Confessions of a woman: A lonely grief.

I never suspected being in the same hospital for the same surgical procedure with the same doctor a year later, but–here I was.

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“Hi Dear, how are you feeling today?” the nurse asked while scanning the computer in front of her.

“Um, I’m feeling fine, thank you.”

Except that wasn’t entirely the truth. The heavyset nurse at my bedside had been massaging the vein in my left arm for several minutes now, poking it every now and again, without success. I tried explaining to her that she might want to try the other arm as the right arm is typically the key to victory. But, she refused. She was in a standoff now.  A standoff of pure stubbornness between the reputation of her RN status and the olympic-like evasiveness of my vascular system. And neither of them were giving up easily. She sat rubbing, poking, taking heavy breaths of frustration in between, determined to get the needle in, while my vein hid itself in determined protest. 

“And how many weeks are you, Dear?”

“Uh…I’m–I’m just shy of 14 weeks.”

“Ah. I am so sorry for your loss, dear.” She said with an expressionless face as she typed away at the computer, yawning in between taps.

“No, no, it’s okay,” I said. Waving my hand at the air in front of me as if batting at an invisible balloon. 

Have you ever noticed how we do that? When we are grief-stricken, in order to spare the other person the discomfort and awkwardness that our grief might bring them we whisk it away–as if it is one of those white, feathery tufts of a dandelion floating in the air.

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I spent every day praying for a baby after our first miscarriage in September of 2021. And, that is not an exaggeration. Every. Single. Day. I prayed. And every week I pleaded with God in quiet desperation to give me the gift of motherhood–one last time. And as the months rolled by that prayerful pleading became tearful imploring.

Month after month passed, with negative pregnancy test after negative pregnancy test. It’s hard to explain the rollercoaster of emotions that are felt when trying to conceive. It begins with the joyful anticipation of hope at the start of every month that is met with the disappointing painful reality of an empty womb at the end. Month after month. This went on for a year. And I grew tired, physically and emotionally.

At the age of 42, soon to be 43 I knew my window was closing. If not because of biology then because of rational practicality. Aj and I had agreed, although I agreed reluctantly, that this was our last attempt at expanding our family. We would try until August and then be done trying. The closer we got to August the more panicked I felt and the more devastating each negative pregnancy test became. And the more tired I grew.

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Early September I received a positive pregnancy test. I couldn’t believe it. So much so that I took another test just to be sure. It was an absolutely incredible answer to my prayer over the past year, right down to the specific month. I got pregnant in August! I was overwhelmed with gratitude, I was in awe that in his infinite love and mercy God had answered my prayers in the final hour. 

Given the miscarriage the last time around, I treaded lightly in my excitement, but nonetheless, I was elated to use a more accurate word choice. Finally, our family would be full and complete. And my momma’s heart was brimming with love and affection for this growing life inside of me. This life that I thought would never happen, even though I prayed so desperately that it would. His goodness felt so–good. 

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I laid on the examination table with the sonographer scanning my insides, having a deja vu experience. I had been here before and the outcome wasn’t good. I prayed silently as she scanned. Finally, she broke the silence.

“Ah, I have a heartbeat here.”

“Oh good!” I said as my shallow breaths became full now. 

“How does it sound? Is everything okay?” I said with nervousness, stretching my head up and around to see the monitor on the wall in front of me, hoping to get a look.

“Ah, it’s …about… 187 beats per minute.” She said with hesitation as she peered into the screen in front of her scanning and taking pictures with the wand that she held firmly inside me.

“That’s a little high, isn’t it?” I said more as a statement to myself than a question to the sonographer.

“Um, that’s a question you’ll have to ask the doctor, she’s more qualified than I am to speak to that.”

Right then I knew something wasn’t right. I had been here before, asking questions and getting non-answers in return. 

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But she had detected a heartbeat, so that’s a good thing. I told myself in order to keep positive and help pass the time as I sat alone, fully dressed now in the examination room, waiting for the doctor to go over the imaging with me. 

The door opened at last. 

“Hi, I’m doctor Francois.” She said while extending her hand towards mine to meet it with a customary formality, seeing I was unable to make an appointment with my regular OB, as this was an emergency visit due to bleeding I was experiencing. 

“These are always nerve wracking appointments, even for us.” She said while sitting and adjusting herself in the chair in front of mine. 

Why was she nervous? I thought silently to myself as I gave a tepid smile to the beautiful ebony face that looked back at me. 

Over the next several minutes, strange words and strange terms seemed to strangely float through the air over and around my head. In the middle of this very serious monologue by the doctor I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if I could pop all of these strange words– like bubbles produced from a bubble stick on a warm summer’s day that surround you. The novelty of the bubble isn’t so much the bubble itself, instead it’s the thrill you get chasing them down, popping them as you laugh and giggle at the chaos of them all–bursting them one by one. At this moment, I pretended all it would take is one finger and POP–it would all dissipate into the air around me …

“Down syndrome.” …Pop!

“Fluid around the baby’s neck.”… Pop! Pop!

“Trisomy 13.” …Pop! Pop! Pop!

Trisomy 18.” Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

“Incompatible with life.”…POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

Sitting alone in that small exam room, with a stranger and her strange words floating strangely all around me, made my alone-ness feel even more strangely…alone. 

And God’s goodness didn’t feel quite so good anymore. 

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We did our best to hold on to hope for the next few weeks while waiting for the bloodwork to come back and our next imaging appointment with the genetic counselor. Maybe the doctors were wrong, we told each other? We prayed for a miracle. That was all we could do. I hardly got a full night’s sleep those following weeks. I woke at 2 or 3 in the morning with a heart and mind full of fear, unable to go back to sleep. What would our lives look like? What would our baby’s life look like? 

I also felt a great amount of guilt. That somehow this was all my fault. I had prayed and pestered God for a year for another baby. If only I had been satisfied with what he had given me.

The waves of anxiety at times were so overwhelming. Every so often they were settled by overwhelming peace, that no matter what, God was in control. We held on to the truth, that God’s way, although not ours, is always best. He had us…He always has. But this was something I told myself more than felt. And, although it is true I just couldn’t stop the tears and worry from splashing over me at times. And it all made me so tired.

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On November 14, 2022 we lost our baby boy. The official diagnosis was Trisomy 13. A very rare chromosomal abnormality. Babies born with Trisomy 13 are born with many birth defects. Brain and heart defects, kidney problems, cleft lips and palates. Sometimes extra fingers and toes. They have severe intellectual disabilities and need ongoing medical care. The reality is though, most babies with Trisomy 13 don’t live past their first week of life. 

Under normal circumstances I would be 5 months pregnant, right now. With a rapidly growing belly and a heart full of joyful anticipation. Instead, I sit here with an empty womb and a heart full of sadness.

