Disclaimer: This post will talk about female anatomy. I am probably going to say cervix a few times. I am also probably going to sound really whiny. So if you don’t like that kind of thing, go ahead and exit now. You’re welcome.

I haven’t done a pregnancy update since I reached the viability mark at 24 weeks. Over the past 6 weeks, a few changes have taken place, and, as always, I feel the desire to share them in my little corner of the Internet. I always wonder if I share too much, but then I remember that this blog has served as a great placeholder for my thoughts, feelings, and photos for the past few years, and I can’t just leave important stuff out for fear of making others uncomfortable or worry that people won’t like it. I am not a paid writer — no sponsors to please or target audience to maintain. So, here I am, about to just jump right in.

I have hated just about everyday of this pregnancy over the last 6 weeks.

Ok, hate is a strong word.

I have worried just about everyday of this pregnancy over the last 6 weeks.

Getting closer.

I have cried just about everyday of this pregnancy over the last 6 weeks.

Probably the most accurate.

At around 24-25 weeks, I was feeling really good. I had passed my early glucose test. My cervix was measuring at a safe length (you can read all about the history of my short cervix issues here), and we weren’t worrying about whole lot.

At 26 weeks, when I had to retake my glucose test (I was tested early since I had it with Shiloh; then retested at the normal testing time to make sure), I failed. I honestly thought it wouldn’t be a big deal if I failed. I hadn’t been craving sweets this pregnancy the way I had in my prior pregnancies. I could surely live off meat and vegetables for 15 weeks. No big deal. I accepted the news like a big girl and began altering my eating habits immediately, even prior to my diabetes education meeting.

With Shiloh, I was able to manage my blood sugar pretty easily with dietary changes and a small dose of Metformin. I had no reason to believe it wouldn’t be like that this time. However, it has not been easy it all.

My fasting numbers (the first test of the day after sleeping) have been too high. Higher than they were with Shiloh. I have only had less than a handful fall in the ideal target range. My numbers after eating food are only in the ideal range if I eat very few carbs. It is recommended that I eat 30-45g of carbs in my 3 main meals each day, and then have 3 snacks a day between 10-20g of carbs. If I eat anywhere near that range, my numbers are too high. I have found that the only safe foods I can eat are eggs, plain meat, beef/turkey jerky, nuts, and green vegetables. All day. Everyday. Every now and then, I can get away with some very low sugar treats or this non-dairy, low sugar, low carb, high protein “ice cream.”

So what’s the big deal? Well, I have found that any kind of social gathering makes me incredibly anxious. I wonder what kind of food will be there, if I can eat any of it, if I will be mad that other people can have food that I can’t, if people will feel uncomfortable eating around me because they know I am mentally beating them over the head with the dinner rolls and cookies they are eating. Going out to eat offers the same challenges. I am checking menus before I go. I will sit down and think that nothing that I can eat actually sounds good, but I don’t want to be dramatic so I will order something anyway.

To complicate things even more, my fasting numbers are still way too high even with a double dose of Metformin, and the risk of the baby getting too big is now indicating that I will be starting insulin. This is what I didn’t want to do. I can’t explain why I didn’t want to do it — I know that I must do what is best for the baby, but adding another medication to my list, a medication that involves injecting insulin into my abdomen, makes me feel like somehow I failed. My head knows that my body is doing things right now that it doesn’t normally do when I am not pregnant, and I should just accept that I don’t have control right now, but my heart tells me that if I would be more diligent, more careful, more restrictive, I wouldn’t have to do this. Unfortunately, as the days tick on, I can’t keep messing around with different foods and limitations and have to wave the white flag.

Just as the last time, learning about gestational diabetes and the amount of carbs my body can handle has been eye-opening to how many I `was taking in before. Last night, I really wanted something sweet. I wanted to indulge a craving (like nearly every other pregnant woman does). Luke suggested a mini Blizzard from Dairy Queen. I looked it up, and it was 56g of carbs for the tiniest size of Blizzard. Obviously, that was out of the question. My regular Starbucks drink? 46g of carbs. More than an entire meal. Rice from Panda Express? 85g of carbs. Waffle fries from Chick-Fil-A (my favorite!)? 55g of carbs.

