Prolific No More...?

I feel like such a bad blogger...like someone should call Blog Protective Services on me and report me as a neglectful blog mom!
Before you shake a finger at me for leaving my blog in the proverbial hot car with the windows rolled up, give me a chance to explain!
It's a busy time of year here in North Myrtle Beach, SC, and our family is supported by the tourism industry, which is in full swing right now, so we're being good little squirrels and ferrying away our nuts while we can.

Anyway, I figured I could keep my blog relatively current without really having to work my already weary brain by telling you a little story:

Back in early 1991, I'd been married about a year and had no plans of having children anytime soon. I was about to turn 23 and thought I had plenty of time; besides, I was still so new to being a person with a disability, I didn't think it would be wise to try to take on one more challenge so soon into it. But then I woke up in the morning and tossed my cookies, 5 days in a row. Uh oh...looks like wheelchairs aren't effective birth control after all!
I took one of those EPT tests, which back in 1991 were still similar to performing some sort of miraculous science experiment involving a beaker and a petri dish. The results said, "You're preggo, girly!" I was petrified and calmed myself with the thought that I'd never been good in science, so surely I'd screwed up the test. I made an appointment with my family doctor, a sober man named, Dr. Syed Sadiq. He also seemed surprised at the possibility that the wheelchair hadn't been effective birth control, but gave me a blood test anyway and said he'd call me with the results. He called the next day and sounded like Harold Camping probably sounds right about now, (like it's the end of the world, but not really.) He said, "Mee-shell, you are pleg-nant." Seriously, he sounded so upset over the results that before I knew it, I heard myself consoling him on the phone; "It's ok, Dr. Sadiq. I'll figure this all out and make it work." Inside though, I was in full panic mode! I called my husband at work and told him what he'd done to me.
I realize what a blessing it is to conceive, but back then to google something meant to haul your cookies to the library and start flipping through the card catalog in order to find an outdated book with, if you were lucky, a sentence or two on the subject you were researching. I found absolutely nothing on pregnant paraplegics, but I realized it was time to put on my big girl panties and just deal with this.
I put my fears aside and decided that I'd, with Gods help, just take it one day at a time and pray He kept this growing baby and me safe in the palm of His hand.
I was sure it was a girl, so my husband and I began referring to the baby as "Kayla" -- yes, son...if you're reading this blog post, your dad and I really did call you "Kayla" in utero for 5 months until an ultrasound turned you into "Nathan."
Aaaannnnyway, that ultrasound not only told us we were having a boy, but also that I had something called "placenta previa" (about now you're probably thinking to yourself, 'hmmm, maybe Michele is a hypochondriac') Yeah, I'd think it too...but I can assure you I'm not a hypochondriac, I just have really crappy luck sometimes.
Long story a little less long, I ended up having my son at 31 weeks because of the placenta previa. He was this grumpy looking little 3 pound baby with eyes/expressions that from the word go were shouting "Hey, I've got a lot going on in this mind!" For such a little guy, I was so thankful to the Lord that his first APGAR score was 8, which is pretty good even for a full-term baby. They let me see him for a minute, and he looked at me with his little brow so furrowed...a German nurse in the delivery room said in her thick accent, "Look at zat brow! All ze worries of ze world!" He's still like that a lot!
In 1st grade, his PE teachers mom passed away and he explained to his class that he'd be away for a week or so because of it. My son made a card for him with the rest of the class but instead of the typical 1st grader remarks, he wrote (yes, he could read and write in 1st grade and even earlier) "Sorry about your mom, did she's have a hard attack or did she's brain get weird?" Then he kept asking me when his teacher would write back to let him know what had happened to her.
Back to the birth, etc... he was whisked away to the NICU, but pronounced healthy and basically it was a matter of wait until he's 4.5 pounds, see if he latches onto the breast, then he can go home...and that's pretty much how it went to the letter.
Here he is on that day, August 3, 1991 (no comments about my mega-eyebrows, please...but feel free to make fun of me for looking absolutely out of it on whatever pain medication they'd pumped me full of! Hahaha!)

Here he is a little more smiley and a lot more hairy!

This summer my little preemie turns 20. He's an awesome kid (man) and I love him beyond measure!
Thank God for my "uh oh" blessing. I was also an unplanned child, and I once asked my mom if I was a mistake. Her reply never left me. She said, "No peanut, you were a surprise, and everyone loves surprises!"