Would you like to know what I’ve been pondering since we left the hospital?  —> How in the world can I truly thank all the people who have helped support us through everything?

I'm totally cracking up over the subject matter for today's March May Challenge post.  Favorite food?  Seriously?  My favorite food has been changing second by second during the last nine months, and sometimes my favorite food is non-existent.  Food?  Nasty stuff!

In the past, tacos have been my favorite, but they have to be homemade tacos.  I'm picky.  Any traditional breakfast food has always been a safe bet as well.  Eggs, bacon, biscuits, hashbrowns...yum! 

In fact, is it lunchtime yet?  Cause I just made myself hungry.

Hmm, upon further analysis, never mind.  I am NOT hungry.  Blech.

I've been thinking about my pregnancies, and how different they all were in food cravings.  With Liberty, I craved only raw fruits and vegetables, and the thought of meat made my stomach turn.  I never could fit an entire meal into my tummy while she was in there, so I ended up snacking every couple hours.  I lost close to fifty pounds while I was pregnant with Liberty, and I felt so energetic and full of vitality. 

With Mercy, I craved meat and potatoes and all manner of desserts, mostly chocolate (which was highly unusual because prior to Mercy's gestation I hated chocolate of all sorts).  The smell of salad or any type of vegetation sent me running for the nearest receptacle.  I paid the price for my eating habits, too.  I ended up with gestational diabetes with Mercy Jane, and I gained thirty pounds.

This little girl, on the other hand...well, I've been all over the board with her.  Most of the time, I don't want to eat ANYTHING.  And when I do, it just comes back up again anyway.  Then there are times when all I want is a plate full of deep green crunchy vegetables full of refreshing, watery goodness.  Some days I cannot get enough sugar, and I've lived on drive-thru milkshakes for every meal of the day.  Other days, potatoes in any form take control of my brain.  But I'd have to say chips and queso have been my number one craving throughout this entire pregnancy.  Chips and queso and fast food breakfast sandwiches.  Don't judge!

And I've only gained six pounds so far.

Now, why can't that happen when I'm not pregnant?




"What is queso?" you ask before thinking yourself bilingual, "Oh you mean cheese." "NO!" I shout with bitter indignation, "Queso is the golden currency of heaven above, flown down to us by nude cherubs so that we might find a small plot of happiness in our lifetime." This photo and quote are both from www.dishola.com created by Dano who is dedicated to finding the best and most wonderful queso alive in Austin, TX. He is clearly a man after my own heart.

I saw a woman the other day.  She was about my age, in her early thirties.  She hobbled slowly as she walked because she was probably close to eight and a half months pregnant.  I saw her take a step and wince, one hand putting pressure on her lower back, presumably trying to alleviate an angry sciatic nerve in her left leg.  She wore a wrinkled turquoise maternity top and stained khaki shorts - most likely because the waistband on those shorts was the only waistband left in her closet that fits around her tummy.  Her brown hair hung limply waving of its own accord in various directions.  Her bangs were pulled back with a metal barrette away from her face in an unflattering way.  I wondered if her pregnancy hormones were getting the best of her wayward bangs, too, thus prompting the desperate barrette move.  Another glance at her face confirmed this presumption on my part because I noticed a large red zit to the left of her chin.  Yep.  Score another point for the hormones.  Poor lady.  She looked miserable and downhearted.

I wondered if waiting the final weeks for her baby's arrival was causing her a slight depression the way it does for me?  I've never been good at waiting.  I wondered if she felt as unattractive and unnecessary as I do?  Eight and a half months of inability will do that to a person's psyche. 

As I watched her attempting to put on a brave front and walk without too much wincing, an older gentleman approached her from the opposite direction.  He glanced at her face as he approached, and she glanced at his.  She halfway smiled/grimaced at him while once again her left foot touched the floor.  She self-consciously took her hand from her back and held it loosely at her side, attempting to look normal.  Then her smile brightened perceptibly.  It became genuine and lost most of the grimace.  I'm not sure what caused the change, but I wonder if it stemmed from her desire not to look so pathetic to others?  A desire to spread joy rather than misery?  Or maybe even a realization that she wasn't representing her true state of mind to someone who needed to see God with her?

Whatever the cause, it had a dramatic impact on the white-haired man.  He did a double-take just as he passed her and said, "What a beautiful smile!" 

"Thank you!" she responded.  Her voice reflected appreciation and surprise.

The two of them continued on their opposite paths.  I could no longer see his face, but the pregnant woman's reflected equal parts pleasure, surprise, and pondering.  I have no idea what she was thinking, but the misery and downheartedness I had noticed earlier was erased even though her left hand returned to supporting her back at each step.  She glanced in a nearby shop window and smiled big.  At first I thought she was checking out her own "beautiful smile" reflection, but then I realized she was smiling at two people inside the store.  I watched them.  They did not seem to know her, but one hesitantly returned the smile.

The lady passed from my sight, and I was left pondering the difference a gentleman made with four words, and the difference the lady made in her own life with her choice to truly smile despite her feelings.

I received a confirmation phone call this morning from the hospital where our C-section will be done.  They scheduled all the details with me, and after I got off the phone, I sent the following email to Jeremy.


Hi, Daddy!

Your daughter is scheduled to be delivered on Wednesday,
June 5th at 7:30 am.  We are required to be at the hospital at 5:30
in the morning because there are insane people in this world. 

I am not allowed to eat that morning, so I will be extremely mad at you
if you get something amazing to eat.  Plan to suffer with a bowl of
plain oatmeal.

I'm totally kidding.  A granola bar would also be acceptable.

I love you!
Missy


Then I waited in anticipation of whatever hilarious response he would send back detailing all of his scrumptious breakfast plans for that morning.


Missy,

YAY!!!!!!

I look forward to it!  HAPPY US!!!!

