Dear Lord

Dear Lord,

Do you remember when I first started asking you to bless us with a new baby? Of course you do. Jake and Eisley were three. They had gotten so independent, becoming less and less needy of their mommy. I had begun to get that "itch". That baby itch. I knew some of my friends would be trying to have their first baby soon, so maybe this time I wouldn't be going through it all alone like I was with the twins!

Josh and I had begun to talk about it. Wondering if it would be a good time, thinking if we were going to do it, we should do it before the age gap got too big (little did we know that "gap" would grow another four years!). We talked about how weird it would be to "try" and get pregnant, when we had tried for years to not! When the babies were, well, babies, I remember thinking I could never purposely get pregnant again. They were so much work. They had put such a strain on us and our marriage. I was perfectly content with two. Until I wasn't...

Somewhere down the line, you put that desire back in my heart. Most people think having a boy and a girl, twins no less, is "perfect." That we had hit the jackpot (and we had!) getting a boy and a girl in one shabam. I was asked all the time if one or both of us were going to "get fixed". Friends, family, even strangers would ask me that. My answer was always, "I'm 22 years old. I have a feeling God might not want me to close that door with 20 good years left of fertility."

I had times I didn't want any more children, but I could never have gone through with doing anything permanent. I knew I wanted to leave that door open. And when the kids were three, I was so glad I did!

But, then, everything changed. My life was turned upside down and inside out as I watched my marriage crumble to the ground. It was nothing I saw coming. It destroyed me. It destroyed Josh. It absolutely destroyed our marriage. And after that, planning for another child seemed like a memory from another life.

What was that like for you? Knowing, before I knew, what was about to come to the light? How was it for you to listen to my heart, knowing I wanted another baby, and knowing it would be years of struggles and heartbreak before you could give it to me? Did you weep with me? Did you dread the day when it would come to my knowledge as well? Did you hope beyond hope that I would choose the path you desired after it all, that Josh and I would choose to reconcile and allow you to rebuild? Did you worry about what would happen if we didn't? Do you worry about things, or is that the opposite of being omniscient? Someday I would love to ask you that.

I am so thankful you are in the business of rebuilding. You are an architect like no other. You can create magnificence from pure ashes. Ashes. When I think of ashes, in my mind I have the picture of chalky grains of soft sand running through my fingers, blowing away in the breeze. Blowing away all that was left of my marriage, of my relationship with Josh, of our plans for the future, of our hopes and dreams for Jake and Eisley, of our relationship with you. There was nothing left. Just ashes.

Isaiah tells us that you are a God who gives us beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, a garment of praise for a spirit of heaviness. (Isaiah 61:3). I had heard that verse a hundred times growing up, but it wasn't until these past few years of my adult life did you prove that to me over and over again. So much so that I tattooed it on my wrist as a reminder. Not that I need a physical reminder. All I have to do is look up. Look up and see how you restored my marriage, how you didn't just renovate it, you burned it down into pure ashes and rebuilt it from the ground up. When was the last time I thanked you for that miracle? Thank you.

And it was a miracle. Josh and I had to completely start over, start anew and begin again. And we did. When we renewed our vows, Jake and Eisley were then four years old. And this time, we were not only making a promise to you, we were making a promise to them. And no offense, but promising your children you will stay together forever seemed even bigger than promising it to you.

And then, there is was again. That heart tugging. My desire for another baby didn't vanish, it had just been sleeping for awhile while my life was getting straightened out again. Josh and I talked about how it would be such a blessing for us to bring another child into this marriage, into this family. Because we felt it was a completely different marriage and family than the ones we were planning to bring it into a year before. And we decided together we wanted to try.

I wonder sometimes, if that's when you cried. When you realized that we were asking for another baby, and you saw us start on that path, and you could see where it led us, years out, and you saw how much we would be hurt, how much would be asked of us...did you cry then? I would have. If I knew Jake or Eisley was beginning on a path that would bring them joy and pain, a lot of pain, I would cry. I would rejoice that they were choosing the right path, but it would still be so incredibly hard for me to watch.

Before we even got pregnant, we said if it was a girl, we would name her Gracie. We were so very thankful for the grace you had shown us that past year. We wanted to honor you with that. And when you gave us Gracie, knowing we'd never meet her or even know for sure if she was a girl, we were so happy. So thankful. And when it was time, you took her home. And that's when we experienced you as the Great Comforter. We had never known pain like that. I had known worse pain, sharper pain, different pain, but never pain quite like that.

But there you were, holding us so very tight. And we didn't feel alone. We struggled with anger, and fear, and sadness, and feeling like it was so unfair. I can't imagine how hard it would be to watch your children struggle like that. I fight not to jump in when Jake can't sound out a word right away. I hate watching him struggle. That must have been unbearable for you.

But we grew. We grew together as husband and wife, and we grew as parents, and we grew closer to you. And perhaps that was your desire all along.

Six months later, I finally felt healed enough to feel that desire again. It had been blocked away by boulders of grief over my miscarriage, but it was still there. And as you pulled away each stone, one by one, the desire came back again.

You blessed us with another baby, and you didn't have to. I have to believe there was a reason you did, why you created a special, beautiful little girl to live inside me for 20 weeks. I have to believe that you loved her as much as we did, more so, and that you knew we would be the perfect family for her. I have to believe you had a purpose in it.

Did you rejoice with us when we got further and further along, our fear shrinking with each day? Or did you know what was coming, and hold your breath? I have come to believe that you created our Lily knowing the exact number of days you would be giving her life, and to you, her number of days was no more tragic than someone you give years and years of days to. You knew what her purpose was, and you knew she needed just that number of days to accomplish it. But I also know that you know us, and you know how the humans you created and love find such a short amount of days to be tragic and heartbreaking, and you knew Josh and I would be tragically heartbroken when Lily's days were up. And I'm sure that broke your heart as well.

Thank you for giving her to us, even for just a short time. We wouldn't trade it for anything. And maybe that's why you chose us to be her parents.

I know how you saw my heart harden after Lily died. Not in every way, but in certain ways. Maybe harden isn't the right word...toughen? Strengthen? I'm not sure. But it changed. I still desired another child. Josh did too. But we were forever changed. We could not take for granted that what we wanted was what you wanted.

I can only venture to guess why we tried once more and we lost one more baby to miscarriage so early. My guess is that it was the straw that broke the camel's back for us, the one thing that would turn us towards adoption. Had we had a successful pregnancy, I don't think we ever would have started that adoption path. But that did it for us. As you know, we didn't grieve much for that pregnancy, if at all. We were so...jaded. We just had no grief left for a pregnancy we barely had the chance to accept. But Lord, please know, that I know it was another one of my children, and I look forward so much to meeting them one day!

I remember how very quickly we dived into the world of adoption. How you led us so clearly, step by step. How you continued to open door after door after door, leading us through them confidently. What were you leading us to, Lord? Who were you leading us to? As the months of this pregnancy has gone by, I have wondered. I have wondered why we were rushed down that path so quickly, so easily, only to have it halt at the very end. But then...I have wondered. I have wondered if it didn't end at all. I have wondered if you were quickly leading us to Ember Rose. If she was the goal. If she was the one and only reason you hurried us down the road...to be there just in time for her.

Why did we feel led to say yes to this mother, knowing her situation and risks to the baby? Why did you open that door and nudge us through, knowing it would end with another goodbye? Was it because you knew? You knew this baby, this child, would have been alone? Completely and utterly alone, had we said no. Lord, you know we did our best to show Ember's mother your love. We did all we could to be an example of unconditional love to that mother and her baby. I hope we did okay. I really do.

We loved that baby girl. We would have taken her home in a heartbeat, if that's what you wanted. You know that to be true. I cherish those hours and hours of snuggling her, of bathing her, of dressing her in pretty clothes and hair bows, of combing that gorgeous hair, of staring into those blank eyes. We loved her, and we would have loved her as our own daughter. But you knew.

You knew she had a short number of days as well. You knew we weren't her parents, but we were put there to be her caretakers. The ones who would make sure she was loved and doted on until she moved on in her life. And we did the best we could. And our hearts broke, again, if that's at all possible.

Sometimes I wish I knew where Ember is now. I know she was blessed with an adoptive family, somewhere out of state. That's the most I'll ever know. I don't know if she is here on earth or perfectly whole again in your arms as I write this. I wish I knew. But I don't have to know. We have total peace that we made the only decision we could make, and total peace that you took perfect care of her once we released her from our arms.

And even then, even in the midst of letting go of Ember, you had blessed us again. Even though I was not able to accept it for some time, even as I rocked Ember to sleep in that NICU, a baby grew within me. One you had put there despite our wishes, despite our "plans." And I have to believe you knew what you were doing.

Here I sit. Nine months later. That tiny baby has grown into a beautiful, healthy, wiggling, rolling child ready to burst out at any moment. I am enjoying my very last moments with him or her inside of me, directly under my heart. You have brought me so far. When I rocked Ember to sleep, I remember telling you, "I don't want to talk about it." And you knew. You knew I'd need time to accept this baby, to grow in love with it, to allow my perfect love for this baby to drive out all of the fears crowding my heart.

And I did! I have grown to love this child so much. So very much. So much so, that what I feared would happen back when I was rocking Ember to sleep, what I promised myself I would never let happen again, has happened. My heart has become so intertwined with this baby, that losing it will rip it to shreds once again. I tried. You know I did. I rejected each attachment of each string. I turned my head. I closed my eyes. But one day, I woke up, and there it was. The realization that millions of tiny strings had formed from my heart to this child. And there was nothing I could do about it.

So I enjoyed it as much as I possibly could with my wounded heart, such as it is. I hope you will reassure this child throughout its life how very, very much I love them. I hope they never doubt it. Please Lord, make sure they know their story, the full story, not just the beginning. The story of how we prayed for years that God would bless us with a child, and how you took years to prepare our hearts for this child.

We are only hours away from laying eyes on this gift. I think you know how excited I am. You also know how absolutely stone cold terrified I am. You have heard my cries, my doubts. What if this baby can't make it til tomorrow? What if something goes terribly wrong? What if the baby dies? What if I die? What if Eisley's heart is broken again? What if Jake cannot recover from another blow to his sensitive little heart? What if...what if...what if...

