Mom Life

My house is a mess. I spent 3/4 of the day cleaning, but it's still a mess because of the tiny hurricanes who live here. I try not to care about the mess, but I'm me and I do, so it's an eternal struggle between me and my messy house and my crazy children.
But oh, these boys.

My days are on repeat, like groundhog day but with more diapers and a lot less Bill Murray. I used to have dreams and goals and aspirations, but they are on the backburner while I spend my days keeping two other humans alive. And it's hard not to feel like because I don't have a career, I don't do much. Let's face it, some days it's hard to think that changing diapers and making lunch is contributing. Sometimes I have to ignore that nagging feeling that I gave up being myself to be a mother, and then I see their cute faces and think...
But oh, these boys.

I am tired.
No, scratch that. I am a level of tired I didn't know was possible 5 years ago. Every breath I take is a yawn. Some days I feel like I am walking through jello.
But oh, these boys.

Some days feel like a waste of makeup. Most days, I would be excited if the UPS guy came to the door, because that would be the closest I got to another adult all day. Every day, I am grateful for sweat pants and chocolate chip cookies and Netflix. I don't know what fits anymore, and I definitely don't know what's in style these days.
But oh, these boys.

Even when I do see other adults, all I do is talk about my children. I see the glazed-over eyes when I tell one too many "listen to how funny my toddler is" stories, but I can't help it. They've made me socially weird. I don't see how the whole world doesn't see what me and their Dad and their Grandma's see.
Because oh, these boys.
Sometimes it feels like I am just a mom. But I am their mom. And oh, boy. I couldn't ask for more.

Weight Loss Rules

Breaking news: I have the hottest new diet program you have GOT to try.
All you do is follow a few simple rules.
Rule #1:
Go buy some clothes that fit.
No, seriously. Go get some pants that fit you comfortably. Don't punish yourself for the size you don't want to admit to yourself you are. The size doesn't matter: your comfort does. You, whatever size you are today, deserve clothes that fit. Stop punishing yourself for gaining weight. Stop telling yourself that those smaller pants will somehow be the motivation you need to lose weight. Sure, maybe someday they will fit again. But maybe not. In the mean time, you still need clothes that fit. If you don't, then when you are invited out you will find an excuse not to go because you don't have anything cute to wear. You will put off living your life because you are in a transition period- this isn't your goal weight, so life can't start yet. If you don't do anything else, get some clothes that fit. This is your permission to do so, guilt-free.
Rule #2:
Get rid of your bathroom scale.
Your scale doesn't know you. It can't tell when you are losing fat but gaining muscle. It doesn't know to be extra sensitive because you just had a baby in the last year. It can't tell if you just drank a lot of water today or ate your way through a box of Cheez-Its.
The scale leaves you feeling frustrated when you think you've been doing great but the number doesn't change. So instead, celebrate the non-scale victories. Did you go all day without a cookie, or a soda, or whatever your personal kryptonite is? Victory. Did you walk up the stairs without getting winded? Victory. Did you get a random burst of energy during the day and want to dance around your kitchen with your kids instead of sit around and be lazy? VICTORY. A victory that matters. A victory people can see. Your scale doesn't know anything.
Rule #3:
Love yourself. I know, could I make that one sound any more like a hippie? Probably not. But this is what it's all about. Eating healthy isn't supposed to be a punishment. Eating like crap isn't a reward. If you like yourself, you will take care of yourself. You will learn to go easy on yourself, to remember that sometimes, you are going to fail. You are going to have hard, stressful days that make you want to quit on yourself. You are going to wonder why you don't just fall back into the same old habits. But instead, you will look in the mirror and think, I am still enough. I am not at my goal weight, but I am enough. My life is enough. My weight isn't really what matters. I am what matters.

I saw a quote the other day that I can't stop thinking about. It said:

You are not alive to just pay bills and lose weight.

How many years of your life are you going to waste worrying about your weight? There is so much more. Let's find more in each other, and more in ourselves. 

Baby #2

Fall must be baby time because it seems like all my friends are having babies, and a lot of them are having their second babies. Auric turned 5 months old a couple days ago (what is happening?!) so it's made me think a lot about what I wish I knew before he came along, and what I've learned since then.
So, here you go. All my months of wisdom to do with what you wish.
By far my biggest fear with having a second kid wasn't that it would be too hard or too tiring (oh young, naiive Anndee, not worrying about sleep deprivation. Those were the days.) it was that I was somehow ruining Dayen's life by having a second baby.