Love, Jeremy


Either he was afraid that assuming I was joking would do to him what assuming usually does to people, or he is so excited about the baby that my joke was secondary in his thought processes. 

Maybe both?

This is a post that has been rumbling around in my heart since the middle of February.  I started writing my February pregnancy posts with the intention of leading up to this post, then the March Challenge took over my blog, and since then I've been too sick to type.  However, if you'll bear with me, hopefully I'll come up with a few words that adequately communicate what is in my heart.  We'll see.

It all started in early September when I thought I had the flu.  I didn't.  I just had the world's worst pregnancy.  (Why yes, I do tend to exaggerate.  Why do you ask?)  After five months of vomiting (seriously, how many times can I fit that word into my blog posts lately, I wonder?) and general nausea and passing out and extreme weakness, along with all the crazy emotions I described working through in my February posts, all I wanted was to be able to enjoy being pregnant. 

One Sunday in February, I forced myself to get ready for church, knowing that it probably wasn't the smartest move on my part.  I mean, no one enjoys sitting in church wondering if the person behind them is going to upchuck into their hair.  But lying around the house wishing you were dead gets old after a while, and I needed to see the outside world.  So I stumbled around, shakily getting dressed.  Of course, the moment we were all ready to walk out, I began throwing up.  Daddy and the girls rushed to the car to avoid all the lovely noises, and I stood in the bathroom vomiting into the sink while feeling hot urine trickle down my right leg.  TMI?

While I stood there experiencing heave after heave after heave and fresh bursts of warm liquid on my leg each time, I became very angry.  Not just a little annoyed.  Not just mad.  Big Hot Anger.  You know, I had spent the last several months surrendering and making peace with all the living and dying my babies had been doing around me, and I was finally ready to fully embrace being pregnant and enjoy it to its fullest extent.  And here I was, five months into it with still nothing enjoyable about it. 

I stood there in the aftermath, shaking, wiping my mouth, legs spread wide over the damp bathroom rug and crying loud angry tears.  "God!  I'm finally happy about this pregnancy.  So why can't I just enjoy this good thing You have done for me?!"  I would have yelled if I'd had the energy.

Jeremy came in from the car while I leaned unsteadily against the shower wall, steaming water mixing with my tears and washing my skin.  "Are you okay?" he asked carefully. 

"No," I barely uttered, my throat hoarse from choking sobs.  "You guys should go to church without me."  They were already going to be late.

He silently picked up the pretty clothes that I had been wearing fifteen minutes before which were now angrily discarded all over the bathroom floor.  He took them and the now soiled rug by the bathroom sink to the laundry room and started a fresh load of laundry.  Then he returned to the muggy bathroom and said, "We'll wait for you."

I didn't have the energy to respond.  I continued crying in the shower, pouring out my frustration to my God Who already knew, Who already felt it all, Who already held me in His arms and cried with me. 

By the time I was ready again and dressed in a new outfit, my family had completely missed the first hour of church which for us is Sunday School.  We'd be there in time for the main service, though.  I still felt shaky, and Jeremy tried to get me to eat something.  I'd learned my lesson though -- I wasn't about to reenact the bathroom scene from earlier that morning!  I dully got into the car, pasted a smile on my face for Liberty and Mercy's sake, and we all headed to church.

Our pastor, Clare, asked us to open our Bibles to Exodus chapters 32 and 33 where the Israelites chose to make and worship a calf made out of gold instead of God.  God, of course, was angry, and told them that He was still going to give them the promised land with all its wonderfulness and blessings, but He was sick of them and would no longer go with them to the wonderfulness.  They could still have all the good -- just without God.

Then Clare asked us to think of the one thing we wanted most in the whole world.  Well, at that moment, that was very easy for me -- I just wanted to enjoy this pregnancy.  No more sickness, no more emotional crazy, no more weakness.  Just fun, and happiness.  After all, I'd already worked through the emotional crazy, all I needed was for God to take away the physical pathetic-ness that I had no control over.  Next Clare asked, "Would you be willing to trade God's daily presence in your life for this thing that you desire?"  He paused while we thought that question over.  At least, I think he paused.  I know I didn't hear anything more that he said after that because my heart turned that question over and over and kept coming to the same conclusion:  Yes!  I would trade God's presence for some physical strength and joyfulness in this pregnancy.  I would let go of God, if He would just give me relief from this constant nausea, vomiting, passing out, weakness.  If He would just give me the energy to enjoy the gestation of this longed-for baby, I would part ways with Him. 

I don't know how long I pondered that, but eventually I started talking to God about it.  Would You? Please, God?  I just want to enjoy this pregnancy.  I really, really do.  I'm so happy about the baby now.  Finally!  I want to enjoy being pregnant like I did with Liberty and Mercy.  I'll let go of You if You'll do this for me.

What a bargaining tool, right?  Offering God something that would break His heart in exchange for a temporary happiness that would end up breaking my heart?  I suddenly realized how sad God would be to let me go.  Especially after He'd gone to such lengths to establish a relationship with me.  He left Heaven.  Lived life on earth as a lowly human.  Suffered rejection, humiliation, and torture.  Took my sins into His own absolutely perfect body.  Separated Himself from His own trinity and holy nature to pay for my sins with His death.  Fought Satan and the grave to rise again!  And now that I've chosen to trust Him to cover my sins, He's declared me clean and forgiven without me having anything to do with it!  And since I'm clean now, He in His holiness can hang out with me all the time.  He did all that, suffered all that, just to hang out with me because He likes me!

What a slap in the face, that I would be willing to write all that off as insignificant so that I can have a nausea-free pregnancy.

Then I started thinking about my end of that bargain.  I thought about how God had surrounded me in the shower that morning while I cried and prayed.  About how He had loved me and cried with me and just been there.  I thought about the emptiness I'd feel inside without Him in my life.  I thought about who in the world would I smile and joke with when no one else was around and who would I marvel with when I felt the baby kick in the middle of the night while everyone else was asleep?  Sure, I'd feel great, but I'd also be so alone.

