Dear Paxton,

I have sat in front of this computer screen for hours now.  In fact, I have opened up this computer screen to stare at that awful flashing cursor for far too many days.  It mocks me and screams, just do it already, and still I feel speechless… something that is completely foreign to me.  I don’t always know the answer.  I don’t always say the right thing.  I don’t always choose my words carefully.  But I ALWAYS have SOMETHING to say.

I’m not sure that this will be my best attempt to say exactly how I’m feeling, because I’m still trying to figure out what exactly I am feeling.  You know by now that I write/speak with no filter, so here goes…

terrified. excited. anxious. disbelief. amazed. blessed. confused. scared. surprised. nervous. eager. apprehensive. joyful.

Put all of those words on a piece of paper, then wad those pieces of paper together and swallow it.  I know what you’re thinking, I’ll choke.  Yep.  It’s right there stuck somewhere between your throat and the deepest part of your stomach.  Just close enough to your throat to make you want to constantly throw up.  Just far enough down to feel the ache in the pit of your stomach.  It’s half panic and half I’ll get through this, I think.

We got a new vehicle in November.  Your dad insisted we get one with third row seating.  I thought that was crazy, but went with it.  When are we really going to use third row seating?  You aren’t really in the having friends over stage, and a family of 3 plus 1 dog hardly warrants 7 seats.  We used the third row several times out in Colorado, including once where it was Daddy and Pops in the front, you and Uncle Logan in the middle, Grammy, Aunt Kelsey and me in the back, AND Jersey and Reese on the floor.  Turns out, the third row might come in useful.

You see, God has pretty crazy timing with things.  We had such an amazing Christmas break.  We looked at houses, talked to a principal, and felt really good about our decision to move out to Colorado.  We discussed putting our house on the market, and when we could move on a house that we loved out by Grammy and Pops.  We returned to Illinois and as I was ‘cleaning’ I started ‘packing’.  First, I packed away all of my maternity clothes back into the huge tubs that go out to the shed.  I started this task forever ago, but finally convinced myself to let go of the elastic band at the top of the pants.  I even bought tons of new clothes over break and beamed as I took my size 6’s to the checkout counter.  Hoping the checkout lady would somehow know that I had lost all of my pregnancy weight.  She never even asked, can you believe that? Then I packed away all of the ‘baby’ things that you’ve outgrown… the bottles, pacifiers, clothes from newborn to size 12 months.  I packed up my pump….HALLELUJAH!  You are completely done breastfeeding and I’m so proud of myself for making it to one year.  I taped up boxes and labeled them… knowing I wouldn’t need them again until next year or the year after sometime.  I’ve prayed every night that God would bless us with another baby when we would start trying again this fall or winter.  And right when I got things packed away, right when I squeezed my forever changed body into my size 6’s…God answered my prayers, just not in the way I was expecting.  Turns out that God is blessing us with another baby, but we’re going to have the real deal this fall, no matter when we thought we’d start trying.

You are clearly super excited about this.

It’s taken me a long time to process that this is even real.  I didn’t believe it when I took the tests at home.  I made your daddy go to the store in an absolute blizzard to get a test, just to ease my mind, but I knew there was no way it could be positive.  It was positive.  Your daddy and I were definitely not trying, and again, you were a miracle in itself.  I had no idea if we’d be able to have another, and the thought seemed so far away.  It definitely couldn’t happen when we were carefully preventing another pregnancy.  I didn’t even really believe it when I went to the emergency room and they did both a blood and urine test.  They were positive.  And when we went to the doctor’s office for our first prenatal visit, the same doctor that delivered you one short year ago, an office I feel like we just sat in looking at you for the first time on that screen, I was still confused when I saw that familiar shape, that tiny heart, beating at me on the sonogram screen.  It was really happening.

Here’s what I’ve put together.  This kid must be pretty important.  There must be a pretty incredible reason that he or she is coming into this world.  I’m not going to say it was a mistake or an oops, because that sounds like we wish it wouldn’t have happened. I know there are a million women that would give anything to be in my shoes.  For several years of my life, I thought I was one of those women. In reality, we are scared and excited, and all kinds of things that don’t make any sense.  It’s one thing to quit a job, sell a house, move out of state, buy a house, and interview for jobs.  It’s a whole different thing to interview for jobs when you’re going to need to take the first 6 weeks off from that job to rest, recover, and raise your new little miracle.  We all of the sudden have to worry about insurance, switching doctors, and the possibility of delivering a baby in a hospital that is brand new. I’ve been so incredibly torn on this timing of all of this, but that’s life.  That’s the climb…and I’ve chose to embrace that climb, because it’s what I hope for you.

Sometime in August or the beginning of September, you will become a big sister.  (My prediction…it will happen the day school is supposed to start.  That’s just how things go.)

You will still be my baby.  And I don’t mean that in the creepy way like the mom in the book Love You Forever.  While I love that story, I will not be sneaking into your room when you are in college to rock you and sing to you that you will always be my baby.  You’re just going to have to take my word for it.  I am terrified I’m robbing your childhood by bringing another baby into our family.  And at the same time, I can’t wait to watch this transformation.

