Taking The Leap: Third Baby Fears

It feels kind of weird announcing this on here since I announced it on social media so long ago and am only just now getting around to blogging it, but that's what happens when you've got a sweet little thing inside of you that's been making you feel a little icky. Yes, that's right - it's official. I am pregnant with our third child.

It's fascinating how different the reactions to the third are from the reactions to the first or second. It is less 'yay' and more 'whaaaaat?!' I can only imagine what the reactions will be like if we ever spring for a fourth. You'd think we were Duggaring it up over here. (Side note: I think the Duggars are lovely, but I don't think we'll go for nineteen.)

I have always loved the idea of having a big family and would love to have even another one day, but you guys, pregnancy is no joke. It has been a rough few months in our household – lots of gagging and wretching on my part, and lots of TV watching and self-entertaining on the kids' part. I'm at 16.5 weeks now, and the morning sickness ('morning' – ha!) is definitely better, but there is certainly some lingering queasiness here and there. I think this baby is plotting. (“YOU SHALL HAVE NO MORE AFTER ME, BWA HA HA!”) Meanwhile, the crazy husband is already planning the fourth...

Going from one child to two felt easier to me than going from zero to one. When you have a first baby, especially when you've had a loss prior, everything is terrifying. From worrisome ailments to inexplicable crying (both child and parent), caring for your very first newborn is quite the trial-and-error phase of life. But with the second you actually feel like you know what you're doing. That was especially true for me since they were so close in age – I never actually left baby mode. It's a little different now that the age difference is slightly larger, and that's just one of the many things I get nervous about. I'm starting over in the baby phase. Yikes!

It would be easy for me to fear all the unknowns about this new endeavor. What's going to be different with three? Am I going to be overwhelmed? Will this baby sleep? What if something goes wrong?

There are so many things in life I could fear, but when I consider all that's taking place in the world, that seems to put it into perspective a bit. Having a baby shouldn't be toward the top of that list of things to be fearful of (although, having recently been in the throes of first trimester woes, I will say that three months of consistent nausea is a totally legit thing to fear). In every new phase of life there is room for fear, but I've got to cast that aside and embrace and enjoy what's in front of me.

Whenever I start to feel apprehensive about adding to our brood, I start reminding myself of the facts. Yes, kids are a lot of work, but they are the kind of work that is worth it! They are fun. And they are family, and who doesn't want more family? I mean, if Tori Spelling can have four, why can't I? Maybe she didn't feel like barfing the whole time though...

Anyway, there is much to celebrate. What I am looking forward to most is watching my two older babies gain a sibling and experience the joy of a new life. I'm excited to meet this new person and learn all about him or her. I'm excited to watch them all grow together and love each other. And that's the key right there - love conquers fear.

Some parents say that going from two to three was huge because they became outnumbered, while others say that it was a natural transition since they were more laid back. I can't be sure of what's to come, but what I can be sure of is that no matter what, we'll always have a lot of love in this house.

Sharing My First Pregnancy: Hope, Loss, And Life

October 15 is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I've never shared my story on here before, so I wanted to today. It was healing for me to go back to this time in my life and write it out for others to read. I hope it is encouraging to those of you who know the pain of loss or are struggling toward motherhood.
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I have always known I wanted children. It's the one desire I can trace back to my roots – ever present, never changing, never a doubt in my mind that someday I wanted babies of my own. I'd always felt that mothering was something I was born to do.

When Clint and I decided we were ready for kids, we wanted to just let it happen. No 'trying', no stressing – just letting it be. I had always loved the idea of holding a pregnancy test in my hand and letting the wave of shock and excitement rush over me as the second line appeared. I wasn't in a hurry. I truly believed it would happen in its own time, and there was no reason to rush.

Even though I'd read that it can often take several months, I still expected it to happen pretty quickly. After all, don't most people get knocked up accidentally? How hard could it be? Have sex, have a baby. BAM! One of the easiest things in the world, right?

A few months went by. No worries. I figured the wait was just giving me a little more time to be completely prepared. Then a few more months went by. And a few more.

