“Why wouldn’t you just want another one of your own?” This came from a well-meaning individual who, a few minutes before, had asked me if we were working on baby number three. After glancing down at my abdomen to see if I looked eight-and-a-half months pregnant (because you wouldn’t ask that question under any other circumstances, right?), I responded that we were! I then told her that we were in the process of adopting internationally. She scowled and said, “Oh. Why wouldn’t you just want another one of your own?”

I’m learning that there are several different ways to answer these kinds of well-intentioned but ignorant questions. I tend to error on the side of overwhelming the individual with information so that they’re a little sorry they even asked. Like what I told the individual in the aforementioned conversation: “Well, we can’t have kids on our own, and we’ve spent many thousands of dollars on the biological miracle kids that we have through IVF, but we felt God leading us to adopt this time. And I am thrilled to not be shooting myself up with hormones five or more times a day and not be crazy and sick from all the artificial hormones. We are so excited about our next child. And it will be just as much a miracle and one of our own as Austin and Elizabeth.”

Another question that has come up is whether or not we will tell our Number Three that he or she is adopted. Read and I have developed a little bit of a warped sense of humor where our ability to procreate and add to our family is concerned. I blame it on years of infertility and answering awkward questions from others. Humor is another way we have found to handle some of those awkward questions. When asked about keeping the adoption a secret from Kid Number Three, I am tempted to tell people that it’s going to be tough because we’re adopting from Taiwan, but we’ll cover all the mirrors and hope they don’t notice that their skin is a different color from the rest of the family. In reality, I can’t wait to tell Number Three how special they are the way God made them, and how wanted and longed for they were, and how we prayed for them before we knew them.

I am also preparing for questions once we bring Number Three home, like, “Is that one yours?” or “Whose kid is that?” My first thought in responding to those questions is, “Oh, the kid that looks different? It’s ours. You know we can only have kids through in vitro fertilization, and we think they might have gotten the embryos mixed up, but he/she was so cute, we just decided to keep him/her.”

I’ve also been asked why we wouldn’t consider just fostering to adopt right here in our hometown because there are lots of kids right here that need a good home, and it’s a lot cheaper. That’s all true, and I don’t have a great informative or humorous answer to this question. I just tell them the truth: “Because this is what God told us to do right now.” And if I feel like taking it a step further at that moment I might add, “Are you considering fostering to adopt a needy child? It seems like you really have a heart for those kids.”

While information and humor can help to discourage some of those awkward questions from going any further, I want it to be clear to anyone asking that we are taking this one step at a time as God leads, and we do not have all the answers.

A huge thank you to all the friends and family who have reached out to encourage, pray, ask appropriate questions, and support our adoption journey. It is so exciting to see God open doors and push us through as we work to bring home OUR OWN Number Three.

“I’ve always had a passion for international adoption.” I heard these words come from the lips of my fiancé of about six weeks while we were having the conversation about kids that many engaged couples have… How many? When? How many years apart? Of course, these were only rough estimates of what we might look forward to in our future together as man and wife, but it was a conversation that had to happen for us because we are planners. Read’s little bomb shell of wanting to adopt took me slightly off guard, but then I thought to myself, “Well of course he has a passion for that. He’s got it together spiritually, he wants to do everything for God’s glory, and he’s probably only seen the happy adoption stories.” I felt I had a much more realistic view of adoption, I did not feel called to do that, and I was suddenly faced with the need to tactfully let the man of my dreams know that I did not share his passion, without ending our relationship right then and there.

I can’t remember exactly how the conversation went after that. I think I muttered something about not being completely opposed to the idea of adoption, but I didn’t share his passion. I then went on to explain why I didn’t think adoption was a good idea for me. Looking back, I think what it boiled down to was that I had put in my time sacrificing for God. I had waited a long time for the right guy to come along. I had sacrificed and suffered for Jesus by going on mission trips and using my career for His glory. Wasn’t it time for me to live my happily ever after?

God is so good. He loves me so much that He gently leads me through hard times so I can learn to be more like Him. I won’t go into all the details right now of my journey to come around to the idea of adoption, but I did, and I am really excited! If you’ve read any of my other blog posts or followed me on social media, you know that my happily ever after did not turn out like I expected. You know that Read and I have been through a lot of hard stuff and loss to get to where we are today, but we have always come out on the other side of that hard and loss closer to God and each other. I’m a better wife and mother because of it. Now we’re ready to jump into the next big adventure God has for us to add to our growing family. The Walls are expanding by two more feet!

