I actually have nothing concrete to worry about. (Except for my appearance at the town pool—think Easter egg). The ultrasounds went fine. I like my doctors. My other three kids are over the moon. I feel fine.
However, at my age, with my history, and with my accumulated knowledge of all that can go wrong, I worry. I see the nurses taking extra care with my charts. My saving grace? I trust that God’s plan is one I can handle.
I remember being devastated by the news, delivered at week 17 of my second pregnancy, that my daughter had Down syndrome. I begged God to help me. I pleaded for something different—anything.
But I gave up and gave in. And my daughter has turned out to be a true blessing. That which I feared the most was actually a gift. I’m grateful for the tradition of faith. I fell back on it because I had nothing else. And it gave me just enough to hang on.
I’m grateful to have that experience as I read and hear about tragedy. Babies lost in the final weeks of pregnancy. Still births. Doctor errors. SIDS deaths. Pediatric cancer. In the wee hours of the night, when that pregnancy insomnia hits, these are the haunts. But I push them away with a few quick prayers—rote recitations I’ve known since childhood. It yanks me out of the cycle of tragic scenarios and back to a place of serenity.
Then, I go unload the dishwasher, check Twitter, and feel the flip-flops of the night owl babe inside of me.
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