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With Child - A Christian pregnancy companion
You already have an app. Most women do, and it is good at what it does — how big he is this week, which fruit he is nearest, what your body is likely to be up to about it.
This is not that.
With Child is a Christian companion for the thirty-eight weeks from four to forty-one.
It holds that the person you are carrying is already a person, and that he can be spoken to a long time before he can understand a word of it — which is why every week here ends with a blessing to say out loud over him, or her.
Before a child is ever taught, he/she is addressed.
He, she, or not knowing yet
Most books in this category pick a pronoun and leave you to translate.
This one asks. In Settings there is a single choice — a boy, a girl, or not knowing yet — and the whole book speaks accordingly, from week four to week forty-one. Not knowing yet is what it opens on, because most women don't for the first half, and a book that guessed would be wrong for half of them.
Change it the day you find out and every page you have already read is speaking differently when you go back to it.
Scripture is never touched. The King James Version stays exactly as it is.
What is in a week
Nine things, and you choose between them rather than scrolling through them.
The passage — KJV, reproduced exactly, never re-spelled
The letter — a piece of real writing, the essay kind, not the prompt kind
In your body — what is happening this week, to him and to you, checked against the NHS, ACOG, Mayo Clinic and Cleveland Clinic, and never advisory
A moment — a hymn, a recipe, something to make, a name to discover, ten minutes to sit down
Two small things worth noticing
Something to play — a game and a list of things to look for. Nothing is scored, timed, counted or kept
The prayer
Scripture to speak over him
The blessing, to say aloud. The one thing that repeats.
Thirty-eight weeks. Seven movements. Fifty-six original photographs, all taken for this and used nowhere else.
The size of him, from Scripture
Not a blueberry. Not an avocado.
A grain of mustard seed.Which indeed is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs. — Matthew 13:32
A grain of coriander seed at four weeks, for the manna nobody understood. The olive leaf the dove brought back. A dove's egg — the offering a poor woman brought after childbirth. A lily of the field, for the week everything is finally present, because they toil not, neither do they spin.
And from thirteen weeks, the Bible's own measures take over: a handbreadth, a span, a cubit.
What you keep
One tap, at any point — at forty weeks, or four years later — makes a PDF of everything you have gathered.
The thirty-eight blessings. The Scripture you spoke over him. Everything you wrote, dated, in your own words and with your own line breaks. Set for paper in the book's own type, with a title page carrying the name you chose for him.
It is made on your own device, from your own writing, and nothing is uploaded to make it. Print it. Put it in a drawer. Give it to him when he is eighteen.
Also inside
Difficult Days. A quieter room, on cooler paper, always in the same place at the top of the screen, never brighter and never advertised. For waiting to know, and for the days you cannot pray. Nothing you do in there is ever recorded.
Stones of Remembrance. Somewhere to write down what happened. No prompts, no moods, no gratitude language, no tags.
The Inheritance. Everything you have gathered in one place — and the button that turns it into the PDF above.
Day and night mode. A moon in the corner. One tap, from anywhere.
What it will never do
It will not track you. No analytics, no cookies, no pixels and no third-party scripts of any kind — not even a webfont. The typeface is carried inside the book rather than fetched from Google, specifically so that opening it tells nobody anything.
It will not count anything, or show you a progress bar, or tell you how you are doing.
It has no word for overdue, and no week after which you are late.
It will not ask you to make an account, and there is nothing to log in to.
Nothing you write ever leaves your device. Your journal, the name you chose, every word you type — it is held by your own browser and never sent anywhere. I could not read it if I wanted to, and I do not want to.
One payment
Not a subscription. Not a renewal. Not a login.
You pay once, and the book is at your own private link whenever you want it — on your phone in a waiting room, on a laptop at midnight, on whatever you happen to be holding. Nothing to install, nothing to keep alive, nothing that lapses.
A word on the writing
Every verse is the Authorized Version, reproduced exactly and never re-spelled. The developmental facts are checked and sourced, and four widely repeated claims were left out because no reliable source supported them — including the popular one that your child can hear you talk at fifteen weeks. He cannot. What reaches him first, at about nineteen, is not what you say but the pitch of you.
That is a better fact, and it is in week eighteen.
