When I have a craving

It's inevitable,

Week 19.

Well well well.

I'm 20 weeks, halfway there, livin' on a prayer.

So this is a summary of week 19. *fanfare music*

 

How far along? Today, 20 weeks 1 or 2 days, depends if you ask my LMP or my doctor. But we're talking about week 19, so let's move alonnng.

 Total weight gain/loss: Weighing 128 lbs, BOO-YAH! Closer to the 130s. Up 11.5 lbs.

  Maternity clothes? This week my sister gave me her huge bin of maternity clothes. My reaction was along the lines of 

 

Stretch marks? Holding on to the belief I have inherited my mother's super human genes and I will escape pregnancy stretch mark free. So far, so good.

Sleep: Waking up at least once for bathroom trips, or water. Here and there, hunger trips.

 
Best moment this week: Watching Craig leave for Publix at 10 pm for one of my ridiculous cravings. Don't even ask me why that was the best moment of my week. I'm weird. Oh! Actually, best moment of the week was my nephew's birthday, it was fun to see him turn 3 :)

 
Have you told family and friends: Everybody and their mamas know.

 
Movement: Child's an acrobat, kick here, belly surfing there. I love it, unless the little stinker decides to use my bladder as a trampoline. Serious, kid?

Food cravings: Crisps, still. Dairy, fruits, some vegetables. I eat what I want.

 
Anything making you queasy or sick: I have turned that page and don't plan to look back.

 
Gender prediction: I think I know, but I don't want to say in case I'm wrong. Apparently this is not a popular answer when people ask me what my guess is.

 
Labor Signs: What? No.

Belly Button in or out? In. Then again my belly button is abnormally deep.

Wedding rings on or off? On, a little looser.

Happy or Moody most of the time: It varies per person. I can be in a perfectly good mood for hours with my husband and get really mad the next one with person X, with the speed of a monkey on crack.

 
Weekly Wisdom: Uh... savour each week!

 
Milestones: HALFWAY THERE, BABY!

The first trimester.

This is a summary of what my first trimester went like.

We found out we were pregnant the week before Mother's Day. We got pregnant on our 3rd cycle, por obra y gracia de Dios, how mama would say. I am currently 17 weeks and 3 days along. This is how the infamous first trimester went.

THE GOOD

I harbor the miracle of life in my womb - my body is a temple hosting a brand new creation - I AM WITH CHILD, what could possibly top that? Exactly. So right up to when I started barfing with the elegance of a drunken ostrich (read on, read on), I was like this:

The glorious realization that I was, indeed, undeniably, happily, miraculously, finally pregnant, only brought me and Craig much closer. Everything in the world was beautiful. We were so blessed, so in shock and amazed and glad and in love!

Knowing we would eventually need maternity clothes, I ordered some on sale, online (I'd like to explain that I say "we" because even before TTC I was squirreling my way into Pea in a Pod at the mall, and Craig dragged me out like I was an infatuated 3 year old. So, full of glee, I was given permission to finally shop for maternity clothes). My first reaction when they arrived was:

Which brings me to the food.  We were doing so well. And then... not so well.

My biggest cravings at first were eggs, vegetables, chicken wings, some fruits and milk. I lost my sweet tooth overnight and found joy in munching almonds and sipping on boring soups. That was the midway point between enjoying food and ... morning sickness *dramatic music* Between weeks 5 and 7 all was normal. Then ... I guess you'll have to scroll down to find out.

Anywho, the other goods were the fact that my skin has never looked better. The usual acne breakouts that coincided with the luteal phase of my charts were gone. And I don't miss them, not one zit (haha I'm so witty). Then my hair stopped needing conditioner altogether. It was awesome all on its own *fluffs hair*

THE BAD

Anybody who knows me in real life knows this: I'm a pretty outgoing person. I like cooking for people, I like going out to eat, I like meeting friends in shopping centers, I like going out, period. Well. I became boring during my first trimester. Like, really boring. I didn't feel like doing a single bloody thing. I felt accomplished if I got out of bed most Saturdays. 

Which would explain why, when Craig got home, my reaction was like this:

 And this is where I brag about my husband. He tended (tends, tends ... lol) to me hand and foot. Craving watermelon at 10 pm? No problem, I'll be right back, babe. A massage, again? Okay. You wanted wings, though ... you don't want them anymore? That's okay, I'll eat them. If it wasn't for my tall, handsome husband, I would have probably ... called my mama, but you get my point: my husband rocks!

