The Misfortune of Feeling Fine

Since I announced that I was pregnant last week I’ve had several friends and family members ask me how I’m feeling. I told them I was fine.

It’s the truth. I do feel fine. And that’s the problem.

There was a moment, when I first picked up that freshly-pee’d-on test stick from it’s resting place on the bathroom counter, that was full of sheer excitement. Two pink lines. Pregnant. I’m pregnant! The excitement welled up inside of me and shot through my extremities like a bolt of lightning. My body was pumped so full of adrenaline that I felt like I might burst. In that instant there was no room for any other feeling except pure joy. I am growing a baby inside my womb. Miraculous. Too good to be true.

And then, just as quickly as that moment began, it ended. From the dark recesses of my mind came seeping in a painful cloud of dread. My heart sank. In that moment, I was filled with fear. I wasn’t afraid of having a fourth child. I have always longed for a big family, a home full of beautiful babies. This fourth baby is a dream come true. I wasn’t afraid of pregnancy or child birth or postpartum. I’ve done it all before and have enough confidence in my motherhood skills to know that I can do it again. I wasn’t afraid of how much a fourth child will cost. I know that God will provide. Even if we have to make some slight lifestyle changes, sacrifice a few luxuries, I know this darling baby will be worth it a thousand times over. I’m not even afraid of giving birth while James is out at sea because I know that I have a strong enough network of family and friends to help me. I’m not afraid to have this baby. No. I’m afraid to NOT have this baby.

I had the misfortune of losing two babies through miscarriage several years ago. Since then, the excitement of the early weeks after learning I’m pregnant are always tainted with fear. Fear of another miscarriage. I am scared to let myself be consumed with excitement, for fear of losing the baby and being that much more heartbroken in the end. It’s dark and depressing, I know. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I find myself putting a disclaimer on everything baby related. When people ask my due date I say, “If everything goes well then…” My mind fights the urge to make plans for baby’s arrival until it is sure there will actually be an arrival. I scrutinize every twinge in my abdomen. Each time I go to the bathroom I check for blood. I pray avidly for nausea. (Strong morning sickness has been my body’s tell-tale sign of a healthy pregnancy- both times I miscarried, I had been having almost no symptoms.) And, to be honest, all this worry is quite taxing.

So if you really want to know how I’m feeling, the truth is that I’m fine. Which is not fine at all. But I will be fine if I start to feel sick. Which is pretty funny if you think about it.

 

Despite all my fears we’ve made the big pregnancy announcement, and discussed baby names, and we even went to a furniture store to price bunk bed sets (so that we can move Johnny out of the crib to make room for baby). These things might not sound like much to any other couple, but for me being so early along it took a great deal of courage. And faith. For now I am living on faith, because faith can move a mountain. Matthew 17:20 says, “I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” And I’m not asking for any mountains to move. They can stay right where they are. I’m just hoping for a little nausea- and with it a healthy baby. Is that really so much to ask?

How To Celebrate Your 10th Anniversary

My husband and I have been married for 10 years. Very few of my friends have been married longer. Off the top of my head I can think of only 3, maybe 4. And many of the couples I know are still in that coveted newlywed stage. So I thought that some of you might be curious, “How does a couple that’s been married for 10 years celebrate their anniversary?”And, as you’d expect, I am happy to tell you.

Our 10^th anniversary started out like any other day. I was roused from my sleep sometime before sunrise to the whispers, giggles, and cries of my three little alarm clocks. James stayed in bed an hour or two longer, as he always does whenever he doesn’t have to be at work. Once he had gotten up he graced me with a hug and a kiss and a “Happy Anniversary!” from behind as I stood facing the sink with my arms elbow deep in dirty dish water. I returned the greeting with a kiss over my shoulder. The morning progressed with changing diapers, getting dressed, supervising homework, putting Josie on the school bus, taking Jamie to speech, stopping at the grocery store, etc. All routine. With one exception. At one point in the late morning I had successfully gotten the kids settled happily at the table eating pancakes with cartoons playing in the background. I snuck upstairs. James followed. We locked the bedroom door… Ladies, take a note. No need to bother with expensive colognes or fancy engraved watches. Sex in the daytime is a very special gift! (*wink, wink*) There was no time for cuddling after we’d satisfyingly enjoyed each other’s company because from outside the bedroom door we could hear the distinct CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK of a child climbing up the stairs, dragging a heavy toy behind him. “Mama!?!” Johnny banged on the door looking for me. “Mama!?!” James sighed. I laughed.

Fast forward now to the early evening. We dropped the kids off at our friends’ house and made our way to our dinner destination, Joe’s Crab Shack. It’s become a tradition to celebrate our anniversary with seafood. We parked, and just as I was recognizing the rarity of not having to climb into the back of the minivan to unbuckle anyone out of their carseat, James ruined the moment by opening the automatic sliding door anyway. Habits are hard to break. But we didn’t have to ask for a high chair or a booster seat or a kids’ menu or a box of crayons when we walked in. We simply asked for a “table for two.” And smiled. Funny enough, when our food was delivered to the table it also came with a pair of bibs that the waiter helped us fasten around our necks.

So much for an evening free of baby gear!

