When I realize why she's here

Sometimes I stop and think. 

I stop and think about five years of infertility and the frozen embryos created during the dozens upon dozens (hundreds?) of doctors and appointments that dominated my life and my marriage and my existence.  

I think of the shots. Shots I gave myself. Shots JB gave me. 

Pills I took. 

So 

many 

pills.

Blood draws and ultrasounds in all sorts of shapes and sizes. Full bladder. Empty bladder. So many rules and requests and probings and personal information. 

I think of dreaming of those little embryos and the little life wrapped inside them. I counted as each one was dropped into my womb.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

And then we stopped counting. 

And we stopped trying.

And life shifted in other directions. But the embryos still frozen in Minnesota at the Mayo Clinic did not leave my mind. And we knew I had to go back and give each of those little babies a chance at life. 

And so I did.

And one of them -- the very last one there was. That embryo would get a name.

We would name her Hannah.

And when I find myself absolutely at my wits end with the chairs she is climbing on and the apple juice she is pouring herself and the shower floor she is lying on and drinking water from (no matter how many times I tell her that is absolutely disgusting) ... when I yell "Hannah alert" and we all scurry to figure out where she is hiding or I find piles of clothes in her closet that she has changed into throughout our long days on the farm or she sneaks candy and tells me she is absolutely sure that she didn't ... when she gets scissors out to open her own packages and tries to eat dishwashing soap and refuses to nap even though I am sure  I  she needs it and manages to  move from activity to activity faster than I thought humanly possible ... or when we leave the house wearing socks, I am sure of it, but they go missing sometime during the drive or I find her shirtless in places she should be dressed or her Sunday School teacher just says "She tried hard" when I ask how her behavior was because truly what more can you say?

Well when all those things happen, I think back on all the years of yearning I did. And I think of my Hannah -- conceived years before her three older siblings  -- and I joke that she was on ice for a very long time just revving up for her entrance into the world. 

And I smile and say: "I'm really, really glad we tried so hard for so long because YOU my dear Hannah Joy Pomegranate Kitsteiner are so worth it."

And she rolls her eyes (because somehow she already knows how to do that) and calls me, "Silly" (even though we keep telling her she shouldn't call her parents that) and runs off to see what adventure awaits. 

She is my adventure. And she was worth every shot and pill and pain that all those years brought. 

I love you little miracle.

P.S. Thank you Shelby Mathis for capturing my little farm girl so amazingly perfectly. :)