Christmas Joys

Is there anything sweeter than holding a sleeping baby at Christmastime? The pause and the peace and the gentle rocking of the recliner relaxes me and fills me with more happiness than I think I have ever known. I count her long, dark eyelashes. I admire the smoothness of her slightly chubby cheeks. I watch her mouth move as she breathes and dreams and relaxes into my arms.

Was this how Mary felt? Sometimes I wonder how much of our perfectly placed nativities actually resemble that original night in Bethlehem. Somehow the stable dung piles never get painted into those heavenly-lit scenes, though I am sure they were copious. After having children, it is harder to forget the pain of childbirth that was real for Mary that night. Despite her divine infant, and perhaps because of Him, I don't think she was spared the pain. But neither was she spared the joy.

I think of the moments that make my Christmases special, and how my favorite things have changed over the years. I used to love eating the treats given to us by neighbors, but now the best part is leaving cookies on doorsteps and the worst part is all the houses we drive by that I wish we could fit into our budget, because they do fit into our hearts.

I used to love attending the endless parties with family and friends, and now I find the joy in planning the gatherings. I loved listening to Christmas music for weeks and weeks, but even the best of Kurt Bestor and Anne Murray cannot compare to the slightly off-key choir that is our family of five, singing a song about Jesus each evening before bed.

I used to love the anticipation of opening gifts early on Christmas morning; that wait has turned into something so much harder as I wait for my loved ones to open the gifts I spent hours making or carefully choosing. I love to find and give the perfect thing. I hate it when I can't find anything good enough to express my feelings, gratitude, and love.

I used to love waking up in the wee hours of Christmas morning to see the family room lit only by the lights on the tree, stockings overflowing and mountains of gifts blocking walkways. Now, those scenes can't compare to the feelings I have as I stay up late with my husband, smiling and whispering as we assemble our family's Christmas. There may be less gifts, but there is no shortage of love!

I loved listening to my mom read "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" every night and watching "Elf" and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" with my siblings, wrapped in a blanket. Now I delight in the sparkly picture books my children beg me to read on repeat. I've even learned to love Trolls Holiday, despite watching it more than a dozen times with a three-year-old cuddled on my lap.

My holidays were wonderful as a child, but...nothing compares to holidays now. Every moment is special, even my husband's eye rolls as I spend another evening with Shutterfly while he watches basketball on TV. Although my distractions annoy him, he knows how important every single detail is to me, and because he loves me, he goes along for the sleigh ride. He even puts up Christmas lights at the beginning of November because who knows how long the pristine fall weather is going to last along the Wasatch Front.

I climb into bed happily exhausted every single night, because creating magic takes a lot of energy. I try to ignore the piled up cookie sheets and crusted loaf pans, because time is always short and it is more important to make all the things than clean up all the messes. I mourn over the service I can't do and the charities I can't donate to. I wish there were more of me to go around. I rub lotion into my cracked hands, because I've spent my days changing diapers, making bottles, and helping a little boy go potty and the repeated hot water washings have done a number on my hands.

This is my life right now. This is my best Christmas pageant ever. It looks nothing like I thought it would, just like the scene at Jesus' birth was probably nothing like Mary anticipated. And yet, like Mary, I am grateful for the craziness and chaos and the crowds because I hold in my arms a precious gift from God.

Although the world spins around us, we are in our own little bubble, just me and a baby who will grow up too fast.

The Last Day

"I'm so excited!" She giggled and wiggled as I tucked her into bed with her threadbare fleece blanket and Fancy Nancy storybook. Her sparkling eyes spoke volumes, as they have since she was born: this is it! they seemed to say. The big day is FINALLY here!

I smiled, though I felt like sighing. Yup, that day is here. "You need to go to sleep, you have a big day tomorrow" I told her three more times as I sent her back to bed. What is Disneyland compared to Kindergarten? The excitement was more than her little body could stand. Finally, after her brother and sister had been asleep for an hour and her Dad headed to the gym, I decided to put the matter in God's hands.

"Should we say a prayer to help you sleep?" I asked, and she nodded. We said a little prayer, I kissed her forehead, she headed up the stairs, and for the hundredth time today, the same phrase went through my head.

It's the Last Day.

