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loving well through miscarriage and loss.

Of all the conversations we might be having as women and friends, the subject of miscarriage seems to tuck itself discreetly into the background in most circles—yet so many of us have experienced (or walk closely with someone who has experienced) this kind of loss. I began posting subtly on the subject on IG a few months ago, and I was impacted by the number of brave women who reached out to me privately to share their own stories. I felt their aches as I have felt my own, the tension of miscarriage both trying and lonely. The common message: “Me, too. And it mattered. These babies mattered. They still do.”

We have lost three babies to miscarriage: one in 2012 and two this year. They have all mattered greatly to us, and each loss has impacted us differently. It isn’t easy to walk around with an ailment that others cannot see, and at the same time, the losses feel so personal that it almost seems taboo to talk about them. I have danced this dance over the past number of months—wanting to share for the sake of being known and better understood, and also wanting to keep our experiences private and quiet where they might be “safe.”

I don’t yet have great knowledge and expertise to offer on how to cope well with this delicate experience, though I’m learning more as I move through it again myself. Instead, what I’m able to share in this season are some of the helpful ways close friends and family have come alongside us as we’ve navigated our losses this year.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, and in honor of the precious baby we would have loved to welcome a few weeks from now, I pray this list is helpful to you (or to those caring for you) as you grieve or support someone grieving through miscarriage.

8 Ways to Support Someone Who Has Experienced Loss:

  1. Provide a meal. This might seem contrary, as we’re so accustomed to bringing a meal to someone who is home caring for a new baby, but the gift of a healthy, prepared meal is one of the most tangible ways to love someone who is grieving (and also healing physically) from pregnancy loss. Not having to cook or to prepare a meal for family members is an incredible grace to a grieving mama.
  2. Write a heartfelt note. When we lost our baby this spring, I took the greatest comfort from two sentences written thoughtfully by a caring friend. Those truthful, grace-filled words have stayed with me and provided peace when little else would do. Simple is best. It’s helpful to refrain from sharing thoughts along the lines of, “At least you know you can get pregnant,” or “At least you have children already.” “Maybe it was for the best,” “This, too, shall pass,” or “You’ll be OK,” (while meant to be encouraging) can be challenging to receive from a place of grief, even when delivered with the best of intentions.
  3. Offer to provide care for other children/provide space for the parents to process, grieve or rest. One of hardest aspects of losing babies while caring for other children is not being able to take pause. It’s a burden lifted to know that your kiddos are in good hands while you take some time to process or rest. Not unlike a full-term pregnancy, miscarriage can leave a mom working through hormones and physical changes that require plenty of extra sleep and emotional space for some time after.
  4. Be present. Sometimes all a mama wants after a loss is to be alone, but miscarriage creates lonely feelings that can linger. Checking in to see if you can swing by with coffee or to chat might be a welcome distraction. If you get a “no” the first time around, make a note to touch base again before too long.
  5. Bring/send an item as a meaningful reminder of the baby’s life. Acknowledging that a loved one’s baby existed and mattered is such a significant way of extending care after loss. A baby blanket, baby ring, or other small token that belongs only to that baby can be kept as a memory when little else feels tangible to parents and siblings.
  6. Create a special item/artwork that will prompt a sweet memory. After one of our losses, an artist friend gifted a simple silhouette of a baby being held, and it was a personal and beautiful image to remind me that I did carry our sweet baby for a time, even if it wasn’t as I’d hoped.
  7. Check in. Help your friend or loved one to know that you haven’t forgotten their loss or their baby, and that they are not isolated in remembering. A simple note or text from time to time…a few weeks later, a few months later, on their due date and/or on the anniversary of their loss, will mean they are not carrying the memory of their sweet baby alone.
  8. Remember that empathy is the real deal. Feeling known and understood is so healing after miscarriage and loss, and to hold space for someone else through your presence or prayer or remembrance is huge. Offering a listening ear and a safe place to share without judgement for the good/bad/ugly is one of the best ways to love someone well in the trenches.

If you are struggling after the loss of a baby, you are not alone. And if you need a safe place to share your story or your thoughts, my inbox is always open. For an excellent resource on grief and hope after miscarriage and loss, I highly recommend Grace Like Scarlett, which you can find at your favorite major book retailer or on amazon.com.

“God blesses those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Mt. 5.4

grace and peace to you, dear ones.

mm

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Crosby Eames–a birth story, part 4.

