Abigail's birth story

Luke just swept all six older kids out the door and to Elizabeth's last basketball practice, which means I have approximately 15 minutes to catch you up to speed on what happened over our long, exciting, exhausting weekend. (I started this post on March 9th, by the way, so now all the kids are tucked into bed and Luke is watching March Madness. It's only taken me 8 days to get back to finishing this post. I can't quit snuggling my newborn.)

Incase you haven't heard, I HAD A BABY! Before my due date, without being induced.

Y'all, it's a miracle. I'm serious.

First of all, on Friday around lunchtime, Lucas fell and busted his mouth pretty bad. It required a trip to the oral surgeon to get stitched up. He's doing pretty good now, most of his swelling is gone but he's still pretty bruised. That's a whole post within itself. But I tell you that to say that on Friday, while we were going all over the place to get his mouth evaluated I had several contractions. They were very sporadic and I knew they were because of stress. By the time things calmed down on Friday night, they'd subsided.

Flash forward to Monday morning. I woke up feeling fine. My Mom texted me and asked if she could bring dinner.

Um. Yes! Do I ever say no to that?

She asked what I would like and I, jokingly said "hospital food."

About 10:30 I noticed I was having several contractions and figured I should probably time them. I wasn't getting my hopes up because, honestly, they really didn't hurt too much. I figured they were probably Braxton Hicks (who is that guy anyway?) and that they'd pass.

Later, I went to the bathroom and noticed that I had lost a bit of my mucus plug. Again, I didn't think too much about it because I was taking some Mucinex medicine for the cough/cold the kids had so generously passed to me.

Share their cookies or dessert? Never. Share the kennel cough? Always.

Anyway, over the next hour I had several more contractions and continued with my pee-every-10-minutes habit. On the 3rd trip to the bathroom it was obvious that I was really loosing my mucus plug and these contractions, though inconsistent in time, were the real thing.

I called my OB's office. Since my uterus is so floppy, he'd told me to call and come in at the first sign of labor so that they could ensure that Baby Girl was head down. I got to the OB about 1:00 the nurse practitioner checked me and said I was a "loose 1." When she stripped my membranes though she said I stretched to 3 cm and not be surprised if I was a 2 upon leaving.

My mom and I grabbed some lunch and my contractions became a bit more intense as well as consistent. They were every 8-12 minutes but I was still able to talk through them. I decided to see if the chiropractor could get me in that day since I was hopeful I'd be giving birth in the next 24-36 hours (little did I know it would be sooner than that!).

I left the chiropractor's office about 3:30 and headed home with contractions coming about every 10 minutes. I called our babysitter/nanny Amanda and asked her if she'd stay for a while so that I could go for a walk when I got home in the hopes of getting these contractions a little closer together.

At this point, I was still not getting my hopes up. I was seriously thinking that it could all just stop or, worse, it could last for days. After all, I was hardly dilated at the doctor just a few hours earlier.

I got home and went for a very short walk because it was super cold outside. My friend Brittany came over (to walk with me) but by the time she got there, contractions were every 7-9 minutes apart. I called Luke about 4:15 and told him he'd better head on home. He got home about 4:45 at which time my contractions were every 3.5 - 5 minutes and we left for the hospital shortly afterwards.

We got to the hospital about 5:30. I was checked into the Labor and Delivery suite, the nurse checked me and I was about 5 cm. Within 30 minutes intense contractions began. You know, the ones where you feel like your pelvis is literally going to snap in half?

I had wanted so much to go into labor on my own and next to that I wanted to try to deliver without an epidural. Don't ask me why. I can't answer that. But I'd had epidurals with every other pregnancy and they'd only half taken so I figured I could do it without one. Luke was an amazing support for me. He kept praying over me and telling me that I could do it, even though I had some serious doubts as to whether or not I'd lost my mind wanting to do this thing delivery thing at all, much less without meds.

