9 Weeks: It's a lot

Tonight, I sat on the couch with my sleeping preschooler in my arms and read through my end-of-pregnancy and birth story posts with Noah and Rosie. They were both summer babies, so these longer warmer days are somehow making this pregnancy seem more real. Reading through those posts reminded me how much I love writing and how much I LOVE birthing and meeting these babies of mine. I needed that reminder and that flutter of excitement because these past few weeks are accumulating into a certain kind of overwhelm that tries to tell me life will never be less chaotic and exhausting than it feels right now. But with two summer babies, this time of year still brings a bit of that visceral reminder that new life is around the corner. Even though this baby is due in the middle of winter, I'm borrowing some of that excitement because I've lost it over the last few weeks of insomnia, exhaustion, and nausea.

I am also certainly aware of some fear right now. Since the first ultrasound, I feel less anxious than I did those first few weeks, worried it was all too good to be true. But now if I dig deep I find that I'm maybe more fearful that my "usual" first trimester anxiety. It's been 4 years since I was pregnant, 2 years since I had a kid in diapers, and almost a year and a half since I last breastfed. And in the interim, there's been the hardest season of my life and some major life changes. 

We are very intentionally re-entering a phase of life that could easily be behind us. Honestly, I thought it WAS behind us, as much as that grieved me for a long time. It was a surprise to both of us when God planted this baby in our hearts and it's a big leap of faith to cross the chasm back into babyhood, postpartum, and all that that entails for our mental health and marriage. We are so excited for a corrective emotional experience. We are so humbled that this baby came out of all the work we've done personally and interpersonally. But also, understandably, the process is going to dig up some more fear we need to process and that's both good and bad. 

There's also fear because I had spotting at 4 weeks and some reasonably intense cramping at 6 weeks. I've had two miscarriages and two healthy pregnancies prior to this babe, and I've never had spotting that didn't end badly, quickly. But an ultrasound at 6w4d reassured me that all was well and right on track with our little blueberry, heartbeat and all. We told the kids the news that afternoon. We showed Noah the ultrasound picture and asked him if he knew what it was. He said, "a baby?" We asked if he knew whose it was and he grinned slowly and said, "our baby?!" We let him tell Rosie the news, and she was initially elated.

We told my parents a few days later on my 36th birthday. Noah wore his new Big Brother shirt, but Rosie refused to put on her Big Sister shirt. She freaked out, crying, saying she wasn't a big girl, she was a LITTLE girl! And she didn't want to wear a big sister shirt! 

She's been obsessed with baby dolls literally since she could sit upright. She LOVES all "babies," even if they're practically toddlers who aren't that much smaller than her. This announcement has drastically renewed her interest in every single baby doll and baby stuffed animal we own. There are bottles and swaddled animals and tucked-in babies in every room of the house. You can tell her little brain is trying to figure out what it means to be a big sister. She pats my now-noticeable belly bump and says in her sweet little voice, "I can't WAIT for the baby to be born!" 

But there's also been a VERY noticeable regression at the same time. I can't blame her, really, even though I wasn't quite expecting this from her. She's been the baby of the family for almost 4 years. Suddenly she's waking up again at night, she has separation anxiety, she talks in a baby voice and really wants to snuggle and be carried everywhere. I really thought I'd paid my threenager dues the first time around. Life with a 3 year old Rosie has been pretty normal and not terribly unnerving. Until we shared this news with her. Now she's making up for lost time and suddenly, with three months left as a three year old, she's heartbreakingly, understandably, frustratingly, exhaustingly... THREE. I remember Noah having a sleep regression when we got pregnant with Rosie and I remember the same hopeless feeling of exhaustion upon exhaustion and knowing that the sleepless baby nights haven't even arrived yet.

I had some bleeding again at 7 weeks and I was just so utterly dismayed I said to myself, "I want THIS baby or no baby at all!" Because I really do want *this* baby. He or she is so very special to Ross and me. But also because I can't fathom starting over from the beginning. I am so ready for the first trimester to be over with-- over in a good way meaning we've moved onto the second trimester. So I called the clinic crying and they got me in for another ultrasound and again, all seems to be well. They never did draw hcg or progesterone, but it also seems that it really doesn't matter at this point. It's all happening or it isn't.

