It’s almost over.  Part of me feels like a college  graduate all over again; that I’m entering a new world, leaving the cramped dorm life and entering into a new  reality of freedom.  And part of me is sad to see it all go.  It could be my last time in this situation – maybe.    The last time I’m pregnant.  

Sure, I want my old skinny body back . . . if that’s  possible.  I look forward to tying my shoe and playing piggy back with my oldest son, whom I feel I’ve neglected these days.  I’m just too huge and tired to chase him on my knees and roll around with him on the floor.

I’m 38 weeks and 2 days pregnant.  I’m a planet by this time.  I could go into labor at any moment.  He doesn’t understand that.  I wonder what goes through his tiny mind.  ”So what!  You’re fat, mom.  Just deal with it and chase me!  Make me giggle!  Be the mom you use to be!  What’s wrong with you?!” Instead, I sit on the floor like a bloated whale, awaiting a chance at being normal again, sad that I can’t play with my son.  Unable to explain to an 18 month old.

I don’t feel ready.  We’ve done the maternity pics (see above).  We’ve washed the carseat and the bassinet.  But, we haven’t washed the clothes or packed a hospital bag or organized the baby’s room to my liking.  I fret and stress, but I know it’ll get done.  

In the end, I won’t be pregnant anymore.  I’ll be a mom of two and those things that matter so much to me – like cleaning the base boards and organizing the hall closet, won’t matter so much.

It’s 4:30 in the morning and I can’t sleep.  I keep thinking, “And women CHOOSE to do this more than once?  Seriously?”  And then I get sad because I don’t think I can possibly do this again.  I’m not strong enough, not optimistic enough and I just might go crazy if I don’t get my old self back again soon.

I can’t sleep on either side, sitting up or on the floor.  I’ve tried it all.  I can’t breathe.  I can’t eat enough and generally feel like crap . . . and I still have about 7 more weeks to go.  I’m miserable.  

While I’m thankful for the life growing inside me, it’s just not easy.  It’s not easy watching your body turn into a pumpkin, your attitude morph into something like that of the Incredible Hulk.  So, as I sit here in the pitch dark, trying not to wake my husband who is asleep on the couch – who can blame him for not coming to bed with a crazy woman? – I do my best to think of the positive, to watch the time tick away and focus on the miracle of new life kicking inside me.

I’m a house.  

I’m losing my balance and crying for no reason.  I can’t sleep for fear of having a heart attack – my heart races and I can’t breath when I lay down so I sleep sitting up.  

I have how many more months?  Two!  Nine weeks to be exact.  I’m trying to embrace it because I don’t know if I’ll get to do this again, but it’s not for the weak.  I’m running a marathon – carrying an extra 15 pounds around while chasing a 16 month old who thinks it’s hilarious to run out into traffic.  And his brother has decided that it would be great fun to kick the tar out of my insides, perhaps make a punching bag of my bladder.  I have feet sticking out of my sides and elbows in my ribs.

God, help me to enjoy even the uncomfortable, exhausting moments for this is truly a gift.

 . . . you know something is up.  I was washing dishes and eventually noticed that I was kid-free.  No pulling on my leg.  No whining at my feet.  The house was quiet.  I decided to investigate.  This is what I found . . . 

I did the unthinkable. I left my child for the first time. For four days. The first day was painful, but I realized it was much needed time away with my husband.
On our way to Michigan we stopped in Ohio for the night. On July 4th we visited the Rock and Roll Museum Hall of Fame, which I highly recommend. It was amazing!
The next day, we made another long and uncomfortable trip to Michigan where we attended the Rob Bell’s Poets, Prophets and Preachers conference. While I’m not a Poet (well, not really), Prophet or Preacher, it gave me insight into how the sermon is constructed, how much thought my husband has to put into creating something meaningful and non-sedative. It was truly enlightening.

And for those times when pregnant me became too uncomfortable for those seemingly comfortable for a moment chairs, I walked around the lobby just observing. And what I saw was beautiful.
I watched from afar for a few days as a young white mother kissed her African American baby who sat beaming in a stroller. The husband would soon show up to do the same, both parents adoring their child. Color didn’t matter. When I finally approached her, not sure of how to broach the subject, I said, “I just need to know your story.” She smiled and told me of how this little one was abandoned, believed to be nine months and lovingly adopted by them. I was touched.
I also observed the sweetest elderly couple as the husband pushed his wife around in an uncooperative wheelchair, down a ramp and into the womens’ bathroom, day after day. Always smiling. Never complaining. He watched until she was out of sight, making sure she was safe.
There were so many other things I observed in and out of the conference such as the way a stranger looked into my eyes with so much compassion and kindness while she served me communion. “The Body of Christ . . .”
A pastor lost his job due to his attendance at the conference so a collection was taken for him. I’m sure he left with a year’s worth of salary. The generosity of people blew me away.
All beautiful things. A beautiful time away with my husband.

20 weeks

I’m there.  I’ve finally reached week 20.  Actually, as I am typing this I am on week 21, but week 20 is what I want to focus on here.  Up until the 3rd month, I was wondering if it’d really happen.  If I’d really have a baby at the end of this.  Risk of miscarriage is so high before three months.  But, it seems that there is really a baby in there, that this is reality.  With every kick and wriggle, I am starting to believe I should start to prepare myself.  We’ve acquired a used crib that we’ll pick up in July, and I’ve surveyed the various bedding patterns.  My to-do lists are made, and I am trying my best to organize the whole house because I know that once my crying babe arrives, I’ll have an extra appendage and no ability to even eat or sleep, much less organize a pantry.    

