A Birthday & A Big Announcement

Very, very happy news

Tomorrow, I will turn 33 (I typed 23 first if that gives you an indication on my feelings towards this number) and I will spend the majority of my birthday en route to NYC for work.

Ryan - my most cherished gift, biggest supporter, and locked-in-by-vows airport shuttler - will drive me to the airport in the morning, likely with a coffee stop on the way.

I'll make my way to the Delta SkyClub and get my annual AmEx fee's worth of free croissants and orange juice while waiting for my flight.

Then I'll take off for JFK, loaded down with an overstuffed bag and intentions to read on the plane that will probably be overtaken by email instead. 

I'm not a big birthday person. I like an excuse to buy a new pair of jeans or treat myself to a facial, but attention and aging aren't exactly my idea of a celebration, so birthdays always feel a bit like static in my brain. 

This birthday, however, is different. Not just because the number 33, despite being much higher than my soul says it should be, is delightfully symmetrical. But because this is the year - my 34th year in this wild jungle of a world - that I become a mom. 

*Pause for effect*

It’s true (!!!). Ryan and I are expecting an itty bitty baby girl to join our little party in early July and we couldn't be more thankful. Hudson doesn't quite seem to grasp the concept yet, but we're doing our best to educate him on his new role as big brother.

I've been anxious to waddle my way into the second trimester for so many reasons.

Primarily, because the first trimester was BRUTAL, to say the least. I was outrageously sick from weeks 5-15 with essentially no reprieve. I spent most days working from my bed - taking meetings with my camera off and crushing saltines like my life depended on it.

At one point I took a meeting with my boss from the floor of my bathroom, holding my computer with one hand and the base of the toilet bowl with the other. 

Needless to say, things felt dire.

Quick aside here: it feels right to take this moment to brag on Ryan for just a second. He hates attention arguably more than I do, but I would be remiss to mention how rough the last few months have been for me without also noting how unbelievably wonderful he has been in keeping our little boat afloat during this time. From constantly bringing me crackers to managing everything from our dog to our dishes to my not-so-infrequent emotional meltdowns without a single complaint, Ryan has been a saint of a husband and I get weepy at the thought of how blessed I am to have him. This baby is one lucky girl to be raised by such a selfless, humble man.

The other reason I couldn't wait for the second trimester was to finally be able to share this news with our people. We told family and close friends right away, shared a bit more broadly as we rounded out week 13, and now, finally, I'm able to share with you.

There’s been so much to process with this news, and as you know, typically my means by which to do so is to write about it.

But my relationship with writing has been a bit strange since I found out.

I felt wildly uninspired during my endless battle with nausea. I wasn't reading anything (other than incessant articles explaining morning sickness home remedies that don't work). I was barely leaving my house. And my usual rhythms that spark curiosity or inspiration - long walks, good podcasts, deep conversations with friends, etc. - were essentially non-existent. 

And in losing those things, and countless other aspects of my day-to-day life, I started to really lose my sense of self.

Almost overnight, I went from someone who was energetic and productive and often accused of not knowing how to rest, to someone who could barely get out of bed.

I was no longer the fun wife who wanted to go out or see friends or cook dinner, I was the pukey girl in the bathroom texting my husband to bring me water.

I was trying to keep up with my usual pace at work but it felt impossible. And the shame and anxiety that came from not being my best (at a job I don’t even always like) really shook me.

I shed all my routines in an attempt to just survive the day. I stopped doing the things I love out of necessity and exhaustion.

I gave up reading and date nights and church on Sundays and walking Hudson and talking to friends and my Peloton streak and daily showers and most of the things that make me feel like me in order to sit in front of a trash can thinking, don't puke, don't puke, don't puke. 

I just did not expect how challenging the first few months of this would be, on my body or my mind. And while the physical realities set in quickly, the emotional side took its toll inch by inch. 

And yes, of course, there was (and is) joy and gratitude and immense awe at the thought that God has seen fit to give us this gift of a child. I get weepy at even the thought of it. I have Pinterest boards of nursery themes and tiny little bows and a million hopes and dreams about what life with this child might be like.

But it seems impossible to share all the joy of this news without also sharing that the unexpected loss of self, in addition to the unrelenting nausea and the growing graveyard of pants that no longer fit, frankly knocked me on my ass. 

So I'm thankful to finally be able to share this with you - both the struggle and the absolute giddiness of it all.

Because both are true. And neither counteracts the other. And as I've always said, it's good and right and holy to hold the simultaneous truths of "this shit sucks and God is good" in both hands at the same time. 

So I am - holding the wildly humbling battle against my body and this loss of identity up beside the hard-to-believe beautiful news of a baby on the way.

And now that you’re all caught up, I hope to process and celebrate much of this in writing, if I can and if you’ll let me.

Now, back to this birthday. 

I'm happy (outrageously so) to report that the nausea let up right around week 15 and, in some ways, I'm feeling more like myself again. 

I'm back to daily showers (a fact I'm sure Ryan appreciates), have a few books stacked on my nightstand again, and am trying to anchor myself in routines both new and old as I ease into this next season.

But the reality is that my pre-pregnancy self isn't someone I get to be anymore. My life is different now. My priorities and prayer life and body and plans for the future are all shifting to accommodate this new calling, this new, little life. And that is good and right and beautiful and God-ordained.

Just as much as it is scary and unnerving and wildly offensive to my constant struggle for control.

So as I approach this birthday and the year to follow, I feel as if I’m blowing out the candles on a stranger’s cake.

Because, you see, I am a productive person, a fun wife, a top performer at work, a contender on the leaderboard in spin class. And this 33 year old isn’t any of those things, at least not now, not at her core.

And yet, I am her and these candles are mine and those identities I’m learning to let go of have never had any real bearing on my worth. I just didn’t know it until they were gone. I just had to learn it with my head hanging over the toilet.

So that is what I’ll be celebrating tomorrow.

The strange and puzzling and wonderful gift of getting to know myself again in such new light.

The good and worthwhile invitation to consider my true value beneath the layers of mis-identities I'd learned to wear.

The curious and inspiring internal work of both learning about myself again and learning this new life within me - the tiny heartbeat, the little flutter of movements, the soul already cherished by God. 

My plane will land some time in the afternoon and a taxi will take me into the bowels of a place I used to call home. I will check into my hotel and order takeout from the Indian restaurant I love nearby and I will eat alone and in bed while sirens and street noise play loudly in the background. 

I will go to sleep content, full of naan, in the only PJ's that still fit me, with one hand on my ever-growing belly swirling with new life and a divinely-knit soul. 

And I will wake up to a new day, a new year, a new number to fill out on my (many) doctor’s office forms next to "age", and a new season of learning to let go, to heed a new calling, to shed layers of self-knowledge that no longer serve me, and to walk faithfully, eagerly, perhaps a bit waddly, into this new chapter called motherhood.

What a wonderful thing to get to celebrate.