The Perfect Sized Family

This last week, I laundered all the baby stuff. I got the good detergent, lovingly folded each little piece of baby clothing, held a few pieces up to my chest trying to remember what it was like to have such a tiny human nuzzled up under the crook of my neck. I think this might be the one time I love doing laundry.  

My daughter walked into the room while I was sitting behind our ottoman that had a three-feet-and-climbing laundry pile. Addy held up a newborn onesie and marveled at the size. She asked what prefolds are. She was wanting me to explain it all. Really, I think she wanted assurance that she would have a special place in our growing family.

Addy declared that all downstairs diapering will be hers to do. And while I don’t think she has any idea what that really looks like (or how often that looks like), I love her heart. She wants to be apart. She wants to be my helper.

I set down the blanket I was folding, and I showed her how to diaper on her stuffed animal.  She asked about the muslin receiving blankets so I told her about how newborns like to be tucked in tight just like when they are in their momma’s tummy. I laid out the blanket and showed her how. And really, even though it was Addy asking the questions, I am trying to remember myself, prepare myself, for what it's like to have a newborn. 

Jed came in into the room just as I handed Addy her swaddled and diapered dog.  He grabbed his stuffed animal so it could get the same treatment. Jed wanted all the explanations and how-to’s. He wanted to be apart too.

For the rest of that day, I got to watch my kids taking care of their “babies.” They built a baby crib-fort for their babies to sleep in, made their babies cry and consoled them, dug out the bottles I haven’t yet sanitized and pretended to feed their babies. I listened to Jed’s questions for his sister about how babies work. I smiled at all of Addy’s answers.

It took my breath away—the overwhelming and abundant grace in those moments. We are preparing. All of us. Our hearts are expanding, making room for this baby. These days are filled with dreams and hope, and an anxious desire to meet the one with whom we’ve already fallen in love. I am well aware that being both “great with child” and raising children—its blessing is doubly sweet. I am growing into the mother of three babies. And I am watching the two I have been raising grow into a big sister and brother to this baby.

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If you were to ask me when I first got married how many kids I would have or when I planned to have kids, I would have told you:  “Four to six kids, and we will have them about every two years.”

When Mike and I talked about having kids and when and how many, we both agreed. We’d have all our kids, then we’d raise them, then we’d send them off into adulthood and then we’d enjoy an empty nest again. Bing. Bang. Boom. Just like that. 

We valued the positives in having kids close in age. We’d also focused on the negatives from our own childhoods of having our siblings spaced out.  

Maybe this will sound silly, but I am pretty well having my mom’s family. And it weirds me out. (We both had our oldest child when we were 25. Thus far, our kids are spaced out the same. And it will be strange if this baby happens to be a girl, because then I will also have the same gender order. )

It’s not at all how I would have planned my life. In fact, I think I would have ran in the opposite direction of this. But having kids closer together in age just hasn’t been possible for us.  

I struggle with surrender. I might know God ways are better and higher… but still, I tend to gravitate towards my own plans. I may have even once come up with a list of pros and cons to determine how many kids and how far apart they should be. My own plans always look good in writing, mostly because God’s plans require a measure of trust, and the writing of His plans only become plain as the story is being lived.

But this last week, watching my kids who are excited, ready and able to process this change, and no longer toddlers prepare for their baby brother or sister… It grabbed a hold of my heart, and filled it to overflowing. It’s good, guys. God’s plans are good.

I wouldn’t for all the world go back and rewrite my story another way, even if it meant I could erase all the heartache and struggle wrapped up in the reasons our kids aren’t closer together in age. Watching my son sing into my belly, beg me to show him one more time what the baby looks like, hearing all the things he plans to teach his baby brother or sister…  The way Addy is actually going to be able to help me; the way she without even meaning to speaks words that prick my momma heart and encourage me onward; the way she’s become, even if in just a small way yet, my friend…  The way this baby isn’t just my miracle but my family’s miracle because we all prayed for it, longed for it, waited for it... We are now living in the glorious days of great expectation.

