Pregnancy & Birth

For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

Today, we are sharing an excerpt of a guest post Kindred Mom founder Emily Allen is sharing over on Lauren Bourne’s “I am Fruitful” blog. Please visit there to read the complete post! This essay is about Emily’s friendship with Sarah Allard who shared an essay earlier this week titled, “Invisible Mothers”.

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(photo by Latisha Hale)

We are in her kitchen, washing dishes between conversations with the various women who have dropped by for an evening of jewelry-making and friendship-forging. For years, we have been bringing women together for fellowship and camaraderie, playing to both of our strengths—her as a hostess, me as a deeper-conversations sort. She nervously tells me she thinks she might be pregnant. She hasn’t tested yet, but she has a hunch this could be the month. My heart swells with excitement for her. They’ve been trying for a while, but haven’t stressed about it. Both are eager to welcome a baby.

A few days later she tells me.

“Not this month,” she sighs. I’m sorry, I say, and I mean it. She’d be the best mom.

A few weeks later, it is me that has pink lines for the fourth time. I’m a little timid about telling her because it is uncomfortable when mom-with-multiple-other-children tells friend-who-is-still-waiting-for-one that we will be having our fourth baby in March. Still, she smiles and hugs me, and cheers me all through the pregnancy.

Still no pink lines for her.

For months, we pray and cry, and I fumble my way through trying to support her, always feeling like I come up short because I can’t fix the situation. I can’t do much except listen and pray and continue tenderly walk through the waiting along with her.

I give birth and try to figure out the chaos of four kids in my house. Two boys and two girls. It’s all so perfect, everyone says. Surely we’re done. I think we are for a stretch of months until I hear God asking me to surrender my plans. I will, I say to Him. I will receive what You give, Lord, even if that means another pregnancy, and another round of that humbling place of giving my body to the very challenging task of childbirth. I pray and try to encourage my sweet friend who is still waiting and still hoping with the best attitude she can muster.

Still no pink lines for her.

Over a year goes by when a call comes, and she says, “I’m pregnant!”

I cry with joy and the next week I make a similar call back to her and say, “I’m pregnant too!”

She is having a baby! My number five is on the way. We’re excited for each other, and it all feels so wonderful to take this journey together since we’ll be due in the same month.

She’s 11 weeks and eager to see her baby on ultrasound at her OB appointment. I’m a week behind her and feeling the nausea and exhaustion of the first trimester. I’m waiting for her call to gush about the little bean-baby she is growing, except when she calls, she is suddenly solemn.

“There is no heartbeat.”

Read the rest of this essay on I am Fruitful…

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Emily Sue Allen is the founder of the Kindred Mom blog and podcast and is passionate about helping moms flourish in motherhood. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She lives with her husband and six kids in the Pacific Northwest, and personally blogs at lightandloveliness.com. She invites you to connect with the Kindred Mom community on Instagram or Facebook.

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For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

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The minute you see two pink lines on a pregnancy test after waiting for those lines for years, you start dreaming and planning.

Our baby was due in February, and I imagined having an adorable baby bump in our Christmas photos that year. I turned baby names over in my mind, dreaming about whether our baby was going to be a boy or a girl. I cut out all lunch meat, upped my protein intake, and put the baby center app on my phone. At each change in my body–nausea, bloat, fatigue–I was thankful for signs of a growing life inside my womb. We saw our baby’s heartbeat at eight weeks, and knowing the rate of miscarriage was low beyond this point, we shared our news with friends and family. There had been so much emotion and hope building up to this moment…to this baby. We were convinced this baby was the answered prayer for a child of our own, after year exactly three years of unexplained infertility. All of these details made our miscarriage and the year that followed it one of the most painful experiences of my life.

At the beginning of eleven weeks I spotted a tiny bit. It had me concerned, but I had no other signs of miscarriage and it was such a small streak of blood. I tried to push any concern out of my mind. A couple of days later, we walked into the ultrasound expecting to see our growing baby to put our minds at ease. The stillness of the image made my heart drop into my stomach. My husband and I didn’t say a word, but we looked at each other with a knowing glance. I can still feel my throat tightening, holding back tears, trying to process the loss. I remember the look of shock on my husband’s face. He had been trying to encourage me with complete confidence that our baby was fine.