Thank you for listening to that. I'm sure it gets very frustrating for you. Especially since you have tried to teach me time and time again that you are in control. That nothing happens without your say so, and if you say so, I trust that to be the best thing.

Thank you. Thank you for Jake and Eisley. Thank you for Josh. Thank you for the countless family and friends who have continued to love on us and support us throughout this entire process. I ask that tomorrow will be filled with joy, but Lord, if it isn't, I ask that it will still be filled with You.

I cannot wait to lay eyes on the child you've known we would be given years ago, when we first started on this path. I cannot wait to tell them of all we've been through to get to them! I cannot wait to feel your tears of joy right along mine, after all the tears of sorrow we have cried together.  Please, Lord, show us how we can honor you with this little one. With this gift you've given us. A gift you didn't have to give at all.

Amen

39 Weeks and our Easter Lily

Well, I was secretly hoping for a little Easter bunny, but apparently this baby doesn't want to share his or her birthday. ;) That's okay though, because we got to enjoy a beautiful Easter weekend with our family. Saturday night, we had such a nice dinner at my parent's house with my brother and sister and their spouses, and Jake and Eisley got to do an egg hunt which they loved! On Sunday we went to church as a family and then enjoyed the annual Harrison Easter Bash at Josh's parents! That is always so much fun! The kids have a blast getting in their first swim of the season! We played some yard games and had a huge egg hunt and enjoyed the yummy food and weather. We very much missed Mike and Nicole as they are living in Thailand right now! It wasn't the same without them there! But we sent lots of pics and videos. :)

Here is a picture of our little family at church on Sunday. Last family pic before baby makes five!

As we try to do on every holiday, we made a trip out to the cemetery where Lily is buried. My mom had put together a beautiful flower arrangement with sweet little Easter eggs in it, so we wanted to put that over her stone and spend some time there praying and thanking the Lord that because of what Easter means to us, we will hold Lily again one day.

We sang a song in church that morning that really spoke to my heart as a mommy who's lost little ones.The song is called "Because He Lives," and if you've ever been to church on an Easter Sunday morning, chances are you've heard it. :)  It is an old song, I remember singing it in my very "old school" Baptist church my grandfather founded. (Like, we sang it straight out of a hymn book and everything...) ;) It's been redone by a few different bands, but the words remain the same. If you haven't heard it, I will put the lyrics below.

God sent His Son,

They called Him Jesus

He came to love, heal and forgive

He lived and died to buy my pardon

An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives

Because He lives I can face tomorrow

Because He lives, all fear is gone

Because I know He holds the future 

And life is worth the living

Just because He lives

How sweet to hold a newborn baby
And feel the pride and joy he gives
But greater still the calm assurance
This child can face uncertain days because He lives

And then one day

I'll cross that river

I'll fight life's final war with pain

And then as death gives way to victory

I'll see the lights of glory, and I'll know He lives

To me, as someone who has not only royally messed up in her life countless times, but also has had some trouble facing tomorrow after I've had todays that are nearly unbearable, this song is such a beautiful reminder to me. God sent His Son, who lived and died to buy my pardon, for all of those countless royal mess ups in my life. And because of that, because I know Who holds the future, because I know my Savior lives, I can face my tomorrows, even after the most horrendous todays. Because He lives...I am capable of so much more than I would be if I did not have that promise, that hope, that someday, death gives way to victory, and we win. I will win. I will win an eternity with the babies that I lost a lifetime with here. Because of how very much my Savior loves me, I know that life is worth the living, even amongst the pain.

This is the song I was singing in my head when we spent some time at Lily's grave yesterday. To clear something up quickly, we don't visit her grave because we believe she is there and she might "feel lonely" if we don't go. We know she's not there. But the marker that honors her life and her memory is there, and that's what we go visit. We know that we buried her tiny body under that marker, in a beautiful wooden casket that my dad made for her. We know that's where her body is, but we know she isn't there. We don't visit that grave for her, we visit it for us. We go so that we have special, set aside moments where we can sit together as a family and reflect on her life and death. To remember what God has done through her very short existence. We think about what life might be like if she hadn't died, and there were no graves to go visit on Easter.

We pray with the kids and talk to God about our babies in Heaven. We ask Him to kiss them for us. We thank Him that Lily isn't in any pain, and that she never knew anything but love, never hurt or sorrow. We talk to the kids about why it is important to remember Lily, and not just move on as if she was never born. How God gave her to us purposely, not accidentally, and how God took her back purposely. That God had a purpose in it, and we need to honor that. We need to make sure we pay attention to opportunities where Lily might come up in conversation and be used to comfort another in pain. How God might have other plans for her short life that we have yet to discover.

Josh and I take some time and sit near her grave and just think. Think and pray. I don't know what Josh does during his time. Usually I just think about that day, the day she was born, how it was beautiful and horrifying all at once. How it changed me forever. This time I thought about how far we have come, that I am about to give birth and put my heart on the line once again for a child we desire so much. I thought about how good God has been to bless us with another baby after all we've been through.  And I thought about how we'd fit another tiny grave next to Lily's, if something goes terribly wrong this week. I asked the Lord to give Lily extra snuggles today, if He could pry her from my grandmother's grip. ;) And I blew her a kiss I knew she wouldn't see, but it made me feel better.

Josh usually just sits for a minute. I don't know what He thinks about. I'm not sure what goes through his daddy heart during that time. I just watch him, and hurt for him. I hurt that he carries his grief all by himself most of the time. He'll share it with me sometimes, but that's the extent of it. He doesn't have the support system I've accumulated after our losses. I'm free to talk or text through my pain to my close friends, or even blog through it! He doesn't have that support with his friends as much as I wish he did! But thankfully he has a shoulder to lean on in the Lord, and I'm so thankful for that.

Anyways, I just wanted to share a little about our Easter. Even though we have an incredible blessing coming up this week, we never forget what we lost to get here. We think about our losses even more the closer we get to being blessed with this baby. We appreciate it more, and we fear it more. We're so very excited, but also so very nervous. The last time I was wheeled into that same hospital to deliver my baby, I was wheeled out without her. You don't shake those feelings, ever.

But we are so hopeful that this experience will be nothing but dripping with joy! We're praying for that! And it won't be long now!

Here is the very last weekly preggo picture at 39 weeks! I might have Josh take one more just before they wheel me back, but for now, this is the end of it!

Me and the kiddo in our last week together!

So that is what almost ten months pregnant looks like! Attractive isn't it? ;) That's okay, we've had a grand ol' time together. :) I will miss so many things about pregnancy, but there are a few small things I won't miss! The baby has gotten so strong that its kicks and rolls now feel like inner assaults. They make me cry out randomly and give Josh the creeps when he feels them. I am able to play this game with the baby now where it kicks me with its giant foot, I can grab it and move it over, and then the baby moves its foot back where it was. I grab it and move it to a different spot, and it kicks back and moves it back to where it was. That's a true story, I would video it for you but Josh would probably say that's creepy. ;)

Tomorrow will be a big day! I have a lot of cleaning and packing to do! Then Josh and I are taking the kids out for a late "Last Supper" if you will, as a family of four. We are going to stay up late and talk and play games and have some fun. Then we all plan to sleep in on Wednesday and wake up feeling refreshed and ready to face a HUGE day!!!

If you think of us, we'd appreciate your prayers for the safe arrival of this baby! For calm nerves, not only for me and Josh, but for the kids as well as our parents and siblings. We are praying for a wonderful hospital experience and great support while we are there. And that God will once again use the birth of this baby as a way to bring Josh and me so much closer together. There is something about going through that with your spouse that makes you fall in love with them all over again. Probably because you are both falling in love with the brand new person you just created!

Thank you so much for following us this far. We can't wait to finally have some joyous news to share!!! Stay tuned!!!

Karen

Testing, testing (34 week update)

Well, I'm not officially 34 weeks, but this is the only time I have this week to update the blog, so I jumped the gun by a couple days. Forgive me. :)

Last week we began the gauntlet of testing that will continue until the baby is born. Because of my history along with my pre-existing Polymyositis, they are keeping a really close eye on things, for which I am very grateful. I now go into the hospital every Tuesday morning for what's called a "Non-stress test", in which I am hooked up to a monitor and they measure baby's movement, heart rate, and my contractions for about 30 minutes. I then go down the hall for an ultrasound where they check fluid levels, position of the baby, and generally how things seem to be going in there. Ever Friday, I go to the hospital again, but only for the non-stress test. I am now down to weekly appointments with my OB, and those are usually on Wednesdays, and then once a month I still go in for a special ultrasound to measure baby's size and a few other factors. Whew! Makes for very busy weeks!

Physically, I feel great. I hurt my back last week which has been somewhat annoying, and on some days a bit more than annoying, but I'm not even entirely sure its pregnancy related, so hopefully a visit to the chiropractor will fix me right up. I am definitely growing...a lot! But I've been told this baby is quite the chunky monkey and may just close in on nine pounds or more, so a big me is to be expected! Let's remember the days when I was lugging around more than 14 pounds of baby, shall we?

38 weeks pregnant with  Jake and Eisley

Ahh. Memories. I have had a few comments to the effect of "Oh my! It must be getting harder and harder to walk around now!" To which I fight the urge to whip the above picture out and say, "Not as hard as it was back then!!" ;)

Currently, I am pretty comfortable (but probably only because I compare everything to the twin pregnancy, and that pregnancy was as far from comfortable as one can possibly get), and enjoying this baby and all that comes with it, even if it means lots of tests and hospital visits. I don't mind one bit, and I love the reassurance of seeing the baby alive and well so often.

I will say, it hasn't been without its struggles. My testing is done in the same place where I had to go after I found out Lily had passed away to get an amnio. I remember vividly sitting in that same waiting room with Josh, feeling completely empty and like I might never feel happy again. That's not a feeling you forget easily, and this place tends to trigger those emotions for me. My ultrasounds are in the same room as I had that amnio with Lily, where I laid in the dark and watched her still body on the screen. I remember how the nurses cried with Josh and me as the doctor did that test. I remember chanting "My poor baby" over and over again as I watched her on the screen, not wiggling, not doing anything, and how I was still concerned the doctor might accidentally poke her with the needle. It is one of my worst memories in my entire life, and it wasn't easy going into that room again, even under happy circumstances.