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Proverbs 13:12 reads, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” This verse has never felt more real. This death isn’t just the death of this very real baby boy. It is the death of a dream as well. I will never have another child. Our family will never be expanded. And my heart feels sick.

I feel guilty and selfish, even as I write these words. Because I have been blessed with a beautiful darling girl. While so many live a life of bareness, I already have more than so many others. But, the truth is, it doesn’t negate the pain or the reality. 

Miscarriage is lonely grief. No one experienced this life, but me. No one talked to this life, but me. No one carried this life, but me. And now, no one really carries the grief…but me.

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I often wonder why God bothered to answer my prayer at all, if he was just going to take it away in the end anyway. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time I have asked this question in my life. And I am certain, it won’t be the last time. In the words of Job, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” 

I have a tattoo on my right arm that reads “I AM” in Greek in the middle–the first name that God ever titled himself with–”I am the I AM.” And on each side of this title I have the words “good” and “loved”. The purpose is to remind me who He is, always, even in the darkest of moments…”Good.” And at the same time to remind me how in those dark moments I am…”Loved” by Him. 

And that is what I hang on to in this lonely, exhausting grief. That he is good and I am loved by him. 

Confessions of a Woman: Life is Funny.

My husband and I got into a fight not too long ago. You know the kind–the one where he insists it’s your fault–but you know it’s his fault. We’ve all been there. The night starts off with the promising end of overdue sex but instead ends with flannel pajama pants, an oversized sweathshirt, and an episode of Frankie and Grace by yourself knuckles deep in a bag of potato chips.

As I stood outside the restaurant that night, angrily waiting for him to pay the bill, a man in a motorized wheelchair sped by, stopping for a moment when he caught me out of the corner of his eye to look at me, and then continued on.  Only moments later he came speeding back in my direction, slowing down just as he reached me to yell out, “Young lady, if I were 20 years younger I’d give you a ride on my scooter!” And then quickly sped off. I stood there smiling after him as the cover of my sunglasses hid my true age. If you want to know how old someone is, look at their eyes. It’s always a dead giveaway. 

Other women these days would have been put-off by this man’s comment and taken it as an offense to their liberation. I disagree though. If seeing me in a pair of short shorts and a tank top, whose skin has been ever-so-kissed by the sun brings this man a bit of excitement on a warm summer’s evening, good for you Scooter Man!  Ladies, put your feminist protest down, will you?! And instead, confidently embrace your femininity, and bask in the fact that God has made us beautiful in the eyes of men. How boring life would be if not. So with that in mind, I yelled out after him–”You’re sweet!” as he rode off into the sunset.

It was at that moment across the street I spotted three teenage boys walking with icecream cones in hand. Eureka! I stood there pondering my predicament. Could I possibly get ice cream at a time like this? What kind of person would it make me if while I was supposed to be fuming over a fight with my husband I instead took a stroll down the street for a dish of soft serve?! 

Knowing the evening was already ruined, and there was definitely no chance of sex at the end of it, I decided it really couldn’t get much worse. So, I took my chances. If anything I justified it–it was exactly what my emotional self needed to feel better–a form of self love, if you will. And, if I ate it quickly enough, he would never know!

So…there I found myself, with a dish full of soft serve chocolate ice cream topped with crushed oreos! As I blissfully, yet hurriedly, strolled back up the street shoveling spoonfuls of happiness into my mouth while licking away the evidence from my lips, it was then that my husband came walking out of the restaurant. And there we stood, him on one side of the street and me on the other, face to face. Time stopped for a brief moment and I felt like I was in one of those old western movies, staring hard, eyeing one another while a light wind swept through the street between us as we both anticipated the other’s next move. But it was no use, he caught me, spoon in mouth with nowhere to hide. I don’t know exactly what he was thinking when he saw me, but I am pretty sure if he had a scooter he wouldn’t have offered me a ride that night.  

Life is funny.

It has to be. That’s the only way to survive some days, is to see the humor in it all. Even on the worst days. When my husband and I bought our house four years ago it was an absolute piece of trash. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. It sat vacant for three years. That’s how shitty it was. And literally. We had a bat infestation the likes of which our exterminator said he had never seen before. There was issue after issue–no running water, cut electrical wires, stolen copper piping, you name it. What topped it off was one evening I came home and my husband said he had discovered the source of the awful smell we experienced every time I ran the washer. He took me into the backyard to show me. The whole earth was dug up and he said–”There’s the problem.” I didn’t understand, and then he explained it. Whoever built the house back in the ‘70s never installed a leach field when putting in the septic tank. The smell…sewage. Sewage that had nowhere to go but up. The cost? The rest of my savings account.

As I stood there looking deep into the overturned earth that stretched out across our yard, I erupted into laughter. He looked at me like I was insane. “What are you laughing at?” he asked. “This!” I said, pointing to the earth in front of me and the money-pit of a house behind me. I had two options. Cry and regret our decision to ever purchase this dump in the first place. Or laugh and see the humor in the situation–that anything that could have gone wrong with the house did.  

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One sunny Saturday afternoon, while walking the dock at our marina a woman, whom I had just met because her boat butts up against ours invited me to a seat on her boat to sit and chat. Before we knew it, we were swept up in deep personal conversation. Oftentimes, us women have that way about us. A phenomenon most men will never understand, and most likely never have the privilege of experiencing. We have a way of finding comfort in the ear of another woman, even when she is a complete stranger to us. We can sense the opportunity and freedom to disclose our personal and deepest circumstances, and take it. It was here that she shared that she is currently undergoing chemotherapy for a cancer diagnosis. As she sat feet away, disguised in a long haired wig, an oversized floppy hat to ward off the sun, and sunglasses the like of Audrey Hepburn, I sat humbled by the mix of emotions that flowed from her. In the midst of conversation she abruptly stopped to look down to her finger that had seemingly begun to bleed for what appeared to be without reason. In a somber voice, while continuing to stare at the bleeding finger she told me that since beginning chemotherapy she has started losing her fingernails. She paused. Looked up and  gave me a half smile. I returned her smile and held my silence because there were no words of comfort I could offer. And then that silence was broken by hard laughter from her. I shook my head, maintaining my smile yet indicating my confusion as to what was so funny in this painful moment. In between her bouts of laughter she told me that even though she is missing many fingernails, she still  insists on going for a manicure and just has them paint over the flesh of her missing fingernails to match the nails that still remain. It was here that we both filled our side of the dock with laughter together.

