Sunday, October 11, 2015


One of my children asked tonight which of my pregnancies was the most stressful.  I explained that my last was because it was right after our Eowyn's death.  I had panic attacks and was anxious about every twinge and pain.  I was anxious about comfort.  I was worried and scared and stressed the entire pregnancy.  My oldest then asked if my pregnancy with him was stressful.  No.  It really wasn't.  That isn't to say I wasn't sick or uncomfortable, but there are some perks to first pregnancies.

You see, I didn't know what I was in for.  I didn't know how long the morning sickness would last.  My body was strong and young so a lot of discomfort was averted.  When I was tired, I took a nap because I only needed to take care of me--and my husband, but he is rather capable of looking after himself.  Meals could be quickly prepared.  Laundry was one or two loads per week.  I did have work, but I was so excited with the prospect of becoming a mother that I hardly gave heed to the difficulty of becoming a mother.

Fast forward seventeen years.  Now I know how long morning sickness lasts.  I vividly understand the aches and pains associated with pregnancy, labor, and delivery.  I'm running a massive galleon, filled with ACT prepping high schoolers down to a toddler learning colors and letters.  I'm trying to keep the house clean, I'm trying to fulfill my church and co-op responsibilities, I'm trying to blah, blah, blah.

And I'm sick.  I want to curl up in my bed and bawl half of the day.

There are bright spots, though!  My husband has been a champion to me.  He has been keeping the kitchen and dishes under control.  That is such a massive burden lifted from my load.  He even got me a little spa morning (my least sick time of the day).

In addition, my older children are older!  I do get to hound them over new things, but when I ask them to clean a bathroom or tend to a younger child in need, they do it!  Correctly!

My life is not all that tough, I've just become a wimp.  Cowboy up, Emily!  Soldier on, private!  You have work to do!

Just right after I take a teensy nap.

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Not Chub

A few weeks ago, I had a startling realization.  My clothes were fitting funny around my middle and my hip hurts.  Of course, I immediately assumed I had cancer.  After I talked myself down, I decided I had some kind of cantaloupe sized cyst on my ovary.  I nearly searched my symptoms on the internet then decided to just make an appointment with an actual, living doctor.  A few days later, getting into the shower and looking at my odd belly and wondering what cursed parasite was feasting on my innards and growing immense in the process, in suddenly dawned on me:

I'm getting fat!

My mom warned me about this.  I'm 38 and I weaned my son about 8 months ago.  Time is no longer on my side and I couldn't rely on the parasitic properties of a nursing child.  Although I have a long and treasured tradition of gaining 50-60 pounds each time I gestate, I've always lost it relatively quickly and maintained my weight during the in-between times.  Here I stood, staring at my 10 pounds of extra belly and laughing at myself and my previous worrisome conclusions.

However, I'd already made the doctor's appointment and I hadn't been to a doctor since my 6-week postpartum checkup, so I thought I may as well keep the date.

I gave my urine sample, got the weight checked and the blood pressure measured.  Then sat on the papered table in my paper dress.

My doctor, the same one I've had since before I was married, was giggling outside the exam room door.  She walked in, still giggling.

It turns out, I do have a growth, of sorts.  I do have a parasite, of a kind.  I have put on a bit of weight, but it is fully explainable.

I'm going to have a baby!

It isn't like I don't know what being pregnant feels like, it's just that I've never gone so long without being pregnant.  And I'm old.  And, I don't know, I guess I thought I was done!

Apparently, Heavenly Father would like me to love and serve one more child, to mother one more citizen . . . mother or father . . . friend . . . creator . . . beautifier . . . disciple of Christ.  I don't claim to be amazing at doing that, but I am who our Father has chosen and I will certainly try to magnify my calling.

Pray for me, friends.  As much as I look forward to a baby, I grow weak at the thought of so many more weeks of being sick, my old bones hauling around a heavily pregnant frame, the difficulty of labor and the months and months of severe heartburn and being continually generally uncomfortable.  I will continue to pray for courage

and dwell on that single, fluttery heart introducing itself to mine.