2015

During this week in 2015, Ben and I began an unwanted journey of loss that I hope has changed us for the better. Oddly enough I was reminded that we were approaching the 1 year mark because the Warriors (unbelievably!) made it to the Finals and it all started around Game 1 of last year's Finals series.

 (A little pregame shopping)

 It's not that I hope to add anything to all that's out there about this kind of loss because there's already a lot of good stuff I've found that articulated my emotions well and comforted me when I wasn't yet ready to talk about it. What I do hope to offer is the account of someone you might know personally (me...I assume if you're reading this you found it through my Facebook link and so we know each other in some context) and who could be a better friend to you right now or in the future if you experience it. It's taken me a while to share because I didn't always feel ready to comfort someone else. And then a friend told me this week she just miscarried and I felt an overwhelming desire to comfort, and so figured it might be the time to share it more publicly.


The following is something I wrote right before this past Christmas in an attempt to summarize 2015.

It's been a crazy year. A really good year filled with beautiful ocean and rugged coastline and brilliant sunsets and thick clean fog. A year marked by Normandie milestones and precious time with her. New jobs, a new church, new friends. Reconnecting with old friends and living near family. Living in a cozy apartment with windows full of ocean and sunrises, walks to the park and aquarium and library and farmer's market and beach. It's been richer than I could have imagined.

Yet it's been a year of sadness and loss-one that I look forward to leaving behind.

Back in April I found out I was pregnant with our second child.

(Excited to show off her big news)

While the news came a little sooner than I had expected and I was a bit nervous as to how to notify my new job (I had only been there about a month), I was overjoyed! I couldn't wait for Normandie to have a sibling. My babies would be 23 months apart-the same distance between me and my older sister. I got to tell my mom I was pregnant on Mother's Day, the same day I told her I was pregnant with Normandie, 2 years prior. The morning sickness started earlier than I remembered it starting with Normandie and likewise I started showing much earlier. I wasn't sure how I was going to hide it until the 2nd trimester.

(Mother's Day 2015, around 7 wks pregnant. A mother whale with her baby had just breached right off of Lover's Point where we happened to be on a walk)

Around week 10 I started bleeding. I wasn't instantly alarmed. I hadn't even had my first appointment yet and I wasn't sure who to call. The next day though I started cramping and I knew it was time to get in to see someone. Unfortunately my OB left for vacation that day and so I saw her midwife the next morning. I am a huge fan of midwives, but this one was horribly unprofessional. It felt like she knew exactly what was happening but didn't have the guts to tell me-so instead she sent us to the hospital to have a repeat, very detailed (very expensive) ultrasound.

Oh, the memories I have of that day...

We kind of got a run around at the hospital so by the time we made it to the right waiting room, Normandie had had enough. Ben took her out into the hallway to play. An older gentleman shared the waiting room with me. He wanted to talk about how fast kids grow up. I begged him in my mind to be quiet. Then he asked me the question that broke my heart then and has stung a little every time I've been asked it since: "Is she your only one?" I wasn't sure if I still had another child at that point but I didn't feel like sharing my pain and uncertainty with him. He started talking about his wife and mentioned a port (suggesting cancer) and I realized she was who he was waiting for-and it reminded me we all have stuff going on. I just didn't feel like I had the energy to have compassion on him, and that made me feel worse. Thankfully my name was called soon after.

I quickly glanced out into the hall looking for Ben but they had drifted too far away so I went in by myself. I lay on the exam table and she squirted cold gel on my belly. Ben eventually found us. Normandie needed her diaper changed and the tech said Ben could use the counter next to the sink. And I remember thinking how odd it was that this ordinary-every-day view of my husband changing my baby's diaper was how I would find out my other baby had died.