I’ve been anxious to tell this last part of your birth story, baby boy, wanting to be right back in that space with you on the day you were born. I pulled up our hospital playlist to bring me closer to those hours before you came, and I hit shuffle, my headphones in as I sit here in the coffee shop pounding out keys to you. The first song to come streaming out: “Good, Good Father.” A holy, sweet reminder that God is always good, no matter what. It’s who he is. It’s every bit true.

And now? “No Longer Slaves.” He never ceases to amaze me.

“I am surrounded…by the arms of the Father. I am surrounded…by songs of deliverance. We’ve been liberated…from our bondage. We’re the sons and the daughters…Let us sing our freedom!”

These words. These faithful, beating words do take me back. I sang them out, loud, on the day you were born, and my heart sings them again now:

“You split the sea so I could walk right through it! My fears are drowned in perfect love. You rescued me and I will stand and sing, ‘I AM A CHILD OF GOD.'”

Freedom. Deliverance. Drowned fears. God making a way for you. He did that very thing, and in doing so, he made a way for me, too.

The hours carried on that morning, your birthday. Around 11:45am, I looked at the clock and summoned my inner doula to make note of how my body was transitioning. This happens when a mama is very close to delivery, somewhere between seven and ten centimeters along. I remember that moment well. I was kneeling on the floor, arms propped up. Your daddy, behind and to my right, was supporting me through the next contraction. I made note of the time and thought to myself, “So close now. You’ll meet your baby by 12:30pm. 1pm at the latest.” I felt like I had so little left to give in labor. The thought that you were so very close was motivating, but my body was beyond tired. I asked your daddy to pray, and he did. Those words moved me through the next wave, and I begged God for help as another round came.

At that time, I also asked to be checked, and our nurse confirmed that I was completely dilated. Surely you would arrive so soon! She called our doctor, who made his way from the office to the hospital quickly. His presence in the room was a welcome addition–it meant we were very, very close.

For the hours that followed, I wandered–mentally, spiritually, physically, emotionally, through every possible feeling. I tried everything I could think of to work through contractions and help you to arrive. Nurses brought in a squat bar. We used the birthing ball. We tried walking, dancing, squatting, rocking and anything that my body moved to do naturally. You felt so close and so far away.

Something beautifully spiritual happened to me in that space of desperation and waiting–a moment I still can’t do justice to if I try. I had trusted God with ALL of me that it was possible I could deliver you without pain, but instead, I was in the most intense pain of my life. This is a hard part to tell, and I say it carefully, but I really did believe that I might die that afternoon. I had never felt so close to something out of this world as I did then. Maybe that feels dramatic now, or maybe I had a sense of what God was doing in a story that would have gone another direction without Him. I was alone in that room in the most powerful way. Your daddy was there, and Becky and our doctor and the nurses, too. But there was a space in time when it really felt like it was just you and me and God laboring together. Everything else fell away. I felt so broken, so in need. It was one of the most sacred moments of my life.

I moved from the floor after those seconds or minutes, trying as best I could to push through what was obviously not the end. I lay in the bed so drained of my own capacity, and I can say with confidence that God brought us through every single moment from then until you arrived. I was not under my own power at all, but His. God delivered you into this world, not me.

After several hours without much change, our nurse suggested that I try moving to the shower. She thought that might give me a sense of relief that would be enough to move us forward. I felt so weak and so discouraged, but in a moment of clarity I remembered that you had always moved so fluidly in my belly whenever you felt warm water on my skin. There was no reason not to try it, aside from my unbelief in my ability to move safely from the bed across the room. Your daddy and our nurse supported my walk there, and once we reached the shower, I tried to let go of my own thoughts and allow our bodies to do the work. I could hardly squat or stand. Maybe two minutes into this new scenario, I felt you move. And I mean, move. The sensation of you being stuck was suddenly gone, and now I thought I might just deliver you right onto the shower floor. I yelled in that moment–a yell that caused our nurse to pull the emergency cord and sent half a dozen nurses, our doctor and our photographer all into the room in one instant.

My feet barely touched the floor as arms gathered around and supported me back to the bed. I imagine now how ridiculous it all must have looked, had I been a fly on the wall. I didn’t care at all. I just wanted to meet you, and also not to deliver you onto the floor. My sense of urgency was valid, but perhaps alarmist. There was time to get me back into bed and positioned to deliver you, with maybe ten to fifteen minutes to spare.