Here’s where we are now: we have applied to adopt from Taiwan. It is a 2-3 year process. It is an expensive and exhausting undertaking, but we wouldn’t know any other way to bring Wall children home. We know God already has all the details worked out.

Want to help? PRAY for us. We covet your prayer support. And if you feel called to do more, we have a link where you can donate.

Link to Donate

We’ve all seen—or at least been exposed to the story line of—the Disney movies where the princess finds her handsome prince and lives happily ever after. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty. They all met with trouble and strife until their Mr. Right found them, kissed them, and it was all perfectly wonderful from then on. Let’s be honest, we want that fairy tale of a perfect and happy life. For ever after.

So here I am, living my happily ever after with a wonderful husband and two miracle children. I get to stay home with those two kids. My husband has a wonderful job that gives him flexibility to be present when we need him, and I still get to experience my career one day a week. I have the best of both worlds at home and at my office. We live in a perfect house for us. And in spite of all that perfection, life is hard, and I struggle daily. I’m lonely and insecure. The days are long with two small children who are so dependent, and I wonder daily if I’m doing enough.

The temptation at this point is to start to ask, what am I doing wrong? I am a well-educated woman with a good family, healthy relationships, and I can’t handle my dream job of staying home with my children in a beautiful house with all of our needs met? I waited a long time for this privilege. (And in the interest of full disclosure, spent many thousands of dollars getting these miracle kids here.) God, why can’t I handle this? Why do I feel like I’m drowning daily?

I’ve scoured the Bible for the verse that promises that God won’t give us more than we can handle. It’s not there. Nowhere in Scripture does God promise me that I can relax and know that He’ll only give me what my feeble humanness can handle. What I did find in the Bible was the verse where God promises “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” (II Corinthians 12:9) So God has promised that when I can’t handle what life throws at me, He’ll be there, in His perfect way and in His perfect timing, to give me His strength in the midst of my weakness.

As I read on, the author of the verse continued, “Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” I am not made to handle what this life throws at me. I am made to depend on a God Who is going to carry me through my weaknesses. In fact, when I look back over my life, I find that some of the times when I was struggling the most, is when I connected with God the best.

I’m reminded of a few conversations I’ve had with God in the past when I was struggling with being single, when most of the people my age were getting married. I finally told God I was going to do the best job of living the life He had given me to live as a single person. About the time I settled into that scenario, God changed it. Then I was happily married to the man of my dreams, and my biological clock was ticking loudly and we lost one baby after another, and I cried out to the Lord that I could not live this life He had given me on my own. It was like God whispered in my ear, “Finally. I’ve just been waiting for you to let me be God and carry you. Can I do that for you? Will you let me now?” After that, after I let go of trying to do life the way I thought I was supposed to do it to please God, and started letting God lead me and carry me, I was able to survive all of the ups and downs of more losses, more fertility treatments, more disappointments, and more just life. I was not only surviving, I was living life again. His grace was, and still is, sufficient. His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

My happily ever after looks a lot like real life, and it’s hard sometimes. Here’s the thing: I can relax in the knowledge that each day is an opportunity to love my husband and kids, to accept my imperfections, and to teach my children that this life is not perfect but Jesus is. Most importantly, each day of struggle is an opportunity to rely on God and rely on His strength in the midst of my weakness; to let my heavenly Father draw me to Him. And let’s be honest, for the believer, our happily ever after won’t really start until we get to heaven.

Every year for the past several years on October 15^th, I’ve felt the urge to write something deep, thoughtful, contemplative, and encouraging to those going through pregnancy and infant loss. Maybe it would also be enlightening and awakening to those who have never personally experienced such a thing but feel drawn to encourage or care for those who do. Every year on October 15^th, I am reminded that I have a story to tell and that there are others who might benefit from that story. And so, every year on October 15^th, I crack the lid on a “box” where I have shoved so many emotions. I glance into that deep place where so many hurts are buried and so many emotions lay hidden. And as I begin to remember what is there, and start to deal with those emotions, I quickly close the lid and think, “I’ll write something encouraging next year. This year, I don’t want to think about the sad and the loss. And everyone else out there that is writing and sharing about it seems to have their act together. If I start talking or writing, I’ll be a blubbering mess, and the real emotion that I keep stuffed down may come pouring out.” That’s when I realized that to so many people, I may seem like I have my act together. I might seem like I don’t still hurt when I think of the nine babies I never got to hold. I might seem like all of my dreams have come true and I don’t still struggle to make it through some days because there is still hurt. Oh, friend, there is still a hurt in my heart from so many dark days and so much loss that only Jesus can fill.