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I sat, caped, waiting for the dye to seep into every strand of stubborn gray hair I own–which is nearly all of them by the way–finding relief that in the modern world all it takes is 40 minutes to reverse the aging process. My stylist sat across from me as we both waited for my transformation. We were the only two in the salon early that morning. As we conversed back and forth she mentioned that this was the week of the anniversary of her mother’s death. Apologizing for my ignorance she went on to share with me the traumatizing experience. As she spoke she rarely looked me in the eye as she recounted the incident. It was almost as if somewhere behind me she could see the experience replaying itself as it happened two years prior. In between tears, shared by both of us, she described how her mother had had a routine fall one day, and then four days later she was dead. She was here and well one day, and four days later she was only a memory–one that you desperately hope and pray doesn’t fade over time. As she ended her story she began laughing–although tears still remained–she was surprised by herself. But not because of the laughing, instead, it was because of the crying. She said she couldn’t understand why she was crying, because she ‘had been able to recount the story many times before without crying.’ The reason, you wonder?

Because, life is funny–except for when it’s not.

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I was at a party not too long ago and ran into an old aquaintance whose husband had recently left her, 5 kids and twenty or so years later, for another woman. As people around us mingled and danced the music filled the room just loud enough to keep our conversation a secret from others. She lamented to me that because her husband didn’t die and “only” left her, it was as if in the eyes of others her loss and grief wasn’t as great–wasn’t as warranted. She expressed this sentiment with so much bitterness I couldn’t help but lay my hand on her shoulder.  I caught her gaze and held it firmly; I told her that I completely knew the feeling, and boldly assured her that the pain of adultery and abandonment can be far greater than death. Why? Because it is a death with nearly the same tangible and intangible losses, while at the same time leaving you victimized and stealing your self-worth, along with 20 years that now feel as though they were a complete lie and the next 20 years of life to live that feel without hope…The room around us was robust with laughter, although neither of us laughed.

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After putting my daughter to bed the other night I stood alone in our living room looking at a frame that sits on the mantle of the fireplace. It stands in as a momentum of the baby I lost to a miscarriage nearly a year ago. In the silence of my living room, in the solitude of my house, and in the quietness of my soul tears began to fall–one after another–for the loss of a life I so desperately wanted (and still do). But my pain didn’t stop there. I also wept for what feels like the loss of hope, at the age of 42 and nearly a year of trying again, without success… I didn’t laugh for the rest of the night.

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The loss of hope. There is nothing more wrenching to the heart and poisonous to the soul than hope that seems lost; dreams that are indefinitely deferred. When you lose someone, or something, you don’t just lose that person or that thing. You lose all of the possibilities and dreams that came with it. Thus, compounding the grief all the more within you. The words of the Psalmist are ever so true: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick…(Psalm 13:12).

Life is often this odd twisting of excited anticipation of what may be mixed with failed hopes, deferred dreams, and the reality of what is. Whether it is a cancer diagnosis, the passing of a loved one, the death of a marriage, a broken relationship, infertility–whatever it is that has stolen your hope and snuffed out the possibilities of what may have been–He sees you.

Jesus told his disciples plainly “In this world you will have trouble…(John 16:33). It is one of the absolutes of what it means to live this life. In this world, we will have many troubles. I guess on the one hand we shouldn’t feel so surprised when we lose our joy and laughter due to life’s circumstances. And yet, the sting of human suffering at the hands of illness and death, infidelity and abandonment, miscarriages and barenness, estranged relationships and lonely marriages,  mental illness, physical impairments, anxiety, depression–we are all living in the shadow of what was meant to be. There is good news, though, for my heavy heart and yours. You see, this isn’t the end of the story. Jesus didn’t end his sentence to his disciples there. He told them the truth, that yes, in this world we will have many many troubles; troubles in fact that may never be made right this side of Heaven. But, it’s not the end of the sentence, because it is not the end of the story. Jesus went on to say…”But take heart! I have overcome the world.” 

We can find peace in knowing that the brokenness around us, the shadow that we’re living in, and the pain of suffering, although very real and at times seemingly unbearable, isn’t the end. If Jesus was just a good man who died, then, yes it would be. But He is so much more than that. Men were not able to eliminate him, a tomb was not able to hold him, and the sting of Death was not able to eradicate him. He overcame it all! He is our suffering Savior. I find solace in the fact that the God-man, Jesus, has felt every pain this side of Heaven that I will ever feel while he lived–betrayal, abuse, abandonment, grief, loneliness, even death–and yet, his divinity topples it all. Leaving me with hope that the God that I put my trust and faith in is not only personal but powerful. The truth: He is enough. Although, in this life It often doesn’t feel that way– know. And that is why it is imperative that we speak the truth to ourselves. The truth is, what we think and what we feel are not always truth. Why? Because, our hearts can be most deceptive (Jeremiah 17:9). When our heart tells us that our life is unfulfilled or that there is no hope we must speak truth to it. Truth that can only be found in Him and Him alone. And the truth is, one day the shadow of this current life will be lifted and “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (Revelation 21:4). Dear friend, He is the only one that truly satisfies, all other satisfactions eventually run out. Because not only is He enough, the truer truth is– He is more than enough.

Another truth–One day he will wipe away every tear and turn our mourning into laughter.

Diary of a First-Time Mom:

At the age of 40 I became a mom for the first time. Some of you read pieces of my pregnancy journey. At that time, I set a personal challenge to write about it once a week and kept to it for the most part…shy of a few months. 

My little girl was born in March of 2020, eleven days before Covid shut down the world. Eleven days before we shut our doors to family and friends, making the first few months of motherhood extremely lonely. And time since then, living in this ‘new norm’ as a new mom, has been challenging for all the reasons that new parenthood brings, with all the added elements of Covid.

Every cloud, though, has a silver lining. If you’re willing to look for it. 

I remember when I was pregnant, I longed even secretly prayed to be a stay-at-home mom. Say what you will about stay at home moms, or what society says (but, seriously, who the hell even cares anymore about what society says?!), they have THE most important, challenging, heroic, self-sacrificing, jobs on this planet. They are on-call full time, educators, nurses, therapists, cooks, house cleaners, financial advisors, door-dashers, best friends…real-life superhero shit! And the lack of honor and respect that this society gives them makes me want to…spit! Not at anyone in particular because, well, that’s just disgusting, gross and mean. But, you feel me. Or maybe you don’t. 

When Covid hit in March of 2020, I got my wish. I became a stay-at- home for the first 6 months anyway, of my daughter’s life. Now, I’m not saying God created Covid to answer my selfish prayer. But what I am saying, and what I do believe to be true, all joking aside, is that sometimes God takes what was created as evil and for evil and has a way of making it good. Here me out on this though, because I know how devastating Covid has been for many, even to the point of death. And that’s why I need to repeat that again, mostly for myself, but maybe also for someone else who is reading this. 

In life, God takes what was created for evil and makes it good. That doesn’t mean we always feel good, or even see it as good …at the time. But, one thing is never changing, one thing can always be counted on…His goodness for me and towards me. Even if I don’t feel it or see it.

A few months ago my husband and I decided to start trying for baby number two. It took a little convincing on my part to get Aj on board, but nothing a few beers and a week in the Cape can’t help with! 

