This post involves using the word cervix. If you don’t like the word cervix, please consider this a fair warning to head to Fox News or ESPN or just scratch your eyeballs out and try to forget it ever happened.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I have actually been pregnant four times. It’s kind of weird to think about. I lost my first baby at about 10 weeks due to a miscarriage. I am not going to candy-coat it. It sucked, and changed my perception of pregnancy and childbirth forever. It was nearly 6 years ago now, and I am in a much better place, but my heart will always hurt for the baby I never got to see or hold.

I went on to have two very successful pregnancies and subsequent deliveries. I have always loved being pregnant. I have never had morning sickness (don’t hate), I didn’t swell up like the Michelin man until right before delivery with my first, and I could always keep up my usual level of activity with no complications. I’d read or hear about people having issues, and I would always thank my lucky stars.

Little did I know when I was pregnant with Noelle that my body in fact was an alien creature and I did have something weird going on. At 38 weeks pregnant, my cervix (had to just jump right in with it) was dilated to 7 cm without me having any contractions whatsoever. My OB couldn’t really believe it and said in her years of practice, I was the first person to present with this weird phenomenon without one single contraction that I was aware of.

If I could, I would have pat my cervix on the back or given it a high five. Yay, Cervix! You are freaking awesome! I am already 70% finished with your ass. Just burn off the other 3 cm and give me my baby. I was a Zumba addict at that time, going to 2-3 classes per week and loving every second. I was certain my intense hip gyrations and frequent pineapple smoothies were to blame/praise for my Super Cervix Status.

I ended up having to be induced because my doctor was crazy scared I was going to deliver along the side of the road (I was commuting from Indianapolis to Muncie for work). She basically told me to take it easy, and then 2 days later, I was induced and Noelle was born (after 4 hours of pushing– I like to throw that in there).

Fast forward about 2 1/2 years later, and I was pregnant with Charlotte. We were living in Muncie, so no more commuting for work, but I kept my same OB in Indianapolis so that my husband’s colleagues weren’t witness to my nanny business while I was trying to have a baby. A girl needs some modesty and anonymity, right?

Well, at about 33 weeks, I had this feeling that Charlotte was going to drop straight out of me. No contractions, but I was too scared to even go to the bathroom because I knew I would be the perfect candidate for one of those shows like, “I had my baby in the toilet.” I mean, I wouldn’t mind being famous, but not for that. Geez.

So I went to the doctor and forced the nurse practitioner to check and see what the heck was going on down there. As it turned out, I was 3 cm dilated already at 33 weeks. This raised some red flags, and they hooked me up to the contraction monitor for observation. After an hour of monitoring with no contractions, they determined that I was a true freak of nature and sent me on my way. Super Cervix was at it again, but it was a little too early to get excited.

The weeks passed on without event, and, sure enough, at my 38 week appointment, I was 7 cm dilated again. I still hadn’t had any contractions, so kept trucking along at school, all the while peeing my pants every single time I sneezed (such an awesome side-effect of pregnancy). We had Grandparents’ Day on a Friday, and I was set to be induced that following Monday. I expected to have my baby in my arms by Monday afternoon.

That Saturday night, I felt what reminded me of little tiny gnomes inside my nether regions, using ice picks and other tiny tools to poke their way out of my cervix. It was such a strange, yet hilarious visual, that it kept me up all night, all the while thinking, “This is weird.” Still, no contractions.

I spent all of Sunday lazing around and mentally preparing for my induction and, quite honestly, straightening my hair because I wanted to look good throughout the induction process. Sue me, OK? By Sunday night, I was feeling some pretty nasty back pain, but no contractions.

It’s just that this back pain was coming at steady intervals of about a minute part. No big deal.

Actually, big, giant, damn deal.

By about 8:45 that night, it hit me that I was experiencing that lovely “back labor” phenomenon, and that the baby was going to be born very soon. In between bouts of panic and pure terror, Luke and I made the decision that a trip to Indianapolis would not be happening, as I probably really would deliver along the side of the road. I called my parents to come stay with Noelle at 9 p.m. Luke threw towels in the car just in case, and Charlotte was born at 9:25. The end.

And Luke’s colleagues totally saw my nanny business.

So now that you have that information, I will tell you about this third pregnancy of mine. Not as flawless as the other two, but not bad. I’ve had more aches and pains. I’ve had more ultrasounds, some elective, some not. I’ve had to take it “easier” throughout these 25 weeks. However, I have still attended  step aerobics pretty regularly, chased my two girls around, and walked around Target approximately 3,742 times without incident.

