Sometimes I cry.

If you know me well, you know that I am not a stranger to tears. I used to try to fight them off every time I felt them welling up. As I have grown, oddly enough in my mind, my resolve has been less and they fall more easily.

There's something to be said about crying. Well, there's many things to be said, actually.

For starters, it can be quite therapeutic. It helps release all bottled up tension, sometimes to the point of such exhaustion you just pass out for hours.

It can lead to headaches. I've had one too many crying hangovers, as I call them.

It is both beautiful... and ugly. The brutal emotions being let go and your heart being so open is beautiful. The faces, the boogers, the swollen eye lids and nose... not so much.

Sometimes it's a few silent tears. Sometimes it's a heaving, boisterous sob.

Sometimes it is purely of joy. Sometimes it is of heart shattering sorrow. Sometimes the tears are from overwhelming exhaustion and crying is the only thing you have left.

Crying alone can be just what you need. Silence and privacy to be at your best, weakest point with nothing but your pillow and Jesus to listen...

But crying with someone can be even more powerful.

I understand why children want to be held when they cry. It's comforting. It's the physical reminder that there's someone right there who cares enough to drop all else in the moment and just be with you in your bare emotional state. There's security in someone's arms.

To be honest, I look back, and I cried a lot in my last years of marriage. I cried about my marriage and the many things going on within and outside of it that I felt needed attention but were deemed unimportant. I cried about crying about my marriage. I cried about not having someone to hold me while I cried because he hated that I cried. 

I still often miss having someone around to hold me while I cry. Just like a child, the comfort and security of having someone there is invaluable.

I know God collects your tears, feels your burdens, records your heartaches... But sometimes it doesn't feel like enough.

I know that's not how you're supposed to feel when it comes to God. I know it. I'm growing, and I try to let it be enough most of the time, visualizing myself curled up on Jesus lap leaving tear stains on his chest.

What I also know is that God provides for me, not every time I cry, but sometimes, especially when it seems I need it most. He knows how I feel about the tangible arms of someone who cares while my tears get the best of me and I feel like I may crumble. He has shown me this by providing a trusted friend or family member who, without reserve, will hold me tightly while I cry.

Sometimes, that's all I need to get through that overwhelming moment. I cannot adequately express the gratitude I feel in those embraces, both for the person with me, and for God providing them at the perfect time. 

God is great like that.

Thank you to those who have ever held me while I cried.

Almost Due.

It's almost April 18, 2012.

That wonderful Wednesday, my youngest sister will turn 13. Man, that makes me feel old!

That same Wednesday, last August and September, was slated to be our due date with Baby Sprout.

I can so clearly recall how "perfect" we thought that pregnancy worked out to be. I mean, really, being due on my sister's special birthday!? It was AWESOME. I for one, had prayed about it constantly since I calculated what that date would be, just asking God to allow it to happen. When I tested positive early morning on Sunday, August 7, I was shocked with disbelief, but through the roof with excitement. We told my sisters about the baby that morning already, we were so overjoyed!

And, as life would turn out, we lost Baby Sprout in the middle of September. Grieving and healing from the loss of the baby was a huge process to me. It was overwhelming for days before I finally could make it hours without crying. And over the weeks, and months as my body healed from my D&C, my mind started to heal as well, with the prospect of trying again for that second birth.

A sidenote: Sometimes, I get confused as to what to call Baby Bo. Is Bo my third child? Or is Bo my second child? I opt to say second child because it's less confusing for everyone else. Second child, third pregnancy, perhaps?

Anyway... On December 12, 2011, I tested positive again, and was cautiously optimistic and excited with the "perfection" of this pregnancy as well. As I had calculated that due to be August 26, 2012, which was just days after Jake's twin and his girlfriend, one of my best friends, were to be home for a wedding from Alaska. It seemed another pregnancy too "perfect" to be true, and for weeks I was scared of the same fate. Jake and I relish every movement (even if they wake me, or if Bo seems to be trampolining off my bladder during a 2.5 hour car ride) that we feel, knowing that Bo is alive and growing and gearing up to meet his/her family.

Now, I'm 21 weeks along, with an adjusted due date of August 19, 2012. We, again, are beyond overjoyed at the idea of bringing a sibling into this world for our wonderful son.

When I got my memorial tattoo for Sprout in November, it really helped me to find peace in the situation. Never once was I really mad at God (as I shared in a group not long ago at Operation Prom Dress), but I was frustrated, sad, and disappointed that it all happened. But then, it was like a release. Letting go of the sorrow as much as I could, I guess, and moving on to what lies ahead.

And I don't think I've cried over the loss since.

