Imperfect
My Precious Child,
I am really flattered by compliments that I seem to have had a flawless pregnancy so far. One of my midwives raved about my good nature and your good health at an appointment last month. Nana Gail agrees, stating that from all appearances my pregnancy has been ideal. In so many ways, I know they are right. I haven't had to struggle through a single day of morning sickness. I haven't had to be placed on bed rest or adjust my lifestyle in too many drastic ways. You are growing so beautifully into a strong little girl and it warms my heart to know that in 7 short weeks, I will get to hold you in my arms.
You are healthy. I am healthy. I am so incredibly grateful.
That being said... there have been plenty of moments that have not been flawless, perfect, or rave-worthy. Pregnancy is single-handedly the most mind boggling experience I have ever been through. I truly wouldn't trade this chapter of my life for anything - not money, not success, not power, not anything. Each day I fall more and more in love with a person I have never met in person yet... YOU.
But being pregnant is not easy. My body is changing faster than my mind can keep up with. I apply and reapply coconut oil to the little red stretch marks that are slowly popping up on my sides. I wake up a good 2 to 3 times each night to pee, my aching back sending shots of lighting down my legs as I maneuver my way out of bed. When I try to fall back asleep, a combination of your daddy's snores, the puppies movements, and my racing mind will keep me awake for hours. My grunts and groans as I stand up from any seated or laying down position can be heard from rooms away. Your kicks and tumbles that I waited so long to feel can now feel like punches into my ribs, bladder, or nerves, making me jump in my seat and blurt out things like "oooooo!" or "yowza!" in public places.
And I can be an emotional train wreck.
There's no other way to say it really. I can no longer regulate my emotions in the ways that I used to. I can be just fine one moment then suddenly I'm a puddle of tears. I will be crying for reasons I can't even begin to understand myself, let alone articulate in any comprehendible way. News of a mall shooting? I'm a mess. Stories of missing children? Forget it! But at least tears are a familiar occurrence, even pre-pregnancy. The new, unchartered territory for me is a mask that doesn't look good on me (or anyone for that matter)... anger.
There is one quite embarrassing but completely true story that paints a picture of this pretty clearly. Your daddy was out with some old coworkers and friends for drinks. I had joined them earlier in the evening but had gone home because a) I'm not really comfortable being that super pregnant lady at a bar and b) I was exhausted. I told your dad that I would be willing to give him a ride when he was ready to come home and that he should just shoot me a text when I should pick him up. A couple of hours later, he did just that and I headed downtown. I parked around the corner from the bar and texted him to let him know where I was. Then my phone died. No problem, I thought. He'll be out soon. I waited 10 minutes. 15. 20. I was growing pretty irritated. A little after the 20 minute mark of me sitting in my car mumbling curse words under my breath, I decided to drive to the front of the bar in a spot that had just opened up, making sure he would see me when he walked out.
25 minutes. What the hell was taking him so long? I guess I'll just go in and get him. Ugh! I was in my pajamas. No makeup. Hair a hot mess. I reached to the backseat and grabbed a pair of jeans that were once way too big for me. I'll just slip these over my pajama pants. They didn't even get to my knees before I realized the impossibility of me actually fitting into them.
I could feel the blood rushing into my cheeks. In my mind, it played out like this: I had been generous enough to offer him a ride. I had gotten out of bed without a single complaint. I had driven my pregnant self downtown to pick up my buzzed husband from a place where he was having loads of fun without me. I sat there like an idiot for a half hour while he continued to drink and laugh and talk about God knows what. I tried to wear an old pair of pants just to be reminded like a slap in the face that my body is far from what it used to be. I snapped. I went inside in my floral pajama pants, dodging the confused and judgmental looks from the bartenders and servers, and found him at the back of the bar. Across a group of at least a dozen people I said (in a near-yell) the only five words that I could get out in that moment: "Pregnant wife. Waiting. Car. Now!"
It wasn't even a sentence! I couldn't even form a sentence! I could see the embarrassment on his face as he quickly wrapped up a conversation he was having with an old coworker. I turned and made my way out of the bar as quickly as I could. Before I even got back to my car, I had that overwhelming, choking feeling I get sometimes when I know I have done something I will regret.