Alone.

The barrenness of going through the rest of my life with wonderful people by my side -- Jeremy, Liberty, Mercy, my family and friends -- but without God in me and around me at all times, felt so empty and lonely.  How would that possibly be worth the trade?

Nevermind!  I told God while I sat there in the church service.  I changed my mind!  And He and I laughed together inside at my foolishness. 

But you know what?  Something amazing happened because of all that.  I never have gotten better physically -- I still vomit usually more than once a day and feel miserable the rest of the day.  I still pass out sporadically.  I still get frustrated when I have to change my clothes at the last minute because I've soiled my current outfit -- but my appreciation of God's presence has drastically increased.  A few weeks ago, I came back to consciousness on the cold tiles of my kitchen floor, and my first thought was a happy exclamation of our inside joke, But You're still with me!

On days when my energy level has dropped so low that I can barely speak above a whisper, and people ask me innocently, "How are you feeling today?"  Inside I'm laughing joyfully, God is WITH me!  Outside, I nod, try to smile, and figure out the shortest truth I can muster past my un-cooperating lips.  Which is usually a naming of the countdown day.  (Today I have 41 days left till the baby is born.)  But underneath it all, there is constant VICTORIOUS JOY! 

I've learned to enjoy this pregnancy whole-heartedly even while vomiting into the closest sink.  It's not really something I can adequately describe to you, but it is certainly concrete and amazing.  What a wonderful gift -- GOD IS WITH ME! 

And I once thought about bargaining Him away from me.  Silly me!

So.  We visited the hospital on Thursday.

That was not on my list of things to do in my spare time.

I started feeling strangely at work, and on my way home, I called my mommy and described the odd sensations in my uterus.  Cramping, contractions, a general feeling of desperately needing to have a bowel movement...and she said, "How far apart are the feelings?"

"Oh just off and on throughout the day.  More on than off recently, I guess."

"Uh-huh.  How far apart?"

So I started timing them.  "About six minutes."

"Call Jeremy and then call your doctor," she told me. 

But you know me.  I march to the beat of my own drum.  I called Jeremy and told him I may or may not be in labor.  "Don't rush home.  Just thought I'd let you know."

He told me to lie down once I got home.  Relax.  Breathe deeply.  Let the kids watch a movie or something.  He was going to finish things up at work and come home.

Two hours later, Jeremy still wasn't home.  The cramping/contractions were about three minutes apart.  And I'd been lying flat on my back the whole time.

I called Jeremy again.  He was driving home.  I called my friend Trina who told me to call my doctor.  My doctor's answering machine told me to go straight to the hospital if I thought I was in labor, and the hospital would let him know that I was there.  The trouble was, it didn't feel like labor.  At least, not like the labor I'd had with Liberty.  (Mercy was a scheduled C-section, so I never had labor with her.)  I wasn't sure what to do.  Trina called me back to see what was happening.  I filled her in, and she volunteered to watch Liberty and Mercy while I went to the hospital.  The only problem was, she was out of town for the next hour or longer.  I called my friend Michelle who lives two houses away.  She was also out of town, but would be back in about fifteen minutes which was perfect because the girls had time to pack their overnight bags, I had time to chat with them about the plan for the evening, and Jeremy had time to arrive home from work.

We told the girls that it MIGHT be time for the baby to be born, and we were going to go see the doctor so he could help.  If it was time, they would get to sleep over at Michelle's house, but if it wasn't time, the doctor would tell us to go back home, and they would come back home to sleep here.  Either way, it was a win for them because they would get to spend the evening playing with their friend Stephen who is Michelle's son.  They were so excited, and they rushed off to pack their overnight bags.

*Note to self: I need to get a special bag prepared for them in case this happens unexpectedly again.

Jeremy arrived.  Michelle arrived.  The kids left, and Jeremy, the baby and I got into the car.

It took several hours, but the nurse and doctor at the hospital determined that I was not in actual labor.  I was dehydrated to the point that my body was mimicking labor -- with real contractions and everything.  These were not Braxton Hicks.  They were the real thing.  The only difference was the labor hormone was not being secreted, so I was not dilating. 

So, my mission -- and I choose to accept it -- is not to vomit any more.  Thus ensuring that I do not dehydrate that badly again.  I'm on a strong prescription that seems to be helping.  And I'm drowning this poor baby in water. 

Seriously, if I never have to drink another glass of water again, I will be so happy.

You guys.  I have so many, many things to tell you about and posts writing themselves in my head, and I can't keep track of them all.  I've been so very sick that I haven't even been able to sit at the computer and think in a straight line.  Only seven weeks left!  And if I'm still sick after this baby girl is born...well, sometimes it feels like that might be possible.  Like the vomiting will never end.

Oh well.

On to more fun and interesting things.  What to tell you first?

Well, first, I HAVE to brag on my two girls.  Liberty and Mercy have been amazing little kids these past nine months.  I mentioned in this post about how they are on alert all the time for ways to serve me.  They've figured out that when my body suddenly goes very still and I have a certain look on my face they'd better run for a bucket.  I don't have to say a word.  One girl tells the other girl, "Hurry!  Mommy needs a bucket!"  And they both take off running.  Whoever gets to the cabinet first grabs the bucket and runs back with it.  Whoever is second grabs a cup and fills it with water and runs it back to me.  Then they both get out of the room so they can't hear the sound effects, and the whole time they're running, they're praying out loud, "God, please help Mommy not throw up!  Please help her tummy to feel better!" 

