You Were Worth It

To my sweet baby,

Oh, if you only knew the nights and days I dreamt of how magnificent you’d be. How you’d grow into your marvelous self and thrive and be fully you, unapologetically. Every pregnant belly I’ve had, I’d grin as jabs protruded my skin and poking stole my attention; my imagination would run wild with adoration for you. One positive pregnancy test and I was smitten. Absolutely smitten, no matter what chaos swirled in our family or that the timing wasn’t ideal, you were coming and that became an overriding joy in all I did.

But with my joy, there always came a sting. You see, your mom has struggled with a lot of things in her life, but one thing has hung over her for too long – body insecurities.

I have teetered between morbidly obese and overweight (two pounds from a normal BMI) since I was six. I remember the first horrifically negative comment that made me question myself and my size … and I remember many more after.

These childhood comments started to shake my being and I no longer felt lovable. I felt unworthy and like I didn’t belong. I was embarassed. Ashamed. Humiliated. And somewhere in the messy thoughts circling in my brain, I decided I didn’t have the right or a voice to combat it. I didn’t belong and disgustingly fat became my identity.

I spent many years with doctors and dieticians, quick fix diets and drawn-out programs in hopes to find a “normal” body. From elementary school and well into my college years, my weight fluctuated in almost alarming ways. Good days were only if I was lucky enough to feel skinny, bad days were every other day. Clearly, my issues were deeper than anything a diet could fix.

I finally met your dad and I still struggled, but he brought some peace to my caged mentality. At my heaviest, he fell in love with me.

Your daddy never saw my weight. He saw the control and torment it had over me, but his love never hinged on such a thing. He saw something I didn’t know I possessed, and I never saw it because I was so preoccupied with my own outer shell. Your dad showed me I was lovable already, just as I was. He was (and continues to be) Christ to me.

It’s from this place of my war within that I wanted to write this.

Child, I struggled carrying you.

While other mothers have ridiculous nauseousness or other major physical ailments while pregnant, I fought my old battles of “being disgustingly fat.” I’d have days that my gratitude and happiness were so abundant that I was flying high, but more days than not I struggled.

You see, much of our society loves to focus on the size and shape of a body versus what that body is actually doing. Conversation between women, pregnant or not, are hyper-focused on weight. Some applaud a woman for little or no pregnancy pounds. Some gawk at the mom that “got her body back” in months (and some even weeks) after delivery. Some jabber about “cute pregnant women,” insinuating some of us are not-so-cute pregnant women. I don’t have to give you much time to guess if any of those statements applied appropriately to me.

I was a big mama when carrying you. Most people never commented, but some felt at liberty, and some often did with a twinkle in their eye (assuming you were to be a huge baby or triplets). They spoke totally not knowing the dagger they were thrusting at my already fragile self-esteem.

It wasn’t until a long drive home one day that I pondered these thoughts at a deeper level. The radio was off, your siblings had fallen asleep in the car and I was just left with the silence. Whether it was God’s whisper to direct my chaotic mind or a bunch of crazy turns bringing me there, a very brave thought popped in my head.

Carrying you proudly in utero was the most selfless and loving thing I could give you in that moment.

We talk a lot about postpartum moms after they have their baby and the sacrifices that she must now learn and adjust to. But what about the body-shamed mama of just carrying the baby inside? What about the mom that worked hard to lose those 120+ pounds earlier in her life, only to be told to eat a little more and gain weight for the health of that sweet child? I mean, in her mind, what if gaining that weight never stops?

Can you imagine the mind games? Can you even dare go there and guess what war wages in that mom’s brain?

I can, my dear one, because that was me. And honey, that was for you. I did that for you. With many sobbing days and attempts to close my ears to the comments (whether those were my internal words or comments from others).

It seemed the more I told myself (and sometimes others) that my size and weight didn’t matter (but just that YOU WERE THRIVING), people still felt a need to comment on how huge we were. It was hard. Baby, it was harder than hard for me. Give me the barfing any day over my mind games.

