My friend, Munchkin’s birth father, assured me that I wasn’t going insane, I was just hormonal. Because I was on my period.

Except I wasn’t.

When he said that to me, I kind of laughed. My cycle was never really regular. It still isn’t. To this day, I don’t have the benefit of having a reliable 28-day cycle like they teach you about in health class. I range anywhere from 24 to 64 days. I once threw in a 18 day cycle, too, but don’t count that one as I deem it a fluke. But I never really knew when my period would be coming other than a few tell-tale, right-before-hand symptoms. I would cramp a bit in the few days before and my lower back would get very sore. My breasts, prior to having kids, would get tender. And I’d be tired.

You know, all the symptoms of pregnancy.

I spent the next week waiting for my period. It didn’t arrive. The symptoms of my alleged period worsened, however, and I found myself unable to wake up. I slept a majority of my non-working time. I couldn’t sit in front of the television in the evening without falling asleep. And if anyone even thought about brushing up against my breasts, I cringed in fear of pain. They were so tender. And bigger. Almost immediately.

I didn’t take that test for that whole week, the cramping and twinging in my uterus leading me to believe that my period would start at any moment. I slept and worked and willed my period to arrive.

It didn’t.

Every year on my brother’s birthday I’m reminded of that moment when the doubt set in, when the fears started, when the concept of possibilities began working its way into my subconscious. I sit here knowing that there’s no possibility of a pregnancy today and I feel so removed from that girl, seven years ago.

And so close to her at the same time.

I wish I could tell her that, seven years down the road, she’d be sitting on a comfortable brown couch, sneezing uncontrollably due to high pollen levels, watching the pregnancy announcements roll in on Facebook (which hadn’t yet been invented) and wishing more than anything that she could make the same announcement just one last time. Just one more time. Just…

I just wish I could hold her hand and tell her everything will be okay. As alone as I feel somedays now, nothing compares to that week of wondering, the taking of that test and the weeks and months that followed. I never want to relive that and I’d give anything if other women and mothers didn’t have to endure the same.

I know that this pregnancy is different, is unique. But when a contraction wakes me up, I always look at the clock and think, “Is it 4:30? Is this happening again?”And then I have a minor panic attack until a few minutes pass and I realize that, no, it’s not happening.

It’s kind of draining to relive moments of my pregnancy with the Munchkin every single night/morning at 4:30. I don’t think people should be forced to think much or feel more at that hour. And so, physically, I’m being beaten from the inside. And emotionally, I’m being slammed over and over. I shut my eyes. And I try to get to my happy place. But between the contractions and the memories… I’m usually up for another full hour. An hour of physical and emotional pain.

I keep expecting things to happen. And they don’t.

When I birthed BigBrother, there was little else to worry about at the time. People came and visited. People brought flowers. My Husband only left my side once to run home and grab a few things that we had forgotten since I was sent straight from the doctor’s office to the hospital for delivery due to my health issues. It was a thousand times better than Munchkin’s delivery which involved minimal visitors, judgmental hospital staff, no flowers and, you know, that whole physical relinquishment part. BigBrother’s birth was actually quite wonderful in comparison.

But this time? I’ve got all this anxiety.

Even though BigBrother was my second birth and delivery experience, I didn’t have a child at home to worry about as well. If this new little guy decides to come during the week, we’re really pressed for what to do with his older brother. I mean, we have plans but they aren’t “optimal.” (Read: they’re not what I want.) In fact, one set of plans (as we have many) involves my Husband leaving me at the hospital, alone, at night while he goes home to be with our older son.

Pardon me while I totally freak out.

I’m not scared of alone time with the new baby. No, that’s not the issue. I don’t want to be alone in the hospital. When I was admitted for preterm labor at twenty-six weeks during this pregnancy, TheHusbandMan had to go home to stay with BigBrother during the overnight hours. If it wasn’t for the sleep medication, I wouldn’t have been able to stay. I had a panic attack as soon as they started talking about an overnight stay, knowing that my Husband wasn’t going to be able to stay with me.

It’s not specifically my Husband that I want with me. Okay, that sounds weird! I do want him with me. But quite frankly, if he can’t be there, I’ll take a friendly janitor, posing as someone who loves and cares about me. Because being alone in the hospital, in relation to pregnancy or the actual delivery of a child, is very triggering for me. Memories and bad feelings come swirling back. Being alone in the hospital for multiple surgeries during Munchkin’s pregnancy and after her delivery have left me absolutely petrified of being alone in similar but different circumstances.