Jake and Eisley got to come with me for the first ultrasound in "that" room, and honestly that made it a lot easier for me to be brave and face those awful memories head on. They had no clue what had happened in that room just two years before, how they were sitting in the same chair their daddy sat in while he sobbed and held my hand. They just bounced up and down, anxious to see "their" baby on the ultrasound screen. One of the coolest things was when Eisley said, "Look mommy! A lily!" Sure enough, I looked behind me to see a framed picture of a lily on the wall. And the ultrasound began, and there was our baby, looking perfect and healthy, and things couldn't have been more different than that awful day two years ago.

This morning's tests went perfectly. The baby was active and behaving nicely. I went in for my ultrasound, in that same room, and of course I just couldn't help but feel that twinge of dread and sadness I felt on a much larger scale back then. I have been blessed to have very few moments of panic the last few weeks, but when the tech started to look at the baby, there were these five seconds or so when I could not spot the heartbeat at all. She was looking right at the baby's chest, but I saw no familiar flicker. I kid you not, I almost lost it right there. I knew that the baby had a heartbeat only one minute prior to this, one minute! But there I was, positive that the baby had just died and I was experiencing some horrible Twilight Zone episode where the same awful things keep happening in the same awful room. This room must be cursed!!! I was thinking. I literally told God "I cannot do this again, I will not." And just then, there was the heartbeat. Who knows why I hadn't seen it before, the ultrasound tech certainly wasn't one bit concerned, so I then reasoned that I had probably been looking at the baby's head. But those five seconds...ugh. They were hard.

Pregnancy after so many losses, it is filled with moments like that. You are no longer able to believe the best, you can't. Your mind goes to the worst possible scenario at the slightest sign of trouble. It's just hard, it just is. But, on the flip side, I appreciate every single moment with this baby so very much more than I ever would have if my history was different. Every kick I feel is a rush of joy and thankfulness. Every single one. I have times where the baby has been napping for a half hour or so, and I start prodding at it, trying to get it to move and tell me it's okay in there. The moment it does, I have to hold back my tears. I let out a breath and just say, "Thank God, thank you God, thank you so much." It borders on the ridiculous really. But I don't care, and if you have been where I've been, you understand completely.

And now to the good stuff! In case you are wondering, no, we haven't officially decided on names yet. We have a "short list", and each of us has our favorites, but they are subject to change until that birth certificate is signed! Hopefully this baby will have a name by the time they arrive, but I'm not making any promises.

Here is the most recent picture of mommy and baby, each of us growing steadily! ;)

And here is the most recent picture of our little peanut! Though he or she is so NOT a little peanut anymore, and was fondly referred to as "quite the chunker" by the ultrasound tech this morning. ;)

Well...who do you think this baby looks like? Because I am of the opinion that this baby has Jake and Lily's exact pouty lips! Just look at the comparison!

Jakey

But, the upper portion of the face...that's all Eisley! This baby has her nose, for sure. :)

Eisley

We do make cute babies, there is no doubt about that. :) 

Thanks so much for continuing to pray for us and this baby. We are getting so close to holding this little one in our arms, and while we are trying to enjoy these last few weeks as they are, that day just can't come soon enough!!

Fear

I was perusing a popular pregnancy website the other day. When I clicked on the home page, the first thing I saw was an image of a very pregnant woman (belly button popped out and everything) with the headline "Don't Stress About These Pregnancy Fears".

Hmmm. Well I certainly spend a fair amount of time stressing about pregnancy fears. Maybe this article would be helpful to me! It said it had a list of the top ten pregnancy fears and why they shouldn't be stressing you out. Perfect! This must have been written for me.

I clicked on the article, and with each so-called "common fear" I read as I went down the list, my eyebrows got closer together and my mouth slowly dropped open until I looked as if I was trying to read the article in Swahili (I don't speak Swahili). Let me give you a little recap.

One woman said her number one fear, her number one fear in her pregnancy, was that her nose would get larger. She said she had a friend who's nose nearly doubled in size during her pregnancy, and now she was terrified of the same thing happening to her. The website's response? To validate her fears and let her know that most likely, her face would go "back to normal" once the baby was born. That woman was so lucky she didn't have me responding to her "number one fear", as I would have taken three pages to rip her a new you-know-what and tell her that if her biggest fear is her nose getting bigger, she needs to crawl out of the hole she lives in and spend five minutes with a mother who has buried her baby and would cut her own nose right off if it meant having them back.

Let's move on. I also read a chilling account of a soon-to-be mommy expressing her fears that her baby might be born a hermaphrodite. She had seen something on the Discovery Channel about it and now was gripped with fear that her baby might have the same fate. Oh to have a baby with a pagina. A fate worse than death.

Don't get me wrong, I have thoughts such as these cross my mind now and again. Working at a children's hospital, I see some pretty strange things and now and then I wonder, "How in the world did that happen? I wonder if my baby had nail follicles instead of hair follicles on their head, if they would have caught that on the ultrasound?" It's of course normal to have these fears, I mean I think it is, but to have them be your biggest fears? I wish I could live in that world again.

The article didn't disappoint me entirely. Well, it did actually, but it did at least touch on fears of actual validity, such as losing the baby. Finally, a fear I can relate to! I read on as a woman expressed her choking, constant fear that she might lose the baby, and how powerless she felt to do anything about it.

Yes! I was nodding to myself as I read. That is exactly how I feel!!! What will Dr. Pregnancy Website have to say to this? I read on as they comforted said fearful woman and told her that while her fears may be warranted, she shouldn't let them rule her every thought. Pretty good advice, I suppose. Some I could probably use, definitely. But then...they told her that once she made it past 14 weeks, her risk of loss is actually only around one percent, so fear not.

Well that's just wonderful. And maybe, if I had not been in that one percent, this advice would be comforting to me. One thing I have learned through our losses is that statistics are only comforting if you are usually in the majority. I can tell you right now, Josh and I are never in the majority when it comes to statistics. What are the odds you'd conceive twins while on birth control? Slim to none! Bam! Foiled! What are the odds that after a healthy twin pregnancy, we'd have issues thrice over in having another baby? Boom! Foiled! What are the odds we'd lose a perfectly healthy baby girl to a freak cord accident at 20 weeks, when everything else seemed perfect? Ha! Made the one percent again!!! What percentage of babies are not diagnosed with a fatal brain absence until after they are born? I don't know, but whatever the number is, it is minute, and we nailed it.

So...to be told by pregnancy websites, doctors, friends, and family, that the odds of losing the baby I am now carrying at almost 30 weeks with no previous signs of trouble are slim to none...honestly all it makes me want to do is point out all of the odds we have beaten in the past, and not in a good way. I remember when I was in the hospital bed just after giving birth to Lily, my doctor came in to talk to me about what had happened. I remember asking her if we could try again for another baby, or if that was just stupid, and she told me, "Karen, if this were to happen to another baby of yours, you two should go out and play the lotto, because the odds are a billion to one that it would happen again."

Three months later I miscarried. One year later we sat in a NICU conference room while doctors told us Ember had an incredibly rare brain abnormality and would not live. Maybe we should play the lotto...

Now I understand what my doctor was actually saying, that the chances of another one of my healthy babies dying in utero from a cord accident were so small they weren't even calculable. But when you are constantly beating the odds in a tragic way, that doesn't really help much.

These past couple of weeks have been so hard for me. I don't know what happened around 28 weeks, except the baby's odds of making it outside the womb became really good, but that's when I really started to struggle with having this baby still inside me. I am constantly torn between wanting to stay pregnant forever because I truly do enjoy so much of it, like feeling the baby wiggle and squirm and kick and change positions all throughout the day, how Jake and Eisley moon over my belly and talk to it in these high pitched baby voices that make me laugh, how much I treasure each of these moments because I felt I have been robbed of them with previous pregnancies, and wanting this baby out as soon as humanly possible, because I feel it would be safer in a NICU incubator than it would be trapped in my body that has taken a tendency to destroy my children before they are born. I don't trust my body with this baby, and I hate that I can't tell what's going on in there.

If the baby is quiet for more than 20 minutes, I start panicking and poking and prodding at my belly trying to get just one little movement that tells me it's still alive in there. I literally hold my breath until I can feel something. On the flip side, when the baby is super active and I can feel it flipping around or changing positions, I start freaking out that maybe it is getting itself tangled in its cord and I actually start talking to the baby and telling it to calm down. I wake up at night randomly and wonder how long it's been since the baby moved, and I don't go back to sleep until it does, even if it means crawling out of my warm, comfy bed and drinking a cold glass of water to shake things up in there.

No article I have ever read about pregnancy has been of any comfort to me, because they are always throwing out these statistics, saying how the risk of intrauterine death is so slim by such and such a week, or how repeat stillbirths are virtually unheard of, or how most women experiencing loss go on to have perfectly healthy pregnancies. Well...those just don't ease my fears one bit. We've been on the wrong side of those statistics too many times.

While the Bible doesn't say a lot about pregnancy related fears, it does have a lot to say about fear in general. Like, a lot. These are just a few verses I cherry picked on the subject...

Isaiah 41:10 says, "...do not fear, for I am with you..."

Isaiah 41:13 says, "...do not fear; I will help you..."

Isaiah 54:4 says, "Do not be afraid..."

Psalm 56:3-4 says, "When I am afraid, I will trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I will not be afraid, what can mortal man do to me?"

Well...that's pretty clear I guess. Do not fear. What can man do to me anyway? Not a lot! Except...my fears have little to do with what mortal man can do to me, and a lot more to do with what God will choose to allow in my life. So, instead of dealing with those fears head on and really handing them over to the Lord, I have tried to protect myself from them entirely.

I spent all of my first trimester and much of my second keeping this pregnancy and this baby at arm's length. I wanted nothing to do with the fears of losing it, so I just spent most of my time assuming I would lose it, which in my head would make the loss much easier to bear when I did. But, as baby grew, as my belly grew, as this child's kicks and wiggles and hiccups became completely undeniable as it shouted to me, "I'm in here mommy! You can't ignore me anymore!!!", I simply couldn't shelve my pregnancy anymore. I had to take it down, open it, and deal with all it entailed. And now that I am within spitting distance of the possibility of actually holding this baby in my arms, alive, now that I can actually picture what it might be like to introduce him or her to Jake and Eisley and watch them cuddle and swoon over this baby, I want nothing more than to protect those dreams. When you realize there is something you want more than anything in the world, fear is inevitable. I truly don't believe you can love anyone or anything on this earth without the accompanying fear that it might be taken from you. 1 John 4:18 says, "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear..." 

