We Can Do Hard Things

Edited to add: This post was originally written on April 10th, 2012.

Source

I saw this quote awhile back...probably while I was wasting precious time on Pinterest. It really spoke to me then. I would say that I've always been the type that's easily discouraged. I like to do things well, and quickly. When I run up against a snag, unfortunately, my gut reaction is to quit. That is a character trait that I do not want to pass on to our sweet little girl. After seeing this quote, I mentally tucked the words into my heart and mind, ready to share them with Campbell when she's trying to do something difficult. Like pull up on her crib. Like get herself into a crawling position. To remind her that the things that are hard are very often the things most worth working for.
Today, I did a hard thing. Somehow, in ways my brain can't understand, everything has worked out, and that should come as no surprise to me.
Today, I quit my job. I quit my job in order to be home with my sweet Campbell girl. The prayer that I have prayed every.single.day since the moment she was born has been answered. I was never one of those women who planned on staying home with my baby. A long time ago, during one of those serious discussions you have before you get married, I distinctly remember telling David that I wanted to keep a job if we ever had kids. I think he was a little disappointed, because his mom stayed home with him and his brother, and I think he wanted that for our (then purely hypothetical) kids. And then, on June 10th of 2011, I looked into the most gorgeous pair of deep blue eyes I'd ever seen, and I thought, "Oh, no. I can't leave this precious child with someone else while I go to work." On that day, everything seemed to snap into focus. Priorities shifted in mighty ways. The things that were once important suddenly seemed embarassingly trivial. That very day I began praying that God would show us a way for me to stay home with her. I believed wholeheartedly that it would come to pass, but of course, I wanted it in my time. I just knew He'd show us before I went back from maternity leave. But September 1st came, and I dropped off my baby girl with a perfect stranger while I went back to work and tried to keep it together. I kept praying, and knew I'd get my "Christmas miracle." Christmas came and went, and on January 3rd, I dropped her off again while I headed to the office. And then, sometime during late January and February, hailstones started to fall. It started to look like there might be a possibility that I could stay at home with Campbell. When we crunched the numbers, they weren't exactly right. I started exploring the option of just teaching part-time, and it looked like that could work. We took a huge leap of faith, and today, I quit my job. A few hours ago, I didn't know if a position teaching on an adjunct basis would be available to me. But now, it looks like it might be. Numerous friends have told me to just stand back and let God work. That's really hard for me to do, but I did it.
So...as of May 15th, I will stay at home with my sweet baby girl during the week, and a few weekends a semester, I will go impart some Human Services and Counseling knowledge to eager minds. I am beyond excited to be able to be home with Campbell. I will take her to story hour at the library. I will see her first steps. I will kiss every boo-boo. I will watch her laugh as the wind blows through her hair while I plant flowers in our unruly flowerbeds. I will weed the very large garden my brother-in-law and his girlfriend planted this weekend. I will get my house in order. I will be present for my daughter.
In December, I was talking with one of my best friends about my struggle with working full-time and being a good mom. I told her that I knew God would make a way for me to stay home and give Campbell the attention that she deserves from her mommy. I told her that there were three words that I would shout from the rooftops when it happened. And now, since I live in the country and only about 5 people would hear them  if I did, in fact, shout from my rooftop, I'll say them on the Internet for the world to see: GOD DID THIS. He is good...all the time.

Two Years

Two years ago today, David and I learned that we'd lost our first baby. There are still really very few days that go by that I don't think about that baby. I used to wonder what that child would have been like and who he or she would have looked like. Now, when I think about that child, I immediately think..."but we wouldn't have Campbell." I firmly believe that God is in every detail of our lives, and I believe wholeheartedly that Campbell was absolutely meant to be our first child here on earth. She has been an incredible blessing, and she's brought so much healing to my heart after our loss.
Sometimes I feel like I shouldn't be so acutely aware of February 25th (the day we found out that I'd miscarried) or September 18th (my due date), but those days were important turning points for me, and I've decided that I'll probably always mark them somehow. It may not always be in a public forum, but I'll always set aside a little time on those dates to remember that tiny life that taught me so much.
This poem was a part of the Louisville Walk to Remember promotional material that was sent out last October, and I thought it was a perfect way to remember our sweet little one today:

Still -

Heart from

My heart,

Body

From mine -

Dream:

Never awakening,

Held safely

In the cells

Of my body

In the light

Of my soul:

I feel you

Still little one,

Missing yet

Ever here.

--David Hiram Weller

The Difference a Year Makes...

