the day it rained

The appointment is scheduled for 3:30 pm. My husband walks in at 2:40. While he changes out of his work clothes, I pack the diaper bag with milk, granola bars, crackers, puffs, fruit pouches and fig newtons. Also the little furby, the red jeep, the blue car, and Peter Rabbit. I’m not sure how long this will take.

I trade my workout gear for real clothes and add a little mascara before corralling the four year old, the two year old, and the thirty-four year old away from their post-quiet time show, Curious George. The clock reads 3 pm. It’s time to leave. Why has my dear husband not started the bathroom and shoes routine? The knots in my stomach turn a bit tighter.

Ten minutes later we are pulling out of the parking garage. Google Maps predicts a 3:25 pm arrival. Traffic must be light today. I relax, slightly. Fifteen minutes later, after managing the littles in the backseat, I turn to face forward and see the hospital entrance fading from view. My whole body tenses and a disheartened sigh escapes my lips. He doesn’t know this route like I do. Google said to turn left, so he did. It takes five slow minutes of winding through the neighborhood to find our way back.

It’s fine, doctors are always late.

We pull up to the door, crawl out of the car, and I feel my hands instinctively smooth my shirt over my belly. The belly I’ve been watching for weeks now, checking in the bathroom mirror each morning, wondering if the growth I feel is visible to the world just yet. I walk calmly through the hospital doors and settle my family onto a bench nearby. Calmly, because all emotion seems to be hanging in a cloud of suspense above me, waiting for a cue to release. I know this cloud will drench me with its rain today. But will the drops be of joy or dread? I am hopeful, though past experience calls for caution.

I check in at the desk. The woman hands back my ID along with a badge. One obstacle down, I herd my family on toward the next. Down the hall, through the overpass, up the elevator, into the second lobby. My gait is quick, agitated. Much too fast for the two year old in awe of the lights overhead.

“Appointment with Maria Cecilia,” I say, handing my ID over again. She calls my doctor’s receptionist, confirms my appointment, and sends us toward a smaller waiting room inside the sliding glass door. My doctor is running late. I am relieved, but I also wonder how late? Now that we’re here, I want the rain to fall, and quickly.

We fill five of the gray padded chairs between us, one for each body plus the diaper bag. The cars come out, the yellow furby too, and the empty square of floor before us transforms into a playroom, much to the delight of the woman just joining us. Eventually, the receptionist beckons me in. We’ve decided it’s best for me to go in alone because little ears always listen, and we’re not ready for them to hear. I tell the kids “It’s my turn!” with the tiniest bit of excitement, then turn toward the door.

Sitting in this office feels familiar, but only barely. I’ve been here once before. A routine check up back then. Dr. Maria Cecilia greets me with a hug and settles into her chair across the desk.

“So, are you pregnant?” She doesn’t waste any time.

“I think so.” I say, squeezing every last ounce of joy from my body.

I need a refill of emotion. I need the cloud to burst. I need the rain to fall.

She spreads her questions before me like a scroll, taking detailed notes of my replies. Usually, she tells me, she requests an ultrasound between seven and eight weeks. As I’m already in my 9th week, she recommends we just wait until the customary 12th week ultrasound. Dread leaks from the cloud overhead, showers down upon my body.

Three more weeks? I can’t wait three more weeks. Can’t handle the wondering three more weeks would bring.

“We can’t do one today too?” I ask.

I learn she does not do the ultrasounds herself. I must make an appointment with a different department in the hospital for such an exam. Understanding the message of my pleading eyes though, she calls her receptionist and asks her to find out if anyone is available today.

We proceed to the exam area and she hands me a papery robe to change into. As I undress in the bathroom, I see the sweat that has seeped through my tank top. I am more nervous than I thought.

After a quick evaluation, she concludes everything seems to be in its rightful place. A good sign. I redress and am welcomed back with news that the receptionist was able to squeeze me in for an ultrasound. After a few brief directions and a congratulatory hug, she sends me off.