Our dinner was a feast. Delicious food and great company. We talked about everything and nothing. We talked about where we think we’ll be ten years from now. James went off on a tangent about beer brewing. We discussed building bunk beds in the boys’ room so that the new baby can have the crib. I explained to James how proud I was that Jamie was doing so well with his potty training. And I told him a story from earlier in the day when I noticed Johnny making that distinct grunting face and asked him if he needed to poop. Johnny pointed to his diaper and then to the bathroom and ran to it. He didn’t have any intention of actually using the toilet; he just knew from observation that that is where kids are supposed to go when Mommy asks them if they need to poop. Yes, that’s right. We talked about poop at the dinner table. And it didn’t faze us. James gobbled down his bucket full of clams and then remarked that Josie sure would appreciate the shells to add to her collection. “You’re right,” I agreed excitedly. I took out a wet wipe and cleaned them off, wrapped three of them in a napkin, and stashed them carefully in my purse, cushioned between two diapers. “You are such a mom,” James observed. I’m pretty sure he was trying to make fun of me, but I took it as a compliment. I sure am.

After dinner we made our way to the movie theatre. James graciously let me pick the movie and I chose New Year’s Eve.  It was horrible. A sad, painful attempt at simulating Love Actually. James kept looking at his watch. I couldn’t sit still the whole time- I kept shifting my weight, crossing my legs, and shaking my feet. James asked if I needed to pee. But the problem wasn’t my bladder, it was my black stockings that were providing little insulation from the theatre’s chill. My toes were freezing and I was trying to keep the blood flowing to warm them up. Serves me right for wearing my fancy dress-up heels. Should’ve gone with the sneakers. The movie ended…finally! I was sure I was about to lose a pinky toe to frostbite…and we made one last stop at the store to pick-up some computer ink before heading back to our friends’ house to get the kids.

So after a quick visit with our friends and a few trips up the stairs carrying sleeping babies and one last meeting in the bedroom, our 10^th anniversary came to an end.

Now some of you might be thinking that this doesn’t sound like a very special way to celebrate a momentous milestone. No limousines or five star restaurants, no diamond studded presents or hotel suits. Nope. Instead we had a minivan and bibs, clam shells and a baby banging on the bedroom door. But here’s the thing: I can’t think of a more perfect way to spend our 10^th anniversary than to bask in a glow of our own making. We love our kids and thus embrace the cost and the mess and the noise that comes with them. We have ten years of devotion invested in this life of ours. I value it above all types of fancy, expensive things. So if you want to know how to celebrate your 10^th wedding anniversary, this is how. You should feast on the fruits of your own homegrown tree. There’s no sweeter satisfaction.

a BIG surprise

The kids have a BIG surprise to share with you...

Yep, that's right. It looks like we'll be adding another 'J' to the family!

We Need a Montage

Snapshots from my life would make a stunning patriotic montage. I can see the music video now:  The camera focuses on a tall and slender musician dressed casually in an old pair of boots, denim blue jeans, a wrinkled plaid shirt, and a wide brimmed cowboy hat. He’s strumming the well-traveled acoustic guitar that’s slung around his shoulders and singing about “America, the beautiful.” Behind him waves a giant American flag and the red, white, and blue stripes seem to flutter to his tempo. Then the screen cuts to a montage. The voice of the handsome cowboy sings about America- that America is more than just a beautiful land; America is the beautiful love of its people.

A child who stands in awe of his history.

A grandfather passing his wisdom to his granddaughter.

A son riding on his father’s shoulders.

A family gathered together in the shadow of remembrance to those who built this great land.

Then we come back to the guitaring cowboy and the camera focuses in on his face. His expression is intent, focused. He leans closer to the microphone with his eyes closed tightly and his forehead raised up high, as if he’s singing directly to God and all His people everywhere. The beat intensifies, his voice rings out powerfully and he sings that We are America.

Or, it could look more like this: It’s the climax of a top-selling blockbuster movie. In mere minutes the world as we know it will come to a tragic end. The President of the United States must address his nation during their darkest hour. Even the most powerful man in the world is scared, but he conjures up as much bravery as he can muster. His face is somber. His voice is grave. As grave as the situation. He rustles the papers in his hand and begins to speak, slowly and deeply, and with each word the wrinkles on his brow become more and more defined. He urges Americans to fight. He tells us that even though all hope seems dim, it is never truly lost. Not as long as we have something to fight for. The montage begins.

 We fight for our sons.

We fight for our daughters.

We fight for our blue skies and blue waters.

We fight for all generations.

We fight for smiles.

 We fight for love.

We fight for each other.

The President’s broadcast ends in a buzz of television static. The emergency broadcast rings in the audience’s ears. And then the hero of the movie finds it within himself to accomplish the impossible. He overcomes the evil, threatening forces and saves the world from certain annihilation at the very last second. And as the flags wave and the church bells ring out to announce that victory is won, we pan back to the family that symbolizes all reason for survival.

Our family spent this past weekend in Maryland with James’ parents. After two full days of sightseeing, we headed back home sometime late Sunday morning. As I drove (I almost always drive because I get extremely motion sick in the passenger seat) I had three hours to think to myself. I reminisced about the past few days and wondered what would be the best way to blog about them. It’s become a habit. I thought of all the great pictures I’d taken and about my adorable family. And then I remembered a facebook post that I’d read a while back. My talented cousin-in-law had written that sometimes she thinks her family stepped right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I loved that. I love the imagery. And I LOVE Norman Rockwell. And it got me thinking that if her family is a painting, mine must be a montage.

When you put them together, the pictures from my life personify all that is beautiful about this country. I was born on the banks of a river in the Midwest, raised in the sun of the Southwestern desert, educated near the surf of the Pacific ocean, married a military man and drove with him across the country, through the Rocky Mountains and Great Plains, braved the snowy winters of New England, and am now settled in the South. I am honored to have seen much of the beauty that our country has to offer. But of all the beautiful sights the eye can behold, the TRUE beauty is right here, in the faces of my family.

You never know, maybe the next big Hollywood director or Nashville star will decide to put us in their montage. It wouldn’t be quite as good as being in a Norman Rockwell painting, but I’d take it.