Each year, the president gives the State of the Union Address. It’s a whole televised thing — so don’t plan on watching Dancing with the Stars that night (learned that the hard way).

The purpose of this speech is for the president to update Congress on the happenings of the country and tell them what is important and what needs to happen next and what should have happened then and there’s a whole bunch of standing and clapping for long periods of time.

Well tonight, I give you my State of the Motherhood Address. It’s not televised (and thank the Lord because you don’t want to see what I’m wearing). For now, you are my Congress. Feel free to stand and clap if you feel so inclined.

I have been a mama for going on 8 years now. I have 4 beautiful children. My youngest is almost 4 months old. I should know what I am doing by now.

But I don’t.

Not even close.

Each day, I wake up in a fog of wonder. It’s like a fun little mystery game. “What will I mess up today? What paper will I forget to sign? Whose life will I ruin with giving them ‘the slimy’ turkey at lunch? Will my child eat a vegetable today?” The suspense literally kills me.

My baby is close to 4 months old, but I still wear my maternity pants. Even worse, I still wear my maternity leggings. Who needs a stretchy panel of fabric at the waistband of an already stretchy waistband? Me. I do. No need to feel sorry for me. I chose this life.

And when I am not wearing my maternity leggings at 16 weeks post-partum, sometimes I am not wearing pants at all. In fact, last week, the doorbell rang, and Charlotte yelled through the door at the stranger, “MY MOM CAN’T ANSWER THE DOOR RIGHT NOW BECAUSE SHE’S NOT WEARING ANY PANTS.” What’s better is that I did attempt to throw on the first pair of pants I could find where I was standing, which happened to be the laundry room, but they were my husband’s…who is skinny…and his pants didn’t go up past my thighs. See also: maternity leggings. So the door went unanswered, and I still wonder if it was the Publisher’s Clearinghouse or one of those MasterCard commercials where Justin Timberlake makes house calls. We shall never know.

Meals are hit or miss. Typically, the relationship is the longer I work on preparing a meal, the more the children will hate it. So, if I spend 87 minutes cooking something from a cookbook and it actually has real food in it, their world will crumble. Life will be over. There will be slouching in the seat. There will be wiping any sauce off with a napkin. There will be crying. Oh, and the kids will cry, too.

But if I spend 30 seconds slapping two pieces of bread together with peanut butter and jelly in the middle, or even better…if I let them eat cereal for dinner…I am The Dinner Goddess. Worship at my altar.

My new favorite thing is to do online shopping while I am awake at 3 o’clock in the morning with Leo. When the packages arrive in two days, I have no idea what they are because I have no recollection of what I purchased. Santa is real, Ya’ll. I can’t wait to see what comes in the mail on Tuesday.

My van has become some sort of apocalyptic survivor mobile. I am convinced that should the world fall apart and we need to seek refuge, we could survive for at least a week by living in our van. I am sure that at a moment’s notice, I could assemble several Happy Meals from the leftover remnants between and under the seats, complete with a cheap plastic toy for everyone. There are plenty of half empty water bottles to go around, and that rogue sippy cup under the seat is surely housing some sort of concoction that will kill all the zombies.

I’m clumsy now. Fatigue will do that to you. I wake up with bruises from running into objects on my trek to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I have been hobbling around for three weeks on a bum foot, and I have no idea how I hurt it. The other day, I bent down to pick up something from the floor and busted my own lip on the arm of our rocking chair. I looked around, pissed, wanting to know whose fault it was…and I only had myself to blame.

The days are long. The nights are longer.

Motherhood. It’s not for the weak.

Each day, I make 1,000 mistakes. I say the wrong thing. I do the wrong thing. I don’t fit the description of a perfect mother, but the older I get, the more convinced I am that she doesn’t exist.

Things are messy right now. And loud. Often smelly. Often it’s me who is smelly. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do all the things, so I try to make time for the important things. Read the books. Do the crafts. Sing the songs. Eat the ice cream. Buy the little plastic toys that they watch grown adults open on YouTube. I used to say, “There’s always tomorrow,” but you know what? They will be older tomorrow. And just a little bit bigger tomorrow. And a little bit less my babies tomorrow.