Our doctor was calm, careful and patient, as he’s always been. Your cord was wrapped around you and up over your head, your hand was tucked snuggly in a fist up against the side of your face. As you stretched out into the world, that same arm reached out into the sky like a victorious punch. I felt exactly that way, too, precious boy.

I couldn’t have you in my arms fast enough. We have dozens of pictures to prove it. I’ve never been so relieved, maybe ever. You were here, safe. It took some time for your color to change, but all I could think was how miraculously you’d arrived. When everything seemed to stand in the way, God had brought you the way I had begged and pleaded he would–whole, healthy, without intervention. I am still in awe and amazed of His goodness in all of it.

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Daddy announced your gender, then cut your umbilical cord after a few minutes while I fixated on every last detail of you. All nine pounds, seven ounces of resilient, peaceful, mysterious you were now tucked in, skin to skin, with me. I thought I’d broken already, but the truth is, I had more breaking to do.

After you were born, we waited to tell anyone your name until your gramma could bring Henry and Eloise to meet you. We wanted them to be the first to know. “This is your new baby brother,” we told them. Henry cheered at the news of a boy. Eloise melted at the sight of you. I’m pretty sure I just cried and cried.

“His name is Crosby Eames,” we told them. “Fwizbee?” Eloise asked. “Crosby,” your daddy and I smiled.

You entered the world every bit your name that day, Crosby Eames. Crosby means “one who goes to the cross” or “goes to the city with crosses” and Eames means “prosperous protector.” Together we had gone to the cross, sweet baby, and our Prosperous Protector delivered us both.

I will never forget the details of your birthday, precious boy, nor the journey we traveled to get to it. God hasn’t stopped using you to refine me since that day, and I suspect He never will. I love you more than I could possibly say. I love the God we serve more freely and fiercely because of you. Not only did He answer every prayer of mine in the way He knew best, but He wove in sweet surprises and deepened joy at every turn.

As I finish telling your birth story, a new song is playing from your playlist, and it’s perfect:

“For the danger in these waves, for the thrill adventure craves, for the safety found in laying down our days. For a hope that’s on the rise, for the clearing of the skies, for the way that you delay and then surprise…

Oh you were so kind to answer my prayer. So good, so loving, so aware that you would move heaven and earth…

And I sing a hymn of praise for all you’ve done for me, and your love is in the wind and tumbling o’er the sea. So kind to me…”

God has been so kind to me. Your life changes ours and makes it better. It always will.

love you forever and ever, and then a little bit more,

mama

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crosby eames–a birth story, part 3.

On the morning of your due date, I woke up early-ish after a night of on and off contractions. My forty week appointment was scheduled for 10:40 that morning, and I had really hoped I wouldn’t make it to the office, but we were still just biding time. My contractions continued to challenge me and felt more and more intense. Still, I told your daddy to go ahead to work, assuming the feelings were more of the same and not wanting to slow down another day for everyone around me.

Twenty minutes after we’d said goodbye, I texted your dad and asked him to come back home. Suddenly everything was kicking into high gear, and I was sure your arrival was imminent. Everything about those first few hours seemed so much like the morning I delivered your big sister, so I started to feel like things could move quickly. I messaged our photographer, who moved heaven and earth to get her five kiddos covered so that she could join us at home. Daddy rushed into the driveway. Gramma took care of Henry and Eloise as they woke up, while I took a shower and got ready; surges were coming every three minutes, growing stronger all of the time.

To say I’d anticipated the contents of your birthday would be a great understatement. I had dreamt about each phase of those hours for so long—to have them upon us felt surreal and beautiful. I wanted to soak in every detail, and I’m so thankful we have images that capture what we were all feeling and doing that morning as we waited for you. I can look at them now and bring myself back there, savoring the sacred space between you being tucked safely away inside and your skin brushing air and meeting light for the very first time.

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I knew you were near, but I didn’t know what was coming. You felt close enough that I decided we should relocate ourselves to the hospital, thinking we might be meeting you in a matter of an hour or two. There, I’d have to have IV antibiotics during labor if time allowed, and honestly, I was hopeful to avoid them. I did my best to gauge what my body was telling me—what you were telling me, and we said our slow goodbyes to your brother, sister and gramma between contractions. At some point, daddy loaded the car and helped me in. The looooong trek to the hospital was actually a very short drive ;), and I was preparing myself to get from the car to the maternity floor on foot, assuming we’d arrive and meet you shortly after.