Do you know how quiet but simultaneously un-quiet a hospital is at night? I do. And I don’t like it. I don’t like being left alone with thoughts and memories. I want my Husband to sleep, uncomfortably, on the couch/bed next to mine. I want visitors non-stop. I want my baby in my room at all times. I don’t want to face those demons that come out in the quiet-but-not-so-quiet midnight hours.

And so, I’ll just sit around and panic about this particular issue, knowing that it wouldn’t be an issue if this little guy would come out today (as tomorrow is Veteran’s Day). However, he seems to have calmed down the uterus shaking since yesterday. Interesting.

I swear I have song lyrics left. I just got overwhelmed with emotion.

I woke up around three o’clock this morning with contractions. And I was instantly transported back to this same time frame with the Munchkin. As the clock neared 4:30, I kept expecting my water to break. Everything was eerily familiar. Except the location. And the Husband. And my enormous size. (I only gained nineteen pounds with that pregnancy.)

And so, as I was up and feeling awful and wondering what was happening, I was having flashbacks of those last few weeks leading up to pregnancy.  Things I don’t often think about because life gets in the way and/or I don’t want to think about them on a regular basis. Nothing like getting overwhelmed with emotion while your uterus is imploding. It was a very long night.

It was so silent the night that I woke up in labor with her. The sheets in the bed were soft and cool. It hadn’t yet started snowing but it would soon. She had thrown herself a party a few nights prior; I watched my belly shake and roll. Even now, I can’t believe we were once so close.

Too much. Back to breathing slowly. (Lyrics again tomorrow. Unless I’m in labor.)

As she was inserting my IV, which, by the way, she did so well that it didn’t hurt at all, she was asking me questions. Of course, we had already done my health history. She was fully aware that there were two previous live born children. And so she asks (and the rest of the conversation follows):

Nurse: How old are your other children?
Munchkin’sFirstMom: *stumbles for a second* BigBrother will be two next month. Munchkin will turn four in December.
Nurse: Oh, so she’ll be your big helper!
Munchkin’sFirstMom: Well, she was placed for adoption at birth.
Nurse: *doesn’t miss a beat* That had to be very hard. One of the hardest things I can imagine, really. *continues to stab my arm gently and continues* Do you have contact at all?
Munchkin’sFirstMom: Actually, yes. We have visits and so on.

And then we launched into a discussion about the extent of our contact, where J and D live and driving across the state of Pennsylvania. She never flinched. Granted, being on L&D for thirty years, I would assume that she’s seen a few things in her time. To even know to ask about contact shows that she at least has an iota of understanding about recent adoptions. Do not balk at the topic shows that she has some respect or at least common decency not to let personal opinion interfere with work. But she didn’t treat me differently from that point on. I was still her patient. She was just as fun-loving as before.

Previous nurses have dropped the subject of my daughter as soon as the word adoption was mentioned. Others stumbled over themselves trying to back-pedal the conversation. Others suddenly had a lack of interest in my care. Not this lady.

I wonder what the chances are of getting her when I go into official labor. Slim, I assume.

Day Three: I’m not really good at pregnancy.

This post is late in the day. Why? I went in for my 33 week prenatal checkup. And got shipped over to Labor & Delivery. I’ve got protein in my urine, elevated blood pressure and some significant swelling (that isn’t heat induced at this point). Also, I was contracting! JOY! So, I got a shot of terbutaline, lots of blood work, a mini-catheter, an ultrasound on the baby (5lbs, 8oz with a head measuring almost three weeks ahead of schedule), an ultrasound on my cervix and a few hours of monitoring. Joy, fun, eh? Contractions were stopped with ease, thankfully. But me? I’m on Level 2 bedrest. (With a two year old. Mmhmm, right.)

This is the longest I’ve gone without bedrest, actually. With BigBrother, it happened at 32 weeks. (I’m 33w5d today.) With Munchkin? 18 weeks. I’m kind of proud to have made it this far but still bummed. (Also glad that we bought the laptop this week.)

And how does all of this relate to adoption?

I’m really kind of beefed with the agency (and other agencies that tell other expectant mothers considering placement the same thing). It was always said, “You can have more kids.” Yeah, okay, I’m “having” more kids. But I’ve had one miscarriage. And two, now, very complicated pregnancies. My own health has been put at risk. In fact, my child-bearing years are thus dictated by my health risks. After this kid, we’re done. It’s greatly assumed that birth mothers are young, fertile and strong and can go on to have umpteen babies. I’m mad that they didn’t say, “Hey, with the complications that you’re having with this kid (Munchkin) should you maybe get a second opinion about how future pregnancies will go before making decisions about children?”

