Tag Archives: optimism

A Sprout Scare and a New Freckle

Yesterday morning I woke up with a bloody nose. Well, I didn’t so much “wake up” as Braxton Hicks came calling and woke me up. As I got to the bathroom, I realized my nose wasn’t the only thing that was a little bloody.

At nearly 35 weeks pregnant, a little blood in the toilet can be nothing — or it can be everything. Mr. B assured me I wasn’t overreacting and reassured me that my want need to call the doctor was perfectly acceptable. Of course, the office wasn’t open, so I had to call the after-hours nurse, who then had to page the on-call doctor, who then had to finish what she was working on before she could call me.

Anyone who says half an hour is a short amount of time never had to wait and worry for a doctor to call her back.

As I sat on the edge of the bed crying anxious, scared tears, Mr. B rubbed my back. Usually I’m the only one who worries — Mr. B is my rock and the one who talks sense into me when my worrying goes a little too far. But I could tell he was a little concerned, too.

After all, we’ve had our fair share of disappointment, fear and sadness when it comes to our experience with pregnancy. And we know very well what it’s like to lose the one thing we wanted more than anything else.

After I had calmed down a bit, we went about our business — brushing our teeth, packing our lunches, tending to the critters. When the phone finally rang, I jumped on it.

The doctor listened to what was going on and kindly reassured me that everything was going to be OK.

Was the baby moving? A little.

Was there a lot of blood? Not really.

Was I having any cramping? No.

It’s most likely the very early beginnings of cervical softening, she said. But, don’t worry, she continued, it will most likely go on for a couple of weeks. Because that’s just how it works.

She reminded me to keep an eye on myself, how I’m feeling and how Sprout is acting. She also reminded me that it’s OK to worry a little — after all, she knows our story. She knows Penelope Joy. The key, always for me, is trying not to worry too much. Because that’s often where my mind goes. But I know it doesn’t do Sprout any good if I’m worried or stressed out too bad.

Now that I’m getting a few more pokes and prods from Sprout this afternoon and evening, I’m starting to relax back into this pregnancy a little bit after yesterday’s jarring wake-up call. Though, the scare of seeing that blood has definitely left its mark.

Instead, I continue to keep my focus on some of the amazing things this pregnancy brings with it — besides, of course, the obvious Baby Sprout we get to meet at the end:

  • Today, I cannot stop laughing at my new outie belly button — and the hidden freckle I found inside! I can’t believe I’ve lived nearly 34 years on this planet and didn’t realize I had a freckle inside my belly button.
  • My body’s doing some pretty crazy stuff these days. Some of it is fantastic. And some of it … well … maybe isn’t so fantastic. But I laugh several times a day at what’s going on inside — and outside — of myself. Mr. B laughs a lot these days, too. Mostly at me.
  • Mr. B and I are enjoying getting ready to bring our baby home with us — something that is truly magical to experience. Sprout’s nursery is all set, and we feel as ready as we could ever be to bring her home. It’s scary. And life-altering. And unchartered territory. But it is our adventure to live. And we cannot wait. (Can it actually be less than five weeks until she joins us?) 
  • Mr. B and I talk a lot lately about getting to actually be parents. Yes, we are Penelope Joy’s parents — we always will be — and Sprout is not our first child. And we learned more from Penelope Joy about what it means to be Mom and to be Dad than we ever could have imagined. But this experience is going to be so, so different. Exciting and scary in a whole new way! I’m just so looking forward to watching Mr. B be the dad he deserves to get to be. (He’s gonna be so great at it, you guys!)
  • Last, but not least, I’ve actually been able to get Mr. B in front of the camera for some professional photos a few times in our relationship. And getting maternity pictures for Sprout was so much fun. I love just being with him as a photographer tags along. And I love how much our love shows.
Collage of maternity photos

I love our love.

Thanks for sticking with me through all of the “life” that’s happened in the last year that makes this blog maybe not so fun all the time. And thanks for hanging in there even though I’ve not been regularly writing. I’ll try to do better — promise. But, mostly, that’ll depend on Sprout.