THE UGLY

Do refer to this post, which covers my experience with the first chunk of morning sickness. Frankly, at one point while I threw myself the most epic pity party known to knocked up women, I was under 300 covers in my bed in Lima, certain I was going to die - hoping to sleep through the rest of my first trimester. I was hungry but didn't feel like eating a thing. My own saliva was my worst enemy, and if heaven forbid, I had something with artificial sugar, I was projectile vomiting like the demon girl from the Exorcist.

So yeah. Morning sickness. Wasn't morning. It came in waves. As soon as I felt slightly better, BAM, in yo face, Jen. Go puke. Or worse. Dry heaving into a toilet not sure if I was going to throw up or this was just another false alarm. At least after throwing up I felt better. With gagging it was just a vicious circle. 

And honestly, I tried. I can talk myself out of a bloody headache, for crying out loud. I tried. I don't like throwing up. I never grew comfortable with it. I hear some women just surrender to it and let it be. Ha. Not me. Every time I felt the queasies forming inside of me I was just like:

Fought it till the very end. Mind over matter, mind over matter, mind over - BLEEEERGH, that's how it usually went. It didn't work. I was fully convinced my own baby was controlling my body, in the way those little aliens do in the Men in Black movies. Strawberry juice? I don't think so, mother - let's hurl it on the side of the street! Ner ner ner.

Soon we (when I say we, I mean an interesting mix of amused and concerned Craig ... and me) figured out that anything with artificial sweeteners, anything that was overly sweet, anything sweet that wasn't fruit, ended up in the toilet, which was incredibly uncharacteristic of me, because I can eat an entire pie in one sitting (don't judge). 

Here's a little pearl of wisdom you've probably already heard: this too, shall pass. You can do this. Or how my mother put it: suck it up, wimp, it doesn't last forever. Unless of course you have hypermesis gravidarum. In which case, may I just send my deepest thoughts of respect and condolences ... and Zofran.

SUMMARY

The first trimester, in all honesty, was not that bad. I had it much easier than say, 30 of my pregnant cousins in Peru. Apparently there's a gene on my father's side that has the women in my family barfing at least twice a day. I suffered the toilet fate 10 times in the 9 weeks that the whole ordeal lasted. Not bad.

The good outweighed the bad, and the awesome made me forget that I had no energy left in my body to pick up my 7 lb Yorkie. I certainly didn't cruise through my first 13/14 weeks, but I survived. And looking back, I'd do it all over again.

When I work out with my husband

It's a little like this

When I first started charting

And I hadn't read the book yet

After reading the book and comparing my first chart with the 6th one

Get "Taking Charge of Your Fertility" by Toni Weschler here. Highly, highly recommended!

The vomit chronicles, Part 1.

When you know regurgitation is about to take place,

the way to the bathroom/grass/side of the street is like

Seconds before I'm like

After the fact I'm like

Meanwhile my mother's like

And my husband cheers for me (YES, for vomiting), so I'm like

Clearly it's almost a religious experience.

When old ladies at church ask me if I'm pregnant yet

I want to be like

But instead I'm like

When there's a bounce house at my friend's kid's party

I'm like

When your very pregnant friend says "You're next!"

Most of my highschool friends are like

I'm like

Who is mom enough?

It's probably all over your news feed by now:

Shock value aside (come on, that kid is tall for 3!), it's an interesting twist to parenting in America.

In case you're not too sure what Attachment Parenting is, the Wikipedia article gives you a basic definition. Be warned, there is so much more to AP than being there for your child 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It encourages co-sleeping, to form a bond between newborn and mother, and beyond. It encourages baby-wearing entailing that you're holding your baby, almost literally attached to your body, at all times, if possible. And breastfeeding. Oh, yes. Exclusively, and way into the toddler years, is encouraged. No cry-it-out, unlimited hugs and cuddles, rearing a child that is not afraid to communicate his feelings, therefore raising confident, psychologically well balanced kids.

That's the goal in every aspect of parenting, right? Bring up happy, well balanced children.

