One Last Lullabye

I didn't want to write this post, for many reasons. But someone once said, "when in torment, document."



Someone also once said, "everything happens for a reason."



But I have to say, I'm pretty glad that person isn't standing right in front of me right now, otherwise I might consider punching them.



(Okay, maybe not. But I would possibly slay him/her with vicious rhetoric).



There are very few things which have proven themselves to remain true in my life, time and time again: love, in it's purest and simplest form, can make everything right. Always. Also, (despite my strong feelings about the aforementioned cliche) everything does happen for a reason. Even the painful things.



Especially the painful things.



I have also learned that a momma's intuition is rarely ever wrong. Okay, fine. There have been a few times I've been wrong. (Maybe only two or three....) but I do know that those times became increasingly rare since having Ella and Milo. Call it a sixth sense, call it a "word" or a feeling, but it's there- for better or for worse. In my case, I've been the...um, beneficiary...of vivid dreams, premonitions, whatever, where in freakishly clear detail, I've been able to see ahead into the bigger moments in my life. For example, more than 6 years ago, a dream with letters spelling the name"Jacob" a few weeks before I met Jake on a blind date (and before I actually knew his name). Then another dream, three-ish years later: me, holding a pregnancy test with two bright pink lines- only a week and a half before I found out I was pregnant with Ella. A few nights after the pregnancy test dream, I dreamt of a car accident. I awoke in a cold sweat after seeing bright headlights at night, my car spinning, and my hand on my protruding belly. Fifteen weeks later, I was T-boned in an intersection at night. I held my belly as the car careened to a stop before going into a ravine. I remember being surprisingly calm, even as I was rushed to the ER while a doctor wasted no time searching for the heartbeat. I remember wanting to freak out, but inside, I had this profound sense that I was okay. We were okay. Two agonizing minutes later, the doctor found her heartbeat. He looked up at me, smirked, and said, "Everything is fine. It just wouldn't be still long enough for me to pick it up." (Is that not my Ella, or what??)


So those are just a few of the dreams I always remember right away. I needed to give a bit of backstory to set the stage for yet another one I can now add to the list. This one featured me, lying on an exam table, a wand on my belly and a screen in front of me. I can make out the distinct features of a baby that I know immediately is mine. She is dancing and wiggling about, stretching her tiny arms and legs. I see her nose, her perfect profile, and I feel warmth. Light. Nevermind that I said we were done with two. This baby is coming and the love is palpable. I then turn my gaze on the wall beside me and I see the number 3 in bold. I stare at it for what seems an eternity. From there, I climb into a shower, crying. And then I woke up to find Ella hovering a mere 1/2 inch from my face, asking to watch TV downstairs, so I dragged my tired self out of bed to make her breakfast.


Mid-way through buttering her toast, I thought, now THAT was a weird dream. What the hell did I eat last night before bed? Never again... And I went on about my day. It wasn't until a few days later that I started to feel....off. Warm. Flushed. Barely able to keep my eyes open. Stuffy nose and sore throat. One minute I was starving, and the next, I was sure that my bowl of cereal was about to make a repeat appearance. Milo pressed his head against my chest one night as I rocked him to sleep and I suddenly felt a very familiar pain radiate through my boobs. Wait, wasn't my period supposed to start? I grabbed my calendar and started counting. Not late yet, but very close. I bought some pregnancy tests and didn't tell a soul. (Well, I maybe told one or two souls, but I swore those souls to secrecy). First test was negative. At first, I was relieved. And then, strangely, I wasn't. Was that disappointment lurching it's way up into my throat? I swallowed hard. We said we thought we were done. We had our girl and our boy. Healthy and happy. Surely, that was enough. I wasn't charting or tracking anything. We weren't trying. Hell, if truth be told, we were preventing. But I simply couldn't shake that unmistakeable feeling. The same intuition that told me something was different when I got pregnant with Ella, and the same one that told me without a doubt that Milo was growing inside me, even when the first test I took with him told me otherwise. I just knew. Of course, some of this intuition stemmed from my unbelievable (and unfortunate) sensitivity to hormones and the fact that I was sick, like, 30 minutes after he was conceived. But really, more of it was because I just knew. I couldn't explain it, but I didn't have to. Two days after that initial negative test with him, I saw the word "pregnant" on a digital test.