I am learning that for all my pro’s and con’s, there isn’t a magical number of children that everyone ought to have, nor is there a perfect way to space your kids out. If you have been comparing your family to another’s, knock that off right now. God writes good stories, and He never writes the same story. Single, married without kids, adoption, one kid, the magical one boy and one girl, five rambunctious boys, three girlie girls and a tomboy mom, remarried with six kids between you two… they all are beautiful stories, though no doubt full of wrestling between best laid plans and how life is actually going. They are full of set backs and triumphs; deep heartache and heart-bursting joy. They are full of invitations to surrender, to trust. They are full of learning that God can and will use it all for His glory.

Dear heart, hold on, the story is still being written.

“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has prepared for them that love Him.” 1 Corinthians 2:9

I would love it if you would share this little piece of your story: What was your plan for kids? And how many kids, if any, do you actually have and what are their ages?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers




Sharing in this lovely community of storytellers:

The Road Trip

We took a road trip a few weeks back. With two young kids. When I was 30-31 weeks pregnant. We spent 11 days on the road, slept in six different places, drove 3,000 miles, visited 3 national parks and an aunt and uncle.

Before we left, Mike had told me about telling his co-workers his vacation plans. I think each one of his friends responded with either “Why?” or “You’re crazy.”

Mike and I had started to question if we were crazy, if we would end up regretting the trip after a few days in the car, me in my third trimester and our active kids strapped in car seats. Most people we know spend vacations at the beach or go to Disneyland or on an all-inclusive cruise.

And maybe we are a little crazy. Maybe it’s no longer conventional to pack your kids into the minivan and risk eight hours of bickering in the confines of said minivan…for multiple days straight. Maybe it’s not normal to drive over a thousand miles to see the natural wonders of this world or discover how life might be lived a few states over. Maybe in our fast-paced culture we have ran afraid of boredom and missed the gifts it can give.

Friends, that trip was just what this family needed. I can’t even put into words the joy wrapped up in watching my kids’ faces as they pulled their first geode out of the earth or sat on a pony in the Montana woods or watched Old Faithful blow or spotted a bull moose a few yards from our car or tried to draw the baby buffalos romping through the meadow or awoke to discover snow covering the ground in May. Time slowed down for us, and those slow days and slow moments, it’s like I got handed a magnifying glass to the innerworkings and giftings of my kiddos. I got to see them. Really see them.

I can’t even tell you how refreshing it was to finally feel like there was nothing I needed to catch my husband up on and to just sit in the peaceful quiet watching the scenery roll by. It was a gift to watch the stress unravel off Mike as we drove further away from the demands of his job and law enforcement life. We made new inside jokes, like the ones we’ve carried since our first year of marriage. We laughed till the tears streamed. We dreamed of life in other places (like Montana may have stolen both our hearts), but the important part was that we dreamed new dreams, together.

All four of us (or should I say 5? J) tried things like buffalo, elk, and huckleberry ice cream for the first time. (And I am just saying that if you are ever in Missoula, MT: Big Dipper Ice Cream. Trust me.) We are convinced the Midwest over salts everything, that a Californian should never bother with Mexican food in Idaho, that Montanans might just be the most hospitable people on earth, and that the rudest drivers are not in the San Francisco Bay Area, but Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  

We made memories that I know the kids will still talk about into adulthood… like the time Mom accidentally took them to a crowded Montana bar on a Friday night complete with pool tables, live country music, and more cowboy hats than men because she thought bar meant that there was a bar, not that it couldn’t be a family-friendly restaurant too. Yeah. Nope. It was a bar-bar. (We almost walked right back out, but the owners and the people were so nice that we stayed, sat next right next to a stuffed buffalo, ate buffalo tenderloin and tacos, and got to hear a beautiful rendition of “Red River Valley” that made my country heart soar. We might not have fit in with the scenery, but I’m glad we stayed.)

Sure, there were a few meltdowns. We got asked “How much longer till we get there?” a few too many times for our patience. The kids ignored our request to keep their hands to themselves. Little Brother discovered the thrill of pestering Big Sister till she reacts loudly. This pregnant girl went a few too many hours without food, spent a few too many hours in one day in the car, and hiked one mile too many through rough terrain. All of which may or may not have led to a complete meltdown. (Jed is now overly concerned about whether I am hungry and has since told a few people, “My mom needs to eat right now or she will cry.” Thanks, Son.)

But the gifts. Oh, how they outweigh the struggles.