Until last night. Out of nowhere, it seems. I guess I was thinking about what the date would be next Sunday, when Jake and I have plans, and how my sister's birthday is only a few days after. And then I realized.. that was our due date. If that pregnancy had gone well, I would be due any day now. Or maybe, just maybe, we'd have already met Sprout. Maybe we'd know if Sprout was a boy or a girl. Maybe... And I got to wondering if Sprout was our son, or our daughter. I feel like the baby was a boy, though of course, there was no way for us to know.

I started sobbing. I told Jake that in over a week and a half, Sprout would have been due to be born. It was so overwhelming.

But, of course, I realize I am already over halfway through this pregnancy with Baby Bo. God gave us this gift, too. And this time, God willing, we've been able to progress smoothly, and God willing, will be able to meet our son or daughter in 19 or so weeks.

While it doesn't take away the loss, it helps to cope, some, I guess. But I'm torn. It's hard to be sad about the child we lost while we are getting ready for another child, now. But, Bo will never replace Sprout. Bo is just the given we were given after Sprout left us. And it's okay to be sad, I think. It's okay.

I'm not going to let it bog me down. I'm not going to dwell on it and take away from my sister's birthday. I decided if I wrote out how I feel, maybe, once again, like it did right after the loss, it will help me cope and move on. So, here's to that prayer.

Confessions on a low self-worth.

Today, I'm having one of those "man, I'm not worth much to anyone and everything is my fault" sort of days.

I just realized that I place a lot of my self-worth on whether or not my husband is home spending time with me.

Jake works hard. He works 14 or more hours a day, four or five days a week. He is very geared toward a strong financial future. I am more focused on relationships. Always have been. I grew up without much for money, but I had a really close-knit family, including aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and of course, my immediate family. I lived that way for 27 years now, and so trying to switch my focus to making the most money we can right now just doesn't work.

Jake and I don't fight often, really, and we usually agree on most things. But when it comes to this work v. time at home thing, well, we've always disagreed. Not that he doesn't want to be home, because that's not it, he just has a higher standard for making money. Like, he has to make "enough" per day to justify taking his day off off every week. And if he doesn't, he works on his day off instead of being home with Spencer and I.

I appreciate his willingness to work, but I find that when he prefers to make a bigger paycheck every week than spend that extra day home with us, that I feel pretty worthless.

Today, he is working to make up for lack of sales or missing customers on Monday and Tuesday. I was looking forward to a little time for myself this morning, which didn't happen, before he left, and before he left, I started feeling really bad about wishing he'd be home, and wanting time away from he or Spencer in the first place.

I mean, come on, we fought for this baby, and he's what we wanted to so badly, and yet I want to be away from him every week? More than one or two hours once a week even? Man, I felt like a bad mom.

Anyway, back to this dissension. When we have the discussion that always starts out with me wanting Jake home more, and ending with if I want that to happen I have to make more money, but yet, we both feel like I should raise our child, so I am doing that instead, which means Jake will be gone all the time and I just have to deal with it... I always end up feeling like crud.

I know I shouldn't place any value of myself as to whether or not my husband is home, but yet, I do. I try to stop, and I can't. I don't know how. No matter how much I pray or give it to God, when this conversation happens, I fall right back into being not worth his time away from making money.

I don't know that we'll ever find a balance, and that scares me.

No one is at fault, but I tell you what, I always blame myself, which makes it feel even worse. I'm not mad at Jake, and I don't blame him for doing what he feels is best. I just don't always agree. I feel like even if we were to end up debt free in five years or less, we've still missed out on 4 years of time together since we were married, plus the time that he's away now. But what do I do? Do I give up on raising our child for a higher paying job, seeing as how that would be the one thing it seems that would bring my husband home before 10pm every night?

I don't get hardly any sleep. Neither does Jake. And it's not totally because of having a baby, though that's part of it. During the day, I don't/can't find time to nap, and then I stay up until he gets home because Spencer is awake a lot of the time waiting for Jake to get home, and also, if I'm not awake when he gets home, there's a good chance I wont' see him.

And then I feel really horrible, because I want him to spend time away from us in his free time, but I don't. I love that he's doing lights at church, but at the same time, I'm selfish and wish he was here for that extra two hours. But will I ask him not to? No. Will I blame him for doing it? No. It just boils down to the fact that I wish we had more time together as a family during the week.

So, here I am, home while he's working on his "day off," and my baby is crying in his bouncy seat, and instead, I'm sitting here writing this blog. I guess I should get my priorities straight.

Moving, I despise thee.

Tonight, I'm feeling exceptionally overwhelmed.

I spent the majority of the weekend painting the duplex that we are going to be moving into the middle of this week. It was a long task, and more physically exhausting than I thought it would be (I presume Spencer can be to blame for that, at least partially). The other chunk of the weekend, I spent going through things at our current residence, packing them up, sorting them into piles, trying to savor some energy, as well as spend time with Jake and Wendell.

Tonight, I came home from work, and took a look around, and just burst into tears.

I hate moving.