Until next time, my friends, the countdown continues …

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This is Alzheimer’s — A Poem

Sometimes I write poems to make things more light
But this poem, I’ll tell you, isn’t about something bright
It’s about a disease that’s so very scary
That has stolen my dad, you may know him as Gary

Alzheimer’s disease is not fun and games
It has real victims with faces and names
It’s more than a joke, “Old Timer’s” they say
If only they knew, they wouldn’t think that’s OK

You see, this disease is so very real
Memories, laughter, hope it can steal
Families are torn apart at the seams
As this disease continues to steal their dreams

I know, I can tell you, it’s stolen a lot
My dad’s not the same, he certainly is not
And neither are we, each of us altered
I wish I could say none of us faltered

But the truth of the matter is that we did
Some people stepped up, some people hid
I try to stay positive, but some days it’s hard
I cry nearly daily, my life has been marred

I miss my dad often and I so miss my mom
This disease has come at her life like a bomb
She’s a civilian casualty of an ugly disease
Her life forever changed, she’s brought to her knees

It’s hard to have hope, to look past today
To know or to feel that all is OK
It’s not, not right now; our family suffers
Alzheimer’s disease carries no buffers

There’s anger and fear and total despair
We don’t know what we’ll find when we visit there
Broken dishes, torn papers, strewn on the floor
The disease keeps taking more and more … and more

No one sees the inner workings of this disease known as Alz
The don’t think it can hit their family and pals
I assure you, it can, it will and it does
It’s more than a word to drive political buzz

We’re proof that it happens when it’s least expected
It doesn’t matter if you’ve lived your life as directed
There’s no getting out, no emergency eject
Once you’re in it, you’re stuck, don’t pass go, don’t collect

Don’t get me wrong, there still is some light
Our family is close, we’ll always be tight
We have our memories and happy thoughts of each other
Mom, dad, child, sister, brother

I know we’ll get through this, we have no option
We’re all too old to be put up for adoption
Facing Alzheimer’s is a hard, hard battle
And even the strongest of families may rattle

It also reminds us to hug others tight
And never to end the night on a fight
Because every moment we have is a gift
Sometimes, my friends, that’s enough for a lift

The hope in the darkness may be hard to find
But it lies in the people who share love, who are kind
The ones who support us, the ones we can call
To help us, to hold us, to listen to us bawl

I share this poem not to make this a joke
I want to make it more digestible for folk
I want my tears and my words to matter
Sharing our suffering may break through the chatter

Not simply a buzz word, the “in” disease of the day
Alzheimer’s disease is not going away
Every 67 seconds someone develops this beast
That’s not a small number, not in the least

If you’re not affected by it just yet
You will be one day, on that I will bet
You may get it yourself or love someone who does
I never thought that’d be true, but for us it sure was

So spend your days loving as hard as you can
Make memories, take photos, laugh lots and hold hands
And know that though dark times may come down the line
The light does remain and through it all it can shine

If you’re interested in making a difference by contributing to the Fight to End Alzheimer’s, please consider making a donation to the Walk to End Alzheimer’s. This money is used for research and to spread awareness about this disease. You can donate to Gary’s Gang here. And, if you’re interested in learning about Alzheimer’s disease, visit the Alzheimer’s Association website. 

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On Rainbows and Babies

I had so many good intentions about how I wanted to tell Bobby if I ever got pregnant again. With Penelope Joy, I was so surprised when that very (very) faint line appeared that I called to Mr. B, waking him up, and had him join me in the bathroom to confirm what I saw was true. So, there was no big reveal. No special dinners. No surprises.

To say that I wanted to give him a surprise this time around is an understatement — I had two pregnancy reveals worth of surprises to plan.

But then, that Tuesday morning rolled around. And a very faint line appeared on a pregnancy test. It was early, I was tired. And I was — uncertain — if what I saw was really true. I called to Mr. B, rousing him from his usual between-alarms-half-sleep. He came into the bathroom, looked at the faint pink line and embraced me. We hugged and cried right there on the bathroom mat. Just as we did when we found out I was pregnant with Penelope Joy.

As we got ready for work that day, I told Mr. B about the dream I’d had the night before: I had taken a pregnancy test. But in the space where the positive line should have been, a rainbow had appeared.

A (rainbow) dream come true.

A (rainbow) dream come true.

It wasn’t until later that week that I realized the significance of my dream.

I was doing a little reading about having babies after you’ve lost a baby — either through miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss. And I found out that those babies — and our little Sprout baby — are called rainbow babies.

Because they represent the hope that comes after despair. Just as do rainbows.

It got me thinking about rainbows. And about hope. And about having another baby.