Deep down in the heart of this girl-woman, there might be an absolute wander-lust that makes things like road trips breathe life into her. Maybe it’s not for everyone. But truly, I think the best gifts that life, motherhood, and marriage have to offer are wrought in the things that make you wonder if you are crazy. The best gifts go to the bold ones, the crazy ones, the ones who take risks, the ones who know it might not all work out like a dream but still believe the story will be worth it. And in the end, the story is always worth it.

It’s easy to live in the excuses of timing and life, the maybe a few years from now when the kids are older kind of stuff. But I just feel like I need to quietly remind you that your family, your marriage, your own life story, they are all worth taking risks over. They are all worth big investment.

What is one big (and maybe slightly crazy) thing you have done that paid off in big rewards for your family?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

P.S. Next week, I should have a light-hearted post sharing some of the things that made this road trip awesome as well as some of the things that we’d change next time around...you know, in case you are thinking a crazy road trip sounds like fun too.

Because Grace Looks Nothing Like Co-Dependency

It happened when I was in seventh grade.

It was a field trip day. The fun kind. You know, where you do something educational like visit the state capitol, meet a state senator and then get turned loose in the historic district for lunch. The teachers give you a measure of freedom and your parents give you a measure of spending money. For a fleeting hour and a half you feel almost grownup, and you wish school could look like this everyday.

On that particular day, after browsing the old town stores, my girlfriends and I ended up in an arcade. I remember us huddled there around the skeeball lanes. We were thirteen and carefree, and our deepest conversation was likely something about which guy in our class we were most interested in “going out” with.

I had always felt like a bit of an imposter. A thirteen-going-on-sixteen year old dwelling in a ten year old’s body. I was painfully shy and at that particular moment I was certain I was the only girl in the class and probably the whole world who hadn’t gotten her period, her big growth spurt or a bra that wasn’t a trainer. But on this special field trip day, the heavens opened and the sun shone down on me and I was walking around with the cool girls. Everything that seemed to make me invisible didn’t matter to anybody else, and I forgot that I might have been different. I was one of the girls. One of the cool, mature, lip-gloss-wearing, uniform-skirt-rolling girls.

As we laughed and counted our tickets, an arcade worker approached us. He was much older, pushing 40 or 50. He kept inserting himself into our conversations, handing us tokens. He was flirtatious and creepy, and he would have been a nuisance except that free tokens seemed like they were worth tolerating him over.

Eventually we tired of playing games, so we spent our tickets and left. Only as we walked out, the arcade worker grabbed me by my shoulder, pulled me back away from my friends, and whispered in my ear, “If you will come back by yourself, I will give you anything you want from behind that counter.”

I felt frozen. My friends were unaware, still walking towards the door.  I was left standing there, smelling the stale alcohol on his breath, his hand gripping my shoulder heavy and tight. My lips couldn’t form a response. And even though I was thirteen and thought I knew it all, all I could hear was my mom’s warnings from childhood, “Never take candy from strangers.”

I robotically nodded my head at him and squirmed out of his grasp. I ran for the safety of my friends.

I felt dirty. I didn’t understand how I couldn’t manage to get a single boy in my class to notice me, but somehow the old smelly arcade worker noticed me. Wanted me. In a way that chilled me and disgusted me and chipped away a little piece of my innocence.

I didn’t tell my friends about it. I didn’t tell the teachers. I was too embarrassed. I thought something must have been terribly wrong with me. My friends were charismatic and beautiful and the creepy, arcade guy sought me out.

I told my mom a few days later. She immediately called the school. I still remember my teacher pulling me aside, “Why didn’t you tell me, Amanda? We could have reported it and gotten him away from kids.”

I was ashamed. Ashamed that I hadn’t possessed the courage to tell someone. Even more ashamed that it was me who he had tried to harm.

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Last week, I had a bizarre incident at the dentist. It started off as a less-than-tasteful pregnant belly comment from the dentist: “There’s no way you are that far along! Your boobs are bigger than your stomach! No, you are going to either have an undersized baby or you are going to carry past your date.” It was rude and hurtful, and maybe I could have shaken that one off, but she didn’t stop there. She turned to my  husband and said, “So how do you like your wife’s big milk jugs?” We were both wide-eyed and completely shocked. Who says that?! A few minutes later, she led me back to clean my teeth and said, “No, really, I don’t know what it’s like to have such big boobs. How does your husband like them?”