I don't hate the aspect in which you take up residence in a new place. that part, I actually find to be a somewhat thrilling adventure. The aspects I hate are... packing, transporting, and unpacking. I'm not what you would call "skilled" at packing, and I find it to be tedious and boring under normal circumstances.

But, I've been alone for the majority of it... and I haven't really accomplished much. I'm not blaming anyone, and I'm not trying to complain and whine about it either. I'm just stating.

It's hard to be 33 weeks pregnant, emotional, tired, sore, and then unfocused... and try to pack up a household of things. And then I find myself trying to debate what I can pack up, what I should pack up, and what I should wait to do until right before we move. I mean, come on, let's be practical, I shouldn't pack up and move all of the food and the bathroom supplies... and then not eat or shower for three days. And then there's the focus thing... I get side tracked, or I'd rather have some human contact (because Jake is working to provide for our family, which I appreciate more than I express to him sometimes (I am sorry, babe, for that)) so I check my facebook, or text my friends. I can't stand trying to accomplish this task in utter desolation. (Yes, that's somewhat dramatic, I realize, but like I said, I'm an emotional roller coaster lately, ask Jake.)

And it's really hard to not be able to be carrying and lifting boxes on my own... and furniture, too. I understand it's not really safe for me, nor Spencer to be doing so, but then I just feel so... helpless.

And I feel horrible for my husband. I dread the packing and the small stuff I can do on my own, and then... I think about all that he has to do without my help, and how he has to try to find help to do it. As strong and amazing as he is (which he is, I tell you), he can't exactly carry a piano 10 blocks by himself, as well as up and down stairs.

It's just... a dreadful scenario all around.

But, instead of continuing this ramble... I'm going to work on washing the rest of the laundry and getting ready to move it over there myself (because hey, I can do that!) so that the washer and dryer will be ready to be moved come Wednesday as well. And I will most likely go through the desks as I do the laundry, and de-clutter and pack those up as well.

Late Night Panic Attack.

After watching a disc of House M.D. episodes with my sister, who is back at my house for the remainder of the summer (more or less), I went to bed pretty late last night.

I had a couple of really wretched dreams.

Both involved Jake, my husband.

In the first, I was with my cousin, her wife, my sister, and Jake for a bit, at a big... frat house type party. I was pregnant, so I wasn't drinking, and Samantha and I were just having a good ol' time laughing it up with Jake, when Jake said he wanted to go get something out of our place. So he did. And then he never came back. A few hours later, I called and called and called and he didn't answer. So I had my cousin call him, and she disappeared into a bar next door to talk to him. I couldn't find her either, for a while. I eventually did, but then she told me he was on his way to Utah. He just needed to go. He didn't say if he was coming back, or how long it would be, or whatever, and I was stuck there, without him, having a baby. Yikes!

Granted, I know he won't leave me, so I'm not really worried about it, but it was a horrible dream to have anyway.

The second, I dreamt I was at home reading a book, and got the worst visit ever, from the Sheriff, telling me that Jake had gotten into an accident on the way home and had died.

I HATE these kind of dreams. When he's driving home late (like he was last night after I fell asleep), I always fear that he won't make it home. Always.

So I woke up at 3:15 (or so, I didn't have a clock near me) and realized he wasn't in bed. Hmm.

I looked in the living room, and I found his phone, but I didn't see shoes or anything. The truck that he had drove last night was not out front either, so I didn't know where he was.

By this point, I'm surged with adrenaline and thinking the worst, partially because I worry, and partially because I'm pregnant, hormonal, and exhausted at this point.

I try to wake my sister to see if she's heard from him, but she didn't wake, and I couldn't find my phone to see if he had contacted me, but there was no record in his phone. I eventually find my phone, but no calls or anything of course, and I take both with me in my bathrobe. I notice the back room light is on, which is odd, so I go outside. I then see the truck blocking the garage, which is strange to me also because it's noisy and parked right outside our bedroom, and I don't recall it getting there. And the light is on in the garage...

That freaked me out. I get both phones in my hand and I open the door... and don't see him (or anyone) anywhere in the garage. The only noise is the radio. I start shaking pretty badly but walk into it a little further...

And I see his legs under my cousin's truck and I start crying silently because he is NOT moving nor making noise.

And then he hears me, and asks if I'm okay. I start sobbing more loudly and tell him how I was scared and couldn't find him and dreamt he died and blah blah... hysteric rant. He has me sit down on the dolly thing next to him until I calm down and am no longer dizzy and nauseous, before he gives me a hug and a kiss, lets me cry, tells me he's okay, it's okay, he loves me, wouldn't leave me, and he'll be in to bed shortly.

Apparently, since he's such a nice guy (and somewhat of an insomniac on any given night), he was changing the oil in my cousin's vehicle.

I came back to bed and cried myself to sleep, tears of relief, of course.