So, it seemed I was in a very similar spot once again. I started making note of my symptoms, paying more attention. And also, despite my best efforts not to, I started picturing our new family. I saw Milo as the big brother instead of the perpetual baby. I saw him and Ella cozied up to me in a hospital bed- all at once jealous, and yet in awe of this new little creature who was joining our family. It started to make sense, even when I swore months ago that it never would. I took another test. Negative again.



I waited. I waited without knowing what exactly I was waiting for. A blood test came back negative as well. And yet, when most normal people would have given up on the initial idea, I came home and researched. I googled like a fiend. Shamelessly. I just couldn't let it go that something was different. I was now over a week late for my period. I woke up sick to my stomach in the middle of the night. My boobs felt on fire. I was peeing every 30 minutes. And in the midst of it all, I still remembered that dream.



A long and torturous seven days later, I finally got my answer: a very faint yet unmistakeable line on a first response test. I gazed at it, not entirely sure if I was hallucinating. But it was there. "There you are." I said. "What took you so long?" Then, I posted the picture on a well-known pregnancy/fertility forum, just to make sure that other women saw it too and I wasn't, in fact, losing my mind. (Turns out I wasn't- not yet, at least).



But I couldn't get excited. I was happy, relieved, and yet- reserved. When I found out I was pregnant with both Ella and Milo, I excitedly blurted out the news to our parents before the pee had even dried on the stick. Everyone knows a line is a line, no matter how faint. But there was something about this line that told me to wait. Just wait.



I contemplated arguing with my test. I had been waiting. And yet, intuition is so often a double-edged sword. If it clues one in about impending good news, it's certainly just as capable of preparing one for the opposite. I sat on the floor of my bathroom-turned-chemistry-lab and found myself pleading with my pee stick. Please get darker. Please stick. Don't leave me yet. I saw you in that dream and you were perfect and you were healthy. Don't go.... I thought about how long I had waited to simply close myself up in my bathroom alone (which is next to impossible with a preschooler and a toddler) in order to finally hold in my hands what I knew in my heart all along. But why couldn't I celebrate? I told very few people. When I did, I asked them to pray. And I continued to pray that what I was afraid of would never come to be. I prayed, this time, that my intuition would be wrong. I prayed to be sick as a dog, told God that he could throw all of the morning sickness at me he wanted. Please. I could handle it. I would do it.



And yet, even as I prayed, I was aware that I was holding back- that there was more I needed to say that I wasn't willing to say. Over the last four years, I guess I've re-defined how I view prayer, and consequently, how I view "God." I tend to avoid the cheesy, cliche sayings now (whether I believe them to be true or not) because there was a point in my life when I spouted such things without feeling a shred of truth in them. And yet years later, I still ultimately believe that there's this force bigger than all of us that we call LOVE- that works miracles, puts broken lives back together, gives second chances. And I still believe that the excruciatingly painful things are what will always have the most potential to change us, if we let them. But if I truly recognize all of this, it means I have to change my thinking. I have to force myself to say that I trust a bigger picture that I can't see- that perhaps, I might never see. I have to choose to believe that maybe, I really don't know what's best, even when I want to think otherwise. And hardest of all, I must come to terms with the fact that it's especially those things I try so desperately to hold onto that I must learn to let go of. If you love it, let it go.



If you love it, let. it. go.



