The nest then and now

Whew—what a whirlwind this journey has been. I’ve shared stories of personal trauma, healing, and transformation… and today I want to pull back the curtain a little more. While I’ve touched on marriage in my past posts, I haven’t yet spoken much about one of the greatest and most challenging roles I’ve ever walked in: being a mom.

I’ve spent 33 of my 35 years of marriage as a parent. My first child was born in our second year of marriage, and let me tell you—we were not ready. I had always dreamed of being a parent. I figured my years working in daycare and babysitting would have me set. I mean, I’d handled a whole room full of kids—how hard could one baby be? (Spoiler alert: I found out quickly.)

During my first pregnancy, I developed preeclampsia. Weekly appointments, ultrasounds, and tests became my norm. We were still newlyweds, and he came to nearly every appointment with me. His sister was pregnant at the same time, and that gave us family support. My mom was amazing—she threw us a baby shower and even came to some of my appointments. I miss her deeply. She was my rock in so many ways.

As my due date neared, I started experiencing strong Braxton Hicks contractions and a major headache. I went to the ER, but they told me I was just dehydrated and sent me home. But something still felt wrong.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the ICU with a picture of my baby taped at the side of my bed… and my mom sitting beside me.

That was day eight of my daughter’s life.

It turns out that headache was a warning of full-blown eclampsia. I had seizures. My husband happened to be watching the show Rescue 911—a God thing for sure—so he knew to call immediately. EMS arrived, carried me out of the house mid-seizure, and rushed me to the closest hospital. It wasn’t my hospital, but the OB and pediatrician on call were two of the best. Though I was on state assistance and wouldn’t normally have qualified to be treated by them, they took over because it was an emergency.

When they weren’t sure if the baby was still alive, they acted fast. My mom asked the OB what kind of deficits we could expect due to everything we had gone through. The doctor spun around on his cowboy boots- looked her square in the eyes and said, “I don’t deliver deficit babies.” He was right—my daughter was born healthy.

My mom and husband rotated between me and the baby during our two-week hospital stay. Once I was moved to a regular room, we were all together. Scott barely left the hospital. He and my mom carried so much of the weight of that season.

To be honest, I didn’t really feel the trauma because I was unconscious through most of it. I had planned to breastfeed, but due to the medications and my condition, they gave me something to dry up my milk and bottle-fed her. And that was fine—I was just grateful we were both alive.

Once we were home, my mom stayed for a couple of weeks. Then, during bath time one day, she handed me the baby, smiled, and said, “You’ll be fine,” and closed the door behind her. I stared at that baby like, What now?

I leaned into my daycare skills. I made routines, kept everything sanitized, but bonding was hard. I’d been so sick. My husband, however, had bonded with her deeply.

She slept in our room for a few weeks, but my husband transitioned her to her crib pretty early. Luckily, she was a great sleeper. We had her for four years before we had another child. I honestly thought we wouldn’t have more. Then came our oldest son, followed two years later by our youngest.

Three kids brought out the stress cracks in our marriage—arguments, no sleep, limited finances, and just a lack of skills. We were doing our best, but we were figuring it out in real time. And yet—our kids were amazing. Resilient. Real. And they watched us overcome.

Don’t get me wrong—they’ll still tell you parts of their childhood were hard (and they’re probably right). There’s still healing in progress, and we’re walking it out as they’re ready.

Now comes the hardest stage of parenting: the letting go.

I used to think sleepless nights and sick babies were tough—but watching them leave the nest, make their own mistakes, raise their own children... that’s a whole new stretch of the heart. It’s hard not to swoop in and gather them all back into safety.

And then there's my youngest. He has autism and has lived at home his whole life. This week, he went on his very first trip—alone. That’s huge. He usually doesn’t even leave the house without us. I dropped him off at the airport, encouraged him, and now I’m getting updates that he’s having a great time.

Maybe—just maybe—the nest is shifting. Maybe it's not quite empty, but it’s changing.

Parenting a child with disabilities adds its own layer of complexity. You never quite know what their independence will look like. But my prayer is that each of my kids will live out the fullness of their purpose and destiny—not just the plan Iimagined, but the one God wrote for them.

Oh, and the best part of parenting so far?

You guessed it—the grandbabies.