If I were to give this State of the Motherhood Address a year from now, it would probably look a little different. There may be a completely new set of challenges to deal with and obstacles to clear and phases to grow out of. But I am sure at least one thing will remain the same…

…giving life to my children gives me life, even if it sucks the life out of me.

That, and I may still be wearing my maternity leggings.

“Hurry up!”

“Please hurry!”

“Let’s hurry!”

How many times have these phrases been whispered, blurted, yelled, or sometimes screamed in some guttural war cry in the direction of my children? Hundreds…if not thousands of times. Whether we had an errand to run, an appointment to attend, an event to go to… I have hurried my little ones probably everyday of their lives in one way or another.

There have even been plenty of times where I have expressed similar sentiments to my husband, my friends, my parents, or even myself in the privacy of my own mind.

“I just wish she had a little more independence.”

“It will be easier when they are older and don’t need me as much.”

“I can’t wait until they can do ________.”

“When will this pregnancy be over?”

All of these thoughts point back to the same root meaning — hurry up.

It’s so easy to play these thoughts on repeat when I am sleep-deprived. My brain is consistently foggy. My emotions are on high alert. It is incredibly tempting to look forward to next year, or the next ten years, and think life will be infinitely easier when my children are in different phases of life.

But it never fails. As soon as I get my wish. As soon as my children start growing up and needing me less, I am full of regret.

I take it back.

I didn’t mean it.

Let’s try it all again.

Don’t get me wrong. I cannot possibly put on a pedestal the nights where I was up every hour on the hour with a fussy baby. I can’t forget the time I tried to potty train Noelle using the three-day method and quit after day one. I won’t glamorize the incessant time outs or the handful of times we have walked out of a restaurant with our food in to-go bags because our child(ren) threw an epic fit. These are not parenting moments that I wish to relive, but rushing through them wasn’t the answer, either.

While each new phase brings along excitement and new adventures, it also leaves behind a tightening in my chest…a longing in my heart… for the days that we will never have again.

I take it back.

Don’t hurry.

Please.

The minutes, hours, and days are going to pass in the same speed, whether we wish them away or not. And before we know it, our babies…the ones we held and rocked and stared at for hours on end in their first months of life…will be walking through the doors of their elementary schools, and we will be so lucky to even get a look-back or a wave.

At least that’s what my oldest baby is doing today.

Today, she starts 2nd grade. But wasn’t she just in Kindergarten? How did this happen so quickly? And how do I get things to slow down?

Many times throughout this past summer, when my patience had worn thin, my energy level was on empty, and my creative juices were dry…and my children had watched their fill of the Disney Channel and even the weirdest Youtube videos of adults opening Easter eggs full of cheap toys couldn’t entertain them…I thought to myself, “I can’t wait until they are back in school. Things will calm down and return to normal.”

But damn. I take it back.

I miss her already.

And next week, Charlotte will be headed out the door for all-day preschool, three days a week, and I will miss her, too. All the times I have been frustrated with her…the times I have wished she wouldn’t want one more tickle on her back when I just want to go to bed…the times I have groaned in disbelief when she asks for a snack 20 minutes after eating breakfast…I will take those back, too.

They are only small for such a small amount of time. Too soon, you are called to send them out into the world, which is probably the most painful thing ever because it is literally a living, breathing, piece of your body, heart, and soul walking around in that great big space without you. You love them so much it hurts — a widely-used cliche, but the only fitting way to describe it.

Too soon, you are worrying about friends (and enemies). You are worrying about parties (and not getting invited to parties). You are worrying about love interests (and broken hearts). You are worrying about getting into college (and then them actually going to college).

The future, though colorful and bright, can take its time. At least for me, for right now, I am in no hurry. I can’t be in a hurry. It’s all going too quickly on its own.

We don’t have time to go back and get your blanket.

We don’t have time to see one last animal at the zoo.

I take it back.


We don’t have time to read one more story.

I take it back.


I can’t wait until…

I take it back.

Last week, I decided I was done with this pregnancy.

Once I reached the 36 and a half weeks mark, I felt ready to meet this baby. I had not been sleeping well, if at all, for several days…waking up at 2 a.m. and not sleeping the rest of the night. My hip pain that had seemed to resolve a few weeks ago had returned, making walking, sitting, laying, and standing very uncomfortable. My heartburn was creeping back into my daily life, even after taking prevacid for the past few months. My blood sugar readings started to become unpredictable. One day, my fasting numbers would be low and great. The next, they would be too high. Despite insulin, metformin, and countless dietary restrictions, it felt like my body was out of control. All of that, combined with a 1 cm long cervix, incessant contractions, and back pain that were just frequent enough to always have me on high alert but not intense enough to swing me into full-on labor… I was just done.