Because my children, who are tucked away in their beds asleep, didn't get here because I willed them to. And neither did this one. I can't take any credit. And so, days later, I gave in. While the kids were having a snack downstairs, I stole a few solitary minutes to drop down on my knees in Ella's room. I heard three words come out of my mouth, completing the second part of the prayer I was unwilling to speak up until then. And even then, as I sputtered out the words, I was still somewhat unsure I believed them. "I trust You." And then I said it over and over again until the tears stopped. I saw our family. I remembered the tiny silhouette on the screen from my dream more than two weeks ago. At once, I felt immense joy for the blessings I have- that I'm so undeserving of- and yet, I felt my heart break as a familiar pain began radiating in my back and mid-section. Sometimes, whether we like it or not, pain may be the only indication that we're still alive, and that we're meant to live into a bigger story. So for now, as much as it hurts, I won't wish it away, because I know that the story isn't over.







"Dear God, I would have loved to have held this baby on my lap and tell them about you, but since I didn't get the chance, would you please hold them on your lap and tell them about me?"





{For our sweet angel baby, due 11/6/12}

More Than Fine

Just a few weeks ago, I was wrapping up a skype session with my emetophobia therapist. I had the calendar on my phone pulled up like I usually do to mark down our next session. For several months, we met with consistency every Thursday evening for an hour. Then, after some considerable progress had been made on my part, we transistioned to every other week. Occasionally, one of us would have a schedule conflict and it would then become three or four weeks between our sessions. But the tone had started to change. I wasn't having to work as hard to peel back the layers of my anxiety. I was becoming more comfortable with my own vulnerability. I noticed that we were talking more about "life stuff" and less about throwing up. The pictures and videos (yes, videos) of people being sick were becoming less gruesome and more, well, just people getting sick.

"Well, you tell me when you'd like to see me again," she said.

*blink blink*

What? I needed clarification.

"You've worked really hard to get to this point and you've got all the tools you will ever need when you start to find yourself feeling anxious. You're ready to just go and live your life now, and see how your emetophobia reacts with it. But my guess is that you're gonna be just fine. More than fine, actually."

This was it. She was breaking up with me. Not only that, but she was employing the whole, "well, it's obvious that you're moving on to bigger and better things, so now it's time for me to let you go" tactic. I sat there for a second, stunned, and looked down at the following Thursday's date on my phone. The fact that it was pure white nothing-ness was terrifying. Keep in mind that up until this point, I had been gradually exposing myself to pictures of vomit. First it was pencil sketches, then cartoons, then on to actual pictures of puke piles- chunky vomit, watery-vomit, dried splotches on roadways and floors. Then on to pictures of people mid-heave with their heads hanging over toilet bowls and trash cans. And finally, the last level of desensitization: watching entire video clips of real life people tossing their cookies for one reason or another, complete with sounds: carsickness, stomach flu, one too many shots of crappy vodka and one poor, unsuspecting girl who had her roommate spike her morning coffee with syrup of ipecac. (Why anyone thinks this stuff is worthy to 1) be shot on video and 2) be put on youtube, is truly beyond what I can comprehend. But maybe that's why I'm in therapy to begin with).

The point is, that moment of realizing I was being "let go" was in many ways more petrifying to me than anything I had experienced up until that point in my therapy. What now? I wanted to argue with her, that no, I wasn't ready. I was like a college graduate who had dutifully completed all of her degree requirements but was suddenly paralyzed with fear at the thought of actually walking across the stage and accepting the diploma she had worked so hard for. Suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted it. I was afraid that if I allowed myself to believe that I was finally strong enough to stand with my feet firmly in place, that maybe it would all be an illusion and the ground that I thought was so steady would give way beneath me.

We have some friends who live out on the west coast that got a real kick out of the devastating earthquake that shook the east coast last August. Not because they were insensitive, but because we all flipped our nut over something that they probably experience a couple of times a year. Unfortunately, for them, earthquakes are inevitable, so the only thing they can do is practice being prepared for one when it hits. The safest places are in doorways and under sturdy tables. (Whatever you do, don't run outside like I did and look up at the sky to rule out the rapture). Since our friends have young kids, they do their best to drill them on what to do without freaking them out in the process. Children in schools participate in earthquake drills on a regular basis and practice quickly getting into position under their desks or the cafeteria tables. My friend's youngest daughter asked her one day why they couldn't just hang out under the table all the time, just in case. And to that, her mom simply said, "because that's not really living, sweetie. That's just being afraid to live."