Wow...it's just amazing the difference 365 days can make. One year ago today, my life was different. It was definitely a bittersweet day. One year ago today, after dreading this day for weeks, I woke up to the due date we were given for our first baby, the one we lost at around 10 weeks. The day had loomed over me like a huge, dark cloud, and it had finally arrived. David and I woke up and started to get ready to go to my Dad's retirement party, and I decided to take a pregnancy test. I knew that it was going to be negative, as they all had been for the previous four or five months. I figured that the day was already terrible enough, and I'd rather get all of the crappiness (is that a word?) out of the way at once. You can imagine my surprise when I got this:
I really, really didn't believe that I was pregnant. In fact, this is only one of the many pregnancy tests I took over the course of the week until I got in at my OB's office. I just knew that one of the days, it would tell me that I wasn't pregnant anymore. It seems like a lifetime ago that I got that test. I will always, always be thankful that I got this news on what I expected to be one of the worst days of my life. September 18, 2010 was still a tough day, even with this good news, because I couldn't help but think about what might have been.
For the last few days, as I realized September 18 was approaching, I've been thinking a lot about that little life that was with us for 10 weeks. I can't say that I've been sad, exactly...I can't really describe the emotion I've felt. I'll always wonder what that baby would have been like. Was it a boy or a girl? Would it have looked like me or David? There are so many what ifs, and they'd slowly kill me, if I let them. Over the last year, I've decided that I don't need to know why we lost our first baby. For a long time, I didn't feel like I had a "right" to grieve that loss, but now I realize that that child is a part of my story, and I loved (and still do love) him or her, and I have every right to feel grief over losing him or her. It's no longer a grief, exactly...I guess you'd just say it's a rememberance accompanied by a little bit of longing.
Today, one year later, God has blessed us with this sweet, sweet girl:
She is truly the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me. It's strange to know that if we hadn't lost our first baby, that this precious girl wouldn't be here...and I can't imagine a life without her. Perhaps our first baby gave me a glimpse at the amount of love I could have for another tiny person.
Any way I look at it, on this night one year later, I know, without a doubt, that I am blessed beyond measure.

Babies Don't Keep

I have exactly nine days left until I go back to work. Nine more short days where my only task is to be a mother to my baby girl. In nine days, I have to give over at least 40 hours a week of her life over to another person's care. I may have the opportunity to do some work from home, but even then, I will be distracted from caring for her. So, for the next nine days, this is my mantra:

Babies Don't Keep

Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,

Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,

Hang out the washing, make up the bed,

Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?

She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,

Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.

Dishes are waiting and bills are past due,

Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo.

The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew,

And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo.

But I'm playing Kanga, and this is my Roo.

Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?

Lullabye, rockabye, lullabye loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait 'till tomorrow

But children grow up, as I've learned from my sorrow.

So quiet down, cobwebs! Dust, go to sleep!

I'm rocking my baby, and babies don't keep.

A Borrowed Prayer for My Daughter

About once every two weeks or so, I come up with some kind of brilliant plan to either improve my parenting (which usually fails) or simplify baby care (which also usually fails). Earlier in the week, I decided that I would go back to trying to nurse Campbell in the bed during the middle of the night, rather than getting her out of the Pack 'N Play, tiptoeing into her room, getting the My Brest Friend on, nursing her, then tiptoeing back to our room and depositing her back into the Pack 'N Play. Before we put her to bed that night, I put the Boppy by our bed (which I hate as a nursing pillow, by the way) and went to sleep thinking that the middle of the night feeding would go super-smoothly. At about 2am, Campbell woke up hungry, so I nursed her back to sleep and laid her back in the Pack 'N Play. As I mentally high-fived myself for an easy nighttime feeding, I heard it. The unmistakable gurgling of one of her super-poops. Once I knew she was done, I undid the incredibly noisy velcro of her swaddle wrap, which woke her up completely. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, she looked and me and gave me a gummy grin. While those grins melt my heart, they're not exactly what I want to see at 2:40am. As I unsnapped her onesie and removed her diaper, I realized that not only had the poop gone up her back and through her onesie, but also through the swaddle wrap and her sheets. Yuck. I'd been defeated by the poop and had no choice but to wake up David to help me. I just couldn't change the sheets and her by myself. He was super-groggy, but I really just needed him to be awake enough to not roll over her or let her fall off the bed as I laid her in our bed long enough to change her sheets. Once I'd changed the sheets on her bed and reswaddled her, I settled in to nurse her to sleep again. I was pretty well exhausted, but as I looked at her, I thought, "There is absolutely nothing else I'd rather be doing." I was just overcome with love for that sweet little girl who relies on David and me for everything. The love I felt for her then is just something I can't really describe. I'm so very thankful to have her in my life, and I can't imagine anything being more fulfilling than being her mom.
That very early morning adventure reminded me of something I'd read while I was pregnant. It's Tina Fey's "A Prayer for My Daughter," from her book Bossypants. It's irreverent and offbeat, and even though it's got some foul language, I agree with every word of it. Here it is:

"First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie the Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful, but not Damaged, for it's the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach's eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called "Hell Drop", "Tower of Torture", or "The Death Spiral Rock 'N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith," and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I'm asking You, because if I knew, I'd be doing it, Dammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of Her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need not lie with Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, for childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - and Adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50am., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. "My mother did this for me once," she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby's neck. "My mother did this for me." And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I'll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen."