Kevin has always had a hard time handling anticipation. When she was about three, we started using the phrase, "it's the Last Day!" to let her know that her wait was about to be over. Every Monday she'd wake up asking, "is it the Last Day?" and I'd have to carefully break it to her that we had several days to go to make it to the Last Day. Somehow Friday always arrived and I loved to start her day with, "Guess what sweetheart? Today's the Last Day! Daddy doesn't have to go to work today!" or "it's the Last Day! Tomorrow we go to Papa's House!" or "It's the Last Day! Tomorrow is your birthday!"

There was no need for that conversation today, but my brain still reminded me.

I was reminded as I watched her sleepily walk down the stairs, realizing that tomorrow she'll have to be out the door by this time.

I was reminded as she came up from the playroom to find me, telling me, "I just thought, 'I miss my Mom,' so I thought I would come up and see what you are doing."

I was reminded as I gave in to her brilliant idea to paint our fingernails, surprising her by painting my nails to match hers. It's like the Kissing Hand, I thought. "Tomorrow," I told her (and myself), "If you are missing me, you can look at your fingernails and remember that ours are the same and you'll be fine."

I was reminded when painting our nails turned into playing paper dolls, her standard request whenever her sister is sleeping and her brother is watching his shows. I looked at her and realized:

It's the Last Day.

My last full day with her at home. Our last day before we start the grade school era of our lives, which will be followed by middle school, high school, college, missions, marriage, grandchildren...

I wonder, have I done enough to prepare her? Have I read a thousand books to her? Did I spend enough time teaching her letters? Practicing counting? Mixing colors and recognizing shapes? Did I model enough appropriate social behaviors? Did I teach her to be unfailingly kind? Will she know how to make new friends? How long will it take for her teacher to correct her habit of starting at the bottom instead of the top when she writes her letters? Did I instill enough confidence? Humility? The child is not resilient. I know that much. I tried. Oh, I've tried.

It feels like the end. The timer is about to beep. My time is up.

And then I remembered this quote that my mom shares in her kindergarten readiness parent workshops:

"Children’s first and most influential teachers are their parents/family. They play an important foundational role in the child’s learning and achievement. When parents, educators, and caregivers work together in the education and well-being of a child, a partnership is formed that will influence the best possible learning outcomes for the learner" (Utah's Early Childhood Standards, p. 4).

 I may be her first teacher, but I will not be her last. 

After all, tomorrow is the First Day. 

Two People

Last night I watched my husband hold another woman, and my heart broke.

I saw the look she gave him as we walked into her sparsely furnished bedroom, the way the tears heightened the despair, grief, and sadness in her eyes. The room was full of people, her family and her friends, but it was when she saw him that something in her changed.

I pushed him forward and he sat next to her on the bed, which was nothing more than a full-size mattress on the floor. He put his hand on hers, and she cried. After a minute or so, he looked up at me. This kind of situation is not his forte. I don't think it is anyone's forte. What do you say to someone who has just lost their entire world?

"Hold her," I mouthed more than whispered. I left the room to silence my cell phone. I watched from the doorway as he put his arm around her and pulled her close.

My husband doesn't have sisters and his mother is not prone to tears. When I am sad, I retreat or I get angry. I get quiet and I want to be left alone and there have only been a few times when I've sobbed in his arms.

He cries even less than I do. In our entire marriage, I've seen him cry three times (I'm not including the times where we watch sports movies, because his eyes always seem to leak during those. Pass the hat for Eddie! *I'm not crying, you're crying.) The last of those times were happy tears as he called Kevin early in the morning to tell her she had a long-awaited sister.

But yesterday morning, he cried again.

I knew something was wrong when I picked up my phone after leaving it on the counter for ten minutes and there were two missed calls, a text and an email. My stomach dropped because I thought he'd been in an accident. I figured if he was calling, he would be okay, but I was still worried. The voice on the other end of the phone was not the one I usually hear. "Hi, are you okay?" I said in one rushed breath. "I'm fine," he answered slowly. "I'm fine."

Then he was silent for a moment before he went on, "Do you remember hearing about that drowning accident at Deer Creek Reservoir?"

"Maybe?" I answered.

"The one where the husband drowned and the wife was barely saved?"

Suddenly my mind flashed back. I had seen the headline on facebook. It occurred to me as sad, but I didn't read the article and I kept scrolling.

"That was Anshul and her husband."

"No," I whispered. "No. No. No."

