Number Nine

I’m pregnant.

I think.

Every obvious indicator is pointing to this fact, though I have not yet verified ‘officially’ with one of those little white sticks.

The news is not out {the children don’t know, I’m just sharing here in my secret-friend spot}.  I’m just musing about the way this is going down.

This little lentil-sized spirit within me is loved fully by my heart already.  We imagined that another little person would one day likely join our clan.

But, what comes with this little one, this little precious Number 9, is a suitcase full of junk-thinking that isn’t mine; all the nutty, rude, unfeeling, irrational things that have been said to me in the past about having a big family (i.e. being different) come sweeping in on my heart.

And then, instantly, I’m in a battle, before I’ve even adjusted to the news myself, I’m fighting: fighting mentally with how I’m going to defend this radical choice to embrace lots of life.

So, I’m nauseous and weak, weary and delighted.  Yet, all I want is just to enjoy the ‘congratulations’ that I heard echo so joyfully for Number 1.  Why can’t Number 9 be delighted in from the get-go too?

The Thief has convinced our culture that children are a liability and so choosing too many is unwise, if not ridiculous and stupid.  It’s like the Thief is trying to rob me before I’ve even settled into the joy of this new reality chosen by God to exist.

I just wanted to register that I’m sick of the Thief and his stupid voice.