I've tried writing this post for five weeks now. Obviously I haven't been able to finish it. Let me preface by saying that there's really no gauge for the tears lately. I bawled putting a fitted sheet on the bed last week. Like legitimately cried over a piece of cotton with impossible elastic. I believe I even yelled at my plush King-size bed ("Which corner? Which CORNER?!") like it had anything to do with the crazy woman who couldn't figure out how to make it.
This roller coaster ride makes it very hard for me to discern whether or not these are real emotions coming from a true place within me, or if they're just an unfortunate result of Mother Nature making up for my lack of morning sickness in the first trimester by kicking my hormonal crotch biscuits extra hard. But after so many weeks and so many tears, I can only submit that this is a very real, however unfounded the feelings may be.
When I first found out we were pregnant, it was hard for me to be as excited as I wanted to be. Please don't misunderstand. We were and are thrilled. Over the moon. Blessed out of our little minds. Really and truly, we are. From the moment I peed on that stick, though, a quiet voice inside my heart was whispering--very softly at first but getting louder with each passing week--that something wasn't quite right.
As thrilling and wonderful and terrifying as it is to be carrying life within me, I know why I was struggling to be as happy as I truly wanted to be. I knew what that tricky voice was trying to get me to believe with its thousands of destructive lines. Your family is so far away. How can you possibly go through this without them? Will your baby even know them? Its deceptive musings were fogging my mind like an afternoon cloud, and I couldn't shake them no matter how much I tried.
I've gone through many emotions, wrestling with it all. I've been angry with God for putting us here in Texas. I've resented Grahm and the job he loves. I've been completely dissatisfied with my own career. I've hated San Antonio: the traffic, the heat, the distance from everywhere and everything. I've wanted to pack up and leave. I've longed for Nashville, where my parents are. I've longed for home.
Home is a funny word, isn't it?
For 22 years of my life, I associated home with my parents. My little sister. My sweet brother. Oklahoma. Red dirt and blue skies. Now nearly two years into marriage, I'm realizing that my definition of home needs a major overhaul.
In some ways, that little voice in my head is right. My family is far away and that is incredibly hard during this life-changing time. I wish with all of my heart my mom was a short ten minutes away instead of an unbearable 16 hours. I know I'll have so many questions ("Is it okay if her poop looks like that? How do I get the crying to stop? When will his belly button thing fall off?"). I know I'll want to show her everything ("He rolled over! He stood up! She pooped... again!"). And there's nothing wrong in those desires.
The problem arises when I allow that discontentment to seep into my mind, robbing me of the joy of this moment. The wonder of life within me. The beauty of growing a family with my best friend.
Maybe one day, my parents and I won't be thousands of miles apart. Maybe one day we can drop by their house unannounced and beg them for some free babysitting. Maybe one day my baby will know his/her Lolli and Pops beyond a picture or a computer screen.
But I have a new home now. A family of my own here in San Antonio. And for right now, God is really teaching me to silence the voice in my head that keeps telling me This isn't going to be okay without your mom and dad and to rest in Him. In Grahm. In our life together--our wonderful, wonderful life. It really is enough. And it really will be okay.