So, I did what any pregnant lady who wants to go into labor would do. I started walking my neighborhood a couple times each day. I ate eggplant parmesan (no noodles, no bread, because…diabeetus) because there is an urban legend about a restaurant out east that is known for having pregnant women go into labor within a day or so of eating their eggplant parmesan. I ate as much pineapple as my diabetic diet would allow. Spicy foods were daily staples (including a hamburger smothered in jalapenos), and I became so desperate that even castor oil was sounding tempting (I didn’t do it).

On Friday night, I had a breakdown. I think all the worrying and anxiety about potentially having this baby preterm had caught up with me…and I found myself frustrated, even angry, that he hadn’t arrived yet. It felt like as soon as I stopped my procardia at 36 weeks (which was helping with contractions) and my progesterone injections, that the baby should just come immediately after that. I knew better, or at least I should have, but my emotions got the best of me, and I found myself really upset that I was 37 weeks and still pregnant.

Through tears, I forcefully told Luke that I was NOT going to be induced. I was NOT going to have a c-section. And I was DONE being pregnant.

Somehow, I was able to return to a mostly-sane person and the weekend went on. A chaotic trip to Menard’s to order toilets and bathtubs for the new house with the girls in-tow brought about a few contractions, so I decided to capitalize on that and head out to walk some laps at a another store. I committed myself to doing 10 brisk laps before coming home. Though I worked up a sweat (and probably looked a little ridiculous to the store manager who saw me each time I made a lap), the contractions fizzled, and I was bummed.

We enjoyed last-minute adult night out to celebrate our brother-in-law’s birthday. Our babysitter came in time for us to enjoy mass without the distraction joy of our girls being with us. This was a true gift. To be able to hear the readings and enjoy the music and actually get something out of the homily was exactly what I needed to refocus and remember how blessed I am. Following mass, we went to dinner with family and headed home.

Early Sunday morning, I awoke to contractions, which wasn’t unusual. I started to realize that they were coming about 3-4 minutes apart for about an hour. I woke Luke up to tell him and continued timing them. Determined not to “lose” the contractions again, I started walking laps in our house. After about 3 hours of this, we felt like this could be the real deal and decided to head to the hospital.

Our bags had been packed for weeks, but I didn’t allow Luke to bring them into the hospital with us for fear of being sent home. The pregnancy walk of shame is a real thing that I wanted to avoid. In my heart, I felt like this was “it,” but I didn’t want to take any chances.

When we walked to the elevator, I was still contracting. Luke asked, “Elevator or stairs?” My instinct was to punch him. What man asks his 37 weeks pregnant wife who is actively contracting if she wants to take the stairs to labor and delivery? But then he said it would probably keep the contractions going, so I decided to go for it.

Up four flights of stairs we went, and we both were huffing and puffing when we made it to the floor. Thankfully, my doctor was already there and had alerted the nurses that I was coming, so they were ready for me. The same nurse that helped deliver Shiloh was there, and she knew how I ran out of time for an epidural the last time. Before I was even put in a room, she asked if we should call for the epidural so I would have time to get one. I declined at that moment because, again, I wanted to make sure this was actually going to be “baby day.”

Within minutes of being in a hospital gown, we learned that it was definitely going to be “baby day.” I was near 7 cm dilated and contracting regularly, so it was game on. I allowed Luke to get our bags from the car, and I settled in, anxious to see how the day would play out.

Slowly, steadily, and without too much pain, I progressed to 8 cm within a few hours and we were ready to break my water. My prayer in the weeks leading up to delivery was that this birthing experience would be calm, smooth, and relatively slow to progress. I know that sounds crazy, but after my near-car birth experience with Charlotte and my really intense and quick experience with Shiloh, I just didn’t want to feel fear, panic, or worry. As fun as the stories are to tell now, I have never been more afraid in my life than the night Charlotte was born. And if this delivery was to be my last, I didn’t want to remember it in a negative way.