I know these baby-making years will be gone before I know it. I’ll be able to get my weight back to somewhat healthy and perhaps even maintain it for longer than a year or two, but I don’t want to forget these hard days. I don’t want to forget them because I know someone else out there will feel this way someday (maybe even one of my babies). And that someone will NEED another mama to say, “Hey, I get you! And you’re not alone.”

You could even add, “Wow, your body is amazing! Look at what it’s doing! You’re making a whole NEW human being. You are making the next generation in your belly and it’s spectacular to witness.”

Be a voice contrary to society’s natural rhetoric, dear child. Dare to speak LIFE to those fragile souls, those poor mama souls like your mom. Remind them what a gift it is to give life to a new creation that God Himself knit together.

And don’t forget, Satan yearns to steal the beauty from such a breathtaking miracle. Don’t let him. He’ll make the world belittle the process, too. He wants only to steal, kill, and destroy ANYTHING that is this good, this amazing, this miraculous.

Remember just as babies are applauded for coming out in all shapes and sizes, so should the women that bear them into the world. One does not deserve love and applause over another. And really, that applies to absolutely every human situation.

Society does not have the right to have that much say over you or your significance. Only God has that power. And my child, He is soooo pleased over you. You are His beautiful and precious creation. He is more smitten over you than I have ever been (so that’s a pretty outrageous amount) and long before I ever knew you’d exist.

So before I close, let me reiterate, my sweet one: as hard as it was for me to carry you in my womb, you were worth it. Every single teary day, every single pound and roll and war within – you. were. SOOOO. worth it.

I love you, precious child. Thank you for letting me be your mom, flaws and all.

Love, your Mama

Year of Home

I’m a stay-at-home mom. My hubby and I have four kiddos under seven. While most people assume our household is chaotic, in all honesty, our chaos has tamed compared to what it was just a year ago when my youngest was a baby.

We decided four biological babies are our number, so for the first time in my mom history I am not expecting (or have a newborn) at the time my last baby turned 18 months.

This has made my wings flutter a little. Flap with independence and freedom. Obviously not from motherhood, but from the concentrated focus of babyhood.

However, allowing myself to stretch in autonomy opened my eyes to the many yeses I could finally commit to, leaving my babies and hubby at home.

As you can probably guess, my wings started moving and my goal list in 2018 blew up with new ideas and reaching out and meeting people and serving. I was running. Some weeks, running half the week or more to things that had nothing to do with my kids. And I LOVED it. LOVED IT!!!!!

If you could see me as I write this, you’d see me shaking my head and rolling my eyes.

It’s at this moment, as my wings were flapping and my gaze was reaching further and further into the future that I got a gracious punch in the gut.

My husband switched his job. This changed my schedule of freedom and the jingle in our pockets to an almost starting over mode.

He needed a new job. He was at total burnout with no hope of renewal, so it was time. But the truth is, I needed a change too. And in my case, a wake up call.

My heartbeat is to help people. I love to love. I love to serve. I love to share LIFE and JESUS with anyone that is willing to listen.

But you know what? As I did more and more of that, my family was getting the leftovers of those times. I’d give my shiny best to so many others and I’d come home with just chintzy scraps of sanity.

Something had to change.

Something HAS to change.

So that’s where I’m at. That is my adventure of 2019.

It’s time to refocus. It’s time to be intentional. It’s time to build my home to be more homey. More homey in conversations. In fun and relationships. In special one-on-one moments. In cleanliness. In organization. It’s time I make the homefront of my young family my biggest passion and mission in life.

I’ll admit, it feels a lot less glamorous than Year of Unapologetic in 2018. It even stings a little to let go of some of my opportunities outside of my home, but this must be done.

My role as mother and wife are my callings right now. I may not have anything spectacular to show to you or the world or anyone else (that might remotely care), but I’ll make a gargantuan difference in five very important souls.

