Father's Day

On this exact date, also Father’s Day, eleven years ago, I watched my father take his last breath.  My family and I were huddled around his bed, as we had been for most of the day. The Beatles were playing quietly on a small boombox nearby when the air seemed to suddenly get thin, and we somehow knew it was almost over. When it finally happened, that moment when we realized he would not exhale, a tremendous amount of feelings flooded my heart and mind; panic, pain, heartbreak, guilt, agony, fear, helplessness, and the instinctual, fleeing thought that if I do something, I might be able to save him. I relived this memory every year on this day, struggling to keep it together while remembering every detail as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. Until last year.

On this exact date, one year ago, on the tenth anniversary of my father’s death, I discovered I was pregnant. As if that day wasn’t heavy enough, as if it hadn’t already been the host of the most life-changing event imaginable, I now had this to deal with. Because I had such a hard time initially accepting my unexpected pregnancy, it felt like a blow, like salt in a gaping wound. I tried to understand the significance of this unlikely coincidence, keeping it close in mind and visiting it often throughout the last year.

It took me the entire year, and not a minute sooner, to realize the meaning, the beautiful lessons here. I finally see the connection, so obvious to me now. I see it in the way Chris looks at Emme, and how her face lights up, smile stretching from one ear to the other, when she sees him. I know that this is how my dad looked at me, how he loved me every moment until his very last. Until Emme was born, I only understood our relationship from my perspective, and when I lost him, I felt as if I lost that relationship and a huge part of myself. But now I see that I can continue to learn about him, and that our relationship can grow and change as my understanding of it changes, eliminating the overwhelming sense of finality associated with his death. 

And then there are the incredible moments when I discover tiny resemblances of him in Emme. When he died, I remember people kindly suggesting that “he is alive in all of us”, but I could never find comfort in it. But with this new life, it is wonderfully heart wrenching to realize that she may just have his nose, or the sweet way she seems to bite her upper lip when she’s really focusing, just like her Grandpa Gary. I can truly see now, that he is, in fact, alive in all of us. And that his memory and presence will continue to grow with our growing families, not fade.

So today, and every Father’s Day that follows, with these exciting new realizations in mind, I will no longer mourn his loss, but celebrate his powerful presence. I will smile at the wonderful, brand new relationship that Chris and Clementine have just begun. I will be confident that the subtle tears I still get every time I hear, and say, the word “dad” are tears of joy, not sadness.  And I will know, with certainty, that he is watching us, and that he is proud of what we have become. And lastly, I will finally let the empty space in my heart, the hollowness that I ardently protected in fear that I would forget him, be filled with new love, and new life. 

An Ode to Ernie

Okay I know what many of you are thinking: Is she seriously writing about her dog? Well... yes. Yes I am.

The thing is, I have been warned constantly throughout my pregnancy that I need to be prepared for Ernie to be replaced, in every sense, by the new baby.  They say that he will become “just a pet”, or even a nuisance, according to some. And that most likely, the space in my mind and heart that has been completely, effortlessly dedicated to him will soon belong exclusively to her.  I’m not sure that I believe these things, but since I have not yet experienced little C’s arrival, I have no choice but to consider and respect this advice. Therefore, I have decided to record the incredible gift that Ernie has been in my life, so that whatever unpredictable shift that may occur in the upcoming weeks, I can refer back here and remember the crazy, ridiculous, inexplicable, furry love that changed me in so many ways.

Obviously, I love my dog. But really, that does not accurately describe our relationship. He is so much more to me than a pet, it’s actually pretty ridiculous. I have had other dogs in my life, and I loved them too; they were fantastic animals. And arguably better “pets”, in the traditional sense, than Ernie has been. But Ernie is truly my friend. My child. My guardian, my heart.