We were devastated a week later to learn that our baby's cousin had stopped growing in-utero and was in the arms of Jesus. The babies had the same due date. So my fear with my own history of miscarriage, and also my survivor's guilt, ramped up and I can tell I've just put my head down, detached, and determined to plow through the next 4 weeks.

But I don't *want* to do that, at the same time. I want to be here and know God is here with me. I'm SO grateful the longest winter ever is finally over (seriously, from October through the first three weeks in April, the only stuff that fell from the sky was white). I'm more than ready to find church community and meet more people here. What a weird year to move and try to start over fresh. Life right now is so messy, literally and emotionally. The kids argue and whine constantly. This house, three times larger than our old 750-square-foot Ranch, is bafflingly filled to the brim and constantly in chaos. I don't *quite* feel fully unpacked or settled in after 13 months.

I wonder how on earth I'm going to add more chaos and be a halfway decent mom when, let's be honest, I've been skating by this year. I feel the need to get all my ducks in a row with habit formation and routines and socialization this summer... all the things that fell to the wayside when we moved, and then felt universally acceptable in the depths of COVID, and then got really old really fast after Christmas break when the attitudes and whining and eye-rolling became the norm instead of the exception.

I also have some weird body issues going on right. I gained about 20 lbs in the past year. A horrible combination of stress and total lack of activity. No where to go, no one to go with, no motivation or accountability to do an online workout. Honestly, I don't feel great about myself. I started this pregnancy 5 pounds under what I ENDED my last two pregnancies at. It shouldn't matter, but I can't quite make peace with it.

I started pro-metabolic eating in August/September 2020 after going down a rabbit trail of "iron deficiency anemia" with low ferritin but high iron storage and subclinical hypothyroidism when my doctor clearly didn't know what was going on. I stumbled upon Ray Peat and a whole community of really fantastic down-to-earth people. Finding that virtual community has maybe been the biggest joy of late 2020/early 2021. I finally found my people, so to speak. I found a way of eating that gives me energy and makes me less anxious and makes me poop every single day (errr sorry). It's been mind-blowing and exciting and the gals along on this journey are just so refreshingly honest and open and ready for change and excited to take their health into their own hands, like me. But it's also been expositional. Meaning, it's exposing some body image issues I still have, some thoughts about certain numbers on the scale, and some doubts about what my body is and isn't capable of. Which are, of course, a little exacerbated by this ambiguous stage of first trimester bloating, so much cellulite, and the least muscle definition I've ever had in my entire life.

The good thing is, these issues were already coming up BEFORE the pregnancy. So I certainly don't blame them on the pregnancy. It's just that I hadn't quite dealt with them, or come to terms with my new body, before adding more changes. There is some fear there about whether my body will be recognizable to me 9 months from now. But I keep telling myself I'm so much more NOURISHED this time around, and that can ONLY mean good things for pregnancy and postpartum. I recently compared a picture of me at 6 weeks with Rosie versus 6 weeks this time, and wow I am round and curvy now, but my skin is GLOWING and 4 years ago that wasn't the case.

And really, while I feel like utter crap, I actually don't feel nearly as bad as I did last time. (With Noah I was working two jobs, one on night shift, and was incredibly stressed with moving, renovating, Grandma Ginny dying... I honestly just didn't know what was life crap and what was pregnancy crap.) I have gotten one cold, so that was a rough week. But better than being sick constantly like I was with Noah and Rosie in the first trimester. Otherwise, my nausea is manageable-ish and my immune system is maybe happy to not be combing first trimester immunosuppression with flu season.  Most food doesn't sound good, but some food DOES. Which is more similar to my pregnancy with Noah than with Rosie. (I REALLY miss all our favorite KC restaurants.) And like with Noah, I will gorge on the food that does actually sound good until it no longer remotely appeals to me. *sigh* 

But more than ever, I know this is temporary and I'm just really trying to get through it with some protein in my system and a little variety. I look forward to looking forward to food again. I REALLY look forward to daily walks or activity and building up endurance after this sedentary year. I'm looking forward to feeling familiar with my body and what it is capable of again. This past year was certainly a year of rest, in some ways. Physical rest, I guess, in good and bad ways: no hurrying here and there but also no walking or working out or leaving this dang house. It was NOT the year of emotional rest I was anticipating, but I guess 2020 wasn't what anyone was anticipating.