It would be so easy to feel completely hopeless and decide we never wanted to go through that again. Because we went through hell and back for Penelope Joy and we stayed hopeful every step of the way — but we still walked away from the hospital with empty arms and broken hearts. It would have been completely understandable if, when people asked if there would be more Baby B’s, we just said no.

But, on the flip side, Penelope Joy opened our hearts to a whole new kind of love and light that we’d never experienced. She completely changed our world. For the better. How could we not want to experience that again? Even if it means the possibility of heartbreak.

Mr. B and I know that just because we’ve already suffered a loss doesn’t mean we’re immune from future losses. Rainbow babies aren’t guaranteed to be healthy. And just because Penelope Joy died doesn’t mean our Sprout is guaranteed a smooth and easy path.

While we don’t forget all the dark times we went through, we choose to live in the light. We choose to move forward with hope. That’s kind of how it is with rainbows, too. You see, this is the thing about rainbows: they don’t promise us that the future will be perfect; they promise us that the storm has passed and that we have survived.

rainbows and hope

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Reflecting on the Boston Marathon Bombing

It’s been one year since the Boston Marathon bombing. In one year a lot has happened. I reread the post I wrote about the bombings — and how I was trying to process it; how I was struggling with bringing a child into a world filled with so much hate and so much sadness. But, ultimately, I remembered — with Mr. B’s help — that those were perfect reasons to bring a child into this world. Because a child is love. And the world needs a lot more of that.

So much of that post I wrote still rings true. But there is a difference now. Because this year? I have a better understanding of loss. A much more intimate understanding of loss. And a better understanding of just how much difference love does, indeed, make in the world.

Penelope Joy taught me that. And that all the bad stuff? It was made better because there are shining moments of light and hope and joy in them. Just as — amid the chaos and terror and sadness — the “helpers” brought hope and joy to an otherwise unbearable situation. They were the moments of light. It won’t take away the loss. Or the grief. But it will make the load lighter.

And, in the end, that’s all we can ask for.

My post, “Trying to Process What Happened in Boston” is copied below:

As we all know, I ran a half marathon on Saturday.

Ready to race

Getting ready to race.

A half marathon that I was having a lot of mixed feelings about, truth be told. I sat down a couple of times Sunday to write my recap of the race. But, I was having trouble finding the right words to describe it. “I’ll write it Monday, once my hips stop hurting,” I told myself. (Because, heaven knows, you can’t write when your hips hurt.)

And then …

… Monday happened.

And, as a runner, a marathoner, I felt like someone attacked my family. Runners have come to be a huge part of my community, of who I’ve become. Some of my dearest friends and supporters are runners. As a group, they’ve changed my life. And those spectators? Cheering at the finish line? They’re the ones who pull us through. They’re the ones there at every single race, cheering our names, clapping their hands and bringing us home — whether they’re our family and friends or total strangers.

The unthinkable had happened.

I was in shock. I think, maybe, I’m still in shock.

To sit down and write a race recap for my own half marathon seems … I don’t know … silly. If I couldn’t find the right words before, I am now completely speechless. All I can think about when I try to write about my half marathon is when I ran across that finish line.

As a distance runner, when I see that finish line, something inside of me lets go. All the pain from the miles before, all the exhaustion of the months of training, all the worry about the race … they all just disappear. And a sense of happiness and pride and relief spreads through my body. I melt. And then, at the finish line, I see Mr. B’s smiling face chanting “Go, Kimi, go!” And my friends and family cheering me on — right under that clock that says “You did it; you’re here.” And it’s a feeling of pure and utter elation that takes over. Oh, yeah, and there’s love — knowing that my friends and family are there to celebrate that moment with me.

Mr. B and me on race day

My support crew — and my biggest cheerleader.

That finish-line memory was still fresh for me, is still so fresh for me. And that makes Monday’s tragedy even harder to comprehend and process.

All I can see in my head is those runners running toward their families and friends at the finish line in Boston — a smile on their faces because they’re there, they did it. For some, a lifelong dream just to be on that course. For others, a chance to do better than the year before. Weeks, months, years of sacrifice — for the runners and their families. And I see their friends and families — smiles on their faces, so proud and full of love for their runner. All that love, pride, joy and excitement.

Stolen.

To have all of that taken away in an instant. It’s heart breaking. And confusing. And … so many other things.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, crying about it. Thankfully Mr. B was home. We watched some news. I cried. And then, we turned off the TV and left the apartment. I needed space; I needed air.

