Yesterday, I was at the bowling alley, lamenting the ball and shoes I left in Topeka, Kansas some 6 years ago. That bowling equipment is the only thing I have let go of in 40 years that I seriously regretted for more than 30 seconds. At the time I decided not to bring it, I was pregnant with my 6th child, and I was at that stage of pregnancy that just seems to drag on forever. If you are a mom, you know how that is: you’ve always been pregnant, you are always going to be pregnant, and pregnancy is just your permanent fate. Forever. World without end, Amen.
So, as I was explaining about the bowling ball, I did some quick multiplication and division. 9 months x 8 babies = 72 months. 72 months / 12 months = 6 years. I’ve been pregnant for 6 full years. That’s a long time to wear maternity clothes, yk? And I’ve nursed for even longer. Gallons and gallons and gallons of good milk have I made.
I’ve been thinking for several months now that God may be calling me on to other areas of work. And I was kinda confused by that, because I know for certain His clear direction for me had been to bear children and to leave the timing to him. I even wondered if I was mis-hearing, hearing what I selfishly wanted. That is, up until my husband looked at me and said, “you know I’ll be 70 when DaBaby is grown.” And I said, “umm, honey, it’s actually 75.” And he told me he didn’t want any more babies. And I totally understood where he was coming from with that, and I totally took it as confirmation from God that this chapter of my life was at an end.
And I think that the child I now call DaBaby will in fact be DaBaby forever. I never thought I would say that on this side of menopause.