When I allow myself to look a little deeper into that “box” of hurt and emotions, I am reminded of the nine little figurines that are kept in a special place in our home. Each of those little figures represents one of our babies that went to be with Jesus before we got to hold them. That “box” also holds many memories of dark days where I sat alone in my room, crying out to God and asking Him why He took my babies that I so wanted. I see a broken woman holding God accountable for every promise I could find in His word; I reminded Him of the promise that He would not withhold any good thing from me if I walked uprightly (Psalm 84:11). I demanded that He tell me what he wanted of me; His response from Micah 6:8 to “Seek justice, love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God” seemed almost too simple, but I was into simple then. I’m still into simple. I mean, it doesn’t get much more simple than “Jesus wept” in John 11:35. Jesus felt sorrow over the loss of His friend. He cried, He mourned, He felt the loss. He knows what it’s like to lose someone and to hurt. He gets me.

There are many, many beautiful, happy days now. They are full of hope and joy. But the hope and the joy started long before I held my baby for the first time. The hope and the joy began even before we found out we were pregnant for the fourth time and we had hope that this baby might live. I felt that hope and that joy when I finally told God I couldn’t handle the stupid circumstances of my life that He had put me in and that I had no idea how in the world He expected me to live with a positive attitude when He had taken so much from me. And at that moment, I realized that all I had to do was just be held by God and that those children I thought He had taken from me were never mine to begin with. They were a gift for the fleeting moment they were a part of my life. And as I let my expectations go and as I let myself just be with God, there was peace and joy and hope.

And now you know that I don’t have my act together. I never have. Today I bawled me way through putting away El’s clothes that are too small because I couldn’t help but think about her sisters that never had a chance to wear clothes like that. This is it. This is our family. Each day with my little miracles is a gift from God. We take it one day at a time. There is still hurt, but my focus on the positive and all God has given me lessens the ache and makes me excited for an eternity getting to know those babies who have gone on before me. So maybe in the future, October 15^th will be just a bit easier, and maybe, just maybe, by sharing my struggles and hurts, it will encourage someone else who is in the midst of their dark “box.” Take hope, my friend. You are not alone.

If you’ve changed a diaper within the last few years, you may have noticed that most diapers now have a line that runs from back to front and, depending on the state of the diaper, is either yellow or blue. I learned about this line when I was in the hospital with Austin. I was exhausted from three days of labor, weak from the loss of a great deal of blood, and terrified because I was a new parent responsible for a helpless human being. That’s when the lactation consultant asked me if he had a wet diaper; I told her I did not know because I had not checked recently. “Well,” she said “you know how you can tell by the blue line on the diaper?” Nope. Didn’t know. Had not read “Diapering 101.” So that’s how I discovered The Thin Blue Line. She kindly informed us that a yellow line meant that the diaper was still dry and a blue line meant it was wet, and, of course, should be changed. Awesome! A cheat sheet for diaper changing.

As with all things you do for your first child, we changed that diaper every time the yellow started to turn to blue. If that line looked greenish-yellow, it was time to change his diaper! (And we marked it down in our tally as a wet diaper—one of the between 6 and 8 wet diapers that the medical community likes to see a new baby having per day.) As time went on and we discovered that a baby having a wet diaper for a few minutes did not bring the world crashing down, we got more lax in our diaper changing. In fact, I was known to quickly check the diaper and decide (thanks to the thin blue line) whether it was time to change that diaper because not doing so would cause you to need to change more than just the diaper in another hour, or if it just meant his kidneys were functioning properly and that diaper had another good hour or two left in it.

