Dear God,

First and foremost, I want to thank You. 

I know I’ve lodged complaints with You almost daily now, upset about my stomach pooching out or my nausea or the consistency of my pooping.  I know I’ve used Your name several times when getting upset with clothes that don’t fit anymore, shoes that suddenly make my feet swell, and allergies that I never had before.  And I’m sure that all of this makes me sound pretty ungrateful.

Today, I wandered over to a message board at BabyCenter.com.  I had no real question to answer, no real conundrum to solve, but I thought, “You know, it might be nice to know what’s happening to other women at this same point in their pregnancy.”

I shouldn’t have gone.  Well, I mean, I’m glad I did.  But man.  Man oh man oh man.  Wow.

I read about women who have been spotting nonstop since conception and have limited their lives to walking to the bathroom. (And they’re only at 10 weeks, like me!) I read about women who are six weeks along and have put on 20 lbs.  I read about women who pull over twice on the way to work to vomit .. again.  I read about women who had miscarried several times before, and were keeping their fingers crossed on this one.

God, I know that I have it made.  Not only have You given me the strength to not drink any alcohol since Book Club (IN MARCH), but You’ve allowed my body to endure an entire run of Pinocchio.  And while it wasn’t Olympic gymnastics happening out there, it was a helluva lot on a pregnant body.

You’ve also blessed me with a husband who is more than I ever knew I wanted.  He is a man who takes care of me without me knowing; a man who makes me laugh all the time, even through tears; a man who knows to bring two spoons when he gets ice cream out of the freezer.

I feel, OFTEN, that I’m not maternal enough to do Your miracle justice.  There is life inside of me that I don’t connect with yet.  I know the right things to do, and I know how to care for that nest and its egg, but there is not a moment of any day where I feel that a baby is inside of me.

You have also sent me calm there, too, by strengthening my relationship with The Boy.  It reminds me that I AM maternal, and it will all be alright.  I need to find my own path, just like everything else.

You provided me with patience to not knock Bryan’s teeth in the other day when he suggested that I “find five or ten minutes a day to reflect positively on the baby”.  He thanks you, too.

All in all, I know that there are far rougher times ahead.  I just want you to know that I’m italian, and sometimes we use stronger language than necessary when we’re bitchin’ about something.  It’s not that we’re ungrateful, it’s just that it’s in our DNA.  I’m sure You understand. 

I’m sure I will be sending far more thanks Your way.

Love,
Sarah

Today is my favorite day out of the whole year.  Why?  Because today is the day I get to say to you: MAY THE 4TH BE WITH YOU.

Last night was a good night.

I had been fighting a sinus issue all day, and when I got home, I thought, “There is just no way in hell I can go to an outdoor baseball game today.  No way.”

Of course, I totally ended up going.

It was a calm night, with rain noticeably around us, but never once did we get a sprinkle.  We said hey to The Boy and perched a row above BioMom and her new husband.  The game started and all was well.

I really do love baseball season.  It’s my favorite sport.  I don’t enjoy watching it so much, but I love being outdoors during such a great time of year.  I love the smell of popcorn and the multitudes of siblings playing wall-ball while the game goes on. 

The Boy went up to bat and we all cheered him on.  I’m always the one that yells, “C’mon, Comer!  Hit a homer!” and then I snicker because I’m lame. (Although I learned last night that the new stepdad is equally as lame and we found things funny that made others groan.)

He hit the ball, hard, making that PING that I love so much.  The ball went deep into the outfield, and that kid RAN.  We were all screaming like crazy as he rounded third and slid home, and he heard us all going nuts in the bleachers.

About five minutes after, I heard The Boy scream, “SARAH!” from the dugout.  I holler back, “What?”.  He says, “COME HERE!”

So I teeter down from the top row of bleachers and wander over.  His blue eyes are set off by his flushed cheeks as I lean down to him.  He grins from ear to ear and asks, “Did you see that run?”

It sounds really stupid, but it made my night that he called me over there just to ask me that.