What that says to me is, when you love, you will fear. But that love should be so great that it drives the fears out, makes them insignificant compared to the love...that love wins. Not that fear doesn't exist, or shouldn't exist, or that we are wrong to feel it or struggle with it, but that fear should never win.

 It was a pretty big milestone to come to love and want this baby, but now that I do, I am gripped with fears of losing it. It is a trade off. The verse does not say, "There is no fear when love is concerned." It says that there is no fear in love. I think they absolutely compete with one another daily. But perfect love drives out fear. That's a promise. Would I go back to the place where I felt detached and unemotional over this pregnancy if it meant I wouldn't deal with these fears every day? Let me be absolutely clear when I say...never.

What mother would trade the overwhelming love they have for their children just so that they didn't have to experience the heartache those children bring? When they are hurt, when they are naughty, when they walk away from the Lord, when they disappoint you, when they move far away, when they hurt you...when they die.

As mothers, we know what is on the line. We know how much power our children have to absolutely destroy our hearts, yet we also know what the reward is. We know the power they have to fill us with so much joy we feel our insides might explode. We know how they can create such pride in us that we simply swell up until we're nearly floating off the ground. We know how a hug or a kiss or an "I love you" can heal even the deepest wounds of the day. We know how they can create purpose in us we never knew we were capable of.

And because of that...we take the good with the bad. We fight the fear if it means we can love. We take the heartache right along with the happiness, and we don't even think twice about it. The problem is, sometimes it is just easier to let the fear win. When fear wins, we feel less vulnerable. As if, when things do go wrong, maybe it won't hurt as much if we've already been letting the fear take over. If we love without abandon, if love wins, won't it hurt more if my fears become reality? Honestly, yes, that might be true. But think of all you will have missed out on. I missed out on more than half of my pregnancy because I let fear take over. I refused to let love into that part of my life. That is time and experiences I won't get back, ever. By letting love win, we open ourselves up to so much joy, even if we do open ourselves up to the possibility of hurt. Isn't it worth it? Isn't it always?

Some of my children came to me unexpectedly and quite frankly against my will. Some of my children were so wanted and so desired and so dreamed about that I absolutely ached to have them, while others were surprises that took quite a bit of time to accept. Some of those children I got to hold, some I did not. Some I met, some I won't meet for a long time. Some of them lived, and some of them died. Some break my heart with their absence, and some piece it back together with their giggles. Each of them taught me something different. Each of them brought me their own set of anxiety and worries, joys and happiness. All of them were loved. All of them came with a set of new fears.

And all of them were worth it.

As these last 7-10 weeks of this pregnancy stretch out before me, I know I will continue to struggle with my fears. Part of me is saying, "Slow down and just enjoy this part of your life when you carried this baby! It won't last much longer!". Another part screams, "Get this baby OUT of me where I can see it and touch it and know it's okay and intervene if something goes wrong!!!" Those two parts of me fight with each other daily. What is comforting to me is that this baby is blissfully unaware of the war his or her mommy is fighting with herself. They have no idea about the children that came before it and how my experiences with each of them will shape the kind of mommy I am. At least one of us is sleeping well at night! ;)

Physically, I feel really good, and if you ask me how I'm doing, I will say I'm doing really good. This pregnancy has been very good to me, especially compared to the only other pregnancy I've experienced this long, which was the twins. I tell people this ain't nothin' compared to what I went through with those boogers! But oh my goodness what a difference the two experiences have been emotionally. With the twins, I don't remember ever being so gripped with fears of them suddenly dying inside me. I have no recollection of worrying about things like cord accidents or unexplained intrauterine death, my only concern was that they'd grow big and strong and come out before I killed myself. And they did! So I didn't know any different. This baby has not taken the same toll physically at all, but my emotions have taken quite a beating.

One thing I know for sure is that when I do get to hold this little one, if I am blessed enough to hold them alive and screaming in my arms, it will take half-a-dozen medical staff to rip that baby from my hands so they can clean it up. I honestly don't know if this baby will ever get put down, between his or her crazy mother and Eisley. ;) It will definitely not want for love and attention, that's for sure. Jake and Eisley have no trouble in that department, and they were two of the children who came to us...well...let's just say they were a surprise. ;)

So, as each day goes on, I continue to fight those fears and let love take over. I am working hard to let God do what He does, and remember that I am not in control of anything except my own responses. I'm praying and asking for the safe arrival of this baby, but I also know that God has things in mind that I can't see and can't understand, so I have to trust Him with whatever happens. I know that these fears will only be traded in for new ones after the baby arrives, so I better figure out a way to deal with them! And while I feel my fears of losing this baby might be a bit more valid than being terrified of my nose doubling in size, I think we all have fears in our life that we need to deal with.

So...while fear is inevitable if we love anyone or anything...if there is a desire in our hearts for something and we struggle with the fears we might not get it...if something in our life is causing us so much anxiety and fear that it consumes us each day...we need to ask ourselves...Is fear winning? Or is love?

Let love win today.



1 John 4:18

"There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear..." 

V-Day Baby!!!

No, that does not stand for Valentine's Day, or Vasectomy Day (though that day is coming Josh, don't think it isn't...), it stands for Viability Day!!!

I have officially made it 24 weeks into this pregnancy, and for those of you who are not familiar with the paranoid mind workings of a post-pregnancy loss mama, or the daughter of a NICU nurse, or the sister of a pediatrician...what that means is that the baby has made it to a point that if I were to have to deliver him or her for some reason beyond my control, this little one would have a good shot at making it in the outside world (the baby is now considered "viable" to the medical community).Of course, we are hoping we make it at least another 12 weeks or so, but still, it's a big milestone in a pregnancy I didn't see getting past the 6th week.

Because my doctor is keeping an extra close eye on me and baby, I am now getting monthly growth scan ultrasounds that measure baby's size, weight, and a few other important things like blood flow and fluid levels. For those of you who are interested (crickets....crickets...) this little one is a whopping 1 pound, 5 ounces!

This was by far the most fun at an ultrasound I've had so far this pregnancy. Since I now feel regular (constant) movements from this baby, I knew going in that the baby was at least alive. I can't tell you what a load that takes off of me! Usually going into the ultrasound I am breathing into a paper bag to keep from fainting because I am so nervous that the baby has suddenly and inexplicably died. Call it Post Traumatic Ultrasound Disorder, I suffer from it bigtime. Now that I can feel the baby rolling and tumbling around, my worries go from "The baby might have no heartbeat" to simple, normal worries such as, "The baby's brain developed abnormally, they will now see the baby has a heart deformity, the fluid levels will be too low" and the list goes on. But, those worries pale in comparison to what I went through before in my previous ultrasounds, and those thoughts, while worrisome, can usually be tucked away into the back of my brain while I enjoy watching baby squirm and dance on the screen.

Yesterday the baby was particularly active and kept kicking the probe right off my belly! It also kept opening and closing its mouth like a fish, which was hilarious to watch, and at one point we saw very clearly that the baby was rubbing it's eyes with both hands! So cool. It was such a fun video, and my ultrasound tech was so distracted by the amazing shots she was getting that she failed to print any of them for me to take home. Oh well! I was sent home with one decent quality shot of the legs, so that's what I will show ya'll here.

Aww. What adorable little knees. ;)

It is getting harder and harder to stay in the dark about whether those are girl knees or boy knees, but we're staying strong! I don't trust anyone else to come with me to these ultrasounds though, because I have to shut my eyes like a million times to keep from spoiling the surprise and I have a feeling Auntie Lisa wouldn't be nearly as strong. I purposely covered the upper portion of the above shot just to keep my medically trained family from reading too much into it!!!

We are getting more and more excited as the weeks go on, and it is starting to become a reality that we may actually get to bring a baby home with us after all this is over. I hope so, I can't even tell you how much I hope so.

Well, that's all for my little update! We hope there are lots more happy updates to come, and maybe next time I will have a better picture to show you than this baby's legs. ;)

When Do They Matter?

Last week Josh and I had a bit of a scare that caused me to have to take a trip down to OB triage to get checked out. It is quite normal, in my experience, with my pregnancies, to have a lot of harmless contractions. That is how it was the entire last half of my pregnancy with the twins, so I wasn't that surprised when around 20 weeks, sure enough, I started having regular contractions with this little one as well. It isn't anything alarming, just sporadic contractions that aren't comfortable but come and go with no real rhyme or reason.

This day however, I had finished a long, six hour infusion of IVIG, which typically causes dehydration that isn't a big deal, unless of course, you are pregnant and prone to early contractions already. Sure enough, when it was over, I was not feeling well at all. I started having those contractions, except this time they weren't just uncomfortable, they were very very uncomfortable, and they were not sporadic, they were regular and evenly spaced at two minutes apart.

I did what you are supposed to do. I laid down on my left side (someday I'm going to research why you are supposed to do that), downed about 70 ounces of water in five minutes, and tried to relax. Two hours later, however, the contractions were no better, I felt no better, and I was starting to get concerned.

Thus our trip to OB triage. On the instructions of my on call OB nurse as well as my concerned sister/physician, we hauled our tired selves down to the hospital to get checked out. I have made these trips before when I was pregnant with Jake and Eisley. It usually ended in the "Walk of Shame" as I had fondly nicknamed it, leaving the hospital after being checked out and told you are not in labor and there is nothing wrong with you, other than you are an overly concerned first time mother. Except this time I was not a first time mother, and I could only hope that in a few hours I would be walking back to my car, relieved and still feeling the movements of my baby.

I've made a lot of friends since we lost Lily at 19 weeks. I belong to a "club" of sorts of mothers who have had late losses. We somehow find each other and know each other's stories. I lost Lily to a cord accident, but most of the mothers I know who lost babies around 20 weeks did so because they went into pre-term labor that was unable to be stopped. I imagined myself at that moment, 22 weeks pregnant, a mere two weeks away from having a baby that could possibly be saved by medical technology today, but knowing that two weeks makes all the difference. If I was to go into labor, my baby would live a mere seconds, and no one would be able to help it. The thought of that urged me to put my pride aside and go in to be checked, just in case, because the nagging possibility that things were not okay meant I wouldn't sleep that night until someone told me otherwise.