A few mornings ago we were getting ready for school and work.  We were almost late, not quite, but I decided we'd better eat in the car.  So I dropped three bread slices into the toaster, and grabbed the egg carton out of the fridge.  In a cereal bowl, I scrambled one egg, microwaved it for 50 seconds, dumped the cooked egg onto a piece of toast and called it breakfast.  I scrambled a second egg into the bowl and pulled on the microwave door.  The door swung wide, knocking the glass cereal bowl out of my hand.  The bowl bounced off my belly, ricocheted into the stove top, flipped end over end until it shattered into tiny pieces on the stone tile floor.  I stood there in my work clothes staring dumbly down at the dripping, glassy mess on me and surrounding me and couldn't figure out what to do. 

At this point, two little girls came running into the kitchen to see what all the noise was about.  Four-year-old Mercy surveyed the damage and looked up at me with great compassion.  She reached one hand out to touch my arm and comfortingly said, "It's okay, Mommy.  Sometimes, things like this happen at my school, too."

"Yes," six-year-old Liberty agreed.  "Mommy, we'll clean this up.  You're not supposed to bend down.  Okay, here's what we'll do.  Mercy, you pick up the glass, and I'll wipe up the eggs."

"I don't want to pick up the glass," Mercy calmly stated.

"Okay, I'll pick up the glass and you wipe up the eggs."

"I don't want to wipe up the eggs."

"Here's the deal, Mercy," Liberty actually used those words, and if I hadn't been about to cry at that moment I would have had trouble keeping my laughter to myself, "someone HAS to pick up the glass, and someone HAS to wipe up the eggs.  Now which one are you going to do?"

Mercy decided to pick up the glass, but she would only touch pieces that were not completely slimy with egg.  While the girls worked on the floor, I worked on cleaning myself and my clothing.  After a few minutes, I realized this huge job would not be finished for quite a while, and so I told the girls that we would have to leave the mess to get to school and work on time.  "But Mom," Liberty said incredulously, "the germs!"

"I know, honey, but there's nothing we can do right now.  We'll work on it when we get home this afternoon."

"Okay, but first let me cover it with a towel in case Daddy gets home first so he won't accidently walk on it."

I had no energy to respond, and covering it all with a towel seemed like a reasonable idea.  Liberty sped off to the linen closet and came back with about 45 tiny towels.  She then proceeded to cover the entire floor with itty bitty towels like a patchwork quilt.  I thought about stopping her, but she was being so helpful and so independent.  What's another load of laundry, anyway?  A small price to pay for the happiness serving brought to my daughter.

We drove to school with two girls discussing the pros and cons of various cleaning ideas to employ in the afternoon.

That afternoon, they picked up their conversation just where they'd left off in the morning, and when we pulled to a stop inside the garage, they both jumped out and headed to the kitchen without me.  Liberty found that the towels stuck to the floor but by pulling hard she could pry up the dried egg and the glass too.

I had them place all the towels into a large bowl for Daddy to inspect and decide on when he got home from work because I just wanted to throw them all away but didn't want to trust my own judgment at the moment.  Then we swept all the remaining dried egg and glass shards into the dust pan and emptied them into the garbage.  When Daddy got home, he made the executive decision to toss the towels into the garbage.  Thankfully, Liberty had chosen all of our "spill towels" to clean this mess -- we keep a collection of towels that have all but disintegrated into rags to be used whenever something spills.  Then Daddy mopped the floor with steaming hot soapy water, and everything was back to normal.

Everything, that is, except for my respect for my daughters which had increased considerably (as you can plainly see by the photo below).

I'm not usually a re-poster or a meme-sharer or an email-forwarder, but my friend shared this on her Facebook page, and it touched my heart enough that I wanted it to forever be part of my blog.

The shared post on Facebook stated that the author was unknown.

We are sitting at lunch one day when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family." "We're taking a survey," she says half-joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"

"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.

"I know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations."

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes.

I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking, "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her.

That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a soufflé or her best crystal without a moments hesitation.

I feel that I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

I want my daughter to know that every day decisions will no longer be routine. That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.

However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself.

That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor.

My daughter's relationship with her husband will change, but not in the way she thinks.

I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his child.

I think she should know that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving.

I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike.

I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time.

I want her to taste the joy that is so real it actually hurts.

My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. "You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reached across the table, squeezed my daughter's hand and offered a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings. 

Since I have a March challenge to live up to, I'd better wrap up my pregnancy posts quickly now.  Before starting this post, you can read through the series in order, here.

From the very beginning, I told you I had been dreadfully sick.  Not your average pregnancy morning sickness sick, but constant, never stopping, nausea and vomiting kind of sick with lots of weakness thrown in for good measure.  It looked like the flu.  It felt like the flu.  It must be the flu, right?

Wrong.  It was just this baby who thinks he or she needs to be in charge of my entire life. 

With the question of life or death out of the way -- HOORAY! -- I began to realize, I'm going to have a baby.  I'm GOING to have a baby.

Oh my goodness.  A baby?

Confession:  I've never been a fan of the first six months of life.

I know many ladies who drool over babies and want to hold every baby in their vicinity.  That's not me.  Don't get me wrong; I love children.  I just enjoy them more when they can interact with me and wipe their own bottoms, that's all.  Maybe it's a laziness thing.  Maybe it's a selfishness thing.  Call it what you will, but that's the truth about me.  I am not a baby person.

I can hear you gasping from over here.  Maybe you could pipe down?  You know, for appearances sake?  Sheesh, this blogging-from-the-heart thing can really be a downer.

I spent the first two months vomiting and thinking I was going to die from the flu.  I spent the next three months vomiting and thinking I was going to die from the baby.  The funny thing is, I had two very intense and opposite feelings going on at the same time.  The first part of me was so thankful that my baby was going to live (barring any unforeseen circumstances), and the second part of me was reluctant and resentful that in nine months I would no longer be able to sleep through the night, or eat a warm supper, or wear any clothing without spit up stains on them. 

