{37w3d}

Pregnancy is perfect.

I spent a lifetime dreaming about it and years praying desperately for it to happen, but I never imagined it could be this amazing.

I stopped gaining weight about 6 weeks ago, my swelling has pretty much disappeared, and I feel like I could do this for a few more months easy. I still get stunned looks from strangers who ask me how many more months I have left when I answer with just a few more weeks, and I'm not going to lie, I like to watch the confusion form on their faces, because it sort of matches my own.

I have absolutely no complaints whatsoever, everything really is perfect.

A little too perfect.

So it shouldn't have caught me so off guard when the doctor told me that I had tested positive for group B strep, bringing it up like it was no big deal, mentioning IV's and pitocin and and extra twenty four hours of hospital stay all in one sentence while I sat there on the crunchy paper covering the hard table and tried to wrap my head around it all, frustrated with the sudden interruption of my perfect pregnancy.

My birth plan didn't involve IV's, and it certainly didn't involve pitocin; but we all know what happens when I make plans.

God pretty much laughs at them.

So after a few frantic phone calls to my connections in the medical world, I was assured that I can still labor as natural as possible and reminded that in the end, the only important thing is that a healthy baby is born. I can go in when my water breaks or labor begins and get the antibiotics administered, then switch back to a hep lock and go about with my original plans, as long as I keep an open mind.

Because despite my perfect plans and stubborn nature, I was told once again that I'm much more likely as a first time mother to enter the hospital with no makeup on, dilated to a two, in unexplainable pain, whimpering pitifully for relief in the form of drugs.

I'm just a few short weeks away from birthing a miracle, and I suppose it's about time I let go of my extreme expectations and give myself-and my body-a break. Because despite the voices in my head telling me that I must have a spray tan, an enema, freshly colored hair and scarlet nail polish on my toes as I walk proudly into that hospital, the reality is that my child won't think any less of me without these last minute preparations complete.

I hope.

I've spent the majority of my life being a perfectionist in selected areas of my life, and I have never once doubted that God has used infertility in attempt to loosen me up and teach me to let go. Having had what I considered to be a broken body for so long forced me to give up control and lean on Him; but when He chose to answer our prayers and bless me with what has thus far been the perfect pregnancy, I somehow found myself back in the drivers seat, making plans and mapping out exactly what was going to happen in my very near future.

Thanks God, really, thank you; but I've got this now.

Somewhere along the line, wrapped up in this awesome blessing, I seemed to have forgotten how much I still need Him no matter how perfect things may seem. How much I'm still not in control of any given situation, and how small I really am in the middle of His big plans.

So maybe God is using this minor group B strep detail to throw me off just a little, to mess with my perfect plans and put me back in my place, showing me who's really in charge.

And all it takes is a little trip back to memory lane for me to remember how I got here-in the midst of this perfect pregnancy-in the first place.

It all started with two failed IUI's and four attempts at IVF. There were drugs, shots, doctors visits and negative pregnancy tests.

Then there was an eleven.

An eleven, where there should have been a number over a hundred, followed by a phone call two days later confirming our fears that our eleven had dropped to a zero and our pregnancy was no longer valid.

And then there was another phone call.

A second one, days later, saying the there was still a possibility that there was still life growing inside of me and that the lab had quite possibly made a mistake. A mistake that involved us thinking the pregnancy was over, thus stopping our much needed medications and hormones and putting what may have still been a valid pregnancy in danger.

And then-through what can only be explained as God's divine intervention-there were rising numbers, a strong heartbeat, sonograms, baby showers, and yes, a perfect pregnancy.

God's plan for us fittingly never involved an easy road-it was a roller coaster from the beginning-but it certainly makes for an awesome testimony of His faithfulness. And it amazes me that even after four long years and one incredible story, I still get so wrapped up in my own selfish desires that I fail at times to see that His way-not my own-has always been perfect.

So right now, I'm thankful for it all. I'm grateful for infertility, because without it, my tiny human wouldn't be nearly as precious.

For the number eleven, because any higher of a number would have been much less miraculous.

And for group B strep, because it's one more chance for me to let go, and let God.

"No struggle comes your way apart from God's purpose, presence, and permission."
-Max Lucado

{36w4d}

There is a car seat in my car.

Our thirty six week appointment sent me into full nesting mode when the doctor informed me that I was officially one centimeter dilated and sixty to seventy percent effaced. He told me not to think too hard about labor or it just may happen, and to get ready.

So I did what any normal, nesting mother would do, and headed to the dollar store for baskets. Then I spent the entire evening cleaning out linen closets and kitchen cabinet shelves, adjusting shelve heights a million times over and organized everything into the said baskets. Then I'd stand back to look at my work, and panic because the baskets were the wrong height, width, or color.