I started to feel a little sick – not from pregnancy, unfortunately, but from the fear that had always resided deep within me. As a child, when I'd hear about women who'd never been able to have kids, I'd pray that God would protect me from that kind of pain. The worst thing I can possibly imagine, I'd think. The thought terrified me. It made me miserable to think that the one thing I'd always wanted – the only thing I'd ever felt as though I couldn't live without – might never happen.

More months. More waiting, more hoping. More pregnancy announcements, but never my own. I finally got to the point where I was no longer hopeful, but frantic. This needed to happen. Now.

I finally told Clint, “We need to figure out if something is wrong.” I couldn't fathom going another year with the possibility that there was something we could fix. Our relaxed approach was not working – it was time to take action.

Turns out there was no need. Even though I didn't want to see another negative pregnancy test, I took one anyway. As I waited for the result, I tried to suppress my hopes. I feared it wasn't meant to happen for me and prayed that I would accept the inevitable.

I sighed and picked the test up. Am I imagining that line? I thought. I squinted hard at the little window – one dark pink line and one very faint pink line. My jaw dropped. I stared hard, certain that it was a figment of my imagination, that all these months of waiting had truly driven me crazy.

I showed Clint. “Do you see that line?!” I asked excitedly.

“Yeah,” he said as he squinted at the tiny window.

“Do you know what that means?!” I said.

His eyes widened. “Scary,” he said.

I'm sure he meant awesome. In a big, scary, exciting, phenomenal sort of way. (Men react to these sorts of things a little differently.) Finally, I thought. I was elated.

We kept it mostly to ourselves, deciding to wait until after I'd seen a doctor before making a big announcement. We just told immediate family and a few close friends.

I felt great as we geared up to make a weekend trip out of town. We were thrilled to get away together and celebrate some time alone, knowing that those opportunities would not come as often once we had a little one. A sweet, perfect, cherished little one. I smiled inside, everywhere we went. Each moment of every day. Life was about to get so, so good.

I started bleeding that weekend. I tried not to worry – I knew that bleeding didn't necessarily indicate a problem. I had wanted this baby for so long – surely, God intended for me to have it. Surely, my patience was being rewarded. Surely, I was going to be a wonderful mother, and there was no reason to fear.

But the bleeding increased throughout our trip. Cramping set in. My assurance turned into concern.

I returned to work on Monday feeling uneasy. Everyone who knew about the pregnancy told me not to worry. I was told to kick my feet up and relax – all would be fine. I wanted to take their words to heart, but I knew I couldn't. I just knew. And by Tuesday morning the concern turned into panic.

I left work before lunch. I was a complete wreck. And yet everyone kept saying, “Don't worry. Everything will be fine. Just relax.” But I knew from what I'd seen and felt my body doing that everything was not fine. I just needed someone to tell me. I needed to know. I couldn't wait for the OB appointment that was still two days away.

So that evening I headed to the E.R. I was escorted to a room where I was calm as I answered a lady's questions while she filled out paperwork. She finally asked me my reason for the visit. “Possible miscarriage” were the words I managed to force out before I burst into tears. I wept while she forced her eyes back onto the forms. “I'm sorry...sorry...” I kept saying as I sobbed. She wordlessly handed me a tissue, her eyes glued to the paper as she wrote.

I don't know why she wouldn't look at me. I felt guilty for even being there because I knew it wasn't really an emergency. It was my own mental emergency, my need for closure in something I could no longer continue wrestling. I like to think that maybe she understood. Maybe she gave me space because she'd been down this road before with others, and perhaps she knew this pain all too well. These things happen so often, you know.

I was admitted to a room, poked and prodded and tested until I could take no more. I was there for hours before I was finally told the news I'd come to receive: there was no baby.

I went home, where the emptiness began to overtake the grief. Life continued as normal. Our plans were halted, and yet nothing had changed. To my husband, it was a disappointment. To me, it was devastating.

