One Day…

The receptionist peers over her desk at us, Bella heading into her hourly care class so I can get some work done at home.

“Does she have an older brother or sister?”

I shake my head.

“Just her?”

“Yes,” I say tightly, wanting to conversation to stop here. It won’t. I just know it. I brace myself for whatever bit of ignorance is coming next.

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Not Consumed

Today I’m at home, it’s raining out and I’m writing in our school room, Charlie at my side. Bella is at her hourly care class so I had time to work and finish up some papers for school.

I’m really trying not to let myself be consumed by this pregnancy. Looking back on Kaden’s (and the twins) I see how the fear and panic of it all just ate away at me. Months and months on end.

I can’t do that this time.

That might seem a little strange from someone who has experienced 3 losses and 3 high risk pregnancies (and is no longer on Zoloft), but it’s the truth.

Look at what happened. I spent all.that.time in fear, almost paralyzed by it at some points. Desperate for a different outcome. I did everything and then some.

And he still died.

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18 months {& Kaden’s Birth Story}

18 months ago I was induced with Kaden. It’s taken me this long to write it out because I have felt so robbed and cheated and tricked. I couldn’t even process how I went from finally holding him to empty arms.

(You can read Preston and Julian’s birth story here)

(Bella’s here)

I was determined to have a natural birth – I mean natural besides the induction. That I didn’t have much of an option in. I’d been on the blood thinner Lovenox, and the Dr found I was dialted 4 inches when she took the cerclage out. So letting me go home was a big risk.

I planned to do hypnobirthing, and shared a lot about it on Babble. Even my therapist got into it a bit with me, and we practiced some of the techniques like breathing and focusing in our sessions.

I had the coolest doula. Ever. Emily isΒ still one of my best friends although we barely knew each other back then. Thanks for being ok with seeing me naked and screaming at you Emily – then sticking around after too. ;)

Sam was there. My mom was on the way. We’d hired a birth photographer to take pics (“From the stomach up,” I told her. “Nothing down there, I don’t even want to see that.”).

When my water broke, I covered my face with my hands on the hospital bed and bawled, because it flashed me back to being on the bathroom floor, towel between my legs, praying to God that I wasn’t going to lose the twins.

Then the hard part. Labor. At first, I was like, “I can do this. This isn’t too bad. Why did I think this was so bad when I had Bella? This is fine. Painful – Doable.”

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

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The Big News

I have 11 cartons of Girl Scout cookies in my car.

Oh, wait. Sorry. Day 22 of Whole30 and sugar is still my #1 kicker on this.

So that’s not the big news at all (in fact those cookies are to sell). It has to do with Zimbabwe, me, the boys, these past nearly 3 years, and my therapist.

Like some kind of a random riddle.

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Lost and {Hoping to be} Found

It’s been nearly three weeks since I wrote on here. Mostly because I have been a bit too overwhelmed to write how I’m feeling. And even typing that makes me want to close the computer.

I’m tired of feeling like this. I don’t know what else to say. I often wish that I could go back to 3 years ago and make the decision to just have Bella – like we were on the verge of doing. I flipped through old pictures on Instagram yesterday – way back to when I wasn’t even pregnant with the twins, and my heart hurt. I saw this girl who was happy. Young. Vibrant.

I don’t even know where she went – or when I lost her. But I hardly recognize her anymore. In fact, by the end I felt so envious of my former self I had to shut off my phone for a while. (hashtag healthy right there y’all)

Then something hit me – there was hardly any Jesus in those pictures. I don’t even remember thinking about my faith a whole lot. A snap of a devotional once in a while. A Bible verse. Would I trade my faith nowΒ in for the easier, carefree me? Or the little glimpses of knowing my sons?

Everything is so different. Writing that feels like I’m complaining, but I don’t think I am. Just – struggling.

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