 I try to explain it to people, usually beginning with something like “It’s like he understands what I’m saying.” Or, “He knows what I’m thinking.” And they generally smile politely, and nod, as I probably would if someone said these things to me. But there are a couple of people that can actually attest to these unbelievable and hilarious characteristics of our relationship, mostly because they have lived with us. One is my brother Bubba, and the other, of course, is Christopher. Chris is my biggest proof because he is a true “convert”. Upon meeting Ernie, he was admittedly afraid, mostly of his intimidating size/coat/breed. He was polite to Ernie, but mostly inconvenienced by his neediness.  Ernie wasn’t allowed in his car, or at his house… not that I asked, but I understood how others saw Ernie, and didn’t push the issue. Needless to say, Ernie spent quite a bit of time with Uncle Bubba those first couple of months.  But over time, I would invite Chris to meet Ernie and I places, the park, the river, pretty much anywhere he was allowed, and almost as quickly as Ernie fell in love with Chris, Chris realized he wasn’t your ordinary mutt. Ernie is not only allowed in Chris’s truck now, the backseat has been specifically customized for Ernie’s optimal riding comfort. We cannot pass a promotional supermarket display of “babies” (Any stuffed animal, intended for pets or not) without Chris picking one out for Ern. It absolutely melts my heart to admit that they have become so close, that I sometimes have to fight for their attention- and my spot in bed. Ernie is no longer “my” dog, he is “our” dog… sometimes even “Chris’ dog.” And as far as his ability to understand us, and know what we are thinking- ask Chris. He’ll tell you. It’s insane.

We’ve come so far, Ernie and I, that I sometimes forget the incredibly strange circumstances under which Ernie came into my life. I had been wanting a dog badly for a very long time, but knew that I couldn’t have one anytime soon. I was a senior in college, with another year ahead of me, and working at Bally as a graphics intern in my free time. I was living in a teeny, tiny house with no time, or space, for a pup. But still, I would peruse the pet classifieds in the newspaper and even sometimes visit pet stores and/or new litters for sale, with no intention to adopt, just to get my furry fix. Somehow, through my online browsing, I was placed on an email list for a rescue shelter in Sparks, NV that sent out weekly adoption updates. The first email I ever received was a picture of two 7-week-old pups; one fawn, one brindle. They were siblings, a girl and a boy. The email indicated they were Mastiff crosses, and the female was beautiful with her traditional Mastiff coloring. I had to see her. I enlisted a friend to come with me, with the strict instructions NOT to let me adopt a dog. We were told to meet the foster parents of the pup at a discount pet supply warehouse in Sparks; we were unsettled by these strange, illegal-drug-deal-transaction-like circumstances, but we went anyway. After about 15 minutes of awkwardly waiting inside the dimly-lit warehouse, the foster family showed up carrying an extra-large kennel. Odd, I thought, for one 7-week-old, 8 lb. pup. But when she opened the gate, out charged an energetic, brindle ball of wrinkles with perhaps the largest paws I had ever seen on a dog, their size emphasized by his hilarious inability NOT to trip over them. He ran up to us as if he recognized us, wagging his tiny tail so hard that it threw his little buns from side to side. I was so enamored with this little creature, his personality so huge and amusing that it was almost thirty minutes before I realized that this was not the dog I had come here to see. I quickly got up to meet her and found that the kennel, and the foster family, were gone. I turned to ask the store clerk where they had gone, when the door chimes sounded and the woman who had been carrying the kennel re-entered, carrying only a piece of paper. She informed me that the paper was the information sheet I had filled out in order to see the pups, and I just needed to sign it. I wasn’t clear on the purpose of this contract, but obliged. She handed me a card with her name and number on it and then bent down to pet the stripy animal sitting on my shoes. And then she was gone. 

Apparently, I had just adopted a dog. I had nothing for a dog. For the first time I realized that it was perhaps a positive thing that I was already at a discount pet supply warehouse; and wondered briefly if this was possibly the reason that this was her meet-and-greet location of choice. I bought everything, dog bowls, collar, leash, dog bed, dog toys, bones. I left feeling prepared, but quickly realized that there was NOTHING, not anything that I could have bought or left with that evening that could have ever prepared me for what was to come. 