To make it to 8 cm without an epidural and without screaming in agony was an answered prayer. Prior to breaking my water, my doctor and nurse asked me multiple times if I wanted the epidural, knowing there would not be time after my water was broken to get it done before delivery. I felt conflicted. Why would I not get one? Why would I want the misery? Why would I turn down the option for a less painful delivery? But something inside of me told me to just do it– to let my body do what it was going to do and to get through the delivery without an epidural. So, I declined it for the final time.

It wasn’t very long before I started to regret the epidural decision. Lots and lots of pain awaited me in a matter of a few minutes. Very quickly, it was “time.” Thankfully, just 3-4 contractions stood between the most incredible, intense pain I have ever felt and holding my son.

There is no way to describe the feeling of your child being placed on your chest for the first time. Even with this being my fourth delivery, it feels new and exhilarating every single time. Sneaking the first look at his hair, his fingers, his toes, his lips, his cheeks…. counting the rolls of baby fat on his back and checking to make sure he was “still” a boy…such amazing, fulfilling memories of the end of an emotional pregnancy and the beginning of a brand new life.

Leo Benjamin. There is no greater love.

Luke and I were presented with the opportunity to have photos taken during Leo’s birth. When Luke was born, he was very sick and needed to be in the NICU for a couple of months due to his lungs being underdeveloped. The doctor who took care of him and can be credited for saving his life, Donna Wilkins, still works in the NICU today (even though she is supposed to be retired). She also has a gift in photography and enjoys taking birth photos. She messaged me just the night before about taking photos of Leo’s birth. We made loose arrangements, hoping it would work out for her to be there. Sure enough, the next day, it did work out for her to be able to take photographs of Leo’s first breath. How incredibly special that the woman who was so instrumental in getting Luke to where he is today was in the room with us when our first son was born. We will cherish these images and this moment in our lives forever.

After a wonderful hospital stay with supportive nurses, tons of visitors, and plenty of treats (goodbye, diabeetus!), we are home and now adjusting to life as a family of six. There have already been instances of sibling jealousy. I have cried many tears– wondering if I am “mama enough” for all of them. Shiloh has probably been the most out of sorts. She is acting out and seems so different than the way she was before Leo was born. I know it will take time to get us all back on track, and I know we won’t get there without a lot of help, prayer, and teamwork…but I can’t help but feel sad for her that she seems so upside down.

I have been reflecting on this pregnancy and new life as a mother of four. The word that keeps cycling through my brain is finally.

Finally, we have a boy. A son. A little man. A beautiful soul who might be able to provide just a hint of balance in this female-centric family. Leo is everything we never knew we needed. Luke was never pining away over having a son. He would have been fine as a dad of four girls. But when I see them together, I know that Leo is just the perfect fit for this family.

Finally, the never-ending pregnancy saga is over. No more needles. No more medications. No more weeks with 2-3 doctor’s appointments at a time. No more contractions all day long. No more pain.

Finally, a feeling of peace in my heart as I contemplate if Leo will be the last child I carry inside of me. While I don’t know the answers right now, I do know that my heart is so full and my life is so blessed.

Finally, Leo. We did it.

Finally.

I am sad to say that I had to take a week off of my Project 365. Unforeseen circumstances caused me to not be near my camera for a few days, and I didn’t have the energy to lift it for the remainder of the week.

Last Monday, following a routine appointment with my doctor, I found myself admitted to the hospital for preterm labor. My little guy decided to scare us all with contractions that wouldn’t stop, so we had to take action. Two steroid injections for his lung development, a few liters of IV fluids, 48 hours on a magnesium drip (which forced me to be in the bed the entire time), lots of antibiotics, and an additional 12 hours for observation later….and I was released to go home (and still pregnant, thank God). I was so thankful to have not given birth at 32 weeks pregnant. That felt like a very real outcome on Monday night, so I feel like I got a second chance to grow this baby.

Since coming home, I have had a difficult time with my energy level. As it turns out, being in a hospital bed for nearly 3 days and eating very little food will make you very weak, tired, lethargic, and exhausted by any little thing. I have really been trying to lay down as much as possible while still attempting to get up every now and then so I don’t continue to lose stamina…but both situations have proved to be challenging. Laying down with small children to care for is not very realistic, and getting up and moving when my body wants to just be at rest has been burdensome. It is not like me to “lay low.” I don’t enjoy it and love being productive, but I am determined to keep this baby in for another few weeks (37 is the magic number). I will do whatever it takes.