On Due Dates and Being Oblivious

In my last weekly check-in post (the 37 week one), my mom commented that she'd had a panic attack when she looked at my maternity ticker and noticed that it said that there are only 13 days left until Sprout's due date. So...I thought I'd shed a little light on the due date discrepancy that's there. It's hard to figure out exactly where to begin and how much information to share.
When David and I were finally given the green light to "try again" for our second baby, I did something I said I'd never do. I started charting my temperatures every morning in an effort to maximize my chances of getting pregnant. I'd heard of women doing the whole charting thing, and I thought it was absolutely crazy. But then again, at that point, I think I was absolutely crazy. So every morning, I got up at the same time (which for me was 3:30am, because you have to have a certain number of hours of uninterrupted sleep in order to get an accurate temp) and took my temperature. I also charted various other fertility signs that we won't go into on the internet. :) I used Fertility Friend and a paper chart to keep all of this organized. I was so disappointed each month when I turned up not pregnant. But at least I learned a few things that really helped in our quest for a baby. I learned that everything you read online/in textbooks/anywhere says that a woman is the most fertile on the 14th day of her cycle. Not so! It's amazing we got pregnant the first time, because my "peak fertile day" is always day 10 or 11 of my cycle...so a little earlier than your "average" woman (which is who they must base that 14 day myth on). When I figured that out, it didn't take us too long to hit the jackpot! Now, what does all of this have to do with due dates? Hang on.
When I went to my doctor for my first prenatal appointment, of course, the first thing they asked me was the first date of my last period. That's how they base the due dates...which means that they're also assuming that ovulation takes place on day 14. And that's how we got the June 2nd, 2011 due date. Because if I had a "normal" cycle of 28 days, and ovulated on day 14 of my cycle, then my due date would be June 2nd. But I know that I ovulated on September 5th (because of my temperature charting)...which is the 10th day of my cycle, which means that Dr. Basham's due date is 4 days behind schedule. So...my maternity ticker is based on the due date that I believe to be right...May 29, 2011. (And, for what it's worth, every single ultrasound we've had puts the baby's gestational age in line with a May 29th due date.)
When people ask me what my due date is, I always say June 2nd, and that's for a couple of reasons. First, it's because David really wants Sprout to have a June birthday (because he, his mom, and his brother all have June birthdays). Second, it's because that's the reference point my doctor uses, and I haven't been able to convince her that I know when I ovulated. But for my personal purposes, I base everything off of May 29th. My "change date" (the date I move from week to week in my pregnancy) is Sunday, because September 5th was a Sunday and May 29th is a Sunday.
Believe me, I know that it's a rarity for a baby to be born on his or her due date. I only know of two kiddos who were born "on time." I just think it'll be fun to see how close Sprout gets to each date. There's only four days' difference, which isn't much...but I'd love to meet my baby four days sooner than June 2nd.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now it's time for a funny story about my being completely oblivious. Last Friday night, I called my aunt to see if my sister and I could borrow some floral arrangements for a church function we were decorating for. It rang a few times, so I just thought I'd leave a message. But Paula answered on the last ring, and she sounded a little panicked. When I asked to borrow the flower arrangements, she audibly sighed and said, "Oh, I thought you were going to tell me that you were going to the hospital!" That thought hadn't even crossed my mind...after all I was still about 2 1/2 weeks from Sprout's due date! Then, a few days later, I called my Mom to ask a question. She answered the phone and said, "Is this my 'It's time to go to the hospital' call?" Nope...I hadn't even thought of that. Then, yesterday morning, I called David on his cellhpone while he was at work (which is something I do at least once a day). Most of the time, he doesn't answer because he's either in a meeting or doesn't feel it vibrate. But he sure picked up the phone yesterday morning. I said, "What are you doing?" which is my standard line. He said, "I'm in a meeting right now." So of course, I said, "Why are you answering the phone if you're in a meeting?!" And he replied, "Because I thought I'd better start answering it anytime you call." Wow! What had I done to warrant that kind of priority?! "Why?" I asked. He was quiet for a second and said slowly, "In case you're in LABOR!" Oh! I hadn't even thought of that! It just cracks me up that my family members are all hypervigilant about this baby coming, and it's not really even on my radar. I mean, I can't wait for it to happen, but when you've been pregnant for 9 months, it gets kind of hard to believe that it's ever going to happen! I'm not sure that I'll be making too many phone calls over the next few weeks, because I'm only going to disappoint people until they get the real call!

