I must first apologize for taking 3 months off from writing this blog. Hopefully after reading this post you will understand why that break occurred. Regardless, I did update the description on the home page to read will be posted most 21st’s rather than every 21st…gotta be realistic y’all.

Formerly Meghan Markle, now Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Sussex (yep, that is her real title), announced her pregnancy in October 2018.

Amy Schumer, American Comedian, also announced her pregnancy in  October 2018.

Two months later, Meghan appears at the 2018 British fashion awards in a custom Givenchy gown with her unchanged, stick thin arms cradling a round baby belly perfectly enrobed in black velvet. She is stunning, glowing (not from sweat). She is a vision of motherhood and femininity.

Meanwhile, Amy is hospitalized in her second trimester for hyperemesis gravidarum, a form of extreme and acute morning sickness. Donning a hospital gown that was not made by Givenchy. (Ironically, Kate Middleton experienced this ailment in all three of her pregnancies… I bet Kate hates Meg even more now.) 

I had always hoped to be a Meghan when pregnant, but I’m a straight up Amy. Let me paint a picture for you of what it’s like when I am pregnant. Warning - it ain’t pretty.

• Everything starts with my boobs. Like the Grinch’s heart after his Christmas lesson, they grow three sizes. This sounds awesome right? WRONG. My breasts become hot air balloons - the kind that have been inflated and lay on the ground full of hot air just ready and waiting to be lifted… but alas, no one will be flying today. Or ever. They lay there, ginormous and hanging without hope as there is not a bra yet invented capable of such an arduous job.

• Baby then sucks up all my energy like a sponge. As if I haven’t slept in years and my bedtime immediately migrates from roughly 10:30 pm to 6:30 pm. Suddenly, an 8 hour night of sleep is insufficient and only a 12 hour REM cycle is adequate.

• It moves to my stomach. I experience the kind of pregnancy where I throw up while driving. (I really wish I could interview the witnesses of these events. Oh, what they must be thinking.) Where the need to throw up awakens me from a deep sleep. The kind of nausea where one day milk is the only cure and the next day milk causes me to sprint to the nearest receptacle of any kind praying I make it in time to violently vomit. And if I don’t make it… leaving it for Brad to clean because I’m too exhausted to do it myself. And yeah, I’m that kinda wife. Sorry Brad. I try to mind-over-matter myself every time I’m feeling the urge. I barter with my stomach and make the pitch that it doesn’t need to throw up - “it’s cool, stomach, just relax.” And then, after 10-15 minutes of attempted persuasion - I usually throw up. It’s a super fun game I play.

• Next baby challenges my belief that I’m a woman. It challenges this belief by sprouting chin hair... as if I were a prepubescent boy preparing for my father to teach me how to shave. Surrounding the chin hair, and further supporting a prepubescent timeline, is a fresh flock of acne. Then, it rubs salt on the wound by creating gas that I formerly believed could only be produced by truck drivers living solely off beef jerky and gas station hot dogs for weeks at a time. Can I just tell you how stunning I am? I mean really, the essence of femininity if I do say so myself.

• It then creates a metallic taste in my mouth that won’t relent regardless of gum chewing or whatever food I consume. Like I’m willingly sucking on a penny and a nickel - which I am not.

• Lastly, it hits my entire body, or what used to resemble my body. Everything inflates like I’m the girl who chewed the gum at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory - and the blueberry dessert that isn’t yet perfected turns her into a blueberry. I’m the blueberry… minus the violet hue. My face, arms, waist, legs, everything - can all now be described as “fluffy”. Not that I’m eating kale for every meal but I’m not eating donuts either - regardless, FLUFFY.

So, let’s just conclude that I don’t wear pregnancy well. I am an Amy and…

I am pregnant! I am just shy of 19 weeks along with a little brother for Elliott! (You didn’t think I was describing all my nitty gritty, and somewhat repulsive, pregnancy symptoms for fun did you? Weird blog if I did.)

I mentioned in a past post, Mama, how badly we want siblings for Ellie; how much they will learn from her and her from them. I also wrote of the fear imbedded in that desire. In my post from 3 months ago, I ended with this sentence: “It seems as though I should take leaps of faith more often.” So, I took my own advice and we used our desires to expand our family as motivation to take that leap of faith. And here we are…11 days away from the 20 week anatomy scan. This is the same scan that started us on the path to learning our Ellie girl was bringing surprises along with her that we could’ve never anticipated. Cleft palate/lip to Down syndrome to heart defect to surprise trach and g-button after her arrival.  

We opted for the NIPT (non-invasive prenatal testing) this go round to be more prepared earlier on - should we need to be. So far, it seems this little guy does not have Down syndrome and is healthy in all aspects we can know at this stage. But frankly, Down syndrome - schmown syndrome (that sounds better in my head than it reads…) What I mean is, we can raise a child with Ds. We’re pros with just that extra 21st chromosome. What I am scared of is another child who needs heart surgery, or endless mouth surgeries, struggles breathing or eating independently, or has to suffer at all in any way. It is these things I’m not sure I could handle.

So, 2019 will bring us a baby boy and heart surgery for our little girl. As I type this sentence I am asking myself “What were we thinking trying to get pregnant as, if successful, it would align with Ellie having heart surgery?!?! Are we crazy?! Or, did we just take a giant leap of faith?”

I’m still terrified, understandably, about the health of this baby boy and about my daughter having open heart surgery. Terrified. What’s better - have one child undergo heart surgery while you are carrying another, or have one child undergo heart surgery with a newborn?  

The fact that this is an actual question that Brad and I must answer is evidence I am not in control in any way. *I think I just blacked out for a moment*

Perhaps I have no choice but to trust in that giant leap of faith we took.   

Until the NexT21,

Aubrey