I began to silently pray, "Lord into Your hands I release this baby." And it felt like the wrong prayer to pray because I had never felt like it was mine to begin with. Up until that point I really thought of this baby as a pregnancy. In fact, I feel weird even admitting this, but there were times I felt so sick or tired that I almost resented the pregnancy or at least felt defensive of Normandie because it took away so much of my energy that I otherwise could have given to her. I figured I was saving the bonding for later. And yet there I lay, praying this prayer. I pictured cradling the baby in my hands, the size of a kumquat even though I never figured out what that was or how big it was, and gently placing it in His hands.

The tech explained what she should have seen and then outlined my womb on the screen and pointed out the empty space next to my little blob of a baby where the beating heart should have been. The moment it finally clicked that this was my second child who had been growing inside me was the moment I realized it was dead. And the searing pain of loss filled the room. The tech kept jabbering on about Mother Nature's way but it became fuzzy background noise. I held it together as I got dressed. And I held it together as I joined Ben and Normandie again and as we walked out the entrance into the parking lot.

And then I lost it. The reality came crashing down and I buried my head in Ben's shoulder and sobbed. And the best thing that happened that day, the thing I want to remember most...Ben was holding Normandie in his other arm and up until that point in her life she was a generous kisser but hadn't started giving many hugs or snuggles yet. But she leaned across Ben and bent over and lay her head on my shoulder as I wept. And I felt her loss of a sibling too.

We had the 20's group over that night because it was Thursday and we didn't cancel it for some reason. The first game of the NBA finals was on and the game was neck and neck the whole time. I think both Ben and I watched it more intensely than usual. Both as a distraction and out of this weird desire for some small redemption for the day. Which is so silly. A basketball win for a baby. But the Warriors won anyway in OT.

The actual miscarrying was awful. At some points that Saturday I felt like I was in labor, with timed contractions and all. My back was hurting so I got in the shower and there started passing huge clots. Even though it's not nearly as bad as real labor, it's just an awful feeling to birth a baby like that, alone and afraid and knowing from the beginning it's already ended in loss. I was terrified my kumquat baby would get caught in the drain-or perhaps even worse that it would pass unnoticed down the drain without ever having been held. I never distinguished which clot was the baby.

The mourning began. We were pretty private about it. I didn't want to be seen as a "mum-in-waiting" as I read on one British woman's blog about miscarriage that I resonated with. I also felt guilty for feeling so sad (an emotion found in almost every personal account I've read on miscarriage). I know people who have lost children to cancer, violence, tragic accidents...babies, toddlers, teenagers they've held...or people who've never been able to get pregnant despite years of invasive treatments. Furthermore, I already had a precious daughter to hold, it wasn't like this miscarriage left me childless. I would never try to compare my loss to any of those. And yet I wasn't sure how deep to let the sorrow fill me. But one thing I couldn't escape-even though this life was so short and I didn't know if it was a boy or a girl-for me it was still a life and so the loss of it was certainly like mourning a death.

If a grandparent had died I could have told people. They would have understood the grieving or the need to take time away. But keeping it private meant a lot of swallowed tears and suppressed sobs. It meant falling into an unexplained silence, becoming terrible at writing or calling people back. It meant being a part of a lot of conversations where someone would be telling me about something and all I could think behind my listening eyes was, "my baby just died."

It became odd to me that I had placed so much importance on keeping the pregnancy private until the 2nd trimester in case I miscarried, only to miscarry and then realize that so few knew I had been pregnant and so could most of the people around me could not understand the hidden grief.

The summer passed and I continued to grieve. Both times I had gotten pregnant in the past were so effortless. But the summer did not give way to another pregnancy. I became frantic about getting pregnant again, thinking that a new pregnancy would displace the loss and the sadness. It was weird since we hadn't been trying to get pregnant in the first place, but then it became all I could think about.

In my stages of grief I certainly experienced some bitterness. Facebook posts of pregnancy announcements became sickening to me-I hate to admit it! I had no problem with seeing pictures of babies but pregnancy pictures produced reactions I'm ashamed of.