And the fruit of putting them first? Well, that probably won’t be revealed right away either (or it might? maybe in small doses!?!?), but the truth is I KNOW it will produce fruit eventually. In my marriage, in my relationship with each of my children, and definitely in me.

So here I go! Year of Home 2019. Like my last Year of Unapologetic, I bet it will start one way and birth something totally unexpected.

I can’t wait!

Unapologetic

I have spent most my life apologizing. For being too fat. Too slow. Too needy. Too desperate. Too motivated. Too unmotivated. For having no kids to having too many kids. I have felt many things in my life have been scrutinized. If it wasn’t picked apart by someone else, it was most definitely picked apart by me.

There have been some major victories in my life, ranging from “beating the odds” of having kids to losing over one hundred pounds. Perhaps my biggest miracle is life itself; some days and years I thought it would be great to just not exist. And in these victories, I have often hung my pride.

But you know what’s ridiculous? If there are any medals to be hung about anything, they just melt away within moments. In a blink, there’s a new day with new amazements and new reasons to just. not. be. enough. Humans are so fickle.

My best friend, Rebekah and I went on a short reading voyage of picking one theme word for 2018. It seemed sentimental and an inspiring thing to do and we flung our thoughts and emotions into it. Five short days later, we arrived at conclusions. For me, I chose the word free.

I loved the idea. I envisioned saying yes to things that I normally would shy away from, strutting with confidence and courage and anticipation. But then I feared the reality of attempting to be free. I thought about seeing pictures or rehashing conversations and a sudden squash of embarrassment filled my gut. A shame of feeling too chubby when viewing the pictures or feeling judged or misunderstood by things I said. So, it had to change. Free didn’t seem right.

One morning I stood before the mirror. I was looking at my belly of fat and excess skin. I was looking at my face and the new lines that were slowly appearing. I looked at my hair that was absorbing every ounce of iron from our well water which made it orange instead of blonde. I looked at my moles that seemed to be exploding off my body (thanks, Mom). I looked at my blue eyes and five tattoos and teeth that were more yellow than white due to my coffee addiction. And though my body stole most of my gaze, I felt a weird surrender.

I knew this girl.
I knew this woman.
I knew her story.
This was me.

Every ugly day has brought me a deeper beauty that could never be contained on a mere body of bones, skin, and fat. These “flaws” tell my story, my journey, and my struggles along the way.

My word had to change. It was time to be…unapologetic.

What if I owned her? What if I stood tall, satisfied, unreformed by society? What if I just committed to being me and not look around for anyone else’s approval or disapproval?

What. would. happen.

I told Rebekah that I just wasn’t sure how this word would play out or what it completely meant. I am only month two into unapologetic and have to admit, I am still debating the girth of the word. While I picked it for very clear reasons, it is something I wrestle with everyday. But just as quick as I stated my uncertainties, Rebekah said, “Well, we have all year to figure that out.”

And yes. Yes, we do.

Lessons at South Friborg

The wind is howling outside. Trees shaking their new leaves and the lilacs popping out to give their spring scent. The skies are heavy gray and I am just waiting for the first raindrop. Somewhat revealing of my own mental place today. The kids are all napping, I have a cup of iced coffee at my side, and I am curled up with the blue afghan my aunt Bev made me two decades ago.

I am remembering her today. Remembering me. Remembering Heyma. Remembering Ruth. Remembering all the “hers” that I have lost sight of. Remembering the women that rooted me and the ones that have somehow shaken loose.

The howling wind takes me to my childhood. Watching the trees sway, I was somewhat fearful of damage, of what was coming, of the unexpected explosion that may just interrupt my world. I remember sitting on Heyma’s front porch, cuddled up with a quilt on her day bed, closed eyes, the wind comforting and concerning me all at the same time. The howling through the night that would shake the old windows of my room at home. The rattling rocking me to sleep.