So. Back to the magazine cover, the war rages between Attachment Parenting advocates versus ... Babywise? "Normal" Parenting? Cry-It-Out advocates? That's the thing, there's no real counterpart to Attachment Parenting. At least not one that can be pointed at without a doubt. Attachment Parenting has its fans and haters, and it has as of lately been linked to the crunchy movement (Ha!).

What actually makes me narrow my eyes in discomfort is the title of the story. Are you mom enough? Well. I won't know till I pop a baby, but I do know this: It's a race, now. A competition.

I breastfed my baby all through his first year. I am better than you.

I had a natural birth with no pain medication. This makes me stronger and better than you.

Goodness forbid I'm one of THOSE moms who give fast food to their kids!

Seriously? No one likes to be told how to bring up their own children, let alone with a snarky attitude to back it up. I'm more likely to follow someone's advice when there's no judgement riding it. The title of the story on TIME magazine fuels that which should not have even started, in the first place: Are you mom enough? Under which qualifications do we begin to quantify success as a parent, yours or mine?

In short, I just think everybody needs to shut up and take five.

At the risk of sounding like a closet anarchist, let me just say that everybody needs to relax.

Again, the goal of a mother is to nourish, protect and raise healthy, happy children. It doesn't include berating other moms for not cooking all-organic dinners every single night of the kid's childhood. It doesn't have to be like that. It shouldn't mean, either, that everybody yields to everybody else's choices. Here, I am not even a mother yet, and I'm trying to shed a little light on the matter - perhaps an outsider's view might prove useful beyond my questions and doubts as a hopeful future mom.

Jaime Grumet is the mom featured on TIME. First of all I think it's brave she came forward to share her parenting style, especially if it's not a mainstream one. Second, while I don't fully agree with everything she does, I think it's pretty great she's doing what she believes is best for her kids.The whole purpose of TIME was to be provocative (they have to sell magazines, right?), but before passing judgement on Jaime, who knows what she really stands for?

When I was training with Wells Fargo, a very smart classmate said, flat out to me: "You do you. Don't let anyone else tell you what to do." We were talking about having kids right away after marriage or waiting a few years. Everybody, obviously, had an opinion on the matter. Everybody judged everybody on their opinion too. Just like with this magazine cover.

In this case, that's what I would tell everybody: You do you. Because I plan to do "me" when it's my turn.

Book Review: "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother"

I ought to be clear: while I'm highly opinionated, I try my hardest to not be judgmental. Parenting is such a touchy topic, I understand that - and also take in consideration I am not even a mother, myself. In the realm of parenting, I've only been witness and daughter, so it's tricky to fully review a book on parenting without getting a couple of weird glances my way.

With that said, this is my (ever neglected) blog, and I get to do whatever the bloody hell I want :)

So. Amy Chua.

The book is a light read, I read it one night - or should I said devoured it? I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's a memoir, not a manual. What Mrs. Chua pointedly discusses regarding Chinese vs. Western parenting is not who loves their child more, or who wants what is best for their child more, but rather, how they go about it.

In Chinese culture, it's okay for a parent to think their child owes them everything, and the expectation of perfect grades and excelling in worthy activities such as music is an everyday thing. In Western culture, learning is supposed to be fun, and your expectations of your child can only stay within the diameter of what is okay for them. "B+? Good job!" says a Western parent. "B+? No dinner tonight!" says a Chinese one.

My mother is Peruvian. A Peruvian Tiger Mother.

A Peruvian Tiger Mother I adore with all my heart. She taught me how to read at age 3, write at 3 and a half (somewhat), and do basic math at 4. I read books for my age weekly. Nothing less was expected. If I got a B in math, I not only had a mini panic attack, I thought the name of my family would be shamed forever.

So when I read how Amy Chua brought up her daughters Sophia and Lulu, nothing really struck me as odd. Here, I'm biased. I had a Tiger Mother. Like Mrs. Chua, my mother had no problem telling me an A- was unacceptable. Why? Because she truly, deeply, madly believed I was fully capable of getting an A+. That's why no excuses were ever accepted.

In one odd moment in the book, the Chinese mother confronts Lulu about a song she was playing on the piano. Lulu loses her marbles and tears the music sheet apart. The mother tapes it back and makes Lulu keep practicing. You know what my mother would have done? Maybe I shouldn't tell.

