Keepin' It Real: Expectations

Last night, as I rubbed Gideon's tummy in the dark at bedtime, he said, "I really hope the baby comes out safely.  I hope it doesn't get sick like the other babies.  Why did the other babies have to get sick?"  To which I dumbly responded, "Me, too, Gideon.  Me, too.  I don't know why the other babies got sick.  I don't understand, either."

And my heart was gripped with the fear I've kept at bay since early on in the pregnancy.  I felt overwhelmed by the true sadness and sense of loss this young boy has already endured - I want so desperately for him to know the joy of a happy, healthy baby, to protect him from any more such loss at this young age.  And, of course, I felt the heavy, almost unbearable weight of the long, 20-something weeks stretching out in front of us - and all that could and will still happen - before I hold this baby in my arms - five years after holding Gideon for the first time (yeah, let's not even talking about having a 5-year-old in the house).

It's been a bit of a lonely road, these last few months of unexpected expectation, as we still build a community here and friends and family elsewhere seem far away and absorbed (naturally) in their own lives - no one really in this exact moment of desperate hoping and fearful not-knowing, pain and loss still more recent than joy and gain.  But, honestly, what would I say if someone did call or write to check in - that my desperate pleas to God are interspersed with ugly, selfish threats.  That I'm still so walled in that I can't even cry, even as I type this.  And what could they say in the face of my desperation, doubt, and fear?  No, it's easier - and perhaps better - to not have to hash out the gamut of emotions I run on a daily basis.   And yet, somedays, when it's quiet and the baby hasn't moved for a couple of hours and my mind starts to play tricks on me, the loneliness creeps in...

Certainly, Jeremy and I are complicit in our mutual silence - we're terrified to be happy, fearful of being made fools once again for our trust and optimism.  But we do manage baby-steps of faith and hopefulness occasionally - this weekend I went into the one unorganized corner of the garage - a small stack of boxes and tools and plastic tarps - and retrieved the dusty baby bathtub that's been sitting there for a year now, awaiting a trip to a resale shop.  Gideon helped me wash it in our bathtub and lay it on a mat on the floor to dry.  We've sorted the "baby books" out of Gideon's bookshelves and piled them into plastic tub in the guest bedroom, along with a few baby toys and the nursing pillow also retrieved from a box in the garage - things just a few months ago destined to be sold to some other young, hopeful mother.  Yesterday, I made a list of boy names (we've already thought a bit about girl names).

Yet despite the loneliness, fear, and doubt, a feeling of miraculousness still manages to creep in - and, for the most part, triumph - every day I spend with this baby.  I loved being pregnant with Gideon and have longed for this feeling again, but with the wonder and reverence I feel with every kick, punch, twist and turn inside, I realize how much I'd come to believe I would never be here again.  It feels surreal to see my burgeoning belly in the mirror; I marvel at the blue veins creeping up and around the bulge and think the experience seems even more precious this time around.  There is another small life inside me - finally, once again.  The awe of this knowledge never fades and is just about as paralyzing, stupefying, dumbfounding as my fear could be.  Either way, regardless of what I think and do, we inch closer, day by day, to a future we simply cannot know.  We can only hope.  And pray.  And ask you to continue to do the same.

Gideon holding his cousin Haley in Texas in June 

From our Gideon-directed family photo shoot