Just two days later I went to my scheduled appointment. I was there to have blood drawn to make sure my hormone levels were dropping, not to talk about my medical history and birth plan, like it was supposed to be. Instead of sitting in the waiting room, looking at all the swollen bellies with excitement, I looked with envy and longing. I dropped my eyes to the floor to keep from crying.

I scoured every article on the Internet about miscarriage. Every forum. Every blog post. I could not read enough to squelch the grief. I wanted to try again immediately. I wanted it back...the joy that had been ripped from me. And I wanted it desperately.

I became obsessed with learning all I could about fertility. I began taking my temperature every morning, charting my cycle, predicting ovulation. I turned it into a task to be conquered. I needed it to be something that I could make happen.

People started asking questions. So when are you guys going to have kids? How many do you want? Well, what are you waiting for?! They didn't know about our struggle – I couldn't share it. It was too deeply personal. On some level I felt responsible, as though there was something wrong with me. I felt embarrassed, ashamed.

I clung to my faith to get me through the pain. I tried to understand why I was not yet a mother, but I never received any satisfying answers. All I could do was go back to the truths that had always sustained me before: God's wisdom is infinitely superior to man's. I am ultimately not in control. He will give me the deepest desires of my heart.

But none of that made it fair. None of that helped me to understand why.

Then along came Christmas. I had hoped for a baby. Instead I got a stomach virus. Not just any stomach virus – it was the virus from hell. I saw several doctors, went to the ER twice, had numerous tests done, was unable to eat, and lost twelve pounds in two weeks.

I was scared. It was terrifying to be that ill and to receive no answers from the doctors. They told us it was most likely 'just a really bad virus', but we feared it was something much worse.

When your life is disrupted so much, you realize just how blessed you truly are. I realized I just wanted to be healthy. I wanted to spend many, many beautiful years with my husband. I was tired of trying to make my life perfect, tired of spinning my wheels to feel like I was in control. I just wanted to be well again. I was not a mother, but I could still live.

Gradually, my condition improved. It took a while to feel normal again, but I'm thankful for that illness. It taught me that I wanted life. I chose life. I no longer wanted to be consumed by fear and worry, plagued by that which was out of my control.

I let go. I was reminded to savor the present because we never know what tomorrow will bring – what illness...what blessing...what tragedy...what miracle.

My own blessing came about just three months later. Another positive test. And this one resulted in the most hilarious, precocious, beautiful almost-four-year-old that I enjoy today. She has a handsome little brother, too.

I know that for many women, their struggle to become mothers goes on for much longer on a road that is paved with much more pain. My heart aches for them in a way I could never express. My hope for them is that they know there is still life to be lived – that when they feel consumed by despair, they still know that joy is just a moment away.

Birth Plan? Psh…What’s the Point?

I should have learned by now that expectations are nothing but mischievous little imps who sneak into your brain and somehow keep you convinced that your plans are always going to go according to plan. And then one day they release their spell and laugh at you as you realize the truth – life pretty much never happens the way you expect.

Throughout my first pregnancy I assumed that the baby would arrive late. After all, first time moms generally end up overdue, right? And the statistics say that only about 10 percent of moms experience their water breaking before going into labor. It usually doesn’t happen until somewhere in the middle.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up one morning at 38.5 weeks and felt a gush on the way to the bathroom.

So of course now that my due date is two days away, I realize I should not have foolishly believed that second babies arrive earlier than the first, and I probably should also let go of the hope that second labors are faster and easier than the first.

But you know what? I’m okay with the waiting and the not knowing. The anticipation is kind of exciting. The discomfort of pregnancy is not so exciting, but I know my little one will get here at just the right time. And in thinking back to some of my fondest memories, I realize that many of them are results of the unplanned. And that’s pretty awesome.

I loved the vacation this photo is from. We dealt with flu-like illnesses and getting snowed in on the trip back home, but it was such an adventure. I barely remember the inconveniences. What I mostly remember is this sweet face.

I hope to have a natural birth. I hope to be at the birth center and not the hospital. I hope for no complications. But what am I planning? For a healthy baby and a healthy mama. Let the rest of it keep me in suspense.