What do you know? As soon as I got situated on that hospital bed, my contractions had slowed significantly. I was of course relieved, but also wondered if the staff would think I was one of "those" patients who come running into the hospital for every little thing. But then I remembered that I have lost three pregnancies, and if anyone deserved to be overly cautious, I certainly did.

I won't go into all the details of our experience at the hospital that night, but I will tell you the part that struck a very sensitive cord in a mother who held a baby in her hand that was a mere 19 weeks into development.

Since my contractions had nearly stopped, we were told by my nurse that we were free to go. After asking her if they could just check me to make sure I hadn't dilated, we were told, "Honestly, it wouldn't matter if you were dilated. The baby isn't viable until 24 weeks, so even if you were in labor, there is nothing we can do."

Two weeks. I was a mere two weeks from being able to help my baby. I pushed further and asked if it wouldn't be possible to stop my labor, if I were in fact in labor, so that I may get to 24 weeks and have the possibility of delivering my baby alive and able to receive medical intervention. I was told, "Medications to stop labor are ineffective until 24 weeks. The baby isn't viable until then."

Now, I know this is not all necessarily true, and very much depends on each individual case. We were also told that if I were in fact in labor, I probably had an infection and "it would be in the best interest of the mother to deliver the baby", even though that meant my baby would die. If I were to have an infection, then yes, as sad as it is, this is true. But I wasn't checked for an infection. I wasn't checked at all. For all they knew, I had started to dilate and was being sent home to deliver that little baby on my bathroom floor.

I was told to disregard my discharge instructions that stated I needed to go back to the hospital if I had more than six contractions in an hour, because "your baby isn't viable until 24 weeks, so it won't matter if you're in labor. There is nothing we could do about it. There's nothing we could do for you or the baby at this stage."

We were told a number of things that night that didn't quite add up and I very much did not agree with, but that isn't the point of my telling you this story. Have you ever heard that saying, "You may not remember what they said, but you will always remember how they made you feel."? For some reason, in my conversations with the nurse about my history of losses and her lack of a sympathetic reaction to them, in the way she acted as if it was no big deal that I was a full three weeks further along than I was when I delivered Lily and to me this was such a big deal, in the way I was essentially told, "Your baby doesn't have a chance at life for two more weeks. Come back when it does," the way I was left feeling was that my baby did not yet matter, at least it wouldn't for 14 more days.

Well who decided that?

I wondered to myself what this particular nurse would have thought of my giving birth to a 19 weeker at that very hospital a little over a year ago. I wondered if she would have thought it was silly of me to grieve deeply for that baby, to name her, to hold her and take pictures of her, when she was a full five weeks from viability. I wondered if she knew I would go to the ends of the earth to save the baby I am now pregnant with, and would do absolutely anything to stop my labor and get the two more precious weeks it so desperately needed to survive. I wondered if she knew I would probably be up all night wondering if I had started dilating, wondering if I would be forced to do it all over again, to deliver a tiny baby with no chance of survival, but this time with the torturous knowledge that I was so incredibly close.

Now, all of that being said, the baby and I are just fine. I went to the doctor the next day and got properly checked out and given a clean bill of health. But the incident at the hospital has had me thinking constantly. One might not even call it an "incident" really, we were never treated rudely or disrespectfully, we were just extra sensitive, and rightly so. We have held in our hands a baby much smaller than the one I'm currently growing. I have labored with a "non-viable fetus," and as someone who has delivered full term, seven pound twins, I can tell you it was just as painful, just as exhausting, and ten thousand times as emotional. Lily may have been weeks away from viability, but she had been loved and cared about for 19 weeks and 3 days by her family. The very hospital who was now telling me there is nothing they could do for me or my baby for two more weeks was the same hospital that helped me give birth to Lily, that made me and Eisley matching charm bracelets with Lily's name on them, that cried with us as we held her and grieved her loss, that helped wrap Lily in a tiny blanket and showed us how to hold her so we wouldn't damage her incredibly fragile little body. I was being told by this nurse that there was nothing they could do for me if I went into labor before 24 weeks, but after my experience with Lily, after all the hospital did to make her birth a cherished experience even though she was not viable, not even alive, when she was born, I knew that wasn't true.

I remember when I was in labor with Lily how I had three different nurses because of shift changes and the fact that the labor dragged out for nearly two days. I remember my last nurse, the one who got to deliver Lily, holding my hand and telling me, "We've all been through this you know. Each of the nurses you've had has been right where you are, doing what you are doing right now."

I remember how very much that meant to me, how it gave me this peace that they knew the pain I was in, that they knew how much I loved this baby, even though she wasn't considered "viable" and was probably the smallest baby they had ever delivered. I remember how it gave me validation that my baby mattered, that this labor and delivery mattered, that it was meaningful and I had every right to be a complete and utter broken mess over the whole thing.

It is amazing how different people's reactions can cause such a stir in me. When people ask me how many kids I have, sometimes I say, "I have three. Twins who are seven and a baby girl who passed away." Sometimes people push for more details and ask how she died, how far along I was. Many times I leave that part out, because I can see the thoughts behind their eyeballs when I say "20 weeks". A few times I have even had people say to me something to the effect of, "Oh, thank goodness you didn't get further. I have a friend who lost a baby at 40 weeks, imagine how painful that would be." Well...I imagine it would be incredibly painful. But those thoughts, those attitudes, much like the one I was getting from my nurse last week, they take away my "right" to let my baby matter. Am I not allowed to truly love, and consequently truly grieve the loss of my baby until I am 24 weeks pregnant? Does this baby not matter until then? Twenty years ago 24 weeks would have been considered "non-viable". In twenty more years will the world finally allow mothers to fully grieve their tiny babies because medical technology will have progressed to be able to save 19 weekers? I wonder.

And what about the mothers who deeply grieve the loss of their very early pregnancies? I have lost two in those early stages, and know countless friends who have as well. I know it is a struggle for many of them to claim their right to grieve those losses in a world where we allow and even encourage those early pregnancies to be terminated if that is what the woman chooses. It is not politically correct to grieve a "baby" when as a society, we do not consider it to be one yet. The world collectively side eyes any woman who refers to her early pregnancy loss as a "child" when in their minds, this woman is essentially grieving heavily for a mass of undeveloped tissue. Most of them figuratively pat the woman on the head like a small child crying over a broken toy and humor her so called grief for a short while, but really, how long must we allow this woman to go on this way over something we refuse to admit was a life, with a soul, that has been lost?

I often think about what it is that changes reactions in people when they hear my so called "daughter" was only 19 weeks along, as opposed to a full-term baby that passed away. I am not proud of it, but I have once or twice fudged how far along I was when I lost Lily if I sense that the person asking will not understand my grief unless I was past the point of viability. I wonder if by giving the right to women to choose whether or not to end their pregnancy before 24 weeks, we have consequently stolen the right of mothers who lose their babies before 24 weeks to fully grieve their death?

I don't mean to start a debate about abortion or even imply that mothers who make the heartbreaking choice to terminate their pregnancies do not also grieve heavily, but I do think that it is impossible for most people to both believe it is acceptable to end the life of a baby before it can survive outside the womb, and also treat babies who can not yet survive outside the womb as, well, babies. Because...how can they? How can you say "I am so incredibly sorry for the loss of your precious daughter Lily" while at the same time believing that life is not really life worth protecting until that life is much older?

So...my question remains. When do they matter? When is a woman allowed to fully love and therefore fully grieve her child? Is it the moment she is aware that baby exists? Is it after she sees a beating heart on the ultrasound? Is it not until she and the baby have conquered the first trimester? Is it not until the baby has a chance at surviving outside the womb?  At what point in a pregnancy does a mother earn her right to grieve the child within her if it has been lost? And who decides that, exactly?

When I had my first miscarriage, I was fairly early on, still in my first trimester. But far enough along that I had recklessly allowed myself to attach to that baby, or the idea of it anyway. When I was told I had miscarried, I was blindsided and broken. As a Christian, I believe that life begins at conception, so it is mutually exclusive that I then had to grieve the loss of a child, even though I had never seen a heart beat, had never felt the baby move, had no real evidence that it even existed except some blood tests and an ultrasound showing an empty sac where my baby should be. Yet, I grieved. And to the dismay of the world, I still do.

When I was pregnant with Lily, I had so much more "proof" of her existence. I had a dozen ultrasounds documenting her growth from a tiny spec to a fully formed baby with wiggling arms and legs. We knew she was a girl, which somehow made her even more real to us. We got past that dreaded first trimester. We were told everything looked perfect...until it wasn't.

When I lost Lily, I grieved heavily over the daughter I knew existed. It was not just my Christian convictions that led me to grieve her loss, it was holding her perfectly formed body in my hands. It was kissing her tiny, perfect lips. It was marveling over each and every detail of her tiny toes, miniature hands, and fingernails as big as mustard seeds. Yet...Lily had no chance of surviving outside of me. Because I was four days short of 20 weeks, it wasn't even a legal requirement that we bury her. It certainly was out of the ordinary for us to hold funeral services for her. I know for a fact there were some that raised their eyebrows at how "far" we took her loss. But I have never cared about that, because I know that if they held her like I did, if they saw how she was a mirror image of Jake when he was born, only a tenth of his size, they would understand. They would understand that she mattered, even at that stage, even before the world recognized her right to life.

I had another miscarriage a few months after Lily was born. I was so early on, even I hadn't allowed myself to accept that I was pregnant. This did, in fact, make the loss much easier to bear. We didn't name this baby like we did the others. We count it when Jake and Eisley are counting how many seats we would need in our car if all of our babies had lived, as they sometimes do, but it was a blip on our radar after the earthquakes of grief we had experienced. I was not broken over it. I was sad, of course. But I was incredibly jaded and hard-hearted by that time, and that baby, while I know it was there and it was lost, did not get the benefit of my broken heart, because it was practically stone by then. When I hear of friends who have lost babies as early as I did that last time, I do not compare my lack of grieving over that short pregnancy to what they must be feeling. I know now that pain is relative. That if my third miscarriage had been my first, it would have rocked my world and brought me to my knees, because I had nothing to compare it to. It would be a loss greater than any I had experienced. It would matter.

