A month ago, I laughingly "determined" that Everett would not be born until Mother's Day or after so all of my children would be alive for this one Mother's Day. No one, not even me, really thought it would happen. And here I sit, May 13th, 2 days after my official due date, Everett still rolling around, sinking further and further into my pelvis. On Mother's Day. And in the midst of being so incredibly thankful, SO incredibly thankful, I am still terrified.
My daily devotional aptly reminded me that nothing is impossible with God... And the scripture reference wasn't even the typical "Nothing is impossible with God"' it was about Sarah having a son in a year, despite the seeming impossibility. And I thought immediately "Stop messing with me God". I somehow feel like other mothers who are better mothers than I am would take the fact that i am still pregnant and the devotion as a sign of God's promise to heal Everett. I see it as a sign of love and faithfulness. Of His compassion towards me and Keith.
Because I can't hang my hat on a miracle. I can't bank on it. I'm sure that makes my faith weak. I'm sure that means trust is not one of my strong suits. But I'm not sure my heart can take anymore breaking.
Most everything is ready. All the bags are fully stocked, they simply need to go in the car. The urns are here. The birth plan is set. My living will is written. But I can't bring myself to buy Everett's receiving blanket or "go home" outfit. I can't look at them without tears. I can't find something pure enough. White enough. Without stupid safari creatures. Without lace. That's soft as fleece. Nothing is good enough for him "to go to heaven in". So I keep putting it off, sure that God won't let him be born if I don't have the outfit. And I'm terrified to get it.
I'm irrationally afraid that as soon as the debit card is swiped, my water will break and "it will all begin". I can't begin to describe how much I want to hold him. Much like any other expectant mother. For 22 weeks I envisioned my perfect family of 3 rambunctious, loving, blonde headed little babies. For 8 or so of those weeks I wondered if I could actually handle another baby. And then for about 6 weeks I was overwhelmed by the thought of another baby. And then for about 6 weeks I was really excited. I've always wanted three kids. I've always wanted a bigger-than-average family.
And for 18 weeks, I've been preparing to meet my Everett and know him on earth for only a few minutes, if we get that. So I'm petrified to be "Chrisitianly hopeful and expectant" of a miracle. There is nothing like losing a child. Nothing that hurts so deeply. Nothing that destroys a part of a parent. Nothing that aches so intensely. Nothing that feels more like punishment.
I wonder if this is my penance. Is this what I get for my sin? Is this what I get for my doubt? Is this why I get for my "prodigalness"? Is this my fault? I know it isn't. I know it isn't. I know it is Satan planting seeds. Yet the thoughts still appear.
And the I wonder if this is God affirming what a terrible mother I am. Could I seriously not handle another child? Am I such a bad mother that my son's life has been stripped away or cut excruciatingly short? Have I not loved my 2 boys enough so this is my lesson? Take a son away and see how you like that? Am I such a bad mother that I couldn't love Everett the way he should be loved? Am I? And if not, why take him? Why steal my baby? I can love him, Lord, I promise I can. I can love him. Please, please, please. Please don't steal my baby's life. I can love him. I can.
And I am irrationally afraid of buying his receiving blankets. Or buying his "go home" outfit. I've cried in TJ Maxx, Target, Babies R Us, WalMart, and while online. I want desperately for the last few days to be only happy. To be only joyful. And yet I find myself sad and scared. Thinking every move will induce contractions. Thinking every sneeze will break my water. Thinking buying the stupid outfit will somehow signal to God my readiness.
So I haven't done it. I haven't found it. I haven't bought it. Because I'm not ready to face this. 18 weeks in and I'm not ready to face it. Boot Camp makes Marines in less than 18 weeks. Students complete classes in 18 weeks. Couch potatoes run 5Ks with training that is less than 18 weeks.
But I am not a Marine. I am not studying anything. I am not training for a race.
I am a mother.
Holding on to the last few days of her son.
And there is no amount of time that prepares you for that.
Oh my gracious. I sit here and read, and I am so sad. So very very sad. For you, for me, for our crappy situations. I will pray for you, for both of our little boys. And I know you are a good mother because you still hold that baby in your womb despite prognosis. You chose life. That is always right. And if I may, I will recommend getting him an Angel Dear outfit to go home in. The softest most perfect fabric in the world. That's what I'm getting. ;) Prayers from VA.
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