30 weeks and counting

In case you hadn’t heard, we’re having another baby.

Like, soon.

Wait, what?

“I thought you were only going to have one?” Yea, we were.

“I didn’t even know you were trying!” Well, we weren’t.

But, here we are … and soon SHE will be, too.

It’s been a crazy few months of wrapping our heads AND attempting to wrap our LIVES around the idea of being a family of four. It’s been a lot of adjusting, a short season of grieving, and a little bit of surreal “going through the motions” toward a new reality. With a positive on an OTC pregnancy test, our house got too small, some plans got pushed back a few years, and my career, motherhood and homeschool trajectory got SHOOK.

Unlike my last pregnancy, this one has gone fast (having a toddler to chase makes the time go by faster … or the days blend together, I don’t know). Also, unlike my last pregnancy, this one wreaked havoc on my body from the start. I was tired and dizzy and nauseous the entire first trimester. The second trimester brought heartburn and body discomfort my way early. And this third one? Well, between the heartburn, hormones, shortness of breath, swelling, total fatigue, and anxiety/intrusive thoughts, bleh.

Suffice it to say, I am NOT a fan of pregnancy.

BUT, I am a fan of my daughters. I can’t wait to see Amber as a big sister. I’m so looking forward to seeing how similar and different our youngest will be. I had brothers, so the sister bond is intriguing to me.

She’s got a name. We’ve hired a doula. I’ve scheduled around maternity leave. I’ve stocked up on things. I’ve made the baby registry. So, we’re rolling toward our new reality while she’s kicking me in the ribs.

My hope is to share more here going forward - it’s been a long time coming and as I let go my counseling business (I’ll still be doing life consultation), I anticipate there being more time and energy. So, fingers crossed for here and prayers welcomed for what’s to come!

40 weeks

It’s my due date, and I already have an almost two week old baby girl.

I’m celebrating by changing a dozen diapers, offering up my boobs every couple of hours, trying half a dozen techniques to calm crying (with little, to no, success), and sitting and standing with an excessive amount of caution due to tears in the lady parts.

This ish is hard. Harder than I could have expected. Harder than I wanted. Harder than I would have signed up for. We’ve walked into a very harsh reality. One that is self-doubt inducing, emotionally overwhelming, relationally challenging, and worldview confounding.

In these first days as a family of three, I’ve marveled at her every feature, took thousands of pictures, cuddled her close and posted my pride on social media. But, in and out of those days, I’ve also had what one mom friend called “buyer’s remorse.” I’ve wondered out loud, “what have we done?,” and “what if I’m not wired for this ... what if I forced His hand and she’s going to pay the price for what I lack?” I’ve felt my blood pressure rise, my survival instinct flair up, at a hint of a whimper. I’ve worked hard at breathing deeply when she’s at my breast, hoping against hope that somehow I can spare her reading (and transferring) anxiety from her caregiver. I’ve struggled, tears streaming down my face, just wanting to hear my husband say all these feelings are normal and that I am a good mother, that, somehow, he’s seen me show up and impress him with my maternal instincts. And I’ve cried more, alone on the corner of the couch, when he’s remained silent. 

This is hard. She’s beautiful and precious. And I can’t help feeling like she deserves better than I’m giving her. And that’s all I’ve got right now.

Love. 

37 weeks

Well, nothing about this is enjoyable.  

I feel disgusting. My thighs are - not kidding - double their normal size. I’ve got a double chin developing. I’ve gained 50 pounds. 5-0. These boobs I paid for? No longer sexy. My ankles and feet and hands are swollen. The extra weight has turned into plantar fasciitis pain in BOTH feet. The belly (and she who dwells/moves within) has turned into very regular and painfully acute back pain - especially while sitting or laying down. The influx of hormones equates to sweat-soaked tossing and turning throughout the night, EVERY night. There’s the bruised ribs, from her stretching ... and the pain in my pelvic area EVERY time I stand up. And the itchy, stretching skin? Yea, that just started. And sometimes when I walk? Feels like I just tore my hip out of joint. 