Ben had the privilege of doing 2 weddings in the fall. I found out I was pregnant again right before I started getting ready for the 1st wedding. I was cautiously overjoyed. And for a few precious weeks I lived with the knowledge that I was carrying our 3rd baby.

The bleeding started the morning of the 2nd wedding. I had gone on a light jog that morning and felt great. It came out of nowhere, but I immediately knew what was happening. I reluctantly went to the wedding and am so glad I did. It was a beautiful wedding of a wonderful couple and Ben did a great job and I got to connect with a good friend I hadn't seen in a while.

But back I went to the empty conversations, the bitterness, the guilt. And oh the sadness. This time we decided to be more public. I know the first miscarriage was hard on Ben. But the 2nd one did him in. To lose my babies was devastating. But to see those losses mirrored in my husband, my best friend, my partner in all things-was crushing. We couldn't carry it alone anymore.

It turned out sharing was helpful. More people could understand the grieving. More could love and support us which they did and for which we are so thankful. And so many mothers could share their experiences of loss with me. I am still sad but do not feel as lonely in my sadness.

After the 1st miscarriage I tried to find meaning in it, probably as a coping mechanism. I grappled for ways to explain why it was better this way. I still had the energy for thoughts like that. With the 2nd I felt a bit of emotional collapse, like I just stopped caring about any sort of meaning. I was just sad. It was a good place from which to practice believing that God works all things together for our good. And that God holds me close when I don't have the energy to draw near to Him. Can't say I did it well or with a mature amount of grace but I hope in some way it made me more like Jesus.

If you had told me in 2014 that 2015 would bring a new, wonderful job and amazing sunsets and hilarious moments with Normandie and new and old friendships and a new church I would love-I would have jumped in wholeheartedly. If you had told me I'd experience 2 deaths of babies I'd never hold and never know and then feel guilty and isolated and bitter and just so darn sad I would be frozen by fear. I'm glad I didn't know either way what 2015 would hold.

As I find myself waiting with anticipation this Advent season for the celebration of the birth of my King, my Savior, my Friend, I find in myself a mirrored hope and expectation (though very cautious and full of trepidation) for the life that grows in me now, one I hope will grow long enough to be held this time.

And now back to the present...

I meant to write this down before becoming pregnant again, to be present in all that pain before the next part was written. To have learned things and to have been able to have expressed God's goodness and love before He replaced my sadness with joy. It was in my heart but for some reason it just didn't feel right to share until now.

Now I am 32 weeks into my 3rd pregnancy of 2015. And although we've made it well into 2016 and to a place where I should feel more secure and at ease about this one, I still find myself wanting to wait until he's actually in my arms to believe he's going to make it. I know that might sound horribly morbid. But it's how I feel. Absent from this pregnancy are the weekly bump pictures or the Facebook announcement or the innocent bliss that nothing could go wrong. Not because I love him any less or am any less excited about this pregnancy or have any less hope. It's just different after loss.

One result I can claim from miscarriage is a deeper trust in God's plan for my children. Though I may try with all my strength and knowledge and love to protect them, He alone knows the number of their days on earth and the outcome of their lives. If all my mother's love could not save them in my womb, what power do I have to really protect them in the world? I'll obviously do my best, but now my best is built on the foundation of His love for them, not mine. Or at least I'm trying to operate that way.

I still carry those two in my heart. From time to time I find myself picturing how old they would be now and what it would be like to hold each of them. I wonder how long that will last. Now that it's been a year, those thoughts are more out of curiosity and peace rather than sorrow. I hope that can offer you some hope if you are in the middle of it right now.

One final note...in the last days of 2015, the time when I thought we'd be welcoming a new baby into our family, a friend of mine tragically lost her newborn baby due to complications that occurred during labor. Her story and the grace with which she's shared her journey of incomprehensible loss has touched me deeply and brought comfort and perspective to many. I highly recommend reading this post she wrote recently:  http://www.designmom.com/2016/03/living-with-kids-robin-dowdle/

With All My Love

There might never have been 2 people who loved each other more but who were more different than my Grandma and my Papa. Whereas my Grandma chose to live her life on center stage, my shy Papa preferred to be in the audience. Grandma’s distinct laughter and voice could be heard across the room but Papa’s words and chuckles were soft. Grandma was a fearless evangelist and remarkable hostess. Papa was consistent, full of integrity, and generous.  