What I thought would take months of trying, given my ‘advanced maternal age’ of 41 (thanks a lot webmd)…well, took no time at all. My husband credits his Herculean sperm, and I let him believe so…because, well, it’s good for the male ego to be stroked from time to time.

We couldn’t have timed this pregnancy anymore perfectly. With the due date set at the beginning of May, and my maternity leave running into my summer break, I once again nailed my dream job of  being a stay-at-home mom, well, for a least 4 months.

Last Monday we lost our baby to a miscarriage. I knew it before I even set foot in the doctor’s office. I certainly knew it as I watched the sonographer capture imaging of my insides. And I was already in tears when the doctor came in to officially announce the loss of our baby. At the time I understood that this is part of pregnancy and part of womanhood. These things happen and we have no control over them. On the other hand, I was broken up. 

Although the doctor assured me that I no longer had a viable pregnancy and it was most likely only a miscarriage I was dealing with, they also couldn’t yet rule out an ectopic pregnancy, which poses life threatening risk to the mother as the baby grows outside the uterus unable to sustain life and needing to be aborted to keep the mother from hemorrhaging. It was a lot to process at the time.

No one really prepared me for what this was going to mean moving forward, both mentally and physically. I spent the entire week in and out of the doctor’s office with multiple tests and ultrasounds. I also spent the rest of the week trying to remain productive and sharp at work during the day, while present and engaged with my daughter at home in the evenings. While in the midst of it all bleeding, clotting and cramping, which seemed to only get worse instead of better as the week moved on. I tried to find time to allow a space for myself to feel my grief while also confusingly feeling guilty for feeling anything at all for something I hadn’t even yet held in my arms.

My sister-in-law who happens to the best in her field…a stay-at-home mom… texted me one day this past week, as she too has dealt with miscarriage. She texted me something I will always hold dear and never forget. She said, “It’s so hard to lose a little one. No matter how small.” She nailed it. That’s exactly how I am feeling. 

Yesterday I had yet another doctor’s appointment, with wonky numbers from my blood work, questionable imaging on my ultrasound and an unusual amount of bleeding and clotting, they quickly referred me to the emergency room for a surgical procedure. Once again, thanks to the world we live in with Covid I couldn’t have anyone with me while I waited for surgery, during surgery, or even after surgery. 

As I sat there alone, just wanting this week to be over I couldn’t help but feel discouraged and disheartened by what was happening in front of me. The emergency room was full to capacity. They didn’t even have enough beds or rooms for people to be seen. Many who were there had mental health problems. Several were drunk, others were detoxing. Infants were brought in crying with unknown conditions. One drunk man was escorted out by three security officers for being disorderly. Another drunk man fell over and hit his head so hard that blood pooled everywhere. The man sitting in front of me was having clear signs of a heart attack. I heard him tell the nurses several times that he wasn’t doing well, as I picked up his admittance paperwork and phone off the floor that kept falling from his weak hands. They nonchalantly waved at him and mumbled ‘soon sir, soon’ as they hurried by. Several men and women had already been seen, tested, and paid for their services;  yet, five hours later were still waiting to be released by a doctor. They felt like prisoners.

Often throughout the evening and as I prepped for my own surgery I found myself calling out to God. For the man in front of me who wasn’t being seen but who was clearly suffering. The young woman who was having a panic attack in the section next to me. The mother with a crying infant who was scared and didn’t know what was wrong with her baby. The girl who was detoxing while yelling and crying at her boyfriend on the phone. And myself because I felt incredibly sad over my loss.

His name was on my lips…Jesus.  For my pain as well as theirs.

I sat there alone, feeling alone. Feeling the loneliness of many of these people.  And a verse came to me that found me many years ago in my own dark and lonely place: Psalm 139:12 “even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.’

And it was there that I saw my silver lining in all that has taken place this week. It will sound cliche to many of you. But, sometimes the truth isn’t as complicated as we think. We just have to be humble enough to accept it. You see, this world is broken and it doesn’t take a person of faith to recognize the pain, suffering and brokenness in it. It manifests itself everywhere in disease, sickness, addiction, relational breakdown, mental breakdown, bodily breakdown, shame, guilt, loss, death, you name it.

But what is intended for evil, God intends for good. That doesn’t necessarily mean he takes the illness away, restores the relationship, alleviates the addiction or raises the dead. Although, sometimes he literally does just that. What it means, mostly though, is He is the goodness in it all. He is the light in the midst of darkness. He holds us, sits with us, comforts us when no else can in a way that no one else can. You see, our suffering is never too much for him, he never gets impatient with it or with us. And, although he never promises in this life to relieve us of the pain and suffering of this world, what He does promise us is a place of refuge and peace when the storms of life come crashing down. We may still get wet but we won’t be washed away and destroyed. 

When I say, in this life what is meant for evil, God intends for good… What I am referring to is…all of those things that break our hearts, crush our souls, and damage our minds.  I’m talking about broken dreams, broken marriages, broken families, broken bodies, death, disease, mental illness …you name it. All of those things God intends for good. How? How can that even be possible? They allow us to call on Him, they give us an opportunity to see Him for who he really is….our Rescuer, our Father in Heaven, our Suffering Savior, the great Creator, the one who was here at the beginning of time and the one who will be here at the end of it all. He never changes, he can be counted on because He is always the same. His love is real, trustworthy, never ending, there are no limits to it no matter how much or how often I push His limits. This week has reminded me of all of this. What was intended for evil this week, to break my spirit, my body, my faith, my mind… God has used it for good. In this one reminder: 

He is good and I am loved by Him. No matter what.

Diary of a Pregnant Woman: Week 29

I have officially made it to the third trimester. The baby registry is done and I couldn’t be more relieved. With all honesty, building a baby registry has been the worst part of my 7 months of pregnancy (minus the crap I’ve put up with at work this year). I know, for some new-to-be-moms that’s one of the highlights. Not this girl, I’d rather be tied to a chair and forced to listen to Cardi B’s “Pull Up” on repeat until either my ears bleed, or I laugh myself to hysterics because it is seriously one of the most ridiculous (and worst!) songs ever created.

I loathe shopping. Aj doesn’t understand this about me. Last year, for my birthday, all I wanted was for him to fix a pair of black boots whose sole had separated from the seam.

He refused and said, “It’s time for new boots, Steph. These cost you thirty bucks and I already super glued them once for you last year.”

I contested, “I don’t want new boots, I want theeeessssseeee boots.” I held out the word ‘these’ for emphasis, and raised them high in the air in front of his face, with one hand on my hip and my head cocked to the side as a sort of authoritative protest. He just looked at me and reiterated the words “New boots” and walked away.