Onward and upward.

So to wrap up this rambling post:

I'm so fatigued. I'm so nauseated. It could be worse. I can't wait for it to be better.

It felt so real and so exciting the first week and it feels less real and more scary right now. I sense my habit of foreboding joy trying to creep in and squash the miracle in my heart. This is me fighting back. 

I've been in maternity pants for a few weeks and maternity shirts for the last week, and maybe MAYBE I felt the baby do a tiny little pecan-sized summersault while I was typing this post? 

I know the chaos will grow, but I know the love will too. We've added a kid before, but Ross and I have never been outnumbered. It's a lot.

I think in many ways it will be easier with older siblings (they'll be 7 and 4 soon, which is insane-- they've had to grow up so fast in some ways these last 3 years) versus having 3 under 4 or something. But it will also be harder because they've dealt with a lot of change and this news is already proving to be a little more of a curveball than I thought it would be. Here's hoping we all roll with the punches and I can lead the way in grace, with an inhuman amount of patience and grace for all of us, including myself.

Baby, if you ever read this one day let me emphasize that at the end of the day, I am ELATED that I'm already basically 25% closer to meeting you. Pregnancy is a trip, and struggle is what makes us grow. I can't wait to see who you are and it is already so worth it.

Psalm 127: 1-5

Unless the Lord builds the house,
    the builders labor in vain.
Unless the Lord watches over the city,

   the guards stand watch in vain.

In vain you rise early
    and stay up late,
toiling for food to eat—
    for he grants sleep to those he loves.
Children are a heritage from the Lord
   offspring a reward from him
Like arrows in the hands of a warrior
   are children born in one's youth,
Blessed is the man
   whose quiver is full of them.
They will not be put to shame...

6 Weeks: Right on cue

I was feeling pretty good til I wasn’t. My only symptom the first few weeks was fatigue and middle of the night insomnia. Right on schedule at 6 week, the nausea kicked in. Afternoon/evening sickness more than morning sickness. And the insomnia is starting to get old, so I’m doing everything I can to lower my stress levels to prevent that 2am cortisol rush!

In the few weeks we’ve known you were there, my oldest brother and his wife AND my middle brother and his wife have announced pregnancies, so you’re going to have so many cousins to play with! I can’t wait to see you all lined up in a row. So far the oldest is a boy— so curious to see what’s to come! 

I’m getting anxious to see an ultrasound— I want to make sure you’re okay and that there’s only one of you! We will share the news of your existence with Noah and Rosie once we see that heartbeat and I can’t wait to hear their responses. 

In other news, I just got my maternity pants out yesterday. It’s safe to say my body remembers what to do. The mind game stage of the first few weeks is both thrilling and scary. Oh, and exhausting. All worth it. 

4 Weeks, Baby

It's pretty surreal to be sitting here typing this out. I didn't know if we were going to get this chance, baby, and we did. You're here! You're real and I can't wait to meet you. As if I needed anything to remind me how incredibly wanted you are, I had some spotting right at 4 weeks that left me utterly scared and introspectively quiet the entire evening. I was so grateful to wake up the next day with everything back to normal. 

I don't take a minute of this for granted: the lines are getting darker, my temps are staying high, the weird pre-positive-test fatigue and daytime naps and crazy hunger remind me I've been here before. I actually cried happy, shocked tears when I saw that first positive test at 10 DPO even though I felt deep in my bones that I already knew. I'm here for it all because it means you're growing.

Sausage and Apple Sheet Pan Dinner

 This is less an exact recipe and more a flexible process. I'm all about sheet pan dinners, and my family inhaled this one last night.