I've only met Anshul a handful of times, but I've heard my husband talk about her nearly every day for the last year when he comes home from work. She has been a helpful addition to his team and I'm grateful that she's been able to shoulder some of his workload. He'd tell me about conversations they'd had about religion, culture, finances, cars, everything. She loves our little ones, especially Sly, and is always excited to see them when we visit Dad at work.  Their relationship was more brother-sister than coworker, and I was grateful for that. I remember him commenting on Thursday of last week about how excited Anshul was that her husband was flying in for the weekend. "She's seemed sad and lonely lately. Today she was almost giddy because he's flying in tonight."

Anshul and I come from different worlds. She and her husband are from India and their marriage was arranged, although they had a courtship and very much agreed to the match. He was finishing up a research and advanced degree in Illinois and she was working in Utah. Their plan was for him to join her in a few months when he finished. In the meantime, they lived apart, flying back and forth to see each other once a month, staying in contact through emails and chats and video messaging. The very concept of a long-distance marriage absolutely threw Scott and I when we first met her. The two of us can barely survive an eight-hour workday away from each other. We came to realize, quickly, that their love wasn't any less real than ours.

Anuj would order her lunch. Sometimes he would add a cookie to the order for Scott. He would take care of his wife from a distance. We'd heard much about him and were planning on going on a double date one of these days when he was in Utah to visit. We were looking forward to meeting him at the company party last Friday, and were both impressed by his warmth, friendliness, and intelligence. He came over and struck up conversations with us more than once. And Anshul? She was practically glowing to have him finally by her side.

I knew all these things about her. And I'm sure she knew more things about me. And even though she is more my husband's friend than mine, my heart ached for her.

But my heart also ached for him.

"I'm sick about it," Scott told me. I could practically hear his mind trying to wrap itself around the tragedy. "She tried to contact me on Saturday. I got this email saying 'URGENT, emergency, call this number.' I thought she'd been hacked, so I didn't respond."

It felt like he was the last coworker to know, when he really should have been one of the first. A couple of people from work tried to call and text him, but nothing ever came through on his phone. And selfishly, I knew this was a tender mercy for me. Yesterday was Sly's birthday. Saturday and Sunday were spent cleaning up and getting ready for the party and then hosting a party. Had Scott known, we wouldn't have had his full attention, and I didn't know we needed it until I realized that there was a reason we didn't find out about the accident until yesterday morning.

Our minds spun in circles all day long. Scott met us after swimming lessons. We took the kids to McDonald's for Sly's birthday. He told me about the news article and how mean people were, commenting on how "they should have been wearing their life jackets."  "100% Avoidable." "Why would you not wear your life jacket if you don't know how to swim?' People think they know so much...but they don't know Anshul, and they didn't know Anuj. He told me how his coworker pointed out that there was one comment, longer than the others, from the girl who helped pull Anshul from the water. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he told me about this merciful woman, gently and kindly reminding people that these were two people, people with friends and families:

"My brother and I were the ones who saved the wife, and weren't able to find her husband. 
First of all let me remind everyone that these are two human beings, one who lost his life and one who had to go home without her husband. I spent over two hours with her yesterday, and I cannot even begin to fathom the hell she is living through. Please have some compassion. 
Second it is terrifying how fast this all happened. From the time we saw them in the water, to barely seconds later realizing they were in trouble, (We were less than 200 yards from the couple, our boat already idling, we sped there as fast as possible, and we dove in before the boat even stopped.) and still just before we got there the husband went under and didn't resurface. This all happened in a matter of seconds. The wife had taken what looked like her last breath and was under water when my brother got to her, he handed her to me and started diving for the husband. As others from our boat and nearby boats we waved down started diving as well. 
You always imagine someone who's drowning to be splashing, waving their arms, etc.. they don't have the energy for that, at first glance it looked like they were just swimming. If you ever see someone in the water, take a second look, and go check on them! Although we know we gave it our all, the regret and frustration we both feel in not being able to find him will be with us forever. If we had hesitated, they would both be gone. How would that feel, knowing we "could have"? A life is always worth it. 
Be prepared, wear a life jacket, wear your seat belt, don't hesitate to help, and be considerate. My heart goes out to this sweet woman, I pray that she can find peace. Sweetie if you see this, I love you. I truly do."