Can you say attitude adjustment?  Because I needed one.  Badly.

This is not something that you hear people share with each other everyday.  "By the way, that baby that I was so afraid was going to die.  I'm afraid it's going to be born."  The irony did not escape my notice.  What is wrong with me?  I wondered.  "Am I really that selfish?"  And what scared me even more was the resentment building inside me.  "Will I even be able to like this baby when it's born?"  I really wanted to like my child. 

You all probably think I'm a terrible monster right now.  But I know someone, somewhere, is feeling this way, too.  And I want you to know: someone besides you has been there.  I've been there.

Jeremy's excitement over this baby grew daily.  He loved to talk to my tummy and feel the baby even though the movements were not strong enough to be felt on the outside yet.  He asked about it all the time, and I felt so guilty that I didn't want the child...and mad at Jeremy that HIS life was not going to change so dramatically in nine months.  HE would still be able to leave the house at his normal time and do his normal work and come home and SLEEP at night if he wanted to.  *I* was the only one who'd need to sacrifice for this baby. 

I pulled anger around me like a comfort-blanket and snapped at everyone in my house.  I hated the way I felt, and I hated the way I was acting, but I couldn't seem to stop myself.  I wondered if it was only hormones causing this?  Or maybe the constant sickness?  I'd heard of pregnancy-related depression and wondered, could this be that?  Should I talk to a doctor about this?  I cried out to God, asking Him for help to get rid of this feeling.  I hinted to a couple friends that I wasn't looking forward to "afterwards," and they commiserated, agreeing with me those first baby months are no picnic.  But I didn't tell anyone the extent of my feelings.  I felt too guilty over them, and many of my friends want a baby so badly that I felt my sharing would be more a slap in the face to them than anything else.

I've hidden intense feelings from Jeremy before, and that only got me deeper into trouble.  A small voice of reason kept reminding me of those days.  Sure I was talking to God honestly about my feelings, but He gave me Jeremy for a purpose -- and not just a baby making purpose, either.  "Two are better than one because they have a good return for their hard work.  If either should fall, one can pick up the other. But how miserable are those who fall and don’t have a companion to help them up!"  (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)  God had given me Jeremy.  I needed to tell him.

But would he understand?

He didn't.  Not really.  He told me not to worry so much about those feelings; it was probably wacked out hormones.  He told me I had been so sick that I wasn't able to really think straight.  And that was absolutely accurate.  I'd been vomiting so much that I was passing out from time to time.  The doctor had put me on anti-nausea medication, but it wasn't stopping the nausea.  A friend had given me essential oils, but they only helped sometimes.  I wasn't sleeping at night because lying down seemed to make the nausea worse.  Standing definitely made it worse.  Sitting helped slightly, so I sat in one place all day long and tried hard not to move.  I truly was exhausted and unable to think straight, and in the meantime I had to transport Liberty and Mercy to and from school, feed them, clothe them, bathe them.  (Well, Jeremy stepped in and began feeding, clothing and bathing the kids, but I still had to get them to and from school, and I still felt the need to be present and active in their lives.)  I was still working every morning at a company thirty minutes from my house.  I still babysat my little friend T every afternoon.  None of these things were optional.  Jeremy's words confirmed what I had been wondering anyway.  It's probably just hormones.  It's probably just exhaustion speaking. 

Credit To: americanpregnancy.org/pregnancyhealth /depressionduringpregnancy.html

But it felt so real and powerful and enslaving.

I tentatively shared a little of this with a friend, more as a confession than anything else, and she hugged me immediately and whole-heartedly.  She groaned with me and told me that when she discovered she was pregnant for the third time while her two-year-old and one-year-old ran in circles around her exhausted body, she cried.  She, too, kept those feelings to herself and faked excitement for her husband's sake.  She, too, felt guilty and wondered if she would be able to love her baby.  After months of reluctant pregnancy and dreading her future, she finally said something to her sister-in-law who had five kids of her own.  Her sister-in-law hugged her and told her she was normal.  Her sister-in-law had also felt this way with her fifth child.  My friend assured me that at some point in time, I would love this baby. 

Her story made me feel slightly better, but I reminded myself that her situation was different than mine.  She and her sister-in-law had legitimate reasons to dread a new baby.  They both had small kids at home, and adding a new one would be difficult to keep up with physically.  Their reasons for dreading the new arrival were more noble than mine, I told myself.  They were thinking of their small children and the impact on them.  I was thinking only of the life of ease I had planned out for myself, and the starting over that a new baby would require.  My children were old enough to take care of themselves for the most part.  My children were gone all day at school for the most part.  A new baby would only inconvenience my fun, not put a drastic strain on my family.  I felt extremely selfish.

I mentioned this carefully to another friend of mine, and she stood with me 100%.  It turns out, she had felt the same way when she was pregnant with her now 18 month old.  At the time, she had one child who had grown out of baby-hood and an "easy" life.  Her concerns also stemmed from not wanting to put in the work to raise another child, rather than any real problems that would come of having another at this point.  Her husband also dismissed her feelings as "just hormones."  Seriously?  It would be nice if men had hormones.  I'd love to use that line on them.  (And that is not bitterness talking, I promise.)  The truth is, hormones or not, those feelings are REAL.  They are not dismissible.  My friend also wondered if she would ever be able to feel anything but resentment for her baby when he was born, and she assured me that when the time came she was able to love him with all her heart.  More than that, she told me I was normal.  I wasn't some hideous monster for feeling this way.  There wasn't something wrong with me.  That conversation helped too, but it didn't take the feelings or the guilt over the feelings away.

I continued bringing my feelings consistently and earnestly to God multiple times a day.  I knew HE understood why they were there and what was causing them, and I knew He wouldn't reject me for the horribleness in my heart if those feelings were wholly selfish. 

Months passed.

