Pregnant

Pregnancy is a strange thing, I think I can add "especially in these times". We can know we are pregnant incredibly early on now, thus setting ourselves up for an incredibly slow boring time of waiting.

On a cellular level amazing things are happening--and we can see none of them. When quickening finally happens, finally, we can tell something is really happening that isn't just weight gain and nausea. There's something going on.

We still don't get to see. Yes, with ultrasound machines we can see fuzzy gray blobs that look like science fiction characters. Technicians can tell if our babies have spina bifida or cleft palate. But what I saw each time was just fuzzy gray blobs. And I didn't really see--I viewed a projection on a screen. I didn't hold or see or observe something with my eyes that I could relate to without a woman in a white coat telling me what I was seeing.

All those appointments. Those waiting rooms. The "I want you to go in for some tests" followed by "oh never mind." Or "I suspect this might be twins" followed by, "hmm, maybe not."

The world passed around me every time I was pregnant.

My first pregnancy ended in an early miscarriage. There was a heartbeat, then there wasn't. Nothing to see here, folks, move along. A lot of pain and trauma and there I was two months later reading too many things online about my chances next time and maybe I should just adopt? I forced myself not to get excited about my next pregnancy. I remember the Christmas I was pregnant with Fiona, sitting at my mother-in-law's house opening gifts that implied that all would be well this time and we would have this baby and yay!

I was too shell shocked to be happy. The waiting was too hard. I didn't know the ending and so I couldn't be a part of the process.

My next pregnancy was a kicker from the start. I was healthy, the baby was healthy, I got my head on straight and we were going places. And I spent 4 months of that pregnancy kneeling over the toilet and the last 5 months preparing with great anxiety for a VBAC delivery that I couldn't wrap my head around without hyperventilating.

Daisy's labor was 52 hours of waiting and observing my body do the work to bring her to the light. Fifty-two hours is too long a time to do anything. You don't want to lie on the couch and watch samurai movies for 52 hours. You don't want to go to an amusement park for 52 hours. Trust me, you don't want to do anything for 52 hours on end. Waiting. And hurting. And waiting. And watching the sun go down and the sun rise in this endless day of waiting.

Billy's pregnancy? I was a pro by then. Found out he was a boy, didn't want any surprises. Had him named before he was born. Scheduled a c-section because 52 hours of labor followed by a c-section is some bullshit. Drove myself to the hospital in a light dusting of snow. Had myself a baby. His pregnancy blew past me in some ways, and suddenly I'm holding this 9 pound person that I made, that I grew up from cells, while I did other things like drive kids to preschool and cook dinner and chat with neighbors on the stoop.

I've had Advents like all my pregnancies. Some have been hard and empty. Some have been hard to engage in.. Some have been filled with too much work. And some--most, actually, blow past me and suddenly it's December 23 and I'm sitting in my living room staring at the tree and listening to Bing Crosby and where did the time go?

A perfect Advent would be hopeful. It would be expectant. It would be joyful and exciting and peaceful and deep and perfect and meaningful and memorable and filled with grace. And there are moments of that perfect Advent in all of my Advents--there are moments of that perfect pregnancy in every pregnancy as well. But I bring to Christ what I have and who I am each year.

However I do it, though, a baby is on the way.