1.) Preheat the oven to 400 degrees

2.) Add the following to a large, lined pan:

2 packages (8 links) of apple chicken sausage (plain brats will work too), sliced

2 green apples, peeled and roughly chopped into 1/2 inch cubes

3 - 4 large yellow potatoes roughly chopped into 1/2 inch cubes

1/2 yellow onion, diced

salt, pepper, garlic powder, and a bit of cinnamon to taste

add 1 - 2 Tablespoons of coconut oil, toss everything to coat

3.) Bake for 20 minutes, flip, and bake for another 20 minutes

Tastes great with some spicy brown or grain mustard for dipping!

Nothing to Lose

Moving to a new state the week before a pandemic: 5/5 would not recommend.  

In one fell swoop, I lost my home base and the world collectively lost its sense of normalcy. It’s been doubly jarring and I have yet to walk into a room full of people here with a sense of coming home. Even the kindest people are also unsure or unable (or unwilling? 🥴) to reach out to the new kid in the ways they might have previously had the margin to do so before. 

The loneliness has been crippling lately, and I’m homesick. Some of the things that made it easier to move— like friends dispersing to Kindergarten at different schools— have now been reversed as they all join together to micro-school in response to COVID. I miss our neighbors, our big oak tree, the street we walked on, the parks we played at. I love fall in Kansas City. 

I miss the opportunity to homeschool with our previously public-schooled friends. I miss my old MOPS group. I miss my old hospital and co-workers. I miss Wednesday afternoons with my Aunt. I miss zoo trips with my other Aunt and Uncle. 

I miss, I miss, I miss. And this week the tears are spilling out at inconvenient times, like when I’m charting at work at the end of a crazy day, or when I’m sitting on a park bench on a gorgeous autumn afternoon with my delightful kids. 

While I know in my head this was the right move, it’s harder and harder to feel the truth if it as the days grow shorter and the global anxiety grows. The arguments for and against moving at this time last year were 50/50 at best. I thought God made it graciously and providentially clear that it was time via the gift of the house we live in now. There are so many little details to the story that are too specific to be an accident. 

And yet. I find myself doubting. An old quote came to mind today as I struggled to be present on a hike with my kids: “If you believe that God is good, His sovereign hand is sweet. If you believe that God is not good, his sovereign hand is bitter.”

This month marks two years since Ross and I separated (we are no longer separated), which was followed by 18 months of dark days and long nights. Eighteen months of believing that God got it very, very wrong. That my obedience in him was misplaced. That everyone will eventually let me down. That not even God is faithful. This is what trauma does. It lies to you about who you are and what you can expect out of life. 

In spite of all the good and necessary work I’ve done and things that I’ve learned in the past two years, all the hope I’ve found in the last year, all the miracles I’ve witnessed in the last 6 months, that’s been the last point I’ve been skirting around. Because if God isn’t good, he made empty promises about rest and home and new beginnings when we moved. And I was stupid to believe him once again. 

But living under that assumption is unbearable. Unsustainable. Hopeless. 

So... what if God is good?

What if he is sovereign? What if he loves me lavishly and I always belong in him? What if he’s the anchor I need when my thoughts drift to dark places? What if C.S. Lewis got it right in the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe?

“Aslan is a lion— the Lion, the great Lion." 

"Ooh" said Susan. "I'd thought he was a man. Is he quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion"

...”Safe?" said Mr Beaver ..."Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”

What if, once again, I started asking God to meet my deepest needs and trusting that he would provide like he has promised? What if he really offers abundantly more than I could ever ask or imagine? What if he will return the years the locusts have eaten?

At this point, what do I have to lose?

There's (NOT) an app for that

I never knew it was a pattern, until the counselor pointed it out last August. One of the gifts of Onsite is being able to tell your whole story in a safe space. After we shared our stories, the counselor leading our group gave each of us a handful of notecards. She'd kept notes while we talked, and the cards had "truths" on them. Things we'd implicitly or explicitly said in the telling of our stories, either to transition to the next part of the story, to explain or rationalize a part of our story, or simply some other little thing that was so fundamentally embedded in the way we moved through what had happened to us that we didn't even notice it.

One of my cards said, "there's a pill for everything." 