But even though I realized that as soon as it happened, did I apologize to him for being so hot-headed and embarrassing him in front of his peers? Nope. I continued to berate him on the ride home. Despite his multiple sincere apologies and an explanation that he had lost track of time in the middle of a good conversation, I used words like "inconsiderate," "rude," and "selfish" like they were going out of style. And I kept digging that hole; it started to feel so deep that I would fall in it and never find my way back out. Anger is scary that way.
You're going to dig a hole like that someday too, baby. You're going to lose your temper. You're going to say something you don't mean. You're going to feel a lump form in your throat and your chest tighten as you raise your voice even louder, insisting you're not being heard. And, if you're anything like either your daddy or me, you may be too stubborn to apologize right away.
When I was growing up, Papa Bruce and Nana Gail taught me to apologize in a very specific way. We couldn't get away with the casual (or sarcastic) "sorry." Nope. A counselor and a principal knew better. Instead, we were taught the following:
"I apologize for (insert whatever happened here). I realize (insert explanation as to why it was hurtful). Do you accept my apology?"
That simple statement taught me more than a lot of my college coursework. It took hours for me to be able to admit out loud that I was wrong that night. I sat in my stubborn pride, feeling absolutely lousy, refusing to do the one thing I knew would help me feel better: apologize. But the important thing is that I did apologize. I looked your daddy in the eye and gave him a sincere apology in the way that my parents taught me so many years ago.
I have met so many people in my life who either won't, can't, or don't know how to apologize. Don't be one of those people, sweet girl. Don't allow your pride to limit your happiness. Don't let anger, frustration, or disappointment consume your thoughts and darken your heart. Whether it be a silly fight like the one I just described or a major, life changing incident that seems to shake your world to the core, remember that forgiveness is not for the person you are forgiving. It is for you. It is a gift to yourself, an acceptance of things for how they are rather than how you wish them to be.
So there it is... evidence that my pregnancy has been far from perfect. Because, my lovely girl, perfection is overrated. I say that not only because it is completely unattainable and self-defeating but because it is fact. We are all beautifully imperfect messes doing our very best and I don't want you to think, even for one second, that you have to be anywhere close to perfect to be worthy of respect and love. I will love you through every single second of your life. You are my daughter. Good days, bad days, and all of the very mediocre days in between, you will be loved.
Love Always and Forever,
Mom
I am really flattered by compliments that I seem to have had a flawless pregnancy so far. One of my midwives raved about my good nature and your good health at an appointment last month. Nana Gail agrees, stating that from all appearances my pregnancy has been ideal. In so many ways, I know they are right. I haven't had to struggle through a single day of morning sickness. I haven't had to be placed on bed rest or adjust my lifestyle in too many drastic ways. You are growing so beautifully into a strong little girl and it warms my heart to know that in 7 short weeks, I will get to hold you in my arms.
You are healthy. I am healthy. I am so incredibly grateful.
That being said... there have been plenty of moments that have not been flawless, perfect, or rave-worthy. Pregnancy is single-handedly the most mind boggling experience I have ever been through. I truly wouldn't trade this chapter of my life for anything - not money, not success, not power, not anything. Each day I fall more and more in love with a person I have never met in person yet... YOU.
But being pregnant is not easy. My body is changing faster than my mind can keep up with. I apply and reapply coconut oil to the little red stretch marks that are slowly popping up on my sides. I wake up a good 2 to 3 times each night to pee, my aching back sending shots of lighting down my legs as I maneuver my way out of bed. When I try to fall back asleep, a combination of your daddy's snores, the puppies movements, and my racing mind will keep me awake for hours. My grunts and groans as I stand up from any seated or laying down position can be heard from rooms away. Your kicks and tumbles that I waited so long to feel can now feel like punches into my ribs, bladder, or nerves, making me jump in my seat and blurt out things like "oooooo!" or "yowza!" in public places.
And I can be an emotional train wreck.