About 6:15 the nurse checked me and I was at 7cm. I labored about 30 more minutes and started wondering why labor and delivery had always been my favorite part of pregnancy. I'm pretty sure I thought I was going to fall into a heap of pain and misery right there on the floor of the delivery room. And I probably would have too had I not been so worried about not being able to get up. At about 6:50pm I asked the nurse to check me again. I figured if I wasn't progressing, then I'd go ahead and get the epidural. I was at an 8.5cm. The OB was called and he took a SWEET FOREVER TO GET THERE. I think he decided to walk backwards on his hands up to the labor and delivery suite.

Ahem. Not really. But it felt that way.

The OB finally arrived, I pushed for about 15 minutes and at 7:28pm Abigail Mercy drew her first breath.

Experiencing labor and delivery without an induction and without an epidural was just another confirmation that labor and delivery are indeed my favorite part of pregnancy. You know, besides that little part of pregnancy where you get a baby at the end.

We are all so completely in love with little Abigail and now, 12 days later, I'm finding it hard to remember what life was like without her.

All of the children are smitten with her. They ask me 7,592 times a day if they can hold her. Then they just sit and stare at her. I think we're all in awe that God has blessed us, yet again, with a beautiful, healthy baby.

Ella calls her "Baybay Ab-duh-dayle" and screeches every time she sees her. I keep waiting for her excitement with having a new baby to wear off, but so far it hasn't. She's just so sweet with her.

My amazingly talented and incredibly generous friend Lindsey was present in the delivery room and took the breathtaking photos you see here. You can see more by clicking here. Her photos make birth look like a fairy tale, don't they? I love that she stands with me in awe at the miracle of childbirth. What a blessing to be able to watch your children enter the world.

Introducing...

Abigail Mercy

Born: Monday, March 5, 2012 at 7:28pm

6 pounds, 13 ounces 20.5 inches long

(photos by Light of Mine Photography)

We are so in love with her and we cannot stop praising God for His blessings. She's tiny but not for long. She likes to eat. A lot. :)

Birth story and details soon!

I'm words, he's numbers: Thoughts from the mind of my man

I don't have a perfect marriage. In fact, my pregnancies take their toll on our marriage. I feel so miserable and pukey-bad for the first 4 - 5 months, love the middle 8 or 9 weeks, then I slip into that slightly-less-comfortable-than-a-beached-whale phase for the last 2 months.

Needless to say, I'm cranky for a lot of the time that I gestate our babies. My sweet husband fills right in where I leave off, taking care of kids, laundry, housework, you name it. But it's hard on him.

By far, this has been the hardest pregnancy for both of us.

Add to that that I'm a woman of many words and my husband is, well, a man of less than many words. Especially when he's thinking about something.

Typically I vomit my words all over him, holding little to nothing back, letting every passing emotion sweep across my lips like a flash flood in a monsoon.

But Luke, he's a thinker. I learned a little trick a few years ago on how to move from being a talker to a listener when I'm with my man. It's invaluable for understanding, hearing and really listening to my husband. (Maybe one day I'll share it with you all, if my husband promises not to act like he knows my secret.)

Anyway, just because my sweet man isn't much on for sharing his thoughts and emotions, doesn't mean they don't exists. Before we got married, I'd only seen him cry one time. He shed a few, tender tears during our wedding ceremony. Then, he cried when he found out his dog had died and when we found out his grandfather was in critical condition, likely to die within a matter of days.

Otherwise, he was cool, calm and collected (unless there's inclement weather, then not-so-much). This life of few words, and even fewer raw emotion was the norm. That was, until we had kids. Now, my man isn't afraid to have or show his emotion. And I love it. I love it so very much.

Even though emotion flows easily for him now, he still isn't one to pour out words. Maybe it's because he can't find the right ones or maybe it's because he likes to really make sure he's sure before he speaks.

I think it's because, in our relationship, I'm words, he's numbers.

Today, I got this email from my thinker husband. It brought me to tears and to my knees to thank my Lord that I have such a man who values our children as much as I do and who sees them as the blessing they are. Glory be, how I love this man of mine.