I can’t paint my toenails. Or bend down. Or help do ANYTHING. 

In my discomfort, I’m grouchy and on edge. I legitimately have a new-found compassion and understanding for chronic pain patients. I will never judge your opioid addiction or grouchiness again. Not being able to be and or do what is desired, when it’s desired and how it’s desired is its own kind of hell.

Hell. 

Now, I know I’m supposed to preface or back-end this complaint with commentary on how it will all be worth it - that the temporary struggle pales in comparison to the joy having a child will bring - but I don’t do platitudes. I also don’t speak from inexperience.

So, all I can say is that I hope I like her. I truly hope I have some astonishing measure of magical connection/attachment to this being I helped create. Right now, I’m just marveling (with slight disgust and an ounce of disdain) at my audacity in thinking I had any right or wisdom enough to embark on plotting for parenthood. Foolish human.

I hope she comes soon. I hope she doesn’t. I’m scared of when she does. I’m eager to find out how it plays out. I want a known in all this unknown. I don’t want things to change. I don’t want to be pregnant anymore. I’m worried about what life looks like when we’re permanently three instead of two. I’m a bigger dichotomy then I’ve ever been and it’s driving me a little bit crazy. The hormones are not helping. 

Relaxin sucks. Ironically. 

And that’s all I’ve got for this Mother’s Day morning. Thanks for letting me be real. 

Love. 

i'm an addict

No, seriously. Sugar is my drug of choice. I'm a snob with my vice — I tend toward the chocolate, baked goods, and bready carb iterations that feature quality ingredients (none of the corn syrup nonsense) — but it's a vice, nonetheless. And like any addiction would, it's got a powerful hold on me. I'm a willing slave.

But things have to change. My thighs have moved into unacceptable spaces with unacceptable textures. I'm officially disgusted with myself. I dread the idea of getting into any one of the twenty-plus bathing suits I own and adore. And, as a result, I've started to hyperfocus on the cause of my distress. Unfortunately, I can't do much about the need to exercise right now — a recent heel injury has me laid up for the time being, but I CAN do something about the food ... and, more purposefully, my relationship with food.

I've known for sometime now that I grew up associating food with celebration, reward and freedom (instead of fuel, nutrition and function). More recently, however, I've noticed a tie to boredom. It's hard to admit, but sometimes I'm pretty sure I'm eating just to feel alive and satisfied and excited. It's like a high. And, while it makes all the chemical and psychological sense in the world, I hate admitting that I'm just another unhealthy 30-something American, using food to numb, escape and soothe.

It's astonishing, because this is a dramatic pendulum swing away from the perfectionistic, overtrained, marathon runner I used to be. Maybe you have to land at the other extreme to do the work of finding balance. If so, I'm there. Pregnant, "crippled," and totally there. Not able to ignore it anymore. 

So, I emailed a dietician today. I'm seeing my therapist on Thursday to start talking about the gaps I'm trying to fill with food. So, toward balance I head ... one carrot stick at a time. 

23 weeks

Being pregnant is so weird.

It's exciting. It's humbling. It's terrifying. It's perfectly surreal.

As my belly has grown (and with it, aches and attention), I keep being struck with the thought: Is this real life?

And that thought is not at all unfamiliar. I distinctly remember living with that emotional distance and suspended belief when I got married. Before that, it showed up when he put a ring on my finger. Before that, in the dating.

These romantic ideals and joyful milestones in life ... I can't quite shake the thought that I never fully believed they were for me. I mean, for me, TOO. I think I may have thought I was an exception. And I don't know where that evolved from, but my current (and past) bewilderment seems to indicate there has to have been a genesis, right?

Regardless, the fact that there's a living, moving being in my abdominal region right now? The idea that I might actually be a real mom, tasked with the gift of loving and raising a human in just a few short months? It's all just SO weird. That this is happening.

But I'm grateful, even if not fully conscious to it all yet.