Mother's Day

I don't really have vivid memories of Mother's Day celebrations of the past. For the most part, they all just seem to run together and be pretty much the same. We always tried to make the day special for Mom, but I guess that's how it goes when you're the child, not the mother. But I can vividly remember the last two Mother's Days.

Two years ago, I remember sitting in church praying fervently that it would be the last year that I wasn't a mother. I hadn't yet convinced David that it was time for us to start a family, but I was certainly trying!

Last year, I couldn't even bear to go to church, because I was still hurting so badly from the miscarriage we'd had in February. I didn't want to hear about how wonderful it was to be a mother. I didn't want to hear the sermon about what makes a godly woman/mother. I didn't want to watch women be recognized as mothers when my own child had been taken from me. Instead of going to church, I cleaned house and made lunch for my Mom, stepdad, sister, brother-in-law, and husband and tried to put on a happy face. They all knew I was hurting, though. Before she went home that afternoon, my wonderful mother gave me my first Mother's Day gift...a Willow Tree angel (the Angel of Healing) and a poem she'd written about our loss. Then, a couple of hours later, Leslie (one of my very best friends) came by to just be with me for a few minutes. She'd experienced two miscarriages in the year prior, and was so supportive for me during my loss. It meant so much for Leslie and Mom to recognize me as a mother on that day. I believe wholeheartedly that a woman becomes a mother the moment a child is conceived...but not everyone else does. That they thought of me gave me some validation.

This year, several people have wished me a happy "first Mother's Day." I just smiled and said thank you, but in my heart and mind, I said, "Oh, it's not my first Mother's Day, it's my second." But this one has been a good one. I've grown so much during the last year. I can say now that our first baby, while we only knew about him or her for about 5 or 6 weeks, taught me so very much. That child taught me about love, forgiveness, letting go, and brought me closer to my God. I can also see now that God did answer that prayer two years ago...He did make me a mother before the next Mother's Day. It just wasn't the way that I had planned. And that's another thing I've learned to embrace: that my time is completely imperfect, but His is impeccable. I don't understand why things have happened the way they have in the past year, but I accept that I don't have to know. I know this: if I hadn't experienced that loss last Feburary, I would not have been able to offer support, love, and encouragement to a number of women in my life who have recently lost children. Maybe that's part of the reason it happened...and maybe it's not. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I've chosen to trust rather than doubt, and to move on rather than dwell on something I had no control over.

This year, I can say that I fully appreciate the gift that God is giving me in ways that I never could have before. I have done my very best not to take lightly the huge responsibility I've had for the last eight months as this child has grown inside me. I cherish every kick in the ribs, smile every time I feel him or her moving around inside me, and breathe a sigh of relief every time I hear his or her heartbeat. I'm now just about three weeks (!) away from my due date, and I just can't wait to meet this little miracle. I sometimes wonder what I've done to deserve this gift, and I hope that God will be pleased with the way we raise our baby. We're still trying to decide on names for Sprout, but one thing has been decided: if Sprout is a boy, his middle name will be Samuel. After our first loss, when we were finally able to start trying again, I took much comfort in reading the Biblical account of Hannah and her prayers for a child. I love 1 Samuel 1:27: "For this child I have prayed, and the Lord has granted my request." In fact, it was one of the final contenders for the quote painted above Sprout's crib. Instead, I think we will use it on Sprout's birth announcements...whether Sprout is a girl or a boy, because I can't think of any better way to put our feelings into words. We have prayed wholeheartedly for the better part of a year for this child, and the Lord has granted our request. And for that, we are so very thankful.

32 Weeks (and what an eventful one it was!)

Hang on folks, this is going to be a long one! I'm at the 32 week mark, which is just so hard to believe. (Actually, I'm more than halfway through the 32nd week, but the craziness of the week has kept me from blogging sooner.) This week has been packed with activities and milestones, but just so my Mom doesn't get antsy, here's the weekly belly picture!

32 weeks, 4 days

This week, our kiddo has been super active. All of the pregnancy books and websites say that by now, I should be able to tell the difference between distinct periods of Sprout's wakefulness and sleep. Well, if Tuesday is any indication, this child doesn't sleep much at all. He (or she) was in constant motion on Tuesday. From the time I woke up until the time I went to bed, there was constant kicking, punching, rolling, and squirming going on. I don't know what Sprout was trying to accomplish, but in honor of the little stinker's behavior that day, I had to put on this shirt: This is David's kickball league shirt from a couple of years ago. I thought it was very appropriate for the occasion...except there's only ONE superkicker in there!