To say this has been a major lifestyle change for me is an understatement. And for my blood sugar to still not be in the right range after all the restrictions and modifications, I am just beyond frustrated and exhausted. Most people can exercise following their meals which will help to reduce blood sugar levels, but my cervical length issues mean that the baby is sitting very low, which makes exercise very difficult. My right hip is also rotated backwards due to this pregnancy, so I don’t have much mobility without pain. Physical therapy is helping somewhat.

With regards to my short cervix issues, given my history with Shiloh’s pregnancy, I have gone for cervical length ultrasounds (they are just as lovely as they sound) weekly from around weeks 18-24 and then every other week from 24 to now. I have another one scheduled at 32 weeks. My cervix has been measuring on the short end but not in the “worry” range up until this week’s appointment. We have been doing weekly progesterone injections in my butt (so glamorous) since 18 weeks. I take a daily medication to help with contractions (I have been contracting off and on since early 2nd trimester). But all along, things have been holding steady. With Shiloh, things got scary around 25 weeks, but we passed that with flying colors this time around.

Now, at 30 weeks, my cervix is measuring 1 centimeter long. That means that 1 centimeter is standing between the baby inside of me and the outside world. To put it in perspective, a cervical length of between 3-3.5 cm is expected for 30-32 weeks gestation. With my contractions picking up more and more these days, I worry that it is only a matter of time before he decides to make an appearance. As much as I want to meet him, I don’t want to meet him yet. It’s too early.

When Noelle was born, she aspirated some meconium. The NICU team took her away within minutes of her birth. I had to beg them to let me hold her for about 30 seconds before they took her away. The first time I really met her, she was hooked up to machines in the NICU. It wasn’t an ideal way to start our bonding experience, and I felt like we were playing catch-up for the next several days. While she only stayed in the NICU for around 7 hours, I missed out on all those cuddles and first feedings.

With Charlotte and Shiloh, they were placed in my arms within seconds of their birth and not taken away for many hours. That is the way it is supposed to be. We bonded. We snuggled. We figured out first feedings, and I could stare at their faces uninterrupted as long as I wanted.

My fear is that our baby boy will be born very early, and with that comes a host of potential complications. I worry that he won’t be healthy enough. I worry that he will struggle in his first days of life. My fantasy of holding him when he is seconds old might truly be that — just a fantasy that won’t be able to happen.

And if he comes closer to his due date, will he be huge? Will I need my first C-section? Will there be a delivery complication? Will his blood sugar completely bottom out? Will he end up in the NICU anyway?

As you can see, my mind is on overdrive right now — worrying, wondering, hoping, praying. I know what I should do — take it one day at a time, be positive, and have faith that it will be OK. I go in and out of moments of peace. I know that for now, he is healthy. I know that for now, he is safe. I know that there are so many women who deal with much more complicated situations during pregnancy and babies who have life-threatening conditions.

But fear is fear. Worry is worry. I don’t wish to contend in the “which pregnancy is scarier” competition. Even with a completely normal pregnancy, expectant mothers fear the worst and pray for the best. The onset of issues in this pregnancy only heightens anxiety and crowds my thoughts.

So what now? I do believe in setting a goal, writing it down, making it a living, breathing thing. So, on my mirror, I wrote these words:

I will carry this baby to 37 weeks. I will do what it takes, no matter how bad it sucks.

I am thankful for my husband who listens to my endless complaining (if you thought this post was whiny…can you imagine what he hears?). I am thankful for all the doctors, nurses, medical staff, and physical therapists who are helping to keep us healthy. I am thankful for the opportunity to carry this little guy, knowing the pain of losing two pregnancies and the gift that children are to this world.

I am thankful. But I am worried. And that’s OK.

I realized that I hadn’t written about my current pregnancy much lately. I don’t know if it is a 4th child thing or an I’m too busy to sit down and write thing or an I’m too tired to think about it thing or what…but words cannot express how excited I am to meet this little guy.