We stopped for a contraction or two as we headed down the hospital corridor. The elevator ride up felt long. I was bracing myself for both the good and challenging parts of a hospital birth. Of course there were monitors, a *brief* debate over a hospital gown (just not my thing), and papers to sign for IV treatment, etc. I hadn’t looked forward to any of these elements, and I tried hard just to focus on breathing you closer while the room picked up speed around me.

Much to my chagrin (and surprise), I was not as close to delivery as I’d hoped. I resigned to the IV setup and our first round of medication for Group B Strep—a decision I didn’t take lightly. The silver lining was my ability to unhook from the machine once the first full round was administered. I moved around the room as best I could with the IV line in tow, and after a while, was so grateful for my (our) detached freedom to roam. We’d been admitted at 9am on the nose, measuring 5-6 cm.

I haven’t touched on this much in your story to this point, but a month or so before your due date, your daddy and I decided we’d be welcoming you into the world without a doula—a very hard decision for us to make. Our friend and doula from previous births was no longer going to be in the area, and we landed on trusting our combined experiences birthing Henry and Eloise to equip us for your birth as a team on our own. It was a leap of faith, really, as it is with all things related to birth. I knew I could rely on your daddy to be very supportive in that space, and he knew that we could trust my body and my instincts to guide us through to your delivery. Becky, our photographer, provided a calm, gracious presence to us a well, offering her peaceful spirit and words of encouragement to fill spaces where needed. Details were falling into place as we got to know our incredibly supportive nurse, who was also integral in facilitating the environment I’d hope to cultivate as I labored with you.

So now, the hard part. I’ve known for months that I can’t put adequate words to the story that God had woven for us on the day of your delivery. I just could not have imagined the way things unfolded. His stories are always better than ours, even when they seem far from what we’ve drawn up in our minds. God taught me that again on the day you were born—a lesson I didn’t know I really needed. He has done that so faithfully through you time and again, sweet babe. Truly, laboring with you is one of the greatest honors of my life…

My contractions came like the constant pulse of a freight train driving forward and picking up speed. I couldn’t slow it down if I tried. We listened to the playlist I’d prepared for your arrival—eighteen songs in total, but to my amazement, only six or seven repeating themselves over and over as hours went by. We slow danced then. We swayed near the bed, your daddy and I, me belting out lines to “Trust in You” as a declaration—an anthem—over you, over me, over that room and as an outward confession of my hope and brokenness and desperation when it felt like the moment to meet you might never come:

“When you don’t move the mountains I’m needing you to move, when you don’t part the waters I wish I could walk through, when you don’t give the answers, as I cry out to you, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust in you…”

“I want what you want Lord and nothing less.”

“You are my strength and comfort, you are my steady hand, you are my firm foundation—the rock on which I stand. Your ways are always higher, your plans are always good, there’s not a place where I’ll go you’ve not already stood.”

I meant them. I meant every word. We had prayed for weeks that God would grant us a smooth, quick, uneventful delivery. We had even prayed in boldness that my labor would be without pain if that was God’s will. I know that sounds crazy, but it didn’t feel crazy to me—it made perfect sense. We serve a God who is capable of ANYTHING, and we know a Savior who has redeemed us and overcome the powers of sin and death. Nothing was outside of the realm of possible. Nothing.

As I cried out those words in that hospital room, as we swayed back and forth, rocked on the ball, moved from place to place and position to position, I continued to believe that God could do it. He could grant me a delivery free of pain if He wanted to. He could bring you into the world swiftly, without any hiccups.

But He didn’t.

Now before you go on reading, please put any doubt about what I’m saying out of your head, precious child. Your birth was one of the most incredible, spiritual experiences of my life. God delivered me from doubt and grew my trust in Him greatly as I delivered you. Wait and see. I’ve saved the very best part for last, little bean.

all my love,

mama

(All images in this post credited to BeeTree Studios)

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crosby eames–a birth story, part 2.

Having carried your brother and sister each to thirty nine weeks and one day, and given their sizes at birth (9 lbs. and 9 lbs. 2 oz., respectively), I never imagined carrying you past that timeline. I knew it was possible we’d wait longer for you, but I was telling myself we’d get to mid-September and be ready to go. This is probably how I coped (quite happily) through the heat of summer and the start of a new school year and changes galore. You were coming soon, and surely before month’s end. You were “due” on September 29th.

