Tiny socks

There are very tiny socks in my washing machine. Just two of them. A white pair with the Rockie’s ‘CR’ in purple on the front. They’re for Opening Day—a day revered like Christmas in my family. They’re in there with the bigger boy’s muddy baseball pants. Spring Training is in full swing at the Anderberg house. Soon there will be Sunday baseball days—an afternoon family baseball game at the park, followed by Scott’s famous grilled burgers and then the Rockies game on MLB.tv . If it’s anything like last year Bridger and his daddy will stay up as late as it takes to catch the very last inning and Caid and I will be asleep by the 5^th.

This year though, there will be another person along. A person who wears very tiny socks. It’s hard to imagine. I can hardly wrap my head around it. There will be another little boy in my house by Opening Day. That’s only a little over a month away. Whoa.

It’s funny. I am a doula now. A childbirth educator. I’ve done 2 extensive trainings about birth and pregnancy. Completed one certification and am well into another. Read literally hundreds of books, articles, studies, accounts, blogs, etc. All about birth. Yet somehow, I still feel overwhelmed. Surprised at how apprehensive and uncertain I am.

This feeling has ebbed and flowed throughout this pregnancy, but welled up inside of me intensely about 3 weeks ago. I panicked. There were all these…THINGS I wanted to do before this little person arrived. I had communicated my expectations and wishes. I had bought journals and pastels and made lists and well, PLANS. You know, PLANS!! Then three weeks ago when it hit me just how close we were to the end (cue music, duh duh duuuuuuuuhhhhhh) I realized that my plans hadn’t panned out and I panicked. Completely panicked.

I cried. I threw fits. I moaned and sobbed about how this was my last pregnancy. About how IMPORTANT these things had been and now it was too late and I’d never, ever get tot do them ever, never again. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t quite that dramatic. Or actually, probably I was.

In truth, I know I really did need to let all that out. There was genuine disappointment there. Disappointment from not one, but three pregnancies. Let’s face it, disappointment is an incredibly heavy and ugly thing to carry around. It’s a thief. If we let it, it robs of us of enjoying the wonderful blessings of the moment as we struggle with the very real and at the time ignored pain of the past.

There was some genuine baggage to be sorted out too. That’s been a present process all throughout this 9 months. My first pregnancy and postpartum experience was not a walk in the park with a husband having and recovering from major brain surgery. Throw in the fears and expectations (real and imagined) of friends and family members, my desire to make it all right for everyone, and the sheer immaturity factor and well, let’s just sum it up with baggage, shall we?

So several tears, fits, yelling, sobbing, sobbing, and lots more sobbing and somehow, I am sitting here. In my sunny kitchen. Listening to the big boys upstairs with their friends playing knights and princesses. Watching the tiny socks go around in the washer and thinking, “Wow, I’m having a baby soon.”

See, I do know an awful lot about pregnancy and birth. I am a great doula. I have read and learned a lot. However, sometimes ‘ignorance is bliss’ wins out over ‘knowledge is power.’ Or perhaps it’s neither. Perhaps it’s all a lesson in letting things go. Expectations. Plans. Ideals.

I am having a baby. A tiny little person who wears tiny little socks. A precious little boy who will be here, watching the game with us on Opening Day. I don’t know exactly how it will go. Surely there will be stories to tell and the pain will be mixed with the ecstasy and excitement of new life. Maybe we didn’t get to the things on my List. Maybe all my Plans didn’t quite pan out. But I’d say letting go of all that disappointment and baggage was work enough for the pregnancy. I’m going to let it trump the list. I’m not going to carry that disappointment—from this pregnancy or the former ones—into this birth. I’m just going to trust my gut. Trust my body. Trust my husband. Trust the God who made us all and knows the depths of our pain and hope and disappointment. I’m going to trust this little person who has already brought so much light and life. And enjoy. Enjoy whatever comes. Enjoy it free of the weight of expectations and plans.

And really enjoy putting him in those ridiculously little and adorable Colorado Rockies socks.