No sleepovers, no play dates (I had cousins at family get togethers and birthday parties at school, that was enough), what do you mean Girl Scouts? Yet my childhood was the happiest time of my life. I looked forward to a new book, I came home holding a perfect score on a spelling test eager to show my parents. I thrived on their praise when I did things right (that's where Chua is different from my rearing). Example?

On one occasion, Chua's daughters made cards for her birthday. They were last minute "Happybirthdaymomloveyou" cards. She rejected the cards because she knew her daughters could do better, and saw the half-effort as ingratitude. Do I understand her thinking? Yes. Do I think she reacted in an ideal manner? No. But I'm not going to judge her. Her eldest daughter performed at Carnegie Hall at age 15. I haven't even conceived my first born. I better keep my mouth shut.

Sophia at Carnegie Hall

Plus my mother would've taken my lame birthday card. Just saying.

A results-oriented parenting style was sort of what my parents did. Push, push, push. A+, Mozart, charm school, read faster, swimming team, piano concert this weekend, horseback riding tomorrow morning, spelling award, you better aspire to be something more than a housewife, 1st place in this, in that. I liked it. True, sometimes I wished I could've been a Girl Scout like the rest of my friends, but looking back, the stack of diplomas in my school memories box makes for a better memory than ... whatever the Girl Scouts at my school did. I think they sold cookies.

The book is incisive, provocative, it truly shows you what it is to be in the middle of a culture clash. And it's not just a clash. It's more like the end of the world is happening and all of a sudden, your youngest child humbles you and show you that your system is flawed. Back off, Tiger Mother.

True, Chua could've seen it coming when her own mother warned her that Lulu was not responding well to Chinese parenting. But Tiger Mother pushed on. Which led to my favourite part of the book, a full-blown scream and yell match in the middle of the family's vacation in Russia. Only this time the child wins. And she is allowed to quit violin.

Ultimately, the humbling takes place inside Chua's deepest, darkest fear, that place I've only heard of and have yet to experience: "I've ruined my child's life". Except Lulu's not ruined, she's just too untameable to be put under the recalcitrant system of Chinese parenting. It just won't fully work on her.

Lulu, age 13

Thus, the revelation of the entire book: Whatever style of parenting you're planning to practice on your kids, it might work, it might not. Well, at least what's what I took from the book. Chua's oldest daughter responded to the Tiger Mother methods, Lulu ... not so much.

In fact, closer to home, the way my parents raised me is different with the way they're still raising my younger-by-ten-years brother. They're a whole lot more relaxed on him, on his grades, on his social life. But he's also quite different from me. So my parents decided to practice, upon noticing "Oh hey, this one's a boy ... and not like Jen" to practice what they jokingly call Designer Parenting. Custom tailored for each child!

Ha ha, father. Ha ha.

Sure, same set of house rules, but the personal approach tends to be different. Same amount of love for both, no choosing favourites, but understanding that we're not made with the same mold (thank goodness - just kidding, I love my brother).

The book does have a happy ending in that Chua learns how to back off, when to push and when to just altogether hand it to their daughters. Admittedly not everything is perfect, but the family strives for a healthy balance.

And everybody could use a little balance.

Ultimately the choice in parenting lies within, newsflash, the parent. What Chua does, what my mother did, what I will do when I become a mother, will be up to each mother. For the people that have heavily criticized this book, how about a nice warm cup of shut up? Relax, it's just a memoir.

In a gist, if you're reading his book and find her methods horrible, put it down, have some ice cream and move on. I'm quite certain this book was written with the intention to entertain or communicate a mother's journey at the most, not to teach. All mothers make mistakes at one point or another, and who's to judge? Right? Of course right! So. Like I said, it's a good read, and I enjoyed it through and through. I would highly recommend it.

"Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" on Amazon.

Milk.

Currently listening to: Perry Como - Beginning to look a lot like Christmas

After the miscarriage, for some odd reason, my milk came in. Lots of it.

One second everything was normal, the next my husband's face looked kind of like this -

O____O

and he's pointing at my chest. I look down and voila, I'm leaking from the right breast - shirt's wet in a perfect circle. A moment of silence followed, and suddenly I was flailing my way to the bathroom. Remember how I mentioned in the last post I have a messed up idea of how the human body works? Yeah.