Is that just some weird fear of my generation? Because it seems like people used to be able to have multiple kids and feel fine about it, while me and my friends are over here feeling some weird mom guilt over our #1 not being our one and only anymore.
For months before Auric was born, I felt like I was in a constant state of panic over the limited time I had left with Dayen. I became Disneyland Mom, and every day was a fun new adventure that felt like it was happening for the last time ever. And oh, the guilt. I would look at him and think, You have no idea I'm about to turn your life upside down.
Boy am I glad that I was wrong. And here's why:
#1 Babies Sleep A Lot
I forgot that, for the first year, babies sleep a lot. They nap all day at first, then like 3 times a day, then 2... I'm convinced this has less to do with the fact that they are growing and more to do with the fact that if moms didn't get a chance during the day to shower once in awhile, we'd completely lose it. But now, nap times are an easy way for me to schedule one-on-one time with my oldest. Those moments of just us together didn't die with the birth of another baby. And when Auric is awake, he just adds to the fun. He chews on a car on the floor while Dayen and I build a race track. You make it work.

#2 Changes in You
I was sure that having another baby would change my relationship with Dayen. I honestly believed deep down that I couldn't love them both enough, or the same, and I was so afraid I either wouldn't bond with the new baby because Dayen would always have a three year head start on him, or that I would somehow replace Dayen in my mind and love the baby more.
If you're hormones are telling you this too, just stop it. If anything, you learn to love that baby more and faster because you already know what it means to be a mom. You can appreciate it more this time around. And your love for that first born will never go away. How could it?

What I wasn't expecting, was how much bringing home a new baby would change my perspective of Dayen. My mom once told me that we always expect more out of our first borns than our other kids, and I didn't believe it until we brought Auric home. Not only did Dayen suddenly look like a giant, but it was like something flipped in my brain and I thought Ok, Auric is the baby now, so Dayen needs to be a grown up. I tried to hide it from him but I would get so frustrated when he did totally normal toddler things. I felt like the baby needed me constantly, so my three year old shouldn't need me so much anymore.
I thought it wasn't affecting him until one day Dayen was watching TV and holding on to my leg like he couldn't let me go. Although he never showed any anger or aggression toward Auric (he's always been a really sweet big brother) he was clinging to me like I was slipping away, and it broke my heart. So I left the baby home with Caleb and took Dayen to the park and still have to remind myself every day that he is only three. He gets to make mistakes, he gets to be obnoxious sometimes, he gets to throw fits over nothing, and I will survive it. I think.

#3 Don't feel bad for your first
Overall the thing that has changed my thinking is that I realized Dayen isn't the one I should be feeling sorry for: it's all his siblings who get the bad end of the deal. Dayen got to be the lone shining star of the family for three years. He had our undivided attention, and then I actually felt guilty taking some of that away. Auric is the one I should feel sorry for, and if his hand-me-down spit up stained clothes aren't proof enough of that, I don't know what is. When he is three, will he get the same long, drawn out bedtime routines that Dayen has? Will I worry as much about spending one-on-one time with him? Especially if and when other kids come along. Dayen will never suffer the wrath of the middle child. For that reason alone, don't feel bad for your oldest.

Maybe this is all things you already knew and this didn't help at all, but ultimately this is the point I want to make: squash that mom guilt right out of you. It's not serving you. Everything is going to be great. Hard, tiring, and crazy sometimes, but great. Pinky promise.