When Scott and I arrived at Anshul's apartment last night, her friends thought we were the rescuers. Granted, we were the only caucasians around, it was an easy mistake for them to make: a tall man with brown hair, a shorter woman with brown hair. "If she sees you, she'll have to relive it all over again," her friend said as she walked us to the other side of the apartment building. We could barely understand her, so we just went with it. Imagine our surprise at waiting in a random woman's apartment alone for a few minutes, only to be joined later by half a dozen of Anshul's Indian friends and four very white people. The older woman asked Scott how he knew Anshul, no doubt surprised to see us in the midst of Anshul's friends. It wasn't until Anshul's brother in law entered the apartment and started talking to them that we realized: these were Anshul's rescuers.

I felt like an imposter, witnessing that meeting, listening to them share their stories with one another. Anshul's brother-in-law had arrived that afternoon, the only member of her family with a valid visa because he visited the United States often for work. Emergency visas were unobtainable because of a weekend followed by a national holiday. He shared more details from Anshul's side of the story: how they had been wearing their life jackets, but when they went back to shore they found they still had 15 minutes on their kayak rental, so they decided to get back in and stay close to the shore and Anshul kept telling Anuj they needed to put the flotation devices back on, but he waved it off, thinking that they'd be fine since they weren't going to be in the water long and they were close to shore.

And then the Rescue Family started to speak, humbly and yet confidently sharing their side of the story. It was supposed to just be the parents on the boat that day, but due to irregular circumstances, they somehow convinced their two children, both grown and married, to join them on the lake. How the parents weren't strong enough swimmers to have gotten to Anshul and Anuj in time. How the dad had been watching the kayak, and when it tipped, he noticed that something was wrong. How minutes before, wave runners and boats had sped (too fast) past the no-wake zone, creating waves that may or may not have tipped the kayak. How the son, who got to her first, didn't know that there was another. "I never saw him," he said, "And if I had, my natural instinct would have been to go after him first and we would have lost both of them."

Detail after detail. Miracle after miracle.
People like this family---they are rare. They had such love, such compassion, such sorrow for not being able to rescue both. Their lives will forever be marked by their experience.

As I put my arms around the daughter, the one who served as Anshul's guardian and protector and comforter for hours on Saturday afternoon, I whispered, "You did a good job." It was all I could get out through my tears. I wish I could have found the words then, when I had the chance, to tell her how grateful I was that God placed her in Anshul's path that day. How much I admire her for compassion and love. And how extremely grateful we are for the way that she stepped up, once again, and shielded Anshul from an onslaught of people who think they know better than her just because they weren't the ones not wearing life jackets that day.

Anshul is not the same woman she was on Friday. All the wishes in the world won't take her back to that person, and yet that glowing, happy, woman-in-love is still inside her somewhere. More than one friend remarked to us, "she will have to move past this. We will help."

And though our options to help seem so very small and insignificant, sometimes simply being there to hold someone and cry and not talk and offer quiet prayers from the heart are the only things we can do.

Anshul's friends have set up a gofundme account to help with funeral costs (including the astronmical task of sending her husband's body back to India). If you can, donate a little.

If you can't, please say a prayer for my husband's friend.

She Gives

They say babies are helpless, and I believe this is true.

I do everything for our little miss (who still doesn't have a code name, work on that please Flan). And if I'm not doing it for her, someone else is. We've spent a lot of time with extended family over the past month, and there have been many helping hands and hearts willing to cuddle our sweetheart so that my hands can be employed elsewhere. I spent an equal amount time watching my baby be cared for by those who love her. She has been fed, snuggled, changed, bathed, soothed, and played with by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, great aunts, great uncles, and dear friends. She has been given attention and love in so many different forms, and by extension of that, so have I.

This morning as I snuggled her close and propped up her bottle so she could get her fill, I thought of her helplessness. She depends on others for everything she needs.

What most people don't realize is that babies are some of the least selfish creatures you'll ever meet.

That may sound odd, but hear me out. Sure, she is in constant need. She can't take care of most of her basic functions (and that isn't going to change anytime soon, if she follows her siblings' examples).

But what she does is give us everything she has without hesitation.

A smile, a coo, a giggle. A snuggle, a cuddle, a reason to laugh. A chance to pause, a peaceful moment in the quiet hours, a lullaby that soothes us both. Her patience when she has to wait, her gratitude when she is filled, her trust that we will take care of her needs. She is our wake-up call, our divine reminder, our greatest joy.

And although there are so many things we do for her, there is no doubt in my mind.