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From Luke today, via email:

So I find myself crying, sobbing, on the way to work this morning. I would apologize for being a man that cries, but I have learned to embrace these kinds of emotions. “You see Billy cried, because, well, he is a crier.” Through certain circumstances I was able to take my oldest daughter to breakfast this morning. As I am in the car driving, images begin to flash through my mind.

• Elizabeth (age 7) being able to get herself completely ready. She took extra time this morning to ‘look nice’ for daddy.
• When I get home from breakfast I see Ella, our youngest (age 2), getting out of the shower {I will not give any more details on that point}.
• I said “see ya” to my very pregnant wife, carrying our soon to be youngest daughter.

You see, this pregnancy has been different for me. In the past, I have taken the role of caring for the older kids and didn’t stop, nor have much time, to think about our new child on the way. With the kids being older now, things are even busier, but it is easier for all of us to spend time together. With this, I am able to enjoy each child and the beauty of what each one holds.

As I am looking through the windshield I think about my 7 yr old daughter and how she showers me with so much love each and every day. Then I remember how proud my 2 yr old was for me to see her being a ‘big girl’. Then I begin to think of our newest daughter on the way and the moments of joy she will bring me as a father and I don’t even know what they are yet.

All of this brings me to the Throne of God. Humbled he would entrust me to make decisions for these children that will shape there lives. Thankful he would bless me with smiles across a breakfast table, naked babies soaking wet with a huge smile, and to feel my daughter move in the womb. I have such a large responsibility to be a Priest, Profit, Provider, and Protector for my family. God equipped me today.

Savoring

I have a sweet (much younger) friend who is due with her first baby any day now. In fact, I snapped a few maternity pictures of her a few weeks ago, both of our abdomens swollen with child.








Isn't she precious?

As her due date slips closer and closer, I see the agony in her posts on facebook, begging her baby boy to come on out and meet the world. I can almost hear her exasperated sighs as she heaves herself off of the couch or out of the bed and shuffles to the bathroom yet again.

I can probably hear her fictitious sighs and empathize with her so well, because I am there too. Those sighs aren't aren't fictitious, they're being continually breathed through my own gritted teeth.

Only being a few weeks behind her in baby-growin' I can totally relate to my young friend. Granted, her uterus is probably a lot less floppy and unstable. And since this is her first pregnancy, and not her fourth, I'd be willing to bet that her hip sockets don't threaten to leave her nearly as frequently as mine do.

But none-the-less, I know she's reaching that pivotal point of miserable.

As I tried my best to encourage her to wait on that sweet boy and not rush for an induction, I found the Lord gently telling me so many things. Which prompted me to think, then write the following letter to myself from the recesses of my own, not-pregnant brain.

Dear 38 week pregnant (for the fourth time) self,

What did you really expect? I mean, this isn't your first rodeo. You know how these things go. You know that you've never, ever had a baby early. You know that you've never, even had a single birth without the help of that devil drug, pitocin. And, most likely, this baby isn't budging until that venom is injected into your veins. So really, maybe you should just chill out with all the natural and herbal attempts.

But more so than that, think about this....

This could be it for you. There is a very real chance that this could be the last time you ever feel those sweet baby kicks, bouncing baby hiccups and a tiny baby tushy rolling around inside you. As you ride in the car, lay in the bed and read stories to your babies, savor every second, every nudge, every painful shove because one day, you're going to miss this.

One day, many years from now, you'll see a largely pregnant woman waddling along and wish, even if for a brief fleeting second, that it was you stuffed into her too tight shoes. One day, you'll look at a mother, shuffling her kids around her like a mother hen with her chicks, her belly so swollen her hip bones are a distant memory, and you'll long to feel that swish, kick and jab deep within your belly. Heck, you might even wish for a foot under your ribs.

One day, when your children are all grown up and having babies of their own, maybe even when this sweet girl you're carrying inside you is carrying her own daughter, you'll vaguely be able to remember what if felt like to have a babe squished so tightly inside you.

