Being pregnant is not my favorite state of being. The constant and seemingly eternal nausea. The restless, uncomfortable nights. Being physically unable when I so want (and need) to be able. And the fear of the impending future of giving birth. It can often feel so overwhelming and debilitating.
But through the struggle, I feel a divine sense of honor. Breathtaking and bewildering honor. To give my body over to God to let him form and create a body for one of his adored children. And not just any child, chosen haphazardly, but one specifically chosen to have this tiny forming body and to be a part of our particular family. To have Billy as her father and me as her mother.
Whether there is quiet or chaos all around me I feel the movements of a body so small. I feel serene and wondrous in the connection. I try to share some of those moments with Billy, willing him to feel the quick movements of our child, but I know he cannot really know. The fluid and rolling motion of little feet and little legs are mine alone to savor in all its resplendent vastness.
When I give myself space and time to think about what is really happening - all that is challenging and magnificent and scary all at once - I am overwhelmed with the brilliance and responsibility of my role as woman, mother, guardian, and teacher. But I also celebrate that role.