I mentioned before that I never again experienced the emotional upheaval that accompanied Ephraim’s first few weeks.
While that’s true, I did come home from the hospital with our new little Clive, and after introducing the brothers to one another, I handed the baby off to someone, went upstairs, and cried.
I cried because knew things would never be the same. It was a whole new chapter in our family’s book, and while we were ecstatic, there was a tiny bit of mourning, as well. But I blame the tears 100% on hormones, and felt immensely better after shedding them. I came back downstairs and that was that.
From the very start, Clive was different.
His was the pregnancy I discovered the earliest. While with Ephraim’s pregnancy I was in denial for at least a week before finally caving and taking a test, with Clive I was immediately suspicious that something was up.
For one thing, Ephraim quit nursing the week I conceived. He simply refused to do it. He was nine months old, and while we rallied somewhat and would eventually make it to twelve months breastfeeding, those last three months were a power struggle. I believe we both breathed a sigh of relief when we were done.
There were a couple of other factors that led me to take a test. Almost immediately a faint positive appeared–and I wasn’t even four week pregnant yet. I went to the doctor and was given a prescription for my low progesterone. I assume this is what went wrong with my first pregnancy that was lost to miscarriage.
I was so busy with Ephraim that I remember little of the first few months of Clive’s pregnancy. I remember being easily angered. I remember my morning sickness starting on Christmas Day, when my aunt had made two lovely soups for lunch and I couldn’t eat either of them. I remember wondering if I should worry and then just not really ever worrying because I never got around to it.
It’s 5:30 when my first alarm goes off, and I hurriedly turn it off and go back to sleep.
About 35 minutes later I wake again, stirred by the sound of Jeremy’s shower. at about 6:13 I get out of bed. I’ve already decided that I’m staying in pajamas today–the prerogative of a thirty-something-weeks-pregnant woman. I also leave the bed unmade because I’m planning on washing EVERYTHING today.
I put on my makeup–even a pajama day calls for makeup–spray some dry shampoo in my hair, and go downstairs to make coffee. I make Jeremy’s in his travel mug as I’m already too behind for us to sit down and drink it together. I make mine, along with some Cream of Wheat, which is my current pregnancy craving.
I sit down with breakfast, a Bible, and the journal I’m using to copy down the Psalms one by one. I’m doing it because I’m terrible at reading the Psalms. I don’t remember to do this everyday, either, but today I do.
I finish the copywork and my breakfast and some brainless internet surfing, then head upstairs. On a whim I decide to curl my hair; I dyed it the day before, and that always makes me want to actually do something to it. I curl it, then put on a blouse and a skirt, even though I’m going nowhere today and just planning on washing EVERYTHING. I wait for the boys to get up. [Read more…]
Our oldest, Ephraim, is about to turn five, and it wasn’t very long after he was born that I felt a tug on my heart that I wasn’t sure what to do with.
We attend a church with a children’s program run by devoted, loving church members who prioritize the spiritual health and wellbeing of the kids in our congregation. And yet I was feeling very strongly that our kids needed to stay in church with us.