With encouragement from his older brother Bob, he overcame his shyness to ask the foxy young lady from his church’s young adults group to the USC Homecoming Dance. Who knew that her ‘yes’ would lead to more than 50 years of a committed marriage? Perhaps there was still a certain amount of shyness he had to overcome to propose a little while later, but he was certain of his decision. In a letter that was discovered a short time after my Grandma died, and that was written to her before she accepted his proposal, he confessed, “I am positive of whom I seek. To me she is as true, as real, positive and certain as it is true that the sun rises in the morning and sets at night, as sure as there are stars and a moon above, as sure as there is life and death, and happiness and love. For to me she is happiness, love and life itself.”

On their wedding day he wrote: “To my dearest Dorothy-the moon and the stars are ringing this night, and they sing of the love for you forever.”

  

While it surprised me to hear such passionate words from my quiet and reserved Papa about my Grandma, his love for her was obvious to me in the way he treated her. Sometimes someone doesn’t have to say a lot about people and things they love, you just know by their consistent actions over a very long period of time. Such was the way with my Papa. But letters do help, especially when it comes to someone as soft spoken as him.

And Grandma was not the only one to receive eloquent letters from Papa. In 1995 I was assigned a 7^th grade writing project where I was supposed to write letters to someone I wanted to get to know better over the course of a year. Although I had grown up around and even lived with my grandparents, I still felt like there was a lot I wanted to know about my Papa. I was thrilled when he agreed and he was a very faithful pen pal. He sent me various treasures like his high school senior portrait and a menu from a military Christmas dinner he attended in Japan in 1949. He signed each letter with “Your loving pen pal”.  Although I can very clearly remember the sound of my Papa’s voice, I do not remember many things he said aloud, even before his stroke. The letters my Papa sent me put words to some of the things I already knew he loved.

For example, I know he loved USC football because every Saturday during the fall he would tune in to the game. He was a good sport about ending up with 3 Bruin grandchildren. When I wrote and asked him about his hopes for the New Year he responded, “My first hope for 1996 was realized January 1 when U.S.C. beat Northwestern in the Rose Bowl. How sweet it was.”

I know he loved cats by the way their personalities made him chuckle. We grew up hearing stories of his favorite kitties and all the mischief they got themselves into.  He wrote one of his letters from my aunt’s house. “We are now at Kelli’s” he said. “Peyton is sitting on my lap as I write. Walter is upstairs sleeping. Kelli says that she thinks she came across her long lost cat (Whitney). It seems he has been living a few blocks away in another household. She has no intention to reclaim him at this point because of a possible compatibility problem with Peyton and Walter.”

I know he loved classical music. “Thank you for inviting us to your band concert,” he wrote. “It was terrific. The Clarinet Section sounded particularly good. What a splendid performance.” I picture him shuffling down the hallway in their house on Menlo Court in Walnut Creek on a sun-filled Saturday afternoon. He’s just completed tending to the yard work with Grandma. Now he’s dressed in a soft flannel, faded jeans and brown loafer slippers. He makes his way to the family room, selects a record that he puts on the turn table, slowly eases into the couch and leans his head back, relishing the relaxing melodies. Beethoven’s 9^th was a popular selection Handel’s Messiah was his favorite at this time of year, and I think of him when I hear it.

I know he loved puzzles. I can see him carefully lifting a piece, examining it closely, and then scanning the table methodically to see where it would fit. There seemed to always be a puzzle at various stages of completion at my grandparents’ house.