My little human body was under the impression that I had just given birth to a baby, so naturally, milk time! I took it as a sign that my breasts are fully capable of feeding a small country (I grew I don't even know how many sizes, I was wearing sports bras the entire time) - POSITIVISM!

True, it was a painful reminder that I had lost a baby, but even my doctor said he was surprised any milk came in at all and that was a very healthy sign. I decided to be positive about this. Again: positivism!

I know what you're all wondering, sickos, so I'll share: I pumped some to try. I must say I make pretty good milk - HAPPY?! Also, I may or not have squished the source to see how far the milk would land, along with other childish manifestations. Don't judge me!

Finally, after a couple of weeks of hot towels, stained work shirts, and torture sessions aimed at Craig (kept telling him I was going to put some Jenny milk in his breakfast milk - drove him bonkers :) the milk started to wean, and life started to go back to normal.

So that was that. I wonder how it'll taste with eggnog? Guess we'll find out next year!

Hyperchondriac?

Currently listening to: the sound of my own frustration.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have a warped sense of how the human body works. It still escapes my mind how one of my intestines is 20 feet long, not to mention the fact that I spent years completely misunderstanding what menstruation is all about.

A few days ago I felt, under my tongue, a sore. A canker sore, uncomfortable even to talk.


Damned be the second I discovered Google!


A minute later I was frantically informing my husband I may have oral cancer and I needed to get an appointment to see the doctor ASAP. He gave me a sideways glance and sighed, as I read deeper and deeper into the symptoms of the disease - and then he snatched my iPhone off my hand.


And that's where "hyperchondriac" was born. Or at least coined.


I'm pretty sure it was born right around the time Craig and I started flirting with the idea of becoming three. I started obsessing with getting healthier, stronger, fit to be a baby machine. Before the opportunity of becoming a mother became available, I didn't pay much attention to being healthy. 


Well, now I'm a hyperchondriac, that freaks out if my basal temperature one particular morning is below the normal threshold (HYPOTHYROIDISM? omg no). In a way I realize it's a good thing, I'm worrying about my health for a good reason, but it's also a source of infinite amusement to my jerk of a spouse. Whatevsss.


In other, far more exciting news: I want to quit my job. Ta-dah!

Bobby's Story, final part.

 Currently listening to: Gavin DeGraw - "Chariot"

We held on.

On our way home, yes, there was crying, there was pain. Telling our families, our closest friends, it included an amount of pain because we had to revisit the same words, go through the same explanation points. Yes, I'm fine physically. A D&C is a procedure to clean my uterus. No, there was no bleeding. And on and on, and over and over.

While it became tedious to feel like we were walking in circles, crying on the phone with my sister felt like a release. She had been exactly were I was at the moment, and she was now expecting a healthy baby.

"God is in control, I know how this feels, and I want you know I love you."

Nobody else's words had such impact on me as my sister's did.

The next day I had the audacity to get ready for work and drive all the way to the office. Well hello, denial. I don't know exactly what I was thinking, I walked in and decided I wasn't going to be able to work that day. I talked to my boss and started crying, she hugged me and told me to go home. So I did.

After that, I kept silence. The pertaining people knew what had happened and were praying for us, all I had to do was sit down and do my part: heal. Don't be fooled. I have a history of sucking at grieving. Big time. So I was taken aback by my reaction so far. 

There were in total two days of grieving, of crying, of sobbing myself to sleep, with my husband's arms around me. Two days. Then there was peace. There came an insane understanding of why this had happened.

It was by the kitchen that I told my husband:

"You know, this wasn't our Liam or Angie, but we loved this baby,"

He looked up at me and nodded. So I went on,

"I think we should name him."

I had known it was a boy, I had felt it was a boy from the start. A mother just knows, so trusting this gut feeling, I named him Bobby. After Bobby Fischer. The SNL skit. What? My baby, my choice. When I told Craig about my choice there was a moment of staring at each other and then we both erupted with laughter. For the first time in a couple of days, there was laughter in our house.

Bobby would have been born to an uninsured mother. I was in the process of switching to a new company and my insurance was not going to kick in until my first doctor's appointment. So the delivery would have been out of pocket. You read that right. Out. Of. POCKET. Because, in this glorious country, pregnancy is considered a pre-existing condition.

