I really hate the phrase “All in God’s timing.” I know. I know. Hate is such a strong word but strongly dislike doesn’t do that phrase justice either. It’s because the phrase “God’s timing” completely eliminates all that I am comfortable with, all that I know, all that I have: my own control. “God’s timing” indicates fully relinquishing your own plans, agenda, and prayers for the majestic plan of The Father all the while never knowing if our two plans will intersect. Let’s face it, being a follower of Christ is the biggest act of faith anyone can endure. You seek, you follow, you pray, and sometimes in your darkest hours, the silence is all that is returned. Or even worse, the answer comes and it’s not what we’ve asked for. It could be a “not now,” or heaven forbid, a “no.”
But if the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that our God is not a quiet God. He is constantly moving and working, banging around making noise in the hopes that we, his inattentive children, will finally look up and listen.
If you know me even a little bit, you know that it has taken me quite a long time to look up. And even a longer time to take out the earbuds of this world and listen.
At twenty-five or maybe it was twenty-six years old, my best friend told me in the Gainesville Cinema parking lot after seeing the premiere of one of the Harry Potter films, that she was pregnant. They just thought they would see what would happen. And well, it did. I was so excited. I drove home to Jason and announced to him, “if it happened for them, it could happen for us.” We didn’t begin trying. You don’t need to “try” to get pregnant. You just let it happen, right?
After a few years when it doesn’t happen, and all your friends slowly enter that mommy phase of life, you start to even convince yourself that you are “choosing” to wait, “choosing” to not be parents. We’re in no rush. We’re enjoying life. We’re just not ready. We like doing whatever we want, whenever we want. Life is great!
But we all know the pain and lies behind those lines. The hurt feelings of being “left behind.” The constant waiting and thoughts that come every month. Why not us?Eventually you are forced to swallow your pride, face the doctors, and hear the diagnosis that conception “won’t be easy” and that it will take some “medical interventions.”
I think when I saw that first doctor, began that first round of treatment that my prayers would be magically answered. But during that first year of trial and error, I became the worst version of myself. I stopped praying to God and started pleading with Him. Big difference. No one likes a whinner. Especially whining to the One who not only created you but saved you.
I also became this bitter and emotional “friend” (yes, I put that in quotes because I’m not sure how friendly I really was) to those around me in the throes of motherhood and new pregnancy. I mean I did all the right things, I threw baby showers, held newborns, and always asked about their children. But behind all those actions were biter obligations, not a servant’s heart. I would hold their babies, hop in my car, and cry the entire way home. I played the role but again, not well.
One incredibly shameless moment happened several years back when literally half of the English department was pregnant. Someone had just announced their pregnancy during lunch and it festered inside of me something awful. Jealously is one of the enemy’s greatest instruments. While walking out to my car that afternoon I said to a fellow English teacher friend, “if one more person announces they are pregnant, I think I’ll scream.” Little did I know, she was pregnant. I saw her adorable and clever social media announcement two weeks later and immediately felt shameful and guilty. Who had I become? (And yes, miraculously to this day, we are the closest of friends. She is the most forgiving and compassionate of God’s creation).
But you know what? If God himself would have Skyped me then and told me that on November 8th, 2018, that at the age of 33, I would finally hear not one but two heartbeats, my reaction would have still been discontentment. Because even getting “what you want” at not the right time sucks. The crossroad of “God’s timing” and your willingness to accept it is not on a highway, it’s on a gravely road that requires four-wheel drive and low speed. Yes, it takes time. And don’t we all hate waiting?
Even though I am in the midst of everything I’ve ever wanted, ridiculously pregnant with two healthy miracle boys, I will never forget the years of waiting, of heartbreak, of being left behind. God has used those years, for “such a time as this.”
Want some proof? Good. Here it goes.
As most of you know, I never wanted to be an English teacher. The job literally fell in my lap (thankfully) and I honestly spent most of my ten-year career fighting wanting to leave and explore other options while also deeply falling in love with my students and my school. It seems though that about every Spring I would go on several job hunts and interviews. In fact, every job that I interviewed for, was offered to me. Jason was my Jiminy Cricket during each and every offer. Either it was not enough money, did not offer comparable benefits, or simply not the right fit for me as much as I tried to step-sister my foot into that glass slipper.