There is one quite embarrassing but completely true story that paints a picture of this pretty clearly. Your daddy was out with some old coworkers and friends for drinks. I had joined them earlier in the evening but had gone home because a) I'm not really comfortable being that super pregnant lady at a bar and b) I was exhausted. I told your dad that I would be willing to give him a ride when he was ready to come home and that he should just shoot me a text when I should pick him up. A couple of hours later, he did just that and I headed downtown. I parked around the corner from the bar and texted him to let him know where I was. Then my phone died. No problem, I thought. He'll be out soon. I waited 10 minutes. 15. 20. I was growing pretty irritated. A little after the 20 minute mark of me sitting in my car mumbling curse words under my breath, I decided to drive to the front of the bar in a spot that had just opened up, making sure he would see me when he walked out.
25 minutes. What the hell was taking him so long? I guess I'll just go in and get him. Ugh! I was in my pajamas. No makeup. Hair a hot mess. I reached to the backseat and grabbed a pair of jeans that were once way too big for me. I'll just slip these over my pajama pants. They didn't even get to my knees before I realized the impossibility of me actually fitting into them.
I could feel the blood rushing into my cheeks. In my mind, it played out like this: I had been generous enough to offer him a ride. I had gotten out of bed without a single complaint. I had driven my pregnant self downtown to pick up my buzzed husband from a place where he was having loads of fun without me. I sat there like an idiot for a half hour while he continued to drink and laugh and talk about God knows what. I tried to wear an old pair of pants just to be reminded like a slap in the face that my body is far from what it used to be. I snapped. I went inside in my floral pajama pants, dodging the confused and judgmental looks from the bartenders and servers, and found him at the back of the bar. Across a group of at least a dozen people I said (in a near-yell) the only five words that I could get out in that moment: "Pregnant wife. Waiting. Car. Now!"
It wasn't even a sentence! I couldn't even form a sentence! I could see the embarrassment on his face as he quickly wrapped up a conversation he was having with an old coworker. I turned and made my way out of the bar as quickly as I could. Before I even got back to my car, I had that overwhelming, choking feeling I get sometimes when I know I have done something I will regret.
But even though I realized that as soon as it happened, did I apologize to him for being so hot-headed and embarrassing him in front of his peers? Nope. I continued to berate him on the ride home. Despite his multiple sincere apologies and an explanation that he had lost track of time in the middle of a good conversation, I used words like "inconsiderate," "rude," and "selfish" like they were going out of style. And I kept digging that hole; it started to feel so deep that I would fall in it and never find my way back out. Anger is scary that way.
You're going to dig a hole like that someday too, baby. You're going to lose your temper. You're going to say something you don't mean. You're going to feel a lump form in your throat and your chest tighten as you raise your voice even louder, insisting you're not being heard. And, if you're anything like either your daddy or me, you may be too stubborn to apologize right away.
When I was growing up, Papa Bruce and Nana Gail taught me to apologize in a very specific way. We couldn't get away with the casual (or sarcastic) "sorry." Nope. A counselor and a principal knew better. Instead, we were taught the following:
"I apologize for (insert whatever happened here). I realize (insert explanation as to why it was hurtful). Do you accept my apology?"
That simple statement taught me more than a lot of my college coursework. It took hours for me to be able to admit out loud that I was wrong that night. I sat in my stubborn pride, feeling absolutely lousy, refusing to do the one thing I knew would help me feel better: apologize. But the important thing is that I did apologize. I looked your daddy in the eye and gave him a sincere apology in the way that my parents taught me so many years ago.
I have met so many people in my life who either won't, can't, or don't know how to apologize. Don't be one of those people, sweet girl. Don't allow your pride to limit your happiness. Don't let anger, frustration, or disappointment consume your thoughts and darken your heart. Whether it be a silly fight like the one I just described or a major, life changing incident that seems to shake your world to the core, remember that forgiveness is not for the person you are forgiving. It is for you. It is a gift to yourself, an acceptance of things for how they are rather than how you wish them to be.
So there it is... evidence that my pregnancy has been far from perfect. Because, my lovely girl, perfection is overrated. I say that not only because it is completely unattainable and self-defeating but because it is fact. We are all beautifully imperfect messes doing our very best and I don't want you to think, even for one second, that you have to be anywhere close to perfect to be worthy of respect and love. I will love you through every single second of your life. You are my daughter. Good days, bad days, and all of the very mediocre days in between, you will be loved.
Love Always and Forever,
Mom
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