So, we went to pick up my race charm from Saturday’s race.

Saturday I ran for Pickle. Always for Pickle.

Saturday I ran for Pickle. Always for Pickle.

I expressed to Mr. B that I’m so sad that these types of things happen in the world. Added to a difficult hate-filled experience earlier in my day, it was a lot of hate and sadness for me to take in for one day. And I told him I’m scared about the world we’re bringing a precious, precious child into. As usual, Mr. B’s wisdom was just what I needed to hear:

“This is exactly why we do need to bring a child into this world; this world needs another kind person.”

And, so it is on this that I try to focus. Even amidst the horror and tragedy and hate, there is beauty and kindness. And givers. And sharers. And helpers.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me: ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'” ~Mr. Rogers

What’s more, there is always running. There will always be running.

There is always running.

There is always running.

Tonight I laced up my still-muddy-from-the-race shoes and ran. Well, as much as Pickle would let me. Not because it was on a training program. Not because I needed to burn some calories. Tonight I ran because I can. I ran because it is a gift. I ran because I had to.

I ran because that’s all I know to do right now.

Sans watch. Sans GPS. Just me and my thoughts. I have no idea how far I went, though I could hazard a guess, nor how long it took me. All I know is I ran.

(And walked a little, too. Pickle likes that better. We’re compromising.)

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Finding My Running Legs — Again

Since I started running, that has always been a safe place. It was where I went to process what was going on in my life. It was where I went when I needed “me” time. It was where I celebrated victories and mourned losses.

And after Penelope died, I was certain running would help me heal. And, once I got the A-OK from the doctor, I was so excited to get back out on the trail.

But, then something happened. I got back out there. And it was different. It didn’t feel like my safe place anymore; it wasn’t comforting to get back into my old routine. Rather, it was emotionally painful — almost to the point of being physically painful.

I periodically went for walks, and I tentatively returned to the gym. At the gym, the same thing happened. It just wasn’t the same. And no amount of T2.5 “counseling” time could fix it.

So, I turned away from it. I learned long ago that if something wasn’t good for my soul, there was no way I could make it good for my body or my mind. 

So, I took some more time off. Some more frustrated time off. For a while, I couldn’t figure out why I was having such a hard time returning to my routine. But then, in the middle of writing Penelope’s story, it dawned on me. 

Those things? The gym. My favorite running path.  They were exactly as I had left them when the doctor told me I needed to back off the running and weight lifting. But me? I was different. Very, very different. 

And I needed something different — healing in a different way — from the gym and from running. But I wasn’t ready for it yet.

You see, the last time I’d done all of those things? I was carrying Penelope. And the grief was too fresh, too raw to be able to fully put myself back into it.

Then, I started writing a book. A book about Penelope Joy and all of the amazing things she taught me — taught all of us — in her short 38 days. And it was cathartic.

And, slowly, as I wrote the words and re-read them over and over, my healing truly began. Then, I returned to the gym to hit the treadmill for some short run/walks, and I started lifting (lightly) weights again.

And one cold, cold Saturday morning I  bundled up and strapped on my running spikes. And I went for a cold run.

A Saturday run

Scenes from my chilly Saturday morning run.

I had the trail pretty much to myself that day — it was that cold. And step after step, I found my running legs. I wasn’t as fast as I once was. And there were a lot more walking breaks that I’d have liked. But I was out there. And it felt so good.

As the “Polar Vortex” hit, I was sent back indoors for my workouts. I don’t enjoy the treadmill — never have — but it was better than nothing, and the routine was nice.

Then, January Thaw came for a visit. And it got a bit warmer. Which meant I could head back outside. So, yesterday, joined by a friend, I hit the trail again.

I felt every single muscle as they compensated for the uneven, icy trail. But between chatting and enjoying our time outside, we ended up getting in just over 7.5 miles. It was definitely a run/walk — I still have a long way to go — but it was just what my body needed, just what my soul needed.

And, so, I’m starting to feel that old passion return. Even Mr. B sees it — commenting on the dopey grin I had on my face for most of the day after my run yesterday. My excitement was clearly showing.

Running is starting, once again, to feel like a safe place for me. It is not an unchanged place; it’s different now. I am different now. I have different goals as a runner than I used to have — just as I have different goals for myself, my life.

But, for now, I’m just going to enjoy being back out there, taking it step by step.

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Trying to Process What Happened in Boston

As we all know, I ran a half marathon on Saturday.