I felt that this thin blue line was a handy tool, but never knew how much I had come to rely on it until a couple of days ago when I pulled out some organic sample diapers a company had sent to me to use. They were lovely little disposable organic diapers with pictures of baby themes on them that I would have happily considered using if it hadn’t required pawning my first born to be able to afford them for my second. They appeared to be appropriately substantial and seemed comfortable for her, but they had no line, yellow or blue. I didn’t think a thing about it as I grabbed an organic diaper and packaged up my eight-week-old treasure. And, by the way, what makes a diaper organic? Does it eat only grass-fed beef or broccoli that has been raised with no pesticides or free range chickens before it’s boxed up to go out and cover small humans? It’s something that crossed my mind as I later prepared to change that lovely little diaper in the early morning hours; the diaper with cute pictures but no line to tell me in my sleep-deprived state if the child truly needed changing. I even checked to see if the pictures changed colors in some way to give a tired parent a clue, but there was nothing.

What did our mothers and grandmothers do without a thin blue line to tell them to change their child’s diaper? I mean, once they’re ambulatory, you can tell it needs changing when they start to waddle around it between their knees (or so I’m told), but for a baby, how was one supposed to tell? And before you tell me about the positive aspects of the cloth diapers they used, let me tell you that for a medical professional that gets paid to work with blood and spit, I do not handle dealing with human waste well. Cloth diapers would be a struggle for me, as I have been known to consider tossing garments that have succumbed to a baby blow-out instead of just rinsing them out and laundering them.

So, I realized, as I repackaged my treasure, that I had become quite dependent on this thin blue line.  But, really, what’s the harm in appreciating a few modern conveniences? Until my kids are potty trained, I’ll appreciate the thin blue line and look forward to any other modern conveniences I have not yet discovered to assist in raising tiny humans.

When you read this, I hope and pray that you don’t say to yourself, “Oh that explains why Betsy was so obnoxious to be around while preparing for her sister’s wedding.” To the bridesmaids that came to my house the morning of, it was my goal to keep you from having a clue that there were some pretty terrible hormones coursing through my veins, muscles, joints, marrow…; hormones that did their utmost to make me feel completely out of control, sick, and crabby all at the same time. You see, while going through all of the stress and excitement of being involved in my sweet sister’s wedding, having our house on the market and ready to show at a moment’s notice, planning a church Christmas party, and doing all of the normal work for Christmas, I was also prepping for a frozen embryo thaw (FET).

Now, if you’re not familiar with the confusing world of infertility, allow me to expound on what a frozen embryo thaw is and what that entails for us. When we did IVF two years ago, we transferred two embryos to my womb, one survived, and we have our sweet Austin. There were two more embryos that were frozen and needed the same chance at life that we gave Austin and his twin.

When we first planned to go through the six month process of the FET, it seemed like a piece of cake. After all, we had been through IVF; how bad could thawing out and transferring a couple of embryos be? Doctor appointments, tests, oral medications, daily injections, vitamins, supplements, all at specific times on specific days for more than two months leading up to the embryo transfer. With the transfer being at the end of January, appointments and medications were in full swing during the days leading up to Holly’s December 22^nd wedding.

I won’t bore you with the details of my mood swings and discomfort because that is not the purpose of this post. While we kept this transfer quiet at my request because I couldn’t handle answering a lot of questions or giving a lot of explanations about the process, I did discretely ask a few people to pray. It was stated by one or two people that this time should be easy because I know what to expect and have done it before. Indeed, I shared some of their assumptions before we started this process. This time should be easy, I thought. I know what to expect, I thought. I’ve done this before so it won’t be hard with everything else going on, I thought. I was wrong. It’s always hard to stab yourself in the abdomen several times in the morning and before you go to bed with a needle that will inject you with the necessary hormones to give your child or children a chance at life but will make you crazy and uncomfortable. It’s never easy to keep track of all the oral medications that need to be taken in the morning and at night. It’s never easy to know that I spend six months, thousands of dollars, days of injections and medications, numerous doctor’s appointments and uncomfortable procedures just to get the same results that many couples get accidentally from a night of passion. And it’s never easy to muster the courage to try one more time because I have a daily reminder of what is at stake. I see a precious little boy running around and smiling at me, chattering and giggling, showing me the incredible joy that is this sweet gift from God. And I want another gift from God just like him.

So, while I did know what to expect and I’m doing my best to still handle it, if you have encountered a crazy person that looks like me, please bear with me. We are blessed that our transfer resulted in a pregnancy of one healthy baby, and so I continue on my hormonal rampage for another six months or so after you’re reading this. Thanks for understanding. Thanks for praying for me. It is worth it in the end because I gave my babies their very best chance at life.