I was mortified, uncomfortable, and dumbfounded. This wasn’t a woman contemplating the pros and cons of implants; she made me feel dirty. I just wanted out of that conversation so I changed the subject.

I wish I could have formed the words to tell her how deeply she had offended me, how unprofessional she was and how if this was my work environment, her comments would qualify as sexual harassment. I wish I could have told her how anything and everything that my husband and I enjoy about one another’s bodies is sacred and private and beautiful and how dare she try to sully it with her unfiltered mouth and perverse mind.

But I was silent. I sat mute, frozen, not even completely sure why her words had so upset me. I went home, locked myself in the bathroom and bawled. It took a full day to realize that what had bothered me the most wasn’t that she insulted my ability as a woman to properly carry life and drew unwanted attention to a part of myself that I am insecure about, it was that she had victimized me. And I let her.

It took me right back to seventh grade standing frozen in that arcade.

I wanted to assume I was wrong about the dentist. Believe the best in people. Maybe she’s just a quirky dentist without a filter, maybe she was abused as a child, maybe… I wanted to take it on myself. Believe the same lie I believed in the arcade: there is something horribly wrong with me.

But I need to be real. What happened in that dentist office was dark and ugly. It was the taking of something beautiful and making it perverse.

Can I be honest and tell you I struggle with this? I don’t want to judge her. I want to keep my sunshine and rainbows glasses on and believe the best, excuse away her bad behavior, just pray for her. I don’t want to be the girl that fights just to fight and makes mountains out of hills. But deep down in my knowing place, I know I have to stand up right here. It’s hard and uncomfortable, but when I want to wonder if it’s really that big of a deal, I think of her making similar remarks about my own kids’ bodies that would sully their innocence and the beautiful purpose in their “private parts.” Oh no. Sometimes we fight the darkness on our hands and knees. And sometimes we call the dental board and file a complaint.

It makes me contemplate grace. I think sometimes we water it down, make it look something like doormat. But Grace isn’t co-dependency. It doesn’t make excuses for bad behavior. There would be no discipline in God’s love if that was the case.

God is both gracious and just… and you can’t separate the two. Justice and grace go together. They do. And together they demand that you take a stand for what is right, that you fight for justice and you fight for the voiceless, that you place the wrong-doing in the hands of those who are appointed to judge. After you have made your stand, you begin to put that seventy-times-seven forgiveness into practice.

Sometimes the place where grace needs to start is over that girl, the one who was silent and lost her words, who didn’t think she was worthy of a fight. She needs grace. She needs forgiveness too. And she needs to take a stand, better late than never.

The thing is, I felt like a freak of nature way back there in seventh grade, flat as a board and blooming later than November’s chrysanthemum. And this dentist managed to find that one thing about myself that I look at and see as some kind of anomaly now, larger than average; Victoria can’t hold my Secret; they’re out there and always out there for everyone to see no matter how high the neck line or black the shirt.

And making a stand, filing a complaint, it’s not about being a jerk or pulling grace out of the equation. It’s looking at me, the awkward girl, the quiet girl, the blend-into-the-background-except-for-the-bountiful-bosoms-that-would-still-poke-out-there girl. And loving her. It’s realizing she’s okay. There is nothing foul or disgusting about her body. Her purity is valuable and worth the fight.

It’s standing up for God’s plans and His handiwork and declaring to the darkness that I will not be clothed in shame. It’s instilling in my kids that they too are okay just the way God made them. Anomalies and all.

No, grace doesn’t lie down. Don’t believe that lie. Grace links arms with justice, and it stands tall and firm. Together they are not afraid to call the darkness dark. They fight the perversions of truth, and shine light on the lies of unworthiness. Grace is God’s unmerited favor but that doesn’t mean it’s blind to sin.

Have you ever had something happen where you wish you could have formed the words right then and there to stand up for yourself or someone else and instead you were silent?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Psst… I know it’s been silent over here. I fear I was running short on words and needed to just be quiet. But now, I am looking forward to catching up on all the goings on… you know, for the few weeks that remain before I have a newborn! I missed this place and you. {Hugs}



I'm so excited to be sharing for the first time in a long time with this beautiful community of story tellers:

The Testimony I Never Thought I'd Have

About two months ago, a blogger in a group of which I am apart shared her desire to do a "Tour of Testimonies." I don't often sign up to write for another blog, but sometimes you just know that God has given you a story that is meant to be shared. Somehow, each time I share this testimony, it's like rubbing healing balm on my heart that had once felt so broken. I just know I need to share it: for other's to read, but also for my own heart.