On the 12th of September, I started laboring with you. I wasn’t confident at first, but when my contractions increased in intensity and grew closer and closer together, I was at least sure that we were making progress toward your birthday. That week, I messaged our friend and birth photographer four days into “contractions on and off since Monday.” “I’m not sure we’ll see any real movement until next week,” I texted her, “but my gut says to just let you know…” It’s easy to doubt yourself when you’re a doula and you feel unable to predict or determine your own labor, and you kept me guessing, sweet boy. My contractions were legitimate–not stopping after glasses of water or laying on my side like Braxton Hicks, and they continued to move closer and closer together each round, every day. They would feel like progress, and then they’d stop. Some days the surges would go on for a few hours, and at their longest, I labored for 16 hours, sure we were nearing our trip to the hospital, only for my contractions to dissipate in a discouraging and uneventful end.

I felt like a roller coaster. I repeatedly felt like the boy who cried “Wolf!” texting the same few who needed to know, almost every time I thought we were nearing your entrance. I was emotionally and physically and mentally exhausted, and I leaned heavily on the grace of those around me to get through the days and nights, trying to prepare for you, trying to be a good mama to Henry and Eloise, and trying to keep myself focused on the things I’d been believing and praying so diligently for as we approached your birth.

It seems worth mentioning that you were breech for a long time in utero, and after trying every possible technique I knew or could get my hands on for about five weeks, you turned obligingly and in your own timing at thirty six weeks. There were many times after that day (I’m pretty sure you turned in the early morning hours while I was only sort of awake to notice 😉 ) that you seemed settled in more of a transverse position–not ideal for a natural birth but certainly still capable of shifting in a matter of days or weeks. I felt so aware of you then, as I had all through my pregnancy. It was beautiful and trying, as I prayed and prayed over you, your alignment and your passage into this world.

I was holding steadfastly to the truth that God could bring us both through your birth without pain or incident. I know it probably sounds crazy, but truly, believing that God could do miraculous things is what I know for certain carried us both through. His promises, read, prayed, spoken, repeated over you, were like manna day after day. I needed something to cling to when I would labor and then not progress, and while I may never be able to adequately articulate what God did in my heart through you in those weeks before you came, I am absolutely confident that my deep, deep place of desperation in the pressing and waiting only drew me closer to our good, good Father. I am so grateful to you for that!

In all of this, there were so many factors playing into the dynamic–and into your story. Gramma Teresa was making her way to us, your daddy was working in his new role over an hour away, we were trying to enter into new fall routines and fitting in as much as we could in the days that came. And did they ever come! I busied myself with your big brother and sister as much as possible, trying to keep things “normal” as I wandered around town having contractions hour after hour, day after day. I was certain my water was just going to break in the middle of things, and I’d stopped caring about that a few days in. All bets were off on timing and circumstances. Thirty nine weeks and one day came and went, and so I carried amazing little you for as many days as God’s grace allowed.

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I have a good many distinct memories of the two and a half weeks leading up to your birth, and for good reason. At night I would sit on the exercise ball in the living room, bouncing gently and rocking back and forth for an hour or more while I talked with your daddy and your gramma about when you might come. I faced adrenaline surges that left me feeling a mile high and then drained to the point of tears. I hashed out worries and silenced fears over and over again. God was exercising spiritual muscles I didn’t even know I had!

What I did know? I knew I was more and more amazed at the idea of you all of the time. You felt close and known, but mysterious and tucked away. I knew I wanted to treasure every bit of time I had with you inside, but also that I felt so beyond ready to meet you and to end the weeks of discomfort and insecurity I faced when my confident mama game wasn’t strong.

While we waited, we continued to stay busy with all that we could. That time with your gramma (my mama) was sweet and sacred. We shopped for fabrics to make you a quilt. (I stood at the counter in labor while they cut samples for us to take home. 🙂 ) We prepped meals. We talked for hours. Gramma was very patient with my impatient self, and she kept up with so much around the house and with your siblings when I couldn’t. Each day, it felt like we were waiting for the most wonderful surprise in the world, and we were! You and Henry and Eloise have all been worth waiting for in more ways than I could ever say.