Rejoining my family and acknowledging the two new friends enjoying their company, I whisper to my husband, “No ultrasounds here, we have to go somewhere else.” We pack up the snacks and toys and trek through sterile hallways once more. Another two check ins, another waiting room. I have no concept of what time it is. These walls hold neither clocks nor windows. The kids are getting antsy though and my stomach turns.

This hallway is deserted, save for the cleaning woman slowly working her way toward us. Minutes tick by. We begin wondering if the closed doors before us will ever open. This can’t be right. Our suspicions are confirmed when a suited employee comes to direct us toward a different waiting room, on a different floor, in a different wing of the hospital. This feels like a terrible joke. In route to the correct waiting room, we pass windows that reveal a darkening sky.

Within minutes we are greeted by a nurse with gentle eyes and quiet sincerity. This profession suits her, I can tell already. I leave the family behind and follow her through the sliding door. We move silently through an abandoned, dimly lit hallway before turning into the exam room. Another papery robe and I am reclining on the table before my examining doctor, legs wide in stirrups.

The image pops onto the screen and I search for what I want to see. I find nothing. Recognition seeps through my body. I know this moment. I’ve been here before. The doctor reveals no air of concern though, as she takes measurements of my uterus and shows in which ovary conception took place. She moves the ultrasound wand to a different area and patterns of blood flow appear, but I hear nothing. This is when we should hear the heartbeat, isn’t it? Finally she zooms in on the empty space that shouldn’t be, moving around until she locates the babe. The image does not look like a baby at nine weeks should look. Slowly the words come. “It might be a timing issue, but there’s a good chance this could be a miscarriage.” I nod. I know.

The cloud bursts three quarters of the way through that long, lonely hallway. I step into the bright lights on the other side of the sliding door and am swallowed into my husband’s arms. He knows this moment too. He’s seen these tears.

Thankful for the covering of night, we drive home in silence. Tears fill my eyes causing tail lights to twist. The road before me becomes my very own Starry Night.

The silence continues after tucking littles into bed. We sit down in chairs out on the balcony, side by side yet separate, and watch the flow of traffic below. The silence is aching to be filled, but with what? I have nothing to say.

“Just wanna go to bed?” he asks.

“Might as well.”

Moments later, tucked into our own bed, he whispers a prayer. There is no kiss goodnight and sleep seems like a lofty goal. Counting sheep never made sense to me, so I resort to the only other sleep-inducing method I know.

Awesome. Almighty.

Beautiful. Bright Morning Star.

Cornerstone. Creator.

Divine.

Eternal. Everlasting.

Father.

The Time

Day One:

“I’m late.”

I slip this casually into our post-bedtime conversation. His eyebrows rise and his mouth forms a silent yet emphatic “Whoa.”

No one knows what to say next. Left to itself, the moment swells into an uncomfortably pregnant pause. Appropriate.

Now is not supposed to be the time. We weren’t even sure there would be another time. But if there was, now is not it. My husband is working way too many hours. We are 5,500 miles away from family. And I just accepted the reality of my post baby number two bod and bought clothes that actually fit.

I begged God this afternoon, over a sink full of dirty dishes, to not let this be the time.

Day Two:

Every time I look at my baby boy, my thoughts jump to the one who might be coming next. A brother? Sister? Our family is currently an equal blend, “Two boys, two girls” as my oldest so often says. This one would tip the scale.

As I envision our family of five, an internal tug of war begins. Logic and Emotion jockey back and forth relentlessly. The reality of how hard it would be to have a baby here pulls against the warm fuzzies of a newborn, someone new to discover and love. By dinner time, I realize this war cannot be won. Both sides are true, and strong.

Our post-bedtime conversation avoids the topic for all of five minutes.

“Still nothing?” he bravely asks.

“Nothing.”

