At 19 weeks pregnant, I started this post and I felt pretty good about this whole pregnancy thing. However, if I was 100% miserable, I probably would have felt similarly since I had wanted a baby for awhile and was just ECSTATIC to be growing a tiny human–a then 6 inch human to be exact. Granted, I still had a long while left, and I was sure I wouldn’t be a ecstatic when my feet were swollen, I couldn’t fit in any clothes, I had to pee every 5 minutes, and was being kicked ever 2.1 seconds–but maybe, I thought, maybe I would still be as joyous about this pregnancy thing as ever…
I couldn’t wait until I could feel this little being move, to be able to pick out a name… After all, at 19 weeks I only had 6 more days until we could find out the gender!
But how little I knew at 19 weeks about the rest of my pregnancy. I had an easy pregnancy, sprinkled with nights of sleeplessness due to hip pain, filled with fiery heartburn that was generally cured by avoidance of dairy/acidic foods and foaming and glorious Gaviscon antacids. I barely gained 17 pounds my entire pregnancy–6.9 of that was my bouncing baby boy. I got stretch marks AFTER I gave birth and even those are tolerable. And while I didn’t enjoy being a hippo, I know I looked cute so I really didn’t mind being 8+ months pregnant. My only hiccup with the pregnancy was actually not in the pregnancy at all, but in the delivery.
You know that thing people say about mothers forgetting the pain immediately after they hold their child? And say they want another? To those people I wish a swift slap in the face, because that still isn’t the case at 7 weeks post partum! Don’t get me wrong, I love my little boy and wouldn’t change having him for anything, but I am still seriously debating this whole — one child — thing.
The real reason for this post originally (at 19 weeks pregnant) was to tell the story of this little then mango-sized miracle. So I suppose I should finish what I started, since I have no ability to do that with anything I have now–unless it’s 3am like it is right now and baby is sound asleep.
A Wanna Be Mother’s Heart
I’ve loved kids since I was a preteen. As a 10 year old, I babysat my younger extended cousins. As a 15 year old, I babysat my Sunday school teacher’s infant son (and sat in a chair with my arm asleep for hours because I didn’t want to move and wake him from his precious infant slumber). On my 16th, birthday I found out I was going to be an aunt, and from that moment to this day I would adopt that sweet and fun-loving girl in a heartbeat–but her custody is a never ending battle and I just hope she knows how loved she truly is. My niece lived with us as a newborn and through the first few months of her life. I dreamed of being a mom one day. As a late teen, I loved babysitting my youth pastors’ children. I couldn’t wait to be a mom.
After Cliff and I got married we decided to wait until we were stable enough to make ends meet before trying for a child of our own. (Which is hysterical considering as soon as this kid came out our lives hit rock bottom financially speaking.) Cliff wanted to wait 3 years, I wanted to wait 2 years (or less). As it turns out Cliff got his wish, as we struggled to become pregnant and finally conceived after 3 years and 2 months of marriage, and 15 months of trying. While that might not seem like a long time, consider that all of my Facebook friends who are at the same life-stage as me, several ladies at church, and seemingly most women my age, got pregnant in the Spring we were still unable until the following late Summer. Granted, I still have friends who are trying, and who are struggling — despite testing, medication and more. But also consider that is month after month of mommy-wanna-be-despair and frustration from a control-lover.
When we finally conceived it was like a surreal dream. I couldn’t hardly wait to tell people, but we waited a whole 4 days to tell our parents and family. We waited 43 days until we told everyone else. Yes I counted, as any good charter should.
But the miracle to my little boy wasn’t in the fact that he finally existed as a poppyseed in my womb, but rather in the events surrounding his existence and continued existence.
A Grandmother’s Dream
We told my Mom and Dad about our little monster on Labor Day (September 2nd). The moment I said “pregnant” my mother burst into tears. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she was crying so much. I knew she knew our very real struggle with conception, but I had no idea she would be so emotional about it… But she finally mustered the breath to say, “I knew you were, God told me so.” Cue emotional roller coaster–that’s when I got choked up. “How far along are you?” She asked, stumbling over her own words, “was it, was it around Daddy’s birthday?” I was just about 6 weeks–placing my conception around the 2nd full week in August–my father’s birthday is the 16th. “Yeah,” I replied cautiously after doing math, “around then.” Mom’s voice caught and she could barely get the words out, “I had a dream you were pregnant and I knew it was from God. I’ve only had that a few times in my life. I told Daddy the next morning so he would know I wasn’t insane when it came true! It was around daddy’s birthday.” She merely had to tell my father, “I was right” and he replied with, “She’s pregnant?!”
From that moment on I never worried about my little monster during pregnancy. I never questioned his health for more than a moment or two –minus one evil week spurred by my OBGYNs evil practice regarding high BMI during pregnancy–because I knew that if God went through the trouble to give my mom a dream about my little monster just days after conception, that everything was going to be just fine.
And not so shockingly it was.