Seven years ago today my husband and I started the long drive to Lake Tahoe sometime mid morning, him driving, me sitting next to him clutching my phone in both hands.
I was waiting for the lab to call with my baby’s test results, the ones that would clear up the murky scary results we’d gotten the week before at the screening. I was almost 4 month’s pregnant and anxious to know if this child, this first baby of ours, would be perfectly average or if we’d need to make some serious decisions over the festive weekend.
I’d been told that there was just a slim chance that the results would be ready by the end of the day, but I clung to that hope like a lifeline.
I wanted to revel in the family’s joy over my growing belly. I wanted to relax and just appreciate being pregnant.
The road twisted and turned, and, as we started the climb into the mountain, the sun started to set, and the clock ticked past 5pm I had to accept the fact that I wouldn’t know that day. Wouldn’t in fact know until four days later.
I tucked my worry into a corner of my brain and resolutely focused on enjoying a weekend in the snow.
The next morning I woke up and the belly that I’d relatively easily been able to hide up until that moment had popped out. Overnight I’d gone from being able to keep my potentially “different” child a secret from the world to being very visibly pregnant.
Come what may, I would no longer be able to keep my condition a secret from my coworkers.
At 7am on the Monday after Thanksgiving, the genetic counselor called with the long awaited results. The baby was fine. She was more than fine, in fact, she was genetically perfect. Today she’s a smart, serious, loving 6 year-old. And every Wednesday before Thanksgiving I remember that drive and the intense love and hope I felt for the little blob bobbing around inside me as we traveled.
Two years later, same weekend, same destination, this time as we prepared for the trip home, I was struck by an intense craving for a banana slathered in peanut butter, something I hadn’t desired since I’d been pregnant with C. In that instant I knew, without a shred of doubt, that there was another little one setting up residence in what had once been the womb that kept her sister safe for 9 months.
As we head into Thanksgiving weekend, no travels planned this year, I can’t help but think about how, in my heart, this holiday is intrinsically linked to my daughters. I’m grateful for these two girls, their smiles, their jokes, even their tantrums and bickering.
They are both vibrantly alive and well and color my days with laughter and love.
As we head into our more chaos and uncertainty, I’m once again filled with warmth when I think that, no matter what, the four of us will face it together. The love we have for each other gives me the strength to face it all. This is the third post in my Week of Thanksgiving hosted by LilKidThings. Join me all week as I feature the things that fills me with gratitude. Click the image below to see what everyone else is grateful for!