Today feels heavy.
Funny, because just yesterday, I felt like I was on top of the world.
Not actually funny, because my female roller-coaster emotions are sometimes annoying and exhausting.
Yesterday, I was thinking about how I am happier in life than I ever remember being.
I feel like I’ve crawled out of the trenches that life as a mom of three young kids can drag you down into.
Finally, the last lingering traces of the funk that hit me after my 2-year-old was born are history.
And I have felt like me again.
The me that dreams big.
That doesn’t let the perceived perceptions of others affect or direct me.
The me that is excited at the beginning of a day.
The me that finds immense joy and rejuvenation in the things I love: Writing, nature, family, adventure.
The me that just feels good.
Our 11-year-old marriage has felt better than ever. Better than the “honeymoon phase.” (A phrase I actually hate, as I hate any generality that tells you how you should feel at a certain point in marriage or parenthood.)
We’ve just been in sync. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Even our life goals feel more in line than ever. And we’re ready to tackle them together with gusto.
Which is why it’s so disheartening that those goals are not coming to fruition.
I think that’s what sparked today’s heaviness.
Another negative pregnancy test.
After seeking an answer—is there one more for us? One more baby to complete our family?
The answer came in an unexpected, but powerful way.
So, we thought, if He wants it for us, if we want it for us, it’ll happen. Soon.
We’re not getting any younger.
These months of blank, white space on that stick have started eating away at our faith. Our resolve.
Did we actually get an answer? We’ve had little to no reassurance since.
Is it time to let go and be happy for the way our family looks right now?
What kind of test is this?
Are we supposed to be learning something from this, or is it simply the passage of time, or a biological result of something that is out of place?
Do we keep trying, until our “deadline”—five more months?
Can I handle five more cycles of getting worked up, feeling sure this is the time I’ll see that positive sign and planning how I will tell my husband and our kids?
Do I just need to be more patient?
How do I quiet the voices that whisper something is wrong with my body, or my husband’s?
Or that I don’t want this bad enough?
Or that I actually can’t handle another child—our family will suffer. From a short(er)-tempered mom.
Or that my fears about having another child are stopping me from becoming pregnant with one? Are they?
Is He waiting until I am ready?
How do I get ready?
Yesterday felt light, happy. Everything was as it should be.
Today is different.
Where that pocket of contentedness dwelt in my heart, guilt has decided to worm its way in.
Guilt over taking time away from my kids to write.
Guilt over my patience, which I’d had a handle on for the past few weeks, taking a dip.
Feelings of inadequacy over not being the friend or neighbor or church member I think others expect me to be.
But that’s OK.
There will be more happy tomorrows. The heavy ones make way for lighter ones.
I know that, but I don’t have to believe it all the time.
It’s OK to let the bad days be. Let the down feelings sink in a little bit.
So when they go, they take all of their belongings with them—bored of nagging at my mind and heart and ready to move on to the next person.
So, I’ll let them stay for now.
But not for long.