As I reflect on the first few sessions I ever had with Anna, I remember that she never promised me a life without anxiety. She did, however, promise me that I could start living again, in spite of it. But it requires that I resist the urge to hang out under my dining room table, for all of the "just in cases," that 99% of the time never come to fruition anyway. There's nothing wrong with taking shelter when a storm comes out of nowhere, but once it passes, it can be easy to forget that we're supposed to crawl back out, hug our loved ones, and begin to rebuild.


Lyrics from a song that was always on repeat during some of my darker times. . .


"When I wake in the morning, I want to blow into pieces

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

When I'm up with the sunrise, I want more than just blue skies

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

I'm not giving up, not giving up now

Not giving up, not backing down

More than fine, more than bent on getting by

More than fine, more than just okay."


(Switchfoot, More Than Fine)

Small Word, Big Perspective

Have you ever realized how much power is taken out of something if you were to place the word "just" in front of it? Lately, I've been thinking about how much anxiety could be reduced in my life if I started implementing this one, simple word into my vocabulary more often. Most people who struggle with different forms of anxiety have trouble contextualizing certain situations. They tend to make bigger deals of things that don't necessarily need to be big deals.

This word sneaks it's way into our daily conversations probably several times a day without us realizing it. Phrases like, "It's just a little bump- you're okay." "It's just a cold." "It's just for another five minutes." It's just a thing. It has the ability to take the edge off of just about anything, almost instantly. (On the flip side, there are things in our universe that we will never be able to downplay and that, quite frankly, would be completely inappropriate to even attempt to. It will never be "just" cancer. "Just" a divorce. "Just" war. "Just" a job loss. They are devastating on so many levels and often leave us feeling powerless against them).

But what about those little things that suddenly seem bigger than they should be? In those cases, perhaps all we're missing is a little bit of perspective- and that is surely the one thing in our life that we always have control over to some extent. So instead, what if it was just an off day? What if it was just a bad meeting? What if it was just someone else's opinion? What if that meant that you didn't have to let those things define you after all?

I think this is particularly helpful with anxious situations. I've been putting this into practice a lot lately, asking "what if it was just throwing up?" And I'll be completely honest- It took me longer than I'd like to admit that maybe, just maybe, the world wouldn't end. Maybe life would go on, just as it always does. I think it took me so long to admit it because I knew that it would mean coming face to face with the fact that all of the effort I put into worrying and avoiding and obsessing was all for nothing.

Ouch.

Of course, I'm not claiming that this is a quick fix for any kind of circumstance. If something in your life is in need of becoming "just" something instead of the reason you're constantly reaching for your pepcid tablets or Xanax, it's ultimately going to be boil down to an overall posture- not simply a change in your vocabulary. Identifying those things that trigger stress/anxiety is often half of the battle.

Are there things in your life that demand more of your time and attention than you want them to? You have control over that. Redefining your perspective = redefining your reality.

Exhale

I like to talk out both sides of my mouth sometimes. Not super proud of that. For example, I talk about how I wish that the kids would sleep in and give me that much more time to center myself for the day. And then on the rare occasion that they both sleep in (it should be noted that "sleeping in" means 7:45 a.m.), I can't leave well enough alone and find myself worrying that maybe something is wrong. So instead of sitting back with that second cup of coffee, I risk forfeiting my alone time in the morning to creak open their doors and watch their little bellies go in and out.