The issue of our first Mother’s Day or first Father’s Day is something Read and I have struggled with since we lost our first child due to miscarriage almost five years ago. While we celebrated our first birthdays and holidays this year as what we call “active parents” since we finally have a baby to hold and celebrate with, these really weren’t our firsts because we became parents as soon as our first precious little girl was conceived.

Soon after that first loss, some friends who had also experienced miscarriage and loss came to our home to encourage and listen as we tried to navigate our feelings and understand how to deal with our emotions and loss. As that couple left our home later that evening, after listening and crying with us over our loss, the wife turned to me and said, “Congratulations. You’re a mother.” I was a mother and Read was a father, but we had nothing to show for it, and society does not recognize parenthood if you have never gotten to hold your baby.

It was so hard for me the first Mother’s Day after our first miscarriage because our pastor always asked everyone in the congregation to stand and give a round of applause while the mothers in church stayed seated. I didn’t know where I fit in in that scenario. Did I stand with everyone else and feel in my heart that I was being disloyal to my precious baby that I mourned daily? Did I sit and risk the chastisement of those who did not understand my heart or my grief? I ended up walking out the door on what was meant to be an occasion to honor the mothers around me, but had turned my already wounded heart into a broken mess.

On Read’s actual first Father’s Day five years ago, a well-intentioned, but hurtful comment about Read getting to be a dad one day from someone who knew we had lost a baby, sent Read to a corner of the church to gather his emotions as he mourned the baby he would never hold this side of heaven. He watched other dads in the church playing with their children, and rejoiced with them for their blessings, but his heart was heavy and he missed his child.

We have found ways of coping with society’s views of when you are actually allowed to celebrate as parents. Most of the time it’s best to be gracious and just say thank you for the well wishes. There are occasions, however, where I find it helpful to remind people of the reality that Read and I live in and that we consider the children we have lost to be just as significant as the one we hold every day. On one particularly hormonal day when I was pregnant with Austin, a well-meaning but ignorant individual asked me how many children we actually had. I stopped for a moment to think, considered the children we had lost, the baby I was carrying, and the embryos we had in storage. “Well”, I muttered, “we have eight in heaven, two in the freezer, and one in the oven.” Sometimes a dose of reality laced with a bit of humor can soften a sharp retort, while still getting the point across.

Please do not misunderstand me, this is not a chastisement to anyone who has wished either Read or myself a happy first Father’s Day or first Mother’s Day this year. It is our first year to be able to celebrate these holidays with Austin, and we are celebrating!! Because we knew the heart attitude and understood the intent behind the message, we have accepted the well wishes with gratitude and joy. This year is completely different for us to celebrate each special occasion and holiday with Austin in our arms. My heart goes out to all of the parents who are struggling with similar emotions due to the loss of their precious children. I feel for the couples who long to be parents, but have not yet been blessed with a baby. These are dreadfully hard holidays for them and painful reminders of what they have not yet been able to have or experience. The struggle is real, and it’s hard, and it hurts, and nothing can make things the same again once you have experienced infertility and loss.

And so, while this year is not our first Mother’s Day or Father’s Day as a mom or a dad, this is, indeed, a year to celebrate these amazing holidays in a whole new way with a great deal of joy as “active parents” to our little miracle.

First of all, can I just say that being married to a Doctor of Physical Therapy definitely has its perks? For instance, when you’re just getting used to this new and wonderful world of pregnancy and trying not to toss your cookies every twenty minutes and suddenly this new pain starts radiating from your back down your leg every time you try to move and so you crip around like an 80-year-old until two days later you finally gripe to your husband about it, he gives you a simple exercise to do, and suddenly the pain is gone and you are sure that somewhere after that DPT in his name is “Miracle Worker” in fine print.

Or when you’re seven months pregnant and you wake up in the middle of the night screaming because of a dreadful Charlie horse in your calf that has somehow caused a tennis ball sized lump behind your leg and your DPT husband bolts upright in bed next to you and understands enough of your garbled screaming to shout, “Which leg?!? Which leg!?!” and then miraculously starts this massage business that brings a peace you didn’t know could come after such intense pain.