More than your weight

It's kind of a fad right now to be "real" on social media. Being "real" means you occasionally post a selfie without makeup, where you still look really cute, or post about one of your struggles that you have been telling everyone IRL about anyways.
I don't think those things really count. So I'm going to attempt to be really real with you for a second.
Right now, 3 months-post-second-baby, I weigh the most I have ever weighed in my life. 
And it doesn't take long to realize that for that simple fact, the world wants you to feel like garbage.
And if I put all my self confidence into that number on a scale, then it's true: I must have less worth right now than I've ever had in my life. Right?
Ugh. It's hard. It's hard to break out of that cycle of believing that your worth has anything at all to do with your pant size.
It doesn't.
And I won't pretend to be some perfect, totally self-actualized person on the subject. But since no one else is really saying it, I will.
Your health, yes. It matters. Your comfort? Sure.
But there is SO much more.
There is your endless list of talents. The things you do better than anyone you know, but you don't spend much time thinking about that because you're spending too much time (and "too much" really, is any time at all) thinking about your weight, wishing you looked like someone else.
There is your family. Parents, siblings, husband, kids, pets, whatever you have. They matter. They matter so much more, but let's face it, sometimes they get pushed to the side while we focus on getting swimsuit-ready, or obsess over that relief-society arm.
There are millions of books to be read, movies to be seen, conversations to be had, hobbies to be tried, pictures to be taken, lives to be lived and those things, those moments, have absolutely nothing to do with your weight.
Are the people who love you most going to love you more if you lose weight?
Of course not. And if they do, then find new friends.
Your life is not being lived in a "before" photo. We've all seen them. An overweight, unsmiling person, who claims that when they had that extra fat on their body, they were completely unhappy. It's like they weren't born until they lost the weight. THEN they started living. So we see that, over and over, and we think, I can't wait. I am going to lose weight, and then I can start living too.
I can say, even when I weighed my lowest (which was like, 7 lbs, and that's just totally unattainable) I was never totally happy with my body. And this voice in the back of my mind reminds me of that all the time. My goal weight looms in front of me like this beacon, but I know that even if I reach it, I won't suddenly start loving all my flaws. I won't ACTUALLY be a better person. I'll just be a skinnier person.
And the more I think about it, the more I am convinced: it just doesn't matter.
So go ahead and focus on you. Take your me-time. Exercise, if you like to exercise, and eat good food because it's good for you. Quit soda because it made you feel bad. Eat treats only on a special occasion.
But stop, stop thinking your life doesn't matter when you're "fat".
It matters just as much.
You're living it, right now, whether you are happy with your body or not.
So be happy with it. Love yourself. Go kiss those babies that gave you some extra weight, enjoy that brownie instead of shaming yourself for eating it, and don't believe the lie that if the number on the scale creeps up, the things you do won't matter quite as much.
You are worth so much more than your weight.


I pride myself on being independent.
I can't count how many times Caleb has tried being a gentleman and opening a door for me, and I am not paying attention and already opened another door for myself. And I can't help but wonder if part of the reason things have been so crazy is because I really needed to learn to rely on others, something I don't do easily or well.
I know everyone within earshot has heard me say it at least once in the last couple months, but seriously, things have been so crazy. And it was mostly self-inflicted with building a house and having a baby, but that didn't make it any easier. In less than two months we sold our house, then the sell fell through, then we sold it again, we moved out, didn't know where we were going to live until like two days before we moved, our debit card got stolen, our dog figured out how to escape the yard and kept doing so at very inconvenient times. And then I did my usual thing and went 2 weeks past my due date and was a hormonal mess for the last month waiting for him to get here. And finally, just as we were getting close to moving into our new house, all our appliances were stolen, leaving us feeling violated and sick inside.
And all along the way, I felt like the lesson was that I needed to learn to rely on Caleb and focus on our little family and just appreciate everything we have. I felt like a lot of people were hurting us or letting us down in some way, and I started feeling really bitter towards everyone. But as we start to come out the other side of what has felt like a dark couple of months, I am overwhelmingly grateful for the service we've received from so many around us.
I think my tendency towards independence makes me not very good at providing service to others. Sure, I will bring you a plate of cookies any time you have a bad day, but that's not really hard for me because I am basically always making cookies anyway, and you're doing me a favor by not letting me eat the whole batch myself like I usually would. But I admit whenever I have to provide the kind of service that inconveniences me in any way, I usually do it more than a little begrudgingly, and inwardly complain the whole time.
These last couple months we've just needed so much. We needed help moving, a place to live, someone willing to take care of our dog until we were in our house, endless babysitters and meals and just help that I am not very good at asking for. I'd rather do it myself. I'd rather starve than ask someone to feed me dinner, but that isn't really an option with two little kids to think of.
I feel like I've been pushed way out of my comfort zone. One of my favorite quotes says,

"When you come to the end of all the light you know and it's time to step into the darkness of the unknown, Faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught to fly."

