I couldn’t sleep. 3:30 and wide awake. I laid there for a while trying to will the sleep to come. It is not lost on me that for months I wished for the opportunity to sleep. And here it is and my body is literally rejecting it. But the truth is, I couldn’t quiet my mind.
I’ve always been acutely aware of seasons. You know, those moments in time that define you — a before and after, a then and now. Chapters. Sometimes you know you’re in a season while it’s happening. Sometimes you don’t realize it until it’s ending. But we’re in constant movement. From one season to another. Evolving. Changing. Growing. Learning.
If you’re lucky, you become a sponge. You soak it all in knowing how temporary everything really is. Good. Bad. All of it. Temporary.
But changing seasons, even welcomed change, always feels especially bittersweet to me. A beginning. An ending. Excitement and sadness completely entangled, impossible to separate.
The truth is, sometimes we resist that change. We cling to comfort long past its expiration, filled with discontented hope. I’ve learned that God will always move you in those moments. When you can’t choose, the choice always comes. One way or another.
I think about the final weeks of high school often. Big moments wrapped in ordinary life. We knew everything was about to change, approaching the seasons end like a much anticipated television series finale. Eager to see how it would all play out. Sad it was ending. A definitive chapter coming to a neat and tidy end. Pivotal.
None of us chose to close that chapter. It closed for us, launching us into the next season of life. But seasonal change is more complex as we grow. We’re tricked into believing we have some say, that we’re the author of this story. And relinquishing control when you’ve been fooled into believing it’s all up to you feels impossible.
I know how lucky it makes a person that they were gifted a sweet season that feels painful to close. And I know how terribly unthinkable it feels to make the choice to close it. There is no guidebook. There is no definitive beginning and end to seasons in adulthood like we had as children. Our childhood was seasonal change with training wheels. And now that balancing act feels a lot riskier.
It offers me great comfort to know that despite how unsettling a season of change might feel to us, nothing is a surprise to God.
So if you’re joining me in this phase of life, where you feel like big choices are up to you — when you feel like you’re being lead to big change, let me leave you with this.
Thank God that nothing comes as a surprise to Him; he knows the plans he has for you — plans for your welfare and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future. Jeremiah 29:11
We spent a lot of our marriage moving around, reinventing, re-establishing. It’s exhausting, honestly. Fun, sure. Exciting, absolutely. But exhausting. I saw my friends buying houses, having babies, establishing families. We were happy just us two. We longed for that, to be just the two of us for our entire dating relationship. Happy.
We always knew we would expand our family some day. Both with a heart for those pesky teenagers, we plan(ned) to foster to adopt older children in the future. I liked that it gave us time. I liked that it gave children who would otherwise have no home base to carry into adulthood a soft place to land. This is certainly still part of our journey, I believe. We also get to experience a lot this satisfaction in our line of work. Officially or not. Called.
I don’t know what prompted me to ask. To say the words out loud. I had confessed them earlier that year to my best friend. A baby had just been on my heart. Not in any kind of certain way. Just sort of…there. I felt the traditional clock ticking. If a biological child was something we actually wanted, well, we needed to know sooner rather than later at that point. I was fully convinced I wasn’t able to get pregnant. And I’d reached the point that if that was actually the case, I needed biology to tell me that so I could officially let the thought go.
We went on a trip with our friends in December of 2020 — and somehow, it just sort of came up one night. He was on the same page, and shockingly, within 4 weeks, there I was. Pregnant.
I know…
This part is hard for me now — but my first reaction when I realized what was happening (I knew before I took a test — maybe I’ll share someday how), was panic. I’m told that’s normal. But I actually had the thought OMG, what did we do?
Selfish. That was the word I kept chewing on. I was too selfish to be a mom. I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t give the child what they deserved.
Oh. My. Gosh.
I wish I’d known. I wish I knew then what I know now. Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
My friends, thank God, offered constant reassurance. Knowing me better than I knew myself, apparently, they were my constant cheerleaders through those nine months.
And then he was here. In the most dramatic way possible, I became a mom. J became a dad. And then there were three. And everything came screaming into focus.