I feel immense relief with the pressure of the baby registry out of the way, where you have 15 gazillion options for everything, no seriously, everything. For example, why do I need to decide between 108 versions of a baby bathtub? It’s water and soap no matter how you slice it. Not to mention the endless pages of baby “essentials” that I have no idea if I actually need or if they’re just a gimmick used to access the wallets of overbearing, overly anxious first-time parents. I mean, do I really need a poop alarm? Isn’t that why God created noses? Or pacifier wipes? What’s the harm in using water from a sink? Or, a bathtub thermometer, diaper cover, diaper genie, formula mixer, bottle warmer, etc. The list is endless.

This leads me to the other “big issue” that I have been feeling semi-confused over…the nursery. Everyone wants to see the “nursery”. “What color is the nursery? What theme is the nursery? OOooh, OOooh, let me see the nursery.” The reality is people, and I’m sorry if this disappoints, but my theme is… cheap. I currently have three items in the smallest bedroom of our house with nothing on the walls–a dresser, a bookshelf, and a glider–and they are all used items. Cheap…my theme is cheap. Is that so bad? Because, the reality is, the more you buy new the more pissed off you get when it gets broken or scratched. That’s why the majority of what we own is used. Someone recently asked me why we didn’t have a crib yet and I told them we weren’t doing a crib for the first year, a pack-n-play would do just fine and be a lot….cheaper (see you guessed it!). She looked at me appalled, as if I had broken one of the 10 commandments of first-time-parents. She said, “That won’t do. You need a crib!” Patted me on the arm in that “you poor, pathetic, clueless girl” kind of way and went about her business. But, the reality is, I was born into this world without a themed “nursery”, without having my formula machine stirred, or my ass wiped with toasty moist towelettes. And so were you. And we all turned out okay in the end, well…most of us. In the grand scheme of things who is all of this stuff really for? Maybe I’ll eat these words one day and will come to regret that I never included the pee pee tepee on my registry. But for now, I think my child will do just fine.

You see, one of my life motto’s is “less is more.” And I try to keep to it whenever possible. Let me show you what I mean. For example…less stuff, more space. Less work, more play. Less choices, more decision. Less busyness, more time spent. Less excuse making, more responsibility taking. Less complaining, more gratitude. Less comparing, more contentment. Less me-centered, more others-centered. Less calories, more room in my jeans. You get the jist.

This motto also works in reverse though. For example…Less sleep, more tired. Less time, more stress. Less money, more bills. Less family and friends, more loneliness. Less prayer, more worry. Less wisdom, more foolishness. And it’s these last two that I have been focusing on these past few weeks.

As my pregnancy progresses I spend much more of my time awake in the early hours of the morning, while the rest of the world is asleep. It’s rather typical for me these days to wake at 3am for the remainder of my day. It’s in these early hours, with my husband lying beside me and my dog at the foot of our bed that offer up my petitions to God in between the rhythmic breathing of both Aj and Dexter. As I lay there with my hand on my belly and pray, much like this morning, Sofia is most active kicking (or hiccuping) away. I lay there in the quiet darkness of the morning…praying. And I don’t know why, but I most often petition Him for his strong, yet gentle hand of protection over these three beautiful gifts that lay beside me and within me.

Prayer has always been a regular characteristic of my life. Sometimes I’ve done better than other times, but I have always relied on God in the best of times and the worst of times in my life. Even as a small child. I have memories of praying myself to sleep every night. My prayer always started off with “Dear God, thank you for today and please forgive me for my sins and forgive those who have sinned against me…” These days, I have become more acutely aware of the need I have for Him in my marriage, and in the life of this little one that grows inside of me. The need for His wisdom seems more pressing now than at almost any other point in my living. I look at the world around me and wonder “God, how do we do it? How do we raise our child to know you authentically, to love you and love others. To see her dependency and need for you as her Creator? And to understand and know you as her Rescuer?” I wasn’t raised in a home with biblical, Christian parenting. Neither was Aj. Don’t get me wrong, we were raised in homes with parents who loved us very much and provided for us. And we both thank God for that. But the inclusion of faith and Jesus, the idea of a real personal God, who I could know and who knew me wasn’t apart of the parenting I received. I have no model for how to raise a child with the knowledge of a real personal, loving Creator and Rescuer in a world that holds such hostility towards Him. And so these are the things that fill my prayers in the early morning hours.

How do I withstand the temptation and not make my life all about my child (like so many other parents do) and instead teach my child that life is all about Him? How do I teach my child that life is not about what you get out of it, instead it is about who you trust in the midst of its uncertainty. How do I teach her that society and culture are not her moral barometers; but instead, it is the person and work of Jesus. The honest truth is…we have no idea what we’re doing. No one does, I understand that. And that is why I pray and ask for His wisdom, not my own. I am well aware that my wisdom, in all actuality, apart from Him is actually foolishness. I am also aware that the less I have of Him in my daily living and consideration, the more I have (as well as my family) of emptiness and unfulfilling self-indulgence. And so these have become my early morning prayers…less of me and more of Him.

Diary of a Pregnant Woman: Week 25

Aj hates it when I say the word uterus. I can respect that, I hate the words pubic, moist and Taylor Swift. At six months, it’s becoming increasingly difficult and uncomfortable to bend down and put my shoes on. It makes my uterus feel uncomfortable. Aj says it’s my stomach, not the ‘u’ word. The conversation goes something like this:

“No, you’re stomach is down here.” He points below my belly button.

“If that’s where my stomach is then where’s my uterus? Where does the baby live?

Pointing to what IS my uterus he says, “I don’t know, but THAT’S your stomach!” Graciously, he bends down and puts my shoes on for me and even ties them. The conversation continues.

“Babe, my uterus grows to accommodate the growth of the baby. At the moment it’s the size of a soccer ball, pushing the rest of my insides, including my stomach, up above my belly button close to my rib cage.“

“No! Where’d you read that? The Internet? I told you not to believe everything you read.”

Lets stop here.

Throughout the past six months Aj’s candid response to all things pregnancy related is disbelief…better put, it is actually non-belief. Let me supply you with a handful of quick examples before we get back to my uterus story.

**“Hon, we’re pregnant!” Staring down quizzically at TWO pregnancy tests, both with very visible positive readings Aj says, “Mmmmm….I don’t know. I’ll believe it when a doctor confirms it.” He spent the next four weeks in disbelief.

**Walking into the living room one afternoon during my first-trimester, Aj found me lying on the couch with my eyes closed almost asleep… “What’s wrong with you?” he said. “Nothing. What do you mean? I’m tired.” I replied. He looked at me confused, as if he didn’t understand. I continued, “It’s called pregnancy fatigue.” He rolled his eyes as if I had made up a fake term and walked away.

**We sat together over dinner with the manila envelop from the sonographer in front of us revealing our baby’s gender…“Oh my gosh! We’re having a GIRL!” I exclaimed. Aj sat there staring at the sonogram of our baby, turning it to the left, the right, upside down, and then right side up again. Skeptically he looked at the sonographer’s ‘It’s a girl!’ notation turned to me and said, “Mmmm…I’m not convinced. I’ll believe it when it’s born.” Since then, everything that is purchased needs to be gender neutral.