Moreover, Bobby would have been born as his father was finishing college. While it was a endearing idea to graduate with a month-old baby by his side, he would have certainly missed the first few weeks of life of his firtborn: finals in order to graduate are one stressing event, I should know. Oh, not to mention the possibility of missing the delivery itself.

If you've gone through a miscarriage, know it's not the end, it doesn't define you as a mother or potential mother, and trust me when I say it's more common than publicly believed. 1 in 5 pregnancies will result in a miscarriage. You are not alone. If it wasn't for my sister I would have probably thought I was a hopeless case. Reality is that miscarriages happen and the vast majority of women end up carrying healthy babies to term. There's hope.

We loved Bobby the minute we knew he existed. We had dreams and hopes for this little one, but God had different plans. Sometimes we don't quite grasp these plans, but it's not our duty to. In fact, just a few days before finding out about the miscarriage, I turned to Craig while getting ready for work and asked him,

"What do you want, a boy or a girl?"

Being wise beyond his years, the prat answered,

"I want a healthy baby."

And that's what God intends to give us. Bobby wasn't 100% healthy. What sufferings and pain he would have faced if my body had carried him to term, I don't know, but I thank God He was in control. Bobby is now in heaven, and no better place for him. I will see him one day, in another time and another place. I will one day hold Bobby and tell him how much I love him.

I chose God's strength over mine. And He is holding me through.

Bobby's Story, part II.

Currently listening to: Duffy - "I'm Scared"

If you've ever ridden a crazy rollercoaster, you know exactly how my stomach dropped when my doctor told me I had miscarriaged my first baby during my first pregnancy. Not such a pleasent feeling given the different context.

Just two weeks ago we had seen him on the screen at the ultrasound technician's room. Little heart pumping away, he moved like showing off for the camera. And I fell in love. I didn't even know him, I couldn't even feel him yet, but the mere fact he was inside me, making me sick as a dog yet the happiest I'd ever been, it was proof I was in love.


There was no warning. There were no signs, no symptoms. No sudden bleeding. In an instant, my body absorbed the yolk and cut off all life supplies. And it was over.


To confirm it had been a miscarriage, I was to see the ultrasound technician again. My doctor left the room so I could call my husband. I texted. I wasn't going to call. My heart was beating too hard and too fast, as if trying to revive his little heart, and it sunk in. He's gone. My baby's gone.

"Craig, I lost the baby."


The tears started and I looked up at the ceiling, not sure what to say to God. My first reaction, naturally was to ask why. Why are you doing this to me? Why did you let this happen? Why me? Why. Why. But instead, I don't know the reason, I asked,

"Show me what You're doing. Please, show me what You're doing."

I was alone in the exam room, but I didn't feel alone. I was hurting, but I felt a calmness that was not mine, fill me. I was crying, eyes closed, hoping this wasn't real, remembering my dream.

This was my biggest fear, and quite admittedly, for a couple of seconds (which felt like bloody hours), I felt like reality was inversed and I was living a nightmare. This couldn't be real. This was not happening to me. How could it happen to the one person that wanted kids so badly? How does that make sense that my body, my own property took one darn look at what would have been my firstborn and decided to, for lack of better words, kill it?

The doctor came back in. I asked him why, since demanding an explanation from God wasn't something I could bring myself to do. My doctor sighed, pulled a chair near me and explained that some women's bodies are more propense to carry a (and he used to following word for the utmost respect and care) defective embryos to full term. It wasn't much of a consolation, but my system was the kind that would only carry 100% healthy babies to delivery. Nothing less than all-around healthy babies.

All or nothing. How Jen-like.

I asked what happened to the "defective" embryos that were carried to full term. Doctor sighed again. He went on to describe how Down syndrome babies or with congetinal diseases are born. I blew my nose. The doctor stood up. We walked to the ultrasound room.

And I saw him for the last time. Smaller than my growing uterus. At the bottom, not moving. I broke down and hurt for the child I had just lost. Craig was on his way to the doctor's office. This is where I suspect I had an out-of-body experience. 


My baby was gone. The concept rebounded on my head once and again and I felt horrible. There are ... truly no words. The next time I opened my eyes I was sitting on Craig's lap, sobbing, in the doctor's office. He was saying that medically the baby never made it past the embryo state, and that while my own body had cut off the life resources, my uterus was carrying on with the pregnancy as if nothing had happened. My uterus had clung on to the baby till the very end. In fact, to my uterus, there was no end. 

