Here I am, being me.

So we moved away from our situation.

Josh left his terrible environment, and it’s amazing how much nicer, more attentive, and easier to get along with he has become. I suppose being surrounded by people who claim to be something they aren’t can really take a toll.

There’s lots of things to say – the kids are adjusting fantastically.

I’m almost 34 weeks pregnant. I haven’t worked since we came back home, so I’ve had lots of time to sit and worry. We don’t have Internet access, so -ta da!- I’m blogging from my phone. Handy dandy.

Anyway, back to the worry. I didn’t really worry with Max or Ava. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ve learned more in the almost six years since I was last pregnant. Maybe as I’ve aged I’ve gotten more paranoid.

Maybe I’ve just watched too many of these damn reality birth shows.

Every day, I’m counting kicks, wondering where my placenta is, thinking about labor and everything that could go wrong. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy, I’m sure.

I spent yesterday in spurts of pain – my back was killing me, and I had Braxton-Hicks that weren’t regular but also weren’t timid.

I haven’t told Josh. He’ll just freak out.

Now that I think I can post somewhat regularly from my phone, I’ll be back.

Today, my shirt is too small.

I should have expected it.

I get bigger every day, although I eat very little. My esophagus burns all the time and no amount of tums or acid reducer really helps.

But today, for some reason, I picked out this shirt. It’s not even a maternity shirt, for heaven’s sake.

And the pants I chose to wear sit conveniently UNDER this massive belly that I’m sporting. Yeah, I look totally businesslike.

I don’t know what I was thinking.

It sucks, and I have to pee.

I had this great idea for a post…

I had the idea last night, and it came to me when Max and I pulled up in the driveway after his gifted program’s parent night. We’d played with logic puzzles and watched videos the kids had made, taken tests online to measure intelligence, and looked at posters and work until we couldn’t see straight.

We pulled into the driveway, opened the garage, and there stood my husband, fully clothed and waiting at the door. Since I’d left him playing video games in shorts and a tshirt, this made little sense to me. I sent Max inside and asked my lurking-by-the-door husband what his deal was.

“I just got fired.”

The words were simple and to the point, and he wasted no time drawing out the dramatics, but I felt slapped in the face. That’s when the brilliant post idea came to me (and that’s how my mind works, I compose things during crucial moments in my life) – it would be perfect. Intriguing.

“Liveblogging a Heartbreak.”

So what if it’s been done, this was MY heartbreak. MY family.

We moved four hours away from our home. Our lives. We uprooted the kids and put them into a new situation with people they didn’t know (granted, the school was/is phenomenal and they have loved every minute of it), we put OURSELVES into a new situation with people we didn’t know.

We trusted promises that were given to us, and why shouldn’t we have? They were given by people who wore collars and were well touted. We trusted the reputation of the clothing they wore, the titles they bore, and the smiles they offered.

When it didn’t match up later on, we convinced ourselves things would be okay. It was God’s “test” for us, but we were here and we were following his plan.

We thought we would be guided, watched over. We had trusted our entire lives to this one decision and while no one expected things to be perfect – they never are – we expected, well, something.

A hand reached out in friendship. A “can I help?” email. A housewarming gift, just as a sign of “we’re glad you’re here”.

When none of that came, I convinced myself I had expectations higher than I should have had. I decided we couldn’t expect that much from a crowd of almost 2,000 churchgoers who, after all, led busy metropolitan lives.

As the weeks went on, I realized the coldness wasn’t just in the people. It was in the whole schebang. The priests who had been so warm and welcoming became less so and once, in a fit of desperate need (for what? I don’t know. An ear to listen? Someone who cared? Surely a PRIEST has to care, that’s in the job description, right?) I emailed one of the priests as just what I was – a lonely, desperate parishioner in need of a caring ear.

I was told that she was busy, that she would respond ASAP. It’s been months, and I never heard a word again.

I was so lonely. So many nights I was so very, very lonely. I told myself this was all working for the greater good – that we had moved here for Josh’s dream and his calling of working with youth, and that if nothing else, he was doing that and doing it smashingly well. Kids were texting him, stopping him at ballgames, wanting to hang out with him – and he was doing the best he could at what he does best.

But it wasn’t enough that Josh was establishing real, growing relationships with kids who needed someone to look to. His hours, days by day, had to be accounted for. If he went to the doctor he was questioned and told he “didn’t have time” to be sick. He had to email an account, every day, of exactly what he’d done that day. No one cared about real conversations with teenagers about God and their spirituality – just as long as there were an impressive number of butts in seats on any given gathering night.

It broke Josh’s heart. But he pressed on. He pressed on because he knew that if he didn’t try, then there would be no one left who really wanted to guide these kids (outside of their parents). No one who gave a shit about them besides keeping them around long enough to start writing pledge checks to the church.