But not REALLY mad. In fact, the only time that it bothers me is when I’m laid up in the hospital, unsure of my health, my child’s health and the future. Otherwise, I just don’t think about it much. “What’s done is done.” But with that, I tell all mothers considering placement, “Don’t bank on being healthy, strong enough or able to have more children. You just. never. know.”

Now I need to drink some water, watch some lame Friday night TV and thank my Lord that He has given us more time to bake this child. Who, seen via ultrasound today, is just as darn cute as his older siblings. (I also have a great hospital-adoption-talk story to share. Really. It’s positive! But I’ve got to rest.)

Did I mention that I will be 32 weeks, 6 days pregnant at that point?

Anyone else know where the nerves are coming from?

Because I can talk about adoption, birth motherhood and whatever until I’m blue in the face. In such a setting, where I’m not trying to win friends or make people like me, I don’t necessarily feel the same nerves as I do when I’m telling people that I hope will be my Best Friend Forever about our adoption story. It’s just a different thing.

But this whole speaking about birth mothers as a birth mother while pregnant? I’m all twisted up inside.

It’s only happened once, and it was in a chat room setting, not a real life setting. While pregnant with BigBrother, I was talking about my pregnancy and so on. Some other chatter asked who I was giving “this baby” to. Excuse me? This person couldn’t understand why or how I was going to parent this child since I had already given up one. Didn’t that mean that I was a bad parent? Isn’t that why I gave up the first kid? The fantastic list of questions went on and on. I was stunned. Here I was, a successful, married woman who had purposefully conceived a child and I was being told that I couldn’t possibly ever parent another child since I “gave up” my firstborn. I was, forever, a bad parent. Unfit.

And while I want, desperately, to believe that the general public isn’t as moronic as that particular person, I know it’s simply not true. Someone, if not multiple someones, will be sitting in that audience on Saturday thinking one of the following things:

Oh, look, that sex-crazed little whore went and got herself knocked up again. Doesn’t she know how to keep her legs closed?

Or:

I wonder who will parent this baby? I have some friends who are looking to adopt.

Or:

Didn’t she learn anything the first time she got pregnant?

The variations continue on. You can tell me that people won’t be thinking that but we all know that someone, if not multiple someones, will be. And it’s disheartening. And it makes me want to cry a little bit. (Possible hormone issue right there.)

So, are there any witty comebacks in case someone has the audacity to say any of these things to me? I mean, I could go into the whole “I’m a great mom, a successful woman, married to a great man and this baby was just as planned as his older brother.” But that seems boring. I need to shock some pants off in my hometown. I’m feeling a bit snarky.

Whatcha got?

Everything is just swirling around me, mixing in with the fears I’m feeling about Mom’s cancer and this baby’s health. I’m somewhat overwhelmed. (Though less sweaty today with a predicted high of only 78 degrees. 62 tomorrow!) I’m trying to be “good.” I’m drinking my water. I’m eating healthy things, like apples. But yesterday, I was so sick to my stomach with nerves that I couldn’t eat a thing until dinner time. (Making up for the fact that they day before? All I did was eat. Oops?)

It’s strange, really, being this focused on my Mom’s health near the end of this (last) pregnancy. With the Munchkin, we were very focused on my health and my kidneys. Mom and I were having horrid communication problems and, quite frankly, I didn’t care (at the time) if the Munchkin ever knew her grandmother. Now I can’t think of a worse thing for this baby, Little Man or Munchkin. I want them to know their grandmother, their Yia Yia. If you would have told me, during this phase of my pregnancy with the Munchkin, that my greatest worry would be that my children wouldn’t know their maternal grandmother, I would have laughed at you.

Things change. Don’t they?

The memories are sometimes pleasant, sometimes fraught with anxiety and sometimes random. Why do I remember what my mother was wearing on the day my daughter was born? Why do I remember which towel we took to the hospital to keep the seat from being drowned (my water broke at home)? What are these little, unimportant snip-its? Why can’t I remember some of the bigger stuff? Why is memory like this?

As for the specifics on dreams, in the past week I have dreamed: my husband was cheating on me (he’s not), Little Man broke a bone (he didn’t), this baby was born too early (which is still a reality) and in another, he was born very quickly so we didn’t get to the hospital (uh, another possibility). I have dreamed that my mother died. I have dreamed that I wrecked my car. I have dreamed the the Munchkin got lost and no one could find her. Uh, the list goes on. Every time I wake up to go to the bathroom (frequently), I go back to sleep to have another awful dream. Even when I do get eight hours of sleep, it’s interrupted and not well-rested. I’m exhausted. You know, on top of constant contractions. Wee.