I am simply loving pregnancy.  I feel good despite exhaustion and overwhelming mood swings.  (The Baby Story sends me into crying jags every time.)  Nausea gradually left me until one day I woke up and thought – Huh.  I feel okay.  When did that happen?

On June 15th we found out that  . . . . IT’S A BOY!!  For some reason, this makes things more real to me.  There is a little man growing inside me.  Amazing.  We haven’t chosen a name yet so as I watch my stomach rise and fall, pop and kick, I call him “little man” or “hey buddy.”  I talk to him and tell him how much I love him.  To keep growing. That I can’t wait to see him.

A room with a view

I’m not a good traveler.  I’m not even going to pretend. Especially right now, I’m a cranky mama.  You could probably see evidence of this when I argued with the flight attendant as he told me that I must move to another seat.  ”But, my son is finally asleep!!  Do you know what a miracle that is?!”  

No, I’m not a good traveler and I’m sure my husband hates me.  As much as I want to lie to myself and say, “Well, I’m not THAT bad”, no, I really am.  However, it was our first family vacation and after the rough start, I was determined to adjust and put on a smile.  

Aruba is . . . . well, windy.  I’m not talking a light breeze.  It’s hurricane force winds everyday.  It’s sundress over your head, big loopy earrings ripping bigger holes in your ears kind of wind.  There was no need to wear make up or blow dry your hair.  It was a week of looking natural, which is good, I guess.  

The beaches were beautiful, the resort was amazing, our room was the biggest hotel room I’d ever stayed in.  And I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open to enjoy it.  That might have been because I slept with tiny feet kicking me in the face all night – or worse – in my pregnant belly.  Our 13 month old  decided his hotel crib was not to his liking and cried his way into our bed . . for the whole week!

There were many late nights that we walked into town for dinner, hoping that our son would survive the off schedule and be an angel.  No such luck.  We threw cheerios at him, gave him steak and ribs, pineapple and fries, took him for strolls while our family members finished their Brazilian coffee and creme brulee, hoping he’d fall asleep.  And he would.  However, we’d hear his cries of distress at 1:30 in the morning as the fries and ribs revolted in his stomach.  One night he wouldn’t stop crying for an hour.  The neighbors even called.  We didn’t answer the phone.  How dare them, really.

Days were spent preparing for the beach, grocery or souvenir shopping.  The grandparents took our son for the afternoons which was really nice and beneficial for all involved – this way they got to know each other better, and I got to gather my sanity again.

The high point of the vacation was watching our son enjoy the sand and water.  While not sure of it at first, he quickly reveled in the mess and the salt, even pausing to put a cigarette butt or a piece of already chewed gum into his mouth, much to my horror.  

And when all was said and done and we were on our way home, I was sighing deeply, knowing memories were captured and I had indeed found a point of relaxation – finally.

Before the meltdown

A fine mist falls outside my window.  My eyes are scratchy and I’ve just eaten my second breakfast of the morning.  I am in desperate need of some sunshine.  A walk in the park.  An iced mocha.  A pep in my step.  

My son sleeps upstairs, and I know I should be sleeping as well. I haven’t been sleeping lately, probably due to my incessant need to eat peanut butter sandwiches at 2am and pee four to five times during the night.  And why?  Well, it’s all because of two pink lines.  The two pink lines we saw on a pee stick about 14 weeks ago.  These beautiful pink lines announced a big change, a growing belly, two kids in diapers and the start of a panic attack. It told of something I had no idea could really happen.  

And in the midst of grasping this amazing reality that our family will be growing come October, we were planning a one year old birthday party – something I am not adept at doing.  Party planning is always stressful to me, but thankfully, it all went quite well.  Our son chose to be cranky that day, not eat, not dig into his beautifully made white cake so that we could capture pictures that we would pull out when he is a teenager, showing him the mess he made.  Nope, those memories were not captured.  But, the party went off without a hitch anyway.  We had quite the spread of food, and friends and family celebrated a wonderful first year with our son.

And so we go . . . . enjoying the milestones of a happy, active – and sometimes cranky- toddler while planning to start this process all over again.  And we couldn’t be more grateful.

Nathan, 9 months

It’s been a glorious nine months with our Nathan.  He is happy, healthy and full of energy!  He has four teeth, more hair everyday – dark and straight, and he crawls at lightening speed. Nathan is also pulling up and cruising.  I believe he’ll walk by his first birthday.  His laughter is contagious and when he smiles, his eyes light up.  

He says “Ama” which I take to mean “Mama”, and he just started saying “Dada”.  Tim seems to think he’s just making sounds;  that he doesn’t really know what he’s saying, but I disagree.

He just had his 9 month appointment and while he didn’t appreciate the heel prick, he checked out healthy and with a good set of lungs on him.  Geesh – that boy can cry!  He is 20 lbs. 1 oz. (50th percentile) and 30 inches long (95th percentile).

Nathan’s first time on the beach

We had our first trip to Florida in January and that was almost regrettable as it  has taken us this long to get back to sleeping through the night.  He never slept well in Florida, but for my family to see him . . . I suppose it was worth it.  Please pray for us as we are to fly to Aruba in May.  I’m praying a lot about that one.

Nathan opens his first gift.

His smile lights up a room. This was the best Merry Christmas I could have ever gotten. While he didn’t travel well to Pennsylvania to see family, (I mean, really – who likes to be restrained in a carseat for 2 1/2 hours?) we still enjoyed the memories and having our son with us this first Christmas.