At my twenty-week appointment, I had another ultrasound.  My tech friend who had cried with me joyfully over the non-threatening fibroid at week eight covered me once again with a paper sheet and spread gel over my abdomen.  I watched curiously as she took pictures from every angle imaginable examining all organs and taking measurements.  I kept waiting for the news.  Is it a boy or a girl?  But she kept quiet.

Finally, I could wait no longer.  "So..." I casually inquired, "can you tell if it's a boy or a girl?"  Although I'd be fine with either sex, I really wanted a boy.  We've never had one of those.

"Oh!  I thought you wanted to be surprised," she responded.

"NO!  I want to know!"

She flipped the wand to a new section of my tummy and pressed in.  The screen showed unrecognizable lines and blurs.  "She's a girl!"  She announced happily.  "Definitely a girl."

And out of nowhere it hit me.  Pure happiness!  No reluctance anywhere!

I wanted to push that wand away and wrap my arms around my gel-covered belly.  I wanted to skip the belly altogether and hold my precious girl in my arms.  I wanted to have this baby now.  Four more months suddenly seemed way too long to wait before I could hold my baby.  I could picture snuggling with her in the rocking chair at home the way I had snuggled with Liberty and Mercy.  I could picture gazing into her little face and talking that quiet mommy-talk that has only happened to me when I've held my little babies close. 

I couldn't stop smiling.  "God," I breathed, "look what You just did for me!"  And I sat and marveled over the long-desired joy that had come to vibrant life while a flimsy paper sheet stuck to my gooey skin.

To Be Continued...

This is the final guest post by my friend.  If you're just joining us, you'll probably want to read Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Intermission One, Intermission Two, Part Five and Guest Post One before starting in on this post.  Otherwise, you'll be hopelessly confused.  :-)  Whew!  That was a lot to type out and link to!

And now, here is her post.

The Bible verse that started my thoughts on a new path was Luke 11:11, where a child asks for bread, and the father gives him the good thing that he asked for instead of a rock.  My dad once gave me a rock for Christmas, possibly to teach me something about the nature of God but most likely just to see the look of confusion on my face until he showed me the real gift.  My miscarriage after a pregnancy that I wasn't necessarily trying for seemed kind of like God saying, "You didn't ask for this bread, but here it is," only to come back before I'd even had a chance to enjoy the warm aroma and replace it with a rock.

But, I know that's not what God is really like, so there must be some other explanation.

What's in this box? I hope it's not a rock. Hmm, it looks kind of like dirt.  Smell it?


Credit To: shanegenziuk Creative Commons

It's coffee!

Have I been mistaking coffee for dirt all this time?

When I want to talk about stuff like this, I turn to Missy.  I love Missy.  She and I can be blunt with each other in a way most people aren’t.  In our Skype conversation, she proposed the idea that God had been giving me opportunities, and I’d been wasting them.  Did I mention that I love Missy?  Though at the time I was not ready to hear her words, they were just what I needed to hear.   So, prompted by the words of Missy and of Linda (the author of a blog post I linked in my previous post), I began to consider what I’d been doing with God’s gifts.

I realized that He has been offering me good gifts. Some I’ve accepted but not appreciated, and others I’ve been letting slip away, either through fear or neglect.

First of all, it is entirely unfair of me to act like I’m not thankful for my marriage.   (Re-reading the last line of my initial letter, I cringe.)   My husband and I don’t have a perfect relationship, but we are there for each other, and we enjoy the vast majority of time we spend together.   We’ve worked on it little by little over the years, but I could still try harder.

As for the other things I lost, it’s not God’s fault that I have neglected my exercise plan for the winter, and He has certainly provided us with a loving church.  It’s my own fear that has kept me from forming close friendships with more of the Christian women around me.  The hardest thing for me to face has been the changes in our lives since I started working from home.  I was not honest with myself about how many opportunities I’ve blatantly wasted.   Some were half-hearted attempts that predictably failed because I didn’t try hard enough.   I rejected others out of hand as too hard or too scary.  So let's count those "losses" as even and focus on the gifts that have come as a direct result of my second miscarriage.

I'm doing what I've always dreamed of doing but never thought I would.  Surprise!  So, why did I mistake this coffee for dirt?  Well, two reasons.  One is that my dream job does not pay very well at the entry level.  And secondly, I have ended up working from home in a branch of my chosen field very far away from my original roots.  But I’m learning my new business better every day, and what’s more, I think it could become my most amazing ministry opportunity yet.

Maybe, if I had been a new mother struggling to bring in a little extra money while dealing with a baby, I would have come to this same career somehow, but timing is everything, and the Lord’s timing is perfect.   I am thankful that I’ve had time to learn the ropes of my new career, and I think that I’ll be able to keep it up even with a baby someday.

Another gift I’ve gained is empathy. I have never stopped believing the principle in Second Corinthians 1:4 that God comforts us so that we may comfort others, but I have wondered several times why experiencing only one miscarriage couldn't have been enough for me to learn this.  The answer, of course, is that God’s timing is perfect and never more or less than we need.  If I were writing my life’s story as fiction, the idea that a longstanding friendship between two women would be tested and strengthened by the shared experience of a fibroid would seem a little contrived and not good drama.  It is, however, the truth, and only one example of how I’ve been able to reach out to someone else with more empathy than otherwise possible.

The final gift (Yes, I’m giving you your blog back soon, Missy) is a greater desire to know the Lord. Through all of this reliving of memories, anger, and tears, I have talked to God in a way that I haven’t in a long time. For the first time in years, my Bible is where I’m turning for real answers and not just that book I read because I’m supposed to.

Over the last week, Missy and I have discussed several deep topics as we tried to uncover the secret of what constitutes a good gift.  In between crying out to God, we’ve been theologians.  Carolyn Custis James says, “We are all theologians,” and she especially encourages women to sit at the feet of Jesus.  When I think that my Father allowed me to go through this to draw me closer to Him, it feels a lot more like a gift.