OK, I shouldn’t say without incident. I did have to be given 2 liters of IV fluids at 20 weeks because I had some pesky, regular contractions for about 6 hours after a strenuous day of zoo-walking in 90 degree heat. But I will slap my own wrist for that one. I have also had very intermittent, at times regular, contractions since then…but nothing to get too concerned about.

Because of my super fast delivery with Charlotte, we now use a Muncie doctor who just happens to work in the same office as my husband. I lost all of my modesty and anonymity during Charlotte’s delivery anyway, so I decided to play it safe and keep it local. Because having a baby in a toilet would probably better than having it in my husband’s new Suburu along I-69.

We started monitoring for incompetent cervix at about 14 weeks with internal ultrasounds at our hospital’s perinatal specialist. The first thing he said upon shaking my hand was “You have a beautiful cervix.”

High five, Cervix. You’re magical!

Everything was measuring normal at the following 18 week ultrasound. Still holding strong and given over-achiever status.

However, at our most recent, 25 week, ultrasound, the air was let out of the room when the ultrasound technician said with a stern face, “Where did your cervix go…?”

It had shortened from 4 cm to just barely over 1 cm. If you look at ONE measly little centimeter on a ruler, you will see that that is all that is keeping my sweet baby inside of me. When people write gross things on Facebook during labor such as “I am 75% effaced,” well…that’s me. Right now. 25 weeks.

Over-achiever alright.

But no one is congratulating me on this. It’s actually pretty serious.

You know how I know? Because my husband is a doctor, and he doesn’t worry about things. In fact, I have told everyone who will listen about all the times he has under-reacted to my health ailments. Like…when he told me to gargle salt water when I really had developed pneumonia and barely had O2 saturation levels over 90%. Or when I was writhing in the emergency room 3 days before Christmas with abdominal pain, doped up on dilaudid, and he thought they should just release me and we could “manage it at home.” Ended up having an appendectomy which revealed a ruptured ovarian cyst. No big deal. No big deal at all.

So basically, he does not give in to every little ache and pain because he knows that most of the time, it is nothing. It’s all normal. But if you would have heard the sighs and seen the head shakes come out of him, you would know that this was the real deal.

My cervix had gone and done it now. No high five, Sir (my cervix is a male– coincidence? I think not). I kind of want to smack the shit out of you.

All I wanted to know was what does this mean and what do we do about it? Well, it is a humbling experience when the perinatal guru says “I can nearly guarantee you won’t make it to 36 weeks.” OK, I can handle, like, 35.5 weeks.

But what if I had her at 28 weeks? Or 30 weeks? She’s viable, of course, but what kind of complications are we looking at? What kind of implications on her future does this present?

Or worse…what if I had her this week? My mind just kept racing through all the different scenarios. All I could think about was delivering a tiny, helpless, premie baby who may have difficulty breathing on her own…or functioning later in life.

It’s a scary, sad, anxious situation to be in.

And let me make this clear. I am scared for her. I am sad for her. I am anxious for her. I will do whatever I have to do to get her as close to full-term as possible. I am determined to do it. I see no reason why I can’t have her at 37 or 38 weeks like my other two.

So, we have started steroid shots for her lung development. Do you know they stick that needle in your ass? Just checking.

We also are starting some other medications to prevent preterm labor. Since I have already had contractions, I am not eligible for a cerclage (i.e. sewing up my cervix) according to perinatal guru.

And of course I have been told to be on bed rest. After I glared at perinatal guru for 3.7 seconds, he said, “Bed rest, not bed ridden,” as all I could think of was “How will I take care of my girls while staying ‘relaxed’ and ‘rested.’ ” And how fair was this to either of them? One thing I know for sure is that I won’t be able to be the same Mama to them for the next (hopefully) 12 weeks. It is difficult to say over and over again, “Mama can’t chase you.” “You can’t come up and sit on Mama’s belly.” “I can’t pick you up.” “Wait until Papa gets home to go outside and play.”

Obviously, step aerobics class is out. Unnecessary trips to Indianapolis or even just walking around stores alone are out. I cancelled all my photography clients for August and September because I’m pretty sure running after toddlers, playing “Scare the crap out of Ashley” for a smile, and crawling around in the grass for the perfect shot, in summer heat, is frowned upon while on “bed rest.” Basically, when I can, I should be “resting.” I cannot and will not take the risk of doing something frivolous and silly and then sending myself into preterm labor.

My biggest priority is her. And we have named her Shiloh.