Ironically, I've always liked the "taught to fly" part of the quote, I guess because it implies you can still do it on your own some way. But I can say through this trial, I have learned how wonderful it is when you're given something solid to stand on. The friend who thought to arrange a meal train for us after the baby was born and all the friends who brought meals made things so much easier for us. We really needed it, but I didn't want to ask. Caleb's grandma not only letting us move into her basement without question, but never making us feel like we were overstaying our welcome or inconveniencing her even when I know that we are has been a huge blessing to us.
My in laws, who are always quick to jump to our aid, have been an incredible example of service to me. Without hesitation they took in our dog before we even moved out of our house. I was so nervous about inconveniencing them because he is a nervous Nelly who throws up at least once a day, but they never complain or make us feel like we're burdening them. The other day we went over to their house and saw a new bag of his dog food in the garage. In all the craziness happening in our lives, I completely forgot that he was going to need more food and that we should, of course, be the ones to go buy it. But my sweet in laws didn't even say a word, they just went and bought more food.
I have a hard time wrapping my head around that kind of service. Around the kind of service that is truly selfless and kind and wants no reward. Come on, when I bring you a plate of cookies, I at least look forward to the thank you.
So I am grateful for all the wonderful people in our lives who have helped us through these trials, and I am grateful for a chance to see the kind of person I want to become. As we move into a new house I don't deserve and have way more than anyone would ever need, I want to remember to selflessly serve where it's needed, to love those around me in a way that can only be described as Christlike.
I am learning not to worry so much about things working out, because they do. The Lord is aware of what you need, and is always watching out for you. Consider the lillies. But when you feel a prompting to serve, do it. And if you need something, don't be afraid to ask. I am always willing to bring a plate of cookies!

Auric's Birth Story

This being baby #2, I thought I mostly had this birth thing figured out. Especially when I went past my due date again by a whopping 13 days, I was sure I was going to have another big, hard-to-birth baby. However, I was determined for things to go different this time. One of the things that made Dayen's labor unnecessarily hard was that he was posterior, meaning face up. This can (and did) cause a lot of painful back labor. When I found out this baby was posterior too, I spent a lot of time researching it, and found you can usually turn your babies before birth, so I spent the last month of my pregnancy always sitting on a birthing ball, never reclining, and constantly being aware of how he was positioned so I could keep him in the optimal position for birth. It was kind of a pain, but worth it, because the day before my due date, my doctor confirmed he was in the optimal position. I was so excited! It made me realize there was a lot about my birth that I could control, and for months I had considered switching to a birthing center, but I kept changing my mind because I loved my midwife so much. But as my due date came and went, I got more and more anxious. My midwife was leaving on vacation soon, and I couldn't shake the feeling I was going to end up in labor after she left and not end up with the birth experience I wanted. So on a crazy anxious day I called the birth center midwives in tears and decided in the eleventh hour to make the switch.
We didn't tell anyone because we knew a lot of people would think we were crazy, but I was really lucky that Caleb trusted my gut and let me do what I felt like I wanted for this birth.
On the morning of Monday, April 2nd I woke up about 3:30 with contractions. I took a bath and then watched old reruns of Bewitched while I timed them. Within about an hour and a half they went from 5 minutes apart, to 2 minutes apart, but I wasn't too concerned because with Dayen, my contractions were a minute apart for about 12 hours before he was born. The contractions were starting to get pretty uncomfortable, so around 5:30 I woke Caleb up to suffer with me. I also texted my midwife and she was nervous that my contractions were already so close, so she recommended I come in. We decided I would probably be more comfortable in labor at the birth center than I was in Caleb's Grandma's basement anyway, so we decided to head in. Caleb's mom came over to take care of Dayen and we left around 6:30.
When we got to the birth center I felt like things started slowing down, and in the back of my mind I kept thinking I wasn't really in labor and they were going to laugh at me and send me home. So I did some lunges up and down the stairs for awhile, and then we went for a walk. We walked about a mile and I only had 3 contractions the whole time, so I really felt like things were stopping and this 2 week late baby was really never going to be born. So when we got back to the birth center I told the midwives, "I think I'm just hungry, can we go get breakfast?" So we walked to Bert's, which is right behind the birth center. We got an awesome breakfast and Caleb timed my contractions which were 2 minutes apart the entire time. He kept asking, "Do you believe you're in labor now?" but I didn't!
When we got back I spent awhile squatting by the bed during contractions to try to move things along. The contractions seemed pretty strong and were still close together, but in between I kept saying, "Is this really what it's supposed to feel like? This is so much easier than it was with Dayen... this can't really be labor, right?"

Superman Caleb providing counter pressure during contractions.