I didn’t know it would feel like this. I didn’t know that it is scientifically impossible for me to be too selfish to be his mom. He wakes, and I run into his room, excited for another day. I’m collecting my stuff and grabbing my keys at 4:59, rushing out of work excited to grab him at the end of the day.
All of it. The screaming cries. The vomit. The sleepless nights. The sleeping in the crib (yes, I’m crazy). All of it. I’m just so thankful for it all. I’m so glad he’s here. I’m so glad we get the chance to experience this kind of love.
I didn’t know it would feel like this. I’m glad I know now. So thankful I know now. So. Very. Thankful.
It happened so fast. And then in slow motion it seemed. Everything was fine. Perfectly normal. Textbook, and then it wasn’t.
My pregnancy was pretty uneventful. I’m lucky, I know. Besides getting Covid in my 9th month, I didn’t have to experience a whole lot of fear. I had daily conversations with my unborn son during those 15 days of quarantine. We were way, way too close to my due date for comfort. I was terrified I’d go into labor and have to do it all alone. Stay put, little man. Stay put. He did.
I was one week and a day overdue when I went into labor. Set for an induction later that night, I was delighted with his timing. He’s our first. He will be our only. I really wanted to experience what it felt like to go into labor. Thank you, little one.
I have another post in my drafts where I share the details of my labor. But for some reason, this story has been sitting heavy on my heart lately. So it wins.
I’m going to share this one detail because I think it’s a key benchmark. My mom, who had been hanging out with us for a little while, left my hospital room at 10 PM. When she left, a regular delivery was still the plan.
Our son was born via emergency c-section at 10:35 PM.
I wish I could tell you what changed. To this day, I still can’t quite work out the details because I truly felt like I was given a choice. To continue laboring or to go ahead with the c-section.
I really felt like I made the choice.
It’s clear to me now, I did not.
That baby needed out.
And he needed out fast.
I’ve had many surgeries in my life. An OR is fairly familiar territory. I wasn’t afraid. Just ready. Excited. We were only moments away from meeting our son.
That feeling quickly evaporated. As they rapidly prepped me for surgery, I felt sick. I’m going to be throw up I cried to anyone who would listen. And then I did. Violently. Repeatedly. Painfully.
Somehow, they got it under control and my husband joined me, taking his seat next to me.
I was told I wouldn’t feel any pain, but I would feel tugging and pulling. So I waited. And waited. And waited.
Suddenly, the tiniest tiniest little sound.
Wait, was that a baby? I looked all around me. Was that a baby!?Have they started? I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Eventually, a my husband confirmed yes, a baby.
If that’s a baby, why isn’t he crying?
Silence.
Why isn’t he crying? I weeped.
More silence.
WHY ISN’T HE CRYING? I sobbed.
…
Panic gripped my throat. I never once considered this. Not once. Everything was fine. Perfectly normal. Textbook. And then it wasn’t.
The silence hung in the air for what felt like forever.
JESUS, MAKE MY BABY CRY!
The words weren’t fully out of my mouth when his cries filled the room. And I weeped openly. After just a few moments, the nurse came to ask if dad could go be with baby while they got him cleaned up. Go, I insisted.
Jonathan was maybe three paces from my bedside when I heard the doctor start shouting. Push this. Push that. She’s bleeding out.
I felt the first shot. Then the second. I’m going to be sick I whimpered.
You have nothing left the nurse assured.
She was right, but the dry heaves were more painful than the sick. Can’t you make it stop I cried. They couldn’t. The room faded to black. And then back. And then black. And then back.
Can you hear me, baby girl? I nodded, or at least I think I did. When you’re ready, turn your head to the left.
I can’t. I’m afraid I’m not done getting sick. I waited. Then turned.
You have to open your eyes. I did, and there he was. My husband, the man I’ve loved for almost 20 years, holding our son. A perfect little life.
I’ll be honest, I don’t remember much of what came next. And the pieces I do remember make my insides hurt, so I’ll keep those tucked away for now.