This is the point I am trying to drive home, in my long winded way: These losses matter. They matter to mothers. They should matter to the world, but you know what? We aren't asking that. As the mothers who have lost these babies, we will settle for the world allowing them to matter to us. Give us back our right to grieve them, whether they be four weeks along or forty weeks. The loss of young life is always tragic, especially to the parents. Please remember this as you come across women who have experienced pregnancy loss. Treat them with the reverence that women who have walked through fire deserve. Don't put your ideas of when babies should matter on their already overloaded shoulders. Pay attention to your attitudes about their loss. Be mindful of how you speak about it. Follow their lead. If they refer to their early loss as a baby, as a child, you should too. On the same token, if they can't bear to do so, if treating their loss as the loss of a child is too painful for them to handle, don't push it. We live in a world where women are conditioned to emotionally detach themselves from their babies until they are past the first trimester, past the healthy anatomy scan, past the point of viability, and if we lose them before those accepted milestones, we are not only left empty and grieving, we are left feeling invalidated, guilty for allowing ourselves to attach so early, overly sensitive, indulgent, and emotional.

I am 22 weeks, 4 days pregnant and counting. Like, literally, counting down the days until "viability". When I can wake up and know that if I went into labor, they could possibly save my baby. There would be a good chance at me holding him or her alive. But knowing that if I gave birth today my baby would die does not lessen the love I have for this little one. Her kicks are no less real because she wouldn't be able to do so outside of me. This baby matters...so much...and has mattered since the moment I knew about her (or him!). Even as someone who had a very, very hard time emotionally attaching to this pregnancy and this baby, and rightly so, I have never been able to fool myself into thinking that its loss wouldn't matter. As mothers, we do not have a magic switch of emotion and love for our babies that we can turn on once the doctors tell us it is safe to do so. It is there from the beginning. We all handle it differently, we all handle loss differently, but I think the one thing we can all agree upon is that these babies we are carrying, they matter. Even if the world can't agree on when they should matter.

And as a Christian, one thing I can take comfort in, even when it seems my babies do not matter to those around me, is that they mattered to the Lord. They mattered from the very moment of their creation. And I am confident they matter to Him just as much as my sweet Eisley and my precious Jake matter to Him...and that, I know, is a whole heck of a lot.

Psalm 139: 13-16a
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you, when I was made in the secret place,
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed body...

"...Knowing there will never be a day when we will ever get over this, no matter how fast society turns on this axis, we will never move on, we will never forget, we will always hold onto you..."

Pregnancy After Loss

What a month! We've been swamped nearly every day with wedding or birthday related activities, and I have to say I am kind of completely exhausted.

I will say, this month has been a welcome distraction from the pregnancy. I haven't had as much time as I usually do to obsess over my next doctor's appointment and compare each and every symptom to my pregnancy with Lily. But, now that things are settling down, I know what's coming. I'm in my 18th week of this pregnancy. Why is that significant? We found out around 19 weeks at our anatomy scan that Lily had died, but she had died at least a week earlier. That means the baby growing inside me right now is exactly the size that Lily was when I held her in my hands for those two hours on Father's Day of last year. This baby, right now, has the exact same sized feet and hands and little lips that Lily had when she came into and swiftly left this world. If I could peer into my tummy and look at this little one, I would see little difference between him or her and the images I have of Lily in my head.

Knowing that brings a whole host of other worries. If Lily died at this point in my pregnancy, maybe this baby will die here too. Maybe they were wrong, and it wasn't a freak cord accident, but some genetic defect that showed itself at 18 weeks and this baby has the same issue. Maybe at this point in the pregnancy my body turned on Lily and is getting ready to turn on this baby too.

Not only do these worries fill my head and my heart, I can't stop myself from comparing this pregnancy to Lily's in every way. Am I showing as much as I did with Lily? I never felt her move, not once, and I still haven't felt completely sure that I've felt this baby move either. Why is that? The other moms I've talked to have definitely felt movement by this time. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with this baby? I try to remind myself that I didn't feel the twins until I was around 22 weeks, and good grief there was two of them in there, but still, I can't help but worry about it.

I remember in my last two weeks or so of my pregnancy with Lily I noticed one morning that I hardly looked pregnant at all. I had been steadily growing a nice little baby bump with her, and I remember very suddenly one day that it looked less prominent, as if from then on, I just stopped growing. Well, Lily had died and had in fact stopped growing, but last night I looked in the mirror and thought to myself that I didn't look as pregnant as I did the day before. I immediately had a minor mental freak out and ran to get my Doppler and find the baby's heartbeat, even though I had checked it and it was fine only hours before. Sure enough, the baby was still alive. But every time I find the heartbeat, every time I think, "The baby is still alive," it is immediately followed by "for now".

This is what pregnancy after a loss, or in my case, multiple losses, is like (for me anyway). It is plastering a smile on your face when people ask you how things are going and saying, "So far so good". While in your head you are thinking, "I think. I mean I haven't checked the heartbeat since last night so for all I know the baby is actually dead right now but you probably don't want to know that."

It is thanking God every time you puke your guts out, even when you are far past the point that you should be puking your guts out, because at least that means things are still progressing. It is also having the realization that you puked every single morning up until the day you gave birth to Lily, so maybe it isn't as reassuring as you thought.

It is sobbing in the doctor's office when she used the Doppler for less than five seconds and couldn't get a read on the heartbeat so she decides to pull in the ultrasound machine "just to give you peace of mind". The sobbing comes from a gripping fear that maybe the baby died in the two hours between you checking the heartbeat at home and her checking it right now. It also comes from realizing that you will never, ever be able to enjoy these moments in pregnancy like other women and you are certifiably nuts for sobbing because the doctor tried for five seconds to find the baby when you know the baby is much higher up than where she checked.

It is holding your breath each and every time you go to the bathroom, hoping you don't see blood or something equally terrifying. It is never getting to a point where you don't expect to see it, even when you are past the point where it would be a sure sign of miscarriage.

It is trying your very best, but failing miserably, to not bond with the baby growing inside you. It is refusing to know the sex of the baby, refusing to think about names, not daring even for a moment to include the baby in your plans past your due date. It is forcing yourself to buy maternity clothing even though every fiber in your being is screaming at you that it is a huge waste of money if you won't need them anymore in a week or two.

It is not trusting your own body to care for the baby inside you, and feeling completely betrayed by it for not being able to carry your other babies to term. It is having no idea why you were able to have healthy babies at one point, but not anymore, and wondering why you seem to be incapable of doing what every woman is supposed to be able to do, keep her babies alive.

It is lying on your back and prodding at your belly praying that you will feel something to reassure you that the baby is alive and well in there. It is feeling something that could possibly be the baby, and immediately talking yourself out of it because your heart won't even let you go there.

It is giving up on the hundreds of "pregnancy no-no's" that the world has come up with in the seven years since you've had a healthy pregnancy because you didn't even know you weren't supposed to have lunch meats or soft cheeses or caffeine or soft serve ice cream for goodness' sake when you had your healthy babies years ago, but followed every rule in the book with your other pregnancies and guess what? The babies died anyway. It is eating a turkey sandwich with a bleu cheese side salad and washing it down with a coke and an ice cream cone and knowing that you have little to no control over whether this baby will die or not, and you wish you could go back to a time where you thought not doing those things would make a difference.

It is watching your daughter kiss your belly and talk to the baby and being torn between feeling absolutely touched that she cares that much and absolutely terrified that she does. It your children asking, "Is the baby still alive today?" instead of "How's the baby?" because they just know too much.

It is people asking you if you're having a boy or a girl, and if you have a preference, and you answering, "Yes. I prefer that the baby be alive when it's born." And them looking at you like you're joking, but you aren't, even a little bit.

It is still having the mentality of a woman who can't carry a healthy baby to term, of a "baby loss mom" but suddenly not "belonging" to that club anymore, because you are, in fact, carrying a seemingly healthy baby right now. You still feel all the same emotions and struggles as you did before, but it is as if you're no longer welcome to express them to other women experiencing loss or infertility. Because now you're one of those women. The pregnant ones who can't possibly know our pain. Who surely instantly forgot what it was like to lose pregnancy after pregnancy and bury a tiny dead baby and grieve her every day just because now she's pregnant again.

It is looking at a healthy pregnant woman and feeling jealous of her. Actually, truly, really jealous of her, and then realizing that you are pregnant too, and you are absolutely insane for feeling that way. Maybe it's because you know you'll never be a healthy pregnant woman again, ever. You're far too damaged.

It is not talking any photos of your growing belly because you're afraid to somehow jinx the pregnancy. It is mustering up the courage to take one picture of your new pregnant profile but instantly regretting it for fear that it will be the last one you ever take.

It is realizing yet another year has gone by, and you still do not have the baby you started trying for years ago. It is someone commenting that there will be "quite the large age gap" between your kids and you wanting to smack them and say, "I DIDN'T PLAN FOR IT TO BE SO BIG!!!"

It is getting to a point in your pregnancy when you realize that the baby has grown to a size that you will now be forced to deliver it if it dies. That you are past the point of being put to sleep and having things taken care of for you, now you will want to hold that baby and see what they look like and bury it in a tiny little casket. It is wondering if there is room next to that other tiny little grave for one more, and wondering if you even have the strength necessary to do that all over again.

 I think there is a great misconception that once a woman gets pregnant after experiencing miscarriages or stillbirth or an early infant loss, that she must be overwhelmed with gratitude that she "has another chance" at getting the baby she's longed for. This is just not accurate. What people don't understand is this: She had the baby she's been longing for. It died.

Pregnancy after a loss is not a replacement, it is not a second chance to get what you tried to get the first time, or the second time, or the third time, or in my case, the fourth time, it is simply another chance to lose. To lose another piece of you that you'll never get back, to lose another baby and add another charm to your necklace, to have your heart shattered once again after gluing it back together so many times before. It is a dark cloud that holds looming possibilities, and only a glimmer of hope that things will go your way.

At least that's what it is for me.

Let's make no mistake. I am so thankful that God has blessed me with this pregnancy, despite my gripping fears and damaged heart. In the rare moments when I let my mind wander to the possibility of one day holding this baby and laughing through my tears at their beautiful face, when I think about who they might look like and how it would feel to finally take a baby home to Jake and Eisley, I plead that the Lord will allow that. But those moments are short-lived and are very quickly swallowed up by the reality of my past.