It was supposed to be a routine and reassuring ultrasound, but instead we found out we had lost our baby.

In an instant, all the hopes and dreams that had been growing within me for eleven weeks shattered. I would never get to see my baby’s face this side of heaven. There was nothing I could do to make a flicker of a heartbeat appear inside the fetus on the ultrasound.

One moment I was a mother with a womb full of life, and the next moment I became  an invisible mother.

The technician left the room to consult with the lead doctor to confirm what we already knew. My husband prayed over me and I lay on the table, numb to the pain. The doctor came in and mumbled something about being sorry for our loss, that the miscarriage was not my fault, and that I needed to talk to my OB for next steps. It was excruciating to sit in the OB’s office, surrounded by pregnant bellies and babies, and because we didn’t have an appointment, the wait seemed like forever.

The days that followed were a horrible nightmare. I had to wait several days for my scheduled D&C procedure and there was something very eerie knowing I had a dead child inside my womb. One day, I was experiencing pregnancy symptoms and the next day I could see my stomach had shrunk, the bloat had gone away and so had the nausea. These outward reminders were nothing compared to the changes happening inside my heart and mind. I went from being completely elated with the excitement of new life, to feeling utterly heartbroken. One moment, an expectant mother, the next moment, an invisible mother.

There are invisible mothers everywhere. Many times, they are not recognized as mothers because they don’t have a baby in arms, but these women hoped, loved, and longed for the babies they nourished in their wombs, no matter how many weeks or months that precious baby grew there. These brave, beautiful mothers have experienced miscarriage, but they will forever remember the baby they never got to meet.

Because of my experience, I see invisible mothers all around me. I know the pain they feel that too often remains unseen by others. I know what it’s like to pack away the maternity clothes I never grew into. I’ve strained to put on a happy face when I heard of yet another friend’s pregnancy announcement. I’ve received the bill in the mail from the ultrasound where I saw my dead baby. I’ve had the baby center app remind me of how big my baby would have been this week. I’ve watched friends have babies around my due date and wondered what could have been. I’ve experienced the heaviness of Mother’s Day, not knowing my place in the midst of mothers who still have their babies. I’ve had cycle after cycle come and the blood remind me of the baby I’ve lost. I have been at a loss for how to express the excruciating heartache I experienced at that time, and I struggled with the reality that most people never asked how I was doing or acknowledged the baby I lost.

Invisible mother, I see you. I honor the baby you lost; the one you will never forget. I honor the time you spent loving that baby, the effort spent nurturing your body, and the dream of welcoming that child into your family. Invisible mother, I know your heart will never be the same and there will always be a piece of it in heaven. I honor the baby that has forever changed you, the one that made you a mother.

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Sarah Allard is thankful to be experiencing the joy of motherhood after journeying through years of infertility. She is married to her highschool sweetheart and together they are raising their two children in Seattle. Sarah is passionate about hospitality, encouraging other mamas, and slowing down to appreciate God’s daily grace. She is a fair weather blogger at www.thelittledove.com and is often on Instagram.

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For the month of July, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility/Secondary Infertility* as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

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For every photo of a smiling family, there is a story.

You might look at our family of four and think, Picture perfect. They’re so blessed. And I wouldn’t argue with you—God has been good to us. Two healthy little girls, nearly six years apart, one favoring my hubby and the other favoring me (depending on who you ask).

But a photograph doesn’t tell you about the journey to this moment. It doesn’t tell you about the years of longing, about the negative pregnancy tests, about the envy, about the long conversations, about the prayers, or about the loss.

Our story, simply stated, is that pregnancy has never come easily.

Early in our marriage, I watched women around me become pregnant and families begin to grow, the news of each new life delivering a stinging blow to my heart. I dreamed of being called Mom. I wanted to say I was happy for others and mean it. One year went by, then two, then three. I chose ignorance over going to the doctor for a diagnosis, secretly deeply afraid I just wasn’t able to conceive and carry a child. The desire in my heart never faded, even as I busied and distracted myself with long hours at an editorial assistant job and reminded myself to savor the days of just the two of us.

