This afternoon, I got a few precious minutes to myself and decided to lay on the couch and read – a rare privilege in the land of mamahood. I rested my book on my ever-expanding belly and after a few minutes, little fella began saying hello. I set the book down and just observed as he moved like waves. I watched his tiny bottom shift from right to left and winced a little as his hands reached toward the nerves in my bladder. At 36 weeks pregnant, there’s no ignoring his presence these days. For the first few months of this pregnancy, while I never really “forgot” I was pregnant, life and activities went on as normal without much notice, but as the days and weeks continue, things like emptying the dishwasher, lying in bed reading to Ellie, and putting on pants are becoming a real challenge. His presence is unable to be ignored.
Physically, I feel ready to welcome this new little person. His nursery is complete – clothes are washed and waiting, diapers are stocked, and his glider is sitting, waiting patiently for a little one to rock to sleep. My body is ready too. While it’s an incredible privilege to house and grow a new life for 9 months, this pregnancy has proven to be more challenging than my first as my energy wanes and yet my toddler’s energy never falters. I want to be able to sit in the floor and play choo-choos and pick her up and carry her when she’s tired and just wants mama. I even feel prepared for the sleep deprivation {or as ready as a person can be} knowing that it’s temporary, survivable, and that those moments alone in the silence of the night nursing a baby are some of the most precious and sacred moments of motherhood.
And yet, as ready as I am to meet this new little one, to see if he has Brian’s curly hair or his sister’s killer sleeping habits, I’m not sure that emotionally I’m completely ready. Last night, I lay beside Ellie in her bed and we read stories as we do every night. We transitioned her to a “big girl” bed a few months ago so we could move the crib into the nursery. Sometimes I tiptoe into her room, hours after we’ve said our last “I love you’s,” to tuck her in and steal one more kiss. She looks so teeny in that giant bed, and yet I cannot believe how much she’s grown and changed in two short years. It doesn’t seem like that long ago that we were preparing to welcome her and wondering who she would be. As I laid there in bed beside her, I placed my hand on her back as I always do and we talked to Jesus, but instead of kissing her forehead and slipping out of her room, I turned off the light, pulled her against my chest, and held her against me until her breathing slowed and she fell asleep. I adore that my child falls asleep on her own and that I get a couple of beautiful hours to myself every night before bed, but as I laid there beside her last night, I didn’t want to move. In a few short weeks, there will be two little ones who need me in a real and consuming way and I worry about fewer moments like this with my first born. Right before she fell asleep, she placed her tiny hand against my cheek and said, “I love you too, Mommy.” It’s in quiet, slow moments like this where the physical weight of the love that I have for her becomes so heavy that my heart literally feels like it might explode from my chest. I’m reading an excellent book right now called Chasing Slow by Erin Loechner. In it, she talks about how nothing can prepare a person for the kind of love that a child brings and she says, “No one ever told me how much fear is hidden in love.” I’ve been reflecting on that statement for a few days, marveling at its raw truth. Becoming a parent means welcoming more joy and a deeper love than a human could ever imagine, and yet it’s also like walking around with your heart literally outside of your body.
As I mentally and emotionally prepare for this new little person, I know that there’s a lot more to being “ready” than tiny socks folded in a drawer or a car seat installed in the car. I also know that I have two options. I can either try to resist or suppress these emotions by trying to control everything or I can relinquish control, allow myself to be vulnerable and trust that in the moments of immeasurable joy or fear or even pain that God will bring me through it and that I’ll be a better person and mama on the other side of it. Am I afraid that my patience level may run thin in the days and weeks after he’s born? Yes. Do I worry about the physical discomfort of postpartum as I try to keep up with two little ones? Everyday. Do I lie in bed at night praying to God to prepare my heart for the vulnerability and fear of loving another human that deeply and completely? Yes. Yet rather than succumbing to the fear and anxiety, I’m choosing instead to trust, to allow myself to feel all of it.
I’m choosing the risk because I know the reward will be so great.
Life After Birth 