FAQ
Is this an app? No. It is a book you open in a browser at your own link. There is nothing to install, nothing to sign into, and no account.
How do I get it? The moment you buy, you land on a page with your link on it. Open it, bookmark it, and it is there from then on. Nothing to download and nothing to unzip.
Which weeks does it cover? Four to forty-one — thirty-eight weeks, in seven movements.
Which translation? The King James Version, throughout, reproduced exactly.
I don't know if I'm having a boy or a girl. Neither does the book, until you tell it. It opens onnot knowing yetand speaks of your child rather than guessing. When you find out, one tap in Settings changes every page, including the ones you have already read.
Does it track my pregnancy?No. You can enter a start date so it opens on the right week, and that is the only thing it does with a date. There is no counter and no countdown.
Where is my writing kept, and is it private? On your own device, in your own browser, and nowhere else. It is never uploaded, so there is no copy of it for me or anybody else to read. Two honest consequences: it does not follow you from your phone to your laptop, and if you clear your browsing data it goes. Save the PDF now and then— that is your copy, and it is yours permanently.
So can anyone tell that I've opened it? Not in any way that means anything. There are no analytics and no cookies. The service that serves the page keeps ordinary web logs, the way every website on earth does — a time and an address, nothing about you and nothing you wrote. I do not read them. I would rather say that plainly than claim something tidier.
Can I read it on more than one device? Yes — the same link, on anything. Only, your own writing stays on the device you wrote it on (which allows no login, and full privacy).
What happens if I go past my due date? Week forty tells you the truth, which almost nothing else does: when labor is left to begin on its own, week forty is the commonest week there is to give birth. Week forty-one has a name —late term— and it is a category, not a verdict. There is no state in this book called overdue.
Is there medical advice in it? None, deliberately. In your body describes what is generally happening and says so plainly at the foot of every single week: it is not medical advice and it is not about you in particular. That is your midwife's work, not a book's.
Can I print it? Yes.The Inheritance makes a PDF of everything you have gathered, set for paper, in one tap.
Will it work on my phone? Yes — it was built on one first.
Can I give it as a gift? Yes, and it is one of the better ones. It arrives as a link, so it arrives instantly.
You already have an app. Most women do, and it is good at what it does — how big he is this week, which fruit he is nearest, what your body is likely to be up to about it.
This is not that.
With Child is a Christian companion for the thirty-eight weeks from four to forty-one.
It holds that the person you are carrying is already a person, and that he can be spoken to a long time before he can understand a word of it — which is why every week here ends with a blessing to say out loud over him, or her.
Before a child is ever taught, he/she is addressed.
He, she, or not knowing yet
Most books in this category pick a pronoun and leave you to translate.
This one asks. In Settings there is a single choice — a boy, a girl, or not knowing yet — and the whole book speaks accordingly, from week four to week forty-one. Not knowing yet is what it opens on, because most women don't for the first half, and a book that guessed would be wrong for half of them.
Change it the day you find out and every page you have already read is speaking differently when you go back to it.
Scripture is never touched. The King James Version stays exactly as it is.
What is in a week
Nine things, and you choose between them rather than scrolling through them.
The passage — KJV, reproduced exactly, never re-spelled
The letter — a piece of real writing, the essay kind, not the prompt kind
In your body — what is happening this week, to him and to you, checked against the NHS, ACOG, Mayo Clinic and Cleveland Clinic, and never advisory
A moment — a hymn, a recipe, something to make, a name to discover, ten minutes to sit down
Two small things worth noticing
Something to play — a game and a list of things to look for. Nothing is scored, timed, counted or kept
The prayer
Scripture to speak over him
The blessing, to say aloud. The one thing that repeats.
Thirty-eight weeks. Seven movements. Fifty-six original photographs, all taken for this and used nowhere else.
The size of him, from Scripture
Not a blueberry. Not an avocado.
A grain of mustard seed.Which indeed is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs. — Matthew 13:32
A grain of coriander seed at four weeks, for the manna nobody understood. The olive leaf the dove brought back. A dove's egg — the offering a poor woman brought after childbirth. A lily of the field, for the week everything is finally present, because they toil not, neither do they spin.
And from thirteen weeks, the Bible's own measures take over: a handbreadth, a span, a cubit.