“I won’t mention the name I came up with.” He drops this comment so casually it makes me smile. Apparently, our potential surprise monopolized his thoughts today too.

“For a boy or girl?” I ask.

“Boy” he says.

I urge him on, “Do tell.”

He spends the next few minutes explaining and defending his name selection. I find his thoughtfulness incredibly charming. As I listen, I feel the whole of his weight settle firmly on the side of Emotion in my tug of war. It’s almost unfair. Logic, unprepared, loses its grip. I sense my resolve against this possibility beginning to fade.

“So this timing wouldn’t be completely awful?” I interject.

“No, not awful,” he responds slowly. “Hard, but not awful.”

We talk through the scenario as if this conversation could somehow sway what already is. Our car cannot physically hold another child; neither can our home. And having a baby here? Who would take our kids while we rush to the hospital? More importantly, his work leaves me alone for over twelve hours a day. How would I handle single parenting a preschooler, toddler, and newborn for days on end? Would we eat actual meals?

But then, there is the silver lining: a baby! A snuggly, squishy baby. Sibling love that nearly smothers. One giant step closer to complete. And really, between grocery delivery and the park downstairs, we’d be fine. My daughter even has a ride to school. I could do drop-off (an elevator ride down to Level 0) without interrupting the sleeping babe upstairs.

Due to the lingering effects of our conversation or the Holy Spirit himself, I’m not sure, but I feel a calm settle within me. I can tell, by the softness in his eyes, he feels the same. If now is the time, then the questions we’ve long been avoiding (Should we have another baby? If yes, when?) suddenly have answers. No further debate, hesitation, procrastination. I welcome this finality with open arms. If a baby now is His plan, then a baby now is our plan.

The night draws to a close in a prayer flavored by openness, acceptance, and (dare I say?) hope.

Day Three:

The planner in me awakens this morning. I check the online due date calculator: early April. We would celebrate four out of five birthdays and our anniversary within six weeks. My stomach twists into knots at the thought. I love hosting a good party, but just one is exhausting. Back to back to back birthdays might just become one triple birthday party, rotating the date of course, so each child would have a turn celebrating on their actual day.

One issue resolved, I move on to the next: where would this baby sleep? In the pack-n-play, in the laundry room. It’s the only room available with a door. Bonus: I can turn on the dryer during nap time to drown out the sound of siblings.

Finally, the car. Upgrading to a larger vehicle is not a realistic option. Besides, we only use it as a family on the weekends. During the week, he takes the car to work and I take Uber, everywhere. I guess more Uber is our answer.

With these superficial concerns resolved, my mind wanders back to last night’s concluding thought: If a baby now is His plan, then a baby now is our plan.

Is it really that simple?

If there is a baby, God has intervened in dramatic fashion. Surprisingly, I still feel mostly relieved. To have His plan so obviously trump our own is liberating. Because I know His plan is better. I do. It’s just that sometimes, His plan is hard to figure out. Nothing like a surprise pregnancy to bust through and thunder through the megaphone “Now is the time! This is what I want for you.”

There is peace in knowing, without question, His plan. Knowing doesn’t remove the inherent challenges, but it does give me courage to face them; to lay down our plan and take up His. I may not understand how, but it seems now is His best for us. This is the knowing I will cling to when I’m nursing the newborn, warming up chicken nuggets for dinner, and skyping family far away.

This evening, I pour forth the day’s revelations over steaming mugs of hot tea. My husband recognizes a shift in my tone and calls me out.

“Are we going to start trying if we aren’t actually pregnant?” he asks.

“No, no, I don’t think so.”

My voice attempts to sound firm, as though I haven’t been thinking this very thought all day.

My voice fails me.

Day Four:

Shuffling in from work, my husband crouches low to catch the littles launching themselves in his direction. An audible inquiry is no longer needed. He sneaks a side glance in my direction. A slight head shake communicates all that needs to be said.