I was experiencing a missed miscarriage.


Now we were discussing options. I could wait for my uterus to realize it was over and go through the elimincation process, or we could go the safer, quicker route: D&C. A procedure to clean out my uterus and prevent any potential infections. I said I would think about it. Craig held me close.


My doctor's words of comfort and my husband's arms around were holding me together. Somehow, the tears have stopped and a silence took over at the doctor's office. He left to give us privacy, and as soon as the door was closed, Craig and I looked at each other.


We knew what we needed to do. So we prayed.


Holding each other, we prayed. In the midst of the storm, in the middle of disaster, we cried out to our God, to make us understand, to show us His plans, to comfort us and hold us through this trial. He never fails, and He certainly knows better, so we trusted. We knew everything was under His control, so all we had to do was trust, and let His peace take over.

Bobby's Story, part I.

Currently listening to: Natalie Grant - "Held"

I found out I was pregnant on August 7th, 2011.

I was a couple of days late, if that. And since I could single-handedly redefine the term for "paranoiac", I snatched a pregnancy test from my personal stash (don't judge!).  I managed to pee on the stick with very little gracefulness, and after a minute of waiting, the word "PREGNANT" flashed. Seriously? Seriously. Pregnant. WHAT. My first words as a potential mother were,

"WHAT THE F*CK?"


Kicking off motherhood in style. 


Not that I didn't want to be pregnant. Let's rewind a tad here. I've wanted children since I realized what a mother was. Friends that have babies or kids know me as the baby hog or baby whisperer. I love children, and they love me (maybe because I let them do whatever the heck they want?). I've wanted my own kids since I can remember. 


Kinda like her:

And to be completely honest, I'm totally shameless about it. If there's a kid in the room, you're most likely to find me holding them and making them laugh, or on the floor acting the fool but keeping them entertained. It's always been a part of me, and a even bigger part has always yearned for my own little one.


So. Back to me screaming with knickers on my feet, tush on the loo, positive pregnant test in my hand. Voila, I'm pregnant. Cue mini panic attack. Why? Well, it was a tricky time. To say the least. We were planning to start trying to get pregnant in a couple of weeks, so I quit the Pill, so I could start shaking off the chemicals and whatnot.


Two weeks later ... hello, baby.


Timing was off, we weren't counting on getting pregnant SO fast, let alone finding out we're fertile on mutant levels (apparently, my lutheal phase is insanely long - ta-dah!). Everything was so quick, I hadn't had time to chart my cycles, to read the books, to save up for the nursery, to really try for a specific gender - nothing. Granted, Craig (my husband) had to console me through the mini panic attack referenced a couple of paragraphs above. 

Nonetheless, we were happy. Elated!


We picked out names, shared the news with our families, bought our first blanket for baby, talked to him, barfed my brains out, we were on track to becoming parents. Pre-natal vitamins, crackers on my bedside, my very own pregnancy journal, doctor's appointments, our first ultrasound, our lives were quickly changing.


The morning of my 10th week appointment at my doctor's office, I woke up with a sour feeling in my gut. I woke up Craig to tell him of the dream I've had. He stirred and listened. My doctor was pushing a wheelchair with me on it, rushing through hospital halls. I was thinking homeboy needs to relax, I feel fine! I look down between my legs and there was blood. Everywhere. As I turned to look at my doctor, I was met with the following words,

"We lost the baby, I'm so sorry."


Craig assured me it was just a dream. So did one of my closest friend after I texted her how this nightmare had gone. Somewhat comforted, I drove to work and took off to my appointment during lunch hour.

As I laid on the exam room, and my doctor looked for the baby's heartbeat, I grew uneasy. The doctor was reassuring, saying maybe the baby was too small for the Doppler right now. I remember it as a blur, having the doctor bring in an older ultrasound machine to find the heartbeat. I was scared.


He searched and searched for it. Pressed here, poked there. He was frowning staring at the screen, I was frowning staring at him. There was silence. I could feel the possibility of the impossible approaching. You know how it's said in intense moments seconds seem like hours? They felt like days for me, every single one of them. And finally ...


"Jen, it's a miscarriage. I'm so sorry."