I listened to MPR on my way to South Friborg Cemetery this morning. This was the only radio station I recall hearing in Heyma’s car growing up. My kids and I picked a few 

branches of lilacs at our house to bring to her grave today. Lilacs are about as symbolic of Heyma for me as her green eyes and red hair. We drove by the same fields, the same lakes and trees, and the same family farms she knew in her day. Man, how things have changed. How people have changed. How I have changed.

We pulled up to the cemetery, my kids wide-eyed. A sense of reverence settled in my body, something my kids have not learned yet, but will. We opened the heavy metal gate, the same one I remember as a kid when I visited this same cemetery with Heyma. I brought our lilacs and told Olivea and Tosten to collect some other flowers from the grass (dandelions).

We sat down by her gravestone. I cried. My kids were too enthralled by all the mysteries of a cemetery to truly relax, but they tried. They eventually got up and decided to explore, whispering, stooping to look at the pictures on each gravestone, picking more “flowers” and bringing them back to Heyma’s grave. And I sat. And sat. I am still not sure what Manda sat there, whether it the mother-of-three Manda or the eight-year-old Manda sitting, but I sat.

We eventually held hands, walking through the gravestones as I attempted to explain what a cemetery was. I explained who lived in the cemetery and why we visit them. I explained the respect that each grave should be given as we walk through. I explained eternity and death and life and a million abstract thoughts at once to my children…and they just giggled. They eventually ran off and collected more dandelions to decorate each gravestone.

And it all seemed so silly. Ridiculous even.

What does a child know about such things? About death and life and heaven and hell and cemeteries and people dying that are never suppose to leave? What do they know about the millions of tears that have dropped on this ground, the dashed dreams, the broken spirits, and incurable aches that have been placed here. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And they won’t…until it happens. And it will. It always does.

The wind howled again and this time with a chill. Olivea rushed to me and said, “I cold. We go?” And that’s exactly how it feels.

But I have to remind myself…this is not the end. It is cliche’, but for them, this is just their beginning. They will feel this brokenness and probably much more. They will be crushed in ways that I never had to experience and none of those before me ever had to. And the one they’ll be mourning might be me someday. It might be my husband. It might even be each other.

And that’s how the circle goes. Round and round, generation to generation, woman to woman. Human to human. Years keep clicking by and more are born and more die. My life is but a spark in an explosion of life.

And I must live now. My moment with them is now.

I am pretty sure if Heyma was watching this whole ordeal as we visited her grave today, she probably would have been full-grinned, laughing at my children’s pure pleasure of life as they traipsed around the cemetery. In fact, most people in that cemetery probably would have delighted in their joy. Because sometimes that’s what death is…joy. Joy at birth. Joy at death. Joy of the in between. And joy of eternity.

It can be joy.

I guess if there was one thing I could teach my kids about life and death it is that it’s all fluid. The world changes. Brokenness is guaranteed. And cemeteries, well, really, they are just the place of old bodies that couldn’t hold spirits anymore. And those spirits, some of them go to a much better place where joy is the only thing that is experienced. And Jesus, well, Jesus is as real as He ever was on earth…but more.

And when their smiles hit ear to ear I will smile back and say, “I can’t wait for that either.”

That. Is. It.

And that’s it. I am waving the white flag: surrender! surrender! surrender! I am so done. Done with wearing layers of warmth in my house! Done making three meals (usually more if you count snacks) everyday for three kids that drain and strain and pull the life out of me. I am done washing every piece of laundry I have from spewed vomit and diarrhea from my little humans. Done with stepping on the scale and seeing the number reach higher and higher, all while I stuff another handful of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios in my mouth. Done trying to run, okay, since we’re being utterly honest, walk on that stupid treadmill in the basement. A mile was all I could dare to muster today, followed by another handful of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.

I have prayed. I have read encouragements. I have diffused oils. I have cleaned my house from top to bottom. I have jogged. I have snuggled my life-suckers. I have dreamt of future trips to Montana. I have envisioned myself with this gob of fatty skin cut off my stomach. I have tried to hold hands with Optimism, but either I was too pessimistic for her or she just didn’t understand me.

