With my swollen belly and the constant aches and pains, it’s hard to think of little these days but my imminent due date.
My first daughter surprised me in the middle of the night a month before she was expected. Everything happened in a flurry and before I knew it, she was here: all five pounds of her. She was quiet with big watchful eyes and her mouth set in a small “o,” as though her own arrival had caught her by surprise.
More and more, I’m beginning to appreciate Bree’s hurried entrance into the world. With Baby E, it feels more like a slow, lumbering marathon.
But aside from the discomfort and the summer heat, the hardest is the anticipation.
I’m anxious about the delivery, we’re trying for a VBAC. I’m anxious about managing a newborn and a rambunctious 2 year old who has decided to outgrow her naps. I’m nervous about stretching our budget to provide for this new life. Most of all, I’m anxious to know that she is healthy and safe.
People ask how I’m doing and I give them the cursory answer “I’m fine,” but meanwhile I’ve been letting these doubts and fears broil beneath the surface.
Finally today, I sat and I cried. I cried to a God that already knows. He knows every hair on my head; he knows every complicated fear and emotion and hope that is pretzeled inside my chest. I cried to a God that knows, and has intricately planned my future. As my sobs shook my whole body, and big wet tears ran down my cheeks, I cried like a child who’s fears and emotions are too big to handle or understand, but took comfort in a Daddy who I knew would make it alright.
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