Exhausted, really. Exhausted.

But man, I broke down in tears at Bible Study tonight. And it wasn’t the message.

In fact, I wasn’t paying attention. The contractions were keeping me somewhere between coherence and severe pain. I was trying but I kept floating in and out. A friend of mine, whom I wrote about before, passed me a note. To bring everyone up to speed, I did tell her about the Munchkin’s placement and she regularly asks me about my daughter as well as my son. She doesn’t treat the topic as taboo and I love her all the more for it. And so, back to the note.

I felt like we were in middle school, passing notes. She had actually already passed me one note to give to my Husband about permits for bonfires. I figured it was an addendum to said note. So, I just briefly grazed over the note. And then I had to read it again. And again. And then I cried. I put down the note, put my hand over my eyes, and cried.

She and the Pastor’s wife (who have become very good friends; as you remember, our Pastor is new as of this summer) are throwing me a flipping BABY SHOWER next month. They’re getting the women from the choir and our Sunday School class together. And throwing me a baby shower. A baby shower.

I had a baby shower with BigBrother. My best friend planned and threw it and it was beautiful and amazing. It was everything she knew I wanted (minimal cheesy games, maximum good food). My best friend knew how upset I was that I wasn’t treated to a baby shower at all when I was pregnant with the Munchkin. She went above and beyond the call of duty with BigBrother’s shower. I felt honored and blessed and couldn’t have asked for more.

In fact, I didn’t ask for more. I didn’t want anything this time around, I told everyone. Considering LittleBrother is also a boy, there was no need for another shower. We have everything we need (except a breast pump which I’m still researching). With the boys so close in age, I just didn’t need one. I had my one day of glory. I finally felt honored as a Mother. It just really hadn’t crossed my mind this time.

But this? This unexpected gesture? From my church? After I experienced so much crud from my parent’s church when I was pregnant with the Munchkin? And not one family in the church, including the Pastor and his wife who were adoptive parents, offered to give the child even a onesie? Or even offered to pray with and/or for me? And these ladies, who are not remotely close to my age, are throwing a party? In my honor? Especially knowing my past history?

I’m humbled. I’m speechless. I’m kind of emotional.

It did stir up some old resentment towards the church my parents were attending (and dragging me to) at the time of my pregnancy with the Munchkin. I’ll be honest. I do hold some anger for that Pastor and the hell on Earth that he put me and my family through at that time. Looking back on all of that tonight, as I sit here very, very reflective, I’m shocked that I escaped with any amount of faith in tact. I really, really am. I know so many birth mothers who no longer have their faith because of the adoption (or somehow attached to the adoption if not directly because of). Perhaps it’s because I didn’t associate my faith with my parent’s church? I don’t know. I won’t pretend to even want to know why; I’m just glad I have what I have.

And so, back to being humbled instead of angry.

Yes, humbled. A mother, who lost her own daughter in a more tragic way than I care to really think about, is honoring my motherhood… knowing the full extent of my own motherhood. It doesn’t take away the hurt that no one cared about me when I was alone and scared. No, that still exists. But it feels pretty darn good. It feels …

It feels like I want other mothers to feel. No matter their marital status or age or circumstance. I hope against hope that I can remember this feeling as I grow older and time wears down my memories. I hope that someday I can bestow a mother with the same feeling of respect. I want to pass this one on someday… to a mother who may not feel as though she deserves such honor. Because we all do. Single, married, rich, poor, what have you.

I’m rambling. In short: I’m just so darn touched this evening. I think I’ll try something more coherent on this again soon. But I just needed to get this all out. I needed to.

Being in the hospital conjured up some emotions that I wasn’t prepared for, again. (Always?) However, I’m still a little beat from the whole “contracting for over twelve hours” ordeal. I guess I have a lot of emotions going on that I can’t find the time or energy to process and write about; perhaps this is just a norm of motherhood and not specifically attached to adoption. I’m a constant ball of motion, as are most other moms, no matter how they earned the title. I’m behind on laundry, cleaning the bathroom, cleaning out my flash card for the new camera, book reading for the year and my Sunday School lessons. But at the same time, I’m trying to remind myself that it’s all okay.

I don’t have to solve the world’s problems… or even my own… today.

In fact, I don’t have to do much of anything today. And that’s really nice.