Frustrated with the basket project, I instead decided it was imperative to immediately clean out my car and install the car seat, just in case. But by this time it was already pretty dark outside and the main light bulb in our garage had gone out, so my husband found me a half hour later squished into the backseat of my tiny ford focus, holding a maglight and trying desperately to find the latch cover on the seat base.

He asked me-cautiously-if I thought it would be a better idea to do this tomorrow morning when it was light outside, but after a deep sigh and pitiful look from my swollen, pregnant face, he was right there next to me, crammed into what was left of the backseat with a second flashlight and the installation manual.

Thus resulting in the newly installed carseat in my car.

By the time I made my way to bed that night, I had vacuum sealed up the guest bedroom set, sorted the boy clothes from the girl clothes from the gender neutral clothes, completed my first load of baby blankets, socks, hooded towels and sheet laundry, and tried my best to annihilate anything from our house that I hadn't seen or used in the last six months.

Because I've always hated clutter, and now is not the time for emotional attachments.

Never one to hold still for long anyway, my brain is locked and loaded on preparing my house for this impending arrival. And while I'm aware that the baby won't care one bit if my unmentionables are color coated and stacked neatly in my drawers, or if the bottom of the guest bathroom sink cabinet is organized in appropriately sized baskets, If I want to keep my sanity, it must be done.

I still have to finish the nursery, pack my bag, reach a final decision on names, complete a concise and to the-point-birth plan and clean ceiling fans and baseboards, but at least I'm on my way.

Birth classes are over, and as I reached out to take my completion certificate on that last night, it took everything in me not to tell the instructor that I wasn't ready. That I've wanted this so badly for the last four years, but now that it's almost here, I need a few more weeks. I need a few more strangers to comment on my belly, I need someone-anyone-to reach out and touch my belly, I need to have more trouble bending over first and near the point of feeling so exhausted with this pregnancy that I just pray every night for it to be over so I can hold this little one in my arms.

But I'm still not uncomfortable, and despite the thirty-six pound weight gain, I can still wear my wedding ring. I never even started my pregnancy scrapbook, and I still haven't written a post about my latest shower. The crib bumper and bed skirt are still nothing more than a bag of material and thread setting in my trunk, and I haven't decided if I even want to mess with curtains to cover the beautiful wooden roman shades I found. I still have to make an appointment to get the dog neutered and my carpets cleaned, and I never got around to doing my Kegals.

I can't decided if I want to keep my bold choice of a turquoise Moby Wrap, or exchange it for a more versatile black one, and I'm still missing a few things off my registry that I need.

And-insert worst pregnant mom of the year award here-I have yet to read or sing to my baby.

I could go on and on for days about all of the little projects I still haven't found time to complete, all of the many things I never got around to doing and my insane list of worries and fears about the mother I have to learn how to be. But instead of focusing on all of the unknown, I'm doing my best to make a constant effort to just enjoy the here and now.

I won't be pregnant for much longer. The house needs to be cleaned, but it's not worth obsessing over. And though the possibility of birthing a tiny human at any moment sort of makes me want to hyperventilate when I consider that I'll be eternally responsible for the task of shaping my child's heart and teaching them things I'm not even sure I have down myself, I have to remind myself that it's never really possible to be fully prepared anyway.

All the cleaning, reorganizing, checklists, baby books, and color coordinated baskets in the world won't be enough to prepare me for the very moment my water breaks, I realize I never bought that enema I so desperately needed to maintian any sort of modesty there is left to be had at this point, and I begin to experience the most painfully beautiful act a woman's body can ever complete.

Ready or not, I'll be holding this miracle in my arms soon, and something deep inside tells me that nothing else will matter.

Just last night, as I walked on the trail behind my parents house, memories took me back to a time not so long ago when I would walk this same path and daydream about the day I'd be pregnant. During the many infertility treatments, disappointments, and heartbreaks, walking or jogging that trail always brought me peace; because no matter how far away He felt, I could always sense Gods' presence when I was out in nature, nearest to His creation.

And as I watched the sun set behind the watercolor mountain range, felt the soft breeze blow and listened to the noisy birds settle in the trees for the night, my sudden worries and obsessions felt so small.

And I felt so blessed.

I was finally walking my favorite trail right along with my tiny human in utero; my prayers had been answered but I was almost too frustrated to notice. And God needed me to remember that I have nothing to worry about, because He is in control; He made those massive mountains just as easily as He made this tiny little miracle growing in me. And every time I felt that soft breeze blow, it reminded me that He's always near, even when I'm too high strung to see Him.

There really is nothing in this life worth obsessing over.

Because He just like He takes care of those noisy birds, He'll take care of me.

"His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me."
-Civilla Martin

{35w6d}

"One day at a time; this is enough. Don't look back and grieve over the past for it is gone; and don't be trouble about the future for it is yet to come. Live in the present and make it so beautiful it will be worth remembering."
-Author Unknown