As spring brings the birth of new life and many loved ones celebrate birthdays this month, my thoughts lately drift toward my own babies and the circumstances surrounding their births.
When it comes to pregnancies, I’ve never been the type to try to plan for a certain season/month, strategically “try” for a particular gender, or even for a specific distance between siblings–I may have had a preference, but we got what we got.
However, I have always been passionately averse to having a baby on or near Christmas. For so many reasons: being hugely pregnant during the holidays, missing the celebration of Christmas because you’re in the hospital and/or too exhausted to function, the poor kid having to deal with his special day being overrun by yuletide festivities for the rest of his life…the list goes on.
So when talk of having #2 started, I looked at a calendar, did the math, and strategically avoided getting pregnant in March. Ain’t no way I was having a Christmas baby.
Instead, we got pregnant in April–quite unplanned by Hubs and I and still quite too close to Christmas for my comfort. I reassured myself that with a due date of January 14, I should be safe.
Just before finding out we were pregnant, the Hubs had brought home news from work that we would likely be moving out of state within the year.
Over the next few months, I would look down at my swelling belly and then up at the sky and say, “Really, God? You thought now was a good time for a baby?”
We had dear friends in Dallas; friends who brought meals when I was too sick or tired to cook, who happily watched my baby so I could take ballroom dance classes with my husband, who rejoiced and suffered with us. I couldn’t imagine having #2 without a support system like this.
Yet early that December, we moved into a new home in a mid-western farm town where we knew nary a soul. My strategy to secure postpartum meals was to quickly find a legitimate church, join a small group, and let my ginormous belly and exhausted countenance speak of our family’s needy state.
I spent the next two weeks frantically moving and unpacking boxes, which is probably why on December 23rd, I found myself en route to the hospital, barking “just go though the freaking stop sign!” to my poor husband.
If you’re a mommy, did you have preferences for the timing of your babes?