Pregnancy brain, gassiness, change in vision, snoring at night…the list goes on, Aj casts a disbelieving eye in the direction of it all.

As we drove to dinner that night I decided to look up an image of the pregnant woman’s changing anatomy for Aj to see not only where the uterus was in relation to the stomach but what it meant to have your uterus expanding for nine months. Yes, this came by way of the ‘Internet’ and I knew I had that working against me, but I figured it was worth a shot.

“Hon, let me show you something. Look at this picture of a woman’s growing uterus over the course of 9 months.” I hand him my phone with an image of the inside of a woman’s body with all the parts labeled that maps the growth and movement of each part over 9 months.

“Oh my gosh!” Aj yells as he watches the image move month by month in pregnancy.

“What??” I ask concerned.

“Look at your intestines! They’re…they’re gone! He said with utter pity in his voice.

“Hon, they’re not ‘gone’, they’re just …squished. As the baby grows the rest of your insides get squished against your rib cage.”

“That’s awful!”

And with that revelation we kicked back at the bar, watched the SU basketball game, and ate fried chicken fingers to our hearts content. Well, for me, until my stomach got full.

Diary of a Pregnant Woman: Week 24

This is my first post in a few weeks. Work continues to kick my butt and suck away the majority of my free-time. But, finally here I am able to sit and write…for me, a form of processing, decompression, and preparation for what is about to come. Some people prepare by shopping for baby clothes/items, spending an exuberant amount of time (and money!) on decorating the nursery, putting together a baby registry (I still need to do that!), making a list of what needs to be accomplished before baby arrives, etc…I, myself, eat and write.

So, in the three weeks that I have been absent in writing here is my attempt to catch you up to speed on happenings, noticing, and developments.

1. Pregnancy glow. First of all, my boobs are amazing these days! Amazing for me anyway. When you’re as small as I am (pre-pregnancy as flat-chested as a 12 year old boy) any growth in that area is a welcome development! Hahaha…see what I did there..development….anyway. Occasionally, I like to chase Aj around the house with them yelling ridiculous things like, “Touch ’em!! They’re Aaammaaaazzing!!!” He puts up with me. Sweet man. Likewise, my hair is my all time favorite! It’s long and thick and amazing. From the boobs up I feel like an Herbal Essence porn star model. Just don’t shoot me below the boobs!
2. The belly staring. It’s amazing how many people stare at your belly when you’re pregnant. Family, friends, strangers, anyone really. It’s almost like no one has ever seen a pregnant woman before. And then I think to myself…did I stare this much before at other pregnant women?? I can only assume I must have and not realized. It is such a strange feeling to constantly be the subject of others’ stares. Previously, I could walk the building at work or enter a convenience store and go virtually unnoticed. Not anymore. And the worst place of all is the gym! Recently, I noticed a young woman staring at me every time I walked past her. If I had to guess her age I’d say she was some where in her late 20s. Although, with all that makeup on it was truly hard to tell. Lo and behold, at the end of our workouts we crossed paths in the locker room. She literally looked at me, and said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but you are like the cutest thing ever! And when I grow up, I hope I am just like you, seriously! ….When she grows up?? What the…??!
3. Crazy dreams. I’ve heard pregnancy can cause crazy dreams and I have now begun to experience the weirdness. I have had gruesome dreams from a bear attacking my dog and leaving him nearly dead and shredded to bloody pieces in my arms, to having our newborn baby and crating her in her crib, leaving her alone for 8 hours at a time without being fed or changed as we go about our day. These are just a couple of the truly weird and sometimes disturbing dreams I have had.
4. Baby gender and names. For those of you who don’t know we are having a baby girl. Although Aj says this means I will just need to keep having babies until we have a boy the reality is we could care less about the gender as long as the baby is healthy. What I surprisingly discovered was how many people advise against sharing the name of the baby with anyone until after the baby is born. The consensus among most people for not sharing the baby’s name is “There will be people who will give you their opinion and discourage you away from your name choice. But all I can think is, So what? We feel abundantly confident in the name that we have chosen for our baby. So much so, in fact, that we spent more time picking out a name for our dog than we did for this little eggplant. Her name is Sofia Nicoletta…if you decide that you don’t like the name that’s okay with us, because chances are, we don’t like your name either.
5. Pregnancy brain. Aj insists that I am making this one up regardless of how many articles I send him on the validity of it. Truth be told, I too would have thought it to be a reason for an excuse by a woman, had I not experienced it myself. I have never been so forgetful in my life. The worse case came a few weeks ago as I was getting ready to leave for work and I couldn’t find my car keys. We had a lot of activity at our house that weekend and Aj spent a lot of time moving our cars around. So at that point it seemed as though my car keys could be anywhere. In a panic as the clock ticked closer to me being late to work I called Aj. Together we tried to retrace his steps from the weekend in locating my keys. Together over the phone we searched outside, inside, in the basement, upstairs, on the work bench, washing machine, I even looked on the tractor but every time I came up empty handed. And the clock kept ticking closer and closer to first bell. I had no choice, without a way to work, all I could do was call in my absence. Aj felt terrible for having misplaced my keys. About four hours later I put my coat on to take Dexter outside and as I placed my hand in the left pocket of my coat…there were my keys, in MY coat, which means I was the last person to use them. And then I remembered, Sunday morning I drove my car down the road to play ball with Dexter and when I got home instead of putting my keys back in my purse I put them in my coat pocket. So, not only did I forget where I put my car keys, but I also forgot about an entire event of the previous day that had I remembered would have led me to my keys.

I frequently remind Aj that we are closer to delivery than further from it. And he continues to prepare in his own way by working on the house. Although I really have had an absolutely wonderful pregnancy so far and I feel absolutely great on most days, I also recognize that I am quickly entering the homestretch where things can become a bit uncomfortable. But, until then I thank God for this baby that is growing strong and healthy inside me and marvel at His handiwork as my body transforms to produce and sustain life. The miracle of life truly is amazing. And to think that God allows our participation in it by the way that he has created our bodies to undertake such a dramatic event is mind blowing and humbling.

Diary of a Pregnant Woman: Week 19

There isn’t a whole lot that separates me and my husband these days. I mean to say, the similarities seem to outweigh the differences. Aside from the obvious gender specified sex organs, we share a lot more in common these days than not.

Here, I’ll give you some examples of what I mean. For starters, we both snore like freight trains. We both complain about aches and pains. We’re both gassy as all get out! We both sneak junk food during the day, keeping it a secret from the other. We both have gotten lazy with working out. We’re both moody and cranky at times. We both have the appetite of a fat kid whose been locked in a candy shop.

