year five

These past twelve months have been some of the most difficult for me personally. Since last October, we've miscarried twice, been to doctors, conceived a baby, all followed by a pregnancy marked almost continuously with some brand of illness or discomfort. (Though it has been a healthy pregnancy, and I don't take that for granted.) I've endured many personal, emotional, mental, and physical trials since Josh and I celebrated our last anniversary.

Yet despite my individual mountains, this past year has perhaps been my favorite of my marriage so far. One particular moment stands out.

I'd miscarried for the second time the night before. In the dark hours between night and day, Josh and I cried and held each other in bed, mourning another babe who wouldn't be. Josh still had to go to work that day, and as he was dressing he said that I shouldn't worry about making dinner that night. 

"You take care of yourself today, and tonight we'll go out to eat. Let's go somewhere special," and he thought for a moment, "like Red Robin." 

Let's go somewhere special--like Red Robin. 

I stared at him, knowing that he really meant somewhere not teriyaki take-out, and started laughing. Just hours after we'd lost the promise of a babe, we laughed together--and we laughed hard. 

Josh Wilson makes me laugh when I didn't think I could (and even when he doesn't mean to) and loves me always. Year five proved to me that amid storms, together we can always find laughter, light, and love. Mr. Wilson, how I love you and your fancy restaurant choices. 

final days

I reach 40 weeks on Monday. Part of me says, "It's about damn time!" And the other part feels like I just barely announced this new babe. My doctor and I decided that if the baby lady hasn't come by my due date, then we'll induce next Wednesday (October 28). I am so relieved to have a finite end date, but even so, when I left the doctor this morning I cried.

When we made those definite plans for induction--a this-is-the-latest-you'll-have-this-baby plan--my heart went into mourning. I'm not sad for the end of this pregnancy. In many ways, this pregnancy has been difficult--physically, mentally, and emotionally. But the imminent loss of my daily status quo does make me sad. 

Asher and I have been this every-day duo for over three years. We have our groove. I know him, and he knows me. We're pals, partners, and friends. And a new babe will change everything. 

I am so excited for this baby lady, and I've wanted her for so long. I'm beyond happy that we get to welcome this girl into our family, and I know she'll be exactly what we all need. And still, part of me mourns these almost-gone days of mom, dad, and son only. Our family will change, I will change, Josh will change, Asher will change. 

We're sacrificing our comfortable and predictable life for the unknown, and even though I'm excited and happy, I'm also apprehensive and a tiny bit melancholy. The other day when I was mulling on the paradoxical state of my heart, I remembered something that Gordon B. Hinckley once said: 

You will come to know that what appears today to be a sacrifice will prove instead to be the greatest investment that you will ever make.

I don't know if he was thinking about growing families when he said this, but yes, bringing this baby lady into our family will be a sacrifice for everyone. But I also know, even in my post-appointment tears, that she will be perfect for our family, designed for us and us for her. Any day the Wilsons will go from three members to four. We can't go back. And I know that we won't ever want to.