One day, you'll know for sure that your child bearing years are over, your eyes will fill with tears, and you'll wonder how you ever got to this place where pregnancy was no longer an option. Maybe your future holds many more newborns, some from your own womb and possibly others from another woman's womb.

But treasure this moment. Treasure the time you have with just you and this sweet girl. Know, with confidence, that this time is fleeting. 30 short days from now, the likelihood is great that this girl will be in your arms and no longer sitting squarely on your bladder. You'll feel the twitch of a muscle, tenderly reach for your stomach and realize, all too quickly, that it's no longer a miracle inside you making that familiar sensation.

Time will fade your memories and one day and you'll wish you had savored these moments just a little more. You'll wish you had slowed down just a bit and enjoyed this time with your baby. Because before you know it, this sweet baby will be sleeping through the night, then using the potty and, all too soon, be able to live life without your constant care.

And in that moment you'll realize that you rushed these moments.

Floppy, Well Worn, Stretched

Those are never words you really enjoy being used in reference to your body. Much less your uterus.

I went to my OB yesterday to see which way little girl was laying. Last week she was breech (butt down). Yesterday, she was transverse (sideways). The OB shifted her to vertex (head down) and then proceeded to describe my uterus in terms that one would enjoy if it referenced jello or homemade banana pudding or even the consistency of perfectly cooked noodles.

Basically, the OB told me my uterus was like a "well worn pair of jeans...nice and comfy," then "floppy and unstable" and finally, "stretched like a used rubberband."

He blamed the twins. I agree. They have a way of wearing things out quickly.

At this point, the plan is for me to buy a pregnancy belt girdle, catch this girl head down and tighten up my stomach so that she can't move. That should be interesting considering she's spinning around like the hands on a clock.

I go back to the OB on Tuesday where he will check her again to see which way she's laying. I'll be 37.5 weeks by then and he said something about me getting to around 38 weeks, turning her to head down then breaking my water so that I'll go into labor.

The good news is that I most likely won't go 42+ weeks with this pregnancy. The bad news is that it's looking like, once again, I'll be induced. Which bums me out.

But I'll focus on the fact that in the next 2 weeks it's very likely I'll have a sweet little girl to cuddle, nuzzle and sniff.

Home stretch, here I come. LITERALLY.

Turn, turn, turn!

Well, if you don't follow me on twitter, or we're not friends on Facebook, you probably haven't heard the latest about my little in-utero trouble maker.

On Thursday night, little girl was doing some sort of alien type moves. At one point a perfect cone was standing an extra 4 inches tall on the left side of my stomach and the right side was a steep slope to the general area of where my hip bone used to be.

It was painful, to say the least.

Friday morning, as I showered, I found it harder than normal to bend over and wash my feet.

At my 36 week check up later that morning, my suspicions were confirmed. Baby girl is breech.

Thus my quest began and I googled everything I could on helping a baby turn from breech to vertex.

So far we've prayed, prayed and prayed. We've asked others to pray, our kids to pray, our friends to pray and begged the Lord for her to turn. I've laid inverted on an ironing board, propped against the couch with an ice pack on the top of my tummy and a hot pack on my pelvis. She moved, she kicked, she turned nearly half way. But this morning, her head was square under my ribs again.

Later this morning, I'm going to the chiropractor and hoping she can adjust my pelvis so that little lady has NO COMFORTABLE option but head down. I'll go again on Wednesday and on Thursday, my OB will see me and evaluate little lady to see if I'm a good candidate for an external cephalic version.

If those things don't work, I'm willing to try acupuncture, walking around exclusively on my hands and pitching a royal fit. I'm also willing to break out The Byrds, put headphones on my belly and blare it as loudly as possible.

I'm praying that when I go to the OB on Thursday, we will discover a head down baby, my water will break and I'll deliver her within the hour. I'd be happy if just the first statement is true, even if I'm praying for all 3.

How ironic would it be to have 3 successful, and pretty much routine, vajayjay deliveries - including a set of twins - and then have a c-section for this little stinker?