Herff Jones even came along twice before during those seasons of restlessness. As much as I wanted the job, it again was never the right now or the right circumstances. I mean the very first time they offered me the job, I had literally been announced “Teacher of the Year” that morning. My name was on the marquee when they drove into the parking lot.
But last year, last year was the perfect timing. I was emotionally ready to leave on a win. The offer was financially worth the risk of leaving a career that I was good at for one that I might not be. And Jason having made a career leap himself, seeing first-hand the benefits of being where you are called (all while also keeping our State insurance).
God was preparing my schedule for twin pregnancy.
When you are labeled “high risk”, receive a miraculous conception, are having multiples, and mono/ di multiples at that, you see a lot of doctors and very often. I have literally seen either my OB or my neonatal specialist every other week since I was eight weeks pregnant. And starting third trimester, I have been seeing them both every week. That’s a lot of appointments. And because I go so often, I have to take whatever appointments I can get, be that first thing in the morning or in the middle of the day. I just cannot imagine asking any principal, any employer, to provide coverage for these hour long (or more) appointments every two weeks. It has been tricky enough getting Jason coverage at his school to attend some of these important appointments. Again, God knew this timing. He knew this job would provide the scheduling I needed to take care of my career and my pregnancy.
God was also preparing my body for twin pregnancy.
For the past several years I have been really motivated by some incredible friends to attempt some incredible feats. I have run over twenty half marathons, one ridiculous muggy marathon attempt, one full triathlon, and one coast-to-coast Florida bike challenge lasting two days. My mom has not been a fan of these races. I would appease her by assuring her I was safe when attempting and training and would also tell her that I was preparing my body for pregnancy when that time came. The truth, I just needed that feeling of accomplishment. It’s addictive and once again it put me in control. Now I was never competing for a fast time, I am seriously a tortoise compared to my friends. I was just competing with myself. Proof that I could will my body into submission be it on my feet, on a bike, or with fertility.
Over a year ago I even began teaching spin classes at my local tiny gym. Another dream. Another way to push my body (and get in a few free workouts each week). I loved teaching spin. I loved my students. I loved the strength and accomplishment each class brought. Almost a year to the date of starting, I texted the owner to let her know that I was pregnant with twins and that it was just too risky to keep pushing my body by teaching. When you’ve lost two pregnancies, you’re not willing to do anything to risk losing another.
But God was indeed preparing my body. Pregnancy is hard. I keep hearing that pregnancy of multiples is even harder. I really don’t know any different. But what I do know is that my doctors can’t explain it. My blood pressure has remained consistently low. My body has been able to adjust to the weight and strain of currently 12 pounds of babies (not to mention all that fluid). No back pain. No swelling. No bed rest. I’m over 35 weeks in, still working, still getting out when I can, still surviving.
But God was also preparing our marriage for twins.
Jason and I met when we were seventeen and eighteen years old. We have officially been together half our lives. And it hasn’t been a bed of roses. We survived college, first careers, coming from two totally different backgrounds, a traumatic brain injury and seizures, raising a teenager, four moves, a home flooding and reconstruction, second careers, infertility, and miscarriages. Not to mention my stubbornness and excessive compulsion for control. He is a good man. He is a Godly man. And with him by myside, we will also survive twin parenting.
People say the most awful and unencouraging things when they find out you are having twins (I’m saving that post for another day). But I honestly have not been afraid. I’m still not. Yes, I’m anxious for them to arrive. To see their faces. To see my husband as a father. But I’m not afraid. God has given us eleven years of trials that have brought us closer. And I know the next years will do the same.
So yes, this has truly all been in “God’s timing” but when you are in the throes of waiting, hanging on to hope like a thread, crying out to unanswered prayers, no one wants to hear that.
Instead they want to hear a true story that confirms that timing can and will occur. No one does that better for me than Ester. I am nothing like Ester. She was obedient. She was silent in her faithful following of God’s will. She could have fought her calling, refused to admit that she was created for such a time as this. But she didn’t. She didn’t run kicking and screaming in the other direction. She didn’t stop praying to God and start whining to Him. She remained planted in that moment, in God’s presence, in His will regardless of her own personal fear and uncertainty.
Ester’s journey came down to a single moment that could have changed the course of her story forever. She had the opportunity to help save her people, and she could have easily walked away, scared of the risk she would need to take. But Mordecai saw God’s purpose in Esther’s life. His words proclaim truth, leaping off the page and stirring our hearts. Stirring my heart confirming “God’s perfecting timing” in my own life.