We haven’t kept her name a secret. If you have asked me, I have told you. But this is her public name debut. It means tranquil. It’s a town mentioned in the Old Testament. And the teacher in me recalls it as my favorite novel to read with my 4th graders. It’s a story of perseverance and pride and growing up and realizing the world isn’t fair. It’s a story of standing up for what you believe in and risking everything to help someone (in that case, an abused dog) in need.

The Battle of Shiloh was also a major battle of the Civil War.

I think it fits her perfectly.

And my, is she perfect. She’s measuring right on track. She moves like crazy and has a strong heart. We have every intention of having a very healthy baby.

Shiloh.

She’s going to be such a wonderful addition to our family…no matter when she comes or how she comes or what we have to do to get her here.

I’m ready to fight for her and stand up for her and persevere through the toughest situations, if it comes to that, for my sweet Shiloh.

So now that you know her name, could you pray for her? Could you picture her as a fully-grown, healthy baby?

No matter the battle we will have to conquer to bring her safely into this world, it will be so worth it.

But damn you, Cervix. Damn you.

I truly never thought I would ever be the person who cared how clean her house was. I mean, of course, I don’t want to see dirt or sticky stuff on the floor or bugs crawling around, but a little clutter? Meh. A little disorganization? Whatevs. A little chaos? Who cares?

But, WOW, was I ever wrong.

You wouldn’t know it by looking, but I actually deeply, deeply care if my house is clean or messy. If someone pays a surprise visit, and my house is out of order (which it always is), I immediately have an internal panic attack.

What are they thinking about me? Do they see the cobwebs in the corners? Do they see the dried applesauce on the floor under the table? Are they judging the piles of laundry on my kitchen table, yet to be folded and put away? Do they think I am a slob? Do they think I am a lousy mother because I let my children live in a house of chaos…toys on the floor and breakfast plates still needing rinsed and barely a place to sit on the couch because of all the books and sippy cups and 178 stuffed animals.

I’m painting a pretty picture, huh?

Please don’t call CPS.

But really. Even the sweet and gentle offer to help me clean the house makes me feel horrible about myself…because clearly the person noticed. It bothers them, even. I don’t know. It’s my own frustration with my shortcomings when it comes to housekeeping and child-rearing at the same time that makes me feel bristled and raw and exposed when I know someone else is literally doing my dirty work.

I was thinking about this the other day while I was feverishly cleaning the house in preparation for a family brunch I was hosting. I was stomping around, saying, “Someday, my house WILL be clean.”

SOMEDAY, my house will be clean.

Someday, my house will be clean.

Someday, my house will be clean.

Someday, my house will be….clean?

And I sat with that thought for a while.

It’s true. Someday, my house will be clean. But it will be clean because it is empty. My children won’t live here anymore.

Or worse. They will live here, but they won’t want to hang out here because their friends or boyfriends or school events or whatever will be more important/fun/awesome/entertaining than me.

It’s true. Someday, there won’t be crusty applesauce on the floor…because a there wasn’t a toddler learning to feed herself at the high chair.

There won’t be Cheerios hiding under the rugs because a baby didn’t drop her cup and sweetly say “uh oh” with that Icouldpinchyourcheeksallday look on her face.

There won’t be tiny socks under the bed or in the bathroom or on the couch or by the door because there won’t be tiny feet.

There won’t be dolls to step over or blankies to slip on or picture books to stack up because, well, “It’s baby stuff, Mom.”

There won’t be tiny pajamas and Disney underwear and pink hair bows and plastic bracelets strewn about like the morning after a toddler fraternity party. Because there will be real fraternity parties. And, just, no.

It’s true. Someday, my house will be clean. But it will be boring. And it will probably be sad. And I will kick myself for all the moments I spent getting angry at the little messes that seemed so huge to me. I will regret putting that pressure on myself to have a perfectly clean house while still allowing my children to learn and grow and explore and live.

My house will be clean and it will be quiet and it will be peaceful. Sure, it will be great…for a little while. I will be able to do whatever I want, whenever I want, not having to work around nap schedules and feeding schedules and bath times and bed times and play dates and story times at the library.

But I will miss all of that. To the very core of my being, I will miss it.

So, for today, my house will be messy. And probably for tomorrow. And for the day after that. Really, until I host another family gathering.

If you decide to pay me a surprise visit, just know what you’re walking into ahead of time.

Clear a piece of couch and stay for a while.

And, please, don’t worry about cleaning.

Do you know the God’s honest worst store to visit with young children?

Hobby Lobby.

I almost would rather go to Goodwill on a Saturday and tell my children to lick anything in the store than take them to Hobby Lobby.