As much as I love Ernie, we all know that he hasn’t been the easiest dog. All the time in the world would not be enough to explain the issues he has had. For a healthy animal, he has had more injuries, afflictions, disorders and general hardships than any dog, or pet for that matter, that I have ever heard of. Almost all a direct result of his intense, restless, unrelenting, incurable separation anxiety. I had never heard of separation anxiety before having Ernie, and definitely did not understand it at first. But after thorough research, I began the all-consuming task of curing him. This issue affected everything. He could not be left alone, whether in a crate or free in the house. If he was crated, he would bloody his paws trying to get out. If he was loose in the house, he would tear down every curtain and every set of blinds on every window he could access, destroying anything in his path. The worst part was that he would always somehow hurt himself in the process. I put him on a behavior modification plan, resulting in the most wonderfully obedient pet while I was home, but did not affect his behavior when I was gone. I exercised him to exhaustion; he would fall asleep in the car within moments of leaving the park. But the minute he was alone, he was driven by pure adrenaline and panic and found the energy to attempt his “escape”.  I hired a dog behaviorist to come to my house and work with him. She guaranteed her work, and told me that she had never had a case of separation anxiety that she hadn’t been able to cure. After her third visit, she stopped returning my calls. Needless to say, he was not cured. I bought every edition of Cesar Milan’s dog training manuals, and then when I couldn’t get his technique’s to work myself, applied to be on his TV show. Finally, an anxiety medicine was approved for dogs (previously they had used human valium to treat canine anxiety-no thanks.) so we got a prescription. The medicine, in conjunction with a two-week vacation from work to teach him how to be “happy” in his kennel, (including several nights of me sleeping IN his kennel with him) gave us some peace. He learned to be relaxed while in his “house”, and I knew he was safe. This process, from chaos and thousands of dollars in vet bills to a safe, injury-free daily existence took over a year.  People that meet him now could not begin to understand what it used to be like, and how far we have come, but I am so proud of his progress and of myself for not giving up. (As so many people suggested I do.)

He has taught me, like no one else could, the most incredible patience and understanding. Anger and sadness and frustration would just confuse him and worsen his anxiety, so I had to learn to cope without them. I sacrificed more than I thought possible just to keep him safe and happy – money/stability, friends, opportunities. I often wondered why he and I were put together, when I was so incapable of caring for an animal with his level of needs. But I realize now that he was just preparing me for motherhood. I will undoubtedly be a better mother because of Ernie.

I know that this baby girl will bring new trials and lessons, but I can’t help but notice the sweet similarities between how these two adventures began and how they are connected. Ernie was, after all, my FIRST unexpected blessing. I just hope I have enough room in my heart for both of them.     

The Dreaded Delivery

 It seems like I have thought about the act of giving birth, albeit only briefly, periodically throughout my life. I knew I would experience it, I assumed even more than once. I had expectations of the level of pain and discomfort that I may experience, but that is about as far as my considerations went. Almost immediately upon discovering that I was expecting, my interest in childbirth and delivery sky-rocketed, sending me on an all-consuming quest for knowledge. Now, after eight straight months of countless videos, articles, interviews, documentaries, theories, discussions, medical text books, and countless hours of serious thought, I have made a decision about what I believe is the best way for me to go about delivering this child. 

I am going to have a completely natural birth. Now I know that many of you probably just laughed, or smirked, or thought to yourself, “HA! Good luck with that…”. I know this because these are the reactions I receive daily, directly to my face. I understand these reactions, but it is important that you know that I have made my decision based on many different factors. 

First and foremost, I have nothing to prove. I am not attempting a natural childbirth to show the world that I am THAT tough, or that “I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR.” Gag me, seriously. I believe that EVERY woman is CAPABLE of a natural childbirth, so having one myself would not make me superior in any way to any other woman.  

Every woman’s circumstances are different, so naturally, my decision is based specifically on my own. Most importantly, I do not want a Cesarean.  I do not like the impact it would have on me or the baby. Cesareans are major abdominal surgery, and while they are absolutely necessary for some people, and have saved many lives, I will do all I can to avoid this outcome. It will only be an option for me in a serious, emergency situation. Not only is the recovery time much longer, there are possible side effects, as with all surgeries, that I want to avoid. Not to mention the financial impact is much greater than that of a natural birth. 

Studies show that the use of pain medication, as well as other drugs and interventions, during labor increase your chances of a C-section. Narcotics, or opioids, used during labor have been proven to have unpredictable effects during childbirth. They can cause sleepiness or nausea, stop or slow labor, and most importantly slow the heart rate or depress the breathing of both the mother and baby. If this was to happen, the baby would likely be taken via C-section.  