But this I share because 6 months ago, I was bleeding out on a table while nurses worked to resuscitate my son. My son who was born APGAR 0. Who remained APGAR 0 for a painfully long time. A curveball I never, ever saw coming. And Jesus rescued us. He made my baby cry. Miracle.
I don’t tell you this story to scare you. I share it because when God shows up so obviously, it deserves attention.
We are both okay. Our little one spent 4 long days in the NICU, far fewer than they initially told us. And he got to come home with us when I was discharged on day 5, something they assured me would not happen. Miracle.
It hits me every now and again, though. More often than I’d care to admit. Our lives took shape when JWH entered our world. Our days, lives and hearts are so much more full. We can’t imagine not ever knowing him. And my heart clenches whenever I realize just how close we came to that reality. A life without him.
Thankful.
So. Very. Thankful.
EDITED TO ADD | 3.25.2025
After three and a half years, I felt it was finally time to share the details of all that took place during my son’s birth. You can find the full story here:
It’s December 2nd. It’s been almost 2 months since I last got up, got ready, and drove to work for the day. It’s been almost 2 months since I gathered my belongings, switched off the light and turned in the doorway to get one last look. I was emotional. Sad to leave. I walked down the hallway with an ache in my chest. I’ll be back.
The thought of leaving my people truly hurt my heart. The reality that everything would be changing in just a few days, maybe even just a few hours, terrified me. But there was one thing I knew for certain: I would be back. I needed to be back.
I’ll need the separation I assured my work friends as my pregnancy progressed. Truth bomb: I wasn’t ever truly gung ho on the whole baby track thing. I am not the person who goes Gaga whenever I see a tiny human out in public. I tend to steer clear of the littles when they’re around. It’s nothing against them, really. I’d just had my fill in my ten years of nannying.
I’m selfish, I told my people. I know myself well enough to know I’ll need these hours. I’ll need this space. I need a chance to just be Joey and not mom. I had no idea. No freaking clue.
I love my job. Love my job. I love my work people and the college I work for. I am a lifer, God willing. I enjoy what I do daily. I never, ever dreaded getting up or going to work. I still don’t. Except now, things are different.
My heart hurts. I am torn. I want both. I need both. Mentally, I need this job. Financially, my little family needs this job. A job I cherish. A job I spent many days and nights praying for, begging God for. A job I’m thankful for every single day. A job that quite literally changed my life in all the best ways.
But it’s not enough time. I’m sure it wouldn’t ever feel like enough time. I’m not ready, and yet I’m so ready at the same time. I want both.
The moment my son entered the world, I changed. Instantly, just like that. People warn you about that. They tell you it’ll happen. I didn’t believe them. And I know now that for the rest of my life, I will likely feel this way. Like I am meant to be in two places at once.
All this to say, it’s hard, friends. Bringing a human into the world and then dropping him off into someone else’s care is hard. Taking care of yourself mentally is hard. Taking care of your family financially is hard. It’s all just so hard. And I wish it weren’t.
It seems so simple. The solution seems so clear. Do both. Be both. But life, friends? It’s anything but simple.
If all goes according to plan, I’ll return to work on December 16th. Just two months and three days after the most traumatic and wonderful experience of my life. (A story I’ll share once I can find the right words.)
I don’t often comment on things like this — but I feel like it has to be said. I guarantee if a man had to experience all that a woman does to bring a human into the world, things in America in regards to leave would look a whole lot different.
Yeah. I said it.
It’s not enough time.
Real time update 12/17/2021: I spent pretty much the entire evening of December 15th a total basket case. I couldn’t get myself together, just one constant sob. I told my husband it was wild to me that I had more anxiety about returning to work than I did about leaving to birth a human. Ironically, that night, my son slept through the night for the first time: I did not. I laid awake, tossing and turning, envisioning every possible scenario. I love my job and the place I work. I could only imagine how difficult the transition is for moms who don’t. I know that’s a reality many face.