I guess that's the thing about sharing our stories: they have the power to heal other's hearts, and our own.

So. Here's your invitation. It's a story that will look super familiar if you've been reading here for the past year, but you're still welcome to join me. (And this blog happens to belong to a sweet person with a heart for God's Word.)

Join me? Click -->HERE<--


By Grace,
Amanda Conquers

On Miscarriage and Grief

I have walked through 5 miscarriages. Just to be completely obvious and blunt: it was hard. Sometimes, it's still hard. But in this place God has taught me a lot about grieving, about brokenness, about holding onto hope. Dear sister, if you are walking through something similar I want you to know you aren't alone, and not just because there are other women who have walked similar paths, but because there is a God who loves you dearly who will walk with you, even when your faith feels shaky at best. I want you to know my heart breaks at your loss. I want you to know you are welcome here and so is your story. We need each other. We do. And we need Him.


The Miscarriage Series: 

An Introduction to a Series on Miscarriage
Season of Mourning (Giving Yourself Permission to Grieve)
When You Are Trying to Make Something Out of Your Ashes (On What God Does With Our Shattered Dreams)
Project Still Hope (An Invitation and a Tangible Way to Honor Lost Life)
What Hope Really Looks Like (How to Hope Again)
What You Need to Know When Fear is Suffocating You (For When You Are Terrified of Losing Again)
Practical Advice for the Grieving Woman and Those Who Love Her


My Story (in the most raw moments):
When Life Fractures Your Faith
The Post I Didn't Want to Write
Proclaiming the Miracle (A Pregnancy Announcement after 4 Repeat Miscarriages)


Other Posts:
The Thing About Fire (When You Wonder Why Life Has to Be Hard)
When Your Faith Looks Weak (On Being Pregnant After Repeated Miscarriages)

When Your Faith Looks Weak

Two weeks ago, I had to go to labor and delivery.

I was sitting down eating dinner when all of a sudden I felt pain creep into my lower abdomen. And then I contracted. The pain increased and I contracted again. I grabbed a glass of water, took to our recliner, and put my feet up. The pain got so strong there were tears welling up in my eyes. And then I contracted again. 3 times in less than twenty minutes. I called labor and delivery and, yes, they wanted me to come in.

As I am describing the pain to the nurse, I can feel the panic—that familiar fear. Oh, no, no, no, not again. It can’t be going wrong again. Tears of emotion joined the tears of pain.

I told my husband I needed to go in and we got the kids into the car.

Somewhere in the midst of the hustle to the car, the fear, the texts for prayer, there’s the still voice: 

Amanda, I’m here. It’s okay.

And I just knew He was and it was.

Sometimes, I worry that somewhere in the losses and trials of the past two years, my faith has become fragile. When loss happens to you, it becomes more than just a statistic, a sadness that might happen to one in every four women; it becomes your reality. You are no longer untouchable. When the losses roll in one after another, you feel vulnerable—maybe even doomed to despair.

This pregnancy has been emotionally and physically hard. It’s like I am holding my breath waiting to breathe again. The further along I get, the more it feels like breathing might be safe, but crampy pains and a few contractions and it’s like I am being brought back to that hot June afternoon, pacing the living room, hearing the doctor speak my devastation into the phone, “I am really sorry, Amanda, but there isn’t life in there. There was never even a heartbeat.”

My short stint at Labor and Delivery showed me something though. As much as the initial sight of hard circumstances might have brought on fear, as real as loss might be to me…  faith isn’t built in the absence of hard. The Amanda of 2 years ago didn’t have greater faith because she didn’t automatically imagine the worst at the first sign of difficulty. The Amanda of today doesn’t have a weaker faith because loss has touched her life.

When God said, “I’m here and it’s okay,” during my brief but very real contraction storm, I believed Him.

I knew He was with me, because I still remember some ten months ago when I faced the darkest night, when my faith might have looked the weakest. I was dagger spittin’ mad at God. I hurled the ugliest words I could find in my vocabulary, and I shook my fists to the heavens and demanded and He tell me why. And even there, God was with me. You guys, there were miracles, abundant grace, ways that God whispered to my soul, “Yes, you are walking through the storm, but I am still with you. And I see you. And I hurt with you. And I will not let you go.”

