This is all going to be very, very worth it.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself this morning.
I know you don’t come here to read my sob stories about how hard my life has been since my husband knocked me up, oh woe is me. Who wants to start a (4 day!) week that way anyway? No one. But today, if I’m being honest, I feel done. Not in a cute ‘stick a fork in me I’m done’ kind of way, but more of an ‘I am so sick of this it makes me cry’ kind of way. I feel like I’ve put in my time, paid my price, and if God could just hand over the baby ASAP, no one would get hurt.
You guys, there are marks where there were no marks before.
I sobbed when I found them, boy did I sob. 23 feels too young to have your body indelibly marked by the battle scars of life. These puppies aren’t going anywhere either. They are here to stay in all of their squiggly, pink glory (although every preggo who has gone before will remind me that the color will fade). It doesn’t matter. I could push a jogging stroller until I’ve sweat off every last ounce of baby weight, but I will forever have the evidence of a body that is worse for wear striped across my skin.
There’s something about the permanence of this change that is really, REALLY hard to swallow.
Which is funny, because DanO and I didn’t even blink at the permanence of having a kiddo – it’s what felt right, what we wanted to do with our resources and time, what we knew we want to accomplish more than anything with our lives: to leave a strong family legacy of children who love the Lord and show his love to the world and each other.
I just don’t remember signing up for the marks part.
Sans any sort of attitude that is admirable or self-sacrificial, I’m chugging on this morning, dragging my feet in self-pity. I could use a little “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.” to get me through the day.
Either that or a chai frappuccino.
I’m really not picky.