I am 33 weeks pregnant today which feels more like 333 years pregnant to my ever-expanding body. I try, God knows I try, to be grateful for this opportunity, for this experience, for this chance to create and carry life, but some days I cave. I buckle under the strain, and some days like today, I completely surrender to my long list of complaints that come with growing pains.
I have not slept a full night in weeks. My stomach has become a volcano, erupting with throat-burning lava at every ingestion. My back hurts, my legs hurts, and I cry so easy like a woman whose lost her levies, her dam broke-down, the flood waters rushing, the banks retreating. Please, feel free to stop reading now, because pregnancy turns me into something I hate; a complainer, a wretched complainer.
On the way home from work today, I daydreamed about my due date. My blessed due date! Oh, how far away, May feels, almost like a foreign country I will never visit, or a sweet dream locked away in my heart that will never come true. I wanted to cry again and again and again.
Then I picked my sweet little boy up, and his mam-maw said he’s missed me all day. He has missed me, the whiny and complaining, mother that I am. She told me has something he’s been waiting to give me. He’s held them in his hands all day, only putting them down to potty.
He picked these for me. He carried them all day for me, because he loves me. To him, my sweet son, I am worth the inconvenience. I am worth so much more than the cost to him, and I am ashamed, guilt-stricken to the core. I am so very regretful for every grievance my lips have sung, and I am left with nothing more than pure gratitude. My blessings cover my complaints, they wipe the slate clean, and love resides at the end of every stroke.
Thank you, Jesus for my aches, and my pains, and most of all, for my three beautiful blessings. They are worth it all!