We Did Good

Not every Father's Day looks like the card. This one is better.

Quick Note: I had originally scheduled for this newsletter to go out on June 16th. The week before Father’s Day. The best seller list had other plans! (Good plans!!!)

Hey friend!

In honor of Father’s Day this week, I want to tell you about the day my husband, Josh, became a dad.

Josh and I were babies when we got married — 22 years old. At first it felt like we were playing house, like when I was a little girl. We settled into our first apartment in Louisville, Kentucky, flat broke. His salary with Russell Stover Candies was $19k plus a company car. The car was a lifesaver because we only had my car, the one I’d bought in college.

Things moved quickly. I got a job as a preschool teacher and he sold candy to every hospital gift shop, independent drug store, and small grocery store in his territory of central Kentucky.

We loved Louisville. My mom’s dad — Granddaddy — grew up just outside the city in a little town called Elizabethtown. His father had owned a local department store on the town square, Bethel’s. Here’s a fun fact about my Granddaddy: he became a physician but never actually graduated college. He had attended Vanderbilt as an undergrad and applied to the University of Tennessee’s early admission medical school program. He left Vandy with one semester left.

Growing up, I had heard tales of my Granddaddy taking my Grandmother to Churchill Downs for the first time. She was completely aghast that he would place $2 bets on the races. Remember, this was the late 1930s and my Grandmother was a “good Presbyterian girl.” Her opinion on betting changed when her horse won the first race!

At the time, it felt like a full circle moment that Josh and I got to go to the same place my young grandparents did. Did you know that when we lived there in 1993, the minimum bet was still $2?

A few months later, Josh was promoted and we were off to Springfield, Missouri. I can say with all honesty I hated Springfield. I know that because we had also lived in New Jersey, and Springfield was even worse. Springfield was where I got pregnant for the first time. We were over the moon. Unfortunately — or maybe now fortunately — I miscarried at 11 weeks. This probably has something to do with the fact that I am not a fan of Springfield. I distinctly remember saying to Josh about two weeks after the miscarriage, “I don’t care what you need to do or how hard you need to work — get us out of here.” Three weeks later he was promoted. We moved to Frederick, Maryland.

It was our third move in under 15 months. About a month after arriving in Frederick, I found out I was pregnant again. I didn’t know it was possible to be so nauseated. I could hardly walk across the room without throwing up. We decided I would not get a job. No one wanted a vomiting employee.

On September 3rd, 1995, I went into labor. Actually, I woke up at 6:20am with contractions. Thank God, because I was a week overdue and done being pregnant. We finally made our way to the hospital around 5pm. Things went as they were supposed to — until they didn’t. The baby was stuck, which meant the C-section I had so desperately wanted to avoid was unavoidable.

At 6am on September 4th, I got wheeled into the operating room. Josh was right by my side, looking anxious and excited. I was exhausted.

I don’t remember much about what happened next. I crashed on the table. All I know is I woke up later in a recovery room. Josh was holding this sweet little bundle up next to me. And do you know what my first question was?

Does she have red hair?

(Josh is a redhead. My mom and I had been hoping for a little redheaded girl.) I got my girl. She was as bald as a cue ball.

Here’s what I learned after the fact. My heart rate dropped suddenly and dangerously. A petite nurse literally grabbed Josh (6’1” and 220 lbs) and threw him out of the operating room. Another nurse caught him and explained that the doctor was performing an emergency C-section to save the baby and me.

I cannot imagine the fear he felt in those minutes. There he was, 24 years old, his wife in serious trouble, completely alone. Our families lived far away.

One of the nurses asked, “Do you need to call someone?”

Josh placed a call to my parents. They answered thinking all the joyous thoughts you have when a new baby is coming. When my mom picked up, he burst into tears trying to get out that there had been a complication — that I had crashed on the table, that the doctor was getting the baby out to save my life.

I’m sharing this with you the week of Father’s Day as a love letter to my husband. This is just one of the many times Josh championed for me. Against hospital policy he sat by me with the baby. Josh didn’t want me to wake up and not see him and our sweet girl.

This is the story of the day Josh became a dad. It’s also the day I knew — one hundred thousand trillion percent — that I had married the right man.

Happy Father’s Day, Josh.

I know this one is different. You’re in China for a trade show. The kids are all grown and doing exactly what they’re supposed to be doing.

We did good.

xx, Heather