Motherhood is no joke

As I swollenly sit on the verge of swaddling, nursing sessions, sweet little diapers and tiny baby noises, I remember, so vividly anticipating the arrival of our first child.

Eight years ago I held another precious baby girl in my womb. Nestled inside, I could only wonder what lay beyond the delivery room doors.  You know, out in the real world. The world of sleepless nights, breastfeeding, colic and growth spurts. I wondered, very little actually, about life beyond the first 12 months of motherhood.

Consumed with thoughts of labor and delivery, soft spots, co-sleeping and nursery decor, I didn't think much about life beyond my baby's first birthday.

Now, that baby is 7.5 years old and about to be a big sister six times over. (And she's really awesome at the big sister gig, if I do say so myself. I think she's more excited about the baby than I am. Too bad people who only see us from a distance think our kids are "suffering" through another sibling.)

Eight years ago, I had NO IDEA that our lives would look the way they do now. Luke and I never really sat and planned out the whole big family thing. It just sort of happened as we followed God's lead. I remember six years ago, when we were eagerly anticipating the arrival of the twins, I would tuck Elizabeth into bed her crib (she was only 22 months old when the twins were born) and then I would sob over the loss of her childhood. I was so afraid she would be scarred for life by having Lucas and Ashlee dropped into her lap before her second birthday.

And if I'm being honest, some days I still worry. Not so much about Elizabeth but more now about Ella, Aaron and Olivia. Am I going to have time for them like I wish? Are they going to resent the baby because she will consume so much of my time? Will Ella have a hard time adjusting to her new life which will entail a lot LESS time on my hip?

But then there the things that happen that prove to me that our children will be just fine.

Olivia knocks her drink off the table and Lucas enthusiastically scrambles to clean it up for her, assuring her that it's okay and it was only an accident and "Bubby will get you some more."

Or a time when Ella is fussy because I'm cooking dinner and can't give her my undivided attention. So Ashlee goes out of her way to entertain her, finding every toy that Ella enjoys and playing with them so ridiculously that Ella can't help but giggle and squeal. Which frees me up to finish making dinner.

Or when I'm gone to Bible study and Luke is trying to put the little three to bed. Without being prompted, Elizabeth cleans off the table, clears all the dishes and puts all the left over food away.

She's SEVEN y'all. We've never asked her to do such a task because, well, she has chores and that's not one of them. But she did so because of the overflow of her tender, loving, serving heart.

God knew she needed to be first among this brood of kids. He knew. And just as He knew all the things that I was overlooking eight years ago as I carried her in my womb, He knows now. He knows that my mind drifts to life beyond the next 12 months much more now than it does the next 12. He knows just how much I want to SLOW DOWN TIME because I'm afraid I will forget so much. I'm afraid I'll look up and eight more years will have passed, just like the last eight have.

But I rest in knowing that the God who orchestrated the complex design of our growing family will lead us in the future, just as He has in the past, if we look to Him.

I rest in knowing that the time of sleepless nights, spit up, seemingly endless fatigue, cereal for dinner - again and loads and load of laundry will be short lived in the grand timeline of my life. I know that when I look back at my life 20 years from now, I'll wonder where it all went and I'll probably laugh at my immature self a whole lot.

Just as God has known from the very beginning that we'd have 7 children in 7.5 years, He too knows how the next months of my life will pan out as we transition to our 7th child. He is good. He is faithful. He's got an incredible sense of humor (I mean, COME ON, 7 kids in 7.5 years?)

And He knows that even though motherhood is no joke, most of the time, it's really funny.

Das Not Funny! Friday: The king is in danger

Oh, it's been way too long since I did a Das Not Funny! Friday post. Way, way too long.

Not sure what Das Not Funny! Friday is? Well, nearly 3 years ago I wrote this little post talking about all the funny things our kids had said over the last several days. At the time, Elizabeth was 4.5 years old and Lucas and Ashlee were a few months shy of 3. Aaron was nearly 12 months old and Olivia was bouncing 5 month old. Our lives were, um, busy to put it mildly.

