Happy NFP Week

I found out I was pregnant in a hot, second-floor apartment when I had been married for 22 days. I had a couple outfits in a suitcase in the bedroom attached to the bathroom I was sitting in, where I was looking at two pink lines on a piece of white plastic. It was July 23, 2017.

Two years later and one of my favorite weeks of the year, it’s no coincidence to me that two pink lines determined my future during Natural Family Planning (NFP) Awareness Week.

I heard about NFP for the very first time in late 2013, ironically (or not) around the same time I met my now-husband. Life makes perfect sense when we look in the rearview mirror. During this period in my life, I was experiencing intense symptoms of PMS, had a historical diagnosis of polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), and a “I think you have” diagnosis of premenstrual dysphoric disorder.

If you don’t want to know any more about my reproductive health, this is your warning: stop reading here. I had been prescribed several variations of the birth control pill, progestin-only birth control, and my most favorite in 2013, the Nuva Ring (Google “Nuva Ring lawsuit” if you’re bored tonight). Doctors continued to lower the dose and stand in perplexity as I reported symptoms of irregular bleeding, confusing cycles, crying episodes and mood changes, panic-like symptoms, changes in blood sugar levels, sweating episodes, nausea, headaches, and dizziness. The final straw and the worst day (now thank you Lord, the best day), came when I was told by a reproductive endocrinologist that I was pre-diabetic. “Whatever you do though, don’t stop that Nuva Ring.”

It was Thanksgiving 2013 when I removed the Nuva Ring, put it in it’s foil pouch so it didn’t emit radioactive chemicals into – God forbid – the soil (never mind my BODY), and never looked back. I checked my blood sugar levels on a monitor consistently – all normal – and noticed a decrease in symptoms month after month after month after month.

In 2014 a family friend recommended a gynecology practice to me, and my life forever changed. I like to think of my life in two segments: before NFP and after NFP. My new doctor got me hooked up with a Creighton Fertility Care Practitioner (someone in the community who taught me the basics of NFP and how the heck to do it), who ultimately recommended the OB/GYN practice who invested in my health over the last four years, managed my pregnancy, and delivered my daughter.

NFP means that I chart every single day of every single cycle and can interpret my fertility based on the cycle day and other observations. NFP means that I don’t experience any adverse side effects of any artificial hormones. NFP means that my daughter’s life may have been saved in utero because my doctor could interpret my chart and blood work enough to know that I needed progesterone support my entire pregnancy. NFP means that I have complete control over my reproductive health, and now experience a 30-day textbook cycle. Watch out for this part, people usually think I’m a pretty normal millennial up until now: NFP means that my husband and I have never on any occasion used any form of contraception – because we know it’s what’s best for my health, what’s best for our marriage, and it’s what we believe. NFP means that I found out I was pregnant 22 days into our marriage because we were not avoiding, we were open to life, and we consider Philomena neither planned nor unplanned. We do, however, consider her the best unexpected blessing to have ever been gifted to us. NFP means that we talk openly – almost on the daily – about planning our family and what we want our lives to look like in the next several years, and no, it does not mean we plan to have nine children.

I’m not posting this to convince anyone, to tell you that I’m right, or to tell you that you’re wrong. I’m posting this just as others post about new diets or workout programs or meal prep plans – those things are, supposedly (I don’t know I haven’t tried) things that change people’s lives. I’m putting myself out there and making this post because NFP changed my life, and if I could spend my life helping others experience this freedom, I’d risk sounding like a freak every day. NFP may have saved my life, and it created a whole new one in the process.

Whenever I post about my experience with NFP, my inbox fills up with some messages. I’m not an expert, but I can share my story and I’d love to support you in yours.




On Spaghetti Sauce and Sweatshirt Strings

A recent conversation in my home was as follows:

“What did we even do before we got married, had a house, and created a human?”

“Oh that’s right… we laid around and made out all day.”

Just kidding. Sort of. But really, what did we do all day? It seemed more carefree then. More spontaneous, less complex.

Today, everything is planned. My calendar is organized, line by line. I have a file drawer for “utility bills.” Two years ago I didn’t know what a utility bill was. I meal plan (on good weeks), have a running memo of how many packs of wipes are left in the baby’s closet, and wipe down high chair covers after dinner most nights. On February 11th, it occurred to me that Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching, and gasped while putting away laundry: “we’re not doing that whole gift thing, are we!?” We indeed…are not.