She does more for us.

copyright by Marinda Fowler. Please do not share or use this picture.

My Happy Place

I've been thinking about my life lately. Not my big-picture life. Not the things that make up a resume or the things I want recorded in my obituary. No, I've been thinking about my little-picture life. The candid shots that don't make it into the 11x14 frames or canvas prints. I'm talking about the snapshots, the pictures that are rarely printed out but scrolled through in the evenings after a busy day. The little life in which most days follow a similar routine: early morning cuddles with the baby before she goes back to sleep. Watching my son play with his "mag-in-ex" (magnet) toys. Listening to Kevin's endless stories and commentary, doing my best to keep up with all of the activities she'd like to pack into our days.

I've been thinking about how I eat cereal for breakfast and a PB&J for lunch almost everyday, and how even though I feel like I probably should add variety, in the end that's what I want to eat and there is no one to tell me I can't, so Honey Nut Cheerios and strawberry jam it is. Every day.

I've been thinking about how I keep moving all day long, like a soccer ball in a scoreless match, so in sync with the needs of my family that I do things almost without even noticing that I'm doing them, like refilling sippy cups and picking up toys and stacking books so they don't get stepped on and switching the wash and shutting toilet lids and asking all the learning questions. "What sound does the letter a make? How many chicken nuggets are left on your plate? What shape is your blanket? How many people are in our family?"

There is so much monotony in my life, but every day is different. And it's the little moments that I love the most, like Sly coming in to my room with sleepy eyes and climbing in to bed with me and asking, "how are your dreams today, Mommy?" Or Kevin saying her bedtime prayers as fast (and repetitively) as she can so we can read a few pages of Ramona the Pest before she goes to sleep. Or that heavenly, exhausted feeling of answering the cry of an infant, who will stop as soon as she feels my hand touch her body and my voice say, "You're okay, baby, Mommy is here." And then I lift her into my arms and she snuggles into my chest and we both feel complete.

A few years ago I wrote a post entitled "The Happiest I've Ever Been." I didn't know then that a two-year long battle with antepartum and postpartum depression was about to ensue. I quickly went from the happiest I'd ever been to the saddest I'd ever been, and the only thing that had really changed about my life were my hormone levels. I'm still dealing with the effects of that era. I'm not sure my battle with depression is over, but I do know that there is help. I'm still taking medication and luckily, it is working.

Sometimes I ask myself if I'm happy because of the pills.

The answer is no.

I'm happy because there is joy in what I choose to do everyday, even when it means wiping syrup off of faces, washing the same "magic blanket" I washed two days ago because it is the only one that gets the baby to sleep, and listening to Sly and Kevin fight over toys, yelling, "That's not bery nice!" I know that in a few minutes they'll be begging each other to go play in the playroom and the fight will be forgotten.

There is joy in the two-year-old walking down the stairs and asking, "What are you holding, Mom? Oh yeah. A wonderful baby."

There is joy in Kevin having the magic touch and being able to instantly calm her baby sister while I make a bottle or kiss Sly's owie.

There is joy in their happy cries and sudden bouts of jumping when the garage door starts to open and "Daddy's HOME! Mommy, Daddy's home!"

There is joy in hearing little voices say, "Mom, I wuv you."

There is joy in the silence that comes after all three kids are tucked in bed...usually because it has taken hours to achieve that quiet peace that means we survived another day.

There is joy in knowing that this is where God intends for me to be at this point in my life. There is joy in finding ways for my family to succeed.

I was happy when it was just Kevin and me, but no longer is that period "the happiest I've ever been." That time is now.

Because of the bumps and bruises of the past four years, I know a greater happiness now because I've been through greater sorrow. Life is rarely perfect, and contrary to how this post may sound, there comes a point in almost every day where I email Scott and tell him I'm selling our kids (at least the two oldest, we still are reveling in the baby around here!). There is mess and chaos and broken furniture and thirty-minute long time outs and a fussy baby and never enough sleep. I know there are challenges ahead (cough *potty training* cough). I know I won't always be on this newborn honeymoon high.

But I'm going to enjoy it for as long as it lasts, because this is the happiest I've ever been.

Bonding

She slept on my chest for over two hours this morning, so still I had to occasionally check to make sure she was still breathing. She would let out a contented sigh, attempt to snuggle closer, and then her body would settle again into mine, listening for the heartbeat that has been the soundtrack of her whole life.