Today I stop.

This is day three stuck in this prison of our house. Sick kiddos and one exhausted mom, more from giving until my limbs feel like they are going to fall off. Giving and receiving nothing but more vomit, more poop, more laundry to wash and try to put away. And as I sit sipping my coffee, and yes, eating my Cheerios, while watching Sesame Street with my lazy little humans I grapple at finding something to find hope for.

And I weep.

Is it at the end of ourselves, the end of our best efforts, the bottom of that Cheerio bowl that something sacred is found? Nothing satisfies. Absolutely nothing satisfies. And I just want to wallow here…and eat Cheerios, maybe chocolate chips would be a better option at this point.

And just as fast as I write those words, a typhoon of grace sweeps under my belly and swells with a soft whisper that says, “And NOW you’re ready.”

This Tree

And in this moment, right here, in this photo, with Ellenor snuggled next to me, I felt happy. It was so strong it was as if heat was wafting out of my ears, my heart at complete ease, and all seemed right in the world. In my world.

We picked out our family Christmas tree today. I am a firm believer in REAL trees and I think I always will be. Many childhood memories revolve around a Christmas tree, a real one, even though my mom stopped getting real ones as I got in my teen years. And just as I am a firm believer in real trees, I am almost an even firmer believer in “Charlie Brown trees.” So much so that I would prefer one of Charlie’s to a perfectly symmetric, full-boughed tree. I figure full trees are a little prideful anyway.

This year, as we have done a couple previous years, we decided to go to my family’s land and try to “thin out” by cutting down one of the pines that were clustering and choking each other out. This is always the best way to find a Charlie tree! While we waited for Tyler to scout out the trees (which Tyler is the best scoper-outer ever…always picking the best possible choice…which is exactly how he picked me), my dad pulled up in his grain truck and decided to help pull the kids out of the pickup. As we waited for Tyler to surface again, my dad began to tell me a bit about the land.

It was a field at one point. I had no idea. I had been by this piece of land probably several hundred times in my life and I had always assumed it was a tree hill. There was little flatness to this land. A bunch of small independent hills somehow uniting just because they had to. And it was a small chunk of land surrounded by roads and water. What a nightmare for any farmer. He then told me how he helped my grandpa and some hired men plant these trees in the 1950s.

All of a sudden this land took new life. These trees took new life. These hills that my dad just smiled and reminisced about somehow seemed…magnificent.

It’s moments like this that I wish I could stop and record every word. Like somehow I am missing something. Like “there’s some wisdom here: listen carefully.”

As Tyler appeared, he brought us on a quest through the snow-laden grass and what seemed like secret passages through the pines. We then came across this one lone tree. He was small in the shadows of his peers, but he was alone and randomly boughed (totally unsymmetrical) and grew exactly how he was meant to grow. My heart began to beat faster and I said, “this is the one.”

 

As we all stood there, deciding this was the tree, a part of me felt a weird connection to my Grandpa and to my ten-year-old Dad. Did they have any idea in the 50s that they would be planting this tree for me, for their grandchildren, for generations after them? It probably crossed my Grandpa’s mind. But as that tree seemed to glow (like in all the movies), it just seemed too magic. Too amazing. Too reverent.

 

We cut half the tree, which seemed barbaric to me, but Tyler assured me the remainder would grow and eventually have a rounded top and be happy. And Tyler, with his He-Man strength, carried it to the truck and we all rode in dreamy-eyed excitement home. Well, except for Tyler: he knew what awaited us as we tried to squeeze this beauty in our living room.

Right now, everyone is in their beds and I just sit. I sit on our brown couch, the fireplace humming, and ponder on it: pine cones still clinging to the branches, still uncluttered with lights or ornaments, and I think it may be the most beautiful tree I have ever seen.

 

New Magic

I remember the red and white shag carpet between my toes and the smell of cinnamon candles wafting through the house. She’d always place her reindeer and santas and snow scenes on the side tables and the top of the TV and any other open spot she could find.