Let’s get back to the laundry for a moment. I primarily take care of the laundry. I like sorting, and even washing, and drying too. But that’s about where it stops. The folding and especially the putting away? I’d pay somebody for that. Recently, I decided to bite the proverbial bullet and put the laundry away. I had my husband’s gigantic size XL sweatshirt in my hands and was just about to fold it up, Marie Kondo style, when he swooped in the bedroom and snatched it out of my hands and whisked it over his head. He wore it around the house for the remainder of the day, and I noticed that I never had a chance to untie the sweatshirt strings.

Many years ago as a little girl, I remember watching my Nana do laundry. If the clothing item involved any strings, she would tie the strings together before putting the item in the washing machine. It was to prevent the string from pulling all the way through, she said. As a teenager, I remember my mom tying my drawstrings together when she washed my sports uniforms. I forgot once, and she told me to tie the strings together, you know, just in case. I guess the string was lost forever and a disaster happened, I don’t remember.

And so… I’m 28. And I always tie all of the strings together. Upon taking the item out of the wash, I always untie the string. Always. I mean, who would walk around all day with the strings still tied? Only some little dweeb, I’m sure. Well call my husband a little dweeb, because he walked around all day with those strings all tied up.

It wasn’t until he took the sweatshirt off for bed that night that I remarked about the strings. “You really ought to untie those sweatshirt strings,” I told him, know-it-all style. “You look like a little dweeb.” I readily made the assumption that my husband didn’t have a clue about the sweatshirt strings. I assumed it was an oblivious nonsensical item, kind of like when a woman comes home with a new haircut and nobody notices.

“I knew they were tied. All day. I left them that way because it reminds me of you.”

He always noticed.

Tonight, Darren made dinner. It was a rushed effort, and sort of throw together at the last minute, and simple and pretty tasty all at once.

He made a simple meat sauce, pasta, and some garlic bread, and we ate it fairly quickly before it was time to head upstairs for baby bedtime. 45 minutes later after a baby bath, pajamas, and quiet time, we made our way back downstairs and were greeted by a chaotic kitchen. Darren actually went out to run a quick errand and told me not to worry about the mess, that he would take care of it when he got back. But I’m not so good at relaxing in the living room when I know there’s a mess in the kitchen. I threw some music on and had the kitchen almost entirely tidied in 20 minutes. Just as I was finishing up, I noticed something dripping onto the surface on the stove. I looked up and under, just to find some red meat sauce that had splattered onto the bottom of the microwave splattering its way back down.

My immediate response was one of sheer annoyance. “For REAL?!” He couldn’t have covered the pot, or made sure that the sauce didn’t get all the heck over the kitchen?! Strangely and quietly, something inside me told me to stop. I just looked at the hidden little mess, picked up the cleaning sponge, and put it back down. The stupid splattering red sauce was there because my husband made dinner. It was ready when I was hungry, and in the moment, I hadn’t even taken the time to notice.

He’s home now and cleaning up the red sauce remnants, in case you were wondering.

I wish I had a summary sentence for this post, and I wish I could put into words how these two incidents – sweatshirt strings and spaghetti sauce – fit like two little pieces of the same puzzle in my mind.

Romance looks different these days. It looks like continuing to tie the sweatshirt strings, even when I don’t want to take an extra four seconds and does he really even care that I do this? It looks like smiling at the red sauce instead of barking some snide remark, because for goodness sakes he made dinner. I think it’s all in the notice, and mostly about perspective. It’s less in the flowers and truffles and more in the sweatshirt strings and red sauce. And that’s okay. Though it would be nice to just lay around and make out.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Mommy Makeover

Dear Plastic Surgeon advertising along the Turnpike,

I saw your sign. “Mommy Makeover,” the cute photo of the baby, your contact information, and bold pink font. I get the idea. You’re thinking that you might appeal to women – mothers, specifically – scurrying home from a day at the office, pushing the speed limit, thinking about the endless pile of tasks that await them at the front door. At least, I think that’s what you’re up to.

I’m one of those women – a new mother. I work near forty hours a week at a demanding, fulfilling job while the little love of my life awaits my return at home (she’s nine months old). I am learning the work/life balance, as they call it, and working daily on living in the present moment. I strive to let home be home, and let work be work. At home, I am managing the demands of a household, a marriage, a baby, bills, on top of the necessities like eating and sleeping, whenever those seem to fit in.