Our lives were (and still are) also hysterical. Kids kind of have that effect on life, don't they? They make things funny, often funnier than they intend. It never failed that one of our kids would say something funny and Luke and I would try our very best to stifle our laughter.

Typically, Ashlee would hear us laughing, give us the look in the photo above and say, "Mom! Das not funny!"

Which, in turn, made us giggle even harder. I have always heard my Mom, my grandmothers and other moms say that they really wished they'd written down the funny things their kids said when they were little. Well, Das Not Funny! Friday is my attempt to do just that.

Now, our kids are older - but equally as funny. Elizabeth is now 7.5 years, Lucas and Ashlee will be 6 in May, Aaron will be 4 in June, Olivia is 3.5 years and Ella is a feisty 22 month old.

Our lives are still busy and I really want to remember the hilarity of our young years with all these young kids. So here's goes nothing....

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Aaron said to me the other day, "Mom, you're belldy is realwe realwe big!"

Me: "Yep. It sure is buddy."

Aaron: "Jep. But it not popped yet!" Then he laughed like he'd made the biggest and best joke ever.

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Ella has developed a new, slightly inappropriate and yet totally hilarious habit. When I'm holding her, she pulls the neck of my shirt open as far as it will stretch, peers down the front of my shirt and says in her loudest 22 month old voice,

"Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww."

Awesome. Self esteem boost #1.

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Lucas enjoys telling me that I'm getting huge. I don't think he intends on it being offensive because I really don't think he understands that it's offensive to say that someone is "a big fat pregnant lady."

After several times of him lovingly patting my stomach and commenting that I "sure was getting fat" I though that maybe it was time to have a conversation with him.

Me: "Buddy, I know you aren't trying to be ugly, but most of the time it's not really nice to tell someone you think they are fat. It might be true but it still isn't an appropriate thing to say because it might be something that hurt their feelings."

Lucas: "Oh. Okay. But your stomach is getting fat. But I know it's because you're fat and pregnant."

Me (stifling a chuckle): "Yes. That's true. But sometimes people can get their feelings hurt because they are upset about being overweight and it's not nice to point it out to them."

Lucas: "Okay mom. I won't call anyone else fat. Even though I don't know ANYONE else as fat as you."

Good. Glad we cleared that up. Except, not really.

Self Esteem boost #2.

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I've been making a conscious effort to spend real, quality time with our kids before the baby comes. I know that when baby girl gets here, she will command most of my time and my 1-on-1 time with the others will be limited. With that in mind, I've been taking the kids off on Mommy-dates, which includes them choosing where we eat and where we go. I'm simply their chauffeur, bouncer and bank account.

This week, Lucas and I went out. He decided he wanted Japanese food so we sat, on the same side of the little booth and enjoyed our rice, while conversations of guns, army men and ammunition graced our table.

Suddenly, he asked me, "Mom, how do you say, 'I like red' in Spanish?"

Me: "Um. I think it's 'Me gusta rojo.'"

Lucas: "Me gusta rojo! How do you say 'The King is in danger'?"

It's probably a good thing he was beside me because I'm pretty sure I spit rice clear across the table.

Y'all have a great weekend!

Waiting for the good

And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.  

Romans 8:28 (ESV)

The long stints in between posts in not necessarily a sign of busier times in our house (though that's true) nor a sign that I don't enjoy blogging anymore (which is not at all true) or even that I don't have anything to say (certainly not true, if you know me at all).

The truth is, I've always considered this a place where I can be real. Even in real life, I'm generally open, honest and fairly easy to read. Whatever crosses my mind generally comes out of my large, gaping mouth - which can often not be a good thing.

I've never been a person with many secrets (though I have some buried somewhere deep inside and locked away - trust me) and I've never really understood people who keep so much of their lives private and tucked away from the people they care about. In fact, I've often thought that the way believers can give God the most glory is to be real, to be honest and allow your imperfections to radiate the glory of God, show His immeasurable mercy and then rejoice in your imperfections being made perfect in Him.