I remember the little elves she hid in the windowsills and the stories she invented of their adventures from the North Pole to her house.

I remember her fat pine in the corner, fat in the sense that it seemed about as wide as it was tall. All of us cousins giggling, stuffing our jaws with candies and peanuts and cookies and chocolate, hanging her glittery ornaments on the tree’s limbs.

I remember two punch bowls of nutmeged egg nog and dad being overly concerned and constantly asking which bowl we were choosing to drink from.

But what I remember most is Heyma.

I remember the feeling of warmth. A warmth that I still have never felt except with her. Every attempt at trying to describe her and her presence and the feeling I felt when I was with her seems so lackluster. To be with her. To be alive and breathing and celebrating and laughing in her presence was an experience that shaped how I live. Her relationship made me.

Sometimes I go back to those moments, especially sharing Christmas with her. I close my eyes. I try to sneak back, like Lucy pushing back all the coats and clothes in the wardrobe to get back to Narnia. I push back the years and the logic and brokenness of growing up and I trade my skeptic adult mind for the hopeful giggles of my childhood.

One such time was last night.

Lonely has been an understatement of my journey right now. Where God has placed me is a very quiet, kept life in my home, caring for Tosten and Olivea and watching another little girl for a little income 36 hours a week. I see two adults all day. Laura, when she drops off and picks up Sarah and my husband.

I’m not complaining. I love being home with my children. But I’m lonely. I loved working in the community, seeing changes and smiles of populations I was working with and while I get this at home, it’s a much smaller scale.

As Tyler ventured to New York Mills to get his buck for the season, there I was alone again. I’ll admit, it was exciting to have a break in routine and I decided to stay up as long as my body would let me for the night. But, there was still a part of me that was lonely.

Once Tyler left, there we were. I have been trying to cut down on screen time with my family, but I reluctantly turned on the TV. I scrolled through the channels, both kids’ gaze glued to the screen to see what I’d choose: I found a free music station. Christmas must be getting closer because we only get music stations on TV when the holiday approaches. This year, it was “Traditional Holidays” they were giving. Perfect. This music was like a turbo-elevator to my childhood joy and I definitely needed some joy injections. And an added bonus for this anti – screen mama, there was no picture or flashiness for my kids to stare at.

As I sat like a lump on the couch, I clicked it on and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” filled the room. Of course this song had to be on, one of my favorites. Memories flooded and gushes of happiness and joy and loneliness all crept in. I closed my eyes.

As my mind moved through the wardrobe, seeking the warmth and the glimmering magic of my childhood and of Christmas and of Heyma, tears started to stream. I was okay here. I could have spent the night in this place, crying, giggling, remembering, feeling the magic and hope, but something interrupted me.

A little hand yanked on my blanket. I opened my eyes and smiled, but closed them again as not to lose this moment. He yanked again and kept repeating, “Come on! Come on, Mama!”

I looked at him again, a warm grin filled his whole face, rosy cheeks and a mischievous haircut and he took my hand and helped me up. Tosten pulled me in the center of the room and grabbed my hands and bounced.

In that moment, the giggles exploded out of his mouth and my tears only streamed down more.

Somehow the magic of my childhood and his newfound magic of his childhood met and I was dancing with him in the middle.

As we continued to move, the songs switched to “Frosty the Snowman” and “O Holy Night” and fast song and slow song and fast song and slow song and we danced to each of them. Olivea joining now, stomping her left foot and wiggling her bottom to the ground.

I twirled in my teal dress, Olivea in her orange one. All three of us dressed to a T in celebration for a lost friend’s birthday, so we were dressed the part for a party. Twirling and swaying and throwing our arms up and for a moment, just a moment, between my own laughs with interlaced tears, I closed my eyes and I felt her. Heyma was there.

And it occurred to me, I was passing her on. I was their Heyma.

There is no way I could ever be anything close to what an amazing woman Heyma was, but somewhere deep within me she lived. Her joy and enthusiasm and magic lived in me and instead of finding it and dwelling in it for myself, it was time to let it go and let it flow out of me to the next generation.