I still haven’t decided I’m ready to try pregnancy again. Just thinking about it makes my whole body clench up with fear. But, I am ready to pray about it (as opposed to before when my answer was NO WAY), and I’m ready to talk about it with the one person I should have been talking to all along: my husband.

I don't know if I'll ever be a mom (let's save the adoption debate for later).  But, through this, I have determined that if we decide to "give up," it will be a decision made -- not out of bitterness or fear -- but out of faith that that decision is God's plan for our family.


Part Six

This post is a continuation of Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.  See also intermission post one and two.

I waited, resigned to seeing this through to the bitter end.  "God!"  I prayed my same old broken, anguished, un-finish-able prayer again, "God!"

"God!"

"God!" 

My brain was trying to choose submission and peace, but my heart was too full to sort that through or even fully recognize the choice.  Or, in better words, my spirit was willing, but my flesh was weak.  (ha-ha)

When the doctor came back in, he did not reveal any news.  Instead, he explained that although ultrasounds were not normally done at this stage, due to my history of miscarriages and my inability to provide even a ball-park estimate of my last period he wanted to have an ultrasound done.  Then he placed his hand on my shoulder and told me, "Don't worry.  This is just to see what's going on."

Right.

I walked down the hall and entered the darkened room.  The ultrasound technician smiled at me and introduced herself as she helped spread a sheet over me.  "Because the baby will be so tiny," she explained, "we'll need to do a vaginal ultrasound today.  Have you ever had one before?"

"Yes."  After my first miscarriage before Liberty and after my second miscarriage after Mercy.  The memories came flooding back.  The darkened rooms, the ultrasound machines, the unknown, the fearfulness, the pain, the grief. 

"God!"

"There's the heart-beat!" she joyfully proclaimed as she turned the volume up on the machine.

The sound poured over me, filling my soul.  I turned to look at the screen and saw a tiny baby attached to a bubble.  Without warning, silent tears slipped down my face creating pools in my ears, and they would not stop flowing.  Thankfully, tears make no sound in the dark.  I thought about whispering goodbye to the little one on the screen, but the Holy Spirit immediately told me that would not be acting in faith so I remained silent.

"Oh," the technician sounded startled.  "Did anyone ever tell you that you have a fibroid?"

"Uh, no?  What's a fibroid?"

A fibroid is a group of muscle cells that grow more densely together than most muscle cells do.  A fibroid inside my uterus means that the uterine wall in that area can be too dense for an embryo to fully attach.  In my case, most likely, many fertilized eggs had attempted to attach over the years in that one more dense spot and had never been able to, but the five that had been tenacious enough -- one before Liberty and four after Mercy -- were unable to survive in their chosen area because the necessary nutrients and other items could not penetrate the uterine wall to supply them with life.

Because no one knows for sure what causes fibroids, we also don't know what causes them to grow or shrink. We do know that they are under hormonal control — both estrogen and progesterone. They grow rapidly during pregnancy, when hormone levels are high. They shrink when anti-hormone medication is used. They also stop growing or shrink once a woman reaches menopause. ~ From www.womenshealth.gov

I digested this information slowly.  "Where is this baby attached?" I asked.

"Not near the fibroid," she answered, and she turned the biggest, happiest grin my way.  I smiled back through my tears and heaved out a gulping sob of joy.  She laughed along with me and rolled on her stool to the counter to grab a box of tissues.  "These always come in handy in this room!" she said.  I accepted her gift, and the two of us grinned at each other while I wiped my still flowing and thankfully back-to-being-silent tears.

The doctor had more to tell me after the ultrasound.  Things like my due date (June 12th), and my potential c-section date (June 7th -- my birthday), normal things that a mom with a miscarriage looming would not need to concern herself with.  I couldn't stop grinning.

Afterwards, I sat in my car facing into the blaring sunshine and thought some more.  Do you know what this means?  It means that I am not defective.  I have not been somehow causing the deaths of my babies through anything I'm doing or not doing.  It has nothing to do with me.  It's just this stupid body that decided to grow a fibroid without asking my permission.  I'm not a bad mom!  Oh the freedom!  Did you know guilt weighs a LOT?

I must have sat in that parking lot for twenty minutes just soaking all that information in.  Finally, I turned the key and started driving.  This is definitely over-the-phone kind of news, especially to a father as hurting as Jeremy.  I called him as I took the highway entrance ramp.

It took him a long while to cautiously digest it all as well.  After many questions and answers and repeating questions and answers he finally asked, "You mean...there's nothing wrong with my little swimmer guys?" the joyful disbelief almost palpable in his voice.  "I didn't drink too much Mountain Dew before?"

"Oh, Jeremy!" my heart groaned for him.  I had never known.  His guilt had been just as heavy as mine.  And it was all unnecessary.  For both of us.  I wanted to gather him into my arms and make it all go away.  For now I'd have to settle for, "Your swimmers are fine!"

But first, I needed to pull over and vomit.

To be continued...

Another intermission post.  Please read part one, part two, part three, part four and intermission one to catch up if you need to.

The reader with the "what is a good gift" question is still sorting out her second post, but since her comment brought up an important question, I thought I'd stop to share the conclusions that I came to and how I came to them.  Conclusions and the pathways to them will be different for each person and each situation because God loves us so much that He likes to work individually with each of us.  This is simply my experience.

