Duke. I’ve told you nothing of Duke.
Let’s start from the beginning. I found out I was pregnant with Duke the week we arrived in Monterey. It was… startling. But then, it wasn’t.
I threw up in my mouth. A lot. I laid on the ground and read quotes about suffering by Spurgeon. I made sport of my OB/GYN’s Russian accent. And throughout all of this, I did not one dish. Not. A. One. It was a misery. But eventually, it wasn’t.
I knew this baby was a girl. I had girl clothes on my Amazon wishlist. I sat through 2 ultrasounds where Duke resolutely crossed his legs over his umbilical cord so I caved and did a blood test. This baby was supposed to be a girl, but he wasn’t.
After coming to terms with, let’s be honest, the loss of all the tiny tutu purchases I had anticipated, it was time to name my 4th baby and 3rd boy. I was taking suggestions because, it’s like, who has this many names?!
Duke was induced a week early because of my diabeetus. Fairly uneventful. Count Dracula. Uterus gone. The kid on nickelodeon who turned inside out on the swing.
Duke was born. Duke, to my surprise hates loud music. And his car seat. But other than that is happy and affable in every way.
Duke is a peacemaker. Duke refuses to play with toys and would rather play as if he is trying to make the team at training camp. And what I mean by that is he pushes heavy objects across the floor over and over again- then occasionally clothesline’s his older siblings. Duke is a tank. Duke loves to laugh.
And now you know about Duke.
For all the lamenting, belly aching, and general stink I’ve put up about being pregnant on this blog, one would think that a fourth pregnancy would be ripe for the blog topic picking. It ain’t. It’s been a lot of things, but it hasn’t made me want to put my experience down into words until now.
It’s my hump.
This pregnancy finally put a name to my hobbling Quasimodo walk, or as I also called it, my newborn baby deer walk. Turns out I had inflamed sacroiliac joints!
Friends, can I tell you the remedy for this malady? Can you handle it? It is a butt massage. A massage where a strange person is in full view of your large (and I can only assume gelatinous) pregnant butt and also butt accoutrement- like- ya butt crack. I personally try to keep the number of people viewing my buttcrack down to Nick, but at this point in my pregnancy it’s down to –
I feel like I need to clarify because I just threw down that a strange person was massaging my dereraire and that’s hella shady. This “stranger” is of course a licensed physical therapist. And they’re also a miracle worker because with kinesthtic tape and the directions to never pick anything up again including my own children, and to not push a stroller or walk up hills, my hips are feeling great! Of course, I need help picking Owen up from school, grocery shopping, going to any store, and wrestling Henry out of the tub.
This hump situation has led to a great need for humility in asking for help and an extremely greatful heart to those who happily help me every day. I don’t like asking for help.
1 Thessalonians says:
Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.
I am thankful when I see God’s provision for me, I am humbled by His providing. I have felt the prayers of my friends and family. I have eaten the meals of many and I have fought the guilt that Satan tempts me to feel when others come alongside me to help. And I even made several jokes about my butt online for my children to discover in 10 years and be immediately struck with mortification when they read them.
Being pregnant with my fourth baby is making me tired. Introvert tired. Voldemort in the forests of Albania tired.
I did the math and at the end of this pregnancy I will have been pregnant for three full years. I started this blog to document how surprising pregnancy was. Then how surprising newborns were. Then how crazy toddlers are. Now when my kids shred toilet paper or I catch them riding their toy train around the living room at midnight I think “Sure. That seems right.” When I pregnant cry because Joe Jonas used to wear a purity ring or when I pull over to throw up in a McDonalds bathroom- yes. It all makes sense.
But one thing that never ceases to amaze me is how much more tired I am with each child. By my calculations Michelle Duggar should have been in a coma about 8 babies ago. I’m trying to come up with an example of how tired I am, that can accurately convey my exhaustion. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Ever. And I love talking. Sometimes I think I’m too tired to stand up in the shower so I think about taking a bath but then do neither. Instead of switching out my regular clothes for my maternity clothes in my dresser I just put a laundry basket next to my dresser to hold my pregnant wares. I didn’t go to a pumpkin patch this year, I just bought ONE pumpkin from Costco. (say WHAT?!) I skipped church two weeks in a row because I physically could not rise up from my bed. Even thinking of examples of how tired I am are making me tired. I’m so tired.
I can’t tell if it is because I have three other children or because I’m on the other side of 30 and pregnant and that is just much harder than being pregnant in your 20’s. I think what I really want you to know is that, sure, I’ve fallen off the face of the earth. Because I’m seriously so incredibly tired. But maybe it won’t be forever? I don’t know.