Epidurals, which are used in over 70% of births these days, also have their risks. It is possible that the epidural could decrease the mother’s blood pressure, which can in turn slow the baby’s heart rate, again leading to a C-section. It has been proven that women who receive epidurals are also more likely to tear, due to the simple fact that they may be less aware of when exactly a contraction begins and ends, resulting in incorrect “push” timing. There have been some, very rare cases in which epidurals caused migraines in the mothers for weeks after delivery, as well as numbness, or even partial paralysis. As rare as these side effects are, the fact that they exist and do happen on occasion is enough for me to do my best to avoid one. 

It is extremely important to me that both the baby and I are alert and relaxed through the whole process, and all of the above mentioned pain management options have shown to impact this in some way. Babies born naturally in calm environments tend to breastfeed quicker, sleep better, and score higher on their APGAR scores. 

It goes without saying that I also will do everything in my ability to avoid being induced. Generally when women are induced, Pitocin is used to start or speed up contractions, and these contractions are usually more intense and painful and the woman is more likely to receive pain medication and/or an epidural. It is almost a domino effect, commonly resulting in C-sections. As my friend Morgan, who is a registered nurse and the wife of a doctor, said “In labor, medical interventions usually lead to more medical interventions.” 

But just because I am declining medical intervention and pain medications, does not mean I don’t have ANY source of pain management. I’m not INSANE. I have recently begun my Hypnobabies self-study and am relying on this to manage my pain. For those of you that don’t know much about it, hypno-therapy is a widely used method of pain management, practiced by those who have allergies to anesthesia or a history of drug abuse. It has been used by those undergoing major surgeries and even root canals. Basically it teaches self-hypnosis, which is training the mind to focus so intently, while relaxing the body, that you are able to detach your conscious mind from the pain. This also allows for faster labors because your body is not tense, and does not fight the contractions. When your body is in a deeply relaxed state, you cervix tends to dilate faster, and labor progresses at a steady rate. But most importantly, you are comfortable and calm, even during contractions. Hopefully I am able to master this skill before D-day…

Now, all this being said, I am more than aware of all the complications that could take place, forcing me to be induced, medicated, or in need of a C-section. So much of this process is out of my control, and every childbirth is unlike every other childbirth. There is no way for me to even begin to guess what is in store for me, and I certainly don’t believe I can change it. 

All I really want is for my baby to have as healthy and happy a birthday as possible and I believe that a natural childbirth will give her the best chance of this. So I have planned my delivery with this in mind, but know only one thing for sure:

              “If you go in there and everything goes as planned and works out exactly as you wanted it to, you get a baby. If you go in there and nothing goes right and everything falls apart and nothing is how you planned it, you get a baby. Either way, you get a baby.” – Misti

At least I get a baby… :)

The Inevitable Change

With the new year comes SO much excitement and change, it’s sometimes hard to fathom. But, for me, it also feels somewhat like the end of everything I have always known. 

Since my last post (centuries ago) I have been taking every moment to really enjoy this quiet, happy life that Chris and I have built. We have taken the time to do as many of our favorite things as we can, many for the last time. While we are over the moon about our little love bug’s arrival and are counting the seconds until we get to finally meet her, her birthday will be the end of the life we have become so accustomed to, and it’s hard not feel a little bittersweet about it. 

My whole life, 27 years, I have really only had to worry about myself. From childhood we are taught to take care of ourselves, and we learn it well. We are encouraged to know and continue to discover who we are, and to love that person.  And in almost three decades, I have become really good at it. 

Of course I have worried about and cared for many others throughout my life; family members, significant others, pets. And while some, pets particularly, do rely on you to survive, it is nothing like the constant, life-changing responsibility of raising a child. Pets do not dictate your every move. (Even my incredibly high-maintenance fur friend, who, let’s be honest, dictates most of my moves.)  I have always slept when I wanted, gotten out of bed when I wanted, eaten when and what I wanted, really spent my life how I wanted to spend it. These choices only had a direct impact on me. 