I am over half-way there. In fact, I am 57% there. For those not willing to calculate, that means I am 23 weeks and some change. I am slightly defensive this pregnancy and don’t talk much about how many weeks I am because I have been crushed before by a well-meaning person who, upon learning how far along I am, says, “Wow! You’re so big already!” or “You look like you’re about to pop!”For a person who really isn’t about to pop, that’s pretty disheartening and hurts your already sensitive pregnancy psyche. So, I have decided to be vague. Protective. It’s for the best, as no one gets hurt that way (me or you).

If you have read this blog for a while, you know my pregnancy with Shiloh was slightly tumultuous. At 25 weeks, my cervix was measuring at about a centimeter long and got as short as almost half a centimeter. This is what you want to happen during labor, but it is not what you want to happen when you are just past the viability stage in pregnancy. I immediately began progesterone injections in my butt, daily oral medication, and weekly monitoring via cervical ultrasounds (as exciting as they sound) and non-stress tests. I also developed gestational diabetes (which I never had with my first two pregnancies), was placed on bed-rest-ish, and I wrecked my van at 30 weeks pregnant. It was all good times.

Shiloh came at 37 weeks, and I could not have been more relieved that everything turned out OK.

As a result of all of that crazy, I have been monitored weekly for the past several weeks with more cervical ultrasounds, more progesterone shots in my butt, and more daily oral medication. I also have had several instances of hours of contractions that seem to come out of nowhere and disappear when I am on the brink of driving myself to the hospital because I can’t take it anymore.

To put it bluntly, I am scared. This pregnancy has not been overly enjoyable, and saying that makes me feel like a horrible person. I personally know so many friends now who have experienced pregnancy loss in some way — either early pregnancy loss, middle of pregnancy loss, or stillbirth, and I feel incredibly guilty to be complaining. Hell, even I know the grief that is losing a pregnancy early on as I have done it twice. I swore to myself and pleaded with God that if He would let me carry another child, that I would relish every single second.

But when I am afraid every week that the threat of preterm labor will become more imminent…when I have contractions that won’t stop for hours…when I stress and fret about what the next ultrasound will show or when the shit will all hit the fan…it is difficult to let myself become too excited.

He kicks me all the time, which is a happy reminder that he is fine. He is perfect. He is healthy and doing what he should be doing. I just hope my body can continue to provide for him and that my mind allows me to enjoy these moments as this could be the last pregnancy.

It’s not something I like to think about…this being my last pregnancy. People like to tease with, “Are you crazy?” or “You can’t possibly want more kids!?” But…I sometimes want to scream, “MAYBE I DO!?” We aren’t all built the same way. Some people know after one or two children they are “done.” Other people are forced into being “done” through infertility or complications. Others have no problem raising 4-5-6 children and embracing the chaos that it is. I just don’t know how I feel yet. I thought for sure I would know. I thought I would feel a sense of “completion” this time around, and I would be able to be at peace with this being the last one for us…but I am not ready to say that yet. I need him to be here first. I need to look into his eyes and see how I feel. Even with all the doctor’s appointments that cause me worry and stress…and all the pills that make me feel yucky inside…and all the fear that this set of contractions could be the real thing…. I still find myself unable to say, “I’m done.”

We take things one day at a time. Each week is a victory for my own mental health. 43% to go.

Oh, dear.

It’s been a terribly long time.

I apologize for my absence.

I have nothing to blame except life. Busy day-to-day happenings, weekly ups and downs, responsibilities out the wazoo and doing my best to avoid responsibilities on the daily.

But, here we are, staring at the last couple days of October. How can this be? I feel like I was just doing the Fall Starbucks Drinks happy dance, and pretty soon that controversial red cup will be making its debut. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it is that time is passing…quickly. I also know that I love Dairy Queen Chocolate Extreme Blizzards. Very much.

I do have some news, though.

I am pregnant with baby #4!

I am thrilled. I am excited. I am nervous, for sure. I am hopeful. I am happy.

But I have something else on my mind…something else on my heart. It’s not something I have written about a lot, but that sentence right there….”I am pregnant with baby #4,” reminds me that I am actually not pregnant with baby #4. I have experienced pregnancy loss not once, but twice, and so while my voice is saying “baby #4,” my heart is screaming BUT THERE ARE SIX.

There are six.