And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this? (Esther 4:14b)
My Ester-moment occurred a few years back when I decided to stop being the victim of God’s timing, and start being an advocate for it. God had placed my feet on this journey for such a time as this.
Yes, God has chosen us. But yet He also gives us a choice. Will we walk away, or will we accept the journey that He has placed before us?
I am not saying that God will always answers your prayers, dear friends, with the answer you desire if only you are faithful enough to wait. But what I am saying is that God will answer them. He will place your feet on His path. But the choice is yours. Who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?
When you become an English teacher, you’re quickly thrown into a genre specialty. You either primarily teach and therefore become an expert in British literature, or World literature, or even courses such as AP Language. For the first part of my career, I was the Ninth Grade Literature gal. A survey of literature course, pretty liberating to pick among literally anything from the canon of literary works. But after five years of teaching The Odyssey, Romeo and Juliet, Of Mice and Men, and Tuesdays with Morrie, I needed a reprieve. I was given American Literature as my new niche and as most English teachers will tell you, you either love it or hate it. American Lit pretty much has to be taught chronologically. It’s just doesn’t work any other way. That means you start from the very beginning with some less than gripping works such as Native American Myths and Legends, to colonial literature such as John Smith's The General History of Virginia(a real page turner). Most English teachers plow right through 17thcentury colonial literature and even the Calvinistic doctrines that pave the road to the American Revolution of the 18thcentury. We all want to get to the really gripping content of the 19thcentury; the American Renaissance, the Transcendentalists, works by Hawthorne, Melville, and Whitman. Something even the students can really sink their teeth into. Or, at least, pretend to.
But out of all the men who literally set the voice and narrative of the early years of our country, one woman stands out. Anne Bradstreet is considered the first published American female voice. A poet, a Puritan, a mother of eight. Need I say more? Her vulnerability about domestic life was truly the first voice to the hashtag, #thestruggleisreal.
Two years ago today, I was teaching high school English, working on the final deadline for the yearbook, preparing for girls golf season, and packing my bags for the inaugural senior trip to New York City, all while hiding my twelve week pregnancy. I had cancelled golf practice saying I needed to pack for NYC which was leaving the following morning at 4AM. And I did need to pack. But I also needed to make my second ultrasound appointment too eager to hear a heartbeat, already planning to snap a pick at the top of the Empire State Building announcing this surprise pregnancy. Two years off the pill, and over a year on “crazy pills” for infertility. It was finally happening. We had told our families a few weeks before but so far there was no heartbeat. “Nothing to worry about,” my doctor had urged me. “Sometimes, it’s just too soon to hear.” But let’s face it, even as I showed my parents that first ultrasound, God was already preparing my heart for the loss. Maybe that is why I never packed for New York. I just knew I would not be going.
After the appointment, Jason I got the news I already knew in my heart. “No heartbeat.” The “fetus” stopped growing. The doctor never used the word “baby.” Unfortunately, “common” for first pregnancy the unknown doctor had told us. I didn’t cry. I didn’t react. Instead, I handled it. We were given two options; a “natural” miscarriage encouraged by implanted medication. I could go home, and nature would take its course. Option two; a DNC, quick, medical, sterile, and 100% reliable. There was no option three, go to NYC, enjoy the much-deserved trip with your beloved seniors, keep on living in a state of hope and grace. We chose option one; cheaper, easier, “natural.”
While checking out the receptionist gave me a new parent folder and asked if we wanted to meet with a financial counselor to set up payments for the birth. I wanted to scream, “It’s dead, your idiot. Read my chart.” But the numbness was still in place (luckily for her) so all that managed to come out was “Not today.” We left. In silence.
My mom, like a perfectly timed alarm clock, called as we were leaving the office, still in shock. Jason and I still not speaking what needed to be said. “Well how did it go?” she asked eagerly on the other end of the line. “Fine,” I lied. Silence quickly fell between us and she knew. “Was there a heartbeat?” she instinctually asked. “No,” I responded. I didn’t hear what she said next. I was still in handling mode. I think I told her I was okay and that I would call back. My mind was racing. Not about the baby. But about the trip. I had the New York folder in my car. I needed to give it to someone. I needed to make sure someone went in my stead. I had all the forms, the itinerary. I wasn’t going to let my loss be a loss for my students. After all, they are my firstborns, as I have always called them. This mama was not going to let them down.
