the (good) details

I’ve written so little about our birth experience because frankly, I needed time and space to process it all. Not only physically–but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I am different because of my childbirth experience, and I knew I was different when I woke up the next morning. So, here is our story, from what I have gathered so far.

We went in on Sunday, February 3rd at 8pm to start the induction. I will spare you the grimy details of everything involved, but by 5am the next morning, contractions started and were coming on strong, so we moved to the next step in the induction process. At around 3pm on Monday, I had hardly progressed and Keegan’s heart rate was all over the place, so my doctor talked to us about the possibility of a C-Section. Around 4pm, she broke my water and within two hours, I had fully progressed and was ready to push. Once again, I will not make you endure the details, but three hours later, Keegan had not budged, and a C-Section was no longer a hypothetical but a necessity, and we prepared ourselves for surgery.

There are a lot of details about that day that I will never forget, but there are two that stand out so crystal-clear in my memory that have forever changed me. One has to do with a little green line, and the other my husband’s right hand.

From the time we started the induction, our nurse pointed us to the monitor which showed Keegan’s heart rate, my heart rate, and my contractions. Keegan’s heart rate was bright green, and mine was a vague taupe color, directly below his. All evening long, and all day Monday, it was all I could do to not watch that little green line. I knew in my mind that nurses were keeping track, and that alarms would go off if anything went wrong, but I could not–for more than a few minutes at the longest–keep my eyes and mind off that little green line. I needed to watch him, to see him as I prayed for his little body to be healthy and whole. In a time where I felt absolutely out of control, the only thing I could manage was watching that green line.

And the second? My husband’s right hand. Throughout the entire process, he sat to my left and held my left hand with his right,  coached me through it, encouraged me, and prayed over us.

I became a mother while watching that little green line. Over 9 and 1/2 months of pregnancy, my heart slowly began the process of nurturing and protecting this little one. But in watching that green line, my heart became consumed by it. And I have never been more in love with my husband than on that day, and will never forget when we heard his first cry in the OR. It was the sweetest moment of relief that I will forever cherish, and he is the only one that can replay it with me.

When I look back on days of my life, I hope to remember the small details that affected me greatly. And on this day? It was a little green line that became my son, and my husband’s right hand that became my strength.

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the waiting game

Remember that time, about ten days ago when I took a picture of myself with a big, “I’m about to meet my baby!” smirk and posted it on the internet for the world to see? And then remember when ten days passed and I was still pregnant?

I do.

But there’s hope yet, it turns out I won’t break a record for world’s longest pregnancy. We head to the hospital tomorrow night to start the inducing process. We’ll start small on Sunday night, stay overnight, and they’ll induce on Monday morning. I really hesitated posting anything on any form of social media about this, only because I have been slightly overwhelmed with it all and wanted to maintain some form of privacy. However, our family does need a lot of prayer, so pray for us in the coming days! We are anxious to meet this little guy and bring him home.

Meanwhile, here’s a song that’s been on repeat in our house:

“I Will Show You Love” by Kendall Payne

the rumors are true

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…I’m still pregnant. :)

Yesterday marked my first “official” day of maternity leave, which I did on purpose. Even though our due date is not until Friday, I saved up some vacation days for the week leading up to the big day, thinking (if he was still in the womb) it’d be good to have a few days to relax before he arrived. And now it’s here!

So we are trying our hardest to enjoy these last few days “just the two of us,” although I admit it’s hard not to be anxious just to see this little guy’s face! But I find myself in a deep place of gratitude this afternoon . . . grateful for a healthy pregnancy, that we’ve made it this far, and for this special time with Kyle.

Also, if you’ve texted me in the past two days and I haven’t responded, I don’t hate you. I just happen to leave my phone upstairs a lot, and once it’s up there and I’ve already made the journey downstairs, well . . . it’s a journey to get back up. You understand.

39th week

14859_555407378428_693777110_nWell, week 39 arrived! At this point, my feet are so swollen that the shoes you see above are all that work now… which is a great excuse to wear slippers to work! My maternity leave officially starts a week from today (to read more on that, click here), our bags are packed, car seat installed, paperwork completed . . . we’re as ready as we’re going to be! 9 months ago this time seemed like forever away, now it’s here and the anticipation of holding our sweet boy has eradicated all fear of labor and delivery (well, almost all fear). We are ready to meet our little boy, hold him in our arms, and bring him home. Until then, I am spending lots of time with my exercise ball, walking laps in Target, and eating any and every spicy food that comes my way.

longing and begging

It’s December 17th, we are right in the season of Advent, and I can’t recall a time I have longed for Jesus so badly.
This week has been nothing short of longing.
Longing for hope, peace, and anything that remotely resembles joy.

And this is just my little life.

One of my friends had her heart ripped out of her chest on Tuesday morning, discovering that the little boy she thought was going to be hers was in fact not anymore. They call it adoption reversal, which sounds like a cold way of saying, “You can’t have your baby anymore.” Her and her husband are now grieving parents, with nothing to show for it except empty hearts, pockets, and bedrooms.