Last Saturday afternoon was my first baby shower, given by my Aunt Paula and my sister, Allison. It was so much fun, and they did a beautiful job with the decorations (even though Paula had a minor meltdown about the cake, which had some pink icing on it). Lots of friends and family came to the shower, and it was so good to see everyone. We got so many nice things for Sprout, and I'm just overwhelmed with the generosity and love that everyone has shown us already. Here are a few pictures:

Me with the cake and the [gasp!] pink icing! I think it's adorable, and still gender-neutral.

One of our cousins, Gin, made this adorable sweater and bonnet set for Sprout. The buttons on the sweater are tiny bunnies! I thought I would die from the cuteness right there on the spot!

You might remember back a few months ago when I mentioned that I was thinking about doing a presentation at the Kentucky Mental Health Counselor's Association conference on how to support women through the experience of miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss. I just felt like after my loss people didn't know what to say or how to act around me. Many people said (and did) some very hurtful things, but I know that they didn't mean to be hurtful...they just didn't realize that what they were saying/doing would hurt so much. I knew that people would appreciate information on how best to support women through these life-changing events, but it's not really that easy to find the information.

Well...I did it! Sunday afternoon I traveled to Somerset because Monday morning I was scheduled to give my presentation. Surprisingly, I wasn't nervous about giving the presentation...I was more worried about hooking my laptop up to the projector so that the PowerPoint would work. (And after some technical difficulties, it finally did!). I had about 25 attendees, many of them familiar faces (either former instructors or coworkers). I was afraid that I might get choked up during the presentation, but I didn't. And you know what? I felt so at ease the whole time I was giving the presentation. I have to teach quite a bit for my job, but it seems like no matter how well I know the lecture material, I'm never quite comfortable enough to teach without notes. But on Monday, I didn't have anything. No notes, just the PowerPoint that hit the highlights of the presentation...and I felt really good about the information I gave. I gave them practical information about how to support women through the experience, some more detailed ideas about what therapists can do in sessions, and tons of online resources (since the people attending the conference were from all over the state). I'm by no means an authority on the subject, but I feel like from my experience, talking with other women, and some research, I gave worthwhile information to that group of people.

My presentation's description in the big program guide.

In fact, one gentleman came up to me after the presentation and said, "You know, I'm a hospital chaplain (at a small-town hospital), and nobody tells us how to deal with these situations. We don't know what to say or do, and we don't know what kinds of resources are available. This will help us so much." When he said that, I could have cried. I just think about the number of women whose experience might be changed because this man now has some information and resources. After my loss, I can remember telling David that I had to find a way to make something good come from something so horrible. Through this presentation, I think I've made a little bit of headway toward that goal. Now I'm just hoping that God will show me other ways I can make a difference.

Monday night (after the whirlwind trip to Somerset), we had our fifth Empowered Birth class, and this one was the best, by far. Monday's topic was medical interventions, and I would have gladly paid the $150 just for that class alone...that's how informative it was. When I got pregnant (both times), I entertained the idea of an unmedicated birth, but just wasn't sure if I have the fortitude to do it. That's probably the biggest reason why I wanted to take these classes...I wanted to know everything in order to make an informed decision. And now (especially after Monday night), I'm going to go for it. Please understand that I don't fault any woman who gets an epidural or any other type of pain medication. I just don't think that's what I want to do, after what I know now. I was so glad to get an email from my cousin Lindsey, who recently had an unmedicated birth with her daughter, Hazel. She gave me lots of encouragement and support about this decision, and I'm feeling really good about it. I know that there will probably be a point at which I feel like I can't do it, but this is something I really want to do. (And this is where I think my stubbornness will be an asset!) If any of you readers had an unmedicated birth and want to give encouragement, please leave me a comment. (And, not to be hateful, but if you had a bad birth experience, please don't leave me your horror story.)

On Tuesday, David and I went to an open house at a pediatrician's office in LaGrange. A good friend recommended this group to us, and I'm so glad we visited. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I was impressed. They've got 8 doctors in the practice, and three are in the office on any given day. On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, they're open from 8am - 9pm. They have Saturday hours. They're 10 minutes from our house. I really liked the doctor, and all of the staff seemed very nice. I think we've found our pediatrician! (And what a relief that is, to have one more thing to mark off the list.)