Not that I’m not anxious. There is definitely a lot of restlessness in my excitement. And don’t even get me started on the husband. This morning he told me he’d give me a dollar if I went into labor today.

I think I’ll hold out for at least fifty.

The Little Details

Today is most likely the last day of the last full month that I’m a mother of one. It feels pretty surreal, especially considering how quickly these last nine months have gone by. I can’t help but think about all the things I wanted to get done that are not done:

Start on Baby Boy’s scrapbook. I haven’t even purchased his scrapbook. In fact I’m not even 100% finished with Hannah’s first-year scrapbook.

Stock the freezer full of meals. I was far too exhausted to do much of anything my first time around with a newborn, so this sounds like a great idea, in theory. Unfortunately, I enjoy having leftovers too much to ever actually freeze anything. I foresee a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup in our future. Good thing one of the easiest meals is also the hubby’s favorite!

Get the house impeccably clean and organized. Thankfully, nesting has somewhat kicked into gear, and I have found the energy to get some of this accomplished lately. It just never feels complete, but I suppose it never will.

Make the most of this last little bit of time with just my sweet little girl. Fatigue has made this a challenge, but I hope I’ve been able to do this as best as I can. No doubt Hannah will love being a big sister, but things are about to change in ways that we can’t even imagine. The past two years have been so precious… and so fast.

I know I’m more prepared than I think. Eventually I’ll get into a routine, and everything will fall into place. And none of this really matters anyway because all I’m going to want to do is love on my two babies. I’ll forget why the rest of it seemed so important.

So tonight I'm letting go of the little things and simply enjoying my evening with my loved ones.

Happy Halloween!

The Incident

Running out of room in there =
bladder trampoline for baby

Lately my bladder has felt like a punching bag/squeeze toy. I probably have to pee an average of 87 times a day, and although this is a normal part of pregnancy, the constant trips to the bathroom are starting to drive me nuts. On the plus side, frequent urination also brings to mind an interesting story from childhood:

One day in kindergarten we were in the middle of recess, and I was enjoying a game of tag (or something like that – it was 23 years ago, so I can’t say for sure) when all of a sudden I felt the urge. I promptly made my way over to the teacher on duty and asked if I could go to the restroom.

“Recess will be over soon. Can you hold it?” she asked.

I pondered her question. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to disappoint.

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

I made my way back to my friends. Somehow in my little mind I thought this was a test. The teacher wanted me to hold it, and I wanted to make her proud.

But the urge kept getting stronger. What had once felt like a slowly expanding water balloon was beginning to feel like an enormous tidal wave getting ready to burst through a dam.

My friends were standing around, talking and trying to decide what to play next. Gravity was taking its toll, so I sat down on the ground, hoping it would somehow make the discomfort go away. Stay in, stay in, I kept thinking. Please don’t come out. But alas, it was not to happen that way. The next thing I knew, a river was springing forth from underneath me and flowing down the pavement.

Maybe no one will notice, I thought.

One of my friends pointed to the stream. “What’s that?”

I don’t remember much after that, other than trudging back to the teacher and informing her that I had wet myself.

She looked dumbfounded. “I thought you said you could hold it.”

Um, lady, I’m five.

Morals of the story? Well, first, if a child tells you he/she needs to pee, then by all means direct the poor little thing to a restroom! This I know from potty training Hannah - children are so distracted at playtime that when they finally tell you they have to go, that means they have to go RIGHT THEN.

Secondly, don’t overestimate a child’s sense of judgment. Common sense and discernment are not things we are born with – they are qualities that develop over time. This is why kids notoriously never reveal they have to go potty until they have already been bundled up to go outside.

And lastly, don’t try to be tough or try to please someone else by “holding it in” – metaphorically speaking. I was the type of child who was a little timid and didn’t want to be a burden to anyone. Had I just been assertive and insisted that I needed to go right away, the whole incident could have been avoided. And I’m still a little like that, still learning how to let my needs be known without worrying that I’m putting someone out.

Folks, we learn a lot more from our playground days than we realize.

Now, I'm off to the restroom...again.