Looking back, the three years of struggling were nothing but a drop in the bucket—I know this now. At the time, they felt endless. Pain in the waiting is real, whether it lasts one year or fifteen.

One cool November day, that season of my life ended and another began. The pregnancy curveballs started early and kept on coming. First, severe morning sickness followed by kidney stones, then a traumatic labor and finally an emergency c-section. God was teaching me lesson after lesson about adjusting my expectations.

Then perhaps the biggest shock, ten months after Evelyn’s birth: Upon waking from another emergency surgery—this time to remove a benign yet rapidly growing tumor—I listened, still groggy from anesthesia, as the doctor standing by my bed explained how they had removed a good portion of my reproductive organs. But don’t worry, he had said. One ovary should do the job of two.

Should.

Did he say “should”? Doesn’t he know how long it took to conceive the last baby, when I had two ovaries? What if all my eggs were literally in one basket? What if that was my “good side,” and now it’s gone?

I felt robbed. The whole thing had been so sudden. My feelings of loss were wrapped around dreams of babies that didn’t even exist, but I grieved. I felt my body had not only let me down, but it had let my husband down, too. What about his family dreams? Together we slowly released our future to God and moved on, focusing all of our attention on our little girl. Even as I clung to faith to sustain me, this wasn’t at all what I had in mind.

I needed to believe with my whole being that God’s plan for my family was better than anything I could dream up on my own.

For the next four years I hovered in a confusing place of wondering whether I was even capable of conceiving another child. If it was medically impossible, I didn’t want to know. When you start marking years off the calendar, you begin to assume the worst. Learning about secondary infertility* from an article online was the catalyst for me to let go of my dreams. It was a self-diagnosis, but it was enough. We enrolled Evelyn in preschool; I went back to work. We dipped our toes into adoption research. Life just… moved on. Then, just as we settled into a new normal, we discovered I was pregnant. After all those years of silence from the womb, there was life.

The nervousness, excitement, and complete shock gave way to grief when I miscarried several weeks later.

Sadness swallowed us whole for a while. When I came up for air, my logical side won out, and I reduced the entire horrible experience to a big, flashing sign from God that we weren’t meant to grow our family further—we had a child already, and we needed to be content. 

But God would soon remind me, once again, that He was the one writing the story, not me. He had more chapters coming, and His narrative is infinitely better than anything I could write.

Our second daughter, Daisy, turned three in April.

In this story, the chapter about the flood was followed by the part about the rainbow.

You who are in a season of wondering and waiting, I see you. You who have received a diagnosis, who are wading through the adoption process, who are undergoing procedures, who are grieving loss, asking why—you are not alone.

If you have walked through the dark days and broken through to light on the other side, whether it be through a child you carried, a child brought into your forever home, or simply peace in the uncertainty, praise God! Share your stories and yell hallelujahs for the miracles. But don’t forget those who are in the thick of it. They need you. Be a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on. Offer hope. Reach out. Squeeze a hand. Pray.

~

People love to ask why we spaced our girls so far apart. I laugh because we had nothing to do with it—and I’m grateful it wasn’t up to us. They also love to ask if we’re going to have more kids. Knowing the twists and turns of this journey so far, I’d never assume to know the answer to that question. The story of our family is in the hands of the Author.

He writes the best stories.

*Secondary infertility is the inability to become pregnant, or to carry a pregnancy to term, following the birth of one or more biological children, and can be the result of a variety of factors. A diagnosis of secondary infertility might apply if: a couple who has already given birth without the use of medical support or fertility medications is unable to get pregnant or experiences miscarriages after trying for one year if the woman is under 35, or after trying for 6 months if the woman is older than 35. Source and more info: The National Infertility Association (resolve.org)

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Rebekah Crosby is a former copy editor who traded in her red pen to chase her kids around all day and share stories over at Write the Rough Draft. Wife of a woodworker and mom of two daughters, her hobbies include photography, reading too many books at a time, and jotting down ideas she hopes to write about when she has a free minute. Rebekah is co-founder of The Drafting Desk, an email newsletter for those longing for freedom over perfection, and she shares slices of life on Instagram at @writetheroughdraft.