I've been thinking about that a lot lately and realizing that the story I tell myself around this LIE is a heavy weight on my shoulders. It means that if I haven't found the answer to my problem, maybe it means I'm too stupid or too lazy or too unworthy of a solution.

Even as I struggle to put that thought in print, I feel the truth of it.

I suppose it started when I lost my period in high school. It wasn't a mystery; it was anorexia. The "answer," of course, was the birth control pill. 

Then there were the chronic digestive issues, unexplained by tests, no answers offered aside from daily over-the-counter remedies that didn't really help, even in large doses.

There was the asthma that started in college and got worse every year. The antihistamines, the decongestants, the Singulair, the rescue inhalers, the steroid inhalers, the prednisone every time the seasons changed.

There was the persistent running injury when, even after months of PT, the only think the orthopedic surgeon could tell me was to take 800mg of Advil every day. I started questioning the narrative: Is this really the best you can offer me?!

Then there was the acne. Antibiotics until I landed in the hospital with C. diff.  Spironilactone which didn't do anything but make me anxious. Doctor-dosed shame over not just wanting to get back on the pill (the artificial hormones in which made me depressed). Then nine months of Accutane, which forced me back on the pill anyway.

As each step failed me in this medical system to which I had subscribed (I was a compliant patient, after all, and an RN to boot), I had to start thinking outside of the box. 

You know what helps with eating disorders? Counseling and radical self-compassion and finding foods and food systems that nourish you instead of just eating calories to check a box.

You know what helped with the chronic gallbladder spasms? Going gluten-free and regularly getting acupuncture.

I got off of the decongestants thanks to an incredibly painful septo-rhinoplasty and turbinate reduction (ironically performed by the ENT who would later mentor the same brother who-- accidentally-- broke my nose in the first place all those years ago). And even though all my allergy testing never pointed to dairy, going strictly dairy-free got me off of ALL of my asthma medication over the course of a year.

The crazy IT band pain was relieved a little by the chiropractor, and relieved a lot when I started pelvic floor PT after having my first baby.

Remnants of my medical history still live with me, of course, in this body in which I reside. Digestion is a daily battle. My cystic acne has flared up again after 8 years of the glowing skin I always wanted. I struggle with chronic pain and fatigue and hormones and anxiety. I grow weary: if it isn't one problem, it's another. It's all of it.

Even in knowing that the "system" was flawed, even in knowing that the alternative solutions weren't always super cut-and-dry, even as I strayed from the idea that there wasn't an actual prescription medication for what ailed me, I still felt (feel) as though there is one SOLUTION that I simply haven't found yet. And let me tell you, the dogged determination of finding a solution that eludes you is expensive in both time and money.

Walking into Onsite last year, my most recent struggle had been the search for a magical pill that would let me sleep at night without making me even more foggy during the day. The anti-depressant that would make my life feel manageable without giving me a paradoxical reaction or horrible side-effects.

But psychotropics were failing me. Sure, Xanax worked like a miracle... until I needed a higher dose. Then Restoril became my favorite medication ever but was not a long-term solution. I could only spend so many nights having panic-attacks instead of the peaceful slumber that each new prescription promised. I could only spend so many hopeful weeks "letting my body adjust" to a new medication that was making me wanting to crawl out of my skin instead of reducing my anxiety.

So when the counselor handed me that card and I read those words, I felt a veil lift after the initial shock of recognition. Yes, yes this is how I have lived my life: as though every symptom has a solution and if I haven't found it, it's on me.

This has led to (and even still temps me down) paths where I walk a fine line between genius and insanity: vitamins and detoxes and elimination diets and cleanses. These have been most valuable when I DO listen to my body and take what's useful and leave the rest. For example, I can breathe when I don't each cheese. I'm not insanely bloated and foggy-brained if I simply avoid gluten. But when I stop listening to my body and listen only to the protocol-- and the protocol doesn't work-- it leads to despair.

Do you know what's hiding behind this medical timeline that I've memorized for my medical history forms? The story behind the story. The deep hurts, the adandonment, the pain, the lack of boundaries, the pervasive shame I've taken into myself.

