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A letter to my surprise baby, while we wait

7/15/2017

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I've been anxious this week, and out of sorts, waiting for our baby to come. A good friend said it helped her to write a letter to her unborn baby, inviting him to come and releasing herself into the next stage of life. I took her advice, and am sharing my letter here. To my friends who have struggled to get or stay pregnant, to whom an unexpected baby would not bring such conflicted emotions: please know I hold you in my heart always and pray often for you. I have chosen to share this because I find great value in allowing ourselves to feel the way we actually do, as a means of being present, processing, and growing through our circumstance, and I find that sharing difficult emotions has a way of helping others muster the courage to do the same. Thank you, as always, for reading.
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Baby girl,

It's strange to be waiting for a baby we weren't expecting. You are on our minds every day, all day: as we walk by your room--where felt poppies spin gently over your crib--as I feel contractions on and off throughout the day, as I toss and turn each night, as I wonder how many more days we will be waiting.

This last week I have felt restless and anxious, like I should be enjoying these last days as the mom of three more self-sufficient kids, before things devolve into the sleep-deprived state of bringing home a newborn. But I struggle. I'm worried about how I will do it all: how your birth will go, whether you will be healthy and strong, how I will nurse you all night and tend to you all day while welcoming company and mothering your sisters and brother well. It feels an absurd amount of work for one person, and I wasn't expecting it. I thought nine months would be plenty of time to get ready, and physically and logistically, I suppose it was. But emotionally and mentally, I am surprised to find I still can't believe it.

I can't picture your face, what color your hair will be, how it will feel to hold you. I'm trying to tell myself this is the last time I will ever be pregnant, to enjoy the way it feels when you move in my belly, to remember what it's all like since I will never feel it again. But I'm so uncomfortable that I'm having trouble embracing it. I am at the point where I am anxious to have my body--at least the inside of it--to myself again.

Unfortunately, I can remember all the hard things. The way it feels not to sleep for so long, the pain of endless nursing, the sheer exhaustion of being needed so completely by so many people. But I'm having trouble remembering what it's like to meet my baby for the first time, to triumph through the labor and birth, to hold my baby, to kiss her and smell the top of her head, to marvel over the perfection with which she was formed. I know that all of these things are true too.

Mostly, I want to tell you I'm not ready for you to come. I don't feel like I will be enough for you and your siblings. And in my own strength, I know that is true: I am not enough. But I'm trusting that the God who is bringing you to us is faithful to provide what we need. You are not an accident: I am meant to be your mother; you are meant for this family. I will mess up so much, baby. I make so many mistakes, many of them loud and large. I'm already sorry and you're not even here yet.

But also, I want to tell you it's okay to come. Even though I don't feel ready, I know that I am. I know we will cry as we see your sweet face for the first time, that we will touch our noses to yours and marvel over your existence. We have made space for you and we want you to come. I am saying a long goodbye to the way things have been, and I am releasing myself into this new season. It will be hard. It will feel like too much--it always does. But I will take it moment by moment, with you. I will love you and keep you and care for you. You are already so wanted, so loved.

Please come. We are waiting.

Love,
Mama

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Almost Here

7/2/2017

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When I learned I was pregnant, in November, I often sat in stunned silence. I tried to make sense of our new timeline, our new life. I’d tell myself, “you’ve got the whole school year, and then some,” or, “the baby will come when the crepe myrtles bloom,” which, uttered in the midst of dreary, cold rain, felt oddly comforting.

School has been out for two weeks and the crepe myrtles that line so many streets in our city and decorate our backyard are bursting blush and crimson, dark pink, white, lavender and deep purple.

Nine months have flown by, and I find myself aware that the time is growing short. My mind races with all that needs to be done: lists to be made, supplies to be procured, meals to be prepared now and eaten later, tiny clothing to be washed and folded, pictures to be hung before they sit where they are for a year, closets to be organized, and—most noticeably—a POD in my driveway that needs to be emptied and taken away. Of course, that is not to mention our new closets that still don’t have doors or our foyer that is prepped for paint but remains unpainted, our “five-week” renovation bleeding into its fourth month.

This is nesting. I prepped and froze five dinners last night, in addition to the one we ate. I start some days with energy, but it wanes throughout the day. My body feels heavy and foreign; I analyze every ache and pain in my back and abdomen, mentally checking the clock for regularity. The calendar says we have twenty-three days until our baby may join us, but I feel certain that she will be here sooner than that. So, I buy and make food and try to sneak in moments with my older kids and relish opportunities to slip out—anywhere—alone, and attempt to rest during these days since sleep has been eluding me at night.
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I also find myself loitering in the doorway of our latest nursery. Once, almost ten years ago, it was ladybugs: baby pink and white, mint green and red gingham with a crib tucked into the eave, and then, two years later, it housed two babies. In two houses, we didn’t have a nursery, just a little girls’ room. Until we moved here and decorated our smallest bedroom in red and navy, with vintage cars, trucks and airplanes that our son systematically took apart or off the wall as he learned to climb. Now, our girls have moved clear across the house, to the room over the garage that has built-in beds decorated with teal, grey, coral and yellow—no sign of pink, per their request—it’s the room we always intended would one day be theirs. But I feel vaguely sad about them being so far from me. What if they need me, I think, but am then reminded that they don’t as much anymore. I still check on them each night before I go to bed, climbing the stairs to tuck in spindly limbs and standing on tiptoes to kiss flushed cheeks, and it always makes me ache. Back in our hallway, Deacon has moved to the larger room, with patchwork plaid and stars, airplanes and cars on the wall, a train table, and a nightstand filled with pirate and cowboy and superhero costumes that he loves.

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And so, in the littlest room, we have a nursery again: navy and deep coral, poppies and stripes and a particularly cogent verse from Jeremiah framed on the wall: “Before you were born, I set you apart.”  I stand in the doorway at various points each day, trying to envision the tiny person that will soon inhabit that room, the thousands of diapers I will change at that table under the Bible verse; the countless hours I will spend nursing and rocking her in that chair, the songs I will sing as I pace that floor comforting this newest—and last—piece of my heart whose face I still can’t picture. And a lump rises in my throat, and I still can’t believe it.

For months we have dithered over a name. It still eludes us, days before her arrival. We think we have it down to two, but neither feels the clear answer to either of us. I hate it. I feel like I need the name to connect me to her, to help me see her, to mentally add her to our family. Annoyed with our indecision (and unwillingness to share our thought process), the other kids have named her Cleopatra and are content with that. They don’t need to picture her to love her. They don’t need to know her name. They talk about her constantly, Deacon with his hands and little face pressed against my belly, telling her to “come when you are ready.”

I feel anxious about another child, about how I will care for her well while doing right by the rest of our growing children. How will they get what they need? How will I maintain my health and sanity? Will I ever sleep?
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But this nine-month process isn’t random. Looming larger than the fear, as my body grows tired of being pregnant, I allow my mind to venture into the next few weeks. I remember the pain, the lows, the tears, the lack of sleep, yes. But I also remember the sheer joy of meeting each of my children for the first time, the high privilege of welcoming them into the world. I remember the indescribable feeling of siblings being introduced. The warm comfort of being surrounded by family who will come to meet her. I am grateful for the space of this summer, to slow and process and adjust. As I try to relish these last days being a family of five, I fold impossibly tiny clothing and imagine the little body that will rest inside of them and wrestle with what she will look like and who she will be.  I cannot wait to find out. 

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    About Me

    Christina | Virginia Beach
    Psuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.

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