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For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community. 

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“My hands are empty. There are children running circles round me, but my hands are empty.

I have come to terms with the unthinkable. We have lost again, but is it too much to ask for a souvenir, to want something to grasp and hold tight? I don’t even have a photograph, and this feels too much to bear.

Me with a pile of cameras, lenses, and an iPhone—I didn’t stop time. I was too busy soaking it all in, too busy just being. More than that though, I thought it would last.

I thought I had more time.”

I wrote those words before loss piled up so high I could not see beyond it. I had endured a full-term stillbirth, and then just two months before Mother’s Day I lost a baby at sixteen weeks. I did not know then that I would lose again, at only ten weeks—a loss so early that a camera would not have been able to capture my belly swelling full. Now I know how loss can stand around every corner, how it can make you feel hemmed in from every direction. I know how to weep in the car after leaving the doctor’s office and then drive home to make dinner and quietly tell my children they will not be able to meet the brother or sister that had been growing inside my womb. But I don’t know how to endure another month without a second pink line on the pregnancy test when there are no small footsteps running through the house. I don’t know the pain of sitting by a sick child’s bed or watching them breathe their last.

Loss winds its way into our lives inevitable, but unique. And we women walk wounded and strong. We carry the scars of from laying down our hearts to embrace those we cannot keep. We carry those scars and they are treasures. Our hearts wounded and still beating courageous, speak that we have loved and lost. We have been brave enough give ourselves fully even when the only answer is empty arms.

We women are warriors, and we stand in the flow of time that gives and takes. We stand with strong arms and open hands.

I thought I had more time. I thought if I rooted my feet and opened my heart, a baby would have to take hold. Now I know there is no stopping or rerouting the furious stream of time, moments crash over me, some painful, many joyful. One day there will be more than enough. One day I will embrace my three children flown away, just as I cradle the four within the circle of our home. Until then Christ cares for my little ones, and in this Mother’s Day he holds my heart. A weeping Christ who also bears the scars of loving fierce. A joyful Christ who knows all will be made well one day.

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 Sharon McKeeman is a homeschooling mama to three sons and a daughter. She is a Midwestern girl at heart who now lives with her family on the sunny beaches of Southern California, where they enjoy reading together and playing in the surf. She is an author, educator, speaker, and photographer who shares more of her story as @sharonmckeeman on Instagram and at www.sharonmckeeman.com where you will find her blog, Writing in the Dust, as well as her newsletter, Mourning into Joy, which is filled with encouragement and resources for mamas.

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For the month of April, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Postpartum Recovery, Encouragement for the New Mom, Autism Awareness Month, and Screen Time Conversations. We hope you’ll return to read the incredible essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. We are receiving submissions on the upcoming May topics through April 10th, and if you might be interested to contribute something, please visit the “Write for Us” page for details. Today, we are pleased to share Jennifer Van Winkle’s essay: Regarding Postpartum Waistlines.

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On the box are silhouettes of two cartoon women both wearing knee length dresses and perky ponytails, but one has a baby bump and the other does not.  The phrase that catches my eye, “The belly wrap that helps tighten and shrink your tummy post-pregnancy.”  The deafening scratch caused by a large swath of velcro, pollutes the quiet din of my bedroom.  My doughy belly sloshes under the compression of the waist cincture, spilling over the top as I strain to pull it tight.  During pregnancy, I gave myself a pass on the extra weight gained.  I know it is normal to put weight on in order to nourish another life, but that doesn’t change the reality that I am terrified about the natural change in my body shape.

What if I stay fat?  

There is no excuse to be heavier now that she is born.  

If I let myself go, who will I actually be?

What will people think?  Will they look at me in disgust and assume I am a slothful degenerate?