That same morning, my other dear friend told me she and her husband went into hear the heartbeat for the first time of her precious 12-week-old, and the nurses “found nothing.” And used the cold, non-empathetic words, “this is not a viable pregnancy.” I don’t know who invented that phrase, but they should probably redo that year of their life. I can’t imagine a more lifeless phrase when telling a woman who dreams of being a mother that she is, in fact, not.

On Tuesday afternoon, one of my family members suffered from a mild stroke, which leads to lots of challenging conversations and rearrangements as they navigate what to do in this next very unknown phase of life.

Again, this is my little life.
I know suffering is everywhere.
I’m not blind to it.

I read the prayer requests every Tuesday afternoon in our staff meeting . . . heartbreak after heartbreak, loss after loss, and sometimes my heart gets so swollen I cry right there, in a conference room with gray walls and business suits.

And again, this is only my little corner, with the faces I know and love.
I know it’s everywhere.

On Friday afternoon, I got a text from my husband that said, “Try not to saturate yourself with the media coverage of this.” Of what!? I immediately turned on the news, ignoring his caring request, to find the horror that the rest of you saw and for a minute I said right out loud, in the stillness of my living room, “What in the world is going on?”

All of this coupled with joy–visiting with friends late Sunday evening, eating cinnamon popcorn, laughing about nothing and then eating some more. Listening to my sweet baby’s heartbeat today at the doctor’s office, and hearing, “You and the baby are getting along perfectly,” as I breathe relief because let’s face it, this seems like the week people are supposed to get bad news.

I’ve read Brene Brown‘s wise words about not selectively numbing emotion, about how you can’t numb pain without also getting rid of joy . . . and so I have fully embraced the pain that surrounds me, knowing that without it I cannot receive full joy.

But I confess that I long for Christ in a way I never have before. I long for Him to heal my friends, heal these hearts, and to bind up wounds. I long for Him to bring about restoration in the midst of darkness, and then I stop right where I’m sitting because I remember . . .

He came into darkness.

He was not surrounded by a world full of rainbows, unicorns, and butterflies. He was born right into a dark, unknown world, full of uncertainty and hatred, and yet He was called the Prince of Peace.

And this year, I long for Him.

I long for Him to hold my friends that sit with an empty nursery, to hold their hearts tightly and whisper into their pain and hear their angry questions. I long for Him to heal my sweet friend and her husband, whose entire paradigm of life is now something I cannot imagine, fathom, or begin to understand.

I long for Him to usher in peace to the little corners of our worlds, in the brokenhearted places we dare not say aloud. And during this season of Advent, I am not ashamed in my questioning, no–begging.

Christ, I beg of you to come close.

We beg you to be close to us.

death and life are in the power of the tongue

I was with a friend a few weeks ago and halfway through our conversation, I realized I hated the sound of my own voice.

Has that ever happened to you?

I felt like I was looking in on my critical, obnoxious self, wishing I could shut her up–but instead she kept going, going, and going . . . and I just wanted to put my hand over her mouth and say, “Ssh. No one’s listening.”

No, you don’t have voices in your head? Good, that’s probably good.

I’ve been actively trying to listen more lately, which sounds like a 3rd-grade-level task on relationships. And the more I actively bite my lips, seek to listen more instead of insert my voice when it’s not desired (or needed), the more I find just how ugly and cynical my voice can be.

And I don’t like it.

Recently, I cleared my Google Reader of all things overly critical (when nothing else works, I work in extremes). And while I had high hopes this would bring comfort because hey, I’m listening to more beauty, instead it brought to life just how much I put my mouth before my ears and how ready to spout out something negative I usually am. How ironic that beauty illuminated the disease of my heart.

A few mornings ago, while ignoring my alarm clock and reading Proverbs instead of getting out of bed, these words gripped me,

From the fruit of a person’s mouth his stomach is satisfied, with the product of his lips is he satisfied. Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love its use will eat its fruit. (Proverbs 18.20, 21 NET)

I think they stopped me because lately, my tongue has probably brought a lot more death than it has life.

So this is my promise and confession: I promise to try to bring life to the circles I’m in, relationships I have, and conversations I’m invited into. I promise to start with my heart, instead of forcing behavior on myself that my heart hasn’t caught up to. I also promise to try, but I warn you–I may need a slap in the face sometimes. I’ll probably be okay with it.

Where is your tongue bringing death instead of life? And what circumstances can you change to bring more beauty into the world instead of negativity and cynicism? 

listening, watching, reading

Listening… Christmas music started a few weeks ago around our house. This year, we’ve gone from Ella Fitzgerald to Rosie Thomas to Hillsong and back to Straight No Chaser. So to say we have an eclectic taste is, well, an understatement.