While I know that once my little girl is here, I will love her so much and be so completely consumed by her that I won’t even remember these concerns, much less care, I feel like it is healthy for me to recognize the magnitude of change that is looming. 

A very specific aspect of this pre-baby life that I am particularly sad about losing is my time with Christopher. I feel like I have waited my whole life to find him, and now that I finally have, I’m going to have to share him. I have loved every minute of our time together, taking care of him as best I can. Spending our days driving around with a warm beverage in hand, no particular destination in mind, but always somehow ending up in a magnificent neighborhood, daydreaming about the beautiful houses and the life we would undoubtedly have one day. We never had much to show for these lazy days, but we always came home knowing each other just a little bit better than when we left that morning. And a little bit more in love. I don’t feel ready to give up his undivided attention yet, but that is the nature of an unplanned pregnancy, everything happens before you’re ready. 

Still I am confident that the love and joy that our child brings us will make us so much closer that these fears will be immediately replaced by a fullness that I can only imagine. She is, after all, a product of our love, and therefore will only enhance it. 

But for now, I will soak up as much of my Bear as I am humanly capable of, and know that what is coming will be so much more than what has been.

Trimester One Reflection

I made it! I am officially in trimester two, and I feel like I just found out that I’m going to have a baby.  For the first 13 weeks, I was so focused on managing and dealing with the crazy first-trimester symptoms that I never actually thought about why I was experiencing them. It’s hard for people to understand this, as I certainly wouldn’t have pre-pregnancy, so let me explain. 

I think everyone has an idea of what pregnancy will be like before it actually happens to them. I based most, if not all, of my knowledge of what pregnancy was like on the few people I was close to that had been through it; My Mom, my sister Sophie, and Brette. What I later learned the hard way is that every pregnancy is very different, but all three of these lovely ladies had one thing in common: they had pretty easy, symptom-free, laid back pregnancies. Aside from some fatigue, and maybe heartburn here and there, they blew through their 10 months (you’re almost there B!) with almost no issues. So naturally, this is what I thought it would be like for me.

HA! Yeahhh, not so much. I don’t know whether the pregnancy gods just hate me with a burning passion or what, but holy mackerel, have I had a different experience. So I am here to represent the symptom-havers, and to give everyone a little sneak peek into a day in the life of a first-time, first-trimester, pregnancy struggler. 

Although when you’re living this it never seems stop, or begin for that matter, for the purpose of this very informative and accurate blog (hehe…) let’s the start in the morning when I “woke up”. Chances are, on an average morning, I had probably been up for a few hours before I actually got up, just lying in bed, trying desperately not move, because something as simple and seemingly safe as changing position would no doubt cause me to vomit. But sometimes, regardless of my most dedicated effort, I would anyway. Chris and I read that having juice and crackers in the morning before you sat up could help your nausea, so my sweet Bear would truck down to the kitchen, first thing every morning and bring me my juice. We aren’t actually sure how much it helped in the end, since even though it helped me vomit less, throwing up juice was way worse than just stomach acid, so it pretty much evened out. But it was absolutely worth a shot. 

So once I managed to actually, physically get out of bed, I would make my way to the bathroom, if I wasn't there already, to begin the grueling task of brushing my teeth. For whatever reason, I could not brush my teeth without vomiting. No matter what I did, and trust me, I tried everything. So I just brushed them again after the first vomit-inducing brush. Phew.

And then there was the shower. I must admit, by this point in the morning, I am so exhausted, that I rarely had much energy or determination remaining to bathe. Not only because of the exhausting job of washing and conditioning my huge amount of hair, but because, yep, the shower made me barf. Whether the water was hot or cold or what seemed like perfectly room temperature, it changed my body temperature enough to make me lose my cookies… well, juice. So I elected a lot of days to skip the shower. 

This nausea lasted 24 hours a day. And when I say nausea, I most certainly do not mean a “tummy ache” as it was referred to occasionally, or a slight uneasiness. I’m talking about unrelenting, head pounding, sweat-inducing, lightheaded, mouth-watering, where-is-the-nearest-trash-can nausea. Luckily, most of the actual vomiting was limited to the mornings, but the nausea never lessened. It was all I could do to spend my days trying not do anything that might have sent my nausea over the edge and vomit somewhere truly heinous and humiliating. Needless to say, I couldn’t really go anywhere. 