Ironically enough, simply watching them sleep centers me in a way that few other things can. There's something so soothing about watching a slumbering babe- completely unaware of world events, politics, terrorist threats, deadlines, mounting to-do lists. Watching them sleep reminds me that I, too, came into this world with an innate sense of being in the moment. I slept when I needed rest. I ate when I was hungry. I played with abandon. Whatever it was I was doing at the time almost always got 100% of my focus. The concept (burden) of multi-tasking was not yet dictating the structure of my entire day.

Do more. Be more. Not enough. Finish this. Start this. Don't forget. Email, text, call, log on, connect and whatever you do, don't drop the spinning plates you're balancing all day, every day. Round and round and round...

Then, the inevitable crash and burn.


Thank you, my sweet boy, for reminding me that sometimes it's enough to just breathe in and out.

Just "Stuff?"

I may be many things, but a hoarder, I am not. I can't STAND clutter. (Smeone should have warned me about having two kids 20 months apart. Wait, that's right- they did). It looks like a Fisher Price bomb went off in my living room at any given time of day. Since we just recently moved, I've been in a very special frame of mind, trying to find homes for things on shelves, packing away storage bins, breaking down boxes, cursing under my breath and generally finding myself quite shocked at the amount of "stuff" we've accrued over the last five years.

I had always thought myself to be a realist when it came to deciding whether or not to save or "chuck" something. It was usually the latter of the two. "Out with the old, in with the new" was my motto. Obviously, pictures and family heirlooms are a different story altogether, but my general rule of thumb was that if I hadn't worn/used/looked at something in over 6 months, it was gone. Someone else could benefit from it. I would even go so far to say that I could stand to be a little more sensitive in this area. When Jake recently asked me if I was going to keep my wedding dress, I nonchalantly replied- "Nah. It's just taking up space." (Shallow alert: if it was a true designer gown, that would not have been my reply). ;)

In truth, I just never grew that attached to stuff.

{Says the woman who sat on the floor of the living room today, sniffling and crying as I went through bin after bin of Ella's baby clothes}. I'm going to preface this by saying that I'm pretty darn sure that mother nature is days away from giving me her first gift in over 15 months (I know you wanted to know this, right?). The point being, my hormones are on overdrive at the moment and I have found myself crying at odd and random times throughout the last week. But in my quest to tackle the post-move clutter from my house, I made a few appointments with several children's consignment stores around town and am scheduled to drop off the first few bins tomorrow morning. Originally, it was just another task on the to-do list. But when I sat down and started sifting through the itty-bitty onesies and outfits, I was flooded with memories of my little baby Bug and oh, the tears started coming. Her hospital hat, the itty bitty bikini she wore our first summer at the beach, some of my favorite outfits that I realized I had completely forgotten about, her first halloween costume, the outfit she wore when we visited Santa, the cute (albeit pointless) shoes that I couldn't resist buying for her- all tucked away so many months ago when I had said "just in case we have another girl." When we found out Milo was Milo, I couldn't have been happier even though a part of me knew I would never have as much fun dressing him as I did her. (And I was right).

Although I'm quite sure that we are done (or, done enough for me to say that I'm selling her clothes to consignment), something in me aches. Much the way it did the first time she said, "Go, Mommy. I do it myself." Much, I'm sure, the way it will on her first day of preschool. And oh GOD, her first day of Kindergarten- and every grade after, as I realize that my baby is getting older, and ironically, my memory is getting weaker. Even now, I try to conjure up images of her when the newborn sleepers were hanging off of her tiny arms and legs. Some memories are as clear as if they happened yesterday. But many have gotten swept up in the chaos of life, packed away like the little rompers and dresses I forgot we even had.

The practical side of me knows we don't have the space. But now, Kristin "the mommy" confronts the Kristin of 10 years ago- the carefree, untethered one who swore she would never be convinced to hang on to just "stuff." She said a lot of things though, before she had kids...

"Mommy Kisses"

We are right smack dab in that cute stage when kisses can keep a trembling lower lip from becoming an all-out wail. In our household, they cure just about everything from eczema to a bloody elbow. On top of that, we're stocked with Dora and Snoopy band-aids out the wazoo, but Ella often declines them in favor of having me hold her in my lap for a few minutes and giving her "mommy kisses."