Does it feel like it’s taking me a long time to get down to your actual birth, sweet baby? It did. Truly. It took a long, long time. But God was so faithful, you know that? All of that work my body was doing, and all of the work you were doing inside to change position and get situated to where you need to be? That was God honoring my every prayer and hope–I just didn’t know it yet!

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As I look back on all of those days in the waiting, I can see where God intervened to afford you (us!) the most healthy, safe birth possible. You didn’t come until you were ready, because you couldn’t physically make your way into position for a long while. I remember telling your daddy and gramma one night that it felt like your head was just completely stuck; I kept trying to press in one exact spot to help you move, but things just wouldn’t budge. For the last week or so that I carried you, I’d get that same sensation over and over again. I can still imagine it now, so distinct and consistent. Little man, you were working so hard!

I don’t know what kept you there for so long, but I do trust that God’s hand was in it, without a doubt. We were in prodromal labor together, working as a team, you and I. As it was, we just kept going, and in God’s grace and timing, there was stamina to move us both through it. There is such a sweetness to it all now as I think on those nights–walking, rocking, pleading, wondering, worshipping, waiting…

Tomorrow, the details of your birthday, Crosby Eames! (And Becky’s pictures…Oh! I can’t wait to share them with you!)

love you deeply,

mama

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crosby eames–a birth story.

Sweet, sweet boy, this is your story. It’s been a long time coming now. There’s so much to share, and I want to do it all justice, so it’s taken me a long time to get to a place of telling it. We’ve been learning each other for a while now, you and I (you are already ten months old!). God has used you mightily to change and shape me–through the waiting and the knowledge of miraculous you, growing; through the wonder of carrying you and the challenge and joy of delivering you into this world. I’ve learned to expect the unexpected on this journey together. You are one of the very best gifts: refining, healing, faith-inducing, freeing, peace-giving, grace-laced, merciful. I pray I’ll tell your tale well…

More than a year and a half ago now, I unfurled my hands. I’d held them clenched, wanting control, for so long. It was nearly Christmas when I finally gave in. Hoping for a new life that might never come, I realized I was missing some of the deep joy God had to offer in our two sweet babes and the dynamic He’d created of our family.

There were four of us. We didn’t feel complete to me, but month after month our story stayed the same. Had I been too greedy? We already had two beautiful children to love, and even on our worst days I could feel and see the good. Still, my heart was begging, pleading with God to meet the picture I had imagined for us. I wanted to trust that this was His picture for us, too, but I was less and less sure all of the time.

One day that in December, something in me broke. This isn’t a lesson I’ve had to learn just once, but many times, as my trust in God’s wisdom grows. How do I presume I know better time and again? I’d finally come to a place of peace about our quad. I gave up on clinging to the idea of you. I still hoped for you, sure, but my will had moved out of the way.

One month later, as it so often seems to be when we lay things down, I felt a shift. We were in Colorado visiting your aunt, uncle and cousins, and your daddy felt a world away as he traveled in Africa for two weeks. I waited extra long, not wanting to get my hopes up, but I could hardly stand it. I made up a grocery list and left Aunt Bridget’s house early that Saturday morning to head to the store, teetering on emotions.

Two lines. I’d journaled to you that morning *just in case* you were somehow already a little miracle growing. And then there you were. Suddenly the you I had dreamed about and grieved over and all but given up was my new reality: a quiet, secret, beautiful reality that came pouring out of God’s grace. The hope that springs up from such a spark, so tiny, carried doubt and pain and wondering away in one beat.

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And so I carried you. You grew in my belly from January to September, teaching me all manners of things about trust and freedom and resting in God along the way. Naturally there were worries, but I had to keep falling back on what my heart said was good. In worship on a Saturday afternoon, only six and a half weeks pregnant with you, I sensed that you would bring freedom. You would be the means God wanted to use to draw me nearer, to drown out fear.

There was plenty of it, actually. That fear we’re taught not to carry, but we do anyway? It crept up at every turn as you grew, and God kept asking me to trust. I had to hold my hands open, even when all I wanted was to bring you close and know every outcome. Nine months is a beautiful amount of time. The weeks fly by, but the days stretch out like taffy. My pregnancy with you was just the same–stretching, yet sweet.

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We arrived at September after squeezing in every possible family adventure and *last* as a family of four. Every weekend drew us closer to your due date, and I anxiously hedged bets on your arrival. How you came was the greatest, most stretching surprise of all…

more tomorrow, sweet love.

mama