Jdubs (what we’ll call baby here for now) was a dream that morning. I got ready with ease and got some extra hang out time in. I felt an odd sense of peace and gratitude. I’m easing my way back into work. Two half days where baby will hang with dad. Then we have Christmas Break where I’ll only go in another two half days while the college is closed. Once I return full time in January, Jdubs will hang with dad for a few weeks before going to daycare. I’m grateful they get to spend some hang out time together, too, without me hovering.
Walking into the office and falling back into my normal routine, as if I had never left, was a strange, almost sickening comfort. But it was a rhythm I fell back into easily. I walked down the hallway, twisted the key, and walked into my office. Exactly as I left it before everything changed.
My colleagues were wonderful. All stopping by throughout the morning to welcome me back, to check on me. I didn’t shed one single tear that morning.
It felt oddly normal once I was back at my desk, buried in the work I loved before I took on my new role as Mama.
It is hard. But it is good. I slept much better last night, and I’m comforted to know that while this season will be tough, I can do both.
I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’ve worried since the moment I found out you existed. I worried if you would stick around. I worried about being a terrible mother. I worried if you would be okay. I worried if I was feeding you enough, if I picked the safest stuff for you, if you would grow enough.
I’ve been told that’s what Mamas do: they worry. Which is good because as you can see, I have that down pat.
You’re going to be here soon. I don’t know if it’ll be days, weeks or a month before we meet you. But for the record, you may document this moment because this is the one and only time I will tolerate you being late, but you have special permission to be late.
Why? Because I’m worried.
The world has been a weird place for the last year and a half. We’re in the middle of something called a pandemic. It’s…strange, to say the least. It started back in March of 2020 and people truly panicked, buying up all the paper towels and toilet paper the world had to offer. I’m serious. There was a good long while where finding a roll of toilet paper was like winning the lottery. I think back to that season of the pandemic, and I actually kind of miss it. We were all in it together: learning about this novel virus: The Coronavirus: Covid-19.
We didn’t know much about it at all. We wiped down groceries before bringing them into the house with antibacterial cleansing wipes. The world shut down and we were all ordered to stay home for at least two weeks to flatten the curve. And we did. Everyone did what they could to keep each other safe because we were all scared. Worried.
Little by little, the world started to open back up, but it didn’t look the same. We wear masks now. We’re told to social distance and wash our hands. A vaccine became available earlier this year, and your daddy and I got it as soon as we could. You were just a little peanut then, and let me tell you, we got very, very sick after the second shot, you and me. We were knocked down for a full 24 hours, but it was worth it to keep you safe because I worry.
Yesterday, you and I sat in a drive thru line for three hours. Don’t worry, I brought snacks — right now you really like plums and Colby jack cheese with Italian herb crackers, so that’s what we had. I drove under a tent and a woman in PPE stuck a swab so far up my nose it made my eyes water. She asked if I had any underlying conditions that would make me more susceptible to the virus, and I told her about you. Then she asked why I was there, and I had to tell her.
Exposure.
We’re 19 months into this pandemic, but it finally happened. The virus infiltrated our home. Your daddy hasn’t felt very well for a couple of days. Boom: positive. He’s been staying in our guest room, the one across the hall from your room. And you might find this a little funny, but I have to leave food outside his door. “Food drop,” I shout and scurry away. I hear the door open and swoosh. We do what we have to, right?
If this were a few months ago, it would just plain stink. Unideal, sure. But ultimately probably okay. But like I said, you will be here soon. I don’t know if it’ll be days, weeks or a month before we get to meet you: but please take your dear sweet time, little one.
I want your daddy there with us. And right now, there are pretty serious rules about who can and cannot be in a delivery room, and I can tell you this much: a person who has tested positive for Covid-19 is not welcome.
The nice lady in the PPE told me yesterday that I was negative, so that’s good. You and I are still safe; healthy. But there is still the worry that we could get sick, too.
Worry.
Thankfully, little one, your daddy and I believe in God. And while it might be hard to believe, we can actually find some blessings in this whole mess. So for right now, we’re choosing to believe this is precisely the protection we needed. And in the meantime, we continue to pray that you stay nice and cozy until October.