Can I be honest and tell you that I have struggled with thinking that maybe I am somehow less of a Christian because of those moments where my faith looked so weak. And because after walking through 4 miscarriages in 14 months, it just doesn’t take much for me to experience panic at the onset of crampy pains.

Here’s what I am learning and maybe it needs to be said for all of us who have ever struggled with doubt or at some point found ourselves unable to respond with absolute trust in God’s plan when we have faced unexplainable loss:

I think sometimes we act as though faith is a thing that we need to hold close, protect. We refuse to expose faith to the storms for fear it might get beaten down, and we choose to tread water instead.

But faith isn’t for treading water. Faith is for walking on the water.

Faith is for the places that don’t make sense. Faith is for the times when Christian cliché band-aides just can’t patch the brokenness inside you. Faith is for the storm. Faith is for the gaps. Faith is for when you could drown in the depths of places unexplainable.

Faith is this very real, Jesus-walking-with-you, in the mess.

Faith doesn’t need you to protect it. Faith is your protection. There’s a reason why it’s called the “shield of faith.”

I have been turning over this passage: “Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith…” Hebrews 12:2. Jesus is the author and perfecter of our faith. Not me.

Friends, I have learned that real faith doesn’t understand. Real faith doesn’t always see the outcome. Real faith is clinging to God, sometimes even wrestling with God, and refusing to let go of Him. Real faith is being curious enough to walk out into the storm to see if God really means to never let you go.

By the time I got to the hospital, checked in and hooked up to the monitors, I can’t even tell you the peace I felt.

The very minute the monitor started reading the rapid whoosh whoosh whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat, the baby began to kick and punch and roll. The baby kicked strong and close to the monitor. Each kick startled the nurse and me, even hurt our ears: whoosh whoosh KAPOW! The nurse laughed and turned the monitor’s sound way down, “I don’t think we need to hear the heartbeat anymore, clearly your little one is just fine in there.”

Those deafening sounds felt like Grace. They were the final proof of what God had whispered into my heart when the pain was still intense, when the contractions were still coming. Thing was, I believed God’s words long before I had the proof.  

Because I have walked with Him through storms before.

Friends, faith doesn’t get beaten down in the storms… faith is a thing that grows in storms.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

9 Reasons Why Delivery-Room Gender Reveals Are Awesome

I remember the exact moment of our first surprise—I was high on endorphins after a long labour and three hours of pushing. The first words out of my mouth were, “Did we have a boy or girl?” The nurse turned to my husband. “Well, Dad, do you want to make the announcement?”

Mike had tears, a smile, and a tremble in his hands. He paused. He might even have forgotten for a split-second in the emotion of the moment which parts went to which gender. “A girl, Amanda. It’s a girl.”

I repeated back those words so many times, letting them sink in. This was our surprise, our miracle: “A girl? A girl! Really? A girl? This whole time we’ve had a girl in there? Ahh! I can’t believe it’s a girl!”

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I’ve always loved surprises. So, for me, when it came time to decide how we would find out the gender of our first baby, waiting until delivery just seemed like the right choice. We found out the gender of our second born because we were both really hoping for a boy. And now that we have one girl and one boy, we are doing what I actually prefer: waiting to find out.  

So, just for fun and just because sometimes I get the awkward side-ways glance or the “Oh my goodness, I could never do that. I would just have to know,” when people find out we are waiting, I have compiled a list of some really great reasons why delivery-room gender announcements are awesome.

1. You save money.

So, you know those moments when you are walking through the baby section at Target and there’s the sweet little three piece outfit that makes your momma-heart swoon? When you don’t know the gender, you imagine how cute your soon-to-arrive baby would look if it happened to be a boy or girl, and then you keep walking. Because you don’t know boy or girl. And you might not know much about babies yet, but you at least know you don’t want to stand in the return line with a newborn in tow.