Sometime in August or September, there will be 2 babies under 2 years old, 2 cribs, 2 high chairs, 2 carseats in that vehicle with third row seating.  My heart, which is currently bursting at the seams just from being your mom, will grow even larger to accommodate enough love for 2 children.  We will become a family of 4, and Jersey will get moved to that third row.  We will struggle, we will break. And then we will grow.  And this will probably happen multiple times a day.  We will adjust to this new life.

Pregnancy is something I don’t wear well.  I don’t glow.  I don’t hear the “oh girl, you are ALL belly” comments.  I pack it on from my forehead to my swollen toes. I can’t hide it at all.  I have spent the last 3 weeks wearing every single vest I have, which has felt like I’m wearing a corset. I am convinced that I was never going to be physically “ready” to go through it again, so instead, God said, “Surprise!”  I prayed it would be different than it was with you, and then I look at what I got out of it, and wonder if I want it to be exactly the same.  When I was pregnant with you, and in the height of the morning sickness… scratch that, the all day sickness, I was on summer break.  I seriously spent the entire day on the couch puking in a bucket or laying out in the pool with Ashley, puking in a bucket.  I had no responsibilities, nothing to do but lay around, nap, and puke.  Not that it was graceful, but I could handle it.  Summer school started up, and I would run across the hallway to my carefully positioned trash can.  Then school started in August and I was getting sick a little less, and just had to worry about crazy contractions, swollen feet, and suggestions of bed rest or working half days.

It’s all a little more interesting when you are smack dab in the middle of a school year, and you have 19 students staring up at you that have no idea what’s growing inside of you or that the small mustard stain on their t-shirt is going to make you throw up at any second, and they need you 100% of the time.  It doesn’t matter that you’ve been up all night, or that the smell of the snack they provided is going to push you over the edge.  You spend all day giving these kids all you have, and you do it with a smile on your face, even if that means asking the saint of a teacher next door to watch your class for a second, while you run out of the room several times a day.  And then you get home and you have absolutely nothing left, because you’ve been “performing” all day (that’s what teachers do, if you wondered) and then you have this perfect little mini-me at home.  This baby turned toddler is learning to get around.  She is rearranging furniture, pulling all the books off her shelf, and starting to test the waters.  She eyes those outlets and gets that look like, “What are you gonna do, Mama?”  This beautiful thing you created needs you, 100% of the time.  Even when she’s eating supper and the combination of foods and the fact that it’s coming out of her nose and her ears makes your body heave, quiver, and wonder how you’ll survive.  And this baby, just like your students, deserves you at your best.  So you give it all you’ve got.  And then you thank your lucky stars for a husband that understands.  A husband who hasn’t had a solid meal in weeks, because whatever I set out in the morning sounds awful by dinner time, as does any food, except pineapples and strawberry milkshakes.  A husband that goes off to get you that milkshake at bath time.  A husband that says you look beautiful as you stumble off to bed at 7:15 p.m., in pajama pants that have who-knows-what on them, in a shirt that’s too tight, belly hanging out, hair piled haphazardly on top of your head,  stopping at the bathroom in the hallway to puke one last time.  A husband that stays up, does the dishes, and gets the house ready to do it all over again tomorrow.  A husband that without question, goes out to the shed to get those carefully packed tubs of maternity clothes.  Lord knows you’re going to need them any second now.  And then takes those tubs back out to the shed, only this time, they’re filled with all your size 6’s that you wore for like half a second.

I don’t do things the easy way.  Life’s too short for that business.  So, here we go, sweet girl.  Hold on tight.  Forgive me if I only read your favorite book to you 3 times instead of 4 before we go to bed.  Forgive me when I carry you into the bathroom when I need to get sick and you have to listen to that awful sound, just so I know you’re not getting into anything out of my sight.  Forgive me when your supper consists of absolutely no vegetables.  Sometimes it’s a simple miracle just to get something with any nutritional value at all on your tray, because the smell of those peas, it’s just too much.  Forgive me when my lap becomes smaller, but my heart becomes bigger.  Forgive me for the tears, I’m not sad, but I would be lying if I wasn’t a little scared.  Forgive me when it becomes too hard to carry you, so you have to eventually learn to walk (all the cool kids usually do it before they turn 2).  Forgive me if I’m not always the superhero that you need.  But know, I will always have that cape when you need it most.  It might come and go, it might need to be shared, I might have to have Daddy wear it for a few minutes while I lay down, it might be hiding in the third row with a few shoes that don’t match, an old sippy cup, and my dignity.

Please know, without a doubt, that I will give you every ounce I have to make sure you are safe, happy, and healthy.  And above all, know that no matter what comes in August or September, you, my dear, are my baby.  You fulfilled something in me that I wasn’t even aware was missing.  I had a pretty awful 9 months making you, but at the end of that 9 months, you made me something I thought I’d only dream about- a mom.  And now I get to experience that journey all over again, with you (and an amazing support system) on my sideline, or in the current state, holding my hair back.  We got this.

I love you,

Your mom.