What you keep
One tap, at any point — at forty weeks, or four years later — makes a PDF of everything you have gathered.
The thirty-eight blessings. The Scripture you spoke over him. Everything you wrote, dated, in your own words and with your own line breaks. Set for paper in the book's own type, with a title page carrying the name you chose for him.
It is made on your own device, from your own writing, and nothing is uploaded to make it. Print it. Put it in a drawer. Give it to him when he is eighteen.
Also inside
Difficult Days. A quieter room, on cooler paper, always in the same place at the top of the screen, never brighter and never advertised. For waiting to know, and for the days you cannot pray. Nothing you do in there is ever recorded.
Stones of Remembrance. Somewhere to write down what happened. No prompts, no moods, no gratitude language, no tags.
The Inheritance. Everything you have gathered in one place — and the button that turns it into the PDF above.
Day and night mode. A moon in the corner. One tap, from anywhere.
What it will never do
It will not track you. No analytics, no cookies, no pixels and no third-party scripts of any kind — not even a webfont. The typeface is carried inside the book rather than fetched from Google, specifically so that opening it tells nobody anything.
It will not count anything, or show you a progress bar, or tell you how you are doing.
It has no word for overdue, and no week after which you are late.
It will not ask you to make an account, and there is nothing to log in to.
Nothing you write ever leaves your device. Your journal, the name you chose, every word you type — it is held by your own browser and never sent anywhere. I could not read it if I wanted to, and I do not want to.
One payment
Not a subscription. Not a renewal. Not a login.
You pay once, and the book is at your own private link whenever you want it — on your phone in a waiting room, on a laptop at midnight, on whatever you happen to be holding. Nothing to install, nothing to keep alive, nothing that lapses.
A word on the writing
Every verse is the Authorized Version, reproduced exactly and never re-spelled. The developmental facts are checked and sourced, and four widely repeated claims were left out because no reliable source supported them — including the popular one that your child can hear you talk at fifteen weeks. He cannot. What reaches him first, at about nineteen, is not what you say but the pitch of you.
That is a better fact, and it is in week eighteen.
FAQ
Is this an app? No. It is a book you open in a browser at your own link. There is nothing to install, nothing to sign into, and no account.
How do I get it? The moment you buy, you land on a page with your link on it. Open it, bookmark it, and it is there from then on. Nothing to download and nothing to unzip.
Which weeks does it cover? Four to forty-one — thirty-eight weeks, in seven movements.
Which translation? The King James Version, throughout, reproduced exactly.
I don't know if I'm having a boy or a girl. Neither does the book, until you tell it. It opens onnot knowing yetand speaks of your child rather than guessing. When you find out, one tap in Settings changes every page, including the ones you have already read.
Does it track my pregnancy?No. You can enter a start date so it opens on the right week, and that is the only thing it does with a date. There is no counter and no countdown.
Where is my writing kept, and is it private? On your own device, in your own browser, and nowhere else. It is never uploaded, so there is no copy of it for me or anybody else to read. Two honest consequences: it does not follow you from your phone to your laptop, and if you clear your browsing data it goes. Save the PDF now and then— that is your copy, and it is yours permanently.
So can anyone tell that I've opened it? Not in any way that means anything. There are no analytics and no cookies. The service that serves the page keeps ordinary web logs, the way every website on earth does — a time and an address, nothing about you and nothing you wrote. I do not read them. I would rather say that plainly than claim something tidier.
Can I read it on more than one device? Yes — the same link, on anything. Only, your own writing stays on the device you wrote it on (which allows no login, and full privacy).
What happens if I go past my due date? Week forty tells you the truth, which almost nothing else does: when labor is left to begin on its own, week forty is the commonest week there is to give birth. Week forty-one has a name —late term— and it is a category, not a verdict. There is no state in this book called overdue.
Is there medical advice in it? None, deliberately. In your body describes what is generally happening and says so plainly at the foot of every single week: it is not medical advice and it is not about you in particular. That is your midwife's work, not a book's.
Can I print it? Yes.The Inheritance makes a PDF of everything you have gathered, set for paper, in one tap.
Will it work on my phone? Yes — it was built on one first.
Can I give it as a gift? Yes, and it is one of the better ones. It arrives as a link, so it arrives instantly.