The Ornament I Always Look For

It was seventeen years ago last August. I was finally, happily pregnant with our third child. And then one morning I woke up to blood.

Not a lot. But for a happily pregnant mom-to-be, any is too much.

And so we went to the doctor, my husband and I. And the doctor and nurses hemmed and hawed, and said it was too early to tell, and tried not to leave us either too frightened or too hopeful. And they referred us to an obstetrician. Who hemmed and hawed and said, "It's too early to tell," took bloodwork, and told us to monitor things and, if all was well, to come back the following week for an ultrasound. (I marvel these days at how technology has changed.)

Later that night, the bleeding seemed to be subsiding.  But then I got the call from the nurse: My pregnancy hormone levels were far lower than they should have been, and this was really, really bad.  I needed to get off my feet and stay off for at least two weeks. No guarantees, but... This would give the baby the best (and perhaps only) chance.

(I later learned from the nurse that I was her first such call, and she wasn't sure how to handle it. "Should I tell her it will be all right?" she asked the doctor. "Oh, no," the doctor replied. "You can't do that.")

Two weeks of bed rest is easier said than done when you have a five- and a seven-year-old. But with the help of church friends, we did it. And the heartbeat on that ultrasound two weeks later was one of the sweetest sights I've ever seen.

But I had a hard time making plans. For the next few months, my mind was in limbo. I didn't want to buy anything, or make anything for the baby. Just in case.

Until December, when I painted this Christmas ornament. The hope ornament.

Every year, it is the one I look for.

(And how did the kid turn out? He's running half marathons. So you tell me.)