After a few hours I decided I wanted to get in the tub. I am a tub-lover anyways and the huge, awesome tub at the birth center made the contractions feel so much better. I wasn't sure if I'd want to have the baby in the tub or not, but the minute I got in the water I said, "Nope, I'm never getting out of here!"

After awhile in the water I realized I was starving again (which was ridiculous considering the massive stack of pancakes I ate that morning) so my midwife brought me a bowl of strawberries that I devoured in about ten seconds. I was trying to act like a dainty laboring princess, but I finally asked if I was allowed to go raid the kitchen for more food, and they said I was. (Whoo!) So I got out of the tub and went to the kitchen and found some cookies. Caleb was teasing me that I thought cookies were the best option, but really, when are cookies not the best option?
As soon as I ate again the contractions got stronger, and I realized how cool it was that I was able to just listen to my body and do what it needed to get through labor, rather than being stuck to a bed and just letting things happen.
I eventually got back in the water and things started getting a lot more intense, but in between contractions I was really happy and laughing and so I was still having a hard time believing this was real labor. Finally I had a contraction that was a lot stronger, and in between Caleb made some joke and I didn't respond and I heard my midwife tell him, "She doesn't think you're funny anymore!" and I think that was the start of transition.
From there things got really intense, and I stopped questioning if I was in labor. I started having to make noise through contractions, and those noises quickly turned into yells. For awhile they were still ok, and I even told Caleb, "I know I probably sound like I'm dying but I actually feel ok!" It was just like the contractions were so powerful I needed some outlet to let some of that intense energy out. Eventually I was yelling so much during contractions that my voice was going, and I was worried I wouldn't be able to yell anymore. (Because that should be a concern, right?) I started feeling like maybe I should be pushing, and they told me to just follow my body, so I would try pushing during contractions. But after awhile of that, it started getting really painful. Even when the contraction was over, my hips would just shake and hurt and I couldn't regain my composure before another contraction hit. But in my head I thought this must be the beginning of the end, so this is ok! We're almost done! Finally my midwife asked if she could check me because I didn't feel like he was moving down with each push, and she said I was only at 9 cm. So we got out of the tub to break my water, and there was meconium, just like with Dayen. I can't stress enough how, for me at least, labor is such a mental game. It was at this point that I started thinking: this is Dayen's labor all over again. I am going to need forceps to deliver another giant baby, and I can't have a forcep delivery without an epidural, and I can't get an epidural here. If I have to get one eventually, I want it now
It was crazy how the minute my mind changed, I wasn't handling the contractions well anymore. I was fighting them and yelling, "No, no!" whenever another one started. I was crying and telling my midwife I wanted to go to the hospital. She knew how close I was and was trying to help me get back to a good place mentally, but I wouldn't listen. I felt like they were trying to stall me leaving to the hospital, and I couldn't stand the thought of another contraction without an epidural. I think they finally saw how serious I was, because they called the hospital to tell them we were coming and I basically ran out of there and out to the car as fast as I could go. I was wearing an ugly pink nightgown that said "Hello Sunshine", no bra, and no shoes. We drove to the hospital and I had a few contractions in the car that were horrible. Never go for a drive at 9 cm, it is NOT. FUN. By the time we got to the hospital I booked it out of the car and still refused to put shoes on. Caleb had to go check us in so my midwife walked me back to labor and delivery. We passed a guy and his probably 7 year old son while I yelled through a contraction, and I'm pretty sure that poor kid got an interesting talk that night. (And will never be giving his parents grandkids now.)