Jason drove me over to my bestie’s house. We taught together. Did life and now loss together. I had already called her on my way giving her a heads up. When I arrived, Jason stayed in the car and I made my visit quick. “No baby. Procedure tomorrow. You’re in the charge”, was the gist of the conversation. Not sure what else we exchanged other than the notebook and blank looks. Neither of us knew what to say. I can still picture her daughter at the dining room table and her husband in the kitchen. I don’t think I acknowledged either of them. How rude. I just knew I wanted to get in and out while I was still numb, still handling what needed to be handled.
Jason drove me home. I don’t remember where we left my car. What we ate for dinner. If I even ate. Or when I crawled into bed. I just remember the next morning. The black sweatpants I wore. The sound of the highway as we drove to the doctor’s office that morning without the radio on. That damn cat poster someone hung on the ceiling of the procedure room that read “Hang in there.” Yeah, not joking. We’ve all seen that poster. I love cats. I hate that poster.
My doctor came in. Said something meaningless. Implanted the drugs. Gave Jason a pat on the shoulder and scheduled me back in two weeks for a follow up. I am now a firm believer that these offices need a back door. Why add insult to injury, as they say, and have me leave through the waiting room. That room filled with glowing pregnant woman with round bulging bellies of life growing within. I walked right by that same receptionist, held my head as I walked out the front door in my black sweatpants, and left speechless Jason to handle the bill, the reactions, and the idiot receptionist.
I think the car ride home was filled with silence too. I’m not sure. There was too much noise going on inside my own head. It was almost 8AM. My seniors had shown up at school to find their leader absent, another one present. Thank you, Delta Airlines, for allowing me to switch my seat for another within just hours of our flight boarding. The customer service representative asked for a reason for cancelation and without flinching I told her, “I just loss my pregnancy.” She responded with such kindness and sincerity. No charge was given. Her condolences were accepted.
I’m not sure what my friend told my seniors. It was never really discussed. So much was never discussed. By so many. Not my loss. Not that procedure. Or the DNC that ultimately followed two weeks later on Saint Patrick’s Day because what my doctor failed to tell us was the that “natural” way wasn’t always 100% effective.
A year after my loss. A year from today, God did give me something in return for my heartache. Courage. Courage and a voice. I was finally fed up with the silence. Fed up with the dancing around my broken heart in fear of making others feel awkward. Fed up with others feeling just like I was and not having the courage to speak into them what I wished others had spoken into me during that time.
Yes, it’s two years from the date of that loss and my belly is full, literally full of two healthy, growing, miracles from God, whom according to my app, are the length of two bananas. Right now they are kicking and I know that I serve a God of answered prayers, perfect timing, and restoration. But I also know that the two sons I now grow will never overshadow the two losses I have endured the past two years. I will always be a mother of loss and at the same time, a mother of miracles.
I have been living in a state of silent fear these past few months. Yes, fear of loss. That palpable fear of adding two more white hearts tattooed on my wrist. But selfishly enough, also the fear of losing my voice. For the past year God has given me a message of hope and healing in the midst of waiting. God has spoken to me, held my heart, and mended my pain in a way that only He could do. And in return for my obedience and vulnerability, God has opened the door for the most remarkable and life-changing conversations with those who are also in the trenches of waiting, loss, teetering on treads of hope.
Dear friends in the trenches, I am not leaving you. God has never left you, or I. My pain is still real and raw two years later and I know that our pain is His pain. These two precious little boys will never replace or overshadow what God has whispered in my heart during these years of waiting. I know this joy is all vanity. At any point, the tides may turn. Life may once again get hard and loss is always waiting around the corner. We live in world of sin and injustice. But we serve a Father of grace and mercy.
Father God, I pray that we never forgot. I pray you answer the prayers of others in the same manner you graciously chose to answer mine; with perfect timing, and restoration. I pray for peace during the waiting.
No more silence.
No more dancing around the pain with niceties.
No more fear.
I pray for courage and a voice.
Things are starting to get real around the White House. (And no, I’m not talking POTUS).
The reality is not just in my every three-hour eating schedule that keeps me and my nausea in check. It’s not just my ever-expanding waist line which seems to be high topic of conversation. Or the fact that I’m visited Victoria’s Secret twice in two months trying to lift and cover my other expanding needs. Or the relentless baby talk about the future. What to buy. What to do. What do we not know . . . everything!