Before she was born, I worried, I wrestled. Do I attempt it this time? Am I a coward if I decide to not even go there? What kind of woman--mother--am I if I don't even try to sustain my child with my own body? Because, well, what if--what if the third time is the charm and she gets it and we can work together in a way that never worked for her brother or sister?

But what if it doesn't work? Will she hate me? Will I mean anything to her if I am not her source of nourishment? Will she prefer someone else's touch, smell, love before mine?

These thoughts, these feelings, they scared me in their realness. Deep down I knew what I--we--needed to do, and that was bottle feed from the very beginning. My husband is 100% supportive, and frankly a little relieved, to not have to deal with the stress of watching me try to do something my body was supposedly made to do but couldn't quite manage to make work. To him, bottle-feeding is a way for him to help more, a way for him to bond with our baby and take care of his wife. It's a way for him to provide her with nourishment.

Does that mean that role is taken away from me?

I wondered.

And then, suddenly, my water broke and 14 hours later she, our Mystery Box baby, was born! A girl. It seems I'd known all along that she was a she, but didn't fully wake up to the thought until I saw her purple body. She didn't cry, but she was alert. She looked around. The nurses cleaned her up, and handed her to her father. I watched him melt as he held her.

And then, finally, after a million years, he handed her to me. And she settled in. And nursing was the furthest thought from my mind, but not hers. We tried for a minute, then we let it go. And that was the end of that, if there was ever even a beginning. And this time I was the one melting.

There are so many things it seems I just knew when I saw her. I knew her name. I knew her divine identity. I knew she was meant to be ours. I knew her calm, her sweetness, her spirit. And I knew that I loved her more than I'd ever loved anything or anyone, save for her father and brother and sister.

Over the past few days, I've come to realize that she was born knowing certain things about me. Colostrum or no, she knows that I am her mother. She knows I am a safe place. She knows my heart because she has heard it. She knows (and Dad knows) that when Dad fails to understand her, I will figure out her needs.

Sometimes, that need is, simply, me.

All for Which We Labor

Note: I wrote this post two months ago as a guest blogger for another blog. I intended to post it here as soon as it was published on that other blog, but due to happy circumstances the person who runs that blog has had to let it go a bit and this never got published. So I'm posting it two months late and only those who get the emails will see it, but I still wanted it somewhere in my blog records. Enjoy!

“Mom, do you like growing our baby?”

My five-year-old daughter’s question surprised me. I’d often had this conversation with my peers, but I’d never been asked by a small girl.  At 36 weeks pregnant, what do I say to her? Actually, I really loathe being pregnant? It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done? I find very little of this whole process fun? I feel like a beached whale whose personal bubble has been burst?

No. I tell her none of these things. At five, my daughter is looking forward to being a Mommy. She takes better care of her plastic dolls than I do of her and her brother. She thinks being a Mommy must be the most important job in the world and she wants it.

She’s right.

Much has been said recently about womanhood and women’s rights. I used to consider myself a feminist, but I don’t want to be a worldly feminist. When I look at my daughter, I see all the beautiful, feminine traits that God intended for women to use to make the world a softer, more loving place. I see the way she cares for her little brother, the way she shares with her friends, the way little things make her cry and hurt her feelings. I see the kind of mother she can and will be.

I hope to teach her that motherhood really is the world’s most important job. Although I am not very good at it somedays, and although baby-growing is definitely not my body’s forte, this is my choice and one I’m grateful to have made.

President Gordon B. Hinckley says this about motherhood:

God bless you, mothers! When all the victories and defeats of men’s efforts are tallied, when the dust of life’s battles begins to settle, when all for which we labor so hard in this world of conquest fades before our eyes, you will be there, you must be there, as the strength for a new generation, the ever-improving onward movement of the race. Its quality will depend on YOU.

So instead of telling my daughter all about the woes of pregnancy, I tell her about the joys of having a baby to hold, cuddle, and love. I tell her that although growing a baby is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, it is also the most worthwhile, and I am excited for her little brother or sister to come and join our family.

In the end, she smiles, and our dinner conversation moves on. She doesn’t think twice about her question and my answer, but I do. That night, when I attempt to crawl into bed over my gigantic and well-loved maternity pillow, to settle my sore hips and somehow elevate my swollen feet, I think about how blessed I am to be so miserable.