Yesterday, as we left the beach, a woman stopped me and said, “Congratulations!” with so much genuine excitement. She asked if this baby was our third and added a hearty, “Good for you!” It’s interesting—once you get to a third pregnancy and you’re already carting around an 18-month-old, people tend to say that less. Instead, you usually get, “Wow, you’ve got your hands full!” or, “How close together are they going to be?” It felt so nice to receive such pure, uncomplicated enthusiasm from a stranger.
Then, she asked when I was due.
I’ve stumbled over that question so much over the last month or two. What do I even say? Do I give his due date, or the date he will actually be here? If I say the date he’ll be born, people usually reply, “Oh wow, I can’t believe you’re that far along!” Then I’m left standing there, wondering if I should explain that I’m not that far along—that he’s coming three weeks early—but that opens up the CDH bombshell and that can be awkward.
I’ve never been someone who is sensitive to the weird comments people make to pregnant women. With my daughter, I got a lot of comments about how small my belly was. It made me nervous that she wasn’t growing enough (she was fine). Now, when I get those same comments, I know it’s because my baby actually isn’t growing enough.
Lately, I’ve started getting bigger, but it’s because of a condition called polyhydramnios. Babies usually swallow amniotic fluid and pee it back out, but Walter can’t do that as well as other babies, so the fluid builds up. The “I can’t believe you’re that far along” comments are slowing down, but the reason why is unfortunately not good.
When I see other pregnant women now, I pray that their babies are healthy. I wish I could compel them to appreciate how beautiful it all is—every ache, every swollen body part, every single kick. I am usually that “weirdo” who loves being pregnant. It’s not that I don’t love it this time, but it just comes with a heavy weight of mixed emotions.
It’s kind of nice being at the Ronald McDonald House for that reason. Everyone here knows something is wrong. They may not know the specifics—although, thanks to my socialite daughter, a lot of them do—but even if they don’t know the exact medical diagnosis, they know we are in a hard season. There is a strange, comforting grace in being surrounded by people who just get it.
“Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy.” Proverbs 14:10
(Eternally grateful to Karlie Jo Photography for the picture)