The reality is that God has chosen this time, this season, and this pregnancy for His purpose. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that one year ago today I opened my mouth, posted a blog, and confessed my heartbreak to the cyber universe but ultimately to God, my Father.
“God has a sense of humor,” I wrote. “He knew that our hearts were set on family and home. As with Noah, God brought a flood that washed away all expectations and ability to plan, control, and He restored our home to something far greater than we could have ever imagined or truly deserved” (Adventure).
Looking back on my own words, God has once again done it. This past year of vulnerability, frustration, and weakness has brought down the walls guarding my heart, just like the unexpected flood of 2015 brought down the sheetrock and flooring of our home. God knows I’m a kinesthetic learner. I must do to fully understand. We spent eleven months in 2016 rebuilding our home preluding the eleven months in 2017 that God would take to rebuild my heart. As with our home, He brought me down to my foundation, stripped away my ability to control and slowly, in His time, with His plan, restored my reliance on Him and His word.
Two weeks into the New Year and I can already tell people are back into their humming life routines. For example, I’m still saying “Happy New Year,” to those out and about and you can see people almost flinch and look at the date on their watch before responding, “Oh yeah, Happy New Year.” Yeah, that’s right people, it’s only fourteen days into 2018, you can slow down, breathe, enjoy.
What is it about January that feels more “hustle and bustle” than the Holiday expectations of November and December?
Well, if you are even an ounce like me, it’s because you begin the year with goals and expectations, dreams and to-do lists, tasks and their “accomplish by dates.” I’m exhausted by the time I make my list, much less begin it (maybe that’s just the pregnancy talking). But regardless, too many expectations are wearying, life-draining. Believe me. Been there, bought the t-shirt.
So, what if you simplified the whole goal setting rat-race and instead chose a simple way to focus in on your year? What if you picked just one word, a theme word of the year to guide you? Now, if you’ve been following along friends, you know the last few years, God has chosen to really speak to me through my theme word.
2015, the year of Adventure.
2016, the year of Restoration.
2017, the year of Whimsy.
So, I’m feeling it this year. Big shoes to fill. How will I ever compete with my God-ordained Year of Whimsy? The good news, I don’t have to. And, even better news, God will show up regardless.
Since November 8th and that miraculously ultrasound, those two unforgettable heartbeats, I’ve pretty much been in hiding, simply waiting out my first trimester.
I’ve cancelled lunch dates. Missed two supper clubs. Worked from home when schools have allowed. Stopped working out. Stopped going out.
It’s not that my faith became small. It’s that my fear became large.
“Required hospitalized bed rest at 25 weeks.”
All the things a bright and shiny new mom doesn’t want to hear.
Shouldn’t have to hear.
I wasn’t mad at God. How can I be? I’m a miracle! They are miracles!
But like all the things we have endured before, God was preparing us. Jason and I are equipped to handle this. I just didn’t want to.
But my Wonder Woman doctor gave us hope. There are two types of Mono twins, there are “Mono Mono” twins and there are “Mono Di.” Twins.
“We’re praying for the ‘Mono Di’ kind,” she explained, just thirty minutes after our life altering ultrasound.
With a blank sheet of paper, she is scribbling two scenarios. One, where the amniotic sack is wide open and the twins have free range to float and swim about bumping elbows and throwing imaginary high fives (seriously, that’s what I was thinking).
I naively assumed that the waiting would be over as soon as God allowed me to conceive. But even after the Wonder Woman, October 31st shock of my life, I have still been holding my breath and waiting.
But this time the waiting doesn’t feel so alone. It’s now a collective holding of the breaths that Jason and I share. Since Halloween, together we’ve held hands, our breaths, and our plans until the following appointment on November 8th. “All we want is a heartbeat,” we repeat to ourselves and each other.
And so the agony of waiting once again crept alongside us, like an old friend. You know the kind. The ones who are close-talkers, who arrive way to early, start digging through your frig and begin eating the perfectly round cheese ball long before any of the other guests arrive.
That’s how waiting feels; the uninvited guest. The annoying close-talker. The one who gets close enough to whisper all the doubts you are trying so hard to push out with a lot of work and filler noise.
It seems fitting that it’s snowing today. That the ground is covered in white, fluffy flakes of a fresh start. In just twenty-two days, that’s what we’ll all get. A New Year. A fresh start. A white slate.