And I still believe all of that. I'm not too worried about people coming to our house and seeing the sticky, mysterious blotches that are spattered across our kitchen floor. I'm not anxious about folks coming over for playdates and seeing the piles of laundry on the table in our living room. In fact, I don't even really care if everyone in the world knows that we eat off paper plates 90% of the time. (We're not green. At all.)

I understand that people judge us and think we're crazy because we have nearly 7 kids all ages 7 years and younger. I know that we are talked about when we leave the room and often people ask bystanders which are our "real kids" and which are adopted.

So I think my hesitation with coming here regularly and sharing my heart is because lately, I'm hiding more things in there. Pondering them, turning them over in my mind, wondering why none of the jagged edges become smooth with the constant turning and tumbling and wear.

Things that are more than just "am I parenting this child the right way" or "what if they figure out I'm not nearly the person they think I am" or "what happens if they see me looking less than up to par." Because the fact is, if you know me at all you know those previous questions don't get to me all that much.

The thing that keeps me from coming here and sharing the trivial, mundane and even the profound is the fear of being found out on a much deeper level.

What if I don't have this whole God thing as figured out as I thought I did?

Because the nitty gritty truth is that once you begin telling people that you've been called to be a missionary, they expect you to be some sort of super-Christian. Someone who has a direct line to God and who obviously knows more than the average Christian about obedience, Scripture and must have this super-human prayer life.

And I'm NOT good at dealing with that kind of pressure.

Last night one of our youth came into the kitchen where I was carrying on a casual "I'm a pregnant woman and here are my struggles" conversation with another pregnant, youth-worker Mom and he said, so casually, "I didn't know y'all were going to Africa?! Why did y'all decide to do that?"

Why did we decide to do that? Is he serious? I think he was sincere in his question and it wasn't like he was trying to make it sound flippant but clearly we didn't just decide one day to pick up our family of 9 and move to East Africa.

It's a delicate balance between trying to always seem confident and composed in your calling and wanting to shake people and scream, I don't have it all figured out either!

And it's not like we feel okay with sharing our struggles with just anyone. Because, good gracious, who do we share them with?

Supporters? Um. No. Because the fleshly side of me wants to continue seeming like we have it all figured out so that they don't lose their confidence in us. I mean, good golly, $8,000 per month is A LOT of money to raise and we don't want to jeopardize the faith that those who've already partnered with us have put in us. We need every supporter we currently have, plus about 200 more.

Friends? Yes, we can but typically even our closest friends can't really understand the hidden struggles we are facing. Because moving to a different continent is a tad different than moving across town or taking a new job or deciding to adopt. Not that we believe that any of those callings are any less spiritual or God sized but we are moving to a 3rd world country for crying out loud. It's like me trying to understand the pain my dearest friend has over her empty womb. I can try my best to understand, empathize and cry out to God for her. But I don't really get it. No matter how much I want to.

Family? Not exactly. Most of the family that has acknowledged that we're leaving isn't exactly supportive of our calling. Fueling their concerns and giving them more reasons to be opposed to us isn't exactly top on my to-do list.

Other missionaries? Sure. They are usually good people to reach out to and sometimes they can get it. But for some missionaries, they took no kids on the field with them. Or they didn't have to raise support. Or maybe they're sitting right where we are, struggling with the things God is calling them to do but their flesh is yelling out in defiance.

So Luke and I sit in our room most nights, tossing back and forth our worries, our anxiety and our fears. It's a lot like trying to throw back and forth a handful of spaghetti. The first few tosses go okay but eventually it falls apart and ends up scattered all around us in a huge mess. We're covered with failed attempts to grasp totally what the other is pitching out to us.

The one person I should be falling on my face before, the God of all creation, the Lord who called us in the first place, seems so distant right now. I should be falling before His throne, nose pressed to the floor, wearing a blisters on my face from tears mixed with our cheap carpet.