So it seems, for now, that my kisses have healing powers. And I'll gladly kiss her scabby toes and knees and goose-eggs as long as she'll let me because I know a time is fast approaching when the cuts and scrapes will go much deeper and won't be easily numbed by anything I do or say.

In her little two year old noggin, I can make anything better (well, almost anything). How I wish I lived in that sweet naivety with her, too. Instead, I have to continually remind myself that being "mommy" isn't defined by my ability to make things "better" or less painful. Obviously, there are days when that's part of the job description and it satisfies something deep in my soul to be able to comfort them in a way no one else can. But, as cliche as it sounds, pain is inevitable and it's counterpart, fear, is seductive. Our culture has made it increasingly easy to grow up believing that there are ways to get around everything that's difficult and especially, to be exempt from the latter two.

To let Ella and Milo believe this for themselves as well would be the ultimate disservice. I can't keep the pain from happening. But I can be there to give "mommy kisses," in whatever form it takes over the years.

A God of Small Things

I laid on the exam table yesterday and prayed it would be over soon. The room was muggy and I hated having to lie flat on my back. I felt like I couldn't breathe. A by-product of my anxiety, plus the very real pressure of an enlarging uterus pushing up against my diaphragm and lungs. I eyed the door nervously, reached in my pocket for the reassurance of 2 little pills- one, Zofran and the other Xanax- and the barage of excuses I could use to make an escape pressed their way into my mind, before I even asked them to. I decided to split the Xanax in half in case I needed to take it, since it had been months since I needed one and I really didn't want to take it. Then, as if having it in my pocket wasn't close enough, I decided to hold it in between my thumb and forefinger.

I should have been excited to get my ultrasound, to have a chance to see Milo again. But more than anything, I just wanted out. I suddenly wished I had gone with my gut and declined the AFP test (alphafetoprotein) but instead, let the doctor talk me into having the extra peace of mind. If only it had really been that easy. The nurse called with my test results and said they were "slightly elevated." My risk assessment for having a baby with Spina Bifida rose from .5% to 1%. (Really?? You want me to come in for an extra ultrasound because there's a 99% chance that my baby is fine?) *insert eye roll here* I tried to put the worry of the tiny chance something was wrong out of my mind and instead, consoled myself with the fact that I would get more pictures of my little guy. But wait, I hate doctor's offices. I despise the sterile smell and the big equipment and the bland, oatmeal-colored walls and carpet and the fact that everyone talks in hushed voices. Talk about wanting to make an anxiety-prone person bolt for the door....DAMN them! Now I *had* to go back. I could have turned down the ultrasound, but then I would have had that 1% following me around for the rest of my pregnancy, painting scary images in my head. I knew that I had to put the worst case scenario out of my mind for good.

The lab tech came in and pressed the probe down on my belly, giving me a painful reminder of my full bladder and causing me to draw in a short, sharp breath. And there he was, this one-pound ball of flesh and bone, hiccup-ing and squirming around and otherwise, looking very content. I wondered, could he sense my tension? Could he feel that his Momma was scared? I took steady, deep breaths and focused on the perfection of his little silhouette. She took an extra long time looking at his spine and I started counting the discs and bones, (as if I knew what a perfect spine would look like if it came up and bit me). But at least, it took my mind off of my nerves. Despite having gone through pregnancy once before, I still found myself completely and utterly in awe that a whole entire body had been fused together inside of mine: the four chambers of his heart beating in perfect rhythm, the sections of his brain that had divided where they were supposed to, the curvature of his tiny spine, even the way he balled up his tiny fists and kept them close to his face. All of his tiny organs in place, continuing to grow and develop, but- as the tech reassured us- all working in perfect harmony with each other. I felt relief and gratitude wash over me. There were no obvious markers for Spina Bifida, just as we all had prayed. I momentarily wondered how on earth you could ever give someone news like that and suddenly I felt very grateful for my job as a piano teacher. I would never have to deliver devastating news like that.

