Some days it’s hard to believe that 3 and almost 1/2 months of nausea equals a baby. [Yes, I’m aware that they’re in there for longer than that.] And yes, I am confident that while my first trimester ends on Wednesday (or according to our insurance, ended a few days ago) the nausea will carry with me. Why am I convinced? Well, vomiting entered it’s late-stage presence during week 11 of pregnancy and it has only become a more steadily available option. And according to the Doctor’s experience, the nausea was suppose to tapper off and get less severe after week ten. Well, week ten was fiercely nauseated. But week 11 brought projectile. And then week 12 brought wipe-out, especially at the end. And week 13 has brought the routine of throwing up at work at least once per day and then moving on with life. I’ve really began to get good at the system, sadly.

Last night at about 5:15p we heard our baby’s heartbeat. “Don’t get upset if we can’t hear it yet,” the Dr. explained as she lubricated my stomach and put the microphone close, “it’s hard to catch it s…” and then our child filled the room with a steady thump-thump. “That’s a strong heartbeat,” a med student said.

And for a few seconds, I just wanted to hold the baby right then and there. I was so proud.
Well done, little one, well done.

It just became a little more real, especially since a few days earlier I told Matt I didn’t feel pregnant. “You are.” He remarked quickly.

It’s funny but some days it feels like Matt and I are playing parents. We’re playing expecting. We’re playing a beginning family. And it’s weird to think that my dreams of being a mom, the very thing I could not be more sure that God has set me apart to become… it’s actually closer than I can imagine.

I don’t care what any scientist may say… there’s a baby inside of me. No mere word “fetus” can capture the pure miracle that God is making within me. That in there folks, is a baby.

And it’s my baby.

Yet some days that concept is so crazy to me. And I think… did I just say my baby? Mine?

See, I’ve taken the spit up, the nasty diapers, the throw up and so many other “mom-like” drawbacks of a good handful of kids in my lifetime. I’ve done some of the dirty work, the cooking, the staying up all night, and even witnessed many hours of tantrums and biting and you name it. But I’ve never claimed to be a mom, despite the fact that I’ve been accidentally called mom by many kids. No, I am well aware that moms have far greater sacrifice and a far deeper love. Yet, I’ve often felt a depth of love for the kids I have been blessed to care for… those are my kids. For that point in their life, they were part my kids. [Maybe I’m just crazy, but I really loved them all that much.] And I’d take care of a sick child, and do all the other “mom-like” things all over again, in the blink of an eye… it’s just what I love to do.

But now it’s a bit crazy to think that to this little baby growing inside of me, I’m going to be mom. “Mom” like what I think and what I feel when I think of my mom. That’s mom… and I’d do anything for her… She’s always there when you most need, reliable, and ready for a hug.
That’s my mom.

I love her so much.

– a mom –

Yesterday was awful- puking (in car), crying, exhaustion, wit’s end
Last night was a blessing – Matt came home from his trip
Today is a relief – the child behaves when it’s father is near ~ minor nausea, productivity, life in steps, smiling, laughing

Today’s 13 weeks.
Dr. appt Monday – get to hear heartbeat and schedule ultrasound.

There used to be this little girl in my crazy four year old preschool room. She was the middle child of three children. And with my group of fours there would be days that they would try every ounce of patience I had to my name. There would be days that I would get the crew from the morning teacher and the morning teacher would be beat red with frustration. There’s only so many times one can repeat themselves before the lesson plan becomes impossible and when attempting to get the class under control is the primary focus, the ABC’s get swept under the rug. Would the school split the group up? No and I really don’t know why. But that year all of the “problem” children were placed in one four year old class of terrors. And I must admit, some days I would get frustrated. And some days I would feel like nothing I did could help this bunch of children. No love I showed them could convince them to calm down. They only seemed to respond to punishments and I really didn’t like handing them out.

So each day as the numbers dwindled toward the end of what had been for some of these children a ten hour day, the class became a bit more manageable. I found myself looking forward to those quieter moments of free-play backed by a soft musical tape. The smaller group could handle unstructured play. The smaller group I enjoyed. And it was at the end of the day that sometimes I would find myself a pile of rejected, decaying defeat.

But she would come, sometimes at my beckon, and she would sit in my lap or bear-hug my neck. This appeared to be her favorite time of day too. She would lay her little head on my shoulder, soaking up a love that was considered “babying” at home. And she wanted this love more than she wanted to play. Silently, with little movement she would soak up her love and bring a smile to my face. And through her, the Lord gave me hugs of grace. Hugs of mercy. And as I scratched her back or played with her long blonde hair, a healing from the day would happen. And I would feel like just maybe tomorrow was bearable.

Today I missed her hug.

You know what’s funny? I bother this lady all the time. And yet she still acts like she likes me.

I’m impressed. Truly impressed.

Today’s convo? “I’m at the dentist. I’m going to have to call you back.”

And you know what floors me the most?

She answered!

Last night I came home from the church and was fiercely hungry. And in the High school realm of over-dramatization, “I thought I was going to DIE!” And the first thought on this pregnant woman’s mind? Steak baby! Steak and mashed potatoes and ooh some buttery rolls…