Two years ago when I was writing down Joey's birth story, this is where I began it at first -- a full 24 hours before his arrival. But when I started to write it it all just felt too ponderous and long, and I didn't think anyone would hang in to the end if I started it that far back. If I had decided to write his birth story in two parts, part one would have begun at Mass the day before.
I was at 40 + 4 and I was in a horrible mood. With the first three kids, I had not even come within three days of my due date, so this pregnancy should have been long over as far as I was concerned. I was exhausted, encumbered by my enormous belly which made getting dressed, sleeping, and everything in between difficult. Tim's mom sat in the pew with us for the last time. She had been staying with us since Thanksgiving and she'd be flying back home the next morning. I don't even know if I could adequately convey in words how unbearable it was the last week of carrying Joe. I was embarrassed even to go out in public with this big round belly preceding me everywhere and making people's eyes bug out of their heads. I had recently left the post office and a Marine walking toward me said, "Woah!" I didn't even want to be at church today. I wanted to stay at home and hide, and just throw myself the biggest pity party.
During the petitions, one of the prayers was for expectant mothers. There were only about 20 people in that tiny chapel altogether, so it was obvious they were all praying for me. It was all about me, ha ha. My eyeballs sprang a tiny leak. When the offertory hymn played, I don't remember what it was, but I remember how it hit me square in the feels -- a solemn sounding advent song about waiting and longing. It was getting to be too much. My eyeballs leaked faster, and I quickly soaked a couple of tissues. My face started to grow hot and I realized that I was about to have a full on ugly cry, and once it's coming there's no stopping it. I had to get out of there fast. Rather than rush out alone, I grabbed Timmy so I could pretend it was his bathroom emergency that was propelling me to the back of the chapel. I kept my head down and looked behind me several times to make sure he was following.
I was out in the fresh air and home free, my face crumpling and the snot and tears running. Then I rounded the corner of the building to go to the rear entrance where the bathrooms and sitting room were, and came face to face with someone I knew -- another mom of four on her way back with one of her littles. Looking into her shocked and concerned face I said, "This isn't as bad as it looks!"
She went with me to the back room and there was another mom back there with her kids too. I talked, they listened, they gave me more tissues, they told their own stories, we laughed, I blew my nose a thousand times, and my tears stopped. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from me. I hadn't even known how much energy I had put into bottling up my feelings, and it was such a relief to let it out.
I don't know why such a rough morning turned out to be one of my most cherished memories, but it's what popped into my mind when a member of my bible study shared that she just learned that she's pregnant and thrilled that she'll be spending the rest of Advent pregnant. My sister Grace is due in January, and I wonder if she ever finds herself feeling a little overcome as she sits in the pew hearing those songs and waiting for her own baby boy.
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