And to end the world's longest blog post, the thing that I've been waiting over a year for! Last Spring, David and I bought a weeping cherry tree to plant in front of our house as a sort of memorial to our first baby. We didn't have the opportunity to get an ultrasound image of him/her, and I never felt him/her move, so there's just been this void...there was no tangible evidence that that child existed. I couldn't stand that, so we decided on this tree. When we got it, the blooms had already fallen off, and all that was left were the leaves. Then, we had such a drought that I was terrified that the tree wouldn't survive. But all of my fears were pushed aside this week, because it bloomed! And it's absolutely beautiful. I love seeing that tree outside my kitchen window, because it's a symbol of that little life that so quickly changed ours.

Isn't it beautiful? The necklace was given to me last Mother's Day by my sweet husband. The front has a heart on it that says "love," and it says "sweet little one" on the back. It's seriously one of my most prized possessions.

So...another busy week is in the books! Next week is shaping up to be a busy one, too. Two classes, a date night, and a night of teaching. Whew!

You Can't Make This Stuff Up...

Today, I learned that I failed my 1 hour glucose challenge test, which means that I have to do the 3 hour glucose tolerance test to determine whether or not I have gestational diabetes. I got this information just hours after I had entered a contest to win a case of Twinkies. With the way my luck goes, I'll have gestational diabetes and win the Twinkies. *sigh*

What The Last Year Has Taught Me...

On February 25th, 2010, David and I became members of a secret society. We weren't seeking membership in this group; no one does. Membership in this club doesn't really conjure the idea of prestige or success. The dues are unimaginable. But since that time, I've come to find out that many people we knew had become members long before us. The society? Couples who have lost a child to miscarriage.

Our journey to pregnancy and miscarriage was really very uneventful. In early January 2010, we learned that we were expecting a little one...tentatively schedule to arrive on September 18, 2010. We didn't tell anyone we were expecting...not even our parents. We'd read all the books that caution expectant parents to not tell about the baby until after the first trimester...you know, to save yourself the "embarrassment" of having to tell people that there won't be a baby in the event of miscarriage. David and I are cautious people, so we took the advice, but we never really believed that miscarriage would be something that would happen to us. It's something that happens to other people, after all. We were so excited for my second prenatal appointment. It was the first time David had ever been in an OB/GYN office, and he was so very uncomfortable! There weren't any other men in the waiting room that afternoon, and to make things worse, there weren't any "man" magazines in the waiting room! But my sweet husband toughed it out until the nurse called my name, when he could escape from the estrogen sea of the waiting room.

Kelly, our nurse, told us that Dr. Basham would just be listening for the heartbeat and measuring that day. We didn't care abotu anything except hearing our baby's heartbeat. Until this day, it had been so hard to believe that I was carrying a little life inside me. Hearing the heartbeat would make things so very real! Dr. Basham came with the Doppler device and proceeded to listen for our baby's heartbeat. she mentioned before she started that she might not be able to find it using the Doppler, but that we shouldn't worry if that was the case. If she couldn't hear it with teh Doppler, we would go to the ultrasound room to catch a peek at our little one! How exciting! Dr. Basham worked and worked to get our baby's heartbeat, but she couldn't pick it up. Even though she'd told us not to worry, we did. I'd had the nagging feeling all day long that my baby wasn't okay, but I hadn't shared it with anyone...not even David. I tried to look at things positively though...and that's not something that's in my nature. I tried to think of this ultrasound as a "bonus"; we'd get to see our baby early, and be reassured that he or she was growing normally.

In the ultrasound room, Dr. Basham worked diligently to locate our baby on the screen. I couldn't make anythin gout, so I just prayed that she would see what she needed. David stood by my side and held my hand. We never looked at each other, and we didn't have to. I knew that he was very concerned. After five minutes, any hope that I had faded away. As gently as possible, Dr. Basham said that she could not see our baby or his/her heartbeat. She said that what we were experiencing is called a blighted ovum, when the baby begins to develop in the gestational sac, but fails to continue to develop, generally because of some chormosomal defect. The embryo is then reabsorbed by the mother's body, leaving an empty gestational sac and a placenta. David moved away and sat down, stunned. I couldn't speak. When I finally got myself together, my first words were, "Was there ever a baby?" First and foremost, I was afraid that I had somehow convinced myself and my body so thoroughly that I was pregnant, when in fact, I never had been. "Oh, yes," Dr. Basham said. "You were pregnant, and there was an embryo." As strange as it may sound, I found a tiny bit of comfort in that. At that moment, at least, I knew I wasn't crazy. She proceeded to tell us that a blighted ovum is a type of miscarriage, but that I hadn't experienced any of the classic miscarriage symptoms, such as bleeding. Together, David and I decided to schedule a D&C early the following week to remove "retained products of conception," a term I despise. Tearful and brokenhearted, we left Dr. Basham's office through the back door, in order to avoid frightening any of the happy, oblivious pregnant women in the waiting room.