As the weeks progress, it has definitely gotten a bit easier. The first few weeks and months were, as I've mentioned before, filled with denial and fear. Those emotions have given way to cautious optimism, but the emphasis is heavily on the cautious. But as this baby continues to grow, as I continue to grow, I am being forced to accept the fact that this baby is here. There is a little person with me every day, that I am going to hold and kiss and love completely, whether they are born crying or still. I might as well accept that fact.

Every once in awhile, when we're lying in bed right before falling asleep, I will ask Josh, "Do you think this baby is going to make it?" He will answer me, "I hope so." The other day he put his hand on my tummy for the very first time, and I almost started crying because I realized that he's going through the same things I am. He's trying to protect his heart too, and wrestling with the emotions of knowing there's a baby growing in there and not wanting to get his hopes up too much. But in that moment, he pushed his fears aside and let himself accept it.

We're having another baby, it's happening. We don't know if this baby will be born alive or not, but it will be born. We will hold it, we will love it, we will welcome it into our family and into our hearts. Knowing that fact honestly makes it easier for me to bond with this little one, knowing I will hold him or her, no matter what, and see what they look like and who they look like. That might sound completely morbid or backward or whatever, but it is what it is. We're dealing with all of this in the best way we know how, and we are working hard to give our fears to the Lord and allow Him to work on our hearts.

People tell me all the time that the Lord will not give me more than I can handle. A friend of mine reminded me the other day that she didn't think that was true actually, that the Lord absolutely gives us more than we can handle at times, so that we are forced to lean into Him and allow Him to help us with our load. I have to completely agree. This pregnancy is more than I can handle. It is more than my heart can accept and more than I can deal with emotionally. And sure enough, I have no other choice but to give it to God and let Him work on my heart and help me carry the load. The alternative is cracking under the pressure of it all and completely abandoning my faith and what I know in my heart to be true, that the Lord loves me and wants the best for me and my family, that He has a greater plan than what I can see right now, that He wants so desperately for me to be a part of His will and all I need to do is follow Him. I have absolutely no desire to walk this road alone. That, to me, is far more terrifying than facing what's in front of me.

So we face it, but not alone. Never, for one moment, alone.


Isaiah 42:16

I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them:
I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth.
These are the things I will do;
I will not forsake them.

The Since We Found Out Blog Update

Well, about a week has gone by since we dropped the Pregnancy Bomb, and I am so thankful for the wonderfully supportive and encouraging responses we've gotten. I have read every single comment, and even if I haven't responded, I hope you know they meant so much to me and Josh, and we have actually enjoyed the past week of sharing the news and finally coming out of the dark about things.

It has been a rough few months, and while I don't think I can ever articulate all that's happened in our hearts the past few months, I did want to fill you in on some of it. You'll forgive me for how very long this entry will probably be, seeing as I pretty much wrote nothing on the blog during the time we were actually experiencing everything. It will probably come out like word vomit and you might have to take a break somewhere in the middle so you don't ruin your eyes. I apologize in advance.



About a week before Ember was born, I got that feeling. That feeling I have gotten, oh, about five times now. The feeling that is usually accompanied with nervous anticipation and hopeful anxiety. This time, however, that feeling carried with it nothing but absolute, stone cold dread.

When I told Josh I needed him to go buy me a pregnancy test, I think his reaction was something like, "You've got to be kidding me." I'm pretty sure that I immediately started yelping at him in tones only dogs could hear that I wouldn't kid about something like this and if he didn't go right this minute I would certainly keel over and die from the stress.

So he went, and I took it, and I have never seen a test turn positive so quickly or so cruelly. As Josh stood there in the doorway and I stared down at what I was sure had to be a bad dream, I lost it.

"Nonononononono you've got to be bleeping kidding me. Bleepity bleep bleep bleeperson Josh how the bleepity bleep did this happen bleep bleepity bleep."

Yes, I realize this is not language becoming of a Christian or a mother or anyone who isn't a soldier really. But please take a moment to understand where my heart was. My heart was, at that time, growing inside a birth mom who had just told us the baby she was planning to give to us had a terminal birth defect and would most likely die during or shortly after birth. My heart was immediately flooded with the dread of experiencing another miscarriage, or worse, another stillbirth. My thoughts were catapulted into memories of how hard the recovery from my first miscarriage was and how tedious and all-consuming the process of grieving Lily was and sometimes still is. I was smacked in the face with the record of our previous pregnancies and how no one in their right mind would bet on us if we were a football team. Our record was dismal at best. Add this to the fact that we were only days away from having to hold yet another baby with a death sentence. The timing was absolutely unbelievable.

While I sat there having my R-rated meltdown, Josh shook his head and sighed a sarcastic little laughy sigh and said, "Well. That sounds about right."

I then went into an entirely new panic mode. Let's say, by some miracle, I made it into the second trimester and we were forced to tell our friends and family about this little development? How could we possibly? What would happen with the adoption? How would people react? Most certainly they would react as badly as I currently was and probably never speak to us again. And then the baby would die, and everyone would say, "Well good grief. What did you think would happen?"

It was a dark place, and I was there alone. Josh almost immediately recovered and started reassuring me that it would all be fine. He reminded me that I always wanted four kids anyway, so maybe I should stop freaking out and just take a deep breath. And I remember thinking that he must live in some alternate reality where he couldn't understand what was really happening. I looked at him as if he was speaking a made up language from Star Trek and held up the pregnancy test.

"Hellloooo in there!!!! I am pregnant!!! Again!!! In the middle of a freaking adoption! Do you not understand what is happening here?!?"

I think he wisely chose to end the conversation and move on. And that's when I realized, that wasn't a bad idea. Since I obviously couldn't cope with my reality, how about I just didn't? It would probably all be over in a week or two anyways, so what's the point in talking about it and risk forming any sort of attachment to this "issue". Denial was the name of the game, and for the next few weeks, we did not speak about it, at all, period.

With Ember's arrival and all that was going on, it actually wasn't that hard to push it to the back of my head and not let it anywhere near my heart. But I couldn't deny it completely. I knew that even though this baby would surely betray me like the three before it and leave me suddenly and without reason, I still owed it the right to thrive. I forced myself into the doctor. I mentally and emotionally checked out as I filled out the mountain of paperwork describing all of my previous pregnancies and the reason for their "demise" as the papers put it. I then sat in the exam room for an hour discussing my incredibly depressing and even more complicated history with the doctor who tried to reassure me that my losses had been unrelated, freak accidents, not something likely to happen again.

Sure. She might not have remembered, but she had given me that exact same shpeal right after Lily died, and three months later I sat in her office grieving yet another unexplained miscarriage.

She gave me vitamins and started me on poison, I mean hormone supplements, to try and help the baby to "stick" as she put it. I was completely numb to the entire situation and didn't even discuss the torturous appointment with Josh.

We had an incident the day before Ember was born in which I had a lot of pain and was sent to the ER. The doctor feared the pregnancy was ectopic and would need to be removed immediately.  I knew, I absolutely knew, that this was the end of it, and was honestly very grateful that the Lord was ending it so soon, before I had the chance to accept the idea and let it turn into something awful like hope or happiness.

After nine hours in the ER and a few tests later, the doctor told me I was not actually experiencing an ectopic pregnancy, but simply had a harmless cyst that would probably go away in a few weeks or months. "Not to worry!" He said. Well, thank you doctor. Now that you've reassured me that I don't need to worry when I'm about five seconds pregnant, I'm sure everything will be perfect from here on out.

I will not get attached. I will not get attached. I will not get attached.

This was my motto, and this is what got me through those first few weeks. And while I muddled through, God very slowly and patiently began chipping away at my heart, or more accurately, at the stone that had formed around it. When I say I didn't speak about the pregnancy to anyone, I meant anyone. I did not pray about it, I did not open up to Him about my fears, I just turned my head and waited for it to be over. And I feared once it was, I would never be able to speak to Him again.

A couple weeks later, I had my first real ultrasound. I was sure this would be the end of it, this would prove the pregnancy was not viable and I could move on with my life and our adoption. By this time Ember had gone home with her foster family and we were stuck in "no one knows we're pregnant but we can't go back on the waiting list until this whole thing resolves itself" limbo. When the tech started the ultrasound I did not look at the screen. I refused to open my eyes, and I laid there with my head buried in the crook of my elbow.

"Well, there's the little heart beating!" She happily exclaimed. I thought to myself that I would look like an absolutely horrible human being if I didn't at least open my eyes, so I forced myself to look at the screen. I weakly and very fakely smiled at her and said, "Oh, great."

What I was really thinking was, "Oh, great. Now it has a heartbeat. Now it's heart is going to stop. Now I'm going to have to grieve a baby who had a beating heart at some point." Very, very deep down, I was of course grateful that the baby was still alive, that this ultrasound hadn't ended like so many before it, badly. But the biggest parts of me were convinced I was in for one of those terrible ultrasounds in the very near future.

I went home and proceeded to live in denial. Unfortunately, either the baby or the hormone poison I was on made it impossible to ignore what was happening to me. I was sicker than I have ever been before, throwing up nearly every single meal and losing weight drastically. Though I have plenty of weight to spare, the way I was losing it was a bit hard to hide, especially from my incredibly observant children. Each time I would race to the bathroom or the kitchen sink, I would hear the kids say, "Oh, mommy's throwing up again! Listen to mommy throw up!" And I would wonder how long we were going to be able to hide this from them.

Until one day when Eisley straight up asked me, "Mommy, are you pregnant?"

I cannot, ever, bring myself to outright lie to my children. Like, ever, about anything. I have skirted the issue, I have changed the subject, but I have never straight up lied to their faces. I had only days before blatantly lied to my sister's face when she asked me the same thing, but for some reason I couldn't do it to Eisley. I tried my usual tactics of not telling a lie but not exactly telling the truth.

"Why do you ask that baby?"

"Because you throw up a hundred times a day and on Good Luck Charlie when the mom threw up a hundred times a day she was pregnant."

"Well, hm."

"That is not an answer mommy."

"Well, how would you feel if I was pregnant?"

"I would feel very mad at you for not telling me. You promised me you would tell me if you got pregnant again because last time you didn't tell me and the baby died before I even knew about it."

"Well, I was just trying to protect you."

And this is how our coversations would go every few days. Until one day when mommy slipped up. I was lying on the couch in utter misery as I so often did those first couple of months when Jake said, "Mommy, I sure hope I don't catch whatever you have."