When we walked into our room the only people there were a nurse and the respiratory therapist. They smiled and said Hi and I instantly had a contraction, leaning against the wall and screaming. They all realized how far along I was and kicked it into high gear, I have never seen people move that fast! Before Caleb could even get back there, they had taken my blood, started an IV, and they were starting the epidural.
In my crazed state I wasn't thinking and when they numbed my back for the epidural, I thought that was the epidural. So when I had another contraction I yelled at the poor anesthesiologist, "WHY ISN'T IT WORKING?!" He was really nice and was moving so quick to get the epidural going. He even waited to do the epidural in between contractions, something they didn't do last time, and that helped a lot. By the time that awesome epidural kicked in I instantly felt embarrassed about how ridiculous I must have looked in my very ironic nightgown with no shoes, just screaming at everyone in sight. But my sense of humor instantly came back, and every time my stomach tightened up I would just laugh and say, "I bet that one would have hurt!"
An hour and a half later I was finally dilated to a 10, and they brought in the mirror and told me we could try pushing. With Dayen, I pushed for about 3 hours before finally delivering with forceps, so I was already telling the doctor, "This probably won't work, so if the first few pushes aren't doing anything can we go straight to the forceps? I want to be alert this time!" 
They told me to try pushing and I watched in the mirror as in one push his head moved several inches down. I yelled, "It's working!!!" because I honestly didn't think it would! They told me to stop and then in two pushes he was out! 
At 6 lbs 8 oz he was almost 3 entire pounds smaller than his big brother! I was so shocked at how different it had been than Dayen's birth. (I still am! We don't even know what to do with a baby this small!) All in all it was about 14 hours of active labor, exactly half of my first, and as far as we can figure I was probably at 9 cm for about 4 hours. For the record, that's the only part I don't recommend. 

I think my midwives were worried that I would be disappointed that I made it so long just to cave and get the epidural in the end. But honestly, I am really happy with how his birth turned out. I know everyone says all that matters is the baby being healthy, but that's not true. It's the most important thing, sure, but it's not the only important thing. As the woman in labor, you are the only one who has to go through it. It can be scary, and tempting to just hand over to your doctor and say, "Do this for me. Make this as easy as possible." But in the end, you're the one dealing with the labor and birth and recovery. So your experience matters! And for me, that just meant having the birth I wanted and feeling supported through the whole thing, which is exactly what I got! I couldn't have had the same labor experience in a hospital setting, (They would never have let me go to Bert's for breakfast or quietly sit back and let my labor progress on it's own without any interventions) and the minute I wanted the epidural, I was really grateful it existed and that I was able to get it. I wasn't upset that my plans changed, just really grateful that when they did, I was still able to be supported and have the birth I wanted.

Me & My Due Dates

Next Tuesday. Here we are, less than a week away from my "due date", and I am doing what I have told myself for the last 3 years I wouldn't do. Just 5 more days. Tops.
I am telling myself I am almost done. I'm ignoring everything I painfully learned about this the last
time around, and I'm telling myself that this time, it will be different. This is the baby I'll laugh about,
and say, "Yeah, his older brother came almost 2 weeks late, but he actually came early! And the labor was quick, and easy, and totally pain-free!" Power of positive thinking, right?

It's been easy ever since Dayen was born to tell myself I wouldn't do this when I got the chance 
again. It's been easy to say, you are just a person who has long pregnancies. You should always 
plan on that. After all is said and done, what's two more weeks? 

It's been easy, until the last month or so. We sold our house faster than expected, and we have to be out 11 days after my due date. (I had Dayen at 12 days past my due date.) And I forgot that by this point, your patience is basically gone, along with your sanity. That’s the problem with going over: it’s not just a longer pregnancy, it gets exponentially harder every single day. You get bigger, and crabbier, and more uncomfortable, so you can’t help but spend at least a chunk of everyday thinking, “It would be really great if this baby would be born now.”

I was determined not to let it get to me this time, but of course it has. One of my friends went 12 days
past her due date last summer, and she posted asking people for natural induction methods. She got
all the advice you always hear: spicy foods, bounce on a yoga ball, curb walking. But I, with all my
birthing knowledge, told her, “Give up, go relax and tell yourself the baby is never going to be born.
That is the only thing that worked for me!” She later told me it was the only thing that worked for her,
too! See how smart I am?

But am I following my own advice? Um, no. I haven’t even reached my due date yet, but my
overly-controlling nature has me casually pushing the pressure points in your hand that supposedly
induce labor, and bouncing constantly on a yoga ball, and going on walks that do nothing but make
me more uncomfortable.

This is, by far, the hardest part of pregnancy for me. I know I’m in the home stretch. I know, logically,
every day I get closer to meeting the little guy. But it's still hard waking up every day, still pregnant. It's
hard every time someone asks me why I'm still pregnant.

And I won’t get on my soapbox about it, but no I’m not planning to be induced and no, I’m not scared
of another big baby. The only thing I can say is, with everything that felt out of my control the last time
around, I am forever grateful that I let my baby choose his own birthday. And that isn’t to start an
argument around inductions, or how anyone else’s birth went. You do what’s right for you. I’m going
to sit over here, eternally pregnant, doing what’s right for me.

Even if I completely lose my mind in the process.