He loved vanilla ice cream and milk chocolate. One time my mom had hid the remaining pieces of a Symphony chocolate bar in the cabinet in Grandma’s kitchen. She was surprised when she returned to find the cabinet empty and asked Papa if he knew anything about the missing chocolate. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders but the next day there was a king-sized chocolate Symphony bar waiting on the counter.

I know he loved history by the thick books he kept on his bookshelves and the documentaries he used to watch, so intently tuned in on each detail. In one letter he wrote about one of his historical heroes, Abraham Lincoln. “Do you know that Edward Everett (a noted orator) was designated as the main speaker at the dedication of the Gettysburg National Cemetery in November 1863. Lincoln was invited as an afterthought to make a few remarks. After Everett’s two-hour oration, Lincoln gave his famous address lasting only three minutes. Lincoln thought his address was a failure, as did the press. Only a few recognized the true magnitude of the words at the time.” He continued in another letter, “Lincoln possessed great power as commander-in-chief of the Union and yet displayed uncommon humanity, truth, justice and pity.” He certainly admired Lincoln.

I know he loved oceans and waterfalls and mountains.  “We just returned from our annual May trip to Yosemite,” he wrote. “The temperature was mild and the waterfalls were roaring. We stayed at Yosemite Lodge and the balcony of our room faced Yosemite Falls. A tremendous amount of water was spewing forth from the cliff above the valley floor. The view of the cascading water was spectacular. I hiked from Happy Isles to the top of Nevada Falls. Vernal and Nevada Falls accentuated the power of the Merced River as it finds its way down from the high backcountry of Yosemite National Park.”

I know he loved his country by his service in the military and I know he loved his church by his years of attendance and participation.

Above all, I know he loved God and his family.

 “I agree with your view as to the “greatest/most significant event in history,” he wrote. “Certainly Jesus did it all. He gave us the perfect example for life.”

Papa loved and respected his Danish mother and his German father, and was so proud of his two older brothers. He loved his three daughters, my mother and aunts. He loved my cousins and my sisters and me. He loved attending our sports games and performances and graduations. His face lit up when he saw us. And a huge grin spread across his face when he greeted his first great granddaughter Claire for the first time.

 A year and a half ago, my sister Melanie and I were visiting my Papa and unfortunately during the visit he had to be taken to the ER for a medical issue. We went with him. At one point Melanie had to step out and so it was just Papa and I in the ER room together. I wasn’t sure what his recovery would be like from this particular hospital stay and so I decided to tell him a secret that up until that point I had only told my husband. I told him that I had just found out the week before that I was pregnant and that he could be expecting a second great grandbaby, but he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone yet because it was so early. He was in wincing pain but his eyes glittered and he smiled and promised with a nod. Normandie Mae was born this past January, named for Papa’s brother Ray, my other pen pal from when I was little. A few months ago she got to meet her sweet great Papa. Although his health was failing, he grinned to meet her and stroked her shoulder and held her hand. She’ll grow up hearing stories of my beloved Papa just like I grew up hearing stories of his parents.

In some of his last conscious moments on earth, he was surrounded by his three daughters, either in person or over the phone. They recounted their favorite memories with him, asked him to give hugs to their mom and extended family when he greeted them in heaven. And although he was very weak and so close to the end, the last words that crossed his lips summed up all he did for his family. “I love you,” he said.

As eloquent as his letters were to me, mine to him were far too cheesy. If only I could re-write some of those letters, what questions I would ask him and what things I would tell him like how special he is to me as opposed to the score of the softball game I played in that day. But even his responses to my cheesy questions gave me such precious insight into his heart. For some reason I asked him what kind of tree he likes best. It was fall at the time.  He responded:

“I like trees that provide shade in the summer like our Silver Maple in the backyard and the three Ash trees that protect our front from the afternoon sun. These trees do shed a tremendous number of leaves from September through December and you know who has to rack them up for disposal. Even so, this reminds me that the days are getting shorter and the nights are getting longer and in a few months new life will again appear on the trees to announce that longer and warmer days are ahead.”