I flip through inspirational accounts of super fit moms on Instagram while sitting at my two-times-daily “break,” attached to a breast pump, brainstorming one more way that I could fit in just a twenty-minute workout tonight. But I don’t. I soak in every moment with my daughter, put her to bed, clean up from the day, pack lunches, prepare for the day ahead, and talk to my husband, if I remember. You might call it an excuse, but I call it a reality: I ran out of time. Oh yeah, and I’m exhausted.

I’ve never struggled with body image. I recognize that, as a woman, this is rare, and that I am fortunate. I’ve always been thin, never struggled with weight, and have even experienced difficulty putting on weight years ago. Now, I’d say I’m an average size, and since having a baby nine months ago, both close acquaintances and strangers alike seem to think it is normal and complimentary to tell me that I look “great” post-baby. Thanks?

Despite this, I can say I’ve spent more time in the last few months than ever before thinking about my body. I won’t go into detail here, but my summary is simply to say that I now understand the term “problem areas,” and I know what it feels like to have a six pack of abs replaced by a six pack of marshmallows.

None of this bothered me. Until I saw your sign. I was riding on the passenger side and cruising on the turnpike after a visit to see family around the holidays. Your sign is quite appealing. A baby and hot pink font? Why yes, those are some of my favorite things. You caught my eye even faster than the juicy burger on the adjacent fast-food joint sign. And I was hungry! Good job. And even the words “Mommy Makeover.” Yes, please! Now there’s something I can get behind. I interpreted your catch phrase to mean “why yes, I’d like someone to take my baby so that I can go for a walk, get a hot shower and a pedicure, and end the day with a full eight uninterrupted hours of sleep!”

But then I saw your contact information. You’re a plastic surgeon. To be honest, at first I thought this was a joke. And then I saw the address for your office, and your website… and my heart sank. This is absolutely, undeniably, 100% for real. Maybe you think I’m a bit naïve. A 27-year-old new mother who didn’t even know that a “Mommy Makeover” was a certain series of procedures done by a plastic surgeon for a new mother to “help her get her body back,” as the websites say. But naïve or not, here are the facts: you are spending presumably several thousand dollars (per month?) to send a message to new mothers that her current body is NOT OKAY.

Who exactly are you? I see that you’re a man. When did you last carry a human inside of your body for nine months? But my story isn’t about man-hating. I don’t really care who you are. I just care about the message that you might be sending to men, women, young, old, mothers, fathers, children… by the car load. Every day. Every minute.

Your sign told me that my post-baby mom body is not okay. It told my husband that my post-baby mom body is not okay. It told me that if I’m holding a baby, then I probably need help. And I sure can’t help myself, so you’re just the guy to do it, with a simple nip and a tuck. No hard work on my part – no effort. Just a cause to throw some money at and you’ll fix me.

Your sign told me that my body and my appearance need fixing. That my body is not amazing the way it is. Your sign undermined me as a woman, and demoralized the feat that I participated in – the feat called “growing a human.” Your sign implied that my faded stretch marks, the uneven line down my abdomen, and the sagging skin around it serve no purpose. In fact, we should do away with them altogether! They are not attractive, and simply not able to be dealt with. Let’s get rid of it all.

I’m really grateful for your sign. Maybe this is a stretch (is that word okay? It might imply that my skin isn’t tight enough), but I’d go so far as to say that your sign taught me a lesson. It reminded me that our culture is not okay with imperfection. Not only are we not okay with it, we are simply unwilling to experience any discomfort or imperfection. We want quick fixes, ones that require little effort, and we want them now.

This post isn’t about belittling women who have had plastic surgery. We all need a little something to help us love our bodies. For me, it’s an occasional spa treatment (massage or manicure, anyone?) and a very kind and affirming husband. If for you it’s plastic surgery, cool girl, you do you. I’m okay with you. What I’m not okay with is your plastic surgeon, boasting his goods across the interstate, implying that women are not enough.

You are enough. I am enough. Moms are enough, and their daughters and sons are enough. Vaginal birth, caesarean birth, working mom, stay-at-home mom, breastfeeding mom, formula feeding mom, single mom, married mom. YOU ARE ENOUGH. And ain’t nobody going to say otherwise.