While I was in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think. This is a luxury I do not typically have. Many days, it is not until the girls go to bed that I can be alone with my thoughts, and by that time, my brain might as well be mush anyway. As I was listening to the little one on the fetal monitor for hours on end, I actually asked myself, “Why do we as women put ourselves through such misery to have babies?” You can tell what my mindset was at that time. I may have been feeling just a little sorry for myself.

I got caught up in thinking about the fact that we had some scares with Shiloh’s pregnancy, and maybe I was a fool to take this on again. Maybe I should have known that we would have similar complications and that I could potentially risk the life of my unborn baby. This pregnancy, though I was hopeful would be different, has had all the bells and whistles that Shiloh’s did and then some. We have done cervical length ultrasounds for months now. We have done progesterone injections weekly. We have done daily medications for contractions. I am now insulin-dependent with my gestational diabetes. With the recent hospital stay, I don’t even want to think about how high the medical bills are going to be…and that’s before the baby actually arrives.

Why? Why did we take this on?

We have three beautiful, smart, fun, healthy, wild, strong, and energetic girls. Could have stopped there, but we didn’t. We wanted this baby. We wanted this challenge. We wanted this journey. But the fear and the worry and the uncertainty of last Monday night caused me to question everything.

In prayer and in solitude, I kept asking this question and the answer hit me hard today. The answer, to me, is hope. We took on the responsibility of bringing another child into the world, regardless of how difficult and arduous the journey, because of hope.

Hope for the future. Hope for change. Hope for more goodness. Hope for this world.

Each day, we see such terrible headlines in the news. It has become painful to watch and read. If I think too much about it, I get scared. I become leery. I tell myself that this world is evil, and that I just don’t understand the point anymore.

But when I think about this baby…the very one that is kicking and punching me and hiccuping all the time inside of my body…I have hope. I have hope that he will be good. I have hope that he will be kind. I have hope that he will be strong enough to shoulder the burdens and temptations and challenges that he will undoubtedly face as he goes through life.

This little boy may be the change we wish to see in the world, and for that, I have hope.

This is why children are so incredible. Their lives have only just begun. Their stories are in the early chapters, and we have no idea how their books will end. My children, all children, give me hope…and that is reason enough to go through a physically and emotionally challenging pregnancy punctuated by expensive treatments and care.

I have had a different boy’s name picked out for each pregnancy. With our first, we waited to be surprised at birth so if Noelle would have been a boy, her name would have been Max. I have never gone back to Max for any other pregnancy. For me, it felt like that name belonged to that pregnancy and I couldn’t “use it” again. For the first half or so of this pregnancy, I thought we were going to name him one name — until it hit me one day a few months ago that this baby’s name was Leo.

I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t know why. There wasn’t any rhyme or reason to it. I just liked it. It’s not a family name. It’s not short for anything. I hadn’t even really heard it anywhere else. It just felt right. I tried to continue calling him the name we had originally planned, but he just seemed like a Leo.

And now, after what we went through last week and what we still have yet to face, it feels like Leo, which is Latin for lion, is the perfect name. I don’t know if he is the fierce one or if I am inspired to be fierce for him, but knowing his name has such a brave and powerful connotation gives me great peace.

Brave, fierce, strong, and tenacious might be how I describe a lion, but the name Leo also seems soft, warm, and gentle. It is a common name for popes, saints, and priests, and this little guy has done nothing but fortify my faith by the day.

I think my favorite thing about the name Leo is that he and I are forever connected in the stars. My zodiac sign is Cancer, and the one right next to Cancer is Leo. I love the symbolism that he is right there next to me even in the biggest, darkest, most uncertain sky.

A few weeks ago, my friend, Kira, met me at our new property to take some maternity photos…just by myself. I wanted to be able to remember the bright spots of this pregnancy and not the times when I felt like I couldn’t take one more pill or go in for one more ultrasound or check my blood sugar one more time or stand one more needle in my body. I wanted to just be alone with Leo and thank him for the opportunity to be his mama. She captured what I wanted perfectly, and I am so thankful that I have these to remind me of the miracle of life and the true power of hope.