2. You are very likely to get what you really need at your baby shower.

So, you know how I mentioned the cute baby outfits in the baby section and how hard they are to resist? They are! For like everyone with estrogen in their body. So, if you have a baby shower, sure, you might need a crib, baby carrier, stroller, car seat, bottles, breast pump, diaper pail, and a ridiculous amount of diapers and wipes… but you will get a ridiculous amount of outfits. And they will make you and everyone at the shower swoon. But the thing is, if you are a first time mom-to-be, let me tell you a secret. Babies poop. They drool. They spit up. Diapers will fail you. You might end up changing that precious baby 10 times in one day—his diaper AND his clothes. And at some point the only clothes you will want him in, save those special outings and picture opportunities, are the clothes that are practical and easy to get on and off. And the adorable dress with matching bloomers or the vest, button-down and bow tie… outfits like that, you won’t need 20 of them.

3. Double the presents.

So here’s the good news: your mom, grandma, auntie, sister who you are currently driving crazy because they want to shop for all the cute stuff. Guess what? They will not only come to your shower bearing practical gifts. They will also feel this overwhelming urge to go out and buy all the cute stuff as soon as your precious surprise arrives.

4. More usable items for the next baby.

If you didn’t find out the gender till delivery, you wouldn’t have been tempted to purchase the pink carseat with the butterfly accent print. Your nursery items will be neutral.  You will have newborn clothes that will work no matter if you have a boy or girl. And one day, should you be blessed with the opposite gender, your future self who is discovering how energy demanding and strong-willed a toddler can be, who only wants a decent nights’ sleep and a shower in life, who is wondering if she will ever have a routine again after adding a new baby to the family… that girl will thank you because she just won’t care as much about nursery theme and she won’t want to spend the extra money replacing the pink butterfly carseat (but she will anyways just to save her baby boy from growing up with a complex...)

5. Focus Point? Done.

Labour is hard. Really hard. Throughout the entirety of my first labour, the 19 hours of “back labour” and the 3 hours of pushing, I thought of one thing: Boy or girl? When I arrived at that awful moment when I just really thought I couldn’t do it and someone should just put me out of my misery, I still wanted to know. I had waited to know. The anticipation of the surprise still somehow outweighed those grueling moments of transition-labour despair.

6. It’s follows a natural plot line.

Okay, maybe this is a lit-nerd thing, but good books have a moment called the climax. Everything builds and builds—nine months of your body growing a human and preparing to evacuate it. Then there’s start of the climax: the labour and delivery where at some point you think you just can’t and somehow you still do. And then the final push and that first cry: and there is that baby. If you don’t know the gender, the room almost erupts into joy, the culminating experience of nine months of wondering, “It’s a boy! It’s a girl! No way! Look at that! Oh my goodness, A boy! A girl!” You have no choice but to stop and soak in the moment, let it roll around your brain, celebrate the news—and it is news—brand new—the baby and this discovery. It doesn’t matter that you are now delivering the placenta or being stitched up, this news has caught your breath and will hold it for a while. It’s a time-standing-still kind of magic.

7. It’s fun to have something to announce that people actually want to know on such a momentous occasion.

I mean, no offense, the birth stats are cool, but nobody but grandma cares if the baby is 6 lbs. 15 oz. or 8 lbs. 4 oz.

8. The older generation brings out all their old wives tales to predict the gender of your baby.

Sure, it will happen regardless, but it’s a little awkward when you are barely showing at eleven weeks and grandma swears it’s a boy because you are carrying low and in front. Really grandma? I think that might be the donut I just ate? At 32 weeks, it’s pretty clear “how you carry,” and a gender-unknown baby bump has some kind of magnetic pull on the pre-ultrasound generations. There’s just something about having the older women in your life gather around your belly, guess the gender, and tell you all about their experiences from decades past. Because no matter how technology changes, motherhood is timeless.

9. It brings your husband into the birth experience more.

As he cuts the cord, your husband will get to announce to you and everyone in the room who you have been carrying in your womb all those nine months. He will call his parents, his brother, your brother. He will walk into the waiting room where family members are anxiously waiting for the announcement. The first words out of his mouth will not be, “She’s finally here!” It will be, “It’s a girl!”

I’d love to hear from you and your experiences! Any reasons to add the list? Have you ever waited till the delivery to find out? Would you want to wait till delivery to find out?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


Image Credit: https://flic.kr/p/e4nLge (Please note: per license agreement, I was able to build upon this image and add my own words. They are not endorsed by photographer.)