Something about that store and all its thousands of glass trinkets and decorative fruit and spools of ribbon makes my wonderful daughters turn into those crazy shoppers on Supermarket Sweep (Who remembers that show? Always go for the gold-wrapped ham. Always.). They want to run and touch and grab and show and squeal with glee.

What makes it even better is the shopping carts are ridiculously small. There’s no way I can fit both of my kids comfortably in the cart and have room for any items.

But what’s a mama to do when I need some burlap or bead supplies or a cute holiday decoration?

Well, if my husband isn’t home, I bite the bullet and take them with me. I talk to them in the car about what they are allowed to do and not do, and what my expectations are, and that the rubber grapes are not for eating. I take a deep breath and we enter the “Land of No.”

It doesn’t take long for me to start breaking into a sweat. I scold myself for even trying.

And then, like here recently, I will look up from returning 17 decorative knobs to their respective bins, and see a little old lady staring at me. Well, staring through me. The look of horror on her face, as if wild zoo animals had just escaped and taken refuge inside this very store.

Call me sensitive. Call me defensive. But I’m pretty sure she was judging me.

I could just hear it already.

“Back in my day, my children listened to me and didn’t touch things they weren’t supposed to touch.”

Fast forward to our checkout experience. Hobby Lobby is hard enough to get through with children, but then they stack their checkout lanes with cheap toys and junk candy and those stuffed animals with the HUGE eyes that are so cute, yet ridiculously creepy. My girls typically have to hug each one and ask me no less than 208 times for some Pez.

When I finally get them to the cashier, I have to set Charlotte up on the counter so I can keep her from running away while I pay. Of course, she grabs a package of M&M’s and tries to open them. When I don’t let her, she screams and does a Lebron-worthy flop, going limp in my arms just as I am opening my wallet.

Cue four little old ladies to pull in line behind me. The first one in line just gawks at me. At me? I am not the one flopping around! The least she can do is give my child a few looks. But of course, it’s my fault, even though I was trying to do the right thing by, you know, not giving into my child’s every desire and pumping her full of 240 calories of pure sugar at 9:30 a.m.

Her straight-lined mouth and palpable annoyance with the spectacle she was seeing was really no match for the cashier’s, um, “sunny” disposition.

Because mustering even a half-hearted smile or chuckle or even an insincere “I remember those days…” kind of comment would be too much compassion for that hour of the day.

I am finally able to pay for and load up our purchases into the tiny cart, push it to the parking lot with one hand while carrying Charlotte out around the waist like a squealing piglet…Noelle trailing behind.

“It happens.”

“You’re doing a good job, Honey.”

“Raising little ones can be so hard sometimes!”

I would have loved to hear any of those over the deafening silence and critical stares.

There tends to be this disconnect between the people who currently have young children and those who had young children many moons ago. They simply have forgotten (figuratively and literally) what it was like to have to manage public outings. I realize there weren’t as many places to shop and eat and that moms just didn’t haul their kids out and about like they do now, but seriously? A little empathy goes a long way.

Kids might be different “these days,” but I can guarantee you that they have been ornery and disobedient since the beginning of time. They have yelled when they weren’t supposed to yell and they have run when they weren’t supposed to run. They have broken things and touched things and cried over candy they couldn’t have.

Let’s not place our early parenthood moments so far behind us that we forget to be encouraging and supportive to the young mamas around us. Let’s avoid the judgmental faces and snippy comments.

Let’s remember that in this free country, a mother can take her brood of youngsters along with her wherever she would like– stores, restaurants, salons, the doctor’s office, church, etc. Granted, some places are better for children than others, but if you see a mother out in public with her children, alone, and you think that she would have been better off not to bring her kids with her, BELIEVE ME, she agrees with you. If she had another option, she would probably be using it. However, sometimes spouses aren’t around. Sometimes friends and family can’t help. Sometimes babysitters aren’t available or are too expensive. Sometimes mothers without help are just that…mothers without help.

And regardless of the circumstances, how can children really learn how to behave and act in public if they aren’t given the chance to, you know, be in public? They have to learn that sitting through a church service is important, and that movies don’t last 15 minutes, and there is a proper way to behave in a restaurant, and you can’t pick up and hold each and every little thing at Hobby Lobby.

Kids have to learn. Moms have to teach. Fellow moms need to encourage.

I make it a point, when I see another mama struggling with a child in public, to share a smile or short story about how “my kids have done the same thing,” even if they haven’t.

It’s the compassionate nice supportive right thing to do.

Recently, my husband and I learned that I am pregnant with our third (T-H-I-R-D….3rd!) girl. Yes, my poor husband is now largely outnumbered, and no amount of steroids will get his testosterone level to match the estrogen practically flowing through the air vents in our home.