I am no longer looking for the signs of my cycle. When my stomach turns, I anticipate the inner pokes and prods to come. I am drenched in happy daydreams. Emotion, it seems, has won the war.

“Should we buy the test then?” he asks, emerging from a well-executed bedtime routine.

I feel my breath catch. This (very reasonable) question rouses Logic from the depths of defeat. The peace of the last few days doesn’t vanish, but I once again feel the weight of the challenges pull against the rope. The test could make this daydream, well, real.

We might actually be pregnant.

I repeat this daunting phrase several times over the course of the night, each time with a slightly different nuance. Does this phrase warrant a tone of gratitude, because it might really be true?

“We might actually be pregnant!”

Or is apprehension a better fit?

“We might actually be pregnant.”

I take a deep breath and digest fully, for the first time, this might be the time.

Day Five:

I have two things on my must-buy list today: tortilla chips for three perfectly ripe avocados begging to become guacamole and the test. But the weather today is cold and rainy. I live in a large city without a car, which means I run errands on foot, pushing the stroller, herding the preschooler. A quick trip to the store, in the rain, is not enjoyable for anyone. It’s not happening.

Eventually my husband arrives home, and with him, the weekend. We charge onward into jammies and bedtime. Finally, it is Friday night. We hail this eve as date night and begin the impossible task of selecting a movie that fits our mood (a sloshy mix of excitement and apprehension). After scrolling through unappealing options for far too long, we acknowledge the root of our indecision: We must know. I continue the movie search. He runs to the store for chips and the test, because both are now date night essentials.

He returns, approves my pick of a documentary, sets about making the guac. And I... I finally take the test. It makes my stomach turn, anticipating what we will know for certain in three minutes time. I replace the cap, lay flat and upside-down, to avoid accidental glances before I’m ready for the reveal.

The chips and guac are served. The documentary is queued. To whatever lies on the other side of that test, these will serve as a welcome diversion. A place to process silently under the cover of entertainment. No need to form words, to feign excitement… or relief. Just watch the show. Eat the chips.

We stand close, wrapped in each other’s arms, whisper a prayer, then flip.

“Not pregnant.”

“So that’s that,” he says. We hug again, though this time is decidedly more mechanical than the last.

I can’t tell if I feel relieved or disappointed or simply numb. Whatever it is, I avoid it, for now, and lose myself in the noise of someone else’s story.

I watch the show. Eat the chips.

Now is not the time.

Holey

My closet has two pocket doors and a weak light bulb. The mirror inside is not at all conveniently located on the back of the slim left door. To look at myself, I have to pull the door closed and nuzzle into the shelving unit mounted on the wall beside me.

I am mid-nuzzle when I first notice them, three small spots on my shirt. In the dingy lighting, they look harmless, like flecks of lint. I try to brush them away, but they don’t budge. Stubborn stain? But I just washed this shirt. As I shake the material out in front of me, the spots disappear. I let it fall back against my skin; they return. I do this three times before realizing the color is alarmingly similar to the flesh I am trying to cover.

The first shirt to fall victim to the holes was old. But the second? And third? And fourth? Not so much. I want to blame our new washing machine (it already shredded a burp rag), but my holes are always in the same exact place: just below the belly button, a little to the left. I examine the bent corner of the buttonhole tab on my jeans, but I have been wearing these jeans for years.

Four weeks pass. The blue basket on the floor of my closet, the one housing the holey shirts, overflows. The rod above it, the one holding my still-wearable attire, looks forlorn.

A few days later, I am bouncing my six-month-old son in my lap, trying to convince his older sister that now is not an appropriate time for a candy snack, when my gaze falls to his tiny toes. I see it: within each valley of his bounce, the fabric of my shirt stretches and strains and pulls. My son, with his strong legs and affinity for jumping in my lap endlessly, is subtly destroying my wardrobe.