There are times in our lives when we can identify a turning point. The point at which things will no longer be the same. The minute we know that we'll forever measure time as "before" and "after" this event. This, unfortunately, was my moment. On the horrible car ride home, I spoke to God. I don't remember much of what I said, but I clearly remember telling Him, "This is going to make us or break us." And when I said, "us," I knew I didn't mean anything about Him. He's unbreakable, unchanging. I knew that I was talking about my ability to continue to believe and have faith.

On this ride home, I remembered something I had prayed about weeks, if not months, before. My car radio dial is set on 91.5, the station where KLOVE broadcasts in this area. KLOVE is a contemporary Christian radio station based in Rocklin, California, and I'd been a devoted listening since I'd found the station about a year earlier. I remembered driving home from work one day and hearing a caller talk about her struggles iwht addiction and I was moved by her ability to share her testimony regarding God's grace in her life and her ability to turn her life around after accepting Jesus Christ as her Savior. I remember praying, "God, give me a testimony! I'm a 'flannel-board Jesus kid'. I've been in church all my life. I can't remember not believing in you. You've been so good to me...my life has been darn near perfect. What is it about my life that could inspire anyone to believe in You?" This prayer flashed back into my mind, and I knew that God was answering my prayer for a testimony, but I certainly didn't approve of the way He was going about it.

The next days and weeks are still a blur in my mind. David and I told our parents, siblings, an dclose friends about our loss. I had two D&Cs, referrals to endocrinologists and hematologists for testing, and spent a small fortune on bloodwork. We tried to move on. Our families tried their best to comfort us, but David and I both struggle with accepting help. We both desperately want to be strong all the time. I wish could say that I was a support to David during this time, but I was falling apart. He was my rock. Grief is never an easy thing to experience, but the grief associated with miscarriage is complicated. In many cases like ours, there is no physical body for parents to mourn. While the baby was very real to us, it never really existed to anyone else. Our parents never even knew tha tthey would be grandparents until the momen they found out that, well...they wouldn't be. Some people don't consider our loss to be that of "a real baby." Aside from losing a child, David and I also found ourselves mourning the loss of dreams. In my mind, I had already taken my baby trick-or-treating, to Christmas parties, to Story Hour as a toddler, and a million other activities. We were suddenly confronted with the fact that these things would never happen, at least with this child. It also doesn't help matters that miscarriage just isn't discussed. When we were able to begin sharing our loss with others, I was amazed at how many others had experienced it as well, and I was saddened because I wondered how many had grieved alone because of the stigma. While I knew many people who had experienced a miscarriage after a successful pregnancy, I hadn't found anyone who had miscarried their first child. I felt incredibly alone, and knew that I could only turn to one person for comfort: God. After all, only He knew the magnitude of my pain. I reminded myself that He loved me so much that His only Son died to set me free. I knew the intense love I felt for a child that I had never seen or felt, and was awestruck at his ability to let His Son die for the sins of the world. He loved us that much. He thought I was worth the price.

Even though I knew these things, I still struggled with the overwhelming sadness and anger that I felt. On really bad days, I felt as though God had left me. I would cry out to Him, asking Him where He was in my time of need. They say hindsight is 20/20, and now I can see that He was always there, just as He promised. In the friend who called regularly to ask how I was doing, He was there. In the cards, letters, and emails we received, He was there. In the tight, silent hugs from family, He was there. In the friend who stopped by on Mother's Day, just to sit and cry with me, He was there. In the blog posts from people I barely knew, He was there. He was there all the time, giving me everything I needed, even though I didn't always recognize it.

I wish I could say that I had an easy time of accepting this as a part of God's plan for my life. It hasn't been easy. It's been a tough road, and many, many times, I've felt like Jacob...wrestling with God, not wanting to let go until being given a blessing. Some of my favorite contemporary Christian songs deal with praising God in times of trial and pain. As I would sing along, I would hope that I would be able to praise God during the storms of life I knew were to come. now that I was in one, it seemed impossible. How could I praise a God who would allow the death of my child? Was I supposed to set aside my grief and anger as if it never happened, so that I could praise God? I wrestled with this question for days, until I found Angie Smith's blog, "Bring the Rain." Angie's husband, Todd, is a singer with the group Selah. In January of 2007, Angie and Todd learned that their fourth daughter, Audrey Caroline would likely die in utero, and if she lived to be born, would not live for long. Angie's doctors told her that their little Audrey was "incompatible with life" and some encouraged her to terminate the pregnancy. "Bring the Rain" documents Angie's feelings and conversations with God as she carried Audrey, delivered her, and held her as God welcomed her home 2 1/2 hours after her birth. Through Angie's words in her blog, and her book I Will Carry You , I found a way to grieve and praise God at the same time. She showed me that I could be incredibly sad and angry without turning away from God. In fact, I could feel those things while praising Him!