Although we will no longer experience the warmth of his smile and the preciousness in his eyes, I am so glad that his long nights on earth are over and that he’s moved into the never ending warmth of heaven. The thought of him reunited with Grandma and his family and our God soothes the pain of his absence. One time when I was visiting him and Grandma down in Arizona, we went to the gym and with Dexter’s help, Papa got right in the pool and despite his handicap, began jogging laps, helped by the buoyancy of the water. He had such a content smile on his face and I felt as though I was witnessing a glimpse into the restoration of his body I love picturing now.

In my last letter back in 1996 I asked him if he had any hopes for me.

“I would hope that you would continue to grow in your life of faith,” he wrote. “In a mere four years we will enter a new century and it is your generation that will soon take the baton. The 20^th century has been tumultuous, but I am ever confident that you and your generation will make a difference for good in the 21^st century.

With all my love,

Papa”

Through his steady life of integrity he set an example in our family for faith, commitment, and love. I asked my sister how she would sum up Papa. “He was a quiet hero,” she said. "He stayed true to one woman. He worked hard, provided for his family, and saved well. He raised three beautiful daughters and served his country and his church. He maintained a graceful attitude despite a debilitating stroke while remaining faithful to God until the end." What more praise could one hope for at the end of life?  

I miss him now, as I do Grandma. But the two of them, each in their own way, gave us the gift of their faith in God so that we can be confident of seeing them again when our Savior calls us home. 

Until then, I could not be more grateful for having had such a sweet and loving Papa.

Nor wanting, nor wasting

A few years ago Ben and I moved into a tiny, quaint apartment so we could be closer to my school and pay cheaper rent. When it was just the two of us (4 if you count the cats), this apartment was perfect. High ceilings with fans. Huge windows letting in natural light. Warm and cozy in the winter, easy to cool in the summer. Now that a tiny person has filled our hearts with her big gummy smile and our apartment with more stuff than we thought possible for such a wee one, our space feels crammed and tight. Each day is an opportunity for practicing gratitude for the space we do have rather than coveting a larger abode.

One of the first things I noticed when we first moved to our new street were the bells.

There's a beautiful Presbyterian church next door whose bells chime every hour and half hour. At 6:00 pm every evening we are treated to a medley of hymns that lasts 15 minutes or so. I recognize some of the hymns, including "This is My Father's World" which always gets stuck in my head for the remainder of the evening. But there was always this hymn that I did not know. After 2 years of hearing this same hymn almost every evening, I became quite familiar with the melody, but still did not know the words.

Then, one Sunday this summer, we were standing in church, flipping the Trinity Hymnal to #35 and as the organ pounded out the beautiful chords I was delighted to realize this was the hymn I had been hearing every evening. I must have been holding Normandie while trying to flip the pages of the hymnal because I didn't make it to #35 until the second stanza. The first words I sang as I joined in with the congregation sank deep in my heart and nearly brought me to tears.

"Unresting, unhasting, and silent as light, nor wanting, nor wasting, thou rulest in might."

Ben has been looking for a job for almost a year. Applying to church after church and going through various interview processes has been exciting but tiring. Witnessing him make the most out of each day with Normandie is precious and I know that one day we'll tell her stories of their adventures during this first year of her life. But I've also battled a series of emotions...jealousy that he gets to spend the day with her while I am at a tiring and challenging job; discouragement that after 5 hard years of work and sacrifice to earn an MDiv, he still is without a job; uncertainty as to where we'll be living from month to month (we've held off on leaving our tiny, quaint apartment until we know where Ben will be serving).

The words to the hymn were just what I needed to hear and to sing. I don't know the author's exact original intended meaning. He or she was probably referring to a bigger picture than the one I focus on day to day. But it meant a lot to me to be reminded that God is not in a hurry to get things done, including revealing where our next home will be. Not one day spent at my job away from my baby is wasted in His book. Neither is tonight spent in this apartment, waiting to know where Ben will find a job. He makes His move at exactly the right time and provides for and sustains us in the meantime. I love that about Him.