But we can’t move forward without reflecting back. I think this entire “Year of Whimsy” in some way has been a reflection. Like the Children’s Book “Zoom” I received at my AP Seminar training in July of 2014, the first image that you see, the one you begin to focus in on, is not the entire picture. In fact, it’s just a detail of a detail, and by zooming out, slowly, with intention, you begin to see what is truly there. What began as finally verbalizing the brokenness behind my failed attempts at motherhood and belonging, that detail of a detail, has merged into a year-long reflection upon my inability to let go and Let God.
Now, I’m not cured. Far from it! I think I will always be a struggling perfectionist. A struggling control freak (I know, you don’t say!). But that’s what whimsy was all about for me. Whimsy was about the attempt to let go. Slowing uncurling my fingers from the life I was so desperately trying to force, and learning to open that hand to the life God has so desperately been trying to give.
I’m sure there is some theological debate among Christians as to which is the “better” holiday; Christmas, the birth of our long-awaited Savior, or Easter, the most selfless act (death and resurrection) to a self-serving humanity.
But for me, those holidays are too short. The anticipation builds. Stores are stocked months in advance with all the pomp and circumstance of the season (way before I’m ready to commit). Then it’s over. All the eggs have been found, the presents have been unwrapped. Just as quickly as the Holiday morning arrives, it’s over and the days that follow seem somber and misplaced. You see, I’m just not that kind of girl. A lunch date with me is not thirty minutes. You better block off two hours because I want to savor it all. The conversation, the atmosphere, the meal. And just like my lunch date with friends, I want to savor my holidays with Christ.
So, for me, the season to savor is Advent. Twenty-five days in the midst of the most aggressive holiday hustle and bustle to read verse by verse, word by word, the details of those final months before the miraculous and holy birth. Advent is the ultimate savor season.
Now I know I’m ahead of myself. Advent typically begins December 1st and takes us all the way through Christmas day. But let’s be real. My tree is up. I’m already listening to the Holly station on Satellite radio (much to Jason and my brother’s dismay), and I’ve already watched Jim Carry’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas, twice! I’m ready for Advent. I’m ready to dive into God’s word and discover all over again the whimsy of Christ’s impoverished and unlikely birth.
Now if you want to follow along, there are hundreds of devotionals and books on Advent on Amazon alone so hit Prime and you’ll be ready to begin in two days. But for the second year in a row, I’m sticking to Jane Johnson’s “25 Days of Advent: The Daily Re-Telling of the Greatest Story of All Time.” Jane is a kindred spirit. She’s a writer and blogger, and fellow woman of waiting. After ten years of marriage, Jane and her husband finally conceived their long-awaited birth, a son born on the one-year anniversary of losing her best friend to cancer. Jane’s story of waiting and redemption combined with the tenderness of Advent is what my soul longs for. As Jane writes, “Because He makes all things new. And bitter waters sweet. Because He redeems heartbreak.”
On October 25th, 1988, when I was just four years and five months old, President Ronald Reagan declared the month of October, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.
He so eloquently stated;
"When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan.
When a spouse loses her or his partner, they are called a widow or widower.
When parents lose their child, there isn’t a word to describe them.”
For those of us who have lost a child, a pregnancy, a hope, we don’t need a designated month on the calendar to remember what we’ve lost. We remember daily. I will always mourn March 17th, 2016 and May 25th, 2017.
Just as a widower catches a glimpse of a memory and recalls their spouse, I have similar flashes of moments that take my breath away. Now, I don’t know the round faces of my children, or the softness of their pudgy hands, or the way they smell when you pull them tightly to snuggle. But I remember holding an ultrasound picture in my hand. I remember the hug my mother-in-law gave me when I handed her a wrapped onesie. And I remember the bitter taste of that peach cobbler she delivered when she had no words to comfort our loss.
I can’t escape pregnancy and joyous new life. My social media feed is compounded with pregnancy announcements and growing baby bumps. Sweet text messages from friends bring a smile to my face and tears to my eyes. Even my favorite network shows are filled with glowing pregnant woman. Bernadette on The Big Bang Theory is ridiculously fertile with a growing baby boy just 9 months after the birth of her daughter. And even though her first pregnancy was announced on the show in May while I was battling my second loss, I stuck with them. And crazed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Proctor of the Realm, Cersei Lannister from Game of Thrones is pregnant by her twin brother Jamie! Come on HBO, at least give me a Daenerys Targaryen, John Snow baby!
The Big Bang Theory, Series 03 Episode 23 – The Lunar Excitation