Aj often looks at me in disbelief when, for example, like this morning I go to breakfast with a friend and then come directly home and immediately go out to second breakfast with him where I easily down a side of bacon complimented by a side of French Toast drowning in syrup. His astonishment is readily seen when I decide to throw off my lady-like persona and let it rip because, lets be honest, holding it in these days is just too painful. In all these moments I have of aggressive snores, giant sized appetites, and the gassy output of what resembles a grown man, he looks at me like ‘What has gotten in to you!” And often comments to me with, “What has gotten in to you??’ To which I respond with, “These are all the side effects of pregnancy. So what’s your excuse?’ To which he responds, “Stay off Google!”

Overall, and not because of these silly ‘shared symptoms’ this little mango inside of me has brought Aj and me closer than we already were. Aj is a ‘man’s man’…did you know that he has been and continues to build us the most beautiful home. Although, romance is not necessarily his style, building me stuff is. That’s him telling me how much he loves me. That’s why when I see him building the nursery and putting it together, with no request from me, it warms me through and through. That’s him telling me and our little mango how much he loves us. The sweetest moments have been on those occasions when he has touched or kissed my growing belly and whispered ‘I love you’s’ to our baby. And that’s why when we have left over chocolate cake later tonight…I’ll grant him the bigger of the two pieces.

Diary of a Pregnant Woman: Week 18

I absolutely love my dog! I mean like, I. LOVE. HIM. I have become one of those dog people that other people roll their eyes at, it’s true. The funny thing is, I use to be the eye-roller in the face of (more like peripheral vision) all the other dog lovers. I just couldn’t wrap my head around people who talked to their dogs like children, or dressed them in ‘dog-clothes’ (to be honest, I still don’t understand that), or spent any time considering their ‘comfort’ and ‘feelings’ when it came to sleeping, lounging, car rides, or anything.

I remember as a teenager my parents had a dog, Casey. She was sweet and loving, but nonetheless, a dog. Casey got cancer and I’ll never forget my stepmother driving to and from Cortland a multitude of times for treatment, spending literally, thousand of dollars on a dog! All I could think at the time was, this woman is cuckoo-bananas, it’s a friggin’ dog! Get a grip lady! Never would I have believed in a thousand years that one day I would love the crap out of a 75 pound 8 month old German Shepherd terrorist.

I often think to myself, if I love my dog this much, I can’t even imagine how much I will love this baby growing inside of me when it arrives.

Like all mothers, I desperately want to be the absolute best mom I can be. And I have felt guilty at times over these past several months that I haven’t been able to do more to prepare for the arrival of this little sweet potato inside of me. Work is absolutely kicking my butt with time spent working in the evenings and on the weekends. On top of, we’re still in the process of renovating our what was once a run-down foreclosure in the woods. Day after day I think about all the things I should be doing to prepare: creating a baby registry, researching items for a baby registry, birthing classes, finding a pediatrician, finding childcare, creating a birth plan, exercising, maternity leave paperwork, reading baby pregnancy books, etc. The list is endless, and day after day it leaves me feeling like I am not doing enough to prepare for the arrival of our baby.

But, I had a thought this week that has changed some of my perspective. What if preparing for the arrival of our baby actually has very little to do with all the things I just listed? What if preparing for the arrival of our baby has nothing to do with nursery preparations, gender reveals, or finding the right breast pump for working moms. What if instead, preparing for the birth of my baby means orienting my heart, mind, and affections towards my Creator firstly, and secondly investing my time and energy on nurturing my marriage?

What if preparing for the birth of my baby means acknowledging God, who He is, and what he has done for me in the person and work of Jesus. Allowing my heart and mind to meditate on that daily, and out of that seeing my heart’s affections be changed and transformed. Reminding myself that any success to be gained in motherhood has everything to do with where my strength, patience, and wisdom come from today and every day. Because the truth is, any success to be had, in any of my horizontal relationships (marriage, motherhood, family, friendships, etc.) first needs to start with my vertical relationship with God. So what if one of the best ways for me to prepare for the arrival of this little orange ‘tater is by not forgetting who God is and what that actually means for me and my life on a daily basis.

Secondly, what if preparing for motherhood means focusing my mind and attention on being a good wife. It’s easy in the hub-bub of life to become too busy for our spouses, too busy to put the time and attention into nurturing a marriage. It becomes easy in the midst of conflict to only see one side, your own. To assume you’re right and your spouse is wrong. To make the excuse that you don’t need to be kind with your words, or gentle with your reaction to things, they just need to ‘toughen up buttercup.’ How easy it is to give our spouse only half of our attention, scrolling our phones while also ‘listening’ to them. What if preparing for the arrival of my little one means pushing back on myself in my marriage? Asking myself how am I best loving, encouraging, and honoring my husband this week, this day, this moment. And not just when I am getting what I want out of the relationship, but doing it without conditions, even when I am not getting what I want out of the relationship. What if preparing for my little one’s arrival means speaking to their father with words that build him up instead of tear him down? What if means realizing my own sin and selfishness that gets in the way of the relationship instead of being quick to point out his? What if it means praying regularly for my spouse.

The reality is, my love and affection for God, or lack there of, ultimately drives my beliefs and actions in every area of my life. And I will spend the rest of my life modeling that reality to my child in a multitude of ways. For example, I will either forgive others when they hurt me because I realize that I too am selfish and yet God forgives me over and over again. Or I won’t forgive people when they hurt me because I will have come to believe that I am better than them and they don’t deserve my forgiveness. My beliefs and actions will teach that to my child. Likewise, I will either model for my child what a loving and honoring marriage looks like even when life is hard. Or I will model to them dysfunction and selfishness. Those will become the beliefs and values that I will inadvertently teach my child through my modeling. And because of that, there is no registry item, no baby book, no pediatrician, no birthing plan that can ultimately prepare me for what it really means to be a mother to my child.

My thoughts and prayers this week have revolved around the simple truth that the seeds I plant today will be the harvest that I reap tomorrow. In my preparation and pursuit to be the best mother I can, I must plant good seeds today in both my spiritual life and my marriage. And then pray and ask God that those seeds grown into an abundant harvest for my little one to benefit from.

Diary of a Pregnant Woman: Week 17

You know what I find amusing these days? When certain people tell me how tired they are. Really? I think.

Now, the people who are exempt from this sarcastic reaction by me are full-time working mothers. Or, mothers who have just given birth. Or mothers with toddlers at home. Every. Second. Of. The. Day. The rest of you, I’m sorry, but suck it buttercup! I know this is bound to piss some people off, but…as you’re told when you’re little, not everyone will like you.

See, here’s the thing, I know a woman who doesn’t work. Whose kids are well into their middle school and high school years of schooling who repeatedly tells me how exhausted she is with her schedule. And all I can think is, Really? Because as far as I can tell, you have the first 9 hours of the day to yourself. Uninterrupted.