Ready to race

Getting ready to race.

A half marathon that I was having a lot of mixed feelings about, truth be told. I sat down a couple of times Sunday to write my recap of the race. But, I was having trouble finding the right words to describe it. “I’ll write it Monday, once my hips stop hurting,” I told myself. (Because, heaven knows, you can’t write when your hips hurt.)

And then …

Monday happened.

And, as a runner, a marathoner, I felt like someone attacked my family. Runners have come to be a huge part of my community, of who I’ve become. Some of my dearest friends and supporters are runners. As a group, they’ve changed my life. And those spectators? Cheering at the finish line? They’re the ones who pull us through. They’re the ones there at every single race, cheering our names, clapping their hands and bringing us home — whether they’re our family and friends or total strangers.

The unthinkable had happened.

I was in shock. I think, maybe, I’m still in shock.

To sit down and write a race recap for my own half marathon seems … I don’t know … silly. If I couldn’t find the right words before, I am now completely speechless. All I can think about when I try to write about my half marathon is when I ran across that finish line.

As a distance runner, when I see that finish line, something inside of me lets go. All the pain from the miles before, all the exhaustion of the months of training, all the worry about the race … they all just disappear. And a sense of happiness and pride and relief spreads through my body. I melt. And then, at the finish line, I see Mr. B’s smiling face chanting “Go, Kimi, go!” And my friends and family cheering me on — right under that clock that says “You did it; you’re here.” And it’s a feeling of pure and utter elation that takes over. Oh, yeah, and there’s love — knowing that my friends and family are there to celebrate that moment with me.

Mr. B and me on race day

My support crew — and my biggest cheerleader.

That finish-line memory was still fresh for me, is still so fresh for me. And that makes Monday’s tragedy even harder to comprehend and process.

All I can see in my head is those runners running toward their families and friends at the finish line in Boston — a smile on their faces because they’re there, they did it. For some, a lifelong dream just to be on that course. For others, a chance to do better than the year before. Weeks, months, years of sacrifice — for the runners and their families. And I see their friends and families — smiles on their faces, so proud and full of love for their runner. All that love, pride, joy and excitement.

Stolen.

To have all of that taken away in an instant. It’s heart breaking. And confusing. And … so many other things.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, crying about it. Thankfully Mr. B was home. We watched some news. I cried. And then, we turned off the TV and left the apartment. I needed space; I needed air.

So, we went to pick up my race charm from Saturday’s race.

Saturday I ran for Pickle. Always for Pickle.

Saturday I ran for Pickle. Always for Pickle.

I expressed to Mr. B that I’m so sad that these types of things happen in the world. Added to a difficult hate-filled experience earlier in my day, it was a lot of hate and sadness for me to take in for one day. And I told him I’m scared about the world we’re bringing a precious, precious child into. As usual, Mr. B’s wisdom was just what I needed to hear:

“This is exactly why we do need to bring a child into this world; this world needs another kind person.”

And, so it is on this that I try to focus. Even amidst the horror and tragedy and hate, there is beauty and kindness. And givers. And sharers. And helpers.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me: ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'” ~Mr. Rogers

What’s more, there is always running. There will always be running.

There is always running.

There is always running.

Tonight I laced up my still-muddy-from-the-race shoes and ran. Well, as much as Pickle would let me. Not because it was on a training program. Not because I needed to burn some calories. Tonight I ran because I can. I ran because it is a gift. I ran because I had to.

I ran because that’s all I know to do right now.

Sans watch. Sans GPS. Just me and my thoughts. I have no idea how far I went, though I could hazard a guess, nor how long it took me. All I know is I ran.

(And walked a little, too. Pickle likes that better. We’re compromising.)

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Stuff and Things

A roundup of randamity. Also known as the randomness of what’s been going on in my life and what’s been floating around in my head:

  • I ran a hole in my favorite pair of running shoes. Sadly, my go-to running store didn’t have any in my size (not my favorite shoe, not any shoe). After way too many emotions about a pair of shoes, I tracked down one pair in the city. Unfortunately, the colors are … well … they speak for themselves:
New shoes

Love the shoes. Don’t love the colors.

  • My favorite springtime running jacket — from my first half marathon (in 2011) — no longer fits comfortably over a growing Baby B belly and, mostly, growing Baby B boobs. I zipped it up Saturday and could barely breathe; there was NO WAY I was going to be able to run in it:
Running jacket not fitting

I am the most sad about this jacket (temporarily) not fitting me. (Apparently the mirror needs cleaning — please ignore.)

