On Sunday, February 3rd, I dropped Paul off in a parking lot on base so he could deploy with his unit. We hugged outside the car and I cried into his chest. "What if she comes before you're home? What if this is it?"
"Be strong, Elise." he said.
About half of me wanted to punch him in frustration. I didn't want to be strong. I wanted to be 21 weeks pregnant and not alone. I wanted our life to be normal. I wanted my husband to live in my house with me all the time.
But the rational half nodded and sniffled and told him I loved him and got back in the car. I sobbed openly and drove home.
The next day, I headed down to San Diego and saw the house we had just bought. And the next four months and 11 days were a whirlwind. I closed Escrow, packed up a house, moved to a new place, decorated it to what for us is perfection, worked on various projects, battled a mouse in the kitchen and kept growing this little baby. And, of course, I had days where it sucked and days where I cried and days where I was anything but strong.
And now, 19 weeks later, we're nearly through it. Paul is home on leave for awhile. He's here. He gets to see this house we bought for the first time (he's a fan!). He gets to sit on the chairs and eat at the dining table and live in this space that I (but really we) built over the past few months. Baby girl waited for him, so now we'll wait for her. Together.
We get to be strong together. We get to become three together.