I believed in everything he was doing. So I supported him the best way I knew how.

Even last night, because I knew that he had done everything he could.

And now, with his face defeated and a new little life kicking inside me, I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know where my hope is. I don’t know how to do the things that have to be done now.

All I know is I still believe good things are possible. Somehow. Maybe.

Working and not

I mentioned yesterday that sometimes I hate my job.

Many times, in fact. More and more so the bigger and closer to having this kid I get.

However, working is something that I do. It’s something that I’ve always done. When Max was born, in my former life, I thought that the thing to do was stay at home. I barely made it 6 weeks before I put myself in school and got out of the house. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my baby – I did. I loved (love) him and he was a good baby.

Like I said yesterday, though, there have been snags in this new life. Such monumental snags that I’m now in a constant state of wondering if we’ll up and move from day to day. The stress from that wonder has been…well, something to deal with on a daily basis.

So now I’m faced with the very real possibility that if we DO move before this baby is born, I’ll be at home. At home with no real definite return-to-work-by date. Not to mention I’ll be changing doctors in my final trimester of pregnancy, finding housing, moving, re-enrolling my kids in a different school district…oy.

This is both exciting and scary as all hell.

Plus, I know this sounds hypocritical, but I hate to leave the people I work with here. I don’t love this job or anything, but the people have been fantastic. Once a decision is finally made, telling them I’m leaving is going to be awful.

I have a lot to think about.

Prologue

I’ve always been bad about this.

About up and starting something new when I can’t even upkeep what I have (blogifically speaking, that is).

But I’ve decided this time is different.

I’m not telling friends and family about this blog. I’ll use it in my signatures when I comment on blogs I read, and that will be about it.

I don’t expect I’ll have any kind of following, I’m nowhere near that naive.

I just need someplace to speak what’s left of my mind, and if people want to read it, then hey, that’s okay with me too.

I need the release I haven’t been able to have through my blog. Maybe this will be it.

Wherein I discuss myself

I learned not long ago that if you want people to read your blog, you have to kind of talk like you’re having a conversation with someone you don’t know.

Which I guess I am, you know.

I don’t intend to give out this address like I have previous blogs. I don’t want to have to censor myself because I know that my sister and my mother-in-law and probably not many others are reading.

I want to be honest.

So I should introduce myself, since I hope that one day in the future, someone will read this.

My name is Emily. I’m a pretty run of the mill person, I guess. I mean, there’s nothing quite exceptional about me. I turned 30 this month, on the 18th. I haven’t let myself think about that too very much, because I’m afraid I’ll cross over from hormonal to completely batshit crazy.

Oh by the way, I’m pregnant. 27 weeks and some days. I don’t know how important that will turn out to be (well, in the grand scheme of this blog. To me, it’s way important, it’s a big deal, it’s all the stuff I should be saying).

I have two other kids, which kind of puts this pregnancy thing into perspective for me. I thought I’d be a total pro at being pregnant, but seeing as how my youngest is nigh upon six years old…I suppose I’d forgotten the fat feeling. The fat and the OH MY GOD I CAN’T MOVE WITHOUT HURTING feeling.

I digress.

My two other kids besides the one I’m incubating are brilliant works of art, of course. And by “brilliant works of art” I many times mean “gigantic sassy jerkwads who only eat chicken nuggets.”

Max is 7.  Ava is 5. I love them with all of me, and I cannot wait to feel that love again. I mean that.

Max and Ava are products of my first marriage, a misguided thing that came together when I was 20 and ended a little over 4 years later. Their father is a good guy and we remain friends, close friends – but if I were still married to him I sincerely believe I would have eaten some Drano long ago. That sounded harsh…but sometimes people are just not meant to be together, you know? It happens. It happened.

So I suppose that a lot of the newness of this pregnancy comes from the fact that I am finally having a child with someone I love, someone who I cannot imagine ever being without, someone with whom I want to watch the whole growing process take place. I can pick out traits that Max and Ava have that belong solely to their father, and I cannot tell you how excited I am to begin learning that with a new person.

Wow.

So I’ve said a lot about being pregnant.

Anyway, I work outside of my house. Every day. A lot of times I hate it. Sometimes it’s a welcome relief.

We live in a community that is a long way from the community we grew up in. We have no family here, and no friends, minus one or two exceptions. It’s hard, especially since there have been some snags. We moved here for Josh’s work – for him to follow his calling and his dream. It’s been harder than we thought.

Every day I wonder if it’s the day we’ll finally decide we’re packing up and moving home.

Although, I don’t know how much of a “home” home would be anymore…

But that’s a post for a another day.

I’m glad you’re here.