Today is day ten of Creativity Boot Camp. Can I just say thanks for sticking with my this long? Because, really, thanks. This is has been quite the growing experience, and sharing it with friends means everything.
Full Bodied (Day Ten)
It's the middle of the afternoon, and I'm standing sink side waiting for traces of pink to appear, morph into a plus or dash inside the tiny square window of a plastic white stick.
I was dizzy yesterday. Dizzy to the point I had to abandon my workout, sit down and assume the head between knees position. And nauseous. Nauseous like I had been the last time I was pregnant. Oh, my, I'd thought, sitting at work, begging the world to stop spinning; I couldn't be pregnant now, could I? I'd slept off the fuzziness that afternoon, and was left with only a slightly queasy stomach. After I woke this morning, mostly fine, only slight waves of nausea lingering, I couldn't stop wondering if maybe I should just take a test, rule out the unexpected, the unplanned but ever possible. So I ripped open a brand new package, got down to business shortly after lunch.
G. is downstairs playing, and baby E. is crawling on the floor just outside the bathroom. He moves furiously toward a roll of toilet paper, eyeing it intently with plans to shove as much as he can in his mouth while I wait for the results.
I watch his deliciously chubby legs push his body up onto his slightly-more-steady-than-yesterday feet. He balances, reaches with one hand, grasp the toilet paper dangling like a carrot in front of his face. I intercept as he tries to shove a wad of it in his smiling mouth because I know he's going to choke and sputter on it. Though he's changing more and more every day, showing signs of toddler hood, he's still so very baby. From eating toilet paper chunks to nestling his little body snugly against mine during the middle of the night to nursing when he's hungry or just plain unsettled, he's still such a baby.
And because he's still so very baby, I'm struggling with the thought of pink lines, the possibility of another new life, a new baby buried deep inside my body. It's only been nine months since I was completely full-bodied, abdomen completely stretched out to accommodate housing for his little body.
And if I'm going to be completely honest, I'm not certain I'm ready to swell with new life again. I'm not ready to nourish life on the outside and life on the inside. I'm not ready to wean my baby, as I did with G. when he was only 18 months because my body unexpectedly stopped producing milk mid pregnancy. I'm not ready to hobble down the stairs, chasing after a soon-to-be toddler and his preschool brother while balancing a growing center of gravity.
I'm not ready for pink lines.
These thoughts, fleeting, heavy, rush my mind, attack my heart, leaving me a little breathless, a little flushed. It's the first time I've waited anxiously for results while honestly hoping for a single straight pink line, and I feel almost guilty. Couldn't I rise up above the fear of wrangling three under four years old? Wouldn't I love and snuggle and rock a new baby just as I've embraced my other two? Haven't I seen over and over and over that God makes no mistakes? That His timing is better? His way is better? His plan is better? That being pregnant again, though not in my time frame, would be a blessing?
As quickly as I escorted myself into panic, I press the brakes, jump out of the driver seat and buckle myself securely into the passenger's side, letting Him take me back to the calm, the serene. And as quickly as I switch seats, the pink appears as a single line -- a single subtraction mark simplifies life again, takes my mind back to the standing baby who's trying to eat more toilet paper, which is exactly where I want my focus anyway. And though that feeling of hope that comes with a new life fades as the pink begins to bleed into the white, becomes a heavier, darker stain, I'm amazed by the prayer answered before I even have taken the time to utter it and that He knows my heart even when I don't.