  • This weekend, I was due for nine miles as part of my Gazelle Girl Half Marathon training. I was really hoping to get in 10 miles, though — knowing that I could get in 10 at least a couple of times between now and April 13 would leave me feeling more comfortable about the race run. Well, Mr. B wanted to go for a run Saturday morning. Always happy to oblige, I said “of course!” And we went out for two miles together. After he left for work, I laced up the new shoes and headed out for my planned training run. I got in my 10 miles. But, it wasn’t pretty. The first eight miles were good. I felt good — mentally and physically. But at about 8.5, everything started hurting. And my IT band gave me the first fit it’s ever given me since I started running. It was horrible pain. But I limped/ran/jogged/walked through my last 1.5 miles to make it to 10. Only when I was driving home did it hit me that I’d actually run 12 miles Saturday. No wonder it was so hard on my legs: it’s been a long, long time since I’ve run that much in one day. I’m proud of my 10 miles. Slow and painful as it was (for me), I’m proud of that run. Because I finished it. For me and the little one:
on my run

A smile at mile 7. Before everything started screaming.

  • I am blessed with the most wonderful husband. He’s kind, compassionate, generous and loving. And he puts up with a lot of emotions from me (which have only been made more “interesting” lately). But, best of all? He gives the best IT band massage in all the land. It hurts oh-so bad. He doesn’t even get mad at me when I  accidentally smack at him when it hurts too much. He’s so much better than my foam roller.
  • This weekend Mr. B and I head north to spend Easter with my family. I’m so very much looking forward to it. I’ve been feeling homesick lately — a feeling I’m thinking is only going to get worse as the pregnancy continues. (It’s SO WEIRD going through all of this without my mom by my side.) There will be lots of family time and lots of yummy food. And Son-Rise Service at my mom’s church. I’m not an overly churchy person, but there is just something about Easter that I’ve always enjoyed. My favorite songs are Easter songs. Especially these ones:
  • Since I’ve told people that Mr. B and I are expecting a darling Baby B, I’ve had a lot of interesting reactions. While the reactions have been mostly happy and excited, I’ve heard my fair share of “Wow! You work fast!” — as if our family planning decisions are anyone’s business but our own. It’s quite bothersome that anyone would want to steal one tiny ounce of the joy and over-the-moon excitement that Mr. B and I are feeling. Letting it roll off my skin feels so good. Because we couldn’t love this baby more. And, like our entire love story, Baby B is happening at exactly the right time — for us.
  • I’ve also had several people wonder about how I feel about pregnancy weight gain. “After all that hard work you put in to lose weight, you’re just going to gain it all back.” That’s the most ridiculous statement I’ve ever heard because:
    • Part of the reason I wanted to lose weight and get healthy was so that I’d be able to have a baby (or babies) some day. Because I wanted a healthy pregnancy and to give my child the best possible start he/she could have.
    • I lost 100 pounds. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to gain back 100 pounds during this pregnancy.
    • Getting my life in order, taking care of myself, eating right and losing weight has given me all of the tools I need to take care of myself before, during AND after this pregnancy. For me and my family.
    • Whatever weight I’ll gain because of this baby is weight I’m happy to carry. Because I’m growing an actual human being. And I am proud of what my body is doing for this baby.
    • My weight gain (or lack thereof) during this pregnancy is no one’s business by mine, my husband’s and my doctor’s. Trust me, I’m all over it. I do enough worrying for all of us.
  • My tiredness is starting to fade. Instead of “needing” a nap every day when I get home from work, I’m operating on just two or three naps a week. Sadly, the bazillion trips to the bathroom a day are not waning. I drink a lot of water, so I’ve always been a frequent flier to the bathroom. But this? It’s ridiculous.
  • I am already so very much in love with this baby.
  • Some days, at the end of the day, when all is quiet and life is calm, I find myself just sitting on the couch thinking about my life. Full of disbelief that this really is my life. Married to my best friend — and the best person I’ve ever had the pleasure to know (not to mention lucky enough to get to spend my life with). Expecting our first child. Working in a job I love that teaches me something new every day. Surrounded by family who are friends and friends who are family — people who want the best for me, who bring out the best in me. Even on the worst of days, my life is blessed so big. And I am so humbly and unbelievably grateful.

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