lite & lucid

     It is with equal parts shock and awe that I share with all of you that I am pregnant for the third time in six years. I’m not shocked because I can’t get pregnant, in fact I think I have a pretty sound case to argue that I have a difficult time not getting pregnant. No, my friends, Jesse and I were both shocked because we had decided to and started the training for adoption through the foster system. We were 5 weeks into our foster training when we found out we were 4 weeks pregnant. At first I felt little more than shock as I tried to wrap my head around the little plus sign that appeared on the stick I just peed on. Then, as reality set in, I started to go through the five stages of mourning.

     There was anger, which involved a lot of wailing, gnashing of teeth and shooting my husband dirty looks. Denial was a fun stage, I took a lot of pregnancy tests and said “Well that one’s a false positive.” after every single one. I made what I thought were pretty amazing bargains with God that sounded like, “If this is a chemical pregnancy, we will adopt three….no FOUR kids! DID YOU HEAR ME? FOUR KIDS!!!”. But when we went to the 8 week ultrasound and I saw the little blob floating around (and confirmed there was only 1 baby in there, whew!) I moved on to the acceptance stage.

It isn’t that we didn’t want to have more children, we are still going to adopt within the next year but that’s a blog for another day. It’s just that I didn’t want to grow anymore children. I hate being pregnant. If you’re one of those women who feels most beautiful when pregnant and find yourself at your pre-pregnancy weight before you leave the hospital, then this blog will not make any sense to you. And I secretly hate you. But if you spend the first half of your pregnancy running to the bathroom to throw up and the second half sitting in a chair you’ve pulled up to the refrigerator fully consuming its contents, then get comfortable and join me in reminiscing about the special hell that is being pregnant.

     You know what makes me cry when I’m pregnant? Everything. Picking out a shirt to wear. Tears. Witnessing a sweet moment between my kids. Someone get me a tissue. Today is Thursday? I’ll be in the bathroom weeping myself into a dehydrated state. Please send Gatorade.

     I also see a sharp spike in my flair for the dramatic and ability to imagine the absolute worst case scenario. During my first pregnancy, Jesse came home one evening from playing in his Thursday night volleyball league to find me spooning the dog bawling my eyes out. When he asked what was wrong I answered tearfully, “I thought you left me f-f-for someone else! I didn’t think y-y-you were coming baaaaaack!” Not quite knowing how to approach his highly volatile wife, he simply sat on the bed, patted my head and said something very moving like, “There, there pretty pregnant lady”. That poor man.

    Brace yourselves, you are about to experience more changes in your body than you did during puberty. Your boobs that were once neatly contained in a B cup bra have suddenly grown into unruly dogs that are constantly trying to jump the fence. Your thighs that have always touched a little bit are now pressed together like obnoxious children smashing their faces against a window. Your pants are working hard to contain your butt which seems to be in a race with your thighs to see who can get bigger the fastest. The cute baby bump of a stomach you’ve dreamed about starts out as a sad, puffy muffin top that just makes you look fat and you feel the need to bring up the fact that you’re pregnant to every stranger you encounter. If you listen really hard you can actually hear my hips moving outward into the child bearing position. My hips miss each other. My thighs are sick of each other. My boobs have started a revolution against all my bras. And all of this makes me cry.

     Nesting for me manifests itself in two distinct forms; cleaning weird stuff and stocking up on weirder stuff. I’m organizing closets that no one sees, cleaning out junk drawers that no one cares about and washing the curtains that no one notices. These things have to happen because the baby needs them to happen.

Me: “I really should be doing important cleaning like making that mountain of laundry look more like a hill or sweeping up the last 14 meals off the dining room floor because our dog is kind of worthless in that area.”

Baby: “I can’t deal with this bookshelf. Do you see this bookshelf? You should take everything off this bookshelf and reorganize your entire bookshelf system. This is madness. How have you lived like this for so long?”

Me: “Well…I have these other kids…you know, your older brothers….so I kind of have bigger fish to fry…”

Baby: “Like the bookshelf.”

Me: “You know what? You’re totally right. I’ll grab a dust rag.”

It’s getting weird.

     As for stocking up on strange items, when I was pregnant with my oldest I had this urge to buy a 3 months supply of deodorant. Except, I had no idea how much deodorant that was so I bought something like 9 sticks. Jesse watched me, quietly concerned, as I emptied an entire row of deodorant off the shelf into our cart. I then turned to him, let out a great sigh of relief and said, “Ok, now the baby can come.”

     I swear the increase in the amount you pee happens almost as soon as the baby is conceived. I pee all the time, day and night. Just this morning I went pee, washed my hands and was just a few steps away from the bathroom when I realized I had to pee again. My record for the most times I’ve woken up to pee in the middle of the night is seven. Seven times. In order to accept this giant waste of time as part of my daily routine, I’ve decided that peeing is one of my new hobbies. So if you need me, I’ll be in the bathroom practicing my peeing.

     I would love to know how I can pee 27 times a day but cease to have a satisfactory bowel movement. I’ve become jealous of the regularity of my pets and children. This place is void of reason.

     I’m eating an embarrassing amount of oranges. But one bite of a beautifully cooked pot roast turns to ash in my mouth and makes me sick.

I don’t like pasta. But this baby loves pasta.

Three egg, veggie and steak omelette that took 15 minutes from prep to plate, meh. Bowl of cold cereal, come to mama you delicious thing you.

This baby makes no sense.

     So why do it all again? After rereading this blog, my first instinct is to say that I have no idea. But then I think about the genuine joy on Jesse’s face when I nonchalantly inserted “so I’m pregnant” into the middle of a conversation. Or how Bryce insisted on taking our ultrasound pictures everywhere and proudly showed them to complete strangers. Or how Gavin is convinced that he also has a baby in his belly and keeps me updated on its progress. Or when we found out we were having another boy. I know so many women struggle with infertility. I hate myself for being frustrated in the middle of a pregnancy I didn’t want when I know there are women who want to be pregnant but can’t. It’s not fair, it’s humbling and it often leaves me with more questions than answers. I pray for peace over every heart that aches for a baby and I pray that the humility God has been trying to throw at me for over 30 years will finally start to stick. Instead of being angry in the middle of a pregnancy I didn’t want, I’m accepting this gift I’ve been given but don’t deserve. We’re still in the process of completing our training and licensing to adopt and it’s exciting that we don’t know what our family will look like in a year or two. There’s a lot of kids who need a good home, and the unlucky ones can come live with us. Besides, I’m a little excited (and very nervous) to add to the Danger and Mayhem of my mediocre momness with a little…Chaos and Pandemonium.