But wait, we weren't done and the doctor would be back in to talk with us. What could this be about? Maybe just a follow-up? I groaned and flopped back on the table. My half-pill of Xanax had all but dissolved into a tiny speck in the clammy-ness of my fingers. I discreetly let the white powder and loose crumbles fall to the floor. The doctor came in, seeming very jovial, which put me at ease, and scanned over Milo's body while he asked us questions about what we did for a living. "I'm a piano teacher and my husband is a web-developer," I heard myself say, but I was distracted by the fact that he kept trying to zoom in to Milo's left hand. Come to think of it, the tech did the same thing. The doctor asked if Jake played any instruments too. The conversation faded as I studied the doctor's face. What was that he was counting? Oh God, please let everything be okay. They said everything was fine. Why was he concentrating like that?

Then, in a very matter-of-fact voice, he said "Well, he's stone cold normal, except that he only has 3 fingers and a thumb on his left hand. He's missing his pinky." As if he was telling me the weather forecast, or that the color of my shirt was light pink.

What??

Perhaps he missed the irony, but it wasn't lost on me: A piano teacher and a guitar player, having a baby with only 9 fingers. I thought, surely he was mistaken. Maybe it was just a bad angle, or a misplaced shadow. But no. He was, in his own words, 100% sure that Milo's left pinky was gone- most likely due to something called an "amniotic band," in which tissue wraps around a developing fetus's limbs or digits, creating a type of tourniquet by cutting off blood flow and ultimately resulting in a freaky kind of self-amputation.

I let it sink in for a minute. So our son wouldn't have a finger, and honestly, of all fingers- heck, of all body parts- to be missing when you're born- second only to your pinky toe- the pinky finger would be the one someone would miss the least, right? If we walked in worried about something as devastating as Spina Bifida and walked out minus one pinky, life was still good. Yes, life was still good. But the mommy in me struggled to accept a potential disability- no matter how small. A flood of questions and doubts entered my mind: Will he get picked on? Will he be embarrassed? Will he be able to throw a ball, play sports, play instruments, tie his shoes? I thought about how much I really use my pinky. I would obviously miss mine now, but he won't ever know the difference, so that makes it okay, right?

But it's not okay. I had to finally let myself admit it as I drove home. I felt ungrateful as the tears stung my eyes and fell silently onto my round belly. Of course, he was going to be a normal kid and live a good life if we had anything to do with it. He didn't have something devastating like a hole in his heart or a misplaced organ. His spine is perfect. He's beautiful and he's ours. But my conscience was heavy with a thought I wanted to destroy and never think again: He isn't as perfect as I wanted him to be. Not as perfect as he seemed before the doctor came in. And then, the harder pill for me to swallow came a few minutes later- that my idea of "perfection" is about as small as the box I try to make God fit inside. All I could think was that my son would be coming into this world at a small- however, instant- disadvantage, because not everything is where it should be. I wanted to mourn that little finger because it would be one less finger I get to kiss and hold when he's born. I have no doubt that I'll be too wrapped up in holding him and marveling at him once he gets here, but I don't- for one second- think that I won't want to wave a magic wand in the months and years down the road and make that pinky reappear for him, just so things might be that much easier, if only in a minuscule way. It seems so little. But I'm reminded that maybe that's what God wants me to see- that He's a God of the little things, just as much as He is a God of huge things. Perhaps this is a reminder that nothing is to ever be taken for granted, on any scale. The first time Milo drops a block into the shape sorter with his left hand, the first time he ties his shoes, the first song he learns on whatever instrument he chooses to play- they all become victories in a way they might never have been. Small things made spectacular. Or rather, spectacular things revealed to me in a brand new light, and one that asks me to throw my pre-conceived ideas out the window.


Milo isn't even here yet and already, he's teaching his Momma how to let go. I like this kid. <3