A confident new mom

The church bells chimed today

Hey there, and thanks so much for being here if you’re new. You saw my last post, Proud to be Catholic? and I hope and pray it filled you with hope. Writing it helped me gain strength, momentum, and hope for forward movement in the Church following the release of the Grand Jury report in Pennsylvania. I received countless comments, private messages, and over 600 reads in the first 48 hours following my post. A few days have passed, and while the pain felt by so many should not be undermined or forgotten, I spoke with some Catholics who feel that we are ready for change; ready to move forward.

And then came today, a rainy Tuesday, and terrible news of another crime in the Church was released right here in my home Diocese. In fact, this young Priest grew up down the road in my hometown. He is a good friend of my good friends. He was supposed to be at their wedding. The news has left many of us without words. (My husband thinks it’s a comedy that I’m without words for once in my life.)

Hope will return. It is with me permanently; tattooed on my foot, in fact. But for now, it is okay to mourn.


The church bells chimed today

I was surprised by how much they had to say.

You’re noisy, I thought, won’t you pipe down?

The clanging seemed to make the most awful sound.


Yesterday, I had hope, “Perhaps a light is near!”

Today, the news is closer to home; we are all filled with fear.


Days that are sunny, snowy, or filled with clouds,

The church bells are a constant, bellowing from the mountains, proud.

I couldn’t believe they still rang; How could they?

So many are filled with shock and dismay.


Tomorrow, a new day will come.

We will fast, we will pray, and we will mourn another brother’s crime as one.

And for now, it’s awfully hard to see the way

But the church bells still chimed today.






Proud to be Catholic?

I almost took the bumper sticker off of my car this week. “Proud to be Catholic,” it proclaims, in black and white boldface font, nothing ambiguous about its message. My dad has a matching one on his van, sitting parked a few miles away. Despite my husband thinking the sticker is “a bit much” and “perhaps even prideful,” we leave it on. The stupid magnet has been a conversation-starter in parking lots near and far. Sometimes people stare as they pass me on a local highway, and I imagine they are expecting to find a man dressed in a habit, but really it’s just me, sipping my coffee and formulating my next excuse for being late.

This week, “proud” was not a describing word near the top of many Catholics’ lists. Embarrassed, ashamed, straight-up pissed off, disgusted, discouraged, and fearful may have made top-ten lists following the release of the Pennsylvania Grand Jury report. But proud? That one’s nowhere to be found.

But there was Mass today, and I showed up.

This Sunday, I showed up and played the keyboard with my parish’s contemporary music ensemble. We sit in the balcony of the church, and I sit closest to the edge, making for a perfect view. It’s like sitting out at the end of a peninsula, as the rounded ceiling above me feels almost close enough to touch, the stained glass windows are even more beautiful from such a height, and the crucifix behind the altar, though farther away, is a focal point to be admired from off the ground. I am typically in a daze, playing familiar chords and absorbing the sights around me.

Today, however, what struck me the most… were the people. The sanctuary was particularly packed. With summer winding down and a new school year just around the corner, students are still with their parents before vanishing to their collegiate homes, families have returned from summer vacations sporting fresh tans, and the older folks are happy to be out and about in the warm weather.

I watched family after family file in. The family who’s loved one recently passed away, the family with the daughter in her wheelchair, the family with one child, and the family with eight. They came, one after another, finding their pews, bowing in prayer, chattering with one another. They showed up. I looked down directly below me to find a mom, wrestling her two-year-old daughter to stay in the pew while she dug for her checkbook for the weekly collection. My eyes moved to the pew next to hers, and I found an older couple, arms linked, hands intertwined. They showed up.

Not far from them, I found a mom with her arm around her daughter, and I thought about the emotions they must both be feeling as she heads off to college for the first time this week. I saw a man sitting alone, a young couple preparing for marriage, and my favorite – a mom and dad walking with their young son, each holding one of his hands as he walked, unsteady on his feet, down the center aisle.

“Why?” I asked myself. “Why are they here?” They could’ve given up long ago. Because their family member died or the diagnosis was just too much or the two-year old was just having a bad morning. They could’ve stayed home.

And then this week! We all could’ve stayed home. The truth is, I almost stayed home. As this past Wednesday was a Holy Day and a work day, I had to wake up earlier than normal to make it to Mass, in a different parish, the day after the Grand Jury report was released. Yeah, I had little interest in showing up.

And back to today: each of those individuals, those families, those children… they all showed up. In a very real way, they held doors for one another, they held hands with their beloved, they missed the homily because they were taking the kids to the bathroom again. They said the prayers, they sang the songs, they said the responses. They showed up, seeking answers, seeking truth, and seeking Jesus.