And that's where it ends. That's the struggle. Because I know that if I did just that, answers would come, anxieties would subside and fears would be brought into light. But I also know that nasty places in my own flesh would be revealed. Cancerous wounds would be exposed and I'd have to own up to the rotten flesh I've allowed to live and eat and grow on me over the last few months.

Cleaning wounds is painful. I have enough pain in my life right now. I don't want anymore.

In addition to all of the anxiety, fear and struggle I may have with our calling comes your everyday pain, conflict and struggles with our children, family, friends and just life.

It's a balance to keep it all in perspective and trust that in due time God will make all things work together for my good. But missionaries, pastors, best-selling christian authors and the like can't admit to the struggles with the things of great significance right? Especially as it pertains to their specific calling. Because aren't they suppose to know God? Like, really know God? Shouldn't people who really know God not have such struggles? After all, can't they just pick up their "direct line phone" dial up the Big Man and get all their questions answered, their problems solved and have peace with life all in a quick, easy prayer?

I've said this before, maybe not here but to others:  I really think that in many ways living in Africa won't be nearly as hard as the getting there.

Please Lord, get me through the getting there. And heal me of my rotten flesh somewhere along the way. In the meantime, I'll be waiting to see how all of this will work together for my good.

Top 5 Pregnancy Myths That I'd Like To Beat With A Baseball Bat

I've been thinking a lot about pregnancy myths and rumors lately. Mostly because they are things that people have said/will say to me over the next 8 weeks (that's how long until Little Miss is due to arrive.)

Basically, I would just like to dispel (based on my own experience) each of these once and for all.

I realize that some women experience pregnancy different from me and for those women I pray they have the hardest labors known to man. Oh, I'm kidding. Sort of.

Pregnancy Myth #1:

Nausea and vomiting are a result of the woman realizing that her world is about to change dramatically and is purely an emotional and mental response to that change.

Fact: When pregnant, I puke my guts up multiple times a day for weeks on end. Don't you think that I'd puke every day of my life if I thought kids were so emotionally overwhelming?

Pregnancy Myth #2

Having heartburn means your baby will be born with a head full of hair.

Fact: Every single pregnancy I've had heartburn bad enough that I've considered taking a fire extinguisher and shoving it down my throat in the hopes of momentary relief. And with each delivery, peeled onions have had more hair than any of the kids I've birthed.

Pregnancy Myth #3

Each time you're pregnant, your propensity to deliver on or before your due date is increased.

Fact: This is my 4th pregnancy, one of which was twins. One would think that since my uterus has been stretched to the size of a small house 4 times now, it would recognize that once it reaches a certain size it should expel its contents.

Not so much. I've been pregnant 4 times and each time I've been induced with the drug of the devil, pitocin. My last pregnancy the doctor let me go 2 weeks and 2 days past my due date and still my uterus didn't catch a clue.

I'm not expecting baby #7 any time before the ides of March. Et tu, Uterus?

Pregnancy Myth #4

Pregnant women glow and have the most beautiful/fullest/shiniest hair and nails.

Fact: I'm glowing because I'm sweating. Constantly. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's no deodorant or antiperspirant that can hold me these days.

As for the hair, my hair has grown less than 1/100th of an inch this entire pregnancy. And, my typically heavy shedding self has hardly shed at all. Which means, once this little girl gets here, our bathroom will look somewhat like a beauty shop that has never seen a broom.

Or a pet groomer's trash can. Either one.

Pregnancy Myth #5

Each subsequent pregnancy, after your 1st, has a shorter and shorter labor.

Fact: I WOULD NEVER KNOW because, like I said above, I've always been induced. I sure hope I can make #5 true, go into labor at 5:30pm and pop out a baby at 8:30pm like my friend Kari did.

Honestly, it was probably a man who thought up these stupid myths. Except for the fact that some of them are actually true for a vast number of women. And those are the women I de-friend while I gestate a baby. Not only on Facebook but in real life.

I'm only kidding. Sorta.