After my third miscarriage, I felt angry, alone, confused, helpless, and so, so sad.  No one I was close to had miscarried to my knowledge.  My own mother had nine successful, full-term pregnancies, and although she was sympathetic as only a mom with a hurting child can be, she had no experience of her own to help me out with my swirling emotions.  Jeremy and I talked about it a bit, but I knew he was hurting, and I didn't want to add my pain to his own, so I kept back a LOT.  Plus, he's a man, and he doesn't see things the way a lady does.  A lady in my church had experienced a few miscarriages after giving birth to two children, and she advised me to simply find joy in my two living children and be content.  (To her credit, that is absolutely not how she meant her words to come across.  I know she struggled long and hard before she could come to a place of peace, but that is the message I took away from our short conversation, and it only left me with more questions and more guilt.)  However, being content wasn't my trouble.  With all of my pregnancies, Jeremy and I weren't trying to get pregnant.  We simply weren't trying awfully hard not to get pregnant -- well, with the exception of these last two pregnancies (this one and the one before that miscarried) with those two we were being more careful not to conceive.  No, my trouble was with all the random emotions and grief left in the aftermath of my babies' deaths.

What do I do with all these terribly strong feelings?  How should I feel?  And more importantly, how should I choose to act regardless of how I feel?  Then, with all the emotions aside, what do these repeated miscarriages say about God?  What in the world could He possibly be thinking?  Why is He okay with this?  Is He okay with this?

I didn't know those answers, so I asked Him.  Over and over and over I asked Him, and a tiny bit at a time, He gave me answers.

He told me things like, "Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!" (Matthew 7:9-11)  I, personally, am a flawed parent, but if my children ask me for something good for them, I will never purposefully give them something harmful.  God, however, is not flawed at all.  He knows everything, and therefore He knows what is harmful and what is not.  He will never, even accidentally, give me something harmful.  He loves me too much.

He showed me that, "Children are a gift from the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward." (Psalm 127:3)  If He flat out tells me that children are a gift, then how can I say they aren't?  Even if they are a gift that I never get to see while I'm on earth, they are still a gift, and God only gives good gifts.

He said, "Don’t be deceived, my dear brothers and sisters. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." (James 1:16-17)   Don't be deceived!  "God, help me not be deceived.  Help me not deceive myself!" I prayed.

Then there was Job, a man in deep distress over the deaths of his children.  "At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship and said:  “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart.  The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.”  In all this, Job did not sin by charging God with wrongdoing."  (Job 1:20-22)   Who am I to judge God's character by what *I* think He should do?  Do I know everything that He knows?

Recently, I read a book called Letters From A Skeptic by Greg and Ed Boyd, a son and father who wrote letters back and forth that ended up being published.  Ed, the father, struggled with a lot of the same questions I found swirling in my heart.  If it is true that God is real, than He either isn't good all the time, or He doesn't really care about my feelings.  Otherwise, how can you explain all the pain and suffering in the world.  One of the things that Greg, the son, points out is that we are looking at it all from a very limited perspective.  We only see our point of view, and our point of view says, "I had a baby, and now I don't.  Where is my baby?  Why can't I keep him or her?  This hurts, and I don't like it at all."  I have a choice.  Do I decide that God is bad because I couldn't keep my baby?  Can I acknowledge that possibly He knows more than I do, and possibly He did the very most wonderful thing He could do by taking that baby back to Heaven so quickly?

Now, let me inform you, I grew up in a solid church that preached the Word of God.  I graduated from a Christian school and went on to attend a Christian college.  (All of this really means nothing.)  What means something is that God has rescued me from the Hell I deserve for the sins I have committed and continue to commit.  I believe whole-heartedly in what God says about Himself in the Bible. 

*But* 

When real, painful life gets played out on the stage of my heart, all the memorized verses in the world don't always mean a whole lot.  There has to be something more.  There has to be Someone more.  That's what God ultimately showed me.

When Mary and Martha grieved so drastically over their dead brother, Jesus did, too.  "When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.  “Where have you laid him?” he asked.  “Come and see, Lord,” they replied.  Jesus wept.  Then the Jews said, “See how he loved him!”" (John 11:33-36)  Sure, He could have stopped it.  He had reasons for not doing so, but His heart is still moved by my grief.

"You yourself have kept track of my misery.  Put my tears into your bottle—aren’t they on your scroll already?" (Psalm 56:8)  Oh yes, He cares.  I know He cares.  His heart is touched with my grief.

God takes an active part in comforting us when we are sad.  "May the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ be blessed! He is the compassionate Father and God of all comfort. He’s the one who comforts us in all our trouble so that we can comfort other people who are in every kind of trouble. We offer the same comfort that we ourselves received from God."  (Second Corinthians 1:2-4)

For me, it came down to this.  Do I really believe what God says in the Bible, or don't I?  He says He is good.  He says He can turn any bad thing into a gift.  He says He loves me and wants to comfort me.  He caused my pregnancies because He is the author of life, and He gives children as gifts.  He did not cause my miscarriages, but He could have prevented them if He chose.  He's God, after all.  But since He is God, He has to know a lot more than I do. 

Maybe I did need to learn contentment with where I was in life.  (And possibly I learned it a little too well, as my next post might show.)  But much more than that, I needed to settle my relationship with God.  I needed to know Who He really is, and what my response to Who He is should be.  Everyone struggling with troubles like this will have different things to work through with God.  My response ended up being to turn turn into His arms for comfort when I couldn't find it anywhere else, to snuggle my face into His chest and cry my eyes out, "This hurts, God!  I don't like it!"  and as He hugged me closer, to acknowledge, "You are good.  I don't understand.  I don't have to understand.  I just need to know that You are good." 

It wasn't magic.  I mentioned earlier that I sat in a strip of sunshine on the couch and decided.  Well, it wasn't a twenty-minute thought process like my blog post made it sound.  It was more like a four-year thought process.  And that decision did not change my emotions, or my sense of loss.  Rather, it confirmed in my mind that God is good.  That is all, really.  God is good, and He proves it to me over and over -- even though He doesn't have to because He is, after all, GOD.

Intermission over until my friend guest posts.  Back to my story...