Despite them being the same people I see Sunday after Sunday, watching them today brought tears to my eyes and an electric current to my heart. Suddenly, it was difficult to see if my sheet music wanted me to play a G chord or a C, because my eyes were blurry and my head was with them. The show-er-uppers. The faithful. The body of Christ.

We can be angry. We can be humiliated, ashamed, discouraged. We should be. Some of the very men who were supposed to be showing us the way were too busy committing the most heinous of crimes, the most sinful of acts. We should demand answers, seek truth, move into action. As I sit and write my small contribution here, my husband is composing a letter to a Cardinal. We shouldn’t stop until these crimes are unheard of, a distant memory.

But what do we actually do? Many are asking the question. I am asking the question. Watching those faithful ones today, for one fraction of a second, I felt that I caught a glimmer of the answer. We show the hell up. This is not the time for Catholics to sleep in, to skip Mass, to walk in shame, to strip their cars of their bumper stickers, or to hide and remain silent. This – today – is the moment to show up. Show up wherever you are. Saint Theresa of Calcutta said that “to change the world, go home and love your family.”

Be so patient and kind with your husband that he’ll wonder what chore you’re trying to get him to do. Hold the door for the weird-looking dude behind you, introduce yourself to the new family at Mass, find what sets your heart ablaze and go do it, step out when you’re afraid, write the letter, open your mouth. Show up. Be so on fire for Jesus and His Church that others will say “wait, you’re Catholic?” Let them know who you are. And most importantly, let them know who He is.

“Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which He looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which He walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which He blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are His body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.” – St. Teresa of Avila

Following Philomena: (Final) Incident Seven

I found out I was pregnant REALLY early on. I was about four weeks pregnant when the tests were positive, and about four and a half when the pregnancy was confirmed with blood work. I loved knowing so soon, and I loved having such a big secret in the form of something (someone, rather) so tiny. After the initial shock diminished and the consumption of occasional alcohol beverages halted, I did what any basic pregnant millennial would do: I downloaded The Bump app on my phone. I entered my due date, and now, a few weeks later, I was seven weeks pregnant. The Bump educated me about the size of the baby by comparing the seven-week-old nugget to a blueberry. The name stuck. Despite transforming into a raspberry by week eight or a cauliflower by week 27 or a watermelon by week one-hundred-and-thirty-freaking-nine, we called the baby… blueberry. There was something about blueberry that was sweet, and tiny, and seemed like a good nickname for our baby with the unknown gender. A few times when I was frustrated over what on earth we would name a girl, I joked that we’d just call her blueberry.


Note in the “about you” section, an encouragement from our nurse: “Come on, baby blueberry!”

By this point, I was pretty far along. The date was February 28th, and sometimes in the evening, I was restless. I think I’ve mentioned before that our home is next to our church, and just down the street there’s another big Catholic church. The advantage to the one down the road is that there is a 24-hour perpetual adoration chapel. What does this mean, the non-Catholics ask. This means that inside of a room in the church, the Blessed Sacrament of the Eucharist is out in the open 24 hours a day, so that visitors from far and wide can come to spend some time and sit with Jesus. It was a cold Wednesday evening, and when Darren invited me on a date to the adoration chapel, I happily obliged.

We arrived, I sat for a while in silence, debated the struggle of removing my coat and snow boots, felt the baby move, experienced back pain, and oh shoot, only 12 minutes had gone by. I wanted to get out of the house. I was now out of the house, and not any more comfortable. The bookshelf in the next room popped into my brain. “Maybe some good theological reading will help me pray and relax,” I thought. I scanned the bookshelf, filled from side to side on all three rows, I’d guess with anywhere from 75 to 100 books in total. Theology of the Body caught my eye (nothing like some light reading), and I quickly snagged it from the shelf. I made my way back to the chapel, sat down next to Darren, and grunted as my belly got in the way of anything and everything.

This is the part where I say that I had some deep thoughts about pregnancy and human life (because well, I’m sitting in an adoration chapel reading Theology of the Body), or that I experienced the presence of God in some contemplative prayer, but I’ll be honest, the only thing I was contemplating was how much longer I could bear to sit there in that uncomfortable chair. I read the foreword of my selected reading material, and made a mental note that I would read the whole enormous thing during my maternity leave (ask me how that went). After the foreword, I had had enough. My eyes darted over to my husband (who actually was deep in some contemplative prayer, I am sure), hoping he would soon be ready to leave. At that point, I closed the book with a thud, probably for effect, and a small card fell out of the paperback. This time, I think my grunt was audible. “Am I REALLY expected to pick that thing up?” (Can I get an Amen from any woman who has ever had to pick anything up from off the floor while pregnant?)