If you have followed this blog for a while, you might remember that I experienced my first miscarriage 8 years ago now. It was a surprise pregnancy…our first pregnancy…and I had barely gotten my mind wrapped around the fact that I was going to be a mother when I went in for my first ultrasound at 10 weeks and saw an empty amniotic sac. I still remember our doctor’s words to us. “I’m sorry. This will not be a normal pregnancy for you.” I still remember that I was wearing Colts socks that day. I still remember not sleeping that night as all I could think of was that my body betrayed me in the biggest way, and perhaps that my God did, too.

My body believed it was pregnant. The bloodwork was all what it should have been. I felt different, but in a good way. I felt like a mother. But seeing that ultrasound and experiencing the deafening silence in the place where the heartbeat should be felt like the hugest, nastiest, Real Housewives-style slap in the face.

I felt like a joke.

And when the weeks went on and I still couldn’t “get over it,” I felt crazy. I actually told myself that I was being punished…for what, I didn’t know, but surely God felt I wasn’t worthy to be a mother and this was my sentence.

More negative thoughts filled my mind. Thoughts I have never shared with anyone other than Luke, until now. I couldn’t stand how the pregnancy loss was medically termed a “blighted ovum.” The very definition of “blighted” is ruined, wrecked, destroyed, infected. What terrible ways to describe what happened to this first baby of mine. Even Luke would describe the miscarriage as a blighted ovum, unable to abandon his doctor role and it would crush me every time. I felt like I must be the only one who actually believed this was a child.

Until even I stopped believing that for a time. I told myself how ridiculous it was to be so sad about something that never had a heartbeat. I went back to the thoughts that there would be no baby awaiting me in Heaven one day because it was never a baby to begin with. We never thought of a name because I thought it would seem silly.

And believe me, I know now how terrible that all sounds, but that is where my mind was for many months, and it isn’t until now that I finally feel brave enough to admit it.

I grew tired of being “the sad girl.” While no one ever said it out loud, I just felt their burden of having to watch what was said and tiptoe around me so I wouldn’t shatter. I would cry at holidays and at church and during the hour long commute to and from work.

Eventually, I stopped crying daily. Then weekly. Then monthly. When I became pregnant with Noelle about 9 months after the loss, I was full of fear and negativity….fully expecting to see another empty ultrasound. But, that’s not what happened, and I went on to have not one, not two, but three healthy, beautiful, smart girls.

What more could I want? Well. I wanted one more.

It is hard to explain to an outsider why I would possibly want more chaos, more diapers, more sleepless nights, more messes…. But this is my happy place, and my heart didn’t feel complete.

After 10 months of hoping and praying for another child, it happened. Positive pregnancy tests filled my bathroom. And then a couple days later, it become evident that this pregnancy was not meant to be.

Foolish. Empty. Crushed.

Familiar feelings and emotions came flooding back. The scab was ripped off the wound, and there I was again, questioning everything. Revisiting my thoughts of embarrassment that I would even be sad to begin with…given the extremely short length of the pregnancy. I shared this latest loss with no one as I just couldn’t put myself out there again. Many reading this will be surprised that it even happened.

Fast forward a couple months later to now, and I am pregnant, again. Just shy of 9 weeks along. And so you say, “Why are you making it public when you aren’t past the first trimester? You of all people should know the risk of announcing too early.”

Well, the only risk of announcing too early, in my opinion, is getting to actually see joy on the faces of your family and friends instead of just sorrow. With our first loss, we had been trying to wait until the 13 week mark, which is why the first our parents learned of our first pregnancy was when we were telling them it was already over. I never got to see their happy reactions as we announced our our pregnancy for the very first time. I only got to be the bearer of bad news. And while I know that we would ultimately have had to disappoint them by sharing about the loss, at least we would have had the happy memories, too.

And more and more, I am learning that there is no “safe zone” in pregnancy. While the risk of miscarriage goes down substantially after the first trimester, there are so many other tragedies that occur later in pregnancy. Unfortunately, a few women very close to my heart have had to say goodbye to their babies before they ever got to say hello.

So, no. I don’t have a guarantee that I won’t lose this baby, too. But life hands us no guarantees on anything.