"Don't worry baby, you can't catch what I have."

Both Jake and Eisley's heads shot towards me and they instantly started screaming, "YOU'RE PREGNANT!!! I KNEW IT!!! YOU ARE TOTALLY PREGNANT!!!"

I had no energy to confirm or deny these remarks, and told them to go talk to their father about it. I just had nothing left. So we told them, and thus began some very interesting discussions with the kids which I might share in later blog entries. Jake told me he was just glad I didn't have a horrible disease, and Eisley was still mostly mad at me for keeping it a secret from her. We swore them to secrecy, and that night I cried. A lot.

Now they knew, and now when this baby died it would hurt them. And that was just too much for me to bear.

Every two weeks I would go to the doctor and get an ultrasound, and each time I couldn't even force myself to open my eyes until the doctor said, "Okay, I see the heartbeat, you can look."

Each appointment I would take home a new set of pictures, and while you would think it would get easier as I got further along, it did not. I remember the first ultrasound that showed the baby waving his little arms and legs. I thought to myself, "Well now it has arms and legs. Now it looks like a tiny baby. Now I'm going to have to let go of an actual little person."

With each week, I did not grow more confident, I grew more fearful of the impact this loss would have. Each passing week brought me closer to the reality that this loss, when it happened, not if, would be more significant and eventually more public. I prayed that if it was going to happen, please just let it happen before we are forced to tell people about it. Before the baby is big enough that I would have to deliver it and go through what I did with Lily.

I drew further from the Lord and clung tighter to my fears. I was guarding myself from pain, but that also meant I was guarding myself from joy. The higher you get, the harder you fall. That is a fact I have learned through all of my losses. When you have no concept of what can go wrong, the shock when it does happen is incredibly hard to deal with. That's why my first miscarriage was so awful. We just didn't consider the possibility of the pregnancy being lost. I was thrown into a pit of grief that took me months to climb out of.

With Lily, I guarded myself, yes, but once I passed that "loss milestone" and got further into the pregnancy than with my miscarriage, I relaxed a lot and was able to enjoy the pregnancy, especially after hitting the second trimester. Ah, the second trimester. If you get there, all is well, miscarriage is no longer a risk, and you can breath easy. You made it! So I recklessly allowed myself to fall head over heels in love with Lily, because I knew we were now in the "safe zone". So, again, when we lost her, the shock of it was unbearable.

After Lily, we tried once more to get pregnant, did, and a mere week later, before I had the chance to react in any sort of way, we lost again. I had been very guarded when we got that positive, and quite honestly the loss just wasn't as hard to deal with because we hardly had time to accept it and hadn't been very optimistic to begin with. But that was the last straw. Never again. Never. I would not put myself through it. Deep down in my heart, I knew I really wanted the chance to carry another baby to term. I had been told the losses were unrelated, and maybe they were, so maybe, someday, I would have the courage to try once more. But in reality, I don't think I ever would have gotten to a place where I would have willingly put that much on the line again, and I certainly wouldn't have convinced Josh to do so.

At some point Josh and I cautiously talked about the pregnancy now and again. He asked how long I thought we could wait to tell people. I responded, "Forever." I remember the first time I had actually said the words "I'm pregnant" out loud to someone other than Josh. We were getting fitted for bridesmaids dresses for my sister's wedding. After everyone left, I snuck back in saying I had to use the restroom and quickly went back to talk to the alterations lady. "Excuse me, but, um, I was wondering if I might be able to get my dress altered to be, um, bigger?"

She looked at me and expected a little more of an explanation. "Um, well it's just that, um, I'm pregnant and um..."

The ladies behind the counter immediately erupted into squeals of delight and congratulations. I was quite taken aback actually. I think I stared at them wide eyed for a full minute before speaking. I hadn't expected anyone to react so happily to something so incredibly not happy. But they didn't know the situation, I reasoned.

I explained that there was a small possibility that I would need a larger dress as I could be about five months pregnant at the time of the wedding (I don't think they caught onto the significance of my use of could). They assured me that I would need a bigger dress, probably thinking that I didn't understand how a pregnant belly expands in five months. Oh, I understood. I just knew that it was a larger possibility that I would no longer be pregnant at that point. But I wasn't going to go into that with perfect strangers, so I didn't.

Josh was alright with my hesitation to tell anyone what was going on, but I could tell he was mostly just going along with it, and had I said the word he would have been just fine sharing the news. At some point I brought myself to share it with my sister, and I remember how significant that was to me. It was officially out there now. Saying it out loud somehow made all of it real. Not the four ultrasounds I had already had or the fact that I was vomitting every five seconds, but saying that to her, it opened my heart up just a bit. This wasn't going away, and I would have to deal with it whether it ended badly or progressed even further.

It also gave me something we had desperately needed the past few weeks...encouragement. Josh was too close to the situation to be of any real encouragement to me. He was, after all, going through the same fears and emotions I was, though not quite so severely. And I was of absolutely no encouragement to him, of that I can assure you. Telling Lisa shed some light on a seemingly dark situation. She was cautious in her encouragement and approached me as if I was a scared animal who might freak out and bite her face off whenever she asked about the pregnancy, but she would listen to my negative rantings and ramblings and she would validate them, but then offer some light and truth and something I needed desperately, optimism. And God continued to chip away a little bit more at my heart.

When Josh and I were going through marital counseling some years ago, we talked about how Satan works best in the dark. When things are secret, hidden, and we can't even bring ourselves to talk about them to God Himself Who of course knows everything anyways, Satan uses that against us in huge ways. He convinces you that things are insurmountable, that no one will undersand and everyone will be against you. He whispers these lies into your ear that everything will be worse when it's out in the open and you will most certainly never recover. He uses it to isolate you from friends and family and especially the Lord.

While I don't think keeping quiet about a pregnancy is on the same planet as keeping dark secrets about illicit affairs, the concept held true for me during this time. And once a bit of light was cast upon things by opening up to my sister and soon after to our families, I was able to see that maybe, just maybe, things weren't as hopeless as I had been believing.

Their excitement over the ultrasound photos and recordings of the baby's heartbeat gave me permission to get a little excited about them too. I refused to show it, of course, but God had been working to soften my heart and show me that, like it or not, we had another child that was living and breathing and growing bigger every day, and they deserved to be loved just as much as all our other babies.

We eventually had to break the news to our adoption agency too, and I had put it off only because I was so certain it would be a moot point and thought it best to just wait until I at least had one more ultrasound showing all was well. Four good ultrasounds later, I hesitantly wrote the email to our case worker, and was so thankful when she replied quickly and happily, and told us she'd be praying for us and keeping our file on hand for when this little one was older and we were ready to adopt. The doubts in my head told me it would more likely be after I lost this pregnancy, but I tried to push them out of my head and do what I had not been doing for the past three months, think positively.

We had a "big" ultrasound around 12 weeks that would tell us of certain abnormalities and give us a better idea of how the baby was doing in there, other than just having a heartbeat. I went in prepared for the worst, but having heard the heartbeat on my home doppler that morning, I was a bit more relaxed knowing the baby was at least alive in there. I have never seen a baby wiggle so much than I did on that ultrasound. It took a good 30 minutes for the tech to get any kind of measurements because the baby was so bouncy. She thought it was just hilarious, and all I could think was, "Stop it! Calm down in there! You're going to get all tangled up in your umbilical cord and freaking strangle yourself like Lily!!!"

These are the highly ridiculous and irrational thoughts of a woman pregnant after a loss. It was that ultrasound that the tech also offered to tell me if we were having a boy or a girl. "NO!" I quickly and somewhat suddenly snapped at her. She said, "Oh, you want it to be a surprise at the birth?"

"Um. Yes. Sure. A surprise."

I knew the truth. I didn't want to know the sex, because if I did, I would not be able to keep myself from attaching to this baby. It would be a baby boy, or it would be a baby girl, and there was no way I could remove myself from that knowledge. Then we would have to tell our families, and they would not be able to resist buying sweet little pink or blue things whenever they saw them, even if I begged them not to and they promised they wouldn't. I knew they would anyway, and then I would be stuck with more baby things forever taunting me and reminding me of the baby we do not have. I could not bear to have another box of things that were meant for a baby that was never able to use them. So when people ask me why we're not finding out, I tell them we want to be surprised, but now you know the real reason. And while I think the not knowing will make that moment in the delivery room that much sweeter, I also need to put that moment off until the doctor can hand me a baby who I can feel absolutely no qualms about bonding with.

It was around this time that Eisley informed me, "Mommy. You better start telling people you're pregnant, because you're belly is just getting too big to hide."

Such a sweet, sweet child.

It did bring up the conversation between me and Josh, though, and while it if had been up to me I'd have kept quiet about things for the next six months, I knew our time of denial was over, and we needed to think about how we would share this news. I couldn't even consider the cutesy facebook announcements everyone else gets to do when they're expecting, given our situation and my qualms about everything, though part of me is sad about that. I just couldn't deal with it and didn't know how people would react. I chose to tell my closest friends through text message or blurting it out quickly at random moments, like ripping off a band-aid. It was never as bad as I expected it to be, and with each reveal I let myself get a little more open to the situation and definitely appreciated the encouragement.

You of course know how we announced it to the rest of the world (see previous blog entry), and the rest is history, as they say.

So now, here we are. 15 weeks pregnant and still getting used to the idea. I had another ultrasound today which I was fortunate enough to get video of. I thought about posting it to facebook, then thought better of it, then thought about it again. I have no desire to share it with everyone and at the same time I find it harder every day to quiet that voice deep down that tells me she is happy about this baby and would like the opportunity to share her happiness with her loved ones. (Does that make me sound like I have multiple personalities? I would deny that I do, but that's pretty much exactly what is going on with me right now.)

Well. I guess I can at least share a couple pictures. Just in time for Halloween, our little baby has decided to go as a creepy skeleton. Don't worry, we still think it's cute.

Creepy skeleton baby. We aren't that worried because Eisley looked creepy like this too in her ultrasound pics and look how cute she turned out.

We think it's screaming, "LET ME OUUUUUUTTT!!!" while it pounds its fists on my tummy

Well there you have it. I have no idea what I'll be blogging about in the coming weeks, but I'm sure I will find something to say (I always do). Thank you so much for all of your encouragement as we walk this pretty scary road. You guys are too good to us, and we are so thankful for the love.