***

We nod and hug and smile our way to the door of the church, acknowledging all the faces we “know.” I lose track of my crew as we squeeze through the crowded entryway, always dense with early risers trying to get out and the late service swarm attempting to get in. It feels more like a thorny thicket to maneuver through than a greeting area, but maybe this is only true for my pancake-hungry people? I catch up to my husband and daughter at the bottom of the steps. She is whimpering, attempting to manufacture tears, staring at the ground.

“I folded her worksheet,” he says.

Of course he did, because we fold her worksheet every week. Only today, her coloring page is above such casual, careless treatment. How dare he not know. The paper that was not to be bent, was. And now it is ruined, the paper and the pleasant Sunday morning.

I reason with her, tell her we’ll smooth it out between two big books, maybe Frankie the Frog and The Gruffalo, as soon as we get home. But it’s too late. Right there, in front of the church, as we are greeting friends just arriving, her whimper escalates into an indignant wail. Her lips curl into a sulky pout. Her arms tense and deny my affection.

I hoist her up in the air because it is obvious this meltdown is not ending anytime soon. My goal is to get to the car, a glorious sound trap that also boasts very tinted windows. Her whole body convulses in my arms, fighting for freedom at any cost.

Frustration spreads through my body like a hungry fire. I wrap one of my arms around her arms and the other around her legs, grieving the fact that I don’t have just one more to muzzle her mouth and its deafening cries. My steps are jagged and heavy, to make her feel my frustration and my control over her form. We walk the one and a half blocks to the car like this. The shrieking finally subsides inside after generous, desperate dad offers a snack. I am not feeling so kind.

***

These fits wear me down. They make me feel stretched and strained and pulled, like one of those holey shirts in the blue basket.

Why is that, exactly? Is the loving, patient mom I claim to be only as deep as my daughter’s obedience? Is my short temper the downfall of having an overall really good kid? I lack experiences that challenge my love, so my love becomes weak, circumstantial, breakable?

To all of the above: No. Because in truth, not every fit wears me down. Just last week my husband and I reversed roles. He lost his temper. I calmly suggested, “we need to love her too much.” As in: we need to give her more love than we think she deserves mid-meltdown.

What gives then?

***

I have a son who is tearing holes in my clothes and I have a daughter who is tearing holes through me. But I don’t want any holes. They reveal things that make me uncomfortable. The clothes: pale, relaxed tummy flesh that, for everyone’s sake, is best kept concealed. And the holes in me? They tear through my character to reveal the raw, unsightly, sin-filled flesh of my heart, the part I prefer to keep hidden even from myself.

I can’t fix the clothes. The damage is too great; all value lost. Their story will end when I take out the trash. But my heart? It is worth mending and I know Hope.

This is my choice: I can succumb to the travesty that parenting is some days. I can. I can bare my holes, my fleshly flaws, and show my daughter (and those poor bystanders at church) just how unsightly I am underneath the layers. Or, I can press into the sanctifying work that parenting always is. I can give my holes to the One who mends all and He will make me holy.

***

I waited ten months before buying new clothes. My closet had dwindled down to only two “nice” options before I deemed it safe enough to spend money on new shirts. My son was walking and running and playing all on his own, mostly not in my lap. It was time.

This morning, I pick the new navy one. It’s going to be warm, weather worthy of something sleeveless and breezy. I slip it over my head and assume the nuzzled position.

But then I see them. More holes. How can they be back?

Later in the day, my son is climbing my torso in heavy-traction tennis shoes, the full weight of his boyhood grating against the defenseless fibers of my shirt. My husband points his finger at me. “That’s why you still have holes,” he says.

***

My son continues to battle my clothes. My daughter continues to test my heart. I am learning though, to pause when I see big emotions coming my way, to consciously choose what I will give my voice: the holes in my heart or the love with which He mends. On a good day, I choose more love than her meltdowns deserve.

But I wonder how long I will keep finding these holes.