And appropriately, even if I could, I didn’t really want to. Pregnancy fatigue should be called something way more accurate like “Get jumped and beaten to a pulp by 10 big dudes and then swim 41 miles against the current and then run 200 miles uphill with 99 lbs. of concrete on your back and do all this without eating or drinking anything for 3 days.”  So combine this with the nausea, and how can anyone expect you to get anything done, ever? Let’s just say that as hard as I tried, I spent a lot of time staring at my computer screen at work. And that was on a good day. 

Somehow, I would make it through the work day, and arrive at home. Most of the time, I climbed into bed immediately, 5:30pm, fully clothed. I was so tired I thought I might die. But of course I didn’t sleep. The instant I became horizontal, the heartburn would take over and saturate my body, from head to toe, making breathing uncomfortable and sleeping impossible. So I watched TV, re-run after re-run, evening after evening with my sweet, stripy, snuggle bug Ernie, my constant companion, and try to forget about the struggles that consumed my life. At some point, my sweet Bear would get home and make me whatever snack I randomly craved in the middle of the night, always my favorite part of the day… 

As difficult as it was, though, to attempt to manage and control these things that were taking over my body, and really my life, the hardest part was worrying about how all of it was affecting my tiny baby bean. I constantly feared that I wasn’t getting, or keeping down, the calories, vitamins and nutrients that are so important in building a baby and it’s environment.  And trust me when I say, eating is the last thing you want to do when you think you might puke. But each doctor appointment and ultrasound reassured us that our love bug was growing at a healthy rate and all vitals were normal and strong.

While most of these persistent symptoms are supposed to subside around week 12, of course for me it wouldn’t be until week 13 that I finally, FINALLY had some relief.  While those 13 weeks were the most challenging, trying, and exhausting of my life, I am so proud of myself for (mostly) keeping my head up, and more importantly, keeping my job :).

I am very, very excited to announce that I will be 15 weeks tomorrow and I feel like a million bucks! I have absolutely loved the last couple of weeks, not having to worry about symptoms and my best friend vomit, and being able to spend some much needed vacation time in Maine with the love of my life and my family. All of whom have really gone way above and beyond in putting up with my constant whining, complaining, and neediness. So, as a gift to them, I have decided that this blog is the last time I am going to revisit my first-trimester horror stories. I promise, no more vomit tales ya’ll. 

So with all this time to think about other things, it has finally occurred to me that… YAY! I’M HAVING A BABY! Omigosh, I am so excited!

 Let the day-dreaming begin…

Back-up your back-up..

So, obviously Chris and I were not family planning, and definitely not trying to get pregnant.  In fact, we were trying, quite enthusiastically, NOT to. So, how did this happen?

Well, I feel like this topic deserves it’s own dedicated post because of how important it is that people understand the realities of birth control. Yes, I was on birth control. Not only was I using it, but I was using it very responsibly and correctly. Same time every day, without fail. And I got pregnant. 

So I researched and read and did what I could to find out how it was possible that this happened. But it wasn’t until I asked my doctor about it that I finally got my (rather obvious) answer; Birth Control is not 100% effective. Check out your birth control box, I’m sure on there somewhere it says that it’s over 99.9% effective or something similar. Even though I knew this, and you probably do too, nobody ever thinks that they will be the .1% of the time it fails, but I am here to tell you, YOU COULD BE. 

So don’t put all your “eggs” in one “basket”, if you know what I mean.  :)

 

Back-up is key.

The Twilight Zone

It's hard to imagine or predict how you will react to news of this proportion. As someone with the most severe case of baby fever, I would have bet everything I own on the fact that I would be ECSTATIC. And Chris, who had been struggling with the fact that he may not want children at all, I assumed would be DEVASTATED. Boy, was I wrong. 

I was devastated.  Chris was ecstatic. 

I couldn’t explain my reaction, or even understand it myself. Mostly, I was in disbelief. I floated through the next few days, leading up to my first ultrasound. I took a total of seven pregnancy tests in those three days, all which came back positive, (obviously) and each time it stung more. I would have taken even more had poor Christopher not banned me from CVS pharmacy. I just couldn’t accept that it was real.