Or how about when you’re in the hospital in labor for the second full day, and you’ve finally gotten an epidural, and the nurses are moving you into different positions because your legs have suddenly turned to pieces of concrete that refuse to respond to the most basic commands, and something just doesn’t feel right but you have no idea what until the DPT starts expertly adjusting pillows, blankets, bed attachments, etc. and suddenly all is as right with your world as it can be at that particular moment; and the nurses look at him in awe and ask if he’s a nurse (because, no offense to MDs, but a physician couldn’t do that like that and make it better), and he smiles and says, “I’m a physical therapist.” and they just nod in understanding and give the woman with concrete legs lying in the bed a look of envy because she’s married to a DPT.

Now, being married to a DPT can have its drawbacks, too. For instance, physical therapists seem to think that every ache and pain can be fixed by just moving more. The other day we were having a conversation about some form of discomfort I was experiencing, and Read very kindly told me he could show me an exercise that would help with that. I shook my head and told him I didn’t want an exercise and asked if maybe he could just be a chiropractor for a few minutes instead of a DPT and pop and crack me back into perfection without me having to “do” anything. He gave me a patient look that said, “Just wait. You’ll be begging me for help eventually.”

Until that day when I beg him for another exercise to fix my malady or ask him to educate me in a certain area of pain science that I’m trying to wrap my head around, I will just continue to bask in the awe of being married to a doctor of physical therapy.

Last straws are funny things; they’re the tiny, last little thing that sends a person “over the edge”, “into conniptions”, “beyond the point of no return”, etc. It’s that one thing that normally would not have even registered on a person’s radar, but for one reason or another, because of so many other difficult and/or unforeseen incidences, the last straw can cause stately ladies to scream in exasperation and composed gentlemen to spit in frustration and kick the dirt. For me, that last straw landed on my pile at a most unforeseen and inopportune moment and came at me from a very unexpected source. It happened a week ago last Monday, and to fully appreciate the extent of this last straw, I need to give a little background:

We had spent the weekend away from home, leaving for our trip after Read got home from work on Friday, and driving the six hours to visit his parents; then turned around and drove the six hours back home on Sunday after church. Austin is a wonderful little traveler because he pretty much sleeps the whole time we’re in the car. This is great for the car ride, but it made putting him to bed a bit difficult once we got home because we (the parents) were about to drop, and he was ready to play all night after his long afternoon nap. He finally gave up around midnight, and Read and I gratefully collapsed into bed in anticipation of a good night’s rest. I had just settled into a sound sleep when Austin woke up starving. I took it all in stride as I gave him a bottle, promised myself that we would sleep in, and dragged myself back to bed, knowing that he would sleep late into the morning since he had been fed at 1:30. To my dismay, I was awakened at five that morning by my poor baby who had developed a terrible stuffy nose and cough at some point between that bottle at 1:30 and his cry of distress at five. Thus began my Monday that I had planned to sleep in and catch up on laundry.

I spent the day alternately sucking snot and nursing Austin who desperately needed to sleep, but woke up every time I put him down. I stayed patient and calm in the midst of the chaos and sickness. I disinfected and washed all I could to keep an epidemic from sweeping through the house. I was like a machine on a mission to keep my child comfortable and the rest of the household healthy. A big thank you to my mother who showed up around two that afternoon with a casserole for dinner and an offer to hold Austin while I took a much-needed nap. She was probably a big part of why I was still functioning when Read came home from work that evening.

Finally, at the end of that long day, after the casserole was consumed, the dishes were done, my child was breathing peacefully in his daddy’s arms, and our stuff was ready for the Tuesday workday, I innocently picked up a book on raising children and began thumbing through it looking for a specific piece of information. As I looked through the book, my eyes began to settle on lines of text on the page, giving guidance for schedules, feedings, napping, bathing, teaching our child to adapt to your life instead of you adapting to their whims. The words began jumping out at me as a reproach for all I was letting slide and missing in raising my child. I suddenly forgot the hours I had spent just that day keeping my son alive, sucking snot with every device in the house I could find to discover the most effective, holding him so he could sleep, feeding him, changing him, singing to him. In that instant, the straw dropped, and I became the worst mother of the century. I didn’t realize what had happened, however, and I tossed the book aside (I never did find what I was looking for in that stupid book of encouragement and help) and began grousing about all that still needed to be done. Suddenly I realized that my feeling of accomplishment for surviving the day had turned to one of inadequacy and defeat because I glanced through a book of suggestions that had worked for someone else raising their child.