And I love that the strong melody to this sweet hymn has been floating through the din of sirens and trolleys and frat parties that make up the background noise to this busy university street where we live for now, even long before its meaning would resonate so strongly with my daily struggles.

I love that every evening at 6, as I am reunited with my sweet baby, I'm reminded that God is not (and so I do not need to be) rushed, that He never wastes time to do anything, and that He, and He alone, is wise.

Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise

Immortal, invisible, God only wise,
In light inaccessible hid from our eyes,
Most blessèd, most glorious, the Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, thy great Name we praise.

Unresting, unhasting, and silent as light,
Nor wanting, nor wasting, thou rulest in might;
Thy justice like mountains high soaring above
Thy clouds which are fountains of goodness and love.

To all life thou givest—to both great and small;
In all life thou livest, the true life of all;
We blossom and flourish as leaves on the tree,
And wither and perish—but naught changeth thee.

Great Father of glory, pure Father of light,
Thine angels adore thee, all veiling their sight;
All laud we would render: O help us to see
’Tis only the splendour of light hideth thee.

-Walter Chalmers Smith

A Day at the Beach

Turning 6 months has been such a blast. Where do I even begin.

Mom and Dad took me to a new place last week. They taught me to call it "the beach" even though everyone around here calls it "the shore".

They drove me to a place called Ocean City. They explained that because they couldn't take me to Santa Cruz just yet, this would have to do for a beach boardwalk experience.

I was like, cool.

Just wanted to make sure you got a full shot of my arm rolls.

Then Dad told me we were going to try out a new texture for my toes.

Seemed secure enough.

Squishy.

Ok, not so bad.

Wait, Dad. Is that water coming our way? I know I love the bath but this seems like A LOT of wat-

Oh my. This is a new thing. Sometimes new things make me nervous.

So Mom had to talk me down a little. She told me about how she loved the ocean as a baby and even though we were in a different ocean than the one she loves, it could still be fun.

Ok Mom!

So we tried again. This time I kind of enjoyed it.

I might be able to get used to this.

Ok I love it when he does this.

Dad's the best.

What can I say, maybe I'll be a beach baby after all.

Hey Dad, let's try that water again.

Having second thoughts.

 Cold. Cold. Cold. Colder than I remember.

Side note: Mom and Dad love my baby fat.

Eek! Get me out of here!

 Maybe next time guys. This girl has had enough for one afternoon.

Oh Dad I love you. Please just take me back to the swings.

Once we got home Mom gave me a new treat.

Avocado. Delicious.

My guac could have used a hint of lemon and cayenne but Mom said no.

Food is the best.

 That's all for now. Mom has a lot of 6 month pictures so there will be more adventures to come. For now, my other favorite body of water is calling.

Love

When I first found out I was pregnant, my friend suggested taking a picture in front of one of my favorite spots every now and then to document my growing belly. I kept meaning to gather all those pictures into one post but kept forgetting.

Then, we were in DC last weekend and we found a spot very similar to our baby backdrop, which reminded me of the pregnant photos.

So here they are, starting with the DC photo and then rewinding back to Spring of last year, right around the time I found out I was pregnant. I love seeing the changing of the seasons in the photos and remembering the moments these pictures represent.

Just found out!

 Still able to enjoy jogging

Brooke took this picture during her visit

It had just started getting pretty hot

This was during the heat wave. Katie took this picture right before we went to Honest Tom's.

Liz and Jen helped me take this photo on our last day of school! They were doing some repairs around the sign so this was the closest we could get. I found out I was having a girl the next day.

Ben had joined me back in Philly and I had started working at CHOP. Still able to make it to the gym but not as enjoyable of an experience!

 The day of the Philly marathon (I didn't do it)

Fall showers

The first (of many) snow storms

Several days past my due date and just a few days before she actually came

3 days old: the day her daddy finally got to hold her in the love picture