I had a very specific idea of where I wanted to be when I brought a baby into this world. I wanted everything for my children, the kind of upbringing I was so fortunate to have had myself. I wanted most importantly to be married, and in a happy, healthy partnership with my husband. A relationship that would most certainly pass the test of time, and all of life’s most challenging trials. I had watched my parents growing up, happy, blessed, and fabulously in love until the minute we lost my dad. I would not settle for less. I had seen how children become the inadvertent collateral damage of divorce, and I was determined to protect mine from that. So now that I’m pregnant and unmarried, what are my choices? Get married before it gets here so he/she is born into a “family”? Be unmarried when he/she arrives? Neither sounded appealing to me. After weeks of nonstop thinking, I decided that it is more important for this child to come into a relationship that is solid, loving, and REAL than one that is rushed into a union that may or may not mean anything more than a label. It is crucial to Chris and I’s happiness that we both know for CERTAIN that when we decide to marry, it is only because we have chosen each other as our life partner, based on our love. Whether that happens in five days, or five years, only time will tell. But one thing is for sure, when it happens, I will know in my heart that it is genuine, and that I will undoubtedly be the happiest girl in the world. 

Then of course there is my financial situation. I feel very strongly about being a stay-at-home or work-from-home mom. While I understand that for many, this is not possibility, I believe that for ME  there isn’t any other way. I think that as a mother, it is my responsibility to nurture, care and look after my own children. I should be the one teaching them to walk, and talk, and to know right from wrong. I should know my children better than anyone else. I wanted more than anything to be in a financial situation to be able to focus my attention and energy solely on my family. But as the news of my pregnancy is ever so slowly sinking in, so is the realization that I won’t be able to give my baby this life. At least not at first. Chris and I are doing what we can every day to make this a reality, so I know that it’s only a matter of time before it’s possible. 

Accepting the things I cannot change has been a daily battle. But I have found peace in the fact that I am with the most wonderful man imaginable, who tirelessly attempts to calm my fears, and turn my dreams into realities.

Let's start at the beginning..

It was an average summer Friday afternoon for any 26-year-old care-free girl. I had been counting the minutes at work until quittin' time, which had been moving especially slow that day because my love bug Christopher had gotten us a box at the Reno Rodeo for that night, and I absolutely couldn't wait. I was even leaving work a little early so I'd have time to shower and curl my hair before I had to meet him at home. But somewhere in the back of my mind, almost masked by my excitement, was that same nagging feeling I'd had for a couple weeks; something was off.

I had been having some strange "symptoms" for about two weeks, specifically a pair of incredibly tender and sore boobs, among others... But I had started a very intense workout bootcamp around the same time as the soreness, so I attributed it to my new badass weightlifting skills. After all, every other muscle in my body was sore, so why wouldn't my 'pecs' be as well? But as the rest of me began to loosen up and adjust to the new workouts, my boobs just got more sore.

Then there was my period. Or I should say, lack there of... It had threatened to come, several times, leaving me with terrible cramps and unrelenting achiness, but that was it. I stocked my purse with tams, convinced it would be here any day, any minute. I waited...and waited.

And waited. Until that Friday, when something inside me urged me to just eliminate the possibility that I was... you know. Maybe it was because I knew I'd have a frosty Coors Light that night at the rodeo, in true redneck fashion. Or maybe it was because I'd eaten sushi for dinner the night before and the guilt, that I didn't even really realize at the time was guilt, was begging for vindication. Or just maybe, it was mother's intuition. Whatever the reason, I drove to my house, where I knew there was a very, very old pregnancy test, and took it.

Let's be clear. I have taken pregnancy tests before. I was always panicked about it, always anxious for the result, always stressed. This time I was not. I knew the possibility of it being positive was the slimmest to none. I peed on the stick, set is aside, and forgot about it. Half an hour later, I was halfway out the door to head up to Chris' house to get ready, when I remembered the test. I walked back in to the bathroom, just to make sure, and well, there it was, loud and clear, and pink, and bold, and terrifying..... the LINE.

I was pregnant.