Do you know what happened the night I came home from Onsite? After a week of airing my demons and having them dismissed in a loving way, after sharing the worst of me and being received with compassion, I fell asleep without medications. And I did it the next night, too. I put a few small things into practice from what I'd learned there, and I moved forward slowly and took care of myself one day at a time, and I slept.

In fact, I didn't need anything (aside from Peace Juice during the stress of moving to a new state) until I started a new job a year later. And here I find myself letting my boundaries slip as a I navigate a manipulative work situation in which I just want to resort to my people-pleasing ways, even though I know that no longer serves me. 

Plus there's this whole pandemic. And residual moving stress. And the fact that I desperately miss my old job. While I don't mind that actual work of my new job aside from the train wreck that my orientation has been, wearing a mask for 12 hours is exhausting even when you DO have enough red blood cells to transport oxygen effectively (spoiler: I don't). And suddenly, there it is. The panic the night before every work shift that only subsides with a Restoril.

It weighs me down, thinking it's all on me. So it's hard to explain that freedom is found on the other side of the same coin: the answer isn't necessarily outside of me. The new doctor, diet, pharmaceutical, or detox isn't going to save me from the human condition. 

EVEN KNOWING THIS, I still slip down the hole of searching the internet for a new protocol or herbal remedy or... fill in the blank. Today it came to me again: I've come so far, but at the end of the day, I still believe there's a "pill" for everything. Even as I struggle with anemia, the genes for hemachomatosis suggest that taking iron supplements for years has not been beneficial. Heavy periods come every 23 days (insanity-making, to be sure) and I still beat myself up for not doing something right or sticking to something long enough for it to work. 

Yes, clearly anemia is a real problem, but all of my other labs are annoyingly, frustratingly, fine. Yes I've also paid out-of-pocket for lots of labs that the "normal" doctor won't order. Yes, they're mostly fine, too. And this has been crazy-making. My symptoms are very real, but the causes are totally unclear. Which means there is no clear-cut cure to chase down.

Last month, a nutritional coach I've been working with simply told me, "your labs haven't shown you something that can be labeled as a problem? GOOD!" I've been sitting here thinking that it means either a) I'm crazy and it's all in my head or b) I'm not crazy but the answer must be incredibly rare and uncommon. Turns out I'm really good at black-and-white thinking and there's actually another option: while my problems are very much not "in my head," since they aren't exactly on my lab results either, it means it's within my power to address them in the exact same way I'm learning to address every other thing in my life: as a grownup with boundaries and compassion. My physical well-being is not separate from my mental and emotional well-being, and in fact they're so intertwined that it's almost impossible to parse through which issue started where. 

So here I am, beginning again, knowing everything and nothing is the same.

One Art

It's hard to believe it's been a year since I've written in this space. It feels like a hundred years have passed between then and now. I can't pin down one emotion at the moment, thanks both to the fact that we moved to a new state this spring and the fact that the world caught on fire a week after we moved. I expected the upheaval and loss that comes with a move. I didn't expect the world to shut down a week later thanks to a virus that may or may not be as contagious or widespread at the media makes it out to be. Who can we trust? Who has our best interests at heart? What is going on, and why?

Writing a list of losses, both literal and emotional, makes me feel less crazy. If you're living in 2020, it's a lot. And if you had any pre-existing life stressors, well, maybe it's possible that in terms of mental health crises at least misery loves company?

My list of losses includes little things like gift cards, bigger things like hearing aids, intangible things like time spent not sleeping or badly coping or zoning out. Then things like our sweet little house and the city in which I've spent the most and best years of my life and the job I'd made for myself that I loved. Then farther and faster, the way I thought marriage would be, the kids I thought I would have, the way I thought my life would look.



This Elizabeth Bishop poem comes to mind not infrequently these days:

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or 
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, 
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.



The only time this doesn't feel hopeless is when I can zoom in one day (one hour) at a time: what can I do right now? What am I actually in control of? What daily habits can I start today that will get me where I want to go? Or when I zoom way out: God is good and sovereign and nothing is wasted. But when I dwell in the messy middle, it seems the only thing I'm good at is the art of losing.