Harsh.  Like many women, I struggle with body image issues that propel me to only value myself if I like how I look.  Messages from everywhere suggest true feminine beauty is achieved with a remarkably slim midsection.  This strikes the very center of my inner conflict.  Even days after giving birth I felt the need to strive for a slender waistline instead of cheering about what my body had accomplished in bringing forth a brand new life.  No event on earth is more miraculous for a mere mortal than ushering a new soul into the world, and a large part of me forgets and I become hyper-focused on “looking good.”  I feel a surge of anger that this message looms over me during a time that should be reserved for support, healing, and above all jubilation.

I want my body back, and I want my self-assurance too.

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The baby arrived at the beginning of summer and I was exhausted.  Twin three-year-olds and a newborn now under my care, I ached to appear in shape, but without all of the hard work required.  A simple postpartum belly wrap seemed to be the easy fix I was searching for.

Without much research, the wrap I tried first was advertised to be comfortable, nearly magical in helping to shrink a waistline, and virtually invisible under clothing, but after wearing it I was disappointed.  It rippled and bumped over the contours of my postpartum “waist.”  I didn’t have enough strength to fasten it tight enough to lay flat against my abdomen.  My expanded hips pushed it out of place and sent it crashing into the bottom of my rib cage whenever I sat down.  All the time I kept thinking, “I will be sitting down to nurse this baby several times a day and I don’t have patience for this level of discomfort, nor the time to readjust this glorified velcro bandage all day long.  Ain’t nobody got time for that.”  I was desperate for something effective and comfortable to make me feel pulled together; not just my abdomen, but my self-worth, me.  Frustrated and defeated, I stopped wearing it and to add insult to injury, I could hear fifty bucks flushing down the toilet.

Having given up on the magical wrap, I was left with an awful hollow feeling causing me to be oddly aware of my own internal organs just hanging there.  Ungirded, my belly was like a deflated balloon; a nebulous mix of guts stashed here and there to accommodate a growing fetus.   My abdominals offered no structural support, being stretched out like a pair of old socks and it was a struggle to stand up straight, bend and lift.  I couldn’t bear the sensation, I needed to find another option to help.

In contrast to the celebrity endorsed belly wrap, I next tried a crusty old girdle.  Not sexy, and clearly, I would not be winning style awards with this tool but I didn’t care.  After a few days I realized that this old girl was working!  I relished in the simple concept of support, how tightly the compression girdle hugged my middle and held everything fast.

It hit me: a postpartum midsection (just like a postpartum mama) needs support.

I realized that the idea that a mama should have a svelte midsection just after birth is positively absurd.  It takes guts to have babies, and through pregnancy and delivery, I had become very aware that my guts—squishy as they became—were not the ultimate definition of me as a person. The girdle was something I originally viewed as a quick means to look good but actually, was an indispensable tool able to support a part of me that deserved physical restoration.  In the end, it also illuminated that my body image was erroneously elevated to a place it should never have been.

Slowly, I have begun to process the relationship between my self-worth and my physical appearance.  I’d love to say that now everything is perfect, I’m well adjusted and no longer struggle with body image, but that would be a steaming load of crap…ahem…not accurate.  I struggle with this everyday.  There is no unpacking a lifetime of self-esteem issues with one girdle-induced epiphany, but, awareness is a large part of the battle. I’m still slogging along, sifting through lies as I discover them, about how women are supposed to look, about how I’m supposed to look.  Those lies, by the way, are insidious little jerks who steal the beauty away from a mama who has given her all.  We have to fight to shut them out.  In the delicate time after birth, the last thing we should be caring about is being skinny and looking good.  We must emphasize healing, bonding with baby, and enjoying our triumph.  A new mama’s precious, limited energy should not be wasted trying to conform to a standard of beauty that is neither fair nor realistic.

You and I, we are more than our waistlines.

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 Jennifer Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a baby girl).  She is a teacher, musician, and currently a stay-at-home mom.  She loves fueling the imaginations of her children with creativity, songs, all things science, good food and lots of play indoors and out.  She blogs at Pepper Sprout Home and you can also find her on Instagram.

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