She
At least, I hope she's a she. That's what I've been told by two
separate techs at two separate times, though of course there is always
that 1% chance that she turns out to be a he, in which case I'm going to regret several purchases I've made of late ;)
This is probably my first official post that isn't about me or Hubbs, but about our soon-to-arrive newest member of the brood. Forgive me for not being quite so "out there" with her; I've been cherishing my little (and now, not-so-little) secret and basking in the awesomeness of the moment for the past few months. I've also been tired, busy with school, busy with weekend trips south of the border, tired, hungry, involved with our awesome (not-so-little) community group, and tired. Blogging was just the last thing on my mind, you know? But now that I have this thing called insomnia, I can return to my musings and ramblings and officially announce my little one's arrival. :)
Though, perhaps, is it premature? Should I have waited until post-partum before even saying *anything?* I've heard the horror stories, and listened through tears to those who've lost their beloved babes within days and hours after the first cries were heard. Dare I hope that my story will end far more happily? Or will my current bliss be short-lived?
I've wrestled with this for months (31 weeks and 6 days, actually, but who's counting?), and have had to work through fears heaped on fears. It's the culmination of so many sad and woeful tales that everyone around me has shared with me; for some reason, pregnant ladies get to hear the worst stories, the ones that don't get told to the unpregnant population. It's some sadistic social norm that gives permission for the hormonally-juiced up to be subject to a seemingly endless supply of horror stories about birth, and babes, and mortality and pain. There is also, of course, the opposite end of the spectrum - the ones who've walked the dark valley with empty arms and broken hearts who've shared their hearts with me in the hopes that I might pray. Though I have felt great privilege in being able to partner with them on my knees, those stories linger in my mind too.
And so, my fear (and my fatigue) has prevented me from posting moment-by-moment announcements about her. Not that you want to read every detail, anyway; I don't think I am so unique and my stories so grand that it bears repeating when so many sisters before me have already walked this path and shared their tales.
However, fear is the opposite of faith. The lie I believed, and have agonized over, has been the belief that somehow I am in control of my little one's fate. I'm not. God is. I have had no control over her conception (it took us 2.5 years of trying plus some medical interventions, and in the end it was still God's provision alone), I have had no control over her growth and development (she sprouted limbs, eyelashes, a brain, everything and all I did was sleep and eat and pee), and I will have no control over the number of her days.
In the end, I've had to fix my eyes back on Jesus and surrender this semblance of control with which I've deceived myself. He is good all the time, and all the time, He is good. He is sovereign and He knits her together in this mother's womb. She is fearfully and wonderfully made, and she belongs to Him. I am just the privileged bearer (not unlike how Mary must have felt at being told she would birth the Messiah), but in no way am I the one who created this life. God did. And He will, in His wisdom and for His glory, do what He wants in my life and in hers. My job is just to rest in the assurance that He is good all the time, whether I will end up walking in the valley myself, or whether I am so blessed to be able to soar with the eagles on mountaintop bliss.
So my wrestling subsides, for now. And it is in that spirit of boldness and faith that I write this post and proclaim publicly (for the first time) that Hubbs and I have been blessed, and are expecting, a little she. :)
This is probably my first official post that isn't about me or Hubbs, but about our soon-to-arrive newest member of the brood. Forgive me for not being quite so "out there" with her; I've been cherishing my little (and now, not-so-little) secret and basking in the awesomeness of the moment for the past few months. I've also been tired, busy with school, busy with weekend trips south of the border, tired, hungry, involved with our awesome (not-so-little) community group, and tired. Blogging was just the last thing on my mind, you know? But now that I have this thing called insomnia, I can return to my musings and ramblings and officially announce my little one's arrival. :)
Though, perhaps, is it premature? Should I have waited until post-partum before even saying *anything?* I've heard the horror stories, and listened through tears to those who've lost their beloved babes within days and hours after the first cries were heard. Dare I hope that my story will end far more happily? Or will my current bliss be short-lived?
I've wrestled with this for months (31 weeks and 6 days, actually, but who's counting?), and have had to work through fears heaped on fears. It's the culmination of so many sad and woeful tales that everyone around me has shared with me; for some reason, pregnant ladies get to hear the worst stories, the ones that don't get told to the unpregnant population. It's some sadistic social norm that gives permission for the hormonally-juiced up to be subject to a seemingly endless supply of horror stories about birth, and babes, and mortality and pain. There is also, of course, the opposite end of the spectrum - the ones who've walked the dark valley with empty arms and broken hearts who've shared their hearts with me in the hopes that I might pray. Though I have felt great privilege in being able to partner with them on my knees, those stories linger in my mind too.
And so, my fear (and my fatigue) has prevented me from posting moment-by-moment announcements about her. Not that you want to read every detail, anyway; I don't think I am so unique and my stories so grand that it bears repeating when so many sisters before me have already walked this path and shared their tales.
However, fear is the opposite of faith. The lie I believed, and have agonized over, has been the belief that somehow I am in control of my little one's fate. I'm not. God is. I have had no control over her conception (it took us 2.5 years of trying plus some medical interventions, and in the end it was still God's provision alone), I have had no control over her growth and development (she sprouted limbs, eyelashes, a brain, everything and all I did was sleep and eat and pee), and I will have no control over the number of her days.
In the end, I've had to fix my eyes back on Jesus and surrender this semblance of control with which I've deceived myself. He is good all the time, and all the time, He is good. He is sovereign and He knits her together in this mother's womb. She is fearfully and wonderfully made, and she belongs to Him. I am just the privileged bearer (not unlike how Mary must have felt at being told she would birth the Messiah), but in no way am I the one who created this life. God did. And He will, in His wisdom and for His glory, do what He wants in my life and in hers. My job is just to rest in the assurance that He is good all the time, whether I will end up walking in the valley myself, or whether I am so blessed to be able to soar with the eagles on mountaintop bliss.
So my wrestling subsides, for now. And it is in that spirit of boldness and faith that I write this post and proclaim publicly (for the first time) that Hubbs and I have been blessed, and are expecting, a little she. :)
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