I was at church on Sunday talking with a fellow pregnant friend, also with their third, all fairly close, and we were talking about our days and how we feel like we're loosing our minds by the beginning, middle, or/and the end of everyday. And then our husbands come home to what may look like the remains of a battle, dirty diapers, and mounds of unfolded laundry. And tears, there are always tears.
And she said something that unfortunately hasn't dawned on me, our poor husbands having to deal with our pregnant personalities for so long. Eek, I haven't really considered how Ken is feeling through all of this, because HE'S NOT THE PREGNANT ONE! But Lord, does he have to deal with it. And deal with it he does, really well I might add.
So, one night as the heartburn was making it's way up, and baby girl was doing what I can only conclude were somersaults, I decided to count how long I've been pregnant since becoming pregnant with Avery. (I get that WE have our babies close, that's our choice, we are aware.) Want to know something? 60% of life from January 2010, I have been pregnant. Ahhh! That's ridiculous. Not adding the few months that I nurse and then deal with MAJOR postpartum hormones. I think Ken deserves a medal.
You know what he would say? His girls are worth it. And I like to buy him his favorite local beer when I go grocery shopping. And cookies, there are always cookies in the house.
So while today I cried because I couldn't find a place to park when I went to grab an iced coffee while Ken was home for his lunch break, or because Avery narrates my life and then repeats everything she says, I do find great joy in this season of life where my body is for making and/or sustaining life. And I get to wear these pants and no one can say anything about it.