For much of my life, I thought that as long as I was "good," I wouldn't have any trouble in life. Let me ask you this: can you find any scripture in the Bible that indicates a promise that being "good" will bring a trouble-free existence? You can't! It doesn't exist! But you know what I did find? An abundance of scripture that promises that life will bring us pain, but that we belong to an all-powerful God who will comfort us and care for us during those times. I could praise Him for that. I could praise a God who held every tear I'd ever cried, who had numbered every hair on my head, who had named every star in the sky, and who had ordained every single moment my child would live. I began to realized that I couldn't live a life that demonstrated faith if my life never required me to have faith. Angie Smith puts it much more eloquently in her blog, but I realized that I should stop praying for God to give me a perfect life...the life free of pain and worry, but instead to pray that God would bring me anything that would make my life a fertile ground for spreading His word.

A year later, I can clearly see that God has been faithful in His promises to me. I knew that only He could bring me the healing I needed, and through lots of people and experiences, I know that my healing is still in progress. He led me to attend a support group for women who have experienced miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss. What a blessing that group (and those ladies!) have been. Through those meetings, I was able to connect with other women who had shared a loss similar to mine. I was able to have a place to share my feelings, knowing those women would "get it." They understood my confusion, anger, frustraton, envy (of pregnant women), and feelings of emptiness. That group was the place wehre I first really felt like I wasn't alone. He has given me friends who have comforted me and inspired me with the way they've faced pain and loss. He has given me the opportunity to share my story with other women who have experienced miscarriage, and has allowed me to help them carry their burdens, as numerous other women did for me. And on September 18, 2010, the due date for our first child, He gave us another blessing...we found out that we were expecting again! We are so very excited that God has granted us this second miracle. The baby that we lost on February 25, 2010 will always be my first child, even though the child I'm carrying now will be our first born.

I spent a lot of time over the last year wishing that I could just forget my first pregnancy and miscarriage ever took place. Now, as I look back, I pray that I never forget that tiny little life that God used to show me how much He cares for me. God is good...all the time.

In One Week...

Over the last couple of weeks, I've noticed that I've been a little more emotional than normal. At first, I thought it was just normal pregnancy/hormone related stuff. Then I took a good look at my calendar. I have a tendency to let time get away from me...I do a good job of keeping on track on a daily basis, but when it comes to "big picture" timeframes, it can be the end of the month before I know it. When I looked at my calendar and saw what the date will be one week from today, it all made sense. Next Friday (February 25th) will be the one year anniversary of the date of my miscarriage. I'm acknowledging that I'm still grieving for that little life that I never really got to know. So many people still don't know that it happened, and those that do probably don't realize that February 25th is coming up and will probably be tough, even though we have a perfectly healthy baby on the way. It's a strange situation to find yourself in...the knowing that if we hadn't lost that baby, we wouldn't be having this one, but at the same time always wondering what life would be like if that baby had lived and we had a 5 1/2 month old right now. If they're not kept in check, the "what ifs" could drive me crazy.

I'm trained as a mental health counselor, but I don't see clients anymore. Instead, I work for the college I graduated from, in their counselor education program. Every year, the Lindsey Wilson College School of Professional Counseling participates in the Kentucky Mental Health Counselors Association conference in Somerset, Ky. The faculty and staff of LWC are often "strongly encouraged" to present at the conference. I haven't presented in years, because there's just not really been anything I've felt passionate about. But this year, things are different. I'm really thinking about doing a 1 hour presentation on working with/supporting women who have experienced miscarriage/stillbirth/infant loss.

Miscarriage/stillbirth/infant loss is an event that affects so many women, but it's still rarely talked about. And until it happened to me, I never understood that it can (and probably will) change a woman's life/outlook forever. I also didn't realize how little support there is for a woman who has learned that she's lost a child to miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss. I think that the presentation would be well-received, but there's something holding me back. I think it's the fact that I'm afraid I might not hold it together during the presentation. There are still times when I can't talk about (or even think about) our loss without crying. And when I hear of someone I know who has experienced it, it's a full-on cry because I know the pain they're feeling. I've worked on myself...I've read books, I've benefited from a support group, I've given my grief over to God, and He has healed me so much. But darn it, it still hurts. And it probably always will. But another part of me thinks that a part of my healing will be in being an advocate for other women who are hurting. I've still got time to decide on whether or not to present...in the meantime, I'm gathering resources, reading refereed journals, and generally getting prepared. I think I'm waiting for that still, small voice to tell me whether or not it's time.