The point of all of this is to say that miscarriage and pregnancy loss can make you feel so many ways, and it effects everyone differently. My experiences will differ from yours and hers and theirs. But the trend is that we don’t talk about it. It makes others feel uncomfortable, so we must keep our thoughts to ourselves. I have done that off and on for 8 years now. Share a little, but keep the rest to myself.

But today…because it is October for just a couple more days…and because October is miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy loss awareness month, I will bare a piece of my soul that mostly stays hidden.

And to all of you who, when asked, have to pause when a person asks you how many children you have, because your voice says one thing but your heart says another… I get it. I feel it. I’m sorry.

I say four.

But there are six.

Um, hi. I am just looking for a cool new bumper sticker.

I want it to say, “My child is an honor student pulled a stick today.”

How many other parents would be interested in purchasing one?

It was inevitable. I knew it would happen sooner or later. No child is perfect, and my years in the classroom taught me that even the best and brightest will slip up and “pull a stick,” “flip a card,” “clip a strip,” “clip down,” “lose a star,” or any other cute way to say, “You slipped up.”

When my eyes met Noelle’s after school today, she was already fighting back the tears.

“I pulled a stick today,” she sputtered.

I threw my arms around her and pressed her cheek into my heart. My first thought was not anger or frustration or defensiveness.

I honestly felt relief.

You see, on the first night of school, when I was reviewing the classroom procedures packet that her teacher sent home, I felt a twinge of anxiety. It’s not that I disagree with the idea. I used a similar system with both my 4th graders and my preschoolers. I just knew that my sweet, perfectionist, sensitive 6 year old would want to “end on green” each day of this school year, which is a pretty steep  goal. When, not if, she would fall short, she would surely be devastated.

So, I was relieved that we hadn’t built a 174 day streak that would be broken by an ill-timed giggle or forgotten end-of-year assignment. Just shy of two weeks into 1st grade, and we are starting over tomorrow.

Of course, my heart broke for Noelle. I didn’t delight in her pain, and a part of me had to fight back the Mama Bear that was trying to come out. This is uncharted territory for us. Noelle provides a lot of challenges to us as her parents, but in school she is typically 100% golden. I didn’t exactly know the best way to handle this situation, and with Luke on a camping trip in Canada until next week, I was left to handle it on my own.

The offense — talking to a friend when she wasn’t supposed to be — was minor. And not surprising. Girlfriend loves to talk! In fact, she has been struggling with passing her 1-minute math fact quizzes because she likes to stop after every problem and chat with herself about how she got the answer or admire the way she writes each digit. Getting dinged for talking was bound to happen sooner or later.

Just because I wasn’t surprised doesn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed. Was I thrilled that she wasn’t being a model student? No. Was I annoyed that she allowed something so easy to control to interrupt an otherwise fantastic start to the new school year? You bet. On the drive home, I lost myself somewhere between wanting to bring on additional consequences at home or buy her a puppy to make her feel better.

I settled on having her write a letter of apology to her teacher with a promise to do better, and a strong warning that if she pulls a stick again, she will lose TV privileges.

We went about our night the same we always do. I helped her with her homework, which included studying her spelling words and reading to me. I made dinner while the girls damn near killed each other played sweetly together. I got them to bed at a decent time (and by decent, I mean an hour earlier than normal because the Law of Mondays and Out-of-Town Husbands prevailed).

After the house was quiet, I reflected on the day’s events and truly began to understand my role in all of this. As my children continue to learn and grow, they will continue to make mistakes. They will talk when they shouldn’t. They will laugh when it’s inappropriate. They will say bad words, tell a mean joke, and realize that many times it is simply easier to do “the wrong thing.” And it will cost them. Cost them sticks. Cost them recess. Cost them TV and iPads.

It is not my job as their mama to protect them from these mistakes. It is not my job to fight their battles or question their teachers’ every move, either. It is, however, my job to be there. To steadfastly be there. In all weather. In all seasons. In all triumphs and tragedies. To be consistent. To be predictable. To be firm when necessary, tough when it’s called for, and maybe just a little bit rough in spots. To be cool when they run a little too hot and to be warm in the palm of their hands.

Like a stone.

Some days I am granite, all pulled-together and polished, and other days I am gravel, just a shitstorm of clutter on someone’s driveway, but I am always their stone. And it will always be that way, no matter how many sticks they pull.