Up until now I’ve hesitated to post much about this past year online; I thought it might seem like I was being a fragile flower.

But as the man in my life recently pointed out, this past year only proves to your publishing fam that you are more determined than ever to push through, finish what you start (can’t wait to tell you more about the new release written in the thick of this, for 2018!), and work harder than you ever have for the sake of what and whom you love.

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Today I’m sharing just a little bit.

A couple of years ago after baby number two, my epilepsy came back.

I don’t know what caused it; after over ten years of being seizure free I started having odd new symptoms.

I won’t bore you with the details (because, really, many of you are dealing with much more earth-shattering experiences right now) except to say I learned you really do need the feeling in your right foot in order to brake the car–

And you really do need to stay away from any medication that has the word “weep” in the middle of it (not kidding, this stuff turned my non-pregnant self into a hormonal bundle of nastiness).

I’d like to think I’ve come to the other side of this experience with a new sense of humor–perhaps a bit darker than before–which I can’t wait to share with you in a new series of books about us (you and me–living like the Mombies we are). 

So what about you? What’s making you feel like a mombie today? I could use some company with this whole dark sense of humor thing. 

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{In case you missed this photo that got 13,000 likes on Facebook–they’d just finished trying to scratch each other’s eyeballs out to obtain sole possession of the umbrella when I snapped this.

Dang it. They never let me get the true action shots. It’s like they’re trying to protect their public reputations already.}

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Salt + Paper = ? A Birthday Post.

Two years ago, I was forming a lifelong friendship with my anesthesiologist.

Okay… we haven’t spoken since that day, but I would still hug him if I could.

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A few hours later I stared at our Tiny Human in total disbelief that she was ours.

What did this mean for the future?

More importantly… would we ever sleep again?

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The answer was no.

We were quickly introduced to the magic of the witching hour. And sleeping in the car seat (her, not us).

We were so terrified that her head would fall forward and she’d cut off her windpipe that we took turns staying up just so we could watch her breathe. (The acid reflux was so bad she couldn’t sleep lying down.)

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We’ve come a long way in two years.

(If God chooses to give us another Tiny Human, we are prepared with all the gear we could ever want to survive the first four months, even with acid reflux.)

Hark! The Martin Family's Schemes!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Zoey never gets a sibling… we are prepared to help one Mama be very happy with all the gear she could want to survive the first four months.

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Either way, this face is more than enough to keep us delighted. She is our celebration. Our miracle. And the reason I am currently rail thin (from chasing after her busy little body).

Just so y’all know… if you dump salt on the solid cherry dining room table… and put a piece of paper on top of that salt and rub… it acts as sandpaper.

Don’t ask how I know that.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Beautiful, Daring, Adventerous Girl.

Mama’s Unstable

I threatened for six months, but no one believed me.

They just gave me that look–the one that says, She’s Unstable Again, But We All Know She’ll Balance Out Before She Does Something Dangerous.

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Then Dangerous just kind of happened. In the form of a 60 lb. yellow labrador retriever.

I dared to bring this giant puppy to live with a dog-hater… namely, me. (Hey, the toddler needed a friend, and a sibling is just not in the works.)

 I do impulsive things when I’m stressed. 

With the book about to release, and a baby who is completely redecorating my house (it only takes ONE red crayon, folks), I thought, Why Not? Why not do one more thing to send me closer to the edge?

 Here’s the part where I tell you how I really snapped when he came home, and how he drives me crazy, and how he chews on everything, and how I’m offering him to the next decent person who will give him a good home. But that’s all fiction.

Non-fiction? I got lucky. He is the only puppy in the world who doesn’t chew on furniture, comes when called, goes to bed when commanded, and sleeps at my feet when I need my space.

 Now if I could just get the dog to train the toddler, I might not be so unstable after all…

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Bekah Hamrick Martin is a writer who can be reached atwww.facebook.com/bekahhamrickmartin, unless she’s on her knees begging God for you to buy a copy of her book, The Bare Naked Truth (Zondervan, 2013).