My husband could easily be called “Mr. Encouragement” because he often knows the right thing to say at the right time. I told him of my frustrations, my feelings of inadequacy as a mother, my failure to perfectly follow the schedule lined out in this book of perfection because life kept getting in the way. He wisely listened, suggested I stop reading the stupid child rearing book for the evening, and reassured me that only I, as Austin’s mom, could have done the right thing in the right way for him that day.

The process of adding another person to our family has had its surprises and challenges all along the way, so it shouldn’t have been surprising to us that my last trimester of pregnancy was no different.

Being diagnosed with gestational diabetes at twenty-eight weeks changed a lot of my ideals for the last trimester of pregnancy. Just about the time I was no longer experiencing morning sickness that lasted all day and I could appreciate all kinds of food I hadn’t been able to stand before, I was put on a strict diet of protein and vegetables with few carbs and no processed sugar. To add insult to injury, a few days after being told I could discontinue my daily injections, I was instructed to begin pricking my finger four times a day to check my blood sugar. Full-blown martyrdom had nearly set in when I realized how much better I felt avoiding a lot of carbs and processed sugars.

My next surprise came when I went to the doctor over the next few weeks and I was losing weight instead of gaining. I asked the doctor several times if that was acceptable, concerned that losing weight was not healthy for the baby. The doctor reassured me that it’s not unusual for the mother to lose weight and the baby to gain once someone starts on a diabetic diet and that I had already gained plenty of weight in the first six months to keep me healthy during the last three. This revelation did add slightly to my feelings of martyrdom, but I knew it was worth it to have a healthy baby.

Our final surprise was the doctor’s strong recommendation that we induce at thirty-nine weeks. It was explained to us that the benefits of inducing a week early far outweighed the consequences, and with our history and concern with my high-risk pregnancy, we agreed that inducing was a good idea.

We packed our bags and headed to the hospital on Wednesday evening. As suggested, we stopped along the way to eat a “good meal” to hold me through labor and delivery. At the restaurant, the well-meaning server asked when the baby was due. I told her soon and smiled knowingly to Read. The server shook her head, looked at me with a practiced eye, and said, “No. It’s going to be a while. You’re still carrying that baby way too high.” I forced a smile her direction, thanked her for the service, and told Read I was ready to get out of there.

Arriving at the hospital, we started the induction process and waited. It took two days for my body to fully respond to the process, but by Friday night around ten, I was ready to push and meet our miracle baby. Epidurals are fantastic things…until they wear off. Mine wore off twice, and I was able to feel every aspect of the delivery process. I thought I had experienced severe pain suffering through endometriosis, and I did, but it was nothing compared to labor and delivery.

As I panted between contractions and waited for the next opportunity to get rid of this watermelon-sized creature attempting to exit through a golf ball-sized hole, I told the doctor and nurse that I was ready to be done and was going to leave for a bit and let Read take over. My doctor chuckled and told me it seemed only right that since Read and I were the only two there when the baby was conceived, he should do his part. I shook my head, glancing at Read and grunting, and told them this was an in-vitro baby; neither of us were there when he was conceived, so they should get the embryologists in here to finish things up, and we’d come back when it was done. I’d like to think the medical professionals appreciated my attempt at humor as I struggled to focus through the pain. My options were to either attempt to make light of the situation or curse Eve and the serpent and the fruit. I also asked at one point during an intense part of the delivery if it was too late for a c-section. The doctor just smiled and told me to push with the next contraction.

Of course, all of that pain and anxiety melted away when at 11:44p.m. on that Friday night, my precious baby was born and I got to hold him for the first time. He was more amazing than we could have ever imagined. Almost three weeks later, I still look at him and am in awe of God’s gift to us; this little person that has made us three. I look at his perfect little face and gaze into those midnight blue eyes, and I melt.  I would do anything for that little bundle who has kept me from getting a decent night’s sleep and turned our world upside down. I want to orchestrate his whole life with the very best of circumstances and shelter him from any hurts and disappointments he may face.  Ultimately, though, I realize that the best thing I can do for my precious son is to ask God for the wisdom to raise him in the right way, pray that he grows to know Christ as his personal Savior at an early age, and trust that God will work in both of our lives. We are so blessed by this addition that has made us three.

How sweet to hold a newborn baby,
And feel the pride and joy he gives,
But greater still the calm assurance:
This child can face uncertain day because he lives.

“Because He Lives” By Bill and Gloria Gaither