Watching… New Girl and Parenthood (well, I’m the only one watching Parenthood). Kyle and I laugh out loud on Tuesday nights watching New Girl. But that’s about it around here. Well . . . I lie. I’m a dedicated fan to the Today Show in the mornings, but that’s a given. What can I say? I love Matt Lauer. And I miss Ann Curry.

Reading… I got my ADHD-like reading tendencies under control and am only reading two books now: Daring Greatly by Brene Brown and Caring For Your Baby and Young Child by . . . lots of people. I can’t say enough about Daring Greatly. I am almost on the verge of telling strangers in Target about it, along with every coworker and friend I know. So if you’ve been around me, and I have not yet talked about this book, it’s probably because I haven’t found a way to naturally make it apart of the conversation. But it’s coming, my friends, it’s coming.

Eating… Ready? All I can think about lately is ICE. I want ice all the time. We don’t have an ice maker at home, so Kyle has been very kind in making sure our ice trays are constantly full so that I can satisfy my ice cravings all the night long. Ice, ice, ice. Perhaps by the end of this pregnancy I will write a song about my strong affection for ice.
Drinking… Water. And then some iced tea. And then lots of water.
Wearing… Whatever fits. Whatever. Fits.
Feeling… Anxious. Grateful. Excited. Peaceful. Achy. Ready. Not ready. Vulnerable.  Every emotion, really.
Weather… Perfect. Today’s high was 52˙, and I’m a cold-weather girl.
Wanting… some ice. And a date with my husband.
Needing… more of Jesus.
Thinking… about Brene’s (we’re on a first-name basis, and by that I mean I call her by her first name and she has NO idea who I am) wise words at the beginning of chapter 2, “We can’t opt out of the uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure that’s woven through our daily experiences. Life is vulnerable.” Feeling every bit of that.
Enjoying… a season full of get-togethers, friends, family, music, good food, candles, and ice cubes.

what the land of unknown can bring

With our last baby class completed, I’m feeling a little vulnerable.

Up until this moment, there were still lots of things that stood as precursors to giving birth: baby showers, birthing and baby classes, painting the nursery, setting up his crib. All things that signified this baby would come someday, but not today. And now with most of those things behind us, the future is looking a lot more hypothetical and very, very real.

Pregnancy has taken me on a journey I didn’t expect . . . into a land of unknowns and uncontrollable circumstances, which undoubtedly pave the way to parenthood. And tonight I feel more raw and exposed than ever, with hands stretched out wide–looking for someone and something to take my place so that I can stand on the sidelines and cheer her on, then go home to my cozy, comfortable bed and say a little prayer for her. But no, it’s me, and there’s a little baby boy kicking furiously inside. I say prayers for him with every jolt, asking God to give us wisdom for the long haul and that he would grow up to be a man of faith and character.

Perhaps the only place we are most available to God is when we feel this raw, we have no other option but to trust, seek Him, and live close to Him. And I have never been more grateful for any season of life.

don’t touch the bacon

Last night as dinner came to an end, Kyle started putting away the leftovers and I shamefully (and sneakily) reached for the last pieces of bacon. In his mind, ever-the-saver, he had hopes and dreams of saving said-bacon for lunch the next day. In my mind (and hunger), I saw one thing, and one thing only: savory, sweet bacon that was begging to be devoured.

He peaked around the corner to find me mid-bite, and said, “Are you seriously eating all the leftover bacon!?” to which I–with immediate guilt and shame–replied, “Umm… er… yes, were you saving it for something?” With his mouth agape he half-jokingly yelled, “I CANNOT believe you could not just save that for lunch! You just ate over half the bacon I made for that soup!”

And this is where the communication-breakdown began.

What Kyle didn’t know was that little statement stirred up a range of emotions that I could hardly muster up the words to describe. And with his little, innocent, question, he sent me into a full-fledged guilt-fest. Isn’t this where all of us go wrong when it comes to communicating with those we love?

In that moment, I had two options: I could choose to believe the best, or assume the worst. Assuming the worst looks like this: believing that Kyle sat stirring in the kitchen, waiting for an opportunity to call out my over-eating tendencies in pregnancy and make me feel like the largest, most obese woman on earth. Or I could believe the best: assume that he seriously just wanted bacon with his leftovers, and was disappointed that his pregnant wife indulged in the sweet taste of bacon instead. Assuming the worst would have served my self-pitying desire for sympathy, even though I knew my sweet husband would never say anything to make me feel anything but beautiful. Believing the best leaves only one option: grace in place of judgment.

So, which scenario did I choose?

I collected my hormone-enraged self and calmly walked up to our bedroom where I sat and asked myself, “Does he think I’m the fattest person that ever lived, or was he just hoping for bacon?” After five minutes of calming down and realizing his taste buds took over (just like mine), he came to apologize and I–as they say–cried it out.

Isn’t this true of all our relationships? In every conflict, moment of tension, we are left with two options: believing the absolute best or assuming the complete worst of one another. Believing the best involves self-denial, surrendering the desire to win and argue, and instead choose love. And believing the best always leads the relationship to a healthier, more holy place.