Almost five years ago, in September 2014, I peed on a stick and saw a faint pink line.
My heart pounded. I squinted, forcing myself to see it again. Yes, there it was. I was pregnant.
Just before my son Jacob’s 2nd birthday, I was pregnant for the second time.
Anyone who suggests that a woman who has ever been pregnant does not understand the sanctity of life is severely misguided at best, purposefully cruel at worst. Every month for much of a woman’s life, in most cases, her body prepares to host new life.
The walls of her uterus thicken to provide comfort and coziness, like blankets and pillows on a couch.