I bent down, and planned to shove the loose card back inside of the book without much thought, but the picture on the front caught my eye. It was a woman, beautiful, and the light above me illuminated the gold edge of the card. And then… no, no, NO. This could not be. Philomena six times before, but not this. This would be far too much. I was sure I was hallucinating as my eyes found the letters that spelled “Sancta Philumena,” translated, Holy Philomena. It was a prayer card of Saint Philomena. I flipped it over to find a prayer. My heart raced, and I clutched the card so tightly in my hands that by the time I finally found the strength to hand it over to Darren, it was damp with sweat from my palms. He looked at me, looked at the card, looked back to me, smiled, shook his head in disbelief, and went right back to praying without a word.


This was incident seven. I remember trying to decide what to do with the card. At first, sticking it in my purse seemed like the right thing to do. After all, it was the seventh and final sign; I should have this card! Philomena was halfway to my purse when something deep within me said “No! Put the card back. Put Philomena back. This is not just for you; she will be a sign to many.”

We left the chapel in silence that night. It was 10 pm before we opened the door, the cold air stinging our faces and Darren taking my hand. Finally, we spoke.



Following Philomena: Incident 6

In the last part of the story, you may have noticed that while quite ironic, instances four and five happened as a result of our mentioning Philomena first. For example, the name didn’t fall from the sky on a piece of paper at random (until one day it did; more on that later). Both individuals mentioned, both our friend Dale and Father Dave, reassured us about Philomena after we had already brought it up. So how would we know if Philomena was really supposed to be Philomena, or if my overly active imagination was running away with this story?

So far, Philomena had made herself known to us five times. I had heard of her at Mass, saw her on a page of first grade illustrations, found her on a maternity t-shirt, and had spoken of her with two different friends. And yet, I doubted. Truthfully, my own doubt exhausted me. But what if it’s not a girl? What if that’s not what her name should be? If it were not a girl, why would all of these Philomena incidents continue to occur? The questions lingered on and on, with no answer to be found.

Until one Sunday. My husband attends monthly meetings at a Franciscan Friary about an hour away from our home. He’s been doing this for a few years, and over time, I’ve attended meetings with him. I’ve attended regularly enough to get to know some of the secular Franciscans, and my personal favorite is a woman by the name of Dorothy. The first time I saw Dorothy enter a room, I thought she was perhaps Barbie stuck inside of a sixty-something-year-old’s body. Dorothy wore stilettos, a pencil skirt and matching blazer, and a tiny little hair accessory in her long, pin-straight blonde hair. I was amazed. Until I saw Dorothy again. Same style, different color, different day. Simply put, the woman looked great. We made small talk some times, and I got to know a bit more about her. She waited until after we’d met a few times to drop this bomb: SHE HAS SIXTEEN CHILDREN. I’m the first to be annoyed by all capital letters, but I really feel here that this point needs to be emphasized. SIXTEEN! I asked some questions, many of which she assured me she has been asked precisely one thousand times. This woman glowed. She spoke with a calm confidence, as if nothing she was saying was absolutely absurd.

We got to know Dorothy better. In fact, she attended our wedding (and tore up the dance floor, I might add). Shortly thereafter, I told Dorothy I was pregnant. She was, of course, elated for our little family, but truthfully I felt as though my news was a bit lame. After all, it was my first pregnancy, not my ninth or eleventh or SIXTEENTH. I talked for only a few minutes, about pregnancy symptoms and how far along I was. I spoke in a very general sense, and Philomena was far from my mind. I told her that yes I felt great and yes we were excited and… Dorothy interrupted me.

“Yes? Excuse me?” Dorothy took my hand.

“Sarah. Ever since you started telling me about your pregnancy, I have been feeling like God wants me to tell you about my fourteenth child.”

The statement stopped me abruptly, and truthfully, I found it incredibly strange. Why would this woman tell me about her fourteenth child? Why not her first child? This is my first go at this, after all. Maybe she hasn’t heard anything I’m saying. Maybe she thinks I…

“My fourteenth child. Her name is Philomena.”

As the blood rushed from my face, I had to ask Dorothy to please excuse me while I took a seat.