I realized the magic she shared with me I’ll never lose. I’ll have it forever because it was character changing for me to know her and be with her and be loved by her, but instead of keeping it all for myself, it is time to recreate that same beauty for my children.

I felt free. Dancing like I was four all over again. We were giggling and bouncing and twirling and before I knew it, the magic was there. A new magic. An infectious concoction of a little from my past, a little from Tosten and Olivea’s new, and the pure delight of that moment and the union of our two worlds.

Heyma would have been been delighted. And if I didn’t believe she was having a party of her own up in heaven, I am pretty sure she would would have been right there, twirling and giggling with us.

One Pink Line

Don’t think for one moment I have forgotten how crushing a one – lined pregnancy test is. I have only taken a couple hundred in my day; easily spending hundreds on both cheapies and the real deal tests that state as plain as day “not pregnant.”

I’ve actually grown to hate both kinds. The cheap ones I am constantly trying to decide whether to believe it or if maybe a slight pink pigment that showed for a second could be a sign that maybe, perhaps, possibly a little pregnancy hormone is coming through. The expensive ones are ridiculous, too. I spent the amount of money I could have spent on a gallon of chocolate peanut butter ice cream to console the painfully obvious (to you, logical plastic test) that I am NOT pregnant. What a waste of money for a stick to ridicule me.

I am not pregnant. I wasn’t trying to get pregnant. But when your body starts to slightly act like it’s pregnant, one begins to wonder. And after the initial accepting that I may be pregnant, though it would be possibly dangerous if I were because of my future plans in the next months, I had actually grown quite fond of the idea.

Last Saturday, however, it was very clear that these hormonal catastrophes happening to my body were just that, my body freaking out. I definitely am not pregnant.

To you women that have taken these tests copious times and have received the same devastating news: I’m so sorry. Just one month of my body’s confusion and I am catapulted back into the realization that my fertility and my hopes and my baby making ability is still as fragile as the next girl’s.

I told one friend that the realization that I really wasn’t pregnant, even though 10 tests told me the same truth, (don’t laugh – everything within me told me I was pregnant), felt in many ways I was miscarrying all over again.

Miscarriage. Such a drowning word. A word that suffocated me for so long and suffocates so many others. A word, and most definitely an excruciating event, that I was ignorant about until it actually happened to me. To ME.

My loss this time around was just the loss of an idea. I didn’t lose a child. I just lost the joy within to think I may have had another little boy on the way. And in many respects, I felt robbed.

Yesterday I received the baby book I ordered online for my future little man. I have bought all my children’s baby books on Amazon and I specifically chose this one because I had already assumed the gender and the name.

So what do I do with this? How am I allowed to feel?

My heart goes out to the women that have endured this far longer than I have. My brokenness secretly shakes my fist at God and asks “Why that girl and not this one?”

I have no answers. I only have tears. I have tears for you dear woman, my dear sister, my friend that I’ve known longer than my husband. I have tears for myself because this fertility thing, this wanting a baby so bad thing, well, it doesn’t go away.

This morning I was sprawled out on my back with Tosten next to me and we were looking at train books. He was talking his Tosten-two-year-old dialect to me, eyebrows raised, smile like a piece of heaven, and all of a sudden it hit me.

He’s my baby. He’s my impossible child. He’s my miracle. He was the plastic stick that I took to prove to the doctor I STILL wasn’t pregnant and I’d need to take more pills to get my body going again.

I have my baby boy. I have my baby girl. Two little human beings I thought I’d never have a chance to have. Those two toothy grins are all that matters.

So another month. We aren’t trying to get pregnant, but if I’ve learned anything, God has an interesting sense of humor. He can make life out of nothing. And the pain of this last month only reminds me of where God has brought me and the two little gifts He has already blessed me with.

To you women out there that have endured this pain…I know you understand me…and man, it feels good to not be alone.