I know another woman who only works a couple days a week with no children and she is one of the most exhausted people I have ever met! I know this because she is constantly sighing heavily and recanting her exhaustion. And all I can think is, How do I find me a two day a week job that I can live off of??

I know another woman, who works full-time with no kids who tells me that she can’t possibly do multiple house chores in one day because it’s too exhausting. And all I can think is, What the…?!?!

The thing is, I know a multitude of full-time working mothers, full-time working mothers with babies, with toddlers, with big kids, with multiple kids, with kids with disabilities…so when someone other than them tells me that their tired, I can’t help but inwardly pretend that with my magical super power I pick them up, crumpled them into a tight little ball and punt them as hard as I can, off the side of a mountain somewhere.

I saw a woman the other day more pregnant than me at the grocery with a belly almost out of reach of her arms, her 5 year old in the front seat, and a cart full of groceries. I just stood there looking at her, literally my feet planted in place just staring at her, while the rest of Wegmans zoomed around me. And, all I could think to myself was…how does she do it??

The thing is, I’m not one of those working moms quite yet and these days I am so…exhausted. I wake up anywhere between 330am and 5am every day of the week. That’s after having been up half the night, tossing and turning because I can’t find a comfortable position to sleep in longer than a half hour. And, I’m on the go attending to, mostly, other people’s expectations until 830/9pm. I haven’t taken a nap in weeks, partially because I feel guilty not attending to tasks and because I have a puppy who simply just won’t let me. Not to mention, there are certain things that if I don’t do them, they just won’t get done.

I broke down one night this week as I was taking Dexter out to play ball because all I want is one day for myself. One day where I don’t have to attend to anyone else’s expectations. No my dog’s, not my student’s or employer, not my parent’s/family’s, not even my husband’s. All I want is to be left entirely alone, to myself, to do whatever I do or don’t want to do, without the expectation or pressure of having to do anything at all.

The thing is, feeling this way makes me feel worse. Because in 5 months, when the onion inside of me is finally able to be compared to a picture of a real baby (what’s up with the fruits and vegetables What to Expect app??) it will be a permanent expectation that I will not be able to escape. And what if….I fail at it? What if I’m too tired to give it all of me? What if there are days I just don’t want to do it anymore? See, even that right there, that thought makes me feel bad

This week a friend said something to me, as I was weighing the pros and cons, contemplating whether or not to get the flu shot this season. Something that has stuck with me all week. She said, ‘This is just the beginning of your mom-guilt.” I’m glad she said those words to me, because she’s right. There will be a thousand things to feel guilty over in this next new phase of life. I guess the trick will be figuring out how to go easy on myself, extend myself grace, and know that my best is good enough.

Diary of a Pregnant Woman: Week 16

After breakfast this morning I noticed that my soon to be eight month old German Shepherd Puppy was MIA. Generally, that would be cause for alarm. Someone once told me soon after we got Dexter, “silence with children is golden, but NOT with dogs!” Man, have I learned that the hard way. It means something in the house is in the process of being destroyed or already destroyed. It means my favorite flip flops have seen their last sunny day. My favorite sweatshirt will never be worn again because “Dexter the Molester” got to it. It means he has decided to eat a whole bag of glitter and transform into the Glitter Monster. It means he’s found my underwear and is off in a corner somewhere having his way with them…that “Dirty D!!!”

This morning, though, my gut told me otherwise. I took my last sip of tea and quietly made my way down the hallway. There he was, exactly where I thought I would find him. In his dog bed. I had a hunch he wasn’t feeling well this morning. So I did what any loving dog-mom would do, I got down on all fours and crawled into his hairy, stinky dog bed, taking the position of the small spoon next to him. And sure enough, two seconds later my insides felt warm as he wrapped his left paw around my shoulder and the two of us lay there listening to one another breathe. Dexter isn’t a big cuddle-er. I always wish he would be, but seeing we don’t let him in our bed or on the couch, I think his silent protest to us has been banning cuddles from us. So far he’s doing a marvelous job.

That’s why these mornings are rare and beautiful to me. In a lot of ways I assume having Dexter has been preparing me for some smaller version of what it will be like once this little avocado inside of me makes its big debut. We got Dexter when he was eight weeks old. And boy, I had NO idea what it meant to have a puppy. All I thought was, “Cool, floppy ears!” I had no clue. My parents have had a couple dogs over the years, but that doesn’t even rival what it means to have a puppy. I remember when we first got him, every night my husband and I would take shifts waking up every two to three hours to take him out until he was potty trained. I was dead tired those first two months we had him. I’ll never forget when he started losing his baby teeth all over the house, I was fascinated and disgusted all at the same time. I saved them all though!

The amount of attention that he requires has been unparalleled to anything else I have experienced up to this point. He’s constantly on ‘play-time” mode. He’s like the friggin’ energizer bunny, except his battery never gets old and stops working. Instead, it’s “Hey mom, can we play ball?? Can we play tug?? Will you chase me now?? Ooh, what’s that? Can I see?? Can I have some? Mom, come on, get up…here let me help you with my nose.”

Early mornings to myself, where I get to sit, sip my coffee, relax and read don’t exist anymore with Dexter. I give him a toy to play with, he drops it and it rolls under the couch. I get up from where I just got comfortable, get down on my hands and knees to retrieve it. I give it back to him and the whole process starts all over again. Drop, roll, retrieve. Drop, roll, retrieve. I go to the bathroom he comes with me. I take a shower he waits on the bathmat ready to lick my wet feet when I get out. I try and put my socks on he wants to help. Even now as I write this, Dexter lays right here beside me. My only reprieve at times comes at night when he’s asleep and I think: Finally, me time! The problem is, by that time, I’m too tired for me time and ready for bed myself.

Aside from all that though, he is the cutest, goofiest, fun-loving dog ever created this side of Heaven. That’s a fact! My husband says that the only reason I think that is because he’s our dog. He says all dog owners feel that way about their own dog. But I’m like, dude, have you seen the other dogs?! No seriously, I’ve seen the other dogs. With their rat faces, narly hair, and annoying barks. They ain’t got nothin’ on Dex. Aj just rolls his eyes in amusement.

All of this calms some mom-to-be anxieties within me though. It makes me realize that all moms love the crap out of their kids while at the same time being annoyed as hell with them. It’s normal. All moms think their kids are “the cutest” when in reality the other humans of the world whisper back and forth to one another, “Did you see the size of that kid’s head. What a freak. Man, I hope my kid doesn’t turn out looking like that!” That’s normal too. When you think about it, it’s pretty amazing how God instills in moms and dads an undying love and loyalty to a child that other grown adults in the world can’t stand! It makes me realize that God is preparing me, even now, with 5 months left to love and protect this precious gift that He is in the midst of forming and creating inside of me.