough to buy me mittens (true story), and wanted to take a pregnancy test before I got my flu shot. And..I threw the test away before the two lines appeared. Pregnant, impatient ENFPs for the win. For whatever unknown reason, I dug that pregnancy test out of the trash and saw two lines. Na

There are a few [read: many] characteristics that I don't want my son to inherit from me. In fact, it's usually difficult to name more than one characteristic that I hope to pass on. (Tenacity is the one. I have it in spades.) But I discovered a new one the other day: empathy. "Empathy: the ability to understand and share the feelings of another." (Thanks Google for the definition!) It's a difficult skill if it's not natural, and a heavy weight when it is. I can look someone in the eye, hear their words, and feel their pain filling my heart. It's why people believed me at Starbucks when I said, "I'm so sorry this went wrong," because I could lace my words with genuine empathy. It feels like betrayal to be handed something you don't want. It can be nauseating to lose money--especially when you had such high hopes for money spent.  The other day, I posted a PSA for my Facebook friends. In case they didn't know, certain restau

*Deep breath* Writing about PPD is....difficult. It's scary because it leaves you vulnerable. Not the mild, cute sort of vulnerable, but naked-in-a-crowd vulnerable. It's telling your friends, relatives, and strangers that all was not as it appeared. It's admitting to and describing the agonizing thought process of a PPD sufferer. It's hoping and praying that your audience will understand that your illness was just that--an illness. That your illness was not your fault, and that you are not a bad mom. It's reliving those dark, crushing days so that others can comprehend that it's real. It's retelling those agonizing, silent moments so that others will know they are not alone. It's baring your soul to a world that will never fully understand. Writing and talking about PPD? It's terrifying stuff. Every time we tell a tragic story, it's the first time someone else has heard it. And when it's someone's first time, they process it. The

The Quotable Landon.  One of the best parts of having a small child is listening to them discover language. At his three year check up, his pediatrician flattered my mommy ego by complimenting his vocabulary and outgoing nature.  He talks as quickly as his mother, but loves color and design like his father. Seriously, this child cuts better paper than I can.   He's not a performer, so in lieu of letting Lando corral everyone into his chatterbox corner, here are a few of his maxims. *While chatting with his reflection in the mirror.* "My name is Wando. You are Wandon. Wando.  Wandon." "Who am I?" "You're Susie. Mommy. Babe." "Mommy, you are soooo pretty. You're pretty, just like Carol." "I'll take it, son." *Hugs me tightly, whilst beaming angelically.* "Mommy went potty all by herself! Good job, Mommy!" "No, you watched me the whole time."  "You should shut the door, Momm

Ten years ago today, my father died. He fell over, dead, mere feet away from where I sat with my history book in my lap. My mom found him a few minutes later. I remember her screams, my siblings' cries, and the pure denial that filled me. I didn't believe my dad could die until someone grabbed my hands, stared into my eyes, and forced me to hear the truth. It was five days before my 16th birthday. My seven younger siblings and I buried our father a week later. In the last ten years, we've become strong, independent humans, capable of our dreams.    What follows is a raw, candid letter to my dad on the tenth anniversary of his death.  Hey, Dad. It's me, your firstborn. It's been ten years since you left. Ten years since you died. Ten years since I last heard your voice, saw your smile, and felt your hugs. We say "passed away" because it's gentler on the listener, but there's nothing gentle about death. The world is a sad place, filled